Rafaela answered him, from the back room of the house:
"He's not here."
"Do you know whether he's going to come back soon? I want to know, before locking up."
A short silence followed. After a bit, Rafaela answered:
"You'd better lock up, anyhow."
There seemed to be something like a sob of grief in the voice of the poor woman. The old engineer, alarmed by a presentiment of something terrible, strode through the shop and went on into the house. Rafaela was sitting in front of the stove, in the kitchen, her hands humbly crossed on her lap, her eyes full of tears, her white hair rumpled up, as if some parricide hand had furiously seized her head. Zureda took hold of his wife by the shoulders and forced her to get up.
"What—what's happened?" he stammered.
Rafaela's nose was all bloody, her forehead was bruised and her hands bore lacerations.
"What's the matter with you?" repeated the engineer.
Old and dull as were his eyes, now they blazed up again with that red lightning of death which, twenty years before, had sent him to prison. Rafaela was terrified, and tried to lie out of it.