Then they walked back to the pueblo.
"Are you very sad?" asked the Maestro of the woman.
"Oho," she answered, "muy triste."
But she had not understood the question. She had had nine children, and eight were buried. As far back as she could remember Death had never let by a year without entering her hut. She had long ceased feeling.
They came to the plaza. The old cavalry horse was still standing as before, his swollen legs spread in a wide base, his head dropped to the ground, his patient, bulging eyes red with blood. His rattling, dolorous breath, above the humming undertone of carrion-flies, was the only break in the heated silence.
The Maestro looked at the animal. His chin dropped to his chest.
He raised his head with a sharp movement and walked on.
"I have done well," he said.