The news of the election was worse every minute. At the last hour the Padillists, knowing that Moncada was wounded, were behaving horribly. In the polls at Villamiel the tellers had fled with the blank ballots, and the Conservative boss arranged the outcome of the election from his house.
As the teller from Santa Inés, who was a poor Liberal school-master, was on his way from the hamlet with the papers, six men had seized him, had snatched the returns from him, changed all the figures, and sent them to the municipal building at Castro full of blots.
They had fired over twenty shots at the teller for Paralejo. Many of Moncada’s emissaries, on knowing that Cæsar was wounded and his campaign going badly, had passed over to the other party.
Only Moncada could have rallied that flight. His most faithful gave one another uneasy looks, hoping some one would say: “Come along!” so that they could all have gone. Camacho alone kept up the spirits of the meeting.
At nine o’clock at night the chief of police entered the headquarters, accompanied by two Civil Guards.
“Close up here, please,” said the inspector.
“Why?” asked the pharmacist.
“Because I order you to.”
“You have no right to order that.”
“No? Here, get out, everybody, and you are under arrest.”