He worked in the dark in order to make himself more comfortable on the
chests, burrowing down into the straw for the sake of its heat. When the
morning breeze began to sift in through the little window he fell slowly
into a heavy, overpowering sleep, like that of criminals condemned to
death, or duellists before the fatal morning. He thought he heard
shouts in German, the galloping of horses, a distant sound of tattoo and
whistle such as the battalions of the invaders made with their fifes and
drums. . . . Then he lost all consciousness of his surroundings.
On opening his eyes again a ray of sunlight, slipping through the
window, was tracing a little golden square on the wall, giving a regal
splendor to the hanging cobwebs. Somebody was removing the barricade
before the door. A woman's voice, timid and distressed, was calling
repeatedly:
"Master, are you here?"
He sprang up quickly, wishing to aid the worker outside, and pushing
vigorously. He thought that the invaders must have left. In no other way
could he imagine the Warden's wife daring to try to get him out of his
cell.
"Yes, they have gone," she said. "Nobody is left in the castle."
As soon as he was able to get out Don Marcelo looked inquiringly at the
woman with her bloodshot eyes, dishevelled hair and sorrow-drawn face.
The night had weighed her down pitilessly with the pressure of many
years.
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