“Had never been called that before—you know. I began walking forward—slowly. My legs trembled, but I walked. Passed through the gate.
“‘That’s right,’ Pedro said. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
“‘No—nothing,’ I answered, my jaws chattering.
“Then Pedro said, ‘I’m going to the grave of my friend who was buried today and say a prayer, take a rose from his grave and dry it—to carry in a little bag—always—for good luck. No harm comes then. You’ll take a rose, too.’
“I saw a large mound of flowers. The air was strong with perfume. Roses.... We reached the grave. Pedro stopped, knelt down and said a prayer. Shadows under the trees were black and the leaves rattled like bones. I wanted to run—but I stood beside Pedro—and shivered. Pedro took a rose from the grave and put it in his pocket. Then he took another, got up and offered it to me.
“‘No!’ I cried, drawing away. ‘I won’t touch it!’
“Pedro said, ‘You’ve got to be cured.’ He pointed to a large flat stone lying flat on the ground beside him, and explained:
“‘Over a hundred years ago—you can see the date when it’s light—a funny man had this grave made. Built it like a cistern. Brick walls. Look!’ and he slid the stone to one side. Pedro was strong.
“I refused to look. Kept my eyes on the path. A gust of wind blew my hat against Pedro, and it fell to the ground.
“As I stooped to pick it up, he pushed me—into the grave!”