Saragossa

when I came back to the house I found you here with your father, an old man, who was smiling and talking with mine, both seated upon the sofa in the sala. Then I dreamed that your father smiled at me, and began to ask me questions. Sometimes I dream sad things. When I am awake I listen, and if I do not hear the noise of the bombardment, I ask if it can be that the French have raised the siege. If I hear a cannonading, I look at the image of the Virgin del Pilar which is in my room, and I question it in thought, and it answers me that you are not dead, without my knowing how the answer is given. I spend the day thinking about the ramparts, and I wait at the window to hear what the soldiers say who pass by in the street. Sometimes I feel tempted to ask them if they have seen you. Night comes; I see you again, and I am, oh, so contented! The next day Guedita and I occupy ourselves in cooking something good, unknown to my father. If it is successful, we save it for you; if it is not quite so nice, that little friar called Father Busto takes it to the wounded and sick. He comes after dark to get it, on the pretext of visiting Doña Guedita, of whom he is a kinsman. We ask him how goes the battle, and he tells us all about it, that the troops are performing deeds of great valor, and the French will be obliged to retire in good time. This news that all goes well makes us wild with joy. The noise of the bombs saddens us afterwards, but praying we recover our tranquillity. Alone in our room at night, we make lint and bandages which Father Busto also takes secretly, as if they were stolen goods. If we hear my father’s steps, we hide it all quickly, and put out the light, because if he should find out what we are doing he would be very angry.”

Mariquilla smiled almost gayly as she told of her fears and joys with divine simplicity. The peculiar charm of her voice is indescribable. Her words, like the vibration of crystal notes, left a harmonious echo in the soul. As she ceased speaking, the first splendors of dawn illuminated her face.

“The day is breaking, Mariquilla,” said Augustine, “and we must go. Today we are going to defend Las Tenerias. This will be a dreadful day, and many will be killed. But the Virgin del Pilar will protect us, and we shall live to rejoice in victory. Mariquilla, the balls will not touch me.”

“Do not go yet,” replied the daughter of Candiola. “Day is coming, it is true; but they do not need you yet upon the walls.”

The bell in the tower sounded.

“Look how those birds cruise about in the heavens, announcing the dawn,” said Augustine, with bitter irony.

One, two, three bombs traversed the sky, as yet faintly illumined.

“How frightful!” cried Mariquilla, yielding to the embrace of Montoria. “Will God keep us today as He preserved us yesterday?”

“We must go to the walls,” I cried, rising quickly. “Do you not hear all the drums and bells sounding the call to arms?”

Mariquilla, in indescribable panic, was weeping and trying to detain Montoria. I was resolved on going at once, and endeavored to take him away with me. The noise of the drums and the bells in the belfries of the city were sounding the call to arms. And if we did not rush instantly into the lines, we ran the risk of being shot or arrested.

“I must go, I must go, Mariquilla,” said my friend, with profound emotion. “Are you afraid? No, this house is sacred because you live in it, and will be respected by the enemy’s fire. God will not visit your father’s cruelty upon your sacred head.”

The Doña Guedita appeared abruptly, saying that her master was up and dressing hastily. Then Mariquilla herself hurried us to the foot of the garden, ordering us to go at once. Augustine was in anguish, and at the gate, hesitated and stepped backward as if to return to the side of the unhappy girl, who, half dead of fright, her hands folded in prayer, was weeping, seeing us go from where she stood in the shade of the cypress which had sheltered us. At the moment when we opened the gate, a cry was heard from the upper part of the house, and we saw Candiola, who, half-dressed, was leaning out in a threatening attitude. Augustine wished to turn back; but I forced him forward, and we went.

“To the lines! To the lines, at once!” I cried. “They will degrade us, Augustine! Leave your future father-in-law to deal with your future wife for the present.”

We ran swiftly into the Coso, where we saw that innumerable bombs were being hurled upon the unhappy city. Everybody ran as fast as possible to the various positions of defence⁠—some to Las Tenerias, some to the Portillo, some to Santa Engracia or to the Trinitarios. As we arrived at the arch of Cineja, we stumbled upon Don José de Montoria, who, followed by some of his friends, was running towards the Almudi. In the same moment a terrible crash behind us proclaimed that one of the enemy’s projectiles had fallen upon a neighboring residence. Augustine, hearing this, turned back, longing to return to the place from whence we came.

“Where are you going, porra!” cried his father, detaining him. “To the Tenerias! Make haste! To the Tenerias!”

The people who were coming and going knew the place of the disaster, and we heard them saying⁠—

“Three bombs have fallen close to the house of Candiola.”

“The angels of heaven certainly aimed those guns,” laughed Don José de Montoria, noisily. “We shall see how the Mallorcan Jew keeps them off, if he is still alive till he puts his money