“This terrible explosion must have been in the Convent of San Francisco,” said I.
“Let us run over there,” cried Montoria, trying to make strength of his weakness. “Señor de Araceli, did they not say that all precautions had been taken to defend San Francisco? Isn’t there a pair of crutches anywhere here?”
We went into the Coso, where we were immediately assured of the fact that a large part of San Francisco had been blown up.
“My son was in the convent,” said Montoria, pale as the dead. “My God, if thou art resolved upon his death also, may he die for his country at the post of honor.”
The loquacious beggar of whom I made mention in the first pages now approached us, walking laboriously upon his crutches, and seeming in a very bad state of health.
“Sursum Corda,” I said to the patriot, “give me your crutches. You are doing no good with them.”
“Do me the kindness to let me keep them to get to that doorway,” said the cripple, “and then I will give them to you. I do not wish to die in the middle of the street.”
“Are you dying?”
“It seems like it. I am burning with fever. I was wounded in the shoulder yesterday, and nobody has taken out the ball. I feel that I am going. Your honor may have the crutches.”
“Have you come from San Francisco?”
“No, sir, I was in the Arch del Trenque. There was a cannon there. We had been firing a great deal. But San Francisco has been blown into the air when we least expected it. The whole part to the south and the west came to the ground, burying many people. There has been treachery, people say. Adios, Señor Don José. Here I stay. My eyes are getting dim. My tongue thickens. I am going, but the Virgin del Pilar will protect me. And here your honor has my oars.”
With them Montoria got on slowly towards the scene of the catastrophe. But we had to go around by the Calle San Gil, because we could not get through directly. The French had ceased firing upon the convent from the hospital; but, assaulting by San Diego, they quickly occupied the ruins, which we could not dispute with them. The church and the tower of San Francisco remained standing.
“Eh, Father Luengo,” said Montoria, calling to the friar of that name, “what is it? Where is the Captain-General? Has he perished in the ruins?”
“No,” replied the friar, stopping. “He is with officers in the Plazuela de San Felipe. I can announce the safety of your son Augustine to you, because he was one of those who were occupying the tower.”
“Blessed be God!” said Don José, crossing himself.
“All the part at the south and the west has been destroyed,” proceeded Luengo. “I do not know how they have been able to mine in that place. They must have placed the mines under the chapter house. We had not mined there, believing that it was a safe place.”
An armed peasant who had come up said:
“Yes, and we had the next house, and the French, having possession of parts only of Santa Rosa and San Diego, could not readily approach there.”
“As far as that is concerned,” said an armed priest who had joined us, “it is supposed that they have found a secret passageway between Santa Rosa and the house los Duendes. Being in possession of the cellars of that, they could, by digging a short gallery, get under the chapter house, which is quite near.”
“It is now known,” said a captain of the army. “The house los Duendes has a large cellar of which we knew nothing. From this cellar there was undoubtedly a communication with Santa Rosa. The house formerly belonged to the convent, and served it as a storehouse.”
“Well, if this communication exists,” said Luengo, “I understand perfectly who has discovered it to the French. You know that when the enemy was repulsed in the orchard of San Diego some prisoners were taken. Among them was Candiola, who during these past days has often visited the French camp, and last night went over to the enemy.”
“It must be so,” said Montoria; “because the house los Duendes belongs to Candiola. The damned Jew knew very well the passageways and hiding places of that building. Señors, let us go to see the Captain-General. Is it believed that the Coso can still be defended?”
“Does it not have to be defended?” said a soldier. “After all, it is only a trifle which has happened, a few more dead. We will try to regain the church of San Francisco.”
We all looked at that man who spoke so serenely of the impossible. The sublime terseness of his expression of perseverance seemed like a jest, and in that epoch of the incredible, similar jests were wont to end in reality.
Let those who hesitate to give credence to my words open the history, and they will see that some few dozens of men, wasted, famished, barefooted, and half-naked, some of them wounded, held out all that day in the tower. Not content with holding it, they went out over the roof of the church, opening here and there many places in the roof, and paying no attention to the fire directed upon them from the hospital, they began to throw hand-grenades upon the French, obliging them to abandon the church when night came. All of the night was passed in attempts by the enemy to regain it; but they could not accomplish it until the following day, when the riflemen on the roof retired, passing to the house of Sástago.
XXIX
Will Saragossa surrender? Death to him who says it!
Saragossa will not surrender. She will be reduced to powder. Of her historic houses, let not one brick remain upon another! Let her hundred temples fall, the ground beneath her open, pouring out flames; let her foundations be hurled into the air; let her roofs fall into the pits
