On the third of February, the French gained possession of the Convent of Jerusalem,[1] which was between Santa Engracia and the hospital. The battle which succeeded the conquest of such an important position was as bloody as those of Las Tenerias.

Don Marcos Simono, the distinguished commander of engineers, was one of those who died there. In the suburb, the besiegers had advanced but little; and in six or seven days' effort, they had not gained possession of the Calle de Puerta Quemada.

The authorities understood that it would be difficult to prolong the resistance much longer, and with offers of money and honors tried to rouse the patriots anew. In a proclamation of the second of February, asking for means, Palafox said, "I am giving my two watches and twenty silver dishes, which are all I have left." In that of the fourth of February, he offered to give especial honors, to make caballeros of the twelve men who should most distinguish themselves; a military order of nobility was created for them, called the Infanzones. In the proclamation of the ninth, he mourned the indifference and readiness to yield, exhibited by some citizens at the misfortunes of their country; and after intimating that this loss of heart was brought about by French gold, he threatened dire punishment for those who showed themselves cowards.

The battles of the third, fourth, and fifth were not so bloody as the last which I have described. The French and Spanish were perishing with fatigue. The street entrances which we were holding in the Plazuela de la Magdalena were defended with cannon, and repulsed the enemy's two advances from the Calle de Palomar and the Calle de Pabostre. The remains of the Seminary were also bristling with artillery; and the French, sure of not being able to drive us from there by ordinary means, were working at their mines without ceasing.

My battalion was now one with that of the Estremadura, and indeed what was left of both was scarcely three companies. Augustine Montoria was captain, and I was promoted lieutenant on the second. We did not return to service in Las Tenerias. They sent us to guard San Francisco,—a vast edifice which offered good positions for our guns against the French, who were established in the Convent of Jerusalem. Very short rations were now dealt out to us; and those of us who were counted among the officers ate in the same mess with the soldiers. Augustine kept his bread to give to Mariquilla.

After the fourth day, the French began mining towards the hospital and San Francisco, in order to take it; for they knew well that it would be impossible in any other way. In order to hinder them we countermined, intending to blow them up before they could blow us up. This toilsome labor in the bowels of the earth can be compared to nothing else in the world. We seemed to ourselves to have left off being men, and to be converted into another kind of creatures, into cold inhabitants of caverns, without feeling, far from the sun and the pure air and the lovely light of day. We built long galleries, working ceaselessly like the worm that builds his house in the darkness of earth, shaping it like his own body. Between the blows of our picks, we heard, like a muffled echo, the picks of the French. After having been beaten and destroyed on the surface, we expected momentarily to be exterminated in the dreadful night of those sepulchres.

The Convent of San Francisco had vast subterranean wine-cellars under its choir. The edifices which the French occupied farther down had these also, and it was unusual for a house not to have a deep cellar. In these many of our enemies perished, sometimes by the falling in of floors, sometimes wounded from afar by our balls, which penetrated into the most hidden places. The galleries opened by the spades of both sides met at last in one of these cellars. By the light of our torches, we saw the French, like fantastic goblin figures engendered by the reddish light and the sinuosities of the old Moorish dungeon. They did not see us, and we began firing at them; but as we were provided with hand-grenades, we hurled these also, putting them to flight, following them afterwards at arms-length the whole distance through their galleries. All this seemed a nightmare,—one of those dreadful struggles which at times we all wage with the abhorrent figures that people the terrible caverns of our dreams. But it was not a dream, though it repeated itself at many points.

In this pursuit, we showed ourselves frequently; and at last emerged in the Coso,—the central place of reunion, and at the same time, park, hospital, and general cemetery of the besieged. One afternoon (I believe it was the fifth), we were in the gateway of the convent, with several boys of the battalion of Estremadura and San Pedro. We were talking about the way the siege dragged along, and all agreed that resistance would very soon be impossible. Our group was constantly enlarged. Don JosÉ de Montoria came up, and, saluting us with a sad face, seated himself upon a wooden bench near the doorway.

"Do you hear what they are saying here, Don JosÉ?" I said to him. "They believe that it is impossible to hold out many days more."

"Don't get discouraged, boys," he answered. "The Captain-General says truly in his proclamation that a good deal of French gold is in circulation in this city."

A Franciscan who had come to nurse several dozen of the sick took up the word, and said,—

"It is painful to hear them. They do not talk of anything but surrender here. It does not seem as if this is Saragossa any longer. Who could believe it of a people tried in the fire of the first siege?"

"Your reverence is right!" exclaimed Montoria. "It is shameful; and even those of us who have hearts of bronze feel ourselves attacked by this weakness, which spreads faster than the epidemic. In casting up the accounts, I don't know how to reckon for this novelty of surrender, when we have never done it before, porra! If there is something to come after this world, as our religion teaches us, why should we worry about a day more or less of life?"

"The truth is, SeÑor Don JosÉ," said the friar, "that the provisions are going fast; and when there is no flour everybody is irritable."

"Fiddle-de-dee, Father Luengo," exclaimed Montoria. "Yet if these people, accustomed to the luxury of other times, cannot get along without bread and meat, there is nothing to say! As if there were not other things to eat! I believe in resisting to the last breath of life, cost what it may. I have experienced terrible misfortunes; the loss of my first-born and of my grandson has filled my heart with sorrow; but at times my regard for national honor fills my soul so that there is no room left for any other sentiment. One son is left to me, the only consolation of my life, the one hope of my house and my name. Far from taking him out of danger, I insisted upon his persisting in the defence. If I should lose him, I would die of grief; but in order to save our national honor, I am willing that my only child shall perish."

"And according to what I have heard," said Father Luengo, "the SeÑor Augustine has performed prodigies of valor. It is plain that the greenest laurels of this campaign belong to the brilliant fighters of the Church."

"No; my son no longer belongs only to the Church. It is necessary that he should renounce the plan of being a clergyman. I cannot be left without direct succession."

"Ah, you are talking of succession and of marriages! Augustine must have changed since he became a soldier. Formerly his conversation was all of theology, and I never heard him talk of love. He is a chap who has Saint Thomas at his finger-tips, and does not know in what part of their faces girls carry their eyes."

"Augustine will sacrifice his beloved vocation for my sake. If we come out alive from the siege, and the Virgin del Pilar grants me life, I intend to marry him quickly to a woman who is his equal in position and fortune."

While he was saying this, we saw Mariquilla Candiola approaching us, sobbing; on coming up to me she asked,—

"SeÑor de Araceli, have you seen my father?"

"No, SeÑorita DoÑa Mariquilla," I answered, "I have not seen him since yesterday. It may be that he is in the ruins of his house, busying himself trying to get something out."

"No, he is not," said Mariquilla, anxiously; "I have looked for him everywhere."

"Have you been over back here, near San Diego? SeÑor Candiola sometimes goes to look at his house los Duendes, to see if it has been destroyed."

"I am going there instantly!"

As she disappeared, Montoria said, "She is, I am told, the daughter of the miser Candiola. Faith, she's very pretty, and does not look like the daughter of such a wolf—God forgive me, I mean good man."

"She's not bad looking," said the friar; "but I imagine she's a good one. Saints don't come of Candiola timber."

"One must not speak ill of one's neighbor," said Don JosÉ.

"Candiola is nobody's neighbor. The girl is always in the company of the soldiers since they lost their house."

"She goes among them to help take care of the wounded."

"It may be; but it looks to me as if she likes best those who are strong and hearty. Her charming little face does not show a whiff of shame."

"You snake in the grass!"

"It is the truth," said the friar. "She's a chip of the old block. Do they not say all sorts of things about her mother, Pepa Rincon?"

"Perhaps she used to take a little something to make her happy."

"It's not a bad kind of happiness. When she was abandoned by her third gallant, SeÑor Don Jeronimo took charge of her."

"Enough of scandal," said Montoria. "Even when we talk of the worst people in the world, we can at least leave them to their own consciences."

"I would not give a farthing for the souls of all the Candiolas put together," replied the friar. "But there comes the SeÑor Don Jeronimo, if I am not mistaken. He has seen us, and is coming over here."

Candiola was indeed coming slowly along the Coso, and came up to the convent door.

"Good-evening to you, SeÑor Don Jeronimo," said Montoria. "I live in hope that our grudge is all gone."

"A moment ago your innocent young daughter was here looking for you," said Luengo, maliciously.

"Where is she?"

"She has gone to San Diego," said a soldier. "Maybe some of the French about here have carried her off."

"Perhaps they respect her, knowing that she is the daughter of SeÑor Don Jeronimo," said Luengo. "Is this true, friend Candiola, that they are telling about here?"

"What?"

"That you have been inside the French lines, holding confabs with that mob?"

"I? What vile calumny!" exclaimed the miser. "My enemies are saying that to ruin me. Is it you, SeÑor de Montoria, who have set these stories going?"

"Not even in thought," said the patriot; "but I have certainly heard others say it. I remember defending you, assuring them that SeÑor Candiola is incapable of selling himself to the French."

"My enemies, my enemies wish to ruin me! What calumnies they invent against me! They wish to make me lose my honor, since I have lost my estate. Gentlemen, my house in the Calle de la Sombra has lost part of its roof. Is there any such trouble as mine! The one that I have here back of San Francisco, next to the garden of San Diego, is still preserved; but it is occupied by the troops, and they will finish it for me, and it's a beauty."

"That house is worth very little, SeÑor Don Jeronimo," said the friar. "If I have not forgotten, it is ten years since anybody would live in it."

"That is because some crazy people gave out that it has ghosts in it. But let us drop that. Have you seen my daughter about here?"

"That virginal white lily has gone over to San Diego in search of her amiable papa."

"My daughter has lost all her good sense."

"Something of that sort."

"Yet SeÑor de Montoria is all to blame for it. My wicked enemies give me no time to breathe."

"What do you say?" exclaimed my protector. "How am I to blame for what this child has inherited of the evil ways of her mother? I mean to say (my cursed tongue!) that her mother was an exemplary lady."

"The insults and scorn of SeÑor Montoria do not affect me," said the miser, with biting contempt. "Instead of insulting me, the SeÑor Don JosÉ ought to keep his son Augustine in order, that libertine who has turned my daughter's head. No, I will not give her to him in marriage, though he begs on his knees. He wants to rob me of her. A pretty fellow, that Don Augustine! No, no, he shall not have her for a wife. She can do better, much better, my Mariquilla!"

Don JosÉ de Montoria turned white on hearing this, and stepped hastily towards Candiola, with the intention doubtless of renewing the scene in the Calle de Anton Trillo. But he restrained himself, and said in a mournful voice,—

"My God, give me strength to govern my anger. Is it possible to keep my temper and to have humility in the presence of this man? I asked his pardon for the wrong which I did him. I humbled myself before him. I offered him a friendly hand; and now he is here injuring and insulting me in the most disgusting fashion. Wretched man! beat me, kill me, drink all my blood, and sell my bones afterwards to make buttons; but let not that vile tongue of yours cast ignominy upon my beloved son. What is this that you say about my Augustine?"

"The truth."

"I do not know how to contain myself! Gentlemen, witness my self-control. I do not wish to let myself go. I do not wish to trample on any one. I do not wish to offend God. I forgive this man his calumnies; but on condition that he quit my presence at once, because seeing him I cannot answer for myself."

Candiola, alarmed at these words, entered the convent gate. Father Luengo took Montoria down the Coso.

At the same time there began to be heard among the soldiers there an angry murmur which indicated sentiments hostile to the father of Mariquilla, who, accustomed to this sort of thing, did not realize that it was anything unusual. He tried to get away, as they pushed him from one to the other; but they held him, and, without knowing exactly how, he was brought swiftly into the cloister by the threatening group. Then a voice cried, in angry accents,—

"To the well, throw him into the well!"

Candiola was seized by many hands, pounded and torn, and pulled about more than ever before.

"He is one of those who go about distributing French bribes to the troops," said one.

"Yes, yes!" cried others. "Yesterday they say that he was walking about in the market distributing money."

"Gentlemen," said the unfortunate man, in a choked voice, "I swear to you that I have never distributed any money."

And this was the truth.

"Last night they say he was seen sneaking over into the French camp."

"He did not come back until morning. To the well with him!"

One of my comrades and I tried for awhile to save Candiola from certain death; but we only succeeded by force of prayers and persuasions, saying,—

"Boys, do not commit an outrage. What harm can this ridiculous old wretch do?"

"It is true," said Candiola, with the calmness of despair; "what harm can I do who am always busy aiding those in need? Do not kill me! You are soldiers of the Estremadura and las PeÑas de San Pedro; you are all good fellows. You were burning those houses in Las Tenerias where I found the chicken that I sold for a doubloon. Who says that I sell myself to the French? I hate them; I cannot bear to look at them; and I love you as my own life. I have lost everything. Leave me my life, at least."

These pleadings, and my prayers and those of my friend, softened the soldiers a little; and, when their first outburst of anger was over, it was easy for us to save the wretched old man. The soldiers were presently relieved, and he was in perfect safety; but he never even thanked us when we offered him a bit of bread, after saving his life. A little later, when he recovered his breath enough to walk, he went on out of the street and joined his daughter.