He did not go into the cave. He stayed outside, shrinking from people’s gazes, intent on what was about to happen. When he heard the first cry and learned that the Caxláns had fallen, he ran without stopping all the way to Jobel, seeking the most secret, least frequented footpaths, hiding in the undergrowth when he heard human steps approaching.

He reached the Palacio Episcopal gasping with exhaustion, and the servants, who knew him from his previous journey, let him inside. They were frightened by the turmoil on his face, the panic in his gaze, and though he had not asked them to (he was still unable to speak), they led him into His Excellency’s presence.

Don Alfonso understood nothing of the incoherent narrative, spoken half in Tzotzil and the rest in an uncertain Spanish. But little by little he was infected by the speaker’s terrified shuddering, and shaking him violently by the shoulders, he was able to learn that Padre Manuel and his companions (what companions?) had been killed in Tzajal-hemel.

Doña Cristina, the housekeeper, and the other maids of lower rank who were listening behind the door scattered as soon as they heard the news. One of them ran to the stove to mix up water, brandy, sugar and nutmeg for the draques that would be necessary; another took cups and spoons from the cupboard. Others rushed out to the street, on any pretext, to reveal what they had just learned.

Don Alfonso paced the room with slow, unsteady steps. It didn’t bother him to lose himself in his bewilderment with Xaw looking on because for him, as for all Coletos, an Indian was not a witness.

What trap had the ranchers sprung on him? From what Xaw said, it was easy to tell that Leonardo Cifuentes had not respected the commitment the two of them had made to each other. Cifuentes had alerted the others, given Padre Manuel an escort.

“They must have been the first to attack. They fired, made a show of force. How idiotically rash!”

But that doesn’t free me from my responsibility, Don Alfonso repeated to himself. Knowing the character of Padre Mandujano, his aggressiveness, his pride, which had increased since his initial exploit in the cave, how could I have given in to Cifuentes’ pressure and sent him to Chamula, when he was a powder keg? To calm his scruples, Don Alfonso had urged Padre Manuel to be sensible before his departure. What good was that? About as useful as recommending prudence to a lighted fuse. There could have been no other outcome but the one he was now contemplating.

“And I am the guilty party,” he judged.