Two gleaming
gold pieces appeared between Don Marcelo's fingers. Another leering
"Nein" and a shake of the head. Ah, the robber! How he was taking
advantage of his necessity! . . . And not until he had produced five
gold coins was he able to secure the package.
He soon began to notice all around him a silent and sly conspiracy
to get possession of his money. A giant in a sergeant's uniform put a
shovel in his hand pushing him roughly forward. He soon found himself
in a corner of the park that had been transformed into a graveyard, near
the cart of cadavers; there he had to shovel dirt on his own ground in
company with the indignant prisoners.
He averted his eyes so as not to look at the rigid and grotesque bodies
piled above him at the edge of the pit, ready to be tumbled in. The
ground was sending forth an insufferable odor, for decomposition had
already set in in the nearby trenches. The persistence with which his
overseers accosted him, and the crafty smile of the sergeant made him
see through the deep-laid scheme. The red-beard must be at the bottom
of all this. Putting his hand in his pocket he dropped the shovel with
a look of interrogation. "Ya," replied the sergeant. After handing
over the required sum, the tormented old man was permitted to stop
grave-digging and wander around at his pleasure; he knew, however, what
was probably in store for him--those men were going to submit him to a
merciless exploitation.
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