For she had been born during those stormy days when Magee and Bernardo,
with twelve hundred Americans, first flung the banner of Texan
independence to the wind; when the fall of Nacogdoches sent a thrill of
sympathy through the United States, and enabled Cos and Toledo, and the
other revolutionary generals in Mexico, to carry their arms against Old
Spain to the very doors of the vice-royal palace. She had heard from
her father many a time the whole brave, brilliant story--the same story
which has been made in all ages from the beginning of time. Only
the week before, they had talked it over as they sat under the great
fig-tree together.

"History but repeats itself," the doctor had said then; "for when
the Mexicans drove the Spaniards, with their court ceremonies, their
monopolies and taxes, back to Spain, they were just doing what the
American colonists did, when they drove the English royalists back
to England. It was natural, too, that the Americans should help the
Mexicans, for, at first, they were but a little band of patriots; and
the American-Saxon has like the Anglo-Saxon an irresistible impulse to
help the weaker side. And oh, Antonia! The cry of Freedom! Who that has
a soul can resist it?"

She remembered this conversation as she stood in the pallid dawning, and
watched her father ride swiftly away. The story of the long struggle in
all its salient features flashed through her mind; and she understood
that it is not the sword alone that gives liberty--that there must be
patience before courage; that great ideas must germinate for years in
the hearts of men before the sword can reap the harvest.

The fascinating memory of Burr passed like a shadow across her dreaming.
The handsome Lafayettes--the gallant Nolans--the daring Hunters--the
thousands of forgotten American traders and explorers--bold and
enterprising--they had sown the seed. For great ideas are as catching as
evil ones. A Mexican, with the iron hand of Old Spain upon him and the
shadow of the Inquisition over him, could not look into the face of an
American, and not feel the thought of Freedom stirring in his heart.

It stirred in her own heart. She stood still a moment to feel
consciously the glow and the enlargement. Then with an impulse natural,
but neither analyzed nor understood, she lifted her prayer-book, and
began to recite "the rising prayer." She had not said to herself, "from
the love of Freedom to the love of God, it is but a step,"