One day passed after the explosion of San Francisco; it was a horrible day which seemed to have no existence in time, but only in the fanciful realm of the imagination. I had been in the Calle de las Arcadas a little before the greater number of its houses fell. I ran afterwards to the Coso, to fulfil a commission with which I had been charged, and I remember that the heavy infected air choked me so that I could scarcely walk. On the way I saw the same child that I had seen several days before, alone and crying in the quarter of Las Tenerias. He was still alone and crying, and the poor child had his hands in his mouth as if he were eating his fingers. In spite of that, nobody noticed him. I also passed him by indifferently; but, afterwards a little voice reproached me, and I turned back, and took him with me, giving him some bits of bread. My commission accomplished, I ran to the Plazuela de San Felipe, where, since the affair of Las Arcadas, were the few men of my battalion who were still alive. It was now night; and although there had been firing in the Coso between one sidewalk and the other, my comrades were held in reserve for the following day, because they were dropping with fatigue. On arriving, I saw a man who wrapped in his military cloak was walking up and down, taking notice of nobody. It was Augustine Montoria. "Augustine, is it thou?" I asked, going up to him. "How pale and changed thou art? Have they wounded thee?" "Let me alone," he answered bitterly, "I am in no mood for comrades." "Are you mad? What has happened to you?" "Leave me," he answered, pushing me away, "I tell you that I want to be alone. I do not want to see anybody." "Friend!" I cried, understanding that some terrible trouble was on the soul of my companion, "if misfortune is upon you, tell it to me, and let me share your sorrow." "Do you not know it, then?" "I know nothing. You know that I was sent with twenty men to the Calle de las Arcades. Since yesterday, since the explosion of San Francisco, you and I have not seen each other." "It is true," he replied. "I have sought death in this barricade of the Coso, and death has passed me by. Numberless comrades fell beside me, and there was not one ball for me. Gabriel, my dear friend, put the barrel of one of your pistols to my temple and tear out my life. Would you believe it? A little while ago I tried to kill myself. I do not know--but it seemed as if an invisible hand came and took the weapon from my temple, then another hand, soft and warm, passed over my brow." "Calm yourself, Augustine, and tell me what is the matter." "What the matter is with me? What time is it?" "Nine o'clock." "It lacks an hour," he cried, trembling nervously. "Sixty minutes. It may be the French have mined this Plazuela de San Felipe where we are, and perhaps in a moment the earth will leap under our feet and open a horrible gulf in which we shall all be buried,--all, the victim and the executioners." "What victim is that?"