broad wall from house to house. It was dreadful to see, and those who saw it were condemned to have before their mind’s eyes for all their lives that funeral pyre made of the bodies of their fellow-beings. It may seem that I am inventing, but this thing happened: a man entered the Calle de la Imprenta and began to shout. At a window appeared another man, who replied to him, saying, “Come up!”
Then the other, thinking to make a shorter cut than by the house door and the staircase, climbed up over the heap of bodies, and reached the second story, one of whose windows served him for a door.
In many other streets, the same thing happened. Who could think of giving them sepulchre? For every pair of useful arms, and for every spade, there were fifty dead. Three hundred to four hundred were perishing daily with the epidemic. Every bloody battle had carried off a thousand more; and already Saragossa began to seem a great city depopulated of living creatures.
Montoria, on seeing how things were, said:
“My son and my grandson will not have the privilege of sleeping beneath the ground. Their souls are in heaven. What