“Can you describe this man? The commander?”

“He had a moustache.”

“Light? Dark? As light as Captain Henderson’s hair?”

It was not, they thought, as light as the captain’s hair. Nor as dark as their own.

“Did you see him attack anyone? Did the officer shoot at anyone or strike them with his sword?”

“We did not see that.”

“When the others were being killed, where was he?”

“He went into Benito’s house.”

“And where was this Benito?”

“With us. On the hill.”

“His house was burned too?”

“It was not.”

“Did you at any time see the commander attempt to stop the killing of the men and the burning of the houses?”

“No.”

“He remained in the house? In Benito’s house?”

“Yes.”

“From the house he would have heard the shooting?”

“Yes.”

“How long did he stay in the house?”

A shrug. “Perhaps one hour.”

“And then he came out?”

“A soldier came to fetch him.”

“And he came out then?”

“Not the first time. The soldier called for him but he did not come out.”

“So the soldier went away?”

“Yes.”

“And came back later?”

“Yes.”

“And this time he came out? The officer?”

“He did.”

“And what did he do?”

“He went with the soldier to the priest’s house.”

“The priest was there?”

“The priest left long ago.”

“Who lives in the house now?”

“A widow and her daughter.”

“And the officer went into this house? The priest’s house?”

“He did.”

“He stayed there a long time?”

“A little time.”

“A minute? Five minutes? Ten?”

Here the witnesses seemed at a loss, as though minutes were a measure of time they had few dealings with. They began a discussion between themselves. It had a thoughtful, almost philosophical air.

“Lieutenant Medina,” said the colonel. “All we are looking for is an estimate. Something to guide our thinking as to what may or may not have happened in the house.”

One of the witnesses, the younger man, held up a hand, thumb folded, fingers spread. Five minutes.

“And these women,” said the colonel. “Where are these women? The widow and her daughter? I should like to hear what they have to say.”

“The widow,” said Henderson, “is bedridden. Her daughter looks after her.”

“And the daughter. Has she made an accusation? Concerning the officer?”

“She has,” answered Henderson, “said nothing at all.”

“Nothing?”

“Apparently not.”

“Well, let us move on.” The colonel looked across at the witnesses again. It was hard to say what his view of them was, how far he trusted them. It was hard to say what his view of any of it was, except that perhaps he wished himself elsewhere.

“So the officer was in the house for five minutes and then came out. Came out alone?”

“He came out with the one he went in with. Later the others came out.”

“There were other soldiers in the widow’s house?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Ten. Twelve.”