"It keeps the rain away. Then you have nothing to tell me of poor Josefa?"
"No, Doña Consolacion—at least not yet," he added, in order to give some crumbs of hope.
The old woman mumbled her wrinkled mouth with nervousness.
"But you will soon?"
"I hope so, Doña Consolacion."
"Very soon?"
"I hope so."
She nodded.
"Sí, sí, I hope so. I pray so every night, señor, at my oraciones." She gave a Virgin a stroke with her brush, then added in a whisper, forming the words very plainly with her thin wrinkled lips, "Who—was—it—the—soldiers—dropped—in—the—river—the—other—night?"
The question brought the drummer a wave of surprise and revived pain.