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ISTRACTED between doubts and hopes, dismayed by the sound of bells pealing out the arrival of Pedrito Montero, Sotillo had spent the morning in battling with his thoughts—a contest to which he was unequal from the vacuity of his mind and the Bolence of his passions. Disappointment, greed, anger, and fear made a tumult in the colonel's breast louder than the din of bells in the town. Nothing he had planned had come to pass. Neither Sulaco nor me silver of the mine had fallen into his hands. He had performed no military exploit to secure his position, and had obtained no enormous booty to make off with. Pedrito Montero, either as friend or foe, filled him with dread. The sound of bells maddened him.

Imagining at first that he might be attacked at once, he had made his battalion stand to arms on the shore. He walked to and fro all the length of the room, stopping sometimes to gnaw the finger-tips of his right hand with a lurid sideway glare fixed on the floor; then with a sullen, repelling glance all round, he would resume his tramping in savage aloofness. His hat, whip, sword, and revolver were lying on the table. His officers, crowding the window giving the view of the town gate, disputed among themselves the use of his field-glass, bought last year on long credit