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“What do you wish, sir? Was it you who had something to say to me with reference to a family matter? You?”

Any other person would have been seized with a desire to strangle the old man. Not Peñalar, however; difficult situations were his forte, and most to his taste. He began to speak, unabashed by the inquisitorial glances of the merchant.

Manuel listened to him with a mingling of admiration and terror. He could see that the old man was growing angrier every second. Peñalar spoke on unperturbed.

He was a poor captive soul, a sentimentalist, an idealist—ah!—devoted to the instruction of youth,—that youth in whose bosom repose the seeds of the nation’s regeneration. He had suffered a great deal,—a great deal. He had been in the hospital. A man such as he, who knew French, English, German, who played the piano,—a man of his stamp, related to the entire aristocracy of the kingdom of León, a man who knew more theology and theodocy than all the priests rolled into one.

Ah! He did not say all this out of vainglory; but he had a right to life. Gómez Sánchez, the illustrious histologist, had once said to him: