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They led him to the well-curb, followed by the smiling Doña Consolacion. In his misery he cast a glance of envy toward the heap of corpses and a sigh escaped from his breast. "Talk now," the directorcillo again advised him. "They'll hang you anyhow. You'll at least die without suffering so much." "You'll come out of this only to die," added a cuadrillero.
The lashes were repeated, but Tarsilo continued impassive. "Let them whip him till they cut him to pieces or till he makes a declaration," cried the alferez, exasperated. "Speak then!" said the directorcillo to him. "They will surely kill you." They led him back to the sala of the tribunal, where the other prisoner was invoking God, grating his teeth and shaking on his legs.
After half an hour, an alguazil and the directorcillo arrived with two cuadrilleros, who took the body down and placed it on a stretcher. "People are getting in a hurry to die," remarked the directorcillo with a smile, as he took a pen from behind his ear.
"Let the fiesta go on! Music! Sadness will never resuscitate the dead!" "An investigation shall be made right here!" "Send for the directorcillo!" "Arrest the foreman on the work! To the stocks with him!" "To the stocks! Music! To the stocks with the foreman!"
The unfortunate wretch glanced enviously toward the pile of dead bodies, and a sigh escaped from his breast. "Speak now!" said the directorcillo again. "They will certainly drown you. At least, die without having suffered so much." "When you come out of this, you will die," said a cuaderillero. They took the gag out of his mouth and hung him by his feet.
The civil-guards and cuadrilleros who occupied it scarcely spoke and then with few words in low tones. At the table the directorcillo, two clerks, and several soldiers were rustling papers, while the alferez strode from one side to the other, at times gazing fiercely toward the door: prouder Themistocles could not have appeared in the Olympic games after the battle of Salamis.
The curious rustic carefully examined the camisa and pantaloons, and noticed that they were very dusty and freshly torn in some parts. But what most caught his attention were the seeds of amores-secos that were sticking on the camisa even up to the collar. "What are you looking at?" the directorcillo asked him.
According to what the telegrapher and the directorcillo said, plibustiero, said by a Christian, a curate, or a Spaniard to another Christian like us is a santusdeus with requimiternam, for if they ever call you a plibustiero then you'd better get yourself shriven and pay your debts, since nothing remains for you but to be hanged.
It was gloomy and the silence was almost death-like. The Civil Guards and the cuaderilleros who were occupying the room scarcely spoke and the few words that they did pronounce were in a low tone. Around the table sat the directorcillo, two writers and some soldiers scribbling papers. The alferez walked from one side to the other, looking from time to time ferociously toward the door.
It was time that he did so, too, for the guards were forcing an entrance. "Let us in to get your master's papers!" cried the directorcillo. "Have you permission? If you haven't, you won't get in," answered an old man.
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