“Let us go and see it,” said the old man, rising. “Take us there.”
“Don’t go!” cried Sister Puté, seizing him by the shirt.
“You’ll get into trouble! He has hanged himself? Then all the worse for him!”
“Let me see it, wife! Go to the tribunal, Juan, and report it. Perhaps he is not dead yet.”
And he went ino[typo, should be into?] the orchard, followed by the servant, who kept hid behind him. The women and Sister Puté herself came along behind, full of terror and curiosity.
“There it is, Señor,” said the servant stopping him and pointing with her finger.
The group stopped at a respectful distance, allowing the old man to advance alone.
The body of a man, hanging from the limb of a santol tree, was swinging slowly in the breeze. The old man contemplated it for some time. He looked at the rigid feet, the arms, the stained clothing and the drooping head.
“We ought not to touch the corpse until some official has arrived,” said he, in a loud voice. “He is already stiff. He has been dead for some time.”
The women approached hesitatingly.