shout themselves hoarse. Why
shouldn't they, if they're content with so little? Other days are
coming. The Carlists will see to it that our cause triumphs."

In don Ramon's judgment, the Doctor was a good sort, though his head may
have been a bit turned by books. He knew him very well: they had been
schoolmates together, and Rafael's father had never cared to join the
hue and cry against Doctor Moreno. The one thing that seemed to bother
him was that, as soon as the Republic was proclaimed, the Doctor's
friends were eager to send him as a deputy to the Constituent Assembly
of '73. That lunatic a deputy! Whereas he, the friend and agent of so
many Conservative ministries, had never dared think of the office for
himself, because of the fairly superstitious awe in which he held it!
The end of the world was surely coming!

But the Doctor had refused the nomination. If he were to go to Madrid,
what would become of the poor people who depended on him for health and
protection? Besides, he liked a quiet, sedentary life, with his books
and his studies, where he could satisfy his desires without quarrels and
fighting. His deep convictions impelled him to mingle with the masses,
and speak in public places--where he proved to be a successful agitator,
but he refused to join party organizations; and after a lecture or an
oration, he would spend days and days with his books and magazines,
alone save for his sister--a docile, pious woman who worshipped him,
though she bewailed his irreligion--and for his little daughter, a
blonde girl whom Rafael could scarcely remember, because her father's
unpopularity with the "best people" kept the little child away from
"good society."

The Doctor had one passion--music; and everybody admired his talent for
that art. What didn't the man know, anyhow? According to dona Bernarda
and her friends, that remarkable skill had been acquired through "evil
arts." It was another fruit of his impiety! But that did not prevent
crowds from thronging the streets at night, cautioning pedestrians to
walk more softly as they approached his house; nor from opening their
windows to hear better when that devil of a doctor would be playing his
violoncello. This he did when certain friends of his came up from
Valencia to spend a few days with him--a queer, long-haired crew that
talked a strange language and referred to a fellow called Beethoven
with as much respect as if he were San Bernardo himself.

"Yes, don An