At dusk

At dusk. Emilia Pardo Bazan

On the lonely sidewalk, the two men of the village met at sunset. They were coming in opposite directions. The one was returning from a glance at his vineyards, which were beginning to sprout; the other had attended, rather curious, the torment of a certain Yesúa of Nazareth, and came down from the mountain to enter the city before the gates and chains were closed.
They greeted each other politely, as neighbors they were, and the vintner questioned the cabinetmaker:
“What’s new in town, Daniel?” I was fertilizing my land, that spring advances, and I slept in the hut the night before.
“What there is,” replied the cabinetmaker, “is not very good. They crucified the prophet Yesúa this evening. You will remember the day when we waited for him at the gates of Zion and waved palm branches and carpeted his passage with belfry and fragrant herbs. I was not one of his, but I did like everyone else, which is always the most prudent. There is no telling what may happen. The crowd was in an uproar, and they hailed him king. And then I took off my cloak and laid it on the ground, for the donkey on which the Rabbi was riding to step on.
“Which by the way was mine,” Sabas declared. My gañán left her tied to a tree, with her crop, and the disciples untied her for the Rabbi, so that she would enter in triumph. Then they gave it back to me. I say they are benign people and they don’t harm anyone. And the Rabbi deserved no torture. He has cured quite a few people by putting his hands on his head.

Fragment of the work