"Then make haste; I am in a great hurry."
Davalos rose from the chair into which he had dropped, and began walking up and down the room with a sort of feverish agitation, to which his friends had become accustomed. He could not remain still for five minutes. Any one else going through half the exercise he took in the course of the day would have been utterly exhausted before night. Castro watched him at first with contemptuous raillery in his eye; but he grew serious as he saw Manolo go up to the table and begin to play with a neat little revolver which Castro kept by his bedside.
"Look out there, Manolo! It is loaded."
"So I see, so I see," said the other with a smile; and turning round sharply, he added: "What do you think Madrid would say if I shot you dead?"
Pepe Castro felt a chill run down his spine, which was not altogether attributable to the cold bath, and he laughed rather queerly.
"And you know I could do it with impunity," his visitor went on, "as I am said to be mad——."
"Ha, ha, ha!" Castro laughed hysterically.
He was no coward; on the contrary, he had a reputation for punctilio and courage; but, like all fighting men, he liked a public. The prospect of an inglorious death at the hands of a maniac did not smile on his fancy. The example of Seneca, Marat, and other heroes who had been killed in their bath did nothing to encourage him, possibly because he had never heard of them. Davalos came towards him with the revolver cocked, saying:
"What will they say in town, eh? What will they say?"
Castro was as cold as though he were up to his chin in ice instead of water with the chill off. However, he had presence of mind enough to say: