"From time to time they hand out sheets and underwear to the
women and the men. Now they're going to call the roll."
A bell began to clang; the gate closed; groups were formed, and a lady
entered the midst of each.
"Do you see that one there?" asked Roberto. "She's Don Telmo's niece."
"That blonde?"
"Yes. Wait for me here."
Roberto walked down the road toward the gate.
The reading of the religious lesson began; from the patio came the
slow, monotonous drone of prayer.
Manuel lay back on the ground. Yonder, flat beneath the grey horizon,
loomed Madrid out of the mist of the dust-laden atmosphere. The wide
bed of the Manzanares river, ochre-hued, seemed furrowed here and
there by a thread of dark water. The ridges of the Guadarrama range
rose hazily into the murky air.
Roberto passed by the patio. The humming of the praying mendicants
continued. An old lady, her head swathed in a red kerchief and her
shoulders covered with a black cloak that was fading to green, sat
down in the clearing.
"What's the matter, old lady? Wouldn't they open the gate for you?"
shouted the fellow with the coachman's hat.
"No.... The foul old witches!"
"Don't you care. They're not giving away anything today. The
distribution takes place this coming Friday. They'll give you at least
a sheet," added he of the hat mischievously.
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