His face was like
tallow now, his lips were drawn back from his teeth as if in
supreme agony. A moment and the hoofbeats had died away. Then
Longorio slipped his leash.
He uttered a cry--a hoarse, half-strangled shriek that tore his
throat. He plucked the collar from his neck as if it choked him;
he beat his breast. Seizing whatever article his eye fell upon, he
tore and crushed it; he swept the table clean of its queer Spanish
bric-a-brac, and trampled the litter under his heels. Spying a
painting of a saint upon the wall, he ran to it, ripped it from
its nail, and, raising it over his head, smashed frame and glass,
cursing all saints, all priests, and churchly people. Havoc
followed him as he raged about the place wreaking his fury upon
inanimate objects. When he had well-nigh wrecked the contents of
the room, and when his first paroxysm had spent its violence, he
hurled himself into a chair, writhing in agony. He bit his wrists,
he pounded his fists, he kicked; finally he sprawled full length
upon the floor, clawing at the cool, smooth tiles until his nails
bled.
"Christ! O Christ!" he screamed.
The sound of his blasphemies reached the little group of soldiers
who had lingered curiously outside, and they listened open-
mouthed.
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