CHAPTER III

SANCTUARY


Ned Fulton's sleep was that of exhaustion, and it lasted long. Although
fine snow yet fell outside, and the raw wind blew it about, a pleasant
warmth pervaded the snug alcove, made by the back of the pew in which he
lay. He had been fortunate indeed to find such a place, because the body
of the church was gloomy and cold. But he did not hear the winds, and no
thought of the snow troubled him, as he slept on hour after hour.

The night passed, the light snow had ceased, no trace of it was left on
the earth, and the brilliant sunshine flooded the ancient capital with
warmth. People went about their usual pursuits. Old men and old women
sold sweets, hot coffee, and tortillas and frijoles, also hot, in the
streets. Little plaster images of the saints and the Virgin were exposed
on trays. Donkeys loaded with vegetables, that had been brought across
the lakes, bumped one another in the narrow ways. Many officers in fine
uniforms and many soldiers in uniforms not so fine could be seen.

Whatever else Mexico might be it was martial. The great Santa Anna whom
men called another Napoleon now ruled, and there was talk of war and
glory. Much of it was vague, but of one thing they were certain. Santa
Anna would soon crush the mutinous Texans in the wild north. Gringos
they were, always pushing where they were not wanted, and, however hard
their fate, they would deserve it. The vein of cruelty which, despite
great virtues, has made Spain a by-word among nations, showed in her