“Augustine! Augustine!” I called again. At last I saw him among those who were running from one room to another, going up a ladder which led to a garret.
“Are you alive?” I asked him.
“I do not know; it is not important,” he answered.
In the garret we broke through a partition wall, and passing into another room, we found an outside staircase. We descended and came to another house. Some soldiers followed, looking for a place to get into the street, and others remained there. The picture of that poor little room is indelibly fixed in my memory, with all its lines and colors, and flooded with plentiful light from a large window, opened upon the street. Portraits of the Virgin and of the saints covered the uneven walls. Two or three old trunks covered with goatskin stood on one side. On the other side we saw a woman’s clothes hanging upon hooks and nails, and a very high but poor-looking bed, although the sheets were fresh. In the window were three large flowerpots with plants in them. Sheltered behind them were two women firing furiously upon the French who occupied the breach. They had two guns. One was charging, the other firing. The one who was firing had been stooping to aim from behind the flowerpots. Resting the trigger a minute, she lifted her head a little to look at the field of battle.
“Manuela Sancho,” I exclaimed, placing my hand upon the head of the heroic girl, “resistance is no longer of any use. The next house is already destroyed by the batteries of San José, and the balls are already beginning to fall upon the roof of this. Let us go.”
She took no notice, and went on shooting. At last the house, which was even less able than its neighbor to sustain the shock of the projectiles, quivered as if the earth trembled beneath its foundations. Manuela Sancho threw down her gun. She and the woman who was with her ran