"Indeed, I too have unchanging confidence, as you say," said Mariquilla. "I am often afraid that you will be killed; but I know not what voices I hear in the depths of my soul telling me that they will not kill you. It may be because I pray so much, pleading with God to preserve your life among all these horrors and in battle. I do not know. At night when I go to rest, thinking of the bombs that have fallen, and those that are falling, and those that will fall, I go to sleep and dream of battle, and never cease hearing the noise of cannon. I am very restless, and Guedita, who sleeps near me, says that I talk in my sleep, saying a thousand mad things. I must certainly say something, for I am always dreaming. I see you on the wall. I talk with you, and you answer me. The balls do not touch you; and it seems to me it is because of the prayers I say for you, waking and sleeping. A few nights ago I dreamed that I went with other girls to take care of the wounded, and that we were taking care of a great many, almost bringing them back to life by what we were doing for them. I dreamed that when I came back to the house I found you here with your father, an old man, who was smiling and talking with mine, both seated upon the sofa in the sala. Then I dreamed that your father smiled at me, and began to ask me questions. Sometimes I dream sad things. When I am awake I listen, and if I do not hear the noise of the bombardment, I ask if it can be that the French have raised the siege. If I hear a cannonading, I look at the image of the Virgin del Pilar which is in my room, and I question it in thought, and it answers me that you are not dead, without my knowing how the answer is given. I spend the day thinking about the ramparts, and I wait at the window to hear what the soldiers say who pass by in the street. Sometimes I feel tempted to ask them if they have seen you. Night comes; I see you again, and I am, oh, so contented! The next day Guedita and I occupy ourselves in cooking something good, unknown to my father. If it is successful, we save it for you; if it is not quite so nice, that little friar called Father Busto takes it to the wounded and sick. He comes after dark to get it, on the pretext of visiting Doña Guedita, of whom he is a kinsman. We ask him how goes the battle, and he tells us all about it, that the troops are performing deeds of great valor, and the French will be obliged to retire in good time. This news that all goes well makes us wild with joy. The noise of the bombs saddens us afterwards, but praying we recover our tranquillity. Alone in our room at night, we make lint and bandages which Father Busto also takes secretly, as if they were stolen goods. If we hear my father's steps, we hide it all quickly, and put out the light, because if he should find out what we are doing he would be very angry."