of the danger of its defence, Saragossa displayed in the suburb such audacious courage that that day is known as one of the most brilliant of all her brilliant history.
From four o'clock, from day-dawn, the battalion of Las Peñas de San Pedro guarded the front of the fortifications, from Santa Engracia to the Convent of Trinitarios, a line which seemed the least exposed in all the circuit of the city. Behind Santa Engracia was established the battery of Los Martires; from there ran the battlements of the wall as far as the Huerva bridge, defended by a barricade; it deflected afterwards towards the west, making an obtuse angle, and joining another redoubt built in the Torre del Pino; it continued in a straight line as far as the Convent of Trinitarios, and enclosed the Puerta del Carmen.
Whoever has seen Saragossa can well understand my imperfect description, for the ruins of Santa Engracia still remain, and in the Puerta del Carmen may still be seen, not far from the Glorieta, its ruined architrave and worm-eaten stones.
We were, as I have said, occupying the position described, and part of the soldiers had a bivouac in a neighboring orchard, next to the Carmen college.
Augustine Montoria and I were inseparable. His serene character, the affection he showed me from the moment we met, and the inexplicable concord in our thoughts, made his company very agreeable. He was a young man of beautiful figure, with large brilliant eyes and open brow, and an expression marked by a melancholy gravity. His heart, like that of his father, was filled by generosity which overflowed at the least impulse; but he was not likely to wound the feelings of a friend, because education had taken from him a great deal of the national brusqueness. Augustine entered manhood's estate with the security of a kind heart, firm and uncorrupted judgment, with a vigorous and healthy soul; the wide world only was the limit of his boundless goodness. These qualities were enriched by a brilliant imagination of sure and direct action, not like that of our modern geniuses, who most of the time do not know what they are about. Augustine's imagination was lofty and serene, worthy of his education in the great classics. Although with a lively inclination to poetry—for Augustine was a poet—he had learned theology, showing ability in this as in everything. The fathers at the Seminary, who were fond of the youth, looked upon him as a prodigy in the sciences, human and divine, and they congratulated themselves on seeing him with one foot at least over the threshold of the Church.
The Montoria family had many a pleasant anticipation of the day when Augustine would say his first mass, as a holy event that was fast approaching. Yet—I am obliged to say it—Augustine had no vocation for the Church. Neither his family nor the good fathers of the Seminary understood this, nor would they have understood it, even if the Holy Spirit had come down in person to tell them. This precocious theologian, this humanist who had Horace at the ends of his fingers, this dialectician who in the weekly discussions astonished the fathers with intellectual gymnastics of scholastic science, had no more vocation for the Church than Mozart for war, Raphael for mathematics, or Napoleon for dancing!
CHAPTER V
"Gabriel," he said to me one morning, "dost thou not feel like smashing something?"
"Augustine, dost thou not feel like smashing something?" I responded. It will be seen that we were "thee-ing" and "thou-ing" each other after three days' acquaintance.
"Not very much," he said, "suppose the first ball strikes us dead!"
"We shall die for our country, for Saragossa; and although posterity will not remember us, it is always an honor to fall on the field of battle for a cause like this."
"You are right," he answered sadly; "but it is a pity to die. We are young. Who knows for what we are destined in life?"
"Life is a trifle, and its importance is not worth thinking of."
"That is for the aged to say, but not us who are just beginning to live. Frankly, I do not wish to die in this terrible circle which the French have drawn about us. In the other siege, however, all the students of the Seminary took arms, and I confess that I was more valiant then than now. A peculiar zeal filled my blood, and I threw myself into places of greatest danger without fear of death. To-day does not find me the same. I am timid and afraid, and when a gun goes off, it makes me tremble."
"That is natural. Fear does not exist when one does not realize the danger. As far as that is concerned, they say the most valiant soldiers are the raw recruits."
"There is nothing in that. Indeed, Gabriel, I confess that the mere question of dying does not strike me as the greatest evil. But if I die, I am going to entrust you with a commission which I hope you will fulfil carefully like a good friend. Listen well to what I tell you. You see that tower that leans this way, as if to see what is passing here, or hear what we are saying?"
"The Torre Nueva? I see it. What charge are you going to give me for that lady?"
Day was breaking, and between the irregular-tiled roofs of the city, between the spires and minarets, the balconies and the cupolas of the churches, the Torre Nueva, old and unfinished, stood out distinctly.
"Listen well!" said Augustine. "If I am killed with the first shot on this day which is now dawning, when the battle is ended, and they break ranks, you must go there."
"To the Torre Nueva? Behold me! I arrive. I enter!"
"No, man, not enter. Listen, I will tell you. You arrive at the Plaza de San Felipe where the tower is. Look yonder! Do you see there near the great pile there is another tower, a little belfry? It seems like an acolyte before his lord the canon, which is the great tower."
"Yes, now I see the altar-boy. And if I am not mistaken, it is the belfry of San Felipe. And the damned thing is ringing this minute!"
"For mass, it is ringing for mass," said Augustine, with great emotion. "Do you not hear the cracked bell?"
"Very plainly. Let us know what I have to say to this Mr. Altar-boy who is ringing the cracked bell."
"No, no, it is nothing about him. You arrive at the Plaza of San Felipe. If you look at the belfry, you will see it is on a corner, and from this corner runs a narrow street. You enter there, and at the left you will find at a little distance another street, narrow and retired, called Anton Trillo. You follow this until you reach the back of the church. There you will see a house. You stop there—"
"And then I come back again?"
"No; close to the house there is a garden, with a little gateway painted the color of chocolate. You stop there."
"There I stop, and there I am!"
"No, old man. You will see—"
"You're whiter than your shirt, my Augustine. What do all these towers and stoppages signify?"
"They mean," continued my friend, with increasing embarrassment, "that in a little while you will be there. I desire you to go by night. All right, you arrive there. You stop. You wait a little, then you pass to the opposite sidewalk. You stretch your neck, and you will see a window over the wall of a garden. You pick up a pebble and throw it against the panes of glass lightly, to do little damage."
"And in a second she will come!"
"No; have patience. How do you know whether she will come or not come?"
"Well, let us suppose that she comes."
