In the vague light of a candle, several human forms could be discerned. They were men, some of whom locked their arms around their knees and hid their heads between them, others were lying down, with their mouths to the ground, some standing, and some leaning against the wall. A blow and a creaking sound was heard, accompanied by oaths; the stocks were being opened.
Doña Consolacion’s body was bent forward, the muscles of her neck were rigid, her eyes riveted to the half open door.
Between the soldiers came out Tarsilo, the brother of Bruno. He wore handcuffs. His torn clothes disclosed well-developed muscles. His eyes were fixed insolently on the alferez’s wife.
“This is the one who defended himself most bravely, and who ordered his companions to flee,” said the alferez to Father Salví.
Behind came another miserable sight, a man crying and weeping like a child. He was limping and his pantaloons were stained with blood.
“Mercy, señor, have mercy! I will not enter the cuartel yard again,” he cried.
“He is a crafty fellow,” said the alferez, speaking to the curate. “He wanted to flee, but had received a flesh wound.”
“What is your name?” asked the alferez, speaking to Tarsilo.
“Tarsilo Alasigan.”
“What did Don Crisostomo promise you for attacking the cuartel?”