"Fiddle-de-dee, Father Luengo," exclaimed Montoria. "Yet if these people, accustomed to the luxury of other times, cannot get along without bread and meat, there is nothing to say! As if there were not other things to eat! I believe in resisting to the last breath of life, cost what it may. I have experienced terrible misfortunes; the loss of my first-born and of my grandson has filled my heart with sorrow; but at times my regard for national honor fills my soul so that there is no room left for any other sentiment. One son is left to me, the only consolation of my life, the one hope of my house and my name. Far from taking him out of danger, I insisted upon his persisting in the defence. If I should lose him, I would die of grief; but in order to save our national honor, I am willing that my only child shall perish." "And according to what I have heard," said Father Luengo, "the Señor Augustine has performed prodigies of valor. It is plain that the greenest laurels of this campaign belong to the brilliant fighters of the Church." "No; my son no longer belongs only to the Church. It is necessary that he should renounce the plan of being a clergyman. I cannot be left without direct succession." "Ah, you are talking of succession and of marriages! Augustine must have changed since he became a soldier. Formerly his conversation was all of theology, and I never heard him talk of love. He is a chap who has Saint Thomas at his finger-tips, and does not know in what part of their faces girls carry their eyes." "Augustine will sacrifice his beloved vocation for my sake. If we come out alive from the siege, and the Virgin del Pilar grants me life, I intend to marry him quickly to a woman who is his equal in position and fortune." While he was saying this, we saw Mariquilla Candiola approaching us, sobbing; on coming up to me she asked,-- "Señor de Araceli, have you seen my father?" "No, Señorita Doña Mariquilla," I answered, "I have not seen him since yesterday. It may be that he is in the ruins of his house, busying himself trying to get something out." "No, he is not," said Mariquilla, anxiously; "I have looked for him everywhere." "Have you been over back here, near San Diego? Señor Candiola sometimes goes to look at his house los Duendes, to see if it has been destroyed." "I am going there instantly!" As she disappeared, Montoria said, "She is, I am told, the daughter of the miser Candiola. Faith, she's very pretty, and does not look like the daughter of such a wolf--God forgive me, I mean good man." "She's not bad looking," said the friar; "but I imagine she's a good one. Saints don't come of Candiola timber." "One must not speak ill of one's neighbor," said Don José. "Candiola is nobody's neighbor. The girl is always in the company of the soldiers since they lost their house." "She goes among them to help take care of the wounded."