So, alleluia, their fears evaporated, their terrors ceased, it was the end of Babylon, and Pope Puffer and Panter went back to sleep, and we’ll be returning to our basins, the quarries, the ovens … and the wind, Martín? the wind’s still blowing? and the order, Jerónimo? the order not to work today? we’re all supposed to go to the esplanade in front of the palace for a ceremony? what ceremony? who knows, some ceremony, a holiday, it must be a circus, maybe it’s a troupe of puppeteers, who knows, anyway, a ceremony, and what a ceremony, with thunderbolts and lightning flashes that are seen, but not heard, same as the phantom that turned out to be El Señor’s favorite dog, surely it was rabies, all those wounds smeared with pitch, careful, Catilinón, rabies are transmitted by foxes, don’t go near anyone foxy; God has painted His heavens the color of slate and the storm is so near you can smell it in the earth, don’t you smell the storm, Catilinón? why do you think the dust is settling, as if sheltering, as if protecting, as if covering, its eyes with a gray sleeve? So, let’s go, Nuño, Jerónimo, Martín, Catilinón, the dog wasn’t a phantom, Guzmán demonstrated that, it was just a rabid dog, and even though he was El Señor’s best dog, even though he died with El Señor’s broad heraldic collar around his wounded neck, he ceased to be the favorite when he became rabid, you don’t let a Jew or a pig or a rabid dog in your garden, and Guzmán killed him by driving a sharp blade into his neck, dead, stone-cold dead he is, dead as the youth who was burned the other day beside the stables, dead as the journeyman who fell from the scaffold and the supervisor who went to gather walnuts and the worker who splattered upon the paving stones, dead, all of them, and he who sighs over another’s death wears a long noose about his own neck, Bocanegra is dead, hanging from the chapel railing, there won’t be any more accidents now, they’ve killed the phantom dog that was the cause, the comet has disappeared, you’ll see, everything’s back to normal, everything, back the way it was before, hey, let’s go, hear the clarion call and the voices singing, hurry, no, slowly, Catilinón, let’s take our time, for at last we’re going to see something with our own eyes, see, not be told, look, Nuño, look, Madre Milagros, have you told them? one, two, three … thirteen, fourteen … twenty-three, twenty-four holy mendicants, two rows of Lords and noblemen, and eight Hieronymite nuns beside the chaplains and the chaplains beside the litters; just look what a long line, Madre, coming down from the mountain, Martín, look, they’re raising the stilled dust, trampling the weeds, caught by the brambles, a long, interminable black line, Madre, they’re cutting through the thicket and crushing even flatter the brush of this flat dry land, so different from our Andalusian gardens, here they come, Catilinón, through that rocky valley, avoiding the dangerous potholes; almost all have reached the esplanade, the procession is very long, behind the litters come mounted archers armed with lances and on the lances are tied streamers of black taffeta; be more circumspect, Inesilla, even if you’re struck by lightning, don’t be afraid of those black clouds, lower your eyes and forget that clouds bring rain and wind and thunder and lightning, no, Madre Milagros, the storm doesn’t frighten me, I’m lifting my face to be washed by these heavy raindrops, to be refreshed after the terrible heat of this accursed plain you brought us to, far from our sea and the broad rivers, quiet, look how around each litter there’s a splendid footguard and twenty-four mounted pages, count them carefully, carrying wax tapers, all of them wearing black mourning, even the trappings of the mules pulling the litters are black, but what’s on those litters, Martín? climb on my shoulders, Catilinón, look carefully, over the heads of the other workers and nuns and halberdiers and La Señora’s duennas, look carefully and then tell me, I’m up, there, look, there’s El Señor, all in mourning, standing in the palace entrance, pale, almost frightened, as if he expected to see himself in what he is seeing, and by his side, seated, is La Señora, Martín, La Señora, her face expressionless, dressed in black velvet, with the hooded falcon on her wrist, and behind her stands Guzmán, Martín, Guzmán, with the plaited moustache, one hand resting upon his blade, the same dagger he used to kill the dog Bocanegra, and yes, yes, Martín, El Señor is reaching out his hand as if he were looking for the faithful dog, but he’s not there, but what is it we’re seeing, Catilinón, quit all the quibbling and just tell me what’s on those litters, they’re bodies, Martín, bodies! corpses, Madre Milagros, that’s why we were all so frightened, that’s why the dog was howling, because he smelled them approaching, because he knew more than we, and you said no one had died! those are dead bodies, Martín, on my faith and by my balls, they’re corpses, some are skeletons, but they’re all dressed up in rich clothes, black and red, with gold medallions, dressed-up skeletons, Martín, and some are mummies, still grinning, their hair still on their heads, now the halberdiers are lifting them from the litters and carrying them toward the tombs, Madre; be quiet, Inés, and look, here come four precentors dressed in capes, look, Martín, there’s the fat Bishop again, blue in the face from coughing and gagging, and a gelding as well, they say, and he and all his ministers are wearing brocade, Madre, and the monks are singing the