As he said this, we heard a sound as of many people coming near.
"It is the French. They have taken possession of the Coso," said one.
"Friends, dig this grave quickly," said Augustine, speaking to his two comrades, who were digging a great hole at the foot of the cypress. "If not, the French will come, and will take her from us."
A man advanced along the Calle de Anton Trillo, and, stopping beside the ruined wall, looked in. I saw him, and trembled. He was greatly changed, cadaverous, with sunken eyes and uncertain step. His glance was without brilliancy; his body was bent; and he seemed to have aged twenty years since last I saw him. His clothing was of rags stained with blood and mire. In another place, and at another time, he would have been taken for an octogenarian, come to beg alms. He came nearer to us, and said in a voice so feeble that we could scarcely hear,—
"Augustine, my son, what are you doing here?"
"Señor, my father, I am burying Mariquilla," replied Augustine, without emotion.
"Why are you doing that? Why such solicitude for a stranger? The body of your poor brother lies even now unburied among the patriots. Why have you separated yourself from your mother and your sister?"
"My sister is surrounded by kind and affectionate people to take care of her, while this one has nobody but myself."
Don José de Montoria, more gloomy and thoughtful than I had ever seen him, said nothing, and began to throw earth into the grave where they had placed the body of the beautiful girl.