“Then you were not here on the fourth of August?”
“No, my friend,” I answered him; “we were not present at that great feat of arms.”
“You did not see the battle of Eras?” asked the beggar, sitting down in front of us.
“We did not have that felicity either.”
“Well, Don José Montoria was there. He was one of those who pulled the cannon into place for firing. Well, well, I see that you haven’t seen a thing. From what part of the world do you come?”
“From Madrid,” said Don Roque. “So you are not able to tell me where my dear friend Don José lives?”
“Well, I should think I can, man, well, I should think I can!” answered the cripple, taking from his pocket a crust of dry bread for his breakfast. “From the Calle de la Parra he moved to the Calle de Enmedio. You know that all those houses were blown up. There was Stephen López, a soldier of the Tenth Company of the First Regiment of Aragón Volunteers, and he alone, with forty men, himself forced the French to retire.”
“That must have been a fine thing to see!” said Don Roque.
“Oh, if you did not see the fourth of August you have seen nothing,” continued the beggar. “I myself also saw the fourth of June, because I was crawling along the Calle de la Paja, and I saw the woman who fired off the big cannon.”
“We have already heard of the heroism of that noble woman,” said Don Roque; “but if you could make up your mind to tell us—”