ng his hands upon Decoud.
On his left hand, Gamacho, big and hot, wiping his hairy wet face,
uncovered a set of yellow fangs in a grin of stupid hilarity. On his
right, Senor Fuentes, small and lean, looked on with compressed lips.
The crowd stared literally open-mouthed, lost in eager stillness, as
though they had expected the great guerrillero, the famous Pedrito, to
begin scattering at once some sort of visible largesse. What he began
was a speech. He began it with the shouted word "Citizens!" which
reached even those in the middle of the Plaza. Afterwards the greater
part of the citizens remained fascinated by the orator's action alone,
his tip-toeing, the arms flung above his head with the fists clenched,
a hand laid flat upon the heart, the silver gleam of rolling eyes,
the sweeping, pointing, embracing gestures, a hand laid familiarly
on Gamacho's shoulder; a hand waved formally towards the little
black-coated person of Senor Fuentes, advocate and politician and a true
friend of the people. The vivas of those nearest to the orator bursting
out suddenly propagated themselves irregularly to the confines of the
crowd, like flames running over dry grass, and expired in the opening of
the streets. In the intervals, over the swarming Plaza brooded a heavy
silence, in which the mouth of the orator went on opening and shutting,
and detached phrases--"The happiness of the people," "Sons of the
country," "The entire world, el mundo entiero"--reached even the packed
steps of the cathedral with a feeble clear ring, thin as the buzzing
of a mosquito. But the orator struck his breast; he seemed to prance
between his two supporters. It was the supreme effort of his peroration.
Then the two smaller figures disappeared from the public gaze and the
enormous Gamacho, left alone, advanced, raising his hat high above his
head. Then he covered himself proudly and yelled out, "Ciudadanos!" A
dull roar greeted Senor Gamacho, ex-pedlar of the Campo, Commandante of
the National Guards.

Upstairs Pedrito Montero walked about rapidly from one wrecked room of
the Intendencia to another, snarling incessantly--

"What stupidity! What destruction!"

Senor Fuentes, following, would relax his taciturn disposition to
murmur--

"It is all the work of Gamacho and his Nationals;" and then, inclining
his head on his left shoulder, would press together his lips so firmly
that a little hollow would appear at each corner. He had his nomination
for P