“Who will go with old Ben Milam into San Antonio?”

A murmur welling to an eager cry answered him.

“Form in line, volunteers,” was the order.

The crowd jostled into place. Other men came running. Ernest found himself in line beside Jim; and somewhere, down the line, were, he felt certain, Leo and Sion.

Colonel Milam, and Frank Johnson, the acting adjutant-general, passed along, counting off the men. There were talking and laughing and enthusiasm. General Burleson stood in the tent flaps, looking out, surveying.

“San Antonio for winter quarters! Not Goliad!” called several voices to him. He smiled; evidently they all had his permission.

“Whom’ll you have for commander, boys?” asked Colonel Milam.

“You! You! Milam for commander! Ben Milam!”

And rose the shouts, widely repeated: “Milam! Milam!”

Captain Dickinson sprang to the front.

“All in favor of Ben Milam as commander to storm San Antonio step one pace forward!”

Forward stepped officers and men.

“Reckon that’s unanimous,” laughed Captain Dickinson, saluting Colonel Ben.

“The volunteers who wish to form the force for an immediate entrance into Bejar will meet this evening at dark at the mill, where arrangements will be completed,” announced Colonel Milam. “You are now dismissed. The officers will please remain.”

With a hearty cheer the ranks broke, and the men hastened to their company quarters to spread the word and to make their preparations.

“We’re sure going to take Bejar this time,” exulted Jim, as he and Ernest hurried back, amidst other figures likewise hurrying.

“We are if we can,” agreed Ernest, but not quite so dead certain.

“Aw, they can’t keep us out, if once we get in,” declared Jim. They overtook Sion and Leo.

“You fellows in on this?”

“Well, I should say!” asserted Leo.

“Wouldn’t miss it for all Texas,” added Sion.

“That’s what it means—all Texas,” answered Jim. “So long. See you later.” And they separated.

Already it was dusk; the time for the rendezvous at the old mill was near. Jim and Ernest rapidly overhauled their guns and ammunition, and stuffed some beef and bread into their pockets. Other volunteers were doing likewise. The camp was in a fever of anticipation. Now nobody hung back. The rank and file had been inspired by Ben Milam’s ringing challenge. This sudden action had been just the thing needed.

“Come on. Let’s go,” urged Ernest, as he noted men, by twos and threes, trudging away, well armed, for the mill.

“All right. I’m with you,” assented Jim. “No horses, I reckon. This is a foot job.”

Equipped for service, they joined the crowd at the old mill, around which camp had been established. Here they found Sion, with his long Kentucky rifle.

“Where’s Leo?” asked Ernest. “Thought he was with you.”

“Naw,” said Sion. “They’ve taken him with that Alamo bunch. He’s sore, too, but he had to go.”

“What bunch is that?” demanded Jim, alert.

“A battalion under Colonel Neill. They’ll make a feint on the Alamo while we’re marching on the town. But they may have to do some fighting, just the same. Leo’d a heap rather be with us, though.”

That was too bad. Still, a soldier must obey orders.

Men continued to gather, until there were 301, from half a dozen of the Texas companies, and from the New Orleans Grays and Captain Peacock’s Mississippians. They were told off into two columns, one under Colonel Milam and the other under Adjutant-General Frank Johnson. Colonel Franks, of the artillery, and Major Morris, who had been captain of the Grays, were appointed aides to Colonel Milam; the General Johnson aides were Colonel James Grant, the doctor and land owner of Coahuila, and Colonel William T. Austin, who was a distant kin of Stephen Austin.

The Captain Dickinson men were assigned to the first column—and right glad was Ernest to follow Ben Milam, although Frank Johnson was a good fighter, too. After having been detailed off, the volunteers were dismissed, with instructions to fall in again an hour before daylight, without horses.

“Which column you fellows with?” queried Sion, as on the way back to their beds he joined his two chums.

“We’re under Milam,” informed Ernest.

“Shucks!” deplored Sion. “I’m under Johnson but he’s all right. We’ve got the Grays, and those Mississippians.”

“We’ve got English’s East Texans, and Henry Karnes, and the Gonzales company,” retorted Jim. “Who are your guides?”

“Deaf Smith and John W. Smith,” answered Sion.

“Ours are Sam Maverick and Hendrick Arnold and John Cooke.”

“Guess they know the town,” said Sion. “But I’d rather have Deaf Smith than anyone.”

“He’s no better than Karnes,” argued Jim.

“They’re both some scouts,” admitted Sion. “Well, I’m going to bed. We’ll meet up in the morning, maybe. Or else in town.”

“So long,” bade Jim and Ernest.

At this stage of army life Ernest could go to sleep at almost any time. He and Jim speedily rolled themselves in their blankets, and without much ado caught at least forty winks; and forty winks only did it seem to Ernest, when in the darkness and the chill of the hour preceding dawn he was awakened by the word passed along the lines. He and Jim quickly drew on their boots, donned coats and hats, belts and ammunition, seized their rifles and were ready.

Coffee was served from the mess pots, and at the old mill the two columns were formed by low orders. A number of crowbars were handed around.

It was reported that the Colonel Neill battalion, to make the pretense of attacking the Alamo, had gone. General Burleson had agreed to hold the reserve of the army in camp, in case that they might be needed in the fight, or in case that the Mexicans might attempt a counter-attack to cut the camp off, and seize it and the supplies.

The order to advance was given; and side by side, in silence, except for the shuffle of feet on the moist turf, the two columns moved forward through the misty murk, Colonel Milam and General Johnson, with their aides, leading; and the guides ahead, aiming for the easiest and surest approaches. Behind followed the Gonzales six-pounder and the twelve-pounder cannon drawn by the artillerymen. The other six-pounder had been taken by Colonel Neill.

On the right the Alamo slumbered in darkness. Presently, before, loomed through the gloom the low walls of San Antonio. “Sentinela alerte!” sang the sentinels.

“They’ll sing a different tune in a minute,” whispered Jim to Ernest.

“Shut up, there!” ordered a corporal. Jim chuckled.

The columns diverged, one from the other. The first column wended a little to the right, the second column kept on to the left, and Sion was gone with it.

A number of little Mexican huts were passed; the occupants did not awake, and neither did their dogs. How quiet everything was! But the east was graying, the gloom was thinning, and the day of December 5 was about to dawn. Ernest shivered with the suspense. Then——

“Boom!” rolled a cannon shot, far on the left. And—“Boom!” again. The heavy air jarred with the shock. Colonel Neill was attacking the Alamo! Distant bugles pealed, calling the Alamo to arms; muskets, of the sentries, began to speak; the uproar rapidly increased. Lights began to appear in San Antonio.

“Hurry up, boys!” passed the word; and the column quickened its pace.

Now they were in a street, a straight, wide street bordered by the low stone-and-plaster houses. Acequia Street, it was, according to report. Sam Maverick and the other guides knew it well; it conducted through to the main plaza. The General Johnson column had taken the next street on the left—Soledad Street.

Ernest’s heart beat high. Were the Mexicans going to let them all march right through? No! The town was thoroughly awake. Lights flickered before; dogs barked furiously; voices of women and children called shrilly; and “Whang!” spoke the musket of a sentry, in the direction of the other column. “Crack!” answered at once a rifle. Deaf Smith, they heard later, had shot the sentry dead. But bugles were sounding. The town was alarmed at last.

Up came the cannon, hauled by the panting cannoneers; and back ran an aide—Major Morris.

“Sappers to the front!” he shouted, tensely, waving his sword. “Break into this house. Hurry up!”

To the house on the left side of the street hustled Henry Karnes and the crowbar squad. The house stood on a corner, and occupied the block. It was a large house.

“Get behind it, boys! Watch out for the cannon,” sped the cry; for Deaf Smith and others who had been in the town had described how the cannon in the main plaza and the military plaza were pointed down the principal streets.

Into the cross-street scampered the column, deploying to cover the plaza streets on either side, and keeping close in the shelter of the house walls. There was a heavy report, and another, and through the two streets swept a deluge of grape from the Mexican artillery; but it swept without harm. Now all the town was aroused; the fight was on; and in the distance sounded the attack on the Alamo.

Henry Karnes and his squad were fiercely plying their crowbars. The stone walls were thick and tough, but the mortar flew in a shower of dust and chunks. This was the rear of the house—Don Antonio de la Garza’s house, said somebody. There was a stout wooden door here, but no windows. The house was built in “U” shape, enclosing a court which was shut from the street by a wall, of course, Mexican fashion. The main entrance was on another side.

However, rear or front, who cared? With a warning cheer a second squad came running, bearing a log battering-ram. It crashed against the wooden door. Inside the house, women and children were shrieking. From across Soledad Street, to the left, sounded the dull thuds of crowbar and battering ram wielded by the Johnson column, who were breaking into another house.

The de la Garza wall was crumbling; the door was trembling to the crashing blows of the log.

“Listen to ’em, inside!” shouted Jim, in Ernest’s ear; and Ernest nodded. That family were well frightened, and no wonder, with all this clamor of bugles and shouting and cheering and bellowing cannon and blows from crowbar and battering-ram.

Inward spun the door, wrenched from bar, lock and hinge; and a jagged hole had appeared in the stone wall.

“In with you!” were the orders; and through doorway and hole dived, pell-mell, the column. Breathless, but with not a man harmed, they swarmed through the rooms.

The house was empty, but the couches were still warm from recent bodies, and articles of wearing apparel were scattered here and there. The family evidently had fled in their night garments.

“We certainly smoked ’em out,” remarked Jim, as he and Ernest were borne onward by the rush of the men seeking positions.

It did not take long to occupy the house. Some doors had been locked as the family fled, but these were battered down in short order. Window shutters were pierced and loopholes hacked in the mortar, and squads stationed at these, and on the roof. By the crackling, increasing fire at the left, was it known that the Johnson column had broken into the big house opposite, across Soledad Street; the house of Don Juan Veramendi, former vice-governor of Coahuila and Texas, whose daughter Jim Bowie had married!

Now gray daylight had arrived, and rifles were cracking ever more briskly, as the Texans from their roofs and loopholes sought to pick off the Mexican gunners at the street ends, and replied to the Mexican musketeers on the other roof-tops. The reports from the direction of the Alamo had lessened, as if Colonel Neill had withdrawn, after his feint to distract attention from the attack on Bejar. The two cannon brought into town also were silent. The twelve-pounder had been fired once or twice and then had been knocked off its carriage by the Mexican cannon; and the six-pounder could not be served without some sort of a barricade to protect its gunners.

“Well, we’re in, anyhow,” asserted Jim, as with Ernest he peered through their loophole, trying to find a mark. “We’ll just keep burrowing along.”

“How far to the plazas?” asked Ernest.

“Not far. Only about a block, where that church tower is. Jiminy! See the flag on it? Red flag! That means no quarter. But we don’t care.”

The low-ceilinged room was hazy with choking powder-smoke, and Ernest’s eyes and throat smarted. The loophole did not seem very well located for shooting, although in other rooms the men were busy.

“Let’s go up on top a minute,” he proposed.

“Go if you want to,” consented Dick Carroll, who with a partner completed the squad here. “See as much as you can, while you have a chance. But you’d better do some tall crawling and keep your heads down.”

Away they scurried. A hole had been hacked in the ceiling, and furniture piled under; and boosted by this they wormed up through to the roof.

The roof was of flattened clay, and surrounded by a cement rim about three feet high, like a parapet. Men were lying on their stomachs behind the parapet, resting their guns on it, aiming, firing and lowering their pieces to reload. Henry Karnes was here—cautiously raising his red head to sight along his rifle barrel, and at the smart recoil of his piece ducking down and hastily reloading.

“You’d best get down out of hyar,” he snarled, to the boys, as they squirmed beside him. “It’s hotter’n a brass kettle at a dog feast!”

And that was true. Bullets from Mexican soldiery were droning close above, like a swarm of angry bees. They were thudding upon the stones, and knocking chips from the top of the parapet.

“I’m up here to see something,” blurted Jim, obstinately, wriggling so as to get a view. He carefully lifted his head, until he could peep over a low place. Not to be outdone, Ernest found another place, where a bullet had scored a furrow.

The air was blue with the fumes of cannon and musket and rifle discharge. Immediately before the parapet was a narrow street, separating the de la Garza house from another smaller house. But that roof had been cleared of Mexicans, had any occupied it. Further, was the church tower, rising beyond the row of buildings facing the plazas; the sun burst through the mists, and shone full on the red flag of “No quarter.” Across the street to the left were the Johnson sharpshooters, poking their rifle barrels over the parapet of the Veramendi roof. The Veramendi house was a short distance nearer to the main plaza than was the de la Garza house. From the roofs of the houses right and left and before, on toward the plaza, belched the smoke from the volleys of the Mexicans.

Crawling on their stomachs, over the legs of the men so as to keep under the parapet, the boys made a half circuit of the roof. At one spot they looked down into the court, where amidst flowers and fruits a fountain played and where birds were twittering and fluttering, while along the wall that completed the enclosure the riflemen were at work, shooting at Mexican gunners.

“When this war’s over and Texas is free, and I grow up and get a wife, and crops are good,” mused Jim, “I reckon I’ll have a patio just like this to sit in, nights and Sundays.”

“I’ll have one, too, and put my mother in it, I guess,” hazarded Ernest.

“She’d certainly admire to be put,” encouraged Jim. “But first——” and suddenly he ducked, with a howl.

“Are you hit, Jim?”

“No,” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Some hombre yonder pitched a lot of dust into my face.” For a bullet had scraped along the parapet, right under his nose. “Come on. Let’s go down. It’s too crowded up here. Every good place has somebody lying on it.”

Back they went, through the hole, into the smoke.

The day passed, with the Milam column holding the de la Garza house and the Johnson column holding the Veramendi house. Nobody could cross Soledad Street, from house to house, because the Mexican cannon raked it. Several men on the roof and at the loopholes were wounded, and were sent to camp. From camp General Burleson forwarded supplies of food and ammunition.

Finally dusk settled, and the constant fire slackened. Henry Karnes and a force with the crowbars and with picks and spades that had been found were set to work, after dark, at digging a trench across the street; and made one deep enough so that men could dodge through, out of sight, by stooping. Word was received that the Johnson division was all right; had only one killed. The Milam division had nobody killed, as yet. But Deaf Smith had been wounded, on the Veramendi roof, and the firing had been so severe there that nobody had been able to stay up long. Dr. Grant had been wounded, too.

Yes, Sion was alright. He sent word through the trench.

The digging of the trench had made the Mexicans very angry, and throughout the night they hurled grape and canister at it. In the morning the roof-tops fairly bristled with their musketeers; they had cut many more loopholes, during the night, in the parapets, and had transferred their artillery to better positions. The Alamo, also, was hammering away with solid shot, bombarding the Texan end of the town and the trail between town and camp.

Something must be done; unless the main plaza was won and the Mexicans driven from this central stronghold, the Texans would soon be trapped in crumbling walls. The main streets and the cross-streets were being raked by the cannon; the only way to advance was through the houses. Lieutenant Bill McDonald volunteered to lead a squad and break into a small house, just across a narrow little street and kitty-corner to the right. This he did, and lost not a man. Colonel Milam promptly sent reinforcements to him, and thus the column was a step nearer to the plazas.

The trench to the Veramendi house was dug deeper and longer; and the six-pounder and twelve-pounder were mounted behind barricades and used. So the day passed.

The next day, in a lull at noon, Henry Karnes did a brave act. Straight beyond the de la Garza house, and flanked on the right by the house which Lieutenant McDonald had captured, was another small house that ought to be taken. Henry Karnes the red-head dashed out, from the door in the middle of the Garza house, into the yard of the small house, drove the door from its hinges with his crowbar, and Captain John York’s company of East Texans thronged in after him. The house was exposed in a large yard; but now only a block, occupied by the great Priest’s House, as it was called, lay between the column and main plaza. The red flag flapping in the heavy, murky air, from the tower of San Fernando church, was closer.

So far, so good; and hot work had it been, for the Mexican soldiers shot shrewdly, battering every loophole in wall and parapet with their musket balls and thundering away with their cannon. This day, December 7, had been cold and rainy; dusk settled early. The trench, connecting the de la Garza house and the Veramendi house, was to the rear; directly across Soledad Street, from the small house, was a large green door, of planks, into the court of the Veramendi house. Chancing to peep out of the window where he was stationed, Ernest saw a figure spring boldly from the trench, and lay hand upon the door to push it back and enter. ’Twas Colonel Milam, himself, going over to confer with General Johnson. But even as his hand touched the planks, there was a volley of musket shots, and down plunged Ben Milam, in a crumpled, motionless heap. The door swung in, but too late, and other hands quickly dragged the colonel inside.

“Milam’s killed!” gasped Jim, at Ernest’s side. “They got him!”

“Did you see it?” stammered Ernest. “Is he killed? Do you think he is, Jim?”

“He’s gone! What’d he try that for, anyway?” wailed Jim. And he added, furiously: “We’ll make those hombres suffer for that!”

“They’ve been watching that door. They knew that was our way in,” reasoned Ernest.

Milam killed! Ben Milam killed! Gallant Ben Milam! The word spread amidst angry murmurs and threats. Soon, by the trench, arrived word that dead he was—slain instantly by a musket ball through the head. He was buried in the courtyard of the Veramendi house; and a council of officers chose Adjutant-General Johnson to succeed him as the commander.

“Angel Navarro’s house! Now for Navarro the political chief’s house! Let’s avenge Milam!” rose the cry.

The house of Jose Angel Navarro was across Acequia Street, on the right, and so far toward the plaza that one corner, the southwest, gave a view of the northeast corner of the military plaza itself. Volunteers were picked from the companies of Captains York, Crane, English and Llewyllen; into the darkness they bolted, crossed the street, and broke through the house walls of Angel Navarro, the political chief who had demanded the Gonzales six-pounder last September.

The Navarro house joined, behind, at the right, a row of single rooms that fronted on the street running into the plaza. Zambrano Row, was it styled, divided from the Navarro home by a solid partition. Zambrano Row was full of Mexican soldiers; from the roof they crept to the Navarro roof, and digging holes through shot down upon the Texans in the Navarro rooms underneath. But this did not work well, for the replies from the Texas guns were so sharp, that the soldiers scurried back.

“Clean out Zambrano Row, next. Then the Priest’s House,” remarked Dick Carroll, grimly.

The first column had been doing most of the advancing, for the second column, in the Veramendi House, were as far forward as they could get. However, in the drizzle of the morning the New Orleans Grays filed through the trench, eager to help, and joined with the Navarro garrison, to take Zambrano Row.

What a tumult of shouts and cheers and groans and shots pealed through doors and windows, as from within the Navarro house Henry Karnes and his sappers plied their crowbars on the dividing wall, and made their breaches into the rooms where awaited the Mexicans. Covered by the rifles behind them, the Texans burst through the breaches, with their knives and pistols drove the Mexicans out headlong; and clearing one room, proceeded, by crowbar and battering-ram, into the next. Nothing could stand before them. Right speedily Zambrano Row had fallen.

From the small house which had been taken by Henry Karnes alone, Ernest and Jim and their comrades had listened with beating hearts. Suddenly there ensued a lull, of only spattering shots—and rang a Texas cheer.

“One more step,” commented Jim, turning powder-grimed face upon Ernest. “I don’t reckon there’s much furniture left over yonder, though.”

Fresh reinforcements were rushed across from the Veramendi House. Sion was among them at last. At sight of him, peering about in the dimness, the two boys rushed upon him, and shook hands vigorously.

“How are you? All right?”

“Up and coming, but my shoulder’s plumb sore from dad’s rifle,” panted Sion. “This is toler’ble fighting, isn’t it! Four days! That was too bad about Milam, though. Where’s Leo? Seen him?”

“No.”

“He’s here. Followed right behind us, with some reinforcements from Burleson.”

“There he is!” cried Ernest. “Oh, Leo! Whoopee!”

They shook hands with Leo. He was more excited than they, although he had the only clean face among them.

“What you-all been doing?” he demanded, eagerly. “You look like wrecks. Where we going next? Am I too late for the fun? I came as quick as I could. The general sent three more companies and I got in on one of them—Captain Cheshire’s.”

“You’re just in time, boy,” vaunted Sion. “We’re going to take the Priest’s House. Ugartechea’s slipped through you fellows scouts with six hundred more soldiers, from down on the Rio Grande, and we’ve got to finish up quick. Once we take the Priest’s House, we’ll be right on the main plaza—and then watch those Mexican cannoneers hop!”

The Priest’s House occupied the block which, bounded on the right by the Navarro House and Zambrano Row, on the left by part of the Veramendi House and some smaller buildings, and behind by the Henry Karnes house and yard and an intersecting street, fronted along the middle of the main plaza.

“I’m in on that, then,” announced Leo. “If they call for volunteers you’ll see me jump.”

“Same here,” proclaimed they all.

The great Priest’s House, the last stepping stone, was to be stormed at ten o’clock this night, December 8. One hundred volunteers were asked for by General Johnson. There were a few smiles and jokes when the four boys boldly crowded forward—but, as Jim said, they hadn’t had a single good chance yet in any of the special assaults, and they could “wiggle through awful small holes.”

“Let ’em come,” spoke somebody; and they went.

Out from the Navarro house into the wet night they all plunged, across the slippery stone pavement, and hurled themselves at the windows, door and walls of the Priest’s House. This was the biggest fight of all. The muskets of the Mexican soldiers belched a storm of fire and lead from roof top and from windows; and the plaza cannon thundered fiercely.

Shoulder to shoulder the four pressed against the wall—fairly held there by the streams of lead hissing past—while the crowbars and picks and logs hammered at every fissure. Ernest felt a sudden shock, followed by a sharp sting in his left arm; he staggered for an instant—but Jim’s arm gripped his waist, and Sion and Leo yelled, above the tumult:

“Ernest’s hit. Cover him. Don’t let him drop, Jim.”

“Never mind me. I can stand. Go ahead,” pleaded Ernest. The blood was oozing through his coat, and running down his skin, inside.

“Here we go!” called Jim. “Hoist him in, quick!” The wooden shutter in front of them had been splintered and torn open; and following the heels of the first men, they scrambled through, half lifting, half dragging Ernest.

In through door and windows and embrasures where the stones had been unseated, piled all—all the 100. The Mexicans fled again, and at the hearty cheers of victory reinforcements were immediately sent from the Navarro House.

“Let’s see that arm,” bade Jim, of Ernest, as they paused, panting, while shutters and door were being secured, and loopholes made.

“Huh! Only a flesh wound,” commented Sion, in tone of great relief. “Who’s got a handkerchief?”

The Mexican ball had cut through the muscles, on the outside where the arm joined the shoulder. It really did not leave much damage, but the place hurt like sixty. Anyway, a wound it was, received in battle; and while the boys were tying it up, with Jim’s handkerchief, over Leo’s handkerchief as a pad, Ernest viewed it with considerable pride. Now he was a veteran indeed.

“You can hold that little gun of yours with your right arm and pull trigger,” advised Sion. “But if you had my old pea-shooter or Leo’s scatter-gun, you’d be out of action. You’re lucky.”

However, for an hour or two yet the Mexican cannon boomed and the muskets banged; but the noise gradually died away. When morning dawned, and the Texan rifles attempted to search the exposed plaza, it was empty save for the dead and the wounded. General Cos had retired all his troops to the Alamo; only the red flag still flapped defiance.

About half-past six there was a great cheering; a Mexican officer had come in with a white flag, to ask for terms. He said that the soldiers, and the refugees from the town, in the Alamo, had mutinied; there were not enough provisions; and 500 of the reinforcements under General Ugartechea were convicts, chained together so that they would not run away! In fact, he was rather disgusted.

“Haul down that no-quarter flag, then!” swelled the cry. Out into the street fronting the two plazas darted volunteers, mounted into the tower of San Fernando church, which stood between the plazas, tore the red flag from its staff, and floated the Dodson “Lone Star” flag of the Harrisburg company.

Word of the surrender was sent back to General Burleson. Now everybody might lounge at ease, while keeping a careful watch upon any movement in the Alamo. General Burleson and his staff and an escort of cavalry rode into town; and by two o’clock in the morning of the next day, December 10, the articles of surrender were completed and signed.

General Cos and his officers gave their parole or word of honor not to engage again in any struggle to oppose the constitution of 1824, and they were permitted to retain their arms and personal belongings. The convicts of General Ugartechea were to be removed beyond the Rio Grande River. All the army, except the wounded and such soldiers as wished to remain as private citizens, in Texas, were to be marched away within six days.

In the fighting the two Texas columns had suffered only two killed and twenty-six (including Ernest) wounded. General Cos was said to have lost 100, 200, perhaps 300 men, by bullets, and others by desertion. At any rate, out of the 1400 soldiers gathered in the Alamo, only 1105 left with him. And he surrendered twenty-one cannon, 500 muskets, and much ammunition.

“Whew!” sighed Sion. “That certainly was a beautiful time! How’s your arm, Ernest?”

“All right,” declared Ernest, proudly.