“It isn’t there? Then I know nothing about it, but I can give you another.”
“You are like the grave you dig,” cried the old man, furious. “You know not the value of what you destroy! For whom is this grave?”
“How do I know? For a dead man!” replied the other with temper.
“Like the grave, like the grave,” the old man repeated with a dry laugh. “You know neither what you cast out nor what you keep. Dig! dig!” And he went toward the gate.
Meanwhile the grave-digger had finished his task, and two mounds of fresh, reddish earth rose beside the grave. Drawing from his pocket some buyo, he regarded dully what was going on around him, sat down, and began to chew.
At that moment a carriage, which had apparently made a long journey, stopped at the entrance to the cemetery. Ibarra got out, followed by an old servant, and silently made his way along the path.
“It is there, behind the great cross, señor,” said the servant, as they approached the spot where the grave-digger was sitting.
Arrived at the cross, the old servant looked on all sides, and became greatly confused. “It was there,” he muttered; “no, there, but the ground has been broken.”
Ibarra looked at him in anguish.
The servant appealed to the grave-digger.