"You appreciate it, don't you, Father?" she said softly. "You have always talked such a lot about it."
He nodded.
"I don't see how any one can help appreciating it," he rejoined, after a moment, looking up at the narrow, iron-barred windows. "Why, Genevieve, this is our Bunker Hill, you know."
"I know," she said soberly. "How many was it? I've forgotten."
"About one hundred and eighty on the inside—here; and all the way from two to six thousand on the outside—accounts differ. But it was thousands, anyway, against one hundred and eighty—and it lasted ten days or more."
Genevieve shuddered.
"And they all—died?"
"Every one—of the soldiers. There was a woman and a young child and a negro servant left to tell the tale."
"That's what it means on the monument, isn't it?" murmured Genevieve. "'Thermopylæ had its messenger of defeat: the Alamo had none.'"
"Yes," said her father. "I've always wondered what Davy Crockett would have said to that. You know he was here."