Now he felt no disquietude. The image of his family, hungry and without a hearth, enraged him; he even felt a desire to attack all these people who demanded of him such a monstrous thing.
"Will you go? Will you go?" asked Pimentó, ever darker and more threatening.
No: he would not go. He said it with his head, with his smile of scorn, with his firm glance and the challenging look which he fixed upon the group.
"Scoundrel!" roared the bully; and his hand fell upon the face of Batiste, giving it a terrible resounding slap.
As though stirred by this aggression, all the group rushed upon the odious intruder, but above the line of heads a muscular arm arose, grasping a rush-grass stool, the same perhaps upon which Pimentó had been seated.
For the strong Batiste it was a terrible weapon, this seat of strong cross-pieces, with heavy legs of carob-wood, its corners polished by usage.
The little table and the jars of brandy rolled away, the people backed instinctively, terrified by the gesture of this man, always so peaceful, who seemed now a giant in his madness. But before any one could recede a step, Plaf! a noise resounded like a bursting kettle, and Pimentó, his head broken, fell to the ground.
In the plaza, it produced an indescribable confusion.
Copa, who from his lair seemed to pay attention to nothing, and was the first to scent a quarrel, no sooner saw the stool in the air than he drew out the "ace of clubs" which was under the counter, and with a few quick blows, in a jiffy cleared the tavern of its customers and immediately closed the door in accordance with his usual salutary custom.
The people remained outside, running around the little square; the tables rolled about. Sticks and clubs were brandished in the air, each one placing himself on guard against his neighbour, ready for whatever might come; and in the meantime Batiste, the cause of all the trouble, stood motionless, with hanging arms, grasping the stool now stained with spots of blood, terrified by what had just occurred.