While they were talking, I observed the face of Mariquilla, which seemed in the darkness as if modelled of white wax, and of the soft tone and finish of ivory. From her black eyes, whenever she raised them to the heavens, swift lights flashed; her black pupils seemed to reflect the clearness of the sky; in their depths two points of brightness shone or were hidden, according to the changeful mood expressed in her glance. It was curious to observe the passionate creature telling of that stormy crisis which had moved and exalted her sensibilities to the heights of courage. Her languorous attitude, her dove-like cooing, the warm affection which radiated in her atmosphere, did not associate themselves readily with manifestations of heroism in defence of her insulted father. Attentive observation easily discovered that both currents flowed from the same source. "I admire your noble filial affection," said Augustine. "But you must think of this. I do not exonerate those who maltreated your father. But you must not forget that he is the only one who has not given anything for the war. Don Jeronimo is an excellent person, but he has not an atom of patriotism in his soul. The misfortunes of the city are of no consequence to him, and he even seems to rejoice when we do not come out victorious." Mariquilla sighed, lifting her eyes to heaven. "It is true," she said; "every day and every hour I beseech him to give something for the war. I am able to get nothing; although I exaggerate the necessities of the poor soldiers, and the bad record that he is making in Saragossa. He only gets angry with me, and says that the one who brought on the war is the one to pay for it. In the other siege I was delighted at news of a victory. The fourth of August I went out into the street all alone, unable to resist my curiosity. One night I was at the house of the Urries, and they were celebrating the battle of that day, which had been very brilliant. I also began to rejoice, and show enthusiasm. An old woman who was present said to me in a high voice, and a very unpleasant tone, 'My child, instead of indulging in these emotions, why do you not carry to the hospital an old sheet to stanch blood? In the house of Señor Candiola, whose cellars are full of money, is there not some old rag to give to the wounded? Your miserable papa is the only one, the only one of all the citizens of Saragossa who has not given anything for the war.' Everybody laughed on hearing this; but I was dumb with shame, not daring to speak. I remained in a corner of the room until the end of the party, and nobody spoke another word to me. My few girl friends who used to love me so much did not come near me. I could hear people speak from time to time the name of my father, with harsh comments and ugly nicknames. Oh, it was heartbreaking! When I started to come home, they hardly told me good-bye. The host and hostess dismissed me very abruptly. I came home and went to bed, and cried all night.