IX

St. John's day arrived, the greatest period of the year; the time of

harvest and abundance.

The air vibrated with light and colour. An African sun poured torrents

of gold upon the earth, cracking it with its ardent caresses, and its

arrows of gold slipped in between the compressed foliage, an awning of

verdure under which the _vega_ protected its babbling canals and its

humid furrows, as though fearful of the heat which generated life

everywhere.

The trees showed their branches loaded with fruit. The medlar trees bent

over under the weight of the yellow clusters covered with glazed leaves;

apricots glowed among the foliage like the rosy cheeks of a child; the

boys scanned the corpulent fig-trees with impatience, greedily seeking

the early first fruit, and in the gardens on top of the walls, the

jasmines exhaled their suave fragrance, and the magnolias, like

incensories of ivory, scattered their perfume in the burning

atmosphere, impregnated with the odour of ripe fruit.

The gleaming sickles were shearing the fields, felling low the golden

heads of wheat, the heavy ears of grain, which oppressed with

superabundance of life, were bending toward the ground, their slender

stalks doubling beneath them.

On the threshing-floor the straw was mounting up, forming hills of gold

which reflected the light of the sun; the wheat was fanned amid the

whirling clouds of dust, and in the fields whose tops were lopped off,

along the stubble, the sparrows hopped about, seeking the forgotten

grains.

Every one was happy, all worked joyfully. The carts creaked on all the

roads, bands of boys ran over the fields, or gambled on the

threshing-floors, thinking of the cakes of new wheat, of the life of

abundance and satisfaction which began in the farm-house upon the

filling of the lofts; even the old nags seemed to look on with happy

eyes, and to walk with more alacrity, as though stimulated by the odour

of the mounds of straw which, like rivers of gold, would slip through

their cribs during the course of the year.

The money, hoarded in the bedrooms during the winter, hidden away in the

chest or in the depth of a stocking, began to circulate through the

_vega_. Toward the close of the day, the taverns began to fill with men,

reddened and bronzed by the sun, their rough shirts soaked with sweat,

who talked about the harvest and the payment of Saint John, the

half-year's rent which they had to pay over to the masters of the land.

The abundance had also brought happiness to the farm-house of Batiste.

The crops had made them forget the little "Abbot." Only the mother, with

sudden tears and some profound sighs, revealed the fleeting remembrance

of the little one.

It was the wheat, the full sacks which Batiste and his son carried up to

the granary, and which made the floor tremble, and the whole house shake

as they fell from their shoulders, that interested all the family.

The good season began. Their good fortune now was as extreme as their

past misfortune. The days slipped by in saintly calm and much work, but

without the slightest incident to disturb the monotony of a laborious

existence.

The affection which all the neighbours had shown at the burial of the

little one had somewhat cooled down. As the remembrance of this

misfortune became deadened, the people seemed to repent of the

spontaneous impulse of tenderness and recalled once more the catastrophe

of old Barret and the arrival of the intruders.

But the peace spontaneously made before the white casket of the little

one was not disturbed by this. Somewhat cold and suspicious, yes; but

all exchanged salutations with the family; the sons were able to go

through the plain without being annoyed, and even Pimentó when he met

Batiste, would nod his head in a friendly manner, mumbling something

which was like an answer to his salutation.

In short, those who did not like them, left them alone, which was all

that they could desire.

And in the interior of the farm-house, what abundance ... what

tranquillity! Batiste was surprised at the harvest. The lands, rested,

untouched by cultivation for a long time, seemed to have sent forth at

one time all the life accumulated in their depths after ten years of

repose. The grain was heavy and abundant. According to the news which

circulated through the plain, it was going to command a good price, and

what was better (Batiste smiled on thinking of this), he did not need to

pay out the profit as rent, for he was exempt for two years. He had

paid well for this advantage by many months of alarm and struggle and by

the death of poor Pascualet.

The prosperity of the family seemed to be reflected in the farm-house,

clean and brilliant as never before. Seen at a distance, it stood out

from the neighbouring houses, as though revealing that it had in it more

prosperity and peace. Nobody would have recognized in it the tragic

house of old Barret.

The red bricks of the pavement in front of the door shone, polished by

the daily rubbings; the flower-beds of sweet-basil and morning-glories

and the bind-weeds formed pavilions of green, on top of which, outlined

against the sky, stood out the sharp, triangular pediment of the

farm-house, of immaculate whiteness; within might be seen the fluttering

of the white curtains which covered the windows of the bedrooms, the

shelves with piles of plates and concave platters leaning against the

wall, showing big fantastic birds, and flowers like tomatoes painted on

the background, and on the pitcher-shelf, which looked like an altar of

glazed tile, there appeared, like divinities against thirst, the fat

enamelled pitchers, and the jars of china and greenish glass, hanging

from nails in a row.

The ancient and ill-treated furniture, which was a continuous reminder

of the old wanderings and fleeing from misery, began to disappear,

leaving space for others, which the diligent Teresa bought on her trips

to the city. The money from the harvest was invested in repairing the

breaches in the furniture of the farm-house made by the months of

waiting.

The family smiled at times, recalling the threatening words of Pimentó.

This wheat, which according to the bully, nobody should reap, began to

fatten all the family. Roseta had two more skirts, and Batistet and the

little ones strutted about on Sundays, dressed anew from head to foot.

While crossing the plain during the sunniest hours, when the atmosphere

burned, and the flies and bees buzzed heavily, one felt a sensation of

comfort before this farm-house, which was so fresh and clean. The corral

through its walls of mud and stakes, revealed the life which it

enclosed. The hens clucked, the cock crowed, the rabbits leaped forth

from the burrows of a great pile of new kindling; the ducks, watched by

the two little sons of Teresa, swam upon the nearby canal, and the

flocks of chickens ran over the stubble, peeping without ceasing, moving

their little rosy bodies, scarcely covered with fine down.

To say nothing of the fact that Teresa shut herself up in her bedroom

more than once, and opening a drawer of the dresser, untied handkerchief

after handkerchief, in order to go into ecstasies before a little heap

of silver coins, the first money which her husband had been able to make

the fields yield. This was just a beginning, and if times should be

good, more and more money would be added to this, and who knows if when

the time came these savings might not free the little ones from military

service.

The concentrated and silent joy of the mother was noted also in Batiste.

One should have seen him on a Sunday afternoon, smoking a cuarto-stogie

in honour of the festival, passing before the house, and watching his

fields lovingly. Two days before, he had planted corn and beans in them,

as almost all of his neighbours had, since the earth must not be allowed

to remain idle.

He could hardly manage with the two fields which he had broken up and

cultivated. But like old Barret, he felt the intoxication of the land;

he wished to take in more and more with his labour, and though it was

somewhat late, he planned on the following day to break up that part of

the uncultivated earth which remained behind the farm-house, and plant

melons there, an unsurpassed crop, from which his wife might make a very

good profit, taking them as others did to the market at Valencia.

He should thank God for finally permitting him to live at peace in this

paradise. What lands were these of the plain! According to history, even

the Moorish dogs had wept upon being ejected from them.

The reaping had cleared the countryside, bringing low the masses of

wheat variegated with poppies which shut in the view on all sides like

ramparts of gold; now the plain seemed to be much larger, infinite; it

stretched out and out until the large patches of red earth, cut up by

paths and canals, disappeared from view.

Over all the plain the Sunday holiday was rigorously observed, and as

there was a recent harvest, and not a little money, nobody thought of

violating the rule. There was not a single man to be seen working in

the fields, nor a horse upon the roads. The old women passed over the

paths with the snowy mantle over their eyes, and their little chair upon

their arm, as if the bells which were ringing in the distance, very far

away, over the tiled roofs of the village, were calling them; along a

cross-road, a numerous group of children were screaming, pursuing one

another; over the green of the sloping-banks stood out the red trousers

of some soldiers who were taking advantage of the holiday, to spend an

hour in their homes; there sounded in the distance, like the sharp

ripping of cloth, the reports of shot-guns fired at flocks of swallows

which were wheeling about from one side to the other in a capricious

quadrille, emitting mellow whistles, so high it seemed they would graze

their wings against the crystal blue of the sky; over the canals buzzed

clouds of mosquitoes, almost invisible; and in a green farm-house, under

the old vine-arbour, there stirred about, in a kaleidoscopic maze of

colours, flowered skirts and showy handkerchiefs, and the guitars

sounded with a dreamy rhythm, lulling to sleep at last the cornet which

was shrieking, pouring forth to every end of the plain, as it slept

beneath the sun, the Moorish sounds of the _jota_, the Valencian dance.

This tranquil landscape was the idealization of laborious and happy

Arcadia. There could be no evil people here. Upon awakening, Batiste

stretched himself with a pleasurable feeling of laziness, yielding to

the tranquil comfort with which the atmosphere seemed to be impregnated.

Roseta had gone away with the little ones to a dance at a farm-house:

his wife was taking her siesta, and he was walking back and forth from

his house to the road over the bit of uncultivated land which served as

an entrance for vehicles.

Standing on the little bridge, he answered the salutations of the

neighbours, who passed by laughing, as if they were going to witness a

very funny spectacle.

They were going to Copa's tavern to see at close range the famous

contest between Pimentó and the two brothers, Terrerola, two bad

characters like the husband of Pepeta, who also had sworn hatred to

work, and passed the whole day in the tavern. Among them sprung up no

end of rivalry and bets, especially when a time like this arrived, when

the gatherings at the establishment swelled. The three bullies outdid

one another in brutality, each one anxious to acquire more renown than

the others.

Batiste had heard of this bet, which was drawing people to the famous

tavern as though it were a public festivity.

The proposition was to see who could remain seated longest playing at

cards, and drinking nothing but brandy.

They started Friday evening, and on Sunday afternoon, the three were

still in their little rope-chairs, playing the hundredth game of cards,

with the jug of _aguardiente_ on the little table before them, leaving

the cards only to swallow the savoury blood-pudding which gave great

fame to Copa, because he knew so well how to preserve it in oil.

And the news, spreading itself throughout all the plain, made all the

people come in a procession from a league roundabout. The three bullies

were not alone for a moment. They had their supporters, who assumed the

duty of occupying the fourth place in the game, and upon the coming of

the night, when the mass of spectators retired to their farms, they

remained there, watching them play in the light of the candle dangling

from a black poplar-tree, for Copa was an impatient fellow, incapable

of putting up with the tiresome wager, and so when the hour for sleep

arrived, he would close the door, and after renewing their supply of

brandy leave the players in the little square.

Many feigned indignation at the brutal contest, but at bottom they all

felt satisfaction in having such men for neighbours. Such men were

reared by the _huerta_! The brandy passed through their bodies as if it

were water.

All the neighbourhood seemed to have an eye fixed upon the tavern,

spreading the news about the course of the bet with prodigious celerity.

Two pitchers had already been drunk, and no effect at all. Then three

... and still they were steady. Copa kept account of the drinking. And

the people, according to their preference, bet for one or the other of

the three contestants.

This event, which for two days had stirred up so much interest in the

_vega_, and did not yet seem to have any end, had reached the ears of

Batiste. He, a sober man, incapable of drinking without feeling

nauseated and having a headache, could not avoid feeling a certain

astonishment, bordering on admiration, for these brutes whose stomachs,

it seemed to him, must be lined with tin-plate. It would be a spectacle

worth seeing.

And with a look of envy, his eyes followed those who were going toward

the tavern. Why should he not go also? He had never entered the house of

Copa, in other times the den of his enemies: but now the extraordinary

nature of the event justified his presence ... and, the devil! after so

much work and such a good harvest, an honest man could allow himself a

little self-indulgence.

And crying out to his sleeping wife to tell her where he was going, he

set out on the road toward the tavern.

The mass of people which filled the little plaza in front of the house

of Copa were like a swarm of human ants. All the men of the

neighbourhood were there without any coats or waistcoats, with corduroy

trousers, bulging black sash and a handkerchief wound around their heads

in the form of a mitre. The old people were leaning upon their heavy

staffs of yellow Lira-wood, with black arabesque work; the young people

with shirt-sleeves rolled up, displayed sinewy and ruddy arms, and as

though in contrast moved slender wands of ash between their thick,

calloused fingers. The tall black poplars which surrounded the tavern

gave shade to the animated groups.

Batiste noticed attentively for the first time the famous tavern with

its white walls, its painted blue windows, and its hinges inset with

showy tiles of Manises.

It had two doors. One was to the wine-cellar. Through the open doors

could be seen two rows of enormous casks, which reached up to the

ceiling, heaps of empty and wrinkled skin-sacks, large funnels and

enormous measures tinged red by the continuous flow of liquid; there at

the back of the room stood the heavy cart which went to the very ends of

the province to deliver purchases of wine. This dark and damp room

exhaled the fumes of alcohol, the perfume of grape-juice which so

intoxicated the sense of smell and disturbed the sight that one had the

feeling that both earth and air would soon be drenched with wine.

Here were the treasures of Copa, which were spoken of with unction and

respect by all the drunkards of the _huerta_. He alone knew the secret

of the casks; his vision, penetrating the old staves, estimated the

quality of the red liquid which they contained; he was the high priest

of this temple of alcohol; when he wished to treat some one, he would

draw forth a glass in which sparkled liquid the colour of topaz, and

which was topped by a rainbow-hued crown of brilliants, as piously as

though he held the monstrance in his hands.

The other door was that of the tavern itself, which was open from an

hour before daybreak until ten at night; through this the light of the

oil-lamp which hung above the counter cast over the black road a large

and luminous square.

The walls and wainscots were of red, glazed bricks to the height of a

man, and were bordered by a row of flowered tiles. From there up to the

ceiling, the wall was dedicated to the sublime art of the painter, for

Copa, although he seemed to be a coarse man, whose only thought was to

have his cash drawer full at night, was a true Mæcenas. He had brought a

painter from the city, and kept him there more than a week, and this

caprice of the great protector of the arts had cost him, as he himself

declared, some five dollars, more or less.

It was really true that one could not shift his gaze about without

meeting with some masterful work of art, whose loud colours seemed to

gladden the customers and stimulate them to drink. Blue trees over

purple fields, yellow horizons, houses larger than trees, and people

larger than houses; hunters with shot-guns which looked like brooms, and

Andalusian gallants with blunderbusses thrown over their legs, and

mounted upon spirited steeds which had all the appearance of gigantic

rats. A prodigy of originality which filled the drinkers with

enthusiasm! And over the doors of the rooms, the artist, referring

discreetly to the establishment, had painted astonishing paintings of

edible delicacies; pomegranates like open hearts, and bleeding melons

which looked like enormous pimientoes, and balls of red worsted which

were supposed to represent peaches.

Many maintained that the importance of the house over the other taverns

of the _huerta_ was due to such astonishing adornment, and Copa cursed

the flies which dimmed such beauty.

Close to this door was the counter, grimy and sticky: behind it the

three rows of little casks, crowned with battlements of bottles, all the

diversified and innumerable liquors of the establishment. From the

beams, like grotesque babies, hung sheets of long sausages and

black-puddings, clusters of peppers as red and pointed as devils'

fingers; and relieving the monotony of the scene, some red hams and

majestic bunches of pork-sausage. The free-lunch for delicate palates

was kept in a closet of turbid glass close to the counter. There were

the _estrellas de pastaflora_,[H] the raisin-cakes, the sugar-frosted

rolls, the _magdalenas_[I] all of a certain dark tinge and with

suspicious spots which showed old age; the cheese of Murviedo, tender

and fresh, pieces like soft white loaves still dripping whey.

Also the tavern-keeper counted on his larder, where in monumental tins

were the green split olives and the black-puddings of onion preserved in

oil, which had the greatest sale.

At the back of the tavern opened the door of the yard, vast and spacious

with its half dozen fireplaces to cook the _paellas_[J]; its white

pillars propping up an old wall-vine, which gave shade to the large

enclosure; and piled along one side of the wall, stools and small zinc

tables of such prodigious quantity that Copa seemed to have foreseen

the invasion of his house by the whole population of the plain.

Batiste, scanning the tavern, perceived the owner, a big man whose

breast was bare, but whose cap with ear-laps was drawn down even in

midsummer over his face, which was enormous, chubby-cheeked and livid.

He was the first customer of his establishment: he would never lie down

satisfied if he had not drunk a half-pitcher of wine during his three

meals.

On this account, doubtless, this bet which stirred up the entire plain

as it spread abroad, scarcely took his attention.

His counter was the watch-tower from which, as an expert critic, he

watched the drunkenness of his customers. And in order that no outsider

should assume the rôle of bully in his house, he always put his hand

before speaking upon a club which he kept under the counter, a species

of ace of clubs, the sight of which made Pimentó and all the bullies of

the neighbourhood tremble. In his house there was no trouble. If they

were going to kill each other, out into the road! And when claspknives

began to be opened and raised aloft on Sunday nights, Copa, without

speaking a word, nor losing his composure, would rush in between the

combatants, seize the bravest by the arm, carry him through space to the

door and put him out upon the very highroad; then barring the door, he

would calmly begin to count the money in the drawer before going to bed,

while blows and the tumult of the renewed quarrel resounded outside. It

was all just a matter of closing the tavern an hour early, but within

it, there would never need to be a judge while he should be behind the

counter.

Batiste, after glancing furtively from the door to the saloonkeeper,

who, aided by his wife and a servant, waited on the customers, returned

to the little plaza, and joined a group of old people, who were

discussing which of the three supporters of the bet seemed most serene.

Many farmers, tired of admiring the three bullies, were playing cards on

their own account, or lunched, forming a group around the little tables.

The jug circulated, pouring forth a red stream which emitted a faint

_glu-glu_ as it gushed into the open mouths. Some gave others handfuls

of peanuts and lupines. The maids of the tavern served in hollow plates

from Manises the dark and oily black-puddings, the fresh cheese and the

split olives in their broth, on whose surface floated fragrant herbs;

and on the little tables appeared the new wheat bread, the rolls of

ruddy crust, inside of which the dark and succulent substance of the

thick flour of the _huerta_ was visible. All these people, eating,

drinking, and gesticulating, raised such a buzzing that one would have

thought the little _plaza_ occupied by a colossal wasp's nest. In the

atmosphere floated the vapours of alcohol, the suffocating fumes of

olive-oil, the penetrating odour of must, mingled with the fresh perfume

of the neighbouring fields.

Batiste drew near the large group which surrounded those involved in the

wager.

At first he did not see anything; but gradually, pushed ahead by the

curiosity of those who were behind him, he opened a space between the

sweaty and compressed bodies, until he found himself in the first row.

Some spectators were seated on the floor, with their chin supported on

both hands, their nose over the edge of the little table, and their eyes

fixed upon the players, as though they did not wish to lose one detail

of the famous event. Here it was that the odour of alcohol proved to be

most intolerable. The breath and the clothing of all the people seemed

impregnated with it.

Batiste looked at Pimentó and his opponents seated upon stools of strong

carob-wood, with the cards before their eyes, the jar of brandy within

easy reach, and on the zinc the little heap of corn which was equivalent

to chips for the game. And at each play, one of the three grasped the

jar, drank deliberately, then passed it on to his companions, who took a

long draft with no less ceremony.

The onlookers nearest by looked at the cards over their shoulders in

order to be sure they were well played. But the heads of the players

were as steady as if they had drunk nothing more than water: no one

became careless or made a poor play.

And the game continued, although those in the wager never ceased to talk

with their friends, or to joke over the outcome of the contest.

Pimentó, upon seeing Batiste, mumbled a "Hello!" which he intended for a

salutation, and returned to his cards.

Unmoved outwardly he might be; but his eyes were red; a bluish unsteady

spark, similar to the flame of alcohol, glowed in their pupils, and his

face at times took on a dull pallor. The others were no better; but they

laughed and joked among themselves: the onlookers, as though infected by

this madness, passed from hand to hand the jug which they paid for in

shares, and there was a regular inundation of brandy which, overflowing

the tavern, descended like a wave of fire into the stomachs of all.

Even Batiste, urged by the others of the group, had to drink. He did not

like it, but a man ought to try everything; and he began to hearten

himself with the same reflections which had brought him to the tavern.

When a man has worked and has his harvest in the granary, he can well

afford to permit himself his bit of folly.

He felt a warmth in his stomach, and a delicious confusion in his head:

he began to grow accustomed to the atmosphere of the tavern, and found

the contest more and more entertaining.

Even Pimentó seemed to him to be a notable man ... after a fashion.

They had ended the game with a score of ... (nobody knew how much) and

they were now discussing the approaching supper with their friends. One

of the Terrerolas was losing ground visibly. The two days of

brandy-drinking without food, the two nights passed in a haze, began to

affect him in spite of himself. He closed his eyes and let his head fall

back heavily upon his brother, who revived him with tremendous blows on

the sides secretly given under the table.

Pimentó smiled craftily. He already had one of them down. And he

discussed the supper with his admirers. It ought to be sumptuous without

regard for expense: in any event, he did not have to pay for it. A meal

which would be a worthy climax to the exploit, for on that same night,

the bet would surely be ended.

And like a glorious trumpet announcing beforehand Pimentó's triumph, the

snores of Terrerola the younger began to be heard; he had collapsed face

downward over the table, and was almost on the point of falling from the

stool, as if all the brandy which had gone into his stomach were by the

law of gravity seeking the floor.

His brother spoke of arousing him with slaps, but Pimentó intervened

good-naturedly, like a magnanimous conqueror. They would awaken him at

the supper-hour. And pretending to give but little importance to the

contest and to his own prowess, he spoke of his lack of appetite as of

a great misfortune, after having passed two days in this place eating

and drinking brutally.

A friend ran to the tavern to carry over a long string of red

pepper-pods. This would bring his appetite back to him. The jest

provoked great laughter; and Pimentó, in order to amaze his admirers the

more, offered the infernal titbit to Terrerola, who still remained firm,

and he, on his part, began to devour it with the same indifference as

though it were bread.

A murmur of admiration ran through the group. For each pod which was

eaten by the other, the husband of Pepeta gulped down three, and thus

made an end of the string, a regular rosary of red demons. The brute

must have an iron-plate stomach!

And he went on, just as firm, just as impassive, though growing

continually paler and with eyes red and swollen, asking if Copa had

killed a pair of chickens for the supper, and giving instructions about

the manner of cooking them.

Batiste gazed at this with amazement and vaguely felt a desire to go

away. The afternoon began to wane; in the little square the sound of

voices was rising, the tumult of every Sunday evening beginning, and

Pimentó gazed at him too often, with his strange and troubling eyes,

the eyes of a habitual drinker. But without knowing why, he remained

here, as though the attraction of this spectacle, so novel to him, were

stronger than his will.

The friends of the bully jested with him on seeing that he was draining

the jar after the red pepper-pods, without even heeding whether his

weary rival was imitating him. He ought not to drink so much: he would

lose, and he would not have the money to pay. He was not as rich now as

he had been in other years, when the masters of the lands had agreed not

to charge him any rent.

An imprudent fellow said this without realizing what he was saying, and

it produced a painful silence, as in the bedroom of an invalid, when the

injured part has been laid bare.

To speak of rents and of payments in this place, when brandy had been

drunk by pitchersful both by actors and spectators!

Batiste received a disagreeable impression. It seemed to him that

suddenly there passed through the atmosphere something hostile,

threatening; without any great urging, he would have started to run; but

he remained, feeling that all were looking fixedly at him. He feared

that he would be held by insults if he fled before he was attacked; and

with the hope of being unmolested, he remained motionless, overcome by a

feeling which was not fear, but something more than prudence.

These people, whom Pimentó filled with admiration, made him repeat the

method which he had made use of, all these years, to avoid paying his

rent to the masters of the lands, and greeted it with loud bursts of

laughter, and tremors of malignant joy, like slaves who rejoice at the

misfortunes of a master.

The bully modestly related his glorious achievements. Every year at

Christmas and St. John's Day, he had set out on the road to Valencia at

full speed to see his landlord. Others carried a fine brace of chickens,

a basket of cakes or fruits as a means to persuade the masters to accept

incomplete payment, and would weep and promise to complete the sum

before long. He alone carried words and not many of them.

The mistress, a large, imposing woman, received him in the dining-room.

The daughters, proud young ladies, all dressed up with bows of ribbons

and bright colours, came and went nearby.

Doña Manuela turned to the memorandum book, to look up the half-years

that Pimentó was behind. He came to pay, eh?... And the crafty rogue,

upon hearing the question of the lady of the "Hay-Lofts" always answered

the same. No, señora, he could not pay because he hadn't a copper. He

was not ignorant of the fact that by this he was proving himself a

scamp. His grandfather, who was a man of great wisdom, had told him so.

"For whom were chains forged? For men. Do you pay? You are an honest

man. Do you not pay? You are a rogue." And following this short

discourse on philosophy, he had recourse to the second argument. He drew

forth a black stogie and a pocket-knife from his sash, and began to pick

tobacco in order to roll a cigarette.

The sight of the weapon sent chills through the lady, made her nervous;

and for this very reason the crafty fellow cut the tobacco slowly and

was deliberate about putting it away. Always repeating the same

arguments of the grandfather, in order to explain his tardiness about

the payment.

The children with the little bows of ribbon called him "the man of the

chains"; the mamma felt uneasy in the presence of this rough fellow of

black reputation, who smelt vilely of wine, and gesticulated with the

knife as he talked; and convinced that nothing could be gotten from him,

she told him that he might go; but he felt a deep joy in being

troublesome, and tried to prolong the interview. They even went so far

as to say that if he could not pay anything, he could even spare them

his visits and not appear there further; they would forget that they had

those lands. Ah, no, señora. Pimentó fulfilled his obligations

punctually, and as a tenant, he should visit his landlord at Christmas

and San Juan, in order to show that though he was not paying, he

remained nevertheless their very humble servant.

And there he would go, twice a year, smelling of wine, and stain the

floor with his sandals, clay covered, and repeat that chains were made

for men, making sabre-thrusts the while with his knife. It was the

vengeance of the slave, the bitter pleasure of the mendicant who appears

in the midst of a feast of rich men, with his foul tatters.

All the farmers laughed, commenting on the conduct of Pimentó with his

landlord.

And the bully justified his conduct with arguments. Why should he pay?

Come now, why? His grandfather had cultivated his lands before him; at

his father's death they had been divided among the brothers at their

pleasure, following the custom of the _huerta_, and without consulting

the landlord in any way. They were the ones who had worked them; they

had made them produce, they had worn away their lives upon their fields.

Pimentó, speaking with vehemence of his work, showed such shamelessness

that some smiled.... Good: he was not working much now, because he was

shrewd and had recognized the farce of living. But at one time he had

worked, and this was enough to make the lands more justly his own than

they were of that big, fat woman of Valencia. When she would come to

work them; when she would take the plough with all its weight, and the

two little girls with the bows yoked together would draw it after them,

then she would legitimately be the mistress.

The coarse jokes of the bully made the people roar with laughter. The

bad flavour of the payment of St. John remained with them and they took

much pleasure in seeing their masters treated so cruelly. Ah! The joke

about the plough was very funny; and each one imagined that he could see

the master, the stout and timid landlord, or the señora, old and proud,

hitched up to the ploughshare pulling and pulling, while they, the

farmers, those under the heel, were cracking the whip.

And all winked at each other, laughed and clapped their hands, in order

to express their approbation. Oh! It was very comfortable in the house

of Copa listening to Pimentó. What ideas the man had!

But the husband of Pepeta became gloomy, and many noticed that often he

would cast a side-long look about him, that look of murder which was

long known in the tavern to be a certain sign of immediate aggression.

His voice became thick, as if all the alcohol which was swelling his

stomach had ascended like a hot wave and burned his throat.

They might laugh until they burst, but their laughs would be the last.

Already the _huerta_ was not the same as it had been for ten years. The

masters, who had been timid rabbits, had again become unruly wolves.

They were showing their teeth again. Even his mistress had taken

liberties with him. With him who was the terror of all the landowners of

the _huerta_! During his visit last St. John's day she had laughed at

his saying about the chains, and even at the knife, announcing to him

that he might prepare either to leave the lands or pay his rent, not

forgetting the back payments either.

And why had they turned in such a manner? Because already they no longer

feared them.... And why did they not fear them? Christ! Because now the

fields of old Barret were no longer abandoned and uncultivated, a

phantom of desolation to awe the landlords and make them sweet and

reasonable. So the charm had been broken. Since a half-starved thief had

succeeded in imposing himself upon them, the landlords had laughed, and

wishing to take revenge for ten years of enforced meekness, had grown

worse than the infamous Don Salvador.

"True ... it is true," said all the group, supporting the arguments of

Pimentó, with furious nods.

All confessed that their landlords had changed as they recalled the

details of their last interview; the threats of ejection, the refusal to

accept the incomplete payments, the ironical way in which they had

spoken of the lands of old Barret, cultivated again in spite of the

hatred of all the _huerta_. And now, all at once, after the sweet

laziness of ten years of triumph, with the reins on their shoulders and

the master at their feet, had come the cruel pull, the return to other

times, the finding of the bread bitter and the wine more sour, thinking

of the accursed half-year, and all on account of an outsider, a lousy

fellow who had not even been born in the _huerta_, and who had hung

himself upon them to interfere in their business and make life harder

for them. And should this rogue still live? Did the _huerta_ not have

any men?

Good-bye, new friendships, respect born by the side of the coffin of a

poor child! All the consideration created by misfortune went tumbling

down like a stock of playing-cards, vanishing like a nebulous cloud, and

the old hatred reappeared at a single bound--the solidarity of all the

_huerta_, which in combating the intruder was defending its very life.

And at what a moment the general animosity arose! The eyes fixed upon

him burned with the fire of hatred; heads muddled with alcohol seemed to

feel a horrible itching for murder; instinctively they all started

toward Batiste, who felt himself pushed about from all sides as if the

circle were tightening in order to devour him.

He repented now of having remained. He felt no fear, but he cursed the

hour in which the idea of going to the tavern occurred to him--an alien

place which seemed to rob him of his strength, that self-possession

which animated him when he felt the earth beneath his feet--the earth

which he had cultivated at the cost of so much sacrifice, and in whose

defence he was ready to lose his very life.

Pimentó, as he gave way to his anger, felt all the brandy he had drunk

during the past two days fall suddenly like a heavy blow upon his brain.

He had lost the serenity of an unshakable drunkard; he arose staggering,

and it was necessary for him to make an effort to sustain himself upon

his legs. His eyes were inflamed as though they were dripping blood; his

voice was laboured as though the alcohol and anger were drawing it back

and not letting it come forth.

"Go," he said imperiously to Batiste, threateningly, extending a hand,

till it almost touched his face. "Go, or I will kill you!"

Go!... It was this that Batiste desired; he grew paler and paler,

repenting more and more that he was here. But he well divined the

significance of that imperious "Go!" of the bully, supported by signs of

approval on the part of all the others.

They did not demand that he should leave the tavern, ridding them of his

odious presence; they were ordering him with threats of death to abandon

the fields, which were like the blood of his body; to give up for ever

the farm-house where his little one had died, and in which every corner

bore a record of the struggles and the joys of the family in their

battle with poverty. And swiftly he had a vision of himself and all his

furniture piled on the cart, wandering over the roads, in search of the

unknown, in order to create another existence: carrying along with them

like a gloomy companion, that ugly phantom of famine which would be ever

following at their heels....

No! He shunned quarrels, but let them not put a finger on his children's

bread!

Now he felt no disquietude. The image of his family, hungry and without

a hearth, enraged him; he even felt a desire to attack all these people

who demanded of him such a monstrous thing.

"Will you go? Will you go?" asked Pimentó, ever darker and more

threatening.

No: he would not go. He said it with his head, with his smile of scorn,

with his firm glance and the challenging look which he fixed upon the

group.

"Scoundrel!" roared the bully; and his hand fell upon the face of

Batiste, giving it a terrible resounding slap.

As though stirred by this aggression, all the group rushed upon the

odious intruder, but above the line of heads a muscular arm arose,

grasping a rush-grass stool, the same perhaps upon which Pimentó had

been seated.

For the strong Batiste it was a terrible weapon, this seat of strong

cross-pieces, with heavy legs of carob-wood, its corners polished by

usage.

The little table and the jars of brandy rolled away, the people backed

instinctively, terrified by the gesture of this man, always so peaceful,

who seemed now a giant in his madness. But before any one could recede a

step, Plaf! a noise resounded like a bursting kettle, and Pimentó, his

head broken, fell to the ground.

In the _plaza_, it produced an indescribable confusion.

Copa, who from his lair seemed to pay attention to nothing, and was the

first to scent a quarrel, no sooner saw the stool in the air than he

drew out the "ace of clubs" which was under the counter, and with a few

quick blows, in a jiffy cleared the tavern of its customers and

immediately closed the door in accordance with his usual salutary

custom.

The people remained outside, running around the little square; the

tables rolled about. Sticks and clubs were brandished in the air, each

one placing himself on guard against his neighbour, ready for whatever

might come; and in the meantime Batiste, the cause of all the trouble,

stood motionless, with hanging arms, grasping the stool now stained with

spots of blood, terrified by what had just occurred.

Pimentó, face downward on the ground, uttered groans which sounded like

snarls, as the blood gushed forth from his broken head.

Terrerola, the elder, with the fraternal feeling of one drunkard for

another ran to the aid of his rival, looking with hostility at Batiste.

He insulted him, looking in his sash for a weapon with which to wound

him.

The most peaceful fled away through the paths, looking back with morbid

curiosity, and the others remained motionless, on the defensive, each

one capable of dispatching his neighbour, without knowing why, but not

one wishing to be the first aggressor. The clubs remained raised aloft,

the clasp knives gleamed in the group, but no one approached Batiste,

who slowly backed away, still holding the blood-stained tabouret aloft.

Thus he left the little plaza, ever looking with challenging eyes at the

group which surrounded the fallen Pimentó, all brave fellows but

evidently intimidated by this man's strength.

Upon finding himself on the road, at some distance from the tavern, he

began to run, and drawing near his farm-house, he dropped the heavy

stool in a canal, looking with horror at the blackish stain of the dry

blood upon the water.

X

Batiste lost all hope of living peacefully on his land.

The entire _huerta_ once more arose against him. Again he had to isolate

himself in his farm-house, to live in perpetual solitude like one cursed

by a plague, or like some caged wild-beast, at whom every one shook his

fist from afar.

His wife told him on the following day how the wounded bully was

conducted to his house. He himself, from his home, had heard the shouts

and the threats of the people, who had solicitously accompanied the

wounded Pimentó.... It was a real manifestation. The women, already

aware of what had happened through the marvellous rapidity with which

news spreads over the _huerta_, ran out on the road to see Pepeta's

brave husband at close range, and to express compassion for him as for

some hero sacrificed for the good of others.

The same ones who had spoken insultingly of him some hours before,

scandalized by his wager of drunkenness, now pitied him, inquired

whether he was seriously hurt, and clamoured for revenge against that

starving pauper, that thief, who not content with taking possession of

that which was not his, tried to win respect by terror, and by attacking

good men.

Pimentó was magnificent. He suffered great pain, and went about

supported by his friends with his head bandaged, transformed into an

_eccehomo_, as the indignant gossips declared; but he made an effort to

smile, and answered every incitement to revenge with an arrogant

gesture, declaring that he took the castigation of the enemy upon

himself.

Batiste did not doubt that these people would seek vengeance. He was

familiar with the usual methods of the _huerta_. The courts of the city

were not made for this land; prison was a small matter when a question

of satisfying a grudge was concerned. Why should a man make use of a

judge or a civil guard, if he had a good eye and a shotgun in his house?

The affairs of men should be settled by the men themselves.

And as all the _huerta_ thought thus, vainly on the day following the

quarrel did two guards with enamelled tricorns pass and repass over the

paths leading from Copa's tavern to the farm-house of Pimentó, making

sly inquiries of the people who were in the fields. No one had seen

anybody; no one knew anything. Pimentó related with brutal bursts of

laughter how he had broken his own head coming home from the tavern,

declaring it to be the consequence of his bet; the brandy had made him

stagger, and strike his head against the trees on the road. So the rural

police had to turn back to their little barracks at Alboraya without any

clear information concerning the vague rumours of quarrel and bloodshed

which had reached them.

This magnanimity of the victim and his friends alarmed Batiste, who made

up his mind to live perpetually on the defensive.

The family, shrinking from contact with the _huerta_, withdrew within

the house as a timid snail withdraws within its shell.

The little ones did not even go to school. Roseta stopped going to the

factory, and Batistet did not go a pace away from the fields. Only the

father went out, showing himself as calm and confident about his

security as he was careful and prudent for the others.

But he made no trips to the city without carrying the shotgun with him,

which he left with a friend in the suburbs. He literally lived with his

weapon. The most modern thing in his house, it was always clean, shining

and cared for with that affection which the Valencian farmer, like the

Barbary tribesman, bestows upon his gun.

Teresa was as sad as she had been upon the death of the little one.

Every time that she saw her husband cleaning the double-barrelled

shotgun, changing the cartridges, or making the trigger play up and down

to be sure it would work smoothly, there arose in her mind the image of

the prison, the terrible tale of old Barret; she saw blood and cursed

the hour in which they had thought of settling upon these accursed

lands. And then came the hours of fear on account of the absence of her

husband, those long afternoons spent awaiting the man who did not

return, going out to the door of the farm-house to explore the road,

trembling each time that there sounded from the distance some report

from the hunters of sparrows, fearing that it was the beginning of a

tragedy, the shot which shattered the head of the father of the family

or which would take him to prison. And when Batiste finally appeared,

the little ones would shout with joy, Teresa would smile, wiping her

eyes, the daughter would run out to embrace her father, and even the dog

leaped close to him, sniffing restlessly, as though he scented about his

person the danger which he had just encountered.

And Batiste, serene and firm, but without arrogance, laughed at his

family's anxiety, and became bolder and bolder as the famous quarrel

receded into the past.

He considered himself secure. As long as he carried "the bird with the

two voices," as he called his shotgun, he could calmly walk throughout

all the _huerta_. When he went out in such good company, his enemies

pretended not to know him. At times he had even seen Pimentó from a

distance, walking through the _huerta_, exhibiting like a flag of

vengeance his bandaged head, but the bully, in spite of his recovery

from the blow had fled, fearing the encounter perhaps even more than

Batiste.

All were watching him from the corner of their eye, but he never heard

from the fields adjoining the road a single word of insult. They

shrugged their shoulders with scorn, bent over the earth, and worked

feverishly until he was lost from sight.

The only person who spoke to him was old Tomba, the crazy shepherd, who

recognized him despite his sightless eyes, as though he could scent the

atmosphere of calamity around Batiste. And it was ever the same.... Was

he not going to abandon the accursed lands?

"You are making a mistake, my son; they will bring you misfortune."

Batiste received the refrain of the old man with a smile.

Grown familiar with peril, he had never feared it less than he did now.

He even felt a certain secret joy in provoking it, in marching directly

toward it. His tavern exploit had changed his character, previously so

peaceful and long-suffering; awakened in him a boastful brutality. He

wished to show all these people that he did not fear them, that even as

he had burst open Pimentó's head, so was he ready to take up arms

against the whole _huerta_. Since they had driven him to it, he would be

a bully and a braggart long enough for them to respect him and allow him

to live peacefully ever afterward.

And possessed of this dangerous determination, he even abandoned his

lands, passing the afternoons along the roads of the _huerta_ under the

pretext of hunting, but in reality to exhibit his shotgun and his look

of a man who has few friends.

One afternoon, while hunting swallows in the ravine of Carraixet, the

darkness surprised him.

The birds seemed to be following the mazes of some capricious quadrille

as they flew about restlessly, reflected in the deep and quiet pools

bordered with tall rushes. This ravine, which cut across the _huerta_

like a deep crack, gloomy, with stagnant water, and muddy shores, where

there bobbed up and down some rotting, half-submerged canoe, presented a

desolate and wild aspect. No one would have suspected that behind the

slope of the high banks, farther on beyond the rushes and the

cane-brake, lay the plain with its smiling atmosphere and its green

vistas. Even the light of the sun seemed dismal, as it sank to the

depths of the ravine, sifting through the wild vegetation and pallidly

reflecting itself in the dead waters.

Batiste spent the afternoon firing at the wheeling swallows. A few

cartridges still remained in his belt, and at his feet, forming a mound

of blood-stained feathers, he already had two dozen birds. What a

supper! How happy the family would be!

It grew dark in the deep ravine: from the pools, a fetid vapour came

forth, the deadly respiration of malarial fever. The frogs croaked by

the thousand, as though saluting the stars, contented at not hearing the

firing which interrupted their song, and obliged them to dive head-long,

disturbing the smooth crystal of the stagnant pools.

Batiste picked up his "bag" of birds, hanging them from the belt, and

ascending the bank with two leaps, set out over the paths on his return

trip to the farm-house.

The sky, still permeated with the faint glow of twilight, had the soft

tone of violet; the stars gleamed, and over the immense _huerta_ there

rose the many sounds of rustic life which would soon with the arrival of

night die away. Over the paths passed the girls returning from the city;

and men coming from the fields, the tired horses dragging the heavy

carts; and Batiste answered their "Good night," the greeting of all who

passed near him, people from Alboraya, who did not know him or did not

have the motives of his neighbours for hating him.

He left the village behind him, and as he drew nearer to his farm, the

hostility stood out more plainly with every step. The people hissed him

without any greeting.

He was in strange country, and like a soldier who prepares to fight as

soon as he crosses the hostile frontier, Batiste sought in his sash for

the munitions of war, two cartridges with ball and bird-shot, made by

himself, and loaded his shotgun.

The big man laughed after doing this. Whoever tried to cut off his way

would receive a good shower of lead.

He walked along without haste, calmly, as though enjoying the freshness

of the spring night. But this tranquillity did not prevent him from

thinking of the risk he was taking, with the enemies he had, in being

abroad in the _huerta_ at such an hour.

His keen ear, that of a countryman, seemed to perceive a sound at his

shoulder. He turned about quickly, and in the pale star-light, he

thought he saw a dark figure, leaping from the road with a stealthy

bound and hiding behind a bank.

Batiste laid hold of his shotgun, and lifting the hammer, approached

cautiously. No one.... Only at some distance it seemed to him that the

plants were waving in the darkness, as though a body were dragging

itself among them.

They were following him: some one intended to surprise him treacherously

from behind. But this suspicion lasted but a short time. It might be

some vagabond dog which fled upon his approach.

Well, it was certain that whatever it was, it was fleeing from him, and

so there was nothing for him to do.

He went along over the dark road, walking silently like a man who knows

the country in the dark, and for the sake of prudence does not wish to

attract attention. As he approached the farm, he felt a certain

uneasiness. This was his neighbourhood, but here also were his most

tenacious enemies.

Some minutes before arriving at the farm, near the blue farm-house where

the girls danced on Sundays, the road became narrow, forming various

curves. At one side, a high bank was crowned by a double row of

mulberry-trees; on the other, was a narrow canal whose sloping shores

were thickly covered with tall cane-brake.

It looked in the darkness like an Indian thicket, a vault of bamboos

bending over the road. It was completely dark here; the mass of

cane-brake trembled in the light wind of the night, giving forth a

mournful sound; the place, so cool and agreeable during the hours of

sunlight, seemed to smell of treason.

Batiste, laughing at his uneasiness, mentally exaggerated the danger. A

magnificent place to fire a safe shot at him. If Pimentó should come

along here, he would not scorn such a beautiful chance.

And scarcely had he thought of this, when there came forth from among

the cane-brake a straight and fleeting tongue of fire, a red arrow which

vanished, followed by a report; and something passed, hissing close to

his ear. Some one was firing upon him. Instinctively he stooped down,

wishing to fuse with the darkness of the ground, so as not to present a

target to the enemy. In the same moment a new flash glowed, another

report sounded, mingling with the echoes still reverberating from the

first, and Batiste felt a tearing sensation in the left shoulder,

something like the scratch of steel, scraping him superficially.

But his attention scarcely stopped at this. He felt a savage joy. Two

shots ... the enemy was disarmed.

"Christ! Now I've got you!"

He rushed out through the cane-brake, plunged, almost rolling down the

slope, and entered the water up to the waist, his feet in the mud and

his arms aloft, very high, in order to prevent his shotgun from getting

wet, guarding like a miser the two shots until the moment should arrive

when he could safely deal them out.

Before his eyes the cane-brake met, forming a close arch almost level

with the water. Before him in the darkness, he heard a splashing like

that of a dog fleeing down through the canal. Here was the enemy: after

him!

And in the stream-bed, he entered on a mad race, plunging along groping

through the shadows, leaving his sandals behind him, lost in the mud:

his trousers, clinging to his body, and dragging heavily, retarded his

movements: and the stiff sharp stalks of the broken cane-brake struck

and scratched his face.

At one moment Batiste thought he saw something dark clinging to the

cane-brake, striving to rise above the bank. He was attempting to run

away: he must fire.... His hands, which felt the itching of murder,

carried the shotgun to his face, pulled the trigger, ... the report

sounded, and the body fell into the canal, among a shower of leaves and

rotting cane.

At him! At him!... Again, Batiste heard the splashing of a fleeing dog:

but now with more effort, as though the fugitive, spurred on by

desperation, were straining every effort to escape.

It was a dizzy flight, that race amid darkness, through the cane-brake

and water. The two kept slipping on the soft ground, unable to cling to

the brake without loosening their hold on their guns; the water eddied

about them, lashed by their reckless haste, but Batiste, who fell

several times on his knees, thought only of reaching out his arms, in

order to keep his weapon dry and save the shot which remained.

And thus the human hunters went on, groping through the dismal darkness,

until in a turn of the canal, they came out to an open space, where the

banks were clear of reeds.

The eyes of Batiste, accustomed to the gloom of the vault, saw with

perfect clearness a man who, leaning on his firearm, climbed staggering

out of the canal, with difficulty moving mud-clogged legs.

It was he ... he! he as usual!

"Thief!... thief! you shall not escape," roared Batiste, and he

discharged his second shot from the bottom of the canal, with the

certainty of the marksman who is able to aim well and knows he brings

down his booty.

He saw him fall heavily headlong over the bank, and climb on all-fours

in order to roll into the water. Batiste wanted to catch him, but his

haste was so great that it was he who, making a false step, fell

full-length into the midst of the canal.

His head sunk in the mud, and he swallowed the earthy, ruddy liquid; he

thought he would die, and remain buried in that miry marsh; but finally,

by a powerful effort, he succeeded in standing upright, drawing his eyes

blinded by the slime out of the water, then his mouth, panting as it

breathed in the night air.

As soon as he recovered his sight, he looked for his enemy. He had

disappeared.

He came out of the canal, dripping water and mud, and climbed the slope

at the same place where his enemy had emerged: but on reaching the top,

he could not see him.

On the dry earth, however, he noticed some black stains, and touched

them with his hands: they smelled of blood. Now he knew that he had not

missed his aim. But, though he looked about, hoping to see his enemy's

corpse, he sought in vain.

That Pimentó had a tough skin. Dripping mud and mire, he would go along

dragging himself up to his own farm-house. Perhaps that vague rustle

which he believed he heard in the immediate fields, as though a great

reptile were dragging itself over the furrows, came from him. All the

dogs were barking at him, filling the _huerta_ with desperate howlings.

He had heard him crawling along in the same manner a quarter of an hour

before, when doubtless he was intending to kill him from behind. But on

seeing himself discovered, he had fled on all-fours along the road, in

order to take his stand further on in the leafy cane and to lie in

ambush without any risk.

Batiste felt suddenly afraid. He was alone, in the midst of the plain,

completely disarmed; his shotgun, without cartridges, was no more now

than a weak club. Pimentó couldn't return, but he had friends.

And overcome by sudden fear, he began to run, seeking as he crossed the

fields the road which led to his farm.

The plain trembled with alarm. The four shots in the darkness of the

evening had thrown all the neighbourhood into commotion. The dogs barked

more and more furiously; the doors of the farm-houses opened, emitting

black figures, who certainly did not come forth with empty hands.

With whistling and shouts of alarm, the neighbours summoned each other

from a great distance. Shots at night might be signals of fire, of

thieves, of who knows what? certainly nothing good. And the men sallied

forth from their homes ready for anything, with the forgetfulness of

self and solidarity of those who live in solitude.

Batiste, terrified by this movement, ran toward his farm, bending over,

in order to pass unnoticed along the shelter of the banks or the high

mounds of straw.

He already saw his home, with the open door illumined, and in the

centre of the red square, the black forms of his family.

The dog sniffed him and was the first to salute him. Teresa and Roseta

gave shouts of joy.

"Batiste, is it you?"

"Father! Father!"

And all rushed toward him, toward the entrance of the farm-house, under

the old vine-arbour, through whose vines the stars shone like

glow-worms.

The mother, with the woman's keen ear, restless and alarmed by the

tardiness of her husband, had heard from far, far off, the four shots,

and her heart "had given a leap," as she expressed it. All the family

had rushed toward the door, anxiously scanning the dark horizon,

convinced that the reports which alarmed the plain had some connection

with the father's absence.

Mad with joy upon seeing him and hearing his voice, they did not notice

his mud-stained face, his unshod feet, or his clothing, dirty and

dripping mire.

They drew him within. Roseta hung herself upon his neck, breathing

lovingly, with her eyes still moist.

"Father!... Father!"

But he was not able to restrain a grimace of pain, an ay! suppressed but

full of suffering. Roseta had flung her arm about his left shoulder, in

the same place where he had felt the tearing of steel, and which he now

felt more and more crushingly heavy.

When he entered the house, and came into the full candlelight, the woman

and the children gave a cry of astonishment. They saw the blood-stained

shirt....

Roseta and her mother burst out crying. "Most holy queen! Sovereign

mother! They have killed him!"

But Batiste, who felt the pain in his shoulder growing more and more

insufferable, hushed their lamentations and ordered them with a dark

gesture to see at once what had happened to him.

Roseta, who was the bravest, tore open the coarse rough shirt, leaving

the shoulder uncovered. How much blood! The girl grew pale, trying not

to faint; Batistet and the little ones began to weep, and Teresa

continued her howlings as though her husband were in his death agony.

But the wounded man would not tolerate their lamentations and protested

rudely. Less weeping: it was nothing: not serious, and the proof of

this was that he could move his arm, although he felt, all the time, a

greater weight in his shoulder. It was just a scratch, an abrasion,

nothing more. He felt too strong for the wound to be deep. Look ...

water, cloth, lint, the bottle of arnica which Teresa was guarding as a

miraculous remedy in her room ... move about quickly! This was no time

to stand gaping with open mouths.

Teresa, returning to her room, searched the depths of her chests,

tearing up linen cloths, untying bandages, while the girl washed and

washed again the lips of the bleeding wound, which was cut like a

sabre-slash across the fleshy shoulder.

The two women checked the hemorrhage as best they could, bandaged the

wound, and Batiste breathed with satisfaction, as though he were already

cured. Worse blows than this had descended upon him in this life.

And he began to admonish the little ones to be prudent. Of what they had

seen, not a word to anybody. There are subjects which it is best to

forget. And he repeated the same to his wife, who talked of sending word

to the doctor; it would amount to the same thing as attracting the

attention of the court. It would cure itself. His constitution was

wonderful. What was important was that no one should get mixed up in

what occurred down below. Who knows in what condition the other man was

by this time?

While his wife was helping him to change his clothes and prepared his

bed, Batiste told her all that had occurred. The good woman opened her

eyes with a frightened expression, sighed, thinking of the danger

encountered by her husband, and cast anxious glances at the closed door

of the farm-house, as if the rural police were about to enter through

it.

Batistet, meanwhile, with precocious prudence, picked up the gun, and

dried it in the candlelight, striving to wipe away from it all signs of

recent usage, of that which had occurred.

The night was a bad one for all the family; Batiste was delirious; he

had a fever, and tossed about furiously as if he still were running

along the bed of the canal, pursuing the man. He terrified the little

ones with his cries, so they were not able to sleep, as well as the

women who, seated close to his bed, and offering him every moment some

sugared water, the only domestic remedy which they could invent, passed

a white night.

On the following day, the door of the farm-house was closed all morning.

The wounded man seemed to be better: the children, their eyes reddened

from lack of sleep, remained motionless in the corral, seated on the

manure-heap, following dully the motions of the animals which were being

raised there.

Teresa watched the plain through the closed door, and entered afterward

into her husband's room.... How many people! All the neighbourhood was

passing over the road in the direction of Pimentó's house; a swarm of

men could be seen thronging around it. And all of them with sad and

frowning faces shouting with energetic motions, from a distance, and

casting glances of hatred toward old Barret's farm-house.

Batiste received this news with grunts. Something itched in his breast,

hurting him. The movement of the plain toward the house of his enemy

meant that Pimentó was in a serious condition; perhaps he was dead! He

was sure that the two shots from his gun were in his body.

And now, what was going to happen? Would he die in prison like poor

Barret? No; the customs of the _huerta_ would be respected; faith in

justice obtained by one's own hand. The dying man would be silent,

leaving it to his friends, the Terrerolas and the others, to avenge him.

And Batiste did not know which to fear more, the justice of the city, or

that of the _huerta_.

It was drawing toward evening, when the wounded man, despite the

protests and cries of the two women, sprang out of bed.

He was stifling; his athletic body, accustomed to fatigue, was not able

to stand so many hours of inactivity. The weight in his shoulder forced

him to change his position, as if this would free him from pain.

With a hesitating step, benumbed by lying in bed so long, he went forth

from his house and seated himself on the brick-bench beneath the

vine-arbour.

The afternoon was disagreeable; the wind blew too freshly for the

season; heavy dark clouds covered the sun, and the light was sinking

under them, closing up the horizon like a curtain of pale gold.

Batiste looked uncertainly in the direction of the city, turning his

back toward the farm-house of Pimentó, which could be seen clearly now

that the fields were stripped of the golden grain which hid it before

the harvest.

There might be noted in the wounded man both the impulse of curiosity

and the fear of seeing too much; but at last his will was conquered, and

he slowly turned his gaze toward the house of his enemy.

Yes; many people swarmed before the door; men, women, children; all the

people of the plain who were anxiously running to visit their fallen

liberator.

How they must hate him!... They were distant, but nevertheless he

guessed that his name must be on the lips of all; in the buzzing of his

ears, in the throbbing of his feverish temples he thought he perceived

the threatening murmur of that wasp's nest.

And yet, God knew that he had done nothing more than defend himself;

that he wished only to keep his own without harming any one. Why should

_he_ take the blame of being in conflict with these people, who, as Don

Joaquín, the master, said, were very good but very stupid?

The afternoon closed in; the twilight, grey and sad, sifted over the

plain. The wind, growing continually stronger, carried toward the

farm-house the distant echo of lamentations and furious voices.

Batiste saw the people eddying in the door of the distant farm-house,

saw arms extended with a sorrowful expression, clenched hands which

snatched handkerchief from head and cast it in fury to the ground.

The wounded man felt all his blood mounting toward his heart, which

stopped beating for some instants, as if paralysed, and afterward began

to thump with more fury, shooting a hot, red wave to his face.

He guessed what was happening yonder: his heart told him. Pimentó had

just died.

Batiste felt cold and afraid, with a sensation of weakness as if

suddenly all his strength had left him; and he went into his farm-house,

not breathing easily until he saw the door closed and the candle lit.

The evening was dismal. Sleep overwhelmed the family, dead tired from

the vigil of the preceding night. Almost immediately after supper, they

retired: before nine, all were in bed.

Batiste felt that his wound was better. The weight in the shoulder

diminished: the fever was not so fierce; but now a strange pain in his

heart was tormenting him.

In the darkness of the bedroom, still awake, he saw a pale figure rising

up, at first indefinite, then little by little taking form and colour,

till it became Pimentó as he had seen him the last few days, with his

head bandaged and the threatening gesture of one stubbornly bent upon

revenge.

The vision bothered him and he closed his eyes in order to sleep.

Absolute darkness; sleep was overpowering him, but his closed eyes were

beginning to fill the dense gloom with red points which kept growing

larger, forming spots of various colours; and the spots, after floating

about capriciously, joined themselves together, amalgamated, and again

there stood Pimentó, who approached him slowly, with the cautious

ferocity of an evil beast which fascinates its victim.

Batiste tried to free himself from the nightmare.

He did not sleep; he heard his wife snoring close to him, and his sons

overcome with weariness, but all the while he was hearing them lower

and lower, as if some mysterious force were carrying the farm-house

away, far away, to a distance: and he there inert, unable to move, no

matter how hard he tried, saw the face of Pimentó close to his own, and

felt in his nostrils his enemy's hot breath.

But was he not dead?... His dulled brain kept asking this question, and

after many efforts, he answered himself that Pimentó had died. Now he

did not have a broken head as before: his body was exposed, torn by two

wounds, though Batiste was not able to determine where they were; but

two wounds he had, two inexhaustible fountains of blood, which opened

livid lips. The two gunshots, he already knew it: he was not one to miss

his aim.

And the phantom, enveloping his face with its burning breath, fixed a

glance upon him which pierced his eyes, and descended lower and lower

until it tore his very vitals.

"Pardon, Pimentó!" groaned the wounded man, terrified by the nightmare,

and trembling like a child.

Yes, he ought to forgive him. He had killed him, it was true; but he

should consider that he had been the first to attack him. Come! Men who

are men ought to be reasonable! It was he who was to blame!

But the dead do not listen to reason, and the spectre, behaving like a

bandit, smiled fiercely, and with a bound, landed on the bed, and seated

himself upon him, pressing upon the sick man's wound with all his

weight.

Batiste groaned painfully, unable to move and cast off the heavy mass.

He tried to persuade him, calling him Toni with familiar tenderness,

instead of designating him by his nickname.

"Toni, you are hurting me!"

That was just what the phantom wished, to hurt him, and not satisfied

with this, he snatched from him with his glance alone his rags and

bandages, and afterward sank his cruel nails into the deep wound, and

pulled apart the edges, making him scream with pain.

"Ay! Ay!... Pimentó, pardon me!"

Such was his pain that his tremblings, surging up from the shoulder to

his head, made his cropped hair bristle, and stand erect, and then it

began to curl with the contraction of the pain until it turned into a

horrible tangle of serpents.

Then a horrible thing happened. The ghost, seizing him by his strange

hair, finally spoke.

"Come ... come...." it said, pulling him along.

It dragged him along with superhuman swiftness, led him flying or

swimming, he did not know which, across a space both light and slippery;

dizzily they seemed to float toward a red spot which stood out in the

far, far distance.

The stain grew larger, it looked in shape like the door of his bedroom,

and after it poured out a dense, nauseating smoke, a stench of burning

straw which prevented him from breathing.

It must be the mouth of hell: Pimentó would hurl him into it, into the

immense fire whose splendour lit up the door. Fear conquered his

paralysis. He gave a fearful cry, finally moved his arms, and with a

back stroke of his hand, hurled Pimentó and the strange hair away from

him.

Now he had his eyes well opened; the phantom had disappeared. He had

been dreaming: it was doubtless a feverish nightmare: now he found

himself again in bed with poor Teresa, who, still dressed, was snoring

laboriously at his side.

But no; the delirium continued. What strange light was illumining his

bedroom? He still saw the mouth of hell, which was like the door of his

room, ejecting smoke and ruddy splendour. Was he asleep? He rubbed his

eyes, moved his arms, and sat up in bed.

No: he was awake and wide awake.

The door was growing redder all the time, the smoke was denser, he heard

muffled cracklings as of cane-brake bursting, licked by tongues of

flame, and even saw the sparks dance, and cling like flies of fire to

the cretonne curtain which closed the room. He heard a desperate steady

barking, like a furiously tolling bell sounding an alarm.

Christ!... The conviction of reality suddenly leaped to his mind, and

maddened him.

"Teresa! Teresa!... Up!"

And with the first push, he flung her out of bed. Then he ran to the

children's room, and with shouts and blows pulled them out in their

shirts, like an idiotic, frightened flock which runs before the stick

without knowing where it is going. The roof of his room was already

burning, casting a shower of sparks over the bed.

To Batiste, blinded by the smoke, the minutes seemed like centuries till

he got the door open; and through it, maddened with terror, all the

family rushed out in their nightclothes and ran to the road.

Here, a little more serene, they took count.

All; they were all there, even the poor dog which howled sadly as it

watched the burning house.

Teresa embraced her daughter, who, forgetting her danger, trembled with

shame, upon seeing herself in her chemise in the middle of the _huerta_,

and seated herself upon a sloping bank, shrinking up with modesty,

resting her chin upon the knees, and drawing down her white linen

night-robe in order to cover her feet.

The two little ones, frightened, took refuge in the arms of their elder

brother, and the father rushed about like a madman, roaring

maledictions.

Thieves! How well they had known how to do it! They had set fire to the

farm-house from all four sides, it had burst into flames from top to

bottom; even the corral with its stable and its sheds was crowned with

flames.

From it there came forth desperate neighings, cacklings of terror,

fierce gruntings; but the farm-house, insensible to the wails of those

who were roasting in its depths, went on sending up curved tongues of

fire through the door and the windows; and from its burning roof there

rose an enormous spiral of white smoke, which reflecting the fire took

on a rosy transparency.

The weather had changed: the night was calm, the wind did not blow and

the blue of the sky was dimmed only by the columns of smoke, between

whose white wisps the curious stars appeared.

Teresa was struggling with her husband, who, recovered from his painful

surprise, and spurred on by his interests, which incited him to commit

follies, wished to enter the fiery inferno. Just one moment, nothing

more: only the time necessary to take from the bedroom the little sack

of money, the profit of the harvest.

Ah! Good Teresa! Even now it was no longer necessary to restrain the

husband, who endured her violent grasp. A farm-house soon burns; straw

and canes love fire. The roof came down with a crash,--that erect roof

which the neighbours looked upon as an insult--and out of the enormous

bed of live-coals arose a frightful column of sparks, in whose uncertain

and vacillating light the _huerta_ seemed to move with fantastic

grimaces.

The sides of the corral stirred heavily as if within them a legion of

demons were rushing about and striking them. Engarlanded with flame the

fowls leaped forth, trying to fly, though burning alive.

A piece of wall of mud and stakes fell, and through the black breach

there came forth like a lightning flash, a terrible monster, ejecting

smoke through its nostrils, shaking its mane of sparks, desperately

beating its tail like a broom of flame, which scattered a stench of

burning hair.

It was the horse. With a prodigious bound, he leaped over the family,

and ran madly through the fields, instinctively seeking the canal, into

which he fell with the sizzling hiss of red-hot iron when it strikes

water.

Behind him, dragging itself along like a drunken demon emitting

frightful grunts, came another spectre of fire, the pig, which fell to

the ground in the middle of the field, burning like a torch of grease.

There remained now only the walls and the grape-vines with their twisted

runners distorted by fire, and the posts, which stood up like bars of

ink over the red background.

Batistet, in his longing to save something, ran recklessly over the

paths, shouting, beating at the doors of the neighbouring farm-houses,

which seemed to wink in the reflection of the fire.

"Help! Help! Fire! Fire!"

His shouts died away, raising a funereal echo, like that heard amid

ruins and in cemeteries.

The father smiled cruelly. He was calling in vain. The _huerta_ was deaf

to them. There were eyes within those white farm-houses, which looked

curiously out through the cracks; perhaps there were mouths which

laughed with infernal glee, but not one generous voice to say "Here I

am!"

Bread! At what a cost it is earned! And how evil it makes man!

In one farm-house there was burning a pale light, yellowing and sad.

Teresa, confused by her misfortune, wished to go there to implore help,

with the hope of some relief, of some miracle which she longed for in

their misfortune.

Her husband held her back with an expression of terror. No: not there.

Anywhere but there.

And like a man who has fallen low, so low that he already is unable to

feel any remorse, he shifted his gaze from the fire and fixed it on that

pale light, yellowish and sad; the light of a taper which glows without

lustre, fed by an atmosphere in which might almost be perceived the

fluttering of the dead.

Good-bye, Pimentó! You were departing from the world well-served. The

farm-house and the fortune of the odious intruder were lighting up your

corpse with merrier splendour than the candles bought by the bereaved

Pepeta, mere yellowish tears of light.

Batistet returned desperate from his useless trip. Nobody had answered.

The plain, silent and scowling, had said good-bye to them for ever.

They were more alone than if they had been in the midst of a desert; the

solitude of hatred was a thousand times worse than that of Nature.

They must flee from there; they must begin another life, with hunger

ever treading at their heels: they must leave behind them the ruin of

their work, and the small body of one of their own, the poor little

fellow who was rotting in the earth, an innocent victim of the mad

battle.

And all of them, with Oriental resignation, seated themselves upon the

bank, and there awaited the day, their shoulders chilled with cold, but

toasted from the front by the bed of live coals, which tinged their

stupefied faces with the reflection of blood; following with the

unchangeable passivity of fatalism the course of the fire, which was

devouring all their efforts, and changing them into embers as fragile

and tenuous as their old illusions of work and peace.