At the head of the table sat the fierce old
white-haired man, staring at us out of his sunken eyes as we entered.
Half rising from his seat, he mentioned to me to take a chair near
him, then, addressing Don Hilario, who sat opposite, he said, "This
is my son Calixto, just returned from the wars, where, as you know,
he has greatly distinguished himself."
Don Hilario rose and bowed gravely. Demetria took the other end of the
table, while Santos and Ramona occupied the two remaining seats.
I was greatly relieved to find that the old man's mood had changed;
there were no more wild outbursts like the one I had witnessed earlier
in the evening; only occasionally he would fix his strange, burning
eyes on me in a way that made me exceedingly uncomfortable. We began
the meal with broth, which we finished in silence; and while we ate,
Don Hilario's swift glances incessantly flew from face to face;
Demetria, pale and evidently ill at ease, keeping her eyes cast down
all the time.
"Is there no wine this evening, Ramona?" asked the old man in querulous
tones when the old woman rose to remove the broth basins.
"The _master_ has not ordered me to put any on the table," she
replied with asperity, and strongly emphasising the obnoxious word.
"What does this mean, Don Hilario?" said the old man, turning to his
neighbour. "My son has just returned after a long absence; are we to
have no wine for an occasion like this?"
Don Hilario, with a faint smile on his lips, drew a key from his pocket
and passed it silently to Ramona.
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