peasants, tied down with coarse cords, was a corpse, rigid and yellow. The miserable clothing which covered it, coarse cotton drawers and shirt, was soaked with blood, principally upon the breast, where the abundant and coagulated flow had darkened and become almost black. Above the forehead, in the black harsh hair, matted and stiffened with blood, were visible clots of red, mingled with whitish bits of brain. The livid face, turned toward heaven, bore an expression of anguish which was heart-rending; the eyes half opened and glazed fascinated by their glance; and the opened mouth, dark and full of earth, seemed to exhale inaudible groans and complaints.
The gendarmes surrounded the body and the curious crowd followed it. In the midst of the group a woman walked, weeping and uttering cries of grief. She carried a babe at her breast—bearing it with her left arm, and as well as she could led with her right another boy about four years old, barefoot and tattered.
“Roque! my Roque! my husband,” cried the miserable woman. “They have killed my husband! They have killed him! Children! My little ones! Poor little ones! They are orphans! What shall I do? What shall I do? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”
In passing close to Don Miguel she saw him and said to him, sobbing:
“Señor Don Miguel, do you see? They have killed my husband! That is what is there on the board! What shall I do Señor Don Miguel? What shall I do? Ay! Ay! Ay!”