The three
gamins walked down to the Canal, to the little house near the river's
edge, which Manuel and the urchins of his gang had so often visited,
trying to peep into the windows. A knot of people had gathered about
the door.
"Let's have a look," said Ariston.
There was a window, wide open, and they peered in. Stretched upon a
marble slab lay Leandro; his face was the color of wax, and his
features bore an expression of proud defiance. At his side Senora
Leandro stood wailing and vociferating; Senor Ignacio, with his son's
hand clasped in his own, was weeping silently. At another table a
group surrounded Milagros' corpse. The man in charge of the morgue
ordered them all out. As the proofreader and Senor Ignacio met at the
entrance they exchanged looks and then averted their glance; the two
mothers, on the other hand, glared at each other in terrible hatred.
Senor Ignacio arranged that they should not sleep at the Corralon but
in Aguila Street. In that place, at the home of Senora Jacoba, there
was a horrible confusion of weeping and cursing. The three women
blamed Milagros for everything; she was a common strumpet, an evil
woman, a selfish, wretched ingrate.
One of the neighbours of the Corrala indicated a strange detail: when
the public doctor came to examine Milagros and remove her corset so
that he might determine the wound, he found a tiny medallion
containing a portrait of Leandro.
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