The agent and Manuel continued on their way. The corridors swarmed with men who were scurrying to and fro in great haste. Others were motionless, in quiet attendance. These were ragged toilers, women garbed in black, sad old ladies bearing the stamp of poverty,—a frightened, timorous, humble rout.
The men who were scurrying back and forth carried letter-files and documents under their arms; all or almost all of them wore a lofty, proud expression. There was the judge who strode by in his cap and black frock coat, gazing indifferently through his spectacles; there was the clerk, not quite so grave and more jovial, who would call over some one, whisper into his ear, go into the office, sign a document and come out again; there was the young lawyer who asked how his cases were getting along; there were the procurator, the attorneys, the clerks, the office boys.
And here, too, thrusting this drove of humble and poverty-stricken human cattle toward the shambles of Justice, appeared the usurer, the policeman, jewel brokers, moneylenders, landlords....
They all had an understanding with the office boys and the clerks, who saw to their affairs; these employés would pigeon-hole troublesome cases, arrange or embroil a suit and send a fellow to prison or take him out,—all for a small consideration.
What an admirable machinery! From the lowest to the highest of these pettifoggers, with or without a toga, they knew how to exploit the humble, the poor in spirit, and how to protect the sacred interests of society by seeing to it that the needle on the balance of justice always inclined toward the side of wealth....
El Garro found El Gaditano, and asked him:
“Listen, it was you who took down this boy’s declaration, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, kindly put down that it is not known who killed his cousin; that it is supposed to be El Bizco, but that’s all. And then order him released.”