Upon entering his mansion something in his heart contracted with an
agonizing shudder. Everywhere he could see dreadful vacancies, which
made him recall the objects which had formerly been there. Rectangular
spots of stronger color announced the theft of furniture and paintings.
With what despatch and system the gentleman of the armlet had been doing
his work! . . . To the sadness that the cold and orderly spoliation
caused was added his indignation as an economical man, gazing upon the
slashed curtains, spotted rugs, broken crystal and porcelain--all the
debris from a ruthless and unscrupulous occupation.
His nephew, divining his thoughts, could only offer the same old
excuse--"What a mess! . . . But that is war!"
With Moltkecito, he did not have to subside into the respectful
civilities of fear.
"That is NOT war!" he thundered bitterly. "It is an expedition of
bandits. . . . Your comrades are nothing less than highwaymen."
Captain von Hartrott swelled up with a jerk. Separating himself from the
complainant and looking fixedly at him, he spoke in a low voice, hissing
with wrath. "Look here, uncle! It is a lucky thing for you that you have
expressed yourself in Spanish, and those around you could not understand
you. If you persist in such comments you will probably receive a bullet
by way of an answer. The Emperor's officials permit no insults.
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