more impressed by it than by noisy demonstration. Look up at that massive Gothic tower, standing out as black as approaching night against a saffron sky; it's the cathedral of Irun, in the erst market-place of which we are standing—shambles had been a better name for it since the commencement of this civil war. Hush! there is an appalling silence over all to-night, which may not be rudely broken. There is no evidence of movement anywhere. Accustoming one's eyes to the deepening twilight, one certainly sees here and there groups of men, women, and, in some cases, children huddled together in strange attitudes and gloomy corners round about the dark entry to the cathedral—horror depicted on the faces of some, perfect serenity on those of others, yet never a word do they utter. They are "in the garden of sleep." They are dead, all dead, the market-place, after a hard day's fighting, being deserted by the living—all save you and I, and that spectre-like sentry yonder on the cathedral tower "on guard."
But the gloom is suddenly relieved by a ray of many-coloured light which comes through one of the cathedral windows. This is succeeded by another, and yet another.
The priests within are lighting up the altar, and a flood of prismatic brilliance mingles with the smoke from burning embers and the still night air without, save where the old pile faces the Carlist lines, in which direction the windows have been carefully barricaded, so as not to attract the enemy's shell fire. Hark! sweet and low the organ peals forth exquisite strains of music; while, now and again, Dong! and a sonorous metallic voice from the belfry invites the stricken ones to sanctuary. A company of Migueletes, with slow, measured tread, emerge from a neighbouring street, and, directing their steps towards the cathedral, are followed by a miscellaneous crowd, all hastening for the protection of Mother Church. Dong! Again that bell, so full of solemn warning.
The iron shield.
Look! What are they carrying on that splintered door, which serves as a stretcher? Let us reverently lift the cloak which half conceals a human form. It is a young officer, evidently dying, to whom the last rites are about to be administered. Not a word is spoken as the regimental favourite is tenderly carried by his comrades to the altar. Crucifix in hand, the officiating priest affords this suppliant for pardon the spiritual assurances he most needs. Raising himself on one arm, he looks first this way, then that, as if uncertain as to what is going on around him; and then, realising it all, he sinks back, with a restful, satisfied smile on his young face. He is dead! The regimental surgeon, who happens to be
