Salvador was amused, and said: "I know.... It's easy to kill a man.... But he shouldn't have come over the wall."
It was not till late that night that Miguel and Gabriel were settled comfortably. The old sheepherder had not been seriously injured. Faint from loss of blood, he had asked to be left in the chapel till next day. They set up a cot for Gabriel in the dining room, close to the kitchen in case he needed someone. Raul sat down to read to him. They had agreed on Don Quixote. He found the place where he had left off weeks ago and his eyes slid over familiar paragraphs. Had Cervantes written Don Quixote in prison? Then he should at least be able to read aloud under stress ... smoke curled from his pipe ... Gabriel slept.... A night bird called repetitive notes.
In a day or two, soldiers might improve local conditions. He must get Angelina to Guadalajara somehow ... tomorrow ... next day. She had grown violently hysterical when she learned that Gabriel and Calvo had been shot.
He dimmed the light and laid his book on the buffet and saw his old pipe, a favorite. Manuel had given it to him when Caterina was a baby. Manuel had carved P/C on the bowl, Petaca's cattle brand. He had been clever at carving, but he didn't do any handcraft any more.... His face had lost its smile.... So many, many things had vanished, or changed. Raul paused in the living room by his desk where his revolver gleamed.
In the bedroom, his father coughed his dry cough.
Gravely concerned for Lucienne, he lit his pipe and stepped to the fireplace. Perhaps the clock needed winding: yes, he wound it carefully, as if for the last time.
Someone was coming up the steps.
"Don Raul?"
"Manuel."
"I went to see Calvo."