“I thought they were going to do something bad. Yesterday—”
“I saw it myself. Last night—”
“What a pity!” exclaimed Sister Rufa. “To get killed just before Christmas when they bring around their presents! They should have waited until New Year’s.”
Little by little the street awoke to life. Dogs, chickens, pigs, and doves began the
movement, and these animals were soon followed by some ragged urchins who held fast to each other’s arms as they timidly approached the barracks. Then a few old women with handkerchiefs tied about their heads and fastened under their chins appeared with thick rosaries in their hands, pretending to be at their prayers so that the soldiers would let them pass. When it was seen that one might walk about without being shot at, the men began to come out with assumed airs of indifference. First they limited their steps to the neighborhood of their houses, caressing their game-cocks, then they extended their stroll, stopping from time to time, until at last they stood in front of the town hall.
In a quarter of an hour other versions of the affair were in circulation. Ibarra with his servants had tried to kidnap Maria Clara, and Capitan Tiago had defended her, aided by the Civil Guard. The number of killed was now not fourteen but thirty. Capitan Tiago was wounded and would leave that very day with his family for Manila.
The arrival of two cuadrilleros carrying a human form on a covered stretcher and followed by a civil-guard produced a great sensation. It was conjectured that they came from the convento, and, from the shape of the feet, which were dangling over one end, some guessed who the dead man might be, some one else a little distance away told who it was; further on the corpse was multiplied and the mystery of the Holy Trinity duplicated, later the miracle of the loaves and fishes was repeated—and the dead were then thirty and eight.
By half-past seven, when other guards arrived from neighboring towns, the current version was clear and detailed. “I’ve just come from the town hall, where I’ve seen Don Filipo and Don Crisostomo prisoners,” a man told Sister Puté.
“I’ve talked with one of the cuadrilleros who are on guard. Well, Bruno, the son of that fellow who was flogged to death, confessed everything last night. As you know, Capitan Tiago is going to marry his daughter to the young Spaniard, so Don Crisostomo in his rage wanted to get revenge and tried to kill all the Spaniards, even the curate. Last night they attacked the barracks and the convento, but fortunately, by God’s mercy, the curate was in Capitan Tiago’s house. They say that a lot of them escaped. The civil-guards burned Don Crisostomo’s house down, and if they hadn’t arrested him first they would have burned him also.”
“They burned the house down?”
“All the servants are under arrest. Look, you can still see the smoke from here!”
answered the narrator, approaching the window. “Those who come from there tell of many sad things.”
All looked toward the place indicated. A thin column of smoke was still slowly rising toward the sky. All made comments, more or less pitying, more or less accusing.
“Poor youth!” exclaimed an old man, Puté’s husband.
“Yes,” she answered, “but look how he didn’t order a mass said for the soul of his father, who undoubtedly needs it more than others.”
“But, woman, haven’t you any pity?”
“Pity for the excommunicated? It’s a sin to take pity on the enemies of God, the curates say. Don’t you remember? In the cemetery he walked about as if he was in a corral.”
“But a corral and the cemetery are alike,” replied the old man, “only that into the former only one kind of animal enters.”
“Shut up!” cried Sister Puté. “You’ll still defend those whom God has clearly punished. You’ll see how they’ll arrest you, too. You’re upholding a falling house.”
Her husband became silent before this argument.
“Yes,” continued the old lady, “after striking Padre Damaso there wasn’t anything left for him to do but to kill Padre Salvi.”
“But you can’t deny that he was good when he was a little boy.”
“Yes, he was good,” replied the old woman, “but he went to Spain. All those that go to Spain become heretics, as the curates have said.”
“Oho!” exclaimed her husband, seeing his chance for a retort, “and the curate, and all the curates, and the Archbishop, and the Pope, and the Virgin—aren’t they from Spain? Are they also heretics? Abá! ”
Happily for Sister Puté the arrival of a maidservant running, all pale and terrified, cut short this discussion.
“A man hanged in the next garden!” she cried breathlessly.
“A man hanged?” exclaimed all in stupefaction. The women crossed themselves.
No one could move from his place.
“Yes, sir,” went on the trembling servant; “I was going to pick peas—I looked into our neighbor’s garden to see if it was—I saw a man swinging—I thought it was Teo, the servant who always gives me—I went nearer to—pick the peas, and I saw that it wasn’t Teo, but a dead man. I ran and I ran and—”
“Let’s go see him,” said the old man, rising. “Show us the way.”
“Don’t you go!” cried Sister Puté, catching hold of his camisa. “Something will happen to you! Is he hanged? Then the worse for him!”
“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go to the barracks and report it. Perhaps he’s not dead yet.”
So he proceeded to the garden with the servant, who kept behind him. The women, including even Sister Puté herself, followed after, filled with fear and curiosity.
“There he is, sir,” said the servant, as she stopped and pointed with her finger.
The committee paused at a respectful distance and allowed the old man to go forward alone.
A human body hanging from the branch of a santol tree swung about gently in the breeze. The old man stared at it for a time and saw that the legs and arms were stiff, the clothing soiled, and the head doubled over.
“We mustn’t touch him until some officer of the law arrives,” he said aloud.
“He’s already stiff, he’s been dead for some time.”
The women gradually moved closer.
“He’s the fellow who lived in that little house there. He came here two weeks ago. Look at the scar on his face.”
