While he was saying this, we saw emerging from our inn two men and a woman, of those who had been our companions there. They looked as if they were accustomed to sleep in the place. One of them was a cripple, a poor unfortunate who ended at his knees, and put himself in motion by the aid of crutches, swinging himself forward on them as if by oars. He was an old man, with a jovial face well burned by the sun. As he saluted us very pleasantly in passing, wishing us a good-morning, Don Roque asked him in what part of the city was the house of Don José de Montoria. The cripple replied:—
"Don José de Montoria? I know him as if he were the apple of my eye. It is twenty years since he used to live in the Calle de la Albarderia. Afterwards he moved to another street, the Calle de la Parra, then,—but you are strangers, I see."
"Yes, my good friend, we are strangers; and we have come to enlist with the troops of this brave city."
"Then you were not here on the fourth of August?"
"No, my friend," I answered him; "we were not present at that great feat of arms."
"You did not see the battle of Eras?" asked the beggar, sitting down in front of us.
"We did not have that felicity either."
"Well, Don José Montoria was there. He was one of those who pulled the cannon into place for firing. Well, well, I see that you haven't seen a thing. From what part of the world do you come?"
"From Madrid," said Don Roque. "So you are not able to tell me where my dear friend Don José lives?"
"Well, I should think I can, man, well, I should think I can!" answered the cripple, taking from his pocket a crust of dry bread for his breakfast. "From the Calle de la Parra he moved to the Calle de Enmedio. You know that all those houses were blown up. There was Stephen Lopez, a soldier of the Tenth Company of the First Regiment of Aragon Volunteers, and he alone, with forty men, himself forced the French to retire."