“There was a river,” said the soldier quickly, “and a house with a yellow roof in a clearing.”
“Yes. Go on, please.”
“A house with a yellow roof. I was in the house.”
“Yes, but before that?”
“Before that, the swamps, señor. Then the river, and the village, and the house with the yellow roof. I was in the house.”
“But—this is no use.” Fellowes turned to Pedro. “I want facts, all he knows—”
Pedro’s full-moon face was turned gravely on the soldier; his eyes, gentle as a girl’s, watched him only. “Señor,” he said, with an air slightly absent, “I think he will tell you all he knows. Listen. In the name of God.”
Pedro’s voice, the little shrine-lamp sending up a thin black finger to the roof, the shadows, the open doors,—all these chilled Fellowes a little. He glanced curiously from Pedro to the soldier. “Let him tell it in his own way, then.”
The soldier began again, as if he were speaking for the first time.
“There was the house with the yellow roof. But before that we crossed the swamps. It’s very bad in the swamps. We walked one behind the other on logs laid down in the mud; they were very old logs, very slippery. We walked for a long time, I don’t know how long. One man took the quick fever, and when the pain came, he cried and fell into the mud, in a deep place. He was gone before one could cry on the saints, and his gun too, which was a pity. This man was the first who died. I forget his name now, but he was very lucky at cockfighting.