We deceived the old man and went. The night was now far advanced, as the interment which I have just described had lasted more than three hours. The light of the fire could no longer be seen. The mass of the tower was lost in the darkness of night, and its great bell did not sound except now and then to announce the coming of a bomb. We arrived soon at the Plazuela of San Felipe. Seeing the roof of a house near the church still smoking, we knew that it was this, and not the house of Candiola, which three hours before the flames had attacked.

"God has preserved it!" cried Augustine, joyously. "If the meanness of her father should bring divine anger upon that roof, the virtues and innocence of Mariquilla would preserve it! Let us go there."

In the Plazuela of San Felipe there were a few people, but the Calle de Anton Trillo was deserted. We stopped close to the wall of the garden and listened attentively. All was in such deep silence that the house seemed abandoned. Could it really be abandoned? Although this quarter was one of those least damaged by the bombardment, many families had left it, or were living as refugees in their own cellars.

"If I go in," said Augustine to me, "you must come in with me. After the scene of to-day, I am afraid that Don Jeronimo, suspicious and cowardly, like a good miser, will be up all night and about his garden, lest they return and carry off his whole place."

"In that case it is better not to go in," I answered, "because besides the danger of falling into the hands of that old scoundrel, there would be a great scandal, and all Saragossa will know that the son of Don JosÉ Montoria, the young man destined for a bishop's mitre, goes by night to see the daughter of the goodman Candiola."

But this and all that I could say to him was like preaching in the desert. Without listening to reason, and insisting that I should follow him, he made the signal of love, waiting and watching with great anxiety for the reply. Some time passed, and at last, after long looking and looking again from the pavement in front, we saw a light in a high window. We heard the fastening of the gate drawn back softly, and it was opened without creaking. Love had taken precautions, and the ancient hinges had been oiled. We two entered meeting, unexpectedly, not a perfumed and fascinating damsel, but a vinegary countenance which I recognized at once as that of DoÑa Guedita.

"He lets hours pass before he comes, and then he comes with another," she grumbled. "Young men, be so kind as to make no noise. Walk on tip-toe, and be careful not to stumble over even a dried leaf, because SeÑor Candiola seems to me to be very wide awake."

This she said to us in a voice so low that we heard with difficulty; then she went on before, making signs that we should follow her, putting her finger to her lips to enjoin absolute silence. The garden was small. We soon crossed it, and came to the stone staircase which led up to the doorway of the house. Here there came to meet us a shapely figure wrapped in a mantle, or cloak. It was Mariquilla! Her first gesture was to impose silence, indicating with anxiety, as I saw, a window which opened upon the garden. She then showed surprise that Augustine had not come unaccompanied. But he knew how to soothe her, saying, "It is Gabriel, my best, my only friend, of whom I have spoken so many times."

"Speak lower," whispered Mariquilla; "my father went out of his room a little while ago with a lantern, and made the rounds of the house and the garden. I doubt if he is asleep yet. The night is dark. Let us hide in the shadow of the cypress, and talk in a very low voice."

The stone stairway led up to a kind of balcony with a wooden railing. The great cypress in the garden cast a deep shadow at the end of the balcony, forming there a refuge against the clear light of the moon. The bare boughs of an elm spread above the other end of the balcony, casting a thousand fantastic shadows upon the floor, upon the walls of the house, and upon ourselves. In the protection of the cypress, Mariquilla seated herself upon the only seat that was there, and Montoria threw himself upon the floor beside her, resting his hands upon her knees. I seated myself also upon the floor not far from the pair. It was a January night, still, dry, and cold. Perhaps the two lovers with hearts aflame did not feel the low temperature; but I, a creature stranger to their fires, wrapped myself in my cloak to keep myself from the chill of the tiles. Guedita had disappeared. Mariquilla led the conversation, plunging at once into the difficulty.

"I saw you in the street this morning. When Guedita and I heard the noise of the people crowding about our gate, I went to the window, and I saw you on the sidewalk in front."

"It is true, I was there," replied Montoria, with emotion, "but I was obliged to go at once. I couldn't stand it."

"Didn't you see how those barbarians were trampling my father underfoot? When that cruel man struck him, I looked everywhere, hoping that you would come forward in his defence. But I did not see you anywhere."

"I tell you, Mariquilla of my heart," said Augustine, "that I was obliged to go. After they told me that your father had been so ill-treated, I came as soon as I could get a chance."

"A pretty time to come! Among so many, so many people," said Mariquilla, weeping, "not one lifted a hand to help him. I nearly died of fright, seeing him in such danger. I looked anxiously into the street, and there was no one but enemies, no one; not one kind hand or voice among all those men! One of them, more cruel than all, knocked my father down. Oh, oh, remembering this, I scarcely know what happened next! When I saw it, my fright paralyzed me for a few moments. Until then I never knew what violent anger was, how a sudden impulse, an inward fire, could drive me on. I came to him. My poor father was lying on the ground, and the wretch was trampling upon him as if he were a venomous reptile. When I saw that, I felt my blood boil in my veins. As I have told you, I ran about the house, looking for a weapon, a knife, an axe, anything. When I heard the cries of my father, I flew down. Finding myself among so many men, I felt a strange, uncontrollable timidity, and could not stir a step. The same man who had kicked him handed me a fistful of gold. I did not want to take it, but I did; then I threw all the coins into his face, with all my strength. My hand was as if filled with thunderbolts, and I felt as if I were avenging my father, hurling them at that villain. I went out afterwards, looking everywhere for you; but I could not see you. I found my father alone in that inhuman crowd, down in the mud, begging for mercy."

"Oh, Mariquilla, Mariquilla of my heart!" cried Augustine in anguish, kissing the hands of the unhappy daughter of the miser. "Don't talk any more about all that. You tear my soul in two! I could not defend him. I—I had to go. I believed the crowd was after something—else. You are right. But let us talk no more of this which grieves me so, and gives me such bitter pain."

"If you had come to the defence of my father, he would have felt gratitude towards you. From gratitude one passes readily to affection. You would have been received openly in the house."

"Your father is incapable of affection for any one," replied Montoria. "Do not hope that we can accomplish anything in that way. Let us trust that we may arrive at the fulfilment of our desires by hidden ways, perhaps by the help of God when it least seems likely. Let us not depend upon aught else, or think of what is before us. We are surrounded by dangers and obstacles that seem unsurmountable. Let us hope for help from the unseen, and filled by faith in God and the power of our love, let us wait for the miracle which will unite us. For it will be a miracle, Mariquilla, a wonder like those they tell of in olden times, that we refuse to believe."

"A miracle!" exclaimed Mariquilla, sadly. "It is true. You are a young gentleman of position, the son of parents who would never consent to see you married to the daughter of SeÑor Candiola. My father is abhorred all over the city. Everybody flees from us. No one visits us. If I go out they point at me, and look at me with insolent contempt. Girls of my own age will not associate with me, and the young men of the city who go about singing serenades under the windows of their sweethearts, come to mine to utter insults against my father, calling me also dreadful names to my face. Oh, my God, I understand that it would be indeed a miracle for me to be happy! Augustine, we have known each other now for nearly four months, and you have not yet told me the name of your parents. It certainly cannot be as odious as mine. Why do you hide it? If it were necessary that our love should be made public, you would not dare meet the looks of your friends, you would flee with horror from the daughter of Candiola."

"Oh, no, don't say that!" cried Augustine, pressing against Mariquilla, and hiding his face in her lap. "Don't say that I am ashamed of loving you. In saying that you insult God. It is not true. To-day our love remains a secret, because it is necessary that it should be so. But when it is necessary to make it known, I will make it known, and defy the anger of my father face to face. Yes, Mariquilla, my parents will curse me, and turn me out of doors. A few nights ago you said to me, looking at that monument which we can see from here, 'When that tower becomes straight, I will leave off loving you.' I swear to you that the strength of my love is more immovable than the equilibrium of yonder tower; for that could fall to the ground, but could never stand upright. The works of man are variable, those of Nature are unchangeable and rest evermore upon an everlasting base. You have seen the Moncayo, that great rock which is near Poniente in the suburb? Well, when Moncayo gets tired of being in that place, and moves and comes walking towards Saragossa, putting one of its feet upon our city and reducing it to powder, then and then only will I cease to love you."

By this sort of hyperbole and poetic naturalism my friend expressed his great love, flattering the imagination of the beautiful girl, who responded, leaning forward, moved by an impulse like his own. They were both silent for a moment, then the two, or rather the three of us, exclaimed all together, looking at the tower whose belfry had flung to the winds two signals of alarm. At the same moment a globe of fire ploughed the black space, describing rapid circles.

"A bomb! It is a bomb," exclaimed Mariquilla, trembling, and throwing herself into the arms of her lover. The dreadful light passed swiftly over our heads, over the garden and the house, illuminating on its way the tower, the neighboring houses, and the nook where we were hidden. Then the report was heard. The bell began to ring violently, and was joined by others near and far, loud, heavy, sharp, jangled; and we heard the noise of feet and voices of people in the nearest streets.

"That bomb will not kill us," said Augustine, soothing his sweetheart. "Are you afraid?"

"Yes, very, very much afraid," she answered. "I spend the nights praying, asking God to keep the fire away from our house. Until now no misfortune has come near us, either now or in the other siege. But how many unhappy ones have perished, how many houses of good people who never harmed any one have been destroyed by the flames! I long earnestly to go like other women and take care of the suffering; but my father forbids me, and is angry with me whenever I propose it."

As she said this, we heard within the house a distant sound of talking, in which the harsh tones of Candiola were mingled with the voice of Guedita. We three, obeying one impulse, drew into the shadow and held our breaths, fearing to be surprised. Then we heard the voice of the miser coming nearer, and saying,—

"What are you doing up at this hour, SeÑora Guedita?"

"SeÑor," answered the old woman, showing herself at a window which opened upon the balcony, "who can sleep during this dreadful bombardment? Perhaps a bomb may come and meddle with us here. What if the house should take fire, and the neighbors should come to drag out the furniture and put out the fire, and find us in our night-clothes? Oh, what a lack of modesty! I do not intend to undress myself while this devilish bombardment lasts."

"Is my daughter asleep?" asked Candiola, appearing at another garden window.

"She is upstairs sleeping like a kitten," replied the duenna. "They speak truly when they say that there are no dangers for innocence. A bomb does not frighten the child any more than a sky-rocket."

"I wonder if I can see from here where the projectile has fallen," said Candiola, stretching his body out of the window, in order to be able to extend his range of vision. "I can see the light of a fire, but I cannot say whether it is near or far."

"Oh, I don't know anything about bombs," said Guedita, who had come out on the balcony. "This one has fallen over there by the market."

"So it seems. If only all would fall upon the houses of those who persist in keeping up the defence and causing the destruction! If I am not deceived, SeÑora Guedita, the fire is near the Calle de la Triperia. Are not the storehouses of the junta of supplies over there? Oh, blessed bomb, why not fall into the Calle de la Hilarza, upon the house of that cursed, most miserable thief! SeÑora Guedita, I am going to the Calle de la Hilarza, to see if it has fallen on the house of that proud, meddlesome, cowardly thief, Don JosÉ de Montoria. I have prayed for it to-night to the Virgin del Pilar with so much fervor, and also at the Santas Masas and at Santo Dominguito del Val, that at last I believe I have been heard."

"SeÑor Don Jeronimo," said the old woman, "do not go out! The cold of the night is bad for you, and it is not worth risking your lungs to see where the bomb has fallen. It is enough that it has not meddled with this house. If that one which passed did not fall into the house of that barbarian of an official, another will fall to-morrow. The French have a good handful. Now, your honor, go to rest. I will stay up and look after the house."

Candiola changed his mind about going out, it seemed, in accordance with the good counsels of his servant, and, shutting the window, he was heard no more during all the rest of the night. But although he disappeared, the lovers did not break the silence, fearful of being overheard. And not until the old woman came to tell us that the seÑor was snoring like a peasant was the interrupted dialogue continued.

"My father wished that the bombs would fall upon the house of his enemy," said Mariquilla. "I should not like to see them fall anywhere; but if at any time one could wish ill-fortune to a neighbor, it would be now, do you not think so?"

Augustine made no answer.

"You went away. You did not see how that man, the most cruel, the most cowardly of all who came, knocked him down in his blind fury, and trampled upon him. The fiends will kick his soul in hell like that, won't they?"

"Yes," replied the young man, laconically.

"To-day, after it all, Guedita and I dressed the wounds of my father. He was stretched upon his bed, crazy, desperate. He was twisting about, gnawing his fists and lamenting that he was not stronger than his enemy. We tried to console him, but he told us to be silent. He struck me in the face, he was so angry when he heard that I had thrown away the money for the flour. He was furious with me. He told me that since he could not get any more, the three thousand reales on account should not be despised. He said that I am a spendthrift, and am ruining him. We could not calm him in any way. Towards nightfall we heard another noise in the street, and were afraid that the same ones who were here in the middle of the day were returning. My father was raging, and determined to get up. I was greatly frightened; but I took courage, realizing that courage was necessary. Thinking of you, I said, 'If he were in the house, no one would dare insult us.' As the noise in the street increased, I plucked up all my courage. I shut and fastened the doors and gates, and, begging my father to keep quiet in his bed, I waited, resolved. While Guedita was on her knees, praying to all the saints in heaven, I searched the house for a weapon. At last I found a big knife. The sight of it has always frightened me, but to-day I clutched it fearlessly. Oh, I was beside myself! Now the very thought of it makes me frightened. I am usually unable to look upon a wounded man, and tremble at the sight of a drop of blood. I almost cry if I see any one beat a dog before me. I have never had the force to kill a mosquito. But this evening, Augustine, this evening, when I heard the noise in the street, when I thought those blows upon the gate had come again, when I expected every moment to see those men before me, I swear to you that if that had happened which I feared, if when I was in my father's room, by his bedside, if that same man had come who abused him a few hours before, I swear to you that there I myself would have struck him through the heart."

"Hush, for God's sake!" cried Montoria, horrified. "You frighten me. Hearing you, you almost make me feel as if your own hands, these divine hands, struck cold steel through my breast. Nobody will maltreat your father again. You see already that your alarm of to-night was nothing but fright. No, you would not have been capable of what you say. You are a woman, and a weak one, sensitive, timid, incapable of killing a man, unless you kill him of love. The knife would have fallen from your hands, and you would not have stained their purity with the blood of a fellow being. These horrible things are only for us men, born for conflict; sometimes we find ourselves in the sad strait of wrenching the life from other men. Mariquilla, do not talk any more nonsense. Do not think of those who offended you! Forgive them, and do not kill any one, even in thought."