One of my comrades and I tried for awhile to save Candiola from certain death; but we only succeeded by force of prayers and persuasions, saying—
“Boys, do not commit an outrage. What harm can this ridiculous old wretch do?”
“It is true,” said Candiola, with the calmness of despair; “what harm can I do who am always busy aiding those in need? Do not kill me! You are soldiers of the Estremadura and las Peñas de San Pedro; you are all good fellows. You were burning those houses in Las Tenerías where I found the chicken that I sold for a doubloon. Who says that I sell myself to the French? I hate them; I cannot bear to look at them; and I love you as my own life. I have lost everything. Leave me my life, at least.”
These pleadings, and my prayers and those of my friend, softened the soldiers a little; and, when their first outburst of anger was over, it was easy for us to save the wretched old man. The soldiers were presently relieved, and he was in perfect safety; but he never even thanked us when we offered him a bit of bread, after saving his life. A little later, when he recovered his breath enough to walk, he went on out of the street and joined his daughter.