In a corner of the yard, upon an old wagon, were five bodies close together and half covered by a filthy piece of torn matting. A soldier on guard was pacing up and down, and constantly spitting.
“Do you recognize them?” asked the alferez, lifting the matting.
Tarsilo did not respond. He saw the dead body of Pedro, with two others; one, his own brother, riddled with bayonet wounds, and the other, Lucas, with the rope still around his neck. His look became gloomy and a sigh seemed to escape from his breast.
“Do you know them?” they asked him.
Tarsilo remained silent.
There was a whistling sound and the whip came down across his back. He trembled, and his muscles contracted. The lashes were repeated, but Tarsilo continued impassive.
“Let them whip him till they cut him to pieces or till he makes a declaration,” cried the alferez, exasperated.
“Speak then!” said the directorcillo to him. “They will surely kill you.”
They led him back to the sala of the tribunal, where the other prisoner was invoking God, grating his teeth and shaking on his legs.
“Do you know this man?” asked Father Salví.