“The utmost precautions had to be taken for the journey. On the chance that Ulloa would try to escape. . . .”

“If he had tried to escape there wouldn’t have been anything to do but shoot him in the back. . . .”

“. . . but also to protect him from the common people, señor Gobernador.”

“The common people were outraged. They surrounded the jail day and night, they took turns standing watch.”

“When they realized Ulloa was being taken to Mexico, they revolted and took justice into their own hands.”

“No one defended him?”

“Who was going to defend him? Ulloa’s guards were Coletos, too.”

And that justified everything. At least in the minds of the gentlemen who were present. The governor had nothing to say in reply and all of them fell silent. The tinkling of spoons against glasses arid glasses against plates, the measured swallowing of liquids could be heard. . . .

“Will the bishop see me?”

Padre Balcázar gazed at the governor with a benevolence that was not without compassion. What carelessness in selecting the proper turn of phrase!

“We have been taking advantage of your time, Excelencia. I will go and announce you right now.”

While the priest was leaving the room, the governor turned to Leonardo Cifuentes and patted his thigh with rough familiarity.

“So, this is the fighting cock.”

A chorus of exclamations drowned out Cifuentes’ faint protest.

“Tireless. . . .”

“Right on target. . . .”

“Bold. . . .”

“Decisive. . . .”

“Smart. . .

“A true hero.”

. Padre Balcázar opened the door that led to His Excellency’s rooms.

“Don Alfonso awaits you, Excelencia.”

The governor stood up and a few others followed him; he signalled them to stop.

“I want to speak to him alone.”

As he left the room, Padre Balcázar went back to his seat.

“It is a comfort,” he said, “to see how the oppositions between the earthly powers and the spiritual authority amount to nothing and how all is reconciled when common goals are pursued: justice, order and peace.”

XXXVIII

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE GOVERNOR MOVED cautiously. From daylight, he had passed into an almost total darkness and from a soft rug onto cold, uneven and echoing tiles.

An old man’s voice, halting and oddly creaky as if from lack of use, said, “Doña Cristina, someone I need to see has come.”

A shadow, a woman’s shape, crossed the room and stopped in front of the window. Slowly the curtains were pulled back to let in some light.

The image that appeared before the governor’s eyes startled him. On a crude wooden platform lay Don Alfonso Cañaveral. Wearing a homespun habit, he was rigid, with his hands crossed over his chest like a corpse. And he kept his eyes closed.

“Kneel.”

Doña Cristina’s order—whispered but clearly not subject to appeal—was obeyed.

“Kiss his hand.”

The governor looked for the finger where the ring ought to be. But the hands were bare of gems. He turned a questioning face towards the housekeeper.