There was a moment’s silence in the house below. Pepita Troya looked cautiously down.
“There she comes again,” she whispered, once more imposing silence by a gesture. “Maria, give me a pebble. Give it here—bang! there it goes!”
“You didn’t hit her. It struck the ground.”
“Let me see if I can. Let us wait until she comes out of the pantry again.”
“Now, now she is coming out. Take care, Florentina.”
“One, two, three! There it goes!”
A cry of pain was heard from below, a malediction, a masculine exclamation, for it was a man who uttered it. Pepe Rey could distinguish clearly these words:
“The devil! They have put a hole in my head, the——Jacinto, Jacinto! But what an abominable neighborhood this is!”
“Good Heavens! what have I done!” exclaimed Florentina, filled with consternation. “I have struck Señor Don Inocencio on the head.”
“The Penitentiary?” said Pepe Rey.