We had reached the parish church of San Pablo when we were met by a friar, Father Mateo del Busto, who was coming with much fatigue, forcing his feeble steps, and accompanied by another friar whom they called Father Luengo.
“What news do your reverences bring us?” Montoria asked them.
“Don Juan Gallart has twenty pounds of inlaid work which he places at the disposal of the committee.”
“And Don Pedro Pizueta, the shopkeeper of the Calle de las Moscas, generously offers sixty sacks of wool, and all the salt and wool of his storehouses,” added Luengo.
“But we have just been dealing with the miser Candiola,” said the friar; “a battle with which not even the Eras can compare.”
“How is that?” asked Don José, with astonishment. “Has not that wretched niggard understood that we will pay him for his flour? He is the only citizen of Saragossa who has not given a penny for the provisioning of the army.”
“There is no use in preaching to Candiola,” said Luengo. “He has said decisively that we need not return there unless we bring him one hundred and twenty-four reales for each sack of flour, and he has seventy-eight of them in his storehouse.”
“Is there any infamy equal to his!” exclaimed Montoria, letting loose a string of porras , which I do not copy for fear of wearying my reader. “What! A hundred and twenty-four reales are necessary to make that stingy piece of flint understand the duties of a son of Saragossa in times like these! The Captain-General has given me authority to take whatever provisions are necessary, paying the fixed price for them.”