"My convent!" cried Padre Consolacion. "It is my convent at last! Tio Jorge, come; they will have need of us."
"And of me!" cried Palafox, springing up.
"Stay, José," said Don Basilio, "you are not fit to go out."
"Do not stay me, Padre," answered Palafox, clasping his cloak, and with trembling fingers buckling on his sword. "I must go; I must share the dangers of my people."
The chaplain made no further protest, and soon Palafox, accompanied by San March, Tio Jorge, and Jack, was hastening towards the scene of one of the most awful catastrophes that ever befell a beleaguered city. The French, undetected by the defenders, had driven a mine beneath the great Franciscan convent, and charged it with 3000 pounds of powder. The convent was at the moment full of fighting-men; the cellars were occupied by many families of citizens; and one part of the building was crammed with 400 workpeople, men and women, who were there engaged in making clothes for the soldiers. All these perished when the mine was fired; and when Palafox arrived on the scene, the whole district for many yards around was strewn not merely with broken masonry, but with mutilated human remains.
All thought of Don Miguel's treason was for the moment banished by the hideous spectacle. Yet, awful as the damage was, the Spaniards had not awaited the arrival of their leaders before attempting reprisals. A wide opening had been made by the explosion, in the wall near the porch; the pavement of the church of San Francisco had been torn up; altars, pulpits, columns, arches, lay in shattered fragments; but Spaniards had rushed in from the streets, and, barricading themselves behind the ruins, were showering bullets upon the incoming French. Some had climbed into the galleries; others had mounted by a narrow spiral staircase into the belfry, which had strangely withstood the shock; and from these elevated positions they poured murderous volleys upon the invaders. As the rays of sunlight streamed through the broken stained-glass windows, they fell upon groups of furious combatants, imparting varied tints to the clouds of smoke and dust that rolled through the shattered nave, and glinting on the bayonets of the French infantry as they pressed desperately forward. The Spaniards fought with the fury of despair. Inspirited by the presence of their idolized general, by the heroic efforts of Tio Jorge, and the fiery exhortations of Padre Consolacion and Santiago Sass, who had soon appeared on the scene, they defended every nook and corner with obstinate tenacity, and when night put an end to the terrible conflict, had succeeded, at a huge cost, in driving the French from a portion of the building.
Jack had climbed into the belfry along with a body of peasants under the command of a French émigré, the Comte de Fleury. He was almost overcome by the sickening sight. All around, the roofs of the neighbouring houses were covered with dismembered limbs; the gutters, through which for eight centuries nothing but rain had streamed, now ran red with blood, that poured into the street as if from the mouths of the dragons, vultures, and winged monsters that decorated the Gothic walls. He could not help exclaiming at the folly of maintaining a resistance against such heavy odds. It was terrible enough that soldiers, whose duty brought them face to face with sudden death, should fall by hundreds to the French arms; but innocent and helpless citizens, young boys and girls, were all included in this late carnage, and Jack shuddered at the dire results of what he could now only regard as sheer obstinacy and blind rage.
Creeping down when the din was over, and French and Spaniards alike were resting from the fray, he found that Palafox, in a complete state of collapse, was being carried back to his bed. Along with Tio Jorge, Jack accompanied the sad group. The halls of the Aljafferia Castle were thronged with some of the more substantial merchants who were yet left alive. They had come to plead with the general to ask for terms from the French. But at the first suggestion there arose such an outcry from the peasants and the poorer citizens, incited by their priests, that the merchants were in danger of being torn limb from limb. No voice was louder than that of Santiago Sass in demanding that the defence should be still continued. The French who had withdrawn from the eastern suburbs had not yet reappeared, and the priest vehemently declared that the catastrophe at the Franciscan convent was the turning-point of the siege, and that from that moment the hand of Our Lady of the Pillar would work wonders on behalf of her city. Backed up by him, the people clamoured for a proclamation to be issued, enjoining still more strenuous resistance, and not till this had been drawn up by Don Basilio, and Palafox had affixed his tremulous signature, did the crowd disperse.
Jack remained for some time in the castle. He wished he was older and more experienced. He then might have pointed out to some of the bitterest of the Junta what fearful hardship they were bringing on the city by their insensate resistance. But he saw that they were in no temper to listen to expostulations from anyone, and he dared not speak his thoughts even to his friend Tio Jorge. He was about to return to his own district when he saw Padre Consolacion enter with a brisker step than was usual with him. The priest came straight towards him.
"Señor, Señor," he said, with a mingled look of regret and indignation, "he that backbiteth not with his tongue, nor endureth a reproach against his neighbour, he shall never be moved. I knew it could not be true; I knew the boy I taught at my knee could not be a traitor; I knew—"