"A ghost, my Colonel, nothing else. La Cumbre is no place for an honest
Christian."
The colonel burst into a mocking laugh. "An honest Christian! YOU! Of all my vile ruffians, you are the vilest. Why, you're a thief, a liar, and an assassin! You are lying to me now. Come—the truth for once, before I give you the componte."
"As God is my judge, I'm telling you the truth," protested the soldier. "Flog me if you will—rather the componte than another night in those trenches. You know that old quinta?"
"Where Pancho Cueto made a goat of himself? Perfectly. Do you mean to say that you saw old Esteban Varona walking with his head in his hands?"
"No, but I saw that she-devil who fell in the well and broke her neck."
"Eh? When did you behold this—this marvel?"
"Two nights ago. She was there beside the well and her face shone through the night like a lantern. Christ! There was fire upon it. She came and went, like a moth in the lamplight. I tell you I repented of my sins. Some of the men laughed at me when I told them, as they had laughed at the others. But last night two of the doubters went up there."
"Exactly. And they saw nothing."
"Your pardon, my Colonel. They came back in a cold sweat, and they spent the night on their knees. The woman was there again. You have seen the salt sea at night? Well, her face was aglow, like that, so they said. They heard the clanking of chains, too, and the sound of hammers, coming from the very bowels of the earth. It is all plain enough, when you know the story. But it is terrifying."
"This is indeed amazing," Cobo acknowledged, "but of course there is some simple explanation. Spirits, if indeed there are such things, are made of nothing—they are like thin air. How, then, could they rattle chains? You probably saw some wretched pacificos in search of food and imagined the rest."