“It may be,” he said, becoming calm. “It may be. I wish I kept myself together better. I must keep myself together, keep myself within the middle place, where I am still. My Morning Star. Now I am ashamed of having talked like this to you, Señora Caterina.”
“Why?” she cried. And for the first time, the flush of hurt and humiliation came into her face.
He saw it at once, and put his hand on hers for a moment.
“No,” he said. “I am not ashamed. I am relieved.”
She flushed deeply at his touch, and was silent. He rose hastily, to leave, craving to be alone again with his own soul.
“On Sunday,” he said, “will you come into the plaza, in the morning, when the drum sounds? Will you come?”
“What for?” she said.
“Well! Come, and you will see.”
He was gone in a flash.
There were many soldiers in the village. When she went to the post-office, she saw the men in their cotton uniforms lying about in the entrance to the military station. There must have been fifty or more, little men, not the tall soldiers in slouched hats. These were little, quick, compact men, like Cipriano, and they talked in a strange Indian language, very subdued. They were very rarely seen in the streets. They kept out of sight.