On re-entering the sala the picture of woe was again presented, but in an altered aspect. A change, sudden as the atmospheric one we had just witnessed, had taken place; and the scene of wild weeping was now succeeded by one of resignation and prayer.

On one side was Dona Joaquina, holding in her hands a golden rosary with its crucifix. The girls were kneeling in front of a picture—a portrait of Dolores with the fatal dagger; and the “Lady of Grief” looked not more sorrowful from the canvas than the beautiful devotees that bent before her.

With their heads slightly leaning, their arms crossed upon their swelling bosoms, and their long loose hair trailing upon the carpet, they formed a picture at once painful and prepossessing.

Not wishing to intrude upon this sacred sorrow, we made a motion to retire.

“No, Señores,” said Don Cosmé, interrupting us. “Be seated; let us talk calmly—let us know the worst.”

We then proceeded to inform Don Cosmé of the landing of the American troops and the manner in which our lines were drawn around the city, and pointed out to him the impossibility of anyone passing either in or out.

“There is still a hope, Don Cosmé,” said I, “and that, perhaps, rests with yourself.”

The thought had struck me that a Spaniard of Don Cosmé’s evident rank and wealth might be enabled to procure access to the city by means of his consul, and through the Spanish ship of war that I recollected was lying off San Juan.

“Oh! name it, Captain; name it!” cried he, while at the word “hope” the ladies had rushed forward, and stood clinging around me.

“There is a Spanish ship of war lying under the walls of Vera Cruz.”

“We know it—we know it!” replied Don Cosmé eagerly.

“Ah! you know it, then?”

“Oh, yes!” said Guadalupe. “Don Santiago is on board of her.”

“Don Santiago?” inquired I; “who is he?”

“He is a relation of ours, Captain,” said Don Cosmé; “an officer in the Spanish navy.”

This information pained me, although I scarcely knew why.

“You have a friend, then, aboard the Spanish ship,” said I to the elder of the sisters. “’Tis well; it will be in his power to restore to you your brother.”

A ring of brightening faces was around me while I uttered these cheering words; and Don Cosmé, grasping me by the hand, entreated me to proceed.

“This Spanish ship,” I continued, “is still allowed to keep up a communication with the town. You should proceed aboard at once, and by the assistance of this friend you may bring away your son before the bombardment commences. I see no difficulty; our batteries are not yet formed.”

“I will go this instant!” said Don Cosmé, leaping to his feet, while Dona Joaquina and her daughters ran out to make preparations for his journey.

Hope—sweet hope—was again in the ascendant.

“But how, Señor?” asked Don Cosmé, as soon as they were gone; “how can I pass your lines? Shall I be permitted to reach the ship?”

“It will be necessary for me to accompany you, Don Cosmé,” I replied; “and I regret exceedingly that my duty will not permit me to return with you at once.”

“Oh, Señor!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a painful expression.

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