sallied forth a little column that exchanged distant shots with the French workmen. Some of these, running to their left, placed themselves within arm’s length of our fire. We all ran to the walls, disposed to send them a few hailstones, and without waiting orders, some of us discharged our guns with loud huzzas.
All the women fled by the bridge towards the city except Manuela. Did fear prevent her from moving? No. Her fear was great; she trembled, and her teeth chattered; her face grew pale; but an irresistible curiosity kept her in the redoubt. She fastened her gaze on the sharpshooters, and on the cannon that was about to be discharged.
“Manuela, are you not going?” said Augustine. “Doesn’t it frighten you to look at all that?”
The girl, with her attention fixed on the spectacle, terrified, trembling, with white lips and palpitating bosom, neither moved nor spoke.
“Manuelilla,” said Pirli, running up to her, “take my gun and shoot it off.”
Contrary to what we expected, Manuelilla did not show any sign of terror.
“Take it, please,” cried Pirli, making her take the gun. “Put your thumb here. Aim over yonder. Fire! Viva the second artillery woman! Viva Manuela Sancho and the Virgin del Pilar!”
The girl took the gun, and, to judge by her actions, and the stupor of her looks, it seemed as if she did not know what she was doing. But, raising the gun with a trembling hand, she aimed at the field, pulled the trigger, and fired.
A thousand fiery shouts of applause greeted the discharge, and the girl left the gun. She was radiant with satisfaction, and her delight deepened the roses in her cheeks.