Dead bodies strewed the streets, in attitudes half tragical, half ludicrous, some looking like mere bundles of old clothes, and some distorted with a stiff arm still pointing to the sky.
Right in the middle of a little square the friar lay shot through the forehead, his sword beside him, and with the flag clasped tightly to his breast.
His great brown eyes stared upwards, and as the soldiers passed him some of them crossed themselves, and an old sergeant spoke his epitaph: “This friar,” he said, “was not of those fit only for the Lord; he would have made a soldier, and a good one; may God have pardoned him.”
Driven into the middle plaza of the town, the Intransigents fought till the last, selling their lives for more than they were worth, and dying silently.
The citadel was taken with a rush, and the red flag hauled down.
Bugles rang out from the other angle of the plaza; the General and his staff rode slowly forward to meet the Regiment of Pavia as it debouched into the square.
Colonel Montoro halted, and then, saluting, advanced towards his chief. His General, turning to him, angrily exclaimed, “Tell me, why did you let those fellows in the tower do so much damage, when a few shots from the field guns would have soon finished them?”
Montoro hesitated, and recovering his sword once more saluted as his horse fretted on the curb, snorting and sidling from the dead bodies that were strewed upon the ground.
“My General,” he said, “not for all Spain and half the Indies would I have trained the cannon on the tower; it is Mudejar of the purest architecture.”
His General smiled at him a little grimly, and saying, “Well, after all, this is no time to ask accounts from any man,” touched his horse with the spur and, followed by his staff, he disappeared into the town.