Flyleaf
Flyleaf:
 In 1937 Ernest Hemingway traveled to Spain to cover the civil war there for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Three years later he completed the greatest novel to emerge from "the good fight," _For Whom the Bell Tolls_. The story of Robert Jordan, a young American in the International Brigades attached to an antifascist guerilla unit in the mountains of Spain, it tells of loyalty and courage, love and defeat, and the tragic death of an ideal. In his portrayal of Jordan's love for the beautiful Maria and his suberb account of El Sordo's last stand, in his brilliant travesty of La Pasionaria and his unwillingness to believe in blind faith, Hemingway surpasses his achievement in _The Sun Also Rises_ and _A Farewell to Arms_ to create a work at once rare and beautiful, strong and brutal, compassionate, moving and wise. "If the function of a writer is to reveal reality," Maxwell Perkins wrote to Hemingway after reading the manuscript, "no one ever so completely performed it." Greater in power, broader in scope, and more intensely emotional than any of the author's previous works, it stands as one of the best war novels of all time.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is for
MARTHA GELLHORN
Chapter 1
 He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees. The mountainside sloped gently where he lay; but below it was steep and he could see the dark of the oiled road winding through the pass. There was a stream alongside the road and far down the pass he saw a mill beside the stream and the falling water of the dam, white in the summer sunlight.
 "Is that the mill?" he asked.
 "Yes."
 "I do not remember it."
 "It was built since you were here. The old mill is farther down; much below the pass."
 He spread the photostated military map out on the forest floor and looked at it carefully. The old man looked over his shoulder. He was a short and solid old man in a black peasant's smock and gray iron-stiff trousers and he wore rope-soled shoes. He was breathing heavily from the climb and his hand rested on one of the two heavy packs they had been carrying.
 "Then you cannot see the bridge from here."
 "No," the old man said. "This is the easy country of the pass where the stream flows gently. Below, where the road turns out of sight in the trees, it drops suddenly and there is a steep gorge--"
 "I remember."
 "Across this gorge is the bridge."
 "And where are their posts?"
 "There is a post at the mill that you see there."
 The young man, who was studying the country, took his glasses from the pocket of his faded, khaki flannel shirt, wiped the lenses with a handkerchief, screwed the eyepieces around until the boards of the mill showed suddenly clearly and he saw the wooden bench beside the door; the huge pile of sawdust that rose behind the open shed where the circular saw was, and a stretch of the flume that brought the logs down from the mountainside on the other bank of the stream. The stream showed clear and smooth-looking in the glasses and, below the curl of the falling water, the spray from the dam was blowing in the wind.
 "There is no sentry."
 "There is smoke coming from the millhouse," the old man said. "There are also clothes hanging on a line."
 "I see them but I do not see any sentry."
 "Perhaps he is in the shade," the old man explained. "It is hot there now. He would be in the shadow at the end we do not see."
 "Probably. Where is the next post?"
 "Below the bridge. It is at the roadmender's hut at kilometer five from the top of the pass."
 "How many men are here?" He pointed at the mill.
 "Perhaps four and a corporal."
 "And below?"
 "More. I will find out."
 "And at the bridge?"
 "Always two. One at each end."
 "We will need a certain number of men," he said. "How many men can you get?"
 "I can bring as many men as you wish," the old man said. "There are many men now here in the hills."
 "How many?"
 "There are more than a hundred. But they are in small bands. How many men will you need?"
 "I will let you know when we have studied the bridge."
 "Do you wish to study it now?"
 "No. Now I wish to go to where we will hide this explosive until it is time. I would like to have it hidden in utmost security at a distance no greater than half an hour from the bridge, if that is possible."
 "That is simple," the old man said. "From where we are going, it will all be downhill to the bridge. But now we must climb a little in seriousness to get there. Are you hungry?"
 "Yes," the young man said. "But we will eat later. How are you called? I have forgotten." It was a bad sign to him that he had forgotten.
 "Anselmo," the old man said. "I am called Anselmo and I come from Barco de Avila. Let me help you with that pack."
 The young man, who was tall and thin, with sun-streaked fair hair, and a wind- and sun-burned face, who wore the sun-faded flannel shirt, a pair of peasant's trousers and rope-soled shoes, leaned over, put his arm through one of the leather pack straps and swung the heavy pack up onto his shoulders. He worked his arm through the other strap and settled the weight of the pack against his back. His shirt was still wet from where the pack had rested.
 "I have it up now," he said. "How do we go?"
 "We climb," Anselmo said.
 Bending under the weight of the packs, sweating, they climbed steadily in the pine forest that covered the mountainside. There was no trail that the young man could see, but they were working up and around the face of the mountain and now they crossed a small stream and the old man went steadily on ahead up the edge of the rocky stream bed. The climbing now was steeper and more difficult, until finally the stream seemed to drop down over the edge of a smooth granite ledge that rose above them and the old man waited at the foot of the ledge for the young man to come up to him.
 "How are you making it?"
 "All right," the young man said. He was sweating heavily and his thigh muscles were twitchy from the steepness of the climb.
 "Wait here now for me. I go ahead to warn them. You do not want to be shot at carrying that stuff."
 "Not even in a joke," the young man said. "Is it far?"
 "It is very close. How do they call thee?"
 "Roberto," the young man answered. He had slipped the pack off and lowered it gently down between two boulders by the stream bed.
 "Wait here, then, Roberto, and I will return for you."
 "Good," the young man said. "But do you plan to go down this way to the bridge?"
 "No. When we go to the bridge it will be by another way. Shorter and easier."
 "I do not want this material to be stored too far from the bridge."
 "You will see. If you are not satisfied, we will take another place."
 "We will see," the young man said.
 He sat by the packs and watched the old man climb the ledge. It was not hard to climb and from the way he found hand-holds without searching for them the young man could see that he had climbed it many times before. Yet whoever was above had been very careful not to leave any trail.
 The young man, whose name was Robert Jordan, was extremely hungry and he was worried. He was often hungry but he was not usually worried because he did not give any importance to what happened to himself and he knew from experience how simple it was to move behind the enemy lines in all this country. It was as simple to move behind them as it was to cross through them, if you had a good guide. It was only giving importance to what happened to you if you were caught that made it difficult; that and deciding whom to trust. You had to trust the people you worked with completely or not at all, and you had to make decisions about the trusting. He was not worried about any of that. But there were other things.
 This Anselmo had been a good guide and he could travel wonderfully in the mountains. Robert Jordan could walk well enough himself and he knew from following him since before daylight that the old man could walk him to death. Robert Jordan trusted the man, Anselmo, so far, in everything except judgment. He had not yet had an opportunity to test his judgment, and, anyway, the judgment was his own responsibility. No, he did not worry about Anselmo and the problem of the bridge was no more difficult than many other problems. He knew how to blow any sort of bridge that you could name and he had blown them of all sizes and constructions. There was enough explosive and all equipment in the two packs to blow this bridge properly even if it were twice as big as Anselmo reported it, as he remembered it when he had walked over it on his way to La Granja on a walking trip in 1933, and as Golz had read him the description of it night before last in that upstairs room in the house outside of the Escorial.
 "To blow the bridge is nothing," Golz had said, the lamplight on his scarred, shaved head, pointing with a pencil on the big map. "You understand?"
 "Yes, I understand."
 "Absolutely nothing. Merely to blow the bridge is a failure."
 "Yes, Comrade General."
 "To blow the bridge at a stated hour based on the time set for the attack is how it should be done. You see that naturally. That is your right and how it should be done."
 Golz looked at the pencil, then tapped his teeth with it.
 Robert Jordan had said nothing.
 "You understand that is your right and how it should be done," Golz went on, looking at him and nodding his head. He tapped on the map now with the pencil. "That is how I should do it. That is what we cannot have."
 "Why, Comrade General?"
 "Why?" Golz said, angrily. "How many attacks have you seen and you ask me why? What is to guarantee that my orders are not changed? What is to guarantee that the attack is not annulled? What is to guarantee that the attack is not postponed? What is to guarantee that it starts within six hours of when it should start? Has any attack ever been as it should?"
 "It will start on time if it is your attack," Robert Jordan said.
 "They are never my attacks," Golz said. "I make them. But they are not mine. The artillery is not mine. I must put in for it. I have never been given what I ask for even when they have it to give. That is the least of it. There are other things. You know how those people are. It is not necessary to go into all of it. Always there is something. Always some one will interfere. So now be sure you understand."
 "So when is the bridge to be blown?" Robert Jordan had asked.
 "After the attack starts. As soon as the attack has started and not before. So that no reinforcements will come up over that road." He pointed with his pencil. "I must know that nothing will come up over that road."
 "And when is the attack?"
 "I will tell you. But you are to use the date and hour only as an indication of a probability. You must be ready for that time. You will blow the bridge after the attack has started. You see?" he indicated with the pencil. "That is the only road on which they can bring up reinforcements. That is the only road on which they can get up tanks, or artillery, or even move a truck toward the pass which I attack. I must know that bridge is gone. Not before, so it can be repaired if the attack is postponed. No. It must go when the attack starts and I must know it is gone. There are only two sentries. The man who will go with you has just come from there. He is a very reliable man, they say. You will see. He has people in the mountains. Get as many men as you need. Use as few as possible, but use enough. I do not have to tell you these things."
 "And how do I determine that the attack has started?"
 "It is to be made with a full division. There will be an aerial bombardment as preparation. You are not deaf, are you?"
 "Then I may take it that when the planes unload, the attack has started?"
 "You could not always take it like that," Golz said and shook his head. "But in this case, you may. It is my attack."
 "I understand it," Robert Jordan had said. "I do not say I like it very much."
 "Neither do I like it very much. If you do not want to undertake it, say so now. If you think you cannot do it, say so now."
 "I will do it," Robert Jordan had said. "I will do it all right."
 "That is all I have to know," Golz said. "That nothing comes up over that bridge. That is absolute."
 "I understand."
 "I do not like to ask people to do such things and in such a way," Golz went on. "I could not order you to do it. I understand what you may be forced to do through my putting such conditions. I explain very carefully so that you understand and that you understand all of the possible difficulties and the importance."
 "And how will you advance on La Granja if that bridge is blown?"
 "We go forward prepared to repair it after we have stormed the pass. It is a very complicated and beautiful operation. As complicated and as beautiful as always. The plan has been manufactured in Madrid. It is another of Vicente Rojo, the unsuccessful professor's, masterpieces. I make the attack and I make it, as always, not in sufficient force. It is a very possible operation, in spite of that. I am much happier about it than usual. It can be successful with that bridge eliminated. We can take Segovia. Look, I show you how it goes. You see? It is not the top of the pass where we attack. We hold that. It is much beyond. Look-- Here-- Like this--"
 "I would rather not know," Robert Jordan said.
 "Good," said Golz. "It is less of baggage to carry with you on the other side, yes?"
 "I would always rather not know. Then, no matter what can happen, it was not me that talked."
 "It is better not to know," Golz stroked his forehead with the pencil. "Many times I wish I did not know myself. But you do know the one thing you must know about the bridge?"
 "Yes. I know that."
 "I believe you do," Golz said. "I will not make you any little speech. Let us now have a drink. So much talking makes me very thirsty, Comrade Hordan. You have a funny name in Spanish, Comrade Hordown."
 "How do you say Golz in Spanish, Comrade General?"
 "Hotze," said Golz grinning, making the sound deep in his throat as though hawking with a bad cold. "Hotze," he croaked. "Comrade Heneral Khotze. If I had known how they pronounced Golz in Spanish I would pick me out a better name before I come to war here. When I think I come to command a division and I can pick out any name I want and I pick out Hotze. Heneral Hotze. Now it is too late to change. How do you like _partizan_ work?" It was the Russian term for guerilla work behind the lines.
 "Very much," Robert Jordan said. He grinned. "It is very healthy in the open air."
 "I like it very much when I was your age, too," Golz said. "They tell me you blow bridges very well. Very scientific. It is only hearsay. I have never seen you do anything myself. Maybe nothing ever happens really. You really blow them?" he was teasing now. "Drink this," he handed the glass of Spanish brandy to Robert Jordan. "You _really_ blow them?"
 "Sometimes."
 "You better not have any sometimes on this bridge. No, let us not talk any more about this bridge. You understand enough now about that bridge. We are very serious so we can make very strong jokes. Look, do you have many girls on the other side of the lines?"
 "No, there is no time for girls."
 "I do not agree. The more irregular the service, the more irregular the life. You have very irregular service. Also you need a haircut."
 "I have my hair cut as it needs it," Robert Jordan said. He would be damned if he would have his head shaved like Golz. "I have enough to think about without girls," he said sullenly.
 "What sort of uniform am I supposed to wear?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "None," Golz said. "Your haircut is all right. I tease you. You are very different from me," Golz had said and filled up the glasses again.
 "You never think about only girls. I never think at all. Why should I? I am _G幯廨al Sovietique_. I never think. Do not try to trap me into thinking."
 Some one on his staff, sitting on a chair working over a map on a drawing board, growled at him in the language Robert Jordan did not understand.
 "Shut up," Golz had said, in English. "I joke if I want. I am so serious is why I can joke. Now drink this and then go. You understand, huh?"
 "Yes," Robert Jordan had said. "I understand."
 They had shaken hands and he had saluted and gone out to the staff car where the old man was waiting asleep and in that car they had ridden over the road past Guadarrama, the old man still asleep, and up the Navacerrada road to the Alpine Club hut where he, Robert Jordan, slept for three hours before they started.
 That was the last he had seen of Golz with his strange white face that never tanned, his hawk eyes, the big nose and thin lips and the shaven head crossed with wrinkles and with scars. Tomorrow night they would be outside the Escorial in the dark along the road; the long lines of trucks loading the infantry in the darkness; the men, heavy loaded, climbing up into the trucks; the machine-gun sections lifting their guns into the trucks; the tanks being run up on the skids onto the long-bodied tank trucks; pulling the Division out to move them in the night for the attack on the pass. He would not think about that. That was not his business. That was Golz's business. He had only one thing to do and that was what he should think about and he must think it out clearly and take everything as it came along, and not worry. To worry was as bad as to be afraid. It simply made things more difficult.
 He sat now by the stream watching the clear water flowing between the rocks and, across the stream, he noticed there was a thick bed of watercress. He crossed the stream, picked a double handful, washed the muddy roots clean in the current and then sat down again beside his pack and ate the clean, cool green leaves and the crisp, peppery-tasting stalks. He knelt by the stream and, pushing his automatic pistol around on his belt to the small of his back so that it would not be wet, he lowered himself with a hand on each of two boulders and drank from the stream. The water was achingly cold.
 Pushing himself up on his hands he turned his head and saw the old man coming down the ledge. With him was another man, also in a black peasant's smock and the dark gray trousers that were almost a uniform in that province, wearing rope-soled shoes and with a carbine slung over his back. This man was bareheaded. The two of them came scrambling down the rock like goats.
 They came up to him and Robert Jordan got to his feet.
 "_Salud, Camarada_," he said to the man with the carbine and smiled.
 "_Salud_," the other said, grudgingly. Robert Jordan looked at the man's heavy, beard-stubbled face. It was almost round and his head was round and set close on his shoulders. His eyes were small and set too wide apart and his ears were small and set close to his head. He was a heavy man about five feet ten inches tall and his hands and feet were large. His nose had been broken and his mouth was cut at one corner and the line of the scar across the upper lip and lower jaw showed through the growth of beard over his face.
 The old man nodded his head at this man and smiled.
 "He is the boss here," he grinned, then flexed his arms as though to make the muscles stand out and looked at the man with the carbine in a half-mocking admiration. "A very strong man."
 "I can see it," Robert Jordan said and smiled again. He did not like the look of this man and inside himself he was not smiling at all.
 "What have you to justify your identity?" asked the man with the carbine.
 Robert Jordan unpinned a safety pin that ran through his pocket flap and took a folded paper out of the left breast pocket of his flannel shirt and handed it to the man, who opened it, looked at it doubtfully and turned it in his hands.
 So he cannot read, Robert Jordan noted.
 "Look at the seal," he said.
 The old man pointed to the seal and the man with the carbine studied it, turning it in his fingers.
 "What seal is that?"
 "Have you never seen it?"
 "No."
 "There are two," said Robert Jordan. "One is S. I. M., the service of the military intelligence. The other is the General Staff."
 "Yes, I have seen that seal before. But here no one commands but me," the other said sullenly. "What have you in the packs?"
 "Dynamite," the old man said proudly. "Last night we crossed the lines in the dark and all day we have carried this dynamite over the mountain."
 "I can use dynamite," said the man with the carbine. He handed back the paper to Robert Jordan and looked him over. "Yes. I have use for dynamite. How much have you brought me?"
 "I have brought you no dynamite," Robert Jordan said to him evenly. "The dynamite is for another purpose. What is your name?"
 "What is that to you?"
 "He is Pablo," said the old man. The man with the carbine looked at them both sullenly.
 "Good. I have heard much good of you," said Robert Jordan.
 "What have you heard of me?" asked Pablo.
 "I have heard that you are an excellent guerilla leader, that you are loyal to the republic and prove your loyalty through your acts, and that you are a man both serious and valiant. I bring you greetings from the General Staff."
 "Where did you hear all this?" asked Pablo. Robert Jordan registered that he was not taking any of the flattery.
 "I heard it from Buitrago to the Escorial," he said, naming all the stretch of country on the other side of the lines.
 "I know no one in Buitrago nor in Escorial," Pablo told him.
 "There are many people on the other side of the mountains who were not there before. Where are you from?"
 "Avila. What are you going to do with the dynamite?"
 "Blow up a bridge."
 "What bridge?"
 "That is my business."
 "If it is in this territory, it is my business. You cannot blow bridges close to where you live. You must live in one place and operate in another. I know my business. One who is alive, now, after a year, knows his business."
 "This is my business," Robert Jordan said. "We can discuss it together. Do you wish to help us with the sacks?"
 "No," said Pablo and shook his head.
 The old man turned toward him suddenly and spoke rapidly and furiously in a dialect that Robert Jordan could just follow. It was like reading Quevedo. Anselmo was speaking old Castilian and it went something like this, "Art thou a brute? Yes. Art thou a beast? Yes, many times Hast thou a brain? Nay. None. Now we come for something of consummate importance and thee, with thy dwelling place to be undisturbed, puts thy fox-hole before the interests of humanity. Before the interests of thy people. I this and that in the this and that of thy father. I this and that and that in thy this. _Pick up that bag_."
 Pablo looked down.
 "Every one has to do what he can do according to how it can be truly done," he said. "I live here and I operate beyond Segovia. If you make a disturbance here, we will be hunted out of these mountains. It is only by doing nothing here that we are able to live in these mountains. It is the principle of the fox."
 "Yes," said Anselmo bitterly. "It is the principle of the fox when we need the wolf."
 "I am more wolf than thee," Pablo said and Robert Jordan knew that he would pick up the sack.
 "Hi. Ho. . . ," Anselmo looked at him. "Thou art more wolf than me and I am sixty-eight years old."
 He spat on the ground and shook his head.
 "You have that many years?" Robert Jordan asked, seeing that now, for the moment, it would be all right and trying to make it go easier.
 "Sixty-eight in the month of July."
 "If we should ever see that month," said Pablo. "Let me help you with the pack," he said to Robert Jordan. "Leave the other to the old man." He spoke, not sullenly, but almost sadly now. "He is an old man of great strength."
 "I will carry the pack," Robert Jordan said.
 "Nay," said the old man. "Leave it to this other strong man."
 "I will take it," Pablo told him, and in his sullenness there was a sadness that was disturbing to Robert Jordan. He knew that sadness and to see it here worried him.
 "Give me the carbine then," he said and when Pablo handed it to him, he slung it over his back and, with the two men climbing ahead of him, they went heavily, pulling and climbing up the granite shelf and over its upper edge to where there was a green clearing in the forest.
 They skirted the edge of the little meadow and Robert Jordan, striding easily now without the pack, the carbine pleasantly rigid over his shoulder after the heavy, sweating pack weight, noticed that the grass was cropped down in several places and signs that picket pins had been driven into the earth. He could see a trail through the grass where horses had been led to the stream to drink and there was the fresh manure of several horses. They picket them here to feed at night and keep them out of sight in the timber in the daytime, he thought. I wonder how many horses this Pablo has?
 He remembered now noticing, without realizing it, that Pablo's trousers were worn soapy shiny in the knees and thighs. I wonder if he has a pair of boots or if he rides in those _alpargatas_, he thought. He must have quite an outfit. But I don't like that sadness, he thought. That sadness is bad. That's the sadness they get before they quit or before they betray. That is the sadness that comes before the sell-out.
 Ahead of them a horse whinnied in the timber and then, through the brown trunks of the pine trees, only a little sunlight coming down through their thick, almost-touching tops, he saw the corral made by roping around the tree trunks. The horses had their heads pointed toward the men as they approached, and at the foot of a tree, outside the corral, the saddles were piled together and covered with a tarpaulin.
 As they came up, the two men with the packs stopped, and Robert Jordan knew it was for him to admire the horses.
 "Yes," he said. "They are beautiful." He turned to Pablo. "You have your cavalry and all."
 There were five horses in the rope corral, three bays, a sorrel, and a buckskin. Sorting them out carefully with his eyes after he had seen them first together, Robert Jordan looked them over individually. Pablo and Anselmo knew how good they were and while Pablo stood now proud and less sad-looking, watching them lovingly, the old man acted as though they were some great surprise that he had produced, suddenly, himself.
 "How do they look to you?" he asked.
 "All these I have taken," Pablo said and Robert Jordan was pleased to hear him speak proudly.
 "That," said Robert Jordan, pointing to one of the bays, a big stallion with a white blaze on his forehead and a single white foot, the near front, "is much horse."
 He was a beautiful horse that looked as though he had come out of a painting by Velasquez.
 "They are all good," said Pablo. "You know horses?"
 "Yes."
 "Less bad," said Pablo. "Do you see a defect in one of these?"
 Robert Jordan knew that now his papers were being examined by the man who could not read.
 The horses all still had their heads up looking at the man. Robert Jordan slipped through between the double rope of the corral and slapped the buckskin on the haunch. He leaned back against the ropes of the enclosure and watched the horses circle the corral, stood watching them a minute more, as they stood still, then leaned down and came out through the ropes.
 "The sorrel is lame in the off hind foot," he said to Pablo, not looking at him. "The hoof is split and although it might not get worse soon if shod properly, she could break down if she travels over much hard ground."
 "The hoof was like that when we took her," Pablo said.
 "The best horse that you have, the white-faced bay stallion, has a swelling on the upper part of the cannon bone that I do not like."
 "It is nothing," said Pablo. "He knocked it three days ago. If it were to be anything it would have become so already."
 He pulled back the tarpaulin and showed the saddles. There were two ordinary vaquero's or herdsman's saddles, like American stock saddles, one very ornate vaquero's saddle, with hand-tooled leather and heavy, hooded stirrups, and two military saddles in black leather.
 "We killed a pair of _guardia civil_," he said, explaining the military saddles.
 "That is big game."
 "They had dismounted on the road between Segovia and Santa Maria del Real. They had dismounted to ask papers of the driver of a cart. We were able to kill them without injuring the horses."
 "Have you killed many civil guards?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Several," Pablo said. "But only these two without injury to the horses."
 "It was Pablo who blew up the train at Arevalo," Anselmo said. "That was Pablo."
 "There was a foreigner with us who made the explosion," Pablo said. "Do you know him?"
 "What is he called?"
 "I do not remember. It was a very rare name."
 "What did he look like?"
 "He was fair, as you are, but not as tall and with large hands and a broken nose."
 "Kashkin," Robert Jordan said. "That would be Kashkin."
 "Yes," said Pablo. "It was a very rare name. Something like that. What has become of him?"
 "He is dead since April."
 "That is what happens to everybody," Pablo said, gloomily. "That is the way we will all finish."
 "That is the way all men end," Anselmo said. "That is the way men have always ended. What is the matter with you, man? What hast thou in the stomach?"
 "They are very strong," Pablo said. It was as though he were talking to himself. He looked at the horses gloomily. "You do not realize how strong they are. I see them always stronget always better armed. Always with more material. Here am I with horses like these. And what can I look forward to? To be hunted and to die. Nothing more."
 "You hunt as much as you are hunted," Anselmo said.
 "No," said Pablo. "Not any more. And if we leave these mountains now, where can we go? Answer me that? Where now?"
 "In Spain there are many mountains. There are the Sierra de Gredos if one leaves here."
 "Not for me," Pablo said. "I am tired of being hunted. Here we are all right. Now if you blow a bridge here, we will be hunted. If they know we are here and hunt for us with planes, they will find us. If they send Moors to hunt us out, they will find us and we must go. I am tired of all this. You hear?" He turned to Robert Jordan. "What right have you, a foreigner, to come to me and tell me what I must do?"
 "I have not told you anything you must do," Robert Jordan said to him.
 "You will though," Pablo said. "There. There is the badness."
 He pointed at the two heavy packs that they had lowered to the ground while they had watched the horses. Seeing the horses had seemed to bring this all to a head in him and seeing that Robert Jordan knew horses had seemed to loosen his tongue. The three of them stood now by the rope corral and the patchy sunlight shone on the coat of the bay stallion. Pablo looked at him and then pushed with his foot against the heavy pack. "There is the badness."
 "I come only for my duty," Robert Jordan told him. "I come under orders from those who are conducting the war. If I ask you to help me, you can refuse and I will find others who will help me. I have not even asked you for help yet. I have to do what I am ordered to do and I can promise you of its importance. That I am a foreigner is not my fault. I would rather have been born here."
 "To me, now, the most important is that we be not disturbed here," Pablo said. "To me, now, my duty is to those who are with me and to myself."
 "Thyself. Yes," Anselmo said. "Thyself now since a long time. Thyself and thy horses. Until thou hadst horses thou wert with us. Now thou art another capitalist more."
 "That is unjust," said Pablo. "I expose the horses all the time for the cause."
 "Very little," said Anselmo scornfully. "Very little in my judgment. To steal, yes. To eat well, yes. To murder, yes. To fight, no."
 "You are an old man who will make himself trouble with his mouth."
 "I am an old man who is afraid of no one," Anselmo told him. "Also I am an old man without horses."
 "You are an old man who may not live long."
 "I am an old man who will live until I die," Anselmo said. "And I am not afraid of foxes."
 Pablo said nothing but picked up the pack.
 "Nor of wolves either," Anselmo said, picking up the other pack. "If thou art a wolf."
 "Shut thy mouth," Pablo said to him. "Thou art an old man who always talks too much."
 "And would do whatever he said he would do," Anselmo said, bent under the pack. "And who now is hungry. And thirsty. Go on, guerilla leader with the sad face. Lead us to something to eat."
 It is starting badly enough, Robert Jordan thought. But Anselmo's a man. They are wonderful when they are good, he thought. There is no people like them when they are good and when they go bad there is no people that is worse. Anselmo must have known what he was doing when he brought us here. But I don't like it. I don't like any of it.
 The only good sign was that Pablo was carrying the pack and that he had given him the carbine. Perhaps he is always like that, Robert Jordan thought. Maybe he is just one of the gloomy ones.
 No, he said to himself, don't fool yourself. You do not know how he was before; but you do know that he is going bad fast and without hiding it. When he starts to hide it he will have made a decision. Remember that, he told himself. The first friendly thing he does, he will have made a decision. They are awfully good horses, though, he thought, beautiful horses. I wonder what could make me feel the way those horses make Pablo feel. The old man was right. The horses made him rich and as soon as he was rich he wanted to enjoy life. Pretty soon he'll feel bad because he can't join the Jockey Club, I guess, he thought. Pauvre Pablo. Il a manqu?son Jockey.
 That idea made him feel better. He grinned, looking at the two bent backs and the big packs ahead of him moving through the trees. He had not made any jokes with himself all day and now that he had made one he felt much better. You're getting to be as all the rest of them, he told himself. You're getting gloomy, too. He'd certainly been solemn and gloomy with Golz. The job had overwhelmed him a little. Slightly overwhelmed, he thought. Plenty overwhelmed. Golz was gay and he had wanted him to be gay too before he left, but he hadn't been.
 All the best ones, when you thought it over, were gay. It was much better to be gay and it was a sign of something too. It was like having immortality while you were still alive. That was a complicated one. There were not many of them left though. No, there were not many of the gay ones left. There were very damned few of them left. And if you keep on thinking like that, my boy, you won't be left either. Turn off the thinking now, old timer, old comrade. You're a bridge-blower now. Not a thinker. Man, I'm hungry, he thought. I hope Pablo eats well.
　　他匍匐在树林里褐色的、积着一层松针的地上，交叉的手臂支着下颚；在高高的上空，风在松树梢上呼啸而过。他俯躺着的山坡坡度不大，再往下却很陡峭，他看得到黑色的柏油路蜿蜒穿过山口。沿柏油路有条小河，山口远处的河边有家锯木厂，拦水坝的泄水灾夏天的阳光下泛着白光。
　　“那就是锯木厂么？”他问。
　　“就是。” 
　　“我记不得了。”
　　“那是你离开这儿以后造的。老锯木厂还在前面，离山口很远。”
　　他在地上摊开影印的军用地图，仔细端详。老头儿从他肩后看着。他是个结实的矮老头儿，身穿农民的黑罩衣和硬邦邦的灰裤子，叫上是一双绳底鞋。他爬山刚停下来，还在喘气，一手搁在他们带来的两只沉重的背包的一只上面。
　　“这么说从这里是望不到那座桥了。”
　　“望不到，”老头儿说。“这山口一带地势比较平坦，水流不急。再往前，公路拐进林子不见了踪影，那里地势突然低下去，有个挺深的峡谷－－－”
　　“我记得。”
　　“峡谷上面就是那座桥。”
　　“他们的哨所在哪儿？”
　　“你看到的锯木厂那边有个哨所。”
　　这个正在研究地形的年轻人从他褐色的黄褐色法兰绒衬衫口袋里掏出望远镜，用手帕擦擦镜片，调整焦距，目镜中的景象突然清晰，连锯木厂的木板都看到了，他还看到了门边的一条长板凳，敞棚里的圆锯，后面有一大堆木屑；他还看到一段把小河对岸山坡上的木材运下来的滑槽。小河在望远镜里显得清澈而平静，打着漩涡的水从拦水坝泻下来，底下的水花在风中飞溅。
　　“没有岗哨。”
　　“锯木房里在冒烟，”老头儿说。“还有晒衣服上挂着衣服。”
　　“这些我见到了，但看不到岗哨。”
　　“说不定他在背阴处，”老头儿解释说。“那儿现在挺热。他也许在我们看不到的背阴那头。”
　　“可能。另一个哨所在哪里？”
　　“在桥下方。在养路工的小屋边，里山口五公里的里程碑那里。”
　　“这里有多少士兵？”他指指锯木厂。
　　“也许有四个加上一个班长。”
　　“下面呢？”
　　“要多些。我能探听明白。”
　　“那么桥头呢？”
　　“总是两个。每边一个。”
　　“我们需要一批人手，”他说。“你能召集多少？”
　　“你要多少，我就能召集多少，”老头儿说。“这一带山里现在就有不少人。”
　　“多少？”
　　“一百多个。不过他们三三五五分散开了。你需要多少人？”
　　“等我们勘察了桥以后再跟你说。”
　　“你想现在就去勘察桥吗？”
　　“不。现在我想去找个地方把炸药藏起来，要用的时候再去取。我希望把它藏在最安全的地方，假如可能的话，离桥不能超过半个小时的路程。”
　　“那简单，”老头儿说。“从我们现在要去的地方到桥头全都是下坡路。不过，我们现在要去那儿倒得很认真地爬一会山哪。你饿吗？”
　　“饿，”年轻人说。“不过，我们过后再吃吧。你叫什么名字？我忘了。”他竟把名字都忘了，这对他来说是个不祥之兆。
　　“安塞尔莫，”老头儿说。“我叫安塞尔莫，老家在阿维拉省的巴尔科城。我来帮你拿那只背包。”
　　这年轻人是个瘦高个儿，张着闪亮的金发和一张饱经风霜日晒的脸，他穿着一件晒得褪了色的法兰绒衬衫，一条农民的裤子和一双绳底鞋。他弯下腰去，一条胳膊伸进背包皮带圈里，把那沉重的背包甩上肩头。他把另一条胳膊伸进另一条皮带圈里，使背包的重量全压在背上。他衬衫上原先被背包压住的地方还是汗湿的。
　　“我把它背上啦，”他说。“我们怎么走？”
　　“咱俩爬山。”安塞尔莫说。
　　他们被背包压得弯下了腰，在山坡上的松树林里一步步向上爬，身上淌着汗。年轻人发现林中并没有路径，但是他们继续向上攀登，绕到了前山，这时跨过了一条小溪，老头儿踩着溪边石块稳健地向前走去。这时，山路更陡峭，爬山更艰难了，到后来，溪水似乎是从他们头顶上一个平滑的花岗石悬崖边上直泻下来，于是老头儿在悬崖下停了步，等着年轻人赶上来。
　　“你行吗？”
　　“行，”年轻人说。他大汗淋漓，因为爬了陡峭的山路，大腿的肌肉抽搐起来。
　　“在这里等我。我先去通知他们。你带了这玩意总不希望人家朝你开枪吧。”
　　“当然不希望，”年轻人说。“路远吗？”
　　“很近。怎么称呼你？”
　　“罗伯托（这是本书主人公罗伯托　乔丹的名字的西班牙语读法的音译。），”年轻人回答。他卸下背包，轻轻地放在溪边两块大圆石之间。
　　“那么就在这儿等着，罗伯托，我回来接你。”
　　“好，”年轻人说。“难道你打算以后走这条路到下面桥头吗？”
　　“不。我们到桥头去得走另一条路。那条路近一些，比较容易走。”
　　“我不想把这东西藏得离桥太远。”
　　“你瞧着办吧。要是你不满意，我们另找地方。”
　　“我们瞧着办吧，”年轻人说。
　　他坐在背包旁边，看着老头儿攀登悬崖。这悬崖不难攀登，而且这年轻人发现，从老头儿不用摸索就找到攀手地方的利落样子看来，这地方他已经爬过好多次了。然而，待在上面的人们一向小心翼翼地不让留下任何痕迹来。
　　这年轻人名叫罗伯特•乔丹，他饿极了，并且心事重重。挨饿是常有的事，但担心却不常有，因为他对自己出的处境一向并不在意，并且他凭经验知道，在这一带开展敌后活动是多么容易。假如你有个好向导的话，在敌后活动也好，在他们防线中间穿插也好，都不是难事。问题只在于如果被敌人抓住，事情就不好办了；此外，就是判断可以信任谁的问题。你要么完全信任和你一起工作的人，要么丝毫也不信任，在这方面你必须作出决定。这些都不使他发愁。但是还有别的问题呢。
　　这个安塞尔莫一直是个好向导，他走山路的本领真了不起。罗伯特•乔丹自己也是走山路的能手，但是，他从黎明前跟着他走到现在，他知道这老家伙能够使他走得累死。除了判断力，罗伯特•乔丹事事都信得过这个安塞尔莫。他还没机会考验这老头儿的判断力，不过，反正这一回应该由他自己来负责作出判断。不，他不愁安塞尔莫，而炸桥的事也见不得比许多别的事更难办。随便什么样的桥，只要你叫得出名称他都会炸，各种大小和结构的桥，他都炸过。即使这座桥比安塞尔莫所介绍的大两倍，这两只背包里的炸药和装置也足够把它全炸掉。他记得一九三三年徒步旅行到拉格兰哈去的时候曾走过这座桥，戈尔兹①前晚在埃斯科里亚尔城外一幢房子的楼上曾给他念过关于这座桥的资料。
　　“炸桥本身没有什么了不起，”戈尔兹当时说，用铅笔在一张大地图上指着。灯光照在他那有伤疤的光头上。“你懂吗？”
　　“是，我懂。”
　　“根本不算一回事。仅仅把桥炸掉只能算是一种失败。”
　　“是，将军同志。”
　　“应该做到的是根据发动进攻的时间，在指定的时刻炸桥。你当然明白这一点。这就是你的权利，这就是你的任务。”
　　戈尔兹看看铅笔，然后用它轻轻地敲敲牙齿。
　　罗伯特•乔丹什么也没说。
　　“你明白，这就是你的权利和你的任务，”戈尔兹接着说，对他点点头。他这时用铅笔敲敲地图。“那就是我的责任。那也正是我们无法做到的。”
　　“为什么，将军同志？”
　　“为什么？”戈尔兹气愤地说。“你经历过好多次进攻，还问我为什么？有什么能保证我的命令不被变动？有什么能保证这次进攻不被取消？有什么能保证这次进攻不被推迟？有什么能保证实际发动进攻的时间和预定时间相差不超过六个小时？有过一次按计划进行的进攻吗？”

　　“如果指挥进攻的是你，就会准时发动，”罗伯特•乔丹说。
　　“我从来也指挥不了，”戈尔兹说。“我只是发动而已。但我就是指挥不了。炮队不是我的。我必须提出申请。即使他们有的东西也从没按照我要求的给我。那还是最小的事情。还有别的呢。你知道这些人的作风。没必要详谈。总是出问题。总有人干扰。你得了解这一点。”
　　“那么什么时候炸桥呢？”罗伯特•乔丹问。
　　“在进攻开始之后。进攻一开始就炸，不能提前。这样，增援部队就不能从那条路上开上来。”他用铅笔指着。“我必须肯定那条路上来不了援兵。”
　　“什么时候进攻？”
　　“我会告诉你的。但是你只能把日期和时间当作一种可能性的参考。你必须在那之前准备就绪。进攻开始后就炸桥。明白吗？”他用铅笔指着。“他们增援兵力只能进攻那条路。他们只能从那条路把坦克、大炮一直卡车开到我发动攻击的山口。我必须肯定桥要炸掉。不能提前，不然的话，如果进攻推迟，他们就可以把桥修好。那可不行。进攻开始的时候，就必须炸掉，我必须有充分把握。岗哨只有两个。跟你一起去的那人刚从那里来。据说他非常可靠。你就会明白的。他在山里有人。你需要多少人，就要多少。尽可能少用人，但要够用。我不必对你说这些事情了。”
　　“怎样才能断定进攻已经开始了呢？”
　　“进攻将由整整一师兵力发动。现有飞机轰炸作为准备。你耳朵不聋吧？”
　　“那么，我是不是可以这样理解，当飞机礽炸弹的时候，进攻就开始了？”
　　“你不能老是这样理解，”戈尔兹说，还摇摇头。“但是这一次，你可以这样看待。这是我布置的进攻。”
　　“我不懂了，”罗伯特•乔丹说，“老实说我不喜欢这个任务。”
　　“我也不是分喜欢。你要是不愿承担，现在就说。要是你认为自己干不了，现在就说。”
　　“我干，”罗伯特•乔丹说。“我去干，没问题。”
　　“我要知道的就是这一点。”戈尔兹说。“那就是桥上不能有任何东西通过。那一点要绝对保证。”
　　“我懂。”
　　“我不喜欢要求人做这种事情，并且用这种方式做，”戈尔兹接着说。“我不能命令你干这种事。我明白犹豫我提出的条件，你将被迫干些什么。我已经仔细解释过了，为的是要你明白，要你明白种种可能遇到的困难和任务的重要性。”
　　“如果桥炸了，你们怎样向拉格兰哈推进？”
　　“等我们攻占山口，就着手把桥修起来。这是一次十分复杂而漂亮的军事行动，象以往一切军事行动那样复杂而漂亮。这计划是在马德里制订的。这是维森特　罗霍，那位失意的教授的又一杰作。我布置这次进攻，象历来那样是在兵力不足的情况下进行的。尽管如此，这是一次大有可为的军事行动。我为这次行动比往常感到更为乐观。把桥炸掉之后，这一仗是可能大胜的。我们能拿下塞哥维亚。看，我来指给你看这是怎么回事。你看到吗？我们的目标可不是这次进攻的山口的顶端。我们要守住它。我们的目标在远远的那边。看－在这里－象这样－”
　　“我还是不知道的好，”罗伯特•乔丹说。
　　“好，”戈尔兹说。“这样，你到那边就可以少一点思想负担，是吗？”
　　“我即使不去那边也不想知道。那样，不管发生什么事，泄露情况的不会是我。”
　　“确实是不知道的好，”戈尔兹用铅笔敲敲前额。“有好多次我也希望自己不知道。但是你必须知道的有关桥的是，你知道了吗？”
　　“是。那我知道。”
　　“我相信你知道了，”戈尔兹说。“我不再向你发表讲话啦。我们现在来喝点酒吧。话说得不少，我很口渴了，霍丹同志。你的姓氏用西班牙语念起来很有趣，霍丹同志。”
　　“‘戈尔兹’用西班牙语是怎么念的，将军同志？”
　　“‘霍茨’，”戈尔兹露齿笑了，从喉咙深处发出这声音，就像患了重感冒咳痰似的。“‘霍茨’，”他声音嘶哑地说。“‘霍茨将军同志’。假使我早知道‘戈尔兹’在西班牙语里是这样念的，我来这里打仗以前就给自己另外取个好一点的名字了。我明知道要来指挥一个师，随便取什么名字都可以，可是竟取了‘霍茨’。‘霍茨将军’，现在要改已经太迟了，你喜欢partizan工作吗？”
　　“有时候。”
　　“你炸这座桥，可最好不要说什么‘有时候’啊。得，咱们别再唠叨这座桥啦。关于这座桥，你现在相当清楚了。我们非常认真，所以才能开些大玩笑。听着，你在火线另一边有很多姑娘吗？”
　　“没有，没时间花在姑娘身上。”
　　＂我不同意。任务越不正规，生活也就越不正规。你的任务太不正规。还有，你得把头发理一理。”
　　“我的头发理得很合适，”罗伯特•乔丹说。要他象戈尔兹那样把头发剃光才见鬼呢。“没有姑娘，我该思考的事情已经够多啦，”他阴郁地说。
　　“我该穿什么样的制服？”罗伯特•乔丹问。
　　“什么制服都不用穿，”戈尔兹说。“你的头发理得很不错。我是在逗你。你跟我很不一样，”戈尔兹说着有斟满了两人的酒杯。
　　“你思考的事情从来不仅仅是姑娘。我根本不思考。干吗要思考呢？我是将军。我从来不思考。别引诱我去思考吧。”
　　有个师部的人员坐在椅子上，正在研究制图板上的一张地图，这时用一种罗伯特•乔丹听不懂的语言对戈尔兹大声地说了些什么。
　　“闭嘴，”戈尔兹用英语说。“我想开玩笑就开。正因为我很认真，才能开玩笑。现在把酒喝了就走吧。你懂了吗，呃？”
　　“是，”罗伯特•乔丹说。“我懂了。”
　　他俩握了手，他敬了礼，出来上了师部的汽车，老头儿等在里面，已经睡着了。他们乘这辆车一路经过瓜达拉马镇，老头儿仍在睡觉，再顺着上纳瓦塞拉达的公路，来到登山俱乐部的小屋，罗伯特•乔丹在那儿睡了三小时才出发。
　　那是他最后一次会见戈尔兹的情景，戈尔兹有着一张永远晒不黑的白得出奇的脸，鹰一样的眼睛，大鼻子，薄嘴唇，剃光的头上有着一条条皱纹和伤疤。明天晚上，部队将集合在埃斯科里亚尔城外黑魅魅的公路上，长长两行车在夜色中装载着步兵；配备沉重的士兵爬上卡车；机枪排把他们的枪支抬上卡车；坦克顺着垫木开上装坦克的长平板车；在深夜把一师兵力拉出去，调动布置，准备进攻山口。他不愿想这些事。那不是他的事。那是戈尔兹的事。他只有一件事要做，那才是他应该考虑的，而且必须把它计划得清清楚楚，把所有的情况都估计到，不能发愁。发愁和恐惧一样糟糕。这只会使事情更难办。
　　这是，他坐在小溪边，望着山石间清澈的水流。他发现溪水对面有一簇稠密的水田芥。他涉过小溪，拔了两把，在水流中把根上的泥洗净，然后返身坐在背包旁，吃着那干净而凉爽的绿叶和鲜嫩尔带辣味的茎梗。他跪在溪边，把系在腰带上的自动手枪挪到背后，免得弄潮。他两手各撑在一块岩石上，附身去和溪水。溪水冷彻骨髓。
　　他撑起身体，转过头来，看见老头儿正在悬崖上爬下来。和他一起的还有一个人，也穿着这地区几乎成为制服的农民黑罩衣和深灰色裤子，脚上是一双绳底鞋，还背着一支卡宾枪。这人光着脑袋。两人象山羊般灵活地从悬崖上爬上来。
　　他们向他走来，罗伯特•乔丹站起身。
　　”你好，同志，“他对背卡宾枪的人说，并且微微一笑。
　　”你好，“对方勉强地说。罗伯特•乔丹望着这个人满是胡子茬的大脸。这张脸盘差不多是滚圆的，脑袋也是圆圆的，紧挨在肩膀上。两只眼睛小而分得很开，一双耳朵小而紧贴在脑袋上。他身子粗壮，高五英尺十英寸左右，大手大脚，鼻子破裂过，嘴角一边被刀砍过，横过上唇和小颌的刀疤在丛生的胡子中露了出来。
　　老头儿对这个人点点头，微微一笑。
　　”他是这里的头儿，“他露齿笑着说，然后屈起双臂，仿佛要使肌肉鼓起来似的。他以一种半带嘲弄的钦佩神情望着这个背卡宾枪的人。”一条好汉。“
　　“我看得出来，”罗伯特•乔丹说，又笑了笑。他不喜欢这个人的神情，心里没有一丁点儿笑意。
　　“你有什么可以证明你的身份？”背卡宾枪的人问。
　　罗伯特•乔丹把别住衣带盖的安全别针解开，从法兰绒衬衫的左胸袋里掏出一张折好的纸，交给这个人，这个人摊开证件，怀疑地看看，在手里翻弄着。
　　罗伯特•乔丹看出他原来不识字。
　　“看这公章，”他说。
　　老头儿指指印鉴，背卡宾枪的人端详着，把证件夹在手指间翻来翻去。
　　“这是啥公章？”
　　“你以前从没见过？”
　　“没有。”
　　“有两个，”罗伯特•乔丹说。“一个是S.I.M.-军事情报部。另一个是总参谋部的。”
　　“对，那个公章我以前见过。不过在这里要我说了才算数，”对方阴郁地说。“你包里藏的什么？”
　　“炸药，”老头儿神气地说。“昨晚我们摸黑越过了火线，今天一整天，背着这炸药走山路。”
　　“我用得着炸药，”背卡宾枪的人说。他把证件还给罗伯特•乔丹，上下打量着他。“对。炸药对我很有用。你给我带来了多少？”
　　“我带来的炸药不是给你的，”罗伯特•乔丹平静地对他说。“炸药另有用处。你叫什么名字？”
　　“这跟你有什么相干？”
　　“他叫巴勃罗，”老头儿说。背卡宾枪的人阴郁地望着他们俩。
　　“好。我听到过很多夸你的话，”罗伯特•乔丹说。
　　“你听到关于我的什么话？”巴勃罗问。
　　“我听说你是个了不起的游击队长，你忠于共和国，并用行动证实了你的忠诚，你这个人既严肃又勇敢。我给你带来了总参谋部的问候。”
　　“你这些话是从哪里听来的？”巴勃罗问。罗伯特•乔丹注意到这个人一点也不吃马屁。
　　“从布伊特拉戈到埃斯科里亚尔，我都听说，”他说，提到了火线另一边的整个地区。
　　“布伊特拉戈也好，埃斯科里亚尔也好，我都没熟人，”巴勃罗对他说。
　　“山脉的另一边有很多人从前都不是住在哪里的②。你是哪里人？”
　　“阿维拉省人。你打算用炸药干什么？”
　　“炸毁一座桥。”
　　“什么桥？”
① 　　西班牙于一九三一年四月十四日推翻君主制，成立共和国。一九三六年二月十六日的国会选举中，以共产党、共和党左派等为中坚力量的人民阵线取得了压倒多数，成立联合政府。在德国和意大利的公开武装支持下，佛朗哥将军于七月十八日在西属摩洛哥发动叛乱，西班牙法西斯组织长枪党等右派集团及各地驻军纷起响应，很快就占领了西班牙西北及西南部。八月十四日，叛军攻陷西部边境重镇巴达霍斯，南北部队在此会师，整个西部都落入叛军之手，就集中兵力进攻首都马德里。十一月初，四支纵队兵临城下。这时形势非常危急，共和国政府被迫于十一月九日迁东部地中海边的瓦伦西亚。内战爆发后，德意源源不绝地提供飞机、大炮、坦克等军需及武装人员直接介入，英法却在“不干涉政策”的名义下对西班牙实行封锁。国际进步力量在各国共产党的领导下积极支援西班牙政府，在法国成立由志愿人员组成的国际纵队，于十月正式西班牙参战，和英雄的首都人民一起，在马德里保卫战中起了积极的作用，马德里巍然不动。本书故事发生在第二年五月，地点是马德里西北的瓜达拉马山区，改山脉为西南-东北向，叛军占领着各山口，并在山顶有一道防线，但防线后深山中有几个游击小组在展开敌后活动。这是政府军司令戈尔兹将军正计划向该山区发动强攻，目的在突破敌人防线，收复山后重镇塞哥维亚。本书主人公美国志愿军罗伯特•乔丹奉命进山，和游击队取得联系，配合此次进攻，完成炸桥任务。
②　　由于国内战争，很多拥护共和国政府的人从敌占区投奔到瓜达拉马山脉东南政府军控制的地区去。
　　“那是我的事。”
　　“如果桥在这个地区，那就是我的事。你不能在紧挨你住的地方炸桥。你住在一个地方，就只能到另一个地方去活动。我这儿的事我了解。在这儿能带上ｙ８ｉｎｉａｎ没死掉的人了解自己的事。”
　　“这是我的事，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我们可以一起商量，你愿意帮我们拿背包吗？”
　　“不，”巴勃罗说，摇摇头。
　　老头儿突然转过身，用一种罗伯特　乔丹勉强能听懂的方言，迅速而愤怒地对巴勃罗说话。仿佛是在朗诵克维多的诗篇。安塞尔莫这时是在说古卡斯迪语①，大意是这样的：“你是野兽吗？是呀。你是畜生吗？一点不错。你有头脑吗？不，没有。我们这次来，要干的是重要透顶的事，可你呢，只求不惊动你自家住的地方，把你自己的狐狸洞看得比人类的利益海中。比你同胞的利益还要紧。我操你的祖宗。把背包提起来。”
　　巴勃罗把头低了下去。
　　“人人都得根据实际情况干他力所能及的事，”他说。“我住在这里，就到塞哥维亚以外活动。你要是在这一带山里搞什么名堂，我们就会被敌人从这里赶出去。我们只有在这一带山里按兵不动，才待得下去。这是狐狸的原则。”
　　“是啊，”安塞尔莫尖刻地说。“这是狐狸的原则，可是我们需要的是狼。”
　　“我比你更像狼啊，”巴勃罗说，罗伯特　乔丹看出他会拿起那个背包的。
①　　克维多(1580-1645）：西班牙作家，著有讽刺文、流浪汉小说及诗歌等。阿维拉省及塞哥维亚省属古卡斯蒂尔地区，其方言至今带有古风。

　　“唏，嗬，”安塞尔莫冲着他说，“你居然跟我比谁更象狼，我六十八啦。”
　　他往地上唾了一口，摇摇头。
　　&ldqu
Chapter 2
 They had come through the heavy timber to the cup-shaped upper end of the little valley and he saw where the camp must be under the rim-rock that rose ahead of them through the trees.
 That was the camp all right and it was a good camp. You did not see it at all until you were up to it and Robert Jordan knew it could not be spotted from the air. Nothing would show from above. It was as well hidden as a bear's den. But it seemed to be little better guarded. He looked at it carefully as they came up.
 There was a large cave in the rim-rock formation and beside the opening a man sat with his back against the rock, his legs stretched out on the ground and his carbine leaning against the rock. He was cutting away on a stick with a knife and he stared at them as they came up, then went on whittling.
 "_Hola_," said the seated man. "What is this that comes?"
 "The old man and a dynamiter," Pablo told him and lowered the pack inside the entrance to the cave. Anselmo lowered his pack, too, and Robert Jordan unslung the rifle and leaned it against the rock.
 "Don't leave it so close to the cave," the whittling man, who had blue eyes in a dark, good-looking lazy gypsy face, the color of smoked leather, said. "There's a fire in there."
 "Get up and put it away thyself," Pablo said. "Put it by that tree."
 The gypsy did not move but said something unprintable, then, "Leave it there. Blow thyself up," he said lazily. "Twill cure thy diseases."
 "What do you make?" Robert Jordan sat down by the gypsy. The gypsy showed him. It was a figure four trap and he was whittling the crossbar for it.
 "For foxes," he said. "With a log for a dead-fall. It breaks their backs." He grinned at Jordan. "Like this, see?" He made a motion of the framework of the trap collapsing, the log falling, then shook his head, drew in his hand, and spread his arms to show the fox with a broken back. "Very practical," he explained.
 "He catches rabbits," Anselmo said. "He is a gypsy. So if he catches rabbits he says it is foxes. If he catches a fox he would say it was an elephant."
 "And if I catch an elephant?" the gypsy asked and showed his white teeth again and winked at Robert Jordan.
 "You'd say it was a tank," Anselmo told him.
 "I'll get a tank," the gypsy told him. "I will get a tank. And you can say it is what you please."
 "Gypsies talk much and kill little," Anselmo told him.
 The gypsy winked at Robert Jordan and went on whittling.
 Pablo had gone in out of sight in the cave. Robert Jordan hoped he had gone for food. He sat on the ground by the gypsy and the afternoon sunlight came down through the tree tops and was warm on his outstretched legs. He could smell food now in the cave, the smell of oil and of onions and of meat frying and his stomach moved with hunger inside of him.
 "We can get a tank," he said to the gypsy. "It is not too difficult."
 "With this?" the gypsy pointed toward the two sacks.
 "Yes," Robert Jordan told him. "I will teach you. You make a trap. It is not too difficult."
 "You and me?"
 "Sure," said Robert Jordan. "Why not?"
 "Hey," the gypsy said to Anselmo. "Move those two sacks to where they will be safe, will you? They're valuable."
 Anselmo grunted. "I am going for wine," he told Robert Jordan. Robert Jordan got up and lifted the sacks away from the cave entrance and leaned them, one on each side of a tree trunk. He knew what was in them and he never liked to see them close together.
 "Bring a cup for me," the gypsy told him.
 "Is there wine?" Robert Jordan asked, sitting down again by the gypsy.
 "Wine? Why not? A whole skinful. Half a skinful, anyway."
 "And what to eat?"
 "Everything, man," the gypsy said. "We eat like generals."
 "And what do gypsies do in the war?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "They keep on being gypsies."
 "That's a good job."
 "The best," the gypsy said. "How do they call thee?"
 "Roberto. And thee?"
 "Rafael. And this of the tank is serious?"
 "Surely. Why not?"
 Anselmo came out of the mouth of the cave with a deep stone basin full of red wine and with his fingers through the handles of three cups. "Look," he said. "They have cups and all." Pablo came out behind them.
 "There is food soon," he said. "Do you have tobacco?"
 Robert Jordan went over to the packs and opening one, felt inside an inner pocket and brought out one of the flat boxes of Russian cigarettes he had gotten at Golz's headquarters. He ran his thumbnail around the edge of the box and, opening the lid, handed them to Pablo who took half a dozen. Pablo, holding them in one of his huge hands, picked one up and looked at it against the light. They were long narrow cigarettes with pasteboard cylinders for mouthpieces.
 "Much air and little tobacco," he said. "I know these. The other with the rare name had them."
 "Kashkin," Robert Jordan said and offered the cigarettes to the gypsy and Anselmo, who each took one.
 "Take more," he said and they each took another. He gave them each four more, they making a double nod with the hand holding the cigarettes so that the cigarette dipped its end as a man salutes with a sword, to thank him.
 "Yes," Pablo said. "It was a rare name."
 "Here is the wine." Anselmo dipped a cup out of the bowl and handed it to Robert Jordan, then dipped for himself and the gypsy.
 "Is there no wine for me?" Pablo asked. They were all sitting together by the cave entrance.
 Anselmo handed him his cup and went into the cave for another. Coming out he leaned over the bowl and dipped the cup full and they all touched cup edges.
 The wine was good, tasting faintly resinous from the wineskin, but excellent, light and clean on his tongue. Robert Jordan drank it slowly, feeling it spread warmly through his tiredness.
 "The food comes shortly," Pablo said. "And this foreigner with the rare name, how did he die?"
 "He was captured and he killed himself."
 "How did that happen?"
 "He was wounded and he did not wish to be a prisoner."
 "What were the details?"
 "I don't know," he lied. He knew the details very well and he knew they would not make good talking now.
 "He made us promise to shoot him in case he were wounded at the business of the train and should be unable to get away," Pablo said. "He spoke in a very rare manner."
 He must have been jumpy even then, Robert Jordan thought. Poor old Kashkin.
 "He had a prejudice against killing himself," Pablo said. "He told me that. Also he had a great fear of being tortured."
 "Did he tell you that, too?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "Yes," the gypsy said. "He spoke like that to all of us."
 "Were you at the train, too?"
 "Yes. All of us were at the train."
 "He spoke in a very rare manner," Pablo said. "But he was very brave."
 Poor old Kashkin, Robert Jordan thought. He must have been doing more harm than good around here. I wish I would have known he was that jumpy as far back as then. They should have Pulled him out. You can't have people around doing this sort of Work and talking like that. That is no way to talk. Even if they accomplish their mission they are doing more harm than good, talking that sort of stuff.
 "He was a little strange," Robert Jordan said. "I think he was a little crazy."
 "But very dexterous at producing explosions," the gypsy said. "And very brave."
 "But crazy," Robert Jordan said. "In this you have to have very much head and be very cold in the head. That was no way to talk."
 "And you," Pablo said. "If you are wounded in such a thing as this bridge, you would be willing to be left behind?"
 "Listen," Robert Jordan said and, leaning forward, he dipped himself another cup of the wine. "Listen to me clearly. If ever I should have any little favors to ask of any man, I will ask him at the time."
 "Good," said the gypsy approvingly. "In this way speak the good ones. Ah! Here it comes."
 "You have eaten," said Pablo.
 "And I can eat twice more," the gypsy told him. "Look now who brings it."
 The girl stooped as she came out of the cave mouth carrying the big iron cooking platter and Robert Jordan saw her face turned at an angle and at the same time saw the strange thing about her. She smiled and said, "_Hola_, Comrade," and Robert Jordan said, "_Salud_," and was careful not to stare and not to look away. She set down the flat iron platter in front of him and he noticed her handsome brown hands. Now she looked him full in the face and smiled. Her teeth were white in her brown face and her skin and her eyes were the same golden tawny brown. She had high cheekbones, merry eyes and a straight mouth with full lips. Her hair was the golden brown of a grain field that has been burned dark in the sun but it was cut short all over her head so that it was but little longer than the fur on a beaver pelt. She smiled in Robert Jordan's face and put her brown hand up and ran it over her head, flattening the hair which rose again as her hand passed. She has a beautiful face, Robert Jordan thought. She'd be beautiful if they hadn't cropped her hair.
 "That is the way I comb it," she said to Robert Jordan and laughed. "Go ahead and eat. Don't stare at me. They gave me this haircut in Valladolid. It's almost grown out now."
 She sat down opposite him and looked at him. He looked back at her and she smiled and folded her hands together over her knees. Her legs slanted long and clean from the open cuffs of the trousers as she sat with her hands across her knees and he could see the shape of her small up-tilted breasts under the gray shirt. Every time Robert Jordan looked at her he could feel a thickness in his throat.
 "There are no plates," Anselmo said. "Use your own knife." The girl had leaned four forks, tines down, against the sides of the iron dish.
 They were all eating out of the platter, not speaking, as is the Spanish custom. It was rabbit cooked with onions and green peppers and there were chick peas in the red wine sauce. It was well cooked, the rabbit meat flaked off the bones, and the sauce was delicious. Robert Jordan drank another cup of wine while he ate. The girl watched him all through the meal. Every one else was watching his food and eating. Robert Jordan wiped up the last of the sauce in front of him with a piece of bread, piled the rabbit bones to one side, wiped the spot where they had been for sauce, then wiped his fork clean with the bread, wiped his knife and put it away and ate the bread. He leaned over and dipped his cup full of wine and the girl still watched him.
 Robert Jordan drank half the cup of wine but the thickness still came in his throat when he spoke to the girl.
 "How art thou called?" he asked. Pablo looked at him quickly when he heard the tone of his voice. Then he got up and walked away.
 "Maria. And thee?"
 "Roberto. Have you been long in the mountains?"
 "Three months."
 "Three months?" He looked at her hair, that was as thick and short and rippling when she passed her hand over it, now in embarrassment, as a grain field in the wind on a hillside. "It was shaved," she said. "They shaved it regularly in the prison at Valladolid. It has taken three months to grow to this. I was on the train. They were taking me to the south. Many of the prisoners were caught after the train was blown up but I was not. I came With these."
 "I found her hidden in the rocks," the gypsy said. "It was when we were leaving. Man, but this one was ugly. We took her along but many times I thought we would have to leave her."
 "And the other one who was with them at the train?" asked Maria. "The other blond one. The foreigner. Where is he?"
 "Dead," Robert Jordan said. "In April."
 "In April? The train was in April."
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "He died ten days after the train."
 "Poor man," she said. "He was very brave. And you do that same business?"
 "Yes."
 "You have done trains, too?"
 "Yes. Three trains."
 "Here?"
 "In Estremadura," he said. "I was in Estremadura before I came here. We do very much in Estremadura. There are many of us working in Estremadura."
 "And why do you come to these mountains now?"
 "I take the place of the other blond one. Also I know this country from before the movement."
 "You know it well?"
 "No, not really well. But I learn fast. I have a good map and I have a good guide."
 "The old man," she nodded. "The old man is very good."
 "Thank you," Anselmo said to her and Robert Jordan realized suddenly that he and the girl were not alone and he realized too that it was hard for him to look at her because it made his voice change so. He was violating the second rule of the two rules for getting on well with people that speak Spanish; give the men tobacco and leave the women alone; and he realized, very suddenly, that he did not care. There were so many things that he had not to care about, why should he care about that?
 "You have a very beautiful face," he said to Maria. "I wish I would have had the luck to see you before your hair was cut."
 "It will grow out," she said. "In six months it will be long enough."
 "You should have seen her when we brought her from the train. She was so ugly it would make you sick."
 "Whose woman are you?" Robert Jordan asked, trying not to pull out of it. "Are you Pablo's?"
 She looked at him and laughed, then slapped him on the knee.
 "Of Pablo? You have seen Pablo?"
 "Well, then, of Rafael. I have seen Rafael."
 "Of Rafael neither."
 "Of no one," the gypsy said. "This is a very strange woman. Is of no one. But she cooks well."
 "Really of no one?" Robert Jordan asked her.
 "Of no one. No one. Neither in joke nor in seriousness. Nor of thee either."
 "No?" Robert Jordan said and he could feel the thickness coming in his throat again. "Good. I have no time for any woman. That is true."
 "Not fifteen minutes?" the gypsy asked teasingly. "Not a quarter of an hour?" Robert Jordan did not answer. He looked at the girl, Maria, and his throat felt too thick for him to trust himself to speak.
 Maria looked at him and laughed, then blushed suddenly but kept on looking at him.
 "You are blushing," Robert Jordan said to her. "Do you blush much?"
 "Never."
 "You are blushing now."
 "Then I will go into the cave."
 "Stay here, Maria."
 "No," she said and did not smile at him. "I will go into the cave now." She picked up the iron plate they had eaten from and the four forks. She moved awkwardly as a colt moves, but with that same grace as of a young animal.
 "Do you want the cups?" she asked.
 Robert Jordan was still looking at her and she blushed again.
 "Don't make me do that," she said. "I do not like to do that."
 "Leave them," they gypsy said to her. "Here," he dipped into the stone bowl and handed the full cup to Robert Jordan who Watched the girl duck her head and go into the cave carrying the heavy iron dish.
 "Thank you," Robert Jordan said. His voice was all right again, now that she was gone. "This is the last one. We've had enough of this."
 "We will finish the bowl," the gypsy said. "There is over half a skin. We packed it in on one of the horses."
 "That was the last raid of Pablo," Anselmo said. "Since then he has done nothing."
 "How many are you?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "We are seven and there are two women."
 "Two?"
 "Yes. The _mujer_ of Pablo."
 "And she?"
 "In the cave. The girl can cook a little. I said she cooks well to please her. But mostly she helps the _mujer_ of Pablo."
 "And how is she, the _mujer_ of Pablo?"
 "Something barbarous," the gypsy grinned. "Something very barbarous. If you think Pablo is ugly you should see his woman. But brave. A hundred times braver than Pablo. But something barbarous."
 "Pablo was brave in the beginning," Anselmo said. "Pablo was something serious in the beginning."
 "He killed more people than the cholera," the gypsy said. "At the start of the movement, Pablo killed more people than the typhoid fever."
 "But since a long time he is _muy flojo_," Anselmo said. "He is very flaccid. He is very much afraid to die."
 "It is possible that it is because he has killed so many at the beginning," the gypsy said philosophically. "Pablo killed more than the bubonic plague."
 "That and the riches," Anselmo said. "Also he drinks very much. Now he would like to retire like a _matador de toros_. Like a bullfighter. But he cannot retire."
 "If he crosses to the other side of the lines they will take his horses and make him go in the army," the gypsy said. "In me there is no love for being in the army either."
 "Nor is there in any other gypsy," Anselmo said.
 "Why should there be?" the gypsy asked. "Who wants to be in an army? Do we make the revolution to be in an army? I am willing to fight but not to be in an army."
 "Where are the others?" asked Robert Jordan. He felt comfortable and sleepy now from the wine and lying back on the floor of the forest he saw through the tree tops the small afternoon clouds of the mountains moving slowly in the high Spanish sky.
 "There are two asleep in the cave," the gypsy said. "Two are on guard above where we have the gun. One is on guard below. They are probably all asleep."
 Robert Jordan rolled over on his side.
 "What kind of a gun is it?"
 "A very rare name," the gypsy said. "It has gone away from me for the moment. It is a machine gun."
 It must be an automatic rifle, Robert Jordan thought.
 "How much does it weigh?" he asked.
 "One man can carry it but it is heavy. It has three legs that fold. We got it in the last serious raid. The one before the wine."
 "How many rounds have you for it?"
 "An infinity," the gypsy said. "One whole case of an unbelievable heaviness."
 Sounds like about five hundred rounds, Robert Jordan thought.
 "Does it feed from a pan or a belt?"
 "From round iron cans on the top of the gun."
 Hell, it's a Lewis gun, Robert Jordan thought.
 "Do you know anything about a machine gun?" he asked the old man.
 "Nada," said Anselmo. "Nothing."
 "And thou?" to the gypsy.
 "That they fire with much rapidity and become so hot the barrel burns the hand that touches it," the gypsy said proudly.
 "Every one knows that," Anselmo said with contempt.
 "Perhaps," the gypsy said. "But he asked me to tell what I know about a _m嫭uina_ and I told him." Then he added, "Also, unlike an ordinary rifle, they continue to fire as long as you exert pressure on the trigger."
 "Unless they jam, run out of ammunition or get so hot they melt," Robert Jordan said in English.
 "What do you say?" Anselmo asked him.
 "Nothing," Robert Jordan said. "I was only looking into the future in English."
 "That is something truly rare," the gypsy said. "Looking into the future in _Ingl廥_. Can you read in the palm of the hand?"
 "No," Robert Jordan said and he dipped another cup of wine. "But if thou canst I wish thee would read in the palm of my hand and tell me what is going to pass in the next three days."
 "The _mujer_ of Pablo reads in the hands," the gypsy said. "But she is so irritable and of such a barbarousness that I do not know if she will do it."
 Robert Jordan sat up now and took a swallow of the wine.
 "Let us see the _mujer_ of Pablo now," he said. "If it is that bad let us get it over with."
 "I would not disturb her," Rafael said. "She has a strong hatred for me."
 "Why?"
 "She treats me as a time waster."
 "What injustice," Anselmo taunted.
 "She is against gypsies."
 "What an error," Anselmo said.
 "She has gypsy blood," Rafael said. "She knows of what she speaks." He grinned. "But she has a tongue that scalds and that bites like a bull whip. With this tongue she takes the hide from any one. In strips. She is of an unbelievable barbarousness."
 "How does she get along with the girl, Maria?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Good. She likes the girl. But let any one come near her seriously--" He shook his head and clucked with his tongue.
 "She is very good with the girl," Anselmo said. "She takes good care of her."
 "When we picked the girl up at the time of the train she was very strange," Rafael said. "She would not speak and she cried all the time and if any one touched her she would shiver like a wet dog. Only lately has she been better. Lately she has been much better. Today she was fine. Just now, talking to you, she was very good. We would have left her after the train. Certainly it was not worth being delayed by something so sad and ugly and apparently worthless. But the old woman tied a rope to her and when the girl thought she could not go further, the old woman beat her with the end of the rope to make her go. Then when she could not really go further, the old woman carried her over her shoulder. When the old woman could not carry her, I carried her. We were going up that hill breast high in the gorse and heather. And when I could no longer carry her, Pablo carried her. But what the old woman had to say to us to make us do it!" He shook his head at the memory. "It is true that the girl is long in the legs but is not heavy. The bones are light and she weighs little. But she weighs enough when we had to carry her and stop to fire and then carry her again with the old woman lashing at Pablo with the rope and carrying his rifle, putting it in his hand when he would drop the girl, making him pick her up again and loading the gun for him while she cursed him; taking the shells from his pouches and shoving them down into the magazine and cursing him. The dusk was coming well on then and when the night came it was all right. But it was lucky that they had no cavalry."
 "It must have been very hard at the train," Anselmo said. "I was not there," he explained to Robert Jordan. "There was the band of Pablo, of El Sordo, whom we will see tonight, and two other bands of these mountains. I had gone to the other side of the lines."
 "In addition to the blond one with the rare name--" the gypsy said.
 "Kashkin."
 "Yes. It is a name I can never dominate. We had two with a machine gun. They were sent also by the army. They could not get the gun away and lost it. Certainly it weighed no more than that girl and if the old woman had been over them they would have gotten it away." He shook his head remembering, then went on. "Never in my life have I seen such a thing as when the explosion Was produced. The train was coming steadily. We saw it far away. And I had an excitement so great that I cannot tell it. We saw steam from it and then later came the noise of the whistle. Then it came chu-chu-chu-chu-chu-chu steadily larger and larger and then, at the moment of the explosion, the front wheels of the engine rose up and all of the earth seemed to rise in a great cloud of blackness and a roar and the engine rose high in the cloud of dirt and of the Wooden ties rising in the air as in a dream and then it fell onto its side like a great wounded animal and there was an explosion of white steam before the clods of the other explosion had ceased to fall on us and the _m嫭uina_ commenced to speak ta-tat-tat-ta!" went the gypsy shaking his two clenched fists up and down in front of him, thumbs up, on an imaginary machine gun. "Ta! Ta! Tat! Tat! Tat! Ta!" he exulted. "Never in my life have I seen such a thing, with the troops running from the train and the _m嫭uina_ speaking into them and the men falling. It was then that I put my hand on the _m嫭uina_ in my excitement and discovered that the barrel burned and at that moment the old woman slapped me on the side of the face and said, 'Shoot, you fool! Shoot or I will kick your brains in!' Then I commenced to shoot but it was very hard to hold my gun steady and the troops were running up the far hill. Later, after we had been down at the train to see what there was to take, an officer forced some troops back toward us at the point of a pistol. He kept waving the pistol and shouting at them and we were all shooting at him but no one hit him. Then some troops lay down and commenced firing and the officer walked up and down behind them with his pistol and still we could not hit him and the _m嫭uina_ could not fire on him because of the position of the train. This officer shot two men as they lay and still they would not get up and he was cursing them and finally they got up, one two and three at a time and came running toward us and the train. Then they lay flat again and fired. Then we left, with the _m嫭uina_ still speaking over us as we left. It was then I found the girl where she had run from the train to the rocks and she ran with us. It was those troops who hunted us until that night."
 "It must have been something very hard," Anselmo said. "Of much emotion."
 "It was the only good thing we have done," said a deep voice. "What are you doing now, you lazy drunken obscene unsayable son of an unnameable unmarried gypsy obscenity? What are you doing?"
 Robert Jordan saw a woman of about fifty almost as big as Pablo, almost as wide as she was tall, in black peasant skirt and waist, with heavy wool socks on heavy legs, black rope-soled shoes and a brown face like a model for a granite monument. She had big but nice-looking hands and her thick curly black hair was twisted into a knot on her neck.
 "Answer me," she said to the gypsy, ignoring the others.
 "I was talking to these comrades. This one comes as a dynamiter."
 "I know all that," the _mujer_ of Pablo said. "Get out of here now and relieve Andr廥 who is on guard at the top."
 "_Me voy_," the gypsy said. "I go." He turned to Robert Jordan. "I will see thee at the hour of eating."
 "Not even in a joke," said the woman to him. "Three times you have eaten today according to my count. Go now and send me Andr廥.
 "_Hola_," she said to Robert Jordan and put out her hand and smiled. "How are you and how is everything in the Republic?"
 "Good," he said and returned her strong hand grip. "Both with me and with the Republic."
 "I am happy," she told him. She was looking into his face and smiling and he noticed she had fine gray eyes. "Do you come for us to do another train?"
 "No," said Robert Jordan, trusting her instantly. "For a bridge."
 "_No es nada_," she said. "A bridge is nothing. When do we do another train now that we have horses?"
 "Later. This bridge is of great importance."
 "The girl told me your comrade who was with us at the train is dead."
 "Yes."
 "What a pity. Never have I seen such an explosion. He was a man of talent. He pleased me very much. It is not possible to do another train now? There are many men here now in the hills. Too many. It is already hard to get food. It would be better to get out. And we have horses."
 "We have to do this bridge."
 "Where is it?"
 "Quite close."
 "All the better," the _mujer_ of Pablo said. "Let us blow all the bridges there are here and get out. I am sick of this place. Here is too much concentration of people. No good can come of it. Here is a stagnation that is repugnant."
 She sighted Pablo through the trees.
 "_Borracho!_" she called to him. "Drunkard. Rotten drunkard!" She turned back to Robert Jordan cheerfully. "He's taken a leather wine bottle to drink alone in the woods," she said. "He's drinking all the time. This life is ruining him. Young man, I am very content that you have come." She clapped him on the back. "Ah," she said. "You're bigger than you look," and ran her hand over his shoulder, feeling the muscle under the flannel shirt. "Good. I am very content that you have come."
 "And I equally."
 "We will understand each other," she said. "Have a cup of wine."
 "We have already had some," Robert Jordan said. "But, will you?"
 "Not until dinner," she said. "It gives me heartburn." Then she sighted Pablo again. "_Borracho!_" she shouted. "Drunkard!" She turned to Robert Jordan and shook her head. "He was a very good man," she told him. "But now he is terminated. And listen to me about another thing. Be very good and careful about the girl. The Maria. She has had a bad time. Understandest thou?"
 "Yes. Why do you say this?"
 "I saw how she was from seeing thee when she came into the cave. I saw her watching thee before she came out."
 "I joked with her a little."
 "She was in a very bad state," the woman of Pablo said. "Now she is better, she ought to get out of here."
 "Clearly, she can be sent through the lines with Anselmo."
 "You and the Anselmo can take her when this terminates."
 Robert Jordan felt the ache in his throat and his voice thickening. "That might be done," he said.
 The _mujer_ of Pablo looked at him and shook her head. "Ayee. Ayee," she said. "Are all men like that?"
 "I said nothing. She is beautiful, you know that."
 "No she is not beautiful. But she begins to be beautiful, you mean," the woman of Pablo said. "Men. It is a shame to us women that we make them. No. In seriousness. Are there not homes to care for such as her under the Republic?"
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan. "Good places. On the coast near Valencia. In other places too. There they will treat her well and she can work with children. There are the children from evacuated villages. They will teach her the work."
 "That is what I want," the _mujer_ of Pablo said. "Pablo has a sickness for her already. It is another thing which destroys him. It lies on him like a sickness when he sees her. It is best that she goes now."
 "We can take her after this is over."
 "And you will be careful of her now if I trust you? I speak to you as though I knew you for a long time."
 "It is like that," Robert Jordan said, "when people understand one another."
 "Sit down," the woman of Pablo said. "I do not ask any promise because what will happen, will happen. Only if you will not take her out, then I ask a promise."
 "Why if I would not take her?"
 "Because I do not want her crazy here after you will go. I have had her crazy before and I have enough without that."
 "We will take her after the bridge," Robert Jordan said. "If we are alive after the bridge, we will take her."
 "I do not like to hear you speak in that manner. That manner of speaking never brings luck."
 "I spoke in that manner only to make a promise," Robert Jordan said. "I am not of those who speak gloomily."
 "Let me see thy hand," the woman said. Robert Jordan put his hand out and the woman opened it, held it in her own big hand, rubbed her thumb over it and looked at it, carefully, then dropped it. She stood up. He got up too and she looked at him without smiling.
 "What did you see in it?" Robert Jordan asked her. "I don't believe in it. You won't scare me."
 "Nothing," she told him. "I saw nothing in it."
 "Yes you did. I am only curious. I do not believe in such things."
 "In what do you believe?"
 "In many things but not in that."
 "In what?"
 "In my work."
 "Yes, I saw that."
 "Tell me what else you saw."
 "I saw nothing else," she said bitterly. "The bridge is very difficult you said?"
 "No. I said it is very important."
 "But it can be difficult?"
 "Yes. And now I go down to look at it. How many men have you here?"
 "Five that are any good. The gypsy is worthless although his intentions are good. He has a good heart. Pablo I no longer trust."
 "How many men has El Sordo that are good?"
 "Perhaps eight. We will see tonight. He is coming here. He is a very practical man. He also has some dynamite. Not very much, though. You will speak with him."
 "Have you sent for him?"
 "He comes every night. He is a neighbor. Also a friend as well as a comrade."
 "What do you think of him?"
 "He is a very good man. Also very practical. In the business of the train he was enormous."
 "And in the other bands?"
 "Advising them in time, it should be possible to unite fifty rifles of a certain dependability."
 "How dependable?"
 "Dependable within the gravity of the situation."
 "And how many cartridges per rifle?"
 "Perhaps twenty. Depending how many they would bring for this business. If they would come for this business. Remember thee that in this of a bridge there is no money and no loot and in thy reservations of talking, much danger, and that afterwards there must be a moving from these mountains. Many will oppose this of the bridge."
 "Clearly."
 "In this way it is better not to speak of it unnecessarily."
 "I am in accord."
 "Then after thou hast studied thy bridge we will talk tonight with El Sordo."
 "I go down now with Anselmo."
 "Wake him then," she said. "Do you want a carbine?"
 "Thank you," he told her. "It is good to have but I will not use it. I go to look, not to make disturbances. Thank you for what you have told me. I like very much your way of speaking."
 "I try to speak frankly."
 "Then tell me what you saw in the hand."
 "No," she said and shook her head. "I saw nothing. Go now to thy bridge. I will look after thy equipment."
 "Cover it and that no one should touch it. It is better there than in the cave."
 "It shall be covered and no one shall touch it," the woman of Pablo said. "Go now to thy bridge."
 "Anselmo," Robert Jordan said, putting his hand on the shoulder of the old man who lay sleeping, his head on his arms.
 The old man looked up. "Yes," he said. "Of course. Let us go."
　　　　他们穿过浓密的树林，来到这小山谷的杯形的上端，他看到前面树林里隆起一座凹形的石壁，下面一定躭是营地，
　　那儿果真是营地，地形选得不坏。不走近根本看不出,罗伯特　乔丹知道，从空中是发现不了的。从上面看什么痕迹都没有。营地象熊窝那样隐蔽。可是，看来也不比熊窝防卫得更好些。他们走上前去的时候，他仔细地打量着，
　　那凹形石壁上有一个大山洞，洞口坐着一个人，背靠山岩，伸着两腿，一支卡宾枪靠在岩石旁。他正在用刀削一根木棍，他们走近时,他盯了他们一眼,然后继续削木棍。
　　“喂，”坐着的人说。“来的是什么人哪?”　　〃老头子和一个爆破手，”巴勃罗告诉他，卸下背包，放在洞口的里面，安塞尔莫也卸下了背包,罗伯特　乔丹解下卡宾枪,把它靠在山石旁。
　　“别把背包搁得离洞口这么近，”削木棍的人说，他长着一双蓝眼睛，黝黑、漂亮的吉普赛型的脸上带着懒洋洋的神情，脸色象熏黑的皮革。“里面生着火哪。”
　　“你起来,去把它放好，”巴勃罗说。“把它搁在那棵树下。”
　　吉普赛人不动身,说了句粗话,接着说，“让它搁在那儿得了，把你自己炸死吧，”他懒洋洋地说。“这样会治好你的毛病。”
　　“你在做什么东西?”罗伯特　乔丹在吉普赛人身边坐下。吉　普赛人拿给他看。那是一个4字形的捕兽器，他正在削上面的横档。
　　“逮狐狸用的，”他说。“上面支一段树干充当打击的工具。它会把狐狸的背脊砸断。”他朝罗伯特　乔丹露齿笑笑。“是这样操作的，你瞧。”他做了个捕兽架倒塌、树干砸下去的样子，然后摇摇头，把手缩回去,张开双臂，装出被碾断脊骨的狐狸的模样。“挺实用，”他解释说。
　　“他喜欢逮兔子，”安塞尔莫说。“他是吉普赛人。所以逮到了兔子说是狐狸。逮到了狐狸就说是象。”
　　“那么逮到了象呢?”吉普赛人问，又露出一口白牙齿，对罗伯特　乔丹眨眨眼睛。
　　“你会说是坦克，”安塞尔莫对他说。
　　“我会俘获一辆坦克的，”吉普赛人对他说。“我会俘获一辆坦克。那时候随你说我逮到的是什么吧。”
　　“吉普赛人讲得多，做得少，”安塞尔莫对他说。
　　吉普赛人对罗伯特　乔丹眨眨眼睛，继续削木棍。巴勃罗早走进了山洞，看不见了。罗伯特　乔丹希望他是去找吃的东西的。他在吉普赛人身边地上坐下来，下午的阳光从树梢上射下，温暖地照在他伸直的腿上。这时他闻到了山洞里散发出饭莱的气味，闻到了食油、洋葱和煎肉的香昧。他饿得饥肠辘辘。
　　“我们能俘获坦克，”他对吉普赛人说。“并不太难。”
　　“用这玩意儿吗？”吉普赛人指指那两个背包。
　　“对，”罗伯特‘乔丹对他说，“我以后教你。你可以布置一个陷阱。这不太难。”
　　“你和我？”
　　“当然，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“干吗不行？　　“嗨，”吉普赛人对安塞尔莫说。“把这两个背包搬到安全的地方去，行吗？这东西很宝贵。“
　　安塞尔莫咕哝了一声。“我去拿酒，”他对罗伯特　乔丹说。罗伯特　乔丹站起身把背包提离洞口，在一棵树的两边各放一只。他知道里面是什么，决不愿意让这两只背包之间的距离挨得太近。
　　“给我带一杯来，”吉普赛人对他说。
　　“有酒吗？”罗伯特　乔丹问，又在吉普赛人身边坐下来。
　　“酒？干吗没有？满满的一皮袋。反正半皮袋总会有的。”
　　“有什么吃的?”
　　“样样都有,伙计，”吉普赛人说。“我们的伙食跟将军吃的差不多。”
　　“那么吉普赛人在战争期间干些什么?”罗伯特　乔丹问他。
　　“他们还是当他们的吉普赛人。”
　　“这个行当不坏。”
　　“最好的啦，”吉普赛人说。“人家叫你什么名字？”
　　“罗伯托。你呢？”
　　〃拉斐尔。坦克的事可当真?”
　　“当然。干吗不当真?”
　　安塞尔莫从洞口出来，捧着满满一瓦缸红酒,手指钩着三只杯子的柄。“瞧，”他说。“杯子呀什么的，他们全有。”巴勃罗在他们背后出现了。
　　“吃的马上就来：他说。“你有烟吗？“
　　罗伯特　乔丹走到背包边，打开了一只,伸手摸到里面的夹
层口袋，掏出一盒他在戈尔兹司令部里弄到的扁盒装的俄国香烟。他用拇指指甲划幵了烟盒一边的封口，揭开盒盖，递给巴勃罗，巴勃罗拿了五六支。他用一只大手握住烟卷,拣了一支对光看着。烟卷细长,一头有硬纸咬嘴。
　　“卷得松,没多少烟草，”他说。“这烟我知道。那个名字古怪的人也抽这种烟。”
　　“卡希金，”罗伯特　乔丹说，把烟盒递给吉普赛人和安塞尔莫，他们每人拿了一支，
　　“多拿几支，”他说，于是他们毎人义拿了一支。他再给了他们每人四支。他们手拿烟卷，向他点头致谢，因此烟卷的头也上下摆动，就象人们持剑行礼那样。
　　“对，”巴勃罗说，“那个名字很古怪。”　　“喝酒吧。”安塞尔莫从缸里舀了一杯递给罗伯特　乔丹,然后为自已和吉普赛人舀酒。
　　“没我的吗?”巴勃罗问。他们都坐在洞口，
　　安塞尔莫把他的一杯递给他，自己进洞去再拿杯子。他走出洞来，俯身从缸里舀了滴满的一杯，大家就相互碰杯。
　　酒不坏，有一点儿皮酒袋的松脂香味，但好极了，他舌头上只觉得请爽而鲜堉。罗伯特　乔丹慢慢儿喝着，觉得一股暖意流遍了疲乏的全身。
　　”吃的马上就来，”巴勃罗说。“那个名字古怪的外国人，他是怎么死的?”
　　“他被抓住后自杀的。“
　　“那是怎么回事?”　
　　”他受了伤，不愿当俘虏。“
　　“详细经过呢?〃
　　“我不知道，”他撤谎说。他明明知道详细佾况，但他知道，这时讲这些情况不妥当。
　　“他要我们保证,万一炸火车的时候受了伤,逃脱不掉，就枪杀他，”巴勃罗说。“他说话的神气挺古怪。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹想，早在那时候，他准是已经神经过敏了。可怜的卡希金啊。
　　“他这人特别反对自杀，”巴勃罗说。“他对我说过。他还特别害怕被俘后受刑。”
　　“他连这一点也告诉了你吗?”罗伯特，乔丹问他。　　“是的，”吉普赛人说。
　　“他对我们大家都说过类似的话。”
　　“你也参加了炸火车?”
　　“是呀。我们大家都参加了。”
　　“他说话的神气挺古怪，”巴勃罗说。“不过他非常勇敢。”
　　可怜的卡希金呀，罗伯特　乔丹想。他在这一带造成的影响准是坏的多于好的。我早知道他那时候已经这么神经过敏就好了。他们就可以把他抽调回去。你派去执行这种任务的人不能说这种话。绝对不能说这种话。说了这种话，即使他们完成了任务，他们造成的影响也是坏多于好。
　　“他有点古怪，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我看他神经有点儿不正常。”
　　“不过他搞爆破挺在行，”吉普赛人说。“并且非常勇敢。“
　　“不过有点不正常，”罗伯特^乔丹说。“干这种事，必须要很有头脑，而且头脑要特别冷静。说那种话可不行。”
　　“那么你呢：巴勃罗说。“如果你在炸桥这种事情上受了伤，你愿意被人撂在后面吗？”
　　“听着，”罗伯特　乔丹说，他身体向前凑去，替自己又舀了杯酒,“把我的话听清楚了。假使我有一天要请哪位帮点儿小忙的话,到那时候我会请求他的。“
　　“好样的，”吉普赛人称赞说。“好汉说话就是这个样。啊！吃的来啦。”
　　“你巳经吃过了，”巴勃罗说。
　　“再来两份也吃得下，”吉普赛人对他说。“瞧谁拿吃的来了．“
　　一个姑娘端着一只大铁食盘，弯着身体从洞口钻出来，罗伯特　乔丹看到她脸的惻面，同时看到她异样的地方。她微笑着说，“你好，同志。”罗伯特　乔丹也说，“你好，”并且注意着不住她看，但也不掉头不顾。她把平底铁盘放在他面前,他注意到了她那双漂亮的褐色的手。她这时正眼望着他的脸,微微一笑。她那褐色的脸上有一口白牙齿，她的皮肤和眼睛也是这种金褐色的。她长着高顴骨，欢乐的眼睛，和一张丰满而墒正的嘴。她的头发象金黄色的田野，已被阳光晒得黑黝黝的，可是给全部剪短了，只比海狸皮的毛稍长一点，她冲着罗伯特　乔丹的脸笑着，举起褐色的手去抚摩头发，手过之处,那抚平的头发随即又翘起来。她的脸很美，罗伯特　乔丹想。要是人家没有把她的头发剪短，她一定很美。
　　“我就是这祥梳头的，”她笑着对罗伯特　乔丹说。“吃你的吧。别盯着我。人家是在瓦利阿多里德①把我的头发剃成这副样子的，现在算是长出来啦。”
　　她坐在他对面望着他。他也回看她,她微微一笑,合抱着双

　　手搁在膝头。她这样双手搁在膝上坐在那儿,一双长腿斜搁着，裤管口露出一截干净的腿儿，他能看到她灰色衬衫内耸起的小乳房的轮廓。罗伯特　乔丹每次对她望的时候，都感到自己的喉咙哽塞起来。
　　“没有碟子，”安塞尔莫说。“用你自己的刀吧。”姑娘在铁盘子边上搁了四把叉，叉尖朝下。
　　大家直接从大铁食盘里拿东西吃，就象西班牙人的习惯那样，不说话。吃的是洋葱青椒烧兔肉，加红酒的调味汁里放着青豆。菜烧得不错，兔肉烂得从骨头上掉了下来，调味汁很鲜美。罗伯特　乔丹吃着，又喝了杯酒。姑娘一直在看他吃。其余的人都望着自己的食物，只顾吃着，罗伯特　乔丹拿一片面包擦干净自己面前盘里剩下的调味汁，把兔骨堆在一边，擦净底下的调味汁,然后拿面包擦净叉和自己的刀，把刀藏起，再把面包吃掉,他凑身前去，潢满地舀了一杯酒,那姑娘还在望着他。
　　罗伯特　乔丹喝了半杯，可是等到向姑娘说话时，喉咙里又哽塞起来了。
　　“你叫什么名宇？”他问。巴勃罗听到他说话的声调,马上对他瞥了一眼。接着他站起身走开了。
　　“玛丽亚。你呢?〃
　　”罗伯托。你在山里待了很久吗?”
　　“三个月。“
　　“三个月？”他望着她那又密又短的头发，她这时局伲不安地用手一捋，这头发就象山坡上的麦田在风中泛起麦浪那样波动着。“头发给剃光了，”她说。“在瓦利阿多里德监狱里,按规矩都得剃光头。三个月之后才长成这副样子。我那时也在火车上。他们打箅把我带到南方去。火车被炸之后，很多犯人又被逮住了，但我没有。我跟着这些人来了？”
　　“我瞅见她躲在山石中闾，”吉普赛人说。“那时我们正要撤退。乖乖，那时她可真难看哪。我们带着她走，可有好多次，依我看，我们差一点不得不扔下她。”
　　“还有跟他们一起炸火车的那个人呢?”玛丽亚问。“也是个金黄头发的。那个外国人。他在哪里?”
　　“死了，”罗伯特"乔丹说。“四月份死的。”
　　“四月份？炸火车是四月份嘛。“
　　“是的，”罗伯待、乔丹说。“他在炸火车十天之后死的。”
　　“怪可怜的/她说。“他非常勇敢。那你也是干这一行的?”
　　“是的。”
　　“你也炸过火车,“
　　“是的。三列火车”
　　“在这里吗？“
　　“在埃斯特雷马杜拉②，”他说。“我来这里以前在埃斯特雷马杜拉。我们在那里干了不少事。我们有很多人在那里活动。”
　　“那你现在干吗到这山里来？”
　　“接替那个金黄头发的人,还因为革命以前我就熟悉这个地区。“
　　“你很熟悉这里？”
　　“不，其实不很热。不过我很快能熟悉。我有一张好地图,还有一位好向导。“
　　“那个老头子，”她点点头。“老头子人很好。“
　　〃谢谢你，”安塞尔莫对她说。于是罗伯特‘乔丹突然意识到，在场的不只是他和姑娘两个人，他还意识到，他很难正眼看这姑娘，因为这会使他说话时声音变样。他正在违犯和说西班牙话的人搞好关系的两条纪律中的一条:请男人抽烟，别碰女人。他十分突然地意识到自己顾不得这些了。很多事情他都不在乎了，为什么要计较这一点呢？
①　　瓦利阿多里德为西班牙北部一古城，有大教堂、旧王宫等名胜古迹。
②　　埃斯特雷马杜拉：西班牙西部一地区，和葡萄牙接壤。
　　“你的脸长得很美，”他对玛丽亚说。“我要是有幸在你的头发剃掉之前看到你就好了。“
　　“会长出来的，”她说。“六个月之后就会很长了。”
　　“你该在我们把她从火车里带走时见见她。她难看得叫人恶心。”
　　“你是谁的女人？“罗伯特　乔丹问，他这时想摆脱这件事了。“是巴勃罗的吗？”
　　她望着他笑，然后在他膝盖上打了一下。
　　“巴勃罗的？你见过巴勃罗吗?”
　　“噢，那么是拉斐尔的罗。我见过拉斐尔。”
　　“也不是拉斐尔的。”
　　“她不屑于任何人，”吉普赛人说。“这个女人梃怪。她不属于任何人。可她饭菜做得不坏。”
　　“真的不属于任何人吗?”罗伯特　乔丹问她。
　　“不属于任何人。才不哪。不管是说笑话，还是说正经的，都是这样。也不是你的。”
　　“是吗?”罗伯特I乔丹说，他感到喉咙里又哽塞起来了。“好啊。我没时间跟女人打交道,那倒是真的。”
　　“连十五分钟也没有?”吉苷赛人戏弄地问。“一刻钟工夫也没有？“罗伯特‘乔丹不回答。他望着这姑娘玛丽亚，觉得喉咙里哽塞得不敢开口说话了。
　　玛丽亚望着他笑，接着突然脸红了，但是仍旧盯住他看。
　　“你在脸红，”罗伯特　乔丹对她说。“你常脸红吗”
　　“从来不。”
　　“你现在脸红了。”
　　“那么我要到山洞里去了。”
　　“别走，玛丽亚。”
　　“不，”她说,不对他微笑了。“我现在要到里面去了。“她收拾起他们吃饭的铁盘和四把叉。她走起路来象小马般不大自然,但同时也象小动物那么姿态优美。
　　“你们还要用杯子吗?”她问。　　罗伯特　乔丹仍旧在望着她,她又脸红了，　　“别惹我脸红，”她说。“我不喜欢这样。”　　“别拿走，”吉普赛人对她说。“来一杯吧，”他在酒缸里舀了满满的一杯递给罗伯特　莽丹，而他正看着姑娘端着笨重的铁盘低了头钻进山洞。
　　“谢谢你，”罗伯特　乔丹说。她走了，他的声调叉恢复了常态。“这是最后一杯了。我们已经喝够了。”
　　“我们来喝干这一缸，”吉普赛人说。“还有大半皮袋酒。那是我们用马驮来的。“
　　“那次是巴勃罗最后的一次出击，”安塞尔奠说。“自此以后他啥也不干。”
　　“你们有多少人?”罗伯待一乔丹问。　　“我们有七个男人，还有两个女的。”
　　“两个?”
　　“对。一个是巴勃罗的老婆。”
　　“她人呢。“
　　“在山洞里。那姑娘稍许会做些饭菜。我说她做得好是为了让她高兴。她多半是帮巴勃罗的老婆做下手。”　　“巴勃罗的女人，她这人怎么样?”
　　“有点儿野，”吉普赛人露齿笑笑。“实在太野了。如果你以为巴勃罗长得丑，那你应当见见他老婆。那女人很勇敢。比巴勃罗勇敢一百倍。只是有点儿野。”
　　“想当初巴勃罗也很勇敢，〃安塞尔莫说。〃想当初巴勃罗是很认真的。”
　　“他杀的人比霍乱还多，”吉普赛人说。“革命开始时,巴勃罗杀的人比伤寒还多。”
　　“可是长远以来,他太差劲了，”安塞尔莫说。“他太差劲了，他非常怕死。”
　　“可能是因为当初杀的人太多了，“吉普赛人寓有哲理地说。”巴勃罗.杀死的人比鼠疫还多。”
　　“这是一点,再加上贪财，“安塞尔莫说。〃另外他酒喝得太多。现在他打算象斗牛士一样退休了。不过他没法退休。”
　　“他要是跨过火线到了那边，人家准会扣下他的马，叫他入伍，”吉普赛人说。“至于我,我也不喜欢在部队里当兵。“
　　“别的吉普赛人也不喜欢这样,”安塞尔莫说。
　　“干吗喜欢？〃吉普赛人问。“谁肯进部队？我们干革命是为了进部队吗？我愿意打仗，可不愿待在部队里。”
　　“还有些人在哪里？”罗伯特　乔丹问。他喝了酒,这会儿觉得很舒服，昏昏欲睡，他仰天躺在树林中的地上，透过树稍望见午后的小片云朵在西班牙高空中徐徐漂移。
　　“有两个在洞里睡觉，”吉普赛人说。，“两个在山上咱们架枪的地方放哨。一个在山下放哨，说不定他们都睡着了。“
　　罗伯特，乔丹翻身侧卧着。
　　“是什幺枪?” 
　　“枪名挺怪，”吉普赛人说。“我一下子想不起来了。是一架机关枪。”
　　罗伯特’乔丹想，一定是支自动步枪。
　　“有多重?”他问。
　　“一个人能扛，不过挺重。枪有三条腿，可以折起来。那是我们在末一次大出击中缴获的。就是在搞到酒的那次之前的那一次。”
　　“你们那支抢有多少子弹?” 
　　“多得数不尽，”吉普赛人说。“整整一箱，沉得叫人不相信。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹想，听他这样说象是五百发光景。　　“上子弹是用圆盘还是长带？“
　　“用装在枪上面的圆铁盒。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹想：了不起，是挺刘易斯轻机关枪①。
　　“你懂得机枪吗？”他问那老头儿。
　　“不懂，”安塞尔莫说。“一点不懂。“
　　”那你呢?”问吉普赛人。
　　“这种枪开起来快极了，枪筒越打越烫，烫得手没法碰，”吉普赛人神气地说。
　　“那有谁不知道！”安塞尔莫蔑视地说。
　　“也许是这样，”吉普赛人说。“不过他既然要我讲讲机关枪是怎么样的,我就告诉他。”他接着补充说,“还有，它不像普通步枪,只要你扣住扳机，这种枪可以打个不歇。“
　　“除非卡了壳，子弹打光或枪筒烫得发软，”罗伯特，乔丹用英语说。
　　“你说啥？”安塞尔莫问他。 ^
　　“没什么，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我只是用英语在讲未来的事。“
　　“那才怪了，”吉普赛人说。“用英国话来讲未来的事。你会看手相吗？“
　　“不会，”罗伯特^乔丹说着又舀了杯酒。“不过，要是你会的话，我倒希望你给我看看，吿诉我最近的三天里会发生什么事情。”
　　“巴勃罗的老婆会看手相，“吉普赛人说。“不过她挺暴躁，挺野,她肯不肯看，我可说不准。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹坐起来，喝了口酒。
　　“我们现在去见见巴勃罗的老婆吧，”他说。“很使真是这样糟糕的话，那我们去试试，不行就算了。“
　　“我不想去打扰她，”拉斐尔说。“她最讨厌我。“
　　“为什么？”
　　“她拿我当二流子看待。”
　　“真不公平，“安塞尔莫嘲弄地说。
　　“她讨厌吉普赛人”
　　“真是糟透了，”安塞尔莫说。
　　"她有吉普赛血统：拉斐尔说。“她说的话不是没有道理。”他露齿笑笑。“可是她的舌头太伤人,象条牛鞭子。用那条舌头她能把人的皮都扒下来，撕成一条条的。她真野得不得了。”
　　“她和那姑娘玛面亚相处得怎么样”罗伯特　乔丹问。
　　“好。她疼那丫头。有谁敢去接近这丫头，打她主意的话－”他摇摇头，舌头啧啧作响。
　　“她待那姑娘真不错，“安塞尔莫说。“好好照顾着她。”
　　“我们炸了火车把她带回来时，她模样很怪，”拉斐尔说。“她不吭声，哭个不停，谁碰碰她，她就抖得象只落水狗。最近她才好了点。最近她好多了。今儿她很好。刚才跟你说话的时候，她非常好。我们炸火车后打箅扔下她不管。她愁眉苦脸，那么难看，显然一无用处，当然不值得为她耽误时间。可是老太婆在那丫头身上系了根绳子，等她觉得再也走不动了，老太婆就用绳子梢抽她,抽她走。后来，她真的走不动了，老太婆就把她扛在肩上。等老太婆扛不动了，就由我来扛。那时我们是在爬山，山上金雀花和石南长得齐胸高。等到我也扛不动了，就由巴勃罗来扛。老太婆逼我们扛她的时候，骂得可凶哪！”他想起了往事还直摇头。“是啊，这丫头固然长得髙，身体可不重。瘦骨头不压什么分量。不过当时我们不得不扛着她，一会儿停下来开枪，一会儿再把她扛起来，那时候她可够沉的。老太婆呢，用绳子抽打巴勃罗，替他拿步枪，当他打算扔下丫头时
Chapter 3
 They came down the last two hundred yards, moving carefully from tree to tree in the shadows and now, through the last pines of the steep hillside, the bridge was only fifty yards away. The late afternoon sun that still came over the brown shoulder of the mountain showed the bridge dark against the steep emptiness of the gorge. It was a steel bridge of a single span and there was a sentry box at each end. It was wide enough for two motor cars to pass and it spanned, in solid-flung metal grace, a deep gorge at the bottom of which, far below, a brook leaped in white water through rocks and boulders down to the main stream of the pass.
 The sun was in Robert Jordan's eyes and the bridge showed only in outline. Then the sun lessened and was gone and looking up through the trees at the brown, rounded height that it had gone behind, he saw, now, that he no longer looked into the glare, that the mountain slope was a delicate new green and that there were patches of old snow under the crest.
 Then he was watching the bridge again in the sudden short trueness of the little light that would be left, and studying its construction. The problem of its demolition was not difficult. As he watched he took out a notebook from his breast pocket and made several quick line sketches. As he made the drawings he did not figure the charges. He would do that later. Now he was noting the points where the explosive should be placed in order to cut the support of the span and drop a section of it into the gorge. It could be done unhurriedly, scientifically and correctly with a half dozen charges laid and braced to explode simultaneously; or it could be done roughly with two big ones. They would need to be very big ones, on opposite sides and should go at the same time. He sketched quickly and happily; glad at last to have the problem under his hand; glad at last actually to be engaged upon it. Then he shut his notebook, pushed the pencil into its leather holder in the edge of the flap, put the notebook in his pocket and buttoned the pocket.
 While he had sketched, Anselmo had been watching the road, the bridge and the sentry boxes. He thought they had come too close to the bridge for safety and when the sketching was finished, he was relieved.
 As Robert Jordan buttoned the flap of his pocket and then lay flat behind the pine trunk, looking out from behind it, Anselmo put his hand on his elbow and pointed with one finger.
 In the sentry box that faced toward them up the road, the sentry was sitting holding his rifle, the bayonet fixed, between his knees. He was smoking a cigarette and he wore a knitted cap and blanket style cape. At fifty yards, you could not see anything about his face. Robert Jordan put up his field glasses, shading the lenses carefully with his cupped hands even though there was now no sun to make a glint, and there was the rail of the bridge as clear as though you could reach out and touch it and there was the face of the senty so clear he could see the sunken cheeks, the ash on the cigarette and the greasy shine of the bayonet. It was a peasant's face, the cheeks hollow under the high cheekbones, the beard stubbled, the eyes shaded by the heavy brows, big hands holding the rifle, heavy boots showing beneath the folds of the blanket cape. There was a worn, blackened leather wine bottle on the wall of the sentry box, there were some newspapers and there was no telephone. There could, of course, be a telephone on the side he could not see; but there were no wires running from the box that were visible. A telephone line ran along the road and its wires were carried over the bridge. There was a charcoal brazier outside the sentry box, made from an old petrol tin with the top cut off and holes punched in it, which rested on two stones; but he held no fire. There were some fire-blackened empty tins in the ashes under it.
 Robert Jordan handed the glasses to Anselmo who lay flat beside him. The old man grinned and shook his head. He tapped his skull beside his eye with one finger.
 "_Ya lo veo_," he said in Spanish. "I have seen him," speaking from the front of his mouth with almost no movement of his lips in the way that is quieter than any whisper. He looked at the sentry as Robert Jordan smiled at him and, pointing with one finger, drew the other across his throat. Robert Jordan nodded but he did not smile.
 The sentry box at the far end of the bridge faced away from them and down the road and they could not see into it. The road, which was broad and oiled and well constructed, made a turn to the left at the far end of the bridge and then swung out of sight around a curve to the right. At this point it was enlarged from the old road to its present width by cutting into the solid bastion of the rock on the far side of the gorge; and its left or western edge, looking down from the pass and the bridge, was marked and protected by a line of upright cut blocks of stone where its edge fell sheer away to the gorge. The gorge was almost a canyon here, where the brook, that the bridge was flung over, merged with the main stream of the pass.
 "And the other post?" Robert Jordan asked Anselmo.
 "Five hundred meters below that turn. In the roadmender's hut that is built into the side of the rock."
 "How many men?" Robert Jordan asked.
 He was watching the sentry again with his glasses. The sentry rubbed his cigarette out on the plank wall of the box, then took a leather tobacco pouch from his pocket, opened the paper of the dead cigarette and emptied the remnant of used tobacco into the pouch. The sentry stood up, leaned his rifle against the wall of the box and stretched, then picked up his rifle, slung it over his shoulder and walked out onto the bridge. Anselmo flattened on the ground and Robert Jordan slipped his glasses into his shirt pocket and put his head well behind the pine tree.
 "There are seven men and a corporal," Anselmo said close to his ear. "I informed myself from the gypsy."
 "We will go now as soon as he is quiet," Robert Jordan said. "We are too close."
 "Hast thou seen what thou needest?"
 "Yes. All that I need."
 It was getting cold quickly now with the sun down and the light was failing as the afterglow from the last sunlight on the mountains behind them faded.
 "How does it look to thee?" Anselmo said softly as they watched the sentry walk across the bridge toward the other box, his bayonet bright in the last of the afterglow, his figure unshapely in the blanket coat.
 "Very good," Robert Jordan said. "Very, very good."
 "I am glad," Anselmo said. "Should we go? Now there is no chance that he sees us."
 The sentry was standing, his back toward them, at the far end of the bridge. From the gorge came the noise of the stream in the boulders. Then through this noise came another noise, a steady, racketing drone and they saw the sentry looking up, his knitted cap slanted back, and turning their heads and looking up they saw, high in the evening sky, three monoplanes in V formation, showing minute and silvery at that height where there still was sun, passing unbelievably quickly across the sky, their motors now throbbing steadily.
 "Ours?" Anselmo asked.
 "They seem so," Robert Jordan said but knew that at that height you never could be sure. They could be an evening patrol of either side. But you always said pursuit planes were ours because it made people feel better. Bombers were another matter.
 Anselmo evidently felt the same. "They are ours," he said. "I recognize them. They are _Moscas_."
 "Good," said Robert Jordan. "They seem to me to be _Moscas_, too."
 "They are _Moscas_," Anselmo said.
 Robert Jordan could have put the glasses on them and been sure instantly but he preferred not to. It made no difference to him who they were tonight and if it pleased the old man to have them be ours, he did not want to take them away. Now, as they moved out of sight toward Segovia, they did not look to be the green, red wing-tipped, low wing Russian conversion of the Boeing P32 that the Spaniards called _Moscas_. You could not see the colors but the cut was wrong. No. It was a Fascist Patrol coming home.
 The sentry was still standing at the far box with his back turned.
 "Let us go," Robert Jordan said. He started up the hill, moving carefully and taking advantage of the cover until they were out of sight. Anselmo followed him at a hundred yards distance. When they were well out of sight of the bridge, he stopped and the old man came up and went into the lead and climbed steadily through the pass, up the steep slope in the dark.
 "We have a formidable aviation," the old man said happily.
 "Yes."
 "And we will win."
 "We have to win."
 "Yes. And after we have won you must come to hunt."
 "To hunt what?"
 "The boar, the bear, the wolf, the ibex--"
 "You like to hunt?"
 "Yes, man. More than anything. We all hunt in my village. You do not like to hunt?"
 "No," said Robert Jordan. "I do not like to kill animals."
 "With me it is the opposite," the old man said. "I do not like to kill men."
 "Nobody does except those who are disturbed in the head," Robert Jordan said. "But I feel nothing against it when it is necessary. When it is for the cause."
 "It is a different thing, though," Anselmo said. "In my house, when I had a house, and now I have no house, there were the tusks of boar I had shot in the lower forest. There were the hides of wolves I had shot. In the winter, hunting them in the snow. One very big one, I killed at dusk in the outskirts of the village on my way home one night in November. There were four wolf hides on the floor of my house. They were worn by stepping on them but they were wolf hides. There were the horns of ibex that I had killed in the high Sierra, and there was an eagle stuffed by an embalmer of birds of Avila, with his wings spread, and eyes as yellow and real as the eyes of an eagle alive. It was a very beautiful thing and all of those things gave me great pleasure to contemplate."
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan.
 "On the door of the church of my village was nailed the paw of a bear that I killed in the spring, finding him on a hillside in the snow, overturning a log with this same paw."
 "When was this?"
 "Six years ago. And every time I saw that paw, like the hand of a man, but with those long claws, dried and nailed through the palm to the door of the church, I received a pleasure."
 "Of pride?"
 "Of pride of remembrance of the encounter with the bear on that hillside in the early spring. But of the killing of a man, who is a man as we are, there is nothing good that remains."
 "You can't nail his paw to the church," Robert Jordan said.
 "No. Such a barbarity is unthinkable. Yet the hand of a man is like the paw of a bear."
 "So is the chest of a man like the chest of a bear," Robert Jordan said. "With the hide removed from the bear, there are many similarities in the muscles."
 "Yes," Anselmo said. "The gypsies believe the bear to be a brother of man."
 "So do the Indians in America," Robert Jordan said. "And when they kill a bear they apologize to him and ask his pardon. They put his skull in a tree and they ask him to forgive them before they leave it."
 "The gypsies believe the bear to be a brother to man because he has the same body beneath his hide, because he drinks beer, because he enjoys music and because he likes to dance."
 "So also believe the Indians."
 "Are the Indians then gypsies?"
 "No. But they believe alike about the bear."
 "Clearly. The gypsies also believe he is a brother because he steals for pleasure."
 "Have you gypsy blood?"
 "No. But I have seen much of them and clearly, since the movement, more. There are many in the hills. To them it is not a sin to kill outside the tribe. They deny this but it is true."
 "Like the Moors."
 "Yes. But the gypsies have many laws they do not admit to having. In the war many gypsies have become bad again as they were in olden times."
 "They do not understand why the war is made. They do not know for what we fight."
 "No," Anselmo said. "They only know now there is a war and people may kill again as in the olden times without a surety of punishment."
 "You have killed?" Robert Jordan asked in the intimacy of the dark and of their day together.
 "Yes. Several times. But not with pleasure. To me it is a sin to kill a man. Even Fascists whom we must kill. To me there is a great difference between the bear and the man and I do not believe the wizardry of the gypsies about the brotherhood with animals. No. I am against all killing of men."
 "Yet you have killed."
 "Yes. And will again. But if I live later, I will try to live in such a way, doing no harm to any one, that it will be forgiven."
 "By whom?"
 "Who knows? Since we do not have God here any more, neither His Son nor the Holy Ghost, who forgives? I do not know."
 "You have not God any more?"
 "No. Man. Certainly not. If there were God, never would He have permitted what I have seen with my eyes. Let _them_ have God."
 "They claim Him."
 "Clearly I miss Him, having been brought up in religion. But now a man must be responsible to himself."
 "Then it is thyself who will forgive thee for killing."
 "I believe so," Anselmo said. "Since you put it clearly in that way I believe that must be it. But with or without God, I think it is a sin to kill. To take the life of another is to me very grave. I will do it whenever necessary but I am not of the race of Pablo."
 "To win a war we must kill our enemies. That has always been true."
 "Clearly. In war we must kill. But I have very rare ideas," Anselmo said.
 They were walking now close together in the dark and he spoke softly, sometimes turning his head as he climbed. "I would not kill even a Bishop. I would not kill a proprietor of any kind. I would make them work each day as we have worked in the fields and as we work in the mountains with the timbet all of the rest of their lives. So they would see what man is born to. That they should sleep where we sleep. That they should eat as we eat. But above all that they should work. Thus they would learn."
 "And they would survive to enslave thee again."
 "To kill them teaches nothing," Anselmo said. "You cannot exterminate them because from their seed comes more with greater hatred. Prison is nothing. Prison only makes hatred. That all our enemies should learn."
 "But still thou hast killed."
 "Yes," Anselmo said. "Many times and will again. But not with pleasure and regarding it as a sin."
 "And the sentry. You joked of killing the sentry."
 "That was in joke. I would kill the sentry. Yes. Certainly and with a clear heart considering our task. But not with pleasure."
 "We will leave them to those who enjoy it," Robert Jordan said. "There are eight and five. That is thirteen for those who enjoy it."
 "There are many of those who enjoy it," Anselmo said in the dark. "We have many of those. More of those than of men who would serve for a battle."
 "Hast thou ever been in a battle?"
 "Nay," the old man said. "We fought in Segovia at the start of the movement but we were beaten and we ran. I ran with the others. We did not truly understand what we were doing, nor how it should be done. Also I had only a shotgun with cartridges of large buckshot and the _guardia civil_ had Mausers. I could not hit them with buckshot at a hundred yards, and at three hundred yards they shot us as they wished as though we were rabbits. They shot much and well and we were like sheep before them." He was silent. Then asked, "Thinkest thou there will be a battle at the bridge?"
 "There is a chance."
 "I have never seen a battle without running," Anselmo said. "I do not know how I would comport myself. I am an old man and I have wondered."
 "I will respond for thee," Robert Jordan told him.
 "And hast thou been in many battles?"
 "Several."
 "And what thinkest thou of this of the bridge?"
 "First I think of the bridge. That is my business. It is not difficult to destroy the bridge. Then we will make the dispositions for the rest. For the preliminaries. It will all be written."
 "Very few of these people read," Anselmo said.
 "It will be written for every one's knowledge so that all know, but also it will be clearly explained."
 "I will do that to which I am assigned," Anselmo said. "But remembering the shooting in Segovia, if there is to be a battle or even much exchanging of shots, I would wish to have it very clear what I must do under all circumstances to avoid running. I remember that I had a great tendency to run at Segovia."
 "We will be together," Robert Jordan told him. "I will tell you what there is to do at all times."
 "Then there is no problem," Anselmo said. "I can do anything that I am ordered."
 "For us will be the bridge and the battle, should there be one," Robert Jordan said and saying it in the dark, he felt a little theatrical but it sounded well in Spanish.
 "It should be of the highest interest," Anselmo said and hearing him say it honestly and clearly and with no pose, neither the English pose of understatement nor any Latin bravado, Robert Jordan thought he was very lucky to have this old man and having seen the bridge and worked out and simplified the problem it would have been to surprise the posts and blow it in a normal way, he resented Golz's orders, and the necessity for them. He resented them for what they could do to him and for what they could do to this old man. They were bad orders all right for those who would have to carry them out.
 And that is not the way to think, he told himself, and there is not you, and there are no people that things must not happen to. Neither you nor this old man is anything. You are instruments to do your duty. There are necessary orders that are no fault of yours and there is a bridge and that bridge can be the point on which the future of the human race can turn. As it can turn on everything that happens in this war. You have only one thing to do and you must do it. Only one thing, hell, he thought. If it were one thing it was easy. Stop worrying, you windy bastard, he said to himself. Think about something else.
 So he thought about the girl Maria, with her skin, the hair and the eyes all the same golden tawny brown, the hair a little darker than the rest but it would be lighter as her skin tanned deeper, the smooth skin, pale gold on the surface with a darkness underneath. Smooth it would be, all of her body smooth, and she moved awkwardly as though there were something of her and about her that embarrassed her as though it were visible, though it was not, but only in her mind. And she blushed with he looked at her, and she sitting, her hands clasped around her knees and the shirt open at the throat, the cup of her breasts uptilted against the shirt, and as he thought of her, his throat was choky and there was a difficulty in walking and he and Anselmo spoke no more until the old man said, "Now we go down through these rocks and to the camp."
 As they came through the rocks in the dark, a man spoke to them, "Halt. Who goes?" They heard a rifle bolt snick as it was drawn back and then the knock against the wood as it was pushed forward and down on the stock.
 "Comrades," Anselmo said.
 "What comrades?"
 "Comrades of Pablo," the old man told him. "Dost thou not know us?"
 "Yes," the voice said. "But it is an order. Have you the password?"
 "No. We come from below."
 "I know," the man said in the dark. "You come from the bridge.  I know all of that. The order is not mine. You must know the second half of a password."
 "What is the first half then?" Robert Jordan said.
 "I have forgotten it," the man said in the dark and laughed. "Go then unprintably to the campfire with thy obscene dynamite."
 "That is called guerilla discipline," Anselmo said. "Uncock thy piece."
 "It is uncocked," the man said in the dark. "I let it down with my thumb and forefinger."
 "Thou wilt do that with a Mauser sometime which has no knurl on the bolt and it will fire."
 "This is a Mauser," the man said. "But I have a grip of thumb and forefinger beyond description. Always I let it down that way."
 "Where is the rifle pointed?" asked Anselmo into the dark.
 "At thee," the man said, "all the time that I descended the bolt. And when thou comest to the camp, order that some one should relieve me because I have indescribable and unprintable hunger and I have forgotten the password."
 "How art thou called?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Agust璯," the man said. "I am called Agust璯 and I am dying with boredom in this spot."
 "We will take the message," Robert Jordan said and he thought how the word _aburmiento_ which means boredom in Spanish was a word no peasant would use in any other language. Yet it is one of the most common words in the mouth of a Spaniard of any class.
 "Listen to me," Agust璯 said, and coming close he put his hand on Robert Jordan's shoulder. Then striking a flint and steel together he held it up and blowing on the end of the cork, looked at the young man's face in its glow.
 "You look like the other one," he said. "But something different. Listen," he put the lighter down and stood holding his rifle. "Tell me this. Is it true about the bridge?"
 "What about the bridge?"
 "That we blow up an obscene bridge and then have to obscenely well obscenity ourselves off out of these mountains?"
 "I know not."
 "_You_ know not," Agust璯 said. "What a barbarity! Whose then is the dynamite?"
 "Mine."
 "And knowest thou not what it is for? Don't tell me tales."
 "I know what it is for and so will you in time," Robert Jordan said. "But now we go to the camp."
 "Go to the unprintable," Agust璯 said. "And unprint thyself. But do you want me to tell you something of service to you?"
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan. "If it is not unprintable," naming the principal obscenity that had larded the conversation. The man, Agust璯, spoke so obscenely, coupling an obscenity to every noun as an adjective, using the same obscenity as a verb, that Robert Jordan wondered if he could speak a straight sentence. Agust璯 laughed in the dark when he heard the word. "It is a way of speaking I have. Maybe it is ugly. Who knows? Each one speaks according to his manner. Listen to me. The bridge is nothing to me. As well the bridge as another thing. Also I have a boredom in these mountains. That we should go if it is needed. These mountains say nothing to me. That we should leave them. But I would say one thing. Guard well thy explosive."
 "Thank you," Robert Jordan said. "From thee?"
 "No," Agust璯 said. "From people less unprintably equipped than I."
 "So?" asked Robert Jordan.
 "You understand Spanish," Agust璯 said seriously now. "Care well for thy unprintable explosive."
 "Thank you."
 "No. Don't thank me. Look after thy stuff."
 "Has anything happened to it?"
 "No, or I would not waste thy time talking in this fashion."
 "Thank you all the same. We go now to camp."
 "Good," said Agust璯, "and that they send some one here who knows the password."
 "Will we see you at the camp?"
 "Yes, man. And shortly."
 "Come on," Robert Jordan said to Anselmo.
 They were walking down the edge of the meadow now and there was a gray mist. The grass was lush underfoot after the pineneedle floor of the forest and the dew on the grass wet through their canvas rope-soled shoes. Ahead, through the trees, Robert Jordan Could see a light where he knew the mouth of the cave must be.
 "Agust璯 is a very good man," Anselmo said. "He speaks very filthily and always in jokes but he is a very serious man."
 "You know him well?"
 "Yes. For a long time. I have much confidence in him."
 "And what he says?"
 "Yes, man. This Pablo is bad now, as you could see."
 "And the best thing to do?"
 "One shall guard it at all times."
 "Who?"
 "You. Me. The woman and Agust璯. Since he sees the danger."
 "Did you think things were as bad as they are here?"
 "No," Anselmo said. "They have gone bad very fast. But it was necessary to come here. This is the country of Pablo and of El Sordo. In their country we must deal with them unless it is something that can be done alone."
 "And El Sordo?"
 "Good," Anselmo said. "As good as the other is bad."
 "You believe now that he is truly bad?"
 "All afternoon I have thought of it and since we have heard what we have heard, I think now, yes. Truly."
 "It would not be better to leave, speaking of another bridge, and obtain men from other bands?"
 "No," Anselmo said. "This is his country. You could not move that he would not know it. But one must move with much precautions."
　　他们赶着最后的二百码路程，在树荫下小心翼翼地从这棵树移动到那棵树，这时，穿过陡峭的山坡上最后几棵松树，离桥只有五十码了。。“阳仍然越过褐色的山肩照来，那座桥被睃峭的峡谷间的辽阔空间衬托着，显得黑魆魅的。那是一座单孔铁桥，两端各有一个岗亭。桥面很宽,可以并行两辆汽车。线条优美的坚固的铁桥横跨深谷,在下面深深的谷底，白浪翻滚的河水淹过大块圆石，奔向山口那边的主流。
　　阳光正对着罗伯特　乔丹的眼睛，那座桥只现出一个剪影。随着太阳落到圆滚滚的褐色山头后边，阳光减弱消失,他透过树林眺望这山头，这时他不再直视着剌眼的阳光，发现山坡竟是一片葱翠的新绿，山峰下还有一摊摊积雪。
　　接着他在那短暂的余辉中又望望那突然显得真切的铁桥，观察它的结构。要炸掉这座桥并不难。他一面望着，一面从胸口衣袋里掏出一本笔记本，迅速勾勒了几张草图。他在本子上画图时并不同时计算炸药用量。他要以后再计算。他现在注意的是安放炸药的位置,以揮炸断桥面的支撑，让桥的一部分塌到峡谷中去。安放五六个炸药包，同时引爆，就能从容不迫，井井有条而正确无误地干成功；要不然，用两个大炸药包也能大致完成。那就捕要非常大的炸药包，放在两面同时引爆。他高兴而快速地勾勒着草图；他为了终于着手处理这件事，终于真的动手干起来而髙兴。他接考合上笔记本，把铅笔插进本子护封里边的皮套，把笔记本藏进衣袋,扣好袋盖　
　　他画草图的时候，安塞尔莫监视着公硌、铁桥和岗亭。他认为他们太接近桥,未免危险，草图画完后,他才算松了口气。
　　罗伯特　乔丹扣好衣袋盖,匍匐在一棵松树后面，从那里了望。安塞尔莫把手搭在他胳膊肘上，用一个指头指点。
　　公路这一头面对着他们的岗亭里坐着一个哨兵，膝间夹着一支上了刺刀的步枪。他正在抽烟,头上戴着顶绒线椹，身上穿着件毯子式的披风。相距五十码，没法看清他脸上的五官。罗伯特　乔丹举起望远镜，尽管现在没一点阳光,他还是两手捏成空拳，小心地围着镜片，以免产生反光，被哨兵发现，于是桥上的栏杆显得非常淸晰,仿佛伸手就能摸到似的,而那哨兵的脸也清清楚楚，连他那凹陷的腮帮、香烟上的烟灰和剌刀上闪亮着的油迹都历历在目。那是一张农民的脸,高颧骨下服帮凹陷，满面胡子茬，浓眉毛遮着眼睛，一双大手握着枪，毪子式的披风下面鱔出了笨重的长统靴。岗亭埔上挂着一只磨得发黑的皮酒袋，还有一些报纸，但没有电话机。”当然，在他看不到的另外一边可能有架电话机；但是看不到岗亭四周有通到外面的电线。沿公路有一条电话线通过铁桥。岗亭外边有一只炭火盆，是用一只旧汽油桶做的，截去了桶顶，桶壁上凿了几个洞，架在两块石头上，但盆里没生火。火盆下面的灰里有几只烧黑了的空铁縑。
　　罗伯特、乔丹把望远镜递给平躺在他身旁的安塞尔莫。老头儿露齿笑笑，摇摇头。他用手指敲敲自己眼睛边的太阳穴。
　　“我看见过他，”他用西班牙话说。他用嘴尖讲话，嘴唇几乎不动，这样发出的声音比耳语还低。”罗伯特　乔丹冲着他揪笑,他呢，注视着哨兵，一手指着哨兵，用另一手的食指在自己脖子上划了一下，罗伯特　乔丹点点头，但没有笑。
　　桥另一头的岗亭背对着他们，朝着公路下段，因此他们看不
到里面的情况。这条公路很宽，浇过柏油，铺得很道地，在较远的那个桥堍向左拐弯，再绕一个大弯子向右面拐出去，看不见了。眼前这一段公路是劈去峡谷那一边坚固的石壁，在旧路面的基础上加宽到现有的宽度的；从山口和桥上望下去,公路的左边，也就是西边，面临陡峭的峡谷的地方，竖着一排劈下来的石块做界石，作为防护。这里的峡谷十分幽深，上面架着桥的溪水和山口的主流在这里汇合。
　　“另外那个哨所呢?”罗伯特　乔丹问安塞尔莫，“从那个拐弯过去五百米。在靠着石壁盖起的养路工的小屋边。“
　　“有多少人?”罗伯特　乔丹问。
　　他又用望远镜观察那个哨兵。只见哨兵在岗亭的木板墙上揿熄烟卷,然后从口袋里掏出一只烟荷包，剥开那熄掉的烟蒂的烟纸，把剩下的烟丝倒进荷包。哨兵站起来，把步枪靠在岗亭的墙上，伸了“个懒腰，然后拿起步枪，挎在肩上，走到桥面上。安塞尔莫身体贴在地上，罗伯特　乔丹把望远镜塞进衣袋,脑袋闪在一棵松树后面。
　　“一起有七个士兵和一个班长。”安塞尔莫凑近他的耳朵说，“我是从吉普赛人那儿打听来的。”
　　“等他停下来，我们就走，”罗伯特，乔丹说，“我们太近了。”
　　“你要看的东西都看到了”“不错。我要看的都看到了。“
　　随着。“阳西沉，他们身后的山上的。“照逐渐消失,天气马上冷起来，天色也越来越暗了。
　　“你认为怎么样”安塞尔莫低声问，他们望着那哨兵跨过桥
面，向另一个岗亭走去,他的剌刀在。“阳的余辉中闪闪发亮，他披着那件毯子式的外衣，形状很古怪。
　　“非常好，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“非常、非常好。“我挺高兴。“安塞尔莫说。“我们走好吧？他现在不会发现我们了。
　　哨兵在桥的那一头，背对他们站着。峡谷里传来溪水流过圆石间的淙淙声。接着，夹在流水声中响起了另一种声音,一种持续不断的响亮的隆隆声。他们看到哨兵抬起头来，帽子推到后脑勺上。他们掉头仰望，只见高空中有三架列成乂字队形的单翼飞机,在还照得到阳光的上空显得清清楚楚，银光闪闪。飞机越过天空，快得难以置信，马达声震响个不停。“我们的?”安塞尔莫问。
　　“好象是我们的，”罗伯特　乔丹说，但是他明白，飞得这样髙，根本没法断定。既可能是我方，也可能是敌方在傍晚作巡逻飞行。不过人们总是说驱逐机是我们的，因为这使人感到安慰　轰炸机可是另外一回事。
　　安塞尔莫显然也有同样的感觉。“是我们的飞机。”他说。“我认识这些飞机。这些是蝇式。”
　　“对，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我看也象是我们的蝇式。”“这是些蝇式，”安塞尔莫说。
　　罗伯特　乔丹原可以把望远镜对准飞机,马上看个分明，但他觉得还是不看为好。今晚,这些飞机是谁的,对他都一样。如果把它们当作我们的会使老头儿高兴，他何苦使他失望呢。飞机现在越出棵野，向塞哥维亚飞去，看来它们不象是俄国人玫装的那种有绿机身、红翼梢、机翼安在机身下面的波音。”32型飞机。西班牙人把这种飞机叫作蝇式。颜色潢不清,但式样显然不对头。
　　”不。那是返航的法西斯巡逻机队“
　　哨兵仍旧背着身，站在远处的岗亭边。“我们走吧，”罗伯特，乔丹说。他开始上山,小心翼翼地爬着,利用地形,避开桥那面的视线。安塞尔莫跟在他后面，相距一百码。罗伯特　乔丹走到从挢上不可能望见他们的地方，就站停了脚步，老头儿赶上来，走到前面去带路，不慌不忙地摸黑爬着,穿过山口，肫上那陡峭的山坡。
　　“咱们的空军真了不起，”老头儿高兴地说。“对。”
　　“我们准打胜仗。”“我们必须胜利。”
　　“是啊。我们胜利后你一定要来这儿打猎。“打什么?”
　　“野猪、熊、狼、野山羊~”“你喜欢打猎吗?”
　　“是啊，老弟。比啥都喜欢。我们村里人人都打猎。你不喜欢打猎吗?”
　　“不喜欢，”罗伯特”乔丹说。“我不喜欢杀死动物。“我呐，正好相反，”老头儿说。“我不喜欢杀人。”“除了那些头脑不对劲的人，谁都不客欢杀人。“罗伯特　乔丹说。“可是在必要的时候,我一点也不反对，尤其是为了我们的事业的时候。”
　　“打猎可是另一回事，”安塞尔莫说。“我现在没有家了，以前可有过,在我家里藏着我在山下树林里打来的野猪的牙齿。还有我打到的狼的皮。那是冬天在雪地里打的。有一条梃大，十一月有天晚上，我回家路过村边，在黑地里把它打死了。我家地上铺了四张狼皮。它们都踩呀了，不过毕竟是狼皮啊。还有我在高山上打到的野山羊的角和一只鹰，请阿维拉一个专门剥制禽鸟标本的人加了工，翅膀是展开的，黄黄的眼睛，就象活的一样。这只鹰挺好看，我看到这些东西心里非常髙兴，”“是啊，”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“我村教堂门上钉着一只熊掌，那熊是我春夭打的，我发现它在山坡上的雪地里，就用那只爪子在拔一段木头“
　　“那是什么时侯的事?”
　　“六年前了。那只熊掌象人手，不过爪子很长,已经干瘪了，穿过掌心钉在教堂门上,我每次见到，心里就乐。”“出于骄傲吗?”
　　“想到初春在那山坡上和那头熊遭遇确实感到骄傲。不过讲到杀人，象我们一模一样的人，回忆起来一点也不愉快。”“你不能把人的手掌钉在教堂门上，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“不能。这种伤天害理的事是不能想象的，不过,人手很象熊举。”
　　“人的胸部也很象熊的胸部，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“熊剥掉了皮，它的肌肉有很多和人的肌肉相象的地方。”
　　“是啊，”安塞尔莫说。“吉普赛人认为熊是人的兄弟。”“美洲的印第安人也有这种看法，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“他们杀了熊就向它道歉,请它原谅，他们把它的脑壳搁在树上,临走前请求它宽恕。
　　“吉普赛人认为熊是人的兄弟，是因为熊剥掉了皮，身体和人的是一祥的，因为熊也喝啤酒，也喜欢听音乐，也喜欢跳舞。”耗印第安人也有这种看法,“那。印第安人就是吉普赛人了?”
“不。不过他们对熊的看法是一致的。““一点也不假。吉普赛人认为它是人的兄弟，还因为它爱偷东西取乐。
　　“你有吉普赛血统吗?”
　　“没有。不过这种人我见得多了，认识得梃清楚。自从革命开始以来见得更多了。山里就有不少。他们认为杀掉外族人不算罪过。他们不承认这一点,不过这是事实“象靡尔人一样。“
　　“是的。不过吉普赛人有很多规矩，他们自己却不承认。在打仗时很多吉普赛人又变得象古时候那样坏了。”
　　“他们不懂为什么要打仗。他们不知道我们作战的目的。”“对呀，”安塞尔莫说，“他们只知道现在在打仗，大家又可以象古时候那样杀人而不一定受惩罚了。”
　　“你杀过人吗？”由于相处一天混熟了，现在天色又黑，罗伯特舟乔丹便这么问。
　　“杀过。有好几回。不过不是很乐意的。依我看，杀人是罪过。哪怕是杀那些我们非杀不可的法西斯，依我看，熊和人大不一样,我不相信吉普赛人那种蛊惑人心的说法,什么人跟畜生是兄弟。不。凡是杀人，我都反对“可是你杀过人了。”
　　“是呀。而且以后还要杀呢，不过，要是我能活得下去，我萝好好儿过活，不伤害任何人,这样就会被人宽恕了“被谁?”
　　“谁知道？既然在这里我们不再信天主，不再信圣子和圣灵了,谁来宽恕呀？我不知道。““你们不再信天主了？”
　　“是呀。老弟。当然是呀。要是有夭主,他决不会让我亲睱百睹的那一切发生的。让冬巧信天主吧。”“人们是需要天主的。。”　
　　“我是在信教的环境中长大的，我当然想念天主。不过做人现在得由自己负黉了。
　　“那么宽恕你杀人罪过的人，就是你自己罗。”“我看就是这么回事，〃安塞尔莫说。“既然你打开天窗说亮话，我看一定就是这样。不过，不管有投有天主，我认为杀人就是罪过。我觉得寄人一命可不是儿戏。必要的时侯我才杀人，不过我不是巴勃罗那号人。”
　　“要打胜仗，我们躭必须杀敢人。这是历来的真理。“那当然。”我们打仗就得杀人。不过我有些古怪的念头。”安塞尔莫说。
　　他们这时正挨在一起摸黑走着，他低声说着，一边爬山，一边还常常回过头来。”“我连主教也不想杀。我也不想杀哪个财主老板。我要叫他们后半辈子象我们一样，天天在地里干活,象我们一样在山里砍树，他们这样才会明白，人生在世该干些啥。让他们睡我们睡的地方。让他们吃我们吃的东西。不过，顶要紧的是让他们干活。这样他们就会得到教训了。”“这样他们会活下来再奴役你。”
　　“把他们杀了并不给他们教训，”安塞尔莫说。“你没法把他们斩尽杀绝,因为他们会播下更深的仇恨的种子。监牢没用，监牢只会制造仇恨。应该让我们所有的敌人都得到教训。〃不过你还是杀过人。“
　　〃是的，”安塞尔莫说。“杀过好几次，以后还要杀，但不是乐意的，而且把它看作罪过。”
　　“那个哨兵呢？你刚才幵玩笑说要杀掉他。““那是开玩笑。我原可以杀掉他。是呀。考虑到我们的任务,当然要杀，而且问心无愧。不过心里是不乐意的，”
　　“我们就把这些哨兵留给喜欢杀人的人吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“他们是八个加五个。一共十三个，让喜欢杀人的人去对付
　　“喜欢杀人的人可不少呢，”安塞尔莫在黑暗中说。“我们就有很多这种人。这种人要比愿意上战场打仗的人多。“你参加过战役吗?”
　　“没有，”老头儿说。“革命开始的时候我们在塞哥维亚打过仗,不过我们吃了畋仗,溃敢啦。我跟了别人一起跑。我们并不真正了解自己在干啥，也不知道该每么干，再说,我只有一支猎枪和大号铅弹，可是民防军有毛瑟枪。我在一百码外用大号铅弹没法打中他们,他们在三百码外，却可以随心所欲地象打兔子似的打我们。他们打得又快又准，我们在他们面前象绵羊似的。他不作声了，接着问，“你看炸桥的时候会打上“仗吗”“有可能。”
　　“我毎逢打仗没有一次不逃跑的。”安塞尔莫说〃“我不知道自己该怎么做。我是老头子啦，可我一直闹不清。“

　　“我来帮衬你，”罗伯特　乔丹对他说　“那你打过很多仗吗？　〃打过几次。“
　　“你觉得炸桥这件事怎么样”
　　　我首先考虑的是炸桥。那是我的工作。把桥炸掉并不难。然后我们再作其它部署。做好准备工作。这一切都得写下来。”“这里的人识字的很少。”安塞尔莫说。
　　“要根据每个人的理解程度，写得大家都看得懂，而且还要把它讲清楚。“
　　“派给我什么任务,我准干，”安塞尔莫说。“不过，想起塞哥维亚开火的情形,假使要打，甚至于大打，最好先跟我讲明白，遇到各种情况，我得怎么干，免得逃跑。记得在塞哥维亚时我老是想逃跑。”
　　“我俩会在一起的，”罗伯特　乔丹对他说。“我会告诉你什么时侯该怎么办。”
　　“那就没问题了，”安塞尔莫说。“吩咐我做的，我都能傲到。”
　　“对我们来说就是炸桥和战斗，假如发生战斗的话，”罗伯特　乔丹说，他觉得在黑暗中说这番话有点象做戏,但是用西班牙话诶来很带劲。“
　　“那该是头等大事嗨，”安塞尔莫谗。罗伯特。乔丹听他说得直率、不含糊、不做作，既没有说英语民族的那种故意含蓄的谈吐,也役有说拉，“语民族的那种夸夸其谈的作风。他觉得能得到这个老头儿很幸运，他看过了这座桥，设想出了一个简化'的解决问理的方案。”只赛突然袭击哨所，就能按常规的办法炸掉它。他这时对戈尔兹的命令，对产生这些命令的必婆性起了反感。他所以反感，是因为这些命令会给他；会给这个老头儿带来木拥的后果。对于不得不执行这些命令的人来说，这自然是棘手的命令。
　　这个想法可不对头哪，他对自己说，你也好，别人也好，稀没法保证不道豳不拥。你和这个老头儿都不是什么了不起询又物。你们是完成你们的任务的工具。”有些命令非执行不可，这不是你们所造成的。有座桥非炸掉不可,这座挢可以成为人类未来命运的转折点，好象它能左右这次战争中所发生的一切-你只有一件事好做,并旦非做不可。只有一件事，妈的，他想。如果只此一件事，那就容易办了。他对自己说。”别发愁啦，你这个说空话的野杂种。想想别的事情吧。
　　于是他想起了那姑娘玛丽亚，想起了她的皮肤、头发和眼睹,全是一样的金褐色。头发的颜色比她的皮肤要深些,不过由于皮肤将被阳光晒得越来越黑，头发就会显得淡了。这光滑的皮肤表面上是浅金色的，从内部透出更深的底色。这皮肤一定很光滑，她的整个身体一定都很光滑。她的举止很别扭，仿佛她身上有些东西使她局伲不安，她觉得那些东西流鳟在外面，实在不然,只存在于她的心里。他望着她，她就脸红。她坐着，双手抱住膝头，衬衫领子敞开着，一对耸起的乳房顶着衬衫。想到她，他的喉头就哽住了,走路也不自在了。他和安塞尔莫都不作声,后来老头儿说，“我们现在穿过这些岩石下去就回营了。
　　他们捵黑走着山路，这时，有一个人向他们喝了一声，“站住，秘一个,他们听到往后拉枪栓的喀嚓一声,接着是推上子弹，枪栓朝下扳碰到木枪身的声音。 
　　“同志，”安塞尔莫说。　“什么同志?”“巴勃罗的同志，”老头儿对他说。“你不认识我们吗。“认识。“那声音说。“可这是命令。你们有口令吗？“没有。我们是从山下来的。”
　　“我晓得。“那人在黑暗中说。“你们是从桥头来的。”我都晓得。命令可不是我下的。”你们必须对得上口令。”“那么上半句是什么?”罗伯特。乔丹问。”“我忘了，”那人在黑暗中说着笑了。”“那就带着你他妈的炸药到炉火边去吧。“
　　“这就叫做游击队的纪律，”安塞尔莫说。“把枪的击铁推上。”“没扳起击铁，”那人在黑暗中说。“我用大拇指和食指把它顶着。”
　　“如果你用毛瑟枪这样干,枪栓没有卡子会走火的。”“我这支就是毛瑟枪，”那人说。“可是我的大拇指和食指很管用。我老是这样顶着的。“
　　“你的枪口朝着哪里？”安塞尔莫对着黑暗问。“朝着你，”那人说，“我推上枪栓的时候一直对着你。你到了营地，关照他们派人来换我班，因为我饿得真他妈的没法说，我还忘了口令啦。”
　　“你叫什么名字?”罗伯特　乔丹问。
　　“奥古斯丁，”那人说。“我叫奥古斯丁，我在这儿厌倦死了。”
　　“我们一定带去口信，“穸伯特　乔丹说。他在想。”西班牙语中的“厌倦”这个词，说别种语言的农民是都不会用的。然而对于各个阶层的西班牙人这却是个最普通的字眼。”
　　“听我说，”奥古斯丁说着，走上前来把手按在罗伯特“乔丹的肩上。接着他用打火石打上了火,吹亮火绒，凑着火光端详着　这个年轻人的脸。
　　“你和另一个的样子很象，”他说。〃不过也有些不一样。听着，”他放下火绒，握枪站着。“告诉我这件事。”关于桥的事是真的吗?”
　　　什么桥的事?”
　　“就是要我们把他妈的那座桥炸掉，过后我们就得操他妈的从山里撤出去。“
　　“我不知道。“
　　”不知道。”奥古斯丁说。“真是笑话！那么炸药是谁的？
　　“嶔的。
　　“那你不知道炸药是用来干什么的？别跟我撒谎啦。”“我知道做什么用，到时候你也会知道的”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我们现在可要到营地去了。”
　　“到你他妈的地方去吧“奥古斯丁说。“去你的吧，你可要我给你讲一件对你有用的事,
　　“要，”罗伯特’乔丹说。“只要不老是他妈的。“他指的是交谈中随时都能听到的那种粗话。奥古斯丁这个人，说的话那么脏,老是把“他妈的”这个词加在每个名词前当作形容词，还把它用作动词，罗伯特　乔丹不禁纳闷，他会不会说一句干净的话。奥古斯丁听到后,在黑暗中笑了。“这是我的口头禅，可能不好听。谁知道？说话嘛，谁都有自己的习惯。听我说。桥对我没什么了不起。桥也罢，别的东西也罢，我都不在乎。再说，我在山里厌倦啦。荽走我们就走吧。这山区对我没啥了不起，我们该撒走啦。不过有件事我得说说。好好保管你的炸药。“谢谢你，”罗伯特　乔丹说，“提防你吗？”“不,奥古斯丁说。“提防郑些他妈的不象我这样有种的人。”
　　“是吗。“罗伯特　乔丹问。
　　“你懂西班牙话，”奥古斯丁这时认真地说。“好好保管你那些他妈的炸药。”“谢谢你。”
　　〃不.不用谢我。看好你的货色吧。　炸药出毛病了吗?” 一
“不，出了毛病我就不会跟你费时间磨嘴皮了。”“我还是要谢谢你。我们现在到营地去吧。”“好，”奥古斯丁说，“叫他们派个知道口令的到这里来。”“我们会在营地和你见面吗?”“会，老兄。一会儿就见面。”“走吧，”罗伯特　乔丹对安塞尔莫说。他们沿着萆地边走去，这时升起了灰色的雾气。在树林里铺着松针的地上走了许久之后，现在踩着茂盛的青草感到怪美妙的，草上的露水湿透了他们的帆布绳底鞋。罗伯特　乔丹透过树林看到前面有一线光亮,他知道，那里一定就是山润口。
　　“奥古斯丁这个人挺不错，”安塞尔莫说。“他说话嘴巴不干净,老是开玩笑，不过，他人挺认真。”
　　“你和他很熟吗?”　“是的。认识很久了。我挺相信他。”
　　“也相信他的话?”，“对，老弟。这个巴勃罗现在可变坏了,你看得出来。”“该怎么办才好呢?”“应该时刻有人看守着。”
　　“你。我。那女人和奥古斯丁。因为他看到了危险。”“你从前就知道这里的情况这祥糟吗?”。”“不。”安塞尔莫说。“不过箱得很快。然而到这里来是必要的。这是巴勃罗和　聋子’的地段。在他们的地段上，我们不得不踉他们打交道,除非我们有力量单干。”“那么'聋子，这个人呢?”
　　“很好。“安塞尔莫说，“好的程度就象另一个坏的程度一
样。“
　　“你现在认为他真是坏人了?”
　　“整个下午我都在想这事，既然我们听到了种种情况，我现在认为他确实坏了。真的坏。”
　　“我们是不是推说要炸另一座桥，现在就离开这里，到别的几帮那里去找人更好些?”
　　“不。”安塞尔莫说。“这里是他的地段。你的一举一动他不会不知道。可是我们办事要多加小心。”
Chapter 4
 They came down to the mouth of the cave, where a light shone out from the edge of a blanket that hung over the opening. The two packs were at the foot of the tree covered with a canvas and Robert Jordan knelt down and felt the canvas wet and stiff over them. In the dark he felt under the canvas in the outside pocket of one of the packs and took out a leather-covered flask and slipped it in his pocket. Unlocking the long barred padlocks that passed through the grommet that closed the opening of the mouth of the packs, and untying the drawstring at the top of each pack, he felt inside them and verified their contents with his hands. Deep in one pack he felt the bundled blocks in the sacks, the sacks wrapped in the sleeping robe, and tying the strings of that and pushing the lock shut again, he put his hands into the other and felt the sharp wood outline of the box of the old exploder, the cigar box with the caps, each little cylinder wrapped round and round with its two wires (the lot of them packed as carefully as he had packed his collection of wild bird eggs when he was a boy), the stock of the submachine gun, disconnected from the barrel and wrapped in his leather jacket, the two pans and five clips in one of the inner pockets of the big pack-sack arid the small coils of copper wire and the big coil of light insulated Wire in the other. In the pocket with the wire he felt his pliers and the two wooden awls for making holes in the end of the blocks and then, from the last inside pocket, he took a big box of the Russian cigarettes of the lot he had from Golz's headquarters and tying the mouth of the pack shut, he pushed the lock in, buckled the flaps down and again covered both packs with the canvas. Anselmo had gone on into the cave.
 Robert Jordan stood up to follow him, then reconsidered and, lifting the canvas off the two packs, picked them up, one in each hand, and started with them, just able to carry them, for the mouth of the cave. He laid one pack down and lifted the blanket aside, then with his head stooped and with a pack in each hand, carrying by the leather shoulder straps, he went into the cave.
 It was warm and smoky in the cave. There was a table along one wall with a tallow candle stuck in a bottle on it and at the table were seated Pablo, three men he did not know, and the gypsy, Rafael. The candle made shadows on the wall behind the men and Anselmo stood where he had come in to the right of the table. The wife of Pablo was standing over the charcoal fire on the open fire hearth in the corner of the cave. The girl knelt by her stirring in an iron pot. She lifted the wooden spoon out and looked at Robert Jordan as he stood there in the doorway and he saw, in the glow from the fire the woman was blowing with a bellows, the girl's face, her arm and the drops running down from the spoon and dropping into the iron pot.
 "What do you carry?" Pablo said.
 "My things," Robert Jordan said and set the two packs down a little way apart where the cave opened out on the side away from the table.
 "Are they not well outside?" Pablo asked.
 "Some one might trip over them in the dark," Robert Jordan said and walked over to the table and laid the box of cigarettes on it.
 "I do not like to have dynamite here in the cave," Pablo said.
 "It is far from the fire," Robert Jordan said. "Take some cigarettes." He ran his thumbnail along the side of the paper box with the big colored figure of a warship on the cover and pushed the box toward Pablo.
 Anselmo brought him a rawhide-covered stool and he sat down at the table. Pablo looked at him as though he were going to speak again, then reached for the cigarettes.
 Robert Jordan pushed them toward the others. He was not looking at them yet. But he noted one man took cigarettes and two did not. All of his concentration was on Pablo.
 "How goes it, gypsy?" he said to Rafael.
 "Good," the gypsy said. Robert Jordan could tell they had been talking about him when he came in. Even the gypsy was not at ease.
 "She is going to let you eat again?" Robert Jordan asked the gypsy.
 "Yes. Why not?" the gypsy said. It was a long way from the friendly joking they had together in the afternoon.
 The woman of Pablo said nothing and went on blowing up the coals of the fire.
 "One called Agust璯 says he dies of boredom above," Robert Jordan said.
 "That doesn't kill," Pablo said. "Let him die a little."
 "Is there wine?" Robert Jordan asked the table at large, leaning forward, his hands on the table.
 "There is little left," Pablo said sullenly. Robert Jordan decided he had better look at the other three and try to see where he stood.
 "In that case, let me have a cup of water. Thou," he called to the girl. "Bring me a cup of water."
 The girl looked at the woman, who said nothing, and gave no sign of having heard, then she went to a kettle containing water and dipped a cup full. She brought it to the table and put it down before him. Robert Jordan smiled at her. At the same time he sucked in on his stomach muscles and swung a little to the left on his stool so that his pistol slipped around on his belt closer to where he wanted it. He reached his hand down toward his hip pocket and Pablo watched him. He knew they all were watching him, too, but he watched only Pablo. His hand came up from the hip pocket with the leather-covered flask and he unscrewed the top and then, lifting the cup, drank half the water and poured very Slowly from the flask into the cup.
 "It is too strong for thee or I would give thee some," he said to the girl and smiled at her again. "There is little left or I would offer some to thee," he said to Pablo.
 "I do not like anis," Pablo said.
 The acrid smell had carried across the table and he had picked out the one familiar component.
 "Good," said Robert Jordan. "Because there is very little left."
 "What drink is that?" the gypsy asked.
 "A medicine," Robert Jordan said. "Do you want to taste it?"
 "What is it for?"
 "For everything," Robert Jordan said. "It cures everything. If you have anything wrong this will cure it."
 "Let me taste it," the gypsy said.
 Robert Jordan pushed the cup toward him. It was a milky yellow now with the water and he hoped the gypsy would not take more than a swallow. There was very little of it left and one cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in caf廥, of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of kiosques, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Company and the Ile de la Cite, of Foyot's old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea-changing liquid alchemy.
 The gypsy made a face and handed the cup back. "It smells of anis but it is bitter as gall," he said. "It is better to be sick than have that medicine."
 "That's the wormwood," Robert Jordan told him. "In this, the real absinthe, there is wormwood. It's supposed to rot your brain out but I don't believe it. It only changes the ideas. You should pour water into it very slowly, a few drops at a time. But I poured it into the water."
 "What are you saying?" Pablo said angrily, feeling the mockery.
 "Explaining the medicine," Robert Jordan told him and grinned. "I bought it in Madrid. It was the last bottle and it's lasted me three weeks." He took a big swallow of it and felt it coasting over his tongue in delicate anxsthesia. He looked at Pablo and grinned again.
 "How's business?" he asked.
 Pablo did not answer and Robert Jordan looked carefully at the other three men at the table. One had a large flat face, flat and brown as a Serrano ham with a nose flattened and broken, and the long thin Russian cigarette, projecting at an angle, made the face look even flatter. This man had short gray hair and a gray stubble of beard and wore the usual black smock buttoned at the neck. He looked down at the table when Robert Jordan looked at him but his eyes were steady and they did not blink. The other two were evidently brothers. They looked much alike and were both short, heavily built, dark haired, their hair growing low on their foreheads, dark-eyed and brown. One had a scar across his forehead above his left eye and as he looked at them, they looked back at him steadily. One looked to be about twenty-six or -eight, the other perhaps two years older.
 "What are you looking at?" one brother, the one with the scar, asked.
 "Thee," Robert Jordan said.
 "Do you see anything rare?"
 "No," said Robert Jordan. "Have a cigarette?"
 "Why not?" the brother said. He had not taken any before. "These are like the other had. He of the train."
 "Were you at the train?"
 "We were all at the train," the brother said quietly. "All except the old man."
 "That is what we should do now," Pablo said. "Another train."
 "We can do that," Robert Jordan said. "After the bridge."
 He could see that the wife of Pablo had turned now from the fire and was listening. When he said the word "bridge" every one was quiet.
 "After the bridge," he said again deliberately and took a sip of the absinthe. I might as well bring it on, he thought. It's coming anyWay.
 "I do not go for the bridge," Pablo said, looking down at the table. "Neither me nor my people."
 Robert Jordan said nothing. He looked at Anselmo and raised the cup. "Then we shall do it alone, old one," he said and smiled.
 "Without this coward," Anselmo said.
 "What did you say?" Pablo spoke to the old man.
 "Nothing for thee. I did not speak to thee," Anselmo told him.
 Robert Jordan now looked past the table to where the wife of Pablo was standing by the fire. She had said nothing yet, nor given any sign. But now she said something he could not hear to the girl and the girl rose from the cooking fire, slipped along the wall, opened the blanket that hung over the mouth of the cave and went out. I think it is going to come now, Robert Jordan thought. I believe this is it. I did not want it to be this way but this seems to be the way it is.
 "Then we will do the bridge without thy aid," Robert Jordan said to Pablo.
 "No," Pablo said, and Robert Jordan watched his face sweat. "Thou wilt blow no bridge here."
 "No?"
 "Thou wilt blow no bridge," Pablo said heavily.
 "And thou?" Robert Jordan spoke to the wife of Pablo who was standing, still and huge, by the fire. She turned toward them and said, "I am for the bridge." Her face was lit by the fire and it was flushed and it shone warm and dark and handsome now in the firelight as it was meant to be.
 "What do you say?" Pablo said to her and Robert Jordan saw the betrayed look on his face and the sweat on his forehead as he turned his head.
 "I am for the bridge and against thee," the wife of Pablo said. "Nothing more."
 "I am also for the bridge," the man with the flat face and the broken nose said, crushing the end of the cigarette on the table.
 "To me the bridge means nothing," one of the brothers said. "I am for the _mujer_ of Pablo."
 "Equally," said the other brother.
 "Equally," the gypsy said.
 Robert Jordan watched Pablo and as he watched, letting his right hand hang lower and lower, ready if it should be necessary, half hoping it would be (feeling perhaps that were the simplest and easiest yet not wishing to spoil what had gone so well, knowing how quickly all of a family, all of a clan, all of a band, can turn against a stranger in a quarrel, yet thinking what could be done with the hand were the simplest and best and surgically the most sound now that this had happened), saw also the wife of Pablo standing there and watched her blush proudly and soundly and healthily as the allegiances were given.
 "I am for the Republic," the woman of Pablo said happily. "And the Republic is the bridge. Afterwards we will have time for other projects."
 "And thou," Pablo said bitterly. "With your head of a seed bull and your heart of a whore. Thou thinkest there will be an afterwards from this bridge? Thou hast an idea of that which will pass?"
 "That which must pass," the woman of Pablo said. "That which must pass, will pass."
 "And it means nothing to thee to be hunted then like a beast after this thing from which we derive no profit? Nor to die in it?"
 "Nothing," the woman of Pablo said. "And do not try to frighten me, coward."
 "Coward," Pablo said bitterly. "You treat a man as coward because he has a tactical sense. Because he can see the results of an idiocy in advance. It is not cowardly to know what is foolish."
 "Neither is it foolish to know what is cowardly," said Anselmo, unable to resist making the phrase.
 "Do you want to die?" Pablo said to him seriously and Robert Jordan saw how unrhetorical was the question.
 "No."
 "Then watch thy mouth. You talk too much about things you do not understand. Don't you see that this is serious?" he said almost pitifully. "Am I the only one who sees the seriousness of this?"
 I believe so, Robert Jordan thought. Old Pablo, old boy, I believe so. Except me. You can see it and I see it and the woman read it in my hand but she doesn't see it, yet. Not yet she doesn't see it.
 "Am I a leader for nothing?" Pablo asked. "I know what I speak of. You others do not know. This old man talks nonsense. He is an old man who is nothing but a messenger and a guide for foreigners. This foreigner comes here to do a thing for the good of the foreigners. For his good we must be sacrificed. I am for the good and the safety of all."
 "Safety," the wife of Pablo said. "There is no such thing as safety. There are so many seeking safety here now that they make a great danger. In seeking safety now you lose all."
 She stood now by the table with the big spoon in her hand.
 "There is safety," Pablo said. "Within the danger there is the safety of knowing what chances to take. It is like the bullfighter who knowing what he is doing, takes no chances and is safe."
 "Until he is gored," the woman said bitterly. "How many times have I heard matadors talk like that before they took a goring. How often have I heard Finito say that it is all knowledge and that the bull never gored the man; rather the man gored himself on the horn of the bull. Always do they talk that way in their arrogance before a goring. Afterwards we visit them in the clinic." Now she was mimicking a visit to a bedside, "Hello, old timer. Hello," she boomed. Then, "_Buenas, Compadre_. How goes it, Pilar?" imitating the weak voice of the wounded bullfighter. "How did this happen, Finito, Chico, how did this dirty accident occur to thee?" booming it out in her own voice. Then talking weak and small, "It is nothing, woman. Pilar, it is nothing. It shouldn't have happened. I killed him very well, you understand. Nobody could have killed him better. Then having killed him exactly as I should and him absolutely dead, swaying on his legs, and ready to fall of his own weight, I walked away from him with a certain amount of arrogance and much style and from the back he throws me this horn between the cheeks of my buttocks and it comes out of my liver." She commenced to laugh, dropping the imitation of the almost effeminate bullfighter's voice and booming again now. "You and your safety! Did I live nine years with three of the worst paid matadors in the world not to learn about fear and about safety? Speak to me of anything but safety. And thee. What illusions I put in thee and how they have turned out! From one year of war thou has become lazy, a drunkard and a coward."
 "In that way thou hast no right to speak," Pablo said. "And less even before the people and a stranger."
 "In that way will I speak," the wife of Pablo went on. "Have you not heard? Do you still believe that you command here?"
 "Yes," Pablo said. "Here I command."
 "Not in joke," the woman said. "Here I command! Haven't you heard _la gente?_ Here no one commands but me. You can stay if you wish and eat of the food and drink of the wine, but not too bloody much, and share in the work if thee wishes. But here I command."
 "I should shoot thee and the foreigner both," Pablo said suilenly.
 "Try it," the woman said. "And see what happens."
 "A cup of water for me," Robert Jordan said, not taking his eyes from the man with his sullen heavy head and the woman standing proudly and confidently holding the big spoon as authoritatively as though it were a baton.
 "Maria," called the woman of Pablo and when the girl came in the door she said, "Water for this comrade."
 Robert Jordan reached for his flask and, bringing the flask out, as he brought it he loosened the pistol in the holster and swung it on top of his thigh. He poured a second absinthe into his cup and took the cup of water the girl brought him and commenced to drip it into the cup, a little at a time. The girl stood at his elbow, watching him.
 "Outside," the woman of Pablo said to her, gesturing with the spoon.
 "It is cold outside," the girl said, her cheek close to Robert Jordan's, watching what was happening in the cup where the liquor was clouding.
 "Maybe," the woman of Pablo said. "But in here it is too hot." Then she said, kindly, "It is not for long."
 The girl shook her head and went out.
 I don't think he is going to take this much more, Robert Jordan thought to himself. He held the cup in one hand and his other hand rested, frankly now, on the pistol. He had slipped the safety catch and he felt the worn comfort of the checked grip chafed almost smooth and touched the round, cool companionship of the trigger guard. Pablo no longer looked at him but only at the woman. She went on, "Listen to me, drunkard. You understand who commands here?"
 "I command."
 "No. Listen. Take the wax from thy hairy ears. Listen well. I command."
 Pablo looked at her and you could tell nothing of what he was thinking by his face. He looked at her quite deliberately and then he looked across the table at Robert Jordan. He looked at him a long time contemplatively and then he looked back at the woman, again.
 "All right. You command," he said. "And if you want he can command too. And the two of you can go to hell." He was looking the woman straight in the face and he was neither dominated by her nor seemed to be much affected by her. "It is possible that I am lazy and that I drink too much. You may consider me a coward but there you are mistaken. But I am not stupid." He paused. "That you should command and that you should like it. Now if you are a woman as well as a commander, that we should have something to eat."
 "Maria," the woman of Pablo called.
 The girl put her head inside the blanket across the cave mouth. "Enter now and serve the supper."
 The girl came in and walked across to the low table by the hearth and picked up the enameled-ware bowls and brought them to the table.
 "There is wine enough for all," the woman of Pablo said to Robert Jordan. "Pay no attention to what that drunkard says. When this is finished we will get more. Finish that rare thing thou art drinking and take a cup of wine."
 Robert Jordan swallowed down the last of the absinthe, feeling it, gulped that way, making a warm, small, fume-rising, wet, chemicalchange-producing heat in him and passed the cup for wine. The girl dipped it full for him and smiled.
 "Well, did you see the bridge?" the gypsy asked. The others, who had not opened their mouths after the change of allegiance, were all leaning forward to listen now.
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "It is something easy to do. Would you like me to show you?"
 "Yes, man. With much interest."
 Robert Jordan took out the notebook from his shirt pocket and showed them the sketches.
 "Look how it seems," the flat-faced man, who was named Primitivo, said. "It is the bridge itself."
 Robert Jordan with the point of the pencil explained how the bridge should be blown and the reason for the placing of the charges.
 "What simplicity," the scarred-faced brother, who was called Andr廥, said. "And how do you explode them?"
 Robert Jordan explained that too and, as he showed them, he felt the girl's arm resting on his shoulder as she looked. The woman of Pablo was watching too. Only Pablo took no interest, sitting by himself with a cup of wine that he replenished by dipping into the big bowl Maria had filled from the wineskin that hung to the left of the entrance to the cave.
 "Hast thou done much of this?" the girl asked Robert Jordan softly.
 "Yes."
 "And can we see the doing of it?"
 "Yes. Why not?"
 "You will see it," Pablo said from his end of the table. "I believe that you will see it."
 "Shut up," the woman of Pablo said to him and suddenly remembering what she had seen in the hand in the afternoon she was wildly, unreasonably angry. "Shut up, coward. Shut up, bad luck bird. Shut up, murderer."
 "Good," Pablo said. "I shut up. It is thou who commands now and you should continue to look at the pretty pictures. But remember that I am not stupid."
 The woman of Pablo could feel her rage changing to sorrow and to a feeling of the thwarting of all hope and promise. She knew this feeling from when she was a girl and she knew the things that caused it all through her life. It came now suddenly and she put it away from her and would not let it touch her, neither her nor the Republic, and she said, "Now we will eat. Serve the bowls from the pot, Maria."
　　他们下山来到山洞口，一道光线从挂在洞口的毯子边缘透出来。两个背包还在树脚边，上面盖着帆布。罗伯特。乔丹跪下来,摈到兼在背包上的帆布又潮又硬。黑暗中，他在帆布下一个背包外面的口袋里摸索，掏出一只有皮套的扃酒瓶,并把它插在衣袋里。背包是由串在背包口上的金属扣眼里的长抦挂锁锁住的,他打开锁,解开系在每个背包。上的绳子，把手伸进去,摸摸里面的东西有没有短少。他把手伸到一个背包的底部，換到了捆好的一个个炸药包，那是裹在睡袋里的；他系上背包口上的绳子，再把它锁上，然后伸手到另一个背包里，摸到了那只放旧引爆器的硬邦邦的木盒,装雷管的雪茄烟盒,每个圃柱形的雷管外面都有两根锎线团团绕住〈这—切都放得整整齐齐,就象他小时候收集的野鸟蛋那样〉,他还摸到从手提机枪上卸下来的包在他皮茄兖里的枪托，装在大背包内袋里的两个子弹盘和五个子。”弹夹，以及另　个内袋里的几小卷锎丝和一大卷细漆包线。他在藏电线的内袋里摈到了老虎钳和两把在炸药包一端钻涧用的木头锥子；接着从最后一个内袋里掏出一大盒从戈尔兹的司令部弄来的俄国香畑。他扎紧背包口，插上挂锁，扣上背包盖，再用帆布盖上这两个背包。安塞尔莫已到山涧里去了。
　　罗伯特，乔丹站起身想跟他进去，接着又想了想，揭去两个背包上的帆布，一手各提一个，勉强地朝山洞口走去。到了洞口，他放下一个背包，撩幵门毯，然后弯了腰，一手提着一个背包的皮带,进入山洞里。
　　洞里很暖和，烟雾缭绕。沿洞壁有一张桌子，上面有一个插着一支牛腊烛的瓶子，坐在桌边的是巴勃罗，三个他不认识的人和吉普赛人拉斐尔。烛光在洞壁上投射着他们的影子，安塞尔莫还站在桌子右边他刚才进来时的地方。巴勃罗的老婆站在洞犄角生炭火的炉灶边。那姑娘晚在她身旁，搅动着一只铁锅里的东西。她把木汤匙拿出来，望着这时站在门口的罗伯特。乔丹。”他借炉火的光看到那妇人在拉风箱，看到姑娘的脸和一条手臂，汤汁从汤匙中滴下来，滴入铁锅　“你提着什么东西?”巴勃罗问。
　　“我的东西，”罗伯特　乔丹说，在桌子对面山洞比较开阔的地方放下了背包,两个背包隔开-些距离。“放在外面不是满好吗?”巴勃罗问。“人家可能在黑暗中绊着，”罗伯特.乔丹说着，走到桌子边，把那盒香烟放在桌上。
　　“我不喜欢把炸药放在这儿洞里,”巴勃罗说。“离炉火远着呢，”罗伯特一乔丹说。“拿几支烟吧。〃他用拇指指甲划开兼上印有　艘彩色大兵舰的纸食　边的封。，把它推到巴勃罗面前，安塞尔莫给他搬来一只蒙着生皮的凳子，他就在桌边坐下来。巴勃罗望着他，好象有话要说，却伸手去拿烟卷，
　　罗伯待〃乔丹随即把烟卷推向别人面前。他并不正眼打量他们。不过他觉察到有一个人拿了烟卷，两个人没拿。他的注意力全集中在巴勃罗一人身上。
　　“情况怎么样，吉普赛人？”他对拉斐尔说。“不坏，”吉普赛人说，罗伯特，乔丹看得出，他进来的时候,他们正在议论他。连吉普赛人也局伲不安。
　　“她打算让你再吃呜？”罗伯持　乔丹问吉普赛人。“是呀。干吗不。”吉普赛人说。这时的气氛和他们下午友好地又说又笑大不相同了。“
　　巴勃罗的老婆一句话也没说，只顾拉风箱、扇炭火，“有个叫奥古斯丁的说，他在山上厌倦得要死。“罗伯特，乔丹说。
　　“死不了，”巴勃罗说。“让他死一会儿也好。”“有酒吗”罗伯特　乔丹把身体朝前靠，手搁在桌上，向大伙儿随便问。
　　“剩下不多了。“巴勃罗阴郁地说。罗伯特　乔丹决定,他还不如观察一下另外三个人的神情,来判断自己的处塊怎么样。“既然这样，就让我喝杯水　你。“他叫那姑娘,“给我来杯水。“
　　姑娘望望那妇人,妇人一声不吭，只当没听到。她随即向水锅那边走去,舀了一满杯。她把水端到桌上,放在他面前。”罗伯特　乔丹朝她笑笑。同时，他收紧了腹肌，身子在発子上向左微微一转，这样,腰带上的手枪滑到了更烦手的地方。他朝后裤袋仲下手去,巴勃罗紧盯着他。他知道大家也都在紧盯者他，但他只注意巴勃罗一个人。他从后裤袋里抽出那有皮套的扃酒瓶，旋开瓶盖，然后举起杯子，暍了半杯水，把瓶里的酒十分缓慢地倒在杯子里。
　　“这太凶，你受不了，不然我给你一点，”他对姑娘说，又对她笑笑。“剩下不多了，不然我请你喝一点。“他对巴勃罗说，“我不喜欢大茴香酒。“巴勃罗说。
　　刚才一股辛辣味飙过桌面，他闻到了其中一种熟悉的成分的气味。”
　　“那好，”罗伯特　乔丹说，“因为反正只剩一点儿了。”“那是什么酒?”吉普赛人问。“药，”罗伯特“乔丹说。“你想尝尝吗？”“喝了管什么甩的？”
　　“什么都管，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“什么病都能治。你如果有什么病，它准能治好。
　　“让我尝尝，”吉普赛人说。
　　罗伯特　乔丹把杯子向他推去。这酒搀了水变成了乳黄色，他希望吉普赛人只喝“口。剩下的只有一点儿了，这样一杯东西，可以代替晚报，可以代替往日在咖啡馆里消磨的所有的夜晚，代眷毎年这个月份里开花的所有的栗子树，代替郊区林荫路上的策马缓行,代替书店,代醬报亭,代替美术陈列馆,代替漦特苏里公园，代替布法罗运动场，代替夏兼髙地，代替保险信托公司和巴黎旧城岛,代替古老的福约特旅馆,可以代替在傍晚读书、休息？代替他享受过的、已被遗忘了的一切〃当他尝着这乳浊、苦涩、使舌头麻木、使头脑发热、使肚子暖和、使思想起变化的神妙的液体时，所有这一切又都重现在他眼前。
　　吉普赛人皱眉蹙额，交还杯子。“气味象大茴香，味道却象苦胆，”他说。“喝这种药我宁可生病。”
　　“那是苦艾，”罗伯特，乔丹对他说。“在这种真正的文酒里搀有苦艾。据说它会把你的脑子都烂掉，不过我不信。它只会使思想起变化。你原该把水很慢地倒在里面，每一次倒几滴，不过,我却把它直接倒在水里。”
　　“你在说啥？”巴勃罗觉得受到了嘲弄,气忿地说。“说明这药的性能。”罗伯特“乔丹对他说，并露齿笑笑。”我是在马德里买的。这是最后一瓶，已经喝了三个星期。”他喝了一大口，觉得酒顺着他舌头朝下淌,神经都麻木了，特别舒服。他望着巴勃罗，又鼷齿笑笑。“情况怎么样？〃他问道。”
　　巴勃罗不回笞，罗伯特　乔丹留神望着桌边另外那三个人。有一个长着一张大扁脸,扁而红揭色,象只塞拉诺火腿,断鼻梁，扁鼻子，嘴角斜叼者细长的俄国烟卷，使那张脸显得更扁了。这个人留着灰色的短头发和灰色的胡子茬，穿着通常的骚色軍衣，齐脖子扣住。罗伯特。乔丹望着他,他垂下眼光看桌子,可是目光坚定，一眨不眨。另外两个显然是兄弟。他们长得很象，都是矮胖结实，黑头发,前额很低,黑眼睛，皮肤棕褐色，一个前额上有条刀疤,在左眼上方。他望着他们俩，他们俩也目不转睛地望着他。一个看来二十七八岁光景,另一个可能要大两岁　“你望什么?”两兄弟中那个有刀疤的问。〃你。”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“有什么可奇怪的暍?” 
　　“没有，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“来支烟？“行，”那人说。他刚才没拿烟卷，”这烟银那个人的一样。炸火车的那个人。　
　　“你参加了炸火车?”
　　“我们都参加了。“那人冷静地说。“只有老头子没去。““这就是我们现在应该干的事，”巴勃罗说。“再炸一列火车。“
　　“那可以，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“等炸桥以后。他注意到巴勃罗的老婆在炉灶边转过身来，正在留心听。他一提到桥，大家都不作声了。
　　“等炸桥以后，”他故意重说一遒,呷了口文酒。他想。”我还是挑明的好。这个问题反正要谈到的。
　　“我可不去炸桥。”巴勃罗说，低头望着桌子。“我也好,我的手下也好，都不去。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹没说什么。他望着安塞尔莫,举起了杯子，”那我们只好单干啦,老伙计，”他微笑着说　“不要这个胆小鬼，”安塞尔莫说。“你说什么?”巴勃罗对老头儿说。“不关你的事。”我没有银你说话，”安塞尔莫对他说。罗伯特，乔丹这时隔着桌子望望站在炉火边的巴勃罗的老婆。她还没开过口，也没任何表示。但她这时对那姑娘说了些他听不清的话，姑娘就从火边站起身来，沿洞壁悄悄走去，揭开挂在洞口的敌子，出去了。罗伯特　乔丹想。”我看现在要摊脾了-我相信就在眼前了。我不希望发生这种佾況，可是实际情況看来就会如此。
　　“那我们要不靠你的帮劢来炸桥。“罗伯特　乔丹对巴勃罗
说。
　　“不，”巴勃罗说;罗伯特’乔丹望着他出汗的脸。你不能在这里炸桥。
　　“不能？”
　　“你不能炸桥，”巴勃罗缓慢地说。
　　“那你怎么说?”罗伯特。乔丹对巴勃罗的老婆说，她站在炉灶边显得镇静而高大。她转身对大家说,“我赞成炸桥。”她的脸被火光映亮了，显得红黑红黑的，热情而漂亮，流露出了她的本色。
　　“你说什么？”巴勃罗对她说；罗伯特　乔丹看到他转过头来,脸上显出感到众叛亲离的神色，前额上在冒汗。
　　“我赞成炸桥，反对你。”巴勃罗的老婆说。“没别的话啦。”
　　“我也赞成炸挢。“长着扁脸和断晷梁的人说,在桌上揿灭了烟蒂。
　　“对我来说，那座桥算不上什么“两兄弟中的一个说。“我拥护的是巴勃罗大娘。“
　　“我也一样，”另一个说。
　　“我也一样，”吉普赛人说。
　　罗伯特“乔丹注视着巴勃罗，同时，右手慢慢地放下来，以防万一，心里有点希望发生这种情况。他觉得那也许是最简易的解决办法,然而又不愿意损害已有的良好进展。他知道，一家人、一族人、一帮人在争吵的时候，很容易迅速团结起来反对一个外来的人；然而他又想,既然问題已经挑明，用这只手所能干出来的事也许是最简单而最好的，象外科手术那样录干脆。他还注意到巴勃罗的老婆站在那里，在众人表态时激动得脸上霣出骄傲、坚强、健康的红色，
　　“我拥护共和国，”巴勃罗的老婆欢快地说。“桥关系到共和国的命运。要干别的我们以后有时间。”
　　“你呀，”巴勃罗刻薄地说。“你这个种牛脑袋、婊子心肠的东西。你以为炸这座桥还会有　以后’吗？你考虑到会发生什么事吗？”
　　“会发生该发生的事情，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“非发生不可的事情总得发生。”
　　“炸这座桥我们得不到好处，炸桥之后我们会象野兽一样被人搜捕，你觉得无所谓吗？炸桥时万一死掉也无所谓吗？”“无所谓，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“你别来吓唬我，胆小鬼。”“胆小鬼，”巴勃罗忿忿地说。“你把一个有战术头脑的人叫做胆小鬼，因为他能事先看到干索事要遭殃。僅得什么叫蠹事的可不是胆小鬼。”
　　“僅得什么叫胆小鬼的也不见得蠢，”安塞尔莫忍不住插了一句。
　　“你要找死吗？”巴勃罗严苈地对他说。罗伯特　乔丹看到这句话问得太不够策略。“不。“
　　“那么留神你的嘴。你话太多了，讲的事自己也不懂。你没看出这件事的严重性吗？”他简直瘙出了一副可怜相。“难道只有我一个人才看出这件事的严重性吗?”
　　罗伯特　乔丹想。我也这样认为。老巴勃罗啊，老伙计，我也这样认为哪。还有我。你看得出来,我也看出来了，那妇人从我手拿上也看出来了，只是她自己还没有明白过来。目前她还没有明白过来。
　　“老子当家难道是吃千饭的?”巴勃罗问，“我说的活，我有
稂据。你们这帮人哪里知道。这个老头予在胡扯。他呀，这老头子,只会给外国人当通讯员、做向导，这个外国人到这里来干的事只对外国人有好处，为了他的好处，我们却得付出牺牲。我关心的是大家的好处和安全。”
　　“安全，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“安全这种东西根本不存在。到这里来找安全的人太多了，以致引起了大危险，为了寻求安全，现在把什么都丢啦。
　　她这时站在桌边，一手拿着那把大汤匙。“有安全，”巴勃罗说。“在危险中僅得如何见机行事就有安全。正象斗牛士知道自己在干什么,不冒不必要的险,就会安全。。”“直到他被牛角挑伤为止，”那妇人尖刻地说。“斗牛士被牛挑伤前也说这种话，我听到过不知有多少次了。我老是听菲尼托说，这全雜学问，牛决不会挑伤你，而是人自己推到牛角上去的。他们挨牛角之前，总是这样吹大气。结果是我们到病房里去看他们。”这时,她学着在探病的样子。”哏,老伙计，”她声如洪钟地说。接着,她用受了重伤的斗牛士的衰弱的声音说,“你好，朋友。怎么啦，比拉尔？”“怎么镝的，菲尼托,好孩子舸，你怎么碰到了这种倒霉事儿?”她用自己那洪亮的声音说。接着再学衰弱的声音，“没什么，太太。比拉尔，没什么。本来不会出这种事的。我顺顺当当地剌死了它，你知道。谁都没有我利索。我干净利落地把它杀了,它呢,死定啦儿摇猫晃晃的，支撑不住自身的重量，眼看就要栽倒了。我从它身边走开,祺样挺神气，挺帅，哪知道，它从背后把角捅进我的屁股，从肚皮上截了出来。”她不再学斗牛士那简直象女人一觖柔弱的声音了，哈哈大笑起来，接着又声音洪亮地说话了。“你扯什么安全明　我和天下三个收入最少的斗牛士待过九年，还不知道什么叫恐惧、什么叫安全吗？跟我讲什么事都行，可别讲安全。而你呀。我是一门心思指垫你干番大事,现在可落得这样的下场　打了一年仗,你就变成了懒鬼、酒鬼、胆小鬼。”
　　“你没权利这样说话。“巴勃罗说。“尤其在大家面前，在陌生人面前。“
　　“我就是要这样说话，”巴勃罗的老婆接着说。“你听到没有?你以为这里还是你作主?”
　　“对，”巴勃罗说。“这里我作主。”
　　“没的事，”那妇人说。“这里我作主　你们大伙听到了没有？这里除了我没有别人能作主。你要愿意,可以待着，吃你的饭，喝你的酒，可不能不要命似的喝那么多。你要愿意,可以于一部分活。可这里我作主。“
　　“我该把你和这个外国佬一起毙了。”巴勃罗阴沉地说。“试试看，”那妇人说。“看看会怎么样。““给我来杯水。”罗伯特　乔丹说，跟睛仍然盯着这个脸色阴沉而脑袋笨重的汉子和那个自嶔而信心十足地站着的女人，她拿着一把大汤匙，威风凜凜地仿佛拿的是指挥棒。”
　　“玛丽亚，”巴勃罗的老婆喊道，等姑娘进了门，她说。”拿水给这位同志。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹伸手去掏扁酒瓶，他一边拿出瓶子，一边松幵枪套里的手枪，把它在联带上转过来顶着大鼯根。他再往杯子里倒了点艾酒，端起姑娘簪他嬝来的那杯水，开始-滴一满地倒在酒杯里。姑娘站在他身边望着他。
　　“到外面去，”巴勃罗的老婆对她说，用汤匙朝外面指指。〃外面冷哪。”姑娘说，脸颊挨近了罗伯特　乔丹的脸，注视着杯子里面的液体逐渐变得混浊　
　　“兴许是吧，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“不过这里可太热了。”她換着亲切地说。”要不了多久啦。”姑娘摇摇头,出去了。
　　罗伯特　乔丹暗自思忖。”我看他就要按捺不住了。”他一手握着杯子,一手毫不掩饰地放在手枪上。他已经打开了保险拴，抚摩着原先有小方格、现在几乎已磨平的枪抦，摸着鬪圆的冰凉的扳机护圈，一种舒适的伴侣感油然而生。巴勃罗不再望着他了，只望着那妇人，她接着说，“听我说，酒鬼。你明白这里是谁作主吗?”
“我作主。”
“不。听着。把你那毛耳朵里的耳垢掏掉。好好听着。”我作主”
　　巴勃罗望着她，从他的脸上“点看不出他在想些什么。他故意直勾勾地望着她，接着望望桌子对面的罗伯特。乔丹。他若有所思地看了他好久,接着又回头望者那妇人。
　　“行呀。你作主。“他说。“你愿意的话，他作主也行。”你们两个见鬼去吧。”他正睬望着那妇人的脸，他既没被她镇住，似乎也没受她多大的影响。“我或许是慷，酒喝得太多。你可以把我当胆小鬼，不过这一点你错了。我可不是傻瓜。”他停了一会。“你想作主，你也審欢作主。那好,你既然作主,又是女当家,就该给我们摘些吃的了。“
　　“玛丽亚，”巴勃罗的老婆喊道。姑娘从山洞口的毯子边探头进来。“进来侍候吃晚饭。”
　　姑娘走进来，走到炉灶边的矮桌前，端起一些搪瓷琬，放到
　　“红酒够大家喝的，”巴勃罗的老婆对罗伯特　乔丹说。“别
理会那酒鬼的话。喝完了这些酒，我们可以再搞一些。喝掉你那怪东西，来一杯红酒吧。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹一口干了最后一点艾酒，由于这样一饮而尽，觉得一股暖和、滋润、冒出浓烈气味、产生化学变化的细细的热流在他肚子里直泻而下，他递过杯子去要红酒。姑娘微笑着给他舀得满满的。
　　“呃，你去看过桥了？”吉普赛人问。刚才摊牌表态后还没开琿口的人，现在都凑过来听-
　　“是呀，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“这件事不难干。要我讲给你们听吗？”
　　“好，伙计。挺有兴趣。”
　　罗伯特。乔丹从衬衫袋里掏出笔记本，给他们看草图。“瞧这桥的样儿，”那个名叫普里米蒂伏的扁脸汉子说。“画得真象。”
　　罗伯特。乔丹用铅笔尖指着1讲解如何炸桥的方法，为什么要那样安放炸药包的原因。
　　“真简单极了，”两兄弟中脸上有刀疤的那个说，他名叫安德烈斯。“那你怎样引爆这些炸药包呢?”
　　罗伯特　乔丹又作了解释。他给他们讲解着,发觉那姑娘在旁边望着,手臂搁在他肩膀上。巴勃罗的老婆也在看着。只有巴勃罗不感兴趣，用杯子在大缸里又舀满了酒，坐在一旁独酌。大，“里辟酒是玛丽亚从挂在山洞进口左侧的皮酒袋里倒出来的。“这种事你干得很多吗?”姑娘悄声问罗伯特　乔丹。“对。”
　　“我们可以去看炸桥吗。““可以。于吗不。“
　　“你会看到的，”巴勃罗在桌子的那头说。“我相信你会看到的,“
　　“闭嘴，”巴勃罗的老婆对他说。她突然想起下午在手掌上看到的预兆，猛的冒出一股无名之火。“闭嘴，胆小鬼。闭嘴，不祥的老鸦。闭嘴,亡命之徒。”
　　“好，”巴勃罗说。“我闭嘴。现在作主的是你，你只顾自得其乐吧。不过别忘了，我可不是傻瓜。”
　　巴勃罗的老婆感到自己的愤怒变成了优伤，感到受到了挫折，丧失了一切希望，前途茫茫。当她还是小姑娘的时候，她就体会过这种心情，她一生中一直知道产生这种心情的来源。现在突然又出现了这种心情，她把它置之脑后，不让它影响她，既不让它影畹她，也不让它影响共和国,于是她说。”我们现在来吃吧。把锅里的菜盛在碗里，玛丽亚。“
Chapter 5
 Robert Jordan pushed aside the saddle blanket that hung over the mouth of the cave and, stepping out, took a deep breath of the cold night air. The mist had cleared away and the stars were out. There was no wind, and, outside now of the warm air of the cave, heavy with smoke of both tobacco and charcoal, with the odor of cooked rice and meat, saffron, pimentos, and oil, the tarry, wine-spilled smell of the big skin hung beside the door, hung by the neck and the four legs extended, wine drawn from a plug fitted in one leg, wine that spilled a little onto the earth of the floor, settling the dust smell; out now from the odors of different herbs whose names he did not know that hung in bunches from the ceiling, with long ropes of garlic, away now from the copper-penny, red wine and garlic, horse sweat and man sweat dried in the clothing (acrid and gray the man sweat, sweet and sickly the dried brushed-off lather of horse sweat), of the men at the table, Robert Jordan breathed deeply of the clear night air of the mountains that smelled of the pines and of the dew on the grass in the meadow by the stream. Dew had fallen heavily since the wind had dropped, but, as he stood there, he thought there would be frost by morning.
 As he stood breathing deep and then listening to the night, he heard first, firing far away, and then he heard an owl cry in the timber below, where the horse corral was slung. Then inside the cave he could hear the gypsy starting to sing and the soft chording of a guitar.
 "_I had an inheritance from my father_," the artificially hardened voice rose harshly and hung there. Then went on:

  "_It was the moon and the sun_
  "_And though I roam all over the world_
  "_The spending of it's never done_."

 The guitar thudded with chorded applause for the singer. "Good," Robert Jordan heard some one say. "Give us the Catalan, gypsy."
 "No."
 "Yes. Yes. The Catalan."
 "All right," the gypsy said and sang mournfully,

  "_My nose is flat_.
  "_My face is black_.
  "_But still I am a man_."

 "Ole!" some one said. "Go on, gypsy!"
 The gypsy's voice rose tragically and mockingly.

  "_Thank God I am a Negro_.
  "_And not a Catalan!_"

 "There is much noise," Pablo's voice said. "Shut up, gypsy."
 "Yes," he heard the woman's voice. "There is too much noise. You could call the _guardia civil_ with that voice and still it has no quality."
 "I know another verse," the gypsy said and the guitar commenced
 "Save it," the woman told him.
 The guitar stopped.
 "I am not good in voice tonight. So there is no loss," the gypsy said and pushing the blanket aside he came out into the dark.
 Robert Jordan watched him walk over to a tree and then come toward him.
 "Roberto," the gypsy said softly.
 "Yes, Rafael," he said. He knew the gypsy had been affected by the wine from his voice. He himself had drunk the two absinthes and some wine but his head was clear and cold from the strain of the difficulty with Pablo.
 "Why didst thou not kill Pablo?" the gypsy said very softly.
 "Why kill him?"
 "You have to kill him sooner or later. Why did you not approve of the moment?"
 "Do you speak seriously?"
 "What do you think they all waited for? What do you think the woman sent the girl away for? Do you believe that it is possible to continue after what has been said?"
 "That you all should kill him."
 "_Qu?va_," the gypsy said quietly. "That is your business. Three or four times we waited for you to kill him. Pablo has no friends."
 "I had the idea," Robert Jordan said. "But I left it."
 "Surely all could see that. Every one noted your preparations. Why didn't you do it?"
 "I thought it might molest you others or the woman."
 "_Qu?va_. And the woman waiting as a whore waits for the flight of the big bird. Thou art younger than thou appearest."
 "It is possible."
 "Kill him now," the gypsy urged.
 "That is to assassinate."
 "Even better," the gypsy said very softly. "Less danger. Go on. Kill him now."
 "I cannot in that way. It is repugnant to me and it is not how one should act for the cause."
 "Provoke him then," the gypsy said. "But you have to kill him. There is no remedy."
 As they spoke, the owl flew between the trees with the softness of all silence, dropping past them, then rising, the wings beating quickly, but with no noise of feathers moving as the bird hunted.
 "Look at him," the gypsy said in the dark. "Thus should men move."
 "And in the day, blind in a tree with crows around him," Robert Jordan said.
 "Rarely," said the gypsy. "And then by hazard. Kill him," he went on. "Do not let it become difficult."
 "Now the moment is passed."
 "Provoke it," the gypsy said. "Or take advantage of the quiet."
 The blanket that closed the cave door opened and light came out. Some one came toward where they stood.
 "It is a beautiful night," the man said in a heavy, dull voice. "We will have good weather."
 It was Pablo.
 He was smoking one of the Russian cigarettes and in the glow, as he drew on the cigarette, his round face showed. They could see his heavy, long-armed body in the starlight.
 "Do not pay any attention to the woman," he said to Robert Jordan. In the dark the cigarette glowed bright, then showed in his hand as he lowered it. "She is difficult sometimes. She is a good woman. Very loyal to the Republic." The light of the cigarette jerked slightly now as he spoke. He must be talking with it in the corner of his mouth, Robert Jordan thought. "We should have no difficulties. We are of accord. I am glad you have come." The cigarette glowed brightly. "Pay no attention to arguments," he said. "You are very welcome here.
 "Excuse me now," he said. "I go to see how they have picketed the horses."
 He went off through the trees to the edge of the meadow and they heard a horse nicker from below.
 "You see?" the gypsy said. "Now you see? In this way has the moment escaped."
 Robert Jordan said nothing.
 "I go down there," the gypsy said angrily.
 "To do what?"
 "_Qu?va_, to do what. At least to prevent him leaving."
 "Can he leave with a horse from below?"
 "No."
 "Then go to the spot where you can prevent him."
 "Agust璯 is there."
 "Go then and speak with Agust璯. Tell him that which has happened."
 "Agust璯 will kill him with pleasure."
 "Less bad," Robert Jordan said. "Go then above and tell him all as it happened."
 "And then?"
 "I go to look below in the meadow."
 "Good. Man. Good," he could not see Rafael's face in the dark but he could feel him smiling. "Now you have tightened your garters," the gypsy said approvingly.
 "Go to Agust璯," Robert Jordan said to him.
 "Yes, Roberto, yes," said the gypsy.
 Robert Jordan walked through the pines, feeling his way from tree to tree to the edge of the meadow. Looking across it in the darkness, lighter here in the open from the starlight, he saw the dark bulks of the picketed horses. He counted them where they were scattered between him and the stream. There were five. Robert Jordan sat down at the foot of a pine tree and looked out across the meadow.
 I am tired, he thought, and perhaps my judgment is not good. But my obligation is the bridge and to fulfill that, I must take no useless risk of myself until I complete that duty. Of course it is sometimes more of a risk not to accept chances which are necessary to take but I have done this so far, trying to let the situation take its own course. If it is true, as the gypsy says, that they expected me to kill Pablo then I should have done that. But it was never clear to me that they did expect that. For a stranger to kill where he must work with the people afterwards is very bad. It may be done in action, and it may be done if backed by sufficient discipline, but in this case I think it would be very bad, although it was a temptation and seemed a short and simple way. But I do not believe anything is that short nor that simple in this country and, while I trust the woman absolutely, I could not tell how she would react to such a drastic thing. One dying in such a place can be very ugly, dirty and repugnant. You could not tell how she would react. Without the woman there is no organization nor any discipline here and with the woman it can be very good. It would be ideal if she would kill him, or if the gypsy would (but he will not) or if the sentry, Agust璯, would. Anselmo will if I ask it, though he says he is against all killing. He hates him, I believe, and he already trusts me and believes in me as a representative of what he believes in. Only he and the woman really believe in the Republic as far as I can see; but it is too early to know that yet.
 As his eyes became used to the starlight he could see that Pablo was standing by one of the horses. The horse lifted his head from grazing; then dropped it impatiently. Pablo was standing by the horse, leaning against him, moving with him as he swung with the length of the picket rope and patting him on the neck. The horse was impatient at the tenderness while he was feeding. Robert Jordan could not see what Pablo was doing, nor hear what he was saying to the horse, but he could see that he was neither unpicketing nor saddling. He sat watching him, trying to think his problem out clearly.
 "Thou my big good little pony," Pablo was saying to the horse in the dark; it was the big bay stallion he was speaking to. "Thou lovely white-faced big beauty. Thou with the big neck arching like the viaduct of my pueblo," he stopped. "But arching more and much finer." The horse was snatching grass, swinging his head sideways as he pulled, annoyed by the man and his talking. "Thou art no woman nor a fool," Pablo told the bay horse. "Thou, oh, thou, thee, thee, my big little pony. Thou art no woman like a rock that is burning. Thou art no colt of a girl with cropped head and the movement of a foal still wet from its mother. Thou dost not insult nor lie nor not understand. Thou, oh, thee, oh my good big little pony."
 It would have been very interesting for Robert Jordan to have heard Pablo speaking to the bay horse but he did not hear him because now, convinced that Pablo was only down checking on his horses, and having decided that it was not a practical move to kill him at this time, he stood up and walked back to the cave. Pablo stayed in the meadow talking to the horse for a long time. The horse understood nothing that he said; only, from the tone of the voice, that they were endearments and he had been in the corral all day and was hungry now, grazing impatiently at the limits of his picket rope, and the man annoyed him. Pablo shifted the picket pin finally and stood by the horse, not talking now. The horse went on grazing and was relieved now that the man did not bother him.
　　罗伯特　乔丹撩开挂在山洞口的马毯，跨到外面；深深地吸了一口夜凉空气。迷雾已消散,星星露面了。这时洞外没有风,他不再闻到洞里暧和的空气，那里弥漫着烟草和炭火的烟味，夹杂着米饭、芮、蕃红花、辣椒和食油的香味，还有那拴住脖子挂在洞边的盛酒用的大皮袋，四腿伸幵，一条雎上安了一个塞子，取酒时溅出来的酒洒在泥地上，酒味压倒了尘埃的气味；他不再闻到和长长的一串串大蒜一起挂在洞顶的一扎扎不知名称的各种药草的气味，他不再闻到铟币、红酒和大蒜的气味，马汗和人衣服上的汗味(人汗是刺鼻的酸味，刷下来的马汗沫千了以后带有怪味，令人作呕。罗伯特　乔丹现在离开了桌边的那些人，深深吸着夜晚山中带着松树和溪边草地上的露水气息的清新空气。风已停息，露水更浓了,但是他站在那里，却认为早展准会有霜。
　　他站着深深地呼吸着，倾听着夜籁，这时，他先听到远方的枪声，接着是下面树林中马栏那边传来猫头鹰的叫声。然后他又听到吉普赛人在山洞里幵始唱耿，还有吉他轻柔的伴奏声。
　　“我爹留给我一笔遗产。”粗哑的假嗓音晌了起来，在那里荡漾。他接着唱下去。“那就是月充和太阳。我虽然走遍夭涯诲角，这笔遣产永远花不光。低沉的吉他声里混杂着大家为耿手喝彩的声音。“好，”罗伯特。乔丹听到有人在噓。“唱那支加泰隆民耿①给我们听,吉普赛人,“不。“
　　“唱吧。喝吧。噴加泰隆民耿。”“好吧，”吉普赛人说，就哀伤地唱起来，我的鼻子扁，我的脸儿黑，不过我还是人。”
①指用西班牙东北部加泰罗尼亚地区的方言加麥隆语写的民取办
“好　”有人喊。“唱下去，吉普赛人!”吉普赛人的軟声伤心而嘲弄地响起来，
　　“幸好我是个黑人，不是加泰罗尼亚人。“
　　〃真闹死了，”只听得巴勃罗的声音说。“住口，吉普赛人。”“是呀，”他听到那妇人的声音说。“闹得太厉害了。你这副矂子可以把民防军都招来，不过唱得还是不够格。”
　　“我还会唱一节，”吉普赛人说,接着响起了吉他声，“留着吧，”那妇人对他说。吉他声停了　
　　“今晚我嗓子不好。不唱也没什么关系。”吉普赛人说着，撩幵毯子，走到外面黑夜中去。
　　罗伯特　乔丹看见他走到“棵树边,然后向他这边走来。“罗伯托，”吉普赛人低声说。
　　“嗯，拉斐尔。“他说。他从吉普赛人的声调里听出他有了几分醉意。他自己也喝了两杯艾酒和一些红酒，但是由于刚才和巴勃罗紧张地较量了一番,他的头脑却清醒而冷静。“你干吗不杀了巴勃罗？”吉普赛人悄悄地说，“为什么要杀他,
　　“你迟早得杀了他。你为啥不利用当时的机会？”　你这是说正经话?”
　　“你以为我们大伙在盼着什么？你以为那女人把丫头支出去是为了什么？刚才说了那番话，你以为我们往后还呆得下去
“我以为你们大家会杀他的。”
　　“什么话　”吉普赛人冷静地说。“那是你的事。有三四次我们等你动手杀他。巴勃罗没有朋友。”
　　“我起过这念头，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“不过我打消了。”“大家也都看到啦。大家都注意到你准备动手。你干吗不动手?”
　　“我觉得这样做说不定会使你们有些人,或者使那女人不高兴。“
　　“什么话　那婆娘就象婊子盼嫖客那样心焦地盼着。你看上去挺老练，实际还嫩着呢。“
　　“那倒有可能。”
　　“现在去杀他吧。“吉普赛人催促着。“那就等于暗杀。”
　　“这样更好些，”吉普赛人悄声说。“危险少些。动手吧。现在就干掉他。”
　　“我不能那么干。我讨厌那种做法，为了我们的事业，不应该那么干。“
　　“那么就惹他发火，”吉普赛人说。“你非杀他不可，没别的办法。“
　　他们交谈的时候,那只猫头鹰在树林里悄没声儿地飞着，先在他们身旁落下，随即又飞上天去，迅速扑动着翅膀，可是尽管它一路觅食,拍击着翅膀,却一点声音也没有。
　　“瞧它，”吉普赛人在黑暗中说。“人就该这么行动。”“可是到了白天，它在树上一点也看不见，却被乌鸦包围起来了。“罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“这是难得如此的，”吉普赛人说。“再说，也是偶然的事,杀
他吧，”他接着说。“别等到事情棘手的时候。”“现在已经错过机会啦。
　　“向他挑衅，”吉普赛人说。“或者趁现在夜深人静。”遮住山洞口的毪子撩开了，霜出亮光来。有一个人向他们站的地方走来。
　　“夜色真好。”那人用低沉而单调的嗓音说。〃天气要放晴啦。”
　　那是巴勃罗。
　　他正在抽一支俄国烟卷，吸烟时烟头的火光映出了他的圆脸。在星光中,他们看得清他的一双长臂和粗壮的身子。
　　“别理会那婆娘，”他对罗伯特　乔丹说。黑暗中，烟头的红光很亮，接着那光亮随着他的手垂下了。她有时真别扭。她人不坏。对共和国很忠诚。”他说话时烟头的光在微微抖动着。罗伯特。乔丹想　他说话时准是把烟卷叼在嘴角，“我们不应当闹别扭，大家是一条心嘛。你来了’我很高兴。”这时烟头的光变得很亮。“别把争吵放在心上，”他说。“你在这里很受欢迎。“
　　“现在我要失陪了，”他说，“我去看看他们是不是把马拴好了。“
　　他穿过树林，走到革地边，他们听到草地上有匹马在嘶叫公“你明白了吧?”吉普赛人说。“现在你总明白了吧？这一来，机会错过了。”
　　罗伯特“乔丹一句话也没说　“我到下面去，”吉普赛人忿忿地说。“去干什么?”
　　“瞧你说的,干什么！至少防止他溜掉呗。”“他能从下面骑了马走掉吗？”
　　“不能。”
　　“那么你到一个能防止他走掉的地点去。““奥古斯丁在那儿。
　　“那你去通知奥古斯丁。把刚才发生的事情告诉他。“奥古斯丁会很乐意杀掉他的。”
　　“这倒不坏，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“那就到山上去把发生的情况都照实告诉他。““接着呢?”
　　“我到下面草地上去看看。“
　　“好。伙计。好。”他在黑暗中看不到拉斐尔的脸，但能感觉到他在撖笑。“现在你可要真干啦。”吉普赛人赞许地说。“去找奥古斯丁吧。”罗伯特　乔丹对他说，“好,罗伯托，好，”吉普赛人说。
　　罗伯特。乔丹在松林中穿行，从这棵树摸到另一棵树，来到草地边。他在黑暗中望着眼前的草地，在星光下,这空扩的草地显得较明亮，他看到那些拴住的马的黑黝黝的身影。他数数敢开在从他眼前到小溪边这片草地上的马群。一共五匹。罗伯特，乔丹坐在一棵松树脚下,眺望面前的草地。
　　他想,我累啦，也许我的判断力不行了，不过我的责任是炸桥，在完成这个任务之前，我不能拿自己作无谓的冒险。当然，放过必须抓住的机会有时候吏危险,但是我　直听其自然，让事态自己发展。要是真象吉普赛人说的,大家都指望我杀掉巴勃罗，那我就应该杀了他。但我一点也摸不透，他们是不是真的指望我那样做。让一个外来的人来杀人,而事后又不得不和大家一起工作，这是非常糟的，在打仗时可以这么干，有了充分的纪律保证也可以这样干，可是我觉得,在眼前的情况下这样干是十分糟的，尽管这办法很吸引人，似乎又干脆又简单。但是在这个地方,我是不信任何事能这样干脆而简单的，尽管我完全信任那女人，可我说不准她对这样走极端的行动会有什么反应。一个人在这种场合死去也许是非常丑恶、肮脏、令人厌恶的。你摸不透她会有什么反应。没有这个女人，这里就没有组织,也没有纪律，有了她，事情就能很好办。如果她杀了他，或者由吉普赛人来杀〈但他是不会的〉，或者由那哨兵奥古斯丁来杀，那就理想了。如果我要求安塞尔莫，他是肯动手的，虽然他说反对杀任何人。我相信,他恨巴勃罗，他对我已经有了信任，而且把我当作他所信仰的事物的代表那样信任我。依我看，只有他和那女人才真正信仰共和国;不过，现在下这种绪论还太早。
　　他眼睛习愤了星光，他看到巴勃罗站在一匹马旁边。那匹马抬起头来不再吃草了；接着又不耐烦地垂下头去。巴勃罗站在马旁边，挨着它，跟它顺着缀绳的长度转面子，不时拍拍它的脖颈。马在吃草的时候，对这样的爱抚显得不耐烦。罗伯特　乔丹看不清巴勃罗在做什么,也听不到他对马在说些什么，但是他看得出巴勃罗不在解缰绳，也不在备鞍。他坐在地上望者巴勃罗，想把他的问题理出个头绪来。
　　“你呀，我的大个儿小乖马，”巴勃罗在黑暗中对那匹马说，就是那匹茱色大种马。“你这个可爱的白脸大美人儿呀。你呀，你的长脖子弯得象我老家村子里的旱桥。”他停了一会儿。”弯得更高、更好看。“马在哨萆，把草咬断时头歪向一边，被这个人和他的唠叨弄得厌烦了。“你可不是婆娘，也不是傻瓜，”巴勃罗对栗色马说。“你呀，明，你呀你，我的大个儿小乖马　你不是那个象滚烫的石头　样的婆娘。你也不是那个剃了光头、象乳臭未干的小牝马般走动的丫头，你不骂街,也不撤诡,可僅事薄。你呀你，我的大个儿小乖马呀。“
　　如果听到巴勃罗跟那栗色马谈心，罗伯特。乔丹准会觉得非常有趣，但他没听到，因为他深信巴勃罗只是下来检查他的马匹，认为在这时杀他并不可取，所以站起身来，回山湎去了。巴勃罗留在草地上对那匹马谈了很久。马儿一点也不懂他说的话，只听得出那语调是亲热的表示。伹它在马栏里被圏了一天，这时正饿着，不耐烦地在系马桩上的绳子长度所及的范围里吃萆，这家伙的唠叨叫它恼火。巴勃罗后来把系马桩搬了一个位置，仍旧站在马身边，可是不说话了，马儿继续吃荜，这个人不再打扰它了,使它觉得轻松不少。
Chapter 6
 Inside the cave, Robert Jordan sat on one of the rawhide stools in a corner by the fire listening to the woman. She was washing the dishes and the girl, Maria, was drying them and putting them away, kneeling to place them in the hollow dug in the wall that was used as a shelf.
 "It is strange," she said. "That El Sordo has not come. He should have been here an hour ago."
 "Did you advise him to come?"
 "No. He comes each night."
 "Perhaps he is doing something. Some work."
 "It is possible," she said. "If he does not come we must go to see him tomorrow."
 "Yes. Is it far from here?"
 "No. It will be a good trip. I lack exercise."
 "Can I go?" Maria asked. "May I go too, Pilar?"
 "Yes, beautiful," the woman said, then turning her big face, "Isn't she pretty?" she asked Robert Jordan. "How does she seem to thee? A little thin?"
 "To me she seems very well," Robert Jordan said. Maria filled his cup with wine. "Drink that," she said. "It will make me seem even better. It is necessary to drink much of that for me to seem beautiful."
 "Then I had better stop," Robert Jordan said. "Already thou seemest beautiful and more."
 "That's the way to talk," the woman said. "You talk like the good ones. What more does she seem?"
 "Intelligent," Robert Jordan said lamely. Maria giggled and the woman shook her head sadly. "How well you begin and how it ends, Don Roberto."
 "Don't call me Don Roberto."
 "It is a joke. Here we say Don Pablo for a joke. As we say the Se隳rita Maria for a joke."
 "I don't joke that way," Robert Jordan said. "Camarada to me is what all should be called with seriousness in this war. In the joking commences a rottenness."
 "Thou art very religious about thy politics," the woman teased him. "Thou makest no jokes?"
 "Yes. I care much for jokes but not in the form of address. It is like a flag."
 "I could make jokes about a flag. Any flag," the woman laughed. "To me no one can joke of anything. The old flag of yellow and gold we called pus and blood. The flag of the Republic with the purple added we call blood, pus and permanganate. It is a joke."
 "He is a Communist," Maria said. "They are very serious _gente_."
 "Are you a Communist?"
 "No I am an anti-fascist."
 "For a long time?"
 "Since I have understood fascism."
 "How long is that?"
 "For nearly ten years."
 "That is not much time," the woman said. "I have been a Republican for twenty years."
 "My father was a Republican all his life," Maria said. "It was for that they shot him."
 "My father was also a Republican all his life. Also my grandfather," Robert Jordan said.
 "In what country?"
 "The United States."
 "Did they shoot them?" the woman asked.
 "_Qu?va_," Maria said. "The United States is a country of Republicans. They don't shoot you for being a Republican there."
 "All the same it is a good thing to have a grandfather who was a Republican," the woman said. "It shows a good blood."
 "My grandfather was on the Republican national committee," Robert Jordan said. That impressed even Maria.
 "And is thy father still active in the Republic?" Pilar asked.
 "No. He is dead."
 "Can one ask how he died?"
 "He shot himself."
 "To avoid being tortured?" the woman asked.
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "To avoid being tortured."
 Maria looked at him with tears in her eyes. "My father," she said, "could not obtain a weapon. Oh, I am very glad that your father had the good fortune to obtain a weapon."
 "Yes. It was pretty lucky," Robert Jordan said. "Should we talk about something else?"
 "Then you and me we are the same," Maria said. She put her hand on his arm and looked in his face. He looked at her brown face and at the eyes that, since he had seen them, had never been as young as the rest of her face but that now were suddenly hungry and young and wanting.
 "You could be brother and sister by the look," the woman said. "But I believe it is fortunate that you are not."
 "Now I know why I have felt as I have," Maria said. "Now it is clear."
 "_Qu?va_," Robert Jordan said and reaching over, he ran his hand over the top of her head. He had been wanting to do that all day and now he did it, he could feel his throat swelling. She moved her head under his hand and smiled up at him and he felt the thick but silky roughness of the cropped head rippling between his fingers. Then his hand was on her neck and then he dropped it.
 "Do it again," she said. "I wanted you to do that all day."
 "Later," Robert Jordan said and his voice was thick.
 "And me," the woman of Pablo said in her booming voice. "I am expected to watch all this? I am expected not to be moved? One cannot. For fault of anything better; that Pablo should come back."
 Maria took no notice of her now, nor of the others playing cards at the table by the candlelight.
 "Do you want another cup of wine, Roberto?" she asked.
 "Yes," he said. "Why not?"
 "You're going to have a drunkard like I have," the woman of Pablo said. "With that rare thing he drank in the cup and all. Listen to me, _Ingl廥_."
 "Not _Ingl廥_. American."
 "Listen, then, American. Where do you plan to sleep?"
 "Outside. I have a sleeping robe."
 "Good," she said. "The night is clear?"
 "And will be cold."
 "Outside then," she said. "Sleep thee outside. And thy materials can sleep with me."
 "Good," said Robert Jordan.
 "Leave us for a moment," Robert Jordan said to the girl and put his hand on her shoulder.
 "Why?"
 "I wish to speak to Pilar."
 "Must I go?"
 "Yes."
 "What is it?" the woman of Pablo said when the girl had gone over to the mouth of the cave where she stood by the big wineskin, watching the card players.
 "The gypsy said I should have--" he began.
 "No," the woman interrupted. "He is mistaken."
 "If it is necessary that I--" Robert Jordan said quietly but with difficulty.
 "Thee would have done it, I believe," the woman said. "Nay, it is not necessary. I was watching thee. But thy judgment was good."
 "But if it is needful--"
 "No," the woman said. "I tell you it is not needful. The mind of the gypsy is corrupt."
 "But in weakness a man can be a great danger."
 "No. Thou dost not understand. Out of this one has passed all capacity for danger."
 "I do not understand."
 "Thou art very young still," she said. "You will understand." Then, to the girl, "Come, Maria. We are not talking more."
 The girl came over and Robert Jordan reached his hand out and patted her head. She stroked under his hand like a kitten. Then he thought that she was going to cry. But her lips drew up again and she looked at him and smiled.
 "Thee would do well to go to bed now," the woman said to Robert Jordan. "Thou hast had a long journey."
 "Good," said Robert Jordan. "I will get my things."
　　在山洞里，罗伯特。乔丹挨着炉火坐在角落里一只蒙着生牛皮的凳子上，听那女人说话。她正在洗碗碟，那姑娘玛丽亚把它们擦干净,放在一边，然后跪下来放进当作柜子用的壁润里。“真怪。”那女人说，“怎么　聋子’还不来？一小时以前他就该到了
　　“你捎过话叫他来吗?”“没有。他每晚都来。““他也许有事。有工作。“
　　“可能，”她说。“他要是不来，我们明天得去看他。”　对。离这里远吗？”
　　“不远。出去走走也不错。我缺少活动。““我能去吗?”玛丽亚问.“我也可以去吗，比拉尔”
　　“可以，美人儿，“那妇人说，随即转过她的大脸，“她不是很漾亮吗？”她问罗伯特，乔丹。”“你觉得她怎么样？稍微瘦着点?”
　　“我看她很不错，”罗伯特，乔丹说。玛丽亚替他斟满了酒。“把它喝了，”她说。“这样，我就显得更好看。要喝许多许多酒才会觉得我漂亮。”
　　“那我还是不喝的好，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“你已经狼澦亮了，并且还不止是漂亮呢。”
　　“这话说对啦，”妇人说。“你的话有道理。她看上去还有什么优点呢?”
　　“聪明，”罗伯特。乔丹前言不搭后语地说。玛丽亚吃吃地笑了，妇人失望地摇摇头。“你开头说得多好，最后却这么说，堂。罗伯托。“
　　“别叫我堂　罗伯托。”
　　“那是开玩笑。我们这里开玩笑时就叫堂　巴勃罗。就象我们叫玛丽亚小姐那样，也是开玩笑。”
　　“我不开这种玩笑，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“依我看，在当前的战争中大家都应当非常认真地称呼同志。一开玩笑就会出现不好的苗头。”
　　“你对你的政洽象对宗教那么虔诚，”妇人取笑他。“你从不开玩笑?”
　　“也开。我很爱开玩笑，可不在称呼上开，称呼好比一面旗帜。”
　　“我连旗帜也要开玩笑，不管什么旗帜。“妇人大笑。“和我相比，任何别人的玩笑就算不上一回事了。我们管禪面黄、金两色的老旗子叫做脓和血，加上紫色的共和国国旗，我们管它叫
做血、脓和高镇敢钾。那是开玩笑。”
　　“他是共产党，”玛丽亚说。“他们是很严肃的人。“你是共产党吗?”“不,我是反法西斯主义者。”“很久了吗?”
　　“自从我了解法西斯主义以来。”“多久了。““差不多十年了。”
　　“那时间不算长，”妇人说。“我做，“二十年共和分子啦。”“我父亲做了一辈子的共和分子。”玛丽亚说。“就为这个，他们把他枪毙了。”
　　“我父亲也是个终生的共和分子，还有我担父，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“
　　“在哪一国?”“美国。”
　　“他们给枪毙了吗?”那妇人问，
　　“怎么会呢，”玛丽亚说。”“美国是共和分子的国家，那里的共和分子是不会被枪毙的。”
　　“有一个共和分子的祖父反正是好事，”那妇人说。“从这里看得出家世很好。“
　　“我祖父是共和党全国委员会委员，”罗伯特。乔丹说。这句话连玛丽亚也觉得印象很深。
　　“你父亲还在共和国做事吗？”比拉尔问。“不。他去世了。“　能不能问问，他是怎样去世的,“他开枪自杀的。”
　　“为了避免遭受拷打吗？”那妇人向。“是的，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“为了避免受到折磨。”玛丽亚望着他，眼睛里喰着眼泪。“我父亲，”她说,“当时弄不到枪。噢，我真高兴，你父亲有运气,能弄到枪。”
　　“是呀。真侥幸。“罗伯特，乔丹说。”我们谈谈别的好不好?”“这么说,你和我，我们的身世是一样的，”玛丽亚说。她把手放在他胳臂上，凝视着他的脸。他望着她那褐色的脸，望着她的眼睛；自从他见到她的眼睹以来，总觉得它们不及她脸上的其他部分那么年青,而现在，顷刻之间，这双眼睛却显得年青，带着渴望的神情。
　　“看你们的模样很象兄妹,那妇人说。“不过，我觉得你们俩不是兄妹倒好。”
　　“我现在才明白，为什么我一直有那么样的心情，”玛丽亚说。“现在清楚了。“
　　“什么话，”罗伯特　乔丹说着，伸手抚摸她的头顶。整天来，他一直想抚摸它，现在如愿，“，他只觉得自己的喉咙哽得慌。她在他的抚摸之下，把头微微挪动着，她抬头向他微笑；他感到浓密而柔顺的短发在他指缝中波动着。他把手随后放在她脖子上,接着就拿开了　
　　“再摸一次，”她说。“我整天都盼望着你这样做。”“以后再说吧，”罗伯特　乔丹声音沙哑地说。“那我昵，”巴勃罗的老婆嗓音洪亮地说。“难道要我在旁边看着这副模样吗？难道要我无动于衷吗？做不到明，不得已而求其次，只指望巴勃罗回来。”
　　玛丽亚这时既不理会她，也不理会那几个在桌边借烛光玩纸牌的人了。 　
　　“要不要再来一杯酒，罗伯托?”她问。“好，”他说。〃干吗不?”
　　“你跟我一样，也要弄到一个酒鬼了。”巴勃罗的老婆说。“他喝了杯里的怪东西，还喝这喝那的。”听我说，英国人。““不是英国人。是美国人。①。”“那么听着,美国人。你打算睡在哪儿?”“外面。我有睡袋。”“好的。“她说。“天气晴朗吗。““而且还会很凉快。”
　　“那就在外面吧。”她说。“你睡在外面。你那些货色可以放在我睡的地方。
　　“好。“罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“走开一会儿。“罗伯特　乔丹对姑娘说，并把手按在她肩膀上。
　　“干吗。“
　　“我想跟比拉尔说句话。”“非走不可吗？
　　〃什么事？”等姑娘走到山抦口，站在大酒袋边看人打脾的时候,巴勃罗的老婆问。
　　“吉普赛人说我应当一”他开口说。
　　“不，妇人打断了他的话。　他错了。
　　“如果有必要一”罗伯特。乔丹平静但又犹豫地说。
①　　因为美国人也讲英语，所以这些西班牙人自此以后经黹称他为英国人、
　　“我相信,那时你是会下手的，”妇人说。“不，没有必要。我一直在注意你。不过你的看法是对的。”“但是如果有需要一”
　　“不，”妇人说。“我跟你说，没有需要。吉普赛人的心思坏透了。”
　　“可是人在软弱的时候能造成很大危害,
　　“不。你不懂。这个人是已经不可能造成危害的了。“
　　“我弄不懂。”
　　“你还很年青，”她说，“你以后会懂的。”接着对姑娘说，“来吧，玛丽亚。我们谈完了。”
　　姑娘走过来，罗伯特　乔丹伸手轻轻拍拍她的头。地在他的抚摸之下，象只小猫。他以为她要哭了。但是她的嘴唇又往上一弯，望着他微笑了，
　　“你现在还是去睡觉吧。”妇人对罗伯特　乔丹说。“你赶了很多路啦。”
　　“好。“罗泊特　乔丹说。“我把我的东西收拾一下。”
Chapter 7
 He was asleep in the robe and he had been asleep, he thought, for a long time. The robe was spread on the forest floor in the lee of the rocks beyond the cave mouth and as he slept, he turned, and turning rolled on his pistol which was fastened by a lanyard to one wrist and had been by his side under the cover when he went to sleep, shoulder and back weary, leg-tired, his muscles pulled with tiredness so that the ground was soft, and simply stretching in the robe against the flannel lining was voluptuous with fatigue. Waking, he wondered where he was, knew, and then shifted the pistol from under his side and settled happily to stretch back into sleep, his hand on the pillow of his clothing that was bundled neatly around his rope-soled shoes. He had one arm around the pillow.
 Then he felt her hand on his shoulder and turned quickly, his right hand holding the pistol under the robe.
 "Oh, it is thee," he said and dropping the pistol he reached both arms up and pulled her down. With his arms around her he could feel her shivering.
 "Get in," he said softly. "It is cold out there."
 "No. I must not."
 "Get in," he said. "And we can talk about it later."
 She was trembling and he held her wrist now with one hand and held her lightly with the other arm. She had turned her head away.
 "Get in, little rabbit," he said and kissed her on the back of the neck.
 "I am afraid."
 "No. Do not be afraid. Get in."
 "How?"
 "Just slip in. There is much room. Do you want me to help you?"
 "No," she said and then she was in the robe and he was holding her tight to him and trying to kiss her lips and she was pressing her face against the pillow of clothing but holding her arms close around his neck. Then he felt her arms relax and she was shivering again as he held her.
 "No," he said and laughed. "Do not be afraid. That is the pistol."
 He lifted it and slipped it behind him.
 "I am ashamed," she said, her face away from him.
 "No. You must not be. Here. Now."
 "No, I must not. I am ashamed and frightened."
 "No. My rabbit. Please."
 "I must not. If thou dost not love me."
 "I love thee."
 "I love thee. Oh, I love thee. Put thy hand on my head," she said away from him, her face still in the pillow. He put his hand on her head and stroked it and then suddenly her face was away from the pillow and she was in his arms, pressed close against him, and her face was against his and she was crying.
 He held her still and close, feeling the long length of the young body, and he stroked her head and kissed the wet saltiness of her eyes, and as she cried he could feel the rounded, firm-pointed breasts touching through the shirt she wore.
 "I cannot kiss," she said. "I do not know how."
 "There is no need to kiss."
 "Yes. I must kiss. I must do everything."
 "There is no need to do anything. We are all right. But thou hast many clothes."
 "What should I do?"
 "I will help you."
 "Is that better?"
 "Yes. Much. It is not better to thee?"
 "Yes. Much better. And I can go with thee as Pilar said?"
 "Yes."
 "But not to a home. With thee."
 "No, to a home."
 "No. No. No. With thee and I will be thy woman."
 Now as they lay all that before had been shielded was unshielded. Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happymaking, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight-held loneliness that was such that Robert Jordan felt he could not stand it and he said, "Hast thou loved others?"
 "Never."
 Then suddenly, going dead in his arms, "But things were done to me."
 "By whom?"
 "By various."
 Now she lay perfectly quietly and as though her body were dead and turned her head away from him.
 "Now you will not love me."
 "I love you," he said.
 But something had happened to him and she knew it.
 "No," she said and her voice had gone dead and flat. "Thou wilt not love me. But perhaps thou wilt take me to the home. And I will go to the home and I will never be thy woman nor anything."
 "I love thee, Maria."
 "No. It is not true," she said. Then as a last thing pitifully and hopefully.
 "But I have never kissed any man."
 "Then kiss me now."
 "I wanted to," she said. "But I know not how. Where things were done to me I fought until I could not see. I fought until-- until--until one sat upon my head--and I bit him--and then they tied my mouth and held my arms behind my head--and others did things to me."
 "I love thee, Maria," he said. "And no one has done anything to thee. Thee, they cannot touch. No one has touched thee, little rabbit."
 "You believe that?"
 "I know it."
 "And you can love me?" warm again against him now.
 "I can love thee more."
 "I will try to kiss thee very well."
 "Kiss me a little."
 "I do not know how."
 "Just kiss me."
 She kissed him on the cheek.
 "No."
 "Where do the noses go? I always wondered where the noses would go."
 "Look, turn thy head," and then their mouths were tight together and she lay close pressed against him and her mouth opened a little gradually and then, suddenly, holding her against him, he was happier than he had ever been, lightly, lovingly, exultingly, innerly happy and unthinking and untired and unworried and only feeling a great delight and he said, "My little rabbit. My darling. My sweet. My long lovely."
 "What do you say?" she said as though from a great distance away.
 "My lovely one," he said.
 They lay there and he felt her heart beating against his and with the side of his foot he stroked very lightly against the side of hers.
 "Thee came barefooted," he said.
 "Yes."
 "Then thee knew thou wert coming to the bed."
 "Yes."
 "And you had no fear."
 "Yes. Much. But more fear of how it would be to take my shoes off."
 "And what time is it now? _lo sabes?_"
 "No. Thou hast no watch?"
 "Yes. But it is behind thy back."
 "Take it from there."
 "No."
 "Then look over my shoulder."
 It was one o'clock. The dial showed bright in the darkness that the robe made.
 "Thy chin scratches my shoulder."
 "Pardon it. I have no tools to shave."
 "I like it. Is thy beard blond?"
 "Yes."
 "And will it be long?"
 "Not before the bridge. Maria, listen. Dost thou--?"
 "Do I what?"
 "Dost thou wish?"
 "Yes. Everything. Please. And if we do everything together, the other maybe never will have been."
 "Did you think of that?"
 "No. I think it in myself but Pilar told me."
 "She is very wise."
 "And another thing," Maria said softly. "She said for me to tell you that I am not sick. She knows about such things and she said to tell you that."
 "She told you to tell me?"
 "Yes. I spoke to her and told her that I love you. I loved you when I saw you today and I loved you always but I never saw you before and I told Pilar and she said if I ever told you anything about anything, to tell you that I was not sick. The other thing she told me long ago. Soon after the train."
 "What did she say?"
 "She said that nothing is done to oneself that one does not accept and that if I loved some one it would take it all away. I wished to die, you see."
 "What she said is true."
 "And now I am happy that I did not die. I am so happy that I did not die. And you can love me?"
 "Yes. I love you now."
 "And I can be thy woman?"
 "I cannot have a woman doing what I ao. But thou art my woman now."
 "If once I am, then I will keep on. Am I thy woman now?"
 "Yes, Maria. Yes, my little rabbit."
 She held herself tight to him and her lips looked for his and then found them and were against them and he felt her, fresh, new and smooth and young and lovely with the warm, scalding coolness and unbelievable to be there in the robe that was as familiar as his clothes, or his shoes, or his duty and then she said, frightenedly, "And now let us do quickly what it is we do so that the other is all gone."
 "You want?"
 "Yes," she said almost fiercely. "Yes. Yes. Yes."
　　他躺在睡袋里。他想。”我已入睡了狠久啦。睡袋铺在树林中的地上,在山洞口一边岩石的背风处；他睡眠中翻过身来，压在手枪上，这手枪的带子系在一只手腕上，是临睡前放在身边的。他当时觉得睡酸背痛，两腿乏力，肌肉由于疲劳而有点僅硬,所以感到地面很柔软，疲乏的身子在有法兰绒衬里的睡袋中舒展一下,使他觉得十分舒适。他醒来时恍恍惚坶,不知道自己在什么地方，过后才明白过来，就挪开身体底下的手枪，满意地伸伸胳膊和腿，又入睡了，一只手放在用衣服整齐地卷住绳底鞋做成的枕头上，一条胳臂搂着这个枕头。
　　随后，他觉得有只手按到自己肩上，立即翻过身来，右手握住遍袋里的手枪。
　　“嗅,原来是你，”他说着放下手枪,伸出双臂把她朝下拉。他抱住她时，感觉到她在发抖。
　　“进来吧，”他轻柔地说。〃外面很冷。“”不。不行。“
　　“进来吧，”他说。“我们等会儿再谈吧。她索索发抖；他一手握住她的手腌，另一条胳臂轻轻地楼住她　她扭过头去了。
　　“来吧，小兔子。“他说，吻着她的后颈，“我怕。”
　　“别。别怕。进来吧。”〃怎样进来啊?”
　　“钻进来就是。里面有地方。要我帮你吗？”“不。”她说着就钻进了睡袋，他把她紧紧貼着自己，想吻她的嘴唇，她呢，把脸伏在用衣服卷成的枕头上，但双臂紧搂着他的脖子。接着，他感到她的手臂松开了，他伸手拥抱她，她又哆嗦起来。
　　“别这样,他说着笑了。“别怕。那是手枪。”他拿起手枪，推到自己背后。“我寄臊。”她说,脸朝着别处。“不，没有必要。好。来吧。”“不,我不能。我害臊，我怕。”
　　“别。我的兔子。请不要见怪。““不行。假如你不爱我呢。”“我爱你。”
　　“我爱你。啊，我爱你。把手放在我头上。”她朝着别处说，脸仍伏在枕上。他把手放在她头上抚摸着，接着，她突然从枕头上转过脸,偎在他怀里,紧挨着他，脸贴着他的脸，哭了。
　　他静静地、紧紧地抱着她，抚摸着她那颀长而年青的身体,抚換着她的头，吻着她那润湿而带咸味的眼睛；她哭着，他感到她衬衫里面那对圆圆的、隆起的、坚实的乳房在颤抖一“我不会接吻，”她说。“我不知道怎么接。”“不一定要接吻。”
　　“不。我一定要。该做的我都得做。”“没有必要做什么嘛。我们现在很好。不过你的衣服多了。“
　　“我该怎么办。“
　　“我来帮你。“
　　“这样是不是好些了？”
　　“好。好多了。你是不是也觉得好些?”
　　“好。好多了。我可以象比拉尔说的那样跟你走吗？〃
　　“可以。”
　　“可是不去养育院。我要跟你在一起。”“不，要去养育院。”
　　“不。不，不。我要跟你在一起,我要做你的女人。”他俩这样躺着，原先遮蔽的，现在全裸露了　原先是粗糙的衣服，现在全是润滑的肌肤，润滑、坚实、圆鼓鼓地紧挨着，长久的温暌的凉意，外面凉而里面暖。长久、轻快而紧密的拥抱，落莫空虚却又轮廓分明,青春可爱而使人心醉神移,现在都是温蓽润滑，绐人一种空虚、胸口隐隐作痛、紧密拥抱的落莫之感,这一切如此强烈，以至罗伯特　乔丹觉得再也忍不住了，他说,“你爱过别人吗?”“从来没有。“
　　这时，她在他怀里突然象死去了一般，“可是人家糟蹋过我。”
　　“好几个。“
　　她这时躺着动也不动，仿佛她的躯体巳经死去；她的脸转向别处。
　　“你现在不会爱我了。”
　　“我爱你，”他说。
　　但是他有了变化，她感觉得到。
　　“不，”她说，声音变得呆板而没生气。“你不会爱我了。不过你也许会带我去养育院的。我去养育院，永远不可能做你的女人，什么也不是了。““我爱你，玛丽亚。“
　　“不。不是真的，”她说。接着，作为最后的努力，她可怜巴巴但仍怀着希望地说。”
　　“可是我从没吻过任何人。”〃那么现在吻我吧。” 　
　　“我要吻，”她说。“可我不会　当初他们糟蹋我的时候，我拼命挣扎，直到我什么都看不见。我挣扎到一到一直到有个人坐在我头上一我就咬他一后来他们蒙住我的嘴，把我两手反捆在脑后一，别人就糟蹋我。”
　　“我爱你，玛丽亚，”他说。“谁也没能把你怎么样。他们碰不了你，谁也没碰过你，小兔子。““你相信是那样吗?。“我知道。“
　　“那么你会爱我吗？”这时又热烈地紧挨着他了。
　　“我会更爱你。”
　　“我要好好吻你。”
　　“吻我一下吧。”
　　“我不会。”
　　“吻我就是了。” 　
　　她吻他的脸颊。
　　“不。”
　　“鼻子怎么办？我老是不知道鼻子往哪里搁。”“瞧，把头偏一点,他俩的嘴就紧貼在一起了。她紧挨在他身上，她的嘴悝悝地张开了一点，他拥抱着她，突然感到从来也没有过的喜悦，轻柔、亲切、欢欣、内心的喜悦，无忧无虑,不再疲倦,不再担心,只感到无比的喜悦,于是他说，“我的小兔子。我的好宝贝。我的小亲亲。我的长身玉立的美人儿。“你说什么？〃她说，那声音好象来自遥远的地方　“我可爱的人儿。”他说　
　　他俩躺在那儿，他感到她的心顶着自己的心在。。动,他用他的脚轻轻地擦着她的脚。“你光着脚来的。”他说。
　　“是的。”
　　“那你是存心来睡觉的啦。”“对。“
　　“那你当时不害怡。”
　　“怕。很怕。不过更怕穿了鞋再脱。
　　“现在什么时候了？你知道吗?”
　　“不知道。你没表？”
　　“有。在你身背后。”
　　“把它拿过来吧。”
　　“不。”
　　“那么隔着我的肩膀看吧。”
　　在黑暗的睡袋中，表面显得很亮。已经一点了。
　　“你的下巴扎得我的肩膀好痛
　　“对不起。我没刮脸的家伙。“
　　“我喜欢。你的胡于是金黄色的?”
　　“是的。“
　　“会长得很长吗。“
　　“炸桥之前不会很长。听着，玛丽亚。你一？”“我怎么?”“你想吗？”
　　“想。怎么都行。随你。要是我们一起把什么都干了，也许那件事就象没有发生过一样。“你这样想过吗。“
　　”不。我有过这祥的念头,讲出来的却是比拉尔？“她非常聪明。”
　　“还有一件事，”玛丽亚温柔地说。“她要我告诉你，说我没有病。这种事她懂，她要我告诉你。”“是她要你告诉我的？”
　　“是呀。我对她谈了,告诉她说我爱你。今天一见到你，我
就爱你了。仿佛我早就爱着你了，可是从没见到过你。我就告诉了比拉尔，妯叫我要把所有的事全告诉你，还告诉你我没病，那件事是她很久以前对我说的。在炸火车之后不久。”“她说了什么?”
　　“她说。”一个人只要不愿意，人家就不能拿她怎么样，还说要是我爱上了一个人,就能把过去的全部抹掉。那时我想死,你知道。”
　　“她讲的话很对。”
　　“我现在真高兴，那时没有死掉。我真高兴，那时没死。那么你爱我吗?”
　　“爱。我现在就爱你。”“我可以做你的女人吗？　
　　“干我这一行的，不能有女人。不过，你现在就是我的女人。”
　　“我一做了你的女人，就永远是你的了。我现在是你的女人吗?”
　　“是的，玛丽亚。”是的，小兔子。”
　　她紧紧地抱着他,嘴唇寻找着他的嘴唇，接着找到了，就紧吻着,他呢，觉得她娇嫩、润滑、年青、可爱，而又带着热烈得发烫的凉爽，躺在那象他的衣服、鞋子或他的任务一样熟悉的睡袋里，简直难以相信。她惊慌地说，“我们要做的事现在快做吧，把那回事全抹去吧。”“你要?”
　　“要，”她简直狂热地说。“要。要。要。“
Chapter 8
 It was cold in the night and Robert Jordan slept heavily. Once he woke and, stretching, realized that the girl was there, curled far down in the robe, breathing lightly and regularly, and in the dark, bringing his head in from the cold, the sky hard and sharp with stars, the air cold in his nostrils, he put his head under the warmth of the robe and kissed her smooth shoulder. She did not wake and he rolled onto his side away from her and with his head out of the robe in the cold again, lay awake a moment feeling the long, seeping luxury of his fatigue and then the smooth tactile happiness of their two bodies touching and then, as he pushed his legs out deep as they would go in the robe, he slipped down steeply into sleep.
 He woke at first daylight and the girl was gone. He knew it as he woke and, putting out his arm, he felt the robe warm where she had been. He looked at the mouth of the cave where the blanket showed frost-rimmed and saw the thin gray smoke from the crack in the rocks that meant the kitchen fire was lighted.
 A man came out of the timber, a blanket worn over his head like a poncho Robert Jordan saw it was Pablo and that he was smoking a cigarette. He's been down corralling the horses, he thought.
 Pablo pulled open the blanket and went into the cave without looking toward Robert Jordan.
 Robert Jordan felt with his hand the light frost that lay on the worn, spotted green balloon silk outer covering of the five-year-old down robe, then settled into it again. _Bueno_, he said to himself, feeling the familiar caress of the flannel lining as he spread his legs wide, then drew them together and then turned on his side so that his head would be away from the direction where he knew the sun would come. _Qu?m嫳 da_, I might as well sleep some more.
 He slept until the sound of airplane motors woke him.
 Lying on his back, he saw them, a fascist patrol of three Fiats, tiny, bright, fast-moving across the mountain sky, headed in the direction from which Anselmo and he had come yesterday. The three passed and then came nine more, flying much higher in the minute, pointed formations of threes, threes and threes.
 Pablo and the gypsy were standing at the cave mouth, in the shadow, watching the sky and as Robert Jordan lay still, the sky now full of the high hammering roar of motors, there was a new droning roar and three more planes came over at less than a thousand feet above the clearing. These three were Heinkel one-elevens, twin-motor bombers.
 Robert Jordan, his head in the shadow of the rocks, knew they would not see him, and that it did not matter if they did. He knew they could possibly see the horses in the corral if they were looking for anything in these mountains. If they were not looking for anything they might still see them but would naturally take them for some of their own cavalry mounts. Then came a new and louder droning roar and three more Heinkel one-elevens showed coming steeply, stiffly, lower yet, crossing in rigid formation, their pounding roar approaching in crescendo to an absolute of noise and then receding as they passed the clearing.
 Robert Jordan unrolled the bundle of clothing that made his pillow and pulled on his shirt. It was over his head and he was pulling it down when he heard the next planes coming and he pulled his trousers on under the robe and lay still as three more of the Heinkel bimotor bombers came over. Before they were gone over the shoulder of the mountain, he had buckled on his pistol, rolled the robe and placed it against the rocks and sat now, close against the rocks, tying his rope-soled shoes when the approaching droning turned to a greater clattering roar than ever before and nine more Heinkel light bombers came in echelons; hammering the sky apart as they went over.
 Robert Jordan slipped along the rocks to the mouth of the cave where one of the brothers, Pablo, the gypsy, Anselmo, Agust璯 and the woman stood in the mouth looking out.
 "Have there been planes like this before?" he asked.
 "Never," said Pablo. "Get in. They will see thee."
 The sun had not yet hit the mouth of the cave. It was just now shining on the meadow by the stream and Robert Jordan knew they could not be seen in the dark, early morning shadow of the trees and the solid shade the rocks made, but he went in the cave in order not to make them nervous.
 "They are many," the woman said.
 "And there will be more," Robert Jordan said.
 "How do you know?" Pablo asked suspiciously.
 "Those, just now, will have pursuit planes with them."
 Just then they heard them, the higher, whining drone, and as they passed at about five thousand feet, Robert Jordan counted fifteen Fiats in echelon of echelons like a wild-goose flight of the V-shaped threes.
 In the cave entrance their faces all looked very sober and Robert Jordan said, "You have not seen this many planes?"
 "Never," said Pablo.
 "There are not many at Segovia?"
 "Never has there been, we have seen three usually. Sometimes six of the chasers. Perhaps three Junkers, the big ones with the three motors, with the chasers with them. Never have we seen planes like this."
 It is bad, Robert Jordan thought. This is really bad. Here is a concentration of planes which means something very bad. I must listen for them to unload. But no, they cannot have brought up the troops yet for the attack. Certainly not before tonight or tomorrow night, certainly not yet. Certainly they will not be moving anything at this hour.
 He could still hear the receding drone. He looked at his watch. By now they should be over the lines, the first ones anyway. He Pushed the knob that set the second hand to clicking and watched it move around. No, perhaps not yet. By now. Yes. Well over by now. Two hundred and fifty miles an hour for those one-elevens anyway. Five minutes would carry them there. By now they're well beyond the pass with Castile all yellow and tawny beneath them now in the morning, the yellow crossed by white roads and spotted with the small villages and the shadows of the Heinkels moving over the land as the shadows of sharks pass over a sandy floor of the ocean.
 There was no bump, bump, bumping thud of bombs. His watch ticked on.
 They're going on to Colmenar, to Escorial, or to the flying field at Manzanares el Real, he thought, with the old castle above the lake with the ducks in the reeds and the fake airfield just behind the real field with the dummy planes, not quite hidden, their props turning in the wind. That's where they must be headed. They can't know about the attack, he told himself and something in him said, why can't they? They've known about all the others.
 "Do you think they saw the horses?" Pablo asked.
 "Those weren't looking for horses," Robert Jordan said.
 "But did they see them?"
 "Not unless they were asked to look for them."
 "Could they see them?"
 "Probably not," Robert Jordan said. "Unless the sun were on the trees."
 "It is on them very early," Pablo said miserably.
 "I think they have other things to think of besides thy horses," Robert Jordan said.
 It was eight minutes since he had pushed the lever on the stop watch and there was still no sound of bombing.
 "What do you do with the watch?" the woman asked.
 "I listen where they have gone."
 "Oh," she said. At ten minutes he stopped looking at the watch knowing it would be too far away to hear, now, even allowing a minute for the sound to travel, and said to Anselmo, "I would speak to thee."
 Anselmo came out of the cave mouth and they walked a little way from the entrance and stood beside a pine tree.
 "_Qu?tal?_" Robert Jordan asked him. "How goes it?"
 "All right."
 "Hast thou eaten?"
 "No. No one has eaten."
 "Eat then and take something to eat at mid-day. I want you to go to watch the road. Make a note of everything that passes both up and down the road."
 "I do not write."
 "There is no need to," Robert Jordan took out two leaves from his notebook and with his knife cut an inch from the end of his pencil. "Take this and make a mark for tanks thus," he drew a slanted tank, "and then a mark for each one and when there are four, cross the four strokes for the fifth."
 "In this way we count also."
 "Good. Make another mark, two wheels and a box, for trucks. If they are empty make a circle. If they are full of troops make a straight mark. Mark for guns. Big ones, thus. Small ones, thus. Mark for cars. Mark for ambulances. Thus, two wheels and a box with a cross on it. Mark for troops on foot by companies, like this, see? A little square and then mark beside it. Mark for cavalry, like this, you see? Like a horse. A box with four legs. That is a troop of twenty horse. You understand? Each troop a mark."
 "Yes. It is ingenious."
 "Now," he drew two large wheels with circles around them and a short line for a gun barrel. "These are anti-tanks. They have rubber tires. Mark for them. These are anti-aircraft," two wheels with the gun barrel slanted up. "Mark for them also. Do you understand? Have you seen such guns?"
 "Yes," Anselmo said. "Of course. It is clear."
 "Take the gypsy with you that he will know from what point you will be watching so you may be relieved. Pick a place that is safe, not too close and from where you can see well and comfortably. Stay until you are relieved."
 "I understand."
 "Good. And that when you come back, I should know everything that moved upon the road. One paper is for movement up. One is for movement down the road."
 They walked over toward the cave.
 "Send Rafael to me," Robert Jordan said and waited by the tree. He watched Anselmo go into the cave, the blanket falling behind him. The gypsy sauntered out, wiping his mouth with his hand.
 "_Qu?tal?_" the gypsy said. "Did you divert yourself last night?"
 "I slept."
 "Less bad," the gypsy said and grinned. "Have you a cigarette?"
 "Listen," Robert Jordan said and felt in his pocket for the cigarettes. "I wish you to go with Anselmo to a place from which he will observe the road. There you will leave him, noting the place in order that you may guide me to it or guide whoever will relieve him later. You will then go to where you can observe the saw mill and note if there are any changes in the post there."
 "What changes?"
 "How many men are there now?"
 "Eight. The last I knew."
 "See how many are there now. See at what intervals the guard is relieved at that bridge."
 "Intervals?"
 "How many hours the guard stays on and at what time a change is made."
 "I have no watch."
 "Take mine." He unstrapped it.
 "What a watch," Rafael said admiringly. "Look at what complications. Such a watch should be able to read and write. Look at what complications of numbers. It's a watch to end watches."
 "Don't fool with it," Robert Jordan said. "Can you tell time?"
 "Why not? Twelve o'clock mid-day. Hunger. Twelve o'clock midnight. Sleep. Six o'clock in the morning, hunger. Six o'clock at night, drunk. With luck. Ten o'clock at night--"
 "Shut up," Robert Jordan said. "You don't need to be a clown. I want you to check on the guard at the big bridge and the post on the road below in the same manner as the post and the guard at the saw mill and the small bridge."
 "It is much work," the gypsy smiled. "You are sure there is no one you would rather send than me?"
 "No, Rafael. It is very important. That you should do it very carefully and keeping out of sight with care."
 "I believe I will keep out of sight," the gypsy said. "Why do you tell me to keep out of sight? You think I want to be shot?"
 "Take things a little seriously," Robert Jordan said. "This is serious."
 "Thou askest me to take things seriously? After what thou didst last night? When thou needest to kill a man and instead did what you did? You were supposed to kill one, not make one! When we have just seen the sky full of airplanes of a quantity to kill us back to our grandfathers and forward to all unborn grandsons including all cats, goats and bedbugs. Airplanes making a noise to curdle the milk in your mother's breasts as they pass over darkening the sky and roaring like lions and you ask me to take things seriously. I take them too seriously already."
 "All right," said Robert Jordan and laughed and put his hand on the gypsy's shoulder. "_Don't_ take them too seriously then. Now finish your breakfast and go."
 "And thou?" the gypsy asked. "What do you do?"
 "I go to see El Sordo."
 "After those airplanes it is very possible that thou wilt find nobody in the whole mountains," the gypsy said. "There must have been many people sweating the big drop this morning when those passed."
 "Those have other work than hunting guerillas."
 "Yes," the gypsy said. Then shook his head. "But when they care to undertake that work."
 "_Qu?va_," Robert Jordan said. "Those are the best of the German light bombers. They do not send those after gypsies."
 "They give me a horror," Rafael said. "Of such things, yes, I am frightened."
 "They go to bomb an airfield," Robert Jordan told him as they went into the cave. "I am almost sure they go for that."
 "What do you say?" the woman of Pablo asked. She poured him a bowl of coffee and handed him a can of condensed milk.
 "There is milk? What luxury!"
 "There is everything," she said. "And since the planes there is much fear. Where did you say they went?"
 Robert Jordan dripped some of the thick milk into his coffee from the slit cut in the can, wiped the can on the rim of the cup, and stirred the coffee until it was light brown.
 "They go to bomb an airfield I believe. They might go to Escorial and Colmenar. Perhaps a!! three."
 "That they should go a long way and keep away from here," Pablo said.
 "And why are they here now?" the woman asked. "What brings them now? Never have we seen such planes. Nor in such quantity. Do they prepare an attack?"
 "What movement was there on the road last night?" Robert Jordan asked. The girl Maria was close to him but he did not look at her.
 "You," the woman said. "Fernando. You were in La Granja last night. What movement was there?"
 "Nothing," a short, open-faced man of about thirty-five with a cast in one eye, whom Robert Jordan had not seen before, answered. "A few camions as usual. Some cars. No movement of troops while I was there."
 "You go into La Granja every night?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "I or another," Fernando said. "Some one goes."
 "They go for the news. For tobacco. For small things," the woman said.
 "We have people there?"
 "Yes. Why not? Those who work the power plant. Some others."
 "What was the news?"
 "_Pues nada_. There was nothing. It still goes badly in the north. That is not news. In the north it has gone badly now since the beginning."
 "Did you hear anything from Segovia?"
 "No, _hombre_. I did not ask."
 "Do you go into Segovia?"
 "Sometimes," Fernando said. "But there is danger. There are controls where they ask for your papers."
 "Do you know the airfield?"
 "No, _hombre_. I know where it is but I was never close to it. There, there is much asking for papers."
 "No one spoke about these planes last night?"
 "In La Gnanja? Nobody. But they will talk about them tonight certainly. They talked about the broadcast of Quiepo de Llano. Nothing more. Oh, yes. It seems that the Republic is preparing an offensive."
 "That what?"
 "That the Republic is preparing an offensive."
 "Where?"
 "It is not certain. Perhaps here. Perhaps for another pant of the Sierra. Hast thou heard of it?"
 "They say this in La Granja?"
 "Yes, _hombre_. I had forgotten it. But there is a!ways much talk of offensives."
 "Where does this talk come from?"
 "Where? Why from different people. The officers speak in the caf廥 in Segovia and Avila and the waiters note it. The rumors come running. Since some time they speak of an offensive by the Republic in these parts."
 "By the Republic or by the Fascists?"
 "By the Republic. If it were by the Fascists all would know of it. No, this is an offensive of quite some size. Some say there are two. One here and the other over the Alto del Leon near the Escorial. Have you heard aught of this?"
 "What else did you hear?"
 "_Nada, hombre_. Nothing. Oh, yes. There was some talk that the Republicans would try to blow up the bridges, if there was to be an offensive. But the bridges are guarded."
 "Art thou joking?" Robert Jordan said, sipping his coffee.
 "No, _hombre_," said Fernando.
 "This one doesn't joke," the woman said. "Bad luck that he doesn't."
 "Then," said Robert Jordan. "Thank you for all the news. Did you hear nothing more?"
 "No. They talk, as always, of troops to be sent to clear out these mountains. There is some talk that they are on the way. That they Rave been sent already from Valladolid. But they always talk in that Way. It is not to give any importance to."
 "And thou," the woman of Pablo said to Pablo almost viciously. "With thy talk of safety."
 Pablo looked at her reflectively and scratched his chin. "Thou," he said. "And thy bridges."
 "What bridges?" asked Fernando cheerfully.
 "Stupid," the woman said to him. "Thick head. _Tonto_. Take another cup of coffee and try to remember more news."
 "Don't be angry, Pilar," Fernando said calmly and cheerfully. "Neither should one become alarmed at rumors. I have told thee and this comrade all that I remember."
 "You don't remember anything more?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "No," Fernando said with dignity. "And I am fortunate to remember this because, since it was but rumors, I paid no attention to any of it."
 "Then there may have been more?"
 "Yes. It is possible. But I paid no attention. For a year I have heard nothing but rumors."
 Robert Jordan heard a quick, control-breaking sniff of laughter from the girl, Maria, who was standing behind him.
 "Tell us one more rumor, Fernandito," she said and then her shoulders shook again.
 "If I could remember, I would not," Fernando said. "It is beneath a man's dignity to listen and give importance to rumors."
 "And with this we will save the Republic," the woman said.
 "No. _You_ will save it by blowing bridges," Pablo told her.
 "Go," said Robert Jordan to Anselmo and Rafael. "If you have eaten."
 "We go now," the old man said and the two of them stood up. Robert Jordan felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Maria. "Thou shouldst eat," she said and let her hand rest there. "Eat well so that thy stomach can support more rumors."
 "The rumors have taken the place of the appetite."
 "No. It should not be so. Eat this now before more rumors come." She put the bowl before him.
 "Do not make a joke of me," Fernando said to her. "I am thy good friend, Maria."
 "I do not joke at thee, Fernando. I only joke with him and he should eat or he will be hungry."
 "We should all eat," Fernando said. "Pilar, what passes that we are not served?"
 "Nothing, man," the woman of Pablo said and filled his bowl with the meat stew. "Eat. Yes, that's what you _can_ do. Eat now."
 "It is very good, Pilar," Fernando said, all dignity intact.
 "Thank you," said the woman. "Thank you and thank you again."
 "Are you angry at me?" Fernando asked.
 "No. Eat. Go ahead and eat."
 "I will," said Fernando. "Thank you."
 Robert Jordan looked at Maria and her shoulders started shaking again and she looked away. Fernando ate steadily, a proud and dignified expression on his face, the dignity of which could not be affected even by the huge spoon that he was using or the slight dripping of juice from the stew which ran from the corners of his mouth.
 "Do you like the food?" the woman of Pablo asked him.
 "Yes, Pilar," he said with his mouth full. "It is the same as usual."
 Robert Jordan felt Maria's hand on his arm and felt her fingers tighten with delight.
 "It is for _that_ that you like it?" the woman asked Fernando.
 "Yes," she said. "I see. The stew; as usual. Como siempre. Things are bad in the north; as usual. An offensive here; as usual. That troops come to hunt us out; as usual. You could serve as a monument to as usual."
 "But the last two are only rumors, Pilar."
 "Spain," the woman of Pablo said bitterly. Then turned to Robert Jordan. "Do they have people such as this in other countries?"
 "There are no other countries like Spain," Robert Jordan said politely.
 "You are right," Fernando said. "There is no other country in the world like Spain."
 "Hast thou ever seen any other country?" the woman asked him.
 "Nay," said Fernando. "Nor do I wish to."
 "You see?" the woman of Pablo said to Robert Jordan.
 "Fernandito," Maria said to him. "Tell us of the time thee went to Valencia"
 "I did not like Valencia."
 "Why?" Maria asked and pressed Robert Jordan's arm again. "Why did thee not like it?"
 "The people had no manners and I could not understand them. All they did was shout _ch嶱 at one another."
 "Could they understand thee?" Maria asked.
 "They pretended not to," Fernando said.
 "And what did thee there?"
 "I left without even seeing the sea," Fernando said. "I did not like the people."
 "Oh, get out of here, you old maid," the woman of Pablo said. "Get out of here before you make me sick. In Valencia I had the best time of my life. _Vamos!_ Valencia. Don't talk to me of Valencia."
 "What did thee there?" Maria asked. The woman of Pablo sat down at the table with a bowl of coffee, a piece of bread and a bowl of the stew.
 "_Qu?_ what did we there. I was there when Finito had a contract for three fights at the Feria. Never have I seen so many people. Never have I seen caf廥 so crowded. For hours it would be impossible to get a seat and it was impossible to board the tram cars. In Valencia there was movement all day and all night."
 "But what did you do?" Maria asked.
 "All things," the woman said. "We went to the beach and lay in the water and boats with sails were hauled up out of the sea by oxen. The oxen driven to the water until they must swim; then harnessed to the boats, and, when they found their feet, staggering up the sand. Ten yokes of oxen dragging a boat with sails out of the sea in the morning with the line of the small waves breaking on the beach. That is Valencia."
 "But what did thee besides watch oxen?"
 "We ate in pavilions on the sand. Pastries made of cooked and shredded fish and red and green peppers and small nuts like grains of rice. Pastries delicate and flaky and the fish of a richness that was incredible. Prawns fresh from the sea sprinkled with lime juice. They were pink and sweet and there were four bites to a prawn. Of those we ate many. Then we ate _paella_ with fresh sea food, clams in their shells, mussels, crayfish, and small eels. Then we ate even smaller eels alone cooked in oil and as tiny as bean sprouts and curled in all directions and so tender they disappeared in the mouth without chewing. All the time drinking a white wine, cold, light and good at thirty centimos the bottle. And for an end, melon. That is the home of the melon."
 "The melon of Castile is better," Fernando said.
 "_Qu?va_," said the woman of Pablo. "The melon of Castile is for self abuse. The melon of Valencia for eating. When I think of those melons long as one's arm, green like the sea and crisp and juicy to cut and sweeter than the early morning in summer. Aye, when I think of those smallest eels, tiny, delicate and in mounds on the plate. Also the beer in pitchers all through the afternoon, the beer sweating in its coldness in pitchers the size of water jugs."
 "And what did thee when not eating nor drinking?"
 "We made love in the room with the strip wood blinds hanging over the balcony and a breeze through the opening of the top of the door which turned on hinges. We made love there, the room dark in the day time from the hanging blinds, and from the streets there was the scent of the flower market and the smell of burned powder from the firecrackers of the _traca_ that ran though the streets exploding each noon during the Feria. It was a line of fireworks that ran through all the city, the firecrackers linked together and the explosions running along on poles and wires of the tramways, exploding with great noise and a jumping from pole to pole with a sharpness and a cracking of explosion you could not believe.
 "We made love and then sent for another pitcher of beer with the drops of its coldness on the glass and when the girl brought it, I took it from the door and I placed the coldness of the pitcher against the back of Finito as he lay, now, asleep, not having wakened when the beer was brought, and he said, 'No, Pilar. No, woman, let me sleep.' And I said, 'No, wake up and drink this to see how cold,' and he drank without opening his eyes and went to sleep again and I lay with my back against a pillow at the foot of the bed and watched him sleep, brown and dark-haired and young and quiet in his sleep, and drank the whole pitcher, listening now to the music of a band that was passing. You," she said to Pablo. "Do you know aught of such things?"
 "We have done things together," Pablo said.
 "Yes," the woman said. "Why not? And thou wert more man than Finito in your time. But never did we go to Valencia. Never did we lie in bed together and hear a band pass in Valencia."
 "It was impossible," Pablo told her. "We have had no opportunity to go to Valencia. Thou knowest that if thou wilt be reasonable. But, with Finito, neither did thee blow up any train."
 "No," said the woman. "That is what is left to us. The train. Yes. Always the train. No one can speak against that. That remains of all the laziness, sloth and failure. That remains of the cowardice of this moment. There were many other things before too. I do not want to be unjust. But no one can speak against Valencia either. You hear me?"
 "I did not like it," Fernando said quietly. "I did not like Valencia."
 "Yet they speak of the mule as stubborn," the woman said. "Clean up, Maria, that we may go."
 As she said this they heard the first sound of the planes returning.
　　夜里天气很冷，罗伯特　乔丹睡得香极了。他醒过一次,在伸展身体的时候，发现那姑娘还在，蜷缩在睡袋下方，轻轻地、均匀地呼吸着。夜空繁星点点，空气凜冽，鼻孔吸进的空气很凉，他在黑暗里把头从寒气中缩到温暖的睡袋里，吻吻她那光滑的肩膀。她没醒，他就侧过身背着她，把脑袋又伸到睡袋外面的寒气中，他醒着躺了一会儿,感到一股悠然的快意沁透了困倦的身子，跟着是两人光滑的身体接触时的喜悦，随后，他把两腿一直伸到睡袋底端，立即进入了睡乡。
　　天蒙兼亮他就醒了，姑娘已经离去。他一醒就发现身边是空的，就伸出手去摸摸,觉得她睡过的地方还是温暖的。他望望山涧口，看到挂毯四边结了一层霜花，岩石缝里冒出灰色的淡烟，说明已经生起了炉灶。
　　有人从树林里出来，披着　条毯子象拉，“美洲的披风似的。罗伯特　乔丹一看原来是巴勃罗，他正在抽烟。他想，巴勃罗已去下面把马儿关进了马栏。
　　巴勃罗没有朝罗伯特。乔丹这面张望，他撩开毯子，径直进了山洞。
　　罗伯特　乔丹用手摸摸睡袋外面的薄霜，这只绿色旧鸭绒睡袋的面子是用气球的绸布做的，已经用了五年，全是斑斑点点。接着，他把手缩回睡袋，自言自语说,好聃，就伸开两腿，身子挨着睡袋的法兰绒衬里，感到熟悉舒适，然后并起腿儿，侧过身子,把头避开他知道太阳等会将要升起的方向。管它,我不如再睡一会儿吧。
　　他一直睡到飞机的引擎声把他闹醒。他仰天躺着，看到了飞机，那是三架菲亚特飞机①组成的法西斯巡逻小队，三个闪亮的小点，急速越过山巔上空，向安塞尔莫和他昨天走来的方向飞去。三架过去后又来了九架，飞得髙得多，一，“点大，成三角形的三三编队。
　　巴勃罗和吉普赛人站在山洞口的背阴处仰望着天空；罗伯特　乔丹静静地躺着，天空中这时响彻着引擎的轰鸣声，接着传来了新的隆隆吼声，又飞来了三架，在林中空地的上空不到一千英尺。这是三架海因克尔111型双引擎轰炸机②。
　　罗伯特　乔丹的头在岩石的暗处，他知道从飞机上望不到自已，即使望到也没关系。他知道，如果飞机在这一带山区搜索什么，有可能看到马栏里的马。即使他们不在搜索,也会看到马匹，不过他们会很自然地以为是自己骑兵队的坐骑。这时又传来了新的更响的轰鸣声，只见又有三架海因克尔111型轰炸机排成了整齐的队形，笔直、顽强、更低地飞过来，声音越来越近，越来越响，震耳欲聋,等到越过林地后，声音逐渐消失。
　　罗伯特，乔丹解开那卷当枕头用的衣眼，穿上衬衣。他把衣服套在头上往下拉的时候，听到下一批飞机来了，他在睡袋里穿上裤子，静静地躺着，等那三架海因克尔双引擎轰炸机飞过去。飞机越过山脊前，他已佩好手枪,卷起睡袋，放在岩石旁，自己靠山崖坐下’结扎绳底鞋的带子。这时,渐近的轰鸣声比刚才更厉害了，又飞来了九架排成梯形的海因克尔轻型轰炸机。飞机飞过头顶时，声音震天动地。
①　　菲亚特(力巡逻机为窻大利产。
②　　海因克尔型轰炸机为德国产争
　　罗伯特　乔丹沿着山崖悄悄走到洞口，站在那里现望的有两兄弟中的一个、巴勃罗、吉普赛人、安塞尔莫、奥古斯丁和那个妇人。
　　“以前来过这样多的飞机吗?”他问，“从来没有过。”巴勃罗说。“进来吧。他们会发现你的。“阳光刚照菊溪边的草地上，还没有射到山洞口，罗伯特　乔丹知道，在晨嗛矇胧的树荫和山岩的浓浓的阴影中是不会被发现的,不过为，“让他们安心，他还是进了山洞。“真不少，”那妇人说。“还会有更多的，”罗伯特“乔丹说。“你怎么知道？”巴勃罗疑神疑鬼地问。“刚才这些飞机要有驱遂机伴随。”说着,他们就听到了飞得更髙的飞机的呜咽般的嗡嗡声，它们在五千英尺左右的高空中飞过，罗拍特書乔丹点了数,共有十五架菲亚特飞机,每三架排成一个。字形，一队队地构成梯阵,象一群大雁。
　　大家在山洞口，脸上都显得十分严肃，罗伯特。乔丹说，“你们没见过这么多的飞机吗”“从来没有，”巴勃罗说。“塞哥维亚也没有这么多呜？，
　　“从来没有过，我们逋常只见到三架。有时是六架驱逐机。有时说不定是三架容克式飞机①，那种三引擎的大飞机,和驱逐机在一起。我们从来也没见过现在这样多的飞机。”
　　糟了，罗伯特　乔丹想，真糟了乡飞机集中到这里乘，说明
①容克式三引擎巨型扒为德国产傘
　　情况很糟糕。我得注意听它们扔炸弹的声音。可是不，他们现在还不可能把部队调上来准备进攻。当然啦，今晚或者明晚之前是不可能的，眼前是绝对不可能的。他们这时候是绝对不会采取任何行动的。
　　他还能听到渐渐消失的嗡嗡声。他看看表。这时该飞到火线上空了，至少第一批该到达了。他按下表上的定时卡子，看着秒针嗒嗒嗒地走动。不，也许还没有飞到。现在才到。对。”现在飞过好远了。那些111型飞机的速度每小时达两百五十英里。五分钟就能飞到火线上空。它们现在早越过山口，飞到卡斯蒂尔地区的上空了，在早晨这个时光，下面是一片黄褐色的田野,中间交错着一条条白色的道路，点缀着小村庄,海因克尔飞机的阴影掠过田地，就象鲨鱼的阴影在海底的沙上移动。
　　没有砰砰砰的炸弹爆炸声。他表上的秒针继续嗒嗒嗒地响着，他想，这些飞机正继续飞往科尔梅那尔，埃斯科里亚尔，或曼萨纳雷斯①的飞机场，那里的湖边有一座古老的城堡，芦苇荡里躲着野鸭,假飞机场在真正的飞机场另一面，上面停放着假飞机,没什么掩饰,飞机的螺旋桨在风中转动着。他们准是在朝那边飞去。他对自已说，他们不会知道这次进攻计划，可是心头又出现另一个想法。”为什么不会呢？以前每次进攻他们不是事先都知道的吗？
　　“你说他们看到了马吗？”巴勃罗问。“人家不是来找马的，”罗伯特“乔丹说。“不过，他们看到没有?”“没有，除菲他们是奉命来找马的。”
①这些地方都在马德里西北，政府军在瓜达拉马山脉下的防线的后方
　
　　”他们能看到吗?”
　　“可能不会吧，“　罗伯特。乔丹说。“除非那时太阳光正照在树上。”
　　“树上很早就有太阳光，”巴勃罗伤心地说。“我看，人家还有别的事要考虑，不光是为了你的马吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说，
　　他按下耖针卡子后已经过了八分钟，但仍然没有轰炸的声音.
　　“你用表干吗?”那妇人问。“我要推算飞机飞到哪儿去了。“
　　“哦，”她说。等到过了十分钟，他不再看表了，因为他知道,飞机这时已经太远，即使假定声波传来得花一分钟也不会听到了，他对安塞尔莫说,“我想跟你谈谈。“
　　安塞尔莫从洞口出来，两人走出不远，在一棵松树边停了步。
　　“情况怎么样?”罗伯特　乔丹问他-“很好。““你吃了吗?”“没有。谁也没吃过。”
　　“那么去吃吧。再带些中午吃的干粮。我要你去守望公路、路上来往的车辆人马都要记下来，”〃我不会写字。”
　　“不霈要写，”罗伯特　乔丹从笔记本上掮下两张纸，用刀把自己的铅笔截下一段。”“把这个带着，用这个记号代表坦克。”他画了一辆嵌斜的坦克。“每见一辆坦克就划一道，划了四道之后，看见第五辆就在四条线上横划一道。”
　　“我们也是这样记数的。”
　　“好。卡车用另一个记号，两个轮子和一个方块。空车，画个圆圈。装满部队的，画条直线。炮也要记。大的这样。小的这样。汽车这样记。救护车这样记。两个轮子和一个方块，上面画一个十字。成队的步兵按连记算，做这样的记号,懂吗？一个小方块，然后在旁边画一条线。骑兵的记号是这样的，懂吗？象匹马。一个方块加四条腿。”这记号代表二十个骑兵一队。你懂吗？每一队画一道线。　“懂了。这办法真妙。”
　　“还有，”他画了两个大轮子，周围画上几个圉，再画了一条短线,算是炮筒。“这是反坦克炮。有胶皮轮子的。记下来。这是高射炮，”他画了向上翘的炮筒和两个轮子。“也记下来。你懂了吗？你见过这种炮吗?”
　　“见过，”安塞尔莫说。“当然啦。很清楚。”“带吉普赛人一起去，让他知道你守望的地点，以便派人跟你换班。挑一个安全而不太近公路的地点，可以舒舒服服地看个清楚。要待到换你下来的时候。“我懂了,
　　“好。还有,回来后要让我知道公路上的一切调动情况。一张纸上记去的动静，一张纸上记来的动静。〃他们向山洞走去。
　　“叫拉斐尔到我这里来。”罗伯特　乔丹说，在树边站住了等着。他望着安塞尔莫进入山洞，门毯在他身后落下。吉普赛人一摇一摆地走出来，用手擦着嘴巴。
　　“你好，”吉普赛人说。“昨晚玩得好吗。“私我睡得好,
　　“不坏，”吉普赛人笑嘻喀地说。“有烟吗？”“听着，”罗伯特　乔丹一面说，一面在衣袋里掏烟卷。“我要你跟安塞尔莫到一个地方去，他去观察公路。你就在那里和他分手，记住那地点，以便过后可以领我或别的换班的人到那儿去。然后你再到一个可以观察锯木厂的地方，注意那边的哨所有没有变化。”“什么变化?”“那里现在有多少人?”“八个。这是我最后了解的情况。”“去看看现在有多少。看看那边桥头的哨兵间隔多久换一次岗。”
　　“间隔”
　　“哨兵值一班要几小时,什么时候换岗。“我没有表。”
　　“把我的拿去。”他解下手表。
　　“多好的表啊。“拉斐尔羡慕地说。“你看它多复杂。这样的表准会读会写。看上面的字码密密麻麻的。这样一块表把别的表全比下去啦。”
　　“别瞎摆弄　罗伯特，乔丹说。“你会看表吗？”“干吗不会？中午十二点。肚子饿，半夜十二点。睡觉。早上六点，肚子饿。晚上六点，喝得醉醣醺。运气好的话。夜里十点一“
　　“闭嘴。“罗伯特　乔丹说。“你用不着这样油腔滑调。我要你监视大桥边的哨兵和公路下段的哨所，就象监视银木。一边的哨所和小桥边的哨兵一样。”
　　“活儿可不少栴，”吉普赛人笑喀喀地说。“你一定要我去,不能派别人吗？”
　　“不能，拉斐尔。这个工作很重要。你必须小心谨慎，注意不要暴露。”
　　“我相信不会暴露的，”吉普赛人说。“你干吗叫我不要暴露？你以为我乐意给人打死吗。”
　　“认真一点，”罗伯特”乔丹说。“这不是闹着玩的。”　　“你昨晚干了好事，现在却叫我认真一点？你原该杀一个人,可你干出了什么事来着？你原该杀一个人，可不是造一个人哪！我们刚看到满天飞机，多得可以前把我们祖宗三代,后把我们没出娘胎的孙子，加上猫儿、山羊、臭虫统统杀死。飞机飞过遮黑了天，声音象狮子吼，晌得能叫你老娘奶子里的奶汁都结成硬块，你却叫我认真一点。我已经太认真啦。〃
　　“好吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说着笑了，把手放在吉普赛人的肩上。“那么就太认真吧。现在吃完早饭就走。”
　　“那你呢，”吉普赛人问。“你干什么事?”“我去看‘聋子’。”
　　“来了这些飞机，你在整个山区很可能一个人也见不到了。”吉普赛人说。“今早飞机飞过时,一定有很多人在冒大汗哪。”
　　
　　“那些飞机可不是专来捜索游击队的。”
　　“对，”吉普赛人说，然后摇摇头。“不过，等人家打算这么干的时候就糟啦。”
　　“没的事。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“那是德国最好的轻型轰炸机。人家不会派这些飞机来对付吉普赛人的。”
　　“这些飞机把我吓怕了，”拉斐尔说。“可不，我就怕这些东
西。”
　　“它们是去轰炸飞机场的，”他们走进山洞时,罗伯特，乔丹对他说。“我可以肯定是去轰炸飞机场的。”
　　“你说什么？”巴勃罗的老婆问。她替他倒了一大杯咖啡，还递给他一罐炼乳。
　　“还有牛奶？真豪华啊。”
　　“什么都不缺。”她说。“来了飞机，大家很怕。你刚才说它们飞到哪儿去?”
　　罗伯特　乔丹从罐头顶上凿开的一道缝里倒了些稠厚的炼乳在咖啡里,在杯口刮千净罐头边的炼乳，把咖啡搅成了淡褐色。“我看他们是去轰炸飞机场的。也许去埃斯科里亚尔和科尔梅那尔。也许这三个地方都去。”
　　“那样要飞很远路，不应该到这里来，”巴勃罗说。“那么他们干吗现在到这里来呢？”那妇人问，“现在来干什么？我们从没见过这样的飞机。也没见过这么多，上面准备发动进攻吗?”
　　“昨晚公路上有什么动静?”罗伯特　乔丹问。那姑娘玛丽亚就挨在他身边,但他没对她看。
　　“你。”妇人说。“费尔南多。你昨晚在拉格兰哈。那边有啥动静?”
　　“没动静，”回答的是个三十五岁左右的矮个子，表情坦率，一只眼睛有点斜视,罗伯特　乔丹以前没见过他。“还是老祥子,有几辆卡车。几辆汽车。我在那里的时候，没有部队调动。”“你每天晚上都到拉格兰哈去吗?”罗伯特　乔丹问他。“我，或者另一个人，”费尔南多说。“总有一个人去。”“他们去探听消息。去买烟草。买些零星东西，”妇人说。“那儿有我们的人吗？”
　　“有，怎么会没有？在发电。“干洁的工人。另外还有一些人？“
　　“有什么新闻？”
　　“没有。什么新闻也没有。北方的情况仍旧很糟。这不算新闻了。北方哪，从开始到现在一直就糟①，”“你听到塞哥维亚有什么消息?”“没有，伙计。我没问。”“你去塞哥维亚吗？”
　　“有时去,费尔南多说。“不过有危险。那里有检查站，要查身份证。”
　　“你了解飞机场的情况吗。”
　　“不，伙计。我知道机场在哪儿，不过从没走近过。那里身份证查得很严。”
　　“昨晚没人谈起飞机吗？”
　　“在拉格兰哈吗？没有。伹是他们今晚当然要谈论了。他们谈过基卜　德籾亚诺②的。”播。没别的了。唔，还有。看样子共和国在准备发动一次进攻。”“看样子怎么？”
　　“共和国在准备发动“次进攻，““在哪里?”
　　“不明确。说不定在这里。说不定在瓜达拉马山区的另外
①　　内战一爆发，西北部即陷入叛军之手，北部沿比斯开海一狭长地带仍忠于共和国，东起法西边界上的伊伦，西止阿斯图里亚斯的吉洪港。一九三七年四月，叛军主将莫拉将军再次发动进攻，从六月十九日攻陷防守坚固的毕尔巴鄂港起一直到十月二十一日进入吉洪港为止，全部占领了共和国这一地带。
②基卜　德利亚诺　；西班牙将军，在内战期间为佛朗哥的叛军主持传播宣抟工作。
　　”一个地方。你听到过没有？”
　　“在拉格兰哈是这么传说的吗?”
　　“是呀，伙计。我把这个消息忘了。不过关于进攻的传说一直很多。”
　　“这话从哪儿传来的？”
　　“哪儿？噢，从各种各样的人的嘴里。塞哥维亚和阿维拉的咖啡馆里军官都在讲，侍者听到啦。谣言就传幵来。‘些时候以来，他们在说共和国在这些地区要发动一次进攻。”“是共和国，还是法西斯分子发动?”“是共和国。要是法西斯分子发动进攻，大家都会知道的。可不,这次进攻规模不小。有人说分两处进行。一处是这里，另一处在埃斯科里亚尔附近的狮子山那边；你听说过这消息吗？”“你还听到什么?”
　　“没有了。唔，还有。有些人说,要是发动进攻，共和国打算炸桥。不过每痤桥都有人防守。“
　　“你在开玩笑吧?”罗伯特’乔丹说，啜饮着咖啡。“不，伙计，”费尔南多说。
　　“他这人不开玩笑，”那妇人说。“倒霉的是他不开玩笑。”“那好，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“谢谢你报告了这些情況。没听到别的了吗？”
　　“没有啦。大家象往常一样讲到要派军队到山里来扫荡。还有的说，军队巳经出动了。他们已经从瓦利阿多里德开拔了。不过总是那么说。不值得理会。”
　　“可你。”巴勃罗的老婆简直恶狠狠地对巴勃罗说，“还说什
么安全。”
　　巴勃罗沉思地望着她，搔搔下巴。“你呀，”他说。“你的桥。”
　　“什么桥?”费尔南多兴高采烈地问。“蠢货，”妇人对他说。“笨蛋。再喝杯咖啡，使劲想想还有什么新闻。”
　　“别生气，比拉尔，”费尔南多平静而髙兴地说。〃听到了谣言也不必大惊小怪。我记得的全告诉了你和这位同志啦。”“你不记得还有什么别的了？”罗伯特　乔丹问。“没有了。”费尔南多一本正经地说。“还算运气，我没忘记这些，因为都不过是谣言,我一点也没放在心上“那么，还可能有别的谣言吧?”
　　“是。可能有。不过我没留心。一年来，我听到的尽是谣
言。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹听到站在他背后的姑娘忍不住嗤的一声笑出
来。
　　“再跟我们讲个谣言吧，小费尔南多。”她说，接着笑得两肩直颤。
　　“即使记起来也不说了。”费尔南多说。“听了谣言还当桩大事的人太差劲了。”
　　“不过我们了解了情况能救共和国。”那妇人说。“不。，炸了桥才能救共和国，”巴勃罗对她说。“走吧　罗伯特　乔丹对安塞尔莫和拉斐尔说。“如果你们已经吃过饭的话。”
　　“我们这就走。”老头儿说着,他们俩就站起身来。罗伯特，乔丹觉得有人把手按在他肩膀上。那是玛丽亚。“你该吃饭了，”她说，手仍搁在肩上。“好好吃,让你的肚子顶得住更多的谣言。”“谣言把我肚子填饱了。”
　　“不。不该这样。在听到更多的谣言之前，先把这些吃下去。”她把碗放在他面前。
　　“别取笑我，”费尔南多对她说。“我是你的好朋友，玛丽亚。”“我不是取笑你，费尔南多。我只是在跟他开玩笑，他不吃要肚子饿的。”
　　“我们大家都该吃了，”费尔南多说。“比拉尔，怎么啦，没给我们端来吃的？〃
　　“没什么，伙计，”巴勃罗的老婆说着,在他碗里盛满了炖肉。　　“吃吧。是啊，那是你的。现在吃吧。”
　　“好极啦，比拉尔，“。南多依旧一本正经地说。
　　“谢谢你，”妇人说。“谢谢你,多谢了。”
　　“你生我的气吗？”费尔南多问。“没有。吃。赶紧吃吧。”
　　“我吃，”费尔南多说。“谢谢你。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹望着玛丽亚,她的双肩又开始颤动了，她就把眼晴望着别处。费尔南多吃得兴致勃勃，脸上一副骄傲而正经的样子，即使他用着一把特大汤匙，嘴角边淌着一点儿炖肉汁，也没影响他的正经模样。
　　“你爱吃这东西吗？”巴勃罗的老婆问他。
　　“是啊，比拉尔。”他说，嘴里塞得满满的。“还是老样子。”
　　罗伯特‘乔丹感觉到玛丽亚伸手搁在他手臂上，感觉到她乐得用手指紧捏着他。
　　“就为了字等　，你才爱吃吗?”妇人问费尔南多。“是晡“我明白了。炖肉；老样子。北方情况很糟；老样子。这里准备发动进攻1老样子。部队来搜索我们；老样子。你这个人可以当做老样子立脾坊了。”“可是后两件事只是谣言，比拉尔。”
　　“西班牙啊，”巴勃罗的老婆尖刻地说。然后转向罗伯特　乔丹。“别的国家里有象这样的人吗？”
　　“没有别的国家象西班牙一样，”罗伯特　乔丹有礼貌地说。“你说得对。”费尔南多说。“世界上没有一个国家象西班
牙。”
　　“你到过别的国家吗？”妇人问他。“没有，”费尔南多说，“我也不想去。”“你明白了吧？”巴勃罗的老婆对罗伯特、乔丹说。“小费尔南多，”玛丽亚对他说，“给我们讲讲你在瓦伦西亚的情况吧。”
　　“我不喜欢瓦伦西亚。”1“为什么?”玛丽亚问，又捏捏罗伯特，乔丹的手臂。“你千吗不爱瓦伦西亚?”
　　“那里的人没有礼貌，我听不懂他们的话。他们老是冲着彼此大声嚷嚷:喂，喂1”“他们懂你的话吗？”“他们假装不懂，”费尔南多说，“你在那里干什么,
　　“我连海都没看就走了，”费尔南多说。“我不喜欢那里的
人。”
　　“呸,滚到别地方去，你这个老姑娘，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“滚到别地方去，别叫我恶心啦。我这辈子最好的日子是在瓦伦西亚过的。可不是吗！瓦伦西亚。别跟我讲瓦伦西亚。”“你在那里做什么？”玛丽亚问。
　　巴勃罗的老婆端了碗咖啡、一块面包和一碗炖肉，在桌边坐。
　　“什么？不是我，而是我们在那里做什么。菲尼托订了个合同，在那边过节的期间斗三场牛,我就去那里。我从没见过那么多人。我从没见过那么挤的啪啡馆。等几个小时也没有座位，电车也没法上得去。瓦伦西亚一天到晚热热闹闹，““那么你做些什么呢?”玛丽亚问。
　　“挪样没玩过？”妇人说。“我们去海滩，躺在海水里，张着帆的船用牛从海里拉上来。牛被赶到海里，它们只得游水1然后把牛拴在船头上，它们站住了脚，就摇摇晃晃地在沙滩上走上来。早燥一阵阵细浪拍打着海滩，十对同轭的牛拖一条张了帆的船。那就是瓦伦西亚。”
　　“你除了看牛，还玩些什么？”
　　“我们在沙滩上的凉亭里吃东西。有鱼肉馅儿饼，有红椒、青椒，还有米粒那么大的小榛子。饼子又香又薄，鱼肉鲜极了。海里捞上来的新鲜明虾浇上酸橙汁。虾肉是粉红色的,味儿真美,一只要咬四口才吃光。这玩意儿我们吃得不少。我们还吃什锦饭，配鲜海味，带壳给蜊、淡莱、小龙虾和小线鱼。我们还吃到小不点儿的淸炸鳗鱼，小得象豆芽，弯弯曲曲盘成一团，嫩得不用嚼，到嘴里就化掉。老是喝一种白酒，冰凉，爽口，真棒，三毛钱一瓶。最后吃甜瓜。那里盛产甜瓜。”
　　“卡斯蒂尔的甜瓜更好，”费尔南多说。“什么话。”巴勃罗的老婆说。
　　“卡斯蒂尔的甜瓜细得象鸡巴。瓦伦西亚的甜瓜才是可吃的。回想起来，那些瓜有人的胳臂那么长,绿得象海水，一刀切下去，绷脆绷脆的，汁水又多，比复天的清早更甜美。唉，我想起了盆子里盘成一堆的小不点儿的鲜嫩的鳗鱼啦。还有，整个下午喝大杯的啤酒，冰凉的啤酒盛在水罐那么大的杯子里，杯子外面都凝着水珠。”
　　“那么你不吃不喝的时候，干什么呢?”
　　“我们在屋里睡觉，阳台上挂着细木条编的帘子，小风从弹簧门顶上的气窗里吹进来。我们在那里睡觉,放下了帘子,屋里白天也是暗的。街上飘来花市上的香味和爆竹的火药味。在过节期间，每天中午放爆竹，爆竹拴在沿街的绳子上，满城都有，爆竹用药线连起来，顺着电线杆、电车线一个挨一个地炸晌，声音可大哪，劈劈啪啪,简直没法想象。“
　　“我们睡觉，然后再要了一大罐啤酒，凉得玻璃外面都凝结着水珠，女侍者把啤酒端来时，我在门口接，我把冰凉的玻璃雉贴在菲尼托背上，他已经睡着了，啤酒拿来时也没醒。这时，他说了”别，比拉尔。别这样，太太，让我睡呀。’我说，‘好啦，醒醒吧,你喝这个，有多凉啊，’他眼睛也不睁开就喝了，喝了又睡；我在床脚搁了个枕头,斜靠着，看他睡。他皮肤赭红、头发乌黑,那么年青，睡得那么安静。我把一雄全喝了，听着过路乐队的演奏，你呀。”她对巴勃罗说，“这种日子你经历过吗？”
　　“我们一起也痛快过，”巴勃罗说。
　　“不错，”妇人说。“当然啦。你当年比菲尼托更富有男子气。不过我们从没去过瓦伦西亚。我们从没在瓦伦西亚一起躺在床上听乐队在街上经过。”
　　“那是不可能的事，”巴勃罗对她说。“我们没机会去瓦伦西亚啊。你讲道理的话就能理解这一点了。不过，你和菲尼托没炸过火车。”
　　“不错，”妇人说。“炸火车是该我们干的事。炸火车。不错。开口闭口老是火车，谁也没法说不是。结果呢，是懒，死样怪气，完蛋了事。结果变成了现在这样胆怯。以前也千过不少别的好事，我说话要公平。不过同样，谁也不能说瓦伦西亚的不是。“
　　”你听到我的活了？”
　　“我不喜欢瓦伦西亚，”费尔南多平静地说。“我不喜欢瓦伦西亚。”
　　“难怪人家说，驴子的倔脾气是改不过来的。”妇人说。“把桌子收拾干净,玛丽亚，我们准备上路。“
　　她说这句话的时候，大家听到了第一批飞机返回的声音。
Chapter 9
 They stood in the mouth of the cave and watched them. The bombers were high now in fast, ugly arrow-heads beating the sky apart with the noise of their motors. They _are_ shaped like sharks, Robert Jordan thought, the wide-finned, sharp-nosed sharks of the Gulf Stream. But these, wide-finned in silver, roaring, the light mist of their propellers in the sun, these do not move like sharks. They move like no thing there has ever been. They move like mechanized doom.
 You ought to write, he told himself. Maybe you will again some time. He felt Maria holding to his arm. She was looking up and he said to her, "What do they look like to you, _guapa?_"
 "I don't know," she said. "Death, I think."
 "They look like planes to me," the woman of Pablo said. "'Where are the little ones?"
 "They may be crossing at another part," Robert Jordan said. "Those bombers are too fast to have to wait for them and have come back alone. We never follow them across the lines to fight. There aren't enough planes to risk it."
 Just then three Heinkel fighters in V formation came low over the clearing coming toward them, just over the tree tops, like clattering, wing-tilting, pinch-nosed ugly toys, to enlarge suddenly, fearfully to their actual size; pouring past in a whining roar. They were so low that from the cave mouth all of them could see the pilots, helmeted, goggled, a scarf blowing back from behind the patrol leader's head.
 "_Those_ can see the horses," Pablo said.
 "Those can see thy cigarette butts," the woman said. "Let fall the blanket."
 No more planes came over. The others must have crossed farther up the range and when the droning was gone they went out of the cave into the open.
 The sky was empty now and high and blue and clear.
 "It seems as though they were a dream that you wake from," Maria said to Robert Jordan. There was not even the last almost unheard hum that comes like a finger faintly touching and leaving and touching again after the sound is gone almost past hearing.
 "They are no dream and you go in and clean up," Pilar said to her. "What about it?" she turned to Robert Jordan. "Should we ride or walk?"
 Pablo looked at her and grunted.
 "As you will," Robert Jordan said.
 "Then let us walk," she said. "I would like it for the liver."
 "Riding is good for the liver."
 "Yes, but hard on the buttocks. We will walk and thou--" She turned to Pablo. "Go down and count thy beasts and see they have not flown away with any."
 "Do you want a horse to ride?" Pablo asked Robert Jordan.
 "No. Many thanks. What about the girl?"
 "Better for her to walk," Pilar said. "She'll get stiff in too many places and serve for nothing."
 Robert Jordan felt his face reddening.
 "Did you sleep well?" Pilar asked. Then said, "It is true that there is no sickness. There could have been. I know not why there wasn't. There probably still is God after all, although we have abolished Him. Go on," she said to Pablo. "This does not concern thee. This is of people younger than thee. Made of other material. Get on." Then to Robert Jordan, "Agust璯 is looking after thy things. We go when he comes."
 It was a clear, bright day and warm now in the sun. Robert Jordan looked at the big, brown-faced woman with her kind, widely set eyes and her square, heavy face, lined and pleasantly ugly, the eyes merry, but the face sad until the lips moved. He looked at her and then at the man, heavy and stolid, moving off through the trees toward the corral. The woman, too, was looking after him.
 "Did you make love?" the woman said.
 "What did she say?"
 "She would not tell me."
 "I neither."
 "Then you made love," the woman said. "Be as careful with her as you can."
 "What if she has a baby?"
 "That will do no harm," the woman said. "That will do less harm."
 "This is no place for that."
 "She will not stay here. She will go with you."
 "And where will I go? I can't take a woman where I go."
 "Who knows? You may take two where you go."
 "That is no way to talk."
 "Listen," the woman said. "I am no coward, but I see things very clearly in the early morning and I think there are many that we know that are alive now who will never see another Sunday."
 "In what day are we?"
 "Sunday."
 "_Qu?va_," said Robert Jordan. "Another Sunday is very far. If we see Wednesday we are all right. But I do not like to hear thee talk like this."
 "Every one needs to talk to some one," the woman said. "Before we had religion and other nonsense. Now for every one there should be some one to whom one can speak frankly, for all the valor that one could have one becomes very alone."
 "We are not alone. We are all together."
 "The sight of those machines does things to one," the woman said. "We are nothing against such machines."
 "Yet we can beat them."
 "Look," the woman said. "I confess a sadness to you, but do not think I lack resolution. Nothing has happened to my resolution."
 "The sadness will dissipate as the sun rises. It is like a mist."
 "Clearly," the woman said. "If you want it that way. Perhaps it came from talking that foolishness about Valencia. And that failure of a man who has gone to look at his horses. I wounded him much with the story. Kill him, yes. Curse him, yes. But wound him, no."
 "How came you to be with him?"
 "How is one with any one? In the first days of the movement and before too, he was something. Something serious. But now he is finished. The plug has been drawn and the wine has all run out of the skin."
 "I do not like him."
 "Nor does he like you, and with reason. Last night I slept with him." She smiled now and shook her head. " _Vamos a ver_," she said. "I said to him, 'Pablo, why did you not kill the foreigner?'
 "'He's a good boy, Pilar,' he said. 'He's a good boy.'
 "So I said, 'You understand now that I command?'
 "'Yes, Pilar. Yes,' he said. Later in the night I hear him awake and he is crying. He is crying in a short and ugly manner as a man cries when it is as though there is an animal inside that is shaking him.
 "'What passes with thee, Pablo?' I said to him and I took hold of him and held him.
 "'Nothing, Pilar. Nothing.'
 "'Yes. Something passes with thee.'
 "'The people,' he said. 'The way they left me. The _gente_.'
 "'Yes, but they are with me,' I said, 'and I am thy woman.'
 "'Pilar,' he said, 'remember the train.' Then he said, 'May God aid thee, Pilar.'
 "'What are you talking of God for?' I said to him. 'What way is that to speak?'
 "'Yes,' he said. 'God and the Virgen.'
 "'_Qu?va_, God and the _Virgen_,' I said to him. 'Is that any way to talk?'
 "'I am afraid to die, Pilar,' he said. '_Tengo miedo de morir_. Dost thou understand?'
 "'Then get out of bed,' I said to him. 'There is not room in one bed for me and thee and thy fear all together.'
 "Then he was ashamed and was quiet and I went to sleep but, man, he's a ruin."
 Robert Jordan said nothing.
 "All my life I have had this sadness at intervals," the woman said. "But it is not like the sadness of Pablo. It does not affect my resolution."
 "I believe that."
 "It may be it is like the times of a woman," she said. "It may be it is nothing," she paused, then went on. "I put great illusion in the Republic. I believe firmly in the Republic and I have faith. I believe in it with fervor as those who have religious faith believe in the mysteries."
 "I believe you."
 "And you have this same faith?"
 "In the Republic?"
 "Yes."
 "Yes," he said, hoping it was true.
 "I am happy," the woman said. "And you have no fear?"
 "Not to die," he said truly.
 "But other fears?"
 "Only of not doing my duty as I should."
 "Not of capture, as the other had?"
 "No," he said truly. "Fearing that, one would be so preoccupied as to be useless."
 "You are a very cold boy."
 "No," he said. "I do not think so."
 "No. In the head you are very cold."
 "It is that I am very preoccupied with my work."
 "But you do not like the things of life?"
 "Yes. Very much. But not to interfere with my work."
 "You like to drink, I know. I have seen."
 "Yes. Very much. But not to interfere with my work."
 "And women?"
 "I like them very much, but I have not given them much importance."
 "You do not care for them?"
 "Yes. But I have not found one that moved me as they say they should move you."
 "I think you lie."
 "Maybe a little."
 "But you care for Maria."
 "Yes. Suddenly and very much."
 "I, too. I care for her very much. Yes. Much."
 "I, too," said Robert Jordan, and could feel his voice thickening. "I, too. Yes." It gave him pleasure to say it and he said it quite formally in Spanish. "I care for her very much."
 "I will leave you alone with her after we have seen El Sordo."
 Robert Jordan said nothing. Then he said, "That is not necessary."
 "Yes, man. It is necessary. There is not much time."
 "Did you see that in the hand?" he asked.
 "No. Do not remember that nonsense of the hand."
 She had put that away with all the other things that might do ill to the Republic.
 Robert Jordan said nothing. He was looking at Maria putting away the dishes inside the cave. She wiped her hands and turned and smiled at him. She could not hear what Pilar was saying, but as she smiled at Robert Jordan she blushed dark under the tawny skin and then smiled at him again.
 "There is the day also," the woman said. "You have the night, but there is the day, too. Clearly, there is no such luxury as in Valencia in my time. But you could pick a few wild strawberries or something." She laughed.
 Robert Jordan put his arm on her big shoulder. "I care for thee, too," he said. "I care for thee very much."
 "Thou art a regular Don Juan Tenorio," the woman said, embarrassed now with affection. "There is a commencement of caring for every one. Here comes Agust璯."
 Robert Jordan went into the cave and up to where Maria was standing. She watched him come toward her, her eyes bright, the blush again on her cheeks and throat.
 "Hello, little rabbit," he said and kissed her on the mouth. She held him tight to her and looked in his face and said, "Hello. Oh, hello. Hello."
 Fernando, still sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, stood up, shook his head and walked out, picking up his carbine from where it leaned against the wall.
 "It is very unformal," he said to Pilar. "And I do not like it. You should take care of the girl."
 "I am," said Pilar. "That comrade is her _novio_."
 "Oh," said Fernando. "In that case, since they are engaged, I encounter it to be perfectly normal."
 "I am pleased," the woman said.
 "Equally," Fernando agreed gravely. "_Salud_, Pilar."
 "Where are you going?"
 "To the upper post to relieve Primitivo."
 "Where the hell are you going?" Agust璯 asked the grave little man as he came up.
 "To my duty," Fernando said with dignity.
 "Thy duty," said Agust璯 mockingly. "I besmirch the milk of thy duty." Then turning to the woman, "Where the un-nameable is this vileness that I am to guard?"
 "In the cave," Pilar said. "In two sacks. And I am tired of thy obscenity."
 "I obscenity in the milk of thy tiredness," Agust璯 said.
 "Then go and befoul thyself," Pilar said to him without heat.
 "Thy mother," Agust璯 replied.
 "Thou never had one," Pilar told him, the insults having reached the ultimate formalism in Spanish in which the acts are never stated but only implied.
 "What are they doing in there?" Agust璯 now asked confidentially.
 "Nothing," Pilar told him. "_Nada_. We are, after all, in the spring, animal."
 "Animal," said Agust璯, relishing the word. "Animal. And thou. Daughter of the great whore of whores. I befoul myself in the milk of the springtime."
 Pilar slapped him on the shoulder.
 "You," she said, and laughed that booming laugh. "You lack variety in your cursing. But you have force. Did you see the planes?"
 "I un-name in the milk of their motors," Agust璯 said, nodding his head and biting his lower lip.
 "That's something," Pilar said. "That is really something. But really difficult of execution."
 "At that altitude, yes," Agust璯 grinned. "_Desde luego_. But it is better to joke."
 "Yes," the woman of Pablo said. "It is much better to joke, and you are a good man and you joke with force."
 "Listen, Pilar," Agust璯 said seriously. "Something is preparing. It is not true?"
 "How does it seem to you?"
 "Of a foulness that cannot be worse. Those were many planes, woman. Many planes."
 "And thou hast caught fear from them like all the others?"
 "_Qu?va_," said Agust璯. "What do you think they are preparing?"
 "Look," Pilar said. "From this boy coming for the bridges obviously the Republic is preparing an offensive. From these planes obviously the Fascists are preparing to meet it. But why show the planes?"
 "In this war are many foolish things," Agust璯 said. "In this war there is an idiocy without bounds."
 "Clearly," said Pilar. "Otherwise we could not be here."
 "Yes," said Agust璯. "We swim within the idiocy for a year now. But Pablo is a man of much understanding. Pablo is very wily."
 "Why do you say this?"
 "I say it."
 "But you must understand," Pilar explained. "It is now too late to be saved by wiliness and he has lost the other."
 "I understand," said Agust璯. "I know we must go. And since we must win to survive ultimately, it is necessary that the bridges must be blown. But Pablo, for the coward that he now is, is very smart."
 "I, too, am smart."
 "No, Pilar," Agust璯 said. "You are not smart. You are brave. You are loyal. You have decision. You have intuition. Much decision and much heart. But you are not smart."
 "You believe that?" the woman asked thoughtfully.
 "Yes, Pilar."
 "The boy is smart," the woman said. "Smart and cold. Very cold in the head."
 "Yes," Agust璯 said. "He must know his business or they would not have him doing this. But I do not know that he is smart. Pablo I _know_ is smart."
 "But rendered useless by his fear and his disinclination to action."
 "But still smart."
 "And what do you say?"
 "Nothing. I try to consider it intelligently. In this moment we need to act with intelligence. After the bridge we must leave at once. All must be prepared. We must know for where we are leaving and how."
 "Naturally."
 "For this--Pablo. It must be done smartly."
 "I have no confidence in Pablo."
 "In this, yes."
 "No. You do not know how far he is ruined."
 "_Pero es muy vivo_. He is very smart. And if we do not do this smartly we are obscenitied."
 "I will think about it," Pilar said. "I have the day to think about it."
 "For the bridges; the boy," Agust璯 said. "This he must know. Look at the fine manner in which the other organized the train."
 "Yes," Pilar said. "It was really he who planned all."
 "You for energy and resolution," Agust璯 said. "But Pablo for the moving. Pablo for the retreat. Force him now to study it."
 "You are a man of intelligence."
 "Intelligent, yes," Agust璯 said. "But _sin picardia_. Pablo for that."
 "With his fear and all?"
 "With his fear and all."
 "And what do you think of the bridges?"
 "It is necessary. That I know. Two things we must do. We must leave here and we must win. The bridges are necessary if we are to Win."
 "If Pablo is so smart, why does he not see that?"
 "He wants things as they are for his own weakness. He wants tO stay in the eddy of his own weakness. But the river is rising. Forced to a change, he will be smart in the change. _Es muy vivo_."
 "It is good that the boy did not kill him."
 "_Qu?va_. The gypsy wanted me to kill him last night. The gypsy is an animal."
 "You're an animal, too," she said. "But intelligent."
 "We are both intelligent," Agust璯 said. "But the talent is Pablo!"
 "But difficult to put up with. You do not know how ruined."
 "Yes. But a talent. Look, Pilar. To make war all you need is intelligence. But to win you need talent and material."
 "I will think it over," she said. "We must start now. We are late." Then, raising her voice, "English!" she called. "_Ingl廥!_ Come on! Let us go."
　　他们站在山洞口望着飞机。轰炸机这时飞得很髙，象一支支迅疾而丑陋的箭头，引擎声把天空展得象要进裂似的。它们的外型象鲨鱼，罗伯特’乔丹想，象墨西哥湾流里尖鼻宽螬的鲨鱼。这些飞机银翼宽阔，隆隆作晌，飞转的螺旋桨在阳光中象一个个模糊的光环，它们的行动可不象鲨鱼。它们的行动和世上的任何事物都不同。它们象机械化的死神在行动。
　　你应该写作,他对自已说。也许你有一天会再拿起笔来。他觉得玛丽亚紧握着他的胳臂。她正望着天空，他就对她说,“你看飞机象什么，漂亮的姑娘?”
　　“我不知道。”她说。
　　“我看象死神吧。”
　　“我看飞机就是飞机，”巴勃罗的老婆说。
　　“那些小飞机呢?”
　　“可能打别的地方飞过去了，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“轰炸机飞得太快，等不及那些小飞机,单独回来了。我们的飞机从不越过火线来追击它们。也没足够的飞机去冒这种险。”
　　正在这时，三架组成乂字形的海因克尔战斗机在林中空地上空朝他们飞来，低得差点儿擦到树梢，就象嘎嘎作响的、机翼1。。朝下冲的、扁鼻子的丑陋的玩具飞机，突然可怕地变大到实际的尺寸，吼叫宥一掠而过。飞机飞得那么低，以致大家从洞口看得见戴着头盔和护目镜的驾驶员，以及巡逻机队队长脑后飘拂的围巾。
　　“那些飞机能见到马儿，”巴勃罗说。

　　“它们能觅到你的烟头，”妇人说。“放下毯子吧。”没有别的飞机再飞来。其余的飞机一定越过了远处那边的山脊,等隆隆声消失以后，他们走出山洞，来到空地上。天空这时显得空旷、髙爽、蔚蓝、明朗。
　　“这些飞机仿佛是一场梦,我们现在醒过来了。”玛丽亚对罗伯特　乔丹说。飞机声已经远得几乎听不到了，微弱的嗡嗡声象手指轻轻碰了你一下，放开后又碰一下，现在连最后的难以觉察的嗡嗡声都消失了。
　　“这不是梦，你进去收拾一下吧。”比拉尔对她说。”怎么办?”她转身对罗伯特　乔丹说。“咱们骑马，还是走去?”巴勃罗瞅她一眼，嘴里哼了一声，“随你便，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“那我们走去吧，”她说。“为了我的肝，我想走走。”“骑马对肝有好处。”
　　“是啊，不过屁股可受不了。咱们走去，你一”她转身对巴勃罗，“到下面去点点你的牲口，看看有没跟飞机飞掉。”
　　“你要弄匹马骑骑吗？”巴勃罗问罗伯特　乔丹。
　　“不要。多谢。那姑娘怎么办？”
　　“她走走也好，”比拉尔说。“不然她身上好多地方全僵了，要没用啦。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹觉得脸红了。
“你睡得好吗?”比拉尔问，接着说,“真的没病。本来可能有的。我不懂怎么会没有。说不定天主到底还是有的，虽然我们把他废了。你走你的，”她对巴勃罗说。“不关你的事,这是比你年青的人的事。人家不是你那种料，走吧接着又对罗伯特　乔丹说,“叫奥古斯丁看守你的东西。他一来我们就走，“
　　天色清澈明朗，阳光温暧。罗伯特，乔丹望着这个脸色棕揭的大个子女人，她长着一双和善的分得很开的眼睛，一张大方脸上有了皱纹，难看却不讨厌，眼睛是欢乐的，但嘴唇不动的时候，脸色是悲伤的。他望着她，随后望着那体格魁梧而呆头呆脑的男人,这时他正穿过树林，朝着马栏走去。那妇人也在望着他的后影。
　　“你们睡过觉吗？”妇人问。
　　“她是怎么说的。”
　　“她不肯告诉我。”
　　“我也不肯。”
　　“这么说你们睡过了，”妇人说。“你对她可要尽量小心啊。”
　　“假如她怀了孩子怎么办?”
　　“不碍事，”妇人说。“不碍事。”
　　“在这里可不好办。”
　　“她不呆在这里。她跟你走。”
　　“那我上哪里去呢？我不能随身带个女人。”
　　“谁知道？你带藿两个都行，“
　　“可不能那么说。”
　　“听着，”妇人说，”我不是胆小鬼，不过，清早的情况我看得很清楚。我知道，我们眼前的人中间有许多也许再也活不到下―个星期天。”
　　“今天是星期几?”“星期天。”
　　“真格的，”罗馅特“乔丹说。“下个星期天还远着呢。我们活到星期三就不错了。不过，我不爱听你说这种话。”
　　“每个人都得找个人谈谈心里话，”妇人说。“以前我们有宗教和那一套劳什子。现在谁都得找个可以推心置腹的人聊聊,因为不管怎么勇敢的人也觉得非常孤单。”
　　“我们并不孤单。我们大家在一起。”
　　“看到那些飞机就叫人上心事。”妇人说。“我们根本对付不了这样的飞机。”
　　“可是我们能打垮他们。”
　　“听着，”妇人说。”我对你讲心里的疙瘩，可别以为我决不够。什么也动摇不了我的决心。“
　　“太阳一升起，悲哀就消啦。悲哀就象雾。”“那当然，”妇人说。“假如你往好处想的话。看来是讲了关于瓦伦西亚的那套无聊话的缘故。是讲了那个去看马的窝囊废的缘故。我讲了过去的事使他伤心了。杀他,行。骂他,行。伤他的心，可不行。”
　　“你怎么会跟他在一起的。”
　　“别人是怎么会在一起的？革命刚开始时和开始以前，他算是一条汉子。是响当当的。现在他可完蛋了。塞子拔掉了，皮袋里的酒全流光了。”“我不喜欢他。”
　　“他也不軎欢你，并且满有道理。昨晚我跟他睡觉。”她这时笑了笑，摇摇头。“咱们眼前不谈这个，”她说。“我对他说，‘巴勃罗，你干吗不杀了那个外国佬,
“‘这小伙子不错，比拉尔，’他说。‘这小伙子不错。”“我于是说，‘现在我作主，你明白了？’“‘明白了，比拉尔。明白了他说。后半夜我听到他醒了，一个人在哭。他哭得气咻咻的,难听极了,就象身体里有只野兽在折腾。
　　“‘你怎么啦，巴勃罗？’我对他说，把他拉过来抱住。〃没什么，比拉尔。没什么。’“‘不。你准有什么地方不对头。’“‘大家，’他说，‘大家抛弃我的情形真叫我伤心。““‘是呀，不过他们支持我，，我说，‘而我是你的女人。”“‘比拉尔。“他说，‘想想火车吧。”他接着说，‘愿天主保佑你，比拉尔。’
　　〃你提天主干吗？’我对他说。‘你怎么讲这种话？’
　　“就是，’他说。‘天主和圣母玛利亚。”
　　〃什么话，天主和圣母玛利亚！’我对他说。‘能这样说话
吗，“’
　　“‘我怕死，比拉尔，’他说。‘我怕死。你明白吗？’“‘那你给我从床上下去，’我对他说。'一张床上挤不下我、你和你的害怕。’
　　“那时他害臊了，不作声了，我就睡着了。不过，小伙子，他这个人完蛋了。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹默不作声。
　　“我这辈子时不时也会有这种悲哀，”妇人说。“可是跟巴勃罗的不一样。我的悲衮动摇不了我的决心。”
　　“这我相信。”
　　“那也许是女人常有的心情。”她说。“也许根本算不了一回事，”她停了一下,接着又说。“我对共和国有很大的幻想。我坚决相信共和国，我有信心。我象那些有宗教信仰的人相信奇迹一样，狂热地相信共和国。”
　　“我相信你。”
　　“你也有这同样的信仰吗？”
　　“信仰共和国？”
　　“是呀。”
　　“当然，”他说，希望自己说的是真话。
　　“我很高兴，”妇人说。“那你不怕吗？"
　　“死倒不怕，”他说，这是真话。“别的呢？”
　　“只怕完成不了我应该完成的任务。”
　　“不象上次那个人怕当俘虏吗？”

　　“不怕，”他老实说。“有了那种害怕心理，包揪太重,什么也干不成。”
　　“你是个很冷静的小伙子。”
　　“不，”他说，“我不这样看。”
　　“不。你的头脑很冷静。”
　　“我只是对工作考虑得很多罢了。”
　　“难道你不喜欢生活的乐趣?”
　　“喜欢。很甚欢。但是不能妨害我的工作
　　“你喜欢喝酒，我知道。我看到了。”
　　“不错。很喜欢。但是也不能妨害我的工作。”
　　“那么女人呢?”
　　“也很喜欢,但我不怎么把她们放在心上。”
　　“你不在乎？”
　　“在乎。不过人们常说女入能打动你的心，可我还没找到打动我的心的女人，“
　　“我看你是在撒谦，“
　　“可能有点儿。〃
　　“可你喜欢玛丽亚。”
　　“对。突然之间非常喜欢。”
　　“我也是。我很喜欢这个丫头。不错。很窖欢，“
　　“我也是，”罗伯特，乔丹说，感到自己的声音又嘶哑了。“我也是。是呀。”说出来使他很偷快，他很正经地用西班牙语说　“我非常爱她。”
　　“我们见了‘萆子’后，我让你们俩单独在一起。”罗伯特　乔丹不吭声，过了一会儿才说,那没有必要。”“不，小伙子。有必要。时间不多呀。”“你在手上看出来了？”他问。“不。别再想手相那套胡扯啦。”
　　凡是对共和国不利的事情她都不爱提，这件事也播在一边。罗伯特　乔丹没说什么。他望着玛丽亚在山洞里收拾碗碟。她擦擦手，转身对他笑笑。她听不清比拉尔在说些什么，但是她对罗伯特“乔丹笑的时候，褐色的脸涨得通红,她接着又对他笑笑。
　　“还有白天呢。”妇人说。”你们过了一晚，还有白天呢。现在自然没有我当初在瓦伦西亚时的那些玩意儿。可是你们可以采些野草莓或别的什么。”她笑了。
　　罗伯特，乔丹用手臂搂着她的宽肩膀。“我也喜欢你。”他说。“我很喜欢你。”
　　“你真是个地道的猎艳能手，”妇人说,被这种亲热的表示弄
榑很窘。“你快把每个人都爱上了。奥古斯丁来了。”
　　罗伯特’乔丹走进山洞，走向玛丽亚站着的地方。她看他走来，眼晴明亮，脸蛋和脖子又涨红了。
　　“喂，小兔子，”他说着吻她的嘴。她紧紧拥抱他，凝视着他的脸说。
　　“喂。噢，喂。喂。”原先坐在桌边抽烟的费尔南多站起身,摇摇头，捡起靠在洞壁的卡宾枪就走出去了。
　　“真不象话，”他对比拉尔说。“我不軎欢这样。你该管管这
丫头。“
　　“我在管，”比拉尔说。“那位同志是她的未婚夫。”
　　“噢，”费尔南多说。“既然这样，他们订了婚，那我就认为很象话啦。”
　　“我很高兴，”妇人说。
　　“我也很髙兴，”费尔南多一本正经地赞同。“再见,比拉尔。”
　　“你上哪儿去?”
　　“到上面岗哨去接普里米蒂伏的班。”
　　“你他妈的上哪儿去？”奥古斯丁这时走上前来，问这个一本正经的小个子。
　　“去值班，”费尔南多理直气壮地说。
　　“你去值班。”奥古斯丁嘲弄地说。“我操你奶奶的班。”接着转身对那女人，“要我看守的他妈的劳什子在哪里呀。”
　　“在山洞里，”比拉尔说。“装在两个背包里。你满嘴脏话叫我腻烦
　　“我操你的膩烦，”奥古斯丁说。
　　“那就去操你自己吧，”比拉尔不温不火地对他说，
　　“你妈的，”奥古斯丁回答　
　　“你从来没妈，”比拉尔对他说，双方的骂人话达到了西斑牙语里的最高水平,其内容从不明说,只能意会。
　　“他们在里面搞什么名堂，“”奥古斯丁这时问，好象在打听什么机密似的。
　　“不搞什么名堂，”比拉尔对他说。“没什么。我们毕竟是在春天里，你这个畜生。”
　　“畜生，”奥古斯丁说，玩味着这个词儿。“畜生。还有你呐。你这大婊子养的。我操它的春天。”比拉尔给他肩上一巴攀。
　　“你呀。”她说，声如洪钟地大笑了，“你骂人翻不出花样。不过劲头倒挺足。你看到飞机没有?”
　　“我操它们引擎的祖宗，”奥古斯丁点点头，咬着下膊说。
　　
　　“那才有点儿意思，”比拉尔说。“真有点儿意思。不过干起来实在不容易。”
　　“飞得那么髙，确实够不着，”奥古斯丁露齿笑着说。“那还用说。不过说说笑话总比担惊受怕强吧。”
　　“是呀，”巴勃罗的老婆说。“总比担惊受怕强。你这人不错，说笑话很带劲。”
　　“听着，比拉尔。”奥古斯丁认真地说。“要出事了。是真的。“
　　“你看怎么样。”
　　“糟得不能再糟了。飞机可不少轲，太太。可不少啊。”“原来你跟别人一样也给飞机吓着了？”“哪里的话!”奥古斯丁说。“你看他们打算干什么？”“听好，”比拉尔说。“从这小伙子来炸桥看，显然共和国在准备发动一次进攻。从这些飞机来看，显然法西斯分子在准备迎战，不过干吗把飞机亮出来呢?”
　　“这次战争中蠹事真不少，”奥古斯丁说。“这次战争疯撖得
没底。”
　　“这很明白，”比拉尔说。“不然我们也不会在这里啦。”“是呀，”奥古斯丁说。“我们疯疯癲癲地混了一年啦。不过,巴勃罗这人挺有判断力。巴勃罗足智多谋。”“你说这话干吗？”“我要说。”
“你可要明白。”比拉尔解释说。“现在要靠智谋来挽救局势已经太晚了，而且他已经失去了判断力。”
　　“我明自。”奥古斯丁说。“我知道我们得撤走。既然我们必须打胜才能活下去，就必须把桥都炸掉。不过，尽管巴勃罗现在成了胆小鬼,他还是很机灵的。”“我也很机灵啊，“
　　“不，比拉尔，”奥古斯丁说。“你不机灵。你勇敢。你忠诚。你果断。你有直觉。很果断，很热情。可是你不机灵。““你以为这样?”妇人若有所思地问。“正是，比拉尔。”
　　“那小伙子很机灵，”妇人说。“又机灵又冷静。头脑非常冷静"
　　“不错，”奥古斯丁说。“他一定很在行,不然人家不会要他来干这一个了。可是我没看出他机灵。巴勃罗呢，我字,他是机灵的。”
　　“可是他吓破了胆,成了废物，撤手不干了。”“可还是机灵。”“你说什么？”
　　“没什么。我要好好想想。当前我们做事要动动脑子，炸桥之后，我们得马上撤走。一切都得有个准备。我们要考虑好到哪里去、怎么走。”“那当然啦。”
　　这就用得上巴勃罗。这件事必须干得机灵。”
　　“我信不过巴勃罗。”
　　“在这件事上，要信任他。”
　　“不。你不了解他垮到了什么地步。”
　　“但他很机灵。这件事我们如果干得不机灵，我们就他妈完蛋啦。”
　　“我得想想，”比拉尔说。“我还有一天时间可以考虑。”
　　“炸桥是那小伙子的事。”奥古斯丁说。”这方面他准有一手。另一个安排炸火车的，干得多么出色啊。”
　　“不错，”比拉尔说。“事实上全是他安徘的。”
　　“你拿出魄力和决断来。”奥古斯丁说。“可是让巴勃罗负责行动，让巴勃穸负责撤退。现在道他研究方案吧。”
　　“你是个聪明人。”
　　“聪明，不错。”奥古斯丁说，“可是不精明。这方面，巴勃罗
行。”
　　“吓破了胆也行?”
　　“吓破了胆也行。”
　　“你看炸桥这事怎么样?”
　　“非干不可。这我知道。有两件事我们非干不可。我们必须离开这里，我们必须打胜仗。要打胜仗就得炸掉桥。”
　　“巴勃罗如果机灵，为什么看不到这点?”
　　“因为他自已软弱无能,所以想保持现状，他宁愿保持软弱无能，好象待在一个旋涡里。不过河水在涨。形势逼他改变的话,他会变得机灵的。他非常机灵。”
　　“幸好那小伙子没把他杀了。”
　　“真格的。昨晚吉普赛人要我杀掉他。吉普赛人是个畜生。”
　　“你也是畜生，”她说。“不过是聪明的畜生。”
　　“你我都聪明，”奥古斯丁说。“不过有能耐的还是巴勃罗！”
　　“可是叫人受不了。你不知道他垮到了什么地步。”“知道。可是有能酎呀。听着，比拉尔。发动战争只要靠聪明就成。不过要打胜仗却需要能耐和物资。”
　　“我好好考虑考虑。”她说。“我们现在得动身了。我们已经迟了。”接着提高了嗓门。”英国人1”她喊着。“英国人！来呀，咱们走吧。”
Chapter 10
 "Let us rest," Pilar said to Robert Jordan. "Sit down here, Maria, and let us rest."
 "We should continue," Robert Jordan said. "Rest when we get there. I must see this man."
 "You will see him," the woman told him. "There is no hurry. Sit down here, Maria."
 "Come on," Robert Jordan said. "Rest at the top."
 "I rest now," the woman said, and sat down by the stream. The girl sat by her in the heather, the sun shining on her hair. Only Robert Jordan stood looking across the high mountain meadow with the trout brook running through it. There was heather growing where he stood. There were gray boulders rising from the yellow bracken that replaced the heather in the lower part of the meadow and below was the dark line of the pines.
 "How far is it to El Sordo's?" he asked.
 "Not far," the woman said. "It is across this open country, down into the next valley and above the timber at the head of the stream. Sit thee down and forget thy seriousness."
 "I want to see him and get it over with."
 "I want to bathe my feet," the woman said and, taking off her rope-soled shoes and pulling off a heavy wool stocking, she put her right foot into the stream. "My God, it's cold."
 "We should have taken horses," Robert Jordan told her.
 "This is good for me," the woman said. "This is what I have been missing. What's the matter with you?"
 "Nothing, except that I am in a hurry."
 "Then calm yourself. There is much time. What a day it is and how I am contented not to be in pine trees. You cannot imagine how one can tire of pine trees. Aren't you tired of the pines, _guapa?_"
 "I like them," the girl said.
 "What can you like about them?"
 "I like the odor and the feel of the needles under foot. I like the wind in the high trees and the creaking they make against each other."
 "You like anything," Pilar said. "You are a gift to any man if you could cook a little better. But the pine tree makes a forest of boredom. Thou hast never known a forest of beech, nor of oak, nor of chestnut. Those are forests. In such forests each tree differs and there is character and beauty. A forest of pine trees is boredom. What do you say, Ingl廥?"
 "I like the pines, too."
 "_Pero, venga_," Pilar said. "Two of you. So do I like the pines, but we have been too long in these pines. Also I am tired of the mountains. In mountains there are only two directions. Down and up and down leads only to the road and the towns of the Fascists."
 "Do you ever go to Segovia?"
 "_Qu?va_. With this face? This is a face that is known. How would you like to be ugly, beautiful one?" she said to Maria.
 "Thou art not ugly."
 "_Vamos_, I'm not ugly. I was born ugly. All my life I have been ugly. You, _Ingl廥_, who know nothing about women. Do you know how an ugly woman feels? Do you know what it is to be ugly all your life and inside to feel that you are beautiful? It is very rare," she put the other foot in the stream, then removed it. "God, it's cold. Look at the water wagtail," she said and pointed to the gray ball of a bird that was bobbing up and down on a stone up the stream. "Those are no good for anything. Neither to sing nor to eat. Only to jerk their tails up and down. Give me a cigarette, _Ingl廥_," she said and taking it, lit it from a flint and steel lighter in the pocket of her skirt. She puffed on the cigarette and looked at Maria and Robert Jordan.
 "Life is very curious," she said, and blew smoke from her nostrils. "I would have made a good man, but I am all woman and all ugly. Yet many men have loved me and I have loved many men. It is curious. Listen, _Ingl廥_, this is interesting. Look at me, as ugly as I am. Look closely, _Ingl廥_."
 "Thou art not ugly."
 "_Qu?no?_ Don't lie to me. Or," she laughed the deep laugh. "Has it begun to work with thee? No. That is a joke. No. Look at the ugliness. Yet one has a feeling within one that blinds a man while he loves you. You, with that feeling, blind him, and blind yourself. Then one day, for no reason, he sees you ugly as you really are and he is not blind any more and then you see yourself as ugly as he sees you and you lose your man and your feeling. Do you understand, _guapa?_" She patted the girl on the shoulder.
 "No," said Maria. "Because thou art not ugly."
 "Try to use thy head and not thy heart, and listen," Pilar said. "I am telling you things of much interest. Does it not interest you, _Ingl廥?_"
 "Yes. But we should go."
 "_Qu?va_, go. I am very well here. Then," she went on, addressing herself to Robert Jordan now as though she were speaking to a classroom; almost as though she were lecturing. "After a while, when you are as ugly as I am, as ugly as women can be, then, as I say, after a while the feeling, the idiotic feeling that you are beautiful, grows slowly in one again. It grows like a cabbage. And then, when the feeling is grown, another man sees you and thinks you are beautiful and it is all to do over. Now I think I am past it, but it still might come. You are lucky, _guapa_, that you are not ugly."
 "But I _am_ ugly," Maria insisted.
 "Ask _him_," said Pilar. "And don't put thy feet in the stream because it will freeze them."
 "If Roberto says we should go, I think we should go," Maria said.
 "Listen to you," Pilar said. "I have as much at stake in this as thy Roberto and I say that we are well off resting here by the stream and that there is much time. Furthermore, I like to talk. It is the only civilized thing we have. How otherwise can we divert ourselves? Does what I say not hold interest for you, _Ingl廥?_"
 "You speak very well. But there are other things that interest me more than talk of beauty or lack of beauty."
 "Then let us talk of what interests thee."
 "Where were you at the start of the movement?"
 "In my town."
 "Avila?"
 "_Qu?va_, Avila."
 "Pablo said he was from Avila."
 "He lies. He wanted to take a big city for his town. It was this town," and she named a town.
 "And what happened?"
 "Much," the woman said. "Much. And all of it ugly. Even that which was glorious."
 "Tell me about it," Robert Jordan said.
 "It is brutal," the woman said. "I do not like to tell it before the girl."
 "Tell it," said Robert Jordan. "And if it is not for her, that she should not listen."
 "I can hear it," Maria said. She put her hand on Robert Jordan's. "There is nothing that I cannot hear."
 "It isn't whether you can hear it," Pilar said. "It is whether I should tell it to thee and make thee bad dreams."
 "I will not get bad dreams from a story," Maria told her. "You think after all that has happened with us I should get bad dreams from a story?"
 "Maybe it will give the _Ingl廥_ bad dreams."
 "Try it and see."
 "No, _Ingl廥_, I am not joking. Didst thou see the start of the movement in any small town?"
 "No," Robert Jordan said.
 "Then thou hast seen nothing. Thou hast seen the ruin that now is Pablo, but you should have seen Pablo on that day."
 "Tell it."
 "Nay. I do not want to."
 "Tell it."
 "All right, then. I will tell it truly as it was. But thee, _guapa_, if it reaches a point that it molests thee, tell me."
 "I will not listen to it if it molests me," Maria told her. "It cannot be worse than many things."
 "I believe it can," the woman said. "Give me another cigarette, _Ingl廥_, and _vamonos_."
 The girl leaned back against the heather on the bank of the stream and Robert Jordan stretched himself out, his shoulders against the ground and his head against a clump of the heather. He reached out and found Maria's hand and held it in his, rubbing their two hands against the heather until she opened her hand and laid it flat on top of his as they listened.
 "It was early in the morning when the _civiles_ surrendered at the barracks," Pilar began.
 "You had assaulted the barracks?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Pablo had surrounded it in the dark, cut the telephone wires, placed dynamite under one wall and called on the _guardia civil_ to surrender. They would not. And at daylight he blew the wall open. There was fighting. Two _civiles_ were killed. Four were wounded and four surrendered.
 "We all lay on roofs and on the ground and at the edge of walls and of buildings in the early morning light and the dust cloud of the explosion had not yet settled, for it rose high in the air and there was no wind to carry it, and all of us were firing into the broken side of the building, loading and firing into the smoke, and from within there was still the flashing of rifles and then there was a shout from in the smoke not to fire more, and out came the four _civiles_ with their hands up. A big part of the roof had fallen in and the wall was gone and they came out to surrender.
 "'Are there more inside?' Pablo shouted.
 "'There are wounded.'
 "'Guard these,' Pablo said to four who had come up from where we were firing. 'Stand there. Against the wall,' he told the _civiles_. The four _civiles_ stood against the wall, dirty, dusty, smoke-grimed, with the four who were guarding them pointing their guns at them and Pablo and the others went in to finish the wounded.
 "After they had done this and there was no longer any noise of the wounded, neither groaning, nor crying out, nor the noise of shooting in the barracks, Pablo and the others came out and Pablo had his shotgun over his back and was carrying in his hand a Mauser pistol.
 "'Look, Pilar,' he said. 'This was in the hand of the officer who killed himself. Never have I fired a pistol. You,' he said to one of the guards, 'show me how it works. No. Don't show me. Tell me.'
 "The four _civiles_ had stood against the wall, sweating and saying nothing while the shooting had gone on inside the barracks. They were all tall men with the faces of _guardias civiles_, which is the same model of face as mine is. Except that their faces were covered with the small stubble of this their last morning of not yet being shaved and they stood there against the wall and said nothing.
 "'You,' said Pablo to the one who stood nearest him. 'Tell me how it works.'
 "'Pull the small lever down,' the man said in a very dry voice. 'Pull the receiver back and let it snap forward.'
 "'What is the receiver?' asked Pablo, and he looked at the four _civiles_. 'What is the receiver?'
 "'The block on top of the action.'
 "Pablo pulled it back, but it stuck. 'What now?' he said. 'It is jammed. You have lied to me.'
 "'Pull it farther back and let it snap lightly forward,' the _civil_ said, and I have never heard such a tone of voice. It was grayer than a morning without sunrise.
 "Pablo pulled and let go as the man had told him and the block snapped forward into place and the pistol was cocked with the hammer back. It is an ugly pistol, small in the round handle, large and flat in the barrel, and unwieldy. All this time the _civiles_ had been watching him and they had said nothing.
 "'What are you going to do with us?' one asked him.
 "'Shoot thee,' Pablo said.
 "'When?' the man asked in the same gray voice.
 "'Now,' said Pablo.
 "'Where?' asked the man.
 "'Here,' said Pablo. 'Here. Now. Here and now. Have you anything to say?'
 "'_Nada_,' said the _civil_. 'Nothing. But it is an ugly thing.'
 "'And you are an ugly thing,' Pablo said. 'You murderer of peasants. You who would shoot your own mother.'
 "'I have never killed any one,' the _civil_ said. 'And do not speak of my mother.'
 "'Show us how to die. You, who have always done the killing.'
 "'There is no necessity to insult us,' another _civil_ said. 'And we know how to die.'
 "'Kneel down against the wall with your heads against the wall,' Pablo told them. The _civiles_ looked at one another.
 "'Kneel, I say,' Pablo said. 'Get down and kneel.'
 "'How does it seem to you, Paco?' one _civil_ said to the tallest, who had spoken with Pablo about the pistol. He wore a corporal's stripes on his sleeves and was sweating very much although the early morning was still cool.
 "'It is as well to kneel,' he answered. 'It is of no importance.'
 "'It is closer to the earth,' the first one who had spoken said, trying to make a joke, but they were all too grave for a joke and no one smiled.
 "'Then let us kneel,' the first _civil_ said, and the four knelt, looking very awkward with their heads against the wall and their hands by their sides, and Pablo passed behind them and shot each in turn in the back of the head with the pistol, going from one to another and putting the barrel of the pistol against the back of their heads, each man slipping down as he fired. I can hear the pistol still, sharp and yet muffled, and see the barrel jerk and the head of the man drop forward. One held his head still when the pistol touched it. One pushed his head forward and pressed his forehead against the stone. One shivered in his whole body and his head was shaking. Only one put his hands in front of his eyes, and he was the last one, and the four bodies were slumped against the wall when Pablo turned away from them and came toward us with the pistol still in his hand.
 "'Hold this for me, Pilar,' he said. 'I do not know how to put down the hammer,' and he handed me the pistol and stood there looking at the four guards as they lay against the wall of the barracks. All those who were with us stood there too, looking at them, and no one said anything.
 "We had won the town and it was still early in the morning and no one had eaten nor had any one drunk coffee and we looked at each other and we were all powdered with dust from the blowing up of the barracks, as powdered as men are at a threshing, and I stood holding the pistol and it was heavy in my hand and I felt weak in the stomach when I looked at the guards dead there against the wall; they all as gray and as dusty as we were, but each one was now moistening with his blood the dry dirt by the wall where they lay. And as we stood there the sun rose over the far hills and shone now on the road where we stood and on the white wall of the barracks and the dust in the air was golden in that first sun and the peasant who was beside me looked at the wall of the barracks and what lay there and then looked at us and then at the sun and said, '_Vaya_, a day that commences.'
 "'Now let us go and get coffee,' I said.
 "'Good, Pilar, good,' he said. And we went up into the town to the Plaza, and those were the last people who were shot in the village."
 "What happened to the others?" Robert Jordan asked. "Were there no other fascists in the village?"
 "_Qu?va_, were there no other fascists? There were more than twenty. But none was shot."
 "What was done?"
 "Pablo had them beaten to death with flails and thrown from the top of the cliff into the river."
 "All twenty?"
 "I will tell you. It is not so simple. And in my life never do I wish to see such a scene as the flailing to death in the plaza on the top of the cliff above the river.
 "The town is built on the high bank above the river and there is a square there with a fountain and there are benches and there are big trees that give a shade for the benches. The balconies of the houses look out on the plaza. Six streets enter on the plaza and there is an arcade from the houses that goes around the plaza so that one can walk in the shade of the arcade when the sun is hot. On three sides of the plaza is the arcade and on the fourth side is the walk shaded by the trees beside the edge of the cliff with, far below, the river. It is three hundred feet down to the river.
 "Pablo organized it all as he did the attack on the barracks. First he had the entrances to the streets blocked off with carts as though to organize the plaze for a _capea_. For an amateur bullfight. The fascists were all held in the _Ayuntamiento_, the city hall, which was the largest building on one side of the plaza. It was there the clock was set in the wall and it was in the buildings under the arcade that the club of the fascists was. And under the arcade on the sidewalk in front of their club was where they had their chairs and tables for their club. It was there, before the movement, that they were accustomed to take the ap廨itifs. The chairs and the tables were of wicker. It looked like a caf?but was more elegant."
 "But was there no fighting to take them?"
 "Pablo had them seized in the night before he assaulted the barracks. But he had already surrounded the barracks. They were all seized in their homes at the same hour the attack started. That was intelligent. Pablo is an organizer. Otherwise he would have had people attacking him at his flanks and at his rear while he was assaulting the barracks of the _guardia civil_.
 "Pablo is very intelligent but very brutal. He had this of the village well planned and well ordered. Listen. After the assault was successful, and the last four guards had surrendered, and he had shot them against the wall, and we had drunk coffee at the caf?that always opened earliest in the morning by the corner from which the early bus left, he proceeded to the organization of the plaza. Carts were piled exactly as for a _capea_ except that the side toward the river was not enclosed. That was left open. Then Pablo ordered the priest to confess the fascists and give them the necessary sacraments."
 "Where was this done?"
 "In the _Ayuntamiento_, as I said. There was a great crowd outside and while this was going on inside with the priest, there was some levity outside and shouting of obscenities, but most of the people were very serious and respectful. Those who made jokes were those who were already drunk from the celebration of the taking of the barracks and there were useless characters who would have been drunk at any time.
 "While the priest was engaged in these duties, Pablo organized those in the plaza into two lines.
 "He placed them in two lines as you would place men for a rope pulling contest, or as they stand in a city to watch the ending of a bicycle road race with just room for the cyclists to pass between, or as men stood to allow the passage of a holy image in a procession. Two meters was left between the lines and they extended from the door of the _Ayuntamiento_ clear across the plaza to the edge of the cliff. So that, from the doorway of the _Ayuntamiento_, looking across the plaza, one coming out would see two solid lines of people waiting.
 "They were armed with flails such as are used to beat out the grain and they were a good flail's length apart. All did not have flails, as enough flails could not be obtained. But most had flails obtained from the store of Don Guillermo Martin, who was a fascist and sold all sorts of agricultural implements. And those who did not have flails had heavy herdsman's clubs, or ox-goads, and some had wooden pitchforks; those with wooden tines that are used to fork the chaff and straw into the air after the flailing. Some had sickles and reaping hooks but these Pablo placed at the far end where the lines reached the edge of the cliff.
 "These lines were quiet and it was a clear day, as today is clear, and there were clouds high in the sky, as there are now, and the plaza was not yet dusty for there had been a heavy dew in the night, and the trees cast a shade over the men in the lines and you could hear the water running from the brass pipe in the mouth of the lion and falling into the bowl of the fountain where the women bring the water jars to fill them.
 "Only near the _Ayuntamiento_, where the priest was complying with his duties with the fascists, was there any ribaldry, and that came from those worthless ones who, as I said, were already drunk and were crowded around the windows shouting obscenities and jokes in bad taste in through the iron bars of the windows. Most of' the men in the lines were waiting quietly and I heard one say to another, 'Will there be women?'
 "And another said, 'I hope to Christ, no.'
 "Then one said, 'Here is the woman of Pablo. Listen, Pilar. Will there be women?'
 "I looked at him and he was a peasant dressed in his Sunday jacket and sweating heavily and I said, 'No, Joaqu璯. There are no women. We are not killing the women. Why should we kill their women?'
 "And he said, 'Thanks be to Christ, there are no women and when does it start?'
 "And I said, 'As soon as the priest finishes.'
 "'And the priest?'
 "'I don't know,' I told him and I saw his face working and the sweat coming down on his forehead. 'I have never killed a man,' he said.
 "'Then you will learn,' the peasant next to him said. 'But I do not think one blow with this will kill a man,' and he held his flail in both hands and looked at it with doubt.
 "'That is the beauty of it,' another peasant said. 'There must be many blows.'
 "'_They_ have taken Valladolid. _They_ have Avila,' some one said. 'I heard that before we came into town.'
 "'_They_ will never take _this_ town. _This_ town is ours. We have struck ahead of them,' I said. 'Pablo is not one to wait for them to strike.'
 "'Pablo is able,' another said. 'But in this finishing off of the _civiles_ he was egoistic. Don't you think so, Pilar?'
 "'Yes,' I said. 'But now all are participating in this.'
 "'Yes,' he said. 'It is well organized. But why do we not hear more news of the movement?'
 "'Pablo cut the telephone wires before the assault on the barracks. They are not yet repaired.'
 "'Ah,' he said. 'It is for this we hear nothing. I had my news from the roadmender's station early this morning.'
 "'Why is this done thus, Pilar?' he said to me.
 "'To save bullets,' I said. 'And that each man should have his share in the responsibility.'
 "'That it should start then. That it should start.' And I looked at him and saw that he was crying.
 "'Why are you crying, Joaqu璯?' I asked him. 'This is not to cry about'
 "'I cannot help it, Pilar,' he said. 'I have never killed any one.'
 "If you have not seen the day of revolution in a small town where all know all in the town and always have known all, you have seen nothing. And on this day most of the men in the double line across the plaza wore the clothes in which they worked in the fields, having come into town hurriedly, but some, not knowing how one should dress for the first day of a movement, wore their clothes for Sundays or holidays, and these, seeing that the others, including those who had attacked the barracks, wore their oldest clothes, were ashamed of being wrongly dressed. But they did not like to take off their jackets for fear of losing them, or that they might be stolen by the worthless ones, and so they stood, sweating in the sun and waiting for it to commence.
 "Then the wind rose and the dust was now dry in the plaza for the men walking and standing and shuffling had loosened it and it commenced to blow and a man in a dark blue Sunday jacket shouted 'Agua! Agua!' and the caretaker of the plaza, whose duty it was to sprinkle the plaza each morning with a hose, came and turned the hose on and commenced to lay the dust at the edge of the plaza, and then toward the center. Then the two lines fell back and let him lay the dust over the center of the plaza; the hose sweeping in wide arcs and the water glistening in the sun and the men leaning on their flails or the clubs or the white wood pitchforks and watching the sweep of the stream of water. And then, when the plaza was nicely moistened and the dust settled, the lines formed up again and a peasant shouted, 'When do we get the first fascist? When does the first one come out of the box?'
 "'Soon,' Pablo shouted from the door of the _Ayuntamiento_. 'Soon the first one comes out.' His voice was hoarse from shouting in the assault and from the smoke of the barracks.
 "'What's the delay?' some one asked.
 "'They're still occupied with their sins,' Pablo shouted.
 "'Clearly, there are twenty of them,' a man said.
 "'More,' said another.
 "'Among twenty there are many sins to recount.'
 "'Yes, but I think it's a trick to gain time. Surely facing such an emergency one could not remember one's sins except for the biggest.'
 "'Then have patience. For with more than twenty of them there are enough of the biggest sins to take some time.'
 "'I have patience,' said the other. 'But it is better to get it over with. Both for them and for us. It is July and there is much work. We have harvested but we have not threshed. We are not yet in the time of fairs and festivals.'
 "'But this will be a fair and festival today,' another said. 'The Fair of Liberty and from this day, when these are extinguished, the town and the land are ours.'
 "'We thresh fascists today,' said one, 'and out of the chaff comes the freedom of this pueblo.'
 "'We must administer it well to deserve it,' said another. 'Pilar,' he said to me, 'when do we have a meeting for organization?'
 "'Immediately after this is completed,' I told him. 'In the same building of the _Ayuntamiento_.'
 "I was wearing one of the three-cornered patent leather hats of the _guardia civil_ as a joke and I had put the hammer down on the pistol, holding it with my thumb to lower it as I pulled on the trigger as seemed natural, and the pistol was held in a rope I had around my waist, the long barrel stuck under the rope. And when I put it on the joke seemed very good to me, although afterwards I wished I had taken the holster of the pistol instead of the hat. But one of the men in the line said to me, 'Pilar, daughter. It seems to me bad taste for thee to wear that hat. Now we have finished with such things as the _guardia civil_.'
 "'Then,' I said, 'I will take it off.' And I did.
 "'Give it to me,' he said. 'It should be destroyed.'
 "And as we were at the far end of the line where the walk runs along the cliff by the river, he took the hat in his hand and sailed it off over the cliff with the motion a herdsman makes throwing a stone underhand at the bulls to herd them. The hat sailed far out into space and we could see it smaller and smaller, the patent leather shining in the clear air, sailing down to the river. I looked back over the square and at all the windows and all the balconies there were people crowded and there was the double line of men across the square to the doorway of the _Ayuntamiento_ and the crowd swarmed Outside against the windows of that building and there was the noise of many people talking, and then I heard a shout and some one said 'Here comes the first one,' and it was Don Benito Garcia, the Mayor, and he came out bareheaded walking slowly from the door and down the porch and nothing happened; and he walked between the line of men with the flails and nothing happened. He passed two men, four men, eight men, ten men and nothing happened and he was walking between that line of men, his head up, his fat face gray, his eyes looking ahead and then flickering from side to side and walking steadily. And nothing happened.
 "From a balcony some one cried out, '_Qu?pasa, cobardes?_ What is the matter, cowards?' and still Don Benito walked along between the men and nothing happened. Then I saw a man three men down from where I was standing and his face was working and he was biting his lips and his hands were white on his flail. I saw him looking toward Don Benito, watching him come on. And still nothing happened. Then, just before Don Benito came abreast of this man, the man raised his flail high so that it struck the man beside him and smashed a blow at Don Benito that hit him on the side of the head and Don Benito looked at him and the man struck again and shouted, 'That for you, _Cabron_,' and the blow hit Don Benito in the face and he raised his hands to his face and they beat him until he fell and the man who had struck him first called to others to help him and he pulled on the collar of Don Benito's shirt and others took hold of his arms and with his face in the dust of the plaza, they dragged him over the walk to the edge of the cliff and threw him over and into the river. And the man who hit him first was kneeling by the edge of the cliff looking over after him and saying, 'The Cabron! The Cabron! Oh, the Cabron!' He was a tenant of Don Benito and they had never gotten along together. There had been a dispute about a piece of land by the river that Don Benito had taken from this man and let to another and this man had long hated him. This man did not join the line again but sat by the cliff looking down where Don Benito had fallen.
 "After Don Benito no one would come out. There was no noise now in the plaza as all were waiting to see who it was that would come out. Then a drunkard shouted in a great voice, '_Qu?salga el toro!_ Let the bull out!'
 "Then some one from by the windows of the _Ayuntamiento_ yelled, 'They won't move! They are all praying!'
 "Another drunkard shouted, 'Pull them out. Come on, pull them out. The time for praying is finished.'
 "But none came out and then I saw a man coming out of the door.
 "It was Don Federico Gonzalez, who owned the mill and feed store and was a fascist of the first order. He was tall and thin and his hair was brushed over the top of his head from one side to the other to cover a baldness and he wore a nightshirt that was tucked into his trousers. He was barefooted as when he had been taken from his home and he walked ahead of Pablo holding his hands above his head, and Pablo walked behind him with the barrels of his shotgun pressing against the back of Don Federico Gonzalez until Don Federico entered the double line. But when Pablo left him and returned to the door of the _Ayuntamiento_, Don Federico could not walk forward, and stood there, his eyes turned up to heaven and his hands reaching up as though they would grasp the sky.
 "'He has no legs to walk,' some one said.
 "'What's the matter, Don Federico? Can't you walk?' some one shouted to him. But Don Federico stood there with his hands up and only his lips were moving.
 "'Get on,' Pablo shouted to him from the steps. 'Walk.'
 "Don Federico stood there and could not move. One of the drunkards poked him in the backside with a flail handle and Don Federico gave a quick jump as a balky horse might, but still stood in the same place, his hands up, and his eyes up toward the sky.
 "Then the peasant who stood beside me said, 'This is shameful. I have nothing against him but such a spectacle must terminate.' So he walked down the line and pushed through to where Don Federico was standing and said, 'With your permission,' and hit him a great blow alongside of the head with a club.
 "Then Don Federico dropped his hands and put them over the top of his head where the bald place was and with his head bent and covered by his hands, the thin long hairs that covered the bald place escaping through his fingers, he ran fast through the double line With flails falling on his back and shoulders until he fell and those at the end of the line picked him up and swung him over the cliff. Never did he open his mouth from the moment he came out pushed by the shotgun of Pablo. His only difficulty was to move forward. It was as though he had no command of his legs.
 "After Don Federico, I saw there was a concentration of the hardest men at the end of the lines by the edge of the cliff and I left there and I went to the Arcade of the _Ayuntamiento_ and pushed aside two drunkards and looked in the window. In the big room of the _Ayuntamiento_ they were all kneeling in a half circle praying and the priest was kneeling and praying with them. Pablo and one named Cuatro Dedos, Four Fingers, a cobbler, who was much with Pablo then, and two others were standing with shotguns and Pablo said to the priest, 'Who goes now?' and the priest went on praying and did not answer him.
 "'Listen, you,' Pablo said to the priest in his hoarse voice, 'who goes now? Who is ready now?'
 "The priest would not speak to Pablo and acted as though he were not there and I could see Pablo was becoming very angry.
 "'Let us all go together,' Don Ricardo Montalvo, who was a land owner, said to Pablo, raising his head and stopping praying to speak.
 "'_Qu?va_,' said Pablo. 'One at a time as you are ready.'
 "'Then I go now,' Don Ricardo said. 'I'll never be any more ready.' The priest blessed him as he spoke and blessed him again as he stood up, without interrupting his praying, and held up a crucifix for Don Ricardo to kiss and Don Ricardo kissed it and then turned and said to Pablo, 'Nor ever again as ready. You _Cabron_ of the bad milk. Let us go.'
 "Don Ricardo was a short man with gray hair and a thick neck and he had a shirt on with no collar. He was bow-legged from much horseback riding. 'Good-by,' he said to all those who were kneeling. 'Don't be sad. To die is nothing. The only bad thing is to die at the hands of this _canalla_. Don't touch me,' he said to Pablo. 'Don't touch me with your shotgun.'
 "He walked out of the front of the _Ayuntamiento_ with his gray hair and his small gray eyes and his thick neck looking very short and angry. He looked at the double line of peasants and he spat on the ground. He could spit actual saliva which, in such a circumstance, as you should know, _Ingl廥_, is very rare and he said, '_Arriba Espana!_ Down with the miscalled Republic and I obscenity in the milk of your fathers.'
 "So they clubbed him to death very quickly because of the insult, beating him as soon as he reached the first of the men, beating him as he tried to walk with his head up, beating him until he fell and chopping at him with reaping hooks and the sickles, and many men bore him to the edge of the cliff to throw him over and there was blood now on their hands and on their clothing, and now began to be the feeling that these who came out were truly enemies and should be killed.
 "Until Don Ricardo came out with that fierceness and calling those insults, many in the line would have given much, I am sure, never to have been in the line. And if any one had shouted from the line, 'Come, let us pardon the rest of them. Now they have had their lesson,' I am sure most would have agreed.
 "But Don Ricardo with all his bravery did a great disservice to the others. For he aroused the men in the line and where, before, they were performing a duty and with no great taste for it, now they were angry, and the difference was apparent.
 "'Let the priest out and the thing will go faster,' some one shouted.
 "'Let out the priest.'
 "'We've had three thieves, let us have the priest.'
 "'Two thieves,' a short peasant said to the man who had shouted. 'It was two thieves with Our Lord.'
 "'Whose Lord?' the man said, his face angry and red.
 "'In the manner of speaking it is said Our Lord.'
 "'He isn't my Lord; not in joke,' said the other. 'And thee hadst best watch thy mouth if thou dost not want to walk between the lines.'
 "'I am as good a Libertarian Republican as thou,' the short peasant said. 'I struck Don Ricardo across the mouth. I struck Don Federico across the back. I missed Don Benito. But I say Our Lord is the formal way of speaking of the man in question and that it was two thieves.'
 "'I obscenity in the milk of thy Republicanism. You speak of Don this and Don that.'
 "'Here are they so called.'
 "'Not by me, the _cabrones_. And thy Lord-- Hi! Here comes a new one!'
 "It was then that we saw a disgraceful sight, for the man who walked out of the doorway of the _Ayuntamiento_ was Don Faustino Rivero, the oldest son of his father, Don Celestino Rivero, a land owner. He was tall and his hair was yellow and it was freshly combed back from his forehead for he always carried a comb in his pocket and he had combed his hair now before coming out. He was a great annoyer of girls, and he was a coward, and he had always wished to be an amateur bullfighter. He went much with gypsies and with builfighters and with bull raisers and delighted to wear the Andalucian costume, but he had no courage and was considered a joke. One time he was announced to appear in an amateur benefit fight for the old people's home in Avila and to kill a bull from on horseback in the Andalucian style, which he had spent much time practising, and when he had seen the size of the bull that had been substituted for him in place of the little one, weak in the legs, he had picked out himself, he had said he was sick and, some said, put three fingers down his throat to make himself vomit.
 "When the lines saw him, they commenced to shout, '_Hola_, Don Faustino. Take care not to vomit.'
 "'Listen to me, Don Faustino. There are beautiful girls over the cliff.'
 "'Don Faustino. Wait a minute and we will bring out a bull bigger than the other.'
 "And another shouted, 'Listen to me, Don Faustino. Hast thou ever heard speak of death?'
 "Don Faustino stood there, still acting brave. He was still under the impulse that had made him announce to the others that he was going out. It was the same impulse that had made him announce himself for the bullfight. That had made him believe and hope that he could be an amateur matador. Now he was inspired by the example of Don Ricardo and he stood there looking both handsome and brave and he made his face scornful. But he could not speak.
 "'Come, Don Faustino,' some one called from the line. 'Come, Don Faustino. Here is the biggest bull of all.'
 "Don Faustino stood looking out and I think as he looked, that there was no pity for him on either side of the line. Still he looked both handsome and superb; but time was shortening and there was only one direction to go.
 "'Don Faustino,' some one called. 'What are you waiting for, Don Faustino?'
 "'He is preparing to vomit,' some one said and the lines laughed.
 "'Don Faustino,' a peasant called. 'Vomit if it will give thee pleasure. To me it is all the same.'
 "Then, as we watched, Don Faustino looked along the lines and across the square to the cliff and then when he saw the cliff and the emptiness beyond, he turned quickly and ducked back toward the entrance of the _Ayuntamiento_.
 "All the lines roared and some one shouted in a high voice, 'Where do you go, Don Faustino? Where do you go?'
 "'He goes to throw up,' shouted another and they all laughed again.
 "Then we saw Don Faustino coming out again with Pablo behind him with the shotgun. All of his style was gone now. The sight of the lines had taken away his type and his style and he came out now with Pablo behind him as though Pablo were cleaning a Street and Don Faustino was what he was pushing ahead of him. Don Faustino came out now and he was crossing himself and praying and then he put his hands in front of his eyes and walked down the steps toward the lines.
 "'Leave him alone,' some one shouted. 'Don't touch him.'
 "The lines understood and no one made a move to touch Don Faustino and, with his hands shaking and held in front of his eyes, and with his mouth moving, he walked along between the lines.
 "No one said anything and no one touched him and, when he was halfway through the lines, he could go no farther and fell to his knees.
 "No one struck him. I was walking along parallel to the line to see what happened to him and a peasant leaned down and lifted him to his feet and said, 'Get up, Don Faustino, and keep walking. The bull has not yet come out.'
 "Don Faustino could not walk alone and the peasant in a black smock helped him on one side and another peasant in a black smock and herdsman's boots helped him on the other, supporting him by the arms and Don Faustino walking along between the lines with his hands over his eyes, his lips never quiet, and his yellow hair slicked on his head and shining in the sun, and as he passed the peasants would say, 'Don Faustino, _buen provecho_. Don Faustino, that you should have a good appetite,' and others said, 'Don Faustino, _a sus ordenes_. Don Faustino at your orders,' and one, who had failed at bullfighting himself, said, 'Don Faustino. _Matador, a sus ordenes_,' and another said, 'Don Faustino, there are beautiful girls in heaven, Don Faustino.' And they walked Don Faustino through the lines, holding him close on either side, holding him up as he walked, with him with his hands over his eyes. But he must have looked through his fingers, because when they came to the edge of the cliff with him, he knelt again, throwing himself down and clutching the ground and holding to the grass, saying, 'No. No. No. Please. NO. Please. Please. No. No.'
 "Then the peasants who were with him and the others, the hard ones of the end of the line, squatted quickly behind him as he knelt, and gave him a rushing push and he was over the edge without ever having been beaten and you heard him crying loud and high as he fell.
 "It was then I knew that the lines had become cruel and it was first the insults of Don Ricardo and second the cowardice of Don Faustino that had made them so.
 "'Let us have another,' a peasant called out and another peasant slapped him on the back and said, 'Don Faustino! What a thing! Don Faustino!'
 "'He's seen the big bull now,' another said. 'Throwing up will never help him, now.'
 "'In my life,' another peasant said, 'in my life I've never seen a thing like Don Faustino.'
 "'There are others,' another peasant said. 'Have patience. Who knows what we may yet see?'
 "'There may be giants and dwarfs,' the first peasant said. 'There may be Negroes and rare beasts from Africa. But for me never, never will there be anything like Don Faustino. But let's have another one! Come on. Let's have another one!'
 "The drunkards were handing around bottles of anis and cognac that they had looted from the bar of the club of the fascists, drinking them down like wine, and many of the men in the lines were beginning to be a little drunk, too, from drinking after the strong emotion of Don Benito, Don Federico, Don Ricardo and especially Don Faustino. Those who did not drink from the bottles of liquor were drinking from leather wineskins that were passed about and one handed a wineskin to me and I took a long drink, letting the wine run cool down my throat from the leather _bota_ for I was very thirsty, too.
 "'To kill gives much thirst,' the man with the wineskin said to me.
 "'_Qu?va_,' I said. 'Hast thou killed?'
 "'We have killed four,' he said, proudly. 'Not counting the _civiles_. Is it true that thee killed one of the _civiles_, Pilar?'
 "'Not one,' I said. 'I shot into the smoke when the wall fell, as did the others. That is all.'
 "'Where got thee the pistol, Pilar?'
 "'From Pablo. Pablo gave it to me after he killed the _civiles_.'
 "'Killed he them with this pistol?'
 "'With no other,' I said. 'And then he armed me with it.'
 "'Can I see it, Pilar? Can I hold it?'
 "'Why not, man?' I said, and I took it out from under the rope and handed it to him. But I was wondering why no one else had come out and just then who should come out but Don Guillermo Martin from whose store the flails, the herdsman's clubs, and the wooden pitchforks had been taken. Don Guillermo was a fascist but otherwise there Was nothing against him.
 "It is true he paid little to those who made the flails but he charged little for them too and if one did not wish to buy flails from Don Guillermo, it was possible to make them for nothing more than the cost of the wood and the leather. He had a rude way of speaking and he was undoubtedly a fascist and a member of their club and he sat at noon and at evening in the cane chairs of their club to read _El Debate_, to have his shoes shined, and to drink vermouth and seltzer and eat roasted almonds, dried shrimps, and anchovies. But one does not kill for that, and I am sure if it had not been for the insults of Don Ricardo Montalvo and the lamentable spectacle of Don Faustino, and the drinking consequent on the emotion of them and the others, some one would have shouted, 'That Don Guillermo should go in peace. We have his flails. Let him go.'
 "Because the people of this town are as kind as they can be cruel and they have a natural sense of justice and a desire to do that which is right. But cruelty had entered into the lines and also drunkenness or the beginning of drunkenness and the lines were not as they were when Don Benito had come out. I do not know how it is in other countries, and no one cares more for the pleasure of drinking than I do, but in Spain drunkenness, when produced by other elements than wine, is a thing of great ugliness and the people do things that they would not have done. Is it not so in your country, _Ingl廥?_"
 "It is so," Robert Jordan said. "When I was seven years old and going with my mother to attend a wedding in the state of Ohio at which I was to be the boy of a pair of boy and girl who carried flowers--"
 "Did you do that?" asked Maria. "How nice!"
 "In this town a Negro was hanged to a lamp post and later burned. It was an arc light. A light which lowered from the post to the pavement. And he was hoisted, first by the mechanism which was used to hoist the arc light but this broke--"
 "A Negro," Maria said. "How barbarous!"
 "Were the people drunk?" asked Pilar. "Were they drunk thus to burn a Negro?"
 "I do not know," Robert Jordan said. "Because I saw it only looking out from under the blinds of a window in the house which stood on the corner where the arc light was. The street was full of people and when they lifted the Negro up for the second time--"
 "If you had only seven years and were in a house, you could not tell if they were drunk or not," Pilar said.
 "As I said, when they lifted the Negro up for the second time, my mother pulled me away from the window, so I saw no more," Robert Jordan said. "But since I have had experiences which demonstrate that drunkenness is the same in my country. It is ugly and brutal."
 "You were too young at seven," Maria said. "You were too young for such things. I have never seen a Negro except in a circus. Unless the Moors are Negroes."
 "Some are Negroes and some are not," Pilar said. "I can talk to you of the Moors."
 "Not as I can," Maria said. "Nay, not as I can."
 "Don't speak of such things," Pilar said. "It is unhealthy. Where were we?"
 "Speaking of the drunkenness of the lines," Robert Jordan said. "Go on."
 "It is not fair to say drunkenness," Pilar said. "For, yet, they were a long way from drunkenness. But already there was a change in them, and when Don Guillermo came out, standing straight, near-sighted, gray-headed, of medium height, with a shirt with a collar button but no collar, standing there and crossing himself once and looking ahead, but seeing little without his glasses, but walking forward well and calmly, he was an appearance to excite pity. But some one shouted from the line, 'Here, Don Guillermo. Up here, Don Guillermo. In this direction. Here we all have your products.'
 "They had had such success joking at Don Faustino that they could not see, now, that Don Guillermo was a different thing, and if Don Guillermo was to be killed, he should be killed quickly and with dignity.
 "'Don Guillermo,' another shouted. 'Should we send to the house for thy spectacles?'
 "Don Guillermo's house was no house, since he had not much money and was only a fascist to be a snob and to console himself that he must work for little, running a wooden-implement shop. He was a fascist, too, from the religiousness of his wife which he accepted as his own due to his love for her. He lived in an apartment in the building three houses down the square and when Don Guillermo stood there, looking near-sightedly at the lines, the double lines he knew he must enter, a woman started to scream from the balcony of the apartment where he lived. She could see him from the balcony and she was his wife.
 "'Guillermo,' she cried. 'Guillermo. Wait and I will be with thee.'
 "Don Guillermo turned his head toward where the shouting came from. He could not see her. He tried to say something but he could not. Then he waved his hand in the direction the woman had called from and started to walk between the lines.
 "'Guillermo!' she cried. 'Guillermo! Oh, Guillermo!' She was holding her hands on the rail of the balcony and shaking back and forth. 'Guillermo!'
 "Don Guillermo waved his hand again toward the noise and walked into the lines with his head up and you would not have known what he was feeling except for the color of his face.
 "Then some drunkard yelled, 'Guillermo!' from the lines, imitating the high cracked voice of his wife and Don Guillermo rushed toward the man, blindly, with tears now running down his cheeks and the man hit him hard across the face with his flail and Don Guillermo sat down from the force of the blow and sat there crying, but not from fear, while the drunkards beat him and one drunkard jumped on top of him, astride his shoulders, and beat him with a bottle. After this many of the men left the lines and their places were taken by the drunkards who had been jeering and saying things in bad taste through the windows of the _Ayuntamiento_.
 "I myself had felt much emotion at the shooting of the _guardia civil_ by Pablo," Pilar said. "It was a thing of great ugliness, but I had thought if this is how it must be, this is how it must be, and at least there was no cruelty, only the depriving of life which, as we all have learned in these years, is a thing of ugliness but also a necessity to do if we are to win, and to preserve the Republic.
 "When the square had been closed off and the lines formed, I had admired and understood it as a conception of Pablo, although it seemed to me to be somewhat fantastic and that it would be necessary for all that was to be done to be done in good taste if it were not to be repugnant. Certainly if the fascists were to be executed by the people, it was better for all the people to have a part in it, and I wished to share the guilt as much as any, just as I hoped to share in the benefits when the town should be ours. But after Don Guillermo I felt a feeling of shame and distaste, and with the coming of the drunkards and the worthless ones into the lines, and the abstention of those who left the lines as a protest after Don Guillermo, I wished that I might disassociate myself altogether from the lines, and I walked away, across the square, and sat down on a bench under one of the big trees that gave shade there.
 "Two peasants from the lines walked over, talking together, and one of them called to me, 'What passes with thee, Pilar?'
 "'Nothing, man,' I told him.
 "'Yes,' he said. 'Speak. What passes.'
 "'I think that I have a belly-full,' I told him.
 "'Us, too,' he said and they both sat down on the bench. One of them had a leather wineskin and he handed it to me.
 "'Rinse out thy mouth,' he said and the other said, going on with the talking they had been engaged in, 'The worst is that it will bring bad luck. Nobody can tell me that such things as the killing of Don Guillermo in that fashion will not bring bad luck.'
 "Then the other said, 'If it is necessary to kill them all, and I am not convinced of that necessity, let them be killed decently and without mockery.'
 "'Mockery is justified in the case of Don Faustino,' the other said. 'Since he was always a farcer and was never a serious man. But to mock such a serious man as Don Guillermo is beyond all right.'
 "'I have a belly-full,' I told him, and it was literally true because I felt an actual sickness in all of me inside and a sweating and a nausea as though I had swallowed bad sea food.
 "'Then, nothing,' the one peasant said. 'We will take no further part in it. But I wonder what happens in the other towns.'
 "'They have not repaired the telephone wires yet,' I said. 'It is a lack that should be remedied.'
 "'Clearly,' he said. 'Who knows but what we might be better employed putting the town into a state of defense than massacring people with this slowness and brutality.'
 "'I will go to speak with Pablo, I told them and I stood up from the bench and started toward the arcade that led to the door of the _Ayuntamiento_ from where the lines spread across the square. The lines now were neither straight nor orderly and there was much and very grave drunkenness. Two men had fallen down and lay on their backs in the middle of the square and were passing a bottle back and forth between them. One would take a drink and then shout, '_Viva la Anarquia!_' lying on his back and shouting as though he were a madman. He had a red-and-black handkerchief around his neck. The other shouted, '_Viva la Libertad!_' and kicked his feet in the air and then bellowed, '_Viva Ia Libertad!_' again. He had a red-andblack handkerchief too and he waved it in one hand and waved the bottle with the other.
 "A peasant who had left the lines and now stood in the shade of the arcade looked at them in disgust and said, 'They should shout, "Long live drunkenness." That's all they believe in.'
 "'They don't believe even in that,' another peasant said. 'Those neither understand nor believe in anything.'
 "Just then, one of the drunkards got to his feet and raised both arms with his fists clenched over his head and shouted, 'Long live Anarchy and Liberty and I obscenity in the milk of the Republic!'
 "The other drunkard who was still lying on his back, took hold of the ankle of the drunkard who was shouting and rolled over so that the shouting drunkard fell with him, and they rolled over together and then sat up and the one who had pulled the other down put his arm around the shouter's neck and then handed the shouter a bottle and kissed the red-and-black handkerchief he wore and they both drank together.
 "Just then, a yelling went up from the lines and, looking up the arcade, I could not see who it was that was coming out because the man's head did not show above the heads of those crowded about the door of the _Ayuntamiento_. All I could see was that some one was being pushed out by Pablo and Cuatro Dedos with their shotguns but I could not see who it was and I moved on close toward the lines where they were packed against the door to try to see.
 "There was much pushing now and the chairs and the tables of the fascists' caf?had been overturned except for one table on which a drunkard was lying with his head hanging down and his mouth open and I picked up a chair and set it against one of the pillars and mounted on it so that I could see over the heads of the crowd.
 "The man who was being pushed out by Pablo and Cuatro Dedos was Don Anastasio Rivas, who was an undoubted fascist and the fattest man in the town. He was a grain buyer and the agent for several insurance companies and he also loaned money at high rates of interest. Standing on the chair, I saw him walk down the steps and toward the lines, his fat neck bulging over the back of the collar band of his shirt, and his bald head shining in the sun, but he never entered them because there was a shout, not as of different men shouting, but of all of them. It was an ugly noise and was the cry of the drunken lines all yelling together and the lines broke with the rush of men toward him and I saw Don Anastasio throw himself down with his hands over his head and then you could not see him for the men piled on top of him. And when the men got up from him, Don Anastasio was dead from his head being beaten against the stone flags of the paving of the arcade and there were no more lines but only a mob.
 "'We're going in,' they commenced to shout. 'We're going in after them.'
 "'He's too heavy to carry,' a man kicked at the body of Don Anastasio, who was lying there on his face. 'Let him stay there.'
 "'Why should we lug that tub of tripe to the cliff? Let him lie there.'
 "'We are going to enter and finish with them inside,' a man shouted. 'We're going in.'
 "'Why wait all day in the sun?' another yelled. 'Come on. Let us go.'
 "The mob was now pressing into the arcade. They were shouting and pushing and they made a noise now like an animal and they were all shouting 'Open up! Open up!' for the guards had shut the doors of the _Ayuntamiento_ when the lines broke.
 "Standing on the chair, I could see in through the barred window into the hail of the _Ayuntamiento_ and in there it was as it had been before. The priest was standing, and those who were left were kneeling in a half circle around him and they were all praying. Pablo was sitting on the big table in front of the Mayor's chair with his shotgun slung over his back. His legs were hanging down from the table and he was rolling a cigarette. Cuatro Dedos was sitting in the Mayor's chair with his feet on the table and he was smoking a cigarette. All the guards were sitting in different chairs of the administration, holding their guns. The key to the big door was on the table beside Pablo.
 "The mob was shouting, 'Open up! Open up! Open up!' as though it were a chant and Pablo was sitting there as though he did not hear them. He said something to the priest but I could not hear what he said for the noise of the mob.
 "The priest, as before, did not answer him but kept on praying. With many people pushing me, I moved the chair close against the wall, shoving it ahead of me as they shoved me from behind. I stood on the chair with my face close against the bars of the window and held on by the bars. A man climbed on the chair too and stood with his arms around mine, holding the wider bars.
 "'The chair will break,' I said to him.
 "'What does it matter?' he said. 'Look at them. Look at them pray.'
 "His breath on my neck smelled like the smell of the mob, sour, like vomit on paving stones and the smell of drunkenness, and then he put his mouth against the opening in the bars with his head over my shoulder, and shouted, 'Open up! Open!' and it was as though the mob were on my back as a devil is on your back in a dream.
 "Now the mob was pressed tight against the door so that those in front were being crushed by all the others who were pressing and from the square a big drunkard in a black smock with a red-and-black handkerchief around his neck, ran and threw himself against the press of the mob and fell forward onto the pressing men and then stood up and backed away and then ran forward again and threw himself against the backs of those men who were pushing, shouting, 'Long live me and long live Anarchy.'
 "As I watched, this man turned away from the crowd and went and sat down and drank from a bottle and then, while he was sitting down, he saw Don Anastasio, who was still lying face down on the stones, but much trampled now, and the drunkard got up and went over to Don Anastasio and leaned over and poured out of the bottle onto the head of Don Anastasio and onto his clothes, and then he took a matchbox out of his pocket and lit several matches, trying to make a fire with Don Anastasio. But the wind was blowing hard now and it blew the matches out and after a little the big drunkard sat there by Don Anastasio, shaking his head and drinking out of the bottle and every once in a while, leaning over and patting Don Anastasio on the shoulders of his dead body.
 "All this time the mob was shouting to open up and the man on the chair with me was holding tight to the bars of the window and shouting to open up until it deafened me with his voice roaring past my ear and his breath foul on me and I looked away from watching the drunkard who had been trying to set fire to Don Anastasio and into the hall of the _Ayuntamiento_ again; and it was just as it had been. They were still praying as they had been, the men all kneeling, with their shirts open, some with their heads down, others with their heads up, looking toward the priest and toward the crucifix that he held, and the priest praying fast and hard and looking Out over their heads, and in back of them Pablo, with his cigarette now lighted, was sitting there on the table swinging his legs, his shotgun slung over his back, and he was playing with the key.
 "I saw Pablo speak to the priest again, le
Chapter 11
 As they came up, still deep in the shadow of the pines, after dropping down from the high meadow into the wooden valley and climbing up it on a trail that paralleled the stream and then left it to gain, steeply, the top of a rim-rock formation, a man with a carbine stepped out from behind a tree.
 "Halt," he said. Then, "_Hola_, Pilar. Who is this with thee?"
 "An _Ingl廥_," Pilar said. "But with a Christian name--Roberto. And what an obscenity of steepness it is to arrive here."
 "_Salud, Camarada_," the guard said to Robert Jordan and put out his hand. "Are you well?"
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan. "And thee?"
 "Equally," the guard said. He was very young, with a light build, thin, rather hawk-nosed face, high cheekbones and gray eyes. He wore no hat, his hair was black and shaggy and his handclasp was strong and friendly. His eyes were friendly too.
 "Hello, Maria," he said to the girl. "You did not tire yourself?"
 "_Qu?va_, Joaqu璯," the girl said. "We have sat and talked more than we have walked."
 "Are you the dynamiter?" Joaqu璯 asked. "We have heard you were here."
 "We passed the night at Pablo's," Robert Jordan said. "Yes, I am the dynamiter."
 "We are glad to see you," Joaqu璯 said. "Is it for a train?"
 "Were you at the last train?" Robert Jordan asked and smiled.
 "Was I not," Joaqu璯 said. "That's where we got this," he grinned at Maria. "You are pretty now," he said to Maria. "Have they told thee how pretty?"
 "Shut up, Joaqu璯, and thank you very much," Maria said. "You'd be pretty with a haircut."
 "I carried thee," Joaqu璯 told the girl. "I carried thee over my shoulder."
 "As did many others," Pilar said in the deep voice. "Who didn't carry her? Where is the old man?"
 "At the camp."
 "Where was he last night?"
 "In Segovia."
 "Did he bring news?"
 "Yes," Joaqu璯 said, "there is news."
 "Good or bad?"
 "I believe bad."
 "Did you see the planes?"
 "Ay," said Joaqu璯 and shook his head. "Don't talk to me of that. Comrade Dynamiter, what planes were those?"
 "Heinkel one eleven bombers. Heinkel and Fiat pursuit," Robert Jordan told him.
 "What were the big ones with the low wings?"
 "Heinkel one elevens."
 "By any names they are as bad," Joaqu璯 said. "But I am delaying you. I will take you to the commander."
 "The commander?" Pilar asked.
 Joaqu璯 nodded seriously. "I like it better than 'chief," he said. "It is more military."
 "You are militarizing heavily," Pilar said and laughed at him.
 "No," Joaqu璯 said. "But I like military terms because it makes orders clearer and for better discipline."
 "Here is one according to thy taste, _Ingl廥_," Pilar said. "A very serious boy."
 "Should I carry thee?" Joaqu璯 asked the girl and put his arm on her shoulder and smiled in her face.
 "Once was enough," Maria told him. "Thank you just the same."
 "Can you remember it?" Joaqu璯 asked her.
 "I can remember being carried," Maria said. "By you, no. I remember the gypsy because he dropped me so many times. But I thank thee, Joaqu璯, and I'll carry thee sometime."
 "I can remember it well enough," Joaqu璯 said. "I can remember holding thy two legs and thy belly was on my shoulder and thy head over my back and thy arms hanging down against my back."
 "Thou hast much memory," Maria said and smiled at him. "I remember nothing of that. Neither thy arms nor thy shoulders nor thy back."
 "Do you want to know something?" Joaqu璯 asked her.
 "What is it?"
 "I was glad thou wert hanging over my back when the shots were coming from behind us."
 "What a swine," Maria said. "And was it for this the gypsy too carried me so much?"
 "For that and to hold onto thy legs."
 "My heroes," Maria said. "My saviors."
 "Listen, _guapa_," Pilar told her. "This boy carried thee much, and in that moment thy legs said nothing to any one. In that moment only the bullets talked clearly. And if he would have dropped thee he could soon have been out of range of the bullets."
 "I have thanked him," Maria said. "And I will carry him sometime. Allow us to joke. I do not have to cry, do I, because he carried me?"
 "I'd have dropped thee," Joaqu璯 went on teasing her. "But I was afraid Pilar would shoot me."
 "I shoot no one," Pilar said.
 "_No hace falta_," Joaqu璯 told her. "You don't need to. You scare them to death with your mouth."
 "What a way to speak," Pilar told him. "And you used to be such a polite little boy. What did you do before the movement, little boy?"
 "Very little," Joaqu璯 said. "I was sixteen."
 "But what, exactly?"
 "A few pairs of shoes from time to time."
 "Make them?"
 "No. Shine them."
 "_Qu?va_," said Pilar. "There is more to it than that." She looked at his brown face, his lithe build, his shock of hair, and the quick heel-and-toe way that he walked. "Why did you fail at it?"
 "Fail at what?"
 "What? You know what. You're growing the pigtail now."
 "I guess it was fear," the boy said.
 "You've a nice figure," Pilar told him. "But the face isn't much. So it was fear, was it? You were all right at the train."
 "I have no fear of them now," the boy said. "None. And we have seen much worse things and more dangerous than the bulls. It is clear no bull is as dangerous as a machine gun. But if I were in the ring with one now I do not know if I could dominate my legs."
 "He wanted to be a bullfighter," Pilar explained to Robert Jordan. "But he was afraid."
 "Do you like the bulls, Comrade Dynamiter?" Joaqu璯 grinned, showing white teeth.
 "Very much," Robert Jordan said. "Very, very much."
 "Have you seen them in Valladolid?" asked Joaqu璯.
 "Yes. In September at the feria."
 "That's my town," Joaqu璯 said. "What a fine town but how the _buena gente_, the good people of that town, have suffered in this war." Then, his face grave, "There they shot my father. My mother. My brother-in-law and now my sister."
 "What barbarians," Robert Jordan said.
 How many times had he heard this? How many times had he watched people say it with difficulty? How many times had he seen their eyes fill and their throats harden with the difficulty of saying my father, or my brother, or my mother, or my sister? He could not remember how many times he had heard them mention their dead in this way. Nearly always they spoke as this boy did now; suddenly and apropos of the mention of the town and always you said, "What barbarians."
 You only heard the statement of the loss. You did not see the father fall as Pilar made him see the fascists die in that story she had told by the stream. You knew the father died in some courtyard, or against some wall, or in some field or orchard, or at night, in the lights of a truck, beside some road. You had seen the lights of the car from the hills and heard the shooting and afterwards you had come down to the road and found the bodies. You did not see the mother shot, nor the sister, nor the brother. You heard about it; you heard the shots; and you saw the bodies.
 Pilar had made him see it in that town.
 If that woman could only write. He would try to write it and if he had luck and could remember it perhaps he could get it down as she told it. God, how she could tell a story. She's better than Quevedo, he thought. He never wrote the death of any Don Faustino as well as she told it. I wish I could write well enough to write that story, he thought. What we did. Not what the others did to us. He knew enough about that. He knew plenty about that behind the lines. But you had to have known the people before. You had to know what they had been in the village.
 Because of our mobility and because we did not have to stay afterwards to take the punishment we never knew how anything really ended, he thought. You stayed with a peasant and his family. You came at night and ate with them. In the day you were hidden and the next night you were gone. You did your job and cleared out. The next time you came that way you heard that they had been shot. It was as simple as that.
 But you were always gone when it happened. The _partizans_ did their damage and pulled out. The peasants stayed and took the punishment. I've always known about the other, he thought. What we did to them at the start I've always known it and hated it and I have heard it mentioned shamelessly and shamefully, bragged of, boasted of, defended, explained and denied. But that damned woman made me see it as though I had been there.
 Well, he thought, it is part of one's education. It will be quite an education when it's finished. You learn in this war if you listen. You most certainly did. He was lucky that he had lived parts of ten years ifl Spain before the war. They trusted you on the language, principally. They trusted you on understanding the language completely and speaking it idiomatically and having a knowledge of the different places. A Spaniard was only really loyal to his village in the end. First Spain of course, then his own tribe, then his province, then his village, his family and finally his trade. If you knew Spanish he was prejudiced in your favor, if you knew his province it was that much better, but if you knew his village and his trade you were in as far as any foreigner ever could be. He never felt like a foreigner in Spanish and they did not really treat him like a foreigner most of the time; only when they turned on you.
 Of course they turned on you. They turned on you often but they always turned on every one. They turned on themselves, too. If you had three together, two would unite against one, and then the two would start to betray each other. Not always, but often enough for you to take enough cases and start to draw it as a conclusion.
 This was no way to think; but who censored his thinking? Nobody but himself. He would not think himself into any defeatism. The first thing was to win the war. If we did not win the war everything was lost. But he noticed, and listened to, and remembered everything. He was serving in a war and he gave absolute loyalty and as complete a performance as he could give while he was serving. But nobody owned his mind, nor his faculties for seeing and hearing, and if he were going to form judgments he would form them afterwards. And there would be plenty of material to draw them from. There was plenty already. There was a little too much sometimes.
 Look at the Pilar woman, he thought. No matter what comes, if there is time, I must make her tell me the rest of that story. Look at her walking along with those two kids. You could not get three better-looking products of Spain than those. She is like a mountain and the boy and the girl are like young trees. The old trees are all cut down and the young trees are growing clean like that. In spite of what has happened to the two of them they look as fresh and clean and new and untouched as though they had never heard of misfortune. But according to Pilar, Maria has just gotten sound again. She must have been in an awful shape.
 He remembered a Belgian boy in the Eleventh Brigade who had enlisted with five other boys from his village. It was a village Of about two hundred people and the boy had never been away froni the village before. When he first saw the boy, out at Hans' Brigade Staff, the other five from the village had all been killed and the boy was in very bad shape and they were using him as an orderly to wait on table at the staff. He had a big, blond, ruddy Flemish face and huge awkward peasant hands and he moved, with the dishes, as powerfully and awkwardly as a draft horse. But he cried all the time. All during the meal he cried with no noise at all.
 You looked up and there he was, crying. If you asked for the wine, he cried and if you passed your plate for stew, he cried; turning away his head. Then he would stop; but if you looked up at him, tears would start coming again. Between courses he cried in the kitchen. Every one was very gentle with him. But it did no good. He would have to find out what became of him and whether he ever cleared up and was fit for soldiering again.
 Maria was sound enough now. She seemed so anyway. But he was no psychiatrist. Pilar was the psychiatrist. It probably had been good for them to have been together last night. Yes, unless it stopped. It certainly had been good for him. He felt fine today; sound and good and unworried and happy. The show looked bad enough but he was awfully lucky, too. He had been in others that announced themselves badly. Announced themselves; that was thinking in Spanish. Maria was lovely.
 Look at her, he said to himself. Look at her.
 He looked at her striding happily in the sun; her khaki shirt open at the neck. She walks like a colt moves, he thought. You do not run onto something like that. Such things don't happen. Maybe it never did happen, he thought. Maybe you dreamed it or made it up and it never did happen. Maybe it is like the dreams you have when some one you have seen in the cinema comes to your bed at night and is so kind and lovely. He'd slept with them all that way When he was asleep in bed. He could remember Garbo still, and Harlow. Yes, Harlow many times. Maybe it was like those dreams.
 But he could still remember the time Garbo came to his bed the flight before the attack at Pozoblanco and she was wearing a soft silky wool sweater when he put his arm around her and when she leaned forward her hair swept forward and over his face and she said why had he never told her that he loved her when she had loved him all this time? She was not shy, nor cold, nor distant. She was just lovely to hold and kind and lovely and like the old days with Jack Gilbert and it was as true as though it happened and he loved her much more than Harlow though Garbo was only there once while Harlow--maybe this was like those dreams.
 Maybe it isn't too, he said to himself. Maybe I could reach over and touch that Maria now, he said to himself. Maybe you are afraid to he said to himself. Maybe you would find out that it never happened and it was not true and it was something you made up like those dreams about the people of the cinema or how all your old girls come back and sleep in that robe at night on all the bare floors, in the straw of the haybarns, the stables, the _corrales_ and the _cortijos_, the woods, the garages, the trucks and all the hills of Spain. They all came to that robe when he was asleep and they were all much nicer than they ever had been in life. Maybe it was like that. Maybe you would be afraid to touch her to see if it was true. Maybe you would, and probably it is something that you made up or that you dreamed.
 He took a step across the trail and put his hand on the girl's arm. Under his fingers he felt the smoothness of her arm in the worn khaki. She looked at him and smiled.
 "Hello, Maria," he said.
 "Hello, _Ingl廥_," she answered and he saw her tawny brown face and the yellow-gray eyes and the full lips smiling and the cropped sun-burned hair and she lifted her face at him and smiled in his eyes. It was true all right.
 Now they were in sight of El Sordo's camp in the last of the pines, where there was a rounded gulch-head shaped like an upturned basin. All these limestone upper basins must be full of caves, he thought. There are two caves there ahead. The scrub pines growing in the rock hide them well. This is as good or a better place than Pablo's.
 "How was this shooting of thy family?" Pilar was saying to Joaqu璯.
 "Nothing, woman," Joaqu璯 said. "They were of the left as many others in Valladolid. When the fascists purified the town they shot first the father. He had voted Socialist. Then they shot the mother. She had voted the same. It was the first time she had ever voted. After that they shot the husband of one of the sisters. He was a member of the syndicate of tramway drivers. Clearly he could not drive a tram without belonging to the syndicate. But he was without politics. I knew him well. He was even a little hit shameless. I do not think he was even a good comrade. Then the husband of the other girl, the other sister, who was also in the trams, had gone to the hills as I had. They thought she knew where he was. But she did not. So they shot her because she would not tell them where he was."
 "What barbarians," said Pilar. "Where is El Sordo? I do not see him."
 "He is here. He is probably inside," answered Joaqu璯 and stopping now, and resting the rifle butt on the ground, said, "Pilar, listen to me. And thou, Maria. Forgive me if I have molested you speaking of things of the family. I know that all have the same troubles and it is more valuable not to speak of them."
 "That you should speak," Pilar said. "For what are we born if not to aid one another? And to listen and say nothing is a cold enough aid."
 "But it can molest the Maria. She has too many things of her own."
 "_Qu?va_," Maria said. "Mine are such a big bucket that yours falling in will never fill it. I am sorry, Joaqu璯, and I hope thy sister is well."
 "So far she's all right," Joaqu璯 said. "They have her in prison and it seems they do not mistreat her much."
 "Are there others in the family?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "No," the boy said. "Me. Nothing more. Except the brother-inlaw who went to the hills and I think he is dead."
 "Maybe he is all right," Maria said. "Maybe he is with a band in other mountains."
 "For me he is dead," Joaqu璯 said. "He was never too good at getting about and he was conductor of a tram and that is not the best preparation for the hills. I doubt if he could last a year. He was Somewhat weak in the chest too."
 "But he may be all right," Maria put her arm on his shoulder.
 "Certainly, girl. Why not?" said Joaqu璯.
 As the boy stood there, Maria reached up, put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Joaqu璯 turned his head away because he was crying.
 "That is as a brother," Maria said to him. "I kiss thee as a brother."
 The boy shook his head, crying without making any noise.
 "I am thy sister," Maria said. "And I love thee and thou hast a family. We are all thy family."
 "Including the _Ingl廥_," boomed Pilar. "Isn't it true, _Ingl廥?_"
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said to the boy, "we are all thy family, Joaqu璯."
 "He's your brother," Pilar said. "Hey _Ingl廥?_"
 Robert Jordan put his arm around the boy's shoulder. "We are all brothers," he said. The boy shook his head.
 "I am ashamed to have spoken," he said. "To speak of such things makes it more difficult for all. I am ashamed of molesting you."
 "I obscenity in the milk of my shame," Pilar said in her deep lovely voice. "And if the Maria kisses thee again I will commence kissing thee myself. It's years since I've kissed a bullfighter, even an unsuccessful one like thee, I would like to kiss an unsuccessful bullfighter turned Communist. Hold him, _Ingl廥_, till I get a good kiss at him."
 "_Deja_," the boy said and turned away sharply. "Leave me alone. I am all right and I am ashamed."
 He stood there, getting his face under control. Maria put her hand in Robert Jordan's. Pilar stood with her hands on her hips looking at the boy mockingly now.
 "When I kiss thee," she said to him, "it will not be as any sister. This trick of kissing as a sister."
 "It is not necessary to joke," the boy said. "I told you I am all right, I am sorry that I spoke."
 "Well then let us go and see the old man," Pilar said. "I tire myself with such emotion."
 The boy looked at her. From his eyes you could see he was suddenly very hurt.
 "Not thy emotion," Pilar said to him. "Mine. What a tender thing thou art for a bullfighter."
 "I was a failure," Joaqu璯 said. "You don't have to keep insisting on it."
 "But you are growing the pigtail another time."
 "Yes, and why not? Fighting stock serves best for that purpose economically. It gives employment to many and the State will control it. And perhaps now I would not be afraid."
 "Perhaps not," Pilar said. "Perhaps not."
 "Why do you speak in such a brutal manner, Pilar?" Maria said to her. "I love thee very much but thou art acting very barbarous."
 "It is possible that I am barbarous," Pilar said. "Listen, _Ingl廥_. Do you know what you are going to say to El Sordo?"
 "Yes."
 "Because he is a man of few words unlike me and thee and this sentimental menagerie."
 "Why do you talk thus?" Maria asked again, angrily.
 "I don't know," said Pilar as she strode along. "Why do you think?"
 "I do not know."
 "At times many things tire me," Pilar said angrily. "You understand? And one of them is to have forty-eight years. You hear me? Forty-eight years and an ugly face. And another is to see panic in the face of a failed bullfighter of Communist tendencies when I say, as a joke, I might kiss him."
 "It's not true, Pilar," the boy said. "You did not see that."
 "_Qu?va_, it's not true. And I obscenity in the milk of all of you. Ah, there he is. _Hola_, Santiago! _Qu?tal?_"
 The man to whom Pilar spoke was short and heavy, brownfaced, with broad cheekbones; gray haired, with wide-set yellowbrown eyes, a thin-bridged, hooked nose like an Indian's, a long Upper lip and a wide, thin mouth. He was clean shaven and he walked toward them from the mouth of the cave, moving with the bow-legged walk that went with his cattle herdsman's breeches and boots. The day was warm but he had on a sheep's-wool-lined short leather jacket buttoned up to the neck. He put out a big brown hand toPilar. "_Hola_, woman," he said. "_Hola_," he said to Robert Jordan and shook his hand and looked him keenly in the face. Robert Jordan saw his eyes were yellow as a cat's and flat as reptile's eyes are. "_Guapa_," he said to Maria and patted her shoulder.
 "Eaten?" he asked Pilar. She shook her head.
 "Eat," he said and looked at Robert Jordan. "Drink?" he asked, making a motion with his hand decanting his thumb downward.
 "Yes, thanks."
 "Good," El Sordo said. "Whiskey?"
 "You have whiskey?"
 El Sordo nodded. "_Ingl廥?_" he asked. "Not _Ruso?_"
 "_Americano_."
 "Few Americans here," he said.
 "Now more."
 "Less bad. North or South?"
 "North."
 "Same as _Ingl廥_. When blow bridge?"
 "You know about the bridge?"
 El Sordo nodded.
 "Day after tomorrow morning."
 "Good," said El Sordo.
 "Pablo?" he asked Pilar.
 She shook her head. El Sordo grinned.
 "Go away," he said to Maria and grinned again. "Come back," he looked at a large watch he pulled out on a leather thong from inside his coat. "Half an hour."
 He motioned to them to sit down on a flattened log that served as a bench and looking at Joaqu璯, jerked his thumb down the trail in the direction they had come from.
 "I'll walk down with Joaqu璯 and come back," Maria said.
 El Sordo went into the cave and came out with a pinch bottle of Scotch whiskey and three glasses. The bottle was under one arm, and three glasses were in the hand of that arm, a finger in each glass, and his other hand was around the neck of an earthenware jar of water. He put the glasses and the bottle down on the log and set the jug on the ground.
 "No ice," he said to Robert Jordan and handed him the bottle.
 "I don't want any," Pilar said and covered her glass with her hand.
 "Ice last night on ground," El Sordo said and grinned. "All melt. Ice up there," El Sordo said and pointed to the snow that showed on the bare crest of the mountains. "Too far."
 Robert Jordan started to pour into El Sordo's glass but the deaf man shook his head and made a motion for the other to pour for himself.
 Robert Jordan poured a big drink of Scotch into the glass and El Sordo watched him eagerly and when he had finished, handed him the water jug and Robert Jordan filled the glass with the cold water that ran in a stream from the earthenware spout as he tipped up the jug.
 El Sordo poured himself half a glassful of whiskey and filled the glass with water.
 "Wine?" he asked Pilar.
 "No. Water."
 "Take it," he said. "No good," he said to Robert Jordan and grinned. "Knew many English. Always much whiskey."
 "Where?"
 "Ranch," El Sordo said. "Friends of boss."
 "Where do you get the whiskey?"
 "What?" he could not hear.
 "You have to shout," Pilar said. "Into the other ear."
 El Sordo pointed to his better ear and grinned.
 "Where do you get the whiskey?" Robert Jordan shouted.
 "Make it," El Sordo said and watched Robert Jordan's hand check on its way to his mouth with the glass.
 "No," El Sordo said and patted his shoulder. "Joke. Comes from La Granja. Heard last night comes English dynamiter. Good. Very happy. Get whiskey. For you. You like?"
 "Very much," said Robert Jordan. "It's very good whiskey."
 "Am contented," Sordo grinned. "Was bringing tonight with information"
 "What information?"
 Much troop movement."
 Where?
 "Segovia. Planes you saw."
 "Yes."
 "Bad, eh?"
 "Bad."
 "Troop movement?"
 "Much between Villacast璯 and Segovia. On Valladolid road. Much between Villacast璯 and San Rafael. Much. Much."
 "What do you think?"
 "We prepare something?"
 "Possibly."
 "They know. Prepare too."
 "It is possible."
 "Why not blow bridge tonight?"
 "Orders."
  "Whose orders?"
 "General Staff."
 "So."
 "Is the time of the blowing important?" Pilar asked.
 "Of all importance."
 "But if they are moving up troops?"
 "I will send Anselmo with a report of all movement and concentrations. He is checking the road."
 "You have some one at road?" Sordo asked.
 Robert Jordan did not know how much he had heard. You never know with a deaf man.
 "Yes," he said.
 "Me, too. Why not blow bridge now?"
 "I have my orders."
 "I don't like it," El Sordo said. "This I do not like."
 "Nor I," said Robert Jordan.
 El Sordo shook his head and took a sip of the whiskey. "You want of me?"
 "How many men have you?"
 "Eight."
 "To cut the telephone, attack the post at the house of the roadmenders, take it, and fall back on the bridge."
 "It is easy."
 "It will all be written out."
 "Don't trouble. And Pablo?"
 "Will cut the telephone below, attack the post at the sawmill, take it and fall back on the bridge."
 "And afterwards for the retreat?" Pilar asked. "We are seven men, two women and five horses. You are," she shouted into Sordo's ear.
 "Eight men and four horses. _Faltan caballos_," he said. "Lacks horses."
 "Seventeen people and nine horses," Pilar said. "Without accounting for transport."
 Sordo said nothing.
 "There is no way of getting horses?" Robert Jordan said into Sordo's best ear.
 "In war a year," Sordo said. "Have four." He showed four fingers. "Now you want eight for tomorrow."
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan. "Knowing you are leaving. Having no need to be careful as you have been in this neighborhood. Not having to be cautious here now. You could not cut out and steal eight head of horses?"
 "Maybe," Sordo said. "Maybe none. Maybe more."
 "You have an automatic rifle?" Robert Jordan asked.
 Sordo nodded.
 "Where?"
 "Up the hill."
 "What kind?"
 "Don't know name. With pans."
 "How many rounds?"
 "Five pans."
 "Does any one know how to use it?"
 "Me. A little. Not shoot too much. Not want make noise here. Not want use cartridges."
 "I will look at it afterwards," Robert Jordan said. "Have you hand grenades?"
 Plenty.
 "How many rounds per rifle?"
 "Plenty."
 "How many?"
 "One hundred fifty. More maybe."
 "What about other people?"
 "For what?"
 "To have sufficient force to take the posts and cover the bridge While I am blowing it. We should have double what we have."
 "Take posts don't worry. What time day?"
 "Daylight."
 "Don't worry."
 "I could use twenty more men, to be sure," Robert Jordan said.
 "Good ones do not exist. You want undependables?"
 "No. How many good ones?"
 "Maybe four."
 "Why so few?"
 "No trust."
 "For horseholders?"
 "Must trust much to be horseholders."
 "I'd like ten more good men if I could get them."
 "Four."
 "Anselmo told me there were over a hundred here in these hills."
 "No good."
 "You said thirty," Robert Jordan said to Pilar. "Thirty of a certain degree of dependability."
 "What about the people of Elias?" Pilar shouted to Sordo. He shook his head.
 "No good."
 "You can't get ten?" Robert Jordan asked. Sordo looked at him with his flat, yellow eyes and shook his head.
 "Four," he said and held up four fingers.
 "Yours are good?" Robert Jordan asked, regretting it as he said it.
 Sordo nodded.
 "_Dentro de la gravedad_," he said in Spanish. "Within the limits of the danger." He grinned. "Will be bad, eh?"
 "Possibly."
 "Is the same to me," Sordo said simply and not boasting. "Better four good than much bad. In this war always much bad, very little good. Every day fewer good. And Pablo?" he looked at Pilar.
 "As you know," Pilar said. "Worse every day."
 Sordo shrugged his shoulders.
 "Take drink," Sordo said to Robert Jordan. "I bring mine and four more. Makes twelve. Tonight we discuss all. I have sixty sticks dynamite. You want?"
 "What per cent?"
 "Don't know. Common dynamite. I bring."
 "We'll blow the small bridge above with that," Robert Jordan said. "That is fine. You'll come down tonight? Bring that, will you? I've no orders for that but it should be blown."
 "I come tonight. Then hunt horses."
 "What chance for horses?"
 "Maybe. Now eat."
 Does he talk that way to every one? Robert Jordan thought. Or is that his idea of how to make foreigners understand?
 "And where are we going to go when this is done?" Pilar shouted into Sordo's ear.
 He shrugged his shoulders.
 "All that must be arranged," the woman said.
 "Of course," said Sordo. "Why not?"
 "It is bad enough," Pilar said. "It must be planned very well."
 "Yes, woman," Sordo said. "What has thee worried?"
 "Everything," Pilar shouted.
 Sordo grinned at her.
 "You've been going about with Pablo," he said.
 So he does only speak that pidgin Spanish for foreigners, Robert Jordan thought. Good. I'm glad to hear him talking straight.
 "Where do you think we should go?" Pilar asked.
 "Where?"
 "Yes, where?"
 "There are many places," Sordo said. "Many places. You know Gredos?"
 "There are many people there. All these places will be cleaned up as soon as they have time."
 "Yes. But it is a big country and very wild."
 "It would be very difficult to get there," Pilar said.
 "Everything is difficult," El Sordo said. "We can get to Gredos as well as to anywhere else. Travelling at night. Here it is very dangerous now. It is a miracle we have been here this long. Gredos is safer country than this."
 "Do you know where I want to go?" Pilar asked him.
 "Where? The Paramera? That's no good."
 "No," Pilar said. "Not the Sierra de Paramera. I want to go to the Republic."
 "That is possible."
 "Would your people go?"
 "Yes. If I say to."
 "Of mine, I do not know," Pilar said. "Pablo would not want to although, truly, he might feel safer there. He is too old to have to go for a soldier unless they call more classes. The gypsy will not wish to go. I do not know about the others."
 "Because nothing passes her for so long they do not realize the danger," El Sordo said.
 "Since the planes today they will see it more," Robert Jordan said. "But I should think you could operate very well from the Gredos."
 "What?" El Sordo said and looked at him with his eyes very flat. There was no friendliness in the way he asked the question.
 "You could raid more effectively from there," Robert Jordan said.
 "So," El Sordo said. "You know Gredos?"
 "Yes. You could operate against the main line of the railway from there. You could keep cutting it as we are doing farther south in Estremadura. To operate from there would be better than returning to the Republic," Robert Jordan said. "You are more useful there."
 They had both gotten sullen as he talked.
 Sordo looked at Pilar and she looked back at him.
 "You know Gredos?" Sordo asked. "Truly?"
 "Sure," said Robert Jordan.
 "Where would you go?"
 "Above Barco de Avila. Better places than here. Raid against the main road and the railroad between B嶴ar and Plasencia."
 "Very difficult," Sordo said.
 "We have worked against that same railroad in much more dangerous country in Estremadura," Robert Jordan said.
 "Who is we?"
 "The _guerrilleros_ group of Estremadura."
 "You are many?"
 "About forty."
 "Was the one with the bad nerves and the strange name from there?" asked Pilar.
 "Yes."
 "Where is he now?"
 "Dead, as I told you."
 "You are from there, too?"
 "Yes."
 "You see what I mean?" Pilar said to him.
 And I have made a mistake, Robert Jordan thought to himself. I have told Spaniards we can do something better than they can when the rule is never to speak of your own exploits or abilities. When I should have flattered them I have told them what I think they should do and now they are furious. Well, they will either get over it or they will not. They are certainly much more useful in the Gredos than here. The proof is that here they have done nothing since the train that Kashkin organized. It was not much of a show. It cost the fascists one engine and killed a few troops but they all talk as though it were the high point of the war. Maybe they will shame into going to the Gredos. Yes and maybe I will get thrown out of here too. Well, it is not a very rosy-looking dish anyway that you look into it.
 "Listen _Ingl廥_," Pilar said to him. "How are your nerves?"
 "All right," said Robert Jordan. "O.K."
 "Because the last dynamiter they sent to work with us, although a formidable technician, was very nervous."
 "We have nervous ones," Robert Jordan said.
 "I do not say that he was a coward because he comported himself very well," Pilar went on. "But he spoke in a very rare and windy way." She raised her voice. "Isn't it true, Santiago, that the last dynamiter, he of the train, was a little rare?"
 "_Algo raro_," the deaf man nodded and his eyes went over Robert Jordan's face in a way that reminded him of the round opening at the end of the wand of a vacuum cleaner. "_Si, algo raro, pero bueno_."
 "_Muri醭," Robert Jordan said into the deaf man's ear. "He is dead."
 "How was that?" the deaf man asked, dropping his eyes down from Robert Jordan's eyes to his lips.
 "I shot him," Robert Jordan said. "He was too badly wounded to travel and I shot him."
 "He was always talking of such a necessity," Pilar said. "It was his obsession."
 "Yes," said Robert Jordan. "He was always talking of such a necessity and it was his obsession."
 "_Como fu?_" the deaf man asked. "Was it a train?"
 "It was returning from a train," Robert Jordan said. "The train was successful. Returning in the dark we encountered a fascist patrol and as we ran he was shot high in the back but without hitting any bone except the shoulder blade. He travelled quite a long way, but with the wound was unable to travel more. He was unwilling to be left behind and I shot him."
 "_Menos mal_," said El Sordo. "Less bad."
 "Are you sure your nerves are all right?" Pilar said to Robert Jordan.
 "Yes," he told her. "I am sure that my nerves are all right and I think that when we terminate this of the bridge you would do well to go to the Gredos."
 As he said that, the woman started to curse in a flood of obscene invective that rolled over and around him like the hot white water splashing down from the sudden eruption of a geyser.
 The deaf man shook his head at Robert Jordan and grinned in delight. He continued to shake his head happily as Pilar went on vilifying and Robert Jordan knew that it was all right again now. Finally she stopped cursing, reached for the water jug, tipped it up and took a drink and said, calmly, "Then just shut up about what we are to do afterwards, will you, _Ingl廥?_ You go back to the Republic and you take your piece with you and leave us others alone here to decide what part of these hills we'll die in."
 "Live in," El Sordo said. "Calm thyself, Pilar."
 "Live in and die in," Pilar said. "I can see the end of it well enough. I like thee, _Ingl廥_, but keep thy mouth off of what we must do when thy business is finished."
 "It is thy business," Robert Jordan said. "I do not put my hand in it."
 "But you did," Pilar said. "Take thy little cropped-headed whore and go back to the Republic but do not shut the door on others who are not foreigners and who loved the Republic when thou wert wiping thy mother's milk off thy chin."
 Maria had come up the trail while they were talking and she heard this last sentence which Pilar, raising her voice again, shouted at Robert Jordan. Maria shook her head at Robert Jordan violently and shook her finger warningly. Pilar saw Robert Jordan looking at the girl and saw him smile and she turned and said, "Yes. I said whore and I mean it. And I suppose that you'll go to Valencia together and we can eat goat crut in Gredos."
 "I'm a whore if thee wishes, Pilar," Maria said. "I suppose I am in all case if you say so. But calm thyself. What passes with thee?"
 "Nothing," Pilar said and sat down on the bench, her voice calm now and all the metallic rage gone out of it. "I do not call thee that. But I have such a desire to go to the Republic."
 "We can all go," Maria said.
 "Why not?" Robert Jordan said. "Since thou seemest not to love the Gredos."
 Sordo grinned at him.
 "We'll see," Pilar said, her rage gone now. "Give me a glass of that rare drink. I have worn my throat out with anger. We'll see. We'll see what happens."
 "You see, Comrade," El Sordo explained. "It is the morning that is difficult." He was not talking the pidgin Spanish now and he was looking into Robert Jordan's eyes calmly and explainingly; not searchingly nor suspiciously, nor with the flat superiority of the old campaigner that had been in them before. "I understand your needs and I know the posts must be exterminated and the bridge covered while you do your work. This I understand perfectly. This is easy to do before daylight or at daylight."
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "Run along a minute, will you?" he said to Maria without looking at her.
 The girl walked away out of hearing and sat down, her hands clasped over her ankles.
 "You see," Sordo said. "In that there is no problem. But to leave afterward and get out of this country in daylight presents a grave problem"
 "Clearly," said Robert Jordan. "I have thought of it. It is daylight for me also."
 "But you are one," El Sordo said. "We are various."
 "There is the possibility of returning to the camps and leaving from there at dark," Pilar said, putting the glass to her lips and then lowering it.
 "That is very dangerous, too," El Sordo explained. "That is perhaps even more dangerous."
 "I can see how it would be," Robert Jordan said.
 "To do the bridge in the night would be easy," El Sordo said. "Since you make the condition that it must be done at daylight, it brings grave consequences."
 "I know it."
 "You could not do it at night?"
 "I would be shot for it."
 "It is very possible we will all be shot for it if you do it in the daytime."
 "For me myself that is less important once the bridge is blown," Robert Jordan said. "But I see your viewpoint. You cannot work Out a retreat for daylight?"
 "Certainly," El Sordo said. "We will work out such a retreat. But I explain to you why one is preoccupied and why one is irritated. You speak of going to Gredos as though it were a military manceuvre to be accomplished. To arrive at Gredos would be a miracle."
 Robert Jordan said nothing.
 "Listen to me," the deaf man said. "I am speaking much. But it is so we may understand one another. We exist here by a miracle. By a mixacle of laziness and stupidity of the fascists which they will remedy in time. Of course we are very careful and we make no disturbance in these hills."
 "I know."
 "But now, with this, we must go. We must think much about the manner of our going."
 "Clearly."
 "Then," said El Sordo. "Let us eat now. I have talked much."
 "Never have I heard thee talk so much," Pilar said. "Is it this?" she held up the glass.
 "No," El Sordo shook his head. "It isn't whiskey. It is that never have I had so much to talk of."
 "I appreciate your aid and your loyalty," Robert Jordan said. "I appreciate the difficulty caused by the timing of the blowing of the bridge."
 "Don't talk of that," El Sordo said. "We are here to do what we can do. But this is complicated."
 "And on paper very simple," Robert Jordan grinned. "On paper the bridge is blown at the moment the attack starts in order that nothing shall come up the road. It is very simple."
 "That they should let us do something on paper," El Sordo said. "That we should conceive and execute something on paper."
 "Paper bleeds little," Robert Jordan quoted the proverb.
 "But it is very useful," Pilar said. "_Es muy util_. What I would like to do is use thy orders for that purpose."
 "Me too," said Robert Jordan. "But you could never win a war like that."
 "No," the big woman said. "I suppose not. But do you know what I would like?"
 "To go to the Republic," El Sordo said. He had put his good ear close to her as she spoke. "_Ya ir嫳, mujer_. Let us win this and it will all be Republic."
 "All right," Pilar said. "And now, for God's sake let us eat."
　　他们从髙山坡上的草地笔直朝下走进树木葱茏的山谷，再爬上一条和小溪平行的山路，随即在松树的浓荫里弃路登上一个陡峭的圓山顶,这时，只见一个手握卡宾枪的男人从一棵树后闪出来。
　　“站住，”他说，接着说，“是你，比拉尔。跟你一起的是谁?”
　　“一个英国人。”比拉尔说。“不过倒有个天主教的教名一罗伯托。到这里的路真他妈的徒。”
　　“你好吗，同志。”哨兵对罗伯特　乔丹说，伸出手来　。
　　“好。”罗伯特’乔丹说。“你呢？〃
　　“也好，”那哨兵说。这个人很年轻，身材又小又瘦，长着很髙的鹰钩鼻，高顴骨，灰眼睛。他没戴帽子，头发粗浓漆黑，握手有力而友好。他的眼神也是友好的。
　　“喂，玛丽亚，”他对那姑娘说。“你没有累坏吗？”“什么话，华金！”姑娘说。“我们坐着聊天的时间比走路的时间长，“
　　“你就是爆玻手吗？”华金问。“我们听说你来这里了？“我们在巴勃罗那儿过的夜，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“对，我就是爆破手。”
　　”“很高兴见到侔，”华金说。“准备炸火车吗？”。”“上次炸火车你在吗？”罗伯特-乔丹微笑着问。“怎么不在　”华金说。“我们就是在那里把她收下的，”他对玛丽亚露齿笑笑。“你琛在长得漂亮了。”他对玛丽亚谗，〃人家对你说过，你有多漂亮吗?”
　　“算了，华金，谢谢你，”玛丽亚说。“你剃了头也满漂亮的。”“是我背你的，”华金对姑娘说。“我把你背在肩上，““好多人都背过。”比拉尔用低沉的声音说。“哪个没背过她?老头子在哪儿?”“在营地。”“昨晚他在哪里?”“在塞哥维亚。”“他带来了消息吗,“带来了，”华金说。“有消息。”“好的还是坏的?”“我看是坏的，““你看到飞机没有?”
　　“唉，”华金摇摇头说。“甭提啦。爆玻手同志，那些是什么飞机?”
　　“海因克尔111型轰炸机。海因克尔和菲亚特驱逐机，”罗伯特’乔丹对他说。
　　“那些低机翼的大飞机是什么飞机?”“海因克尔111型。”
　　“管它叫什么名字，反正一样糟，”华金说　“我在耽搁你们的时间了，我带你们到司令那儿去。”“司令？”比拉尔问。
　　华金一本正经地点点头，“我喜欢叫司令，不喜欢叫‘头目、”他说。“叫司令更富有部队的气派。”“你越来越军事化了，，比拉尔取笑他说,“不，”华金说。“不过我喜欢军事术语，可以使命令更明确，纪律更严明。”
　　“这里有个配你胃口的小伙子,英国人，”比拉尔说。“很认真的小伙子，“
　　“我背你好吗？”华金问姑娘，并把手放在她肩上，冲着她徽
笑。
　　“背过一次就够啦，”玛丽亚对他说。“不过还是谢谢你。”；“你记得当时的情景吗？”华金问她。“我记得有人背我。”玛丽亚说。“你背我，记不得了。我记得那吉普赛人，因为他好几次把我扔下了。可是我要谢谢你,华金，以后有机会我来背你。”
　　“我还记得很清楚。”华金说。“我记得，抓住了你两条腿，你肚子贴在我肩上，你的头和两条手臂垂在我背后。”
　　“你的记性不错。”玛丽亚对他笑着说。“我一点也记不得了。你的手臂啦，肩膀啦，背啦，我全记不得了。”“你想知道一件事吗？”华金问她。“什么事?” ，
　　“我髙兴的是，当时子弹是从我们背后打来的，你的身体正好挡住了我的背。”
　　“你这个畜生。”玛丽亚说。“吉普赛人背了我好久，难道也是这个原因？”
　　“也是这个原因,并且还因为可以抱住你的大腿。”〃这就是我的英雄们”玛丽亚说,“我的救命恩人““听着，漂亮的姑娘，”比拉尔对她说。“这小伙子背了你好长时间，在那个关头,对你的大腿谁都不会动心。那时候只听到嘘嘘的子弹声。要是把你扔下，他早就能跑出子弹的射程了，““我谢过他了。”玛丽亚说，“我以后一定也背背他。让我们说说笑诘吧。我总不应该为了他背过我而哭吧,是不是?”
　　“我原想把你扔下的，”华金继续逗她。“可是我怕比拉尔枪爽我。”
　　“我没枪毙过人，”比拉尔说。
　　“没有枪毙的必要。”华金对她说。“你一开口就能把人吓死。”
　　“油嘴滑舌，”比拉尔对他说。“你以前一直是个懂规矩的小伙子。革命前你干什么，孩子。“
　　“不干什么。”华金说。“我那时只有十六岁，“
　　“究竟干些什么。”
　　“时不时摆弄摆弄几双皮鞋
　　“做皮鞋吗？”
　　“不。擦皮鞋。“
　　“什么话，”比拉尔说。“不止是擦皮鞋吧,她望着他那棕色的脸,矫健的身材，蓬乱的头发和那敏捷的步伐。“你干吗不干了?”
　　“不干什么？”
　　“什么？你自己知道什么。你现在已经在留头发好扎斗牛士的小辫啦。”
　　“我看是害怕的缘故，”小伙子说。“你身材不错。”比拉尔对他说。“只是相貌平常一些。那么是由于害怕,是吗？炸火车的时候，你干得不坏嘛。”
　　“我现在不怕牛了。”那小伙子说。“随便哪一头都不怕了。比牛凶得多、危险得多的东西，我们都见过了。当然，嗛头牛都比不上机关枪危险。不过,要是现在上斗牛场去斗牛,我不知道两条腿还打不打哆嗦。”
　　“他原想当斗牛士，”比拉尔对罗伯特　乔丹讲。“不过他害
怕。”
　　‘“你喜欢看斗牛吗，爆玻手同志?”华金笑着，露出了洁白的牙齿。
　　“非常喜欢，”罗伯特’乔丹说。“非常、非常喜欢。”
　　“你在瓦利阿多里德看过斗牛吗？”华金问。
　　“看过。在九月份的节期内。”
　　“那是我家乡，”华金说。“我的家乡多好呀，可是城里那些善良的乡亲在这次战争中吃了多少苦啊。”他的脸色变得严肃了，“他们在那里枪杀了我爹，我妈，我姐夫，后来又杀了我姐姐。”
　　“杀人不眨眼的畜生，”罗伯特，乔丹说。这种话他听过多少次啦？他多少次看到人们难受地说着这种话？他多少次见到人们满眶泪水、哽着喉咙、难受地讲到“我爹，我兄弟，我妈，或者我姐妹、听人们这样讲到死去的亲人，他记不得有多少次了。人们讲的几乎总和现在这个小伙子讲的一样；一提起家乡，就一下子讲开了，而你呢，总是这么一句话　“杀人不眨眼的畜生。”你只不过听人们提起家人丧亡罢了。你没看到他们的父亲死去，不象比拉尔在小溪边向他描述法西斯分子死去的情衆那样生动，就象亲眼看见似的。你知道那父亲死在某个院子里，某堵墙脚下,某片地里或果园里，或者晚上死在某条公路边的卡车灯光下。你从山里望见那卡车的灯光，听见了枪声,后来你来到公路上，发现了？“体。你没见到那母亲、姐妹或兄弟被枪杀。你听说过;你听到过枪声；你见过？“体。比拉尔使他看到了那镇上杀人的情景，要是这女人能写作就好了。他要把这些事写出来，假如他运气好，能记住，他也许能照她讲的写出来。天哪，她真会讲故事。他想，她比大诗人克维多还出色哪。克维多从没象她那样生动地描写过堂，福斯蒂诺之死。他想，但愿我能写得好,把那个故事写出来。把我们的所作所为写出来。不是写人家对我们干的事。那方面他很了解。战线后方的这一类情况,他知道得很多。但是你必须先了解这些人。你必须了解他们原来在村里是干什么的。他想，由于我们的流动性，由于我们事后不必留下来进到报复，我们不知道事后到底怎么样。你跟一个农民和他家人待在—起。你夜里来了，跟他们一起吃饭。白天，你躲起来，第二天夜里你就走了。你完成了任务一走了事。下一次你又照老样子来了，听说这些人已被枪杀了。事情就是这么简单。
　　他们被枪杀时，你总是不在场。游击队摘了破坏，撤退了。农民留下来遭到报复。我老是只了解一个方面,他想。了解开头时我们怎样对待他们。我老是了解到了，感到惽恨，我听到人们厚颜无耻而使人害臊地提到它，夸夸其谈，强词夺理，辩解，否认。可是这该死的女人使我看到啦,就象我当时也在场一样。
　　唉，他想，这是一个人的教育的一部分啊。经历了战争，真能长不少见识。要是你注意倾听，在这场战争中能学到不少东西。你肯定能学到。幸亏战前十年他断渐续续在西班牙待过不少日子。主要是由于你会讲西班牙话，他们就信赖你。你完全掌握这种语言,讲得满地道，又了解不同地方的情形，他们就信赖你。说到头，西班牙人只真正忠于自己的家乡。当然，首先是西班牙,然后是他的种族，他的省份，他的村镇，他的家庭，最后是他的行业。如果你会西班牙话,他就偏爱你,如果你了解他的省份,那就更好，不过，如果你了解他的村镇和行业，你这个外国铯就和他们打成一片，“。他在西班牙从来不觉得自己象个外国人，他们实际上在大多数情况下也不把他当外国人看待；除了在他们反对你的时候。
　　他们当然会反对你。他们常常反对你，但是他们也反对别人。他们连自己都反对。如果有三个人在一起，两个人会联合起来反对第三个人，然后这两个人开始相互拆台。不总是这样，但这种情况经常发生，使你可以举出很多的例子，足以由此得出这个结论。
　　可不该这样想啊；但指责他这种想法的是谁呢？谁也没有，只有他自己。他不能老往失败方面想。首要的事是打赢这场战争。我们如果打不蠃这场战争，一切都完了。但是他注意观察、留心倾听，并记住一切。他在一场战争中脲役，在这服役期间，他绝对忠诚并且尽可能好地完成任务。可是谁也占有不了他的心灵，或者他的观察和听取的能力，如果他打算作出判断，那是将来的事。作出判断所根据的材料是不会少的。己经有了许多啦。有时侯，未免多了一点。
　　瞧这个叫比拉尔的女人吧,他想。不管以后发生什么事佾,只要有时间，我一定要叫她讲完那个故事。瞧她在那两个年青人旁边走路的样子。你再也找不到比他们三人更好看的西班牙儿女了。她象座山，这青年和姑娘象两棵小树。老树全被砍倒了，小树在苗壮成长。尽管这对年青人遭到过厄运，他们还是显得那么清新、干净、纯洁、完整，仿佛从来也没听到过灾难这种事情似的，可是,听比拉尔的口气,玛丽亚才开始康复。她当初一定情况很糟糕。
　　他记得十一旅有个比利时小伙于，是和村里另外五个青年
一起入伍的。村里人口大约有两百人，这小伙子以前从投离开过家乡。当罗伯特‘乔丹第一次在汉斯旅①旅部看到他的时候,同村另外五个人全都牺牲了，那小伙子失魂落魄的,他们让他当勤务兵，在旅部伺候开饭。他长着一张白里透红的佛兰芒人②的大脸，和一双农民的粗大的手，他堠着盘碟走动的样子就象拖车的马儿那样地使劲而笨拙。可晕他哭个没完。吃饭时他不出声地一直在哭。
　　你抬头就看到他在哭。你要酒，他哭；你递过盘子要炖肉，他扭过脑袋哭。他也会停住,但要是你抬头朝他一望，他眼泪就又涌出来了。上莱间歇时间，他在厨房里哭。大家都根体谅他。但这没用。他要弄明白自已会怎么样，能不能从打击中恢复过来,是不是再适于当兵打仗。
　　玛丽亚现在相当健全。至少她外表看来是这样，可是他不是精神病专家。比拉尔才是精神病专家。昨晚一起过夜对他俩也许是好的。是啊,除非就到此结束了。这对他当然是好的。他今天觉得舒畅、身体健康、无忧无虑、精神愉快。这件事开头显得很糟糕，不过他的运气也眵好的。他以前也遇到过表现很糟糕的事情。表现很轜糕，那是用西班牙语思考的说法。玛丽亚是可爱的。
瞧她,他对自己说。瞧瞧她。‘
　　他瞧着她在阳光下愉快地迈着大步，她的卡其衬衫敞着领子。她走路的样子象匹瑚镅眺跳的小马，他想。这种事情是不容易碰到的。这种事情不会发生。也许根本没有发生过，他想。也许你这是在做梦,或者在异想天开,但是它根本没有发生过。也许正象你过去那些梦中的情景。”你在电影里看到的女人夜里来到你的床上，那么亲切，那么可爱。当他在床上熟睡的时候,他
Chapter 12
 They left El Sordo's after eating and started down the trail. El Sordo had walked with them as far as the lower post.
 "_Salud_," he said. "Until tonight."
 "_Salud, Camarada_," Robert Jordan had said to him and the three of them had gone on down the trail, the deaf man standing looking after them. Maria had turned and waved her hand at him and El Sordo waved disparagingly with the abrupt, Spanish upward flick of the forearm as though something were being tossed away which seems the negation of all salutation which has not to do with business. Through the meal he had never unbuttoned his sheepskin coat and he had been carefully polite, careful to turn his head to hear and had returned to speaking his broken Spanish, asking Robert Jordan about conditions in the Republic politely; but it was obvious he wanted to be rid of them.
 As they had left him, Pilar had said to him, "Well, Santiago?"
 "Well, nothing, woman," the deaf man said. "It is all right. But I am thinking."
 "Me, too," Pilar had said and now as they walked down the trail, the walking easy and pleasant down the steep trail through the pines that they had toiled up, Pilar said nothing. Neither Robert Jordan nor Maria spoke and the three of them travelled along fast until the trail rose steeply out of the wooded valley to come up through the timber, leave it, and come out into the high meadow.
 It was hot in the late May afternoon and halfway up this last steep grade the woman stopped. Robert Jordan, stopping and looking back, saw the sweat beading on her forehead. He thought her brown face looked pallid and the skin sallow and that there were dark areas under her eyes.
 "Let us rest a minute," he said. "We go too fast."
 "No," she said. "Let us go on."
 "Rest, Pilar," Maria said. "You look badly."
 "Shut up," the woman said. "Nobody asked for thy advice."
 She started on up the trail but at the top she was breathing heavily and her face was wet with perspiration and there was no doubt about her pallor now.
 "Sit down, Pilar," Maria said. "Please, please sit down."
 "All right," said Pilar and the three of them sat down under a pine tree and looked across the mountain meadow to where the tops of the peaks seemed to jut out from the roll of the high country with snow shining bright on them now in the early afternoon sun.
 "What rotten stuff is the snow and how beautiful it looks," Pilar said. "What an illusion is the snow." She turned to Maria. "I am sorry I was rude to thee, _guapa_. I don't know what has held me today. I have an evil temper."
 "I never mind what you say when you are angry," Maria told her. "And you are angry often."
 "Nay, it is worse than anger," Pilar said, looking across at the peaks.
 "Thou art not well," Maria said.
 "Neither is it that," the woman said. "Come here, guapa, and put thy head in my lap."
 Maria moved close to her, put her arms out and folded them as One does who goes to sleep without a pillow and lay with her head on her arms. She turned her face up at Pilar and smiled at her but the big woman looked on across the meadow at the mountains. She stroked the girl's head without looking down at her and ran a blunt finger across the girl's forehead and then around the line of her ear and down the line where the hair grew on her neck.
 "You can have her in a little while, _Ingl廥_," she said. Robert Jordan was sitting behind her.
 "Do not talk like that," Maria said.
 "Yes, he can have thee," Pilar said and looked at neither of them. "I have never wanted thee. But I am jealous."
 "Pilar," Maria said. "Do not talk thus."
 "He can have thee," Pilar said and ran her finger around the lobe of the girl's ear. "But I am very jealous."
 "But Pilar," Maria said. "It was thee explained to me there was nothing like that between us."
 "There is always something like that," the woman said. "There is always something like something that there should not be. But with me there is not. Truly there is not. I want thy happiness and nothing more."
 Maria said nothing but lay there, trying to make her head rest lightly.
 "Listen, _guapa_," said Pilar and ran her finger now absently but tracingly over the contours of her cheeks. "Listen, _guapa_, I love thee and he can have thee, I am no _tortillera_ but a woman made for men. That is true. But now it gives me pleasure to say thus, in the daytime, that I care for thee."
 "I love thee, too."
 "_Qu?va_. Do not talk nonsense. Thou dost not know even of what I speak."
 "I know."
 "_Qu?va_, that you know. You are for the _Ingl廥_. That is seen and as it should be. That I would have. Anything else I would not have. I do not make perversions. I only tell you something true. Few people will ever talk to thee truly and no women. I am jealous and say it and it is there. And I say it."
 "Do not say it," Maria said. "Do not say it, Pilar."
 "_Por qu嶱, do not say it," the woman said, still not looking at either of them. "I will say it until it no longer pleases me to say it. And," she looked down at the girl now, "that time has come already. I do not say it more, you understand?"
 "Pilar," Maria said. "Do not talk thus."
 "Thou art a very pleasant little rabbit," Pilar said. "And lift thy head now because this silliness is over."
 "It was not silly," said Maria. "And my head is well where it is."
 "Nay. Lift it," Pilar told her and put her big hands under the girl's head and raised it. "And thou, _Ingl廥?_" she said, still holding the girl's head as she looked across at the mountains. "What cat has eaten thy tongue?"
 "No cat," Robert Jordan said.
 "What animal then?" She laid the girl's head down on the ground.
 "No animal," Robert Jordan told her.
 "You swallowed it yourself, eh?"
 "I guess so," Robert Jordan said.
 "And did you like the taste?" Pilar turned now and grinned at him.
 "Not much."
 "I thought not," Pilar said. "I _thought_ not. But I give you back our rabbit. Nor ever did I try to take your rabbit. That's a good name for her. I heard you call her that this morning."
 Robert Jordan felt his face redden.
 "You are a very hard woman," he told her.
 "No," Pilar said. "But so simple I am very complicated. Are you very complicated, _Ingl廥?_"
 "No. Nor not so simple."
 "You please me, _Ingl廥_," Pilar said. Then she smiled and leaned forward and smiled and shook her head. "Now if I could take the rabbit from thee and take thee from the rabbit."
 "You could not."
 "I know it," Pilar said and smiled again. "Nor would I wish to. But when I was young I could have."
 "I believe it."
 "You believe it?"
 "Surely," Robert Jordan said. "But such talk is nonsense."
 "It is not like thee," Maria said.
 "I am not much like myself today," Pilar said. "Very little like myself. Thy bridge has given me a headache, _Ingl廥_."
 "We can tell it the Headache Bridge," Robert Jordan said. "But I will drop it in that gorge like a broken bird cage."
 "Good," said Pilar. "Keep on talking like that."
 "I'll drop it as you break a banana from which you have removed the skin."
 "I could eat a banana now," said Pilar. "Go on, _Ingl廥_. Keep on talking largely."
 "There is no need," Robert Jordan said. "Let us get to camp."
 "Thy duty," Pilar said. "It will come quickly enough. I said that I would leave the two of you."
 "No. I have much to do."
 "That is much too and does not take long."
 "Shut thy mouth, Pilar," Maria said. "You speak grossly."
 "I am gross," Pilar said. "But I am also very delicate. _Soy muy delicada_. I will leave the two of you. And the talk of jealousness is nonsense. I was angry at Joaqu璯 because I saw from his look how ugly I am. I am only jealous that you are nineteen. It is not a jealousy which lasts. You will not be nineteen always. Now I go."
 She stood up and with a hand on one hip looked at Robert Jordan, who was also standing. Maria sat on the ground under the tree, her head dropped forward.
 "Let us all go to camp together," Robert Jordan said. "It is better and there is much to do."
 Pilar nodded with her head toward Maria, who sat there, her head turned away from them, saying nothing.
 Pilar smiled and shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly and said, "You know the way?"
 "I know it," Maria said, not raising her head.
 "_Pues me voy_," Pilar said. "Then I am going. We'll have something hearty for you to eat, _Ingl廥_."
 She started to walk off into the heather of the meadow toward the stream that led down through it toward the camp.
 "Wait," Robert Jordan called to her. "It is better that we should all go together."
 Maria sat there and said nothing.
 Pilar did not turn.
 "_Qu?va_, go together," she said. "I will see thee at the camp."
 Robert Jordan stood there.
 "Is she all right?" he asked Maria. "She looked ill before."
 "Let her go," Maria said, her head still down.
 "I think I should go with her."
 "Let her go," said Maria. "Let her go!"
　　他们饭后离开“聋子”的营地，开始顺着小路下山。“聋子”一直把他们送到半山的岗哨那儿。“祝你平安，”他说。“今晚见。”
　　“祝你平安，同志，”罗伯特‘乔丹对他说，他们三人就走下山去，“聋子”站着目送他们。玛丽亚转身向他挥挥手,“聋子”以西班牙人的方式，用前臂突然向上一挥，仿佛轻蔑地扔掉一样东西似的，根本不象在行礼,一点儿也不正经。他吃饭时一直没有解开他那件羊皮外套上的钮扣，他十分注意礼貌,注意转过头来听人说话，又用他那种蹩脚的西班牙语来回答，彬彬有礼地问罗伯特　乔丹关于共和国的情况;但是他显然很想摆脱他们。他们向他告别的时侯，比拉尔对他说,“怎么样，圣地亚哥,“噢，没什么，太太，”“聋子”说。“没问题。不过我正在考虑。”“我也在考虑，”比拉尔说。他们如今穿过松树林，顺着山路轻松愉快地往下走去。他们刚才就是从这条陡削的山路上费力地走来的。比拉尔这时一句话也不说。罗伯特　乔丹和玛丽亚也不开口，他们三人走得很快，穿过树木丛生的山谷后，山路又变得陡了,朝上穿过一个树林子，直通髙坡草地。
　　那是五月下旬一个炎热的下午，走到最后一段陡峭的山路的中途，那女人停下来了。罗伯特　乔丹停步回头一看,只见她前额上渗着一顆颗汗珠。他发现她棕揭色的脸上失去了血色，皮肤灰黄，眼睛下面有黑圈。
　　“咱们欧一会几吧。”他说。“咱们走得太快了。”“不，”她说。“继续走吧。”
　　“歇一会儿吧，比拉尔,玛丽亚说。“你的脸色不好。““别说了，”妇人说。“不用你插嘴。“她拔脚顺着山路向上爬，但是到了顶端，她大口喘着气，脸上全是汗,真是一副病容。
　　“坐下吧，比拉尔，”玛丽亚说。“求求你，求求你坐下吧。”“好吧，”比拉尔说，于是他们三人坐在一棵松树下，眺望着高坡草地对面那些轰立在层层山峦之上的高峰，那时刚到下午，峰顶积雷在阳光下闪烁着光芒。
　　“雪这东西真讨厌，可看起来多美呀。”比拉尔说。“雪呀，寘叫人看不透。”她转身对玛丽亚。“我刚才对你很粗鲁，对不起，漂亮的姑娘，我不知道今天是怎么搞的　我脾气很不好。“
　　“你生气时讲的话我从来不在意，”玛丽亚对她说。“再说，你常常生气。”
　　“不，比生气更糟，”比拉尔说，眺望着对面的山峰。“你身体不舒服。”玛丽亚说。
　　“也不是这么回事。”妇人说，“过来，漂亮的姑娘，把脑袋搁在我腿上。”
　　玛丽亚挨近她，伸出双臂，交迭起来，象人们不用枕头睡觉那样，就用双臂枕着脑袋躺下来。她把脸转过来，仰望着比拉尔，对她微笑，那个大个子女人可仍然凝望着草地对面的群山。她并不低头来看姑娘，只抚摸着姑娘的头,用一个粗大的手指从姑娘的前额上摸过去，然后沿着耳朵边向下一直摸到她脖子上的头发根　
　　“过一会儿，她就是你的了，英国人“她说。罗伯特，乔丹正坐在她背后。
　　“别这么说，”玛丽亚说，
　　“是呀，他可以占有你。”比拉尔说，对他们俩谁都不看。“我从来不想要你。不过我感到妒忌。”“比拉尔。”玛丽亚说。“别这么说。”“他可以占有你，”比拉尔说，指头沿着姑娘的耳垂边換着

　　“不过我非常妒忌。”
　　“可是比拉尔。”玛丽亚说,“你我之间不会有那种情形，这是你自已对我讲的。”
　　“那种情形总是有的，”妇人说。“那种情形照说不该有，伹终究难免会有的，不过，我倒没这种心情。真的没有。我要你幸福，只要你幸福。“
　　玛丽亚没说什么，只是躺在那里,尽量使自己的头轻轻地搁
在她腿上。
　　“听着，漂亮的姑娘，”比拉尔说，一边心不在焉地用指头抚摸着她的腮帮。“听着，漂亮的姑娘，我爱你，可是他才能占有你，‘我不是摘同性恋爱的，而只是个为男人而生的女人。这是真话。伹是，我现在大白天里把这种话说出来，说我爱你，我心里是舒畅的。”
　　“我也爱你。”
　　“什么话。别胡说八道。你根本不僅我是什么意思。”“我僮。”
　　”你懂什么，你是配英国人的。这“看就知道，也该这样。我就是希望这样，不这样，我就不髙兴。我不摘不正常的性行为。我只不过把真心话告诉你。对你说真心话的人不多，女人根本没有-我感到妒忌，说了出来,就是这么回事。我说了。”“别说出来，”玛丽亚说。“别说出来，比拉尔。”“为什么不说?”妇人说，还是不看他们俩。“我要说,直到不想说为止。还有，”这时，她低头望着姑娘。”好时光已经到啦。我不多说了，你懂吗?”
　　“比拉尔，”玛丽亚说。“别这么说。”“你是只挺讨人喜欢的小兔子，”比拉尔说。“现在你把头抬起来，因为鑾话已经说完啦。“
　　“不癱，”玛丽亚说。。再说,我的头搁在这里很好。”“不。抬起头来。”比拉尔对她说,把自己那双大手扰在姑娘豳后,把她的头拾起来。“你怎么不开口,英国人？”她说，仍然托着姑娘的头，　边眺望着对面的群山。“难道你的舌头给猫叼走啦。”
　　〃不是猫，”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“那么是什么野兽叼了？”她把姑娘的头放在地上。
　　“不是野兽，”罗伯特　乔丹对她说。
　　“那你自己吞掉了，呃?”
　　“我看是吧，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。
　　“那你觉得味儿好吗？”现在比拉尔转身对他露齿笑着。
　　“不太好。”
　　“我看也不好，”比拉尔说。“我，就是不好。不过我还是要把你的小兔子还给你。我从来也没‘要过你的小兔子。这个名字给她起得好。今天早晨我听到你叫她小兔子。”罗伯特”乔丹觉得自己的脸红了。“你这个女人很刻薄，”他对她说。
　　“不，”比拉尔说。“不过，我是又单纯又复杂。你这个人很复杂吗，英国人，“”
　　“不。不过也不是那么单纯，“
　　“你这个人叫我高兴，英国人“比拉尔说。随即她笑了-笑，身体向前倾，又笑着摇摇头。“要是我现在把兔子从你手里抢走，或者把你从兔子手里抢走,怎么办。”“你办不到。”
　　“这我知道。”比拉尔说着又笑了。“我也不想这样做。不过，我年青的时候办得到。”“这话我相信。”“你信我的话”
　　“当然，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“不过这是废话“这不象是你说的话，”玛丽亚说。
　　“今天我不大象我原来的样子，”比拉尔说　“简直一点儿不象我自己了。英国人，你的桥叫我头痛。”

　　“我们就叫它头痛桥吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“可是我要叫它象只破鸟笼似地掉在那峡谷里，”
　　“好，”比拉尔说。“说话该一直这样。”“我要象你折断一只剥了皮的香蕉似的把它一炸为二。”“我现在很想吃只香蕉，”比拉尔说。“说下去，英国人。尽管说大话吧。”
　　“不必啦，”罗伯特。乔丹说。“我们回营地去吧。”“你的任务。”比拉尔说，“就在眼前。我说过要让你们俩一起呆一会儿。”
　　“不。我有不少事要做。　“那也是事呀，花不了很长时间。”“闭上你的嘴，比拉尔，”玛丽亚说。“你说得太过分了。”“我过分。”比拉尔说。“可我也很体贴人呢。我要让你们俩在一起了。妒忌的话是胡扯。我恼恨华金，因为我从他神色上看出来我是多么丑。叫我妒忌的只是你才十九岁。这种妒忌不会长的。你不会老是十九岁的。现在我走了。”
　　她站起来，一手插在腰上，望着罗伯特“乔丹,他呢,也站起来了。玛丽亚坐在树下,头垂在胸前，
　　“我们大家一起回营地去吧。”罗伯特’乔丹说。”这样好些,有不少事情要做哪。”
　　比拉尔朝玛丽亚点点头，玛丽亚坐在那里没说什么,头转同别处。
　　比拉尔笑笑，差不多使人觉察不到地耸耸肩膀,还说，“你们认得路吗”
　　“我认得，”玛丽亚仍然低了头说。
　　“那我走了。”比拉尔说罾“我们要给你多准备些好吃的，英国人。”
　　她开始走进草地上的石南树丛，朝通向营地的小河走去。“等等。”罗伯特　乔丹喊她。“我们还是一起走好。”玛丽亚坐在那里不作声。比拉尔没转身。 ’.
　　“一起走，没的事。”她说。“我在营地见你。”罗伯特，乔丹站在那里。
　　“她身体没事吗?”他问玛丽亚。“她刚才看来病了，““让她走，”玛丽亚说，仍然低着头，“我看我应该踉她一起走。““让她走，”玛丽亚说，“让她一个人走1”
Chapter 13
 They were walking through the heather of the mountain meadow and Robert Jordan felt the brushing of the heather against his legs, felt the weight of his pistol in its holster against his thigh, felt the sun on his head, felt the breeze from the snow of the mountain peaks cool on his back and, in his hand, he felt the girl's hand firm and strong, the fingers locked in his. From it, from the palm of her hand against the palm of his, from their fingers locked together, and from her wrist across his wrist something came from her hand, her fingers and her wrist to his that was as fresh as the first light air that moving toward you over the sea barely wrinkles the glassy surface of a calm, as light as a feather moved across one's lip, or a leaf falling when there is no breeze; so light that it could be felt with the touch of their fingers alone, but that was so strengthened, so intensified, and made so urgent, so aching and so strong by the hard pressure of their fingers and the close pressed palm and wrist, that it was as though a current moved up his arm and filled his whole body with an aching hollowness of wanting. With the sun shining on her hair, tawny as wheat, and on her gold-brown smooth-lovely face and on the curve of her throat he bent her head back and held her to him and kissed her. He felt her trembling as he kissed her and he held the length of her body tight to him and felt her breasts against his chest through the two khaki shirts, he felt them small and firm and he reached and undid the buttons on her shirt and bent and kissed her and she stood shivering, holding her head back, his arm behind her. Then she dropped her chin to his head and then he felt her hands holding his head and rocking it against her. He straightened and with his two arms around her held her so tightly that she was lifted off the ground, tight against him, and he felt her trembling and then her lips were on his throat, and then he put her down and said, "Maria, oh, my Maria."
 Then he said, "Where should we go?"
 She did not say anything but slipped her hand inside of his shirt and he felt her undoing the shirt buttons and she said, "You, too. I want to kiss, too."
 "No, little rabbit."
 "Yes. Yes. Everything as you."
 "Nay. That is an impossibility."
 "Well, then. Oh, then. Oh, then. Oh."
 Then there was the smell of heather crushed and the roughness of the bent stalks under her head and the sun bright on her closed eyes and all his life he would remember the curve of her throat with her head pushed back into the heather roots and her lips that moved smally and by themselves and the fluttering of the lashes on the eyes tight closed against the sun and against everything, and for her everything was red, orange, gold-red from the sun on the closed eyes, and it all was that color, all of it, the filling, the possessing, the having, all of that color, all in a blindness of that color. For him it was a dark passage which led to nowhere, then to nowhere, then again to nowhere, once again to nowhere, always and forever to nowhere, heavy on the elbows in the earth to nowhere, dark, never any end to nowhere, hung on all time always to unknowing nowhere, this time and again for always to nowhere, now not to be borne once again always and to nowhere, now beyond all bearing up, up, up and into nowhere, suddenly, scaldingly, holdingly all nowhere gone and time absolutely still and they were both there, time having stopped and he felt the earth move out and away from under them.
 Then he was lying on his side, his head deep in the heather, smelling it and the smell of the roots and the earth and the sun came through it and it was scratchy on his bare shoulders and along his flanks and the girl was lying opposite him with her eyes still shut and then she opened them and smiled at him and he said very tiredly and from a great but friendly distance, "Hello, rabbit." And she smiled and from no distance said, "Hello, my _Ingl廥_."
 "I'm not an _Ingl廥_," he said very lazily.
 "Oh yes, you are," she said. "You're my _Ingl廥_," and reached and took hold of both his ears and kissed him on the forehead.
 "There," she said. "How is that? Do I kiss thee better?"
 Then they were walking along the stream together and he said, "Maria, I love thee and thou art so lovely and so wonderful and so beautiful and it does such things to me to be with thee that I feel as though I wanted to die when I am loving thee."
 "Oh," she said. "I die each time. Do you not die?"
 "No. Almost. But did thee feel the earth move?"
 "Yes. As I died. Put thy arm around me, please."
 "No. I have thy hand. Thy hand is enough."
 He looked at her and across the meadow where a hawk was hunting and the big afternoon clouds were coming now over the mountains.
 "And it is not thus for thee with others?" Maria asked him, they now walking hand in hand.
 "No. Truly."
 "Thou hast loved many others."
 "Some. But not as thee."
 "And it was not thus? Truly?"
 "It was a pleasure but it was not thus."
 "And then the earth moved. The earth never moved before?"
 "Nay. Truly never."
 "Ay," she said. "And this we have for one day."
 He said nothing.
 "But we have had it now at least," Maria said. "And do you like me too? Do I please thee? I will look better later."
 "Thou art very beautiful now."
 "Nay," she said. "But stroke thy hand across my head."
 He did that feeling her cropped hair soft and flattening and then rising between his fingers and he put both hands on her head and turned her face up to his and kissed her.
 "I like to kiss very much," she said. "But I do not do it well."
 "Thou hast no need to kiss."
 "Yes, I have. If I am to be thy woman I should please thee in all ways."
 "You please me enough. I would not be more pleased. There is no thing I could do if I were more pleased."
 "But you will see," she said very happily. "My hair amuses thee now because it is odd. But every day it is growing. It will be long and then I will not look ugly and perhaps you will love me very much."
 "Thou hast a lovely body," he said. "The loveliest in the world."
 "It is only young and thin."
 "No. In a fine body there is magic. I do not know what makes it in one and not in another. But thou hast it."
 "For thee," she said.
 "Nay."
 "Yes. For thee and for thee always and only for thee. But it is littie to bring thee. I would learn to take good care of thee. But tell me truly. Did the earth never move for thee before?"
 "Never," he said truly.
 "Now am I happy," she said. "Now am I truly happy.
 "You are thinking of something else now?" she asked him.
 "Yes. My work."
 "I wish we had horses to ride," Maria said. "In my happiness I would like to be on a good horse and ride fast with thee riding fast beside me and we would ride faster and faster, galloping, and never pass my happiness."
 "We could take thy happiness in a plane," he said absently.
 "And go over and over in the sky like the little pursuit planes shining in the sun," she said. "Rolling it in loops and in dives. _Qu?bueno!_" she laughed. "My happiness would not even notice it."
 "Thy happiness has a good stomach," he said half hearing what she said.
 Because now he was not there. He was walking beside her but his mind was thinking of the problem of the bridge now and it was all clear and hard and sharp as when a camera lens is brought into focus. He saw the two posts and Anselmo and the gypsy watching. He saw the road empty and he saw movement on it. He saw where he would place the two automatic rifles to get the most level field of fire, and who will serve them, he thought, me at the end, but who at the start? He placed the charges, wedged and lashed them, sunk his caps and crimped them, ran his wires, hooked them up and got back to where he had placed the old box of the exploder and then he started to think of all the things that could have happened and that might go wrong. Stop it, he told himself. You have made love to this girl and now your head is clear, properly clear, and you start to worry. It is one thing to think you must do and it is another thing to worry. Don't worry. You mustn't worry. You know the things that you may have to do and you know what may happen. Certainly it may happen.
 You went into it knowing what you were fighting for. You were fighting against exactly what you were doing and being forced into doing to have any chance of winning. So now he was compelled to use these people whom he liked as you should use troops toward whom you have no feeling at all if you were to be successful. Pablo was evidently the smartest. He knew how bad it was instantly. The woman was all for it, and still was; but the realization of what it really consisted in had overcome her steadily and it had done plenty to her already. Sordo recognized it instantly and would do it but he did not like it any more than he, Robert Jordan, liked it.
 So you say that it is not that which will happen to yourself but that which may happen to the woman and the girl and to the others that you think of. All right. What would have happened to them if you had not come? What happened to them and what passed with them before you were ever here? You must not think in that way. You have no responsibility for them except in action. The orders do not come from you. They come from Golz. And who is Golz? A good general. The best you've ever served under. But should a man carry out impossible orders knowing what they lead to? Even though they come from Golz, who is the party as well as the army? Yes. He should carry them out because it is only in the performing of them that they can prove to be impossible. How do you know they are impossible until you have tried them? If every one said orders were impossible to carry out when they were received where Would you be? Where would we all be if you just said, "Impossible," when orders came?
 He had seen enough of commanders to whom all orders were impossible. That swine Gomez in Estremadura. He had seen enough attacks when the flanks did not advance because it was impossible. No, he would carry out the orders and it was bad luck that you liked the people you must do it with.
 In all the work that they, the _partizans_, did, they brought added danger and bad luck to the people that sheltered them and worked with them. For what? So that, eventually, there should be no more danger and so that the country should be a good place to live in. That was true no matter how trite it sounded.
 If the Republic lost it would be impossible for those who believed in it to live in Spain. But would it? Yes, he knew that it would be, from the things that happened in the parts the fascists had already taken.
 Pablo was a swine but the others were fine people and was it not a betrayal of them all to get them to do this? Perhaps it was. But if they did not do it two squadrons of cavalry would come and hunt them out of these hills in a week.
 No. There was nothing to be gained by leaving them alone. Except that all people should be left alone and you should interfere with no one. So he believed that, did he? Yes, he believed that. And what about a planned society and the rest of it? That was for the others to do. He had something else to do after this war. He fought now in this war because it had started in a country that he loved and he believed in the Republic and that if it were destroyed life would be unbearable for all those people who believed in it. He was under Communist discipline for the duration of the war. Here in Spain the Communists offered the best discipline and the soundest and sanest for the prosecution of the war. He accepted their discipline for the duration of the war because, in the conduct of the war, they were the only party whose program and whose discipline he could respect.
 What were his politics then? He had none now, he told himself. But do not tell any one else that, he thought. Don't ever admit that. And what are you going to do afterwards? I am going back and earn my living teaching Spanish as before, and I am going to write a true book. I'll bet, he said. I'll bet that will be easy.
 He would have to talk with Pablo about politics. It would certainly be interesting to see what his political development had been. The classical move from left to right, probably; like old Lerroux. Pablo was quite a lot like Lerroux. Prieto was as bad. Pablo and Prieto had about an equal faith in the ultimate victory. They all had the politics of horse thieves. He believed in the Republic as a form of government but the Republic would have to get rid of all of that bunch of horse thieves that brought it to the pass it was in when the rebellion started. Was there ever a people whose leaders were as truly their enemies as this one?
 Enemies of the people. That was a phrase he might omit. That was a catch phrase he would skip. That was one thing that sleeping with Maria had done. He had gotten to be as bigoted and hidebound about his politics as a hard-shelled Baptist and phrases like enemies of the people came into his mind without his much criticizing them in any way. Any sort of _clich廥_ both revolutionary and patriotic. His mind employed them without criticism. Of course they were true but it was too easy to be nimble about using them. But since last night and this afternoon his mind was much clearer and cleaner on that business. Bigotry is an odd thing. To be bigoted you have to be absolutely sure that you are right and nothing makes that surety and righteousness like continence. Continence is the foe of heresy.
 How would that premise stand up if he examined it? That was probably why the Communists were always cracking down on Bohemianism. When you were drunk or when you committed either fornication or adultery you recognized your own personal fallibility of that so mutable substitute for the apostles' creed, the party line. Down with Bohemianism, the sin of Mayakovsky.
 But Mayakovsky was a saint again. That was because he was safely dead. You'll be safely dead yourself, he told himself. Now stop thinking that sort of thing. Think about Maria.
 Maria was very hard on his bigotry. So far she had not affected his resolution but he would much prefer not to die. He would abandon a hero's or a martyr's end gladly. He did not want to make a Thermopylae, nor be Horatius at any bridge, nor be the Dutch boy With his finger in that dyke. No. He would like to spend some time With Maria. That was the simplest expression of it. He would like to spend a long, long time with her.
 He did not believe there was ever going to be any such thing as a long time any more but if there ever was such a thing he would like to spend it with her. We could go into the hotel and register as Doctor and Mrs. Livingstone I presume, he thought.
 Why not marry her? Sure, he thought. I will marry her. Then we will be Mt and Mrs. Robert Jordan of Sun Valley, Idaho. Or Corpus Christi, Texas, or Butte, Montana.
 Spanish girls make wonderful wives. I've never had one so I know. And when I get my job back at the university she can be an instructor's wife and when undergraduates who take Spanish IV come in to smoke pipes in the evening and have those so valuable informal discussions about Quevedo, Lope de Vega, Gald鏀 and the other always admirable dead, Maria can tell them about how some of the blue-shirted crusaders for the true faith sat on her head while others twisted her arms and pulled her skirts up and stuffed them in her mouth.
 I wonder how they will like Maria in Missoula, Montana? That is if I can get a job back in Missoula. I suppose that I am ticketed as a Red there now for good and will be on the general blacklist. Though you never know. You never can tell. They've no proof of what you do, and as a matter of fact they would never believe it if you told them, and my passport was valid for Spain before they issued the restrictions.
 The time for getting back will not be until the fall of thirtyseven. I left in the summer of thirty-six and though the leave is for a year you do not need to be back until the fall term opens in the following year. There is a lot of time between now and the fall term. There is a lot of time between now and day after tomorrow if you want to put it that way. No. I think there is no need to worry about the university. Just you turn up there in the fall and it will be all right. Just try and turn up there.
 But it has been a strange life for a long time now. Damned if it hasn't. Spain was your work and your job, so being in Spain was natural and sound. You had worked summers on engineering projects and in the forest service building roads and in the park and learned to handle powder, so the demolition was a sound and normal job too. Always a little hasty, but sound.
 Once you accept the idea of demolition as a problem it is only a problem. But there was plenty that was not so good that went with it although God knows you took it easily enough. There was the constant attempt to approximate the conditions of successful assassination that accompanied the demolition. Did big words make it more defensible? Did they make killing any more palatable? You took to it a little too readily if you ask me, he told himself. And what you will be like or just exactly what you will be suited for when you leave the service of the Republic is, to me, he thought, extremely doubtful. But my guess is you will get rid of all that by writing about it, he said. Once you write it down it is all gone. It will be a good book if you can write it. Much better than the other.
 But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will have is today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over again (I hope), he thought and so you had better take what time there is and be very thankful for it. If the bridge goes bad. It does not look too good just now.
 But Maria has been good. Has she not? Oh, has she not, he thought. Maybe that is what I am to get now from life. Maybe that is my life and instead of it being threescore years and ten it is fortyeight hours or just threescore hours and ten or twelve rather. Twenty-four hours in a day would be threescore and twelve for the three full days.
 I suppose it is possible to live as full a life in seventy hours as in seventy years; granted that your life has been full up to the time that the seventy hours start and that you have reached a certain age.
 What nonsense, he thought. What rot you get to thinking by yourself. That is _really_ nonsense. And maybe it isn't nonsense too. Well, we will see. The last time I slept with a girl was in Madrid. No it wasn't. It was in the Escorial and, except that I woke in the night and thought it was some one else and was excited until I realized who it really was, it was just dragging ashes; except that it was pleasant enough. And the time before that was in Madrid and except for some lying and pretending I did to myself as to identity while things were going on, it was the same or something less. So I am no romantic glorifier of the Spanish Woman nor did I ever think of a casual piece as anything much other than a casual piece in any country. But when I am with Maria I love her so that I feel, literally, as though I would die and I never believed in that nor thought that it could happen.
 So if your life trades its seventy years for seventy hours I have that value now and I am lucky enough to know it. And if there is not any such thing as a long time, nor the rest of your lives, nor from now on, but there is only now, why then now is the thing to praise and I am very happy with it. Now, _ahora_, _maintenant_, _heute_. _Now_, it has a funny sound to be a whole world and your life. _Esta noche_, tonight, _ce soir_, _heute abend_. Life and wife, _Vie_ and _Mari_. No it didn't work out. The French turned it into husband. There was now and _frau_; but that did not prove anything either. Take dead, _mort_, _muerto_, and _todt_. _Todt_ was the deadest of them all. War, _guerre_, _guerra_, and _krieg_. _Krieg_ was the most like war, or was it? Or was it only that he knew German the least well? Sweetheart, _ch廨ie_, _prenda_, and _schatz_. He would trade them all for Maria. There was a name.
 Well, they would all be doing it together and it would not be long now. It certainly looked worse all the time. It was just something that you could not bring off in the morning. In an impossible situation you hang on until night to get away. You try to last out until night to get back in. You are all right, maybe, if you can stick it out until dark and then get in. So what if you start this sticking it out at daylight? How about that? And that poor bloody Sordo abandoning his pidgin Spanish to explain it to him so carefully. As though he had not thought about that whenever he had done any particularly bad thinking ever since Golz had first mentioned it. As though he hadn't been living with that like a lump of undigested dough in the pit of his stomach ever since the night before the night before last.
 What a business. You go along your whole life and they seem as though they mean something and they always end up not meaning anything. There was never any of what this is. You think that is one thing that you will never have. And then, on a lousy show like this, co-ordinating two chicken-crut guerilla bands to help you blow a bridge under impossible conditions, to abort a counteroffensive that will probably already be started, you run into a girl like this Maria. Sure. That is what you would do. You ran into her rather late, that was all.
 So a woman like that Pilar practically pushed this girl into your sleeping bag and what happens? Yes, what happens? What happens? You tell me what happens, please. Yes. That is just what happens. That is exactly what happens.
 Don't lie to yourself about Pilar pushing her into your sleeping robe and try to make it nothing or to make it lousy. You were gone when you first saw her. When she first opened her mouth and spoke to you it was there already and you know it. Since you have it and you never thought you would have it, there is no sense throwing dirt at it, when you know what it is and you know it came the first time you looked at her as she came out bent over carrying that iron cooking platter.
 It hit you then and you know it and so why lie about it? You went all strange inside every time you looked at her and every time she looked at you. So why don't you admit it? All right, I'll admit it. And as for Pilar pushing her onto you, all Pilar did was be an intelligent woman. She had taken good care of the girl and she saw what was coming the minute the girl came back into the cave with the cooking dish.
 So she made things easier. She made things easier so that there was last night and this afternoon. She is a damned sight more civilized than you are and she knows what time is all about. Yes, he said to himself, I think we can admit that she has certain notions about the value of time. She took a beating and all because she did not want other people losing what she'd lost and then the idea of admitting it was lost was too big a thing to swallow. So she took a beating back there on the hill and I guess we did not make it any easier for her.
 Well, so that is what happens and what has happened and you might as well admit it and now you will never have two whole nights with her. Not a lifetime, not to live together, not to have what people were always supposed to have, not at all. One night that is past, once one afternoon, one night to come; maybe. No, sir.
 Not time, not happiness, not fun, not children, not a house, not a bathroom, not a clean pair of pajamas, not the morning paper, not to wake up together, not to wake and know she's there and that you're not alone. No. None of that. But why, when this is all you are going to get in life of what you want; when you have found it; why not just one night in a bed with sheets?
 You ask for the impossible. You ask for the ruddy impossible. So if you love this girl as much as you say you do, you had better love her very hard and make up in intensity what the relation will lack in duration and in continuity. Do you hear that? In the old days people devoted a lifetime to it. And now when you have found it if you get two nights you wonder where all the luck came from. Two nights. Two nights to love, honor and cherish. For better and for worse. In sickness and in death. No that wasn't it. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. In two nights. Much more than likely. Much more than likely and now lay off that sort of thinking. You can stop that now. That's not good for you. Do nothing that is not good for you. Sure that's it.
 This was what Golz had talked about. The longer he was around, the smarter Golz seemed. So this was what he was asking about; the compensation of irregular service. Had Golz had this and was it the urgency and the lack of time and the circumstances that made it? Was this something that happened to every one given comparable circumstances? And did he only think it was something special because it was happening to him? Had Golz slept around in a hurry when he was commanding irregular cavalry in the Red Army and had the combination of the circumstances and the rest of it made the girls seem the way Maria was?
 Probably Golz knew all about this too and wanted to make the point that you must make your whole life in the two nights that are given to you; that living as we do now you must concentrate all of that which you should always have into the short time that you can have it.
 It was a good system of belief. But he did not believe that Maria had only been made by the circumstances. Unless, of course, she is a reaction from her own circumstance as well as his. Her one circumstance is not so good, he thought. No, not so good.
 If this was how it was then this was how it was. But there was no law that made him say he liked it. I did not know that I could ever feel what I have felt, he thought. Nor that this could happen to me. I would like to have it for my whole life. You will, the other part of him said. You will. You have it _now_ and that is all your whole life is; now. There is nothing else than now. There is neither yesterday, certainly, nor is there any tomorrow. How old must you be before you know that? There is only now, and if now is only two days, then two days is your life and everything in it will be in proportion. This is how you live a life in two days. And if you stop complaining and asking for what you never will get, you will have a good life. A good life is not measured by any biblical span.
 So now do not worry, take what you have, and do your work and you will have a long life and a very merry one. Hasn't it been merry lately? What are you complaining about? That's the thing about this sort of work, he told himself, and was very pleased with the thought, it isn't so much what you learn as it is the people you meet. He was pleased then because he was joking and he came back to the girl.
 "I love you, rabbit," he said to the girl. "What was it you were saying?"
 "I was saying," she told him, "that you must not worry about your work because I will not bother you nor interfere. If there is anything I can do you will tell me."
 "There's nothing," he said. "It is really very simple."
 "I will learn from Pilar what I should do to take care of a man well and those things I will do," Maria said. "Then, as I learn, I will discover things for myself and other things you can tell me."
 "There is nothing to do."
 "_Qu?va_, man, there is nothing! Thy sleeping robe, this morning, should have been shaken and aired and hung somewhere in the sun. Then, before the dew comes, it should be taken into shelter."
 "Go on, rabbit."
 "Thy socks should be washed and dried. I would see thee had two pair."
 "What else?"
 "If thou would show me I would clean and oil thy pistol."
 "Kiss me," Robert Jordan said.
 "Nay, this is serious. Wilt thou show me about the pistol? Pilar has rags and oil. There is a cleaning rod inside the cave that should fit it."
 "Sure. I'll show you."
 "Then," Maria said. "If you will teach me to shoot it either one of us could shoot the other and himself, or herself, if one were wounded and it were necessary to avoid capture."
 "Very interesting," Robert Jordan said. "Do you have many ideas like that?"
 "Not many," Maria said. "But it is a good one. Pilar gave me this and showed me how to use it," she opened the breast pocket of her shirt and took out a cut-down leather holder such as pocket combs are carried in and, removing a wide rubber band that closed both ends, took out a Gem type, single-edged razor blade. "I keep this always," she explained. "Pilar says you must make the cut here just below the ear and draw it toward here." She showed him with her finger. "She says there is a big artery there and that drawing the blade from there you cannot miss it. Also, she says there is no pain and you must simply press firmly below the ear and draw it downward. She says it is nothing and that they cannot stop it if it is done."
 "That's right," said Robert Jordan. "That's the carotid artery."
 So she goes around with that all the time, he thought, as a definitely accepted and properly organized possibility.
 "But I would rather have thee shoot me," Maria said. "Promise if there is ever any need that thou wilt shoot me."
 "Sure," Robert Jordan said. "I promise."
 "Thank thee very much," Maria told him. "I know it is not easy to do."
 "That's all right," Robert Jordan said.
 You forget all this, he thought. You forget about the beauties of a civil war when you keep your mind too much on your work. You have forgotten this. Well, you are supposed to. Kashkin couldn't forget it and it spoiled his work. Or do you think the old boy had a hunch? It was very strange because he had experienced absolutely no emotion about the shooting of Kashkin. He expected that at some time he might have it. But so far there had been absolutely none.
 "But there are other things I can do for thee," Maria told him, walking close beside him, now, very serious and womanly.
 "Besides shoot me?"
 "Yes. I can roll cigarettes for thee when thou hast no more of those with tubes. Pilar has taught me to roll them very well, tight and neat and not spilling."
 "Excellent," said Robert Jordan. "Do you lick them yourself?"
 "Yes," the girl said, "and when thou art wounded I will care for thee and dress thy wound and wash thee and feed thee--"
 "Maybe I won't be wounded," Robert Jordan said.
 "Then when you are sick I will care for thee and make thee soups and clean thee and do all for thee. And I will read to thee."
 "Maybe I won't get sick."
 "Then I will bring thee coffee in the morning when thou wakest--"
 "Maybe I don't like coffee," Robert Jordan told her.
 "Nay, but you do," the girl said happily. "This morning you took two cups."
 "Suppose I get tired of coffee and there's no need to shoot me and I'm neither wounded nor sick and I give up smoking and have only one pair of socks and hang up my robe myself. What then, rabbit?" he patted her on the back. "What then?"
 "Then," said Maria, "I will borrow the scissors of Pilar and cut thy hair."
 "I don't like to have my hair cut."
 "Neither do I," said Maria. "And I like thy hair as it is. So. If there is nothing to do for thee, I will sit by thee and watch thee and in the nights we will make love."
 "Good," Robert Jordan said. "The last project is very sensible."
 "To me it seems the same," Maria smiled. "Oh, _Ingl廥_," she said.
 "My name is Roberto."
 "Nay. But I call thee _Ingl廥_ as Pilar does."
 "Still it is Roberto."
 "No," she told him. "Now for a whole day it is _Ingl廥_. And _Ingl廥_, can I help thee with thy work?"
 "No. What I do now I do alone and very coldly in my head."
 "Good," she said. "And when will it be finished?"
 "Tonight, with luck."
 "Good," she said.
 Below them was the last woods that led to the camp.
 "Who is that?" Robert Jordan asked and pointed.
 "Pilar," the girl said, looking along his arm. "Surely it is Pilar."
 At the lower edge of the meadow where the first trees grew the woman was sitting, her head on her arms. She looked like a dark bundle from where they stood; black against the brown of the tree trunk.
 "Come on," Robert Jordan said and started to run toward her through the knee-high heather. It was heavy and hard to run in and when he had run a little way, he slowed and walked. He could see the woman's head was on her folded arms and she looked broad and black against the tree trunk. He came up to her and said, "Pilar!" sharply.
 The woman raised her head and looked up at him.
 "Oh," she said. "You have terminated already?"
 "Art thou ill?" he asked and bent down by her.
 "_Qu?va_," she said. "I was asleep."
 "Pilar," Maria, who had come up, said and kneeled down by her. "How are you? Are you all right?"
 "I'm magnificent," Pilar said but she did not get up. She looked at the two of them. "Well, _Ingl廥_," she said. "You have been doing manly tricks again?"
 "You are all right?" Robert Jordan asked, ignoring the words.
 "Why not? I slept. Did you?"
 "No."
 "Well," Pilar said to the girl. "It seems to agree with you."
 Maria blushed and said nothing.
 "Leave her alone," Robert Jordan said.
 "No one spoke to thee," Pilar told him. "Maria," she said and her voice was hard. The girl did not look up.
 "Maria," the woman said again. "I said it seems to agree with thee."
 "Oh, leave her alone," Robert Jordan said again.
 "Shut up, you," Pilar said without looking at him. "Listen, Maria, tell me one thing."
 "No," Maria said and shook her head.
 "Maria," Pilar said, and her voice was as hard as her face and there was nothing friendly in her face. "Tell me one thing of thy own volition."
 The girl shook her head.
 Robert Jordan was thinking, if I did not have to work with this woman and her drunken man and her chicken-crut outfit, I would slap her so hard across the face that--.
 "Go ahead and tell me," Pilar said to the girl.
 "No," Maria said. "No."
 "Leave her alone," Robert Jordan said and his voice did not sound like his own voice. I'll slap her anyway and the hell with it, he thought.
 Pilar did not even speak to him. It was not like a snake charming a bird, nor a cat with a bird. There was nothing predatory. Nor was there anything perverted about it. There was a spreading, though, as a cobra's hood spreads. He could feel this. He could feel the menace of the spreading. But the spreading was a domination, not of evil, but of searching. I wish I did not see this, Robert Jordan thought. But it is not a business for slapping.
 "Maria," Pilar said. "I will not touch thee. Tell me now of thy own volition."
 "_De tu propia voluntad_," the words were in Spanish.
 The girl shook her head.
 "Maria," Pilar said. "Now and of thy own volition. You hear me? Anything at all."
 "No," the girl said softly. "No and no."
 "Now you will tell me," Pilar told her. "Anything at all. You will see. Now you will tell me."
 "The earth moved," Maria said, not looking at the woman. "Truly. It was a thing I cannot tell thee."
 "So," Pilar said and her voice was warm and friendly and there was no compulsion in it. But Robert Jordan noticed there were small drops of perspiration on her forehead and her lips. "So there was that. So that was it."
 "It is true," Maria said and bit her lip.
 "Of course it is true," Pilar said kindly. "But do not tell it to your own people for they never will believe you. You have no _Cali_ blood, _Ingl廥?_"
 She got to her feet, Robert Jordan helping her up.
 "No," he said. "Not that I know of."
 "Nor has the Maria that she knows of," Pilar said. "_Pues es muy raro_. It is very strange."
 "But it happened, Pilar," Maria said.
 "_C鏔o que no, hija?_" Pilar said. "Why not, daughter? When I was young the earth moved so that you could feel it all shift in space and were afraid it would go out from under you. It happened every night."
 "You lie," Maria said.
 "Yes," Pilar said. "I lie. It never moves more than three times in a lifetime. Did it _really_ move?"
 "Yes," the girl said. "Truly."
 "For you, _Ingl廥?_" Pilar looked at Robert Jordan. "Don't lie."
 "Yes," he said. "Truly."
 "Good," said Pilar. "Good. That is something."
 "What do you mean about the three times?" Maria asked. "Why do you say that?"
 "Three times," said Pilar. "Now you've had one."
 "Only three times?"
 "For most people, never," Pilar told her. "You are sure it moved?"
 "One could have fallen off," Maria said.
 "I guess it moved, then," Pilar said. "Come, then, and let us get to camp."
 "What's this nonsense about three times?" Robert Jordan said to the big woman as they walked through the pines together.
 "Nonsense?" she looked at him wryly. "Don't talk to me of nonsense, little English."
 "Is it a wizardry like the palms of the hands?"
 "Nay, it is common and proven knowledge with _Gitanos_."
 "But we are not _Gitanos_."
 "Nay. But you have had a little luck. Non-gypsies have a little luck sometimes."
 "You mean it truly about the three times?"
 She looked at him again, oddly. "Leave me, _Ingl廥_," she said. "Don't molest me. You are too young for me to speak to."
 "But, Pilar," Maria said.
 "Shut up," Pilar told her. "You have had one and there are two more in the world for thee."
 "And you?" Robert Jordan asked her.
 "Two," said Pilar and put up two fingers. "Two. And there will never be a third."
 "Why not?" Maria asked.
 "Oh, shut up," Pilar said. "Shut up. _Busnes_ of thy age bore me."
 "Why not a third?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Oh, shut up, will you?" Pilar said. "Shut up!"
 All right, Robert Jordan said to himself. Only I am not having any. I've known a lot of gypsies and they are strange enough. But so are we. The difference is we have to make an honest living. Nobody knows what tribes we came from nor what our tribal inheritance is nor what the mysteries were in the woods where the people lived that we came from. All we know is that we do not know. We know nothing about what happens to us in the nights. When it happens in the day though, it is something. Whatever happened, happened and now this woman not only has to make the girl say it when she did not want to; but she has to take it over and make it her own. She has to make it into a gypsy thing. I thought she took a beating up the hill but she was certainly dominating just now back there. If it had been evil she should have been shot. But it wasn't evil. It was only wanting to keep her hold on life. To keep it through Maria.
 When you get through with this war you might take up the study of women, he said to himself. You could start with Pilar. She has put in a pretty complicated day, if you ask me. She never brought in the gypsy stuff before. Except the hand, he thought. Yes, of course the hand. And I don't think she was faking about the hand. She wouldn't tell me what she saw, of course. Whatever she saw she believed in herself. But that proves nothing.
 "Listen, Pilar," he said to the woman.
 Pilar looked at him and smiled.
 "What is it?" she asked.
 "Don't be so mysterious," Robert Jordan said. "These mysteries tire me very much."
 "So?" Pilar said.
 "I do not believe in ogres, soothsayers, fortune tellers, or chicken-crut gypsy witchcraft."
 "Oh," said Pilar.
 "No. And you can leave the girl alone."
 "I will leave the girl alone."
 "And leave the mysteries," Robert Jordan said. "We have enough work and enough things that will be done without complicating it with chicken-crut. Fewer mysteries and more work."
 "I see," said Pilar and nodded her head in agreement. "And listen, _Ingl廥_," she said and smiled at him. "Did the earth move?"
 "Yes, God damn you. It moved."
 Pilar laughed and laughed and stood looking at Robert Jordan laughing.
 "Oh, _Ingl廥_. _Ingl廥_," she said laughing. "You are very comical. You must do much work now to regain thy dignity."
 The Hell with you, Robert Jordan thought. But he kept his mouth shut. While they had spoken the sun had clouded over and as he looked back up toward the mountains the sky was now heavy and gray.
 "Sure," Pilar said to him, looking at the sky. "It will snow."
 "Now? Almost in June?"
 "Why not? These mountains do not know the names of the months. We are in the moon of May."
 "It can't be snow," he said. "It _can't_ snow."
 "Just the same, _Ingl廥_," she said to him, "it will snow."
 Robert Jordan looked up at the thick gray of the sky with the sun gone faintly yellow, and now as he watched gone completely and the gray becoming uniform so that it was soft and heavy; the gray now cutting off the tops of the mountains.
 "Yes," he said. "I guess you are right."
　　他们在山间草地的石南丛中走着，罗伯特〃乔.丹感到石南的枝叶擦着他的腿，感到枪套里沉甸甸的手枪贴着自己的大腿,感到阳光晒在自己头上，感到从积雪的山峰上来的风吹在背上凉飕飕的，感到手里握着的姑娘的手结实而有力，手指扣着他的手指。由于她的掌心贴在他的掌心上，由于手指扣在一起，由于她的手腕和他的手腕交在一起，有一种奇异的感觉从她的手、手指和手腕传到了他的手、手指和手腕上，这种感觉就象海上飘来的第一阵徽微吹皱那平静如镜的海面的轻风那么清新，又象羽毛擦过唇边,或者风息全无时飙下一片落叶那么轻柔,只能由他们俩手指的接触才能感觉到，然而这种感觉又由于他们俩相扣的手指、紧贴在一起的掌心和手旌而变得那么强烈，那么紧张,
　　那么迫切，那么痛楚，那么有力，仿佛有一股电流贯串了他那条手臂，使他全身充满了若有所求的剧烈欲望。阳光照耀在她麦浪般黄褐色的头发上，照耀在她光洁可爱的金褐色脸上，照耀在她线条优美的脖颈上，这时，他使她的头往后仰，把她搂在怀里吻她。他吻着她，感到她的身体在颤栗；他把她的全身紧贴在自己身上，一条手臂搂住她的背脊,她仰头站着,浑身哆嗦。她随即把下巴搁在他头上，他感到她双手抱着他的头贴着她胸口来回摇晃。他直起腰来,用双臂紧紧抱着她，以致使她全身紧贴在他身上，离开了地面，他感到她在颤栗，她的双唇压在他脖子上，他接着把她放下来,说。”玛丽亚，舸，我的玛丽亚。”接着他说，“我们到哪儿去好?”
　　她没说什么，只把手伸进他的衬衫里,他感到她在解他的衬衫钮扣。她说，“我也要。我也要吻。““不，小兔子。”“要。要。要跟你一样。”“不。那怎么行。”
　　“嗯,那就……哦,那就……哦，哦。”接着是压在身子底下的石南的气味，她脑袋下面被压弯的茎枝的粗糙感，明亮的阳光照射在她紧闭的眼睛上,于是他将一辈子也忘不了她那线条优美的脖颈，她仰在石南丛中的头，她不由自主地微微蟮动的双唇,她那对着太阳、对着一切紧闭的眼睛的睫毛的颤动。阳光照在她紧闭的眼睛上，使她觉得一切郁是红色的,橙红的，金红色的；那一切也都是这种颜色，充塞，占有，委身,都成了这种颜色，眼花缭乱地成为一色。对他说来，那是一条不知通往哪里的黑暗通道,一次又一次地不知通往哪里，永远不知通往哪里；胳將射沉重地支在地上,不知通往哪里，黑晻的、永无尽头的、不知名的去处，始终坚持着通往不知名的去处，-‘次又一次地永远不知通往哪里，现在再也无法忍受了，无法忍受地一直、一直、一直通往不知名的去处，突然地，灼热地，屏紧地，这不知名的去处消失了，时间猝然停止，他们俩一起躺在那里，时间已经停止，他感到地面在移动,在他们俩的身体下面移开去。他接着侧身躺着，脑袋深深地枕在石南丛里,闻着石南的气味，闻着石南根、泥土、阳光透过石南丛的气味,石南刮着他赤裸的肩膀和两腰，使他发痒，姑娘躺在他对面，眼睛仍然闭着，这时，她睁幵眼睛，对他微笑。他十分疲乏地，似乎隔着很远的距离亲切地对她说，“暧，兔子。”她微笑着,毫无隔阂地说。”哎，我的英国人。”
　　“我不是英国人。”他疲惫地说，
　　“唤，你是的，”她说。“你是我的英国人。”并且伸手抓住了他的两只耳朵，吻他的前额。
　　“噑，”她说。“怎么样，“我吻得好一些了吧?”接着,他俩顺溪而行，他说，“玛丽亚，我爱你「你真可爱，真好,真美,跟你在一起太美妙啦，使我只觉得，在爱你的那时，好象要死过去了。”
　　“噢，”她说。“我每次都死过去。你没有死过去吗?”〃没有。也差不多。不过你觉得地面在移动吗。”“是呀。在我死过去的那时刻。请用手臂搂着我　“不。我巳经握着你的手了。握着你的手就够啦。”他望望她,望望草地对面空中一只鹰在盘旋觅食，午后大块的云朵这时正在向山上压过来。
　　“你跟别人也是这样吗？”玛丽亚问他,他们这时手拉手地走
着。
　　“不。说真的“你爱过不少女人了，““有几个。诃是跟你不一样。”“不象我们这个样子吗？真的?”“也快活，可是不象我们这么样。”“刚才地面移动了。以前没动过吗？”“没有。真的从来没有。”“哎，”她说。“象这样，我们有过一天啦。”他没说什么。
　　“我们现在至少有过啦，”玛丽亚说。“你也喜欢我吗？我讨你喜欢吗？我以后会长得好看些的。”“你现在就非常美丽。”“不,她说。“你用手摸摸我的头吧。”他抚摸她的头，觉得她那头短发很柔软，在他手指下被压平了，随后又翘起来。他把双手捧着她的头，使她仰起脸来对着自己，然后吻她。
　　“我很喜欢亲吻"她说。“可我吻得不好。，“你不用亲吻。”
　　“不，我耍。如果我做你的女人,就该事事都叫你髙兴。”“你巳经叫我非常髙兴。我不能比现在更髙兴啦，如果更竊兴了，我就不知道该怎么办啦，“
　　“可你以后看吧，”她非常愉快地说。“我的头发现在使你觉得有趣，因为样子怪。不过头发天天在长　会长得很长,那时候我就不难看了，说不定你会非常爱我。“
　　“你的身体很可爱，”他说。“再可爱也没有啦。”“只不过是因为年青而苗条吧。”

　　“不。美妙的身体有一种麋力。我不懂为什么有人有，有人没有。不过，你有。”
　　“那是给你的，”她说。“不，“
　　“就是。给你，永远给你，只给你一个人。可是这并不会给你带来什么。我要学会好好照頋你。你可要跟我说真话。你以前从没觉得地面移动吗?”
　　“从来也没有，”他老实地说。“现在我高兴了，”她说。“现在我真的高兴了。”　“现在你在想别的事吗？”她问他。“是呀。我的任务，“
　　“我们有马儿就好了。”玛丽亚说。“我高兴的时候就想骑匹好马飞奔，有你在我身边，也骑着马飞奔，我们要越跑越快,骑着马儿飞奔,我的髙兴就永远没个完。“
　　“我们可以把你的高兴带到飞机上，”他心不在焉地说。“还要象那些小驱逐机那样，在天上的阳光里闪亮，不停地飞来飞去。”她说。"在空中翻筋斗呀，俯冲呀。多棒呀　”她大笑了，“我高兴得自己也不知道在乘飞机呐。”
　　“你的高兴没有边，”他说，没有完全听见她讲的话。因为这时他出了神。他虽走在她身旁，心里却想着桥的问题，一切都显得清楚，确实，轮廓分明,好象照相机的镜头对准了，焦距。他看到那两个哨所,着到安塞尔莫和那吉普赛人在守望。他看到那空荡荡的公路，他看到公路上的部队调动。他看到能使那两挺自动步枪发挥最大火力的位置，可是由谁来掌握这两挺自动步枪呢？他想，收尾时是我，那么开始时由谁呢？他看到自己放好炸药，卡住,扎紧,安好雷管,接好电线,联上接头,回到他放痱只旧引爆箱的地方，接着他开始琢磨可能发生的种种情况，以及可能出差错的地方，别想啦，他对自己说。你跟这个姑娘睡过觉，现在头脑清醒，完全清醒，你却开始发愁了，考虑你非干不可的事情是一回事，发愁又是一回事。别发愁。你不能发愁呀。你了解你也许不得不千的事情，你还了解可能发生什么情况。这些情况当然可能发生的啦。　
　　你知道自己斗争的目标，于是你全力以赴。你反对的正是现在要干的，并且为了有希望得到胜利而不得不干的事情。所以，你如今不得不使用你所喜爱的这些人，就象你要取胜而必须使用那些你对之毫无感情的军队一样。巴勃罗显然最精明　他立刻就了解情况如何险恶。那女人全力支持,现在仍然没变，但是对这件事的实质的认识遂渐压垮了她，巳经使她十分沮丧。“聋子”马上看清这件事，他干倒肯干，但是并不比他，罗伯特　乔丹,更喜欢干。
　　原来你是说你考虑的并不是你自己，而是那女人、那姑娘以及别的人将会碰到的逋遇。好吧。如果你没来，他们又将碰到怎样的遭遇呢？你来这里之前，他们碰到了些佧么，她们的情况又是怎样的呢？你不能那样想。除了行动时，你对他们并不负有责任。发号施令的不是你。是戈尔兹。那戈尔兹算老几？是个好将军。是你到目前为止最好的顶头上司。然而，一个人明知那些行不通的命令会导致什么后果,他还应该执行吗?哪怕命令来自那个既是军队又是党的领导人戈尔兹？对。他应该执行这些命令，因为只有在执行过程中，才能证明行不通。你没有尝试哪能知道行不通呢？要是接到命令的时侯人人都说没法执行，那么你这个人将落到什么样的境地？要是命令来到的时候你就说“行不通\那么我们大家将落到什么样的塊地？
　　他见过不少将领1对他们来说,所有的命令都行不通。埃斯特雷马杜拉的那个畜生戈麦斯就是如此。他见过不少次迸攻战,两翼按兵不动，理由是行不通。不，他要执行这些命令，倒霉的是不得不和这些他很喜欢的人一起干。
　　他们游击队所干的每桩事情，都给掩护他们、和他们一起干的人带来意外的危险和厄运。为的是什么呢？为的是最终消除危险，让这个国家成为可以安居乐业的好地方。这种话听起来象是陈词滥调,不过，这是真话。
　　如果共和国失败的话，那些信仰共和国的人就不能在西班牙生活下去。不过，会失败吗？是呀，根据那些已被法西斯分子占领的地区所发生的情形看来，他知道是会失败的。
　　巴勃罗是个畜生，可是别的人都是好样的，那么叫他们去炸桥不是出卖他们每个人吗？也许是。然而，如果他们不这样干，一星期之内就会来两中队骑兵，把他们从这个山区里赶走。
　　不。把他们扔在一边是不会得到任何好处的。除非你的原则是把所有的人都扔在一边，你不应该干涉任何人的事。他原来是这样想的，是不是，“对，他是这样想的。银么一个有计划的社会等等，又是怎么一回事呢？那是该由别人去干的事啦。这次战争之后，他有别的事要干。他投入这次战争是因为战争发生在他所热爱的国家里,他儐仰共和国，并且，要是共和国被毁灭,那些信仰共和国的人日子都要过不下去。整个战争期间他都得服从共产党的纪律。在西班牙，共产党提供了最好的纪律，最健全、最英明的作战纪律。战争期间他服从他们的纪律，因为在作战的时候,只有这个党的纲领和纪律是他所尊敬的。
　　那么他的政见又是什么呢？他对自己说　目前没有什么政见。可是跟谁也不能讲呀，他想。永远别透露这点。那么你以后打算干什么呢？我要回去,象以前一样，教西班牙语谋生，并且打算写一本真正的书　我说得准，他说，我说得准这不是什么难事　
　　他应该跟巴勃罗谈谈政治才对。了解了解他在政治上的发展肯定是很有趣的。可能是典型的由左向右的蜕变，就象老勒洛①。巴勃罗很象老勒洛。普列托②也同样的糟糕。巴勃罗和普列托对最后胜利的信心大致上差不离。他们都抱着偷马贼的政见。他把共和国作为一种政府形式加以信任，但是共和国必须淸除这帮偷马贼，在叛乱开始时他们这帮人害共和国落到了什么境地啊。领导人民的人同时又是人民的真正的敌人，世界上哪个国家有过这种情况？
　　人民的敌人。这种词儿他还是不讲为妙。他不愿用这种口号式的词儿。这是和玛丽亚睡了觉而引起的思想变化。在政治方面，他已经变得象个顽固不化的浸礼会教友那样偏执死板，因此象“人民的敌人”这样的词儿是没有多加考虑就浮上心头的。任何革命的或爱国的八股也是这样。他没有考虑就使用这种词儿。当然啦，它们不是假话，但是非常容易把它们滥用。自从昨夜和今天下午发生那事以来，对这种事情，他的头脑变得越来越清酲，纯洁得多了。偏执是件古怪的东西。偏执的人必然绝对相倌自己是正确的，而克制自己，保持正统思想，正是最能助长这种自以为正确和正直的看法的。克制是异端邪说的敌人申
如果他仔细检查的话，这个前提怎么站得住脚呢？共产党总是强烈反对放荡不羁的作风，也许就是为了这个缘故吧。当你酗酒或私通的时候，你就会发觉，拿党的路线来衡量，你是多么容易犯错误啊。打倒放荡不羁的作风，那是马雅可夫斯基所犯的错误。
然而马雅可夫斯基又被尊为圣徒了。那是因为他已经盖棺论定了。他对自己说。”你自己也会盖棺论定的。现在别去想这种事情吧。想想玛丽亚吧。
①勒洛(入　。扭1　11。13X。8。。—1。。。)1西班牙激进党领袖，一九三三年十二月起曾几度出任共和国总理。一九三六年二月大选中，被人民阵线所击败。他在政治上从共和派遂渐堕落为右派。
②普列托〔11　，“1。。1。 〉。”西班牙社会党领袖，生于一八八三年，一九三一年起先后任财政部长等职，政治上逐渐堕落为社会党右霣分子。
　
　　玛丽亚使他的偏执十分难堪。到目前为止，她还没有影晌他的决心，然而他巴不得活在人间。他愿意欣然放弃英雄或烈士的结局。他不想打一场德摩比利式的保卫战①，也不想当桥头阻敌的罗马壮士霍拉修斯②，更不想成为那个用手指堵塞堤坝窟窿的荷兰孩子　不。他乐意和玛丽亚一起生活。说得最简单，就是这样。他乐意和她共度一段漤长的岁月。
　　他不信再有什么渎长的岁月之类的事了,伹是,如果真有的话，他乐意和她一起消磨，他想,我们在住旅馆的时候，我看，可以用利文斯通博士③夫妇的名字来填登记表。
①公元前四八。年，斯巴达茵王列舆尼达牢三百名战士坠守德摩比利阻口，阻击波斯便略军，结杲被田，全部牺牲。
②崔拉修斯为罗马传说中的英雄,于公元前五。八年左右，和其他两名杜士坚守罗马一木桥，阻挡住入侵的伊特拉斯坎人的大军，待罗马人班桥后才眺入台伯河中，游至对岸。有说在河中袂淹死。
⑨苏格兰医学博士利;　通　1。，“1118。1。118.131，“—1，“于一八四。年离英至非洲南部任传教士，一面行医，一面到处旅行探险。一八六六年第二次到非洲，一度和外界失去联系。一七""年，典纽约先驵报、派英籍记者字利　斯坦利率探险队到非洲寻找他的下落，于十一月十曰在坦噶尼嗜湖边乌吉吉城与他会面，斯坦利第一句话躭是。”‘我者这位是利大斯通博士吧。”罗伯特　乔丹在此处用开玩笑的心情引用了这句活。

　　干吗不娶她？当然罗，他想。我要娶她。这样我们就成为爱达荷州太阳谷城的罗伯特申乔丹夫妇，或者是得克萨斯州科珀斯克里斯蒂城，或蒙大拿州比尤特城①的罗伯特　乔丹夫妇了參西班牙姑娘能成为了不起的妻子。我从没结过婚，所以很相信这一点。等我回大学复了职，她就是讲师太太啦。西班牙语系四年级学生傍晚来我家抽板烟，饶有兴味地换谈克维多、维加、加尔多斯②以及其他始终受人尊敬的死者的时候，玛丽亚可以跟他们讲讲某些为正统信仰而斗争的蓝衫十字军③怎样骑在她头上，而另一些拧住她胳臂，把她的裙子撩上去堵住她嘴的情况，
　　我不知道蒙大拿树米苏拉城的人们会怎样看待玛丽亚？那是说，假使我能回到米苏拉找到工作的话。看来我在那里要永远被戴上赤色分子的糈子，列在总的黑名单上了。尽管你自己永远不会知道　你永远说不准。他们没法证明你以前干过什么事，事实上即使你告诉了他们，他们也不会相信你，而我的护照在他们颁发限制条例之前去西班牙是有效的，
　　我可以待到三七年的秋天才回去，我是在三六年夏天离开的，假期虽然是一年，但在第二年秋季开学时回去也没有问题。从现在到秋季开学还有不少时间。你也可以这样说,从现在到后天这段时间也不短。不。我看没必要为大学发愁吧。只要你秋天回到那儿去就行。只要想办法回到那儿去就行。
①这三个城市都在美国西部。罗伯特“乔丹的家乡在蒙大拿州西郁米苏拉城，离其中两个城市不远。他在设想回美国后带了玛丽亚到那几个地方定居。
③维加(！　诉　　V雄、1。。2—1。85):西班牙戏剧家，现存作品四百余部，大部分为軎剧，以　羊泉，“为代表作。加尔多斯？如―18。3—1。2。〉。”西班牙作家，著有长篇小说、剧本多种,⑧指西班牙法西斯组织长枪韋窍裤，
　　
　　但是现在呢,这一段时期的生活多奇怪呀。不怪才有鬼呢。西班牙就是你的任务、你的工作，因此待在西班牙是自然而合
Chapter 14
 By the time they reached the camp it was snowing and the flakes were dropping diagonally through the pines. They slanted through the trees, sparse at first and circling as they fell, and then, as the cold wind came driving down the mountain, they came whirling and thick and Robert Jordan stood in front of the cave in a rage and watched them.
 "We will have much snow," Pablo said. His voice was thick and his eyes were red and bleary.
 "Has the gypsy come in?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "No," Pablo said. "Neither him nor the old man."
 "Will you come with me to the upper post on the road?"
 "No," Pablo said. "I will take no part in this."
 "I will find it myself."
 "In this storm you might miss it," Pablo said. "I would not go now."
 "It's just downhill to the road and then follow it up."
 "You could find it. But thy two sentries will be coming up now with the snow and you would miss them on the way."
 "The old man is waiting for me."
 "Nay. He will come in now with the snow.
 Pablo looked at the snow that was blowing fast now past the mouth of the cave and said, "You do not like the snow, _Ingl廥?_"
 Robert Jordan swore and Pablo looked at him through his bleary eyes and laughed.
 "With this thy offensive goes, _Ingl廥_," he said. "Come into the cave and thy people will be in directly."
 Inside the cave Maria was busy at the fire and Pilar at the kitchen table. The fire was smoking but, as the girl worked with it, poking in a stick of wood and then fanning it with a folded paper, there was a puff and then a flare and the wood was burning, drawing brightly as the wind sucked a draft out of the hole in the roof.
 "And this snow," Robert Jordan said. "You think there will be much?"
 "Much," Pablo said contentedly. Then called to Pilar, "You don't like it, woman, either? Now that you command you do not like this snow?"
 "_A mi qu?_" Pilar said, over her shoulder. "If it snows it snows."
 "Drink some wine, _Ingl廥_," Pablo said. "I have been drinking all day waiting for the snow."
 "Give me a cup," Robert Jordan said.
 "To the snow," Pablo said and touched cups with him. Robert Jordan looked him in the eyes and clinked his cup. You bleary-eyed murderous sod, he thought. I'd like to clink this cup against your teeth. _Take it easy_, he told himself, _take it easy_.
 "It is very beautiful the snow," Pablo said. "You won't want to sleep outside with the snow falling."
 So _that's_ on your mind too is it? Robert Jordan thought. You've a lot of troubles, haven't you, Pablo?
 "No?" he said, politely.
 "No. Very cold," Pablo said. "Very wet."
 You don't know why those old eiderdowns cost sixty-five dollars, Robert Jordan thought. I'd like to have a dollar for every time I've slept in that thing in the snow.
 "Then I should sleep in here?" he asked politely.
 "Yes."
 "Thanks," Robert Jordan said. "I'll be sleeping outside."
 "In the snow?"
 "Yes" (damn your bloody, red pig-eyes and your swine-bristly swines-end of a face). "In the snow." (In the utterly damned, ruinous, unexpected, slutting, defeat-conniving, bastard-cessery of the snow.)
 He went over to where Maria had just put another piece of pine on the fire.
 "Very beautiful, the snow," he said to the girl.
 "But it is bad for the work, isn't it?" she asked him. "Aren't you worried?"
 "_Qu?va_," he said. "Worrying is no good. When will supper be ready?"
 "I thought you would have an appetite," Pilar said. "Do you want a cut of cheese now?"
 "Thanks," he said and she cut him a slice, reaching up to unhook the big cheese that hung in a net from the ceiling, drawing a knife across the open end and handing him the heavy slice. He stood, eating it. It was just a little too goaty to be enjoyable.
 "Maria," Pablo said from the table where he was sitting.
 "What?" the girl asked.
 "Wipe the table clean, Maria," Pablo said and grinned at Robert Jordan.
 "Wipe thine own spillings," Pilar said to him. "Wipe first thy chin and thy shirt and then the table."
 "Maria," Pablo called.
 "Pay no heed to him. He is drunk," Pilar said.
 "Maria," Pablo called. "It is still snowing and the snow is beautiful."
 He doesn't know about that robe, Robert Jordan thought. Good old pig-eyes doesn't know why I paid the Woods boys sixty-five dollars for that robe. I wish the gypsy would come in though. As soon as the gypsy comes I'll go after the old man. I should go now but it is very possible that I would miss them. I don't know where he is posted.
 "Want to make snowballs?" he said to Pablo. "Want to have a snowball fight?"
 "What?" Pablo asked. "What do you propose?"
 "Nothing," Robert Jordan said. "Got your saddles covered up good?"
 "Yes."
 Then in English Robert Jordan said, "Going to grain those horses or peg them out and let them dig for it?"
 "What?"
 "Nothing. It's your problem, old pal. I'm going out of here on my feet."
 "Why do you speak in English?" Pablo asked.
 "I don't know," Robert Jordan said. "When I get very tired sometimes I speak English. Or when I get very disgusted. Or baffled, say. When I get highly baffled I just talk English to hear the sound of it. It's a reassuring noise. You ought to try it sometime."
 "What do you say, _Ingl廥?_" Pilar said. "It sounds very interesting but I do not understand."
 "Nothing," Robert Jordan said. "I said, 'nothing' in English."
 "Well then, talk Spanish," Pilar said. "It's shorter and simpler in Spanish."
 "Surely," Robert Jordan said. But oh boy, he thought, oh Pablo, oh Pilar, oh Maria, oh you two brothers in the corner whose names I've forgotten and must remember, but I get tired of it sometimes. Of it and of you and of me and of the war and why in all why did it have to snow now? That's too bloody much. No, it's not. Nothing is too bloody much. You just have to take it and fight out of it and now stop prima-donnaing and accept the fact that it is snowing as you did a moment ago and the next thing is to check with your gypsy and pick up your old man. But to snow! Now in this month. Cut it out, he said to himself. Cut it out and take it. It's that cup, you know. How did it go about that cup? He'd either have to improve his memory or else never think of quotations because when you missed one it hung in your mind like a name you had forgotten and you could not get rid of it. How did it go about that cup?
 "Let me have a cup of wine, please," he said in Spanish. Then, "Lots of snow? Eh?" he said to Pablo. "_Mucha nieve_."
 The drunken man looked up at him and grinned. He nodded his head and grinned again.
 "No offensive. No _aviones_. No bridge. Just snow," Pablo said.
 "You expect it to last a long time?" Robert Jordan sat down by him. "You think we're going to be snowed in all summer, Pablo, old boy?"
 "All summer, no," Pablo said. "Tonight and tomorrow, yes."
 "What makes you think so?"
 "There are two kinds of storms," Pablo said, heavily and judiciously. "One comes from the Pyrenees. With this one there is great cold. It is too late for this one."
 "Good," Robert Jordan said. "That's something."
 "This storm comes from the Cantabrico," Pablo said. "It comes from the sea. With the wind in this direction there will be a great storm and much snow."
 "Where did you learn all this, old timer?" Robert Jordan asked.
 Now that his rage was gone he was excited by this storm as he was always by all storms. In a blizzard, a gale, a sudden line squall, a tropical storm, or a summer thunder shower in the mountains there was an excitement that came to him from no other thing. It was like the excitement of battle except that it was clean. There is a wind that blows through battle but that was a hot wind; hot and dry as your mouth; and it blew heavily; hot and dirtily; and it rose and died away with the fortunes of the day. He knew that wind well.
 But a snowstorm was the opposite of all of that. In the snowstorm you came close to wild animals and they were not afraid. They travelled across country not knowing where they were and the deer stood sometimes in the lee of the cabin. In a snowstorm you rode up to a moose and he mistook your horse for another moose and trotted forward to meet you. In a snowstorm it always seemed, for a time, as though there were no enemies. In a snowstorm the wind could blow a gale; but it blew a white cleanness and the air was full of a driving whiteness and all things were changed and when the wind stopped there would be the stillness. This was a big storm and he might as well enjoy it. It was ruining everything, but you might as well enjoy it.
 "I was an _arroyero_ for many years," Pablo said. "We trucked freight across the mountains with the big carts before the camions came into use. In that business we learned the weather."
 "And how did you get into the movement?"
 "I was always of the left," Pablo said. "We had many contacts with the people of Asturias where they are much developed politically. I have always been for the Republic."
 "But what were you doing before the movement?"
 "I worked then for a horse contractor of Zaragoza. He furnished horses for the bull rings as well as remounts for the army. It was then that I met Pilar who was, as she told you, with the matador Finito de Palencia."
 He said this with considerable pride.
 "He wasn't much of a matador," one of the brothers at the table said looking at Pilar's back where she stood in front of the stove.
 "No?" Pilar said, turning around and looking at the man. "He wasn't much of a matador?"
 Standing there now in the cave by the cooking fire she could see him, short and brown and sober-faced, with the sad eyes, the cheeks sunken and the black hair curled wet on his forehead where the tightfitting matador's hat had made a red line that no one else noticed. She saw him stand, now, facing the five-year-old bull, facing the horns that had lifted the horses high, the great neck thrusting the horse up, up, as that rider poked into that neck with the spiked pole, thrusting up and up until the horse went over with a crash and the rider fell against the wooden fence and, with the bull's legs thrusting him forward, the big neck swung the horns that searched the horse for the life that was in him. She saw him, Finito, the not-so-good matador, now standing in front of the bull and turning sideways toward him. She saw him now clearly as he furled the heavy flannel cloth around the stick; the flannel hanging blood-heavy from the passes where it had swept over the bull's head and shoulders and the wet streaming shine of his withers and on down and over his back as the bull raised into the air and the banderillas clattered. She saw Finito stand five paces from the bull's head, profiled, the bull standing still and heavy, and draw the sword slowly up until it was level with his shoulder and then sight along the dipping blade at a point he could not yet see because the bull's head was higher than his eyes. He would bring that head down with the sweep his left arm would make with the wet, heavy cloth; but now he rocked back a little on his heels and sighted along the blade, profiled in front of the splintered horn; the bull's chest heaving and his eyes watching the cloth.
 She saw him very clearly now and she heard his thin, clear voice as he turned his head and looked toward the people in the first row of the ring above the red fence and said, "Let's see if we can kill him like this!"
 She could hear the voice and then see the first bend of the knee as he started forward and watch his voyage in onto the horn that lowered now magically as the bull's muzzle followed the low swept cloth, the thin, brown wrist controlled, sweeping the horns down and past, as the sword entered the dusty height of the withers.
 She saw its brightness going in slowly and steadily as though the bull's rush plucked it into himself and out from the man's hand and she watched it move in until the brown knuckles rested against the taut hide and the short, brown man whose eyes had never left the entry place of the sword now swung his sucked-in belly clear of the horn and rocked clear from the animal, to stand holding the cloth on the stick in his left hand, raising his right hand to watch the bull die.
 She saw him standing, his eyes watching the bull trying to hold the ground, watching the bull sway like a tree before it falls, watching the bull fight to hold his feet to the earth, the short man's hand raised in a formal gesture of triumph. She saw him standing there in the sweated, hollow relief of it being over, feeling the relief that the bull was dying, feeling the relief that there had been no shock, no blow of the horn as he came clear from it and then, as he stood, the bull could hold to the earth no longer and crashed over, rolling dead with all four feet in the air, and she could see the short, brown man walking tired and unsmiling to the fence.
 She knew he could not run across the ring if his life depended on it and she watched him walk slowly to the fence and wipe his mouth on a towel and look up at her and shake his head and then wipe his face on the towel and start his triumphant circling of the ring.
 She saw him moving slowly, dragging around the ring, smiling, bowing, smiling, his assistants walking behind him, stooping, picking up cigars, tossing back hats; he circling the ring sad-eyed and smiling, to end the circle before her. Then she looked over and saw him sitting now on the step of the wooden fence, his mouth in a towel.
 Pilar saw all this as she stood there over the fire and she said, "So he wasn't a good matador? With what class of people is my life passed now!"
 "He was a good matador," Pablo said. "He was handicapped by his short stature."
 "And clearly he was tubercular," Primitivo said.
 "Tubercular?" Pilar said. "Who wouldn't be tubercular from the punishment he received? In this country where no poor man can ever hope to make money unless he is a criminal like Juan March, or a bullfighter, or a tenor in the opera? Why wouldn't he be tubercular? In a country where the bourgeoisie over-eat so that their stomachs are all ruined and they cannot live without bicarbonate of soda and the poor are hungry from their birth till the day they die, why wouldn't he be tubercular? If you travelled under the seats in third-class carriages to ride free when you were following the fairs learning to fight as a boy, down there in the dust and dirt with the fresh spit and the dry spit, wouldn't you be tubercular if your chest was beaten out by horns?"
 "Clearly," Primitivo said. "I only said he was tubercular."
 "Of course he was tubercular," Pilar said, standing there with the big wooden stirring spoon in her hand. "He was short of stature and he had a thin voice and much fear of bulls. Never have I seen a man with more fear before the bullfight and never have I seen a man with less fear in the ring. "You," she said to Pablo. "You are afraid to die now. You think that is something of importance. But Finito was afraid all the time and in the ring he was like a lion."
 "He had the fame of being very valiant," the second brother said.
 "Never have I known a man with so much fear," Pilar said. "He would not even have a bull's head in the house. One time at the feria of Valladolid he killed a bull of Pablo Romero very well--"
 "I remember," the first brother said. "I was at the ring. It was a soap-colored one with a curly forehead and with very high horns. It was a bull of over thirty arrobas. It was the last bull he killed in Valladolid."
 "Exactly," Pilar said. "And afterwards the club of enthusiasts who met in the Caf?Colon and had taken his name for their club had the head of the bull mounted and presented it to him at a small banquet at the Caf?Colon. During the meal they had the head on the wall, but it was covered with a cloth. I was at the table and others were there, Pastora, who is uglier than I am, and the Nina de los Peines, and other gypsies and whores of great category. It was a banquet, small but of great intensity and almost of a violence due to a dispute between Pastora and one of the most significant whores over a question of propriety. I, myself, was feeling more than happy and I was sitting by Finito and I noticed he would not look up at the bull's head, which was shrouded in a purple cloth as the images of the saints are covered in church duing the week of the passion of our former Lord.
 "Finito did not eat much because he had received a _palotaxo_, a blow from the flat of the horn when he had gone in to kill in his last corrida of the year at Zaragoza, and it had rendered him unconscious for some time and even now he could not hold food on his stomach and he would put his handkerchief to his mouth and deposit a quantity of blood in it at intervals throughout the banquet. What was I going to tell you?"
 "The bull's head," Primitivo said. "The stuffed head of the bull."
 "Yes," Pilar said. "Yes. But I must tell certain details so that you will see it. Finito was never very merry, you know. He was essentially solemn and I had never known him when we were alone to laugh at anything. Not even at things which were very comic. He took everything with great seriousness. He was almost as serious as Fernando. But this was a banquet given him by a club of _aficionados_ banded together into the _Club Finito_ and it was necessary for him to give an appearance of gaiety and friendliness and merriment. So all during the meal he smiled and made friendly remarks and it was only I who noticed what he was doing with the handkerchief. He had three handkerchiefs with him and he filled the three of them and then he said to me in a very low voice, 'Pilar, I can support this no further. I think I must leave.'
 "'Let us leave then,' I said. For I saw he was suffering much. There was great hilarity by this time at the banquet and the noise was tremendous.
 "'No. I cannot leave,' Finito said to me. 'After all it is a club flamed for me and I have an obligation.'
 "'If thou art ill let us go,' I said.
 "'Nay,' he said. 'I will stay. Give me some of that manzanilla.'
 "I did not think it was wise of him to drink, since he had eaten nothing, and since he had such a condition of the stomach; but he was evidently unable to support the merriment and the hilarity and the noise longer without taking something. So I watched him drink, very rapidly, almost a bottle of the manzanilla. Having exhausted his handkerchiefs he was now employing his napkin for the use he had previously made of his handkerchiefs.
 "Now indeed the banquet had reached a stage of great enthusiasm and some of the least heavy of the whores were being paraded around the table on the shoulders of various of the club members. Pastora was prevailed upon to sing and El Ni隳 Ricardo played the guitar and it was very moving and an occasion of true joy and drunken friendship of the highest order. Never have I seen a banquet at which a higher pitch of real _flamenco_ enthusiasm was reached and yet we had not arrived at the unveiling of the bull's head which was, after all, the reason for the celebration of the banquet.
 "I was enjoying myself to such an extent and I was so busy clapping my hands to the playing of Ricardo and aiding to make up a team to clap for the singing of the Nina de los Peines that I did not notice that Finito had filled his own napkin by now, and that he had taken mine. He was drinking more manzanilla now and his eyes were very bright, and he was nodding very happily to every one. He could not speak much because at any time, while speaking, he might have to resort to his napkin; but he was giving an appearance of great gayety and enjoyment which, after all, was what he was there for.
 "So the banquet proceeded and the man who sat next to me had been the former manager of Rafael el Gallo and he was telling me a story, and the end of it was, 'So Rafael came to me and said, "You are the best friend I have in the world and the noblest. I love you like a brother and I wish to make you a present." So then he gave me a beautiful diamond stick pin and kissed me on both cheeks and we were both very moved. Then Rafael el Gallo, having given me the diamond stick pin, walked out of the caf?and I said to Retana who was sitting at the table, "That dirty gypsy had just signed a contract with another manager."'
 "'"What do you mean?" Retana asked.'
 "'I've managed him for ten years and he has never given me a present before,' the manager of El Gallo had said. 'That's the only thing it can mean.' And sure enough it was true and that was how El Gallo left him.
 "But at this point, Pastora intervened in the conversation, not perhaps as much to defend the good name of Rafael, since no one had ever spoken harder against him than she had herself, but because the manager had spoken against the gypsies by employing the phrase, 'Dirty gypsy.' She intervened so forcibly and in such terms that the manager was reduced to silence. I intervened to quiet Pastora and another _Gitana_ intervened to quiet me and the din was such that no one could distinguish any words which passed except the one great word 'whore' which roared out above all other words until quiet was restored and the three of us who had intervened sat looking down into our glasses and then I noticed that Finito was staring at the bull's head, still draped in the purple cloth, with a look of horror on his face.
 "At this moment the president of the Club commenced the speech which was to precede the unveiling of the head and all through the speech which was applauded with shouts of '_Ole!_' and poundings on the table I was watching Finito who was making use of his, no, my, napkin and sinking further back in his chair and staring with horror and fascination at the shrouded bull's head on the wall opposite him.
 "Toward the end of the speech, Finito began to shake his head and he got further back in the chair all the time.
 "'How are you, little one?' I said to him but when he looked at me he did not recognize me and he only shook his head and said, 'No. No. No.'
 "So the president of the Club reached the end of the speech and then, with everybody cheering him, he stood on a chair and reached up and untied the cord that bound the purple shroud over the head and slowly pulled it clear of the head and it stuck on one of the horns and he lifted it clear and pulled it off the sharp polished horns and there was that great yellow bull with black horns that swung Way out and pointed forward, their white tips sharp as porcupine quills, and the head of the bull was as though he were alive; his forehead was curly as in life and his nostrils were open and his eyes were bright and he was there looking straight at Finito.
 "Every one shouted and applauded and Finito sunk further back in the chair and then every one was quiet and looking at him and he said, 'No. No,' and looked at the bull and pulled further back and then he said, 'No!' very loudly and a big blob of blood came out and he didn't even put up the napkin and it slid down his chin and he was still looking at the bull and he said, 'All season, yes. To make money, yes. To eat, yes. But I can't eat. Hear me? My stomach's bad. But now with the season finished! No! No! No!' He looked around at the table and then he looked at the bull's head and said, 'No,' once more and then he put his head down and he put his napkin up to his mouth and then he just sat there like that and said nothing and the banquet, which had started so well, and promised to mark an epoch in hilarity and good fellowship was not a success."
 "Then how long after that did he die?" Primitivo asked.
 "That winter," Pilar said. "He never recovered from that last blow with the flat of the horn in Zaragoza. They are worse than a goring, for the injury is internal and it does not heal. He received one almost every time he went in to kill and it was for this reason he was not more successful. It was difficult for him to get out from over the horn because of his short stature. Nearly always the side of the horn struck him. But of course many were only glancing blows."
 "If he was so short he should not have tried to be a matador," Primitivo said.
 Pilar looked at Robert Jordan and shook her head. Then she bent over the big iron pot, still shaking her head.
 What a people they are, she thought. What a people are the Spaniards, "and if he was so short he should not have tried to be a matador." And I hear it and say nothing. I have no rage for that and having made an explanation I am silent. How simple it is when one knows nothing. _Qu?sencillo!_ Knowing nothing one says, "He was not much of a matador." Knowing nothing another says, "He was tubercular." And another says, after one, knowing, has explained, "If he was so short he should not have tried to be a matador."
 Now, bending over the fire, she saw on the bed again the naked brown body with the gnarled scars in both thighs, the deep, seared whorl below the ribs on the right side of the chest and the long white welt along the side that ended in the armpit. She saw the eyes closed and the solemn brown face and the curly black hair pushed back now from the forehead and she was sitting by him on the bed rubbing the legs, chafing the taut muscles of the calves, kneading them, loosening them, and then tapping them lightly with her folded hands, loosening the cramped muscles.
 "How is it?" she said to him. "How are the legs, little one?"
 "Very well, Pilar," he would say without opening his eyes.
 "Do you want me to rub the chest?"
 "Nay, Pilar. Please do not touch it."
 "And the upper legs?"
 "No. They hurt too badly."
 "But if I rub them and put liniment on, it will warm them and they will be better."
 "Nay, Pilar. Thank thee. I would rather they were not touched."
 "I will wash thee with alcohol."
 "Yes. Do it very lightly."
 "You were enormous in the last bull," she would say to him and he would say, "Yes, I killed him very well."
 Then, having washed him and covered him with a sheet, she would lie by him in the bed and he would put a brown hand out and touch her and say, "Thou art much woman, Pilar." It was the nearest to a joke he ever made and then, usually, after the fight, he would go to sleep and she would lie there, holding his hand in her two hands and listening to him breathe.
 He was often frightened in his sleep and she would feel his hand grip tightly and see the sweat bead on his forehead and if he woke, she said, "It's nothing," and he slept again. She was with him thus five years and never was unfaithful to him, that is almost never, and then after the funeral, she took up with Pablo who led picador horses in the ring and was like all the bulls that Finito had spent his life killing. But neither bull force nor bull courage lasted, she knew now, and what did last? I last, she thought. Yes, I have lasted. But for what?
 "Maria," she said. "Pay some attention to what you are doing. That is a fire to cook with. Not to burn down a city."
 Just then the gypsy came in the door. He was covered with snow and he stood there holding his carbine and stamping the snow from his feet.
 Robert Jordan stood up and went over to the door, "Well?" he said to the gypsy.
 "Six-hour watches, two men at a time on the big bridge," the gypsy said. "There are eight men and a corporal at the roadmender's hut. Here is thy chronometer."
 "What about the sawmill post?"
 "The old man is there. He can watch that and the road both."
 "And the road?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "The same movement as always," the gypsy said. "Nothing out of the usual. Several motor cars."
 The gypsy looked cold, his dark face was drawn with the cold and his hands were red. Standing in the mouth of the cave he took off his jacket and shook it.
 "I stayed until they changed the watch," he said. "It was changed at noon and at six. That is a long watch. I am glad I am not in their army."
 "Let us go for the old man," Robert Jordan said, putting on his leather coat.
 "Not me," the gypsy said. "I go now for the fire and the hot soup. I will tell one of these where he is and he can guide you. Hey, loafers," he called to the men who sat at the table. "Who wants to guide the _Ingl廥_ to where the old man is watching the road?"
 "I will go," Fernando rose. "Tell me where it is."
 "Listen," the gypsy said. "It is here--" and he told him where the old man, Anselmo, was posted.
　　他们到达营地的时候，巳经在下雪了。雪片在松树之间打着斜飘下来,起先稀疏地斜穿过树林,打着转飘落下来,接着,寒风从山上刮卞来，雪片稠密地盘旋而下，这时，罗伯特，乔丹恼怒地站在山洞口凝望着风雪，
　　“我们要遇到大雪了。”巴勃罗说。他矂音沙哑,眼睛昏红。“吉普赛人回来了没有?”罗伯特　乔丹问他。“没有，”巴勃罗说。“他没回来,老头子也没回来。”“你陪我到公路上段的哨所去好吗?”“不，”巴勃穸说。“这事我不插手，““我自己去找。”
　　“这样大的风雪你会找岔的。”巴勃罗说。“换了我，现在可不去。”
　　“只要下坡到了公路边,然后顺路走去就是了，““你能找到的。不过，下了雪，你那两个侦察员多半正在回来的路上，你可能会和他们错过。”“老头子正在等我。”“不。现在下了雪,他会回来的。”巴勃罗望着飞扫过洞口的风雪说，“你不喜欢下雪吧，英国
人?”
　　罗伯特　乔丹咒骂了一声，巴勃罗用他那迷糊的眼睛望着他笑。
　　“这场风雪叫你的进攻吹啦，英国人,他说。“进洞来吧，你的侦察员就要回来了。”
　　山洞里，玛丽亚在炉灶前忙着，比拉尔在收拾饭桌。炉火正在冒烟，姑娘在烧火,塞进一根木头，随即用“张折好的纸扇着，扑的一声，火苗一亮，柴火旺了，风从山洞顶上一个小口子里灌进来,火就熊熊地燃烧起来。
　　“这场雪。”罗伯特‘乔丹说，“你看会下大吗?”
　　“大，”巴勃罗心满意足地说，然后对比拉尔喊道,“你也不喜欢下雪吧，太太？现在是你当家，你不喜欢这场雪吧？”
　　“跟我有什么关系,比拉尔转过头来说。“要下就下呗。”“喝点酒吧，英国人，”巴勃罗说。“我喝了一整天就等着下雪。”
　　“给我来一杯。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“为雪干杯，”巴勃罗说，和他碰杯。罗伯特　乔丹盯着他的眼睛,，“的一声碰了杯，他想。”你这个醉眼朦胧的挨刀的,我巴不得用这杯子磕你的牙齿。，考等，他对自己说，巧等警。“雪真美，”巴勃罗说。“圣雀宁雪，你不想亭在　　了吧。”罗伯特，乔丹想。”原来你也在想这个问题。巴勃罗，你操心的事也不少啊，对不对？
　　“不睡在外面？”他客气地说。“不睡在外面。很冷。”巴勃罗说。“很潮湿。”罗伯特，乔丹想。”你才不知道那只鸭绒睡袋为什么值六十五块钱哪。我在下雪天在那睡袋里过夜已不知有多少次，如果每次人家给我一块钱，那才美呢。
　　“那么我该睡在这儿山洞里啦?”他客气地问。“不错。”
　　“谢谢，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我还是睡在外面，““睡在雪地里?”
　　“不错。”(他心里说,你那双通红的猪眼睛，你那张长满猪鬃的猪屁股似的脸,都见鬼去吧。〉“睡在雪地里。、就睡在这场该死透顶、害人不浅、意料不到、别有用心、叫人失败、臭婊子养的雪里。〉
　　他走到玛丽亚身边，她刚才在炉灶里又添了一根松柴。
　　“这场雪多美哬。”他对姑娘说。“不过对工作可不利，对吧？”她问他。“你不愁？“什么话1”他说。“愁也没用。晚饭什么时候能做好?”“我早知道你今晚胄口一定好的，”比拉尔说。“要不要现在吃一片干酪?”
　　“谢谢，”他说。她伸手把挂在洞顶的一只放着一大块干酪的网袋取下来，拿刀在切过的那头切下厚厚一大片，递给他。他站着吃。膻味重了一点，不然倒是很好吃的。“玛丽亚，”坐在桌子边的巴勃罗说，“什么事？”姑娘问。
　　“把桌子抹抹干净，玛丽亚。”巴勃罗说，对罗伯特　乔丹露齿笑笑。
　　“把你自己泼洒在桌上的东西抹掉吧。”比拉尔对他说，“先抹你自己的下巴，抹你的衬衫,再抹桌子。““玛丽亚,巴勃罗喊着。“别理他，他醉了，”比拉尔说。“玛丽亚，”巴勃罗喊着。“雪还在下,真美呀。”罗伯特　乔丹想。”他哪里知道那只睡袋的价值，这个猪眼老家伙不知道我干吗花六十五块钱向伍兹家的兄弟们买下这只睡袋。可是，我真希望吉普赛人就回来啊。他一回来我就去找老头儿。我应该现在就走，不过很可能跟他们在路上错过。我不知道他在哪儿放哨。
　　“想做雪球吗？”他对巴勃罗说。“想玩雪战吗“什么?”巴勃罗问。“你打算干什么?”“没什么。”罗伯特“乔丹说。“你的马鞍都盖好了吗?”
　　罗伯特　乔丹然后用英语说,“打算去喂马吗？还是把它们拴在外面让它们自已扒掉了雪啃草吃?”“你说什么?”
　　“没什么。那是该你来操心的事，老朋友。我要到外面去走走啦。”
　　“你干吗说英国话?”巴勃罗问。
　　“我不知道。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“我非常疲乏的时候往往讲英语，或者在十分厌烦的时候。要不,譬如说，在举棋不定的时候。我在走投无路的时侯就说英国话,为了听听这种话的调子。这种调子叫人心里踏实。今后你也该试试。”
　　“你说什么,英国人?”比拉尔问。“这种话听起来很有趣，可我听不懂。”
　　“没说什么，”罗伯特　乔丹说。”我讲的英国话的意思是‘没什么、”
　　“那还是用西班牙话讲吧，”比拉尔说。“西班牙话来得简
短。”
　　“当然啦，”罗伯特　乔丹说。他想　可是老兄啊，巴勃罗啊，比拉尔啊，玛丽亚啊，坐在角落里的两兄弟啊，我该记住你们俩的名字,却忘了、这些事有时使我讨厌。讨厌这些事，讨厌你们，讨厌我自己，讨厌战争，唉，到底为什么现在非下雪不可呢？这真他妈使人鼕不了。不，不是这样。哪有什么使人受不了的事啊。你只有接受现实，并在现实中杀出一条路来。现在别情绪波动啦，应当象刚才那样接受正在下雪这个现实，而下一步要做的事，就是向吉普赛人打听情况,找到老头儿。可是下雪啦！这个月份竟然下雪。他对自己说，别想啦。别想啦，接受现实吧。这就是苦杯,你知道。关于这苦杯是怎么说的？他要就必须提髙自己的记忆力，荽就永远别去想什么引语①，因为当你想不起来的时候，就象忘了一个人名似的，老在心里挂着，抹不掉也推不开。关于苦杯是怎么说的呢？
　　“请给我来一杯酒，”他用西班牙话说。接着对巴勃罗说。”雪下得不小，呃？”
　　那醉汉抬起头来看他，露齿笑笑。他点点头，又露齿笑笑。“进攻吹啦。飞机不来啦。桥炸不成啦。只有雪啦，”巴勃罗说，
　　“你巴望下很久吗？”罗伯特　乔丹在他旁边坐下。“巴勃罗，你看整个夏天我们都会被雪困住吗，老兄?”
　　“整个夏天，不会。”巴勃罗说。“今天晚上和明天，那错不了。”“你凭什么这样看?”
　　“风雪有两种，”巴勃罗一本正经而宵有见识地说。“―种是从比利牛斯山②刮来的。来了这种风雪，天就要大冷。”现在已过了时候,所以不是这一种。”
　　“不错，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“有道理。”“现在这场风雪是从坎塔布里科③刮来的，”巴勃罗说。“是从海上来的，风朝这个方向刮,会有大风大雪，“
①耶稣最后一次上耶路撤冷时，对十二门徒说，他将被交给祭司长和文士，被定死罪，钉在十字架上。后来在客西马尼花园里，他向上帝祷吿。”是否可以让他不要喝这一杯苦酒。。圣经　路加福音1第二十二章第四十一节至四十四节:“……跪下祷告，说，父啊，你若愿惫，就把这杯撤去，然而不要成妹我的意思,只要成就你的意思。有~位夭使，从天上显现，加添他的力里。耶稣极其伤痛，祷告更加恳切,汗珠如大血点，滴在地上。”最后来捉拿他时，门徒彼得拔刀砍掸一个来人的右耳，但耶稣对彼得说“收刀入鞘吧。我父所给我的那杯,我岜可不喝呢。\《圣经，约翰福音1第十八章第十一节）
②在西班牙东北部，是西班牙和法国之间的天然甭界。
③桷贯西班牙北部一大山脉,滨大西洋的比斯开湾春

　　“你这些是从哪里学来的,老师傅？”罗伯特　乔丹问，他的怒气消失了,这场风雪象以往任何风雪一样使他激动。暴风雪、飓风、突然的风暴、热带暴风雨或者夏天山区的雷阵雨都会使他激动，这是其他事物做不到的。就象战斗中产生的激动一样，不过比战争中的来得纯洁。在战斗中会刮起一阵风,那是一阵热风，又热又干，就象你嘴里的感觉那样　它刮得劲头十足，又热又脏，随着一天中战局的变化而起风或停息。他很了解这种风。
　　伹是暴风雪和这种风完全不同。在暴风雪中你走近野兽的时候，它们并不感到害怕。它们在旷野里乱跑,不知道自己在什么地方，有时候，一只鹿会躲到小屋的背风处去站着。在暴风雪中，你骑马碰到一头廉鹿，它会把你的马误认为另一头糜鹿，　路小跑着向你迎来。在暴风雪中，你总有种感觉，似乎一时什么仇敌都没有了。在暴风雪中，风可能大极了　但是天地“片沽白，满天白雪飞舞，一切都变了样，等风停息下来，四下万籁俱寂　现在一场大风雪来临了，他还是喜欢它吧。这场风雪打乱了一切，可是你还是喜欢它吧。
　　“我赶过好多年牲口。”巴勃罗说。”‘我们在山里用大车运货。那时还没用卡车。我们干了这一行才学会了识天时。”“你是怎么参加革命的？”
　　“我一向是左派。”巴勃罗说。“我们和阿斯图里亚斯①那里的人接触很多，他们在政治上很进步。我一向拥护共和国。““那么你革命前在干什么?”
　　“那时我替萨拉戈萨②的一个马贩子干活。他向军队和斗牛场提供马匹。我就是在那时遇见比拉尔的，就象她自己跟你讲的，她那时正和帕伦西亚①的斗牛士菲尼托作伴。”他说这句话的时侯显得相当得意。

①阿斯图里亚斯　西班牙西北部一地区，滨比斯开湾。
②萨拉戈萨〔〉。”西班牙东北部萨拉戈萨省省会，

　　“他这个斗牛士没什么了不起，”桌边两兄弟中的一个望着站在炉灶前的比拉尔的后背说。
　　“没什么了不起?”比拉尔转身冲着他说。“他没什么了不起?”

　　她这时站在山洞里的炉灶前，想象中看到了他，身材矮小，皮肤棕揭，神情安详，眼睛忧郁，双颊深陷，汗湿的黑鬈发贴在前额上，紧箍在头上的斗牛帽在前额上勒出了一条别人不会注意到的红痕。这时她看见他站着,面对着那头五岁的公牛,面对着那两只曾把好几匹马挑得老高的牛角。骑着马的斗牛士用尖利的标枪剌进了牛脖子，而那粗壮的牛脖子把那匹马越顶越髙,越项越髙，.直到啪哒一声把马掀翻，骑手摔在木栅栏上，公牛把腿扎使劲抵着地面，身子朝前冲，粗脖子朝上一挥，一对角扎进那西奄奄一息的马儿，要结果它的性命。她看到菲尼托这个没什么了不起的斗牛士这时站在牛的面前，侧身对着它。她这时清鸡埤看到他把那块带杆的厚实的法兰绒卷起来！公牛腾空跃起，肩头扎着的那几根铒镡枪嗒嗒地碰击着、同时那块法兰绒在交锋中掠过牛头，牛肩以及淌着鲜血、弄得湿漉漉、亮闪闪的牛肩隆,一直掠过牛的背部，弄得沾满了鲜血,重甸甸的。她看到菲尼托侧身轱在离牛五步远的地方，那头牛笨重地站着不动；他悝悝地把剑举到齐肩高，目光顺着朝下倾斜的剑锋瞄准他这时还看不见的要害,因为牛的头挡住了他的视线。他要用左臂挥动那块又湿艾重的绒布，引牛低下头去；但他这时把脚跟抵在地上，身体向后微微一仰，侧身站在那只碎裂了角的牛面前，用剑锋瞄着牛的脑后；牛的胸脯一起一伏，两只眼睛盯着那块绒布。 
①帕伦西亚:西班牙北郎帕伦西亚省省会參2找

　　她这时很清楚地看到了他的模样，听到了他那尖细而清晰的声音，只见他扭头望着斗牛场红色栅栏上方的第一排观众，并且说,“咱们来试试能不能就这样杀死它　” 
　　她能听到他的话声,还能看到他膝头一弯，走上前去，看清他一直朝牛角走去，这时候牛角奇怪地低下来了，因为牛嘴跟着那块在低处摆动的绒布下垂了;他用瘦细的棕色手腕操纵着，使牛角低低地从身边擦过，同时把利剑刺进沾着尘土的牛肩隆　她看到雪亮的剑慢慢地、平稳地刺进去,仿佛是牛的冲刺把斗牛士手中的剑顶进了身体，她看到那把剑一直插进去，直到那棕褐色的手指节抵住了绷紧的牛皮1这个棕揭色的矮小的斗牛士，眼光从没离开过剑刺进去的地方,这时从牛角前转过收缩的肚子，利索地摆脱了那头畜生，左手拿了那幅带杆的绒布，举起右手，望着那牛死去。
　　她看到他站着，眼睛盯住那头想站稳身子的牛,看它摇摇晃晃,象一棵即将倒下的树，看它拚命想在地上站稳，而这个矮小的斗牛士桉照常规,举起一手,打着表示胜利的手势。她看到他站在那里满头大汗,为这场斗牛的结束而感到空虚的宽慰，眼看那头牛即将死去而感到松了一口气，因为他身子在牛角边擦过的时候没挨到冲撞、挑刺而感到松了一口气。跟着那头牛没法再站稳了,啪哒一声栽倒在地，四脚朝天地死去了；她看到这个矮小的棕褐色的斗牛士疲惫而一无笑意地朝场边的櫥栏走去。
　　她知道即使拚出性命他也没法跑着穿过斗牛场　她望着他慢吞吞地走到栅栏边，拿一块毛巾抹抹嘴，抬头望望她，.还摇摇头，用毛巾抹抹脸,然后开始胜利地绕场走一圈。
　　她看到他悝吞吞地拖着脚步绕斗牛场走着，微笑，鞠躬，微笑　助手们跟在他后面,俯身把观众扔下来的雪茄烟拾起来，把帽子扔因去；他眼色忧郁、面带笑容地绕场一周，最后来到她面前结束巡礼。她从上面看去，只见他坐在木栅栏的台阶上，拿毛巾捂着嘴，
　　比拉尔站在炉灶边看到了这一切，她说，“难道他是个没什么了不起的斗牛士，“现在跟我一起过日子的倒是些什么角色呢。”
　　“他是个斗牛好手。”巴勃罗说。“他吃亏的是身材矮小。”“而且他明摆着害着肺病,”普里米蒂伏说。“肺病?”比拉尔说。“象他那样吃过苦的人，谁能不得肺病？在这个国家里，要不做胡安　马契那样的恶棍，要不当斗牛士，要不做耿剧院的男高音，哪个穷人能盼着挣到钱俩？他怎么能不得肺病？在这个国家里，资产阶级吃得胀破了肚子，不吃小苏打就不能活命，而穷人从出娘胎到进棺材都吃不饱，他怎么能不得肺病？你躲在三等车厢的座位底下，为了可以不买车票,到外地各市集去看斗牛,想从小学点本领；待在座位底下和尘土、垃圾、刚吐的痰和干了的痰打交道，假使你胸部又被牛角抵过，你能不得肺病?〃
　　”一点也不假。”普里米蒂伏说。“我只是说他得了肺病。”“他当然得了肺病。”比拉尔站在那儿说,手拿一把摁拌用的大木汤匙。“他个子矮小,嗓子尖细，见牛非常害怕。我从没见过在斗牛前比他更胆小的，也从没见过在斗牛场里比他更勇敢的人.你呀,地对巴勃罗说。”你现在就是怕死，你以为死是不得了的事　靡尼托可是一直胆小的,到了斗牛场里却象头狮子。”
　　“他的勇敢是出过名的，”两兄弟中的另一个说。“我从没见到过这样胆小的人，”比拉尔说。“他把牛头放在家里都不敢。有次节日里，他在瓦利阿多里德把巴勃罗　罗梅罗的一头牛宰了，干得真漂亮一”
　　“我记得，”那第一个兄弟说。“我那时在斗牛场上。那条牛是皂色的，前额上有鬈毛，一对角很长很大。这头公牛有七苜六十多磅①重。这是他在瓦利阿多里德宰掉的最后一头牛。”
　　“说得一点也不错，”比拉尔说。“后来，捧场的人在哥伦布饭店聚会，用他的名字给他们的俱乐部命名，还把那只牛头剥制成标本，在哥伦布饭店的一个小型宴会上送给他。他们吃饭的时候，把牛头挂在墙上，不过用布蒙了起来。当时在座的有我和一些别的人,还有帕斯托拉，她比我长得还要丑　还有贝纳家的妞儿和别的吉普赛姑娘，以及几个髙级婊子。这次宴会规模不大，可是热闹得很，因为帕斯托拉和一个最红的婊子争论一个礼貌问题，差不多闹翻了天。我自己也是开心得不能再开心了　我坐在菲尼托身边，发现他不肯抬起头来望那牛头；牛头上蒙上了—块紫布，就象我们过去信奉的主耶稣受难周教堂里圣徒傢上蒙的那种布一样。
　　“菲尼托吃得不多，因为那年在萨拉戈萨参加的最后一场斗牛中,他正要动手剌杀那条公牛时，被牛角横扫了一下，弄得他昏过去了好些时候，因此即使参加这次宴会时,他的胃口还是不奸、他会不时拿手帕捂在嘴上，往里面吐血。我刚才讲到哪儿啦？”

　　“牛头，”普里米蒂伏说。“那只剥制的牛头。”―〃对，”比拉尔说。“对了。不过有些细节我必须讲一讲，好让你们明白是什么回事。你们知道，菲尼托是一向兴致不大高的。他是天生严肃的,我跟他单独在一起的时候,从没见他为，“什么事情大笑过。哪怕是很滑稽的事，他也是不笑的。他遇事都是一本正经。差不多象费尔南多一般一本正经，不过，那次宴会是由一群斗牛爱好者组成的菲尼托俱乐部为他举办的，所以他必须显得高高兴兴、和和气气、喜气洋洋。所以宴会时他始终笑嘻喀的，说着亲热的话儿；只有我一个人注意到他在拿手帕干什么亊。他随身带了三条手帕，结果三条手帕都吐满了血。接着他声音放得很低地对我说，‘比拉尔,我再也支持不住啦。我看只有走了。”
　　〃那我们就走吧。”我说。因为我看他很难受。宴会到了这个时侯热闹极了,吵闹声大得不得了，
　　〃不。我不能走。”菲尼托对我说。‘说到头,这个俱乐部用的是我的名字，义不容辞哪。“
　　“‘你既然不舒服,我们还是走吧，’我说。“不能。”他说。‘我不走。给我些岛葡萄酒。”“我觉得他不该喝酒，因为他一点东西也没吃，而胃叉不好；不过,要是不吃点喝点的话，他是明摆着再也应付不了这种唷喀哈哈、吵吵闹闹的场面的。就那样，我看他很快地喝了差不多一瓶白葡萄酒。他把手帕都弄脏了以后，这时把餐巾来当手粕用了。
　　“这时宴会可真到了最热火的时候，有些骨头最轻的婊子跨在几个俱乐部成员的肩膀上大出洋相。应大家的邀请，帕斯托拉喝起敢来,小里卡多弹起了吉他，场面非常动人，真叫人开心。大家醉醺醎地亲热到了极点。我从来也没见过鄺次宴会能达到这样的真疋的安达卢西亚式的热情，不过，我们还没到替牛头揭幕的时候，归根到底，举行这次宴会就是为了这一个。
　　“我开心极了，不停地伴着里卡多的琴声拍手，跟一些人一起给贝纳家的妞儿的歌声打拍子，竟然没留心到菲尼托把他自己那块餐巾吐满了血，已经把我的那块也拿去了。他那时又喝了些白葡萄酒，眼睛变得亮亮的,髙髙兴兴地对每个人点头。他不能多讲话，因为一开口就随时得使用那块餐巾，可是他装得喜气洋洋，非常髙兴，这次要他来出席毕竟是为了让他享受享受乐趣啊。
　　“宴会继续进行下去，坐在我旁边的是‘公鸡’拉斐尔的前经理,他正在给我讲故事，故事的结尾是。‘所以拉斐尔走到我身边说，“您是我在世界上的最髙尚的莫逆之交。我对您的爱象兄弟一般，我要送您一件礼物。”因此他就送了我一只漂亮的钻石钡针，还吻了我的双颊。我们俩都很感动。“公鸡”拉斐尔送了我那只钻石领针之后，就走出了咖啡馆，我对坐在桌边的雷塔娜说,“这个下流的吉普赛人刚和另一位经理签了一个合同。”’“‘“你这话是什么意思？”雷塔娜问道。’“‘我替他当了十年经理，以前从没送过我礼物，’‘公鸡'的前经理说。‘这回送礼无非说明了这一点。’果然不错，‘公鸡’就这样和他吹了。
　　“可是，正在这时帕斯托拉插嘴了，也许不是为了替拉斐尔辩护,因为谁也比不上她自己那样诋毁拉斐尔，只是因为这位经理提到吉普赛人的时候，说了句‘下淹的吉普赛人’。她插身进来,讲得声色俱历，使得经理哑口无言。我就插进去要帕斯托拉别吵,而另一个吉普赛女人插进来要我别吵，因此闹成一片，谁也没法听清我们之间所讲的话,只有一个词儿，‘臭婊子、最蕺响亮。最后重新安静下来了，我们三个插嘴的人都坐下来，低头望着自己的酒杯，这时，我才留惫到菲尼托脸上餺出惊骇的神气，正瞪着那只仍然蒙在紫色布里的牛头。〃这时，俱乐部主席开始演说了，等他讲完了就要给牛头揭去蒙着的布。滇说时从头到尾只听到人们喝彩叫好,拍桌拍凳，赛呢,望着菲尼托正在朝他的,不，朝我的餐巾里吐血，身体在椅子里往下瘫，一面惊骇而迷惘地瞪着他对面墙上蒙着布的牛头。“演说快结束时，菲尼托开始摇头，身体在椅予里越来越往下瘫了。
　　“‘你怎么啦，小不点儿?’我对他说，但他望着我时的神气却好象不认得我了,他只管摇着头说，‘别。别。别。’
　　“俱乐部主席的演说到此结束，在大家的一片喝彩声中，他站在椅子上伸手解开缚在牛头上的紫布的带子，悝慢地把布揭开，布被一只牛角勾住了，他把布提起来，从那尖锐而光滑的牛角上拉掉,露出那只黄色大牛头和那对挑出在两旁、角尖朝前的黑牛角，那白色的牛角尖象豪猪身上的粳刺般锐利，牛头挺精神，好象活的一样，前额象活着的肘候一样长着鬆毛，舁孔是张幵的,眼睹乌亮,正直瞪瞪地望着菲尼托。
　　“每个人都欢呼、拍手，菲尼托却更往椅子里瘫下去;大家顿时静下来望着他，他呢,一边说着‘别。别，’一边望着牛头，身子更向下瘫了,接着他大喊一声‘别“吐出“大口血，他顾不上拿起餐巾，血就顺着他下巴淌下来，他仍旧望着那只牛头，说，'斗牛季节，好。挣钱，好〃吃，好。可是我不能吃啦。昕到了吗？我的胃坏了。可现在我的季节也过去了　别！别1别　’他望望桌予四周的人,望望那只牛头，又说了一声‘别，’接着低下头去，拿起22。
　　餐巾捂在嘴上，就那样坐在那里,一句话也不说了，那次宴会开头很好，眼看在寻欢作乐和交流情谊方面会得到划时代的成功，结果却失败了。”
　　“那之后他过了多久死去的呢？”普里米蒂伏问。“那年冬天。”比拉尔说。“他在萨拉戈萨被牛角横扫一下之后一直没有复元。这比被牛角挑伤还厉害，因为这是内伤，治不好的。他每次最后剌牛的时候差不多都要挨这么一下，他不是最出名，就是这个道理。他个子矮小,想要把上半身躲开牛角不容易。差不多每次都要挨一下横扫。不过当然，好多次仅仅是擦一下罢了。”
　　“既然他个子矮小，就不该去当斗牛士，”普里米蒂伏说。比拉尔望望罗伯特　乔丹，对他摇摇头。她然后弯身望着那只大铁锅,还在摇头。
　　她想，这是什么样的人民哪。西班牙人是什么样的人民哪。“既然他个子矮小，就不该去当斗牛士。”我听着，无话可说。我现在已不恼恨这种话了。我刚才跟他们解释过，现在无话可说了。不知道底细，那说说多容易舸。不知道底细，有个人就说,〃他是个没什么了不起的斗牛士。”不知道底细，另外一个人说，“他得了肺病。”等我这知情人讲明了之后,又有人说了。”既然他个子矮小,就不该去当斗牛士。”
　　她这时俯身凝望着炉火，眼前又浮现出那赤裸的棕色身体躺在床上,两条大腿上都是瘫痕，右胸助骨下面有个深深的岡伤疤,身子“侧有一长条一直延伸到胳胺窝的白色疤痕。她看到那双闭拢的眼瞎，严肃的棕揭色的脸，前额上的黑色鬆发那时被掠到了脑后。她挨着他坐在床上,揉着他的两条腿,揉着小腿肚上绷紧的肌肉，揉着肌肉，使它松舒，然后用她握紧的双手轻轻插打，松舒抽筋的肌肉。
　　“怎么样?”她对他说。“小不点儿，腿上好些吗,“很好，比拉尔，”他闭着眼睹说。“要我揉揉胸膛吗？”“别，比拉尔。请你别碰脚膛。，“大腿呢?”
　　“别。腿上痛得太厉害啦。”
　　“不过，要是让我揉一探,搽点药奔，就会使肌肉发热，舒服―点儿的。”
　　“别，比拉尔。谢谢你。还是别去碰它。”“我来用酒精给你擦擦。”“好的。要很轻很轻。”
　　“你最后一次斗牛真了不起。”她对他说，而他回答道，“正是，那头牛我宰得真不赖，“
　　她给他擦洗之后,盖上一条被子，然后上床躺在他身边；他伸出棕揭色的手来摸摸她，说，“你真是个好女人，比拉尔。”这就算是他说的笑话了。他通常在斗牛之后就睡熟了，她就躺在那儿，把他的手握在自己的两只手里，听他呼吸。
　　他在睡梦中常常会受惊，她就会觉得他的手紧紧握住了她的手，还见到他前额上冒出汗珠　要是他醒过来，她就说，“没事。”于是他又睡去。她就这样跟了他五年，从来没有对他不贞过，那是说几乎从来没有。葬礼之后，她就和在斗牛场给斗牛士牵马的巴勃罗相好了，他就象菲尼托消磨一生所宰的牛那样壮实。但是她现在知道，牛的劲头，牛的勇气都不能持久，那么什么能持久呢？她想,我是持久的。是呀,我是持久的。可是，为了什么呢？
　　“玛丽亚，”她说。“注意些你在干什么。这炉火是用来煮吃的。可不是用来烧掉城市的。“
　　正在这时,吉普赛人走进门来　他满身是雪，握着卡宾枪站住了，跺着脚把雪抖掉。
　　罗伯特　乔丹站起身来向门边走去。”情况怎么样?”他对吉普赛人说，
　　“大桥上每岗两个人，六小时换一次。”吉普赛人说。“养路工小屋那边有八个人和一个班长，这是你的手表“锯木厂边的哨所的情况怎么样？”“老头子在那儿，他可以同时监督哨所和公路。”“那么公路上呢?”罗伯特　乔丹问　“老样子。”吉普赛人说。“没什么特别情況。有几辆汽车。”吉普赛人浑身透露出寒意，黑黑的脸冻得皮肤都绷紧了，两手发红。他站在洞口，臊下外衣抖雪。
　　“我一直待到他们换岗的时侯。”他说，“换岗的时间是中午十二点钟和下午六点。这一岗可不頰　幸亏我不在他们部队里当兵。”
　　“我们去找老头子，”罗伯特　乔丹穿上皮外农说。〃我不干了吉普赛人说。“我现在要烤火、暍碗热汤了。我把他守望的地方告诉这里的　个人,他会给你带路的。嗨,你们这帮二流子，”他对坐在桌边的那些人大声说　“猓个肯带英国人去老头子守望公路的地方?”
　　“我去。”费尔南多站起身来。“把地点告诉我。”“听着，”吉普赛人说。“那是在一”他告诉他老头儿安塞尔萇放哨的地方　
Chapter 15
 Anselmo was crouched in the lee of the trunk of a big tree and the snow blew past on either side. He was pressed close against the tree and his hands were inside of the sleeves of his jacket, each hand shoved up into the opposite sleeve, and his head was pulled as far down into the jacket as it would go. If I stay here much longer I will freeze, he thought, and that will be of no value. The _Ingl廥_ told me to stay until I was relieved but he did not know then about this storm. There has been no abnormal movement on the road and I know the dispositions and the habits of this post at the sawmill across the road. I should go now to the camp. Anybody with sense would be expecting me to return to the camp. I will stay a little longer, he thought, and then go to the camp. It is the fault of the orders, which are too rigid. There is no allowance for a change in circumstance. He rubbed his feet together and then took his hands out of the jacket sleeves and bent over and rubbed his legs with them and patted his feet together to keep the circulation going. It was less cold there, out of the wind in the shelter of the tree, but he would have to start walking shortly.
 As he crouched, rubbing his feet, he heard a motorcar on the road. It had on chains and one link of chain was slapping and, as he Watched, it came up the snow-covered road, green and brown painted, in broken patches of daubed color, the windows blued over so that you could not see in, with only a half circle left clear in the blue for the occupants to look out through. It was a two-year-old Rolls-Royce town car camouflaged for the use of the General Staff but Anselmo did not know that. He could not see into the car where three officers sat wrapped in their capes. Two were on the back seat and one sat on the folding chair. The officer on the folding chair was looking out of the slit in the blue of the window as the car passed but Anselmo did not know this. Neither of them saw the other.
 The car passed in the snow directly below him. Anselmo saw the chauffeur, red-faced and steel-helmeted, his face and helmet projecting out of the blanket cape he wore and he saw the forward jut of the automatic rifle the orderly who sat beside the chauffeur carried. Then the car was gone up the road and Anselmo reached into the inside of his jacket and took out from his shirt pocket the two sheets torn from Robert Jordan's notebook and made a mark after the drawing of a motorcar. It was the tenth car up for the day. Six had come down. Four were still up. It was not an unusual amount of cars to move upon that road but Anselmo did not distinguish between the Fords, Fiats, Opels, Renaults, and Citroens of the staff of the Division that held the passes and the line of the mountain and the Rolls-Royces, Lancias, Mercedes, and Isottas of the General Staff. This was the sort of distinction that Robert Jordan should have made and, if he had been there instead of the old man, he would have appreciated the significance of these cars which had gone up. But he was not there and the old man simply made a mark for a motorcar going up the road, on the sheet of note paper.
 Anselmo was now so cold that he decided he had best go to camp before it was dark. He had no fear of missing the way, but he thought it was useless to stay longer and the wind was blowing colder all the time and there was no lessening of the snow. But when he stood up and stamped his feet and looked through the driving snow at the road he did not start off up the hillside but stayed leaning against the sheltered side of the pine tree.
 The _Ingl廥_ told me to stay, he thought. Even now he may be on the way here and, if I leave this place, he may lose himself in the snow searching for me. All through this war we have suffered from a lack of discipline and from the disobeying of orders and I will wait a while still for the _Ingl廥_. But if he does not come soon I must go in spite of all orders for I have a report to make now, and I have much to do in these days, and to freeze here is an exaggeration and without utility.
 Across the road at the sawmill smoke was coming out of the chimney and Anselmo could smell it blown toward him through the snow. The fascists are warm, he thought, and they are comfortable, and tomorrow night we will kill them. It is a strange thing and I do not like to think of it. I have watched them all day and they are the same men that we are. I believe that I could walk up to the mill and knock on the door and I would be welcome except that they have orders to challenge all travellers and ask to see their papers. It is only orders that come between us. Those men are not fascists. I call them so, but they are not. They are poor men as we are. They should never be fighting against us and I do not like to think of the killing.
 These at this post are Gallegos. I know that from hearing them talk this afternoon. They cannot desert because if they do their families will be shot. Gallegos are either very intelligent or very dumb and brutal. I have known both kinds. Lister is a Gallego from the same town as Franco. I wonder what these Gallegos think of this snow now at this time of year. They have no high mountains such as these and in their country it always rains and it is always green.
 A light showed in the window of the sawmill and Anselmo shivered and thought, damn that _Ingl廥!_ There are the Gallegos warm and in a house here in our country, and I am freezing behind a tree and we live in a hole in the rocks like beasts in the mountain. But tomorrow, he thought, the beasts will come out of their hole and these that are now so comfortable will die warm in their blankets. As those died in the night when we raided Otero, he thought. He did not like to remember Otero.
 In Otero, that night, was when he first killed and he hoped he would not have to kill in this of the suppressing of these posts. It was in Otero that Pablo knifed the sentry when Anselmo pulled the blanket over his head and the sentry caught Anselmo's foot and held it, smothered as he was in the blanket, and made a crying noise in the blanket and Anselmo had to feel in the blanket and knife him until he let go of the foot and was still. He had his knee across the man's throat to keep him silent and he was knifing into the bundle when Pablo tossed the bomb through the window into the room where the men of the post were all sleeping. And when the flash came it was as though the whole world burst red and yellow before your eyes and two more bombs were in already. Pablo had pulled the pins and tossed them quickly through the window, and those who were not killed in their beds were killed as they rose from bed when the second bomb exploded. That was in the great days of Pablo when he scourged the country like a tartar and no fascist post was safe at night.
 And now, he is as finished and as ended as a boar that has been altered, Anselmo thought, and, when the altering has been accomplished and the squealing is over you cast the two stones away and the boar, that is a boar no longer, goes snouting and rooting up to them and eats them. No, he is not that bad, Anselmo grinned, one can think too badly even of Pablo. But he is ugly enough and changed enough.
 It is too cold, he thought. That the _Ingl廥_ should come and that I should not have to kill in this of the posts. These four Gallegos and their corporal are for those who like the killing. The _Ingl廥_ said that. I will do it if it is my duty but the _Ingl廥_ said that I would be with him at the bridge and that this would be left to others. At the bridge there will be a battle and, if I am able to endure the battle, then I will have done all that an old man may do in this war. But let the _Ingl廥_ come now, for I am cold and to see the light in the mill where I know that the Gallegos are warm makes me colder still. I wish that I were in my own house again and that this war were over. But you have no house now, he thought. We must win this war before you can ever return to your house.
 Inside the sawmill one of the soldiers was sitting on his bunk and greasing his boots. Another lay in his bunk sleeping. The third was cooking and the corporal was reading a paper. Their helmets hung on nails driven into the wall and their rifles leaned against the plank wall.
 "What kind of country is this where it snows when it is almost June?" the soldier who was sitting on the bunk said.
 "It is a phenomenon," the corporal said.
 "We are in the moon of May," the soldier who was cooking said. "The moon of May has not yet terminated."
 "What kind of a country is it where it snows in May?" the soldier on the bunk insisted.
 "In May snow is no rarity in these mountains," the corporal said. "I have been colder in Madrid in the month of May than in any other month."
 "And hotter, too," the soldier who was cooking said.
 "May is a month of great contrasts in temperature," the corporal said. "Here, in Castile, May is a month of great heat but it can have much cold."
 "Or rain," the soldier on the bunk said. "In this past May it rained almost every day."
 "It did not," the soldier who was cooking said. "And anyway this past May was the moon of April."
 "One could go crazy listening to thee and thy moons," the corporal said. "Leave this of the moons alone."
 "Any one who lives either by the sea or by the land knows that it is the moon and not the month which counts," the soldier who was cooking said. "Now for example, we have just started the moon of May. Yet it is coming on June."
 "Why then do we not get definitely behind in the seasons?" the corporal said. "The whole proposition gives me a headache."
 "You are from a town," the soldier who was cooking said. "You are from Lugo. What would you know of the sea or of the land?"
 "One learns more in a town than you _analfabetos_ learn in thy sea or thy land."
 "In this moon the first of the big schools of sardines come," the soldier who was cooking said. "In this moon the sardine boats will be outfitting and the mackerel will have gone north."
 "Why are you not in the navy if you come from Noya?" the corporal asked.
 "Because I am not inscribed from Noya but from Negreira, where I was born. And from Negreira, which is up the river Tambre, they take you for the army."
 "Worse luck," said the corporal.
 "Do not think the navy is without peril," the soldier who was sitting on the bunk said. "Even without the possibility of combat that is a dangerous coast in the winter."
 "Nothing can be worse than the army," the corporal said.
 "And you a corporal," the soldier who was cooking said. "What a way of speaking is that?"
 "Nay," the corporal said. "I mean for dangers. I mean the endurance of bombardments, the necessity to attack, the life of the parapet."
 "Here we have little of that," the soldier on the bunk said.
 "By the Grace of God," the corporal said. "But who knows when we will be subject to it again? Certainly we will not have something as easy as this forever!"
 "How much longer do you think we will have this detail?"
 "I don't know," the corporal said. "But I wish we could have it for all of the war."
 "Six hours is too long to be on guard," the soldier who was cooking said.
 "We will have three-hour watches as long as this storm holds," the corporal said. "That is only normal."
 "What about all those staff cars?" the soldier on the bunk asked. "I did not like the look of all those staff cars."
 "Nor I," the corporal said. "All such things are of evil omen."
 "And aviation," the soldier who was cooking said. "Aviation is another bad sign."
 "But we have formidable aviation," the corporal said. "The Reds have no aviation such as we have. Those planes this morning were something to make any man happy."
 "I have seen the Red planes when they were something serious," the soldier on the bunk said. "I have seen those two motor bombers when they were a horror to endure."
 "Yes. But they are not as formidable as our aviation," the corporal said. "We have an aviation that is insuperable."
 This was how they were talking in the sawmill while Anselmo waited in the snow watching the road and the light in the sawmill window.
 I hope I am not for the killing, Anselmo was thinking. I think that after the war there will have to be some great penance done for the killing. If we no longer have religion after the war then I think there must be some form of civic penance organized that all may be cleansed from the killing or else we will never have a true and human basis for living. The killing is necessary, I know, but still the doing of it is very bad for a man and I think that, after all this is over and we have won the war, there must be a penance of some kind for the cleansing of us all.
 Anselmo was a very good man and whenever he was alone for long, and he was alone much of the time, this problem of the killing returned to him.
 I wonder about the _Ingl廥_, he thought. He told me that he did not mind it. Yet he seems to be both sensitive and kind. It may be that in the younger people it does not have an importance. It may be that in foreigners, or in those who have not had our religion, there is not the same attitude. But I think any one doing it will be brutalized in time and I think that even though necessary, it is a great sin and that afterwards we must do something very strong to atone for it.
 It was dark now and he looked at the light across the road and shook his arms against his chest to warm them. Now, he thought, he would certainly leave for the camp; but something kept him there beside the tree above the road. It was snowing harder and Anselmo thought: if only we could blow the bridge tonight. On a night like this it would be nothing to take the posts and blow the bridge and it would all be over and done with. On a night like this you could do anything.
 Then he stood there against the tree stamping his feet softly and he did not think any more about the bridge. The coming of the dark always made him feel lonely and tonight he felt so lonely that there was a hollowness in him as of hunger. In the old days he could help this loneliness by the saying of prayers and often coming home from hunting he would repeat a great number of the same prayer and it made him feel better. But he had not prayed once since the movement. He missed the prayers but he thought it would be unfair and hypocritical to say them and he did not wish to ask any favors or for any different treatment than all the men were receiving.
 No, he thought, I am lonely. But so are all the soldiers and the Wives of all the soldiers and all those who have lost families or parents. I have no wife, but I am glad that she died before the movement. She would not have understood it. I have no children and I never will have any children. I am lonely in the day when I am not working but when the dark comes it is a time of great loneliness. But one thing I have that no man nor any God can take from me and that is that I have worked well for the Republic. I have worked hard for the good that we will all share later. I have worked my best from the first of the movement and I have done nothing that I am ashamed of.
 All that I am sorry for is the killing. But surely there will be an opportunity to atone for that because for a sin of that sort that so many bear, certainly some just relief will be devised. I would like to talk with the _Ingl廥_ about it but, being young, it is possible that he might not understand. He mentioned the killing before. Or was it I that mentioned it? He must have killed much, but he shows no signs of liking it. In those who like it there is always a rottenness.
 It must really be a great sin, he thought. Because certainly it is the one thing we have no right to do even though, as I know, it is necessary. But in Spain it is done too lightly and often without true necessity and there is much quick injustice which, afterward, can never be repaired. I wish I did not think about it so much, he thought. I wish there were a penance for it that one could commence now because it is the only thing that I have done in all my life that makes me feel badly when I am alone. All the other things are forgiven or one had a chance to atone for them by kindness or in some decent way. But I think this of the killing must be a very great sin and I would like to fix it up. Later on there may be certain days that one can work for the state or something that one can do that will remove it. It will probably be something that one pays as in the days of the Church, he thought, and smiled. The Church was well organized for sin. That pleased him and he was smiling in the dark when Robert Jordan came up to him. He came silently and the old man did not see him until he was there.
 "_Hola, viejo_," Robert Jordan whispered and clapped him on the back. "How's the old one?"
 "Very cold," Anselmo said. Fernando was standing a little apart, his back turned against the driving snow.
 "Come on," Robert Jordan whispered. "Get on up to camp and get warm. It was a crime to leave you here so long."
 "That is their light," Anselmo pointed.
 "Where's the sentry?"
 "You do not see him from here. He is around the bend."
 "The hell with them," Robert Jordan said. "You tell me at camp. Come on, let's go."
 "Let me show you," Anselmo said.
 "I'm going to look at it in the morning," Robert Jordan said. "Here, take a swallow of this."
 He handed the old man his flask. Anselmo tipped it up and swallowed.
 "_Ayee_," he said and rubbed his mouth. "It is fire."
 "Come on," Robert Jordan said in the dark. "Let us go."
 It was so dark now you could only see the flakes blowing past and the rigid dark of the pine trunks. Fernando was standing a little way up the hill. Look at that cigar store Indian, Robert Jordan thought. I suppose I have to offer him a drink.
 "Hey, Fernando," he said as he came up to him. "A swallow?"
 "No," said Fernando. "Thank you."
 Thank _you_, I mean, Robert Jordan thought. I'm glad cigar store Indians don't drink. There isn't too much of that left. Boy, I'm glad to see this old man, Robert Jordan thought. He looked at Anselmo and then clapped him on the back again as they started up the hill.
 "I'm glad to see you, _viejo_," he said to Anselmo. "If I ever get gloomy, when I see you it cheers me up. Come on, let's get up there."
 They were going up the hill in the snow.
 "Back to the palace of Pablo," Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. It sounded wonderful in Spanish.
 "_El Palacio del Miedo_," Anselmo said. "The Palace of Fear."
 "_La cueva de los huevos perdidos_," Robert Jordan capped the other happily. "The cave of the lost eggs."
 "What eggs?" Fernando asked.
 "A joke," Robert Jordan said. "Just a joke. Not eggs, you know. The others."
 "But why are they lost?" Fernando asked.
 "I don't know," said Robert Jordan. "Take a book to tell you. Ask Pilar," then he put his arm around Anselmo's shoulder and held him tight as they walked and shook him. "Listen," he said. "I'm glad to see you, hear? You don't know what it means to find somebody in this country in the same place they were left."
 It showed what confidence and intimacy he had that he could say anything against the country.
 "I am glad to see thee," Anselmo said. "But I was just about to leave."
 "Like hell you would have," Robert Jordan said happily. "You'd have frozen first."
 "How was it up above?" Anselmo asked.
 "Fine," said Robert Jordan. "Everything is fine."
 He was very happy with that sudden, rare happiness that can come to any one with a command in a revolutionary arm; the happiness of finding that even one of your flanks holds. If both flanks ever held I suppose it would be too much to take, he thought. I don't know who is prepared to stand that. And if you extend along a flank, any flank, it eventually becomes one man. Yes, one man. This was not the axiom he wanted. But this was a good man. One good man. You are going to be the left flank when we have the battle, he thought. I better not tell you that yet. It's going to be an awfully small battle, he thought. But it's going to be an awfully good one. Well, I always wanted to fight one on my own. I always had an opinion on what was wrong with everybody else's, from Agincourt down. I will have to make this a good one. It is going to be small but very select. If I have to do what I think I will have to do it will be very select indeed.
 "Listen," he said to Anselmo. "I'm awfully glad to see you."
 "And me to see thee," the old man said.
 As they went up the hill in the dark, the wind at their backs, the storm blowing past them as they climbed, Anselmo did not feel lonely. He had not been lonely since the _Ingl廥_ had clapped him on the shoulder. The _Ingl廥_ was pleased and happy and they joked together. The _Ingl廥_ said it all went well and he was not worried. The drink in his stomach warmed him and his feet were warming now climbing.
 "Not much on the road," he said to the _Ingl廥_.
 "Good," the _Ingl廥_ told him. "You will show me when we get there."
 Anselmo was happy now and he was very pleased that he had stayed there at the post of observation.
 If he had come in to camp it would have been all right. It would have been the intelligent and correct thing to have done under the circumstances, Robert Jordan was thinking. But he stayed as he was told, Robert Jordan thought. That's the rarest thing that can happen in Spain. To stay in a storm, in a way, corresponds to a lot of things. It's not for nothing that the Germans call an attack a storm. I could certainly use a couple more who would stay. I most certainly could. I wonder if that Fernando would stay. It's just possible. After all, he is the one who suggested coming out just now. Do you suppose he would stay? Wouldn't that be good? He's just about stubborn enough. I'll have to make some inquiries. Wonder what the old cigar store Indian is thinking about now.
 "What are you thinking about, Fernando?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Why do you ask?"
 "Curiosity," Robert Jordan said. "I am a man of great curiosity."
 "I was thinking of supper," Fernando said.
 "Do you like to eat?"
 "Yes. Very much."
 "How's Pilar's cooking?"
 "Average," Fernando answered.
 He's a second Coolidge, Robert Jordan thought. But, you know, I have just a hunch that he would stay.
 The three of them plodded up the hill in the snow.
　　安塞尔莫蹲在一棵大树的背风处，奮从树干两边吹过。他紧靠树干蹲着，两手合抱，笼在袖筒里,脑袋竭力往外套里缩。他想，要是再待下去，我要冻偁了，那才没愈思哩，这英国人叫我一直待到换班的时侯，可是他那时不知道会来这场暴风雪。公路上并没有特殊情況，而且我知道公路对面锯木厂边那哨所的人员部署和栝动规律。我现在要回营地去啦。凡是通情达理的人都会指望我囬营地去的，他想，我再等一会儿才回去吧。那是命令的毛病，太死板了申不允许根据具体情況作出改变　他把两只脚互相搓擦，然后从衣袖里抽出手来，弯下身体用手揉腿,再拍击双脚使血液流通。待在树后吹不到风,冷得不厉害,但他还是要过一会儿就动身走回去，他弯身揉脚的时侯，听到公路上开来一辆汽车。车轮上系着防滑铁链,有一节铁链啪哒啪哒地响着；他望见车子在覆盖着雪的公路上驶来，车身上的油漆绿一块、褐一块的乱漆一气，车窗上涂了蓝色，使人看不到里面，上面只留出一个半圓形没有涂漆，让里面的人可以看到外面。那是“辆用过两年的罗尔斯　罗伊斯(！)轿车，涂了伪装漆，供总参谋部使用，安塞尔典可不知道这情形。他看不见车子里坐着三个军官，身上裹着披风。两个坐在后座,一个坐在对面的折椅上。车子幵过的时候，坐在折椅上的军官正从蓝车窗上的缺口向外张望。安塞尔莫可不知道这情况。他们俩都没有发现对方，车子就在他下面的雪地里经过。安塞尔莫看见了头戴钢盔、脸色红红的司机,脸和钢盔露在他身穿的毯子式的披风上面，他还看到司机身边那勤务兵携带的自动步枪的上半截朝前撅出着。车子朝公路上段驶去，安塞尔莫就把手伸进外套，从衬衣袋里掏出罗伯特、乔丹笔记本上撕下的两张纸，按规格画了一辆汽车的记号。这是那天驶上山的第十辆车于。有六辆已回下山来，四辆仍然在山上。路上驶过的车于并不太多，安塞尔莫也分不清控制着各山口和山顶防线的师参谋部的车辆和总参谋部的车辆之间的区别。”师参谋部有福特、菲亚特、奥贝尔、雷诺和雪铁龙等牌的汽车；总参谋部有罗尔斯〃罗伊斯、兰西亚斯、默塞德斯和伊索塔等。罗伯特‘乔丹分得清这种区别，要是在那儿的是他而不是老头儿，他就能领会那些车子上山的含意了，但是他不在那儿，而老头儿呢，只在那张纸上给每一辆上山去的汽车画上　划罢了　。
　　安塞尔莫这时非常冷，所以他决定，最好还是在断黑以前回营地去。他不怕迷路，可是他认为再待下去没意思了　风越刮越冷，雪也不见小。他站起身来，跺跺脚，目光穿过飞舞的霄花望望公路,并不动身雉登山坡,却仍旧靠在那棵挡风的松树后面不动。
　　他想　英国人叫我别走。说不定这会几他就在路上快到这里了，要是我离开这里,他在雪里找我可能会迷路。我们这次打仗老是因为缺乏纪律、不听命令而吃苦头，我要再等一等英国人。不过,如果他不马上来,那管它命令不命令,我一定要走,因路对面锯木厂的烟因正在冒烟，安塞尔莫闻得出烟在雪中正向他这边飘来。他想，法西斯分子又暖和又舒服，可明天晚上我们要叫他们归天啦。这事情真怪，我可不爱想它。我整整守望了他们一天，可他们跟我们一样是人。我看哪，要不是他们奉有命令要盘问一切过路人、检查身份证的话，我满可以走到锯木厂去敲敲门，而且他们准会欢迎我的。我们之间只隔着一道命令。那些人不是法西斯分子。虽说我叫他们法西斯分子,其实不是。他们是穷光蛋，和我们一样。他们绝对不应该和我们打仗，我可不爱想到杀人的事儿　。
　　这个哨所里的人都是加利西亚①人。我从今天下午听他们说话的口苷中听出的。他们不会开小差,因为开了小差，一家老小部要给枪毙。加利西亚人要么非常聡明,要么笨头笨脑、野蛮得很。这两种人我都遇见过。利斯特就是加利西亚人，和佛朗哥是同乡②。现在这种季节下雪，我真不知道这些加利西亚人是怎样想的。他们没有这样高的山，他们家乡老是下雨，四季常青。
　　“锯木厂的窗子里露出了灯光’安塞尔莫哆嗦了一下，心想,那个英国人真该死1这些加利西亚人在我们这里呆在龈和的屋子里,我却在树脊后冻得发僵，而我们呢，却象山里的野兽般住在山洞里。他想。”可是明天哪,野兽要从润里出来,而这些现在这么舒服的人却要暖暖和和地在毯子里归天啦。他想，就象我们在袭击奥特罗时那样叫他们在夜里归天。他可不爱回想在奥特罗发生的事。
　　他第一次杀人就是在奥特罗的那天晚上。他希望这次拔除哨所时不用杀人。在奥特罗，安塞尔莫用毯子蒙住哨兵的脑袋,巴勃罗用力捅，那哨兵抓住了安塞尔莫的一只脚不放,虽然闷在毯子里透不过气来,却在里面喊叫，安塞尔莫只得在毯于里摸索着，给了他一刀,才叫他放掉了脚,不动了。他当时用膝头抵住了那家伙的喉咙，不让他发出声来，一边用刀捅进这被毯子裹住的人。巴勃罗同时把手雷从窗口扔进屋里，哨所的士兵们全在里面睡觉。火光一亮，好象全世界在你眼前被炸成了一片红黄色,紧接着又扔进了两頼手雷。当时，巴勃罗拉开保险，飞快地扔进窗子，那些在床上没被炸死的家伙刚爬起来，却被第二颗手雷炸死了。那是巴勃罗大出风头的日子，他象瘟神似地把那一带摘得天翻地覆，法西斯分子的哨所在晚上没有一个是安全的。
　　安塞尔莫想，可现在呢，巴勃罗完蛋了，不中用了，就象阉过的公猪一样，等手术一倣好，它停止了尖叫，你把那两颗卵蛋扔掉了，而那只公猪，其实已算不上公猪啦，却用鼻子嗅来嗅去，把卵蛋拱出来吃掉。不，他还没糟到这个地步。安塞尔莫咧开嘴笑了　你竟然把巴勃罗看得这么精明。不过,他是够讨厌了，变得很不象祥了。
　　他想，天气太冷了。但愿英国人就来。但愿在这次袭击哨所的行动中我不用杀人。这四个加利西亚人和他们的班长该留给那些爱杀人的人去对付。英国人说过这话。假如是分配给我的任务V我就杀；可是英国人说过，要我跟他一起在桥头干,这里的人留给别人。桥头一定会打一仗，要是这次我能顶住,那么在这场战争中，我就好算尽到了一个老头子的全部责任啦。现在嗬，英国人你可该来啦，因为我感到很冷，看到锯木厂里的灯光，知道这些加利西亚人在里面暖呼呼的，叫我感到更冷了。但愿我能再回到自己家里,但愿这场战争就结束吧。他想,可是你现在已没家了。要回到你自己家乡，我们就必须先打廉这场战争。
　　锯木厂里，有个兵坐在铺上拣靴子。另一个躺在铺上睡着了。第三个在煮东西。班长在看报。他们的钢盔挂在墙上的钉子上，步枪靠在木扳墙上。
　　“快到六月还下雪,这是什么鬼地方?”坐在铺上的兵说。〃真是怪事，”班长说。
　　“现在是太阴历五月。”在煮东西的兵说。“太阴历五月还刚开始呐。”
　　“五月天下雪，这是什么鬼地方。”坐在铺上的兵坚持说。“这一带山里五月天下雪也不是罕见的事班长说。“我在马德里的时候，五月份要比哪个月都冷。”“也更热，”在煮东西的兵说。
　　“五月的气温差别最大，”班长说。“在这里卡斯蒂尔地区,五月是大热的月份，不过也会变得很冷。”
　　“要么下雨。”坐在铺上的兵说。“这刚过去的五月份差不多天天下雨。”
　　“没有的事。”在煮东西的兵说，“反正这刚过去的五月，实在是太阴历四月。”
　　“听你扯什么太阴历的月份，真叫人头痛，”班长说。“别谈什么太阴历的月份啦。”
　　“住在海边或者乡下的人都知道,重要的是看太阴历的月份而不是看太阳历的。”在煮东西的兵说。“举个例子来说吧,现在太阴历五月刚开头,可是太阳历马上就到六月份了。”
　　“那我们为什么不老是落在季节后面呢？”班长说。“这些个事叫我糊涂了
　　“你是城里人，”在煮东西的兵说。“你是卢戈①人。你知道什么叫海，什么叫乡下？”
　　“城里人可比你们这些文盲在海边或乡下要见识多些。”“第一批沙，“鱼群在这个太阴历的月份里要来了，”在煮东西的兵说。“沙，“鱼船在这个太阴历的月份里要整装待发了，鲭鱼可已经到北方去了。”
　　“你既然是诺亚②人,干吗没有参加海军？”班长问。“因为我登记表上填的不是诺亚，而是我的出生地内格雷拉。内格雷拉在坦布雷河上游，那里的人都被编进陆军。"“运气更坏，”班长说。
“别以为当海军就没危险，”坐在铺上的兵说。“即使不大会打仗,那一带海岸在冬天也满危险的。”
　　“再没有比当陆军更糟糕的了，”班长说。〃你还算是班长哪。”在煮东西的兵说。“你哪能说这种话?”“不，”班长说。“我是就危险性来说的。我是说要挨到炮轰空袭，不得不冲锋陷阵，躲在掩体里度时光，““我们在这里倒没什么，”坐在铺上的兵说。“托天主的福。”班长说。“可谁知道什么时候我们又会吃到这种苦头呀？我们当然不可能永远过现在这种舒服日子的”“你看，我们这个任务还要执行多久?”
①卢戈　为加利西亚地区卢戈省省会。
②诺亚为滨大西洋的一个渔港,居民惯于海上生活　

　　“我不知道，”班长说。“不过我希望整个战争期间我们能一直执拧这个任务。”
　　“六小时值一班岗，时间太长啦，”在煮东西的兵说。“如果风雪不停,我们三小时值一岗，”班长说。“这原是应该的嘛。”
　　“参谋部那些汽车是什么意思？”坐在铺上的兵问。“这么许多参谋部的汽车开来开去,我可不喜欢。”
　　“我也不喜欢，”班长说。“这些都不是好兆头。”“还有飞机，”在煮东西的兵说。“又是个不妙的兆头。”“可是我们的飞机很厉害。”班长说。“共产党可没有我们这样的飞机。今天早晨的那些飞机，叫谁都会髙兴的。”
　　“我见过共产党的飞机，也够厉害的。”坐在铺上的兵说。“我见过那些双引擎轰炸机,当初挨到它们轰炸的时候，真叫人胆战心惊。”
　　“不错。可是没我们的厉害。”班长说。“我们的飞机谁也敌不过。”
　　这就是他们在锯木厂里的聊天，而这时安塞尔莫在雪中等待，望着公路和锯木厂窗子里的灯光。
　　安塞尔莫正在想，但愿杀人的事不由我来干。我看嗛，等战争结束了，对杀人的行为总得有些好好儿苦行赎罪的办法　要是战后我们不再信教了,那么我看，百姓总得采取一种苦行赎罪的办法，来涤除杀过人的罪孳，否则，我们的生活就没有真正的人性基础了。杀人是必要的，我知道，可是对一个人来说,干这种事总是缺德的。我看哪，等战争结束了，我们得了胜利，一定会有一祌苦行赎罪的办法，来涤除我们大家的罪孽。
　　安塞尔莫是个十分善良的人，每当他一个人待着的时间一长一而他是经常一个人待着的一这个杀人的问题就在他心里浮起。
他想，我弄不懂这个英国人。他对我说过，他不在乎杀人。可是他的样子既敏感又善良。也许对年轻人说来,这是无所谓的。也许对外国人说来，或者对不信奉我们的宗教的人们说来，态度就不一样。不过依我看，凡是杀人的人，迟早都要变得毫无人性，而且依我看，即使杀人是必要的,它仍然是桩大罪过,事后我们要花极大的力气才能赎罪。
　　天黑了，他望着公略对面的灯光,用双手拍拍胸脯取暧。他想，现在“定要回营地去了。但是有一种感情使他仍待在公路上边的那株树旁不走。这时雪下得更大了，安塞尔莫就想。”要是今夜能炸桥就好了。象这样的夜晚，拿下哨所，炸掉大桥，都算不上一回事，一下子可以全都干好。象这样的夜晚，千什么事都行。
　　随后他靠着树站在那里，轻轻地跺着脚，不再去想那座桥了。黑夜的来临总使他感到孤单，今夜他特别感到孤单,心里有一种饥饿般的空虚。往日里，他孤单的时候可以靠祷告来帮忙，他经常在打猎回家的路上反反复复地念着同一段祷文，这使他觉得好受一点。但是革命开始以来，他一次也没祷告过。他感到若有所失,但是他认为现在再祷告是不适当的，是言行不一致的，他不愿祈求任何恩宠，或接受与众不同的待遇。
　　他想，是舸，我感到孤单。但是所有那些当兵的，当兵的老婆，那些失去家人或爹娘的人都是如此。我没老婆了,幸好在革命前她就死了。她是不会理解的，我没儿女，再不会有儿女啦。白天没事干的时侯我感到孤单，可是黑夜来到了感到更孤单。不过，我有一桩事是无论谁还是天主都没法夺走的，那就是我给共和国好好出了力。我一直在为争取以后我们大家可以分享的好处而出大力。革命一开始，我就尽力而为，我干的事没一桩是问心有愧的。
　　我感到惭愧的只是杀人的事儿。不过以后一定有机会来补偿,因为有这种罪孳的人可不少，以后当然会想出一个补救办法来的。我倒要跟这个英国人谈谈这件事,不过人家年青，不一定能理解。他提起过杀人的问题。要不，是我提起的吧？他一定杀过很多人，不过他没露出喜欢干这种事的迹象。喜欢杀人的人总是骨子里就堕落的。
　　他想,杀人必然是罪大恶极的事。因为，我知道，即使有必要，我们也没权利杀人。可是在西班牙，杀人太随便啦，而且常常是没有真正的必要，萆菅人命的事多得很，事后无法补救。他想，我还是别在这个问题上多费心思吧。但愿有赎罪的办法,让人家现在就开始做，因为我一辈子干的事情中只有这件使我在—个人待着时感到难受。任何别的事情都可以得到宽恕，要不,你总有机会做些好事或者用什么合理的办法来补偿。可是我看,杀人这种事肯定是罪大恶极，我希望能弥补这件事。也许在以后的日子里，一个人可以为国家做些什么工作或者力所能及的事去涤除杀人的罪孽。也许象是在教堂里做礼拜时的捐献，他想，不禁微笑了。教会为赎罪安排得好好的。想到这个,他离兴起来，罗伯特　乔丹朝他走来时，他正在黑睹中微笑。罗伯特　乔丹悄悄地走来，走到老头儿跟前他才看到。
　　“你好，老头子，”罗伯特“乔丹压低了声音说，还拍拍他的
背.
　　“冷得很哪，”安塞尔莫说，费尔南多站得稍远些，背顶着风
雪.
　　“来吧，”罗伯特，乔丹低声说，“上山到营地去取暖吧。把你一个人撇在这儿这么久，真是罪过。”“那是他们的灯火。”安塞尔莫指点说，“哨兵在哪儿?”
　　“你在这里望不到。他在拐角处。”“让他们见鬼去吧，”罗伯特”乔丹说。“你到营地再跟我讲吧。来，我们走。“
　　“我指给你看，”安塞尔莫说。
　　“我早晨会来看的，”罗伯特　乔丹说。〃来吧，喝一口。”他把扁酒瓶递给老头儿。安塞尔莫侧着瓶子喝了一口。“哎哟，”他说，擦擦嘴。“象火一样。”“来吧，〃罗俏特〃乔丹在黑暗中说。“咱们走。”天色这时黑得叫人只能看到在空中刮过去的雪片和那些一动不动的黑魆魆的松树干。费尔南多站在山坡上，离他们几步路。罗伯特　乔丹想　他真象雪茄烟店门口的木雕印第安人①。看来我得请他也喝一口。
　　“嗨，费尔南多，”他走上前去说，“来一口吧?”“不，”费尔南多说。“谢谢你。”
　　罗伯特，乔丹想。”我得谢谢，呢，幸亏雪茄烟店门口的印第安人不喝酒。剩下不多啦。罗，“特‘乔丹想　好样的，我艮商兴见到这老头子。他望望安塞尔莫,接着又拍拍他的背,一起开始上山。
　　“我见到你很高兴明，老头子，”他对安塞尔莫说？我优闷的时候见到你就髙兴。来,我们上山吧他们在雪中爬山。回巴勃罗的宫殿去，”罗伯特　乔丹对安塞尔莫说。这句话用西班牙语来说听起来很美妙。“怕死鬼的宮殿，”安塞尔莫说。
　　“没蛋的岩洞，”穸伯特　乔丹乐呵呵地比另一个说得更俏
皮。
①这种彩色木離像一觖和真人差不多大　、，作招徕颈客之用。此处喻指费尔南多站在雷中一动不动的样子，

　　“什么蛋?”费尔南多问。
　　“说笑话。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“说笑话呐。不是蛋，你知道,是另外的那一种。”
　　“可为什么没了？”费尔南多问。
　　“我不知道，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“说起来话可长呢。问比拉尔吧。”他说罢紧搂着安塞尔莫的肩膀一起走，还摇摇他。“听着，”他说。“见到你真离兴，听到吗？在这个国家你把一个人留在一个地方，之后竟能在原地方找到他，这不知道会使人多髙兴呢。，
　　他对这个国家竟说出这种不尊重的话，这说明他对它怀着多大的信任和亲密感啊。
　　“我见到你也高兴，”安塞尔莫说。“不过，刚才我正打算不等下去了。”
　　“你才不会呢，”罗伯特　乔丹髙兴地说。“你冻僵了才会离
开。”
　　“山上的情况怎么样”安塞尔莫问。“很好，”罗馅特，乔丹说。“一切都好，“他感到一种在革命队伍里当指挥的人才有的突如其来的难得的快乐心情，那种发规自己的两翼中竟有一翼仍然坚守着阵地时的快乐心情。他想，要是两翼都能坚守下去,我看就力量无比。我看任何敌人都不指望出现这种局面，如果你把一翼的队形，任何一翼的队形拉开的话，最终就得每一个人独力作战。对啊，每一个人。他需要的可不是这种不言自明的道理。然而这是个好人。一个好人。他想:我们这次进行战斗的时候，你一个人当左翼。我现在最好先不告诉你。他想，这将是一次规模挺小的战斗。但它将是一次挺出色的战斗。噢，我一直想独力地指挥一次战斗。我对从阿让库尔战役①以来所有别人指挥的战斗的毛病，一向是有自己的看法的。我一定要打好这一仗。这一仗规模不会大，然而会很精采。如果我必须按照自己认为必要的方式去干的话，那确实会成为非常精采的一仗。“听着，”他对安塞尔莫说。“见到你我真是髙兴，““我见到你也一样髙兴。”老头儿说。他们在黑暗中爬山的时候是顺风，风雪在他们身边吹过。安塞尔莫这时不觉得孤单了。英国人刚才在他背上拍拍之后，他就不再觉得孤单了。英国人非常高兴,他们俩就说说笑笑。英国人刚才说一切都好，因此老头儿不愁了。酒一下肚,使他暖呼呼的,如今爬着山，两腿也暖和起来啦。
　　“公路上没什么情况。”他对英国人说。“好。”英国人对他说。“我们到了营地你再给我看吧。”安塞尔莫这时很髙兴，他很髙兴自己刚才在观察哨坚持了下来。
①阿让库尔为法国西北部滨英吉利海峡的布洛涅港东南约三十英里处一小村，因一四一五年十月二十五。英法两军在此决战而箸名。英王亨利五世利用弓箭手以寡敌众，大玻穿戴笨重盔甲的法国骑士，使该‘战役成为世界军寧史上著名战役之一。
 
　　罗伯特　乔丹在想:即使他自己回营地,也不能怪他。在那样的情况下回来,也是明智和正确的。罗伯特，乔丹想。”然而他遒照命令待下去了。这在西班牙是非常难得的情形。在暴风雪中能坚守下去，从某种程度上来说，说明了不少问题。德国人把进攻称为暴风雨①，不是没有道理的。我当然愿意多用几个这种肯坚守下去的人。那是当然的啦。我不知道那个费尔南多会不会待着不走。这也是可能的。反正刚才自动跟来的是他。你以为他会待着不走吗？这难道不是好事吗？他相当顽强。我来试探试探。不知道这个雪茄烟店门口的印第安人现在在想些什么。
　　“你在想什么，费尔南多，“”罗伯特　乔丹问。“你问干吗？”
　　“好奇，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我是个很好奇的人。”
　　“我在想晚饭。”费尔南多说。
　　“你喜欢吃?”
　　“是呀。很喜欢。”
　　“比拉尔做饭手艺怎么样?”
　　“平常。”费尔南多回答。
　　罗伯特”乔丹想。”他也是个讲究吃喝的人。不过，你知道，
　　我总觉得他也会坚守下去的。
　　三个人在雪中一步一弯腰地爬山。
①英语中的暴风雨，此处指暴珂雪)来自德语中，两者都可作“进攻、袭击”解.
Chapter 16
 "El Sordo was here," Pilar said to Robert Jordan. They had come in out of the storm to the smoky warmth of the cave and the woman had motioned Robert Jordan over to her with a nod of her head. "He's gone to look for horses."
 "Good. Did he leave any word for me?"
 "Only that he had gone for horses."
 "And we?"
 "_No s嶱," she said. "Look at him."
 Robert Jordan had seen Pablo when he came in and Pablo had grinned at him. Now he looked over at him sitting at the board table and grinned and waved his hand.
 "_Ingl廥_," Pablo called. "It's still falling, _Ingl廥_."
 Robert Jordan nodded at him.
 "Let me take thy shoes and dry them," Maria said. "I will hang them here in the smoke of the fire."
 "Watch out you don't burn them," Robert Jordan told her. "I don't want to go around here barefoot. What's the matter?" he turned to Pilar. "Is this a meeting? Haven't you any sentries out?"
 "In this storm? _Qu?va_."
 There were six men sitting at the table and leaning back against the wall. Anselmo and Fernando were still shaking the snow from their jackets, beating their trousers and rapping their feet against the wall by the entrance.
 "Let me take thy jacket," Maria said. "Do not let the snow melt on it."
 Robert Jordan slipped out of his jacket, beat the snow from his trousers, and untied his shoes.
 "You will get everything wet here," Pilar said.
 "It was thee who called me."
 "Still there is no impediment to returning to the door for thy brushing."
 "Excuse me," Robert Jordan said, standing in his bare feet on the dirt floor. "Hunt me a pair of socks, Maria."
 "The Lord and Master," Pilar said and poked a piece of wood into the fire.
 "_Hay que aprovechar el tiempo_," Robert Jordan told her. "You have to take advantage of what time there is."
 "It is locked," Maria said.
 "Here is the key," and he tossed it over.
 "It does not fit this sack."
 "It is the other sack. They are on top and at the side."
 The girl found the pair of socks, closed the sack, locked it and brought them over with the key.
 "Sit down and put them on and rub thy feet well," she said. Robert Jordan grinned at her.
 "Thou canst not dry them with thy hair?" he said for Pilar to hear.
 "What a swine," she said. "First he is the Lord of the Manor. Now he is our ex-Lord Himself. Hit him with a chunk of wood, Maria."
 "Nay," Robert Jordan said to her. "I am joking because I am happy."
 "You are happy?"
 "Yes," he said. "I think everything goes very well."
 "Roberto," Maria said. "Go sit down and dry thy feet and let me bring thee something to drink to warm thee."
 "You would think that man had never dampened foot before," Pilar said. "Nor that a flake of snow had ever fallen."
 Maria brought him a sheepskin and put it on the dirt floor of the cave.
 "There," she said. "Keep that under thee until thy shoes are dry."
 The sheepskin was fresh dried and not tanned and as Robert Jordan rested his stocking feet on it he could feel it crackle like parchment.
 The fire was smoking and Pilar called to Maria, "Blow up the fire, worthless one. This is no smokehouse."
 "Blow it thyself," Maria said. "I am searching for the bottle that El Sordo left."
 "It is behind his packs," Pilar told her. "Must you care for him as a sucking child?"
 "No," Maria said. "As a man who is cold and wet. And a man who has just come to his house. Here it is." She brought the bottle to where Robert Jordan sat. "It is the bottle of this noon. With this bottle one could make a beautiful lamp. When we have electricity again, what a lamp we can make of this bottle." She looked at the pinch-bottle admiringly. "How do you take this, Roberto?"
 "I thought I was _Ingl廥_," Robert Jordan said to her.
 "I call thee Roberto before the others," she said in a low voice and blushed. "How do you want it, Roberto?"
 "Roberto," Pablo said thickly and nodded his head at Robert Jordan. "How do you want it, Don Roberto?"
 "Do you want some?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 Pablo shook his head. "I am making myself drunk with wine," he said with dignity.
 "Go with Bacchus," Robert Jordan said in Spanish.
 "Who is Bacchus?" Pablo asked.
 "A comrade of thine," Robert Jordan said.
 "Never have I heard of him," Pablo said heavily. "Never in these mountains."
 "Give a cup to Anselmo," Robert Jordan said to Maria. "It is he who is cold." He was putting on the dry pair of socks and the whiskey and water in the cup tasted clean and thinly warming. But it does not curl around inside of you the way the absinthe does, he thought. There is nothing like absinthe.
 Who would imagine they would have whiskey up here, he thought. But La Granja was the most likely place in Spain to find it when you thought it over. Imagine Sordo getting a bottle for the visiting dynamiter and then remembering to bring it down and leave it. It wasn't just manners that they had. Manners would have been producing the bottle and having a formal drink. That was what the French would have done and then they would have saved what was left for another occasion. No, the true thoughtfulness of thinking the visitor would like it and then bringing it down for him to enjoy when you yourself were engaged in something where there was every reason to think of no one else but yourself and of nothing but the matter in hand--that was Spanish. One kind of Spanish, he thought. Remembering to bring the whiskey was one of the reasons you loved these people. Don't go romanticizing them, he thought. There are as many sorts of Spanish as there are Americans. But still, bringing the whiskey was very handsome.
 "How do you like it?" he asked Anselmo.
 The old man was sitting by the fire with a smile on his face, his big hands holding the cup. He shook his head.
 "No?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "The child put water in it," Anselmo said.
 "Exactly as Roberto takes it," Maria said. "Art thou something special?"
 "No," Anselmo told her. "Nothing special at all. But I like to feel it burn as it goes down."
 "Give me that," Robert Jordan told the girl, "and pour him some of that which burns."
 He tipped the contents of the cup into his own and handed it back empty to the girl, who poured carefully into it from the bottle.
 "Ah," Anselmo took the cup, put his head back and let it run down his throat. He looked at Maria standing holding the bottle and winked at her, tears coming from both eyes. "That," he said. "That." Then he licked his lips. "That is what kills the worm that haunts us."
 "Roberto," Maria said and came over to him, still holding the bottle. "Are you ready to eat?"
 "Is it ready?"
 "It is ready when you wish it."
 "Have the others eaten?"
 "All except you, Anselmo and Fernando."
 "Let us eat then," he told her. "And thou?"
 "Afterwards with Pilar."
 "Eat now with us."
 "No. It would not be well."
 "Come on and eat. In my country a man does not eat before his woman."
 "That is thy country. Here it is better to eat after."
 "Eat with him," Pablo said, looking up from the table. "Eat with him. Drink with him. Sleep with him. Die with him. Follow the customs of his country."
 "Are you drunk?" Robert Jordan said, standing in front of Pablo. The dirty, stubble-faced man looked at him happily.
 "Yes," Pablo said. "Where is thy country, _Ingl廥_, where the women eat with the men?"
 "In _Estados Unidos_ in the state of Montana."
 "Is it there that the men wear skirts as do the women?"
 "No. That is in Scotland."
 "But listen," Pablo said. "When you wear skirts like that, _Ingl廥_--"
 "I don't wear them," Robert Jordan said.
 "When you are wearing those skirts," Pablo went on, "what do you wear under them?"
 "I don't know what the Scotch wear," Robert Jordan said. "I've wondered myself."
 "Not the _Escoceses_," Pablo said. "Who cares about the _Escoceses?_ Who cares about anything with a name as rare as that? Not me. I don't care. You, I say, _Ingl廥_. You. What do you wear under your skirts in your country?"
 "Twice I have told you that we do not wear skirts," Robert Jordan said. "Neither drunk nor in joke."
 "But under your skirts," Pablo insisted. "Since it is well known that you wear skirts. Even the soldiers. I have seen photographs and also I have seen them in the Circus of Price. What do you wear under your skirts, _Ingl廥?_"
 "_Los cojones_," Robert Jordan said.
 Anselmo laughed and so did the others who were listening; all except Fernando. The sound of the word, of the gross word spoken before the women, was offensive to him.
 "Well, that is normal," Pablo said. "But it seems to me that with enough _cojones_ you would not wear skirts."
 "Don't let him get started again, _Ingl廥_," the flat-faced man with the broken nose who was called Primitivo said. "He is drunk. Tell me, what do they raise in your country?"
 "Cattle and sheep," Robert Jordan said. "Much grain also and beans. And also much beets for sugar."
 The three were at the table now and the others sat close by except Pablo, who sat by himself in front of a bowl of the wine. It was the same stew as the night before and Robert Jordan ate it hungrily.
 "In your country there are mountains? With that name surely there are mountains," Primitivo asked politely to make conversation. He was embarrassed at the drunkenness of Pablo.
 "Many mountains and very high."
 "And are there good pastures?"
 "Excellent; high pasture in the summer in forests controlled by the government. Then in the fall the cattle are brought down to the lower ranges."
 "Is the land there owned by the peasants?"
 "Most land is owned by those who farm it. Originally the land was owned by the state and by living on it and declaring the intent~on of improving it, a man could obtain a title to a hundred and fifty hectares."
 "Tell me how this is done," Agust璯 asked. "That is an agrarian reform which means something."
 Robert Jordan explained the process of homesteading. He had never thought of it before as an agrarian reform.
 "That is magnificent," Primitivo said. "Then you have a communism in your country?"
 "No. That is done under the Republic."
 "For me," Agust璯 said, "everything can be done under the Republic. I see no need for other form of government."
 "Do you have no big proprietors?" Andr廥 asked.
 "Many."
 "Then there must be abuses."
 "Certainly. There are many abuses."
 "But you will do away with them?"
 "We try to more and more. But there are many abuses still."
 "But there are not great estates that must be broken up?"
 "Yes. But there are those who believe that taxes will break them up."
 "How?"
 Robert Jordan, wiping out the stew bowl with bread, explained how the income tax and inheritance tax worked. "But the big estates remain. Also there are taxes on the land," he said.
 "But surely the big proprietors and the rich will make a revolution against such taxes. Such taxes appear to me to be revolutionary. They will revolt against the government when they see that they are threatened, exactly as the fascists have done here," Primitivo said.
 "It is possible."
 "Then you will have to fight in your country as we fight here."
 "Yes, we will have to fight."
 "But are there not many fascists in your country?"
 "There are many who do not know they are fascists but will find it out when the time comes."
 "But you cannot destroy them until they rebel?"
 "No," Robert Jordan said. "We cannot destroy them. But we can educate the people so that they will fear fascism and recognize it as it appears and combat it."
 "Do you know where there are no fascists?" Andr廥 asked.
 "Where?"
 "In the town of Pablo," Andr廥 said and grinned.
 "You know what was done in that village?" Primitivo asked Robert Jordan.
 "Yes. I have heard the story."
 "From Pilar?"
 "Yes."
 "You could not hear all of it from the woman," Pablo said heavily. "Because she did not see the end of it because she fell from a chair outside of the window."
 "You tell him what happened then," Pilar said. "Since I know not the story, let you tell it."
 "Nay," Pablo said. "I have never told it."
 "No," Pilar said. "And you will not tell it. And now you wish it had not happened."
 "No," Pablo said. "That is not true. And if all had killed the fascists as I did we would not have this war. But I would not have had it happen as it happened."
 "Why do you say that?" Primitivo asked him. "Are you changing your politics?"
 "No. But it was barbarous," Pablo said. "In those days I was very barbarous."
 "And now you are drunk," Pilar said.
 "Yes," Pablo said. "With your permission."
 "I liked you better when you were barbarous," the woman said. "Of all men the drunkard is the foulest. The thief when he is not stealing is like another. The extortioner does not practise in the home. The murderer when he is at home can wash his hands. But the drunkard stinks and vomits in his own bed and dissolves his organs in alcohol."
 "You are a woman and you do not understand," Pablo said equably. "I am drunk on wine and I would be happy except for those people I have killed. All of them fill me with sorrow." He shook his head lugubriously.
 "Give him some of that which Sordo brought," Pilar said. "Give him something to animate him. He is becoming too sad to bear."
 "If I could restore them to life, I would," Pablo said.
 "Go and obscenity thyself," Agust璯 said to him. "What sort of place is this?"
 "I would bring them all back to life," Pablo said sadly. "Every one."
 "Thy mother," Agust璯 shouted at him. "Stop talking like this or get out. Those were fascists you killed."
 "You heard me," Pablo said. "I would restore them all to life."
 "And then you would walk on the water," Pilar said. "In my life I have never seen such a man. Up until yesterday you preserved some remnants of manhood. And today there is not enough of you left to make a sick kitten. Yet you are happy in your soddenness."
 "We should have killed all or none," Pablo nodded his head. "All or none."
 "Listen, _Ingl廥_," Agust璯 said. "How did you happen to come to Spain? Pay no attention to Pablo. He is drunk."
 "I came first twelve years ago to study the country and the language," Robert Jordan said. "I teach Spanish in a university."
 "You look very little like a professoi" Primitivo said.
 "He has no beard," Pablo said. "Look at him. He has no beard."
 "Are you truly a professor?"
 "An instructor."
 "But you teach?"
 "Yes."
 "But why Spanish?" Andr廥 asked. "Would it not be easier to teach English since you are English?"
 "He speaks Spanish as we do," Anselmo said. "Why should he not teach Spanish?"
 "Yes. But it is, in a way, presumptuous for a foreigner to teach Spanish," Fernando said. "I mean nothing against you, Don Roberto."
 "He's a false professor," Pablo said, very pleased with himself. "He hasn't got a beard."
 "Surely you know English better," Fernando said. "Would it not be better and easier and clearer to teach English?"
 "He doesn't teach it to Spaniards--" Pilar started to intervene.
 "I should hope not," Fernando said.
 "Let me finish, you mule," Pilar said to him. "He teaches Spanish to Americans. North Americans."
 "Can they not speak Spanish?" Fernando asked. "South Americans can."
 "Mule," Pilar said. "He teaches Spanish to North Americans who speak English."
 "Still and all I think it would be easier for him to teach English if that is what he speaks," Fernando said.
 "Can't you hear he speaks Spanish?" Pilar shook her head hopelessly at Robert Jordan.
 "Yes. But with an accent."
 "Of where?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Of Estremadura," Fernando said primly.
 "Oh my mother," Pilar said. "What a people!"
 "It is possible," Robert Jordan said. "I have come here from there."
 "As he well knows," Pilar said. "You old maid," she turned to Fernando. "Have you had enough to eat?"
 "I could eat more if there is a sufficient quantity," Fernando told her. "And do not think that I wish to say anything against you, Don Roberto--"
 "Milk," Agust璯 said simply. "And milk again. Do we make the revolution in order to say Don Roberto to a comrade?"
 "For me the revolution is so that all will say Don to all," Fernando said. "Thus should it be under the Republic."
 "Milk," Agust璯 said. "Black milk."
 "And I still think it would be easier and clearer for Don Roberto to teach English."
 "Don Roberto has no beard," Pablo said. "He is a false professor."
 "What do you mean, I have no beard?" Robert Jordan said. "What's this?" He stroked his chin and his cheeks where the threeday growth made a blond stubble.
 "Not a beard," Pablo said. He shook his head. "That's not a beard." He was almost jovial now. "He's a false professor."
 "I obscenity in the milk of all," Agust璯 said, "if it does not seem like a lunatic asylum here."
 "You should drink," Pablo said to him. "To me everything appears normal. Except the lack of beard of Don Roberto."
 Maria ran her hand over Robert Jordan's cheek.
 "He has a beard," she said to Pablo.
 "You should know," Pablo said and Robert Jordan looked at him.
 I don't think he is so drunk, Robert Jordan thought. No, not so drunk. And I think I had better watch myself.
 "Thou," he said to Pablo. "Do you think this snow will last?"
 "What do you think?"
 "I asked you."
 "Ask another," Pablo told him. "I am not thy service of information. You have a paper from thy service of information. Ask the woman. She commands."
 "I asked thee."
 "Go and obscenity thyself," Pablo told him. "Thee and the woman and the girl."
 "He is drunk," Primitivo said. "Pay him no heed, _Ingl廥_."
 "I do not think he is so drunk," Robert Jordan said.
 Maria was standing behind him and Robert Jordan saw Pablo watching her over his shoulder. The small eyes, like a boar's, were watching her out of the round, stubble-covered head and Robert Jordan thought: I have known many killers in this war and some before and they were all different; there is no common trait nor feature; nor any such thing as the criminal type; but Pablo is certainly not handsome.
 "I don't believe you can drink," he said to Pablo. "Nor that you're drunk."
 "I am drunk," Pablo said with dignity. "To drink is nothing. It is to be drunk that is important. _Estoy muy borracho_."
 "I doubt it," Robert Jordan told him. "Cowardly, yes."
 It was so quiet in the cave, suddenly, that he could hear the hissing noise the wood made burning on the hearth where Pilar cooked. He heard the sheepskin crackle as he rested his weight on his feet. He thought he could almost hear the snow falling outside. He could not, but he could hear the silence where it fell.
 I'd like to kill him and have it over with, Robert Jordan was thinking. I don't know what he is going to do, but it is nothing good. Day after tomorrow is the bridge and this man is bad and he constitutes a danger to the success of the whole enterprise. Come on. Let us get it over with.
 Pablo grinned at him and put one finger up and wiped it across his throat. He shook his head that turned only a little each way on his thick, short neck.
 "Nay, _Ingl廥_," he said. "Do not provoke me." He looked at Pilar and said to her, "It is not thus that you get rid of me."
 "_Sinverguenza_," Robert Jordan said to him, committed now in his own mind to the action. "_Cobarde_."
 "It is very possible," Pablo said. "But I am not to be provoked. Take something to drink, _Ingl廥_, and signal to the woman it was not successful."
 "Shut thy mouth," Robert Jordan said. "I provoke thee for myself."
 "It is not worth the trouble," Pablo told him. "I do not provoke."
 "Thou art a _bicho raro_," Robert Jordan said, not wanting to let it go; not wanting to have it fail for the second time; knowing as he spoke that this had all been gone through before; having that feeling that he was playing a part from memory of something that he had read or had dreamed, feeling it all moving in a circle.
 "Very rare, yes," Pablo said. "Very rare and very drunk. To your health, _Ingl廥_." He dipped a cup in the wine bowl and held it up. "_Salud y cojones_."
 He's rare, all right, Robert Jordan thought, and smart, and very complicated. He could no longer hear the fire for the sound of his own breathing.
 "Here's to you," Robert Jordan said, and dipped a cup into the wine. Betrayal wouldn't amount to anything without all these pledges, he thought. Pledge up. "_Salud_," he said. "_Salud_ and _Salud_ again," you _salud_, he thought. _Salud_, you _salud_.
 "Don Roberto," Pablo said heavily.
 "Don Pablo," Robert Jordan said.
 "You're no professor," Pablo said, "because you haven't got a beard. And also to do away with me you have to assassinate me and, for this, you have not _cojones_."
 He was looking at Robert Jordan with his mouth closed so that his lips made a tight line, like the mouth of a fish, Robert Jordan thought. With that head it is like one of those porcupine fish that swallow air and swell up after they are caught.
 "_Salud_, Pablo," Robert Jordan said and raised the cup up and drank from it. "I am learning much from thee."
 "I am teaching the professor," Pablo nodded his head. "Come on, Don Roberto, we will be friends."
 "We are friends already," Robert Jordan said.
 "But now we will be good friends."
 "We are good friends already."
 "I'm going to get out of here," Agust璯 said. "Truly, it is said that we must eat a ton of it in this life but I have twenty-five pounds of it stuck in each of my ears this minute."
 "What is the matter, _negro?_" Pablo said to him. "Do you not like to see friendship between Don Roberto and me?"
 "Watch your mouth about calling me _negro_." Agust璯 went over to him and stood in front of Pablo holding his hands low.
 "So you are called," Pablo said.
 "Not by thee."
 "Well, then, _blanco_--"
 "Nor that, either."
 "What are you then, Red?"
 "Yes. Red. _Rojo_. With the Red star of the army and in favor of the Republic. And my name is Agust璯."
 "What a patriotic man," Pablo said. "Look, _Ingl廥_, what an exemplary patriot."
 Agust璯 hit him hard across the mouth with his left hand, bringing it forward in a slapping, backhand sweep. Pablo sat there. The corners of his mouth were wine-stained and his expression did not change, but Robert Jordan watched his eyes narrow, as a cat's pupils close to vertical slits in a strong light.
 "Nor this," Pablo said. "Do not count on this, woman." He turned his head toward Pilar. "I am not provoked."
 Agust璯 hit him again. This time he hit him on the mouth with his closed fist. Robert Jordan was holding his pistol in his hand under the table. He had shoved the safety catch off and he pushed Maria away with his left hand. She moved a little way and he pushed her hard in the ribs with his left hand again to make her get really away. She was gone now and he saw her from the corner of his eye, slipping along the side of the cave toward the fire and now Robert Jordan watched Pablo's face.
 The round-headed man sat staring at Agust璯 from his flat little eyes. The pupils were even smaller now. He licked his lips then, put up an arm and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked down and saw the blood on his hand. He ran his tongue over his lips, then spat.
 "Nor that," he said. "I am not a fool. I do not provoke."
 "_Cabr鏮_," Agust璯 said.
 "You should know," Pablo said. "You know the woman."
 Agust璯 hit him again hard in the mouth and Pablo laughed at him, showing the yellow, bad, broken teeth in the reddened line of his mouth.
 "Leave it alone," Pablo said and reached with a cup to scoop some wine from the bowl. "Nobody here has _cojones_ to kill me and this of the hands is silly."
 "_Cobarde_," Agust璯 said.
 "Nor words either," Pablo said and made a swishing noise rinsing the wine in his mouth. He spat on the floor. "I am far past words."
 Agust璯 stood there looking down at him and cursed him, speaking slowly, clearly, bitterly and contemptuously and cursing as steadily as though he were dumping manure on a field, lifting it with a dung fork out of a wagon.
 "Nor of those," Pablo said. "Leave it, Agust璯. And do not hit me more. Thou wilt injure thy hands."
 Agust璯 turned from him and went to the door.
 "Do not go out," Pablo said. "It is snowing outside. Make thyself comfortable in here."
 "And thou! Thou!" Agust璯 turned from the door and spoke to him, putting all his contempt in the single, "_Tu_."
 "Yes, me," said Pablo. "I will be alive when you are dead."
 He dipped up another cup of wine and raised it to Robert Jordan. "To the professor," he said. Then turned to Pilar. "To the Se隳ra Commander." Then toasted them all, "To all the illusioned ones."
 Agust璯 walked over to him and, striking quickly with the side of his hand, knocked the cup out of his hand.
 "That is a waste," Pablo said. "That is silly."
 Agust璯 said something vile to him.
 "No," Pablo said, dipping up another cup. "I am drunk, seest thou? When I am not drunk I do not talk. You have never heard me talk much. But an intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend his time with fools."
 "Go and obscenity in the milk of thy cowardice," Pilar said to him. "I know too much about thee and thy cowardice."
 "How the woman talks," Pablo said. "I will be going out to see the horses."
 "Go and befoul them," Agust璯 said. "Is not that one of thy customs?"
 "No," Pablo said and shook his head. He was taking down his big blanket cape from the wall and he looked at Agust璯. "Thou," he said, "and thy violence."
 "What do you go to do with the horses?" Agust璯 said.
 "Look to them," Pablo said.
 "Befoul them," Agust璯 said. "Horse lover."
 "I care for them very much," Pablo said. "Even from behind they are handsomer and have more sense than these people. Divert yourselves," he said and grinned. "Speak to them of the bridge, _Ingl廥_. Explain their duties in the attack. Tell them how to conduct the retreat. Where will you take them, _Ingl廥_, after the bridge? Where will you take your patriots? I have thought of it all day while I have been drinking."
 "What have you thought?" Agust璯 asked.
 "What have I thought?" Pablo said and moved his tongue around exploringly inside his lips. "_Qu?te importa_, what have I thought."
 "Say it," Agust璯 said to him.
 "Much," Pablo said. He pulled the blanket coat over his head, the roundness of his head protruding now from the dirty yellow folds of the blanket. "I have thought much."
 "What?" Agust璯 said. "What?"
 "I have thought you are a group of illusioned people," Pablo said. "Led by a woman with her brains between her thighs and a foreigner who comes to destroy you."
 "Get out," Pilar shouted at him. "Get out and fist yourself into the snow. Take your bad milk out of here, you horse exhausted _maricon_."
 "Thus one talks," Agust璯 said admiringly, but absent-mindedly. He was worried.
 "I go," said Pablo. "But I will be back shortly." He lifted the blanket over the door of the cave and stepped out. Then from the door he called, "It's still falling, _Ingl廥_."
　　〃聋子'来过了，”比拉尔对罗伯特　乔丹说。他们从风雪中走进烟雾弥裡、热气腾腾的山洞里。那妇人点点头，示意罗伯特　乔丹到她身边去。“他去找马了。”“好。他有口信留给我吗？”“他只说去找马了。”“我们怎么办?”“不知道，”她说。“瞧他。”
　　罗伯特’乔丹进洞的时候就看见了巴勃罗，巴勃罗对他露齿笑笑。这时他坐在板桌边朝他望着，又露齿笑笑，挥挥手。“英国人，”巴勃罗招呼他。“天还在下雪呢，英国人。“罗伯特。乔丹朝他点点头。
　　“我把你的鞋拿去烤烤干，”玛丽亚说。“我把它挂在这炉灶的烟火上。”
　　“留心别把鞋烧了。”罗伯特　乔丹对她说。“我不想在这里光着脚板走路。怎么回事?”他转身对比拉尔说。“这是在幵会吗？你派人放了哨没有?”
　　“在这样的风雪里？亏你说的。”
　　桌边坐着六个人，背靠在墙上。安塞尔莫和费尔南多仍在洞口拍掉外套和裤子上的雪，朝墙上跺脚。
　　“把你的外套给我，”玛丽亚说。“别让雪化在农服上。”罗伯特　乔丹轻轻脱下外套,拍掉裤子上的雪，解开鞋带。“这里全要给你弄湿了，”比拉尔说。

　　“是你招呼我过来的明，““可没人拦住你,不让你回到洞口去拍雪哪。”“对不起。”罗伯特　乔丹说，光着脚踏在泥地上。“找双袜子给我，玛丽亚。”
　　“夫君吩咐啦，”比拉尔说，向火里添了一块柴。“你得抓紧现有的时间，”罗伯特　乔丹对她说。“背包上着锁。”玛丽亚说。"钥匙在这里，”他把钥匙扔过去。“这不是这只包上的钼匙。”“开另一只包。袜子就在上面边上。”姑娘找到了袜子，关好背包，上，“锁，把袜子和钥匙一起拿过来，
　　“坐下来穿上袜子,把脚好好揉揉，”她说。罗伯特，乔丹咧嘴朝她笑笑。
　　“你不能用你的头发来把它们擦干吗，“”他这活是故意说给比拉尔听的。
　　“真不是人。”她说。“开头象当家的，现在是我们的前任天主啦。拿木柴揍他，玛丽亚。”
　　“不。”罗伯特“乔丹对她说。“我是幵玩笑，因为心里高兴。”
　　“你高兴?”
　　“对。”他说。“看来一切都很顺利，““罗伯托，”玛丽亚说。“坐下，擦干脚,让我拿些喝的给你暖和肤和。”
　　“听她这么说，你会以为他从没睬湿过脚。”比拉尔说，“身上也从没掉过一片雪花。”

　　玛丽亚替他拿来一张羊皮，铺在山涧的泥地上。“踩在上面，”她说。“踩在羊皮上，等鞋子干了再穿。”羊皮是刚晾干不久的，还没有鞣过，罗伯特，乔丹把穿着袜子的脚踩在上面，羊皮窸窣作响，象张羊皮纸。
　　炉火在冒烟，比拉尔对玛丽亚叫道，“扇扇炉火吧，没用的丫头啊。这里可不是熏制作坊。”
　　“你自己扇吧，”玛丽亚说。“我在找'聋子’留下的酒瓶。”“在他的背包后面，”比拉尔对她说。“你非把他当吃奶的娃娃来照顾不可吗？”
　　“不，”玛丽亚说。“把他当一个又冷又湿的男人，一个才回家的男人。我到啦。”她把酒瓶拿到罗伯特　乔丹坐着的地方。“这瓶酒就是你今天中午喝过的。瓶子可以做盏漯亮的灯。等再有电的时候,真可以把它做盏灯呢。”她赞赏地看着这只瓶身上有三个大凹痕的酒瓶。“你看它好不好,罗伯托?”
　　“我原以为我是叫英国人呢，”罗伯特　乔丹对她说。“我要当着大家的面叫你罗伯托。”她红着脸低声说。“你爱喝这酒吗,罗伯托？”
　　“罗伯托。”巴勃罗嘶哑地说，对罗伯特“乔丹点点头。“你爱喝这酒吗，堂，罗伯托。”
　　“你要喝点吗?”罗伯特‘乔丹问他。巴勃罗摇摇头。“我正在用葡萄酒把自己灌醉，”他神气地说。
　　“那你去找巴克斯①吧，”罗伯特‘乔丹用西班牙话说。“巴克斯是谁?”巴勃罗问。
①巴克斯为希腊抻话中面神狄俄尼索斯的别名　　

　　“你的同志。”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“我可从没听到过他，”巴勃罗气咻咻地说。“在这山区里从没听到过。”
　　“给安塞尔莫来一杯，”罗伯特　乔丹对玛丽亚说。“挨冻的是他。”他正在穿上烘干的袜子。杯里兑水的威士忌爽口而暖人。他想　但是不象艾酒那么在肚子里翻腾。什么酒及得上艾酒啊他想谁想得到这儿山里竟有威士忌。不过，要是仔细想想，在西班牙最可能摘到威士忌的地方，就得算拉格兰哈了。想想看，这“聋子”拿出一瓶来请作客的爆破手，并且记在心上，把它带来留在这里。这不光是由于他们的风俗习惯。他们的习愤是拿出瓶子，循规蹈矩地请人喝一杯。法国人就是会这样做的，他们还会把喝剩的留到下一次。是哬，当你干的事使你有充分理由可以奄不顾及别人，只顾你自己,可以毫不顾及别人的亊，只顾你自己手头的事的时候，竟能真心体贴地想到客人会喜欢喝威士忌，并且后来再把它带来让他喝个痛快一这是西班牙人的本色。他想　这是某一种西班牙人的吧。你爱这些人的原因之一，也就是他们想到把威士忌带来。他想，别把他们看得太理想化了。美国人各各不同，西班牙人也如此。不过,带威士忌来这一点还是干得很漂亮。 
　　“你觉得酒怎么样,他问安塞尔莫　老头儿坐在炉边,脸上堆着笑,两只大手捧着杯子。他摇播头。
　　“不喜欢?”罗伯特‘乔丹问他。
　　〃小丫头在里头兑了水，”安塞尔莫说。
　　“罗伯托就是这么喝的嘛，”玛丽亚说，“你就跟人家不一样。“
　　“不。“安塞尔莫对她说。“一点没什么不一样。我只是喜欢喝下肚火辣辣的劲头。”
　　“把杯子给我，”罗伯特”乔丹对姑娘说，“给他斟些火辣辣的玩意儿。”
　　他拿杯里的酒倒在自己杯里，把空杯递给玛丽亚，她小心萁翼地把酒瓶里的酒倒在杯里。
　　“啊，”安塞尔莫拿起酒杯，一仰脖淮进喉咙。他望望拿着酒瓶站在那儿的玛丽亚，对她眨眨眼睛，眼睛里涌出泪水,对头，”他说。“对头。”他然后舔舔嘴唇。“这才能把我们肚里作怪的蛆虫杀死哪。”
　　“罗伯托，”玛丽亚走到他身边说，仍然拿着酒瓶。“你要吃饭吗？”
　　“饭做好了喝？”“你要吃什么时候都行。”“别人吃过了？”
　　“只有你,安塞尔莫和费尔南多还没吃，““那我们吃吧。”他对她说。“你呢?”“等会儿跟比拉尔一起吃。”“现在跟我们“起吃吧。”
　　“不。那不好。” 　
　　“来，吃吧。在我的国家里，男人不在他女人之前先吃。”“那是你的国家。这里后吃比较合适。” 、
　　“跟他吃吧，”巴勃罗从桌边抬头说。“跟他吃。跟他喝。跟他睡。跟他死。照他国家的规矩办。”
　　“你醉了吗?”罗伯特。乔丹站在巴勃罗面前说。这个肮脏的、满脸胡子茬的大汉兴离采烈地望着他。
　　“不错。”巴勃罗说。“你那个女人跟男人一起吃饭的国家，英国人，在哪里?”
　　“在美利坚合众国，在蒙大拿州。”
　　“男人跟女人一样穿裙子的地方,就是那里呜？”
　　“不。那是苏格兰，“
　　“可是听着，”巴勃罗说。“你穿裙子时，英国人一”“我不穿裙子，”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“当你穿这种裙子的时候。”巴勃罗顾自说下去，“裙于里面穿什么?”
　　“我不知道苏格兰人的穿着，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我自已也想知道。”
　　“别管苏格兰人，”巴勃罗说。“谁管苏格兰人呀？谁管名称那么希奇古怪的人呀？我不管。我才不管哪。你，我说，英国人。你。在你们国家，你们在裙子里面穿什么?”
　　“我对你说过两次啦，我们不穿裙子。”罗伯特“乔丹说。“既不是说酒话,也不是讲笑话。”
　　“可是你在裙子里面穿什么？〃巴勃罗不放松地说。“因为大家知道，你们是穿裙子的。连大兵也穿。我见过照片‘我在马戏场也见过。你在裙子里面穿什么，英国人?”“那两个蛋，”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　安塞尔矣哈哈大笑,其他听着的人也笑了，只有费尔南多例外。他认为在女人面前讲这样的粗话有失体统。
　　“趣,这是合情合理的嘛，”巴勃罗说。“不过我看，你真有了两个蛋　你就不会穿裙子了。”
　　“别让他再说这种话，英国人，”那个名叫普里米蒂伏的扃脸、断鼻梁的汉子说。“他醉了。跟我讲讲，你们国家种什么庄稼，养计么牲口？”
　　“牛羊，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“还种很多粮食豆子。还种很多做糖的甜菜。”
　　这时他们三个坐在桌边，其他人挨在旁边坐着,只有巴勃罗独自坐在一边，面前放着一碗酒。炖肉还是跟昨晚的一样，罗伯特　乔丹狼吞虎咽地吃着。
　　“你们那里有大山吗？既然叫蒙大拿①，当然有大山啦，”普里米蒂伏客气地问，想打开话匣子。巴勃罗暍醉了酒,使他很窘,“有很多大山，高得很嘟。” 、
　　“有好牧场吗?”
　　“好极了；夏天有政府管理的森林里的高原牧场。到秋天，就把牛羊赶到较低的山坡上去放牧。”“那里土地是农民自己的?”
　　“大多数土地归种地的人所有。土地本来是国家的，不过,如果有人在那里生活，并且表示愿意开垦的话，一个人可以得到一百五十公顷土地。”’
　　“跟我讲讲,这是怎么回事“奥古斯丁问。“这是种蛮有意思的土地改革呀。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹讲解了分给定居移民宅地噚的过程。他以前从没想到这算是一种土改。
　　“真是呱呱叫，”普里米蒂伏说。“这么说你的国家实行共产主义罗？”
　　“不。那是在共和国领导下进行的。”“依我看，”奥古斯丁说，“在共和国领导下，什么事都办得好。我看不需要别的政府形式了。”“你们没有大业主吧?”安德烈斯问，“有很多。”
　　“那就一定有弊病罗。”
　　“当然。有很多
　　"你们可要想法消灭这些弊病。”
　　“我们越来越想这样做。不过弊病仍旧很多。”
　　“有没有很大的产业必须加以限制的?”
　　“有。不过,有人认为,靠抽税就能限制它们扩展。”
　　“怎样做法?”
　　萝伯特　乔丹解释所得税和逋产税的作用，一边用面包抹着炖肉碗。〃不过，大产业还是有的。还有土地也要征税，”他说。
　　“可是大业主和有钱人准要闹革命来反对这些税啦。我看这些税倒是革命的。他们看到自己要倒痗，准会起来反抗政府,就象法西斯分子在这里千的那样。”“这可能。”
　　“那么在你们国家里，也得象我们这里“样,必须斗争啦。”
　　“是啊，我们不斗争不行。”
　　“不过在你们国家里，法西斯分子不多吧”
　　“很多，但他们不知道自己就是法西斯分子，不过到头来是会明白过来的。”
　　“可是，他们不造反,你们就不能消灭他们吧?”“对罗伯特　乔丹说。“我们不能消灭他们。不过我们可以教育人民餐惕法西斯主义，等它一出现就有所认识，向它斗争。”
　　“你知道什么地方没有法西斯分子?”安德烈斯问。“什么地方?”
　　“在巴勃罗老家的那个镇上，”安德烈斯说，露齿笑了。“那镇上发生的情况，你知道吧?”普里米蒂伏问罗伯特　乔丹。
　　“知道。我听说了。”
　　“是比拉尔讲的?”
　　“不错。”
　　“你从那女人嘴里是听不到全部真相的，”巴勃罗气咻咻地说。“她没看到结局，因为她在窗外从椅子上摔下去了。”
　　“那你把后来的情形给他讲讲吧。”比拉尔说。“既然我不知道,你讲就是了。”
　　“不，”巴勃罗说。“我从来没对人讲过。”“不错，〃比拉尔说，“你以后也不会讲啦。如今你可希望根本没有发生那件事。”
　　“不，”巴勃罗说。“这话说得不对。要是大家跟我一样把法西斯分子杀个千净,我们就不会有这场战争了　不过,我但悤当时的情况不象已经发生的那样，“
　　“你说这话算什么意思?”普里米蒂伏问他。“你在玫变政治见解吗?”
　　“不。不过当时太狠心了巴勃罗说。“那些日子里我太狠
心了。”
　　“你现在可醉了。”比拉尔说。“对，”巴勃罗说。“请你包涵。”
　　“我倒喜欢你狠心的时候，”妇人说。“男人中最讨人厌的是酒鬼。贼不偸的时候就象人样。流氓不在自己家里敲诈勒索。杀人犯在家里会洗手不干。可是酒鬼臭气冲天,在自己床上呕吐,让酒精把他的五脏六腑都烂掉。”
　　“你是女人,不懂，”巴勃罗心平气和地说。“我喝得烂醉，如果我没有杀过那些人就快活了。那些人叫我伤心不堪。”他忧郁地摇着头。
　　“拿'聋子’捎来的酒给他一些。”比拉尔说。”给他一些壮壮胆。他伤心得受不住了。”
　　“要是我有本事使他们复活，我一定干。”巴勃罗说。“去你奶奶的。”奥古斯丁对他说。“这里是什么地方?”“我一定使他们都复活。”巴勃罗伤心地说。“每个人。”“去你妈的，”奥古斯丁朝他大叫。“免了这种话吧，要不就滚出去。你杀的人是法西斯分子嘛。”
　　“你听见我说的了，”巴勃罗说。“我要使他们都复活。”“那你就能在海面上行走啦①，”比拉尔说。“我一辈子也没见过这样的男人。到昨天为止你还有一点男人气概。今天呢,你还不如一只有病的小猫。你喝得醉麵醺的,还怪髙兴呢。”“那时应该一个也不留，要躭一个也不杀，”巴勃罗点着头说。一一个也不留，要就一个也不杀。”
　　“听着，英国人，”奥古斯丁说。“你怎么会到西班牙来的？别理巴勃罗。他醉了。”
　　“我第一次来是在十二年前，为了研究这个国家和西班牙语，
　　”罗伯特，乔丹说。“我在大学里教西班牙语。”“你可不大象教授啊，”普里米蒂伏说。“他没有胡子，”巴勃罗说。“瞧他，他没胡子。”“你真的是教授吗?”“是讲师。”“反正你教课?”“对。”
　　“可是干吗教西班牙语呢。”安镰烈斯问　你既然是英国人,教英语不是容易些?”
　　“他的西班牙语说得跟我们一样。”安塞尔莫说。“干吗他不教西班牙语?”
　　“对。不过外国人教西班牙语可多少有点自不量力。”费尔南多说。“我可没有反对你的意思,堂‘罗伯托。”
　　“他是个冒牌教授，”巴勃罗自得其乐地说。“他没有胡子　“你的英语肯定更好些。”费尔南多说。“救英语不是更好些、更容易些、更清楚些?”
　　“他不是教西班牙人一”比拉尔开始插嘴了。“但愿如此，”费尔南多说。
　　“让我把话说完,你这个蠹驴,”比拉尔对他说。“他是给美洲人教西班牙语。北美人，“
　　“他们不会讲西班牙话吗?”费尔南多问。“南美人是会讲的。”

　　“蠢驴，”比拉尔说。“他教说英语的北美人。“
　　“不管怎么样，他既然讲英语，我看坯是教英文容易些,费尔南多说。
　　“难道你没听到他说的西班牙话吗?”比拉尔无可奈何地对罗伯特　乔丹摇摇头。 ‘
　　“不错。不过带点口音。”“邴里的口音?”罗伯特　乔丹问。“埃斯特雷马杜拉的，”费尔南多一本正经地说。“我的妈呀，”比拉尔说。“这种人哪　”“可能的。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我是从那儿来的。”“他自己很清楚。”比拉尔说。“你这个老姑娘。”她扭头对费尔南多说，“你吃够了吗?〃
　　“东西多的话，我还能吃。”费尔南多对地说。“别以为我的话是反对你，堂‘罗伯托一一”
　　“奶奶的，”奥古斯丁干脆地说。“操你奶奶的。咱们干革命就是为了对同志称呼堂‘罗伯托吗。”
　　“依我看，革命就是为了让大家相互称呼‘堂费尔南多说。“共和国领导下就该这样，“
　　“奶奶的奥古斯丁说。“黑奶奶的。。“我还是认为堂　罗伯托教英语来得容易些、请楚些。”“堂　罗伯托没胡子，”巴勃罗说。“他是冒牌教授。”“你说我没胡子是什么意思。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“这是什么,他摈摈下巴和脸颊，三天没刮脸，长了一片黄色的短胡须。
　　“不是胡子，”巴勃罗说。他摇摇头。“那不算胡子，“他这时简直喜气洋洋了。“他是个冒牌教授。“

　　“我操你们的奶奶，”奥古斯丁说。“这里简直象疯人院，““你该喝酒，”巴勃罗对他说，“依我看,什么都正常,就只是堂”罗伯托没长胡子。”
　　玛丽亚伸手摸着罗伯特　乔丹的脸颊。“他有胡子，”她对巴勃罗说，
　　“你当然知道，”巴勃罗说。罗伯特，乔丹对他望着。’罗伯特　乔丹想。”我看他不见得真醉成这样。不，不见得真酔成这样，我看最好还是多加小心。“
　　“你。”他对巴勃罗说。“你看这场雪会下长吗？”“你看呢?”“我问你。”
　　“问别人吧。”巴勃罗对他说。“我不是你的情报部。你有情报部的证明文件嘛。问那女人。她当家。”“我问你,”
　　“去你妈的。”巴勃罗对他说。“你和这女人和这丫头,全见鬼去吧。”
　　“他醉了，”普里米蒂伏说。“别睬他，英国人。”“我看他没有真的醉成这样”罗伯特，乔丹说。玛丽亚站在他背后。罗伯特　乔丹看到巴勃罗隔着他的肩头在打量着她。他那满脸胡子的圆脑袋上长着两只小跟睛，这双公猪般的小眼睛正在打量着她。罗伯特　乔丹想　我在这次战争中见过不少杀人者，以前也见过一些，他们各不相同；没有相同的特征,没有相同的面貌,也没有所谓天生的凶犯相　不过巴勃罗确实长得丑。
　　“我看你不会喝酒，”他对巴勃罗说。“我看你也没有喝醉。”“我醉了，”巴劫罗神气地说，“喝酒没什么了不起。喝醉才了不起。我醉得很厉害。”
　　“我不信，”罗伯特　乔丹对他说。“胆小如鼠，倒是真的。”山洞里颊时鸦雀无声，他听得到比拉尔烧饭的炉灶里柴火发出的咝咝声！他听到自己把全身的分量踩在羊皮上所弄出的窸窣声。他自以为简直能听到洞外的下雪声。他实在听不到，伹能听出落地无声的寂静。
　　罗伯特　乔丹在想。”我真想把他杀掉，一了百了啊。我不知道他打算耍些什么花招，伹肯定不会有好事。后天早晨就要炸桥,而这家伙真糟糕，他对整个任务的完成实在是危险的罾来吧。我们把这件事了了吧。
　　巴勃罗朝他露齿笑笑，伸出一只指头,在脖子上一划。他摇摇头，可是脑袋在那又粗又短的脖子上只微微晃动了一下。
　　“不行，英国人，”他说。“别惹我发火。”他望着比拉尔,对她说，“你想这样把我摘掉可不行。”
　　“无耻之徒，”罗伯特　乔丹对他说，存心想动手了乡“胆小
由”
　　“很可能是嘛。”巴勃罗说。“可我才不会让你惹恼呢-喝点儿什么吧，英国人，给那女人打个手势告诉她没成功，”“闭嘴。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“我是自己向你寻事。”“白费心思,巴勃罗对他说。“我才不会被惹恼呢，““你真是个怪物，”罗伯特　乔丹说,不愿就此罢休；不愿这第二次尝试又遭到失敗！他说话时就明白，这种场面以前已演过一遍，“；他感到他正根据记忆　按照耸在书上看到的、或梦中见过的样子在演一个角色,觉得一切在周而复始。
　　“很怪，是啊，”巴勃罗说。“很怪，并且很醉了。祝你健康，英国人。”他在酒缸里舀了一杯,举起杯子。“祝你健康,有种25。
　　罗伯特，乔丹想。”是轲,他这个人很怪，很机灵,很不简单。他只听到自己呼吸的声音,听不到炉灶里的声音了。
　　“为你干杯，”罗伯特-乔丹说，也舀了杯酒。他想，不来上这一套祝酒的玩艺，就谈不上什么背弃自己的打算了。干杯吧。“干杯，”他说。“干杯，再一次干杯。”他想。”你干杯吧。干杯，你干杯吧。
　　“堂“罗伯托，”巴勃罗气咻咻地说。“堂，巴勃罗。”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“你不是教授，”巴勃罗说，“因为你没长胡子。再说,要把我干掉,只能靠暗杀，伹要这样干，你可没种。”
　　他望着罗伯特　乔丹，紧闭着嘴，嘴唇抿成一条线。罗伯特‘乔丹想。”真象鱼的嘴。长着这样一个脑袋，就象被捉住后的针钝在吸进空气,把身体胀大，
　　“干杯，巴勃罗。”罗伯特。乔丹说，举起杯子，喝了一口。“我从你那里学到不少东西。”‘
　　“我在教教授啦，”巴勃罗点点头。“来吧，堂　罗伯托，我们做个朋友吧。”
　　“我们已经是朋友了，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“现在我们可要做好朋友啦？
　　“我们已经是好朋友了。”

　　“我要离开这里了。”奥古斯丁说。“一点不镨，人家说我们活一辈子至少要听到几顿假话，刚才这一会儿我毎个耳朵里就灌进了二十五磅。”
　　“你怎么啦，黑鬼?”巴勃罗对他说　“你看到堂‘罗伯托报我做朋友不喜欢吗？”
　　“你嘴里可别不干不净地叫我黑鬼。”奥古斯丁走到他面前站住了，双手垂在身旁。
　　“人家就是这样叫你的嘛，”巴勃罗说。“不要你叫。”“行，那么叫白人一”“也不要这样叫。”
　　“那么叫你什么呢？赤色分子一。“对。赤色分子。佩着部队的红星，拥护共和国。我的名字叫奥古斯丁。”
　　“好一个爱国者。”巴勃罗说。“瞧，英国人，好一个爱国者。“
　　奥古斯丁举起左手，反手一挥，狠狼地给了他一巴掌。巴勃罗坐在那儿,嘴角上沾着酒，声色不动，但罗伯特‘乔丹注意到，他眯细了眼睛，就象猫的瞳孔在强光前收缩成一条垂直的狭缝那样。
　　“这也不行呢，”巴勃罗说。“别指望这么做啦，太太。”他转过头来朝着比拉尔。“我不会被惹恼的，“
　　奥古斯丁又揍了他一下。他这次紧握了拳头,打在他嘴上。罗伯特“乔丹在桌子下面用手握着手枪。他扳开保险，左手推开玛丽亚。她挪了挪身子，他用左手在她肋骨上又使劲地推了一下，叫她真的走开。地这才走开了。穸伯特‘乔丹从眼梢上瞅见她沿着洞壁朝炉灶悄悄走去，于是才注视着巴勃罗的脸色。
　　这个困脑袋的汉子坐着，没神的小眼睛瞪着奥古斯丁。这时,瞳孔竟变得更小了。他舔舔嘴屏，举起一条手臂，用手背擦擦嘴，低头一看，看到了手上的血，他用舌头舔着嘴唇,接着唾了一口血水。
　　这也不行。”他说。“我不是傻瓜。我不会着恼。”
　　“王八蛋。”奥古斯丁说。
　　“你哪会不知道。”巴勃罗说。“你了解这女人的嘛。”奥古斯丁又狠狼地给他晡上一拳。巴勃罗冲着他哈哈大笑,染红的嘴里餌出一口黄色的坏牙。
　　“算了吧，”巴勃罗说，用杯子从缸里舀了些酒。”这里谁也找有种来杀我，挥拳头是傻瓜。““胆小鬼。”奥古斯丁说，
　　“骂人也是白搭。”巴勃罗说，用酒漱着口，发出咕噜噜噜的声音，然后吐在地上。“骂我，根本是白搭。”
　　奥古斯丁站在那里,低头望着他，悝吞吞地,一字一句地,刻薄而轻蔑地骂他,一迭连声地骂着，好象正在用粪耙从粪车里一下下地挑起肥料，给地里施肥似的。
　　“再骂也是白搭，”巴勃罗说。“算了，奥古斯丁。别再揍我啦。你会伤了自已的手。”
　　奥古斯丁从他身旁走开，朝洞口走去。“别出去。”巴勃罗说。“外面在下雪　你就在里面舒尿一会吧。”
　　“你！你。”奥古斯丁在门口转身对他说,把他满腔的轻班都放在“你”这个字里面-
　　“对，就是我。”巴勃罗说。“等你归天的时候，我一定还活
着。”
　　他又舀了一杯酒，向罗伯特　乔丹举起杯子。"为教授干杯，”他说。然后转身对比拉尔。“为太太司令干杯。”接着为大家祝酒，“为全体痴心妄想的人干杯，“
　　奥古斯丁走到他面前，用手倏的一砍，打掉了他手中的杯
子。
　　“把酒糟蹋了，”巴勃罗说。“多蠢哬。”奥古斯丁对他恶毒地骂了一声粗诘。“不，”巴勃罗说，又舀了一杯。“我醉了,你没看到吗？我不醉的时候不大说话。你从没听到过我说这么许多话。不过，聪明人和傻瓜泡时间，有时就不得不喝醉。”
　　“滚,操你奶奶的怕死鬼，”比拉尔对他说。“你这个怕死鬼，我看透啦。”
　　“这女人家的嘴多脏啊，”巴勃罗说。“我要出去看马了。”“操它们去吧，”奥古斯丁说。“这不是你的老规矩吗?”“不，”巴勃罗说着摇摇头。他从洞壁上取下毯子式的披风,望望奥古斯丁。“你啊，”他说。“太粗暴了，““你去和马干什么？”奥古斯丁说。“去査看一下。”巴勃罗说。“操它们。”奥古斯丁说。“嫖马客。”“我非常客欢它们。”巴勃罗说。“哪怕从屁股后边望去，它们也要比这帮家伙漂亮些、懂事些。你们自己消遣吧，”他露齿笑笑说。“跟他们谈谈桥吧,英国人。向他们交代袭击时的任务。告诉他们撤走的
Chapter 17
 The only noise in the cave now was the hissing from the hearth where snow was falling through the hole in the roof onto the coals of the fire.
 "Pilar," Fernando said. "Is there more of the stew?"
 "Oh, shut up," the woman said. But Maria took Fernando's bowl over to the big pot set back from the edge of the fire and ladled into it. She brought it over to the table and set it down and then patted Fernando on the shoulder as he bent to eat. She stood for a moment beside him, her hand on his shoulder. But Fernando did not look up. He was devoting himself to the stew.
 Agust璯 stood beside the fire. The others were seated. Pilar sat at the table opposite Robert Jordan.
 "Now, _Ingl廥_," she said, "you have seen how he is."
 "What will he do?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Anything," the woman looked down at the table. "Anything. He is capable of doing anything."
 "Where is the automatic rifle?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "There in the corner wrapped in the blanket," Primitivo said. "Do you want it?"
 "Later," Robert Jordan said. "I wished to know where it is."
 "It is there," Primitivo said. "I brought it in and I have wrapped it in my blanket to keep the action dry. The pans are in that sack."
 "He would not do that," Pilar said. "He would not do anything with the _m嫭uina_."
 "I thought you said he would do anything."
 "He might," she said. "But he has no practice with the _m嫭uina_. He could toss in a bomb. That is more his style."
 "It is an idiocy and a weakness not to have killed him," the gypsy said. He had taken no part in any of the talk all evening. "Last night Roberto should have killed him."
 "Kill him," Pilar said. Her big face was dark and tired looking. "I am for it now."
 "I was against it," Agust璯 said. He stood in front of the fire, his long arms hanging by his sides, his cheeks, stubble-shadowed below the cheekbones, hollow in the firelight. "Now I am for it," he said. "He is poisonous now and he would like to see us all destroyed."
 "Let all speak," Pilar said and her voice was tired. "Thou, Andr廥?"
 "_Matarlo_," the brother with the dark hair growing far down in the point on his forehead said and nodded his head.
 "Eladio?"
 "Equally," the other brother said. "To me he seems to constitute a great danger. And he serves for nothing."
 "Primitivo?"
 "Equally."
 "Fernando?"
 "Could we not hold him as a prisoner?" Fernando asked.
 "Who would look after a prisoner?" Primitivo said. "It would take two men to look after a prisoner and what would we do with him in the end?"
 "We could sell him to the fascists," the gypsy said.
 "None of that," Agust璯 said. "None of that filthiness."
 "It was only an idea," Rafael, the gypsy, said. "It seems to me that the _facciosos_ would be happy to have him."
 "Leave it alone," Agust璯 said. "That is filthy."
 "No filthier than Pablo," the gypsy justified himself.
 "One filthiness does not justify another," Agust璯 said. "Well, that is all. Except for the old man and the _Ingl廥_."
 "They are not in it," Pilar said. "He has not been their leader."
 "One moment," Fernando said. "I have not finished."
 "Go ahead," Pilar said. "Talk until he comes back. Talk until he rolls a hand grenade under that blanket and blows this all up. Dynamite and all."
 "I think that you exaggerate, Pilar," Fernando said. "I do not think that he has any such conception."
 "I do not think so either," Agust璯 said. "Because that would blow the wine up too and he will be back in a little while to the wine."
 "Why not turn him over to El Sordo and let El Sordo sell him to the fascists?" Rafael suggested. "You could blind him and he would be easy to handle."
 "Shut up," Pilar said. "I feel something very justified against thee too when thou talkest."
 "The fascists would pay nothing for him anyway," Primitivo said. "Such things have been tried by others and they pay nothing. They will shoot thee too."
 "I believe that blinded he could be sold for something," Rafael said.
 "Shut up," Pilar said. "Speak of blinding again and you can go with the other."
 "But, he, Pablo, blinded the _guardia civil_ who was wounded," the gypsy insisted. "You have forgotten that?"
 "Close thy mouth," Pilar said to him. She was embarrassed before Robert Jordan by this talk of blinding.
 "I have not been allowed to finish," Fernando interrupted.
 "Finish," Pilar told him. "Go on. Finish."
 "Since it is impractical to hold Pablo as a prisoner," Fernando commenced, "and since it is repugnant to offer him--"
 "Finish," Pilar said. "For the love of God, finish."
 "--in any class of negotiation," Fernando proceeded calmly, "I am agreed that it is perhaps best that he should be eliminated in order that the operations projected should be insured of the maximum possibility of success."
 Pilar looked at the little man, shook her head, bit her lips and said nothing.
 "That is my opinion," Fernando said. "I believe we are justified in believing that he constitutes a danger to the Republic--"
 "Mother of God," Pilar said. "Even here one man can make a bureaucracy with his mouth."
 "Both from his own words and his recent actions," Fernando continued. "And while he is deserving of gratitude for his actions in the early part of the movement and up until the most recent time--"
 Pilar had walked over to the fire. Now she came up to the table.
 "Fernando," Pilar said quietly and handed a bowl to him. "Take this stew please in all formality and fill thy mouth with it and talk no more. We are in possession of thy opinion."
 "But, how then--" Primitivo asked and paused without completing the sentence.
 "_Estoy listo_," Robert Jordan said. "I am ready to do it. Since you are all decided that it should be done it is a service that I can do."
 What's the matter? he thought. From listening to him I am beginning to talk like Fernando. That language must be infectious. French, the language of diplomacy. Spanish, the language of bureaucracy.
 "No," Maria said. "No."
 "This is none of thy business," Pilar said to the girl. "Keep thy mouth shut."
 "I will do it tonight," Robert Jordan said.
 He saw Pilar looking at him, her fingers on her lips. She was looking toward the door.
 The blanket fastened across the opening of the cave was lifted and Pablo put his head in. He grinned at them all, pushed under the blanket and then turned and fastened it again. He turned around and stood there, then pulled the blanket cape over his head and shook the snow from it.
 "You were speaking of me?" he addressed them all. "I am interrupting?"
 No one answered him and he hung the cape on a peg in the wall and walked over to the table.
 "_Qu?tal?_" he asked and picked up his cup which had stood empty on the table and dipped it into the wine bowl. "There is no wine," he said to Maria. "Go draw some from the skin."
 Maria picked up the bowl and went over to the dusty, heavily distended, black-tarred wineskin that hung neck down from the wall and unscrewed the plug from one of the legs enough so that the wine squirted from the edge of the plug into the bowl. Pablo watched her kneeling, holding the bowl up and watched the light red wine flooding into the bowl so fast that it made a whirling motion as it filled it.
 "Be careful," he said to her. "The wine's below the chest now."
 No one said anything.
 "I drank from the belly-button to the chest today," Pablo said. "It's a day's work. What's the matter with you all? Have you lost your tongues?"
 No one said anything at all.
 "Screw it up, Maria," Pablo said. "Don't let it spill."
 "There'll be plenty of wine," Agust璯 said. "You'll be able to be drunk."
 "One has encountered his tongue," Pablo said and nodded to Agust璯. "Felicitations. I thought you'd been struck dumb."
 "By what?" Agust璯 asked.
 "By my entry."
 "Thinkest thou that thy entry carries importance?"
 He's working himself up to it, maybe, Robert Jordan thought. Maybe Agust璯 is going to do it. He certainly hates him enough. I don't hate him, he thought. No, I don't hate him. He is disgusting but I do not hate him. Though that blinding business puts him in a special class. Still this is their war. But he is certainly nothing to have around for the next two days. I am going to keep away out of it, he thought. I made a fool of myself with him once tonight and I am perfectly willing to liquidate him. But I am not going to fool with him beforehand. And there are not going to be any shooting matches or monkey business in here with that dynamite around either. Pablo thought of that, of course. And did you think of it, he said to himself? No, you did not and neither did Agust璯. You deserve whatever happens to you, he thought.
 "Agust璯," he said.
 "What?" Agust璯 looked up sullenly and turned his head away from Pablo.
 "I wish to speak to thee," Robert Jordan said.
 "Later."
 "Now," Robert Jordan said. "_Por favor_."
 Robert Jordan had walked to the opening of the cave and Pablo followed him with his eyes. Agust璯, tall and sunken cheeked, stood up and came over to him. He moved reluctantly and contemptuously.
 "Thou hast forgotten what is in the sacks?" Robert Jordan said to him, speaking so low that it could not be heard.
 "Milk!" Agust璯 said. "One becomes accustomed and one forgets."
 "I, too, forgot."
 "Milk!" Agust璯 said. "_Leche!_ What fools we are." He swung back loose-jointedly to the table and sat down. "Have a drink, Pablo, old boy," he said. "How were the horses?"
 "Very good," Pablo said. "And it is snowing less."
 "Do you think it will stop?"
 "Yes," Pablo said. "It is thinning now and there are small, hard pellets. The wind will blow but the snow is going. The wind has changed."
 "Do you think it will clear tomorrow?" Robert Jordan asked him.
 "Yes," Pablo said. "I believe it will be cold and clear. This wind is shifting."
 Look at him, Robert Jordan thought. Now he is friendly. He has shifted like the wind. He has the face and the body of a pig and I know he is many times a murderer and yet he has the sensitivity of a good aneroid. Yes, he thought, and the pig is a very intelligent animal, too. Pablo has hatred for us, or perhaps it is only for our projects, and pushes his hatred with insults to the point where you are ready to do away with him and when he sees that this point has been reached he drops it and starts all new and clean again.
 "We will have good weather for it, _Ingl廥_," Pablo said to Robert Jordan.
 "_We_," Pilar said. "_We?_"
 "Yes, we," Pablo grinned at her and drank some of the wine. "Why not? I thought it over while I was outside. Why should we not agree?"
 "In what?" the woman asked. "In what now?"
 "In all," Pablo said to her. "In this of the bridge. I am with thee now."
 "You are with us now?" Agust璯 said to him. "After what you have said?"
 "Yes," Pablo told him. "With the change of the weather I am with thee."
 Agust璯 shook his head. "The weather," he said and shook his head again. "And after me hitting thee in the face?"
 "Yes," Pablo grinned at him and ran his fingers over his lips. "After that too."
 Robert Jordan was watching Pilar. She was looking at Pablo as at some strange animal. On her face there was still a shadow of the expression the mention of the blinding had put there. She shook her head as though to be rid of that, then tossed it back. "Listen," she said to Pablo.
 "Yes, woman."
 "What passes with thee?"
 "Nothing," Pablo said. "I have changed my opinion. Nothing more."
 "You were listening at the door," she told him.
 "Yes," he said. "But I could hear nothing."
 "You fear that we will kill thee."
 "No," he told her and looked at her over the wine cup. "I do not fear that. You know that."
 "Well, what passes with thee?" Agust璯 said. "One moment you are drunk and putting your mouth on all of us and disassociating yourself from the work in hand and speaking of our death in a dirty manner and insulting the women and opposing that which should be done--"
 "I was drunk," Pablo told him.
 "And now--"
 "I am not drunk," Pablo said. "And I have changed my mind."
 "Let the others trust thee. I do not," Agust璯 said.
 "Trust me or not," Pablo said. "But there is no one who can take thee to Gredos as I can."
 "Gredos?"
 "It is the only place to go after this of the bridge."
 Robert Jordan, looking at Pilar, raised his hand on the side away from Pablo and tapped his right ear questioningly.
 The woman nodded. Then nodded again. She said something to Maria and the girl came over to Robert Jordan's side.
 "She says, 'Of course he heard," Maria said in Robert Jordan's ear.
 "Then Pablo," Fernando said judicially. "Thou art with us now and in favor of this of the bridge?"
 "Yes, man," Pablo said. He looked Fernando squarely in the eye and nodded.
 "In truth?" Primitivo asked.
 "_De veras_," Pablo told him.
 "And you think it can be successful?" Fernando asked. "You now have confidence?"
 "Why not?" Pablo said. "Haven't you confidence?"
 "Yes," Fernando said. "But I always have confidence."
 "I'm going to get out of here," Agust璯 said.
 "It is cold outside," Pablo told him in a friendly tone.
 "Maybe," Agust璯 said. "But I can't stay any longer in this _manicomio_."
 "Do not call this cave an insane asylum," Fernando said.
 "A _manicomio_ for criminal lunatics," Agust璯 said. "And I'm getting out before I'm crazy, too."
　　雪从山洞顶上的窟甯里飘落在炉灶的煤火上，发出咝聪声,这是这时山洞里唯一的声音。
　　“比拉尔，”费尔南多说。“还有炖肉吗?”“呸，闭嘴。”妇人说。但玛丽亚接过费尔南多的碗，拿到已从炉灶边端下的大铁锅旁,在里面舀吃的。她把它槺到桌边　搁在桌上，费尔南多俯身去吃。她拍拍他的肩头，在他身旁站了一会儿，一只手搁在他肩上。
　　伹费尔南多没有抬头。他一心一意地吃着炖肉。
　　奥古斯丁站在炉灶边。其他人都坐着。比拉尔坐在桌边,罗伯特　乔丹的对面。
　　“挨,英国人，”她说，“你看到他是什么模样啦，“
　　“他会怎么干?”罗伯特‘乔丹问。“什么都干得出来。”妇人低头望着桌子。“什么都干得出来。他这人什么都干得出来。”
　　“自动步枪在哪里?”罗伯特　乔丹问　“在那边角落里，裹在毪子里。”普里米蒂伏说。“你要吗?”〃等会要。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我想知道枪藏在哪儿。”“就在那儿。”普里米蒂伏说。“我把它拿进来裹在我的毯子里了　免得受匍。弹药盘在那只包里。”
　　“他不会动它的。”比拉尔说。“他不会拿这支机关枪干什么名堂。”
　　“我记得你刚才还说他这人什么都干得出来。”“有这个可能。”她说。“不过他没有使过机关枪。他可能扔个炸弹进来。这才更符合他的作风。”
　　“不把他干掉，就是鸞，胆小。”吉普赛人说。在整个晚上这场谈话中，他没开过口。“罗伯托昨晚就该把他干了。”
　　“杀了他吧。”比拉尔说。她那张大脸上鳝出了阴郁而疲惫的神色。“我现在赞成这个办法了。”
　　“我本来是反对的。”奥古斯丁说，他站在炉灶前，两条长手臂垂在身体两摘,颧骨下满是胡子茬的两頰,在炉火映照下显得凹陷了　“我现在赞成了。”他说。”他这个人现在很恶毒，珙了我们大家他才离兴。”
　　“大家说说吧，”比拉尔说，但她的声音有气无力。“安德烈斯,你说呢?”
　　“杀掉他，”两兄弟中那个黑头发在前額上生得很低的说，还“埃拉迪奥。”
　　“一样，”另一个兄弟说。“依我看,他是个大祸根。而且他根本不中用了。”
　　“普里米蒂伏?”’“一样。”“费尔南多?”
　　“我们不能把他关起来吗。”费尔南多问。"谁来看守囚徒？”
　　普里米蒂伏说。“一个囚徒得两个人看。再说，最后我们怎么处理他?”
　　“我们可以把他抛给法西斯分于，”吉普赛人说。“这种事干不得。”奥古斯丁说。“这种卑鄙勾当千不得。”“我不过是出个主意罢了。”吉普赛人拉斐尔说。“依我看哪，叛乱分子会高兴把他弄到手的。”
　　“算了吧，”奥古斯丁说。“那太卑铘了。”“也不比巴勃罗更卑髎吧，”吉普赛人为自己辨护道。“不能用卑讎来对付卑鄙。”奥古斯丁说，“好,大家都说了。还有老头子和英国人没讲。”
　　“他们跟这没关系。”比拉尔说，“他没有当过他们的头。”“等一等，”费尔南多说。“我的话还没说完，““说啊，”比拉尔说。“一直说到他回来。说到他从毺子下面扔个手榴弹进来把我们全炸掉，把炸药什么的全炸掉。”
　　“我认为你看得太严重了，比拉尔，”费尔南多说。”我看他不至于有这种心思吧。”
　　“我看也不会，”奥古斯丁说。”因为这一来把酒也要炸掉啦，可等一会他就要来喝的。”
　　“干吗不把他交给‘聋子’，让‘聋子’去把他撖铪法西斯分子？”拉斐尔提议说。“可以弄瞎他的眼蹐，那就容易对付了。”

　　“闭嘴，”比拉尔说。“你一开口，我就觉得你这人实在也该杀。”
　　“法西斯分子反正不肯在他身上花一个子儿，”苷里米蒂伏说。“这种事别人试过，他们不给钱，倒会把你也毙掉，““我认为,弄瞎了他的眼睛，能拿他卖到钱，”拉斐尔说。“闭嘴。”比拉尔说。“要是再说弄瞎眼睛，你两以跟他一起去。”
　　“可是巴勃罗弄瞎过受伤的民防军，”吉普赛人不放松地说。“那一回你忘了吗?，
　　“住口，”比拉尔对他说。当着罗伯特　乔丹的面提到弄瞎眼睹这回事,使地发窘，
　　“我的话没让说完哪。”费尔南多插晡说。“说吧，”比拉尔对他说。“说下去。把话说完。”“既然把巴勃罗关起来行不通，”费尔南多开始说，“而通过任何形式的谈判把他抛给敌人的倣法叉使人太反感一一”“快说啊，”比拉尔说。“看在天主面上快说啊。”"我认为。”费尔南多不慌不忙地说下去，“为了保证计划中的行动取得最大成功，最好也许是结果他。”
　　比拉尔望望这个矮小的汉子，摇摇头，咬着嘴唇，一声不吭。
　　"我的意见就是这样，”费尔南多说。“我相信，我们把他看成是对共和国的危害，是有根据的一”
　　“圣母玛丽亚啊，”比拉尔说。“即使在这里，人也会打官腔。““这是既根据他自己的言论又根据他最近的作为来看的，”费尔南多接着说。“尽管他在革命初期并且直到不久以前所做的事是值得我们感谢的一一”
　　比拉尔已走到炉火边。这时她来到桌子旁。“费尔南多，”比拉尔平静地说，递给他一个碗。“请你规规矩矩地吃了这碗炖肉，把你的嘴塞满了，别再开口啦。我们了解你的意见了。”
　　“可是，那么怎样一”普里米蒂伏问到这里就不说下去了。“我准备好了，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“既然大家决定该这么干，这件事我能出把力。”
　　他想。”我怎么啦？听了费尔南多说话，我的调子也跟他一样啦。这种语言一定有传染性。法语是外交语言。西班牙语是官僚语言。
　　“别，”玛丽亚说。“别。”
　　“这不关你的事，”比拉尔对姑娘说。“把嘴闭上。”“今晚我就动手。”罗伯特　乔丹说，他看到比拉尔对他看了一眼，手指放在嘴鼷上。她正望着洞口。
　　系在洞口的毯予给撩起了，巴勃罗探进头来，他露齿朝大家笑笑，搛开毯子挤身进来,然后回身系上挂毪。他转身站在那里,脱掉披风,抖去上面的雪。
　　“你们在谈我吧?”他对大家说。“我把你们的话打断啦？”没;　他的话　他把披风挂在洞壁的木钉上，向桌子走去。〃怎么样?”他问,拿起桌上他那只空杯子在酒缸里舀酒酒没了。”他对玛丽亚说。“到酒袋里去倒些来。”
　　玛丽亚拿起酒缸，朝酒袋走去。这只倒挂在洞壁上的外面涂了柏油的皮酒袋积满了灰尘，胀得滚圆。她把“条腿上的旋塞拧幵一点，让酒从旋塞四周喷射在酒缸里。巴勃罗望着她跪着端起了酒缸，望着那淡红色的酒很快地注进缸里，.酒越来越满，在缸里打着旋。
　　“小心别洒了，”他对她说。“袋里的酒只剩一半了。”没人说话。
　　“我今天从皮酒袋的肚脐那儿喝到了胸口①，”巴勃罗说，“一天的成绩。你们大伙儿怎么啦？舌头丢啦?”…大家一句话也没有。
　　“把塞子旋紧，玛丽亚，”巴勃罗说。“别让酒漏了“酒多的是囑，”奥古斯丁说。“够你喝个醉，““有人找到舌头了，”巴勃罗说,对奥古斯丁点点头。”恭客恭喜。我以为你给吓得话都说不出来啦。”“为什么?”奥古斯丁问。“因为我进来了。”
　　“你以为你进来有什么可大惊小怪的。”罗伯特　乔丹想。”看来奥古斯丁在动起来啦。也许他躭要动手了。他当然非常恨巴勃罗。我不恨他，他想。是啊，我不恨他。他叫人讨厌，可我不恨他。虽然弄瞎眼瞎这种事使他显得特别要不得。然而这是他们的战争。今后两天里有他在身边当然起不了什么作用。他想。”我不打算插手这件事啦。今晚我一度当了傻瓜，我竟巴不得把他干掉。我可决定不到时间不跟他胡来啦。而且炸药就在旁边，可不能在这山洞里来什么射击比赛，闹什么儿戏。巴勃罗当然想到了这一点。他对自己说，你刚才想到了吗？没有，你没想到，奥古斯丁也没想到。他想,如果万一出，“什么纰漏，你活该。“

①这种皮酒袋用整张牛皮制成，四条腿紂住，在一条1。上安上个龙头，倒挂在埯上,要酒时旋开龙头即可。巴勃罗非常贪杯，那天喝了不少,袋内余酒的水平面已从这牛皮上的肚脐处眸到了胸郎　

　　“奥古斯丁，”他说。
　　“什么？”奥古斯丁阴沉地抬起眼瞒，扭过头不去看巴勃罗。“我想跟你说句话，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“以后说吧。”
　　“现在。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“劳驾啦。”罗伯特，乔丹已走到洞口，巴勃罗的目光跟着他。身材髙大、脸颊凹陷的奥古斯丁站起身向他走去。他勉强而轻蔑地挪动着脚步。
　　“背包里藏的什么东西，你忘了？”罗伯特，乔丹对他说，声音低得听也听不清。
　　“奶扔的　”奥古斯丁说。“一习愤就忘了　”“我刚才也忘了。”
　　“奶奶的　”奥古斯丁说。“我们寘是傻瓜。”他大摇大摆地囬到桌边坐下。“来一杯,巴勃罗，老兄。”他说。“马儿好吧?”“很好，”巴勃罗说。“雪下得小了。”“你看雪会停吗？”
　　“会停。”巴勃罗说。“现在下得稀了，在下小雪珠。就要起风，不过雪倒会停。风向变啦。”
　　“你看明天会放晴吗”罗伯特　乔丹问他，“会。”巴勃罗说。“看来明天要转冷放喑了。风向在变，“罗伯特　乔丹想。”瞧他的模样。他现在变得友好啦。他象风向那样变啦。他长着一副猪的相貌和身材；我知道,他杀人不眨眼，可是他灵敏得象只好的气压表。他想:是辆，猪也是满聪明的畜生嘛。巴勃罗是恨我们的,不过，恨的也许只是我们的作战方案，他用侮辱来表达他的憎恨，使你到了想干掉他的程度，可是他看到达到了这程度，却改变了主意，重新又来了一套新花件。”
　　“我们行动时会遇上好天气，英国人，”巴勃罗对罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　“夸形，”比拉尔说’“琴”?”哂，我们，”巴勃罗’露齿对她笑笑，喝了几口酒。“干吗不？我刚才在外面把这个问题想过了，干吗我们妄不一致呢?”
　　“关于什么事？”妇人问。“到底关于什么事?”“什么事都一致。”巴勃罗对她说。“关宁这次炸桥行动。现在我和你一起干，““你和我们一起干？”奥古斯丁对他说。〃在你说过那些话之后？”
　　“不错，”巴勃罗对他说。“天气变了，我和你们一起干，“。”奥古斯丁摇摇头申“天气，”他说，又摇摇头。“即使我打过你的脸?”
　　“对，”巴勃罗朝他露齿笑笑，用手指摸摸嘴唇　“即使这样也干。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹注视着比拉尔。她正望着巴勃罗，仿佛他是头怪物似的。她脸上仍然带着一点儿刚才提到弄瞎眼睹时所出现的表情，她摇摇头，仿佛想把这表情甩掉，随即头向后一队“听着。”她对巴勃罗说　
　　“你这是怎么啦?”
　　“没什么，”巴勃罗说。“我改了主意。就是这么回事。““你在洞口倫听了吧？”她对他说。1“是啊。”他说。“不过我什么也没听到。”
　　“你怕我们干掉你。”
　　“不,他对她说,越过酒杯向她望去。“我不怕这个。这你知道。”
　　“咦，那你是怎么啦?”奥古斯丁说。“你刚才还是喝得醉醮醱的，拿我们大家数落，不愿卷入我们当前的任务，恶毒地咒我们死,辱骂妇女们,反对该做的事一”“我刚才醉了，”巴勃罗对他说。
　　
　　“那么现在一”
　　“我不醉了，”巴勃罗说。“我改了主意。”“让别人听信你的鬼话吧。我可不信，”奥古斯丁说。“信也好，不信也好。”巴勃罗说。“除了我没人能把你们带到格雷多斯山区去。”“格雷多斯?”
　　“炸桥之后只有这条路可走。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹望着比拉尔，举起离巴勃罗较远的那只手，轻轻敲敲自己的右耳,好象在提问似的。
　　妇人点点头。接着又点了点头。她对玛丽亚叽咕了几旬，姑娘躭跑到罗伯特　乔丹身边来。
　　“她说，‘他肯定听到了’。”玛丽亚凑着罗伯特‘弃丹的耳朵说。
　　“那么巴勃罗，”费尔南多慎重地说。“你现在和我们站在一起，也赞成炸桥了？”
　　“对,老弟，”巴勃罗说。他正面望藿费尔南多的眼睛，对他
点头。
　　“当真？”普里米蒂伏问。“当真，”巴勃罗对他说。
　　“那你看这事能成功?”费尔南多问。〃你现在有信心了吗〃“干吗没有，“”巴勃罗说，“难道你没信心吗？〃“有，”费尔南多说。“我可一直有信心。”“我要离开这里了，”奥古斯丁说。“外面冷吶，”巴勃罗和气地对他说。“可能吧，”奥古斯丁说，“可我在这个疯人院里实在待不下去啦。”
　　“别把这个山涧叫疯人院，”费尔南多说。“收容杀人狂的疯人院。”奥古斯丁说。“我要走了，再待下去我也要疯了。“
Chapter 18
 It is like a merry-go-round, Robert Jordan thought. Not a merry-goround that travels fast, and with a calliope for music, and the children ride on cows with gilded horns, and there are rings to catch with sticks, and there is the blue, gas-flare-lit early dark of the Avenue du Maine, with fried fish sold from the next stall, and a wheel of fortune turning with the leather flaps slapping against the posts of the numbered compartments, and the packages of lump sugar piled in pyramids for prizes. No, it is not that kind of a merrygo-round; although the people are waiting, like the men in caps and the women in knitted sweaters, their heads bare in the gaslight and their hair shining, who stand in front of the wheel of fortune as it spins. Yes, those are the people. But this is another wheel. This is like a wheel that goes up and around.
 It has been around twice now. It is a vast wheel, set at an angle, and each time it goes around and then is back to where it starts. One side is higher than the other and the sweep it makes lifts you back and down to where you started. There are no prizes either, he thought, and no one would choose to ride this wheel. You ride it each time and make the turn with no intention ever to have mounted. There is only one turn; one large, elliptical, rising and falling turn and you are back where you have started. We are back again now, he thought, and nothing is settled.
 It was warm in the cave and the wind had dropped outside. Now he was sitting at the table with his notebook in front of him figuring all the technical part of the bridge-blowing. He drew three sketches, figured his formulas, marked the method of blowing with two drawings as clearly as a kindergarten project so that Anselmo could complete it in case anything should happen to himself during the process of the demolition. He finished these sketches and studied them.
 Maria sat beside him and looked over his shoulder while he worked. He was conscious of Pablo across the table and of the others talking and playing cards and he smelled the odors of the cave which had changed now from those of the meal and the cooking to the fire smoke and man smell, the tobacco, red-wine and brassy, stale body smell, and when Maria, watching him finishing a drawing, put her hand on the table he picked it up with his left hand and lifted it to his face and smelled the coarse soap and water freshness from her washing of the dishes. He laid her hand down without looking at her and went on working and he could not see her blush. She let her hand lie there, close to his, but he did not lift it again.
 Now he had finished the demolition project and he took a new page of the notebook and commenced to write out the operation orders. He was thinking clearly and well on these and what he wrote pleased him. He wrote two pages in the notebook and read them over carefully.
 I think that is all, he said to himself. It is perfectly clear and I do not think there are any holes in it. The two posts will be destroyed and the bridge will be blown according to Golz's orders and that is all of my responsibility. All of this business of Pablo is something with which I should never have been saddled and it will be solved one way or another. There will be Pablo or there will be no Pablo. I care nothing about it either way. But I am not going to get on that wheel again. Twice I have been on that wheel and twice it has gone around and come back to where it started and I am taking no more rides on it.
 He shut the notebook and looked up at Maria. "_Hola, guapa_," he said to her. "Did you make anything out of all that?"
 "No, Roberto," the girl said and put her hand on his hand that still held the pencil. "Have you finished?"
 "Yes. Now it is all written out and ordered."
 "What have you been doing, _Ingl廥?_" Pablo asked from across the table. His eyes were bleary again.
 Robert Jordan looked at him closely. Stay off that wheel, he said to himself. Don't step on that wheel. I think it is going to start to swing again.
 "Working on the problem of the bridge," he said civilly.
 "How is it?" asked Pablo.
 "Very good," Robert Jordan said. "All very good."
 "I have been working on the problem of the retreat," Pablo said and Robert Jordan looked at his drunken pig eyes and at the wine bowl. The wine bowl was nearly empty.
 Keep off the wheel, he told himself. He is drinking again. Sure. But don't you get on that wheel now. Wasn't Grant supposed to be drunk a good part of the time during the Civil War? Certainly he was. I'll bet Grant would be furious at the comparison if he could see Pablo. Grant was a cigar smoker, too. Well, he would have to see about getting Pablo a cigar. That was what that face really needed to complete it; a half chewed cigar. Where could he get Pablo a cigar?
 "How does it go?" Robert Jordan asked politely.
 "Very well," Pablo said and nodded his head heavily and judiciously. "_Muy bien_."
 "You've thought up something?" Agust璯 asked from where they were playing cards.
 "Yes," Pablo said. "Various things."
 "Where did you find them? In that bowl?" Agust璯 demanded.
 "Perhaps," Pablo said. "Who knows? Maria, fill the bowl, will you, please?"
 "In the wineskin itself there should be some fine ideas," Agust璯 turned back to the card game. "Why don't you crawl in and look for them inside the skin?"
 "Nay," said Pablo equably. "I search for them in the bowl."
 He is not getting on the wheel either, Robert Jordan thought. It must be revolving by itself. I suppose you cannot ride that wheel too long. That is probably quite a deadly wheel. I'm glad we are off of it. It was making me dizzy there a couple of times. But it is the thing that drunkards and those who are truly mean or cruel ride until they die. It goes around and up and the swing is never quite the same and then it comes around down. Let it swing, he thought. They will not get me onto it again. No sir, General Grant, I am off that wheel.
 Pilar was sitting by the fire, her chair turned so that she could see over the shoulders of the two card players who had their backs to her. She was watching the game.
 Here it is the shift from deadliness to normal family life that is the strangest, Robert Jordan thought. It is when the damned wheel comes down that it gets you. But I am off that wheel, he thought. And nobody is going to get me onto it again.
 Two days ago I never knew that Pilar, Pablo nor the rest existed, he thought. There was no such thing as Maria in the world. It was certainly a much simpler world. I had instructions from Golz that were perfectly clear and seemed perfectly possible to carry out although they presented certain difficulties and involved certain consequences. After we blew the bridge I expected either to get back to the lines or not get back and if we got back I was going to ask for some time in Madrid. No one has any leave in this war but I am sure I could get two or three days in Madrid.
 In Madrid I wanted to buy some books, to go to the Florida Hotel and get a room and to have a hot bath, he thought. I was going to send Luis the porter out for a bottle of absinthe if he could locate one at the MantequerIas Leonesas or at any of the places off the Gran Via and I was going to lie in bed and read after the bath and drink a couple of absinthes and then I was going to call up Gaylord's and see if I could come up there and eat.
 He did not want to eat at the Gran Via because the food was no good really and you had to get there on time or whatever there was of it would be gone. Also there were too many newspaper men there he knew and he did not want to have to keep his mouth shut. He wanted to drink the absinthes and to feel like talking and then go up to Gaylord's and eat with Karkov, where they had good food and real beer, and find out what was going on in the war.
 He had not liked Gaylord's, the hotel in Madrid the Russians had taken over when he first went there because it seemed too luxurious and the food was too good for a besieged city and the talk too cynical for a war. But I corrupted very easily, he thought. Why should you not have as good food as could be organized when you came back from something like this? And the talk that he had thought of as cynicism when he had first heard it had turned out to be much too true. This will be something to tell at Gaylord's, he thought, when this is over. Yes, when this is over.
 Could you take Maria to Gaylord's? No. You couldn't. But you could leave her in the hotel and she could take a hot bath and be there when you came back from Gaylord's. Yes, you could do that and after you had told Karkov about her, you could bring her later because they would be curious about her and want to see her.
 Maybe you wouldn't go to Gaylord's at all. You could eat early at the Gran Via and hurry back to the Florida. But you knew you would go to Gaylord's because you wanted to see all that again; you wanted to eat that food again and you wanted to see all the comfort of it and the luxury of it after this. Then you would come back to the Florida and there Maria would be. Sure, she would be there after this was over. After this was over. Yes, after this was over. If he did this well he would rate a meal at Gaylord's.
 Gaylord's was the place where you met famous peasant and worker Spanish commanders who had sprung to arms from the people at the start of the war without any previous military training and found that many of them spoke Russian. That had been the first big disillusion to him a few months back and he had started to be cynical to himself about it. But when he realized how it happened it was all right. They _were_ peasants and workers. They had been active in the 1934 revolution and had to flee the country when it failed and in Russia they had sent them to the military academy and to the Lenin Institute the Comintern maintained so they would be ready to fight the next time and have the necessary military education to command.
 The Comintern had educated them there. In a revolution you could not admit to outsiders who helped you nor that any one knew more than he was supposed to know. He had learned that. If a thing was right fundamentally the lying was not supposed to matter. There was a lot of lying though. He did not care for the lying at first. He hated it. Then later he had come to like it. It was part of being an insider but it was a very corrupting business.
 It was at Gaylord's that you learned that Valentin Gonzalez, called El Campesino or The Peasant, had never been a peasant but was an ex-sergeant in the Spanish Foreign Legion who had deserted and fought with Abd el Krim. That was all right, too. Why shouldn't he be? You had to have these peasant leaders quickly in this sort of war and a real peasant leader might be a little too much like Pablo. You couldn't wait for the real Peasant Leader to arrive and he might have too many peasant characteristics when he did. So you had to manufacture one. At that, from what he had seen of Campesino, with his black beard, his thick negroid lips, and his feverish, staring eyes, he thought he might give almost as much trouble as a real peasant leader. The last time he had seen him he seemed to have gotten to believe his own publicity and think he was a peasant. He was a brave, tough man; no braver in the world. But God, how he talked too much. And when he was excited he would say anything no matter what the consequences of his indiscretion. And those consequences had been many already. He was a wonderful Brigade Commander though in a situation where it looked as though everything was lost. He never knew when everything was lost and if it was, he would fight out of it.
 At Gaylord's, too, you met the simple stonemason, Enrique Lister from Galicia, who now commanded a division and who talked Russian, too. And you met the cabinet worker, Juan Modesto from AndalucIa who had just been given an Army Corps. He never learned his Russian in Puerto de Santa Maria although he might have if they had a Berlitz School there that the cabinet makers went to. He was the most trusted of the young soldiers by the Russians because he was a true party man, "a hundred per cent" they said, proud to use the Americanism. He was much more intelligent than Lister or El Campesino.
 Sure, Gaylord's was the place you needed to complete your education. It was there you learned how it was all really done instead of how it was supposed to be done. He had only started his education, he thought. He wondered whether he would continue with it long. Gaylord's was good and sound and what he needed. At the start when he had still believed all the nonsense it had come as a shock to him. But now he knew enough to accept the necessity for all the deception and what he learned at Gaylord's only strengthened him in his belief in the things that he did hold to be true. He liked to know how it really was; not how it was supposed to be. There was always lying in a war. But the truth of Lister, Modesto, and El Campesino was much better than the lies and legends. Well, some day they would tell the truth to every one and meantime he was glad there was a Gaylord's for his own learning of it.
 Yes, that was where he would go in Madrid after he had bought the books and after he had lain in the hot bath and had a couple of drinks and had read awhile. But that was before Maria had come into all this that he had that plan. All right. They would have two rooms and she could do what she liked while he went up there and he'd come back from Gaylord's to her. She had waited up in the hills all this time. She could wait a little while at the Hotel Florida. They would have three days in Madrid. Three days could be a long time. He'd take her to see the Marx Brothers at the Opera. That had been running for three months now and would certainly be good for three months more. She'd like the Marx Brothers at the Opera, he thought. She'd like that very much.
 It was a long way from Gaylord's to this cave though. No, that was not the long way. The long way was going to be from this cave to Gaylord's. Kashkin had taken him there first and he had not liked it. Kashkin had said he should meet Karkov because Karkov wanted to know Americans and because he was the greatest lover of Lope de Vega in the world and thought "Fuente Ovejuna" was the greatest play ever written. Maybe it was at that, but he, Robert Jordan, did not think so.
 He had liked Karkov but not the place. Karkov was the most intelligent man he had ever met. Wearing black riding boots, gray breeches, and a gray tunic, with tiny hands and feet, puffily fragile of face and body, with a spitting way of talking through his bad teeth, he looked comic when Robert Jordan first saw him. But he had more brains and more inner dignity and outer insolence and humor than any man that he had ever known.
 Gaylord's itself had seemed indecently luxurious and corrupt. But why shouldn't the representatives of a power that governed a sixth of the world have a few comforts? Well, they had them and Robert Jordan had at first been repelled by the whole business and then had accepted it and enjoyed it. Kashkin had made him out to be a hell of a fellow and Karkov had at first been insultingly polite and then, when Robert Jordan had not played at being a hero but had told a story that was really funny and obscenely discreditable to himself, Karkov had shifted from the politeness to a relieved rudeness and then to insolence and they had become friends.
 Kashkin had only been tolerated there. There was something wrong with Kashkin evidently and he was working it out in Spain. They would not tell him what it was but maybe they would now that he was dead. Anyway, he and Karkov had become friends and he had become friends too with the incredibly thin, drawn, dark, loving, nervous, deprived and unbitter woman with a lean, neglected body and dark, gray-streaked hair cut short who was Karkov's wife and who served as an interpreter with the tank corps. He was a friend too of Karkov's mistress, who had cat-eyes, reddish gold hair (sometimes more red; sometimes more gold, depending on the coiffeurs), a lazy sensual body (made to fit well against other bodies), a mouth made to fit other mouths, and a stupid, ambitious and utterly loyal mind. This mistress loved gossip and enjoyed a periodically controlled promiscuity which seemed only to amuse Karkov. Karkov was supposed to have another wife somewhere besides the tank-corps one, maybe two more, but nobody was very sure about that. Robert Jordan liked both the wife he knew and the mistress. He thought he would probably like the other wife, too, if he knew her, if there was one. Karkov had good taste in women.
 There were sentries with bayonets downstairs outside the _portecochere_ at Gaylord's and tonight it would be the pleasantest and most comfortable place in all of besieged Madrid. He would like to be there tonight instead of here. Though it was all right here, now they had stopped that wheel. And the snow was stopping too.
 He would like to show his Maria to Karkov but he could not take her there unless he asked first and he would have to see how he was received after this trip. Golz would be there after this attack was over and if he had done well they would all know it from Golz. Golz would make fun of him, too, about Maria. After what he'd said to him about no girls.
 He reached over to the bowl in front of Pablo and dipped up a cup of wine. "With your permission," he said.
 Pablo nodded. He is engaged in his military studies, I imagine, Robert Jordan thought. Not seeking the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth but seeking the solution to the problem in yonder bowl. But you know the bastard must be fairly able to have run this band successfully for as long as he did. Looking at Pablo he wondered what sort of guerilla leader he would have been in the American Civil War. There were lots of them, he thought. But we know very little about them. Not the Quantrills, nor the Mosbys, nor his own grandfathei but the little ones, the bushwhackers. And about the drinking. Do you suppose Grant really was a drunk? His grandfather always claimed he was. That he was always a little drunk by four o'clock in the afternoon and that before Vicksburg sometimes during the siege he was very drunk for a couple of days. But grandfather claimed that he functioned perfectly normally no matter how much he drank except that sometimes it was very hard to wake him. But if you _could_ wake him he was normal.
 There wasn't any Grant, nor any Sherman nor any Stonewall Jackson on either side so far in this war. No. Nor any Jeb Stuart either. Nor any Sheridan. It was overrun with McClellans though. The fascists had plenty of McClellans and we had at least three of them.
 He had certainly not seen any military geniuses in this war. Not a one. Nor anything resembling one. Kleber, Lucasz, and Hans had done a fine job of their share in the defense of Madrid with the International Brigades and then the old bald, spectacled, conceited, stupid-as-an-owl, unintelligent-in-conversation, brave-- and-as-dumb-as-a-bull, propaganda-build-up defender of Madrid, Miaja, had been so jealous of the publicity Kleber received that he had forced the Russians to relieve Kieber of his command and send him to Valencia. Kieber was a good soldier; but limited and he _did_ talk too much for the job he had. Golz was a good general and a fine soldier but they always kept him in a subordinate position and never gave him a free hand. This attack was going to be his biggest show so far and Robert Jordan did not like too much what he had heard about the attack. Then there was Gall, the Hungarian, who ought to be shot if you could believe half you heard at Gaylord's. Make it if you can believe ten per cent of what you hear at Gaylord's, Robert Jordan thought.
 He wished that he had seen the fighting on the plateau beyond Guadalajara when they beat the Italians. But he had been down in Estremadura then. Hans had told him about it one night in Gaylord's two weeks ago and made him see it all. There was one moment when it was really lost when the Italians had broken the line near Trijueque and the Twelfth Brigade would have been cut off if the Torija-Brihuega road had been cut. "But knowing they were Italians," Hans had said, "we attempted to manoeuvre which would have been unjustifiable against other troops. And it was successful."
 Hans had shown it all to him on his maps of the battle. Hans carried them around with him in his map case all the time and still seemed marvelled and happy at the miracle of it. Hans was a fine soldier and a good companion. Lister's and Modesto's and Campesino's Spanish troops had all fought well in that battle, Hans had told him, and that was to be credited to their leaders and to the discipline they enforced. But Lister and Campesino and Modesto had been told many of the moves they should make by their Russian military advisers. They were like students flying a machine with dual controls which the pilot could take over whenever they made a mistake. Well, this year would show how much and how well they learned. After a while there would not be dual controls and then we would see how well they handled divisions and army corps alone.
 They were Communists and they were disciplinarians. The discipline that they would enforce would make good troops. Lister was murderous in discipline. He was a true fanatic and he had the complete Spanish lack of respect for life. In a few armies since the Tartar's first invasion of the West were men executed summarily for as little reason as they were under his command. But he knew how to forge a division into a fighting unit. It is one thing to hold positions. It is another to attack positions and take them and it is something very different to manoeuvre an army in the field, Robert Jordan thought as he sat there at the table. From what I have seen of him, I wonder how Lister will be at that once the dual controls are gone? But maybe they won't go, he thought. I wonder if they will go? Or whether they will strengthen? I wonder what the Russian stand is on the whole business? Gaylord's is the place, he thought. There is much that I need to know now that I can learn only at Gaylord's.
 At one time he had thought Gaylord's had been bad for him. It was the opposite of the puritanical, religious communism of Velazquez 63, the Madrid palace that had been turned into the International Brigade headquarters in the capital. At Velazquez 63 it was like being a member of a religious order--and Gaylord's was a long way away from the feeling you had at the headquarters of the Fifth Regiment before it had been broken up into the brigades of the new army.
 At either of those places you felt that you were taking part in a crusade. That was the only word for it although it was a word that had been so worn and abused that it no longer gave its true meaning. You felt, in spite of all bureaucracy and inefficiency and party strife, something that was like the feeling you expected to have and did not have when you made your first communion. It was a feeling of consecration to a duty toward all of the oppressed of the world which would be as difficult and embarrassing to speak about as religious experience and yet it was authentic as the feeling you had when you heard Bach, or stood in Chartres Cathedral or the Cathedral at Leon and saw the light coming through the great windows; or when you saw Mantegna and Greco and Brueghel in the Prado. It gave you a part in something that you could believe in wholly and completely and in which you felt an absolute brotherhood with the others who were engaged in it. It was something that you had never known before but that you had experienced now and you gave such importance to it and the reasons for it that your own death seemed of complete unimportance; only a thing to be avoided because it would interfere with the performance of your duty. But the best thing was that there was something you could do about this feeling and this necessity too. You could fight.
 So you fought, he thought. And in the fighting soon there was no purity of feeling for those who survived the fighting and were good at it. Not after the first six months.
 The defense of a position or of a city is a part of war in which you can feel that first sort of feeling. The fighting in the Sierras had been that way. They had fought there with the true comradeship of the revolution. Up there when there had been the first necessity for the enforcement of discipline he had approved and understood it. Under the shelling men had been cowards and had run. He had seen them shot and left to swell beside the road, nobody bothering to do more than strip them of their cartridges and their valuables. Taking their cartridges, their boots and their leather coats was right. Taking the valuables was only realistic. It only kept the anarchists from getting them.
 It had seemed just and right and necessary that the men who ran were shot. There was nothing wrong about it. Their running was a selfishness. The fascists had attacked and we had stopped them on that slope in the gray rocks, the scrub pines and the gorse of the Guadarrama hillsides. We had held along the road under the bombing from the planes and the shelling when they brought their artillery up and those who were left at the end of that day had counterattacked and driven them back. Later, when they had tried to come down on the left, sifting down between the rocks and through the trees, we had held out in the Sanitarium firing from the windows and the roof although they had passed it on both sides, and we lived through knowing what it was to be surrounded until the counterattack had cleared them back behind the road again.
 In all that, in the fear that dries your mouth and your throat, in the smashed plaster dust and the sudden panic of a wall falling, collapsing in the flash and roar of a shellburst, clearing the gun, dragging those away who had been serving it, lying face downward and covered with rubble, your head behind the shield working on a stoppage, getting the broken case out, straightening the belt again, you now lying straight behind the shield, the gun searching the roadside again; you did the thing there was to do and knew that you were right. You learned the dry-mouthed, fear-purged, purging ecstasy of battle and you fought that summer and that fall for all the poor in the world, against all tyranny, for all the things that you believed and for the new world you had been educated into. You learned that fall, he thought, how to endure and how to ignore suffering in the long time of cold and wetness, of mud and of digging and fortifying. And the feeling of the summer and the fall was buried deep under tiredness, sleepiness, and nervousness and discomfort. But it was still there and all that you went through only served to validate it. It was in those days, he thought, that you had a deep and sound and selfless pride--that would have made you a bloody bore at Gaylord's, he thought suddenly.
 No, you would not have been so good at Gaylord's then, he thought. You were too na鴳e. You were in a sort of state of grace. But Gaylord's might not have been the way it was now at that time, either. No, as a matter of fact, it was not that way, he told himself. It was not that way at all. There was not any Gaylord's then.
 Karkov had told him about those days. At that time what Russians there were had lived at the Palace Hotel. Robert Jordan had known none of them then. That was before the first _partizan_ groups had been formed; before he had met Kashkin or any of the others. Kashkin had been in the north at Irun, at San Sebastian and in the abortive fighting toward Vitoria. He had not arrived in Madrid until January and while Robert Jordan had fought at Carabanchel and at Usera in those three days when they stopped the right wing of the fascist attack on Madrid and drove the Moors and the _Tercio_ back from house to house to clear that battered suburb on the edge of the gray, sun-baked plateau and establish a line of defense along the heights that would protect that corner of the city, Karkov had been in Madrid.
 Karkov was not cynical about those times either when he talked. Those were the days they all shared when everything looked lost and each man retained now, better than any citation or decoration, the knowledge of just how he would act when everything looked lost. The government had abandoned the city, taking all the motor cars from the ministry of war in their flight and old Miaja had to ride down to inspect his defensive positions on a bicycle. Robert Jordan did not believe that one. He could not see Miaja on a bicycle even in his most patriotic imagination, but Karkov said it was true. But then he had written it for Russian papers so he probably wanted to believe it was true after writing it.
 But there was another story that Karkov had not written. He had three wounded Russians in the Palace Hotel for whom he was responsible. They were two tank drivers and a flyer who were too bad to be moved, and since, at that time, it was of the greatest importance that there should be no evidence of any Russian intervention to justify an open intervention by the fascists, it was Karkov's responsibility that these wounded should not fall into the hands of the fascists in case the city should be abandoned.
 In the event the city should be abandoned, Karkov was to poison them to destroy all evidence of their identity before leaving the Palace Hotel. No one could prove from the bodies of three wounded men, one with three bullet wounds in his abdomen, one with his jaw shot away and his vocal cords exposed, one with his femur smashed to bits by a bullet and his hands and face so badly burned that his face was just an eyelashless, eyebrowless, hairless blister that they were Russians. No one could tell from the bodies of these wounded men he would leave in beds at the Palace, that they were Russians. Nothing proved a naked dead man was a Russian. Your nationality and your politics did not show when you were dead.
 Robert Jordan had asked Karkov how he felt about the necessity of performing this act and Karkov had said that he had not looked forward to it. "How were you going to do it?" Robert Jordan had asked him and had added, "You know it isn't so simple just suddenly to poison people." And Karkov had said, "Oh, yes, it is when you carry it always for your own use." Then he had opened his cigarette case and showed Robert Jordan what he carried in one side of it.
 "But the first thing anybody would do if they took you prisoner would be to take your cigarette case," Robert Jordan had objected. "They would have your hands up."
 "But I have a little more here," Karkov had grinned and showed the lapel of his jacket. "You simply put the lapel in your mouth like this and bite it and swallow."
 "That's much better," Robert Jordan had said. "Tell me, does it smell like bitter almonds the way it always does in detective stories?"
 "I don't know," Karkov said delightedly. "I have never smelled it. Should we break a little tube and smell it?"
 "Better keep it."
 "Yes," Karkov said and put the cigarette case away. "I am not a defeatist, you understand, but it is always possible that such serious times might come again and you cannot get this anywhere. Have you seen the communiqu?from the C鏎doba front? It is very beautiful. It is now my favorite among all the communiqu廥."
 "What did it say?" Robert Jordan had come to Madrid from the C鏎doban Front and he had the sudden stiffening that comes when some one jokes about a thing which you yourself may joke about but which they may not. "Tell me?"
 "_Nuestra gloriosa tropa siga avanzando sin perder ni una sola palma de terreno_," Karkov said in his strange Spanish.
 "It didn't really say that," Robert Jordan doubted.
 "Our glorious troops continue to advance without losing a foot of ground," Karkov repeated in English. "It is in the communiqu? I will find it for you."
 You could remember the men you knew who died in the fighting around Pozoblanco; but it was a joke at Gaylord's.
 So that was the way it was at Gaylord's now. Still there had not always been Gaylord's and if the situation was now one which produced such a thing as Gaylord's out of the survivors of the early days, he was glad to see Gaylord's and to know about it. You are a long way from how you felt in the Sierra and at Carabanchel and at Usera, he thought. You corrupt very easily, he thought. But was it corruption or was it merely that you lost the na鴳et?that you started with? Would it not be the same in anything? Who else kept that first chastity of mind about their work that young doctors, young priests, and young soldiers usually started with? The priests certainly kept it, or they got out. I suppose the Nazis keep it, he thought, and the Communists who have a severe enough selfdiscipline. But look at Karkov.
 He never tired of considering the case of Karkov. The last time he had been at Gaylord's Karkov had been wonderful about a certain British economist who had spent much time in Spain. Robert Jordan had read this man's writing for years and he had always respected him without knowing anything about him. He had not cared very much for what this man had written about Spain. It was too clear and simple and too open and shut and many of the statistics he knew were faked by wishful thinking. But he thought you rarely cared for journalism written about a country you really knew about and he respected the man for his intentions.
 Then he had seen the man, finally, on the afternoon when they had attacked at Carabanchel.They were sitting in the lee of the bull ring and there was shooting down the two streets and every one was nervous waiting for the attack. A tank had been promised and it had not come up and Montero was sitting with his head in his hand saying, "The tank has not come. The tank has not come."
 It was a cold day and the yellow dust was blowing down the street and Montero had been hit in the left arm and the arm was stiffening. "We have to have a tank," he said. "We must wait for the tank, but we cannot wait." His wound was making him sound petulant.
 Robert Jordan had gone back to look for the tank which Montero said he thought might have stopped behind the apartment building on the corner of the tram-line. It was there all right. But it was not a tank. Spaniards called anything a tank in those days. It was an old armored car. The driver did not want to leave the angle of the apartment house and bring it up to the bull ring. He was standing behind it with his arms folded against the metal of the car and his head in the leather-padded helmet on his arms. He shook his head when Robert Jordan spoke to him and kept it pressed against his arms. Then he turned his head without looking at Robert Jordan.
 "I have no orders to go there," he said sullenly.
 Robert Jordan had taken his pistol out of the holster and pushed the muzzle of the pistol against the leather coat of the armored car driver.
 "Here are your orders," he had told him. The man shook his head with the big padded-leather helmet like a football player's on it and said, "There is no ammunition for the machine gun."
 "We have ammunition at the bull ring," Robert Jordan had told him. "Come on, let's go. We will fill the belts there. Come on."
 "There is no one to work the gun," the driver said.
 "Where is he? Where is your mate?"
 "Dead," the driver had said. "Inside there."
 "Get him out," Robert Jordan had said. "Get him out of there."
 "I do not like to touch him," the driver had said. "And he is bent over between the gun and the wheel and I cannot get past him."
 "Come on," Robert Jordan had said. "We will get him out together."
 He had banged his head as he climbed into the armored car and it had made a small cut over his eyebrow that bled down onto his face. The dead man was heavy and so stiff you could not bend him and he had to hammer at his head to get it out from where it had wedged, face down, between his seat and the wheel. Finally he got it up by pushing with his knee up under the dead man's head and then, pulling back on the man's waist now that the head was loose, he pulled the dead man out himself toward the door.
 "Give me a hand with him," he had said to the driver.
 "I do not want to touch him," the driver had said and Robert Jordan had seen that he was crying. The tears ran straight down on each side of his nose on the powder-grimed slope of his face and his nose was running, too.
 Standing beside the door he had swung the dead man out and the dead man fell onto the sidewalk beside the tram-line still in that hunched-over, doubled-up position. He lay there, his face waxy gray against the cement sidewalk, his hands bent under him as they had been in the car.
 "Get in, God damn it," Robert Jordan had said, motioning now with his pistol to the driver. "Get in there now."
 Just then he had seen this man who had come out from the lee of the apartment house building. He had on a long overcoat and he was bareheaded and his hair was gray, his cheekbones broad and his eyes were deep and set close together. He had a package of Chesterfields in his hand and he took one out and handed it toward Robert Jordan who was pushing the driver into the armored car with his pistol.
 "Just a minute, Comrade," he had said to Robert Jordan in Spanish. "Can you explain to me something about the fighting?"
 Robert Jordan took the cigarette and put it in the breast pocket of his blue mechanic jumper. He had recognized this comrade from his pictures. It was the British economist.
 "Go muck yourself," he said in English and then, in Spanish, to the armored car driver. "Down there. The bull ring. See?" And he had pulled the heavy side door to with a slam and locked it and they had started down that long slope in the car and the bullets had commenced to hit against the car, sounding like pebbles tossed against an iron boiler. Then when the machine gun opened on them, they were like sharp hammer tappings. They had pulled up behind the shelter of the bull ring with the last October posters still pasted up beside the ticket window and the ammunition boxes knocked open and the comrades with the rifles, the grenades on their belts and in their pockets, waiting there in the lee and Montero had said, "Good. Here is the tank. Now we can attack."
 Later that night when they had the last houses on the hill, he lay comfortable behind a brick wall with a hole knocked in the bricks for a loophole and looked across the beautiful level field of fire they had between them and the ridge the fascists had retired to and thought, with a comfort that was almost voluptuous, of the rise of the hill with the smashed villa that protected the left flank. He had lain in a pile of straw in his sweat-soaked clothes and wound a blanket around him while he dried. Lying there he thought of the economist and laughed, and then felt sorry he had been rude. But at the moment, when the man had handed him the cigarette, pushing it out almost like offering a tip for information, the combatant's hatred for the noncombatant had been too much for him.
 Now he remembered Gaylord's and Karkov speaking of this same man. "So it was there you met him," Karkov had said. "I did not get farther than the Puente de Toledo myself on that day. He was very far toward the front. That was the last day of his bravery I believe. He left Madrid the next day. Toledo was where he was the bravest, I believe. At Toledo he was enormous. He was one of the architects of our capture of the Alcazar. You should have seen him at Toledo. I believe it was largely through his efforts and his advice that our siege was successful. That was the silliest part of the war. It reached an ultimate in silliness but tell me, what is thought of him in America?"
 "In America," Robert Jordan said, "he is supposed to be very close to Moscow."
 "He is not," said Karkov. "But he has a wonderful face and his face and his manners are very successful. Now with my face I could do nothing. What little I have accomplished was all done in spite of my face which does not either inspire people nor move them to love me and to trust me. But this man Mitchell has a face he makes his fortune with. It is the face of a conspirator. All who have read of conspirators in books trust him instantly. Also he has the true manner of the conspirator. Any one seeing him enter a room knows that he is instantly in the presence of a conspirator of the first mark. All of your rich compatriots who wish sentimentally to aid the Soviet Union as they believe or to insure themselves a little against any eventual success of the party see instantly in the face of this man, and in his manner that he can be none other than a trusted agent of the Comintern."
 "Has he no connections in Moscow?"
 "None. Listen, Comrade Jordan. Do you know about the two kinds of fools?"
 "Plain and damn?"
 "No. The two kinds of fools we have in Russia," Karkov grinned and began. "First there is the winter fool. The winter fool comes to the door of your house and he knocks loudly. You go to the door and you see him there and you have never seen him before. He is an impressive sight. He is a very big man and he has on high boots and a fur coat and a fur hat and he is all covered with snow. First he stamps his boots and snow falls from them. Then he takes off his fur coat and shakes it and more snow falls. Then he takes off his fur hat and knocks it against the door. More snow falls from his fur hat. Then he stamps his boots again and advances into the room. Then you look at him and you see he is a fool. That is the winter fool.
 "Now in the summer you see a fool going down the street and he is waving his arms and jerking his head from side to side and everybody from two hundred yards away can tell he is a fool. That is a summer fool. This economist is a winter fool."
 "But why do people trust him here?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "His face," Karkov said. "His beautiful _gueule de conspirateur_. And his invaluable trick of just having come from somewhere else where he is very trusted and important. Of course," he smiled, "he must travel very much to keep the trick working. You know the Spanish are very strange," Karkov went on. "This government has had much money. Much gold. They will give nothing to their friends. You are a friend. All right. You will do it for nothing and should not be rewarded. But to people representing an important firm or a country which is not friendly but must be influenced--to such people they give much. It is very interesting when you follow it closely."
 "I do not like it. Also that money belongs to the Spanish workers."
 "You are not supposed to like things. Only to understand," Karkov had told him. "I teach you a little each time I see you and eventually you will acquire an education. It would be very interesting for a professor to be educated."
 "I don't know whether I'll be able to be a professor when I get back. They will probably run me out as a Red."
 "Well, perhaps you will be able to come to the Soviet Union and continue your studies there. That might be the best thing for you to do."
 "But Spanish is my field."
 "There are many countries where Spanish is spoken," Karkov had said. "They cannot all be as difficult to do anything with as Spain is. Then you must remember that you have not been a professor now for almost nine months. In nine months you may have learned a new trade. How much dialectics have you read?"
 "I have read the Handbook of Marxism that Emil Burns edited. That is all."
 "If you have read it all that is quite a little. There are fifteen hundred pages and you could spend some time on each page. But there are some other things you should read."
 "There is no time to read now."
 "I know," Karkov had said. "I mean eventually. There are many things to read which will make you understand some of these things that happen. But out of this will come a book which is very necessary; which will explain many things which it is necessary to know. Perhaps I will write it. I hope that it will be me who will write it."
 "I don't know who could write it better."
 "Do not flatter," Karkov had said. "I am a journalist. But like all journalists I wish to write literature. Just now, I am very busy on a study of Calvo Sotelo. He was a very good fascist; a true Spanish fascist. Franco and these other people are not. I have been studying all of Sotelo's writing and speeches. He was very intelligent and it was very intelligent that he was killed."
 "I thought that you did not believe in political assassination."
 "It is practised very extensively," Karkov said. "Very, very extensively."
 "But--"
 "We do not believe in acts of terrorism by individuals," Karkov had smiled. "Not of course by criminal terrorist and counterrevolutionary organizations. We detest with horror the duplicity and villainy of the murderous hyenas of Bukharinite wreckers and such dregs of humanity as Zinoviev, Kamenev, Rykov and their henchmen. We hate and loathe these veritable fiends," he smiled again. "But I still believe that political assassination can be said to be practised very extensively."
 "You mean--"
 "I mean nothing. But certainly we execute and destroy such veritable fiends and dregs of humanity and the treacherous dogs of generals and the revolting spectacle of admirals unfaithful to their trust. These are destroyed. They are not assassinated. You see the difference?"
 "I see," Robert Jordan had said.
 "And because I make jokes sometime: and you know how dangerous it is to make jokes even in joke? Good. Because I make jokes, do not think that the Spanish people will not live to regret that they have not shot certain generals that even now hold commands. I do not like the shootings, you understand."
 "I don't mind them," Robert Jordan said. "I do not like them but I do not mind them any more."
 "I know that," Karkov had said. "I have been told that."
 "Is it important?" Robert Jordan said. "I was only trying to be truthful about it."
 "It is regretful," Karkov had said. "But it is one of the things that makes people be treated as reliable who would ordinarily have to spend much more time before attaining that category."
 "Am I supposed to be reliable?"
 "In your work you are supposed to be very reliable. I must talk to you sometime to see how you are in your mind. It is regrettable that we never speak seriously."
 "My mind is in suspension until we win the war," Robert Jordan had said.
 "Then perhaps you will not need it for a long time. But you should be careful to exercise it a little."
 "I read _Mundo Obrero_," Robert Jordan had told him and Karkov had said, "All right. Good. I can take a joke too. But there are very intelligent things in _Mundo Obrero_. The only intelligent things written on this war."
 "Yes," Robert Jordan had said. "I agree with you. But to get a full picture of what is happening you cannot read only the party organ."
 "No," Karkov had said. "But you will not find any such picture if you read twenty papers and then, if you had it, I do not know what you would do with it. I have such a picture almost constantly and what I do is try to forget it."
 "You think it is that bad?"
 "It is better now than it was. We are getting rid of some of the worst. But it is very rotten. We are building a huge army now and some of the elements, those of Modesto, of El Campesino, of Lister and of Dur嫕, are reliable. They are more than reliable. They are magnificent. You will see that. Also we still have the Brigades although their role is changing. But an army that is made up of good and bad elements cannot win a war. All must be brought to a certain level of political development; all must know why they are fighting, and its importance. All must believe in the fight they are to make and all must accept discipline. We are making a huge conscript army without the time to implant the discipline that a conscript army must have, to behave properly under fire. We call it a people's army but it will not have the assets of a true people's army and it will not have the iron discipline that a conscript army needs. You will see. It is a very dangerous procedure."
 "You are not very cheerful today."
 "No," Karkov had said. "I have just come back from Valencia where I have seen many people. No one comes back very cheerful from Valencia. In Madrid you feel good and clean and with no possibility of anything but winning. Valencia is something else. The cowards who fled from Madrid still govern there. They have settled happily into the sloth and bureaucracy of governing. They have only contempt for those of Madrid. Their obsession now is the weakening of the commissariat for war. And Barcelona. You should see Barcelona."
 "How is it?"
 "It is all still comic opera. First it was the paradise of the crackpots and the romantic revolutionists. Now it is the paradise of the fake soldier. The soldiers who like to wear uniforms, who like to strut and swagger and wear red-and-black scarves. Who like everything about war except to fight. Valencia makes you sick and Barcelona makes you laugh."
 "What about the P.O.U.M. putsch?"
 "The P.O.U.M. was never serious. It was a heresy of crackpots and wild men and it was really just an infantilism. There were some honest misguided people. There was one fairly good brain and there was a little fascist money. Not much. The poor P.O.U.M. They were very silly people."
 "But were many killed in the putsch?"
 "Not so many as were shot afterwards or will be shot. The P.O.U.M. It is like the name. Not serious. They should have called it the M.U.M.P.S. or the M.E.A.S.L.E.S. But no. The Measles is much more dangerous. It can affect both sight and hearing. But they made one plot you know to kill me, to kill Walter, to kill Modesto and to kill Prieto. You see how badly mixed up they were? We are not at all alike. Poor P.O.U.M. They never did kill anybody. Not at the front nor anywhere else. A few in Barcelona, yes."
 "Were you there?"
 "Yes. I have sent a cable describing the wickedness of that infamous organization of Trotskyite murderers and their fascist machinations all beneath contempt but, between us, it is not very serious, the P.O.U.M. Nin was their only man. We had him but he escaped from our hands."
 "Where is he now?"
 "In Paris. We say he is in Paris. He was a very pleasant fellow but with bad political aberrations."
 "But they were in communication with the fascists, weren't they?"
 "Who is not?"
 "We are not."
 "Who knows? I hope we are not. You go often behind their lines," he grinned. "But the brother of one of the secretaries of the Republican Embassy at Paris made a trip to St. Jean de Luz last week to meet people from Burgos."
 "I like it better at the front," Robert Jordan had said. "The closer to the front the better the people."
 "How do you like it behind the fascist lines?"
 "Very much. We have fine people there."
 "Well, you see they must have their fine people behind our lines the same way. We find them and shoot them and they find ours and shoot them. When you are in their country you must always think of how many people they must send over to us."
 "I have thought about them."
 "Well," Karkov had said. "You have probably enough to think about for today, so drink that beer that is left in the pitcher and run along now because I have to go upstairs to see people. Upstairs people. Come again to see me soon."
 Yes, Robert Jordan thought. You learned a lot at Gaylord's. Karkov had read the one and only book he had published. The book had not been a success. It was only two hundred pages long and he doubted if two thousand people had ever read it. He had put in it what he had discovered about Spain in ten years of travelling in it, on foot, in third-class carriages, by bus, on horse- and mule-back and in trucks. He knew the Basque country, Navarre, Aragon, Galicia, the two Castiles and Estremadura well. There had been such good books written by Borrow and Ford and the rest that he had been able to add very little. But Karkov said it was a good book.
 "It is why I bother with you," he said. "I think you write absolutely truly and that is very rare. So I would like you to know some things."
 All right. He would write a book when he got through with this. But only about the things he knew, truly, and about what he knew. But I will have to be a much better writer than I am now to handle them, he thought. The things he had come to know in this war were not so simple.
　　罗伯特　乔丹想。”这真象游乐场里的旋转木马，“不是那种配上蒸气管风琴音乐、孩子们骑在两角漆成金色的牛身上、转得很快的旋转木马，那里有投套环游戏,曼恩大街上蓝色的煤气灯傍晚就点亮，旁边有卖炸鱼的摊子，象风车似的摸彩轮①在旋转，皮制阻力片啪嗒啪嗒地刮打着编号的小木格，一包包当奖品的块糖堆得象金字塔。不，不是那种旋转木马。尽管现在也有人们在等待，正象邵些戴便帽的男人和穿毛线衫的、没戴帽子、头发在煤气灯光下闪闪发亮的女人站在那旋转着的換彩轮前面等待着那样。是啊，人就是撖些，轮子却是另一种。一种时商时低、绕着圈儿转的轮子。
①摸彩轮为一种睹具
　　现在它已转了两圉。这是座倾斜的大轮子，每转一睡,又回到原来的起点。—边比另一边高,它的回旋把你带到髙处,又送回到原来的起点，他想，而且没有奖品，因此谁也不愿跨上这座轮子。每次你都是莫名其妙地跨上去旋转的。只转一圉,顺着一个巨大的椭圆形的轨道，从低到髙、从髙到低地转上一圉，你就回到了原来的起点。他想。”我们现在又回来啦，一件事也没落实。山洞里很暖和，外面风已停息。他坐在桌边,面前摊着笔记本，考虑着炸桥的所有技术问题。他画了三张草图,描绘出他的行动方案,用两张图来说明燁破方法，清楚得象幼儿园的课本,这祥，万“在爆破过程中他自己遇到意外，好让安塞尔莫继续完成。他画好了这些草图,仔细端详着。
　　玛丽亚坐在他旁边，从肩后着他工作，他意识到巴勃罗就在桌子对面,其他人在聊夭、玩婢，他闻到山洞里的气味，这时已经不是饭菜和烹饪的气味，而是烟火味、人味、烟草味、红酒味和人的汗酸臭。玛丽亚看他画好了一张图，把手拥在桌上　他用左手拿起她的手,放在脸上，闻到她冼碗碟时用的劣质肥皂味和刚在水里冼过的皮肤的清香味儿。他没有对她看，就放下了她的手，继续工作，他没有看到她脸红了。她把手放在他手的近旁,但他并没把它再拿起来。
　　他完成了炸桥方案，。开笔记本另一页，开始写行动指令。他的思賂清晰而周密，写下的东西使他很偷快。他在笔记本里写了两页，仔细看了一遍。
　　他对自己说,我看就是这些了。写得明明白自，看来投有任何漏润。按照戈尔兹的命令,把那两个哨所拔掉,把桥炸掉，这，“是我的全部任务。只有有关巴勃罗的那回事是个我不应该背的包袱，不过这问题好歹总会解决的。有巴勃罗,还是没巴勃罗都行，我不在乎。但是我不打算再登上那个轮子了。我上去过两次，两次都转了个围，又回到原来的起点，所以我再也不上去了。
　　他合上笔记本，抬头望着玛丽亚。“喂，漂亮的姑娘，”他对她说。“你看出什么名堂来了吗”
　　“没有，罗伯托，”姑娘说，把手放在他那仍旧握着铅笔的手上。“你搞好了？”
　　“好了。现在已经全部写好，安排好了，““你在干什么，英国人?”巴勃罗隔着桌子问。他的眼睛又变得迷糊了。
　　罗伯特”乔丹定睛注视着他。他对自己说,离开这轮子。别登上这个轮子。我看，它又要开始转了。“研究炸桥的事，”他客气地说。“情况怎么样?”巴勃罗问。“很好，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“一切都很好，““我一直在研究撤走的事。”巴勃罗说。罗伯特　乔丹望望他那酔醺醮的猪眼,再望望那只酒缸。酒缸差不多空了。
　　他对自己说，离开那轮子吧。他又在暍酒啦。没错儿。可你现在别登上那轮子啦。格竺特①在内战期间不是据说常常喝得醉釅醣的吗？他确实是如此。我打赌，要是袼竺特能着到巴勃罗，他一定会对这样的对比感到恼怒。格兰特还爱好抽雪茄。啊，他得想法弄支雪茄给巴勃罗。这副相貌真需要添上一支雷茄才能算真正壳整　一支抽了“半的雪茄。他到哪里去弄支雷茄给巴勃罗呢？”
①辂兰特　美国第十八任总统,在南北战争(　　　!　)期间为军将须。一八六四年三月，拔任命为赌总司令書.

　　“研究的结果怎么样?”罗伯特　乔丹客气地问。
　　“很好，”巴勃罗说，煞有介事地点点头。
　　“你有主意了？”跟别人“起打牌的奥古斯丁抬头问道。
　　“对，”巴勃罗说。“很多主意。”
　　“你在哪里找到的？在酒缸里？”奥古斯丁追问。
　　“也许，”巴勃罗说。“谁知道？玛丽亚，请你把酒缸加满好吗？”
　　“这酒袋里该有些好主意吧，”奥古斯丁转身对着打牌的人说。“你干吗不钻到里面去找找。”’“不，”巴勃罗随和地说。“我在酒缸里找。”罗伯特　乔丹想　他也不想登上轮子啦。它肯定是独自在运转的。看来你不能在那轮子上待得太久。也许那是一座致人死命的轮子。我高兴的是我们下来了。有两次把我弄得晕头转向。然而那些酒鬼和真正卑鄙而残忍的家伙，却会在上面一直待到死。它先朝上面转，每次的转法总是有点不同，接着朝下转。让它转吧，他想。他们没法叫我再上去啦。不,先生，格兰特将军，我离开这轮子啦。
　　比拉尔正坐在炉火旁，她把椅子转了个向，瞞着背对她的两个打脾人的肩头可以看到打牌。地正看着。
　　罗伯特”乔丹想；再怪也没有了，敛拔弩张的气氛，―下子变成正常的家庭生活场景了。原来是因为这该死的轮子要往下转，这才便你难住啦。他想。”可是我离幵这轮子了，谁也别想叫我再上去啦.
　　他想,两天前，我根本不知道有比拉尔、巴勃罗以及他如其他那些人。世羿上根本也没有玛丽亚这样的姑娘,当时的世界确实是简单得多。我从戈尔兹那儿得到的指示十分明确，完全可能执行，尽管包含着某些困难和严重的后果。我们炸桥以后，我回不回前线都行，如果回去，我打算请几天假去马德里。这次战争中谁也没有休假,但是我肯定可以在马德里待两三天。
　　他想:到了马德里，我要买几本书，到佛罗里达旅馆去开一个房间，冼一个热水澡。我要打发茶房珞易斯去买一瓶艾酒，要是他能在莱昂内萨乳品店或者大马路附近的铺子里找到一瓶的话；冼澡之后，我要躺在床上着看书，喝两杯文酒,然后打电话到乐爵饭店，问问能不能去那里吃饭。
　　他不想到大马賂饭店去吃，因为那儿的饭莱实在差劲，并且还得早去，去晚了什么都吃不上。那里还有很多他认识的记者，他不打算叫自己守口如瓶。他要喝点艾酒，使自己健谈，然后到乐爵饭店去和卡可夫一起吃饭，那里有好菜和货真价实的啤酒，他要打听一下战局的实情。
　　他第一次去乐爵的时侯，并不喜欢这家由俄国人接管韵马德里大饭店，因为在一个被围困的城市里，它显得过于家华，莱肴太好，对战时来说,人们的谈吐也过于玩世不恭。不过我是很容易蜕化的，他想。你完成了这样的任务回来，既然可能吃到山珍海味，那何不饱饱口福呢？他当初第一次听到时认为是玩世不恭的言谈，结果倒是着实正确的。他想，等任务完成以后，这“点在乐爵饭店倒是个聊天的话题呢。对，等这任务完成以后。
　　你能带玛蹰亚到乐爵饭店去吗？不。你不能。但你可以把她留在旅馆里，让她洗个热水澡，在那儿等你回来。对，你可以这么办,可以先向卡可夫介绍她的情况，然后带绝去，因为他们会对她产生好竒心,想看看她这个人，
　　也许你根本不会到乐爵饭店去。你可以在大马路饭店吃了饭，匆匆赶回佛罗里达旅馆，可是你明知道自己是想到乐爵饭店去的，因为你想再看看那里的一切；你想在炸桥之后再吃吃那里的好莱，看看那里的舒适和豪华的环境。然后你回到佛罗里达旅馆，玛丽亚会在那儿等你。当然啦，炸了桥以后，她会在那
Chapter 19

 "What do you do sitting there?" Maria asked him. She was standing close beside him and he turned his head and smiled at her.
 "Nothing," he said. "I have been thinking."
 "What of? The bridge?"
 "No. The bridge is terminated. Of thee and of a hotel in Madrid where I know some Russians, and of a book I will write some time."
 "Are there many Russians in Madrid?"
 "No. Very few."
 "But in the fascist periodicals it says there are hundreds of thousands."
 "Those are lies. There are very few."
 "Do you like the Russians? The one who was here was a Russian."
 "Did you like him?"
 "Yes. I was sick then but I thought he was very beautiful and very brave."
 "What nonsense, beautiful," Pilar said. "His nose was flat as my hand and he had cheekbones as wide as a sheep's buttocks."
 "He was a good friend and comrade of mine," Robert Jordan said to Maria. "I cared for him very much."
 "Sure," Pilar said. "But you shot him."
 When she said this the card players looked up from the table and Pablo stared at Robert Jordan. Nobody said anything and then the gypsy, Rafael, asked, "Is it true, Roberto?"
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. He wished Pilar had not brought this up and he wished he had not told it at El Sordo's. "At his request. He was badly wounded."
 "_Qu?cosa mas rara_," the gypsy said. "All the time he was with us he talked of such a possibility. I don't know how many times I have promised him to perform such an act. What a rare thing," he said again and shook his head.
 "He was a very rare man," Primitivo said. "Very singular."
 "Look," Andr廥, one of the brothers, said. "You who are Professor and all. Do you believe in the possibility of a man seeing ahead what is to happen to him?"
 "I believe he cannot see it," Robert Jordan said. Pablo was staring at him curiously and Pilar was watching him with no expression on her face. "In the case of this Russian comrade he was very nervous from being too much time at the front. He had fought at Irun which, you know, was bad. Very bad. He had fought later in the north. And since the first groups who did this work behind the lines were formed he had worked here, in Estremadura and in AndalucIa. I think he was very tired and nervous and he imagined ugly things."
 "He would undoubtedly have seen many evil things," Fernando said.
 "Like all the world," Andr廥 said. "But listen to me, _Ingl廥_. Do you think there is such a thing as a man knowing in advance what will befall him?"
 "No," Robert Jordan said. "That is ignorance and superstition."
 "Go on," Pilar said. "Let us hear the viewpoint of the professor." She spoke as though she were talking to a precocious child.
 "I believe that fear produces evil visions," Robert Jordan said. "Seeing bad signs--"
 "Such as the airplanes today," Primitivo said.
 "Such as thy arrival," Pablo said softly and Robert Jordan looked across the table at him, saw it was not a provocation but only an expressed thought, then went on. "Seeing bad signs, one, with fear, imagines an end for himself and one thinks that imagining comes by divination," Robert Jordan concluded. "I believe there is nothing more to it than that. I do not believe in ogres, nor soothsayers, nor in the supernatural things."
 "But this one with the rare name saw his fate clearly," the gypsy said. "And that was how it happened."
 "He did not see it," Robert Jordan said. "He had a fear of such a possibility and it became an obsession. No one can tell me that he saw anything."
 "Not I?" Pilar asked him and picked some dust up from the fire and blew it off the palm of her hand. "I cannot tell thee either?"
 "No. With all wizardry, gypsy and all, thou canst not tell me either."
 "Because thou art a miracle of deafness," Pilar said, her big face harsh and broad in the candlelight. "It is not that thou art stupid. Thou art simply deaf. One who is deaf cannot hear music. Neither can he hear the radio. So he might say, never having heard them, that such things do not exist. _Qu?va, Ingl廥_. I saw the death of that one with the rare name in his face as though it were burned there with a branding iron."
 "You did not," Robert Jordan insisted. "You saw fear and apprehension. The fear was made by what he had been through. The apprehension was for the possibility of evil he imagined."
 "_Qu?va_," Pilar said. "I saw death there as plainly as though it were sitting on his shoulder. And what is more he smelt of death."
 "He smelt of death," Robert Jordan jeered. "Of fear maybe. There is a smell to fear."
 "_De la muerte_," Pilar said. "Listen. When Blanquet, who was the greatest _peon de brega_ who ever lived, worked under the orders of Granero he told me that on the day of Manolo Granero's death, when they stopped in the chapel on the way to the ring, the odor of death was so strong on Manolo that it almost made Blanquet sick. And he had been with Manolo when he had bathed and dressed at the hotel before setting out for the ring. The odor was not present in the motorcar when they had sat packed tight together riding to the bull ring. Nor was it distinguishable to any one else but Juan Luis de la Rosa in the chapel. Neither Marcial nor Chicuelo smelled it neither then nor when the four of them lined up for the paseo. But Juan Luis was dead white, Blanquet told me, and he, Blanquet, spoke to him saying, 'Thou also?'
 "'So that I cannot breathe,' Juan Luis said to him. 'And from thy matador.'
 "'_Pues nada_,' Blanquet said. 'There is nothing to do. Let us hope we are mistaken.'
 "'And the others?' Juan Luis asked Blanquet.
 "'_Nada_,' Blanquet said. 'Nothing. But this one stinks worse than Jos?at Talavera.'
 "And it was on that afternoon that the bull _Pocapena_ of the ranch of Veragua destroyed Manolo Granero against the planks of the barrier in front of _tendido_ two in the Plaza de Toros of Madrid. I was there with Finito and I saw it. The horn entirely destroyed the cranium, the head of Manolo being wedged under the _estribo_ at the base of the _barrera_ where the bull had tossed him."
 "But did you smell anything?" Fernando asked.
 "Nay," Pilar said. "I was too far away. We were in the seventh row of the _tendido_ three. It was thus, being at an angle, that I could see all that happened. But that same night Blanquet who had been under the orders of Joselito when he too was killed told Finito about it at Fornos, and Finito asked Juan Luis de la Rosa and he would say nothing. But he nodded his head that it was true. I was present when this happened. So, _Ingl廥_, it may be that thou art deaf to some things as Chicuelo and Marcial Lalanda and all of their _banderilleros_ and picadors and all of the _gente_ of Juan Luis and Manolo Granero were deaf to this thing on this day. But Juan Luis and Blanquet were not deaf. Nor am I deaf to such things."
 "Why do you say deaf when it is a thing of the nose?" Fernando asked.
 "_Leche!_" Pilar said. "Thou shouldst be the professor in place of the _Ingl廥_. But I could tell thee of other things, _Ingl廥_, and do not doubt what thou simply cannot see nor cannot hear. Thou canst not hear what a dog hears. Nor canst thou smell what a dog smells. But already thou hast experienced a little of what can happen to man."
 Maria put her hand on Robert Jordan's shoulder and let it rest there and he thought suddenly, let us finish all this nonsense and take advantage of what time we have. But it is too early yet. We have to kill this part of the evening. So he said to Pablo, "Thou, believest thou in this wizardry?"
 "I do not know," Pablo said. "I am more of thy opinion. No supernatural thing has ever happened to me. But feai yes certainly. Plenty. But I believe that the Pilar can divine events from the hand. If she does not lie perhaps it is true that she has smelt such a thing."
 "_Qu?va_ that I should lie," Pilar said. "This is not a thing of my invention. This man Blanquet was a man of extreme seriousness and furthermore very devout. He was no gypsy but a bourgeois from Valencia. Hast thou never seen him?"
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. "I have seen him many times. He was small, gray-faced and no one handled a cape better. He was quick on his feet as a rabbit."
 "Exactly," Pilar said. "He had a gray face from heart trouble and gypsies said that he carried death with him but that he could flick it away with a cape as you might dust a table. Yet he, who was no gypsy, smelled death on Joselito when he fought at Talavera. Although I do not see how he could smell it above the smell of manzanilla. Blanquet spoke of this afterwards with much diffidence but those to whom he spoke said that it was a fantasy and that what he had smelled was the life that Jos?led at that time coming out in sweat from his armpits. But then, later, came this of Manolo Granero in which Juan Luis de la Rosa also participated. Clearly Juan Luis was a man of very little honor, but of much sensitiveness in his work and he was also a great layer of women. But Blanquet was serious and very quiet and completely incapable of telling an untruth. And I tell you that I smelled death on your colleague who was here."
 "I do not believe it," Robert Jordan said. "Also you said that Blanquet smelled this just before the paseo. Just before the bullfight started. Now this was a successful action here of you and Kashkin and the train. He was not killed in that. How could you smell it then?"
 "That has nothing to do with it," Pilar explained. "In the last season of Ignacio Sanchez Mejias he smelled so strongly of death that many refused to sit with him in the caf? All gypsies knew of this."
 "After the death such things are invented," Robert Jordan argued. "Every one knew that Sanchez Mejias was on the road to a _cornada_ because he had been too long out of training, because his style was heavy and dangerous, and because his strength and the agility in his legs were gone and his reflexes no longer as they had been."
 "Certainly," Pilar told him. "All of that is true. But all the gypsies knew also that he smelled of death and when he would come into the Villa Rosa you would see such people as Ricardo and Felipe Gonzalez leaving by the small door behind the bar."
 "They probably owed him money," Robert Jordan said.
 "It is possible," Pilar said. "Very possible. But they also smelled the thing and all knew of it."
 "What she says is true, _Ingl廥_," the gypsy, Rafael, said. "It is a well-known thing among us."
 "I believe nothing of it," Robert Jordan said.
 "Listen, _Ingl廥_," Anselmo began. "I am against all such wizardry. But this Pilar has the fame of being very advanced in such things."
 "But what does it smell like?" Fernando asked. "What odor has it? If there be an odor it must be a definite odor."
 "You want to know, Fernandito?" Pilar smiled at him. "You think that you could smell it?"
 "If it actually exists why should I not smell it as well as another?"
 "Why not?" Pilar was making fun of him, her big hands folded across her knees. "Hast thou ever been aboard a ship, Fernando?"
 "Nay. And I would not wish to."
 "Then thou might not recognize it. For part of it is the smell that comes when, on a ship, there is a storm and the portholes are closed up. Put your nose against the brass handle of a screwed-tight porthole on a rolling ship that is swaying under you so that you are faint and hollow in the stomach and you have a part of that smell."
 "It would be impossible for me to recognize because I will go on no ship," Fernando said.
 "I have been on ships several times," Pilar said. "Both to go to Mexico and to Venezuela."
 "What's the rest of it?" Robert Jordan asked. Pilar looked at him mockingly, remembering now, proudly, her voyages.
 "All right, _Ingl廥_. Learn. That's the thing. Learn. All right. After that of the ship you must go down the hill in Madrid to the Puente de Toledo early in the morning to the _matadero_ and stand there on the wet paving when there is a fog from the Manzanares and wait for the old women who go before daylight to drink the blood of the beasts that are slaughtered. When such an old woman comes out of the _matadero_, holding her shawl around hei with her face gray and her eyes hollow, and the whiskers of age on her chin, and on her cheeks, set in the waxen white of her face as the sprouts grow from the seed of the bean, not bristles, but pale sprouts in the death of her face; put your arms tight around her, _Ingl廥_, and hold her to you and kiss her on the mouth and you will know the second part that odor is made of."
 "That one has taken my appetite," the gypsy said. "That of the sprouts was too much."
 "Do you want to hear some more?" Pilar asked Robert Jordan.
 "Surely," he said. "If it is necessary for one to learn let us learn."
 "That of the sprouts in the face of the old women sickens me," the gypsy said. "Why should that occur in old women, Pilar? With us it is not so."
 "Nay," Pilar mocked at him. "With us the old woman, who was so slender in her youth, except of course for the perpetual bulge that is the mark of her husband's favor, that every gypsy pushes always before her--"
 "Do not speak thus," Rafael said. "It is ignoble."
 "So thou art hurt," Pilar said. "Hast thou ever seen a _Gitana_ who was not about to have, or just to have had, a child?"
 "Thou."
 "Leave it," Pilar said. "There is no one who cannot be hurt. What I was saying is that age brings its own form of ugliness to all. There is no need to detail it. But if the _Ingl廥_ must learn that odor that he covets to recognize he must go to the _matadero_ early in the morning."
 "I will go," Robert Jordan said. "But I will get the odor as they pass without kissing one. I fear the sprouts, too, as Rafael does."
 "Kiss one," Pilar said. "Kiss one, _Ingl廥_, for thy knowledge's sake and then, with this in thy nostrils, walk back up into the city and when thou seest a refuse pail with dead flowers in it plunge thy nose deep into it and inhale so that scent mixes with those thou hast already in thy nasal passages."
 "Now have I done it," Robert Jordan said. "What flowers were they?"
 "Chrysanthemums."
 "Continue," Robert Jordan said. "I smell them."
 "Then," Pilar went on, "it is important that the day be in autumn with rain, or at least some fog, or early winter even and now thou shouldst continue to walk through the city and down the Calle de Salud smelling what thou wilt smell where they are sweeping out the _casas de putas_ and emptying the siop jars into the drains and, with this odor of love's labor lost mixed sweetly with soapy water and cigarette butts only faintly reaching thy nostrils, thou shouldst go on to the JardIn Bot嫕ico where at night those girls who can no longer work in the houses do their work against the iron gates of the park and the iron picketed fences and upon the sidewalks. It is there in the shadow of the trees against the iron railings that they will perform all that a man wishes; from the simplest requests at a remuneration of ten centimos up to a peseta for that great act that we are born to and there, on a dead flower bed that has not yet been plucked out and replanted, and so serves to soften the earth that is so much softer than the sidewalk, thou wilt find an abandoned gunny sack with the odor of the wet earth, the dead flowers, and the doings of that night. In this sack will be contained the essence of it all, both the dead earth and the dead stalks of the flowers and their rotted blooms and the smell that is both the death and birth of man. Thou wilt wrap this sack around thy head and try to breathe through it."
 "No."
 "Yes," Pilar said. "Thou wilt wrap this sack around thy head and try to breathe and then, if thou hast not lost any of the previous odors, when thou inhalest deeply, thou wilt smell the odor of deathto-come as we know it."
 "All right," Robert Jordan said. "And you say Kashkin smelt like that when he was here?"
 "Yes."
 "Well," said Robert Jordan gravely. "If that is true it is a good thing that I shot him."
 "_Ol嶱," the gypsy said. The others laughed.
 "Very good," Primitivo approved. "That should hold her for a while."
 "But Pilar," Fernando said. "Surely you could not expect one of Don Roberto's education to do such vile things."
 "No," Pilar agreed.
 "All of that is of the utmost repugnance."
 "Yes," Pilar agreed.
 "You would not expect him actually to perform those degrading acts?"
 "No," Pilar said. "Go to bed, will you?"
 "But, Pilar--" Fernando went on.
 "Shut up, will you?" Pilar said to him suddenly and viciously. "Do not make a fool of thyself and I will try not to make a fool of myself talking with people who cannot understand what one speaks of."
 "I confess I do not understand," Fernando began.
 "Don't confess and don't try to understand," Pilar said. "Is it still snowing outside?"
 Robert Jordan went to the mouth of the cave, lifted the blanket and looked out. It was clear and cold in the night outside and no snow was falling. He looked through the tree trunks where the whiteness lay and up through the trees to where the sky was now clear. The air came into his lungs sharp and cold as he breathed.
 El Sordo will leave plenty of tracks if he has stolen horses tonight, he thought.
 He dropped the blanket and came back into the smoky cave. "It is clear," he said. "The storm is over."
　　“你坐在那儿做什么?”玛丽亚问他，她挨在他身边站着,他转过头去,朝她微笑。
　　“不做什么，”他说。“我在想。““想什么？想桥?”
①这些地名除纳瓦拉为北部比利牛斯山南的一省名外，其他都是历史上的古王。或地区的名字，沿用至今。阿拉贡地区在东北茚，老卡斯蒂尔地区在马德里西北，本书背景即在此地区，新卡斯蒂尔在其东南’占因班牙的中部,包括马德里在内。
②乔治〃博罗…的，18。8—1881〉。”英国语言学家、'旅行者兼小说家，箸有多种关于西班牙风土人悄、吉普赛人及其方言的作品。理查德　英国旅行家兼作家，一八四五年发表的《西班牙旅游者手册,为一郎非常详清的诖作，
　　“不。桥已经想好了。想你，想马德里一家饭店，那边有我认识的几个俄国人,还想我以后要写的一本书。”“马德里有很多俄国人吗？”“不多。很少。”
　　“可是在法西斯分子的刊物上说有好几十万。”“那是胡扯，没有多少。”“你客欢俄国人吗？上次来这儿的是个俄国人。”“你甚欢他吗？”
　　“喜欢。那时我病着，可我觉得他很漂亮、很勇敢。”“漂亮！胡扯。”比拉尔说。“他的鼻子平得象我的手拿，颧骨阔得象羊屁股。”
　　“他是我的好朋友、好同志，”罗伯特　乔丹对玛丽亚说。“我很喜欢他。”
　　“当然啦，”比拉尔说。“可是你枪杀了他。”她讲到这里,牌桌上的人都抬起头来看，巴勃罗呢，呆瞪着罗伯特　乔丹。谁也不说话，最后吉普赛人拉斐尔发问了，“是真的吗，罗伯托?”
　　“真的，”罗伯特，乔丹说。他想。”比拉尔不提这个话題躭好了，他在“聋子”那儿不讲这件事就好了。“根据他的要求，他受了重伤。”
　　“真是件怪事，”吉普赛人说。“他跟我们在一起的时候，老是说起这种可能性。我答应他照他要求做，不知道有多少回了会真是件怪事，”他叉说了一遒，还摇摇头。
　　“他这个人非常古怪。”普里米蒂伏说。“非常特别。”“听着。”两兄弟中的一个，安德烈斯说,“你是教授，僅得多〃你相信人能预见自己的未来吗。”

　　“我认为无法预见，”罗伯特　乔丹说。巴勃罗好奇地瞅着他，比拉尔脸上毫无表情地看着他。“拿这位俄国同志来说，他在前方待得太久，变得神经质了。他在伊伦打过仗，你知道，那一次情况很糟，非常糟。后来他在北方打仗。自从第一批在敌后于这种工作的小组成立以来，他在这儿干过，在埃斯特雷马杜拉和安达卢西亚干过。我认为他非常疲劳而神经质，总是往最坏的地方想。”
　　“他肯定见过很多邪恶的事情“费尔南多说。“什么没见过1”安德烈斯说。“可是听我说，英国人，你认为“个人能事先就知道将来的遭遇吗。”
　　“不能，”罗伯特、乔丹说。“那是无知、迷信。”“说下去，”比拉尔说。“我们来听听教授的看法。“她那种样子就象正在对一个早熟的小孩子讲话一样。
　　“我以为恐惧会产生不祥的幻觉。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。"看到凶兆一”
　　“比如说今天的飞机，”普里米蒂伏说。“比如说你的来到。”巴勃罗低声说，罗伯特‘乔丹在桌对面望着他，看出他这句话不是挑衅，而只是他思想的流皤，便接下去说,“一个人怀着恐惧，看到了凶兆就会想象到自己的末日到了，就认为这种想象是预感。”罗伯特　乔丹最后说，“我看佾况不外乎就是这样。妖怪啦，算命先生啦，超自然的奇迹啦，我都不信。”
　　“可这个名字古怪的人却清清楚楚地看到了自己的命运，”吉普赛人说，“结果正是这样啊。”
　　“他没有预见到。”罗伯特“乔丹说。”他害怕会发生这种事,苘这种寄怕变成了他心头的一个疙瘩。别银我说什么他预见到了什么。”
　　“我也不能说吗？”比拉尔问他，从炉灶里抓起一把灰,摊在手掌上，吹掉。“我也没法说眼你吗?”
　　“对。即使你拿出巫术、吉普赛人的那一大套劳什子，也没法说服我。”
　　“因为你这个人聋得出奇“比拉尔说，一张大脸在烛光中显得严峻而宽阔。“倒不是因为你愚蠹。你只是耳朵聋罢了。耳朵聋的人是听不到音乐的，也没法听收音机，因为从来也没听到过，所以他会说，这种东西是不存在的。什么话，英国人1我在那个名字古怪的人的脸上看出了死相，就象用烙铁烫在脸上似的。”
　　“没的事，”罗伯特　乔丹坚持说。”你看到的是恐惧和忧虑。恐惧是他的经历造成的。优虑是因为他想象有可能遭到不測，““什么话，”比拉尔说。“我明明白白地看到死神好象躭坐在他的肩上。不但如此,他身上还发出了死的气味。”
　　“他身上发出了死的气味。”罗伯特　乔丹嘲笑道。“大概是恐惧的气味咆。恐惧的气味是有的。”
　　“是死的气味。”比拉尔说。“听着。那个当时替格兰纳罗帮场的布兰克特是当代最了不起的斗牛士助手,他对我讲过,马诺洛　格兰纳罗死的那天,他们去斗牛场的略上，在小教堂做了祷告，那时马诺洛身上的死味浓得差点叫布兰克特呕吐。动身去斗牛场之前，马诺洛在旅馆里洗澡、换衣服时，他就和马诺洛在—起。他们在汽车里紧挨在一起坐着,开往斗牛场时，还没有这股气味。当时在小教堂里除了胡安夸路易斯‘德拉罗萨之外，谁也辨不出什么气味。马西亚尔也好，奇昆洛也好，无论在那时，还是后来他们四个人锥了队在斗牛场绕场一周的时俟，都找有
　　闻到这股气味。布兰克特告诉我说，胡安罾路易斯脍色煞白，布兰克特就对他说，‘你也闻到了？’
　　“‘浓得叫我透不过气来，’胡安、路易斯对他说。'是你那位斗牛士身上的。“
　　“‘一点没办法。”布兰克特说。‘一点没办法。但愿我们弄错了。’
　　“‘别人呢?’胡安，路易斯问布兰克特。“‘没有，’布兰克特说
　　。‘一点没有　不过这个人的气味比何塞在塔拉韦拉时还要浓。”
　　“正是在那天下午，维拉瓜牧场豢养的公牛波卡贝纳把马诺洛‘格兰纳罗撞死在马德里斗牛场两号看台前的木板围栏上。我和菲尼托在那儿，我亲眼看到的，公牛把马诺洛摔在围栏下,他的脑袋卡在栏杆底下，颅骨给牛角撞得粉碎。““你可闻到什么气味?”费尔南多问。“没有，”比拉尔说。“我离得太远。我们在三号看台的第七排。因为在角上，所以看到了整个情況。布兰克特从前替何塞帮过场，何塞也是被牛挑死的。那天晚上,布兰克特在福尔诺斯酒店对菲尼托讲到这件事，菲尼托就问胡安　路易斯　德拉罗萨，但他不肯说，只是点点买，表示是真的。这件事发生的时候我在场。所以英国人稱，看来你对这种事情耳朵是聋的,就象奇昆洛、马西亚尔　拉兰达以及他们所有的烜扎枪手和长矛手，象胡安‘路易斯和马诺洛　格兰纳罗手下的人在那天都是聋的一样，胡安，路易斯和布兰克特可不聋。我对这种事情也不聋,
　　“这是该用鼻子嗅的，你干吗说耳朵聋呢？”费尔南多问。“去你的　”比拉尔说，“英国人的教授位子该由你来坐啦。
　　不过我还可以给你讲些别的佾况,矣国人；所以你自己着不见、听不到的事情，你也不要怀疑。狗听得到的,你可能听不到。狗嗅到的，你也可能咦不到。不过你已经多少体会到人可能碰到什么命运了,
　　玛丽亚把手放在罗伯特，乔丹肩上，不就挪开，他不禁突然想到，让我们结束这一切废话，好好利用现有的时间吧。不过，现在还早着呢。我们不得不消磨傍晚的这段时间，所以他对巴勃罗说，“你，你相信这种巫术吗？”
　　“我不知道。”巴勃罗说。“我比较赞成你的看法。我从没遇到过超自然的奇迹。可是恐惧，当然是有的。很多。不过比拉尔能看手算命，我是相信的。如果她不是撖谟，那也许她真的能闻出这种昧儿来。”
　　“什么话，我干吗撒谎呀!”比拉尔说。“这种事不是我胡诌的。布兰克特这个人非常认真，而且非常虔诚。他可不是吉普赛人，而是瓦伦西亚的资产阶级。你从没见过他吗?”
　　“见过。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“我见过他好多次。他个子矮小，脸色灰白，挥动披风的功夫谁也比不上他。他脚步灵活得象兔子
　　“一点也不错。”比拉尔说。“他脸色灰白是心脏病的缘故。吉普赛人都说，死神附在他身上，可是他象禅掉桌子上的灰似的，能用披风把死神掸掉。他不是吉普赛人,然而在塔拉韦拉斗牛的时候，闻到了何塞身上的死的气味。我可不明白他在弥镘着白葡萄酒气昧的气氛中怎么还能闻到死的气味。布兰克特后来讲到这件事的时候很祷躇，可是听他讲话的那些人说，那是瞎想出来的，他闻到的是何塞处于当时的生活方式中他胳肢窝里出的汗的气昧　可是后来呢,发生了马诺洛。格兰纳罗这件事，

　　胡安　路易斯’德拉罗萨也闻到的。胡安　路易斯名声当然不太好,但是做事利索，还是个跟女人睡觉的好手。布兰克特呢，很严肃，非常文雅，根本不会讲假话。我跟你说呀，你那个同事从前在这里的时候，我闻到了他身上的死的气味，“
　　“我不信，”罗伯特、乔丹说。“你还说过，布兰克特在绕场时闻到了这股气味。就在斗牛开始之前-而你和卡希金在这里炸火车，干得很成功。炸火车时他没有死。那你怎么会闻到？”“这压根儿不相干，”比拉尔解释说。“伊格纳西奥　桑切斯，梅希亚斯在他最后一个斗牛季节里身上死的气味那么浓，在咖啡馆里很多人都不愿和他坐在一起。吉普赛人都知道这件事。“
　　“人死了之后，人家就虚构出这种事来了。”罗伯特　乔丹争辩说。“人人都知道，喿切斯〃梅希亚斯很久不练功，他的斗牛架式笨而犯险，力气衰退了，腿儿不灵活了，反应也不象以前那么快了，所以早晚会挨上牛角的。”
　　“当然啦。”比拉尔对他说。“这一切都是事实。不过，吉普赛人个个都知道,他身上有死的气味。他一走进玫瑰酒店,里卡多、费利佩‘冈萨雷斯这些人,就从酒吧后面的小门溜走了。”“也许他们欠他偾吧。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“有可能。”比拉尔说，　很可能。不过他们也闻到了，人人都知道这回事。”
　　“她话不煆，英国人”吉普赛人拉斐尔说。“这件事是我们大家都知道的
　　“我一点也不信，”罗伯特‘乔丹说，“听着，英国人，”安塞尔莫开口说。“这些巫术我全不信。不过筚位比拉尔能未卜先知倒是有名的。“

　　“那么这种气味象什么？”费尔南多问。“是怎么样的气味？要是有，那一定是种很具体的气味，“
　　“你想知道吗，费尔南多？”比拉尔对他笑笑。“你以为你能闻到吗？”
　　“要是果真有这种气味，人家能闻到，我干吗不能?”
　　“干吗不能？”比拉尔取笑他，她拿两只大手抱着双膝，“你乘过船吗，费尔南多。”
　　“没有。我也不想乘。“
　　“那么你恐怕辨不出来。这种气味有点几象暴风雨来时关上舷窗后船里的气味。船在你脚底下頮簸,你感到头昏眼花，胃里直翻，你把彝子贴在拧紧的舷窗的铜把抦上,就能闻到一点儿这种气味了。”
　　“我不打算乘船,所以这种气味我不可能辨出来，”费尔南多说。
　　“我乘过几回船。”比拉尔说。“去墨西哥和委内瑞拉，我都是乘船去的,
　　“还有呢？”罗伯特　乔丹问。比拉尔骄傲地想起了她的旅行，嘲弄地望着他。
　　“好吧，英国人,学学吧。这就对了,学学吧。好吧。你在船上闻到这气昧之后,该一淸早在马德里走卞山，到托莱多大桥边的屠宰场去，站在那潮湿的石板地上，那时候从曼萨纳食斯河面上飙来了胜矣，。”你等着那些天换亮就去喝被屠宰的牲口的血的老太婆。这种老太婆裹着围巾，脸色灰白，眼睛凹陷，下巴和脸颊上长着老年须，就象豆种上长出来的芽须，不是趣毛,而是她死人般蜡黄的脸上长出的灰白色的芽须；等这样一个老太婆从屠宰场里走出来，你伸出手去紧紧挨住她，英国人，把她紧貼在你身上，亲她的嘴，那你就知道这种气味还象些别的什么东西了。“
　　“这种气味叫我倒胃口啦。”吉普赛人说。“这种芽须的气味叫人太受不了啦。”
　　“你还要听吗？”比拉尔问罗伯特‘乔丹。“当然，”他说。“如果有必要学学,就学学吧。”、“老太婆脸上芽须的气味叫我作呕，”吉普赛人说。“老太婆脸上为什么会长出这玩意儿来，比拉尔？我们可不这样？
　　“是不这样，”比拉尔取笑他说。“我们老太婆啊，年轻时可苗条呢，当然啦，可惜老是腆着个大肚子，这说明了她丈夫给她的恩赐。每个吉普赛女人老是前面顶着个一”“别说这种话，”拉斐尔说。“太下流啦。”“旅来伤了你的感情了。”出拉尔说。“吉普赛女人不是快生孩子就是刚生孩子，你可见过有谁不是这样子吗？”“你。”
　　“别胡扯。”比拉尔说。“每个人都有伤感情的时候。我说这话的意思是，年纪给大家都带来一副丑相。不必细讲啦。不过，要是英国人一定要知道他巴不得辨别的那种气味，他必须大清早到屠宰场去。”
　　“我去。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“不过等她们路过的时候，我只想闻闻这种气味,不想跟她们亲嘴。我也和拉斐尔一样，怕这种芽须,”
　　"吻一个吧，”比拉尔说。“吻‘个吧，英国人，要知道，就得吻。然后鼻孔里带着这股气味,赶回城里，看到垃圾捅里有枯谢的花，就把鼻子深深地伸到桶里,吸它一口气，让鼻孔里已有的气味和桶里的气味混在一起，“
　　“我这可差不离了。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“什么花呢?”

　　“菊花。”
　　“讲下去。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我闻到了，““然后。”比拉尔接着说，〃要紧的是要挑一个秋天下雨的曰子，或者至少荽有雾，或者甚至在初冬,你该在城里一股劲地走，颀着康乐大街走，等那些妓院里清扫出垃圾、往阴沟里倒便桶的时候，有什么气味你就阄什么。这种一夜风流的气味和肥皂水、香烟屁股的香味混在一起，淡淡地飘进你的鼻孔，你得继续向植物园走去,在那儿，夜色里，没法再在妓院里接客的姑娘们,靠在公园的铁门和铁栅栏上接客，就在人行道上接客。她们就是在树荫下靠在铁栏杆上让男人过瘾的，从一毛钱满足最简单的要求，到一块钱干一次我们天生会干的好事，那是在一个还未淸除死花、重新栽上的花坛上于的，这样把泥土搞得比人行道软得多。你将会发现一只被扔掉的麻袋,上面带着湿土、枯花和那夜所干的好事的气味　这麻袋上含有全部精华，既有死土、枯蒌的花梗和麻烂的花朵的气味，也有人的死亡和诞生的气味。你把这只麻袋套在自己头上,在里面呼吸。”“不要。”比拉尔说。“你把这只麻袋套在自己头上[在里面呼吸。你深呼吸的时侯,很如先前的那些气味还没有散失，那么，你躭会闻到我们所说的死亡临头的气味了，“
　　“好吧，”罗伯特，乔丹说　“那你说卡希金在这里的时候，身上就有这种气味吗。”
　　"得。”罗伯特‘乔丹认真地说。“要是真有这种事，我把他枪杀掉倒是件好事啦。”
　　“说得妙。”吉普赛人说，其他人都笑了　
　　“好极啦，”普里米蒂伏赞许地说。“这下子可把她难住啦。”
　　“不过比拉尔啊，”费尔南多说。“堂　罗伯托是个知书识理的人,你当然不能指望他干出这种肮脏勾当。”“对。”比拉尔同意说。“这种亊全叫人恶心到极点。”“是铒。”比拉尔同意说。“你并不指望他真的干出这些有失身份的事?”“对，”比拉尔说。“你去睡觉吧，好不好?”“可是比拉尔一”费尔南多继续说。“你住口好不好?”比拉尔突然恶狠狠地对他说。“你别发傻了，我也不发傻了，不再跟这种根本听不懂我的话的人说话了。”
　　“说句心里话，我是听不僅。”费尔南多开口说。
　　“别说心里话了，别想听懂了，”比拉尔说。“外面还在下雪
吗？”
　　罗伯特　乔丹走到洞口，撩起门毯望望外面。洞外,夜空哺朗，天气寒冷，不下雪了。他目光穿过树干之间向雪地望去，再抬头透过树梢望望无云的夜空。他呼吸时觉得吸进肺部的空气冷得剌人。
　　“如果‘聋子’今晚去偷马，会留下很多脚迹，”他想，他放下门敌，返身进入烟雾弥渙的山洞。“天晴啦，”他说　“暴风雪过去了。”
Chapter 20
 Now in the night he lay and waited for the girl to come to him. There was no wind now and the pines were still in the night. The trunks of the pines projected from the snow that covered all the ground, and he lay in the robe feeling the suppleness of the bed under him that he had made, his legs stretched long against the warmth of the robe, the air sharp and cold on his head and in his nostrils as he breathed. Under his head, as he lay on his side, was the bulge of the trousers and the coat that he had wrapped around his shoes to make a pillow and against his side was the cold metal of the big automatic pistol he had taken from the holster when he undressed and fastened by its lanyard to his right wrist. He pushed the pistol away and settled deeper into the robe as he watched, across the snow, the dark break in the rocks that was the entrance to the cave. The sky was clear and there was enough light reflected from the snow to see the trunks of the trees and the bulk of the rocks where the cave was.
 Earlier in the evening he had taken the ax and gone outside of the cave and walked through the new snow to the edge of the clearing and cut down a small spruce tree. In the dark he had dragged it, butt first, to the lee of the rock wall. There close to the rock, he had held the tree upright, holding the trunk firm with one hand, and, holding the ax-haft close to the head had lopped off all the boughs until he had a pile of them. Then, leaving the pile of boughs, he had laid the bare pole of the trunk down in the snow and gone into the cave to get a slab of wood he had seen against the wall. With this slab he scraped the ground clear of the snow along the rock wall and then picked up his boughs and shaking them clean of snow laid them in rows, like overlapping plumes, until he had a bed. He put the pole across the foot of the bough bed to hold the branches in place and pegged it firm with two pointed pieces of wood he split from the edge of the slab.
 Then he carried the slab and the ax back into the cave, ducking under the blanket as he came in, and leaned them both against the wall.
 "What do you do outside?" Pilar had asked.
 "I made a bed."
 "Don't cut pieces from my new shelf for thy bed."
 "I am sorry."
 "It has no importance," she said. "There are more slabs at the sawmill. What sort of bed hast thou made?"
 "As in my country."
 "Then sleep well on it," she had said and Robert Jordan had opened one of the packs and pulled the robe out and replaced those things wrapped in it back in the pack and carried the robe out, ducking under the blanket again, and spread it over the boughs so that the closed end of the robe was against the pole that was pegged cross-wise at the foot of the bed. The open head of the robe was protected by the rock wall of the cliff. Then he went back into the cave for his packs but Pilar said, "They can sleep with me as last night."
 "Will you not have sentries?" he asked. "The night is clear and the storm is over."
 "Fernando goes," Pilar said.
 Maria was in the back of the cave and Robert Jordan could not see her.
 "Good night to every one," he had said. "I am going to sleep."
 Of the others, who were laying out blankets and bedrolls on the floor in front of the cooking fire, pushing back the slab tables and the rawhide-covered stools to make sleeping space, Primitivo and Andr廥 looked up and said, "_Buenas noches_."
 Anselmo was already asleep in a corner, rolled in his blanket and his cape, not even his nose showing. Pablo was asleep in his chair.
 "Do you want a sheep hide for thy bed?" Pilar asked Robert Jordan softly.
 "Nay," he said. "Thank thee. I do not need it."
 "Sleep well," she said. "I will respond for thy material."
 Fernando had gone out with him and stood a moment where Robert Jordan had spread the sleeping robe.
 "You have a curious idea to sleep in the open, Don Roberto," he said standing there in the dark, muffled in his blanket cape, his carbine slung over his shoulder.
 "I am accustomed to it. Good night."
 "Since you are accustomed to it."
 "When are you relieved?"
 "At four."
 "There is much cold between now and then."
 "I am accustomed to it," Fernando said.
 "Since, then, you are accustomed to it--" Robert Jordan said politely.
 "Yes," Fernando agreed. "Now I must get up there. Good night, Don Roberto."
 "Good night, Fernando."
 Then he had made a pillow of the things he took off and gotten into the robe and then lain and waited, feeling the spring of the boughs under the flannelly, feathered lightness of the robe warmth, watching the mouth of the cave across the snow; feeling his heart beat as he waited.
 The night was clear and his head felt as clear and cold as the air. He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous sap from the cut limbs. Pilar, he thought. Pilar and the smell of death. This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell? Sweet grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the sea as you walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia? Or the wind from the land as you come in toward Cuba in the dark? That was the odor of the cactus flowers, mimosa and the sea-grape shrubs. Or would you rather smell frying bacon in the morning when you are hungry? Or coffee in the morning? Or a Jonathan apple as you bit into it? Or a cider mill in the grinding, or bread fresh from the oven? You must be hungry, he thought, and he lay on his side and watched the entrance of the cave in the light that the stars reflected from the snow.
 Some one came out from under the blanket and he could see whoever it was standing by the break in the rock that made the entrance. Then he heard a slithering sound in the snow and then whoever it was ducked down and went back in.
 I suppose she won't come until they are all asleep, he thought. It is a waste of time. The night is half gone. Oh, Maria. Come now quickly, Maria, for there is little time. He heard the soft sound of snow falling from a branch onto the snow on the ground. A little wind was rising. He felt it on his face. Suddenly he felt a panic that she might not come. The wind rising now reminded him how soon it would be morning. More snow fell from the branches as he heard the wind now moving the pine tops.
 Come now, Maria. Please come here now quickly, he thought. Oh, come here now. Do not wait. There is no importance any more to your waiting until they are asleep.
 Then he saw her coming out from under the blanket that covered the cave mouth. She stood there a moment and he knew it was she but he could not see what she was doing. He whistled a low whistle and she was still at the cave mouth doing something in the darkness of the rock shadow. Then she came running, carrying something in her hands and he saw her running long-legged through the snow. Then she was kneeling by the robe, her head pushed hard against him, slapping snow from her feet. She kissed him and handed him her bundle.
 "Put it with thy pillow," she said. "I took these off there to save time."
 "You came barefoot through the snow?"
 "Yes," she said, "and wearing only my wedding shirt."
 He held her close and tight in his arms and she rubbed her head against his chin.
 "Avoid the feet," she said. "They are very cold, Roberto."
 "Put them here and warm them."
 "Nay," she said. "They will warm quickly. But say quickly now that you love me."
 "I love thee."
  "Good. Good. Good."
 "I love thee, little rabbit."
 "Do you love my wedding shirt?"
 "It is the same one as always."
 "Yes. As last night. It is my wedding shirt."
 "Put thy feet here."
 "Nay, that would be abusive. They will warm of themselves. They are warm to me. It is only that the snow has made them cold toward thee. Say it again."
 "I love thee, my little rabbit."
 "I love thee, too, and I am thy wife."
 "Were they asleep?"
 "No," she said. "But I could support it no longer. And what importance has it?"
 "None," he said, and felt her against him, slim and long and warmly lovely. "No other thing has importance."
 "Put thy hand on my head," she said, "and then let me see if I can kiss thee.
 "Was it well?" she asked.
 "Yes," he said. "Take off thy wedding shirt."
 "You think I should?"
 "Yes, if thou wilt not be cold."
 "_Qu?va_, cold. I am on fire."
 "I, too. But afterwards thou wilt not be cold?"
 "No. Afterwards we will be as one animal of the forest and be so close that neither one can tell that one of us is one and not the other. Can you not feel my heart be your heart?"
 "Yes. There is no difference."
 "Now, feel. I am thee and thou art me and all of one is the other. And I love thee, oh, I love thee so. Are you not truly one? Canst thou not feel it?"
 "Yes," he said. "It is true."
 "And feel now. Thou hast no heart but mine."
 "Nor any other legs, nor feet, nor of the body."
 "But we are different," she said. "I would have us exactly the same."
 "You do not mean that."
 "Yes I do. I do. That is a thing I had to tell thee."
 "You do not mean that."
 "Perhaps I do not," she said speaking softly with her lips against his shoulder. "But I wished to say it. Since we are different I am glad that thou art Roberto and I Maria. But if thou should ever wish to change I would be glad to change. I would be thee because I love thee so."
 "I do not wish to change. It is better to be one and each one to be the one he is."
 "But we will be one now and there will never be a separate one." Then she said, "I will be thee when thou are not there. Oh, I love thee so and I must care well for thee."
 "Maria."
 "Yes."
 "Maria."
 "Yes."
 "Maria."
 "Oh, yes. Please."
 "Art thou not cold?"
 "Oh, no. Pull the robe over thy shoulders."
 "Maria."
 "I cannot speak."
 "Oh, Maria. Maria. Maria."
 Then afterwards, close, with the night cold outside, in the long warmth of the robe, her head touching his cheek, she lay quiet and happy against him and then said softly, "And thou?"
 "_Como tu_," he said.
 "Yes," she said. "But it was not as this afternoon."
 "No."
 "But I loved it more. One does not need to die."
 "_Ojala no_," he said. "I hope not."
 "I did not mean that."
 "I know. I know what thou meanest. We mean the same."
 "Then why did you say that instead of what I meant?"
 "With a man there is a difference."
 "Then I am glad that we are different."
 "And so am I," he said. "But I understood about the dying. I only spoke thus, as a man, from habit. I feel the same as thee."
 "However thou art and however thou speakest is how I would have thee be."
 "And I love thee and I love thy name, Maria."
 "It is a common name."
 "No," he said. "It is not common."
 "Now should we sleep?" she said. "I could sleep easily."
 "Let us sleep," he said, and he felt the long light body, warm against him, comforting against him, abolishing loneliness against him, magically, by a simple touching of flanks, of shoulders and of feet, making an alliance against death with him, and he said, "Sleep well, little long rabbit."
 She said, "I am asleep already."
 "I am going to sleep," he said. "Sleep well, beloved." Then he was asleep and happy as he slept.
 But in the night he woke and held her tight as though she were all of life and it was being taken from him. He held her feeling she was all of life there was and it was true. But she was sleeping well and soundly and she did not wake. So he rolled away onto his side and pulled the robe over her head and kissed her once on her neck under the robe and then pulled the pistol lanyard up and put the pistol by his side where he could reach it handily and then he lay there in the night thinking.
　　他如今躺在黑夜里，等着姑娘到他这儿来。这时风已停息，松树在夜色中悄然无声。松树千兀立在盖满雪的地上，他躺在睡袋里，感到身体底下他铺的东西软绵绵的,两腿直伸在暖和的睡袋里，脸上接触到的和吸进鼻子的空气冷得刺人。他侧身躺着，头下是他用裤子和外衣卷在鞋子外面做成的圆鼓鼓的枕头。他脱衣时从枪套里取出大自动手枪，把手枪带系在右手腌上，这时感到那冷冰冰的枪身贴在腰的一侧。他推开手枪，身体更往睡袋里缩下一些，同时望着雪地对面山岩上的黑色缺口，那就是山涧的洞口。天空晴韌，借着雪光的反射可以看清山洞两旁的树干和大块山岩。
　　临近黄昏的时候，他曾拿了一把斧头，走出山洞，踏过新下的雪，来到林间空地边缘，砍下一棵小云杉。他在黑暗中握着树的根端，把它拖到山崖的背风处。他挨近山崖，一手把稳树千，把树竖直，一手握住斧头柄靠近斧头的地方，砍下了所有的枝丫，聚成一堆。然后，他把光树干放在雪地里,离开那堆枝丫，走进山洞去拿一块他早先见到靠在洞壁上的厚木板。他用这木板沿着山崖把　块地上的雪全刮开，然后拣起树枝，抖掉上面的雪，一行行地排列在地面上，就象鸟身上迭盖着的羽毛那样,直到做成一张床铺。他把树干横在这些树枝做成的床铺的一头，免得树枝散开，并从那块木板边上劈下两个尖楔,打进地里,卡住树干。然后他把木板和斧头拿回山洞，撩起门毯，“着头进去，把这两件东西靠在润壁上。

　　“你在外面做啥，“”比拉尔向，“做了一张床。，
　　“你做床，可别拿我那新搁板劈呀。““请原谅。”
　　“没关系。”她说。“锯木厂里木板多着，你做的床是啥样
的?，
　　“就象我家乡的一样。”
　　“那就在铺上好好睡吧，”她说。罗伯特　乔丹打开个背包，从里面抽出睡袋，把包在里面的东西放回背包，然后拿着睡袋再撩开门毯，低头走出山洞，把睡袋铺在树枝上，让睡袋那封闭的一头抵在那根横钉在床脚的树干上。睡袋口有睃峭的石壁遮挡着。然后他再到山洞里去拿他的背包，但比拉尔说，“就象昨晚一样，背包跟我睡得啦，“
　　“你不派人放哨？“他问。“今晚天晴,风雪又停了。”“费尔南多去，”比拉尔说。玛丽亚正在山洞深处，罗伯特　乔丹看不见她。“诸位晚安。”他说。“我去睡啦。”大家正在把扳桌和蒙着生皮的凳子推到一边，腾出睡觉的地方,把毯子和铺兼摊在炉火前的地上。这时,其中的膂里米蒂伏和安德烈斯抬起头来说,晚安。”
　　安塞尔莫在角落里，已经睡熟了,身体裹在他的毪子和披风里,连鼻子也看不到。巴勃罗坐在椅子里睡熟了。
　　“你铺上要张羊皮吗?”比拉尔低声问罗伯特　乔丹。’
　　“不用。”他说。“谢谢你。我不需要。”
　　“好好睡吧。”地说。“你的东西我负贲，“
　　费尔南多跟他一起来到洞外，在罗伯特　乔丹铺睡袋的地方站了一会儿。
　　“你这主意很古怪,睡在餺天。堂.罗伯托，”他站在黑暗中说，身上裹着毯子式的披风，卡宾枪挂在肩上。“我习惯了。晚安。”“你习愤了就行，““什么时候人家来换你的班?”“四点钟。”
　　“从现在到四点这一段时间很冷。”“我习惯了。”费尔南多说。“你习惯了那就行一〃罗伯特　乔丹客气地说。‘“对。”费尔南多附和说。“我现在得上山去放哨啦。晚安,堂　罗伯托。”
　　“晚安，费尔南多。”
　　然后他把脱下的衣眼做了个枕头，钻进睡袋，躺着等待，感到在这暖和的法兰绒衬里的羽绒睡袋底下，那些树枝富有弹性。他注视着雪地对面的山洞口，等待着，觉得心在眺。
　　夜色晴朗,他感到头脑和空气一样清激而寒冷。他闻到身体下面松枝的气味、压碎的松针的味儿和更强烈的树枝断口渗出的树脂香味。比拉尔，他想，比拉尔和她扯的死亡的气味。我爱闻的可是这一种气味。这一种和新割的首蓿的气味,还有你骑了马赶牛时踩碎的鼠尾草的气味，柴火的烟味和秋天烧树叶的气昧。那准是勾起乡愁的气味，秋天在故乡米苏拉的街上耙成堆的树叶燃烧时的烟火味。你情愿闻哪一种气味呢？印第安人编篮子用的香草的气味？熏皮张的气味？春雨后泥土的气味？你在加利西亚地岬上走在金雀花丛中闻到的海洋味儿？还是你在黑夜里驶近古巴的时候，从陆地上吹来的凤的气味，“那是仙人掌花、含羞草和马尾藻丛的气味。要不，你情愿闻闻在早晨饥饿时所吃的煎烕肉的香味？还是早熳的咖啡香？还是把一只晚秋苹果一口咬下去时闻到的香味?还是苹果酒作坊在碾碎苹果时的味儿,或者刚出炉的面包香味呢？他想　你一定饿了。他侧身躺着,借着照在雪上的星光望着那山洞口。
　　有人从毯子后钻出来。他看见那人站在山岩的缺口前，就是那山洞口，但看不清是谁。他接着听到在雪里移动的脚步声，接宥，这个人撩起毯子，低着头又进表了。
　　他想　着来她要等大家都睡热了才会前来。真是浪费时间锕。夜晚过去一半了。玛丽亚舸。快来吧，玛萠亚，因为时间不多啦。他听到树枝上一块雪轻柔地掉在雪地上的声苷。起了一阵微风，他脸上瘅到了。他忽然慌张起来，说不定她不会来了，这时起了风，使他想到早晨不久就要来临申他听到微风吹动树梢的声音，树枝上叉有些雪落下来了。
　　来吧,玛丽亚。他想　请你现在快到我身边来吧。啊,快到我身边来吧。别等啦。你等不等他们睡热,都没有关系了。
　　接着,他看到她从那蒙在山洞口的毯子下面钻出来了。蚀站了一会儿,他知道是她,但看不淸她在做什么。他低声吹了声口哨，但她还在洞。山岩的黑影里撖着什么。接着，她手里拿着什么东西奔过來了。他看到她两条长腿在雪地里奔跑,按着,她跪在睡袋旁边，拍掉脚上的雪，用头紧挨着他　她亲了他—下，把一包东西递给他。 。”　、
　　“把这个和你的枕头放在一起。”她说。“我在祸口脱掉了鞋,免得浪费时间。” ‘
　　“你光着脚从雪地里来的?” ，
　　“是啊，”她说。“只穿一件结婿衬.衫，“
　　他把她紧紧地搂在怀里，她把头磨蹭着他的下巴。
　　“别碰脚，”她说。“脚很冷，罗伯托。”“把脚伸到这儿来，暖和暖和。”
　　“不。”她说。“很快就会暖和起来的。现在快说,你爱我。”
　　“我爱你。”
　　“好，好。好。”
　　“我爱你，小兔子。。
　　“你爱我的结婚衬衫吗,
　　"永远是这一件。”
　　“对。就象昨晚一祥。这是我的结婚衬衫，““把脚伸到这儿来。”
　　〃不，那不象话。脚自已会暖和起来的。我不觉得脚冷。只因为踩过雪,你才觉得冷的。再说一遍。““我爱你，我的小兔子“我也爱你，我是你的妻子，““他们睡着了。”
　　〃没有，”她说。“可我再也忍不住了。那有什么关系?”“一点儿没关系，”他说，感到她貼在身上，苗条而頎长的身子温暖喜人　“什么都没有关系了。”
　　“把手放在我头上，”她说。“我来试试看能不能吻你，“、“这样好吗？〃她问办
　　“好。”他说。“把你的结婚衬衫脱了。”“你要我脱吗?”“要,不冷就脱。”
　　“鄺儿的话！我身上象着了火似的。”“我也是。可是过后你不会觉得冷吗”
　　“不会。过后我们会象森林里的野軎，紧紧地挨在“起，彼此都分不出哪个是你、哪个是我了。你不觉得我的心就是你的心吗?”
　　“觉得。分不出了。”
　　“现在你祺摸。我就是你,你就是我,你我成为一个人了。我爱你，啊，我多么爱你。我们不是真的成为一个人了？你不觉得吗，“”
　　“觉得，”他说。“的确如此。”“现在你摸摸。你除了我的心外可没别的心了。”“也没有别的鼷、别的脚或别的身体了。”“可我们是不一样的，”她说。“我希望我们完全一样。”“你不是这个意思。”
　　“是的，是这个意思。是这个意思。我非要对你这样说不可。”
　　“你不是这个意思。”
　　“也许不是，”她温柔地说，嘴唇贴在他肩上。“可是我巴不得这样说。既然我们不“样,叫我髙兴的是你是罗伯托,我是玛丽亚-不过，要是你想变，我也乐意变。我愿意变成你，因为我太爱你了。”
　　“我可不愿意变。还是你是你、我是我的好，“　可现在我们要变成一个人啦，再分不出你我了。”她接着讲，“即使你不在身边，我也是你　明,我真爱你，我一定要好好地宠爱你,“玛丽亚。”“嗯。”“玛丽亚。”

　　“嗯。，“玛丽亚。”“噢，嗳。说吧。”“你不冷吗?”
　　“噢，不。把睡袋拉拉好，遮住你的肩，““玛丽亚。”“我说不出话了，““啊，玛丽亚。玛丽亚。玛丽亚。”到后来，紧挨着躺在一起，外面是寒夜,睡袋里是绵绵暖意，她头貼在他脸颊上,静静地、愉快埤挨在他身旁，接着温柔地说，“你呢？”
　　“跟你“样，”他说。
　　“好。”她说。“不过跟今天下午不一样。”“是啊。”
　　“可我更喜欢这样。不一定要死过去的。”
　　“但愿不，”他说。“我希望不要死，“〃我不是这个意思。”
　　“我知道。我知道你的意思。我们是一个意思，“
　　“那你干吗说这话而不照我的意思说?”
　　“对男人莱说是不一样的。“ ‘
　　“那我髙兴我们是不一样的。”
　　“我也高兴，“他说，“不过我僅得这死过去的感觉，我这样说,只不过因为我是男人，出于习愤。我和你的感觉一样。”“不管你怎么样，不管你怎样说,都正合我的心意。”“我爱你,我还爱你的名字,玛丽亚，“〃那是个普通的名字，“
　　“不，”他说。“不普通。”
　　“我们现在睡吧?”她说。“我很快就会睡熟的。”“我们睡吧，”他说。他感到那颀长而轻盈的身体温暖地挨着他,使人舒适地挨着他,排除孤独地挨着他；就凭腰部的接触，肩膀和脚的接触，奇妙地使他不再感到孤独，跟他结成一个对抗死亡的联盟，于是他说，“好好睡吧,长脚小兔子。”她说，“我已经睡熟了。”
　　“我就要睡着了，”他说。“好好睡吧，亲爱的。”然后他入睡了，快乐地熟睡着。
　　但是，夜半他酲来，把她紧紧搂着，仿佛她就是生命中的“切,正从他身边被夺走似的。他搂着她，觉得她是存在着的生命中的一切,而且事实正是如此。她呢，安详地熟睡着，没有醒过来。于是他翻了个身，侧卧在一边，拉起睡袋兼住她的头，在睡袋里凑着她的脖子吻了一下，然后拉起手枪上的绳子,把手枪放在随手拿得到的身旁，然后躺在夜色里思量。
Chapter 21
 A warm wind came with daylight and he could hear the snow melting in the trees and the heavy sound of its falling. It was a late spring morning. He knew with the first breath he drew that the snow had been only a freak storm in the mountains and it would be gone by noon. Then he heard a horse coming, the hoofs balled with the wet snow thumping dully as the horseman trotted. He heard the noise of a carbine scabbard slapping loosely and the creak of leather.
 "Maria," he said, and shook the girl's shoulder to waken her. "Keep thyself under the robe," and he buttoned his shirt with one hand and held the automatic pistol in the othet loosening the safety catch with his thumb. He saw the girl's cropped head disappear with a jerk under the robe and then he saw the horseman coming through the trees. He crouched now in the robe and holding the pistol in both hands aimed it at the man as he rode toward him. He had never seen this man before.
 The horseman was almost opposite him now. He was riding a big gray gelding and he wore a khaki beret, a blanket cape like a poncho, and heavy black boots. From the scabbard on the right of his saddle projected the stock and the long oblong clip of a short automatic rifle. He had a young, hard face and at this moment he saw Robert Jordan.
 He reached his hand down toward the scabbard and as he swung low, turning and jerking at the scabbard, Robert Jordan saw the scarlet of the formalized device he wore on the left breast of his khaki blanket cape.
 Aiming at the center of his chest, a little lower than the device, Robert Jordan fired.
 The pistol roared in the snowy woods.
 The horse plunged as though he had been spurred and the young man, still tugging at the scabbard, slid over toward the ground, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The horse broke off through the trees dragging him, bumping, face downward, and Robert Jordan stood up holding the pistol now in one hand.
 The big gray horse was galloping through the pines. There was a broad swath in the snow where the man dragged with a scarlet streak along one side of it. People were coming out of the mouth of the cave. Robert Jordan reached down and unrolled his trousers from the pillow and began to put them on.
 "Get thee dressed," he said to Maria.
 Overhead he heard the noise of a plane flying very high. Through the trees he saw where the gray horse had stopped and was standing, his rider still hanging face down from the stirrup.
 "Go catch that horse," he called to Primitivo who had started over toward him. Then, "Who was on guard at the top?"
 "Rafael," Pilar said from the cave. She stood there, her hair still down her back in two braids.
 "There's cavalry out," Robert Jordan said. "Get your damned gun up there."
 He heard Pilar call, "Agust璯," into the cave. Then she went into the cave and then two men came running out, one with the automatic rifle with its tripod swung on his shoulder; the other with a sackful of the pans.
 "Get up there with them," Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. "You lie beside the gun and hold the legs still," he said.
 The three of them went up the trail through the woods at a run.
 The sun had not yet come up over the tops of the mountains and Robert Jordan stood straight buttoning his trousers and tightening his belt, the big pistol hanging from the lanyard on his wrist. He put the pistol in its holster on his belt and slipped the knot down on the lanyard and passed the ioop over his head.
 Somebody will choke you with that sometime, he thought. Well, this has done it. He took the pistol out of the holster, removed the clip, inserted one of the cartridges from the row alongside of the holster and shoved the clip back into the butt of the pistol.
 He looked through the trees to where Primitivo, holding the reins of the horse, was twisting the rider's foot out of the stirrup. The body lay face down in the snow and as he watched Primitivo was going through the pockets.
 "Come on," he called. "Bring the horse."
 As he knelt to put on his rope-soled shoes, Robert Jordan could feel Maria against his knees, dressing herself under the robe. She had no place in his life now.
 That cavalryman did not expect anything, he was thinking. He was not following horse tracks and he was not even properly alert, let alone alarmed. He was not even following the tracks up to the post. He must have been one of a patrol scattered out in these hills. But when the patrol misses him they will follow his tracks here. Unless the snow melts first, he thought. Unless something happens to the patrol.
 "You better get down below," he said to Pablo.
 They were all out of the cave now, standing there with the carbines and with grenades on their belts. Pilar held a leather bag of grenades toward Robert Jordan and he took three and put them in his pocket. He ducked into the cave, found his two packs, opened the one with the submachine gun in it and took out the barrel and stock, slipped the stock onto the forward assembly and put one clip into the gun and three in his pockets. He locked the pack and started for the door. I've got two pockets full of hardware, he thought. I hope the seams hold. He came out of the cave and said to Pablo, "I'm going up above. Can Agust璯 shoot that gun?"
 "Yes," Pablo said. He was watching Primitivo leading up the horse.
 "_Mira qu?caballo_," he said. "Look, what a horse."
 The big gray was sweating and shivering a little and Robert Jordan patted him on the withers.
 "I will put him with the others," Pablo said.
 "No," Robert Jordan said. "He has made tracks into here. He must make them out."
 "True," agreed Pablo. "I will ride him out and will hide him and bring him in when the snow is melted. Thou hast much head today, _Ingl廥_."
 "Send some one below," Robert Jordan said. "We've got to get up there."
 "It is not necessary," Pablo said. "Horsemen cannot come that way. But we can get out, by there and by two other places. It is better not to make tracks if there are planes coming. Give me the _bota_ with wine, Pilar."
 "To go off and get drunk," Pilar said. "Here, take these instead." He reached over and put two of the grenades in his pockets.
 "_Qu?va_, to get drunk," Pablo said. "There is gravity in the situation. But give me the _bota_. I do not like to do all this on water."
 He reached his arms up, took the reins and swung up into the saddle. He grinned and patted the nervous horse. Robert Jordan saw him rub his leg along the horse's flank affectionately.
 "_Qu?caballo m嫳 bonito_," he said and patted the big gray again. "_Qu?caballo m嫳 hermoso_. Come on. The faster this gets out of here the better."
 He reached down and pulled the light automatic rifle with its ventilated barrel, really a submachine gun built to take the 9 mm. pistol cartridge, from the scabbard, and looked at it. "Look how they are armed," he said. "Look at modern cavalry."
 "There's modern cavalry over there on his face," Robert Jordan said. "_Vamonos_."
 "Do you, Andr廥, saddle and hold the horses in readiness. If you hear firing bring them up to the woods behind the gap. Come with thy arms and leave the women to hold the horses. Fernando, see that my sacks are brought also. Above all, that my sacks are brought carefully. Thou to look after my sacks, too," he said to Pilar. "Thou to verify that they come with the horses. _Vamonos_," he said. "Let us go."
 "The Maria and I will prepare all for leaving," Pilar said. Then to Robert Jordan, "Look at him," nodding at Pablo on the gray horse, sitting him in the heavy-thighed herdsman manner, the horse's nostrils widening as Pablo replaced the clip in the automatic rifle. "See what a horse has done for him."
 "That I should have two horses," Robert Jordan said fervently.
 "Danger is thy horse."
 "Then give me a mule," Robert Jordan grinned.
 "Strip me that," he said to Pilar and jerked his head toward where the man lay face down in the snow. "And bring everything, all the letters and papers, and put them in the outside pocket of my sack. Everything, understand?"
 "Yes."
 "_Vamonos_," he said.
 Pablo rode ahead and the two men followed in a single file in order not to track up the snow. Robert Jordan carried the submachine gun muzzle down, carrying it by its forward hand grip. I wish it took the same ammunition that saddle gun takes, he thought. But it doesn't. This is a German gun. This was old Kashkin's gun.
 The sun was coming over the mountains now. A warm wind was blowing and the snow was melting. It was a lovely late spring morning.
 Robert Jordan looked back and saw Maria now standing with Pilar. Then she came running up the trail. He dropped behind Primitivo to speak to her.
 "Thou," she said. "Can I go with thee?"
 "No. Help Pilar."
 She was walking behind him and put her hand on his arm.
 "I'm coming."
 "Nay."
 She kept on walking close behind him.
 "I could hold the legs of the gun in the way thou told Anselmo."
 "Thou wilt hold no legs. Neither of guns nor of nothing."
 Walking beside him she reached forward and put her hand in his pocket.
 "No," he said. "But take good care of thy wedding shirt."
 "Kiss me," she said, "if thou goest."
 "Thou art shameless," he said.
 "Yes," she said. "Totally."
 "Get thee back now. There is much work to do. We may fight here if they follow these horse tracks."
 "Thou," she said. "Didst thee see what he wore on his chest?"
 "Yes. Why not?"
 "It was the Sacred Heart."
 "Yes. All the people of Navarre wear it."
 "And thou shot for that?"
 "No. Below it. Get thee back now."
 "Thou," she said. "I saw all."
 "Thou saw nothing. One man. One man from a horse. Vete. Get thee back."
 "Say that you love me."
 "No. Not now."
 "Not love me now?"
 "_D嶴amos_. Get thee back. One does not do that and love all at the same moment."
 "I want to go to hold the legs of the gun and while it speaks love thee all in the same moment."
 "Thou art crazy. Get thee back now."
 "I am crazy," she said. "I love thee."
 "Then get thee back."
 "Good. I go. And if thou dost not love me, I love thee enough for both."
 He looked at her and smiled through his thinking.
 "When you hear firing," he said, "come with the horses. Aid the Pilar with my sacks. It is possible there will be nothing. I hope so."
 "I go," she said. "Look what a horse Pablo rides."
 The big gray was moving ahead up the trail.
 "Yes. But go."
 "I go."
 Her fist, clenched tight in his pocket, beat hard against his thigh. He looked at her and saw there were tears in her eyes. She pulled her fist out of his pocket and put both arms tight around his neck and kissed him.
 "I go," she said. "_Me voy_. I go."
 He looked back and saw her standing there, the first morning sunlight on her brown face and the cropped, tawny, burned-gold hair. She lifted her fist at him and turned and walked back down the trail, her head down.
 Primitivo turned around and looked after her.
 "If she did not have her hair cut so short she would be a pretty girl," he said.
 "Yes," Robert Jordan said. He was thinking of something else.
 "How is she in the bed?" Primitivo asked.
 "What?"
 "In the bed."
 "Watch thy mouth."
 "One should not be offended when--"
 "Leave it," Robert Jordan said. He was looking at the position.
　　黎明带来了一阵和风，他听到树上的积雪溶化了，啪嗒啪嗒地掉在地上。那是一个暮春的早晨。他呼了“口气就知道，这场蘿风雪只不过是山区里的反常现象，雪到中午就会化掉的。他接着听到有匹马来近了,骑手策马小跑，马蹄带着湿雪，发出重浊的得得声。他听到卡宾枪套摇晃时的桕打声，和皮鞍的咯吱咯吱声。
　　“玛丽亚，”他说,摇摇姑娘的肩膀,要她鼷来，“躲在睡袋里“
　　”别起来。”他一手扣衬衫钮扣，一手拿起自动手枪,用大拇指松弁保险。他看到姑娘剪短头发的脑袋猛的缩进睡袋，接着就看到那骑手从树林里过来了。他这会儿匍匐在睡袋里，两手握着枪，瞄准朝他骑来的人。他以前从没见过这个人。
　　这时，骑手几乎就在他对面了。他骑着一匹灰色大困马，头戴卡其贝雷帽，穿着毯子式的披风和笨重的黑靴，马鞍右面的枪套里撅出着一支短自动步枪的枪托和狭长的子弹夹。他长着一张年靑而冷酷的脸，这时他看到了罗伯特，乔丹。
　　他把手朝下伸向枪套，当他弯腰转身从枪套里急速拔枪的时候，罗伯特　乔丹看到他卡其披风的左胸前佩戴着大红色的统一标记①，
　　罗伯特、乔丹瞄准这标记稍下方，朝他当胸一枪。1枪声在积雪的树林中震响着。
　　马儿仿佛突然被马刺踢了一下,向前猛地一冲；那年轻人还在拉扯枪套，身子就朝地面溜下去，右脚被马镫勾住了。马儿撒开四腿拖着脸朝下的骑手颠簸碰撞，在林中奔驰而去。罗伯特。乔丹一手握枪，站起身来。
　　那匹大灰马在松林中狂奔。那人的身子在雪地上拖出了一条宽阔的痕迹，一边是一道深红色的血迹。大家从山洞里走出来。罗伯特　乔丹伸手把当枕头用的裤子摊幵,开始穿着，“你把衣服穿上,他对玛丽亚说，
　　他听到头顶上一架飞得很高的飞机的声音。他穿过树林看见那匹灰马站在那儿不跑了，那骑手仍旧脸朝下地挂在马镫上。

①指天主教会内崇拜耶稣基督圣心的信徒们所佩的标记。该崇拜由法国修女玛格丽特，玛丽、阿拉科克于十七世纪倡议，在侑奉天主教的国家中传撟甚。”.

　　“去把那匹马拉住，”他朝向他走来的普里米蒂伏喊着。接着问，“山顶上谁在放哨？”
　　“拉斐尔，”比拉尔在山洞口说。她站在那儿,头发来不及梳，两股发辫披在背上。
　　“骑兵来了。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“把你那挺天杀的机枪架在山上。”
　　他听到比拉尔对山洞里叫奥古斯丁。接着她走进山洞，然后两个男人跑出来，一个拿着自动步枪，三脚架撂在肩上；“个拿着一袋子弹盘，
　　“跟他们一起上山，”罗伯特’乔丹对安塞尔莫说，“你伏在枪边,抓住枪架别动，”他说，
　　三个人贓着山路，穿过树林，跑上山去，太阳还没照上山顶，罗伯特“乔丹站直了身体，扣上裤子，收紧腰带，手腕上的绳子上挂着那支大手枪。他把手枪插在膝带上的枪套里,把活结移到下端，把绳圈套在自己脖子上，
　　他想,总有一天人家会用这个绳困把你纹死。得了，这次它可帮了个大忙。他从枪套里拔出手枪，抽出子弹夹，拿枪套外边那排子弹中的“颗塞进子弹夹，再把子弹夹推入枪柄。
　　他朝树林中苷里米蒂伏那儿望去，只见他抓住了马邇，正把那骑手的脚从马镫里拔出来。？“体的脸朝下，伏在雪地上；他望着普里米蒂伏正在搜他的衣袋。〃过来，”他喊道。“把马带来。”
　　罗伯特　乔丹跪着穿绳底鞋时，觉得玛丽亚靠在他膝旁，正在睡袋里穿衣服。她这时在他生活里没有地位了　
　　他在想　这骑兵没料到会出意外。他没有循着马蹄印走，竟没有理所当然地保持着费惕，更不用说心怀恐惧了。他甚至没顺着那通向岗哨的脚印走。他准是散开在这些山里的巡逻队中的一员。可是等巡逻队发现他失琮了，他们会循着他的马蹄印找到这里来的。他想。”除非雪先化掉，除非巡逻队遇到什么情况。
　　“你最好到下面去，”他对巴勃罗说。这时大家都走出了山洞，提着卡宾枪站在那儿，腰带里插着手榴弹。比拉尔把一皮袋手榷弹递给罗伯特　乔丹，他拿了三个，插在衣袋里。他低头钻进山洞，找到他那两个背包，打开里面有手提机枪的那只，取出枪管枪托，将枪托接好，在枪里推进一个子弹夹，衣袋里藏了三个。他锁上背包，随即走向山洞口。他想。”我两个口袋都装了硬货。但愿口袋的线缝别绽开。他走到山洞外，对巴勃罗说，“我要上山去。奥古斯丁会使那挺机枪吗?”“会，”巴勃罗说，他望着带马来的普里米蒂伏。“瞧，多好的马，”他说。
　　那匹大灰马渗着汗,微微战栗,罗伯特　乔丹拍拍马肩隆。“我把它和别的马放在一起，”巴勃罗说。“不行。”罗伯特　乔丹说。”它留下了来这里的蹄印，还得踩—条出去的印子。“
　　“对，”巴勃罗同意。“我骑它出去，把它戴起来，等化了雪再带回来。你今天很有头脑，英国人。”
　　“派个人下山吧。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我们得上山了。”“不用了，”巴勃罗说。“骑兵不会从那条路来。不过我们倒可以从那条路以及别的两条路撤走。如果有飞机来，还是不要留下脚迹的好。给我皮酒袋，比拉尔。”
　　“想走开了喝个醉!”比拉尔说。“还是把这拿去吧，“他伸过手去，把两只手榴弹栽进衣袋。
　　“什么话，去喝个醉!”巴勃罗说。“情况严重哪。不过还是把酒袋给我。干这种事叫我喝水可不行。”
　　他抬起双臂，抓住缰绳，一翻身上了马鞍。他露齿笑笑，拍拍那心惊肉跳的马。罗伯特，乔丹看他亲切地用腿儿磨雎着马的傰腹。
　　“这匹马棒极了，”他说，又拍拍这匹大灰马，11这匹马美极了。走。它越早离开这里越好一
　　他伸手从枪套里拔出枪筒上有敢热孔的轻自动步枪，打量着它，实际上那是一支改装成可以用九毫米手枪子弹的手提机枪。“瞧他们的装备多好。”他说。“瞧这现代化的骑兵。”
　　“现代化的骑兵正脸朝下地躺在那儿哪,罗伯特，乔丹说。“咱们走吧。”
　　“安德烈斯，你把那些马儿备好鞍，作好准备。要是听到枪声，把它们带到山隘后的树林里去。带着你的武器前来接应，让妇女们看管马。费尔南多,注意把我的背包也带着。最要紧的,拿时要特别小心，你也得把我的背包看好。”他对比拉尔说。“你要保证它们跟马“起走。咱们走吧，”他说。
　　“撤走的事由玛丽亚和我来准备，”比拉尔说。接着对罗伯特　乔丹说，“瞧他那副德行。”一边朝巴勃罗点点头。巴勃罗象牧人那样骑在灰马背上，用两条肥腿夹住了马腹，给自动步枪换子弹夹，这时马儿张大了彝孔。“瞧,一匹马使他多精神啊，““但愿我有两匹马，“罗伯特　乔丹带劲地说。“你骑马可不稳当。“
　　“那么给我一头骡子吧，”罗伯特‘乔丹露齿笑着说。“给我把那家伙的衣服剥下来，”他对比拉尔说，朝那脸面朝下、躺在雪里的骑兵点了点头。“信呀，证件呀，什么都傘来，戏在我背包的外口袋里。什么都别丢，懂吗。”“是。”
　　“咱们走吧，”他说。
　　巴勃罗一马当先，后面两个人单行相随,免得在雪里留下琮迹。罗伯特，乔丹提着手提机枪的前把手，枪口朝下。他想。”伹愿它用的子弹和这骑兵的马鞍枪①的一祥就好了。但是不一样。这是德国制造的。就是卡希金留下的那支。
　　这时，阳光盖满山岭，和风吹拂着，雪在溶化。真是一个可爱的暮春早晨。
　　罗伯特‘乔丹回过头来，看见玛丽亚和比拉尔一起站着。接着她从山路上跑来。他有意落在普里米蒂伏的后面，跟她说活。
　　“你，”她说。“我可以跟你去吗?”“不。帮比拉尔做事。”她跟着他走，一只手搭在他胳膊上。“我要去。”“不行。”
　　她还是紧跟他走着，
　　“我可以按住枪架,就象你吩咐安塞尔莫做的那样。”〃不要你按枪架。不管是枪架还是别的，什么也不要。”她走在他身边，把手插进他的口袋。“别，”他说。“只要好好保护你的结婚衬衫。”
①泛指骑兵插在马桉上的枪套里的枪支，此处为自动步枪，较一般的略短　

　　“如果你要走，”她说，“吻吻我。〃“你真不知害臊，”他说。“对。”她说。“一点也不。”
　　“你现在回去。要做的事很多。如果他们循着这些马蹄印来,我们说不定要在这里开火。”
　　“你，”她说。“你看到他胸前佩戴着什么?”“看到。怎么会不看到?”“那是圣心啊。”
　　“不错。所有的纳瓦拉人都佩戴圣心，““你就瞄着它幵枪？”“不。瞄在圣心下面。你现在回去吧“你。”她说。“我全看到了。”
　　“你什么也没看到。一个男人,一个从马背上覼下来的男人。你回去吧。”
　　“说你爱我。”“不。现在不行。”“现在不爱我了？”
　　“别说了。你回去吧。一个人不能一边幵枪一边谈恋爱啊。”“我要去按住枪架，一边听枪响，一边爱你。”“你疯了。你现在回去。”“我不疯。”她说。“我爱你。”“那么你回去。”
　　“好。我走。你要是不爱我，我对你的爱够我们俩消受的。”他望着她,想了一想，不禁微笑了。“你听到了枪声，”他说，“就跟那些马匹一起走。帮比拉尔背我的背包。说不定太平无事　但愿这样。”

　　“我走，”她说。“瞧，巴勃罗骑的马多棒。”大灰马在山路上一直跑在前面。“对。走吧。”“我走。”
　　她把手在他口袋里紧捏成拳头,狠狠地捶他的大瞄。他对她看看,看到她眼睛里噙着泪水。她从他口袋里抽出拳头,张开双臂紧紧搂着他的脖子，吻他。“我走，”她说。“我走。”
　　他回过头来,看到她站在那儿，黎明的曙光照着她那揭色的脸，和那一头金光闪闪的剪短的褐发。她向他举举拳头,垂下头去，在小路上转身往回走了。
　　普里米蒂伏转过身来，望着她的背影。
　　“要是头发不剪得这么短,她准是个漂亮的姑娘，”他说
　　“是啊，”罗伯特‘乔丹说。他正在想别的事。
　　“她在床上怎么样？”苷里米蒂伏问。
　　“什么？”
　　“在床上。”
　　"小心你的嘴。”
　　“不该为听了这话生气，因为一”“算了吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说。他在察看地形。
Chapter 22
 "Cut me pine branches," Robert Jordan said to Primitivo, "and bring them quickly."
 "I do not like the gun there," he said to Agust璯.
 "Why?"
 "Place it over there," Robert Jordan pointed, "and later I will tell thee."
 "Here, thus. Let me help thee. Here," he said, then squatted down.
 He looked out across the narrow oblong, noting the height of the rocks on either side.
 "It must be farther," he said, "farther out. Good. Here. That will do until it can be done properly. There. Put the stones there. Here is one. Put another there at the side. Leave room for the muzzle to swing. The stone must be farther to this side. Anselmo. Get thee down to the cave and bring me an ax. Quickly."
 "Have you never had a proper emplacement for the gun?" he said to Agust璯.
 "We always placed it here."
 "Kashkin never said to put it there?"
 "No. The gun was brought after he left."
 "Did no one bring it who knew how to use it?"
 "No. It was brought by porters."
 "What a way to do things," Robert Jordan said. "It was just given to you without instruction?"
 "Yes, as a gift might be given. One for us and one for El Sordo. Four men brought them. Anselmo guided them."
 "It was a wonder they did not lose them with four men to cross the lines."
 "I thought so, too," Agust璯 said. "I thought those who sent them meant for them to be lost. But Anselmo brought them well."
 "You know how to handle it?"
 "Yes. I have experimented. I know. Pablo knows. Primitivo knows. So does Fernando. We have made a study of taking it apart and putting it together on the table in the cave. Once we had it apart and could not get it together for two days. Since then we have not had it apart."
 "Does it shoot now?"
 "Yes. But we do not let the gypsy nor others frig with it."
 "You see? From there it was useless," he said. "Look. Those rocks which should protect your flanks give cover to those who will attack you. With such a gun you must seek a flatness over which to fire. Also you must take them sideways. See? Look now. All that is dominated."
 "I see," said Agust璯. "But we have never fought in defense except when our town was taken. At the train there were soldiers with the _m嫭uina_."
 "Then we will all learn together," Robert Jordan said. "There are a few things to observe. Where is the gypsy who should be here?"
 "I do not know."
 "Where is it possible for him to be?"
 "I do not know."
 Pablo had ridden out through the pass and turned once and ridden in a circle across the level space at the top that was the field of fire for the automatic rifle. Now Robert Jordan watched him riding down the slope alongside the tracks the horse had left when he was ridden in. He disappeared in the trees turning to the left.
 I hope he doesn't run right into cavalry, Robert Jordan thought. I'm afraid we'd have him right here in our laps.
 Primitivo brought the pine branches and Robert Jordan stuck them through the snow into the unfrozen earth, arching them over the gun from either side.
 "Bring more," he said. "There must be cover for the two men who serve it. This is not good but it will serve until the ax comes. Listen," he said, "if you hear a plane lie flat wherever thou art in the shadows of the rocks. I am here with the gun."
 Now with the sun up and the warm wind blowing it was pleasant on the side of the rocks where the sun shone. Four horses, Robert Jordan thought. The two women and me, Anselmo, Primitivo, Fernando, Agust璯, what the hell is the name of the other brother? That's eight. Not counting the gypsy. Makes nine. Plus Pablo gone with one horse makes ten. Andr廥 is his name. The other brother. Plus the other, Eladio. Makes ten. That's not one-half a horse apiece. Three men can hold this and four can get away. Five with Pablo. That's two left over. Three with Eladio. Where the hell is he?
 God knows what will happen to Sordo today if they picked up the trail of those horses in the snow. That was tough; the snow stopping that way. But it melting today will even things up. But not for Sordo. I'm afraid it's too late to even it up for Sordo.
 If we can last through today and not have to fight we can swing the whole show tomorrow with what we have. I know we can. Not well, maybe. Not as it should be, to be foolproof, not as we would have done; but using everybody we can swing it. _If we don't have to fight today_. God help us if we have to fight today.
 I don't know any place better to lay up in the meantime than this. If we move now we only leave tracks. This is as good a place as any and if the worst gets to be the worst there are three ways out of this place. There is the dark then to come and from wherever we are in these hills, I can reach and do the bridge at daylight. I don't know why I worried about it before. It seems easy enough now. I hope they get the planes up on time for once. I certainly hope that. Tomorrow is going to be a day with dust on the road.
 Well, today will be very interesting or very dull. Thank God we've got that cavalry mount out and away from here. I don't think even if they ride right up here they will go in the way those tracks are now. They'll think he stopped and circled and they'll pick up Pablo's tracks. I wonder where the old swine will go. He'll probably leave tracks like an old bull elk spooking out of the country and work way up and then when the snow melts circle back below. That horse certainly did things for him. Of course he may have just mucked off with him too. Well, he should be able to take care of himself. He's been doing this a long time. I wouldn't trust him farther than you can throw Mount Everest, though.
 I suppose it's smarter to use these rocks and build a good blind for this gun than to make a proper emplacement for it. You'd be digging and get caught with your pants down if they come or if the planes come. She will hold this, the way she is, as long as it is any use to hold it, and anyway I can't stay to fight. I have to get out of here with that stuff and I'm going to take Anselmo with me. Who would stay to cover us while we got away if we have to fight here?
 Just then, while he was watching all of the country that was visible, he saw the gypsy coming through the rocks to the left. He was walking with a loose, high-hipped, sloppy swing, his carbine was slung on his back, his brown face was grinning and he carried two big hares, one in each hand. He carried them by the legs, heads swinging.
 "_Hola_, Roberto," he called cheerfully.
 Robert Jordan put his hand to his mouth, and the gypsy looked startled. He slid over behind the rocks to where Robert Jordan was crouched beside the brush-shielded automatic rifle. He crouched down and laid the hares in the snow. Robert Jordan looked up at him.
 "You _hijo de la gran puta!_" he said softly. "Where the obscenity have you been?"
 "I tracked them," the gypsy said. "I got them both. They had made love in the snow."
 "And thy post?"
 "It was not for long," the gypsy whispered. "What passes? Is there an alarm?"
 "There is cavalry out."
 "_Redi鏀!_" the gypsy said. "Hast thou seen them?"
 "There is one at the camp now," Robert Jordan said. "He came for breakfast."
 "I thought I heard a shot or something like one," the gypsy said. "I obscenity in the milk! Did he come through here?"
 "Here. Thy post."
 "_Ay, mi madre!_" the gypsy said. "I am a poor, unlucky man."
 "If thou wert not a gypsy, I would shoot thee."
 "No, Roberto. Don't say that. I am sorry. It was the hares. Before daylight I heard the male thumping in the snow. You cannot imagine what a debauch they were engaged in. I went toward the noise but they were gone. I followed the tracks in the snow and high up I found them together and slew them both. Feel the fatness of the two for this time of year. Think what the Pilar will do with those two. I am sorry, Roberto, as sorry as thee. Was the cavalryman killed?"
 "Yes."
 "By thee?"
 "Yes."
 "_Qu?tio!_" the gypsy said in open flattery. "Thou art a veritable phenomenon."
 "Thy mother!" Robert Jordan said. He could not help grinning at the gypsy. "Take thy hares to camp and bring us up some breakfast."
 He put a hand out and felt of the hares that lay limp, long, heavy, thick-furred, big-footed and long-eared in the snow, their round dark eyes open.
 "They _are_ fat," he said.
 "Fat!" the gypsy said. "There's a tub of lard on the ribs of each one. In my life have I never dreamed of such hares."
 "Go then," Robert Jordan said, "and come quickly with the breakfast and bring to me the documentation of that _requet嶱. Ask Pilar for it."
 "You are not angry with me, Roberto?"
 "Not angry. Disgusted that you should leave your post. Suppose it had been a troop of cavalry?"
 "_Redi鏀_," the gypsy said. "How reasonable you are."
 "Listen to me. You cannot leave a post again like that. Never. I do not speak of shooting lightly."
 "Of course not. And another thing. Never would such an opportunity as the two hares present itself again. Not in the life of one man."
 "_Anda!_" Robert Jordan said. "And hurry back."
 The gypsy picked up the two hares and slipped back through the rocks and Robert Jordan looked out across the flat opening and the slopes of the hill below. Two crows circled overhead and then lit in a pine tree below. Another crow joined them and Robert Jordan, watching them, thought: those are my sentinels. As long as those are quiet there is no one coming through the trees.
 The gypsy, he thought. He is truly worthless. He has no political development, nor any discipline, and you could not rely on him for anything. But I need him for tomorrow. I have a use for him tomorrow. It's odd to see a gypsy in a war. They should be exempted like conscientious objectors. Or as the physically and mentally unfit. They are worthless. But conscientious objectors weren't exempted in this war. No one was exempted. It came to one and all alike. Well, it had come here now to this lazy outfit. They had it now.
 Agust璯 and Primitivo came up with the brush and Robert Jordan built a good blind for the automatic rifle, a blind that would conceal the gun from the air and that would look natural from the forest. He showed them where to place a man high in the rocks to the right where he could see all the country below and to the right, and another where he could command the only stretch where the left wall might be climbed.
 "Do not fire if you see any one from there," Robert Jordan said. "Roll a rock down as a warning, a small rock, and signal to us with thy rifle, thus," he lifted the rifle and held it over his head as though guarding it. "Thus for numbers," he lifted the rifle up and down. "If they are dismounted point thy rifle muzzle at the ground. Thus. Do not fire from there until thou hearest the _m嫭uina_ fire. Shoot at a man's knees when you shoot from that height. If you hear me whistle twice on this whistle get down, keeping behind cover, and come to these rocks where the _m嫭uina_ is."
 Primitivo raised the rifle.
 "I understand," he said. "It is very simple."
 "Send first the small rock as a warning and indicate the direction and the number. See that you are not seen."
 "Yes," Primitivo said. "If I can throw a grenade?"
 "Not until the _m嫭uina_ has spoken. It may be that cavalry will come searching for their comrade and still not try to enter. They may follow the tracks of Pablo. We do not want combat if it can be avoided. Above all that we should avoid it. Now get up there."
 "_Me voy_," Primitivo said, and climbed up into the high rocks with his carbine.
 "Thou, Agust璯," Robert Jordan said. "What do you know of the gun?"
 Agust璯 squatted there, tall, black, stubbly joweled, with his sunken eyes and thin mouth and his big work-worn hands.
 "_Pues_, to load it. To aim it. To shoot it. Nothing more."
 "You must not fire until they are within fifty meters and only when you are sure they will be coming into the pass which leads to the cave," Robert Jordan said.
 "Yes. How far is that?"
 "That rock."
 "If there is an officer shoot him first. Then move the gun onto the others. Move very slowly. It takes little movement. I will teach Fernando to tap it. Hold it tight so that it does not jump and sight carefully and do not fire more than six shots at a time if you can help it. For the fire of the gun jumps upward. But each time fire at one man and then move from him to another. At a man on a horse, shoot at his belly."
 "Yes."
 "One man should hold the tripod still so that the gun does not jump. Thus. He will load the gun for thee."
 "And where will you be?"
 "I will be here on the left. Above, where I can see all and I will cover thy left with this small _m嫭uina_. Here. If they should come it would be possible to make a massacre. But you must not fire until they are that close."
 "I believe that we could make a massacre. _Menuda matanza!_"
 "But I hope they do not come."
 "If it were not for thy bridge we could make a massacre here and get out."
 "It would avail nothing. That would serve no purpose. The bridge is a part of a plan to win the war. This would be nothing. This would be an incident. A nothing."
 "_Qu?va_, nothing. Every fascist dead is a fascist less."
 "Yes. But with this of the bridge we can take Segovia. The Capital of a Province. Think of that. It will be the first one we will take."
 "Thou believest in this seriously? That we can take Segovia?"
 "Yes. It is possible with the bridge blown correctly."
 "I would like to have the massacre here and the bridge, too."
 "Thou hast much appetite," Robert Jordan told him.
 All this time he had been watching the crows. Now he saw one was watching something. The bird cawed and flew up. But the other crow still stayed in the tree. Robert Jordan looked up toward Primitivo's place high in the rocks. He saw him watching out over the country below but he made no signal. Robert Jordan leaned forward and worked the lock on the automatic rifle, saw the round in the chamber and let the lock down. The crow was still there in the tree. The other circled wide over the snow and then settled again. In the sun and the warm wind the snow was falling from the laden branches of the pines.
 "I have a massacre for thee for tomorrow morning," Robert Jordan said. "It is necessary to exterminate the post at the sawmill."
 "I am ready," Agust璯 said, "_Estoy listo_."
 "Also the post at the roadmender's hut below the bridge."
 "For the one or for the other," Agust璯 said. "Or for both."
 "Not for both. They will be done at the same time," Robert Jordan said.
 "Then for either one," Agust璯 said. "Now for a long time have I wished for action in this war. Pablo has rotted us here with inaction."
 Anselmo came up with the ax.
 "Do you wish more branches?" he asked. "To me it seems well hidden."
 "Not branches," Robert Jordan said. "Two small trees that we can plant here and there to make it look more natural. There are not enough trees here for it to be truly natural."
 "I will bring them."
 "Cut them well back, so the stumps cannot be seen."
 Robert Jordan heard the ax sounding in the woods behind him. He looked up at Primitivo above in the rocks and he looked down at the pines across the clearing. The one crow was still there. Then he heard the first high, throbbing murmur of a plane coming. He looked up and saw it high and tiny and silver in the sun, seeming hardly to move in the high sky.
 "They cannot see us," he said to Agust璯. "But it is well to keep down. That is the second observation plane today."
 "And those of yesterday?" Agust璯 asked.
 "They are like a bad dream now," Robert Jordan said.
 "They must be at Segovia. The bad dream waits there to become a reality."
 The plane was out of sight now over the mountains but the sound of its motors still persisted.
 As Robert Jordan looked, he saw the crow fly up. He flew straight away through the trees without cawing.
　　“给我砍些松枝，”罗伯特。乔丹对普里米蒂伏说快点拿。

　　“枪架在那儿不对头，”他对奥古斯丁说。
　　“为什么?” 　　
　　“把它挪到那边去吧，”罗伯特‘乔丹指点着。“我以后告诉
你。”
　　“架在这儿。我来帮你搬。这儿。”他说着就睇下来。他眺望着对面一块狭长地带，打量着两边岩石的髙度，“要放远些，”他说，“再远些。好。架在这儿。这祥放行了，以后再好好调整。行啦。把石块放在那儿。这儿放一块。边上再放一块。给枪口留些转动的地方。这石头还得朝这边挪过些。安塞尔莫，到下面山洞里给我拿把斧头。快。”
　　“难道你们从来没有给这挺枪找到一个恰当的位置吗?”他对奥古斯丁说。
　　“我们总是架在这儿的。”“卡希金从没说过应该把枪架在那儿吗？”“没有。这挺枪是他走后送来的。”“送枪来的人中间没有会使的人吗?”“没有。这梃枪是脚夫捎来的。”
　　“办事怎么能这样,罗伯特　乔丹说。“没有说明就把枪给你们了？”
　　“是锕，象送礼一，样。一挺给我们，　挺给‘塞子’。送枪来的人有四个，赞路的是安塞尔莫。”
　　“四个人越过火线没把抢丢了,倒是怪事。”“我那时也这么想，”奥古斯丁说。“我想打发他们来的人躭是打算丢掉的。但安塞尔莫好好儿把枪护送来了。”“你会使这枪?”
　　“会，我试过，我会。巴勃罗会。普里米蒂伏会。费尔南多也会。我们在山洞里研究过，在果子上把它拆开再装上。有次拆开后，装了两天才装好。我们从此再没拆过，““枪现在能发射吗？”
　　“能。但是我们不让吉普赛人和别人摆弄。”“你僅吗？把枪架在那儿毫无作用，”他说。“瞧。那些岩石原该用来掩护你的两侧，反而被向你进攻的敌人当掩护了。有了这种枪，你该找块开阔的平地来发挥火力。你还得斜着打。懂吗？你瞧。现在前面都在你火力控制之下啦。”
　　“我懂了，〃奥古斯丁说。“可是我们从没打过保卫战，除了我们老家那个小镇被占领的那回。炸火车的时候有正式当兵的使机关枪。”
　　“那我们一起来学吧。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。”有些情况要注意。吉普赛人没有来,哪儿去啦?”“不知道。”“他可能上哪儿?”“不知道。”
　　巴勃罗策马驰出山口，拐了一个弯,绕着山顶上那块平地转了个睡子，那里是自动步枪的火力范围。罗伯特　乔丹这时看见他顺着这匹马刚才踩出来的那道蹄印，驰下山坡。他向左貤去，消失在树林里。
　　“伹愿他别迎面碰上骑兵，”罗伯特　乔丹想。“就怕我们万一射击起来他也在我们火力范围内。”
　　普里米蒂伏拿来了松枝，罗伯特　乔丹把它们插在积雪下没冻结的泥土里，弯成拱形遮在枪上。
　　“再弄些来，”他说。“必须掩护那两个打枪的人。这不管什么用，不过在拿来斧子之前能凑合。听着，”他说,“如果你们听到飞机，要在岩石的阴影里就地卧倒。我在这里守住枪。“
　　太阳这时已经升起,暖风吹拂，待在岩石有阳光照到的那一面很舒适。罗伯特　乔丹想。”有四匹马。两个女的和我，安塞尔莫,普里米蒂伏,费尔南多，奥古斯丁，两兄弟中的另一个到底叫什么来着？一共个人。吉普赛人还没算进去。一共是九个，加上骑了一匹马走的巴勃罗是十个。另外那个兄弟，他的名字叫安德烈斯。加上另外那一个埃拉迪奥。一共十个。每两个人也分不到一匹马。三个男的可以守在这里,四个坷以撤走。加上巴勃罗是五个。剩下两个。加上埃拉迪奥是三个。真见鬼，他上哪儿去啦，“
　　假如他们在雪地里发现了那些马的蹄印，天知道“聋子”会碰上什么遭遇。真够呛，雪竟然停了。不过今天化了雪，佾况又会变得有利。对“聋子”来说可不是这样。对他来说,恐怕来不及了，不会变得有利了。
　　要是我们能拖过今天而不用开火，凭我们现有的力纛能唱好明天的那台戏。我知道我们能行。也许不大出色。不哆理想,不能做到万无一失，不能称我们的心来干，不过，把每个人都用上的话，我们是能干成功的。但愿今天不用开火就好啦。要是今天非打不可,那上帝来保佑我们吧。
　　我不知道眼前躲在什么地方比这里更安全。现在走，只会留下脚印，这里可算是最好的地方了，如果情况糟得不能再糟，这里有三条退路。接着等天黑下来，那时候不管我们在这一带山区的什么地方,我都能设法在黎明时把那座桥炸掉。我不知道先前我为什么发愁。现在看来相当容易。我希望这一次我们的飞机能准时起飞。我确实这样希望。明天公路上将会热闹起来。
　　唉，今天会十分有趣，或者十分乏味。感谢上帝，我们把骑兵的那匹马引开这里了。我看即使他们骑马到了这儿，也不见得会循着现在那些马蹄印走的。他们会以为他停了下来，转了一个圈子，他们会循着巴勃罗的马蹄印走。我不知道这个老杂种到什么地方去了。他也许会象头老公麇那样落荒而逃，一路向上爬，留下蹄印,然后等雪化了，兜一个圉子，抄山下的路回来。那匹马确实使他来了劲。当然啦，他也可能拿了这匹马反而把事情描糟。噢，他是应该能照厫自己的。他好久以来都这么着。不过我不信任他，就象我根本不信你能推倒埃弗勒斯峰①

　　我看，聪明一点的办法是利用这些岩石给这挺枪修一个隐蔽得很好的火力点，而不要筑一个正式的掩体。煆如来了敌人或来了飞机,而你正在挖攝，准会给弄得措手不及。只要在这里坚守下去有用，凭比拉尔的情况看是能坚守下去的。我反正不能留下作战，我得带了炸药离开这里，我要带安塞尔莫一起走。假使这里非打不可，那么我们撤离的时候，谁留下来掩护我们。
　　他眺望着视力所及的田野时，看到那吉普赛人穿过山岩从左边来了。他扭着屁股,镘不经心而大摇大摆地走来，卡宾枪挎在背上，褐色的脸上咧嘴笑着，双手各提着一只大兔子。他提着兔脚，两顆兔子脑袋摇晃着。
　　“哦，罗伯托，”他兴冲冲地喊道。
　　罗伯特‘乔丹把手按在嘴上，吉普赛人显然怔了一下扇一溜烟地躲到山岩后面，走到伏在树枝掩蔽着的自动步抢边的罗伯特　乔丹身边。他蹲下来,把兔子放在雪地上。罗伯特’乔丹抬头望着他。
①即珠教朗玛峰

　　“你这个婊子养的!”他低声说。“你他妈的到哪儿去啦?”〃我在追兔子，”吉普赛人说。“我把两只都逮住了。它们在雪地里调情哪。”
　　“你不是在放哨吗？”
　　“捉兔子时间不长，”吉普赛人低声说。“出了什么事？有蕾报吗？”
　　“来骑兵了。〃
　　“老天爷!”吉普赛人说。“你看到他们了?”“有一个现在在营地，”罗伯特、乔丹说。“他来吃早饭的。”“我好象是听到了一声枪晌什么的，”吉普赛人说-“我入他奶奶的！是从这里过来的？”
　　“从这里来的。从　的岗哨上来的。”“我的妈呀1”吉普-人说。“我是个倒霉的可怜虫。”、“你不是吉普赛人的话，我就毙了你。”“别,罗伯托。别讲这种话。对不起。那是兔子的关系。天亮前我听到雪地里有只公兔在睃雄。你哪里想象得到它们在摘什么下淹的勾当。我朝声响走去，兔子溜掉啦。我沿着脚印在雪地里搜,发现两只都在山上，就把它们都宰了。你摸摸，在这个季节，这两只兔子多肥。想想看，比拉尔能拿来做什么好吃的。我很谀恼,罗伯托，和你一样懊恼　那个骑兵给宰了？”“宰了，““是你宰的。”“不错。”
　　“好样的　”吉普赛人毫不掩饰地拍马屁了，“你这人真了不起。”
　　“去你妈的1”罗伯特‘乔丹说。他禁不住对吉普赛人苦笑，“把兔子带回营去,给我们弄点早点来。”
　　他伸手摸摸躺在雪地上的兔子。兔子软绵绵的，身体又长又沉,毛厚，长脚长耳朵，踭着黑色的圃眼睛。“的确很肥，”他说。
　　“肥啊"吉普赛人说。“每个兔子的肋骨上都可刮下一桶油哪。我这辈子做梦也没见过这样的兔子。”
　　“那就走吧，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“快去拿早饭来，还把那保皇派骑兵①的证明文件也带给我。向比拉尔要。”“你不生我的气吧，罗伯托?”
　　〃不生气。恼恨的是你离开了自己的岗位。要是来的是一队骑兵怎么办？”
　　“老天爷。”吉普赛人说。“你这人真通情达理。”“听我说。你再不能象这样擅离职守了。绝对不许。我说枪毙不是说着玩的。”
　　“当然不。还有，决不会再有两只兔子自，“跑来的机会了。一个人一辈子也难碰上一次。”
　　“快走。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“快去快回。“
　　吉普赛人提起两只兔子，返身穿过岩石走了。”罗伯特"乔丹眺望着前面那开阔的平地和下面的山坡。两只乌鸦在头顶上盘旋，接着停落在下面的一棵松树上。接着又飞来一只,三只在一起，罗伯特’乔丹望着乌鸦想。”这是我的哨兵。只要这些鸟不惊飞，就表示树林中没人来。
①十九世纪中叶，关于西班牙王位的继承问理，出现了一批拥护食.卡洛斯及其后脔接位的王室正统论者，他们发动坂乱，挑起内珙，自后成为一肤政治势力。一九三一年推翮君主制后，这股势力拾头，站在教会、大地主、大资产阶级的一边，并有自己的武装组织，在意大利受训，妃合佛明哥手下的摩尔人部队及摩洛哥的雇佣兵组织外箱军团作为叛军的急先锋。本书中这支骑兵部队就是这种保皇派武装力量,思想极端保守，胸前都佩有圣心标记，

　　他想。”这个吉普赛人嗛,真是个废物。他没有政治觉悟,也不守纪律，你什么也不能信赖他。但我明天需要他。明天我用得着他。吉普赛人参加战争是少见的。他们应当象由于信仰的原因而拒脤兵役的人那样予以豁免，或者作为体力和智力上不适合的人予以除外　他们是废物。伹是在这场战争中，拒服兵役的人也不能豁免。谁也不能豁免。战争降临到每个人的头上。得了，它如今降临到这帮懒鬼的头上了。他们现在遇上啦。
　　奥古斯丁和普里米蒂伏带来了树枝。罗伯特。乔丹给自动步枪筑了个很好的掩体，从天上一点也看不出来，从树林那面望来显得没什么异样。他指给他们看，在右边山岩顶上布置一个人，能望到山下整个田野和右侧，另外再布置一个人可以控制住左边山崖唯一可以爬上来的要道。
　　“要是看到有人从那里来,别开枪，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“推一块石头，一块小石头下来告聱，用步枪,这样,给我们打信号。”他提起步枪，举过头，好象在保护自己的脑瓜似的。“敌人有几个躭举几次。”他上下举动枪支。"要是他们下马，把枪口朝地面。这样。要听到自动步枪响了，你才能在那儿开枪。从上面射击,要瞄准对方的膝盖。如果听到我用这只哨子吹两遢,你就下山,路上注意掩护自己,跑到架自动步枪的这儿岩石边来。“普里米蒂伏提起步枪。“我僅，“，”他说‘“这很简单。”

　　“先推下小石头告蕾，指明方向和人数　注意自己别被人发
现。”
　　“是。”普里米蒂伏说。“我可以扔个手楠弹吗?”“要等到自动步抢响了才行，也许骑兵队会来找他们的同伙,但还是不打算深入。他们可能会循着巴勃罗的蹄印走。能避免的话，我们就不打。最重要的是应该避免交火。现在上山到那边去吧。”
　　“我走了，”普里米蒂伏说，背起卡宾枪，爬上髙髙的山岩。“你，奥古斯丁，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“你会使这挺枪吗?”奥古斯丁又髙又黑，下巴上满是胡子茬,长着一对凹陷的眼睛、簿薄的嘴展和两只干过粗活的大手。他蹲在那儿。“会啊，上子弹，瞄准，射击，没别的啦。”“你得等他们来到五十公尺以内才开枪，只有当你看准他们要走进通山涧的那个山口时才开枪。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“是。五十公尺是多远?”
　　“到那块岩石那儿。有军官来的话先向他射击。然后转过枪口去扫射别人。要转动得很慢。辐度要小。我要教费尔南多怎样打枪。要握紧枪，免得枪身跳动，要仔细瞄准，每次射击尽可能不超过六发子弹，因为连发的话射线会向上移动。每次只瞄准一个人打,然后再打别人　骑马的，要打他的腹部。”
　　“由一个人按稳三脚架，免得枪身弹跳。象这样。他可以给你上子弹。”
　　“那么你待在哪里?”
　　“我待在这儿左边。居高临下，我可以照蹊全局，用这支小手提机枪掩护你的左翼。在这儿。他们要来的话,很可能杀掉他们一批。但一定要等他们临近的时候，你才开枪。”“我相信能够杀掉他们一批。杀得他们人仰马翻。”“可是，但愿他们别来。”
　　“要不是为了你的桥，我们满可以在这儿杀掉他们一批再撤
走。”
　　“这一点儿没用。这样做没有目的性。炸桥是打蠃这场战争的计划的一部分。在这里干算不上什么。不过是个意外进遇罢了。算不上什么。”
　　“什么话，算不上什么！法西斯分子死一个少一个。”“对。但炸了这座挢，我们就能占领塞哥维亚。那是省会。要想到这一点。那将是我们攻占的第一个省会。”“你真以为是这样？我们能占领塞哥维亚吗？”“对。正确按计划炸桥就有可能。”“我愿意在这儿杀掉他们一批,还把桥也炸掉，““你的胃口真不小。”罗伯特　乔丹对他说。他始终在留神着乌鸦的动静。这时他看到有1只在张望着什么。它哇的一声飞走了。另一只仍待在树上。罗伯特‘乔丹抬头望望岩石高处的普里米蒂伏。只见普里米蒂伏　，“在了望山下的田野，但没有打信号。罗伯特。乔丹俯身向前，拉开自动步枪的枪机，看到弹膛里有一发子弹，就把枪机推上了，那只乌鸦仍在树上。另一只在雪地上空打了个大圚子，又降落下来。在阳光和暖风中，沉甸甸的雪从松枝上掉下来。　
　　“明天早晨我让你杀掉他们一批，”罗伯特”乔丹说。“必须端掉锯木厂边的哨所。”
　　“我准备好了，”奥古斯丁说。
　　“桥下养路工小屋那儿的哨所也得端掉。”

　　“端掉这个或那个都行，”奥古斯丁说。”两个都端掉也行。”"不是一个个干的。要同时端掉，”罗伯特‘乔丹说　“那么随便干哪个吧，”奥古斯丁说。“在这次战争中，我一直在等着干。巴勃罗老是按兵不动，把我们拖烂啦。”安塞尔莫拿着斧头来了。
　　“你还要树枝吗？”他问。“我看已经掩护得不错了，““不要树枝了。”罗伯特　乔丹说。“要两棵小树，这儿插一棵，那儿插一棵,使得看起来更自然些。要使这儿显得真正自然,树还不够。”
　　“我去砍来。”
　　“要齐根砍，别留下树桩给人家发现。”罗伯特‘乔丹听到身后树林里响起了斧头声。他抬头望望山岩上的普里米蒂伏，又低头望望山下空地对面的松林。那只乌鸦仍在那儿。接着,他听到髙空中传来一架飞机低镦的震响声。他抬头一望,只见阳光中飞机一点大，银光闪亮，在脔空中好象动也不动，
　　“飞机望不到我们，”他对奥古斯丁说。”不过还是卧倒好。这是今天的第二架侦察机了。”
　　“昨天的那些飞机呢。”奥古斯丁问。“现在想起来真象场恶梦，”罗伯特，乔丹说，“他们准是驻在塞哥维亚的。恶梦在那儿要变成事实啦。”飞机这时越出了视野，飞过了山岭,但马达声仍然在空中回响着。
　　罗伯特，乔丹望着，发现那只乌鸦飞了起来　它穿过树林,笔直地飞走了，但没有叫上一声。
Chapter 23
 "Get thee down," Robert Jordan whispered to Agust璯, and he turned his head and flicked his hand _Down, Down_, to Anselmo who was coming through the gap with a pine tree, carrying it over his shoulder like a Christmas tree. He saw the old man drop his pine tree behind a rock and then he was out of sight in the rocks and Robert Jordan was looking ahead across the open space toward the timber. He saw nothing and heard nothing but he could feel his heart pounding and then he heard the clack of stone on stone and the leaping, dropping clicks of a small rock falling. He turned his head to the right and looking up saw Primitivo's rifle raised and lowered four times horizontally. Then there was nothing more to see but the white stretch in front of him with the circle of horse tracks and the timber beyond.
 "Cavalry," he said softly to Agust璯.
 Agust璯 looked at him and his dark, sunken cheeks widened at their base as he grinned. Robert Jordan noticed he was sweating. He reached over and put his hand on his shoulder. His hand was still there as they saw the four horsemen ride out of the timber and he felt the muscles in Agust璯's back twitch under his hand.
 One horseman was ahead and three rode behind. The one ahead was following the horse tracks. He looked down as he rode. The other three came behind him, fanned out through the timber. They were all watching carefully. Robert Jordan felt his heart beating against the snowy ground as he lay, his elbows spread wide and watched them over the sights of the automatic rifle.
 The man who was leading rode along the trail to where Pablo had circled and stopped. The others rode up to him and they all stopped.
 Robert Jordan saw them clearly over the blued steel barrel of the automatic rifle. He saw the faces of the men, the sabers hanging, the sweat-darkened flanks of the horses, and the cone-like slope of the khaki capes, and the Navarrese slant of the khaki berets. The leader turned his horse directly toward the opening in the rocks where the gun was placed and Robert Jordan saw his young, sunand wind-darkened face, his close-set eyes, hawk nose and the overlong wedge-shaped chin.
 Sitting his horse there, the horse's chest toward Robert Jordan, the horse's head high, the butt of the light automatic rifle projecting forward from the scabbard at the right of the saddle, the leader pointed toward the opening where the gun was.
 Robert Jordan sunk his elbows into the ground and looked along the barrel at the four riders stopped there in the snow. Three of them had their automatic rifles out. Two carried them across the pommels of their saddles. The other sat his horse with the rifle swung out to the right, the butt resting against his hip.
 You hardly ever see them at such range, he thought. Not along the barrel of one of these do you see them like this. Usually the rear sight is raised and they seem miniatures of men and you have hell to make it carry up there; or they come running, flopping, running, and you beat a slope with fire or bar a certain street, or keep it on the windows; or far away you see them marching on a road. Only at the trains do you see them like this. Only then are they like now, and with four of these you can make them scatter. Over the gun sights, at this range, it makes them twice the size of men.
 Thou, he thought, looking at the wedge of the front sight placed now firm in the slot of the rear sight, the top of the wedge against the center of the leader's chest, a little to the right of the scarlet device that showed bright in the morning sun against the khaki cape. Though, he thought, thinking in Spanish now and pressing his fingers forward against the trigger guard to keep it away from where it would bring the quick, shocking, hurtling rush from the automatic rifle. Thou, he thought again, thou art dead now in thy youth. And thou, he thought, and thou, and thou. But let it not happen. Do not let it happen.
 He felt Agust璯 beside him start to cough, felt him hold it, choke and swallow. Then as he looked along the oiled blue of the barrel out through the opening between the branches, his finger still pressed forward against the trigger guard, he saw the leader turn his horse and point into the timber where Pablo's trail led. The four of them trotted into the timber and Agust璯 said softly, "_Cabrones!_"
 Robert Jordan looked behind him at the rocks where Anselmo had dropped the tree.
 The gypsy, Rafael, was coming toward them through the rocks, carrying a pair of cloth saddlebags, his rifle slung on his back. Robert Jordan waved him down and the gypsy ducked out of sight.
 "We could have killed all four," Agust璯 said quietly. He was still wet with sweat.
 "Yes," Robert Jordan whispered. "But with the firing who knows what might have come?"
 Just then he heard the noise of another rock falling and he looked around quickly. But both the gypsy and Anselmo were out of sight. He looked at his wrist watch and then up to where Primitivo was raising and lowering his rifle in what seemed an infinity of short jerks. Pablo has forty-five minutes' start, Robert Jordan thought, and then he heard the noise of a body of cavalry coming.
 "_No te apures_," he whispered to Agust璯. "Do not worry. They will pass as the others."
 They came into sight trotting along the edge of the timber in column of twos, twenty mounted men, armed and uniformed as the others had been, their sabers swinging, their carbines in their holsters; and then they went down into the timber as the others had.
 "_Tu ves?_" Robert Jordan said to Agust璯. "Thou seest?"
 "There were many," Agust璯 said.
 "These would we have had to deal with if we had destroyed the others," Robert Jordan said very softly. His heart had quieted now and his shirt felt wet on his chest from the melting snow. There was a hollow feeling in his chest.
 The sun was bright on the snow and it was melting fast. He could see it hollowing away from the tree trunks and just ahead of the gun, before his eyes, the snow surface was damp and lacily fragile as the heat of the sun melted the top and the warmth of the earth breathed warmly up at the snow that lay upon it.
 Robert Jordan looked up at Primitivo's post and saw him signal, "Nothing," crossing his two hands, palms down.
 Anselmo's head showed above a rock and Robert Jordan motioned him up. The old man slipped from rock to rock until he crept up and lay down flat beside the gun.
 "Many," he said. "Many!"
 "I do not need the trees," Robert Jordan said to him. "There is no need for further forestal improvement."
 Both Anselmo and Agust璯 grinned.
 "This has stood scrutiny well and it would be dangerous to plant trees now because those people will return and perhaps they are not stupid."
 He felt the need to talk that, with him, was the sign that there had just been much danger. He could always tell how bad it had been by the strength of the desire to talk that came after.
 "It was a good blind, eh?" he said.
 "Good," said Agust璯. "To obscenity with all fascism good. We could have killed the four of them. Didst thou see?" he said to Anselmo.
 "I saw."
 "Thou," Robert Jordan said to Anselmo. "Thou must go to the post of yesterday or another good post of thy selection to watch the road and report on all movement as of yesterday. Already we are late in that. Stay until dark. Then come in and we will send another."
 "But the tracks that I will make?"
 "Go from below as soon as the snow is gone. The road will be muddied by the snow. Note if there has been much traffic of trucks or if there are tank tracks in the softness on the road. That is all we can tell until you are there to observe."
 "With your permission?" the old man asked.
 "Surely."
 "With your permission, would it not be better for me to go into La Granja and inquire there what passed last night and arrange for one to observe today thus in the manner you have taught me? Such a one could report tonight or, better, I could go again to La Granja for the report."
 "Have you no fear of encountering cavalry?"
 "Not when the snow is gone."
 "Is there some one in La Granja capable of this?"
 "Yes. Of this, yes. It would be a woman. There are various women of trust in La Granja."
 "I believe it," Agust璯 said. "More, I know it, and several who serve for other purposes. You do not wish me to go?"
 "Let the old man go. You understand this gun and the day is not over."
 "I will go when the snow melts," Anselmo said. "And the snow is melting fast."
 "What think you of their chance of catching Pablo?" Robert Jordan asked Agust璯.
 "Pablo is smart," Agust璯 said. "Do men catch a wise stag without hounds?"
 "Sometimes," Robert Jordan said.
 "Not Pablo," Agust璯 said. "Clearly, he is only a garbage of what he once was. But it is not for nothing that he is alive and comfortable in these hills and able to drink himself to death while there are so many others that have died against a wall."
 "Is he as smart as they say?"
 "He is much smarter."
 "He has not seemed of great ability here."
 "_C鏔o q no?_ If he were not of great ability he would have died last night. It seems to me you do not understand politics, _Ingl廥_, nor guerilla warfare. In politics and this other the first thing is to continue to exist. Look how he continued to exist last night. And the quantity of dung he ate both from me and from thee."
 Now that Pablo was back in the movements of the unit, Robert Jordan did not wish to talk against him and as soon as he had uttered it he regretted saying the thing about his ability. He knew himself how smart Pablo was. It was Pablo who had seen instantly all that was wrong with the orders for the destruction of the bridge. He had made the remark only from dislike and he knew as he made it that it was wrong. It was part of the talking too much after a strain. So now he dropped the matter and said to Anselmo, "And to go into La Granja in daylight?"
 "It is not bad," the old man said. "I will not go with a military band."
 "Nor with a bell around his neck," Agust璯 said. "Nor carrying a banner."
 "How will you go?"
 "Above and down through the forest."
 "But if they pick you up."
 "I have papers."
 "So have we all but thou must eat the wrong ones quickly."
 Anselmo shook his head and tapped the breast pocket of his smock.
 "How many times have I contemplated that," he said. "And never did I like to swallow paper."
 "I have thought we should carry a little mustard on them all," Robert Jordan said. "In my left breast pocket I carry our papers. In my right the fascist papers. Thus one does not make a mistake in an emergency."
 It must have been bad enough when the leader of the first patrol of cavalry had pointed toward the entry because they were all talking very much. Too much, Robert Jordan thought.
 "But look, Roberto," Agust璯 said. "They say the government moves further to the right each day. That in the Republic they no longer say Comrade but Se隳r and Se隳ra. Canst shift thy pockets?"
 "When it moves far enough to the right I will carry them in my hip pocket," Robert Jordan said, "and sew it in the center."
 "That they should stay in thy shirt," Agust璯 said. "Are we to win this war and lose the revolution?"
 "Nay," Robert Jordan said. "But if we do not win this war there will be no revolution nor any Republic nor any thou nor any me nor anything but the most grand _carajo_."
 "So say I," Anselmo said. "That we should win the war."
 "And afterwards shoot the anarchists and the Communists and all this _canalla_ except the good Republicans," Agust璯 said.
 "That we should win this war and shoot nobody," Anselmo said. "That we should govern justly and that all should participate in the benefits according as they have striven for them. And that those who have fought against us should be educated to see their error."
 "We will have to shoot many," Agust璯 said. "Many, many, many."
 He thumped his closed right fist against the palm of his left hand.
 "That we should shoot none. Not even the leaders. That they should be reformed by work."
 "I know the work I'd put them at," Agust璯 said, and he picked up some snow and put it in his mouth.
 "What, bad one?" Robert Jordan asked.
 "Two trades of the utmost brilliance."
 "They are?"
 Agust璯 put some more snow in his mouth and looked across the clearing where the cavalry had ridden. Then he spat the melted snow out. "_Vaya_. What a breakfast," he said. "Where is the filthy gypsy?"
 "What trades?" Robert Jordan asked him. "Speak, bad mouth."
 "Jumping from planes without parachutes," Agust璯 said, and his eyes shone. "That for those that we care for. And being nailed to the tops of fence posts to be pushed over backwards for the others."
 "That way of speaking is ignoble," Anselmo said. "Thus we will never have a Republic."
 "I would like to swim ten leagues in a strong soup made from the _cojones_ of all of them," Agust璯 said. "And when I saw those four there and thought that we might kill them I was like a mare in the corral waiting for the stallion."
 "You know why we did not kill them, though?" Robert Jordan said quietly.
 "Yes," Agust璯 said. "Yes. But the necessity was on me as it is on a mare in heat. You cannot know what it is if you have not felt it."
 "You sweated enough," Robert Jordan said. "I thought it was fear."
 "Fear, yes," Agust璯 said. "Fear and the other. And in this life there is no stronger thing than the other."
 Yes, Robert Jordan thought. We do it coldly but they do not, nor ever have. It is their extra sacrament. Their old one that they had before the new religion came from the far end of the Mediterranean, the one they have never abandoned but only suppressed and hidden to bring it out again in wars and inquisitions. They are the people of the Auto de Fe; the act of faith. Killing is something one must do, but ours are different from theirs. And you, he thought, you have never been corrupted by it? You never had it in the Sierra? Nor at Usera? Nor through all the time in Estremadura? Nor at any time? Qu?va, he told himself. At every train.
 Stop making dubious literature about the Berbers and the old Iberians and admit that you have liked to kill as all who are soldiers by choice have enjoyed it at some time whether they lie about it or not. Anselmo does not like to because he is a hunter, not a soldier. Don't idealize him, either. Hunters kill animals and soldiers kill men. Don't lie to yourself, he thought. Nor make up literature about it. You have been tainted with it for a long time now. And do not think against Anselmo either. He is a Christian. Something very rare in Catholic countries.
 But with Agust璯 I had thought it was fear, he thought. That natural fear before action. So it was the other, too. Of course, he may be bragging now. There was plenty of fear. I felt the fear under my hand. Well, it was time to stop talking.
 "See if the gypsy brought food," he said to Anselmo. "Do not let him come up. He is a fool. Bring it yourself. And however much he brought, send back for more. I am hungry."
　　“卧倒。”罗伯特　乔丹对奥古斯丁低声说，并转过头去，对安塞尔典急速地摆手，示意他卧倒，卧倒;安塞尔莫拿着一棵松树,象扛圣诞树似的扛在肩上，正从缺口处走来。他看到老头儿把松树撂在一块岩石后面，自己也躲在岩石背后不见了。罗伯特‘乔丹望着开阖空地对面的树林。他没看到也没听到什么,只觉得自已的心在怦怦地跳，接着听到石头和右头的碰揸声，那是一块小石头珧眺騸棚地滚下石壁时的嗒嗒声。他向右面抬起头，看见普里米蒂伏的步枪一上一下地平举了四次。接着,再也看不到什么了，只有他面前的一片白色土地，上面的那醱马蹿印，以及远处的松林。
　　“骑兵，”他低声对奥古斯丁说。
　　奥古斯丁望着他娥牙笑笑，黑黝黝的凹陷的双颊下部显得更阔了。罗伯特　乔丹发觉他在出汗，就伸手按在他的肩头上。他没有拿掉他的手，他们就看到树林里跑出四个骑兵来。他感到奥古斯丁肩背上的肌肉在他手下抽动着。
　　―个骑兵领先,后面跟着三个。领先的那个循着马蹄印走。他骑在马上低头察看着。其他三个跟在他后面，成廟形穿过树林。他们钵在仔细观察着。罗伯特‘乔丹匍匍着，觉得自己的心抵着雪地在怦评地搏动，他把胳脾肘分得很开，撑起上半身,通过自动步枪的瞄准装置注视宥他们。
　　带头的那个沿着蹄印骑到巴勃罗打阖子的地方,停下来了。其他三人向他靠拢,也都停下来了　

　　罗伯特‘乔丹顺着自动步枪蓝色的钢枪筒，清楚地看到了他们。他看到了他们的睑、身上挂着的马刀、被汗湿得黑黑的马腹、圆锥形的卡其披风和纳瓦拉人愤常歪戴着的卡其贝雷櫂。领先的那个拨转马头,正对着架枪的岩石缺口。罗伯特‘乔丹看清他那张饱经风霜的年青的黑脸、两只相距很近的眼睛、鹰钩鼻子和过长的楔形下巴。
　　这个领先的骑兵骑在马背上，马头髙昂，胸脯朝着罗伯特，乔丹，马鞍右侧的枪套里露出了轻自动步枪的枪托，他指着那架枪的缺口。
　　罗伯特，乔丹把胳膊肘紧贴在地上，顺着枪筒向那四个停留在雪地里的骑兵望去。其中三个拔出了自动步枪。两个把枪横搁在鞍头上。另一个骑在马背上,步枪斜在右側，枪托支在屁股上。
　　他想，你难得见到靠得这么近的敌人。伏在这种机枪后面望这样近的敌人，可从来没有过。通常是把表尺抬高，敌人的身形显得很小,你很难把子掸打中那么远的目标。要不，他们向你跑来，卧倒，再跑，你呢，用机抢火力扫射山坡，或者封锁一条街道，或者朝着窗户射击;要不，在远处望着他们在路上行军。只有在袭击火车时看到过这样近的敌人。只有在那时候才有现在这样的景象。这四个家伙啊，你能打得他们落花流水。距离这样近,通过枪的表尺和准星来看,这些人显得比他们本来的样子大两倍。
　　他望着稳定在表尺缺口内的楔形准星，准星顶褓对准着那领先的骑兵的胸膛中央，对准着那卡其披风上在裊曦中分外鲜明的大红标记右面一点儿的地方。他想,你啊。他这时用西班牙语在想，把手指朝前抵住扳机护困，免得这自动步枪一触即发,猛的啷嘟嘟一梭子打出去。这时他又想:你明,年纪青青就要拫销啦。他想:还有你，还有你，还有你。不过但愿这种事不要发生。不要发生吧，他发觉奥古斯丁在他身边要咳嗽了，接着忍在喉昽里,咽下一口口水，他顒着油亮的蓝色枪管，穿过树枝间隙望着前面的空地，手指仍然朝前抵住了扳机护面,这时他看到那领先的骑兵调转马身，指着巴勃罗在树林里走过的路线。于是四个骑兵策马向树林里骑去。奥古斯丁低声说。”王八蛋!”
　　罗伯特　乔丹回过头去望望安塞尔典刚才把松树撂下的地
方。
　　吉普赛人拉斐尔从岩石中间向他们走来，拿着两只布制的马褡裢，挎着步枪。罗伯特，乔丹挥手叫他卧倒，吉普赛人立即低下身子看不见了申　
　　“我们满可以把四个都干掉，”奥古斯丁悄悄地说,他仍然汗淋淋的。
　　“是晡，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“可是开了枪，谁知道会出现什么后果?” ’
　　正在这时，他叉听到有“石头滚下来的声音，他立刻籾四周扫了“眼。吉普赛人和安塞尔莫两个人都不见踪彩。他看看手表,接着抬头聃苷里米蒂伏那儿望望,只见他正在急速壤上下举动步枪,举了无数次。罗伯特‘乔丹想。”巴勃罗已走了四十五分钟。他接着听到有一队骑兵行近的声音。
　　“你别着急，”他对奥古斯丁低声说。“他们会象刚才几个那样走过去的。”
　　树林边缘出现了二十个骑兵，两个一排，和。1才那四个人一样的武器和服装,马刀晃动着,枪套里插着卡宾枪。他们和先前
几个一样，一直朝树林中骑去了。
　　“你肴到了吗?”罗勃特‘乔丹对奥古斯丁说。“人数不少啊，”奥古斯丁说。
　　“要是我们干掉了先前几个，现在就不得不对付这些个了，”罗伯特、乔丹悄没声儿地说。现在他心情平静了，衬农前胸被融化的雪水弄得湿漉漉的。胸口慼到空洞洞的。
　　雪上阳光灿烂，雪在很快消溶。他看到树干上的雪在消失；眼前，就在枪的前面，湿雪的表层象稀稀拉拉的花边一碰就碎，阳光的热力融化着雪面，泥土的暖气向覆盖在上的残雪蒸腾。
　　罗伯特　乔丹抬头望着普里米蒂伏的岗哨，看到他交叉着双手，手掌向下,表示“平安无事”，
　　安塞尔莫的脑袋从一块岩石后探出来了，罗伯特　乔丹招手示意，要他过来。老头儿从一块岩石后面跑到另一块后面,最后爬过来,卧倒在自动步枪旁边。“人很多，”他说。“人很多哪!”
　　“我不要小树了，”罗伯特，乔丹对他说，“不窗要再改醬树枝的伪装了。”
　　安塞尔莫和奥古斯丁都咧嘴笑了〃。这里被仔细地査看过了，没有鳝馅儿,现在蟥树是危险的，因为这些入还要回来,再说,他们也许并不鑽。”
　　他觉得有必要讲话,因为对他来说，这表示刚经历了很大的危险。他老是能根据事后谈起先前发生的事的劲头来判断当初的佾况危险到什么地步〃
　　“这个掩护不错吧，呃?”他说。
　　“不错，”奥古斯丁说。“真他妈的不镥。我们原可以把四个—起干掉，你看到了吗?”他对安塞尔莫说〃

　　“我看到了。”
　　“你，”罗伯特。乔丹对安塞尔莫说。“你得再到昨天的岗哨上去,或者自己另找个好地方，去观察公路，跟昨天一样,报吿所有的动静。这件事我们做得已经迟了　要一直守到天黑，然后回来，我们换个人去。”
　　“那么我留下的脚印怎么办，“”
　　“等雪化掉了从下面走去。路上会被溶化的雪弃得一片泥泞的。留心烂泥路上有没有很多汽车或坦克开过的痕迹。我们眼前只能说这一些，要等你到那儿自己猓察了才知道究竟。”“我可以说句话吗?”老头儿问。“当然可以。”
　　“如果你同惫，我執拉格兰哈去打昕一下昨晚的情况，并且找个人照你教我的办法去守望公路，这样不是更好吗？那人可以今晚把情报送来，或者，更好的办法是，由我再到拉格兰哈去取

　　“你不怕碰到骑兵?”“雪化了,就不怕。”“拉格兰哈有人能于这事吗?”
　　“，有。有人能干　有个女的。拉格兰哈有好几个可氣的妇女, …
　　“这个我相信，”奥古斯丁说。“我还知道，有几个附带还干别的行当。作不打算叫我去呜?”
　　“让老头子去。你能使这挺枪，今天还没过去呢。”“雪化了我就走。”安塞尔莫说。“雪化得很快。”“你看他们有可能抓住巴勃罗吗？”罗伯特　乔丹问奥古斯

　　“巴勃罗很机灵。”奥古斯丁说。“没有猎狗，人能逮住灵敏的公鹿吗？。
　　"有时候能，”罗伯特”乔丹说。
　　“巴勃罗不会叫人逮住，”奥古斯丁说。“和原来相比，他现在明摆着是个废物。不过，有很多人在墙脚下给枪舞了，他却仍旧在这一带山里活得舒舒眼服,拼命喝酒,这不是没有道理的。”“他有人家说的那么机灵吗？”“比人家说的还要机灵。”“他在这儿看来并不很能干。”
　　“怎么不能干？他如果不能干,昨天晚上就送命了。依我看，你不僅政治，英国人，也不懂游击战。在政治上和在游击战中，首要问题是能存在下去。瞧他昨晚继续存在下去了。任我们两个怎么侮辱，他全忍住了，“
　　巴勃罗现在，“回心转意跟大家一起干了，罗伯特　乔丹就不想说什么对他不利的话，所以他刚才脫口说了关于巴勃罗不能干的话，立刻就后悔了。巴勃罗有多机灵，他心里明白，炸桥的命令有什么不对头的地方，巴勃罗一眼桷看出来了。他刚才说这话只是出于厌恶，但他一出口就明知道是不应该说的　这多少是佾绪紧张之余，废话讲得太多才造成的。所以他现在撤开这个话题,对安塞尔莫说，“大白天到拉格兰哈去?”
　　“并不坏。”老头儿说。“我不是跟军乐队吹吹打打一起去的。”“脖子上也不挂铃裆，”奥古斯丁说　“也不扛大旗，““你怎么去，“”
　　“在森林里翻山越岭。”
　　“可是，如果他们抓住你呢？”　
　　“我有证件。”

　　“我们大家都有，可是你得赶快把露马脚的吞下去。”安塞尔莫摇摇头，拍了一下身穿的上农的前胸口袋，"这件事我想过好多回啦，”他说。“可我从来也不爱吞吃纸片。”
　　“看来我们得在证件上都洒些芥末才是，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“我把我方的证件藏在左胸口袋,右胸口袋放法西斯证件。这样，遇到紧急情况就不会搞错了。”
　　当第一个骑兵巡逻队的带队的指着缺口的时候，情况一定是够糟的，因为他们现在都讲了很多话。罗伯特，乔丹想,话讲得太多啦。
　　“可是你听着，罗伯托。”奥古斯丁说。”据说政府一天比一天右倾，还说什么在共和国大家不再称呼同志,而称呼先生和太太了。你那两只口袋也能变吗。”
　　“等到右倾得太苈害的时候，我就把证件藏在后裤袋里，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“在中间缝上一道。”
　　“但愿仍旧把它们藏在衬衫里，”奥古斯丁说。“难道我们会打蠃这场战争而革命却失败吗?”
　　“不会，”罗伯特’乔丹说。“不过，如果我们打不赢这场战争，就没有革命,没有什么共和国,也没有你、我，什么也没有，玩儿全完。”
　　“我也是这么说，”安塞尔莫说，“但愿我们打蠃这场战争。”“胜利以后，除了拥护共和国的好人之外，要把无政府主义者，共产党员，和所有的流氓混蛋，统统枪毙掉。”奥古斯丁说。
　　“但愿我们打蠃这场战争，‘个人也不枪毙。”安塞尔莫说。“但愿我们公正地治理国家，出一分力量的得一分好处，大家有福同享，让反对过我们的人受教育、认识错误。“
　　“我们非得枪毙许多人不可。”奥古斯丁说。“许多许多。”他紧握右拳，捶打左手的手掌。
　　“伹愿我们一个也不枪毙。嗛怕是带头的。但愿让他们在劳动中得到改造？
　　“我知遒我要叫他们干什么活，”奥古斯丁说着，捞了些雪，放在嘴里。
　　“什么活,苦活。”罗伯特，乔丹问。‘“两种最出色的活。”“哪两种呢”
　　奥古斯丁又放了些雪在嘴里，望着对面刚才骑兵经过的林间空地，接着把雪水吐出来。“瞧嫌。多好的早点。”他说。“那个臭吉普赛人嚷儿去了。”
　　“干什么活？”罗伯特　乔丹问他。“说啊，臭嘴，““不用降落伞，从飞机上跳下来。”奥古斯丁说,眼猜都亮了　“我们器重的人，受用这个。其余的人呢，钉在栅栏柱乎上,再把它向后推倒。”
　　“这话说得可耻。”安塞尔莫说。“这样一来，我们永远不会有共和国。”
　　“我巴不得在他们大家的鸡巴熬的浓汤里游几十里路，”奥古斯丁说？我看到那四个人，满以为能杀掉他们的时侯，我觉得真牙痒痒的象马栏里的雌马在等种马，“
　　〃不过，你可知道我们干吗不杀他们吗?”罗伯特　乔丹冷静地说。
　　“知道。”奥古斯丁说。“知道。可我真牙痒痒得象匹发情的雌马。你没这感觉，哪会知道　”’
　　“你那时浑身大汗。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“我还以为是害怕呢。“
　　"害怕，不错，”奥古斯丁说，“害怕，还有，就是想杀他们。我这“辈子再没有比想杀他们更强烈的愿望了。”
　　是萌，罗伯特‘乔丹想。我们冷漠地杀人，他们却不这样，从来也不这样。因为他们有额外的神圣的东西。从地中海另一头传来新教以前，他们早就有了古老的习性,他们始终没有拋弃它，仅仅把它压抑、深藏在心里，在战争和宗教审判中又暴鳝出来。他们是执行过宗教裁判和火刑①的民族。杀人是不可避免的事，但我们杀人的方式和他们的不同。他想:你呢，你从没受到杀人的诱惑吗？你在瓜达拉马山区从没杀过人吗？在乌塞拉从没杀过人？在埃斯特雷马杜拉整个时期中没杀过？从来没杀过，“他对自己说。”哪儿的话　每次炸火车都杀过。
　　别再模棱两可地拿柏柏尔人②和古伊比利亚人做文章啦，要承认自己赛欢杀人，就和所有那些自思当兵、噴杀成性的军人一样,不管他们是不是说假话来为自已辩护。安塞尔莫不審欢杀人，因为他是猎人，不是军人。也不必美化他嘛。军人杀人，猎人杀野兽。他想:你别自欺欺人，也别替杀人虚构一套辩护词啦。你被感染由来已久。可也别把安塞尔莫当坏人看待。他是基督徒，在天主轶国家里这是罕见的事。

①西班牙人的祖先为伊比利亚人和飢尔特人，有着他们自己的联始文化和侑仰，随着罗马人的入丧，带来了在地中海东端新兴的基督教偯仰。十六世纪起，在中欧和西欧兴起了宗教改革运动，但西班牙始终倌奉以罗马教皇为主的罗马正教（我国通译为天主教、在中世纪，天主教会对异教徒备加迫害，西班牙的宗教法庭允其残酷。乔丹以为这是由于他们祖先遗传下来的原始蛮性所致。下文又否定了这种看法。
③拍柏尔人为北非古老民族,后来受到从亚洲来的闲拉伯人的彩明，接受，“其文化、语言及伊斯兰教。世纪初从縻洛哥进入西班牙，其后裔称为摩尔人,今散唐于。”11。”非。郎分柏柏尔人至今仍保留原有语言及生活方式、仍称柏柏尔。

　　他想，然而我原以为奥古斯丁是害怕。就是在杀人前的本能的恐惧。原来他也巴不得杀人。当然，现在他可能是在吹牛。当时可恐惧得很。我的手掌感到了他的恐惧。噢，现在是停止谈话的时候了。
　　“去看看吉普赛人把吃的拿来了没有?”他对安塞尔莫说。“别让他到这里来了。他是个笨蛋。你把吃的拿来吧。不管他拿来多少，叫他再去多拿些来。我饿了。”
Chapter 24
 Now the morning was late May, the sky was high and clear and the wind blew warm on Robert Jordan's shoulders. The snow was going fast and they were eating breakfast. There were two big sandwiches of meat and the goaty cheese apiece, and Robert Jordan had cut thick slices of onion with his clasp knife and put them on each side of the meat and cheese between the chunks of bread.
 "You will have a breath that will carry through the forest to the fascists," Agust璯 said, his own mouth full.
 "Give me the wineskin and I will rinse the mouth," Robert Jordan said, his mouth full of meat, cheese, onion and chewed bread.
 He had never been hungrier and he filled his mouth with wine, faintly tarry-tasting from the leather bag, and swallowed. Then he took another big mouthful of wine, lifting the bag up to let the jet of wine spurt into the back of his mouth, the wineskin touching the needles of the blind of pine branches that covered the automatic rifle as he lifted his hand, his head leaning against the pine branches as he bent it back to let the wine run down.
 "Dost thou want this other sandwich?" Agust璯 asked him, handing it toward him across the gun.
 "No. Thank you. Eat it."
 "I cannot. I am not accustomed to eat in the morning."
 "You do not want it, truly?"
 "Nay. Take it."
 Robert Jordan took it and laid it on his lap while he got the onion out of his side jacket pocket where the grenades were and opened his knife to slice it. He cut off a thin sliver of the surface that had dirtied in his pocket, then cut a thick slice. An outer segment fell and he picked it up and bent the circle together and put it into the sandwich.
 "Eatest thou always onions for breakfast?" Agust璯 asked.
 "When there are any."
 "Do all in thy country do this?"
 "Nay," Robert Jordan said. "It is looked on badly there."
 "I am glad," Agust璯 said. "I had always considered America a civilized country."
 "What hast thou against the onion?"
 "The odor. Nothing more. Otherwise it is like the rose."
 Robert Jordan grinned at him with his mouth full.
 "Like the rose," he said. "Mighty like the rose. A rose is a rose is an onion."
 "Thy onions are affecting thy brain," Agust璯 said. "Take care."
 "An onion is an onion is an onion," Robert Jordan said cheerily and, he thought, a stone is a stein is a rock is a boulder is a pebble.
 "Rinse thy mouth with wine," Agust璯 said. "Thou art very rare, _Ingl廥_. There is great difference between thee and the last dynamiter who worked with us."
 "There is one great difference."
 "Tell it to me."
 "I am alive and he is dead," Robert Jordan said. Then: what's the matter with you? he thought. Is that the way to talk? Does food make you that slap happy? What are you, drunk on onions? Is that all it means to you, now? It never meant much, he told himself truly. You tried to make it mean something, but it never did. There is no need to lie in the time that is left.
 "No," he said, seriously now. "That one was a man who had suffered greatly."
 "And thou? Hast thou not suffered?"
 "No," said Robert Jordan. "I am of those who suffer little."
 "Me also," Agust璯 told him. "There are those who suffer and those who do not. I suffer very little."
 "Less bad," Robert Jordan tipped up the wineskin again. "And with this, less."
 "I suffer for others."
 "As all good men should."
 "But for myself very little."
 "Hast thou a wife?"
 "No."
 "Me neither."
 "But now you have the Maria."
 "Yes."
 "There is a rare thing," Agust璯 said. "Since she came to us at the train the Pilar has kept her away from all as fiercely as though she were in a convent of Carmelites. You cannot imagine with what fierceness she guarded her. You come, and she gives her to thee as a present. How does that seem to thee?"
 "It was not thus."
 "How was it, then?"
 "She has put her in my care."
 "And thy care is to _joder_ with her all night?"
 "With luck."
 "What a manner to care for one."
 "You do not understand that one can take good care of one thus?"
 "Yes, but such care could have been furnished by any one of us."
 "Let us not talk of it any more," Robert Jordan said. "I care for her seriously."
 "Seriously?"
 "As there can be nothing more serious in this world."
 "And afterwards? After this of the bridge?"
 "She goes with me."
 "Then," Agust璯 said. "That no one speaks of it further and that the two of you go with all luck."
 He lifted the leather wine bag and took a long pull, then handed it to Robert Jordan.
 "One thing more, _Ingl廥_," he said.
 "Of course."
 "I have cared much for her, too."
 Robert Jordan put his hand on his shoulder.
 "Much," Agust璯 said. "Much. More than one is able to imagine."
 "I can imagine."
 "She has made an impression on me that does not dissipate."
 "I can imagine."
 "Look. I say this to thee in all seriousness."
 "Say it."
 "I have never touched her nor had anything to do with her but I care for her greatly. _Ingl廥_, do not treat her lightly. Because she sleeps with thee she is no whore."
 "I will care for her."
 "I believe thee. But more. You do not understand how such a girl would be if there had been no revolution. You have much responsibility. This one, truly, has suffered much. She is not as we are."
 "I will marry her."
 "Nay. Not that. There is no need for that under the revolution. But--" he nodded his head--"it would be better."
 "I will marry her," Robert Jordan said and could feel his throat swelling as he said it. "I care for her greatly."
 "Later," Agust璯 said. "When it is convenient. The important thing is to have the intention."
 "I have it."
 "Listen," Agust璯 said. "I am speaking too much of a matter in which I have no right to intervene, but hast thou known many girls of this country?"
 "A few."
 "Whores?"
 "Some who were not."
 "How many?"
 "Several."
 "And did you sleep with them?"
 "No."
 "You see?"
 "Yes."
 "What I mean is that this Maria does not do this lightly."
 "Nor I."
 "If I thought you did I would have shot you last night as you lay with her. For this we kill much here."
 "Listen, old one," Robert Jordan said. "It is because of the lack of time that there has been informality. What we do not have is time. Tomorrow we must fight. To me that is nothing. But for the Maria and me it means that we must live all of our life in this time."
 "And a day and a night is little time," Agust璯 said.
 "Yes. But there has been yesterday and the night before and last night."
 "Look," Agust璯 said. "If I can aid thee."
 "No. We are all right."
 "If I could do anything for thee or for the cropped head--"
 "No."
 "Truly, there is little one man can do for another."
 "No. There is much."
 "What?"
 "No matter what passes today and tomorrow in respect to combat, give me thy confidence and obey even though the orders may appear wrong."
 "You have my confidence. Since this of the cavalry and the sending away of the horse."
 "That was nothing. You see that we are working for one thing. To win the war. Unless we win, all other things are futile. Tomorrow we have a thing of great importance. Of true importance. Also we will have combat. In combat there must be discipline. For many things are not as they appear. Discipline must come from trust and confidence."
 Agust璯 spat on the ground.
 "The Maria and all such things are apart," he said. "That you and the Maria should make use of what time there is as two human beings. If I can aid thee I am at thy orders. But for the thing of tomorrow I will obey thee blindly. If it is necessary that one should die for the thing of tomorrow one goes gladly and with the heart light."
 "Thus do I feel," Robert Jordan said. "But to hear it from thee brings pleasure."
 "And more," Agust璯 said. "That one above," he pointed toward Primitivo, "is a dependable value. The Pilar is much, much more than thou canst imagine. The old man Anselmo, also. Andr廥 also. Eladio also. Very quiet, but a dependable element. And Fernando. I do not know how thou hast appreciated him. It is true he is heavier than mercury. He is fuller of boredom than a steer drawing a cart on the highroad. But to fight and to do as he is told. _Es muy hombre!_ Thou wilt see."
 "We are lucky."
 "No. We have two weak elements. The gypsy and Pablo. But the band of Sordo are as much better than we are as we are better than goat manure."
 "All is well then."
 "Yes," Agust璯 said. "But I wish it was for today."
 "Me, too. To finish with it. But it is not."
 "Do you think it will be bad?"
 "It can be."
 "But thou are very cheerful now, _Ingl廥_."
 "Yes."
 "Me also. In spite of this of the Maria and all."
 "Do you know why?"
 "No."
 "Me neither. Perhaps it is the day. The day is good."
 "Who knows? Perhaps it is that we will have action."
 "I think it is that," Robert Jordan said. "But not today. Of all things; of all importance we must avoid it today."
 As he spoke he heard something. It was a noise far off that came above the sound of the warm wind in the trees. He could not be sure and he held his mouth open and listened, glancing up at Primitivo as he did so. He thought he heard it but then it was gone. The wind was blowing in the pines and now Robert Jordan strained all of himself to listen. Then he heard it faintly coming down the wind.
 "It is nothing tragic with me," he heard Agust璯 say. "That I should never have the Maria is nothing. I will go with the whores as always."
 "Shut up," he said, not listening, and lying beside him, his head having been turned away. Agust璯 looked over at him suddenly.
 "_Qu?pasa?_" he asked.
 Robert Jordan put his hand over his own mouth and went on listening. There it came again. It came faint, muted, dry and far away. But there was no mistaking it now. It was the precise, crackling, curling roll of automatic rifle fire. It sounded as though pack after pack of miniature firecrackers were going off at a distance that was almost out of hearing.
 Robert Jordan looked up at Primitivo who had his head up now, his face looking toward them, his hand cupped to his ear. As he looked Primitivo pointed up the mountain toward the highest country.
 "They are fighting at El Sordo's," Robert Jordan said.
 "Then let us go to aid them," Agust璯 said. "Collect the people. _Vamonos_."
 "No," Robert Jordan said. "We stay here."
　　这是五月底的一个早晨，天高气爽，和风吹拂在罗伯特　乔丹的肩上,暖洋洋的。雪在迅速皤化，他们正在吃早饭。每人吃两大块夹肉面包，里头还有羊奶干酪。罗伯特　乔丹用折刀切了几厚片洋葱，跟肉和干酪一起夹在面包里。
　　“你嘴里的洋葱味要从树林里一直飙到法西斯分子那儿去了。”奥古斯丁说，自己的嘴里塞得满满的。
　　“把酒袋给我，让我漱漱口，”罗伯特”乔丹说，他满嘴是肉、干酪、洋葱和驪烂的面包。
　　他从没这样饿过。他喝了一大口咯带皮酒袋上的柏油味的酒，把嘴里的东西咽下去。他接着又喝了一大口，这次是举起酒袋，让喷出的酒悬空直灌进嗓子眼里,酒袋碰到了掩护自动步枪的松枝上的针叶，他昂起头来，让酒淌下咽喉，脑袋仰靠在松校上。

　　“这一块夹肉而包你要吗?”奥古斯丁问他，把它隔着枪身递给他。
　　“不。谢谢你。你吃吧，““我吃不下了。我早晨不习愤吃东西。”“真的不要了？”“不要。你吃。”
　　罗伯特，乔丹接过夹肉面包,放在膝上，从藏手檷弹的外套口袋里掏出一个洋葱，打开折刀切起片来。他把洋葱被口袋弄脏的那一边削去一薄片，然后切了一厚片，外边的圃掉了下来，他拣起来一折，塞在夹肉面包里。“你早饭常吃洋葱?”奥古斯丁问。“有,就吃。”“你们美国人都这样公
　　“不，”罗伯特，乔丹说。“在我的国家里，人们讨厌洋葱。”“这好，”奥古斯丁说。“我一直认为美国是个文明国家。”“你为什么讨厌洋葱？”
　　“臭味不好。没别的原因。要不然，洋葱就象玫瑰了。”罗伯特‘乔丹对他咧嘴笑了。
　　“象玫瑰。”他说。“真象玫瑰。一朵玫瑰就是一朵玫瑰就是―个洋葱。”
　　“洋葱把你的头脑弄糊涂了，”奥古斯丁说。“留心嗨。”个洋葱就是一个洋葱就是一个洋葱，”罗伯特　乔丹兴致勃勃地说，他还想　一块石头就是一块3紐如①就是一块岩石就是“块圓石就是一块卵石。
　　“用酒湫漱口吧，”奥古斯丁说。“你很怪，英国人，你和上次跟我们一起干的鑤破手大不相同。”

　　“有一点大不相同。”“跟我说说，什么不同。”
　　“我活着,他死了，”罗伯特，乔丹说。接着他想,你这个人怎么啦？可以这样说话吗？你吃得忘乎所以了？你算什么，被洋葱弄得醉醺醣了？难道你现在活着就是为了这一点？他老实对自己说，生活从来就役有多大意义　你想使它有点意义，但从来没有做到，在剩下的这点时间里，没必要说假话啦。“不。”他说,变得认真了。“他是个受过大苦的人。”“你呢？你没受过苦?” ‘
　　“没有，”罗伯特~乔丹说。“我是那些没受过苦的人里面的
　　"我也没受过什么苦，”奥古斯丁对他说。“有人受过苦，有人没有。我没受过什么苦。”
　　“那倒不坏。”罗伯特　奍丹又把酒袋倾倒过来。”有了这个，更不坏。”
　　“我替别人难过。”“好人都应该如此。”
　　“我为自己倒很少难过, 　
　　“你有老婆吗?”“没有。”

①美国女作家格抟螌德’斯坦（仔对灶！　。8切1。，18样一1。。幻从一九三年起长期定居巴黎，二十年代中，主持一个文艺沙龙，美国作家食伍德〃安漶森、司科恃‘菲茨杰拉德及海明威本人都是其成员，在文风上部受到她的影响。她在写作中作了一系列的试验，摆脱传统的进句法，强调词句的眘调及节赛。海明威在此处拿她的名句“一朵玫瑰就是“朵玫瑰躭是一朵坟瑰就是一朵玫瑰”开玩笑，并引伸到石头，用了一连串同义词，其中这个　。111和她的姓同出德语，意为。石头\
 
　　“我也没有,
　　“可你现在有了玛丽亚，”
　　“是啊。” ”
　　“有件事很怪，”奥古斯丁说。“自从炸火车后，她到了我们这几，比拉尔就恶狠狠地不准谁碰她,好象是在加尔默罗会的白衣修士的修道院里。你万万想象不出她怎样拼命保护玛丽亚。你来了，她却把玛丽亚当礼物般送给你了。你怎么看?”‘“情况并不是这样。”“那么是怎么回事?”“她把玛丽亚交给我照顾？
　　“你的照顾却是整夜和她睡觉?” 　
　　“我很走运。”
　　“好“个照頋人家的办法。”
　　“你不懂得可以用这种方式给人好好照頑码?”
　　“懂，这样的照顾可我们每个人都能做到。”
　　“我们别谈这些了。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“我真心爱她。”
　　“真心？”
　　“世界上再没有比这更真心的了，““以后呢？炸桥以后呢？”“她跟我走,
　　“要这样。”奥古斯丁说,“但愿谁也不再说什么闲话,并且祝你们两个一路烦风。”
　　他举起皮酒袋，喝了一大口，然后递给罗伯特‘乔丹　“还有一件事，英国人。”他说。
　　”私说吧。”
　　“我也非常爱她。”

　　罗伯特，乔丹伸手搁在他肩上，
　　“非常，”奥古斯丁说，“非常爱她，爱她爱到人们难以理觯的程度
　　“我能理解。”
　　“她给，“我一个深刻的印象，那是无法打消的。”“我能理解。〃
　　“听着。我对你说的话十分认真。”“说吧。”
　　“我从没碰过她，跟她也没有过任何关系，可我非常爱她。英国人，不要对她随随便便。即使她和你睡过觉，别以为她是婊子。”
　　“我会爱她的。”
　　“我相信你。不过还有，你不明白，如果没有革命，这样的姑娘会遭到怎样的结局。你的责任很重大，这个姑娘实在受过大苦。她和我们不一样。”“我要和她结婚。”
　　“不。不是这意思。在革命中没有这种必要。但是一”他点点头一“那样更好,
　　“我要和她结婚。”罗伯特　乔丹说，说着觉得喉咙哽塞起来。“我非常爱她。”
　　“以后铕婚吧，”夹古斯，“说，“等到方便的时候。要紧的是有这个打算。”“我有
　　“听着。”奥古斯丁说。“这件事我无权过问，我的话太多了，不过还想问一声,在这个国家里，你认识很多姑娘吗?”“有几个。”
　　“婊子吗？”“有的不是。”“有多少？“有几个。”“你和她们睡过吗?”"没有。”“你明白了?”“是的。”
　　“我的意思是，玛丽亚并不是轻易做这种事的。”“我也不,
　　“要是我把你当那号人，昨晚你和她睡的时候，我就把你枪杀了。为了这种事情，我们这里可不少杀人。”
　　“听着，老朋友，”罗伯特、乔丹说。“那是因为时间不够，所以不拘形式了。我们缺少的是时间。明天我们非打仗不可。对我一个人来说，没有什么。可是对玛丽亚和我两个人来说，就意味着我们在这段时间里必须尽量享受生活。”
　　“是的〃佴是已经过了昨天一天、前天一夜和昨天一夜，““听我说，”奥古斯丁说。“需要我帮忙吗?〃“不。我俩没什么问题,
　　“如果要我为你，或者为这个短头发的丫头出把力的话一”
　　“老实说，一个人能为另一个人帮忙的地方也不多。”
　　“不。很多。”
　　竊什么?”

　　“讲到打仗,不管今明两天发生什么情況，你得信任我，秭怕命令看来是错误的，也要服从。”
　　“自从骑兵队的事和把马引走的事发生以后，我服你了“那算不上什么。你知道，我们都为了同一个目标而奋斗　打赢这场战争。我们不胜利,一切都完蛋。明天的事极重要,真的非常重要。我们还会有战斗。战斗时没有纪律是不行的，因为很多事情跟表面现象不一样。必须有了信任和信心，才能有纪律，“
　　奥古斯丁朝地上啐了一口。
　　“玛丽亚和这些事全不相干，”他说。〃但愿你和玛丽亚作为两个人好好利用现有的时间。只要我能帮忙，尽管吩咐。至于明天的事，我一定绝对服从。如果为了明天的事一定要牺牲性命，就高髙兴兴、心情轻松地去牺牲。”
　　“我也认为你会这样做。”罗伯特，乔丹说。“但听你亲口讲出来真叫人高兴。”
　　“还有，”奥古斯丁说,“上面那个人，”他指指普里米蒂伏，“是个可靠而有价值的人。比拉尔可靠得远远超出你的想象。安塞尔莫这老头子也一样。安德烈斯也一样。埃拉迪奥也一样。这人话不多，伹是个可靠的角色，还有费尔南多。我不知道你对他怎么看。不错，他比水银还沉。他比公路上拖车的小公牛还没趣。可是吩咐他打仗、办事，倒是条汉子　你自己会看到的。”“我们很走运。”
　　“不。我们有两个稀松的家伙,吉普赛人和巴勃罗，‘聋子’―伙可比我们强得多,我们只比羊屎强一点，““这么说问题不大。”
　　“是的，”奥古斯丁说。“可是我希望今天就打。”

　　“我也一样，于掉算了,但不行。”“你以为情况会很糟吗?”“有可能。”
　　“可你现在兴致很好，英国人。”“是柯。”
　　“我也是。尽管有玛丽亚这件事以及别的事。”
　　“你知道为什么，“”
　　“不。”
　　“我也不知道。也许是天气的关系。今天天气真好。““谁知道？也许是因为我们要采取行动的缘故。”“我看是吧，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“伹不是今天。不管发生什么情况，最要紧的是我们必须避　，“今天行动。”
　　他说话时听到了什么声音。这个通远的声响盖过了暧风吹过树林子的声音。他听不真切，张开了嘴倾听着,同时抬头向普里米蒂伏瞥了一眼。他自以为听到了这声音，但接着又消失了。松林里，风在吹,罗伯特　乔丹聚精会神地细听着。他听到了这随风飘来的傲弱的声响。
　　“我觉得没什么可伤心的。”他听到奥古斯丁说。“我永远也得不到玛丽亚，这没什么。我可以仍旧和以前一样去找婊子的。”“别作声，”他说,他伏在奥古斯丁身边，头转向别处，不在听他说话。奥古斯丁突然向他望着。“怎么回事?”奥古斯丁问。
　　罗伯特　乔丹把手放在嘴上，继续倾听。这声音又来了，低弱而模糊，遥远而单调。但这一回不会听错了。正是自动步枪射击时的一连串清脆的哒哒声，就象在远得几乎听不到的地方成串成串地在放小爆竹，

　　罗伯特’乔丹抬眼看着苷里米蒂伏。普里米蒂伏正伸长了脖子，脸朝着他们，用手拢着耳朵倾听。罗伯特“乔丹探望时，普里米蒂伏朝那边地形最髙的山峦指着。“‘聋子’那边开火了，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“那我们去支援他们吧，”奥古斯丁说。“把人集合起来。我们走吧。”
　　“不行。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“我们待在这儿。”
Chapter 25
 Robert Jordan looked up at where Primitivo stood now in his lookout post, holding his rifle and pointing. He nodded his head but the man kept pointing, putting his hand to his ear and then pointing insistently and as though he could not possibly have been understood.
 "Do you stay with this gun and unless it is sure, sure, sure that they are coming in do not fire. And then not until they reach that shrub," Robert Jordan pointed. "Do you understand?"
 "Yes. But--"
 "No but. I will explain to thee later. I go to Primitivo."
 Anselmo was by him and he said to the old man:
 "_Viejo_, stay there with Agust璯 with the gun." He spoke slowly and unhurriedly. "He must not fire unless cavalry is actually entering. If they merely present themselves he must let them alone as we did before. If he must fire, hold the legs of the tripod firm for him and hand him the pans when they are empty."
 "Good," the old man said. "And La Granja?"
 "Later."
 Robert Jordan climbed up, over and around the gray boulders that were wet now under his hands as he pulled himself up. The sun was melting the snow on them fast. The tops of the boulders were drying and as he climbed he looked across the country and saw the pine woods and the long open glade and the dip of the country before the high mountains beyond. Then he stood beside Primitivo in a hollow behind two boulders and the short, brownfaced man said to him, "They are attacking Sordo. What is it that we do?"
 "Nothing," Robert Jordan said.
 He heard the firing clearly here and as he looked across the country, he saw, far off, across the distant valley where the country rose steeply again, a troop of cavalry ride out of the timber and cross the snowy slope riding uphill in the direction of the firing. He saw the oblong double line of men and horses dark against the snow as they forced at an angle up the hill. He watched the double line top the ridge and go into the farther timber.
 "We have to aid them," Primitivo said. His voice was dry and flat.
 "It is impossible," Robert Jordan told him. "I have expected this all morning."
 "How?"
 "They went to steal horses last night. The snow stopped and they tracked them up there."
 "But we have to aid them," Primitivo said. "We cannot leave them alone to this. Those are our comrades."
 Robert Jordan put his hand on the other man's shoulder.
 "We can do nothing," he said. "If we could I would do it."
 "There is a way to reach there from above. We can take that way with the horses and the two guns. This one below and thine. We can aid them thus."
 "Listen--" Robert Jordan said.
 "_That_ is what I listen to," Primitivo said.
 The firing was rolling in overlapping waves. Then they heard the noise of hand grenades heavy and sodden in the dry rolling of the automatic rifle fire.
 "They are lost," Robert Jordan said. "They were lost when the snow stopped. If we go there we are lost, too. It is impossible to divide what force we have."
 There was a gray stubble of beard stippled over Primitivo's jaws, his lip and his neck. The rest of his face was flat brown with a broken, flattened nose and deep-set gray eyes, and watching him Robert Jordan saw the stubble twitching at the corners of his mouth and over the cord of his throat.
 "Listen to it," he said. "It is a massacre."
 "If they have surrounded the hollow it is that," Robert Jordan said. "Some may have gotten out."
 "Coming on them now we could take them from behind," Primitivo said. "Let four of us go with the horses."
 "And then what? What happens after you take them from behind?"
 "We join with Sordo."
 "To die there? Look at the sun. The day is long."
 The sky was high and cloudless and the sun was hot on their backs. There were big bare patches now on the southern slope of the open glade below them and the snow was all dropped from the pine trees. The boulders below them that had been wet as the snow melted were steaming faintly now in the hot sun.
 "You have to stand it," Robert Jordan said. "_Hay que aguantarse_. There are things like this in a war."
 "But there is nothing we can do? Truly?" Primitivo looked at him and Robert Jordan knew he trusted him. "Thou couldst not send me and another with the small machine gun?"
 "It would be useless," Robert Jordan said.
 He thought he saw something that he was looking for but it was a hawk that slid down into the wind and then rose above the line of the farthest pine woods. "It would be useless if we all went," he said.
 Just then the firing doubled in intensity and in it was the heavy bumping of the hand grenades.
 "Oh, obscenity them," Primitivo said with an absolute devoutness of blasphemy, tears in his eyes and his cheeks twitching. "Oh, God and the Virgin, obscenity them in the milk of their filth."
 "Calm thyself," Robert Jordan said. "You will be fighting them soon enough. Here comes the woman."
 Pilar was climbing up to them, making heavy going of it in the boulders.
 Primitivo kept saying. "Obscenity them. Oh, God and the Virgin, befoul them," each time for firing rolled down the wind, and Robert Jordan climbed down to help Pilar up.
 "_Qu?tal_, woman," he said, taking hold of both her wrists and hoisting as she climbed heavily over the last boulder.
 "Thy binoculars," she said and lifted their strap over her head. "So it has come to Sordo?"
 "Yes."
 "_Pobre_," she said in commiseration. "Poor Sordo."
 She was breathing heavily from the climb and she took hold of Robert Jordan's hand and gripped it tight in hers as she looked out over the country.
 "How does the combat seem?"
 "Bad. Very bad."
 "He's _jodido?_"
 "I believe so."
 "_Pobre_," she said. "Doubtless because of the horses?"
 "Probably."
 "_Pobre_," Pilar said. Then, "Rafael recounted me all of an entire novel of dung about cavalry. What came?"
 "A patrol and part of a squadron."
 "Up to what point?"
 Robert Jordan pointed out where the patrol had stopped and showed her where the gun was hidden. From where they stood they could just see one of Agust璯's boots protruding from the rear of the blind.
 "The gypsy said they rode to where the gun muzzle pressed against the chest of the horse of the leader," Pilar said. "What a race! Thy glasses were in the cave."
 "Have you packed?"
 "All that can be taken. Is there news of Pablo?"
 "He was forty minutes ahead of the cavalry. They took his trail."
 Pilar grinned at him. She still held his hand. Now she dropped it. "They'll never see him," she said. "Now for Sordo. Can we do anything?"
 "Nothing."
 "_Pobre_," she said. "I was fond of Sordo. Thou art sure, _sure_ that he is _jodido?_"
 "Yes. I have seen much cavalry."
 "More than were here?"
 "Another full troop on their way up there."
 "Listen to it," Pilar said. "_Pobre, pobre Sordo_."
 They listened to the firing.
 "Primitivo wanted to go up there," Robert Jordan said.
 "Art thou crazy?" Pilar said to the flat-faced man. "What kind of _locos_ are we producing here?"
 "I wish to aid them."
 "_Qu?va_," Pilar said. "Another romantic. Dost thou not believe thou wilt die quick enough here without useless voyages?"
 Robert Jordan looked at her, at the heavy brown face with the high Indian cheekbones, the wide-set dark eyes and the laughing mouth with the heavy, bitter upper lip.
 "Thou must act like a man," she said to Primitivo. "A grown man. You with your gray hairs and all."
 "Don't joke at me," Primitivo said sullenly. "If a man has a little heart and a little imagination--"
 "He should learn to control them," Pilar said. "Thou wilt die soon enough with us. There is no need to seek that with strangers. As for thy imagination. The gypsy has enough for all. What a novel he told me."
 "If thou hadst seen it thou wouldst not call it a novel," Primitivo said. "There was a moment of great gravity."
 "_Qu?va_," Pilar said. "Some cavalry rode here and they rode away. And you all make yourselves a heroism. It is to this we have come with so much inaction."
 "And this of Sordo is not grave?" Primitivo said contemptuously now. He suffered visibly each time the firing came down the wind and he wanted either to go to the combat or have Pilar go and leave him alone.
 "_Total, qu?_" Pilar said. "It has come so it has come. Don't lose thy _cojones_ for the misfortune of another."
 "Go defile thyself," Primitivo said. "There are women of a stupidity and brutality that is insupportable."
 "In order to support and aid those men poorly equipped for procreation," Pilar said, "if there is nothing to see I am going."
 Just then Robert Jordan heard the plane high overhead. He looked up and in the high sky it looked to be the same observation plane that he had seen earlier in the morning. Now it was returning from the direction of the lines and it was moving in the direction of the high country where El Sordo was being attacked.
 "There is the bad luck bird," Pilar said. "Will it see what goes on there?"
 "Surely," Robert Jordan said. "If they are not blind."
 They watched the plane moving high and silvery and steady in the sunlight. It was coming from the left and they could see the round disks of light the two propellers made.
 "Keep down," Robert Jordan said.
 Then the plane was overhead, its shadows passing over the open glade, the throbbing reaching its maximum of portent. Then it was past and headed toward the top of the valley. They watched it go steadily on its course until it was just out of sight and then they saw it coming back in a wide dipping circle, to circle twice over the high country and then disappear in the direction of Segovia.
 Robert Jordan looked at Pilar. There was perspiration on her forehead and she shook her head: She had been holding her lower lip between her teeth.
 "For each one there is something," she said. "For me it is those."
 "Thou hast not caught my fear?" Primitivo said sarcastically.
 "Nay," she put her hand on his shoulder. "Thou hast no fear to catch. I know that. I am sorry I joked too roughly with thee. We are all in the same caldron." Then she spoke to Robert Jordan. "I will send up food and wine. Dost need anything more?"
 "Not in this moment. Where are the others?"
 "Thy reserve is intact below with the horses," she grinned. "Everything is out of sight. Everything to go is ready. Maria is with thy material."
 "If by any chance we _should_ have aviation keep her in the cave."
 "Yes, my Lord _Ingl廥_," Pilar said. "_Thy_ gypsy (I give him to thee) I have sent to gather mushrooms to cook with the hares. There are many mushrooms now and it seemed to me we might as well eat the hares although they would be better tomorrow or the day after."
 "I think it is best to eat them," Robert Jordan said, and Pilar put her big hand on his shoulder where the strap of the submachine gun crossed his chest, then reached up and mussed his hair with her fingers. "What an _Ingl廥_," Pilar said. "I will send the Maria with the _puchero_ when they are cooked."
 The firing from far away and above had almost died out and now there was only an occasional shot.
 "You think it is over?" Pilar asked.
 "No," Robert Jordan said. "From the sound that we have heard they have attacked and been beaten off. Now I would say the attackers have them surrounded. They have taken cover and they wait for the planes."
 Pilar spoke to Primitivo, "Thou. Dost understand there was no intent to insult thee?"
 "_Ya lo s嶱," said Primitivo. "I have put up with worse than that from thee. Thou hast a vile tongue. But watch thy mouth, woman. Sordo was a good comrade of mine."
 "And not of mine?" Pilar asked him. "Listen, flat face. In war one cannot say what one feels. We have enough of our own without taking Sordo's."
 Primitivo was still sullen.
 "You should take a physic," Pilar told him. "Now I go to prepare the meal."
 "Did you bring the documentation of the _requet?_" Robert Jordan asked her.
 "How stupid I am," she said. "I forgot it. I will send the Maria."
　　罗伯特、乔丹仰望着这时坫在监视岗上握着步枪指点着的普里米蒂伏。他点点头，但普里米蒂伏仍旧指着，把手搁在耳朵后面，接着又一股劲地指着，好象没法叫人家明白他的意思似的。
“你守住这挺枪，在确确实实肯定敌人进来之前，千万别开枪。即使开枪，也要等他们到了那树丛的时候，”罗伯特　乔丹指着。“你明白吗？”“明白。伹是一”
　　“别但是。我待会再跟你讲。现在我到普里米蒂伏那儿去。”
　　安塞尔莫就在他身边，他对老头儿说。”〃老头子，跟奥古斯丁一起在这儿守住枪，”他慢镘地、不慌不忙地说，“等骑兵真的进来了，他才可以打枪。要是他们仅仅露鳝面，就别理睬他们，象我们刚才一样。要是他不得不开火的话,你帮他按住三脚架,弹药盘打完了，就递给他满的,352
　　“好，”老头儿说。“那么拉格兰哈呢?”“以后再说。”
　　罗伯特‘乔丹往山上爬去，绕过灰色的岩石，攀住岩石往上爬时发现岩石是潮的。阳光把上面的雪迅速地晒化了。岩石顶面开始干燥。他一边爬山，一边望望对面的田野，看到了松林、一长片空地和远方高山前的斜坡。他接着在两块岩石后的空地里，站在普里米蒂伏身边，这个褐脸的矮小汉子对他说，“他们在攻打‘聋子’。我们怎么办?〃“没办法。”罗伯特　乔丹说。
　　他在这里清楚地听到枪声,他向田野望去，只见遥远的山谷那边，地势又陡起的地方，有一队骑兵从树林里穿出来，在积雪的山坡上朝着枪昀处向上爬。他看到雪地里黑黝黝的两行人马，象一个长方形，斜着向山上强行攀登。他望着这两行人马登上山脊，穿进更远处的树林。
　　“我们一定要支援他们，”普里米蒂伏说，他的音调干巴而平板办
　　“不可能。”罗伯特　乔丹对他说。“打早晨起我就料郅这个了。”
　　“什么道理，“
　　“他们昨夜去谕马-雪停了，人家跟着脚迹追琮到那里。”“我们可“定要支援他们，”普里米蒂伏说。“我们不餌眼看着他们不管。他们是我们的同志哪，“
　　罗伯特　乔丹伸手放在这个汉子的肩上。“我们无能为力，”他说。“有办法的话，我会支援他们。”“上面有条山路通到那儿。我们可以带上两挺枪，骑马走那条路　就是下面那挺和你那挺。我们可以这样支援他灼。”

　　“你听一”罗伯特-乔丹说。“我在听的就是字个呢，”普里米蒂伏说。枪声一阵接一阵地传来。接着，他们听到自动步枪清臃的连发声中响起了竽榴弹沆闷的爆炸声，
　　“他们完了。”罗伯特。乔丹说。“雪不下，他们就完了。”我们去的话，也要完。我们现有的力量不能分散。”
　　普里米蒂伏的下巴、嘴的四周和脖子上全是灰色的胡子茬。脸的其余部分全是褐色的，长着断典梁的塌鼻子和深陷的灰眼睛。罗伯特　乔丹望着他，只见他那长濂胡子茬的嘴角和脖子上的筋在抽搐。
　　“你听这枪声。”他极。“在屠杀啦。”“如果他们把那凹地包围了，就会屠杀,罗伯特”乔丹说。“可能有人逃得出来。”
　　“我们可以绕到他们背后去向他们开火。”普里米蒂伏说。“我们四个醣马去。”
　　“去了又怎么样？等你从背后向他们开火之后，又能怎么
样?”
　　“我们跟‘聋子’并肩作战。”“到那儿去送命？瞧太阳，白天还长着呢。”长空无云，阳光照在背上很热。他们下面那片空地的南坡已露出大块大块的泥土,松树上雪已全化了,淌到了地上。他们下面被融雪沾湿的岩石,这时在炎热的阳光下微微冒着热气。“你必须忍住。”罗伯特‘乔丹说。“这类事情在战争中经常有。”
　　“我们难道一点办法也没有？真这样吗?”普里米蒂伏望着他。罗伯特　乔丹明白他信任自己　“你不能派我和另外一个人带这支小机枪去。”
　　“这是没用的，”罗伯特，乔丹说。
　　他自以为看到了他在寻觅的东西，但那不过是一只苍鹰迎风而下，接着，朝上飞到最远的那一排松树上空去了　“我们一起去也没用，”他说。
　　正在这时，枪声更加激烈了，枪声中夹杂着手榷弹的沆闷的爆炸声申
　　“哼，操他们的。”普里米蒂伏噙着眼泪,双颊抽动,十分真诚地辱骂着。“噢,天主和圣母舸’操他们奶奶的。”
　　“你平静一些，”罗伯特“乔丹说。“要不了多久，你也栗向他们开火啦。那女人来了。”
　　比拉尔踩着沉重的步子，从岩石间向他们爬上来。风传来阵阵枪声，普里米蒂伏不断地骂着。”搡他们的，天主和圣母啊搡他们的。”罗伯特‘乔丹爬下去扶比拉尔上来。
　　“怎么啦，大娘，”当她费力地登上最后一块岩石时，他搵住了她两只手腕，把她拉了上来，招呼她说。
　　“你的望远镜。”她说着把望远镜的带子从脖子上脱下来　“原来‘聋子’遇上啦, 、
　　“是啊。”
　　“真可怜，”她怜惜地说。“可怜的‘聋子’。“她一路爬得气喘吁吁，把罗伯特　乔丹的手握在自己手里，紧紧握住，眺望着田野的那边。"估计打得怎么样?”“糟。很糟。”“他遭殃啦？““我看是这样吧。”

　　“真可怜。”她说。“肯定是偷了马引起的？”“可能是吧。”
　　“真可怜。”比拉尔说，接着又说,“骑兵来的那糟糕事儿，拉斐尔当小说一样原原本本告诉了我。来的是些什么人?”“一支巡逻队和一个骑兵中队的一部分。”“他们到了什么地方?”
　　罗伯特，乔丹指指巡逻队停过的地方，还指给她看隐蔽枪的地方。从他们站着的地方望去，只能望到奥古斯丁的一只靴子露出在伪装的掩护后面。
　　“吉普赛人竟然说他们带队的马儿的身子差一点碰到了机枪口上。”比拉尔说。“这种人哪1你的望远镜给忘在山洞里了。”“东西全收拾好了?”
　　“能带的都收拾好了。有巴勃罗的消息吗?〃
　　“骑兵队来前四十分钟，他就走了。他们跟着他的踪迹去的。”
　　比拉尔朝他露齿笑了。她一直握着他的手，这时才放幵。“他们永远找不到他。”她说。“现在来谈‘聋子’的问娌。我们有什么办法吗？”“没办法。”
　　“真可怜。”她说。“我很喜欢‘聋子、你肯定，他遭殃了吗, ’
　　“是啊。我看到很多骑兵。”“比这里的还多?”“还有一整队在上山。”
　　“听枪声，”比拉尔说。“真可怜，可怜的'聋子’，“他们倾听着枪声。
　　“普里米蒂伏要到那边去，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“你疯了吗？”比拉尔籾那个扁脸汉子说。“我们这儿竟然制造出这种疯子来了？”“我想支援他们。”
　　“什么话！”比拉尔说，“又是个不切实际的人。你去了也没用，即使不去，在这儿也快死了,你难道不信?”
　　罗伯特、乔丹望着她,望着她那深褐色的脸、印第安人般的高颧骨、分得很开的黑眼睛、嘲笑的嘴和带有怨意的厚上唇。
　　“你必须做得象个男子汉，”她对普里米蒂伏说。“象个成熟的男子汉。瞧你,一脸灰胡子什么的。”
　　“别取笑我，”普里米蒂伏阴沉地说。“一个人只要有一点心肠和一点头脑一”
　　“他就该僅得克制，”比拉尔说。“不一会儿，你就要跟我们一起死去啦。不要银外人　起去找死啦。说到你的头脑，吉普赛人的头脑可比谁都强軻。他跟我讲的事真象本小说。”
　　“你要是亲眼见了，就不会把它说成是小说了，”普里米蒂伏说。“刚才情况够严重的。”
　　“哪里的话！”比拉尔说。“无非是来了几个骑兵,又走了。你
们都自以为是英雄。我们闲的时间实在太长了，遇到一点小事就大惊小怪。”
　　“难道‘鸯子’目前的情况不严重?”普里米蒂伏轻蔑地说。每次风声里送来了枪声，他总显得十分难受,他希望要就去战斗，要就让比拉尔走幵,别打扰他。
　　“即使全饶上去叉怎么样?”比拉尔说。“发生的事倌已经发生了。人家碰到了不幸,你可不能把卵子都急坏了。”
　　“你自己去玩吧,普里米蒂伏说　“有些女人又蠹又狠，真叫人受不了。“
　　“自己玩也是为了支援和帮助那些不够格的男人嘛，”比拉尔说。“要是没有什么可看的，我要走了。”
　　正在这时，罗伯特　乔丹听到头顶上髙空中的飞机声。他仰起了头，看见髙空中的那架飞机，似乎就是早上看到的那架侦察机。它这时正从前线飞回来，朝着“聋子”在那儿受到围攻的髙地飞去。
　　“带来卮运的凶鸟，”比拉尔说。“它看得到那边的情况吗？”“当然看得到，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“要是他们跟睛不瞎的话。”
　　他们注视着高空的飞机在阳光中银光闪闪，稳稳当当　它从左边飞来,两个蜒旋桨转成两面光亮的圆盘儿。‘“卧倒，”罗伯特，乔丹说。
　　飞机这时飞到了头顶上空,影子掠过林间空地,轰响声达到了最凶险可惊的程度。飞机一掠而过，朝山谷那头飞去。他们望着它不慌不忙地一直飞去，最后看不见了，伹接着马上打了个朝下的大圈子又飞回来，在髙地上空转了两圈，最后朝塞寄维亚方向飞去，看不见了，
　　罗伯特　乔丹望着比拉尔。她的前额渗着汗，她摇摇头。她一直用牙齿咬着下唇。
　　“每个人都有克星，”她说，“我就怕飞机。”“你没有被我的恐惧传染上吧？”普里米蒂伏讥嘲地说。“不。”她把手按在他肩上。“你没有恐惧可传染的。这我知道，原谅我跟你玩笑开得过分了。我们都是难兄难弟。”她接着对罗伯特‘乔丹说，“我把吃的和酒就送上山来。还要些什么吧?“
　　“现在不要。其佘的人在嘛儿？”
　　“你的后备军原封不动地都在下面，和马匹在一起。”她霈齿笑着。“东西都收起来了，要带走的都已准备好。玛丽亚和你的器材在一起，“
　　“万一飞机，来,叫她待在山洞里。”“是，我的英’国老爷，”比拉尔说。“我派的吉普赛人(我把他交给你了)去采蘑菇了,打算煮兔肉。现在　有很多蘑菇，我看还是把兔子就吃了，虽说最好还是明后天吃。”
　　“我看吃掉最好。”罗伯特’乔丹说。比拉尔把她的大手放在他挂着手提机枪皮带的肩膀上，接着举起手来，用手指弄乱他的头发。“好一个英国人。”比拉尔说。“等煮好了,我叫玛丽亚端来。”
　　远处离地上的枪声差不多消失了，只偶尔还有一两声，“你看结束了吗?”比拉尔问。
　　“没有，”罗伯特　乔丹说。“从我们听到的抢声来看，他们发动了进攻,被打退了。现在依我看，进攻的敌人已经把他们包围了。敌人隐蔽了起来，在等飞机，“
　　比拉尔对普里米蒂伏说，“你呀，明白我不是有意奚落你了
　　“我巳经明白了。”普里米蒂伏说。“你讲过更难听的话，我都忍受了。你这张嘴太刻薄了，可要当心啊，大娘。‘聋子’是我的好同志。”
　　“难道不是我的好同志?”比拉尔问他。“听着，扁脸。打仗的-时候，别说什么难受高兴的啦。不算‘聋子’的烦恼，我们自己的已经够多啦。”
　　苷里米蒂伏仍然郁郁不乐，
　　“你得吃药了，”比拉尔对他说。“我现在去准备吃的。”
　　“你把那个保皇派骑兵的证明文件带来没有？”罗伯特　乔丹问她。
　　“我真蠹，”她说。“我忘了。我叫玛丽亚送来。”
Chapter 26
 It was three o'clock in the afternoon before the planes came. The snow had all been gone by noon and the rocks were hot now in the sun. There were no clouds in the sky and Robert Jordan sat in the rocks with his shirt off browning his back in the sun and reading the letters that had been in the pockets of the dead cavalryman. From time to time he would stop reading to look across the open slope to the line of the timber, look over the high country above and then return to the letters. No more cavalry had appeared. At intervals there would be the sound of a shot from the direction of El Sordo's camp. But the firing was desultory.
 From examining his military papers he knew the boy was from Tafalla in Navarra, twenty-one years old, unmarried, and the son of a blacksmith. His regiment was the Nth cavalry, which surprised Robert Jordan, for he had believed that regiment to be in the North. He was a Carlist, and he had been wounded at the fighting for Irun at the start of the war.
 I've probably seen him run through the streets ahead of the bulls at the feria in Pamplona, Robert Jordan thought. You never kill any one that you want to kill in a war, he said to himself. Well, hardly ever, he amended and went on reading the letters.
 The first letters he read were very formal, very carefully written and dealt almost entirely with local happenings. They were from his sister and Robert Jordan learned that everything was all right in Tafalla, that father was well, that mother was the same as always but with certain complaints about her back, that she hoped he was well and not in too great danger and she was happy he was doing away with the Reds to liberate Spain from the domination of the Marxist hordes. Then there was a list of those boys from Tafalla who had been killed or badly wounded since she wrote last. She mentioned ten who were killed. That is a great many for a town the size of Tafalla, Robert Jordan thought.
 There was quite a lot of religion in the letter and she prayed to Saint Anthony, to the Blessed Virgin of Pilar, and to other Virgins to protect him and she wanted him never to forget that he was also protected by the Sacred Heart of Jesus that he wore still, she trusted, at all times over his own heart where it had been proven innumerable--this was underlined--times to have the power of stopping bullets. She was as always his loving sister Concha.
 This letter was a little stained around the edges and Robert Jordan put it carefully back with the military papers and opened a letter with a less severe handwriting. It was from the boy's _novia_, his fianc嶪, and it was quietly, formally, and completely hysterical with concern for his safety. Robert Jordan read it through and then put all the letters together with the papers into his hip pocket. He did not want to read the other letters.
 I guess I've done my good deed for today, he said to himself. I guess you have all right, he repeated.
 "What are those you were reading?" Primitivo asked him.
 "The documentation and the letters of that _requet嶱 we shot this morning. Do you want to see it?"
 "I can't read," Primitivo said. "Was there anything interesting?"
 "No," Robert Jordan told him. "They are personal letters."
 "How are things going where he came from? Can you tell from the letters?"
 "They seem to be going all right," Robert Jordan said. "There are many losses in his town." He looked down to where the blind for the automatic rifle had been changed a little and improved after the snow melted. It looked convincing enough. He looked off across the country.
 "From what town is he?" Primitivo asked.
 "Tafalla," Robert Jordan told him.
 All right, he said to himself. I'm sorry, if that does any good.
 It doesn't, he said to himself.
 All right then, drop it, he said to himself.
 All right, it's dropped.
 But it would not drop that easily. How many is that you have killed? he asked himself. I don't know. Do you think you have a right to kill any one? No. But I have to. How many of those you have killed have been real fascists? Very few. But they are all the enemy to whose force we are opposing force. But you like the people of Navarra better than those of any other part of Spain. Yes. And you kill them. Yes. If you don't believe it go down there to the camp. Don't you know it is wrong to kill? Yes. But you do it? Yes. And you still believe absolutely that your cause is right? Yes.
 It is right, he told himself, not reassuringly, but proudly. I believe in the people and their right to govern themselves as they wish. But you mustn't believe in killing, he told himself. You must do it as a necessity but you must not believe in it. If you believe in it the whole thing is wrong.
 But how many do you suppose you have killed? I don't know because I won't keep track. But do you know? Yes. How many? You can't be sure how many. Blowing the trains you kill many. Very many. But you can't be sure. But of those you are sure of? More than twenty. And of those how many were real fascists? Two that I am sure of. Because I had to shoot them when we took them prisoners at Usera. And you did not mind that? No. Nor did you like it? No. I decided never to do it again. I have avoided it. I have avoided killing those who are unarmed.
 Listen, he told himself. You better cut this out. This is very bad for you and for your work. Then himself said back to him, You listen, see? Because you are doing something very serious and I have to see you understand it all the time. I have to keep you straight in your head. Because if you are not absolutely straight in your head you have no right to do the things you do for all of them are crimes and no man has a right to take another man's life unless it is to prevent something worse happening to other people. So get it straight and do not lie to yourself.
 But I won't keep a count of people I have killed as though it were a trophy record or a disgusting business like notches in a gun, he told himself. I have a right to not keep count and I have a right to forget them.
 No, himself said. You have no right to forget anything. You have no right to shut your eyes to any of it nor any right to forget any of it nor to soften it nor to change it.
 Shut up, he told himself. You're getting awfully pompous.
 Nor ever to deceive yourself about it, himself went on.
 All right, he told himself. Thanks for all the good advice and is it all right for me to love Maria?
 Yes, himself said.
 Even if there isn't supposed to be any such thing as love in a purely materialistic conception of society?
 Since when did you ever have any such conception? himself asked. Never. And you never could have. You're not a real Marxist and you know it. You believe in Liberty, Equality and Fraternity. You believe in Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. Don't ever kid yourself with too much dialectics. They are for some but not for you. You have to know them in order not to be a sucker. You have put many things in abeyance to win a war. If this war is lost all of those things are lost.
 But afterwards you can discard what you do not believe in. There is plenty you do not believe in and plenty that you do believe in.
 And another thing. Don't ever kid yourself about loving some one. It is just that most people are not lucky enough ever to have it. You never had it before and now you have it. What you have with Maria, whether it lasts just through today and a part of tomorrow, or whether it lasts for a long life is the most important thing that can happen to a human being. There will always be people who say it does not exist because they cannot have it. But I tell you it is true and that you have it and that you are lucky even if you die tomorrow.
 Cut out the dying stuff, he said to himself. That's not the way we talk. That's the way our friends the anarchists talk. Whenever things get really bad they want to set fire to something and to die. It's a very odd kind of mind they have. Very odd. Well, we're getting through today, old timer, he told himself. It's nearly three o'clock now and there is going to be some food sooner or later. They are still shooting up at Sordo's, which means that they have him surrounded and are waiting to bring up more people, probably. Though they have to make it before dark.
 I wonder what it is like up at Sordo's. That's what we all have to expect, given enough time. I imagine it is not too jovial up at Sordo's. We certainly got Sordo into a fine jam with that horse business. How does it go in Spanish? _Un callej鏮 sin salida_. A passageway with no exit. I suppose I could go through with it all right. You only have to do it once and it is soon over with. But wouldn't it be luxury to fight in a war some time where, when you were surrounded, you could surrender? _Estamos copados_. We are surrounded. That was the great panic cry of this war. Then the next thing was that you were shot; with nothing bad before if you were lucky. Sordo wouldn't be lucky that way. Neither would they when the time ever came.
 It was three o'clock. Then he heard the far-off, distant throbbing and, looking up, he saw the planes.
　　等到卞午三点，飞机才飞来。雪到中午就全化掉了，岩石如今被阳光晒得很热。喑空无云，罗伯特　乔丹坐在岩石堆中,脱掉了衬衫，让阳光晒着背脊，看那个死去的骑兵衣袋里的信件。他不时放下了信,望望宽阔的斜坡对面那排树林，望望上面的髙地，接着继续看信。再没有出现骑兵。“荣子”营地那个方向偶尔传来一声枪响。这种射击是零零碎碎的。
　　他仔细看了死者部队里的证件，知道这青年是纳瓦拉省塔法利亚人，二十一岁，未婚，是铁匠的儿子。他所厲的团队是风骑兵团，这使罗伯特，乔丹稂铭异，因为他原来以为这支部队在北方。此人拥护西班牙王室，战争初斯曾在围攻伊伦的战斗中负过伤。
　　罗伯特　乔丹想，说不定在潘普洛纳过节的时候，我见过他在街上在公牛前面奔跑躲避①。他对自己说,在战争中，你杀的任何人总不是你想杀的人。唉,差不多都不是的,他修正了自己
①潘苷洛纳为西班牙一古城,当时为纳瓦拉省省会，在这骑兵家乡塔法利亚以北。毎年七月圣费尔明节斯间，有盛大的斗牛赛，人们事先把公牛在大街上一直赶到斗牛场去，一路上喝醉了酒的居民们任惫逗弄公牛，有的甚至被牛角挑饬，但在那如醉如狂的欢乐气敢中，人们不以为意的想法，就继续看信了，
　　他看的头几封信写得十分正经仔细，谈的几乎全是当地的新闻。那是他姐姐写来的，因此罗伯特　乔丹了解到。”塔法利亚一切平安，父亲健朗，母亲还是老样子，只是有些鼷酸背痛,她祝他平安，希望他处境不太危险，她髙兴的是他正在消灭赤色分于，把西班牙从马克思主义匪帮统治下解放出来。接着是一张塔法利亚的青年的名单，自从她上次写信以来，这些人有的阵亡了，有的受了重伤。她提到了十个死者的名字，罗伯特，乔丹想。”对塔法利亚这种规摸的城市来说,死的人真不算少了。
　　这封信宗教气息很浓。她祈求圣安东尼，祈求比拉尔的圣母,祈求其他圣母①保佑他，她要他永远别忘掉，那个她相信他始终佩戴在自己胸前的耶稣基督圣心也在保佑他，这种圣心经过无数次的实例一“无数次”三字下面划了道道一证明具有阻挡枪弹的功能。她是永远爱他的姐姐孔査。
　　这封信信纸的四周有些脏，罗伯特。乔丹小心地重新把它和部队里的证件放在一起，打开一封字迹没那么端正的信。那是这靑年的未婚妻写给他的，信中隐隐地、一本正经地、十足神经质地为他的安全担心。罗伯待〃乔丹把它看了—遍，就把所有的信件和证件一起放进他的后裤袋里。他不想看其他的信了，他对自己说,看来我今天干了一件好事。他又说了一遍。”看来你确实干了一件好事。
　　“你看的是些什么东西?”普里米蒂伏问他。
　　“今天早晨我们毙掉的那个保皇派的证件和信。你要看看吗？”
①天主教各大教童、圣地及神龛往往有圣母玛丽1像，各有各的名称。此处的比拉尔为地名.

　　“我不识字，”普里米蒂伏说。“有什么要紧的事吗。”“没有，”罗伯特　乔丹对他说。“是些私人信件。““他家乡情况怎么样？你从信上能看出来吗？“看来情况不错，”罗伯特　乔丹说。〃他家乡的人伤亡很多。”他低头望着掩护自动步枪的地方,化雪后有些变样,更完醬了，看起来没有什么疑点　他转过头去眺望田野对面，“他是什么地方的人？”普里米蒂伏问　“塔法利亚，”罗伯特　乔丹告诉他。好吧，他对自己说。我感到遗憾,要是这样说有什么好处的话。
　　没什么好处啊，他对自已说。那么好吧，别想它了，他对自己说。行啦，不想了。
　　伹是要不想也不那么容易。他问自己,你杀掉的人有多少？我不知道。你以为自己有权杀人吗?没有。可是我不得不杀。你杀掉的人中间有几个是真正的法西斯分子？很少。可是他们都、是敌人，我们用武力对付他们的武力。可是你对纳瓦拉人比对西班牙任何地方的人都更有好感。对,可是你杀他们。对。如果你不相信，那么下山回苕地去看看吧。你知道杀人是伤夭害理的吗？对。可是你还是杀了？对。你仍然绝对相信自己的事业是正义的？对，他并不是为了给自己打气，而是骄傲地对自，“说　是正义的。我相信人民,相信他们有权按照自己的愿望管理自己。但是你别相信杀人啊，他对自己说。你只能在万不得已的时候才杀人，但千万别迷信杀人，如果你相信杀人的话，那就全盘都镨
了
　　但是依你看你已经杀了多少人？我不知道，因为我不想记录下来。可是你知道吗？知道。有多少呢?你就说不准有多少了　炸火车时你杀了很多。很多很多。可是你说不准。那你能说准的有多少？二十个以上。其中有几个是真正的法西斯分子？我敢肯定的有两个，因为当我在乌塞拉俘虏他们的时候，我不得不毙了他们。这你不放在心上？对。可是你不喜欢这种事吧?不喜欢。我决心不再这祥做。我避免这样做。我避免杀那些手无寸铁的人　他对自己说　听着,你还是别想这个问埋了。这对你和你的工作是很不利的，他的自我接着对他说。”你听着，知迸吗[因为你正在做一件十分严肃的事，我得使你时刻记在心上。我必须使你保持头脑清醒。因为，煆如你的头脑不是绝对清醒，你躭没权利做你在做的事,因为这一切都是罪華，谁也没权利夺取别人的生命,除非为了防止其他的人遭到更大的不幸。所以,头脑要淸醒,别骗你自己。
　　他对自己说。”伹是我不愿把我杀掉的人象战利品或者枪托上的计数刻痕那样记录下来，那使人厌恶。我有权不把被杀的人数记录下来，我有权忘掉他们。
　　他的自我说:不，你没权忘掉任何事物。对这中间的任何亊物你都无权闭眼不看、抛到脑后、加以冲淡或者壤改。
　　住口，他对自己说。你变得夸夸其谈了。 　
　　关于这件事,也决不要编自己啦，他的自我接着说，好吧，他对自己说，谢谢所有的忠告，那么我爱玛丽亚行不行呢？
他的自我说；行。
　　根据纯之又纯的唯物主义的社会观，爱情这种东西看来是稂本不存在的，那么即使这样也行吗？
　　你从什么时侯开始有这种观念的？他的自我问道。稂本没有。你根本就不可能有。你不是真正的马克思主义者，这你自己知道。你信仰“自由、平等、博爱”。你信仰“生命、自由和对幸福的追求”①。别用太多的辩证法来作弄你自己了。那是给别人应用的，不是给你的。你必须知道那一套。为，“打赢这场战争，你把很多事情搁在一边了。假如这场战争失敗的话，一切都完蛋
　　然而等到事过塊迁了，你可以摒弃你不相信的一切。你不相信的事情很多，而你相信的事情也不少。
　　还有一点。”爱情决非儿戏。问翅仅仅在于大多数人命运欠佳,得不到爱慊。你已往从没得到过爱情,现在得到了。你从玛丽亚那里得到的爱情，不管它只能持缕今天一天和明天的部分时间,或者能持续长久的一辈子，毕竟是人生所能遇到的最重大的事情。常有人说，爱情是不存在的，原因是他们得不到它。可是我对你说,爱情真是有的，你得到了它,哪怕你明天就死去，也是幸运的。
　　别谈死亡这种事情了，他对自己说。我们可不能说这种话。那是我们的朋友，无政府主义者的话鹿。每当情況真的恶化，他们就想去放火，去送死。他们的思想方法十分古怪。十分古怪。得了,今天我们快过完了，老伙计，他对自己说。现在快三点了，迟早就要有吃的东西送来了。“聋子”那里还在开火,那就是说，他们也许把他包围了，在等增拔,尽管他们必须在断黑前结束这场战斗。
①前者是法国大革命时提出的口号，后者引自美国革命时的《独立窒宫、后来写进了典国宪法，作为公民的基本权利乡两者都厲于资产阶级民主革命思想范畴　

　　我不知道“聋子”那儿的情况怎样。我们大家迟早也会遇到这种事。想来“聋子”那儿情绪不会太髙。我们叫他去摘些马来,当然会使他陷入了困境。这个词儿在西班牙语中怎么说？一条死胡同。看来我能顺利地度过这次战斗吧。这事佾只要干一次，就结束了。但是，如果有一夭在战争中你被包围了能投降的话，那么打仗不是就成为愉快的事儿了吗？“我们被包围了”这是这次战争中最令人惊慌的呼喊。其次就是你遭到枪击；如果走运的话，在这之前没有什么别的不幸了。“聋子”可不那么走运。等到轮到他们的时候，他们也不会走运了。
　　三点钟了。他听到远处的隆隆声，抬头一望，看到了飞机。
Chapter 27
 El Sordo was making his fight on a hilltop. He did not like this hill and when he saw it he thought it had the shape of a chancre. But he had had no choice except this hill and he had picked it as far away as he could see it and galloped for it, the automatic rifle heavy on his back, the horse laboring, barrel heaving between his thighs, the sack of grenades swinging against one side, the sack of automatic rifle pans banging against the other, and Joaqu璯 and Ignacio halting and firing, halting and firing to give him time to get the gun in place.
 There had still been snow then, the snow that had ruined them, and when his horse was hit so that he wheezed in a slow, jerking, climbing stagger up the last part of the crest, splattering the snow with a bright, pulsing jet, Sordo had hauled him along by the bridle, the reins over his shoulder as he climbed. He climbed as hard as he could with the bullets spatting on the rocks, with the two sacks heavy on his shoulders, and then, holding the horse by the mane, had shot him quickly, expertly, and tenderly just where he had needed him, so that the horse pitched, head forward down to plug a gap between two rocks. He had gotten the gun to firing over the horse's back and he fired two pans, the gun clattering, the empty shells pitching into the snow, the smell of burnt hair from the burnt hide where the hot muzzle rested, him firing at what came up to the hill, forcing them to scatter for cover, while all the time there was a chill in his back from not knowing what was behind him. Once the last of the five men had reached the hilltop the chill went out of his back and he had saved the pans he had left until he would need them.
 There were two more horses dead along the slope and three more were dead here on the hilltop. He had only succeeded in stealing three horses last night and one had bolted when they tried to mount him bareback in the corral at the camp when the first shooting had started.
 Of the five men who had reached the hilltop three were wounded. Sordo was wounded in the calf of his leg and in two places in his left arm. He was very thirsty, his wounds had stiffened, and one of the wounds in his left arm was very painful. He also had a bad headache and as he lay waiting for the planes to come he thought of a joke in Spanish. It was, "_Hay que tomar la muerte como si fuera aspirina_," which means, "You will have to take death as an aspirin." But he did not make the joke aloud. He grinned somewhere inside the pain in his head and inside the nausea that came whenever he moved his arm and looked around at what there was left of his band.
 The five men were spread out like the points of a five-pointed star. They had dug with their knees and hands and made mounds in front of their heads and shoulders with the dirt and piles of stones. Using this cover, they were linking the individual mounds up with stones and dirt. Joaqu璯, who was eighteen years old, had a steel helmet that he dug with and he passed dirt in it.
 He had gotten this helmet at the blowing up of the train. It had a bullet hole through it and every one had always joked at him for keeping it. But he had hammered the jagged edges of the bullet hole smooth and driven a wooden plug into it and then cut the plug off and smoothed it even with the metal inside the helmet.
 When the shooting started he had clapped this helmet on his head so hard it banged his head as though he had been hit with a casserole and, in the last lung-aching, leg-dead, mouth-dry, bulletspatting, bullet-cracking, bullet-singing run up the final slope of the hill after his horse was killed, the helmet had seemed to weigh a great amount and to ring his bursting forehead with an iron band. But he had kept it. Now he dug with it in a steady, almost machinelike desperation. He had not yet been hit.
 "It serves for something finally," Sordo said to him in his deep, throaty voice.
 "_Resistir y fortificar es vencer_," Joaqu璯 said, his mouth stiff with the dryness of fear which surpassed the normal thirst of battle. It was one of the slogans of the Communist party and it meant, "Hold out and fortify, and you will win."
 Sordo looked away and down the slope at where a cavalryman was sniping from behind a boulder. He was very fond of this boy and he was in no mood for slogans.
 "What did you say?"
 One of the men turned from the building that he was doing. This man was lying flat on his face, reaching carefully up with his hands to put a rock in place while keeping his chin flat against the ground.
 Joaqu璯 repeated the slogan in his dried-up boy's voice without checking his digging for a moment.
 "What was the last word?" the man with his chin on the ground asked.
 "_Vencer_," the boy said. "Win."
 "_Mierda_," the man with his chin on the ground said.
 "There is another that applies to here," Joaqu璯 said, bringing them out as though they were talismans, "Pasionaria says it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees."
 "_Mierda_ again," the man said and another man said, over his shoulder, "We're on our bellies, not our knees."
 "Thou. Communist. Do you know your Pasionaria has a son thy age in Russia since the start of the movement?"
 "It's a lie," Joaqu璯 said.
 "_Qu?va_, it's a lie," the other said. "The dynamiter with the rare name told me. He was of thy party, too. Why should he lie?"
 "It's a lie," Joaqu璯 said. "She would not do such a thing as keep a son hidden in Russia out of the war."
 "I wish I were in Russia," another of Sordo's men said. "Will not thy Pasionaria send me now from here to Russia, Communist?"
 "If thou believest so much in thy Pasionaria, get her to get us off this hill," one of the men who had a bandaged thigh said.
 "The fascists will do that," the man with his chin in the dirt said.
 "Do not speak thus," Joaqu璯 said to him.
 "Wipe the pap of your mother's breasts off thy lips and give me a hatful of that dirt," the man with his chin on the ground said. "No one of us will see the sun go down this night."
 El Sordo was thinking: It is shaped like a chancre. Or the breast of a young girl with no nipple. Or the top cone of a volcano. You have never seen a volcano, he thought. Nor will you ever see one. And this hill is like a chancre. Let the volcanos alone. It's late now for the volcanos.
 He looked very carefully around the withers of the dead horse and there was a quick hammering of firing from behind a boulder well down the slope and he heard the bullets from the submachine gun thud into the horse. He crawled along behind the horse and looked out of the angle between the horse's hindquarters and the rock. There were three bodies on the slope just below him where they had fallen when the fascists had rushed the crest under cover of the automatic rifle and submachine gunfire and he and the others had broken down the attack by throwing and rolling down hand grenades. There were other bodies that he could not see on the other sides of the hill crest. There was no dead ground by which attackers could approach the summit and Sordo knew that as long as his ammunition and grenades held out and he had as many as four men they could not get him out of there unless they brought up a trench mortar. He did not know whether they had sent to La Granja for a trench mortar. Perhaps they had not, because surely, soon, the planes would come. It had been four hours since the observation plane had flown over them.
 This hill is truly like a chancre, Sordo thought, and we are the very pus of it. But we killed many when they made that stupidness. How could they think that they would take us thus? They have such modern armament that they lose all their sense with overconfidence. He had killed the young officer who had led the assault with a grenade that had gone bouncing and rolling down the slope as they came up it, running, bent half over. In the yellow flash and gray roar of smoke he had seen the officer dive forward to where he lay now like a heavy, broken bundle of old clothing marking the farthest point that the assault had reached. Sordo looked at this body and then, down the hill, at the others.
 They are brave but stupid people, he thought. But they have sense enough now not to attack us again until the planes come. Unless, of course, they have a mortar coming. It would be easy with a mortar. The mortar was the normal thing and he knew that they would die as soon as a mortar came up, but when he thought of the planes coming up he felt as naked on that hilltop as though all of his clothing and even his skin had been removed. There is no nakeder thing than I feel, he thought. A flayed rabbit is as well covered as a bear in comparison. But why should they bring planes? They could get us out of here with a trench mortar easily. They are proud of their planes, though, and they will probably bring them. Just as they were so proud of their automatic weapons that they made that stupidness. But undoubtedly they must have sent for a mortar too.
 One of the men fired. Then jerked the bolt and fired again, quickly.
 "Save thy cartridges," Sordo said.
 "One of the sons of the great whore tried to reach that boulder," the man pointed.
 "Did you hit him?" Sordo asked, turning his head with difficulty.
 "Nay," the man said. "The fornicator ducked back."
 "Who is a whore of whores is Pilar," the man with his chin in the dirt said. "That whore knows we are dying here."
 "She could do no good," Sordo said. The man had spoken on the side of his good ear and he had heard him without turning his head. "What could she do?"
 "Take these sluts from the rear."
 "_Qu?va_," Sordo said. "They are spread around a hillside. How would she come on them? There are a hundred and fifty of them. Maybe more now."
 "But if we hold out until dark," Joaqu璯 said.
 "And if Christmas comes on Easter," the man with his chin on the ground said.
 "And if thy aunt had _cojones_ she would be thy uncle," another said to him. "Send for thy Pasionaria. She alone can help us."
 "I do not believe that about the son," Joaqu璯 said. "Or if he is there he is training to be an aviator or something of that sort."
 "He is hidden there for safety," the man told him.
 "He is studying dialectics. Thy Pasionaria has been there. So have Lister and Modesto and others. The one with the rare name told me."
 "That they should go to study and return to aid us," Joaqu璯 said.
 "That they should aid us now," another man said. "That all the cruts of Russian sucking swindlers should aid us now." He fired and said, "_Me cago en tal_; I missed him again."
 "Save thy cartridges and do not talk so much or thou wilt be very thirsty," Sordo said. "There is no water on this hill."
 "Take this," the man said and rolling on his side he pulled a wineskin that he wore slung from his shoulder over his head and handed it to Sordo. "Wash thy mouth out, old one. Thou must have much thirst with thy wounds."
 "Let all take it," Sordo said.
 "Then I will have some first," the owner said and squirted a long stream into his mouth before he handed the leather bottle around.
 "Sordo, when thinkest thou the planes will come?" the man with his chin in the dirt asked.
 "Any time," said Sordo. "They should have come before."
 "Do you think these sons of the great whore will attack again?"
 "Only if the planes do not come."
 He did not think there was any need to speak about the mortar. They would know it soon enough when the mortar came.
 "God knows they've enough planes with what we saw yesterday."
 "Too many," Sordo said.
 His head hurt very much and his arm was stiffening so that the pain of moving it was almost unbearable. He looked up at the bright, high, blue early summer sky as he raised the leather wine bottle with his good arm. He was fifty-two years old and he was sure this was the last time he would see that sky.
 He was not at all afraid of dying but he was angry at being trapped on this hill which was only utilizable as a place to die. If we could have gotten clear, he thought. If we could have made them come up the long valley or if we could have broken loose across the road it would have been all right. But this chancre of a hill. We must use it as well as we can and we have used it very well so far.
 If he had known how many men in history have had to use a hill to die on it would not have cheered him any for, in the moment he was passing through, men are not impressed by what has happened to other men in similar circumstances any more than a widow of one day is helped by the knowledge that other loved husbands have died. Whether one has fear of it or not, one's death is difficult to accept. Sordo had accepted it but there was no sweetness in its acceptance even at fifty-two, with three wounds and him surrounded on a hill.
 He joked about it to himself but he looked at the sky and at the far mountains and he swallowed the wine and he did not want it. If one must die, he thought, and clearly one must, I can die. But I hate it.
 Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.
 Sordo passed the wine bottle back and nodded his head in thanks. He leaned forward and patted the dead horse on the shoulder where the muzzle of the automatic rifle had burned the hide. He could still smell the burnt hair. He thought how he had held the horse there, trembling, with the fire around them, whispering and cracking, over and around them like a curtain, and had carefully shot him just at the intersection of the cross-lines between the two eyes and the ears. Then as the horse pitched down he had dropped down behind his warm, wet back to get the gun to going as they came up the hill.
 "_Eras mucho caballo_," he said, meaning, "Thou wert plenty of horse."
 El Sordo lay now on his good side and looked up at the sky. He was lying on a heap of empty cartridge hulls but his head was protected by the rock and his body lay in the lee of the horse. His wounds had stiffened badly and he had much pain and he felt too tired to move.
 "What passes with thee, old one?" the man next to him asked.
 "Nothing. I am taking a little rest."
 "Sleep," the other said. "_They_ will wake us when they come."
 Just then some one shouted from down the slope.
 "Listen, bandits!" the voice came from behind the rocks where the closest automatic rifle was placed. "Surrender now before the planes blow you to pieces."
 "What is it he says?" Sordo asked.
 Joaqu璯 told him. Sordo rolled to one side and pulled himself up so that he was crouched behind the gun again.
 "Maybe the planes aren't coming," he said. "Don't answer them and do not fire. Maybe we can get them to attack again."
 "If we should insult them a little?" the man who had spoken to Joaqu璯 about La Pasionaria's son in Russia asked.
 "No," Sordo said. "Give me thy big pistol. Who has a big pistol?"
 "Here."
 "Give it to me." Crouched on his knees he took the big 9 mm. Star and fired one shot into the ground beside the dead horse, waited, then fired again four times at irregular intervals. Then he waited while he counted sixty and then fired a final shot directly into the body of the dead horse. He grinned and handed back the pistol.
 "Reload it," he whispered, "and that every one should keep his mouth shut and no one shoot."
 "_Bandidos!_" the voice shouted from behind the rocks.
 No one spoke on the hill.
 "_Bandidos!_ Surrender now before we blow thee to little pieces."
 "They're biting," Sordo whispered happily.
 As he watched, a man showed his head over the top of the rocks. There was no shot from the hilltop and the head went down again. El Sordo waited, watching, but nothing more happened. He turned his head and looked at the others who were all watching down their sectors of the slope. As he looked at them the others shook their heads.
 "Let no one move," he whispered.
 "Sons of the great whore," the voice came now from behind the rocks again.
 "Red swine. Mother rapers. Eaters of the milk of thy fathers."
 Sordo grinned. He could just hear the bellowed insults by turning his good ear. This is better than the aspirin, he thought. How many will we get? Can they be that foolish?
 The voice had stopped again and for three minutes they heard nothing and saw no movement. Then the sniper behind the boulder a hundred yards down the slope exposed himself and fired. The bullet hit a rock and ricocheted with a sharp whine. Then Sordo saw a man, bent double, run from the shelter of the rocks where the automatic rifle was across the open ground to the big boulder behind which the sniper was hidden. He almost dove behind the boulder.
 Sordo looked around. They signalled to him that there was no movement on the other slopes. El Sordo grinned happily and shook his head. This is ten times better than the aspirin, he thought, and he waited, as happy as only a hunter can be happy.
 Below on the slope the man who had run from the pile of stones to the shelter of the boulder was speaking to the sniper.
 "Do you believe it?"
 "I don't know," the sniper said.
 "It would be logical," the man, who was the officer in command, said. "They are surrounded. They have nothing to expect but to die."
 The sniper said nothing.
 "What do you think?" the officer asked.
 "Nothing," the sniper said.
 "Have you seen any movement since the shots?"
 "None at all."
 The officer looked at his wrist watch. It was ten minutes to three o'clock.
 "The planes should have come an hour ago," he said. Just then another officer flopped in behind the boulder. The sniper moved over to make room for him.
 "Thou, Paco," the first officer said. "How does it seem to thee?"
 The second officer was breathing heavily from his sprint up and across the hillside from the automatic rifle position.
 "For me it is a trick," he said.
 "But if it is not? What a ridicule we make waiting here and laying siege to dead men."
 "We have done something worse than ridiculous already," the second officer said. "Look at that slope."
 He looked up the slope to where the dead were scattered close to the top. From where he looked the line of the hilltop showed the scattered rocks, the belly, projecting legs, shod hooves jutting out, of Sordo's horse, and the fresh dirt thrown up by the digging.
 "What about the mortars?" asked the second officer.
 "They should be here in an hour. If not before."
 "Then wait for them. There has been enough stupidity already."
 "_Bandidos!_" the first officer shouted suddenly, getting to his feet and putting his head well up above the boulder so that the crest of the hill looked much closer as he stood upright. "Red swine! Cowards!"
 The second officer looked at the sniper and shook his head. The sniper looked away but his lips tightened.
 The first officer stood there, his head all clear of the rock and with his hand on his pistol butt. He cursed and vilified the hilltop. Nothing happened. Then he stepped clear of the boulder and stood there looking up the hill.
 "Fire, cowards, if you are alive," he shouted. "Fire on one who has no fear of any Red that ever came out of the belly of the great whore."
 This last was quite a long sentence to shout and the officer's face was red and congested as he finished.
 The second officer, who was a thin sunburned man with quiet eyes, a thin, long-lipped mouth and a stubble of beard over his hollow cheeks, shook his head again. It was this officer who was shouting who had ordered the first assault. The young lieutenant who was dead up the slope had been the best friend of this other lieutenant who was named Paco Berrendo and who was listening to the shouting of the captain, who was obviously in a state of exaltation.
 "Those are the swine who shot my sister and my mother," the captain said. He had a red face and a blond, British-looking moustache and there was something wrong about his eyes. They were a light blue and the lashes were light, too. As you looked at them they seemed to focus slowly. Then "Reds," he shouted. "Cowards!" and commenced cursing again.
 He stood absolutely clear now and, sighting carefully, fired his pistol at the only target that the hilltop presented: the dead horse that had belonged to Sordo. The bullet threw up a puff of dirt fifteen yards below the horse. The captain fired again. The bullet hit a rock and sung off.
 The captain stood there looking at the hilltop. The Lieutenant Berrendo was looking at the body of the other lieutenant just below the summit. The sniper was looking at the ground under his eyes. Then he looked up at the captain.
 "There is no one alive up there," the captain said. "Thou," he said to the sniper, "go up there and see."
 The sniper looked down. He said nothing.
 "Don't you hear me?" the captain shouted at him.
 "Yes, my captain," the sniper said, not looking at him.
 "Then get up and go." The captain still had his pistol out. "Do you hear me?"
 "Yes, my captain."
 "Why don't you go, then?"
 "I don't want to, my captain."
 "You don't _want_ to?" The captain pushed the pistol against the small of the man's back. "You don't _want_ to?"
 "I am afraid, my captain," the soldier said with dignity.
 Lieutenant Berrendo, watching the captain's face and his odd eyes, thought he was going to shoot the man then.
 "Captain Mora," he said.
 "Lieutenant Berrendo?"
 "It is possible the soldier is right."
 "That he is right to say he is afraid? That he is right to say he does not _want_ to obey an order?"
 "No. That he is right that it is a trick."
 "They are all dead," the captain said. "Don't you hear me say they are all dead?'
 "You mean our comrades on the slope?" Berrendo asked him. "I agree with you."
 "Paco," the captain said, "don't be a fool. Do you think you are the only one who cared for Juli嫕? I tell you the Reds are dead. Look!"
 He stood up, then put both hands on top of the boulder and pulled himself up, kneeing-up awkwardly, then getting on his feet.
 "Shoot," he shouted, standing on the gray granite boulder and waved both his arms. "Shoot me! Kill me!"
 On the hilltop El Sordo lay behind the dead horse and grinned.
 What a people, he thought. He laughed, trying to hold it in because the shaking hurt his arm.
 "Reds," came the shout from below. "Red canaille. Shoot me! Kill me!"
 Sordo, his chest shaking, barely peeped past the horse's crupper and saw the captain on top of the boulder waving his arms. Another officer stood by the boulder. The sniper was standing at the other side. Sordo kept his eye where it was and shook his head happily.
 "Shoot me," he said softly to himself. "Kill me!" Then his shoulders shook again. The laughing hurt his arm and each time he laughed his head felt as though it would burst. But the laughter shook him again like a spasm.
 Captain Mora got down from the boulder.
 "Now do you believe me, Paco?" he questioned Lieutenant Berrendo.
 "No," said Lieutenant Berrendo.
 "_Cojones!_" the captain said. "Here there is nothing but idiots and cowards."
 The sniper had gotten carefully behind the boulder again and Lieutenant Berrendo was squatting beside him.
 The captain, standing in the open beside the boulder, commenced to shout filth at the hilltop. There is no language so filthy as Spanish. There are words for all the vile words in English and there are other words and expressions that are used only in countries where blasphemy keeps pace with the austerity of religion. Lieutenant Berrendo was a very devout Catholic. So was the sniper. They were Carlists from Navarra and while both of them cursed and blasphemed when they were angry they regarded it as a sin which they regularly confessed.
 As they crouched now behind the boulder watching the captain and listening to what he was shouting, they both disassociated themselves from him and what he was saying. They did not want to have that sort of talk on their consciences on a day in which they might die. Talking thus will not bring luck, the sniper thought. Speaking thus of the _Virgen_ is bad luck. This one speaks worse than the Reds.
 Juli嫕 is dead, Lieutenant Berrendo was thinking. Dead there on the slope on such a day as this is. And this foul mouth stands there bringing more ill fortune with his blasphemies.
 Now the captain stopped shouting and turned to Lieutenant Berrendo. His eyes looked stranger than ever.
 "Paco," he said, happily, "you and I will go up there."
 "Not me."
 "What?" The captain had his pistol out again.
 I hate these pistol brandishers, Berrendo was thinking. They cannot give an order without jerking a gun out. They probably pull out their pistols when they go to the toilet and order the move they will make.
 "I will go if you order me to. But under protest," Lieutenant Berrendo told the captain.
 "Then I will go alone," the captain said. "The smell of cowardice is too strong here."
 Holding his pistol in his right hand, he strode steadily up the slope. Berrendo and the sniper watched him. He was making no attempt to take any cover and he was looking straight ahead of him at the rocks, the dead horse, and the fresh-dug dirt of the hilltop.
 El Sordo lay behind the horse at the corner of the rock, watching the captain come striding up the hill.
 Only one, he thought. We get only one. But from his manner of speaking he is _caza mayor_. Look at him walking. Look what an animal. Look at him stride forward. This one is for me. This one I take with me on the trip. This one coming now makes the same voyage I do. Come on, Comrade Voyager. Come striding. Come right along. Come along to meet it. Come on. Keep on walking. Don't slow up. Come right along. Come as thou art coming. Don't stop and look at those. That's right. Don't even look down. Keep on coming with your eyes forward. Look, he has a moustache. What do you think of that? He runs to a moustache, the Comrade Voyager. He is a captain. Look at his sleeves. I said he was _caza mayor_. He has the face of an _Ingl廥_. Look. With a red face and blond hair and blue eyes. With no cap on and his moustache is yellow. With blue eyes. With pale blue eyes. With pale blue eyes with something wrong with them. With pale blue eyes that don't focus. Close enough. Too close. Yes, Comrade Voyager. Take it, Comrade Voyager.
 He squeezed the trigger of the automatic rifle gently and it pounded back three times against his shoulder with the slippery jolt the recoil of a tripoded automatic weapon gives.
 The captain lay on his face on the hillside. His left arm was under him. His right arm that had held the pistol was stretched forward of his head. From all down the slope they were firing on the hill crest again.
 Crouched behind the boulder, thinking that now he would have to sprint across that open space under fire, Lieutenant Berrendo heard the deep hoarse voice of Sordo from the hilltop.
 "_Bandidos!_" the voice came. "_Bandidos!_ Shoot me! Kill me!"
 On the top of the hill El Sordo lay behind the automatic rifle laughing so that his chest ached, so that he thought the top of his head would burst.
 "_Bandidos_," he shouted again happily. "Kill me, _bandidos!_" Then he shook his head happily. We have lots of company for the Voyage, he thought.
 He was going to try for the other officer with the automatic rifle when he would leave the shelter of the boulder. Sooner or later he would have to leave it. Sordo knew that he could never command from there and he thought he had a very good chance to get him.
 Just then the others on the hill heard the first sound of the coming of the planes.
 El Sordo did not hear them. He was covering the down-slope edge of the boulder with his automatic rifle and he was thinking: when I see him he will be running already and I will miss him if I am not careful. I could shoot behind him all across that stretch. I should swing the gun with him and ahead of him. Or let him start and then get on him and ahead of him. I will try to pick him up there at the edge of the rock and swing just ahead of him. Then he felt a touch on his shoulder and he turned and saw the gray, fear-drained face of Joaqu璯 and he looked where the boy was pointing and saw the three planes coming.
 At this moment Lieutenant Berrendo broke from behind the boulder and, with his head bent and his legs plunging, ran down and across the slope to the shelter of the rocks where the automatic rifle was placed.
 Watching the planes, Sordo never saw him go.
 "Help me to pull this out," he said to Joaqu璯 and the boy dragged the automatic rifle clear from between the horse and the rock.
 The planes were coming on steadily. They were in echelon and each second they grew larger and their noise was greater.
 "Lie on your backs to fire at them," Sordo said. "Fire ahead of them as they come."
 He was watching them all the time. "_Cabrones!_ _Hijos de puta!_" he said rapidly.
 "Ignacio!" he said. "Put the gun on the shoulder of the boy. Thou!" to Joaqu璯, "Sit there and do not move. Crouch over. More. No. More."
 He lay back and sighted with the automatic rifle as the planes came on steadily.
 "Thou, Ignacio, hold me the three legs of that tripod." They were dangling down the boy's back and the muzzle of the gun was shaking from the jerking of his body that Joaqu璯 could not control as he crouched with bent head hearing the droning roar of their coming.
 Lying flat on his belly and looking up into the sky watching them come, Ignacio gathered the legs of the tripod into his two hands and steadied the gun.
 "Keep thy head down," he said to Joaqu璯. "Keep thy head forward."
 "Pasionaria says 'Better to die on thy--' " Joaqu璯 was saying to himself as the drone came nearer them. Then he shifted suddenly into "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; Blessed art thou among women and Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. Holy Mary, Mother of God," he started, then he remembered quickly as the roar came now unbearably and started an act of contrition racing in it, "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee who art worthy of all my love--"
 Then there were the hammering explosions past his ears and the gun barrel hot against his shoulder. It was hammering now again and his ears were deafened by the muzzle blast. Ignacio was pulling down hard on the tripod and the barrel was burning his back. It was hammering now in the roar and he could not remember the act of contrition.
 All he could remember was at the hour of our death. Amen. At the hour of our death. Amen. At the hour. At the hour. Amen. The others all were firing. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
 Then, through the hammering of the gun, there was the whistle of the air splitting apart and then in the red black roar the earth rolled under his knees and then waved up to hit him in the face and then dirt and bits of rock were falling all over and Ignacio was lying on him and the gun was lying on him. But he was not dead because the whistle came again and the earth rolled under him with the roar. Then it came again and the earth lurched under his belly and one side of the hilltop rose into the air and then fell slowly over them where they lay.
 The planes came back three times and bombed the hilltop but no one on the hilltop knew it. Then the planes machine-gunned the hilltop and went away. As they dove on the hill for the last time with their machine guns hammering, the first plane pulled up and winged over and then each plane did the same and they moved from echelon to V-formation and went away into the sky in the direction of Segovia.
 Keeping a heavy fire on the hilltop, Lieutenant Berrendo pushed a patrol up to one of the bomb craters from where they could throw grenades onto the crest. He was taking no chances of any one being alive and waiting for them in the mess that was up there and he threw four grenades into the confusion of dead horses, broken and split rocks, and torn yellow-stained explosive-stinking earth before he climbed out of the bomb crater and walked over to have a look.
 No one was alive on the hilltop except the boy Joaqu璯, who was unconscious under the dead body of Ignacio. Joaqu璯 was bleeding from the nose and from the ears. He had known nothing and had no feeling since he had suddenly been in the very heart of the thunder and the breath had been wrenched from his body when the one bomb struck so close and Lieutenant Berrendo made the sign of the cross and then shot him in the back of the head, as quickly and as gently, if such an abrupt movement can be gentle, as Sordo had shot the wounded horse.
 Lieutenant Berrendo stood on the hilltop and looked down the slope at his own dead and then across the country seeing where they had galloped before Sordo had turned at bay here. He noticed all the dispositions that had been made of the troops and then he ordered the dead men's horses to be brought up and the bodies tied across the saddles so that they might be packed in to La Granja.
 "Take that one, too," he said. "The one with his hands on the automatic rifle. That should be Sordo. He is the oldest and it was he with the gun. No. Cut the head off and wrap it in a poncho." He considered a minute. "You might as well take all the heads. And of the others below on the slope and where we first found them. Collect the rifles and pistols and pack that gun on a horse."
 Then he walked down to where the lieutenant lay who had been killed in the first assault. He looked down at him but did not touch him.
 "_Qu?cosa m嫳 mala es la guerra_," he said to himself, which meant, "What a bad thing war is."
 Then he made the sign of the cross again and as he walked down the hill he said five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys for the repose of the soul of his dead comrade. He did not wish to stay to see his orders being carried out.
　　“聋子”在小山顼上作战。他不喜欢这座小山，他见到这座山的时候，就觉得它的形状很象下疳。伹是除了这座山之外投有其他选择。他从老远望来，看到了这座山，就选中了它，策马朝它跑来，背上背着沉重的自动步枪，马儿吃力地爬着坡，身子在他胯下颠箱，一袋手榴弹在他身体的一边晃荡着，一袋自动步枪的弹药盘碰撞着他身体的另一边。华金和伊袼纳西奥不时停一会儿，开几枪,停一会儿,开几枪，好让他有时间找个有利的地形架枪。
　　那时,使他们遭殃的雪还没化尽。“聋于”的马被打中了,因此它呼哧呼哧地喘着气，缓漫而蹒珊地爬上通向山顶的最后一段路，伤口鲜血直进，洒在雪地上，“聋子”拉着马笼头,肩上搭着马继绳，使劲拉着马一起爬山。枪弹啪啪地射在岩石上,他肩上挎着两袋沉重的弹药，拼命爬山，接着他挑了个合适的地方,抓住马鬃，利索、熟练而怀着深情地对马开了一枪。于是马儿脑袋向前栽倒，填补了两块岩石之间的缺口。他把枪架在马背上射击，射掉了两盘弹药。枪身格袼作响，空弹壳进到雪地里,搁在马身上的灼热的枪筒烫焦了马皮，散发出马鬃毛的焦糊味。他向冲上山来的敌人射击，迫使他们散开去找掩护,同时总觉得背上发毛,不知道背后会出现什么情况。等到他们五个人中间最后的一个到达了山顶，他才没有后顾之忧，保留下剩下的那几盘弹药，以备不时之冊。
　　山坡上还有两匹死马，这儿山顶上也有三匹。昨夜他只倫到三匹马，其中有一匹，当他们跟敌人一交上火，在营地的马栏里来不及备鞍就想跨上去时，拔脚逃跑了。
　　到达山顶的五个人中三个负了伤。“聋子”腿肚上受了伤，左臂上伤了两处。他非常口渴，伤口庥木发硬，左臂上有个伤口很痛。还有，他头痛欲裂，他躺着等待飞机飞来，想起了一句西班牙俏皮话,“应当象吃阿司匹林片那样地接受死亡。”但是他并没有把这甸笑话大声说出来。每当他挪动胳臂，扭头看看周围他那伙剩下的弟兄时，就感到头痛恶心。他在头痛和恶心中咧。
　　五个人象五角星的五个角尖般展开着，他们用双手双睞挖掘,用泥土和石块在头和肩膀前筑起了土墩。有了这些土墩当掩护，他们用石块和泥土把各个土墩联起来。华金十八岁，他有一个钢盔，便用来挖掘并传送泥土孩。
　　他这只头盔是在炸火车时搞到的。头盔上有个子弹窟寤，大家常常取笑他保存这头盔。伹他敲平了窟瘙边的豁口，在窟寐中打了个木塞，然后把里面的木塞头削掉，锉得和钢皮一烺枪声初响时，他猛地把钢盔套在头上,哐啷一声，好象头上给莱锅揍了一下。他的马被打死后,他肺部剧痛,两腿死沉，嘴里千渴，在子弹纷飞、枪声大作中冲上山坡最后一段路时，那顶头盔仿佛变得重极，“，象一道铁箱般箍住了他那要炸裂的前额。但是他没有丢掉它-他现在就用它不停地，简直象台机器似地拼命挖掘。他还没中弹。
　　“它总算还有点儿用处啊。”“聋子”用低沉的堠音对他说。
　　“坚持斗争就是胜利。”华金说，由于恐惧，他口腾干得不听使唤，超过了战斗时常有的口渴。那是共产党的一句口号　
　　“聋子”转过头去，望着山坡下有个骑兵躲在一块大岩石后打冷枪。他很喜欢这个小伙子，但没心情欣赏口号了，“你说什么?”
　　他们中间有个人从他在筑的工事面前转过头来　　这个人脸面籾下匍匆着，下巴抵住地面,小心翼翼地伸手放　块岩石。华金一刻不停地在挖，他用那干渴而年靑的声音把口号又说了一遍。
　　“最后一个词是什么。”下巴抵住地面的人问。。”
　　“胜利，”小伙子说。
　　“狗屁，”下巴抵住地面的人说1
　　“还有一句，这里也用得上，”华金说，仿佛这句话的每一个词是一个护身符似的，“伊芭露丽说　宁愿站着死，不愿跪着
生。“
　　“又是狗屁，”那人说。另一个人扭过头说。”“我们是伏着，不是跪着。”
　　“你明。共产党员。你的伊芭露丽有个儿子和你年岁相仿,革命开始以来，送去了俄国,你知道吗？”“那是胡扯。”华金说。
　　“什么胡祉，”另一个说。“这是那个名字古怪的爆破手跟我讲的。他也是你的同党。他干吗胡扯?”
　　“胡扯。”华金说。“把儿子藏在俄国逃避战争，她不会干这种事。”
　　“我在俄国就好了，”聋子伙里又一个说。“你的伊芭露丽现在不会把我从这里送到俄国去吧,共产党员？”
　　〃要是你这样信赖你的伊芭露丽,那么叫她帮我们离开这个山头吧，”一个大腿上绑着绑带的人说。
　　“法西斯分子会叫你离幵的。”下巴抵在泥里的人说。“别说这种话了，”华金对他说。
　　“把你嘴上你妈妈的奶水擦擦干,给我一头盔泥吧。”下巴抵住地面的人说。“我们谁也看不到今晚太阳下山了。“
　　“聋子〃在想　这座山的样子真象下疳。要不,象大姑娘没有扔头的乳房。要不，象圆锥形的火山顶。他想。”你从来没见过火山。你永远也见不着了。这座山象下疳。别提火山了。现在想看火山已经太迟啦。

①伊芭露丽为西班牙共产党创始人之一，早年即用　热情之花，为笔名为革命报刊撰文，曾霣次被捕入狱。一九三六年二月当选为议会代表。内战期间鉑终留在马德里撰写文章为共和国政府作宜传。一九三九年三月首都陷落后，她出国到苏联流亡,并到欧洲和檗国参加反佛朗哥政权的活动咨上面引的一旬话是她的名言　
　　他从死马的肩隆边万分小心地朝外望了一眼，山坡下方一块大岩石后面立刻射来一梭子弹，他听到手提机枪子弹射入马身上的噗噗声。他在马？“后面匍匐爬去，从马臀部和一块岩石之间的缺口朗外望去。就在他下面的山坡上有三具？“体，那是法西斯分子在自动步枪和手提机枪的火力掩护下肉山顶冲锋时倒下的；他当时和其他人把手榴弹扔下去，从山坡上滚下去，粉碎了这次进攻。山顶的另一边还有些？“体，他没法看到。敌人没有可以倩以冲上山顶的射击死角，而“聋子”知道,只要他的弹药和手榴弹够用，他的一伙还有四个人，敌人就没法把他从这里赶跑,除非拉来迫击炮。他不知道他们是否已派人到拉格兰哈去要迫击炮。也许没去，因为飞机当然就快来了，侦察机从他们头上飞过巳有四个小时了，
　　这座山真象下疳,“聋子”想,我们呢，就是上面的脓。但是他们愚蠢地进攻时被我们杀死了不少。他们怎么会以为这样就可以打垮我们呢？他们有了这样新式的武器，忘乎所以，昏了头啦。他们弯着腰冲上山的时侯，他扔了个手櫥弹,“騸一跳地滚下山坡，把那带头强攻的年青军官炸死了,他在1片黄色的闪光和灰色的尘雾中看到这个军官身子朝前一冲，栽倒在他这时躺着的地方，象一大堆披烂的农服。这是他们进攻所达到的最远的地方。“聋子”望望这具？“体,然后望着山坡下方的其他？“体。
　　这帮家伙有勇无谋，他想。但是他们现在头脑清醒了,飞机到来之前不再进攻了。当然啦，除非他们派来“尊迫击炮。有了迫击炮就好办了。这种情況下一般都用迫击炮。他知道，迫击炮一来他们就会完蛋,但是当他想到要来飞机的时候,他觉得自己在山顶上一充遮蔽，好象赤身裸体，甚至连皮肤都被扒掉了似的，他想,我觉得没有比这更赤裸棵的了　相形之下,一只剥皮的兔子也象一头熊那样有遮盖的了，可是他们干吗赛派飞机来?他们用一尊迫击炮就可以轻而易举地把我们从山上轰走。然而他们认为他们的飞机了不起，说不定会派飞机来。正象他们认为他们的自动武器了不起,于是就干出了那种蠹事。可是不用说,他们一定巳经去调迫击炮了。
　　有人开了一枪，随即猛的一拉枪栓，又开了一枪。“要节省子弹，”“聋子”说。
　　“有个老婊子养的想冲到那块岩石后面，”那人指着。“你打中他没有？”“聋子”困难地转过头来问，“没有，”那人说。“杂种缩回去了。”“比拉尔是头号婊子，”下巴抵在泥里的那人说，“这婊子知道我们在这儿要完蛋了。”
　　“她帮不了忙，”“聋子”说。那人这句话是在他那只正常的耳朵一边说的，他不用回头就听到了，“她有什么办法?”“从背后干这些婊子养的，“
　　“什么话。”“聋子”说。"他们布满了整个山坡。她怎样下手打他们呢？他们有一百五十人。现在说不定更多了。”“不过，要是我们能坚持到天黑的话。”华金说。“要是圣诞节成了复活节的话。”下巴抵在泥里的人说。“要是你大婶有卵子的话,她就成了你大伯了，”另一个对他说。“叫你的伊芭露丽来吧。只有她能保佑我们了。”
　　〃我不信关于她儿子的说法，”华金说〃“如果他在那儿，准是在受训练，将来当飞机驾驶员什么的。” 、
　　“他躲在那儿保险,”那人对他说。
　　“他正在学辩证法。你的伊芭鼉丽到那儿去过。利斯特和莫德斯托那一帮人都去过，这是那个怪名字的家伙跟我讲的。”

　　“他们应该到那边去学习好了回来帮助我们。”华金说。“他们现在就应该来帮助我们，”另“个说。“那伙肮脏的俄国骗子手现在都该来帮助我们。”他又打了一枪说。”“我搡他的,义没打中。”
　　“要节省子弹，话别太多,要不然会很口渴,聋子”说，—这儿山上没水。”
　　“喝这个吧，”那人说着,侧过身子从头上退下挎在肩上的皮酒袋，递给“聋子”。“湫湫口，老伙计。你受了伤，一定。艮口浪。”
　　“大家喝。”“聋子”说。
　　“那我来先喝一点，”主人说着，把酒袋一挤，喷了好些酒在自己嘴里，这才把它递给大家。
　　“‘聋子’，你看飞机什么时候来？”下巴抵在泥里的人问，
　　“随时都会来，?聋子”说。“他们早该来了。”“你认为这些老婊子养的会再进攻吗?”“只要飞机不来。”
　　他觉得没必要提追击炮。迫击炮一来,他们马上会明白的，“我的天主，拿我们昨夭看到的来说，他们的飞机是够多的。”
　　"太多啦"聋子”说，
　　他头痛得厉害，一条胳膊僅硬得一动就痛得简直受不了。他用那条好胳膊举起皮酒袋,同时仰望着那明净蔚藍的初夏天空，他五十二岁了，他相信这准是他最后一次看到那样的天空了，
　　他一点也不怕死，但气愤的是给困在这座只能当作葬身之地的小山上。他想。”如果我们能够脱身，如果我们能迫使他们从那长长的山谷中过来，或者我们能突出去,穿过那公路，那就好了。可是这座下疳般的山哪。我们必须尽可能好好利用这座山的地形，到目前为止，我们利用得满不错。
　　如果他知道历史上有许多人不得不用一座小山作为葬身之地，他的情绪不会因此而高一些，因为在他当时的情况下，人们不会关心别人在相同情况下的遭遇，正如一个新寡的妇人不会由于得知别人心爱的丈夫去世而凭添慰藉。不管一个人怕不怕死,死亡是难以接受的。“聋子”不怕死,但尽管他已经五十二岁，身上三处负伤，被困在山上,死亡还是没有可爱的地方。
　　他在心里拿这个来开玩笑，但他望望天空，望望远处的山岭,喝了口酒,却并不想死。他想，要是人一定要死的话一显然人是非死不可的一那么我可以死。只是我讨厌死啊，死没什么了不起，他心中投有死的图景，也没有对死的惧怕。但是山坡上麦浪起伏的田地、天空中的苍麼、打稻筛谷时秣屑飞扬中喝的一陶罐水、你胯下的马儿、一条腿下夹着的卡宾枪、小山、河谷、两岸长着树木的小溪、河谷的那一边以及远方的群山，这一切都生意盎然。
　　〃聋子”交还皮酒袋，点头致谢。他向前欠身,拍拍被自动步枪枪筒烫焦皮的死马肩头。他仍能闻到马鬃毛的焦味。他回想到当时子弹在他们头上和四周嘘嘘而过,密集得象帷幕，他怎样把战栗的马牵到这里，小心地对准马儿两眼和两耳之间的连结线的交叉点打了一枪。然后，乘马栽倒的时候,他立刻伏在那暖和而潮湿的马背后,架好枪射击冲上山来的故人。’“真是匹了不起的好马，”他说，“聋子〃这时把身子没受伤的一侧貼在地上，仰望着天空。他躺在一堆空弹壳上，他的头有岩石遮掩着，身体伏在马？“背后。他感到伤口僅硬,痛得厉害,他觉得疲乏得没法动弹了。“
　　“你怎么啦，老伙计?”他身边的人问他。“没什么。我休息一会儿。”
　　“睡吧，”身边那人说。来的时候会吵醒我们的。”正在这时，山坡下有人“喊　了。
　　“听着，土匪！”声音来自架着离他们最近的自动步枪的岩石后面。“飞机一来要把你们炸得粉身碎骨，现在就投降吧。”“他说什么?”“聋子”问。
　　华金告诉了他。“聋子”侧身一滚,抬起上半身,这样又鳟伏在枪后面了。
　　“飞机也许不会就来，”他说。“别答理他们，别开枪　说不定我们可以引他们再来攻。”
　　“我们骂他们几声怎么样?”那个跟华金谈起伊芭露丽的儿子在俄国的人问。
　　“不行，�