“Yes, when we are in our graves.”
Capitana Tinay wept and cried for her son, Antonio. The courageous Capitana Maria gazed toward the small grate, behind which were her twins, her only sons.
There, too, was the mother-in-law of the cocoanut tree pruner. She was not crying; she was walking to and fro, gesticulating, with shirt sleeves rolled up, and haranguing the public.
“Have you ever seen anything equal to it?” said she. “They arrest my Andong, wound him, put him in the stocks, and take him to the capital, all because he happened to be in the cuartel yard.”
But few people had any sympathy for the Mussulman mother-in-law.
“Don Crisostomo is to blame for all of this,” sighed a woman.
The school teacher also was wandering about in the crowd. Ñor Juan was no longer rubbing his hands, nor was he carrying his yard stick and plumb line. He had heard the bad news and, faithful to his custom of seeing the future as a thing that had already happened, he was dressed in mourning, mourning for the death of Ibarra.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, an uncovered cart, drawn by two oxen, stopped in front of the tribunal.
The cart was surrounded by the crowd. They wanted to destroy it.
“Don’t do that!” said Capitana Maria. “Do you want them to walk?”