When he got up, CÆsar found a lot of letters and notices from his followers all over the district, giving him pointers.

With the help of a manservant who used to go about with him, he himself got the motor ready and prepared to visit the polls.

As he got into the car, the youngster of the night before appeared with a letter.

“From ‘The Cub-Slut’; please read it right away.”

“Give it to me; I will read it.”

“She told me you were to read it right away.”

“Yes, man, yes.”

CÆsar took the letter and put it distractedly into his pocket. The motor started and CÆsar did not read the note. At eight in the morning he was on his way to Cidones. The polls had been established legally.

It was raining gently. As he drew near Cidones, the sun appeared. The river was turbid and mud-coloured. Thick grey fog-clouds were rolling about the plain; when they gathered below the hill where CÆsar stood, they gave it the appearance of an island in the middle of the sea. From the chimneys of the town the smoke came out like hanks of spun silver, and bells were ringing through this Sunday morning calm.

CÆsar stopped at an inn which was a little outside the town. The blacksmith, an old Liberal, came out to receive him. The old man had been suffering with rheumatism for some while. “How goes it?” CÆsar asked him.

“Very well. I have been to vote for you.”

“And your health?”

“Now that spring is coming, one begins to get better.”

“Yes, that is true,” said CÆsar; “I hadn’t noticed that the trees are in bloom.”

“Oh, yes, they are out. In a little while we shall have good weather. It’s a consolation for old folks.”

CÆsar took leave of the blacksmith and got into the motor.

CÆSAR! CÆSAR!

“Yes, spring is in flower,” said CÆsar. “I will remove all the obstacles and men’s strength will come to life, which is action. This town, then others, and finally all Spain.... May nothing remain hidden or closed up; everything come to life, out into the sunlight. I am a strong man; I am a man of iron; there are no obstacles for me. The forces of Nature will assist me. CÆsar! I must be CÆsar!”

The automobile began to move in a straight line toward Castro.

The ground on both sides of the highway fled away rapidly.

The automobile lessened its pace at the foot of the hill, and began to climb.

It went in by an old gate in the wall, which was called the Cart Gate.

The street of the same name, a street in the poor suburb, was narrow and the houses low; it was paved with cobbles. A little farther along several lanes formed a crossroads.

This was a quarter of brothels and of gipsies who made baskets.

When he reached the crossroads, in the narrowest part there was a cart blocking the street. The automobile stopped.

“What’s the matter?” asked CÆsar, standing up.

At that moment two shots rang out, and CÆsar fell wounded into the bottom of the car. The chauffeur saw that the discharges came from the low windows of a loom, and backing the motor, he returned rapidly, passed out the Cart Gate, at risk of running into it, went down to the highway, and drove at high speed to CÆsar’s house.

A moment later “Driveller” Juan and “Sparkler” came out of the loom and disappeared down a lane. The judge who went to take depositions learned from the chauffeur that CÆsar had received a letter as he was getting into the car. He had the wounded man’s clothes searched, and they found “The Cub-Slut’s” letter, in which she warned CÆsar of the danger he was in. Fate had kept CÆsar from reading it.

THE RED FLAG

The news that CÆsar was seriously wounded ran through the town like a train of powder.

A movement of terror shook everybody. “Limpy,” “Furibis,” and the other hysterical ones gathered at the tavern and agreed to set fire to the monastery of la PeÑa. “Furibis” had arms in his house and divided them among his comrades. A woman fastened a red rag to a stick, and they left Castro by different paths and met opposite Cidones.

Nine of them went armed, and various others followed behind.

On reaching Cidones, one of the party advanced up the lane and saw two pairs of Civil Guards. They discussed what they had better do, and the majority were in favour of going into Moro’s inn, which was at the entrance to the town, and waiting until night.

They did go in there and told Moro what they had just done. The inn-keeper listened with simulated approval, and brought them wine. This Moro was not a very commendable party; he had been convicted for robbery several times and had a bad reputation.

While the revolutionists were drinking and talking, Moro stole out without any one’s noticing, and went to see the chief of the Civil Guard, and told him what was going on. “They are armed, then?” asked the chief.

“Yes.”

“And how many are they?”

“Nine with arms.”

“We are only five. Do you want to do something?”

“What is it?”

“At dusk we will pass by the inn. I will knock. And you shall say to them: ‘Here is the chief of the Civil Guard; hide your arms.’ They will hide them, and we will arrest them.”

“Shall I get something for doing this favour?” asked Moro.

“Naturally.”

“What will they give me?”

“You will see.”

The ruse worked as they had plotted it; Moro played the comedy to perfection.

On learning that the chief of the Civil Guard wanted to come in, the revolutionists, on the landlord’s advice, left their arms in the next room. At the same instant the window panes burst to bits and the soldiers of the Civil Guard fired three charges from close up. Two women and four men fell dead; the wounded, among whom was “Limpy,” were taken to the hospital, and only one person was lucky enough to escape.

FATE

At the chief headquarters of Moncada’s followers, a strange phenomenon was noticed; on the preceding days they had been chock full; that night there were not over ten or a dozen men from the Workmen’s Club collected by a table lighted by a petroleum lamp. The pharmacist, Camacho, presided.

The news of the election was worse every minute. At the last hour the Padillists, knowing that Moncada was wounded, were behaving horribly. In the polls at Villamiel the tellers had fled with the blank ballots, and the Conservative boss arranged the outcome of the election from his house.

As the teller from Santa InÉs, who was a poor Liberal school-master, was on his way from the hamlet with the papers, six men had seized him, had snatched the returns from him, changed all the figures, and sent them to the municipal building at Castro full of blots.

They had fired over twenty shots at the teller for Paralejo. Many of Moncada’s emissaries, on knowing that CÆsar was wounded and his campaign going badly, had passed over to the other party.

Only Moncada could have rallied that flight. His most faithful gave one another uneasy looks, hoping some one would say: “Come along!” so that they could all have gone. Camacho alone kept up the spirits of the meeting.

At nine o’clock at night the chief of police entered the headquarters, accompanied by two Civil Guards.

“Close up here, please,” said the inspector.

“Why?” asked the pharmacist.

“Because I order you to.”

“You have no right to order that.”

“No? Here, get out, everybody, and you are under arrest.”

Those present took to their heels; the pharmacist went to jail to keep San RomÁn and Ortigosa company, and the Club was shut up....

The election was won by Padilla.