Incorporated into the battalion of Estremadura, we went along the Calle de Palomar into the Plaza de la Magdalena, whence we could hear the roar of battle at the end of the Calle de Puerta Quemada. As we have said, the enemy tried to take the Calle de Pabostre in order to get possession of Puerta Quemada, an important point whence they could rake with their artillery the street of the same name towards the Plaza de la Magdalena. As the possession of San Augustine and Las Monicas permitted them to threaten that central point by the easy way to the Calle de Palomar, they already considered themselves masters of the suburb. In fact, if those in San Augustine managed to advance to the ruins of the Seminary, and those of the Calle de Pabostre to the Puerta Quemada, it would be impossible to dispute with the French the quarter of Las Tenerias.

After a short time they took us to the Calle de Pabostre, and as the battle of the outside and inside of the buildings and of the public way was now all combined, we entered the first block by the Calle de los Viejos. From the windows of the house in which we found ourselves, we could see nothing but smoke, and could tell but little of what was going on there. I saw later that the street was all filled with embrasures and trenches at certain distances made of heaps of earth, furniture, and rubbish. From the windows a tremendous fire was poured forth, and, remembering a phrase of the beggar Sursum Corda, I can say that our souls were turned into bullets. Inside the houses the blood flowed in torrents. The onset of the French was terrible, and that the resistance might not be less terrible the belfries summoned men unceasingly. The general dictated stern orders for the punishment of stragglers. The friars rallied the people of other districts, dragging them forward as in a leash. Some heroic women set an example, throwing themselves into danger, guns in hand.

A dreadful day, whose frightful roar resounds ever in the ears of him who was present! Its remembrance pursues him, an unescaped nightmare, through his whole life. He who did not see these horrors, who did not hear the noise of that shouting, knows not with what expression the depths of the horrible may be uttered to human feeling. Do not tell me that you have seen the crater of a volcano in the most violent eruption; or a great tempest in the open ocean when the ship, tossed to heaven on a mountain of waterfalls, descends next to a giddy depth,—do not tell me you have seen these things, for they are nothing at all like the volcanoes and tempests of man when his passions urge him to out-rival the disorders in Nature.

It was difficult to hold us back, and not being able to do much where we were, we descended to the street without noticing the officers who tried to hold us back. The combat had an irresistible attraction for us, and called us as the deep calls unto a man who looks down upon it from a cliff. I have never considered myself heroic; but it is certain that in those moments I did not fear death, nor did the sight of catastrophes terrify me. It is true that heroism, as a thing of the moment, and the direct child of inspiration, does not belong exclusively to the brave. That is the reason it is often found in women and cowards.

I will not go into the details of those struggles in the Calle de Pabostre. They were much like those which I have described before. If they differed in any respect, it was in their excess of constancy, and energy raised to a height where the human ended and the divine began. Within the houses, scenes passed like those I have described elsewhere, but with greater carnage, because victory was believed more certain. The advantage the men of the Empire gained in one place they lost in another. The battles, begun in the attics, descended step by step to the cellars, and were finished there with clubbed muskets, with the advantage always on the side of our peasants. The tones of command with which one or another directed the movements within these labyrinths resounded from room to room with fearful echoes. They used their artillery in the street, and we did also. Often they tried to get possession of our pieces by sudden hand-to-hand struggles; but they lost many men without ever succeeding.

Alarmed on seeing that the force used at one time to gain a battle was not now sufficient to gain two yards of a street, they refused to fight, and their officers drove them forward, beating their laziness out of them with cudgels. On our side such measures were not necessary; persuasion was enough. The priests, without neglecting the dying, attended to everything. If they saw a weakening anywhere, they would hasten to tell the officers.

In one of the trenches in the street, a woman, bravest of all, Manuela Sancho, after having fired with a gun, began serving cannon number eight. She remained unhurt all day, encouraging all with brave words,—an example to the men. It was perhaps three o'clock when she fell, wounded in the leg, and during a long time was supposed to be dead, because the hemorrhage made her seem lifeless; she looked like a corpse. Later, seeing that she breathed, we carried her to the rear, and she was restored, and had such good health afterwards that many years later I had the pleasure of seeing her still alive.

History has not forgotten that brave young Maid of Saragossa. The Calle de Pabostre, whose poor houses are more eloquent than the pages of a book, now bears the name of Manuela Sancho.

A little after three o'clock, a tremendous loud explosion shook the houses which the French had disputed with us in such a bloody manner during the morning. Amid the dust, and the smoke thicker than dust, we saw walls and roofs falling in a thousand pieces, with a noise of which I can give no idea. The French had begun to employ mines. In order to gain that which they could in no other way wrench from the hands of the sons of Aragon. They opened galleries; they charged the mines; then the men folded their arms, waiting for the powder to do it all.

When the first house went, we stayed quietly in the next, and in the street. But when the second went with a still louder noise, the retreat began with plenty of disorder. Considering that so many unfortunate comrades were hurled into the air or buried beneath the ruins, men who had been unconquerable by force of arms, we felt ourselves too weak to contend with the new element of destruction. It seemed to us that in all the other houses, and in the street, horrible craters were going to burst forth which would send us flying, torn into a thousand bloody fragments.

The officers held us back, calling,—

"Courage, boys, stand firm! That is done to frighten us. We have plenty of powder, too, and we will open mines. Do you think this will give them an advantage? On the contrary, we shall see how they will defend themselves among a lot of fragments."

Palafox appeared at the entrance of the street, and his presence restrained us for some time. The noise prevented me from hearing what he was saying, but by his gestures I understood that he wished us to go on over the ruins.

"You hear, boys! You hear what the Captain-General says!" a friar shouted beside us, one of those who had come with Palafox. "He says that if you will make a little exertion, not one Frenchman will be left alive." "You are right!" cried another friar. "There will not be a woman left in Saragossa who will even look at you, if you do not hurl yourselves instantly upon those ruins of the houses, and drive the French out."

"Forward, sons of the Virgin del Pilar!" cried out a third friar. "Do you see those women over there? Do you know what they are saying? They are saying that if you do not go, they will go themselves. Are you not ashamed of your cowardice?"

With that, we stood up a little more bravely. Another house fell on the right. Palafox came into the street. Without knowing how or why, we followed him when he put himself at our head. Now is the time to speak of that high personage whose name and fame are one with that of Saragossa. His prestige is due in large measure to his great courage, but also to his noble origin, and the respect in which the family of Lazan has always been held in Saragossa, and to his handsome and spirited presence. He was young. He had belonged to the Guards. He was much praised for having refused the favors of a very highly-placed lady, as famous for her position as for scandals about her. That which endeared the Saragossan leader more than anything else to his people was, however, his supreme, his indomitable courage, the youthful ardor with which he attacked the most dangerous and difficult obstacles, simply to reach his ideals of honor and glory.

If he lacked intellectual gifts to direct an undertaking so arduous as this, he had the prudence to know his lack, and to surround himself with men distinguished for their judgment and wisdom. These men did everything. Palafox was the great figure-head, the chief actor in the scene. Over a people so largely ruled by imagination, that young general could scarcely fail to hold an imperious dominion, with his illustrious lineage and splendid figure. He showed himself everywhere, encouraging the weak, and distributing rewards to the brave.

The Saragossans beheld in him the symbol of their constancy, their virtues, their patriotic ideal with its touch of mysticism, and their warlike zeal. Whatever he ordered, everybody found right and just. Like those monarchs whom traditional laws have made the personal embodiment of government, Palafox could do no wrong. Anything wrong was the work of his counsellors. In reality, the illustrious commander did not govern, he reigned. Father Basilio governed, with O'Neill, Saint March, and Butron, the first, an ecclesiastic, the other three noted generals.

In places of danger, Palafox always appeared like a human expression of triumph. His voice reanimated the dying; and if the Virgin del Pilar had spoken, she would have chosen no other mouth. His countenance always expressed a supreme confidence. In his triumphal smile, courage overflowed, as in others it is expressed by a ferocious frown. He was vain-gloriously proud of being the prop of that great hour in history. He understood instinctively that the outcome depended more upon him as an actor than upon him as a general. He always appeared in all the splendors of his uniform, with gold lace, waving plumes, and medals. The thundering music of applause, of huzzas, flattered him extremely. All this was necessary. Indeed there must always be something of mutual adulation between the army and the commander-in-chief, in order that the pride of victory may inspire one and all to deeds of heroism.