"Friends, dig this grave quickly," said Augustine, speaking to his two comrades, who were digging a great hole at the foot of the cypress. "If not, the French will come, and will take her from us." A man advanced along the Calle de Anton Trillo, and, stopping beside the ruined wall, looked in. I saw him, and trembled. He was greatly changed, cadaverous, with sunken eyes and uncertain step. His glance was without brilliancy; his body was bent; and he seemed to have aged twenty years since last I saw him. His clothing was of rags stained with blood and mire. In another place, and at another time, he would have been taken for an octogenarian, come to beg alms. He came nearer to us, and said in a voice so feeble that we could scarcely hear,-- "Augustine, my son, what are you doing here?" "Señor, my father, I am burying Mariquilla," replied Augustine, without emotion. "Why are you doing that? Why such solicitude for a stranger? The body of your poor brother lies even now unburied among the patriots. Why have you separated yourself from your mother and your sister?" "My sister is surrounded by kind and affectionate people to take care of her, while this one has nobody but myself." Don José de Montoria, more gloomy and thoughtful than I had ever seen him, said nothing, and began to throw earth into the grave where they had placed the body of the beautiful girl. "Throw in earth, my son, throw in earth quickly!" he cried, at last. "All is indeed over. They have permitted the French to enter the city, when it might still have been defended a couple of months more. These people have no soul. Come with me, and we will talk about yourself." "Señor," replied Augustine, in firm tones, "the French are in the city. The gates are left free. It is now ten, and at twelve I leave Saragossa to go to the Monastery de Veruela, where I shall stay until I die." The garrison, according to the stipulation, were to leave with military honors by the Puerta del Portillo. I was so ill, so weakened by a wound lately received, and by hunger and fatigue, my comrades almost had to carry me. I scarcely saw the French as with sadness rather than rejoicing they took possession of that which had been a city. It was a city of terrible ruins, a city of desolation, worthy to be mourned by Jeremiah or sung by Homer. In the Muela, where I stopped to recover myself, Don Roque appeared. He was leaving the city, and feared being followed as a suspect.