"I know nothing. You know that I was sent with twenty men to the Calle de las Arcades. Since yesterday, since the explosion of San Francisco, you and I have not seen each other."
"It is true," he replied. "I have sought death in this barricade of the Coso, and death has passed me by. Numberless comrades fell beside me, and there was not one ball for me. Gabriel, my dear friend, put the barrel of one of your pistols to my temple and tear out my life. Would you believe it? A little while ago I tried to kill myself. I do not know—but it seemed as if an invisible hand came and took the weapon from my temple, then another hand, soft and warm, passed over my brow."
"Calm yourself, Augustine, and tell me what is the matter."
"What the matter is with me? What time is it?"
"Nine o'clock."
"It lacks an hour," he cried, trembling nervously. "Sixty minutes. It may be the French have mined this Plazuela de San Felipe where we are, and perhaps in a moment the earth will leap under our feet and open a horrible gulf in which we shall all be buried,—all, the victim and the executioners."
"What victim is that?"
"The unfortunate Candiola. He is shut up in the Torre Nueva."
In the doorway of the Torre Nueva there were some soldiers, and a faint light illumined the entrance.
"Of course," I said, "I know that that infamous old man was taken prisoner with some of the French in the orchard of San Diego."