It was strange. The sentence sounded hollow and meaningless. He was so accustomed to absolving without even having a clear image of the sins he was hearing about (what is a calumny? what is a wicked thought? what is not loving God above all things?) that now, immediately after having formulated and assessed his own lapse, he felt calm, relaxed.

“Go to the kitchen. They’ll give you a cordial,” he told Xaw.

When he was alone, Don Alfonso went to sit down in an armchair. He did not notice when, but a steaming cup had appeared next to him. Thanking a shadow that vanished through the door, he began taking little sips, automatically.

What should his attitude be? Should he protest to Cifuentes? Don Alfonso gave a gesture of fatigue. Leonardo would deny the accusations and he couldn’t prove the contrary. There wasn’t a single survivor. In any case, Leonardo had the unconditional support of the ranchers, the sympathy of all Ciudad Real.

“What is all the hubbub about?” His Excellency asked the housekeeper who had just entered the room.

“The people. They are afraid.”

Doña Cristina diligently removed the empty cup and pressed it against her breast.

“How have they found out. . . ?”

Don Alfonso stood up in a flash of anger. Doña Cristina stepped back, vaguely frightened. She had never seen him like that.

“I don’t know. . . . Some peddlers, perhaps. They sell their wares throughout the region of Chamula.”

“Peddlers!” Don Alfonso repeated bitterly. “Betrayals everywhere, intrigues. . . .”

“Monseñor!”

“No, I’m not talking about you. You don’t know what lies at the bottom of all this.”

The sounds in the street were building. People were milling around the doors and windows of the Palacio Episcopal murmuring excitedly. Already the events at Tzajal-hemel were unrecognizable on their lips. Each one had added something, invented something, remembered something. Xaw’s version became a hodgepodge of verisimilitudes and exaggerations, predictions supported by distant memories. And with each new phrase, each new comment, the sense of danger increased in all of them and their anger justified itself anew. The crowd stayed where it was, in the expectation that from the place where the news of the murder of Padre Manuel and his companions had been divulged, some wisdom, some guidance would also come.

Someone came around the corner. It was a woman, her hair unkempt, and a black shawl floating around her shoulders, followed by other women making gestures so ambiguous it was impossible to know if they were holding her back or pushing her on. She wanted to make her way through the crowd. It was Benita Mandujano. She was shouting, in a hoarse, tired and curiously opaque voice. She was struggling, as if someone were keeping her from moving forward, though all of them had now stepped aside to allow her to walk freely to the door. She pounded on the wood with two clenched fists.