Thrown upon a bench near the wall, naked, his legs curled up to his belly, the sick man was huddled into a threadbare cape; every move of his laid bare some part of his person.
“Water!” he begged, in a thin voice.
“We’ve already asked the sergeant for some,” said the beggar. “But he doesn’t bring it.”
“This is savagery!” roared the Snake-Man. “This is barbaric.”
As no one paid any attention to Don Alonso, he decided to subside into silence.
“That guy over there,” added the ragamuffin with a laugh, “has syphilis and the mange.”
Don Alonso sank deeper than ever into his melancholy and uttered not a word.
“And what are they going to do with us?” asked Manuel.
“They’ll shoot us off to prison for a couple of weeks,” answered the beggar.
“Do they eat there?” asked the Snake-Man, rising from the depths of his self-absorption.