Chapter 13: - Page 2 of 3

The grave-digger scratched his ear and answered with a yawn: Well, as for the cross, I burned it.

Burned it? Why did you burn it?

Because the fat curate ordered me to do so.

Who is the fat curate? asked Ibarra.

Who? Why, the one that beats people with a big cane.

Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead.  But at least you can tell us where the grave is. You must remember that.

The grave-digger smiled as he answered quietly, But the corpse is no longer there.

What’s that you’re saying?

Yes, continued the grave-digger in a half-jesting tone.  I buried a woman in that place a week ago.

Are you crazy? cried the servant.  It hasn’t been a year since we buried him.

That’s very true, but a good many months ago I dug the body up.  The fat curate ordered me to do so and to take it to the cemetery of the Chinamen.  But as it was heavy and there was rain that night—

He was stopped by the threatening attitude of Ibarra, who had caught him by the arm and was shaking him.  Did you do that? demanded the youth in an indescribable tone.

Don’t be angry, sir, stammered the pale and trembling grave-digger.  I didn’t bury him among the Chinamen.  Better be drowned than lie among Chinamen, I said to myself, so I threw the body into the lake.

Ibarra placed both his hands on the grave-digger’s shoulders and stared at him for a long time with an indefinable expression.  Then, with the ejaculation, You are only a miserable slave! he turned away hurriedly, stepping upon bones, graves, and crosses, like one beside himself.

The grave-digger patted his arm and muttered, All the trouble dead men cause! The fat padre caned me for allowing it to be buried while I was sick, and this fellow almost tore my arm off for having dug it up. That’s what these Spaniards are! I’ll lose my job yet!