“There she comes again,” she whispered, once more imposing silence by a gesture.  “Maria, give me a pebble.  Give it here—­bang! there it goes!”

“You didn’t hit her.  It struck the ground.”

“Let me see if I can.  Let us wait until she comes out of the pantry again.”

“Now, now she is coming out.  Take care, Florentina.”

“One, two, three!  There it goes!”

A cry of pain was heard from below, a malediction, a masculine exclamation, for it was a man who uttered it.  Pepe Rey could distinguish clearly these words: 

“The devil!  They have put a hole in my head, the——­Jacinto, Jacinto!  But what an abominable neighborhood this is!”

“Good Heavens! what have I done!” exclaimed Florentina, filled with consternation.  “I have struck Senor Don Inocencio on the head.”

“The Penitentiary?” said Pepe Rey.

“Yes.”

“Does he live in that house?”

“Why, where else should he live?”

“And the lady of the sighs——­”

“Is his niece, his housekeeper, or whatever else she may be.  We amuse ourselves with her because she is very tiresome, but we are not accustomed to play tricks on his reverence, the Penitentiary.”

While this dialogue was being rapidly carried on, Pepe Rey saw, in front of the terrace and very near him, a window belonging to the bombarded house open; he saw a smiling face appear at it—­a familiar face—­a face the sight of which stunned him, terrified him, made him turn pale and tremble.  It was that of Jacinto, who, interrupted in his grave studies, appeared at it with his pen behind his ear.  His modest, fresh, and smiling countenance, appearing in this way, had an auroral aspect.

“Good-afternoon, Senor Don Jose,” he said gayly.

“Jacinto, Jacinto, I say!”

“I am coming.  I was saluting a friend.”

“Come away, come away!” cried Florentina, in alarm.  “The Penitentiary is going up to Don Nominative’s room and he will give us a blessing.”

“Yes, come away; let us close the door of the dining-room.”

They rushed pell-mell from the terrace.

“You might have guessed that Jacinto would see you from his temple of learning,” said Tafetan to the Troyas.

“Don Nominative is our friend,” responded one of the girls.  “From his temple of science he says a great many sweet things to us on the sly, and he blows us kisses besides.”

“Jacinto?” asked the engineer.  “What the deuce is that name you gave him?”

“Don Nominative.”

The three girls burst out laughing.

“We call him that because he is very learned.”

“No, because when we were little he was little too.  But, yes, now I remember.  We used to play on the terrace, and we could hear him studying his lessons aloud.”

“Yes, and the whole blessed day he used to spend singling.”

“Declining, girl!  That is what it was.  He would go like this:  ‘Nominative, rosa, Genitive, Dative, Accusative.’”