“Something relating to those people who burned Paris with petroleum; and those who pull down the churches and fire on the images.  So far I understand very well.”

“Well, my nephew is all that!  Ah! if he were alone in Orbajosa—­but no, child.  My nephew, through a series of fatalities, which are trials, the transitory evils that God permits for our chastisement, is equivalent to an army; is equivalent to the authority of the government; equivalent to the alcalde; equivalent to the judge.  My nephew is not my nephew; he is the official nation, Remedios—­that second nation composed of the scoundrels who govern in Madrid, and who have made themselves masters of its material strength; of that apparent nation—­for the real nation is the one that is silent, that pays and suffers; of that fictitious nation that signs decrees and pronounces discourses and makes a farce of government, and a farce of authority, and a farce of every thing.  That is what my nephew is to-day; you must accustom yourself to look under the surface of things.  My nephew is the government, the brigadier, the new alcalde, the new judge—­for they all protect him, because of the unanimity of their ideas; because they are chips of the same block, birds of a feather.  Understand it well; we must defend ourselves against them all, for they are all one, and one is all; we must attack them all together; and not by beating a man as he turns a corner, but as our forefathers attacked the Moors—­the Moors, Remedios.  Understand this well, child; open your understanding and allow an idea that is not vulgar to enter it—­rise above yourself; think lofty thoughts, Remedios!”

Don Inocencio’s niece was struck dumb by so much loftiness of soul.  She opened her mouth to say something that should be in consonance with so sublime an idea, but she only breathed a sigh.

“Like the Moors,” repeated Dona Perfecta.  “It is a question of Moors and Christians.  And did you suppose that by giving a fright to my nephew all would be ended?  How foolish you are!  Don’t you see that his friends support him?  Don’t you see that you are at the mercy of that rabble?  Don’t you see that any little lieutenant can set fire to my house, if he takes it into his head to do so?  But don’t you know this?  Don’t you comprehend that it is necessary to go to the bottom of things?  Don’t you comprehend how vast, how tremendous is the power of my enemy, who is not a man, but a sect?  Don’t you comprehend that my nephew, as he confronts me to-day, is not a calamity, but a plague?  Against this plague, dear Remedios, we shall have here a battalion sent by God that will annihilate the infernal militia from Madrid.  I tell you that this is going to be great and glorious.”

“If it were at last so!”

“But do you doubt it?  To-day we shall see terrible things here,” said Dona Perfecta, with great impatience.  “To-day, to-day!  What o’clock is it?  Seven?  So late, and nothing has happened!”