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Aristarco hadn’t moved and the baron, who had recovered his self-possession, looked closely at the former cangaceiro in the same way that, in quieter days, he had so often examined the butterflies and plants in his herbarium with the aid of a magnifying glass. He was suddenly moved by the desire to penetrate to the innermost depths of this man, to know the secret roots of what he was saying. And at the same time there came to his mind’s eye the image of Sebastiana brushing Estela’s fair hair amid a circle of flames. The color drained from his face.

“Doesn’t that wretch of a Counselor realize what he’s doing?” He did his best to contain his indignation. “Doesn’t he see that haciendas burned down mean hunger and death for hundreds of families? Doesn’t he realize that such madness has brought war to the state of Bahia?”

“It’s in the Bible,” Pajeú explained imperturbably. “The Republic will come, and the Throat-Slitter: there will be a cataclysm. But the poor will be saved, thanks to Belo Monte.”

“Have you even read the Bible?” the baron murmured.

“The Counselor has read it,” the caboclo answered. “You and your family can leave. The Throat-Slitter has been here and taken guides and livestock off with him. Calumbi is accursed; it has gone over to the Can’s side.”

“I will not allow you to raze the hacienda,” the baron said. “Not only on my account, but on account of the hundreds of people whose survival depends on this land.”

“The Blessed Jesus will take better care of them than you,” Pajeú answered. It was evident that he meant no offense; he was making every effort to speak in a respectful tone of voice; he appeared to be disconcerted by the baron’s inability to accept the obvious truth. “When you leave, everyone will go off to Belo Monte.”

“And in the meanwhile Moreira César will have it wiped off the face of the earth,” the baron said. “Can’t you understand that shotguns and knives are no defense against an army?”

No, he would never understand. It was as useless to try to reason with him as it was to argue with Moreira César or Gall. The baron felt a shiver down his spine; it was as if the world had taken leave of its reason and blind, irrational beliefs had taken over.

“Is that what happens when you people are sent food, livestock, loads of grain?” he asked. “The agreement with Antônio Vilanova was that you wouldn’t touch Calumbi or harm my people. Is that the way the Counselor keeps his word?”

“He is obliged to obey the Father,” Pajeú explained.

“In other words, it’s God who ordered you to burn down my house?” the baron murmured.

“No, the Father,” the caboclo corrected him vehemently, as if to avoid a very serious misunderstanding. “The Counselor doesn’t want to cause you or your family any harm. All those who wish to do so may leave.”

“That’s very kind of you,” the baron answered sarcastically. “I won’t let you burn down this house. I won’t leave.”

A shadow veiled the half-breed’s eyes and the scar across his face contracted. “If you don’t leave, I’ll be forced to attack and kill people whose lives could be spared,” he explained regretfully. “I’ll have to kill you and your family. I don’t want all those deaths hanging over my soul. What’s more, there’d be hardly anybody left to put up a fight.” His hand pointed behind him. “Ask Aristarco.”

He waited, his eyes pleading for a reassuring answer.

“Can you give me a week?” the baron finally murmured. “I can’t leave…”

“A day,” Pajeú interrupted him. “You may take whatever you like with you. I can’t wait any longer than that. The Dog is on his way to Belo Monte, and I must be there, too.” He put his sombrero back on, turned around, and, with his back to him, added as his parting words as he went out the door, followed by Aristarco: “Praised be the Blessed Jesus.”

The baron noted that his cigar had gone out. He brushed off the ash, relighted it, and calculated as he puffed on it that there was no possibility of his asking Moreira César to come to his aid within the time limit given him by Pajeú. Then, fatalistically—he too, when