was a half-paralysed old man, whose long white locks fell down to his shoulders: an heirloom taken up
by Charles Gould's familial piety. He could remember Henry Gould, an Englishman and a Costaguanero
of the second generation, chief of the Sulaco province; he had been his personal mozo years and years
ago in peace and war; had been allowed to attend his master in prison; had, on the fatal morning, followed
the firing-squad; and, peeping from behind one of the cypresses growing along the wall of the Franciscan
Convent, had seen, with his eyes starting out of his head, Don Enrique throw up his hands and fall with
his face in the dust. Charles Gould noted particularly the big patriarchal head of that witness in the
rear of the other servants. But he was surprised to see a shrivelled old hag or two, of whose existence
within the walls of his house he had not been aware. They must have been the mothers, or even the
grandmothers, of some of his people. There were a few children, too, more or less naked, crying and
clinging to the legs of their elders. He had never before noticed any sign of a child in his patio. Even
Leonarda, the camerista, came in a fright, pushing through, with her spoiled, pouting face of a favourite
maid, leading the Viola girls by the hand. The crockery rattled on table and sideboard, and the whole
house seemed to sway in the deafening wave of sound.