"And the fathers at the Seminary?"
"Don't name the fathers. You shall see. I will tell you what has befallen me. Do you know Father Rincon? Well, Father Rincon loves me very much, and every evening he used to make me come out for a walk by the river or towards Torrero or the Juslibol road. We would talk of theology and literature. Rincon is so enthusiastic about the great poet Horace that he used to say, 'It is a pity that that man wasn't a Christian so that he could be canonized.' He always carries with him a little Elzevir, which he loves more than the apple of his eye. When we were tired walking, he would sit down and read, and between the two of us we would make whatever comments occurred to us. Well, now I will tell you that Father Rincon was a kinsman of Doña Maria Rincon, the deceased wife of Candiola, who has a little property in the Monzalbarba road, with a wretched little country house, more like a hut than a house, but embowered in leafy trees, and with delightful views of the Ebro. One afternoon, after we had been reading the Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, my teacher desired to visit his relative. We went there; we entered the garden, and Candiola was not there; but his daughter came to meet us, and Rincon said to her, 'Mariquilla, get some peaches for this young man, and get me a glass of you know what.'"
"And is Mariquilla nice?"
"Don't ask that. What if she is nice? You shall see. Father Rincon stroked his beard, and turning towards me said, 'Augustine, confess that in your lifetime you have never seen a more perfect face than this one. Look at those eyes of fire, that angel's mouth, and that bit of heaven for a brow.' I was trembling, and Mariquilla laughed, her face all rosy red. Then Rincon continued, saying, 'To you, who are a future father of the church, an example, a young pattern, without other passion than that for books, this divinity may show herself. Jove! admire here the admirable work of the Supreme Creator. Observe the expression of that face, the sweetness of those glances, the grace of that smile, the freshness, the delicacy of that complexion, the fineness of that skin, and confess that if heaven is beautiful, flowers, mountains, light, all the creations of God are nothing beside woman, the most perfect and finished work of the immortal hand.' Thus spoke my teacher, and I, mute and astonished, did not cease to contemplate that master work which was certainly better than the Æneid. I cannot tell you what I felt. Imagine the Ebro, that great river, which descends from its springs to give itself to the sea, all at once changing its channel and trying to run upward, returning to the Asturias. The same thing took place in my spirit. I myself was astonished that all my ideas had been changed from their wonted course and turned backward, cutting I know not what new channels. I assure you I was astonished, and I am yet. Looking at her without satisfying the longing of my soul or of my eyes, I said to myself, 'I love her in a wonderful way! How is it that until now I have never fallen in love?' I had never seen Mariquilla until that moment."
"And the peaches?"
"Mariquilla was as much disturbed before me as I before her. Father Rincon went to talk with the gardener about the encroachments that the French had made upon the property (that was soon after the first of September, a month after the raising of the first siege), and Mariquilla and I remained alone. Alone! My first impulse was to cut and run; and she, as she has told me, also felt the same. Neither she nor I ran. We stayed there. All at once I felt an extraordinary movement of my intellect. Breaking the silence, I began to talk with her. We talked about all sorts of indifferent things at first, but to me came thoughts beyond my usual understanding, surpassing the ordinary, and all, all, all, I uttered. Mariquilla answered me little, but her eyes were only more eloquent than when I was talking to her. At last Father Rincon called, and we marched away. I took leave of her, and in a low voice said that we would soon meet again. We returned to Saragossa. Yes, the street, the trees, the Ebro, the cupola of the Pilar, the belfries of Saragossa, the passers-by, the houses, the walls of the garden, the pavements, the sound of the wind, the dogs of the street, all seemed different to me, all, heaven and earth had been changed. My good teacher began to read again in Horace, and I said that Horace wasn't worth anything. He wished me to dine with him, and threatened me with the loss of his friendship. I praised Virgil with enthusiasm, and repeated the celebrated lines—
"'Est mollis flamma medullas interea et tacitum vivit sub pectore vulnus.'"
"This was about the first of September," said I, "and since then?"
"From that day a new life began for me. It commenced with a burning disquiet that robbed me of sleep, making distasteful to me all that was not Mariquilla. My own father's house was hateful to me; and wandering about the environs of Saragossa without any companion, I sought peace for my spirit in solitude. I hated the college, all books and theology, and when October came, and they wished me to bind myself to live shut up in the holy house, I feigned illness in order to remain in my own. Thanks to the war that has made us all soldiers, I have been able to live free, to go at all hours, day and night, and see and talk with her frequently. I go to her house, make the signal agreed upon; she descends, opens her grated window; we talk long hours. People pass by, but I am muffled in my cloak even up to the eyes. With this and the darkness of night, no one recognizes me. As far as that is concerned, the boys in the street ask one another, 'Who is this admirer of the Candiola?' The other night, fearing discovery, we stopped our talks at the grating. Mariquilla came down, opened the garden gate, and I entered. No one could discover us, because Don Jeronimo, believing her to be in bed, retired to his room to count his money, and the old servant, the only one in the house, took us under her wing. Alone in the garden we sat down upon some stone steps and watched the brightness of the moonlight through the boughs of a great black poplar. In that majestic silence our souls contemplated the divine, and we experienced a deep sentiment, beyond words to express. Our felicity is so great that at times it is a living torment. If there are moments in which one might desire to be a hundred beings, there are also moments in which one might desire not to exist. We pass long hours there. The night before last we were there until daybreak. My teacher believed me to be with the guards, so I was not obliged to hasten. When morning first began to dawn, we separated. Over the top of the wall of the garden appeared the roofs of the neighboring houses and the top of the Torre Nueva. Pointing it out to me, Mariquilla said, 'When that tower stands straight, then only shall I cease to love you.'"
Augustine said no more. A cannon-shot sounded from the side of Mount Torrero, and we both turned in that direction.
CHAPTER VI
The French had assaulted with great vigor the fortified positions of the Torrero. Ten thousand men defended them, commanded by Don Philip Saint March and by O'Neill, both generals of great merit. The volunteers of Bourbon, Castile, Campo Segorbino, of Alicante, and of Soria, the sharp-shooters of Fernando VII, the Murcia regiment, and other bodies that I do not remember, answered the fire. From the redoubt of Los Martires we saw the beginning of the action, and the French columns which extended the length of the canal and flanked the Torrero. The fire of the fusileers continued for some time, but the struggle could not be prolonged very long, for that point could not be held without the occupation and fortification of others close by, like Buena Vista, Casa Blanca, and the reservoir of the canal. But none the less our troops did not retire except slowly and in the best order, retreating by the Puente de America, and carrying with them all the pieces of artillery except one, which had been dismantled by the enemy's fire. Amidst it all we heard a great noise which resounded at a great distance, and as the fire had almost ceased, we supposed that there was another battle outside the town.
"There is the Brigadier Don José Manso," said Augustine to me, "with the Swiss regiment of Aragon, which Don Mariano Walker commands, the volunteers of Huesca, of whom Don Pedro Villacampa is leader, the volunteers of Catalonia, and other valiant corps. And here are we, hand in hand! Along this side it appears to be about finished. The French will content themselves to-day with the conquest of Torrero."
"Either I am greatly deceived," I replied, "or they are now going to attack San José."
We