Part 13

"It is there, behind the great cross, señor," said the servant, as they approached the spot where the grave-digger was sitting.

Arrived at the cross, the old servant looked on all sides, and became greatly confused. "It was there," he muttered; "no, there, but the ground has been broken."

Ibarra looked at him in anguish.

The servant appealed to the grave-digger.

"Where is the grave that was marked with a cross like this?" he demanded; and stooping, he traced a Byzantine cross on the ground.

"Were there flowers growing on it?"

"Yes, jasmine and pansies."

The grave-digger scratched his ear and said with a yawn:

"Well, the cross I burned."

"Burned! and why?"

"Because the curate ordered it."

Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.

"But at least you can show us the grave."

"The body's no longer there," said the grave-digger calmly.

"What are you saying!"

"Yes," the man went on, with a smile, "I put a woman in its place, eight days ago."

"Are you mad?" cried the servant; "it isn't a year since he was buried."

"Father Dámaso ordered it; he told me to take the body to the Chinese cemetery; I----"

He got no farther, and started back in terror at sight of Crisóstomo's face. Crisóstomo seized his arm. "And you did it?" he demanded, in a terrible voice.

"Don't be angry, señor," replied the grave-digger, pale and trembling. "I didn't bury him with the Chinese. Better be drowned than that, I thought to myself, and I threw him into the water."

Ibarra stared at him like a madman. "You're only a poor fool!" he said at length, and pushing him away, he rushed headlong for the gate, stumbling over graves and bones, and painfully followed by the old servant.

"That's what the dead bring us," grumbled the gravedigger. "The curate orders me to dig the man up, and this fellow breaks my arm for doing it. That's the way with the Spaniards. I shall lose my place!"

XIII.

THE LITTLE SACRISTANS.

The little old man of the cemetery wandered absent-minded along the streets.

He was a character of the pueblo. He had once been a student in philosophy, but abandoned his course at the demands of his mother. The good woman, finding that her son had talent, feared lest he become a savant and forget God; she let him choose, therefore, between studying for the priesthood and leaving the college of San José. He was in love, took the latter course, and married. Widowed and orphaned within a year, he found in books a deliverance from sadness, idleness, and the gallera. Unhappily he studied too much, bought too many books, neglected to care for his fortune, and came to financial ruin. Some people called him Don Astasio, or Tasio the philosopher; others, and by far the greater number, Tasio the fool.

The afternoon threatened a tempest. Pale flashes of lightning illumined the leaden sky; the atmosphere was heavy and close.

Arrived at the church door, Tasio entered and spoke to two little boys, one ten years old perhaps, the other seven.