By the light of the single window, that, here, faced the moon, she saw that the room was deserted.
In her own home, once more, she examined the mud walls closely. Ah!—the new machete was gone from its nail! And, farther along, the carved gourd flask that held aguardiente! They had left the hacienda!
She blew out the light and took her stand by the door. Her eyes blazed with hatred and anger. She gave out little inarticulate cries. She shook the keen-pointed lanza at the hut down the street.
For a long time, thus. Then she grew quieter, and leaned back wearily against the wall. Then she slipped down to a sitting posture on the ground, and her head drooped forward to her knees.
The day broke, the pigs came up, grunting and rooting. A chicken flew to her shoulder and pecked at a bright flower in her waist. She looked up, and the memory of her quarrel and her loss came back. She groaned and covered her face.
From across the street her mother saw her and scented trouble. She came waddling over, her shrivelled face all anxiety.
“What is it, Manuelita?” she asked. “Is the niño dead?” Then, spying the baby, “Or, perhaps, a pig?”
Manuelita shook her head.
The old woman peered about her, searching for the cause of the trouble.
“What, then, what?” she inquired.