“This thing must end soon in one way or the other,” I answered; “either the city will surrender, or we shall all perish.”
At last, near the Coso, we met some of the commissary who were dealing out rations. We took ours eagerly, taking also all that we could carry for our comrades. They received it with a great racket, and a sort of joviality inappropriate to the circumstances. But the Spanish soldier is and always has been like that. While they were eating some crusts of bread as hard as cobblestones, the unanimous opinion spread through the battalion that Saragossa never would surrender, and never should surrender.
It was midnight when the firing dwindled down. The French had not conquered a hand’s breadth of earth more than the houses they had occupied at sunset, although they were not to be driven out of the quarters they had taken. This was left for the days that followed. When the influential men of the city, the Montorias, the Ceresos, the Sases, the Salameros, and the San Clementes were returning to Las Monicas, the scene that night of great prodigies of valor, they showed such tremendous courage and uttered such contempt of the enemy that it roused the spirits of all who saw and heard them.
“Little has been accomplished tonight,” said Montoria. “Our men have been a bit remiss. It is true that it was not possible to drive them all out, nor ought we to have come out into the open, though the French attacked us with little energy. I have seen a few defeats, nothing of consequence. The nuns have beaten up plenty of oil with wine, and now it is only a question of binding up a few wounds. If there were time, it would be well to bury the dead in this heap, but there will be more presently. The epidemic is getting hold of more men. They need rubbing. Plenty of rubbing is what I believe in. For the present, they can very well go without broth. Broth is an unpleasant beverage. I would give them a dose of spirits. In a little while they would be able to handle a gun. Well, sirs, the fiesta appears to be over for tonight. Let us take a nap for half an hour, and tomorrow—tomorrow, I have a notion that the French will make a formal attack upon us.”
He turned to his son, who had come up with me, and cried out—
“Oh, my Augustine, I have been asking for you, because in such a battle as today it happens that some must die. Are you wounded? You have nothing the matter? Let us see, a little gun-scratch? Ah, a trifle! It strikes me that you have scarcely borne yourself like a Montoria. And you, Araceli, have you lost any legs? Not even that! The two of you have just come out from some good shelter, I should say. You have not even turned a hair. It’s a bad business. I call you a pair of hens! Go, rest awhile, not more than a hand’s shake. If you feel yourselves attacked by the epidemic, rubbing and plenty of it is the best thing. Well, sirs, we depend upon it that tomorrow these houses will be defended wall by wall, partition by partition. The same thing will go on in every part of the city, and in every alcove there will be a battle. Let us go to the Captain-General, and see if Palafox agrees with us. There is no other way—either to deliver the city to them, or to dispute each brick as if it were a treasure. We will tire them out. Today six or eight thousand men have perished. Now let us go and see that most excellent Señor Don José. Good night, boys, and tomorrow try and manage to shake off your cowardice.”
“Let us go and sleep a little,” I said to my friend. “Let us come to a house where I have seen some mattresses.”
“I cannot sleep,” said Montoria, walking on along the Coso.
“I know where you are going. We are not permitted to go as far as that, Augustine.”
Many men and women were running up and down, back and forth in the broad avenue. All of a sudden a woman came running swiftly to us and embraced Augustine, speechless, deep emotion choking her.
“Mariquilla, Mariquilla of my heart!” exclaimed Montoria, embracing her joyously. “How is it that you are here? I was just now going in search of you.”
Mariquilla could not speak, and, without the sustaining arm of her lover, her weak and wavering body would have fallen to the ground.
“Are you ill? What is the matter? Is it true that the bombs have destroyed your house?”
It was even so, and the young girl’s whole aspect showed her great distress. Her clothing was that which we saw on her the night before. Her hair was loosened, and we could see burns upon her poor bruised arms.
“Yes,” she said, at last, in a stifled voice. “Our house is gone. We have nothing. We have lost everything. This morning, soon after you had gone, a bomb destroyed the house, then two others fell.”
“And your father?”
“My father is there, and will not abandon the ruins of the house. I have been looking for you all day, for you to help us. I have been under fire. I have been in all the streets of the suburb. I have entered several houses. I was afraid that you were dead.”
Augustine seated himself in a gateway, and, sheltering Mariquilla with his military cloak, he held her in his arms as one holds a child. Freed thus from her terror, she could talk; and she told us that she had not been able to save a single thing. They had scarcely had time to get out of the house. The unhappy girl was trembling with cold, and, putting my cloak over Augustine’s, we tried to take her to the house
