It was the twenty-first day of February. A man whom I did not know came up to me, and said—
“Come, Gabriel, I have need of thee.”
“Who are you?” I asked him. “I do not recognize you.”
“I am Augustine Montoria,” he answered. “Am I so much disfigured? They told me yesterday that you were dead. How I envied you! I see that you are as unfortunate as I, and that you are living still. Do you know, my friend, what I have just seen? The body of Mariquilla. It is in the Calle de Antón Trillo, at the entrance of the garden. Come, and we will bury her.”
“I am more in a condition to be buried myself than to bury anybody. Who does that now? Of what did this woman die?”
“Of nothing, Gabriel, of nothing.”
“That is a singular death. I do not understand it.”
“Mariquilla’s body shows no wounds, nor any of the signs which the epidemic leaves in the face. She lies as if she had fallen asleep. Her face rests upon the ground, and she holds her hands to her ears as if she were shutting out sounds.”
“She does well. The noise of the shooting disturbed her. It seems to me as if I could hear it yet.”
“Come with me and help me. I have here a spade.”