“What is it? Is Saragossa still in existence?” one asked.
“Are we blown up too?”
“This terrible explosion must have been in the Convent of San Francisco,” said I.
“Let us run over there,” cried Montoria, trying to make strength of his weakness. “Señor de Araceli, did they not say that all precautions had been taken to defend San Francisco? Isn’t there a pair of crutches anywhere here?”
We went into the Coso, where we were immediately assured of the fact that a large part of San Francisco had been blown up.
“My son was in the convent,” said Montoria, pale as the dead. “My God, if thou art resolved upon his death also, may he die for his country at the post of honor.”
The loquacious beggar of whom I made mention in the first pages now approached us, walking laboriously upon his crutches, and seeming in a very bad state of health.
“Sursum Corda,” I said to the patriot, “give me your crutches. You are doing no good with them.”
“Do me the kindness to let me keep them to get to that doorway,” said the cripple, “and then I will give them to you. I do not wish to die in the middle of the street.”
“Are you dying?”
“It seems like it. I am burning with fever. I was wounded in the shoulder yesterday, and nobody has taken out the ball. I feel that I am going. Your honor may have the crutches.”