“Don’t you go!” cried Sister Puté, catching hold of his camisa. “Something will happen to you! Is he hanged? Then the worse for him!”
“Let me see him, woman. You, Juan, go to the barracks and report it. Perhaps he’s not dead yet.”
So he proceeded to the garden with the servant, who kept behind him. The women, including even Sister Puté herself, followed after, filled with fear and curiosity.
“There he is, sir,” said the servant, as she stopped and pointed with her finger.
The committee paused at a respectful distance and allowed the old man to go forward alone.
A human body hanging from the branch of a santol tree swung about gently in the breeze. The old man stared at it for a time and saw that the legs and arms were stiff, the clothing soiled, and the head doubled over.
“We mustn’t touch him until some officer of the law arrives,” he said aloud. “He’s already stiff, he’s been dead for some time.”
The women gradually moved closer.
“He’s the fellow who lived in that little house there. He came here two weeks ago. Look at the scar on his face.”
“Ave Maria!” exclaimed some of the women.