"See that?" he asked again, looking a Don Jaime as if protecting him with all the immensity of his valor.
He passed a finger lightly along the edge, pressing the fleshy tip against the point, delighting in the sharp prick. What a jewel!
Febrer nodded his head. Yes, he recognized the weapon; it was the one he had brought from Iviza.
"Well, with this," continued the boy, "not a brave will dare to face us. The Ironworker? He is a fraud! The Minstrel and all the rest? Frauds also. I'm only waiting for a chance to use this! Anybody who attempts anything against you is sentenced to death."
Finally, with the sadness of a great man who is wasting his time without an opportunity to display his valor, he said, lowering his eyes:
"When my grandfather was my age they say that he had already killed his man, and that half the island stood in fear of him."
The Little Chaplain spent part of the afternoon in the tower talking of Don Jaime's supposed enemies, whom he now considered as his own, putting up his knife and drawing it forth again, as if he enjoyed contemplating his disfigured image in the polished blade, dreaming of tremendous battles which always terminated by the flight or death of the adversaries, and by his valorously rescuing the embattled Don Jaime, who took as a jest his appetite for conflict and destruction.
In the evening Pepet went down to the farmhouse to get Don Jaime's supper. He had found the suitors who came from a distance sitting on the porch awaiting the beginning of the festeig. "See you later, Don Jaime!"
As soon as night closed in, Febrer made his preparations, his face set, his mien hostile, his hands thrilling with an imperceptible homicidal twitch, like a primitive warrior starting on an expedition from the mountain top to the valley. Before throwing his haik over his shoulders, he drew his revolver from his belt, scrupulously examining the cartridges, and the working of the trigger. Everything all right! The first man to make an attempt against him would get all six shots in the head. He felt like a savage, implacable, like one of those Febrers, lions of the sea, who landed on hostile shores, killing to avoid being killed.
With one hand in his belt fondling the butt of his revolver, he walked down the hill among the clusters of tamarisks, which waved their undulating masses in the darkness. He found the porch of Can Mallorquí full of young men standing about, or seated on the benches, waiting while the family finished supper in the kitchen. Febrer detected them in the dim light by the odor of hemp emanating from their new sandals, and from the coarse wool of their mantles and Arabian capes. The red sparks of cigarettes at the lower end of the porch indicated other waiting groups.