unspeakable bigot, Philip, was wasting his time in processions,
rogations, and fasts, for the relief of the town, while he stirred no
finger to help it in any effective manner.

These are stories by no means few and far between; the whole history of
the race is full of such. We read of one town and garrison of eight
thousand souls, abandoned by their king, starved, and without clothes or
ammunition. Reduced at last to two thousand naked men, they stood in the
breach to be slain to a man by the conquering Turk. Conqueror only in
name, after all; for he who conquers is he who lives in history for a
great action, and whose undaunted courage fires other souls long after
he is at rest.

"But all this is very ancient history, of the days of Spain's greatness;
now she is a decadent nation," says the superficial observer. The column
of the _Dos de Mayo_ on the Prado of Madrid, with its yearly memorial
mass, shows whether that spirit is dead, or in danger of dying. The
second of May is well called the "Day of Independence"; it was, in fact,
the inauguration of the War of Independence, in which Spain gained
enough honour to satisfy the proudest of her sons. The French had
entered Madrid under pretence of being Spain's allies against Portugal,
and Murat, once settled there to his own perfect satisfaction, made no
secret of his master's intention to annex the whole peninsula. The
imbecile King, Charles IV., had abdicated; his son, Ferdinand VII., was
practically a captive in France. The country had, in fact, been sold to
Napoleon, neither more nor less, by the infamous Godoy, favourite of the
late King.

A riot broke out among the people on discovering that the French were
about to carry off the Spanish _Infantes_. The blood of some