The acolyte would sometimes protest, sometimes swallow it down, while his pale and distorted face revealed the effects of the alcohol. Finally he asserted himself, and shouted in a bellowing tone:
“No more; I don’t want any more! Get out, I am not a sponge!”
He pushed away the other’s hand, and the sherry was spilt over his shirt front, soaking it completely. Suddenly his paleness turned into an apoplectic flush, and mounting his chair he began to harangue the company:
“Gentlemen, I know I am not doing right to stay here. It would only serve me right if you were to drown me in Pa-Pa-jarete—or some other Liberal poison. You are all Liberals—the first is proved per se—per se.”
“Per so!” shrieked Castro Mera, and the officer of Marines.
“To be a Liberal constitutes a greater sin than to be a homicide, an adulterer, or a blasphemer. This second proposition I can prove by Sardá and the fathers of the church at my tongue’s end. Therefore I, who drink Pajarete with you, am liable to the major excommunication—Catæ sententiæ! Don’t you know what a big-bug of the ecclesiastical hierarchy once said? Don’t you know, you blockheads? He! he! he! Well, he said: ‘Cum ejus modi nec cibum sumere’—Hey? It seems that he made it clear enough. Cum ejus modi nec Pajaritum su—sum—”
I looked at him with curiosity. There was no doubt that sometimes that toad was sincere in his ravings, and that his true feelings bubbled forth from his lips. The acolyte considered himself nothing less than an apostle, and talked away, threatening us with his fists. His cries became hoarser, his throat contracted, and his eyes, which looked like two big white balls, seemed to start from their sockets. Suddenly he passed from words to deeds, and seizing the bottle near him threatened to throw it at our heads. What most excited his fury was Pimentel’s project for the civico-political procession. That drove him wild. Strange effect of drunkenness! When in his normal state, and free from vinous influences, the clerical apprentice was very meek and humble; but as soon as he was under the influence of alcohol he became belligerent and aggressive. He abused us all soundly, and freed his mind especially regarding Sotopeña. I clearly perceived that trouble would ensue, for Castro Mera, somewhat elevated also, rushed to the fray, defending right and left the political principles which the little priest was berating; and as the latter was replying with fearful invectives,—or, rather, insulting epithets,—I suddenly saw him froth at the mouth, heard his maudlin laugh, saw him double his fists, and noticed that his wandering hands were seeking among the plates and glasses for a weapon—a knife. I restrained Castro Mera, saying, in a low tone, “He has a terrific epileptic fit.”
In fact Serafín was already struggling in the arms of several, who rushed forward to hold him, with herculean strength, or rather a formidable nervous force, a momentary effect of the seizure; he fought like a wild animal, biting, scratching, and kicking so that at times we thought that he would overpower us all.
Finally we succeeded in tying his hands with a handkerchief. We deluged him with cologne, cold water and vinegar; we picked him up by his feet and shoulders, and with great difficulty succeeded in taking him up to the tower, and throwing him upon his bed, where he lay in a heavy stupor, broken at intervals by short, sudden spasms.