“When?”
“He came and took her and the child, directly after you had left the camp.”
“And she has not returned?”
“She has just sent a roast chicken, which I was to keep for you when you came home. There it is.” Zorrillo laughed. Then he turned to his companions, saying:
“I thank you. You have now.... Is she still with the Eletto?”
“Why, of course.”
“And who—who saw her the night before the election—let me sit down—who saw her with him then?”
“My brother,” replied one of the captains. “She was just coming out of the tent, as he passed with the guard.”
“Don’t take the matter to heart,” said the other. “There are plenty of women! We are growing old, and can no longer cope with a handsome fellow like Navarrete.”
“I thought the sibyl was more sensible,” added the younger captain. “I saw her in Naples sixteen years ago. Zounds, she was a beautiful woman then! A pretty creature even now; but Navarrete might almost be her son. And you always treated her kindly, Pasquale. Well, whoever expects gratitude from women....”