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“Pajeú?” Gall said, looking at Toughbeard with a gleam in his eye. “The one with the scar? The one who…?”

“That’s right. Pajeú.” The cangaceiro nodded. “I was with him for five years, without our ever having words. He was the best when it came to fighting. The angel’s wing brushed him and he got converted. He’s now one of the elect of God, up there in Canudos.”

He shrugged, as though he found this difficult to understand, or as though it were a matter of complete indifference to him.

“Have you been to Canudos?” Gall asked. “Tell me about it. What’s happening up there? What’s it like?”

“You hear lots of things,” Toughbeard said, spitting. “That they killed a whole bunch of soldiers who’d come with some man named Febrônio. They strung them up on the trees. If a corpse isn’t buried, the Can takes off with it, people say.”

“Are they well armed?” Gall went on insistently. “Will they be able to hold out against another attack?”

“Yes, they will,” Toughbeard growled. “Pajeú’s not the only one up there. There’s also Abbot João, Taramela, Joaquim Macambira and his sons, Pedrão. The most fearful outlaws in these parts. They used to hate each other and kill each other. But now they’re brothers and fight for the Counselor. They’re going to go to heaven, despite their evil deeds. The Counselor pardoned them.”

The Bearded Lady, the Idiot, the Dwarf, and Jurema had sat down on the ground and were listening spellbound.

“The Counselor gives the pilgrims a kiss on the forehead,” Toughbeard added. “The Little Blessed One has them kneel and the Counselor lifts them to their feet and kisses them. That’s called the kiss of the elect. People weep for joy. Because once you’re an elect, you know that you’re going to go to heaven. What does death matter after that?”

“You should be in Canudos too,” Gall said. “They’re your brothers too. They’re fighting so that heaven will descend on earth. So that the hell that you’re so afraid of will disappear.”

“I’m not afraid of hell but of death,” Toughbeard corrected him, with no sign of anger in his voice. “Or to put it a better way, I’m afraid of the nightmare, the dream of death. That’s something different, don’t you see what I mean?”

He spat again, with a tortured look on his face. Suddenly he said to Jurema, pointing at Gall: “Doesn’t your husband ever dream of his skeleton?”

“He’s not my husband,” Jurema answered.

Big João entered Canudos at a run, his head in a whirl at the responsibility that had just been conferred upon him and that with each passing second seemed to him to be an honor not deserved by a poor sinner such as he, a person who sometimes believed himself to be possessed by the Dog (it was a fear that kept returning, like the seasons). But he had accepted, and he couldn’t back down now. He stopped as he reached the first houses, not knowing what to do. He had intended to go to Antônio Vilanova’s, to find out from him how to organize the Catholic Guard. But now his bewildered heart told him that what he needed most at this moment was not practical help but spiritual aid. It was dusk; the Counselor would soon be mounting to the tower; if he hurried, perhaps he could still find him in the Sanctuary. He began running again, through narrow winding streets crowded with men, women, and children who were leaving their houses, shanties, caves, holes, and flocking, as they did every evening, to the Temple of the Blessed Jesus to listen to the counsels. As he went by the Vilanovas’ store, he saw that Pajeú and some twenty men, equipped for a long journey, were bidding groups of their relatives goodbye. He had great difficulty making his way through the great throng overflowing the open ground adjoining the churches. Darkness was falling and here and there little lamps were already twinkling.

The Counselor was not in the Sanctuary. He had accompanied Father Joaquim as far as the exit on the road to Cumbe so as to say goodbye to the priest as he left town, and then, cradling the little white