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"A carved cross tied up with rattan?" continued the grave-digger.
"That's it, that's it, like this!" exclaimed the servant in answer
as he drew on the ground the figure of a Byzantine cross.
"Were there flowers scattered on the grave?"
"Oleanders and tuberoses and forget-me-nots, yes!" the servant added
joyfully, offering the grave-digger a cigar.
"Tell us which is the grave and where the cross is."
The grave-digger scratched his ear and answered with a yawn: "Well,
as for the cross, I burned it."
"Burned it? Why did you burn it?"
"Because the fat curate ordered me to do so."
"Who is the fat curate?" asked Ibarra.
"Who? Why, the one that beats people with a big cane."
Ibarra drew his hand across his forehead. "But at least you can tell
us where the grave is. You must remember that."
The grave-digger smiled as he answered quietly, "But the corpse is
no longer there."
"What's that you're saying?"
"Yes," continued the grave-digger in a half-jesting tone. "I buried
a woman in that place a week ago.


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