We deceived the old man and went. The night was now far advanced, as the interment which I have just described had lasted more than three hours. The light of the fire could no longer be seen. The mass of the tower was lost in the darkness of night, and its great bell did not sound except now and then to announce the coming of a bomb. We arrived soon at the Plazuela of San Felipe. Seeing the roof of a house near the church still smoking, we knew that it was this, and not the house of Candiola, which three hours before the flames had attacked.
“God has preserved it!” cried Augustine, joyously. “If the meanness of her father should bring divine anger upon that roof, the virtues and innocence of Mariquilla would preserve it! Let us go there.”
In the Plazuela of San Felipe there were a few people, but the Calle de Antón Trillo was deserted. We stopped close to the wall of the garden and listened attentively. All was in such deep silence that the house seemed abandoned. Could it really be abandoned? Although this quarter was one of those least damaged by the bombardment, many families had left it, or were living as refugees in their own cellars.
“If I go in,” said Augustine to me, “you must come in with me. After the scene of today, I am afraid that Don Jerónimo, suspicious and cowardly, like a good miser, will be up all night and about his garden, lest they return and carry off his whole place.”
“In that case it is better not to go in,” I answered, “because besides the danger of falling into the hands of that old scoundrel, there would be a great scandal, and all Saragossa will know that the son of Don José Montoria, the young man destined for a bishop’s mitre, goes by night to see the daughter of the goodman Candiola.”