“But haven’t you heard that it’s a certain Lucas? Were you asleep?”
The crowd laughed, while the abashed rustic muttered a few words and moved away slowly with his head down.
“Here, where you going?” cried the old man after him.
“That’s not the way out. That’s the way to the dead man’s house.”
“The fellow’s still asleep,” remarked the directorcillo facetiously. “Better pour some water over him.”
Amid the laughter of the bystanders the rustic left the place where he had played such a ridiculous part and went toward the church. In the sacristy he asked for the senior sacristan.
“He’s still asleep,” was the rough answer. “Don’t you know that the convento was assaulted last night?”
“Then I’ll wait till he wakes up.” This with a stupid stare at the sacristans, such as is common to persons who are used to rough treatment.
In a corner which was still in shadow the one-eyed senior sacristan lay asleep in a big chair. His spectacles were placed on his forehead amid long locks of hair, while his thin, squalid chest, which was bare, rose and fell regularly.
The rustic took a seat near by, as if to wait patiently, but he dropped a piece of money and started to look for it with the aid of a candle under the senior sacristan’s chair. He noticed seeds of amores-secos on the pantaloons and on the cuffs of the sleeper’s camisa. The latter awoke, rubbed his one good eye, and began to scold the rustic with great ill-humor.