most hidden places. The galleries opened by the spades of both sides met at last in one of these cellars. By the light of our torches, we saw the French, like fantastic goblin figures engendered by the reddish light and the sinuosities of the old Moorish dungeon. They did not see us, and we began firing at them; but as we were provided with hand-grenades, we hurled these also, putting them to flight, following them afterwards at arms-length the whole distance through their galleries. All this seemed a nightmare—one of those dreadful struggles which at times we all wage with the abhorrent figures that people the terrible caverns of our dreams. But it was not a dream, though it repeated itself at many points.
In this pursuit, we showed ourselves frequently; and at last emerged in the Coso—the central place of reunion, and at the same time, park, hospital, and general cemetery of the besieged. One afternoon (I believe it was the fifth), we were in the gateway of the convent, with several boys of the battalion of Estremadura and San Pedro. We were talking about the way the siege dragged along, and all agreed that resistance would very soon be impossible. Our group was constantly enlarged. Don José de Montoria came up, and, saluting us with a sad face, seated himself upon a wooden bench near the doorway.
“Do you hear what they are saying here, Don José?” I said to him. “They believe that it is impossible to hold out many days more.”
“Don’t get discouraged, boys,” he answered. “The Captain-General says truly in his proclamation that a good deal of French gold is in circulation in this city.”
A Franciscan who had come to nurse several dozen of the sick took up the word, and said—
“It is painful to hear them. They do not talk of anything but surrender here. It does not seem as if this is Saragossa any longer. Who could believe it of a people tried in the fire of the first siege?”