Don Mateo and I faced each other, exchanging a glance of profound hatred; hatred, kneaded with the passion of purest love, as mud is kneaded with water from the skies. I knew not what to say, much as I desired to speak, but Don Mateo, incapable of controlling himself, said insultingly: “This young man going to write? And what does _he_ know?” And, filled with rage, he turned his back on me, pretending to despise me. “I know more than will suit you, for writing your biography,” I replied, “but I warn Señor Albar that my pen shall never be employed in the service of a man like you.” Don Mateo made a motion as if he would throw himself upon me, and I made one as if seizing a bust of bronze to hurl at him. Albar leaped between us. “What is this?” he cried, in terror. “You are a miserable puppet,” thundered Don Mateo, shaking his fists at me above Albar’s head. “When I meet you in the street I will pull your ears.” “We shall see,” I replied. “Wretched, insignificant boy.” “Stop! enough of this,” cried Albar, with all the force of his lungs. “What is the matter?” “Señor Albar,” I said, “I heard all that was said. I can write nothing about this man; not a word.” “Nor will I permit that he shall write,” bellowed Don Mateo, choked with rage; “I will not consent to it.” “Then he shall not write; enough said,” replied Albar. Bueso stood before me undisturbed; with his hands in his pockets he looked me over with an air of curiosity. “That means that Javier will write it,” he said completing Don Pablo’s thought. Escorroza, at the sound of voices, had come upstairs and, at this moment, arrived. “Very well,” said the Director, “let it be so. As Quiñones refuses and the General does not consent, Escorroza will be charged with writing all relative to----” “To the Señor General? With the greatest pleasure,” broke in Don Javier. “And he will do it much better,” said Bueso. Don Mateo looked at me with an air of triumph and derision. “The Señor Director may order what seems best to him,” I said, restraining myself with difficulty, “but I ought to inform him that I withdraw from the staff, the moment when the paper publishes the least eulogy of this man.” And without saluting, with clenched fists and gritted teeth, I left the room. While in the corridor I heard the voices of Cabezudo, Bueso, and Escorroza, who cried at once: “Canasto! this puppet----” “Talked to you, in that manner!” “How can you permit----” The noise of the loud voices reached the editorial room. Pepe and Carrasco asked me what had happened, but I simply shrugged my shoulders and the two became discreetly silent. The noise continued for half an hour. At the end of that time the footsteps of the three men were heard in the _patio_, and their yet angry voices. As they passed the doorway I heard them saying: “Astonishing how much Don Pablo thinks this boy to be!” “Canasto! recanasto! this I will never forgive.”