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 that are opened,—but among the fragments and the dead there will always be one tongue left alive to say that Saragossa will never surrender!

The moment of supreme despair came. France was not fighting now, but mining. It was necessary to destroy the soil of the nation in order to conquer it. Half the Coso was hers, but Spain retreated only to the opposite pavement. By Las Tenerias and in the suburb on the left they had obtained some advantages; and their little mines did not rest for an instant.

At last—it seems like a lie—we became accustomed to the explosions, as before we had become accustomed to the bombardment. At worst we heard a noise like that of a thousand thunder-claps all at once. What has happened? Nothing, the University, the Chapel de la Sangre, the Casa de Aranda, such a convent or chapel exists no longer. It was not like living on our peaceful and quiet planet. It was like having the birthplace of thunderbolts for a dwelling-place, like being in a disordered world, where everything was heaving up and unhinging. There was no place to live, because the ground was no longer ground. Under every shrub or plant a crater was opening. And yet those men went on defending themselves against the crushing horrors of a never-stilled volcano and a ceaseless tempest. Lacking fortresses, they had used the convents; lacking convents, the palaces; when the palaces failed, the humble houses. There were still some partition walls. They did not eat now. Of what use, when death was expected from one moment to the next? Thousands of men perished in the explosions, and the epidemic had risen to its height of horror. One might go by chance unharmed through the shower of balls, then on turning a street corner, dreadful chills and fever would suddenly take possession of his frame, and in a little while he would be dead. There were no longer kinsfolk or friends; men did not even know one another, their faces blackened by smoke, by earth, by blood, disfigured, cadaverous. Meeting one another after a combat they would ask, "Who are you?"

The belfries no longer sounded the alarm, because there were no bell-ringers. One heard no more the proclamations by criers, because proclamations were no longer published. Mass was not said, because there were no more priests. Nobody sang the jota now. The voices of the dying people were husky in their throats. From hour to hour a funereal silence was conquering the city. Only the cannon spoke. The advance guards of the two nations no longer took the trouble to exchange insults. Instead of madness, everybody was full of sadness; and the dying city fought on in silence, so that no atom of strength need be lost in idle words.

The necessity of surrender was now the general idea; but none showed it, guarding it in the depths of conscience as he would conceal a crime which he was about to commit. Surrender! It seemed an impossibility, a word too difficult. To perish would be easier!

One day passed after the explosion of San Francisco; it was a horrible day which seemed to have no existence in time, but only in the fanciful realm of the imagination. I had been in the Calle de las Arcadas a little before the greater number of its houses fell. I ran afterwards to the Coso, to fulfil a commission with which I had been charged, and I remember that the heavy infected air choked me so that I could scarcely walk. On the way I saw the same child that I had seen several days before, alone and crying in the quarter of Las Tenerias. He was still alone and crying, and the poor child had his hands in his mouth as if he were eating his fingers. In spite of that, nobody noticed him. I also passed him by indifferently; but, afterwards a little voice reproached me, and I turned back, and took him with me, giving him some bits of bread. My commission accomplished, I ran to the Plazuela de San Felipe, where, since the affair of Las Arcadas, were the few men of my battalion who were still alive. It was now night; and although there had been firing in the Coso between one sidewalk and the other, my comrades were held in reserve for the following day, because they were dropping with fatigue. On arriving, I saw a man who wrapped in his military cloak was walking up and down, taking notice of nobody. It was Augustine Montoria.

"Augustine, is it thou?" I asked, going up to him. "How pale and changed thou art? Have they wounded thee?"

"Let me alone," he answered bitterly, "I am in no mood for comrades."

"Are you mad? What has happened to you?"

"Leave me," he answered, pushing me away, "I tell you that I want to be alone. I do not want to see anybody."

"Friend!" I cried, understanding that some terrible trouble was on the soul of my companion, "if misfortune is upon you, tell it to me, and let me share your sorrow."

"Do you not know it, then?"

"I know nothing. You know that I was sent with twenty men to the Calle de las Arcades. Since yesterday, since the explosion of San Francisco, you and I have not seen each other."

"It is true," he replied. "I have sought death in this barricade of the Coso, and death has passed me by. Numberless comrades fell beside me, and there was not one ball for me. Gabriel, my dear friend, put the barrel of one of your pistols to my temple and tear out my life. Would you believe it? A little while ago I tried to kill myself. I do not know—but it seemed as if an invisible hand came and took the weapon from my temple, then another hand, soft and warm, passed over my brow."

"Calm yourself, Augustine, and tell me what is the matter."

"What the matter is with me? What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock."

"It lacks an hour," he cried, trembling nervously. "Sixty minutes. It may be the French have mined this Plazuela de San Felipe where we are, and perhaps in a moment the earth will leap under our feet and open a horrible gulf in which we shall all be buried,—all, the victim and the executioners."

"What victim is that?"

"The unfortunate Candiola. He is shut up in the Torre Nueva."

In the doorway of the Torre Nueva there were some soldiers, and a faint light illumined the entrance.

"Of course," I said, "I know that that infamous old man was taken prisoner with some of the French in the orchard of San Diego."

"His crime is unquestioned. He showed the enemy the passage, known to him alone, from Santa Rosa to his house los Duendes. Besides, there being no lack of proof, the unhappy man has to-night confessed all, in the hope of saving his life."

"They have condemned him?"

"Yes, the council of war did not discuss it long. Candiola will be shot within an hour. There he is, and here you are. Here am I, Gabriel, captain of the battalion of Las PeÑas de San Pedro. These cursed epaulets! Here am I with an order in my pocket which commands me to execute the sentence at ten o'clock at night here in this very place, in the Plazuela de San Felipe, at the foot of the tower. Do you see it? Do you see this order? It is signed by General Saint March."

I was silent; because I could not think of one word to say to my companion in that terrible hour.

"Courage, my friend!" I cried at last. "You must obey the order!"

Augustine did not hear me. He acted like a madman, and tore himself away from me, only to return a second later, uttering words of desperation, then looking at the tower which, splendid and tall, lifted itself above our heads crying with terror,—

"Gabriel, do you not see it? Don't you see the tower? Don't you see that it is straight, Gabriel? The tower has been made straight!"

I looked at the tower, and, naturally, the tower was still leaning.

"Gabriel," said Augustine, "kill me! I do not want to live. No, I will not take life from that man. You must take the order. I, if I live, must run away. I am sick. I will tear off these epaulets, and throw them in the face of General Saint March. No, do not tell me that the Torre Nueva is still leaning. Why, man, do you not see that it is straight? My friend, you deceive me. My heart is pierced as by red-hot steel, and my blood burns within me. I am dying of the pain."

I was trying to console him, when a white figure entered the plaza by the Calle de Torresecas. On seeing her I trembled, for it was Mariquilla. Augustine did not have time to flee, and the distressed girl embraced him, exclaiming eagerly in her emotion,—

"Augustine! Augustine! thank God, I have found you here! How much I love you! When they told me that you were the jailer of my father, I was wild with delight, for I know that you will save him. Those savages of the council have condemned him to death. He to die who has done harm to no one! But God does not wish the innocent to perish, and He has put him in your hands, so that you may let him escape!"

"Oh, my heart's Mariquilla," said Augustine, "leave me, I pray you! I don't wish to see you. To-morrow—to-morrow we will talk. I love you, too. I am mad for you. Let Saragossa perish, but don't leave off loving me! They expected me to kill your father."

"Oh, God, do not say that!" cried the girl. "Thou!"

"No, a thousand times no! Let others punish his treachery."

"No, it is a lie! My father is not a traitor. Do you also accuse him? I never have believed it. Augustine, it is night. Untie his hands; take off the fetters that hurt his feet. Set him at liberty. No one can see. We will flee. We will hide ourselves in the ruins of our house, there by the cypress where so many times we have seen the spire of the Torre Nueva."

"Mariquilla, wait a little," said Montoria, with great agitation. "This cannot be done so. There are many people in the plaza. The soldiers are greatly incensed against the prisoner. To-morrow—"

"To-morrow! What do you say? You are laughing at me. Set him at liberty this instant. Augustine, if you do not do it, I shall believe that I have loved the most vile, the most cowardly, the most despicable of men."

"Mariquilla, God hears us. God knows that I adore you. By Him I swear that I will not stain my hands with the blood of this unhappy man. I will sooner break my sword. But—in the name of God, I tell you also that I cannot set your father at liberty. Mariquilla, Heaven is against us."

"Augustine, you are deceiving me," said the girl, anguished and bewildered. "Do you tell me that you will not set him at liberty?"

"Oh, no, I cannot. If God should come in human form to ask of me the freedom of him who sold our heroic peasants, delivered them up to the French sword, I would not do it. It is a supreme duty, in which one cannot fail. The innumerable victims immolated by his treachery, the city surrendered, the national honor outraged, are things which weigh too strongly upon my conscience."

"My father cannot have done this deed of treachery," she said, passing at once from grief to an exalted and nervous anger; "these are calumnies of his enemies. They lie who call him traitor, and you, more cruel and more inhuman than all, you lie also! It is not possible that I have loved you! It causes me shame to think of it. You say you will not free him? Then of what good are you? Do you hope to gain favor by your bloody cruelty of those inhuman barbarians who have destroyed the city, imagining that they were defending it? To you the life of the innocent is of no consequence, nor the desolation of an orphan. Miserable, ambitious egoist, I abhor you more than I have ever loved you! You thought that you would be able to present yourself before me with your hands stained with the blood of my father? No, he is not a traitor. You are traitors, all of you. My God, is there no generous hand to help me? Among so many men, is there not even one to prevent this crime? A poor woman runs through all the city looking for a friendly soul, and does not find anything but wild beasts."

"Mariquilla," said Augustine, "you are lacerating my soul. You ask the impossible of me, that which I will not do, and cannot do, although you offer me eternal blessedness for payment. I have sacrificed all, and I knew that you would abhor me. Think what it is for a man to tear out his own heart and trample it in the mud. I have done that. I can do no more."

The fervent exaltation of Mariquilla Candiola carried her from intense anger to pathetic sensitiveness of suffering. She had showed her anger with fiery heat, now she burst into bitter tears, expressing herself thus,—

"What mad things I have said! And what madness hast thou said, Augustine! How I have loved you, and how I do love you!—from the time I saw you first at our house. You have never been absent from my thoughts for a moment. You have been to me the most loving, the most generous, the most thoughtful, the bravest of all men. I loved you without knowing who you were. I did not know your name, or that of your parents; but I would have loved you if you had been the son of the hangman of Saragossa. Augustine, you have forgotten me since we have not been together. It is I, Mariquilla. I have all this time believed, and I believe now that you will not take away from me my good father whom I love as much as I love you. He is good. He has not hurt anybody. He is a poor old man. He has some faults; but I do not see them. I do not see anything in him but virtues. I never knew my mother, who died when I was very small. I have lived retired from the world. My father has brought me up in solitude. In solitude the great love that I bear you has been nourished. If I had never known you, the whole world would have been nothing to me without him!"

I could read clearly Montoria's indecision in his face. He was looking with terrified eyes, now at the girl, now at the sentinels at the entrance of the tower. The daughter of Candiola, with admirable instinct, knew how to make use of that evidence of weakness. Throwing her arms around his neck, she cried,—

"Augustine, set him at liberty! We will hide where no one can find us. If they say anything to you, if they accuse you of having failed in duty, do not take any notice of them. Come with me. How my father will love you, seeing you have saved his life! Then what happiness is before us, Augustine. How good you are! I was expecting it, and when I knew that the poor prisoner was in your hands, I felt the gates of heaven were open!"

My friend took a few steps, then drew back. There were plenty of soldiers and armed men in the plazuela. Suddenly there appeared before us a man on crutches, accompanied by several officials of high rank.

"What is going on here?" asked Don JosÉ de Montoria. "It seemed to me I heard the cries of a woman. Augustine, are you weeping? What is the matter?"

"SeÑor," said Mariquilla, in alarm, turning to Montoria. "You will not at all oppose their setting my father at liberty? Do you not remember me? You were wounded yesterday, and I cared for you."

"It is true, child," said Don JosÉ gravely; "I am very grateful. Now I see that you are the daughter of SeÑor Candiola."

"Yes, sir. Yesterday, when I was attending you, I recognized in you the man who ill-treated my father some time ago."

"Yes, my daughter, it was a sudden thing—a hasty—I can't help it. I have very quick blood. And you took care of me? That is the way good Christians do, returning good for evil, paying back injuries with benefits, and to do good to them that hate us is what God commands."

"SeÑor," exclaimed Mariquilla, dissolved in tears. "I forgive my enemies. Do you also forgive yours? Why do they not free my father? He has not done anything."

"This thing that you ask is a little difficult. The treachery of SeÑor Candiola is unpardonable. The troops are furious."

"It is all a mistake. If you would intercede! You must be one of the commanders."

"I!" said Montoria, "that is a business which does not rest on me. But calm yourself, young woman. You seem to be a good girl; truly, I remember the attention with which you took care of me, and such goodness touches my soul. I did you a great wrong, and from the same person whom I injured I received a great good, perhaps life itself. In such ways God teaches us to be humble and charitable, porr—I was just going to let it go, this cursed tongue of mine!"

"SeÑor, how good you are!" cried the girl; "and I thought you were very bad. You will help me to save my father. He does not lay up the outrage he received."

"Listen," said Montoria, taking her by the arm. "Not long ago I asked pardon of SeÑor Don Jeronimo for all that; and far from being reconciled with me, he insulted me in the most gross manner. He and I do not pull together, child. If you tell me that you forgive me that matter of the blows, my conscience will be free of a great weight."

"Indeed, there is nothing for me to forgive you. Oh, seÑor, how good you are! You command here surely. Then cause my father to be set free!"

"That is none of my business. SeÑor Candiola has committed a terrible crime. It is impossible to pardon him, impossible! I understand your affliction, and truly I feel it, especially in remembering your kindness. I will protect you. We shall see."

"I do not wish for anything for myself," said Mariquilla, whose voice was now hoarse with her emotion. "I only wish that an unfortunate man who has done nothing should be set at liberty. Augustine, are you not in command here? What are you doing?"

"This young man will do his duty," said Montoria.

"This young man," cried Mariquilla, angrily, "will do what I bid him, because he loves me. Isn't it true that you will free my father? You said you would. SeÑors, what are you here for? Do you intend to stop him? Augustine, do not pay any attention to them; defend us!"

"What is all this?" exclaimed Montoria, in amazement. "Augustine, have you told this girl that you have any idea of failing in your duty? Do you know her?"

Augustine, overcome by his fear, answered nothing.

"Yes, he will set him at liberty," said Mariquilla, in despair. "Go away from here, seÑors. You have no business here."

"What am I to understand?" cried Don JosÉ, seizing his son by his arm. "If what this girl says should be true, if I could imagine that my son's honor could fail in this fashion, his loyalty sworn to his flag be trampled underfoot,—if I supposed that my son could make light of the orders with whose fulfilment he has been charged, I myself would tie him and drag him before the council of war that he might get his just reward."

"SeÑor, oh, my father," said Augustine, pale as death, "I have never thought of failing in my duty."

"Is that your father?" said Mariquilla. "Augustine, tell him that you love me, and perhaps he will have compassion on me."

"This girl is mad," said Don JosÉ. "Unhappy child, your trouble touches my heart. I charge myself with protecting you in your orphanhood. Yes, I will protect you as long as you reform your habits. Poor little one, you have a good heart, an excellent heart. But,—yes—I have heard, a little inclined to be giddy. It is a pity that by being badly brought up a good soul should be lost. But you will be good? I think you will!"

"Augustine, how can you permit me to be insulted?" said Mariquilla, with overwhelming grief.

"It is not insult," said the father, "it is good counsel. How could I insult my benefactress? I believe that if you behave yourself well, we shall have a great affection for you. Remain under my protection, poor orphan. Why do you talk so to my son? It is nothing, nothing; have better sense; and enough for now of all this agitation. The lad perhaps knows you. Yes, I have been told that during the siege you have not left the company of the soldiers. Now you must reform. I charge myself—I cannot forget the kindness I have received. And besides I know that you are good at heart. That is not a deceitful face. You have a heavenly form. But it is necessary to renounce worldly enjoyments, refrain from vice—then—"

"No!" cried Augustine, suddenly, with so lively an outburst of anger that all of us trembled at seeing him and hearing him. "No! I will not consent that any one, not even my father, should insult her before me. I love her! And if I have concealed it before, I tell it now, without fear or shame, for all the world to know! Sir, you do not know what you are saying, nor how you miss the truth! You have been deceived. You may kill me, if I fail in respect, but do not defame her before me; because if I should hear again what I have heard, not even the fact that you are my own father could restrain me!"

Montoria, not expecting this, looked about in amazement at his friends.

"Good, Augustine!" cried Mariquilla. "Do not pay any attention to these people. This man is not your father. Do what your heart tells you to do. Go away, seÑors! Go away!"

"You are mistaken, Mariquilla," replied the young man; "I have not intended to free the prisoner, nor shall I do so; but at the same time I tell you that it will not be I who will take his life. There are officers in my battalion who will carry out the order. I am no longer a soldier. Although we are in the face of the enemy, I break my sword, and hasten to the Captain-General that he may decide my fate."

As he said this, he drew his sword, and, doubling the blade across his knee, he broke it, and after throwing the two pieces into the middle of our circle, he went without another word.

"I am all alone! There is no one to help me!" cried Mariquilla, faintly.

"Gentlemen, pay no attention to the affairs of my son. I will take that upon myself. Perhaps the girl has interested him. That is of little consequence. These inexperienced ecclesiastics are very likely to be taken in. And you, SeÑora DoÑa Mariquilla, try to calm yourself. We will look after you. I promise you that, if you behave yourself, you will later enter into repentance. Come, let us take her away from here!"

"No, no! nobody shall tear me away from here, except in bits," said the girl, with the calmness of despair. "Oh, SeÑor Don JosÉ de Montoria, will you not ask them to pardon my father? If he would not forgive you, I forgive you a thousand times. But—"

"I cannot do what you ask of me," said the patriot, sadly. "The crime committed is enormous. You must go away. What terrible grief! It is necessary to resign yourself. God will pardon you all your faults, poor orphan. Rely upon me, and all that I can do—we will take care of you. We will help you. I am moved not by gratitude alone but by pity. Come, come with me. It lacks only a quarter to ten."

"SeÑor Montoria," said Mariquilla, kneeling before the patriot, and kissing his hands, "you have influence in the city, and can save my father. You are angry with me because Augustine said he loved me. No, I will not love him. I will not see him any more. I am an honest girl; but he is above me, and I cannot think of marrying him. SeÑor de Montoria, by the soul of your dead son, help me! My father is innocent. No, it is not possible that he could have been a traitor. If the Holy Spirit should tell me, I would not believe it. They say that he was no patriot. I say it is a lie. They say that he did not give anything for the war; but now everything that we have shall be given. There is a great deal of money buried in the cellar of the house. I will tell you where it is, and they can take it all. They say that he has not taken up arms. I will take arms now. I am not afraid of the balls. The noise of the cannon does not terrify me. I am not afraid of anything. I will run to the places of greatest danger, and there, where the men can do nothing, I will go into the fire. I will dig in the mines with my own hands, and make holes for the powder under all the ground occupied by the French. Tell me if there is some castle to take, or some wall to defend; because I fear nothing, and of all living beings in Saragossa, I shall be the last to surrender."

"Unhappy girl!" said the patriot, lifting her from the ground, "let us go, let us go from here!"

"SeÑor de Araceli," said the head of our forces, who was present, "as Captain Augustine Montoria is not in his place, you are intrusted with the command of this company."

"No, assassins of my father!" exclaimed Mariquilla, furious as a lion; "you shall not kill the innocent! Cowards! Executioners! You are the traitors, not he! You cannot conquer your enemies, so you enjoy taking life from an unfortunate old man. Soldiers, how can you talk of your honor, when you do not know what honor is? Augustine, where art thou! SeÑor Don JosÉ de Montoria, this is a contemptible vengeance planned by you, a spiteful and heartless man! My father has done wrong to no one, and you tried to rob him. He was right in not wishing to give you his flour, for you who call yourselves patriots are tradesmen who speculate in the misfortunes of the city. I cannot extort from these cruel men one compassionate word. Men of brass, barbarians! My father is innocent, and if he were not, he would have done well in selling such a city. They would easily give more than you are worth. But is there not one, one single one, to pity him and me?"

"Come, let us take her away, let us carry her off, seÑors," said Montoria. "This cannot be prolonged. What has my son done with himself?"

They took her away, and for a time I could hear her heart-rending cries.

"Good-night, SeÑor de Araceli," said Montoria to me. "I am going to see if I can get a little wine and water for this poor orphan."