“What are you saying!”
“Yes,” the man went on, with a smile, “I put a woman in its place, eight days ago.”
“Are you mad?” cried the servant; “it isn’t a year since he was buried.”
“Father Dámaso ordered it; he told me to take the body to the Chinese cemetery; I——”
He got no farther, and started back in terror at sight of Crisóstomo’s face. Crisóstomo seized his arm. “And you did it?” he demanded, in a terrible voice.
“Don’t be angry, señor,” replied the grave-digger, pale and trembling. “I didn’t bury him with the Chinese. Better be drowned than that, I thought to myself, and I threw him into the water.”
Ibarra stared at him like a madman. “You’re only a poor fool!” he said at length, and pushing him away, he rushed headlong for the gate, stumbling over graves and bones, and painfully followed by the old servant.
“That’s what the dead bring us,” grumbled the gravedigger. “The curate orders me to dig the man up, and this fellow breaks my arm for doing it. That’s the way with the Spaniards. I shall lose my place!”