“Tomorrow the French will attack Las Tenerías,” said the other. “If, as a result, there are many wounded, I don’t see where we are going to put them.”
“Wounded!” exclaimed Montoria. “We don’t wish to see any wounded here. The dead do not hinder us. We can pile them up in a heap; but the wounded—ugh! Our soldiers are no longer fearless, and I’ll wager that those who are defending the best positions will not risk seeing themselves decimated; they will abandon them as soon as they see a couple of dozen French heads above each rampart. What feebleness! After all, ’twill be as God wills, and as for the wounded and sick, we will take care of them. Why not? Have you taken many fowls today?”
“Several dozens, of which more than half were given, and for the rest we paid six reales and a half. A few were not willing to give.”
“All right. To think that a man like me should occupy himself with fowls in days like these! What’s that you say? Some were not willing to give? The Captain-General authorized me to impose fines upon those who do not contribute to the defence. We will just gently get the law on those milksops and traitors. Hark, señors! A bomb fell then in the neighborhood of the Torre Nueva. Did you see it? Did you hear it? What a horrible explosion! I’ll wager that it is Divine Providence more than the French batteries that have sent it against the house of that petrified, soulless Jew who looks on with indifference and contempt at his neighbors’ distress. People are running that way. It seems that the house is on fire, or falling down. No, don’t you run, you miserable fellows. Let it burn, let it fall to the earth in a thousand pieces. It is the house of the miser Candiola, who would not give one peseta to save the whole human race from a new deluge. Eh, where are you going? You are going to run there too? No, come along. Follow me! We can be of more use elsewhere.”