One evening, when several neighbors, who tenanted Juan Garcia’s house, were met together in the yard, one of them--it was the kinswoman of the departed Ana--said: “Have you heard the news? It is reported that _La Leona’s_ husband is dead. What do you say to it?” “That _La Leona_ is just now singing: ‘My spouse is dead, and to heaven has flown, Wearing the thorns of a martyr’s crown,’” replied one of the neighbors. “There will be talk enough, woman, if it is true,” replied the first speaker. “Well, what do you want me to say? I feel it for one.” “I feel it for _two_,” added a third, laughing. “That is what I feel most,” continued the kinswoman. “It is reported already that Juan Garcia is going to marry with the rag of a widow.” Woman! will you hold your tongue?” “No; and I say more: I say that I don’t doubt it; for the wretch has him down, and holds him from beneath, so that she can put him to the torture with “thou must swallow this, or I will lay on thee with that.’” “True enough,” observed the other, “she has made a fool of him with drink; and, not satisfied with giving him wine, which is natural and 51 the legitimate child of the soil, she poisons him with bad brandy.” “The kite will get everything away from him by degrees, till she leaves him stuck, like a star lizard, to the bare wall,” added another; “for she is more covetous than greediness, that ‘walks one hand along the ground, and the other in the sky, and, with its mouth wide open, that nothing may go by.’” “She’ll be Juan’s third wife, and may die like the other two, and the four children he has under the sod. He must have some deadly exhalation about him, like a snake.” “Kill _La Leona_! As if that would be possible! It’s my opinion that Death himself couldn’t do it, with a century to help him. There was the cholera, that carried off so many good people; it never approached her door.” “The she-rake has no end of luck.” At this moment Lucas entered. It was Saturday evening, and he had come to spend the Sunday at home. “Lucas,” asked his kinswoman, “do you know that _La Leona_ is a widow, and they say that your father is going to marry her?” A thunder-bolt could not have hurt Lucas more suddenly than did these words; nevertheless, he maintained his composure while he answered: “Either you are dreaming awake, Aunt Manuela, or age is getting the better of your understanding.” “Don’t fling my age into my face, _Luquecillo_,”[6] said the good woman, who was jocose. “I would rather you called me sly fox; it is permitted to say _old_ only in the company of wines and parchments.” “Well, then, why were you born so long ago? But don’t come to me with your troubles.” “Publish your decrees in time, my son, for this one is in everybody’s mouth.” “They may say what they please behind my back. Regiments can’t capture tongues and thoughts, but no one is going to speak against my father when I am present.” “I’ll lay you something, Lucas, that he’ll marry!”