He stooped and lifted the end of the mantilla which covered the face. There was no need for further question. He rose and touched Augustina’s small stained hand.
“Poor girl!” he said; “was he your brother?”
“No, signor; he was Felipe. Since we were children we had played together. His father and mine were old comrades, and when Felipe was left alone on his father’s death, my mother told him to think that our home was his when he wanted it. But Felipe was brave, signor. He knew that we had little, and he worked hard for himself and me, too, since when we came of age we were to be married. Then came this war; he was chosen to serve, and, as the signor sees, he served as long as life lasted. Now I serve for him.”
“Brave girl that you are! I would that we had more men like you, and like poor Felipe here! Stay but a little longer and I will send some one to relieve you.”
“No, signor; I will stay in place of Felipe, if but you will send word to my mother that I am safe and will see her to-night.”
“I can promise that, surely; and if your example does not shame those who lurk in safety behind the walls, I shall lose all faith in Aragon.” Saying which, the Captain passed on his way, saluting as he went, with bowed head and lifted hat, both the girl and the still figure under the mantilla.
All through the long afternoon Augustina worked. No cannon on the walls spoke more often than hers. Faint and weary, she ate what remained of the food she had brought to Felipe, and would not allow herself to think of anything but the duty before her. Not a tear fell from her eyes, and she kept whispering to herself,—
“I must make the Signorina speak!” and every time the cannon roared she looked down at Felipe and cried out, “Ah, Felipe, that was for you; she spoke for you!”
It was night before the promised relief arrived,—a soldier who looked hardly able to do the work, so pale was he.
“Have you been ill?” asked Augustina, as she made ready to go.