in peace, a little
while. Damn good thing if he _never_ came back!"

Then he demanded supper.

"Come, now," he added, "cut out that sniveling! Give me something to
eat. I'm in a hurry!"

Rafaela began to light the fire. But all the time she kept on crying and
scolding. Her rage and grief dragged out into an interminable monologue:

"My darling--my baby--this is a great note! Think of that man taking him
away, like that! The little angel will get his death o' cold. What a
fool, what an idiot! And then they talk about the way women act! My
precious! What'll I do, thinking about how cold he'll be, to-night? My
baby, my heart's blood--my precious little sweetheart----!"

In her anger she tipped over the bottle of olive-oil. It fell off the
stove and smashed on the floor. The rage of the woman became frenzied.

"Damn my soul if I know _what_ I'm doing!" she screeched. "Oh, that
dirty husband of mine! I hope to God I never see him again. And now, how
am I going to cook? I'll have to go down to the store. Say, I wish I'd
never been born. We'd all be a lot better off! To Hell with such a----"

"Say, are you going to keep that rough-house up all night?" demanded the
silversmith. Tired of hearing her noise, he had walked slowly into the
kitchen. Now he stood there, black-faced, with his fists doubled up in
the pockets of his jacket.

"I'll keep it up as long as I'm a mind to!" she retorted. "What are
_you_ going to do about it?"

"You shut your jaw," vociferated Berlanga, "or I'll break it for you!"

Then his rage burst out. Joining a bad act to an evil threat, he rained
a volley of blows on the head of his mistress. Rafaela stopped crying,
and through her gritted teeth spat out a flood of vile epithets.

"You dirty dog!" she cried. "You pimp! All you know how to do is hang
around women. Coward! Sissy! The only part of a man you've got is your
face!"

He growled:

"Take that, and that, you sow!"

The disgusting scene lasted a long time. Terrified, the woman stopped
her noise, and fought. Soon her nose and mouth were streaming blood. In
the kitchen resounded a confused tumult of blows and kicks, as the
silversmith drove his victim into a corner and beat her up. After the
sorry job was done, Berlanga cleared out and never came back till one or
two in the morning. Then he went to his room and turned in without
making a light, no doubt ashamed of his cowardly deed.

For a while he tried to excuse himself. After all