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 had been despatched in the June of that year to reduce Saragossa, where the royal standard of the Bourbons had been unfurled. This city was not fortified; it was surrounded by an ill-constructed wall, twelve feet high by three broad, intersected by houses; these houses, and the neighbouring churches and convents, were in so dilapidated a state, that from the roof to the foundation were to be seen in each immense breaches; apertures begun by time and increased by neglect. A large hill, called Il Torero, commanded the town at the distance of a mile, and offered a situation for most destructive bombardment Among the sixty thousand inhabitants there were but two hundred and twenty regular troops, and the artillery consisted of ten old cannon.

The French began the siege in a rather slothful style; they deemed much exertion unnecessary; Saragossa, they said, was only inhabited by monks and cowards. But their opinions and their efforts were destined to an entire revolution. Very seldom in the annals of war has greater heroism, greater bravery, greater horror and misery been concentrated, than during the two months that these desperate patriots repelled their invaders. No sacrifices were too great to be offered, no extremities too oppressive to be endured by the besieged; but, as it often occurs among the noblest bodies of men, that one sordid soul may be found open to the far-reaching hand of corruption, such a wretch happened to be entrusted with a powder-magazine at Saragossa. Under the influence of French gold, he fired the magazine on the night of the 2nd. of June. To describe the horrors that ensued would be impossible. The French, to whom the noise of the explosion had been a signal, advanced their troops to the gates. The population, shocked, amazed, hardly knowing what had occurred, entirely ignorant of the cause, bewildered by conflagration, ruins, and the noise of the enemy's artillery unexpectedly thundering in their ears, were paralyzed, powerless; the overthrow, the slaughter of those who stood at the ramparts, seemed more like a massacre than a battle; in a short time the trenches presented nothing but a heap of dead bodies. There was no longer a combatant to be seen; nobody felt the courage to stand to the defence.

At this desperate moment, an unknown maiden issued from the church of Nostra Donna del Pillas, habited in white raiment, a cross suspended from her neck, her dark hair dishevelled, and her eyes sparkling with supernatural lustre! She traversed the city with a bold and firm step; she passed to the ramparts, to the very spot where the enemy was pouring on to the assault; she mounted to the breach, seized a lighted match from the hand of a dying engineer, and fired the piece of artillery he had failed to manage; then kissing her cross, she cried with the accent of inspiration—"Death or victory!" and reloaded her cannon. Such a cry, such a vision, could not fail of calling up enthusiasm; it seemed that heaven had brought aid to the just cause; her cry was answered—"Long live Agostina!"

"Forward, forward, we will conquer!" resounded on every side. Nerved by such emotions, the force of every man was doubled, and the French were repulsed on all sides.

Grcneral Lefevre, mortified at this unexpected result, determined to reduce the place by famine, as well as to distress it by bombardment from Il Torero. The horrors that followed his measures would