"That is wrong, Señor Utrilla; that is wrong."
The cadet sponged out the figures that he made, and began the operation a second time. A second quarter of an hour, a second sigh of relief; more negative signs on the part of the professor.
"That is just as wrong, Señor Utrilla."
And Utrilla rubbed out his work again, and for the third time began to cipher; but now he was weak, confused, livid, persuaded that death was at hand.
"Still entirely wrong, Señor Utrilla," exclaimed the professor, in a tone of compassion.
The algebra man smiled mephistopheleanly, and said, with an affected accent in pure Andalusian:—
"There be three ways of spellin' proctor ... paroctor, peroctor, poroctor!"[15]
The gentlemen of the tribunal covered their eyes with their hands to hide their amusement. This sneer cut our cadet to the heart; he changed color several times in the course of a few moments.
"That will do; you are dismissed," said the professor of physics, trying in vain to put on a sober face.
The son of Mars retired, stumbling over everything in his way, as though he were blind; his neck was swollen, his Adam's apple preternaturally prominent, his heart boiling over with indignation and wrath.