“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 Doña 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.
“What a valiant spirit!” said Don Inocencio.
“What a fist you have!”
Every one was looking at the table, which had been split in two by the blow.
Then they looked at the never-enough-to-be-admired Renialdos or Caballuco. Undoubtedly there was in his handsome countenance, in his green eyes animated by a strange, feline glow, in his black hair, in his herculean frame, a certain expression and air of grandeur—a trace, or rather a memory, of the grand races that dominated the world. But his general aspect was one of pitiable degeneration, and it was difficult to discover the noble and heroic filiation in the brutality of the present. He resembled Don Cayetano’s great men as the mule resembles the horse.