Catalina forgot herself and her former tasks. She grazed meekly in anonymity. But at times, when hope abandoned the pilgrims, when victory turned its back on them and the uncertainty was too piercing, the others turned their eyes toward Catalina with a gaze at once imperious and reverent, pleading for and demanding an unconditional surrender: the gaze of the devout.

At those moments, Catalina felt as if she were being hunted down. Her breathing quickened and her pulse pounded roughly in her temples like an animal captured in a trap.

She tried to run away; she was no longer capable of resurrecting any of her bygone gestures. And the others made way, not for her current and obvious fear, but for the memory of a majesty that would never abate or end.

Catalina went to find sanctuary among the only ones who never tortured her with such gazes: the Ladinos. Ulloa and Santiago, protected from the cold nocturnal winds by the Indians’ coarse woolen shirts, allowed her to draw near their half-extinguished campfire as if she were a harmless dog without a master.

Disconnected fragments of conversation reached her, not spoken in her language or for her ears or for her understanding.

At first Fernando Ulloa had obstinately, tenaciously refused to wear the clothing Pedro and the other principal men offered him. Eventually he had to give in; his own clothing was falling apart on the long trek and becoming useless as the severity of the weather increased. He had to give up the cleanliness he was accustomed to as well, and his scraggly beard gave his face a sickly, sullen expression.

César Santiago seemed to be in greater harmony with the element he found himself moving in; he had taken on an air of irritation, of acceptance of certain facts that were not, in his opinion, modifiable, but that he would try to the best of his abilities to adapt to his own purposes.

“Ingeniero, why all the arguments with Winiktón?”

Fernando and the Indian became entangled in disputes on any subject whatsoever. They never agreed.

Ulloa clasped his hands together nervously.

“He must understand that the only thing we are achieving with this senseless coming and going is to weaken our forces and give the people of Ciudad Real time to organize and strike against us.”

“Winiktón is an Indian, ingeniero. And all those who follow him are Indians. Neither he nor the others understand. Even if you give them the most satisfactory reasons and explain everything in the most minute detail. You’re just wasting your time.”

“So I’m supposed to let them pick us up and carry us from one end of the highlands to the other?”

“They have picked us up and carried us; they’ll keep on picking us up and carrying us as long as they can. As long as the Coletos haven’t killed us.”

Santiago’s statement was so obvious that the other man had no reply.