Don Cayetano was a lively, cheerful, thin, dry old man of seventy-six, the colour of old leather, wrinkled like a burning parchment, and his whole person resembled, for some reason or other, the silhouette of a life-size vulture; although, according to others, he looked more like a magpie, or a shrunken and disheveled thrush. He was undoubtedly very birdlike in figure and gestures, and even more so when seen in his shadow. He was angular and pointed, and wore an old-fashioned tile hat, long and narrow, with very low brims, like Don Basilio, and as he pushed it down towards the back of his head, it seemed as if he were wearing a telescope; he was short-sighted and corrected the defect with gold spectacles mounted on a long, curved nose. Behind the glasses shone some restless little eyes, very black and very round. He wore the cloak like a student, he used to put his arms akimbo, and if the conversation was about theological or canonical matters, he would extend his right hand and form a pair of glasses with his thumb and index finger.