“‘WHO LIKE THE LORD?’ thunders Michael the Chief.Raphael, ‘THE CURE OF GOD,’ bringeth relief,And, as at Nazareth, prophet of peace,Gabriel, ‘THE LIGHT OF GOD,’ bringeth release.”
The noble syllables floated outward and upward, and Antonia and Lopez softly intoned the last line together, letting them fall slowly and softly into the sensitive atmosphere.
“And as for trouble coming from the devil,” said Lopez, “I think, Senora, that Fray Ignatius is wrong. Trouble is not the worst thing that can come to a man or woman. On the contrary, our Lady of Prosperity is said to do, them far greater harm. Let me repeat to you what the ever wise Don Francisco de Quevedo Villegas says about her:
“‘Where is the virtue prosperity has not staggered? Where the folly she has not augmented? She takes no counsel, she fears no punishment. She furnishes matter for scandal, experience, and for story. How many souls, innocent while poor, have fallen into sin and impiety as soon as they drank of the enchanted cup of prosperity? Men that can bear prosperity, are for heaven; even wise devils leave them alone. As for the one who persecuted and beggared job, how foolish and impertinent he was! If he had understood humanity, he would have multiplied his riches, and possessed him of health, and honors, and pleasures: THAT is the trial it cannot bear.’”
“Oh, to be sure! Quevedo was a wise man. But even wise men don’t know everything. However, WE ARE GOING HOME! I thank the saints for this immeasurable favor. It is a prosperity that is good for women. I will stake my Santiguida on that! And will you observe that it is Sunday again? Just before sunset I heard the vesper bells clearly. Remember that we left San Antonio on Sunday also! I have always heard that Sunday was a good day to begin a journey on.”
“If it had been on a Friday—”
“Friday! Indeed, Luis, I would not have gone one hundred yards upon a Friday. How can you suppose what is so inconceivably foolish?”
“I think much of the right hour to undertake anything,” said Lopez. “The first movements are not in the hands of men; and we are subject to more influences than we comprehend. There is a ripe time for events, as well as for fruits: but the hour depends upon forces which we cannot control by giving to them the name of the day; and our sage Quevedo has made a pleasant mockery thereon. It is at my lips, if your ears care to hear it.”
“Quevedo, again! No, it is not proper, Senor. Every day has its duties and its favors, Senor. That man actually said that fasting on Friday was not a special means of grace! Quevedo was almost a heretic. I have heard Fray Ignatius say so. He did not approve of him.”
“Mi madre, let us hear what is to be said. Rachela told me, I must fast on a Friday, and cut my nails on a Wednesday, and never cut them on a Sunday, and take medicine on a Monday, and look after money on Tuesday, and pay calls and give gifts on Saturday; very well, I do not think much of Rachela; just suppose, for the passing of the time, that we listen to what Quevedo says.”
“Here are four against me; well, then, proceed, Senor.”
“‘On Monday,’ says the wise and witty one, buy all that you can meet with, and take all that is to be had for nothing. On Tuesday, receive all that is given you; for it is Mar’s day, and he will look on you with an ill aspect if you refuse the first proffer and have not a second. On Wednesday, ask of all you meet; perhaps Mercury may give some one vanity enough to grant you something. Thursday is a good day to believe nothing that flatterers say. Friday it is well to shun creditors. On Saturday it is well to lie long abed, to walk at your ease, to eat a good dinner, and to wear comfortable shoes; because Saturn is old, and loves his ease.’”
“And Sunday, Senor?”
“Pardon, Senorita Isabel, Sunday comes not into a pasquinade. Senora, let me tell you that it draws near to eleven. If we leave now we shall reach San Antonio in time to say the prayer of gratitude before the blessed day of the seven is past.”
“Holy Mary! that is what I should desire. Come, my children; I thank you, Senor, for such a blessed memory. My heart is indeed full of joy and thankfulness.”
A slight disappointment, however, awaited the Senora. Without asking any questions, without taking anything into consideration, perhaps, indeed, because she feared to ask or consider, she had assumed that she would immediately re-enter her own home. With the unreason of a child, she had insisted upon expecting that somehow, or by some not explained efforts, she would find her house precisely as she left it. Little had been said of its occupancy by Fray Ignatius and his brothers; perhaps she did not quite believe in the statement; perhaps she expected Fray Ignatius to respect the arrangements which he knew had been so dear to her.
It was therefore a trial—indeed, something of a shock—when she found they were to be the guests of Navarro, and when it was made clear to her that her own home had been dismantled and rearranged and was still in the possession of the Church. But, with a child’s unreason, she had also a sweet ductility of nature; she was easily persuaded, easily pleased, and quite ready to console herself with the assurance that it only needed Doctor Worth’s presence and personal influence to drive away all intruders upon her rights.
In the mean time she was contented. The finest goods in San Antonio were sent early on the following morning to her room; and the selection of three entire wardrobes gave her abundance of delightful employment. She almost wept with joy as she passed the fine lawns and rich silks through her worn fingers. And when she could cast off forever her garment of heaviness and of weariful wanderings, and array herself in the splendid robes which she wore with such grace and pleasure, she was an honestly grateful woman.
Then she permitted Lopez to let her old acquaintances know of her presence in her native city; and she was comforted when she began to receive calls from the Senora Alveda, and judge and Senora Valdez, and many other of her friends and associates. They encouraged her to talk of her sufferings and her great loss. Even the judge thought it worth his while, now, to conciliate the simple little woman. He had wisdom enough to perceive that Mexican domination was over, and that the American influence of Doctor Worth was likely to be of service to him.
The Senora found herself a heroine; more than that, she became aware that for some reason those who had once patronized her were now disposed to pay her a kind of court. But this did not lessen her satisfaction; she suspected no motive but real kindness, for she had that innate rectitude which has always confidence in the honesty of others.
There was now full reconciliation between Luis and his mother and uncles; and his betrothal to Isabel was acknowledged with all the customary rejoicings and complimentary calls and receptions. Life quickly began to fall back into its well-defined grooves; if there was anything unusual, every one made an effort to pass it by without notice. The city was conspicuously in this mind. American rule was accepted in the quiescent temper with which men and women accept weather which may or may not be agreeable, but which is known to be unavoidable. Americans were coming by hundreds and by thousands: and those Mexicans who could not make up their minds to become Texans, and to assimilate with the new elements sure to predominate, were quietly breaking up their homes and transferring their interests across the Rio Grande.
They were not missed, even for a day. Some American was ready to step into their place, and the pushing, progressive spirit of the race was soon evident in the hearty way with which they set to work, not only to repair what war had destroyed, but to inaugurate those movements which are always among their first necessities. Ministers, physicians, teachers, mechanics of all kinds, were soon at work; churches were built, Bibles were publicly sold, or given away; schools were advertised; the city was changing its tone as easily as a woman changes the fashion of her dress. Santa Anna had said truly enough to Houston, that the Texans had no flag to fight under; but the young Republic very soon flung her ensign out among those of the gray nations of the world. It floated above the twice glorious Alamo: a bright blue standard, with one white star in the centre. It was run up at sunrise one morning. The city was watching for it; and when it suddenly flew out in their sight, it was greeted with the most triumphant enthusiasm. The lonely star in its field of blue touched every heart’s chivalry. It said to them, “I stand alone! I have no sister states to encourage and help me! I rely only on the brave hearts and strong arms that I set me here!” And they answered the silent appeal with a cheer that promised everything; with a love that even then began to wonder if there were not a place for such a glorious star in the grand constellation under which most of them had been born.
A short time after their return, the Senora had a letter from her husband, saying that he was going to New Orleans with General Houston, whose wound was in a dangerous condition. Thomas Worth had been appointed to an important post in the civil government; and his labors, like those of all the public men of Texas at that date, were continuous and Herculean. It was impossible for him to leave them; but the doctor assured his wife that he would return as soon as he had placed Houston in the hands of skilful surgeons; and he asked her, until then, to be as happy as her circumstances permitted.
She was quite willing to obey the request. Not naturally inclined to worry, she found many sources of content and pleasure, until the early days of June brought back to her the husband she so truly loved, and with him the promise of a return to her own home. Indeed the difficulties in the way of this return had vanished ere they were to meet. Fray Ignatius had convinced himself that his short lease had fully expired; and when Dr. Worth went armed with the legal process necessary to resume his rights, he found his enemy had already surrendered them. The house was empty. Nothing of its old splendor remained. Every one of its properties had been scattered. The poor Senora walked through the desolate rooms with a heartache.
“It was precisely in this spot that the sideboard stood, Roberto!—the sideboard that my cousin Johar presented to me. It came from the City of Mexico, and there was not another like it. I shall regret it all my life.”
“Maria, my dearest, it might have been worse. The silver which adorned it is safe. Those r—monks did not find out its hiding-place, and I bought you a far more beautiful sideboard in New Orleans; the very newest style, Maria.”
“Roberto! Roberto! How happy you make me! To be sure my cousin Johar’s sideboard was already shabby—and to have a sideboard from New Orleans, that, indeed, is something to talk about!”
“Besides, which, dearest one, I bought new furniture for the parlors, and for your own apartments; also for Antonia’s and Isabel’s rooms. Indeed, Maria, I thought it best to provide afresh for the whole house.”
“How wonderful! No wife in San Antonio has a husband so good. I will never condescend to speak of you when other women talk of their husbands. New furniture for my whole house! The thing is inconceivably charming. But when, Roberto, will these things arrive? Is there danger on the road they are coming? Might not some one take them away? I shall not be able to sleep until I am sure they are safe.”
“I chartered a schooner in New Orleans, and came with them to the Bay of Espiritu Santo. There I saw them placed upon wagons, and only left them after the customs had been paid in the interior—sixty miles away. You may hire servants at once to prepare the rooms: the furniture will be here in about three days.”
“I am the happiest woman in the world, Roberto!” And she really felt herself to be so. Thoughtful love could have devised nothing more likely to bridge pleasantly and surely over the transition between the past and the coming life. Every fresh piece of furniture unpacked was a new wonder and a new delight. With her satin skirts tucked daintily clear of soil, and her mantilla wrapped around her head and shoulders, she went from room to room, interesting herself in every strip of carpet, and every yard of drapery. Her delight was infectious. The doctor smiled to find himself comparing shades, and gravely considering the arrangement of chairs and tables.
But how was it possible for so loving a husband and father to avoid sharing the pleasure he had provided? And Isabel was even more excited than her mother. All this grandeur had a double meaning to her; it would reflect honor upon the betrothal receptions which would be given for Luis and herself—“amber satin and white lace is exactly what I should have desired, Antonia,” she said delightedly. “How exceedingly suitable it will be to me! And those delicious chintzes and dimities for our bedrooms! Did you ever conceive of things so beautiful?”
Antonia was quite ready to echo her delight. Housekeeping and homemaking, in all its ways, was her lovable talent. It was really Antonia who saw all the plans and the desires of the Senora thoroughly carried out. It was her clever fingers and natural taste which gave to every room that air of comfort and refinement which all felt and admired, but which seemed to elude their power to imitate.
On the fourth of July the doctor and his family ate together their first dinner in their renovated home. The day was one that he never forgot, and he was glad to link it with a domestic occurrence so happy and so fortunate.
Sometimes silently, sometimes with a few words to his boys, he had always, on this festival, drank his glass of fine Xeres to the honor and glory of the land he loved. This day he spoke her name proudly. He recalled the wonders of her past progress; he anticipated the blessings which she would bring to Texas; he said, as he lifted the glass in his hand, and let the happy tears flow down his browned and thinned face:
“My wife and daughters, I believe I shall live to see the lone star set in the glorious assemblage of her sister stars! I shall live to say, I dwell in San Antonio, which is the loveliest city in the loveliest State of the American Union. For, dear ones, I was born an American citizen, and I ask this favor of God, that I may also die an American citizen.”
“MI ROBERTO, when you die I shall not long survive you. And now that the house is made so beautiful! With so much new furniture! How can you speak of dying?”
“And, my dear father, remember how you have toiled and suffered for THE INDEPENDENCE OF TEXAS.”
“Because, Antonia, I would have Texas go free into a union of free States. This was the hope of Houston. ‘We can have help,’ he often said to his little army; ‘a word will call help from Nacogdoches,—but we will emancipate ourselves. If we go into the American States, we will go as equals; we will go as men who have won the right to say: LET US DWELL UNDER THE SAME FLAG, FOR WE ARE BROTHERS!’”
“And through thee I believeIn the noble and great, who are gone.”“Yes! I believe that there livedOthers like thee in the past.Not like the men of the crowd.Who all around me to-day,Bluster, or cringe, and make lifeHideous, and arid, and vile,But souls temper’d with fire,Fervent, heroic, and good;Helpers, and friends of mankind.”—ARNOLD.“Our armor now may rust, our idle scimitarsHang by our sides for ornament, not use.Children shall beat our atabals and drums;And all the noisy trades of war no moreShall wake the peaceful morn.”—DRYDEN.
As the years go on they bring many changes—changes that come as naturally as the seasons—that tend as naturally to anticipated growth and decay—that scarcely startle the subjects of them, till a lengthened-out period of time discloses their vitality and extent. Between the ages of twenty and thirty, ten years do not seem very destructive to life. The woman at eighteen, and twenty-eight, if changed, is usually ripened and improved; the man at thirty, finer and more mature than he was at twenty. But when this same period is placed to women and men who are either approaching fifty, or have passed it, the change is distinctly felt.
It was even confessed by the Senora one exquisite morning in the beginning of March, though the sun was shining warmly, and the flowers blooming, and the birds singing, and all nature rejoicing, as though it was the first season of creation.
“I am far from being as gay and strong as I wish to be, Roberto,” she, said; “and today, consider what a company there is coming! And if General Houston is to be added to it, I shall be as weary as I shall be happy.”
“He is the simplest of men; a cup of coffee, a bit of steak—”
“SAN BLAS! That is how you talk! But is, it possible to receive him like a common mortal? He is a hero, and, besides that, among hidalgos de casa Solar” (gentlemen of known property)—
“Well, then, you have servants, Maria, my dear one.”
“Servants! Bah! Of what use are they, Roberto, since they also have got hold of American ideas?”
“Isabel and Antonia will be here.”
“Let me only enumerate to you, Roberto. Thomas and his wife and four children arrived last night. You may at this moment hear the little Maria crying. I dare say Pepita is washing the child, and using soap which is very disagreeable. I have always admired the wife of Thomas, but I think she is too fond of her own way with the children. I give her advices which she does not take.”
“They are her own children, dearest.”
“Holy Maria! They are also my own grandchildren.”
“Well, well, we must remember that Abbie is a little Puritan. She believes in bringing up children strictly, and it is good; for Thomas would spoil them. As for Isabel’s boys—”
“God be blessed! Isabel’s boys are entirely charming. They have been corrected at my own knee. There are not more beautifully behaved boys in the christened world.”
“And Antonia’s little Christina?”
“She is already an angel. Ah, Roberto! If I had only died when I was as innocent as that dear one!”
“I am thankful you did not die, Maria. How dark my life would have been without you!”
“Beloved, then I am glad I am not in the kingdom of heaven; though, if one dies like Christina, one escapes purgatory. Roberto, when I rise I am very stiff: I think, indeed, I have some rheumatism.”
“That is not unlikely; and also Maria, you have now some years.”
“Let that be confessed; but the good God knows that I lost all my youth in that awful flight of ‘thirty-six.”
“Maria, we all left or lost something on that dark journey. To-day, we shall recover its full value.”
“To be sure—that is what is said—we shall see. Will you now send Dolores to me? I must arrange my toilet with some haste; and tell me, Roberto, what dress is your preference; it is your eyes, beloved, I wish to please.”
Robert Worth was not too old to feel charmed and touched by the compliment. And he was not a thoughtless or churlish husband; he knew how to repay such a wifely compliment, and it was a pleasant sight to see the aged companions standing hand in hand before the handsome suits which Dolores had spread out for her mistress to examine.
He looked at the purple and the black and the white robes, and then he looked at the face beside him. It was faded, and had lost its oval shape; but its coloring was yet beautiful, and the large, dark eyes tender and bright below the snow-white hair. After a few minutes’ consideration, he touched, gently, a robe of white satin. “Put this on, Maria,” he said, “and your white mantilla, and your best jewels. The occasion will excuse the utmost splendor.”
The choice delighted her. She had really wished to wear it, and some one’s judgment to endorse her own inclinations was all that was necessary to confirm her wish. Dolores found her in the most delightful temper. She sat before the glass, smiling and talking, while her maid piled high the snowy plaits and curls and crowned them with the jewelled comb, only worn on very great festivals. Her form was still good, and the white satin fell gracefully from her throat to her small feet. Besides, whatever of loss or gain had marred her once fine proportions, was entirely concealed by the beautifying, graceful, veiling folds of her mantilla. There was the flash of diamonds, and the moonlight glimmer of pearls beneath this flimsy covering; and at her belt a few white lilies. She was exceedingly pleased with her own appearance, and her satisfaction gave an ease and a sense of authority to her air and movements which was charming.
“By Maria’s grace, I am a very pretty old lady,” she said to herself; “and I think I shall I astonish my daughter-in-law a little. One is afraid of these calm, cool, northern women, but I feel to-day that even Abbie must be proud of me.”
Indeed, her entrance into the large parlor made quite a sensation. She could see the quiet pleasure in her husband’s face; and her son Thomas, after one glance, put down the child on his knee, and went to meet her. “Mi madre,” he whispered with a kiss. He had not used the pretty Spanish word for years, but in the sudden rush of admiring tenderness, his boyish heart came back to him, and quite unconsciously he used his boyhood’s speech. After this, she was not the least in awe of her wise daughter-in-law. She touched her cheek kindly, and asked her about the children, and was immeasurably delighted when Abbie said: “How beautiful you are to-day! I wish I had your likeness to send to Boston. Robert, come here and look at your grandmother! I want you to remember, as long as you live, how grandmother looks to-day.” And Robert—a fine lad eight years old, accustomed to implicit obedience—put down the book he was reading, planted himself squarely before the Senora, and looked at her attentively, as if she was a lesson to be learned.
“Well then, Roberto?”
“I am glad I have such a pretty grandmother. Will you let me stand on tiptoes and kiss you?” and the cool, calm northern woman’s eyes filled with tears, as she brought her younger children, one by one, for the Senora’s caress. The doctor and his son watched this pretty domestic drama with hearts full of pride and happiness; and before it had lost one particle of its beauty and feeling, the door was flung open with a vigor which made every one turn to it with expectation. A splendid little lad sprang in, and without any consideration for satin and lace, clung to the Senora. He was her image: a true Yturbide, young as he was; beautiful and haughty as his Castilian ancestors.
Isabel and Luis followed; Isabel more lovely than ever, richly dressed in American fashion, full of pretty enthusiasms, vivacious, charming, and quite at her ease. She had been married eight years. She was a fashionable woman, and an authority upon all social subjects.
Luis also was wonderfully improved. The light-hearted gaiety, which ten years ago had bubbled over in continual song, was still there; but it was under control, evident only because it made perpetual sunshine on his face. He had taken the doctor’s advice—completed his study of English and Mexican law—and become a famous referee in cases of disputed Mexican claims and title deeds. His elegant form and handsome, olive face looked less picturesque in the dull, uncompromising stiffness of broadcloth, cut into those peculiarly unbecoming fashions of ugliness which the anglo-Saxon and anglo-American affect. But it gained by the change a certain air of reliability and importance; an air not to be dispensed with in a young lawyer already aspiring to the seat among the lawmakers of his State.
“We called upon Antonia,” said Isabel, “as we came here. Of course she was engaged with Lopez. They were reading a book together; and even on such a day as this were taking, with the most blessed indifference, a minute at a time. They will join us on the Plaza. I represented to them that they might miss a good position. ‘That has been already secured,’ said Lopez, with that exasperating repose which only the saints could endure with patience. For that reason, I consider Antonia a saint to permit it. As for me, I should say: ‘The house is on fire, Lopez! Will it please you for once to feel a little excited?’ Luis says they read, continually, books which make people think of great solemnities and responsibilities. How foolish, when they are so rich, and might enjoy themselves perpetually!”
“Here are the carriages,” cried Thomas Worth, “and the ceremony of to-day has its own hour. It will never come again.”
“Your mother and I will go first, Thomas; and we will take Abbie and your eldest son. I shall see you in your place. Luis, bring your boy with you; he has intelligence and will remember the man he will see to-day, and may never see again.”
On the Plaza, close to the gates of the Alamo, a rostrum had been erected; and around it were a few stands, set apart for the carriages of the most illustrious of the families of San Antonio. The Senora, from the shaded depths of her own, watched their arrival. Nothing could be more characteristic than the approach of her daughters. Antonia and Lopez, stately and handsome, came slowly; their high-stepping horses chafing at the restraint. Luis and Isabel drove to their appointed place with a speed and clatter, accentuated by the jingling of the silver rings of the harness and the silver hanging buttons on the gay dress of the Mexican driver. But the occupants of both carriages appeared to be great favorites with the populace who thronged the Plaza, the windows, the flat roofs of the houses, and every available place for hearing and seeing.
The blue flag of Texas fluttered gayly over the lovely city; and there was a salvo of cannon; then, into the sunshine and into the sight of all stepped the man of his generation. Nature has her royal line, and she makes no mistakes in the kings she crowns. The physical charm of Houston was at this time very great. His tall, ample, dignified form attracted attention at once. His eyes penetrated the souls of all upon whom they fell. His lips were touched with fire, and his words thrilled and swayed men, as the wind sways the heavy heads in a field of ripe barley.
He stretched out his arms to the people, and they stretched out their arms to him. The magnetic chain of sympathy was complete. The hearts of his listeners were an instrument, on which he played the noblest, most inspiring, the sweetest of melodies. He kindled them as flame kindles dry grass. He showed them their future with a prophet’s eye, and touched them also with the glad diviner’s rapture. They aspired, they rejoiced at his bidding; and at the moment of their highest enthusiasm, he cried out:
“Whatever State gave us birth, we have one native land and we have one flag!” Instantly from the grim, blood-stained walls of the fortress, the blessed Stars and Stripes flew out; and in a moment a thousand smaller flags, from every high place, gave it salutation. Then the thunder of cannon was answered by the thunder of voices. Cannon may thunder and make no impression; but the shout of humanity! It stirs and troubles the deepest heart-stream. It is a cry that cannot be resisted. It sets the gates of feeling wide open. And it was while men were in this mood that Houston said his last words:
“I look in this glorious sunshine upon the bloody walls of the Alamo. I remember Goliad. I carry my memory back over the long struggle of thirty years. Do you think the young, brave souls, fired with the love of liberty, who fell in this long conflict have forgotten it? No! No! No! Wherever in God’s Eternity they are this day, I believe they are permitted to know that Texas has become part of their country, and rests forever under the flag they loved. The shouting thousands, the booming cannon, that greeted this flag were not all the sounds I heard! Far off, far off, yet louder than any noise of earth, I heard from the dead years, and the dead heroes of these years; the hurrahing of ghostly voices and the clapping of unseen hands!”
“It was like Houston to call the dead to the triumph,” said the doctor, as he stood with the Senora in her room. He was unbuttoning her gloves, and her tears dropped down upon his hands.
“He is a man by himself, and none like him. I thought that I should never forgive him for sparing the life of that monster—Santa Anna; but to-day I forgive him even that. I am so happy that I shall ask Holy Maria to excuse me the feeling; for it is not good to permit one’s self to be too happy; it brings trouble. But indeed, when I looked at Thomas, I thought how wisely he has married. It is seldom a mother can approve of her daughter-in-law; but Abbie has many excellencies—good manners, and a good heart, and a fortune which is quite respectable.”
“And strong principles also, Maria. She will bring up her children to know right and wrong, and to do right.”
“THAT of course. Every good mother does that. I am sure it is a sight for the angels to see Isabel teaching her children their prayers. Did you observe also how great a favorite Luis is? He lifted his hat to this one and that one, and it is certain that the next election will be in his hand.”
“Perhaps—I wish Lopez would take more interest in politics. He is a dreamer.”
“But, then, a very happy dreamer. Perhaps to dream well and pleasantly is to live a better life. Antonia is devoted to him. She has a blessed lot. Once I did not think she would be so fortunate.”
“Lopez was prudent and patient.”
“Prudent! Patient! It is a miracle to me! I assure you, they even talk together of young Senor Grant! It is satisfactory, but extremely strange.”
“You had better sleep a little, Maria. General Houston is coming to dinner.”
“That is understood. When I spoke last to him, I was a woman broken-hearted. To-night I will thank him for all that he has done. Ah, Roberto! His words to-day went to my, soul—I thought of my Juan—I thought of the vision he showed me—I wondered if he knew—if he saw—and heard—” she leaned her head upon her husband’s breast, and he kissed away the sorrowful rain.
“He was so sweet! so beautiful! Oh, Roberto!”
“He was God’s greatest gift to us. Maria! dear. Maria! I love you for, all the children you have given me; BUT MOST OF ALL, FOR JUAN!”
1 (return)[ Little dear.]
2 (return)[ The loadstone in the bosom is a charm against evil; the bringer of good fortune.]
3 (return)[ The flag of the Mexican Republic of 1824 was green, red and white in color.]
4 (return)[ The Virgin appealed to in military straits.]
5 (return)[ Copy from Department of War of the Republic of Texas.]
6 (return)[ Sign of the Cross.]