“Ay, Señora!” cried the woman. “Five men dead, and the Patrón wounded to death! Ay! Ay!”
“Seven men dead!” said the boy. “Two on the azotea!”
“Seven men! Seven men!”
Kate sat on her chair, stunned, unable to hear anything but the threshing rain, unable to feel anything more. Two or three peons came in, and two more women, the men wrapped to their noses in their blankets. The women brought masa, and began a great clapping of tortillas. The people conversed in low, rapid tones, in the dialect, and Kate could not listen.
At length the rain began to abate. She knew it would leave off suddenly. There was a great sound of water running, gushing, splashing, pouring into the cistern. And she thought to herself: The rain will wash the blood off the roof and down the spouts into the cistern. There will be blood in the water.
She looked at her own blood-smeared white frock. She felt chilly. She rose to go upstairs again, into the dark, empty, masterless house.
“Ah, Señora! You are going upstairs? Go, Daniel, carry the lantern for the Señora!”
The boy lit a candle in a lantern, and Kate returned to the upper terrace. The light shone out of the room where Ramón was. She went into the salon and got her hat and her brown shawl. The lieutenant heard her, and came to her quickly, very kindly and respectful.
“Won’t you come in, Señora?” he said, holding the door to the room where Ramón lay; the guest-room.
Kate went in. Ramón lay on his side, his black, rather thin moustache pushed against the pillow. He was himself.