“To die!”

“That I wish those rascally dogs may kill me, and I say that I wish they may kill me, because I cannot cut them in quarters.  I am very little.”

“Ramos, you are great,” said Dona Perfecta solemnly.

“Great?  Great?  Very great, as far as my courage is concerned; but have I fortresses, have I cavalry, have I artillery?”

“That is a thing, Ramos,” said Dona Perfecta, smiling, “about which I would not concern myself.  Has not the enemy what you lack?”

“Yes.”

“Take it from him, then.”

“We will take it from him, yes, senora.  When I say that we will take it from him—­”

“My dear Ramos,” exclaimed Don Inocencio, “yours is an enviable position.  To distinguish yourself, to raise yourself above the base multitude, to put yourself on an equality with the greatest heroes of the earth, to be able to say that the hand of God guides your hand—­oh, what grandeur and honor!  My friend, this is not flattery.  What dignity, what nobleness, what magnanimity!  No; men of such a temper cannot die.  The Lord goes with them, and the bullet and the steel of the enemy are arrested in their course; they do not dare—­how should they dare—­to touch them, coming from the musket and the hand of heretics?  Dear Caballuco, seeing you, seeing your bravery and your nobility, there come to my mind involuntarily the verses of that ballad on the conquest of the Empire of Trebizond: 

     “’Came the valiant Roland
     Armed at every point,
     On his war-horse mounted,
     The gallant Briador;
     His good sword Durlindana
     Girded to his side,
     Couched for the attack his lance,
     On his arm his buckler stout,
     Through his helmet’s visor
     Flashing fire he came;
     Quivering like a slender reed
     Shaken by the wind his lance,
     And all the host united
     Defying haughtily.’”

“Very good,” exclaimed Licurgo, clapping his hands.  “And I say like Don
Renialdos: 

     “’Let none the wrath of Don Renialdos
     Dare brave and hope to escape unscathed;
     For he who seeks with him a quarrel,
     Shall pay so dearly for his rashness
     That he, and all his cause who champion,
     Shall at my hand or meet destruction
     Or chastisement severe shall suffer.’”

“Ramos, you will take some supper, you will eat something; won’t you?” said the mistress of the house.

“Nothing, nothing;” answered the Centaur.  “Or if you give me any thing, let it be a plate of gunpowder.”

And bursting into a boisterous laugh, he walked up and down the room several times, attentively observed by every one; then, stopping beside the group, he looked fixedly at Dona Perfecta and thundered forth these words: 

“I say that there is nothing more to be said.  Long live Orbajosa! death to Madrid!”

And he brought his hand down on the table with such violence that the floor shook.