To the aggressiveness of his character was now added the indignation of a proprietor who finds himself assaulted within his home.

Those three shots were for him; and he was a Spaniard: and the _boches_ were daring to attack him on his own ground! What audacity!...
Several times he put his hand in the back part of his trousers, touching a long, metallic bulk.

He was only awaiting the nightfall to carry out a certain idea that had clamped itself between his two eyebrows like a painful nail.

Whilst he was not carrying it forward he could not be tranquil.
The voice of his good counselor protested: "Don't do anything idiotic, Ferragut; don't hunt the enemy, don't provoke him.

Simply defend yourself, nothing more." But that reckless courage which in times gone by had made him embark on vessels destined to shipwreck, and had pushed him toward danger for the mere pleasure of conquering it, was now crying louder than prudence.
"In my own country!" he kept saying continually.