“They’re executing a soldier at daybreak. Shall we take it in?”
“Sure. Let’s go,” answered La Flora and La Justa.
It was a balmy, beautiful night.
They went up the Calle Alcalá and entered the Fornos. At about three they left the Café and took an open hack for the place of the execution.
They left the carriage opposite the Model Prison.
It was too early. It had not yet dawned.
They circled around the prison by a side-street that was no more than a ditch running through the sand and finally reached the clearings near the Calle de Rosales. The structure of the Model Prison, viewed from these desolate fields, assumed an imposing appearance; it looked like a fort bathing there in the blue, spectral illumination of the arc lights. From time to time the sentinels sang out a prolonged watchword that produced a terrible impression of anguish.
“What a sad house!” murmured Vidal. “And to think of all the people shut up in it!”
“Pse.... Let them all be shot,” replied La Justa, indifferently.