My battalion did not take part in the sorties of the days of the twenty-second and twenty-fourth, nor in the defence of the Molino and the positions situated at the back of San JosÉ, made glorious by the destruction of many of our troops, where they had made the French feel the strength of their hand. It was not because they had not been careful to take precautions, for indeed from the mouth of Huerva to the Carmen gate they stationed fifty cannon, most of them of heavy calibre, directing them with great skill against our weakest points. In spite of all this, we laughed, or pretended to laugh, at them, as in the vain-glorious response of Palafox to Marshal Lannes (who had placed himself since the twenty-second at the head of the besieging army), in which he said to him, "The conquest of this city will be a great honor to Monsieur the Marshal if he gains it in open fight, and not with bombs and grenades, which only terrify cowards."

Of course, after a few days had passed, it was known that the hoped-for forces and the powerful armies that were coming to free us were all mists of our imaginations, and especially of that of the journalist who invented them. There were no such armies of any sort roaming about to help us.

I understood very soon that all that which was published in the "Gazette" of the sixteenth was a canard, and so I said to Don JosÉ de Montoria and his wife, who in their optimism attributed my incredulity to a lack of public spirit. I had gone with Augustine and others of my friends to the Montoria house to help them at a task that was wearying them greatly. A part of their roof had been destroyed by the bombs, and this threatened the walls with destruction also. They were trying to remedy this with all possible speed. The eldest son of Montoria, wounded in battle at the Molino, had been lodged with his wife and son in the cellar of a house close by, and DoÑa Leocadia gave her hands and feet no rest, going and coming between the two houses, carrying things which were necessary.

"I can't let anything be done by others," she said to me; "that is my nature. Although I have servants, I am not content unless I do everything myself. How has my son Augustine borne himself?"

"Like what he is, seÑora, a brave boy," I answered; "and his talent for war is so great that I should not be surprised to see him a general in a couple of years."

"A general!" she exclaimed in surprise. "My son is going to chant masses as soon as the siege is ended. Indeed you know we have educated him for that. God and the Virgin del Pilar bring him in safety through battle, that the rest of his days may go on in appointed ways! The fathers at the Seminary have assured me that I shall see my son with his mitre on his head and his crosier in his hand."

"It will be so, seÑora, I do not doubt it. But seeing how he manages arms, I cannot bring myself to the thought that with the same hand with which he pulls the trigger, he will also scatter benedictions."

"It is true, SeÑor de Araceli; and I have always said that the trigger is not becoming to churchmen. But you see how it is. Here we have great warriors,—Don Santiago Sas, Don Manuel Lasartesa; the incumbent of San Pablo, Don Antonio La Casa; the parish priest of San Miguel, Don JosÉ Martinez; and also Don Vicente Casanova, who is famous as the first theologian of Saragossa. Indeed they all fight, my son also, though I suppose he will be eager to return to the Seminary and plunge into his studies. Would you believe it? Lately he was studying books so large that they weighed two quintals. God's blessing be on the boy! I am quite foolish over him when he recites some grand things all in Latin. I suppose they are all about our Lord, and his love for his church, because there is a great deal about amorem and formosa and pulcherrima, inflamavit, and other words like those."

"Exactly," I replied, imagining that his recitations were from the fourth book of a certain ecclesiastical work called the Æneid, written by a certain Friar Virgil of the order of Predicadores.

"It must be as I say," said DoÑa Leocadia. "And now, SeÑor de Araceli, let us see if you can help me move this table."

"With the greatest pleasure, dear lady. I will move it for you myself," I replied, taking charge of it at the moment that Don JosÉ de Montoria entered, pouring out "porras" and "cuernos" from his blessed mouth.

"How is this, porra!" he cried; "men occupied in women's business? It is not for moving tables and chairs that a gun has been placed in your hands! And you, wife? How can you distract in this manner a man needed on the other side? You and the children, porra! can you not move the furniture? Are you made of paste or cheese? Look! In the street below is the Countess de Bureta with a bed on her shoulders, and her two maids carrying a wounded soldier on a cot."

"Very well," said DoÑa Leocadia, "there is no need of making such a noise about it. The men may go. Everybody out into the street, and leave us alone! Away with you, too, Augustine my son, and God preserve you in the midst of this inferno."

"We must carry twenty sacks of flour from the Convent of Trinitarios to the headquarters of supplies," said Montoria. "Come, let us all go."

And when we were in the street, he added, "The numbers of people in Saragossa will soon make half rations necessary. It is true, my friends, that there is much concealed provision, and although it has been ordered that everybody declare what he has, many do not take any notice of the order, and keep what they have to sell at fabulous prices. It's a bad business. If I discover them, and they fall into my hands, I will make them understand that Montoria is president of the junta of supplies."

We had reached the parish church of San Pablo when we were met by a friar, Father Mateo del Busto, who was coming with much fatigue, forcing his feeble steps, and accompanied by another friar whom they called Father Luengo.

"What news do your reverences bring us?" Montoria asked them.

"Don Juan Gallart has twenty pounds of inlaid work which he places at the disposal of the committee."

"And Don Pedro Pizueta, the shop-keeper of the Calle de las Moscas, generously offers sixty sacks of wool, and all the salt and wool of his storehouses," added Luengo.

"But we have just been dealing with the miser Candiola," said the friar; "a battle with which not even the Eras can compare."

"How is that?" asked Don JosÉ, with astonishment. "Has not that wretched niggard understood that we will pay him for his flour? He is the only citizen of Saragossa who has not given a penny for the provisioning of the army."

"There is no use in preaching to Candiola," said Luengo. "He has said decisively that we need not return there unless we bring him one hundred and twenty-four reales for each sack of flour, and he has seventy-eight of them in his storehouse."

"Is there any infamy equal to his!" exclaimed Montoria, letting loose a string of porras, which I do not copy for fear of wearying my reader. "What! A hundred and twenty-four reales are necessary to make that stingy piece of flint understand the duties of a son of Saragossa in times like these! The Captain-General has given me authority to take whatever provisions are necessary, paying the fixed price for them."

"Do you hear what I tell you, SeÑor Don JosÉ?" said Busto; "Candiola says that who wants flour must pay for it. He said that if the city is not able to defend itself, it must surrender; that he has no obligation to give anything for the war, because he was not the one who brought it on."

"Let us go there," said Montoria, with anger, which showed itself in his gestures, his altered voice, his darkened visage. "It is not the first time that I have had that dog, that blood-sucker, in my hands."

I came behind with Augustine, who was pale and downcast. I wished to speak with him, but he made signs to keep silence. We followed to see how this would end. We found ourselves quickly in the Calle de Anton Trillo; and Montoria said to us,—

"Boys, go on ahead and knock at the door of this insolent Jew. Force it open, if no one opens it; enter, and tell him to come down to see me. Take him by the ear, but be careful he does not bite you, for he is a mad dog and a venomous serpent."

When we were walking on, I looked again at Augustine, and saw that he was livid and trembling.

"Gabriel," he said, "I wish to run away. I wish that the earth would open and swallow me. My father will kill me, but I cannot do what he has commanded me."

"Come, lean on me; then act as if you had twisted your foot, and cannot go on."

This was done, and our other companions and I began knocking at the door. The old woman showed herself at the window, and greeted us with a thousand insolent words. A few minutes passed, and then we saw a very beautiful hand raise the curtain, permitting us to see for a moment a face changed and pale, whose great dark eyes cast terrified glances towards the street.

At that moment my companions and the boys who were following were crying in hoarse concert,—

"Come down, uncle Candiola. Come down, dog of a Caiaphas!"

Contrary to our expectation, Candiola obeyed; but he did it believing that he had to do with the mob of vagabond boys who were in the habit of giving him such serenades, with no suspicion that the president of the junta of supplies, and two others in authority, were there to talk with him on a matter of importance. He soon had occasion to know that this was a serious matter, for at the opening of the door, as he came running out with a cudgel in his hand, and his ugly eyes glowing with wrath, he came face to face with Montoria, and drew back in alarm.

"Ah, it is you, SeÑor de Montoria," he said, with very bad grace. "How is it that you, being a member of the committee of public safety, have not been able to disperse this rabble which has come to make this noise before the gate of the house of an honorable citizen?"

"I am not a member of the committee of public safety, but of the junta of supplies, so I come in search of the SeÑor Candiola, and make him come down; but I will not enter this dark house full of cobwebs and mice."

"The poor cannot live in palaces like SeÑor JosÉ de Montoria, administrator of the goods of the commune, and for a long time tax-collector," replied Candiola.

"I made my fortune by work, not by usury," exclaimed Montoria. "But let us make an end of this. SeÑor Don Jeronimo, I have come for that flour. These two good fathers have acquainted you with our need of it already."

"Yes, I will sell it, I will sell it," answered Candiola, with a crafty smile; "but I cannot part with it at the price which these seÑors indicated. It is too little. I do not part with it for less than one hundred and sixty-two reales for a sack of a hundred pounds."

"I do not ask your price," said Don JosÉ, restraining his indignation.

"The junta may dispose as it likes with its own; but in my house no one sells anything but myself," answered the miser. "And that is all there is to say. Each one may do in his own house as I do in mine."

"Come, look here, you blood-sucker!" exclaimed Montoria, catching him by the arm, making him jump, "look here, Candiola of a thousand devils, I have said that I have come for the flour, and I will not go without it! The army of defence of Saragossa must not die of hunger, porra! and all citizens must contribute to maintain it."

"To maintain it! to maintain the army!" cried the miser, venomously. "Perhaps I am the author of its being?"

"Miserable pig, is there not in your black and empty soul one spark of patriotism?"

"I do not maintain vagabonds. What need was there that the French should bombard us and destroy the city? You want me to feed the soldiers. I will give them poison."

"Wretch, worm, blood-sucker of Saragossa, disgrace of the Spanish people!" exclaimed my protector, threatening with his doubled fist the miser's wrinkled face. "I would rather be damned to hell forever than to be what you are, to be Candiola for one minute. You black conscience, you perverse soul, are you not ashamed of being the only one in this city who has refused all his resources to the patriotic army of his country? Does not everybody's hatred of you for this vile conduct weigh upon you more heavily than if all the rocks of Moncayo had fallen upon you?"

"Stop your music and leave me in peace," said Don Jeronimo, starting to the door.

"Look here, you unclean reptile," cried Montoria, detaining him, "I have told you that I am not going without the flour. If you do not produce it with good grace, as every good Spaniard does, you shall be made to give it by force. I will pay you forty-eight reales per sack,—its price before the siege."

"Forty-eight reales," exclaimed Candiola, with an expression of rancor, "I will sell my skin at that price before the flour. I would pay more than that for it. The accursed mob! Shall they be supported by me, SeÑor de Montoria?"

"You may thank them, miserable usurer, because they have not put an end to your useless life. Does not the generosity of this people surprise you? In the other siege, while we were enduring the greatest privations in order to get money together, your heart of stone remained insensible, and they could not pull out of you one old shirt to cover the nakedness of a poor soldier, or one piece of bread to appease his hunger. Saragossa has not forgotten your infamies. Do you not remember that after the battle of the fourth of August, when the wounded were distributed throughout the city, and two were assigned to you, and rang at your door, it was not possible for them to get their shadows into this wretched door? On the night of the fourth they arrived at your door, and with their weak hands they rang for you to open to them; but their moans and suffering did not move your heart of brass. You came to the door, and kicked them into the street, saying that your house was not a hospital. Unworthy son of Saragossa! but you have not the soul of a son of Saragossa. You were born a Mallorcan, of the blood of a Jew!"

The eyes of Candiola shot fire. His jaw quivered, and his fingers closed convulsively upon the cudgel in his right hand.

"Yes, you have the blood of a Mallorcan Jew. You are no son of this noble city. Do not the moans of those poor wounded men sound in your bat's ears? One of them, who was bleeding badly, died on this spot where we are standing. The other managed to creep to the market, where he told of what had happened. Infamous scarecrow! Do you suppose that the people of Saragossa are going to forget the morning of the fifth? Candiola, Candiolilla, give me that flour, and we will close this transaction in peace."

"Montoria, Montorilla," replied the other, "my ground and my work will not go to fatten idle vagabonds. Ya! Talk to me of charity and generosity and the needs of the poor soldiers! I have heard enough talk about those wretched sponges who are fed at the public cost. The committee of supplies will have no chance to laugh at me. As if we did not understand all this music about 'succor of the army.' Montoria, Montorilla, you have a little dough in your own house, isn't that true? Good dough can be found in the ovens of every patriot, made of the flour given by the foolish blockheads that the committee of supplies knows. Forty-eight reales! A pretty price! Then, in the accounts which will go to the Captain-General it will be set down as if bought at sixty reales, with a snapper of 'The Virgin del Pilar would not like to be a Frenchwoman.'"

When he said this, Don JosÉ de Montoria, who was already choking with wrath, lost his stirrups, as the saying is, and powerless to contain his indignation, went straight up to Candiola, apparently to slap his face; but the other had with one strategic glance foreseen the movement, and prepared to repel it. Quickly taking the offensive, he threw himself with a catlike spring upon my protector, grasping his neck with both hands and fastening upon him with his strong and bony fingers, at the same time making ready with his teeth, as if he were about to take between them the entire person of his enemy.

There was a brief struggle in which Montoria strove to free himself from those feline claws which had so suddenly made him their captive; but it could be seen in an instant that the nervous strength of the miser could not hold against the muscular strength of the Aragonese patriot. He shook him off violently. Candiola fell to the ground like a dead man.

We heard the cry of a woman from an upper window, and then the snap of a window-shutter closing. In this dramatic moment I wheeled about anxiously towards Augustine, but he had disappeared.

Don JosÉ de Montoria, mad with rage, kicked angrily at the prostrate body, stammering thickly in his wrath.

"You dirty pick-pocket, enriched with the blood of the poor, you dare to call me a thief, to call the members of the committee of supplies thieves! By a thousand porras! I will teach you to respect honest people, and you may be thankful that I do not tear out that miserable tongue of yours and throw it to the dogs."

All this struck us fairly dumb; but presently we snatched the unlucky Candiola from under the feet of his enemy. His first movement was made as if to jump upon him again, but Montoria had gone into the house, calling:

"Come, boys, we will go into the storehouse and get the flour. Quickly, let us make haste, quickly!"

The great number of people who had congregated in the street prevented old Candiola from entering his own house. The gamins, who had come running from all over the neighborhood, took charge of him themselves. Some pulled him forward, others pushed him backward, tearing his clothing to shreds. Others, taking the offensive from afar, threw great chunks of street mud at him. In the mean time a woman came to meet those of us who had entered the lower floor where the storerooms were. At the first glance I recognized the beautiful Mariquilla, altered and trembling, wavering at every step, without power to stand erect or speak, paralyzed with terror. Her fear was so great that we all pitied her, even Montoria.

"You are the daughter of SeÑor Candiola," he said, drawing from his pocket a handful of money, and making a brief reckoning on the wall with a bit of charcoal which he picked up from the floor. "Sixty-eight sacks of flour at forty-eight reales is three thousand two hundred and sixty-four. They are not worth half that, for they seem to me decidedly musty. Take it, child, here is the exact amount."

Mariquilla Candiola made no movement whatever towards taking the money, and Montoria put it down upon a box, saying,—

"There it is!"

Then the girl with a brusque and energetic movement which seemed, as it certainly was, the inspiration of her offended dignity, took the money, gold, silver, and copper, and threw it as if it were so many stones into the face of Montoria. The money was scattered all over the floor, and rolled out of the door without much promise of any one's finding it all in the future. Immediately afterwards the seÑorita went without a word into the street. She beheld her father jammed into the crowd; and presently, aided by some young men, unable to see with indifference a woman in distress, she freed him from the infamous captivity in which the boys held him.

The father and daughter entered by the garden gate, as we were beginning to remove the flour.