“Take charge,” the Lilias told them, “we’ll come to you soon, but only when Father Matamoros has rested. Can’t you see? He sang too much today.”
From the first floor, Tancredo and Sabina were listening. They saw the Lilias take Matamoros away. Were they carrying him again? They could not make him out, hidden amid the old women, their arms open, their black shawls like wings.