“Where is the grave that was marked with a cross like this?” he demanded; and stooping, he traced a Byzantine cross on the ground.
“Were there flowers growing on it?”
“Yes, jasmine and pansies.”
The grave-digger scratched his ear and said with a yawn:
“Well, the cross I burned.”
“Burned! and why?”
“Because the curate ordered it.”
Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.
“But at least you can show us the grave.”
“The body’s no longer there,” said the grave-digger calmly.