We all looked towards the plain. The little dog, leaping impudently upon the wall, began to bark at the French lines.
“I have also brought you a couple of pounds of dried fruit which has been kept in the dispensary at our house. We were going to preserve them in liquor, but you taste them first of anyone, my brave boys. I have not forgotten thee at all, my beloved Pirli,” he continued, turning to the boy of that name; “and as you are half naked, and without a cloak, I have brought you a magnificent covering. Do you see this bundle? Well, here is an old gown that I have kept to give to a poor man. Now, I present it to you as a covering for your body. It is unsuitable clothing for a soldier; but if the gown does not make the monk, neither does the uniform make the soldier. Put it on, and you will be very comfortable in it.”
The friar gave our friend his parcel, and Pirli put on the garment, laughing and dancing about; and as he was still carrying on his head the engineer’s helmet which he had taken in the enemy’s camp on the thirty-first, he presented a figure stranger than can readily be imagined.
A little later, several women also arrived with baskets of provisions. The arrival of femininity swiftly transformed the aspect of the redoubt. I do not know from where they produced a guitar; it is certain that they produced one from somewhere. One of those present graciously began to play the measures of that incomparable, divine, immortal dance, the jota, and in a moment a great revelry of dancing was going on.
Pirli, whose grotesque figure began in a French engineer and ended in a Spanish friar, was the most carried away of any of the dancers, and could not keep tune with his partner, a most graceful girl in Spanish highland dress, who was called Manuela, whom I noticed the first moment that I saw her. She was about twenty-two years of age, and was slender, of a pure pale complexion. The excitement of the dance quickly flushed her cheeks, and by degrees her movements grew more lively, unmindful of fatigue. With her eyes half shut, her cheeks rosy, her arms moving to the music of the sweet strains, she shook her skirts with lively grace; taking her steps lightly, and presenting to us now her brow, and now her shoulders, Manuela held us enchanted.
The ardor of the dancing crowd, the lively music, and the enthusiasm of the rest of the dancers augmented her own, until at last, breathless with fatigue, she dropped her arms and fell to earth like a stone or a pomegranate.
Pirli stood over her, and surrounded her by a sort of corral formed of himself and the basket of provisions.
“Let us see what you have brought us, Manuelilla,” said Pirli. “If ’twere not for thee and Father Busto, we should die of hunger. And if it were not for this little dance with which we get rid of the bad taste of the ‘hot cakes’ and the ‘señoras,’ what would become of us poor soldiers?”
“I bring you whatever there is,” replied Manuela, opening the basket of provisions. “Wait a little. If the siege lasts, you will be eating bricks.”
“We shall have bullets mixed with black flour,” said Pirli. “Manuelilla, have you got over being afraid of the bullets yet?” Saying this, he seized his gun, and shot it off into the air. The girl gave a sharp scream, and, startled, sprang up as if to escape.
“It is nothing, daughter,” said the friar; “brave women are not afraid of powder. On the contrary, they should take as much pleasure in it as in the sound of castanets and mandolins.”
“When I hear a ball,” said Manuela, coming slowly and timidly back, “there is not a drop of blood left in my veins.”
At this moment the French, wishing to try the artillery of their second parallel, shot off a cannon, and the ball came against the wall of the redoubt, shattering the loose bricks into a thousand pieces. Everybody rose to look at the enemy. The highland girl cried out in terror; and Tío Garces was moved to scream through a loophole at the French, heaping upon them the most insolent words, accompanied by many exclamations. The little dog, running from one end of the place to the other, barked furiously.
“Manuela, let us dance another jota to the sound of this music, and viva the Virgin del Pilar,” cried Pirli, jumping about like one out of his senses.
Manuela rose on tiptoe, impelled by curiosity, and slowly stretched up her head to look at the camp from the wall. Then, casting her glance over the level plain, she seemed to dissipate, little by little, the terrors of her fainting spirit; and at last we saw her surveying the enemy’s lines with a certain serenity, and even with a little complacency.
“One, two, three cannon!” she said, counting the fiery mouths which were discernible at that distance. “Come, little boys, don’t be afraid. This is nothing to you!”
Over near San José was heard the booming of guns, and on our redoubt sounded the drum calling to arms. From the neighboring stronghold had sallied forth a little column that exchanged distant shots with the French workmen. Some of these, running to their left, placed themselves within arm’s length of our fire. We all ran to the walls, disposed to send them a few hailstones, and without waiting orders, some of us discharged our guns with loud huzzas.
All the women fled by the bridge towards the city except Manuela. Did fear prevent her from moving? No. Her fear was great; she trembled, and her teeth chattered; her face grew pale; but an irresistible
