Still, far down in Montalvo's being there was something solid and genuine, and that something not good but bad.

It was very rarely on view; the hand of circumstance must plunge deep to find it, but it dwelt there; the strong, cruel Spanish spirit which would sacrifice anything to save, or even to advance, itself.

It was this spirit that Lysbeth had seen looking out of his eyes on the yesterday, which, when he knew that the race was lost, had prompted him to try to kill his adversary, although he killed himself and her in the attempt.

Nor did she see it then for the last time, for twice more at least in her life she was destined to meet and tremble at its power.
In short, although Montalvo was a man who really disliked cruelty, he could upon occasion be cruel to the last degree; although he appreciated friends, and desired to have them, he could be the foulest of traitors.
Although without a cause he would do no hurt to a living thing, yet if that cause were sufficient he would cheerfully consign a whole cityful to death.

No, not cheerfully, he would have regretted their end very much, and often afterwards might have thought of it with sympathy and even sorrow.