This unexpected word, the only Spanish word in the sentence, resounded like the crack of a whip. An enraged fist rose up and fell on the girl’s face. The pain made Marcela break down into sobs.

“What? What are you going to tell me? That you were robbed because you were walking around with your mouth gaping open?”

All the energy that the hours of waiting had built up in Felipa’s heart went into the punishment. And the disappointment, too. Not only that day’s disappointment. The years of misfortune patiently endured, the years of suffering borne without complaint, all the bitter memory that an Indian silences with drunkenness and prayers added its weight to Felipa’s closed fist. And every moan Marcela gave enraged her mother more. She was bathed in sweat, her ami was stiff with cramp, and still she did not want to release her victim. Until an authoritative voice paralyzed her.

“Let her go!”

It was Catalina Díaz Puiljá. From her place on the highest step she spoke. And she had only to be heard to be obeyed.

Helpless, Felipa turned to Catalina. Eyelids submissive, tremulous with exhaustion and anguish, she sought to justify herself.

“I do not deserve to be reproached, madrecita. You yourself witnessed it. I hit Marcela here. But did she have pity on my face? Look at me. I am no more than a poor old woman. My shoulders cannot take the work any more. My feet hurt very much. Before, would God ever leave us without anything to feed our mouths? But now the man has a position to attend to; he neglects the cornfield; debts come to carry away the harvest. And money? Is it there to be swept up with a broom? Is it picked out of the garbage? Ay, madrecita, the things I am telling you. Hunger bites me here, between my ribs, for a long time now.”

The ilol made a gesture of indifference to stem this torrent of lamentations.

“Your daughter is a burden to you. Give her to me. I will treat her well.”

Felipa was not expecting this proposal. She was taken aback and her forlorn features showed it. She attempted a clumsy excuse.

“I would give her to you, madrecita, if Marcela here were not so neglectful. But you have just seen with your own eyes. She was robbed of the payment for the pitchers. And that’s how it is, always. If you send her to fetch wood, she fetches green wood. If you tell her to make tortillas, she lets the tortillas bake on the comal. She loses the sheep from the flock.”

Catalina smiled at the childishness of these pretexts.

“If that is so, then it is better she should be with me than with you. You no longer have the vigor to set her straight. I do.”