“At what hour do you want the horse?”
“At no hour,” answered Rey quickly.
“Then you are not going to-night?” said Doña Perfecta. “Well, it is better to wait until to-morrow.”
“I am not going to-morrow, either.”
“When are you going, then?”
“We will see presently,” said the young man coldly, looking at his aunt with imperturbable calmness. “For the present I do not intend to go away.”
His eyes flashed forth a fierce challenge.
Doña Perfecta turned first red, then pale. She looked at the canon, who had taken off his gold spectacles to wipe them, and then fixed her eyes successively on each of the other persons in the room, including Caballuco, who, entering shortly before, had seated himself on the edge of a chair. Doña Perfecta looked at them as a general looks at his trusty body-guard. Then she studied the thoughtful and serene countenance of her nephew—of that enemy, who, by a strategic movement, suddenly reappeared before her when she believed him to be in shameful flight.
Alas! Bloodshed, ruin, and desolation! A great battle was about to be fought.