When they reached the Asilo it had not yet opened. They passed their wait strolling along the old Yeseros road. They wandered into the fields nearby, where they saw wretched shacks in the doorways of which some men were playing at chito or tejo, while bands of ragged children swarmed about.
These by-roads were gloomy, bleak, desolate spots,—the abode of ruins, as if a city had been reared there and been annihilated by a cataclysm. On all sides were heaps of refuse and débris, gullies filled with rubbish; here and there a broken stone chimney, a shattered lime-kiln. Only at rare intervals might one catch a glimpse of a garden with its draw-well; in the distance, on the hills that bounded the horizon, rose the dim suburbs and scattered houses. It was a disquieting vicinity; behind the hillock one came suddenly upon evil-looking vagabonds in groups of three or four.
Through a little gorge nearby flowed the Abroñigal, a rivulet; Manuel and Jesús followed it until they reached a stone bridge called Tres Ojos.
They returned at night. The shelter was already open. It was on the right hand side of the Yeseros road, in the vicinity of a number of abandoned cemeteries. Its pointed roof, its galleries and wooden staircases, lent it the appearance of a Swiss châlet. On the balcony was a signboard attached to the balustrade, reading: “Asilo Municipal del Sur.” A lantern with a red glass shed its gory light upon the deserted fields.
Manuel and Jesús went down several steps; at a counter a clerk who was scribbling away in a big book asked them their names; they replied and then entered the institution. The section for men consisted of two large rooms lit by gas-burners, separated by a partition wall; each had wooden pillars and high, tiny windows. Jesús and Manuel crossed the first room and went into the second, where there were several men stretched out here and there upon the beds. They, too, lay down and chatted for a while....
As they spoke, a number of beggars kept coming in, taking possession of the beds that were placed in the middle of the room and near the pillars. These new arrivals dropped on to the floor their coats, their patched capes, their filthy undershirts,—a heap of tatters,—at the same time depositing tin cans filled with cigarette ends, pots and baskets.
Almost all the patrons of the place went into the second room.
“There isn’t such a draught in this room,” said an old beggar who was preparing to lie down near Manuel.