“Señor Candiola, let us speak together. Now, about that wherein I offended you. Yes—a few days ago—about that affair of the blows. There are times when one is not master of one’s self, when the blood mounts up to the head. It is true that you provoked me, and you charged more for the flour than the Captain-General had ordered. It is true, Don Jerónimo, my friend, that I shook you off, and you see—yet—one could not help that and—I, I believe the—well, I suppose that my hand flew away from me, and I did something.”
“Señor Montoria,” said Candiola, “a day will come when we shall again have authorities in Saragossa. Then we shall meet again face to face.”
“Are you going to make it a matter of justices and notaries? That’s bad. That which is past—it was an access of anger, one of those things which cannot be helped. My mind now is filled with the thought that I am in trouble, very great trouble. One does not wish to offend one’s neighbor.”
“It is not much to offend him, after robbing him,” said Don Jerónimo, looking about at us all, and smiling contemptuously.
“It was not exactly robbing,” said Don José, patiently; “because I did that which the Captain-General commanded. The offence of word and deed was undeniable; and now when I saw you coming with the chicken, I determined at once to own up that I did wrong. My conscience urged it upon me. Ah, Señor Candiola, I am very unhappy! When one is happy, one does not know his faults. But it is true, Don Jerónimo, that as I saw you coming toward me just now, I felt desirous to ask your pardon for those blows. I hold out the hand that offended. So it is. I don’t know what I am doing—yes, I do request you to forgive me, and let us be friends. Señor Don Jerónimo, let us be friends, let us be reconciled, and not make a permanent grudge out of an old resentment. Hatred poisons the soul, and the remembrance of not having done right oppresses us with an insupportable weight.”