Within were heard lamentations, counsels energetically uttered, the noise of a struggle. It was Pepeta, trying to separate Teresa from her son's body. Come!... she must be reasonable; the "Bishop" could not stay there for ever, it was getting late, and it was better to drink the bitter cup down and get it over with.
And she struggled with the mother to make her leave the coffin and enter the bedroom, so as not to be present at the terrible moment of departure, when the "Bishop" would rise and take flight on the white wings of his shroud never to return.
"My son! his mother's darling!" moaned poor Teresa.
She would see him no more; one kiss, another; and the head, more and more marblelike and livid despite the paint, moved from one side of the pillow to the other, making the diadem of flowers shake in the anxious hands of the mother and sister who disputed the last kiss.
At the end of the village the vicar would be found with the sacristan and the acolytes: they must not be kept waiting. Pepeta was growing impatient. Inside! Inside! And aided by other women, Teresa and her daughter were installed almost by main force in the bedroom, and walked up and down with dishevelled hair and eyes, red with weeping, their breasts heaving with a protest of sorrow which expressed itself not with moans but with howls.
Four girls with hoop-skirts, their silk mantillas falling over their eyes, and who had a modest and nun-like expression, seized the legs of the little table, raising all the white catafalque. Like the salvos saluting the flag as it is raised, there resounded a strange, prolonged, terrifying moan, which made chills run down the backs of many. It was the dog taking leave of the poor "Bishop," uttering an interminable lamentation, tears in his eyes and paws outstretched as if he wished himself to follow his very cry.
Outside, Don Joaquín was clapping his hands to command attention. Come now ... let the whole school form! The people on the road had approached the farm-house. Pimentó captained the musicians; the latter prepared their instruments to salute the "Bishop" as soon as the coffin should pass the threshold, and amid the disorder and shouts with which the procession formed, the clarinet trilled, the cornet played, and the trombone blew like a fat, asthmatic old man.
The youngsters started out, raising high great bunches of sweet basil. Don Joaquín knew how to do things properly. Afterward, breaking through the crowd, appeared the four damsels holding the light, white altar on which the poor "Bishop," lying in his coffin, moved his head with a slight movement from side to side as though he were taking leave of the farm-house.
The musicians burst forth into a playful, merry waltz, taking up their position behind the bier, and behind them, all the curious people ran along the little road to the farm in compact groups.
The farm-house remained mute and dark, with that melancholy atmosphere of places over which misfortune has passed.