The face was no more livid than the rest of the body. Above the rope could be seen two scars and two small bruises. Where the rope had rubbed, there was no blood and the skin was white. The curious peasant examined closely the camisa and the pantaloons. He noted that they were full of dust and recently torn in some places. But what most attracted his attention were the “stick-tights”[1] on his clothing, even up to his neck.
“What do you see?” asked the officer.
“I was trying to identify him, señor,” stammered the peasant, lowering his hat further from his uncovered head.
“But haven’t you heard that it was one Lucas? Were you sleeping?”
All began to laugh. The peasant, embarrassed, muttered a few words, and went away with head down, walking slowly.
“Here! Where are you going?” cried the old man. “You can’t get out that way. That’s the way to the dead man’s house.”
“That fellow is still asleep,” said the officer with a jeer. “We’ll have to throw some water on him!”
Those standing around laughed again.
The peasant left the place where he had played so poor a part and directed his steps toward the church. In the sacristy, he asked for the sacristan mayor.
“He is still sleeping!” they replied gruffly. “Don’t you know that they sacked the convent last night?”