“Gabriel,” he said to me one morning, “dost thou not feel like smashing something?”
“Augustine, dost thou not feel like smashing something?” I responded. It will be seen that we were “thee-ing” and “thou-ing” each other after three days’ acquaintance.
“Not very much,” he said, “suppose the first ball strikes us dead!”
“We shall die for our country, for Saragossa; and although posterity will not remember us, it is always an honor to fall on the field of battle for a cause like this.”
“You are right,” he answered sadly; “but it is a pity to die. We are young. Who knows for what we are destined in life?”
“Life is a trifle, and its importance is not worth thinking of.”
“That is for the aged to say, but not us who are just beginning to live. Frankly, I do not wish to die in this terrible circle which the French have drawn about us. In the other siege, however, all the students of the Seminary took arms, and I confess that I was more valiant then than now. A peculiar zeal filled my blood, and I threw myself into places of greatest danger without fear of death. Today does not find me the same. I am timid and afraid, and when a gun goes off, it makes me tremble.”
“That is natural. Fear does not exist when one does not realize the danger. As far as that is concerned, they say the most valiant soldiers are the raw recruits.”
“There is nothing in that. Indeed, Gabriel, I confess that the mere question of dying does not strike me as the greatest evil. But if I die, I am