was so great that for a moment he could not speak. It was Archie Scott,
with a face as white as death, who came and stood before Margaret.
"Agnes is saved," he said hoarsely; "she is not yet sixteen. She is to
be released and set in her father's charge. And the Privy Council in
Edinburgh, on receiving old Margaret's submission and the memorial sent
by Wigton, promised a postponement of the sentence till the King's mind
could be known. But the magistrates will not listen. They will hear
nothing; they will go on their own way. Thou art to die to-day,
Margaret; and I know not how to bear it!"
She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was full of joy.
"Nay, if Agnes be spared, my prayers have indeed found their answer. For
myself--Archie, Archie, do not look so--I have long thought that to
depart and be with Christ is far better; where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest."
There was joy and peace in the girl's face as she was led forth from her
prison, and old Margaret, too, repenting her former weakness, held her
head high, and spoke with courage and resolution to her friends who had
assembled to see the mournful procession pass by. All Wigton had come
forth to see the martyrs go to their death; and Archie Scott walked near
to Margaret, and kept his eyes fixed upon her face, as though to seek to
learn something of her spirit.
"Thou wilt be a brother to my sweet Agnes and comfort her," said
Margaret to him once. "I trow she will be loyal and true to her faith,
even though she may be forced to some outward compliance. The Lord will
not judge her harshly!"
It seems sad that such noble and courageous souls as those that
animated the martyrs of the Covenant should regard it as a possible
offence against God to attend a service to His honour and glory, and by
consecrated servants set aside for His service. Perhaps as Margaret
Wilson stood in the midst of the waters, bound to her stake, watching
the rise of the flood which must soon overwhelm her--perhaps something
of the wider and grander aspects of the One Church--Holy and
Catholic--with the Lord for her Head was vouchsafed in vision to her
spirit. For, suddenly, as she saw the last struggles of the aged woman
who was tied on somewhat lower ground, and knew that a few minutes more
would see the end of her own young life, she first broke into words of
psalm and holy writ, and then suddenly exclaimed:
"The King! the King! the poor misguided King! May God bless and pardon
him and open his eyes!"
"She recants! she recants!" cried a multitude of voices from the
bank--the voices of those who believed that in this prayer for the
monarch Margaret was making a recantation of faith.
"Bring her out! bring her out!" shouted the crowd, in frenzy; and the
magistrates, not daring to withstand this public clamour, gave orders
for Margaret to be loosed and carried ashore.
"Will you retract your errors, foolish girl, and renounce the Covenant?"
they asked when, astonished, but calm and steadfast as ever, she was
brought to them.
"I will not!" she answered, with quiet steadfastness. "As I have lived
so let me die! I have nothing to recant. I am Christ's--let me go to
Him."
"Throw her into the water, for a pestilent Covenanter" cried the
magistrates; and in another moment the deep swirling waters closed over
the slight heroic frame of Margaret Wilson. Another Christian martyr had
gone fearlessly to her death.
AGOSTINA OF ZARAGOZA
The beautiful young Countess Burita was the first to set the example of
heroism and humanity.
Cowering behind their insufficient walls, and hearing the terrible roar
and crash of artillery about them, seeing the French take up a firm
position on the Torrero, from whence they could shell the devoted city
of Zaragoza at their ease, what wonder that the Spaniards--the women and
children at any rate--shrank in terror from the thought of a protracted
siege, and cried aloud that nothing could save them?
But the old fighting spirit of the past was arousing and awakening in
the souls of the men. The tyrannical temper of Napoleon, and his
aggressive disposition of the Spanish crown to his own brother, had
inflamed the ire of the Spaniards from the nobles to the peasants; and,
though a long period of misgovernment had weakened the country,
destroyed the vigour of the nation, and rendered the soldiers of little
use in the open field, yet it had not killed the old stubborn fighting
spirit within them, and when their passions were aroused, the flames had
still the power to spring forth from the ashes of the past, and there
were moments when all the old chivalry of former ages seemed to awake
within them.
It was this spirit that animated the defenders of Zaragoza when Aragon
revolted against the rule of the French, and they resolved at least to
hold the ancient capital against the foe.
Hopeless the task seemed; for the defences were of the most meagre
description; the only strong part of the wall being the ancient Roman
portion, the high brick houses within having no shelter or means of
defence from the shells and bombs that came screaming and rattling over
them.
But there were heroic spirits within those frail walls, and one of the
first to show an example of high-hearted bravery was the beautiful young
Countess. Whilst her husband gave what aid he could to the military
defenders of the city, she organised her band of women and girls for the
work which was only a little less urgent.
She ordered them to get together from the houses those awnings which
defended the rooms from the fierce heat of the sun, and under her
skilful direction these were sewn into huge bags that were filled with
sand and earth and used with great advantage to stay the effects of shot
and shell continually bursting over them.
The houses actually built upon the walls were pulled down, and all the
beams were employed in strengthening the defences in other parts,
barricading exposed windows, and making covered ways along the streets
where the townsfolk could walk in comparative safety, despite the rain
of bullets dropping round them.
But these things were not done without terrible scenes in the streets,
brave men falling at their posts, horrible explosions tearing up the
ground and scattering destruction all around.
Small wonder was it, if at first the hearts of the women had failed
them, and they had been ready to give way to a sense of despair. But
quickly they rallied their courage, and the spirit of their ancestors
entered into them. Although there were so few soldiers in the town--only
between two and three hundred in the garrison--yet the townsmen offered
their services and banded themselves together for the defence of their
ancient city, and after the first panic had subsided, the women were
eager to render every assistance that lay in their power, some even
offering to serve in the ranks like men, if they could be taken on in
that capacity.
There was, however, one way in which they could serve the men almost as
well as by fighting beside them, and that was in bringing them food and
water when they were mounted on the walls at their perilous posts.
This was rather a fearful task. The shells rushed screaming through the
air from the height above, where the enemy's batteries were placed, and
none knew where the deadly missile might explode. Bullets rained about
the gallant defenders at their guns. It was like walking into the very
mouth of hell, as many a woman shudderingly observed; and yet there were
always volunteers for this perilous task. The noble Countess was the
leader in every difficult enterprise, and she organised a devoted band
who should carry on the work with order and system, avoiding needless
exposure, but gallantly prosecuting the necessary and most perilous
office.
Amongst the most ardent and devoted of this band of women and girls the
Countess noted one very beautiful, strongly built, dark-eyed maiden, who
seemed endowed with strength and courage beyond that of her compatriots.
Wherever the fire was fiercest and hottest, wherever the strife was
direst and most deadly, there this girl was sure to be seen, waiting
with her water-cans to make a dash towards the thirsty, smoke-begrimed
soldiers, when a moment's respite allowed them to step back for the
sorely needed drink. For the fierce heat of June was in the air, and the
sunshine lay blinding upon the hot walls and ramparts, save where it was
blotted out by the smoke wreaths from cannon and musket.
But there was one particular corner upon the old wall where the fight
was often fiercely raging, and where this girl seemed oftenest to
linger, and the Countess, observing her with more and more attention as
the dire siege went forward, took the opportunity one day, when there
was a little lull in the firing, to speak to her and ask her of herself.
"I am called Agostina," answered the girl, "and it is my father who
serves yonder gun. He has the post of the greatest danger. I dare not
tear myself away. Every day I fear to see him fall. Many have fallen at
his side, but the blessed Mother of God and the holy saints have watched
over him, and he has not as yet received so much as a scratch. Alas! if
he should be taken, what will become of the little ones at home?" And
over the girl's handsome, resolute face there swept an expression of
pain and anguish that was sorrowful to see.
The Countess walked beside her to the spot where her father stood beside
his gun, taking this moment of lull to clean it well, for often it
became so hot that he was afraid it would burst. His dark, smoke-grimed
face, handsome like Agostina's in spite of its black veil, brightened at
her approach, and on seeing the lovely, high-born lady, he doffed his
cap with the instinctive grace and courtesy that the humble Spaniard has
never lost.
Agostina handed him the water-can, from which he took a deep, refreshing
draught, sighing with satisfaction as he handed it back to the girl. The
lady regarded the pair, and thought they looked more like husband and
wife than father and daughter. He seemed not old enough for her father,
though there was such a bond of affection and familiarity between them.
"Take it yonder to Ruy Gomez," said the man, pointing towards a
fellow-gunner a little distance off. "He is parched with thirst, and has
one of the hottest places on the wall."
Agostina moved forward towards the man--she knew the names of all the
gunners in this corner of the fortifications--and the Countess remained
and entered into conversation with the father.
"You have a good daughter, my brave fellow. I have watched her these
many days amongst the rest. She seems to know not fear--not for herself;
though she spoke but now as though she lived in daily and hourly fear
for her father's life!"
"Ah, poor child, poor child! It would be a sad thing for her were I to
be taken. You see there are the little ones at home; she is like a
mother to them, and to her it would be like being left a widow were I to
fall."
"You have other children too, then? Yet Agostina is always alone in her
tasks."
"Ah, yes; the others are too little, too tender. You see it was so: I
married almost as a boy, I was little more when Agostina was born, and
my wife died in giving her life. She grew up my comrade and plaything.
I soon ceased to regret she was not a boy. She was as brave, as hardy,
as skilful at games and exercises, as free from fear, as bold to brave
toil and fatigue. Ah, I should weary you, Señora, were I to try and tell
you of Agostina's childhood and youth! We have been more like brother
and sister, comrades, lovers, than father and daughter; and yet, with
all that, no daughter was ever more dutiful and loving and obedient than
my Agostina!"
The man's face had kindled into a great enthusiasm as he talked of his
beautiful daughter; that she was the very apple of his eye none could
doubt who heard him speak. The lady almost marvelled that he had taken
to himself another wife, but in his own simple fashion he explained the
matter.
"It was the year when that great sickness came. I was smitten down with
it, and Agostina nursed me back to health. Indeed, I was never very ill;
my life was not in danger, but she almost broke her heart in fear lest
she might lose me; and when I was well she was taken, and lay for long
at the very gates of death. And I, what could I do? A man is a helpless
creature in such times; and many of the neighbours fled from us. But
there was one who came to us in our troubles, a gentle creature who had
lost father and mother in the sickness. She had always loved Agostina,
and Agostina had loved her. She came and watched beside her day and
night. She brought her back to health and strength. She was quite alone
in the world; she had no one to look to; and so I married her, and
Agostina was like a sister and a daughter in one."
"And is she living yet within the city?"
"Alas, no! She was taken to her rest last year; and at home are the
three little ones, to whom Agostina is more mother than sister. A
neighbour takes care of them now, for Agostina must do her duty with the
brave daughters of the city. You, gentle lady, have taught them this. I
thank the saints and our Blessed Lady that my Agostina has been one to
answer to the call of duty. She has a heart of gold."
"I have seen it," answered the Countess; "a heart of gold and arms of
steel. I have watched her often with wonder and envy. She has the
strength of a strong man in that light frame of hers!"
"Has she not!" answered the proud father, his eyes shining; "and not
only has she strength, but she has skill and dauntless courage. She can
fire this gun as well as I can myself. She has stood at my side many
times helping me to load and fire it. When I have been blinded by smoke
and lack of sleep, she has crept up to me and whispered in the confusion
and din, 'Let me take a turn for you, father, I can do it as well as
you. Sit down a moment and breathe. I will serve the gun.' Ay, and she
has done it, too--my brave little Agostina."
The man's pride in his daughter was almost as touching as her devotion
to him. After that day the Countess watched Agostina with affectionate
interest; and, indeed, others began to note her too; for in the many
fearful casualties that befell the besieged, the explosion of the powder
magazine, the firing of the convent, which had been turned into a
hospital for sick and wounded, Agostina was ever foremost in the work of
rescue, animating by her courage and example even the most
faint-hearted, and performing miraculous feats of strength and courage
and devotion.
In a city and at a time when all were heroines, Agostina began to be
pointed out as the heroine of the siege; but she neither knew nor
heeded. All she thought of was the safety of her father and the saving
of her city. A passionate patriotism burned within her; she could face
any personal peril if only the holy saints would grant them victory over
their foes!
The gate near which her father served his gun was called the Portillo;
and fearful was the fighting that raged round that spot one
never-to-be-forgotten day of this memorable siege. The whole place
seemed to shake and rock with the explosions of shells from the Torrero;
fires were bursting out in many parts of the city. The sand-bags heaped
up in defence of wall and building were igniting and dropping away. And
around this special corner the fire was so fierce and furious that it
seemed as though every living creature must be swept away, leaving the
French a clear passage into the devoted town.
Indeed, so terrible was the bombardment here that the devoted band of
women, ready with water-cans and fresh sand-bags to rush forward to aid
their fathers and brothers, were for once driven back, and forced away
by the smoke and heat and thick rain of bullets. Agostina stood her
ground alone, peering into the smoke with anguished eyes; standing amid
the leaden hail as though she bore a charmed life; wringing her hands
together sometimes, when a cry or a groan seemed to bespeak the fact
that another bullet had done its fatal work.
At last she could stand it no longer. With a cry like that of a wild
creature in fury and distress, she leaped through the smoke and reek to
the very wall itself; and what did her eyes see then? What sight was it
that caused every drop of blood to ebb from her face, whilst the fire
seemed to flash from her eyes and reflect back the sullen glow from the
Torrero?
Every man amongst the besieged had fallen! Heaps of dead and dying lay
at her feet. Her father--where was he? A cry of anguish broke from her
as she stopped to look. From amid the heap at her feet a head was
raised--a head and a hand--a hand holding a match.
"Agostina--fire--the gun."
It was his last word ere his head fell back in death. But the girl had
heard, and every nerve in her body tingled in response to that dying
appeal.
Through the lessening smoke wreaths she saw an appalling sight--she saw
the rapid approach of the French towards the now undefended gate. It
rested with Agostina alone whether or not they should win an entrance
into the city.
With steady hand she adjusted the great gun that she had fired so often
before. With perfect coolness and dexterity she applied her match. There
was a crash, a roar, followed by the shrieks of wounded men, the oaths
of their comrades. The French had believed the guns silenced; they had
believed themselves secure of victory; and now their ranks were torn and
mown by a well-aimed twenty-six-pounder. The officer in charge called a
halt. The city was not as defenceless as they had thought.
Within the walls there was the sound of hurrying feet, as the Commander,
with some troops, came hastening to the rescue. It had been told him
how fearful was the peril here. Word had been brought that all the guns
were silent now, and he knew but too well what that meant. Hastening to
the spot in anxious fear, he had heard the booming roar of a city gun,
had heard the cry of the advancing French; and now he pressed forward to
the spot to find a girl seated upon the gun, which was still smoking,
waving her arms above her head, and crying:
"Death or victory! Death or victory! Father, I accept your dying charge.
I leave not your gun again till Zaragoza be saved! I claim it as my
due!"
The next moment Agostina had sprung to her feet, for she was no longer
alone with the dying and the dead. The Commander himself, Don José
Palafox, a nobleman, who in this emergency had come forward and placed
himself at the head of the troops of the garrison in the besieged city,
was standing beside her, regarding her steadfastly; and, though
perfectly fearless in the moment of danger, Agostina felt abashed before
his fixed gaze, and dropped her eyes.
"Maiden," he asked gently, "whose hand was it fired that last shot,
after the guns had long been silent?"
A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet, and he pointed
his finger at Agostina.
[Illustration: A wounded man half rose from the ground at their feet.
_Page 270._]
"It was she who did it, Señor; she is the daughter of one of those who
lie dead beneath your feet. He had fallen. We had all fallen. Help did
not come, but the foe was coming. We could hear the tramp of their
approaching feet. Then Agostina was in our midst. Her father's last
charge was given, 'fire the gun.' She obeyed. She checked the oncoming
tide. She routed the advancing foe. Agostina did that."
But Agostina had not stayed to hear her praises sung; she was on her
knees beside a mangled form. The tears were raining from her eyes. She
was no longer the heroine of the gun. She was a daughter weeping for the
loss of a loved and loving father.
"They loved each other so well--so well," murmured the wounded man, as
his head sank back. "Poor Agostina!"
Don José would have said more to Agostina, but his kind heart told him
that the moment was not yet come; and he merely ordered his men to lift
up the body of the dead gunner, and to give it decent burial in any spot
that Agostina should direct. It was some salve to her great grief that
her father should lie in consecrated ground. So many heaps of slain had
to be buried where they fell. The besieged had not time or strength to
carry them away.
The following day Don José, making his rounds and instituting a more
detailed survey of the wall which had been indeed terribly shaken and
shattered by the firing of yesterday, was surprised to find Agostina
hard at work cleaning the gun which had been her father's up till now,
and to which, as yet, no fresh gunner had been appointed, for, indeed,
the Commander was getting very short of men with skill enough to take
charge of the guns. He stood for a few seconds watching her attentively;
and when after loading the piece with the precision and skill which
showed a thorough understanding of the task in hand, she raised her sad
eyes, she coloured very slightly, and saluted exactly as a soldier would
have done at sight of his commanding officer.
Don José returned the salute, and came up to the girl's side.
"I have been hearing of you, my brave child," he said. "What can I do
for you in return for what you did yesterday for this city?"
"Señor," she replied, "I have but one boon to crave. Give me my father's
place here at this gun. Let me serve it as he served it, so long as the
siege lasts. He has taught me how. You shall not find me remiss. I think
I am not unskilful. Yesterday, in the presence of the dead, I vowed a
vow--I vowed not to leave my post here till the French should retreat
from Zaragoza. Let me but keep that vow. Give me here the right to hold
my father's place, the right to draw his pay, and that portion of food
for the helpless babes at home that every soldier's family may claim. I
ask nothing else!" She spoke very simply; there was no thought in her
heart of playing the hero's part. She asked bread for the children, and
the right to earn it for them. If deep down in her heart the fire of
patriotism was burning fiercely, she never thought of posing as a
heroine sacrificing herself for her country. No, hers was a simple
nature. She loved her father with passionate devotion. She longed to
accomplish the work which had been his. She yearned after the little
helpless children, and felt she must earn for them the necessities of
life. Provisions were beginning to run short. Rations were provided for
the soldiers and their families; but the citizens were face to face with
a scarcity that might become actual famine ere long. The little ones
must not starve; such had been Agostina's leading thought. She would win
for them their daily bread. She had been a mother to them for long; now
she would be a father too.
Don José's face was gravely tender as he replied:
"My child, your petition is granted. No more noble or courageous
custodian of that gun could I find within these walls. I appoint you its
gunner, with double pay. When peace has been restored, and I can tell to
the world the story of the Maid of Zaragoza, it will go hard if the
nation do not provide a pension too for so brave a daughter of her
soil!"
Agostina's cheek glowed; she bent her knee for a moment, and ere Don
José quite knew what she was about to do, she had pressed her lips upon
his hand.
"Our Blessed Lady guard and keep you, Señor," she said. "You have
granted me my heart's desire!"
It was a strange heart's desire, in truth! To stand upon that battered
wall in the teeth of the enemy's guns; to be a target for the shot and
shell of those terrible batteries; to serve that smoking gun, and send
its fierce answers forth into the hostile camp of the invaders. Others
fell about and around Agostina, but no shot touched her. They came to
say that she bore a charmed life; and it, at least, was plain that the
thought of fear could never find a lodging place within her breast.
Then came a desperate day when it seemed indeed as though all were lost.
A new battery was being built over against a convent, whose walls were
weak already, and almost ready to fall. Strengthen them as they might,
the garrison was helpless to effect any real improvement in their
condition. They fell almost at the first shock when the new battery
opened fire, and the French, rushing in through the breaches made, took
possession of one quarter of the city, and sent a haughty summons to Don
José to surrender.