Beyond the city proper, afar, rolled the Madrilenian plain in gentle
undulations, toward the mists of dawn; the Manzanares meandered along,
as narrow as a band of silver; it sought the Los Angeles hill,
crossing barren fields and humble districts, finally to curve and lose
itself in the grey horizon. Towering above Madrid the Guadarrama
loomed like a lofty blue rampart, its summits capped with snow.
In the midst of this silence a church bell began its merry pealing,
but the chimes were lost in the somnolent city.
Manuel felt very cold and commenced pacing back and forth, rubbing his
shoulders and his legs. Absorbed in this operation, he did not see a
man in a boina, with a lantern in his hand, who approached him and
asked:
"What are you doing here?"
Without replying, Manuel broke into a run down the hill; shortly
afterward the rest of the gang came scurrying down, awaked by the
kicks of the man in the boina.
As they reached the Velasco Museum, El Mariane said:
"Let's see if we can't play a dirty trick on that damned Cojo."
"Yes. Come on."
By a side path they climbed back to the spot where they had been on
the previous afternoon. From the caves of San Blas hill came a few
ragamuffins crawling out on all fours; frightened by the sound of
voices and thinking, doubtless, that the police had come to make a
raid, they set off on a mad run, naked, with their ragged clothing
under their arms.
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