ncracio, hand me your
bayonet. Damn these rich people, they lock up everything they've got!"

She dug the steel point through the crack of a drawer and, pressing on
the hilt, broke the lock, opened the splinted cover of a writing desk.
Anastasio, Pancracio and War Paint plunged their hands into a mass of
post cards, photographs, pictures and papers, scattering them all over
the rug. Finding nothing he wanted, Pancracio gave vent to his anger by
kicking a framed photograph into the air with the toe of his shoe. It
smashed on the candelabra in the center of the room.

They pulled their empty hands out of the heap of paper, cursing. But
War Paint was of sterner stuff; tirelessly she continued to unlock
drawer after drawer without failing to investigate a single spot. In
their absorption, they did not notice a small gray velvet-covered box
which rolled silently across the floor, coming to a stop at Luis
Cervantes' feet.

Demetrio, lying on the rug, seemed to be asleep; Cervantes, who had
watched everything with profound indifference, pulled the box closer to
him with his foot, and stooping to scratch his ankle, swiftly picked it
up. Something gleamed up at him, dazzling. It was two pure-water
diamonds mounted in filigreed platinum. Hastily he thrust them inside
his coat pocket.

When Demetrio awoke, Cervantes said:

"General, look at the mess these boys have made here. Don't you think
it would be advisable to forbid this sort of thing?"

"No. It's about their only pleasure after putting their bellies up as
targets for the enemy's bullets."

"Yes, of course, General, but they could do it somewhere else. You see,
this sort of thing hurts our prestige, and worse, our cause!"

Demetrio leveled his eagle eyes at Cervantes. He drummed with his
fingernails against his teeth, absent-mindedly. Then:

"Come along, now, don't blush," he said. "You can talk like that to
someone else. We know what's mine is mine, what's yours is yours. You
picked the box, all right; I picked my gold watch; all right too!"

His words dispelled any pretense. Both of them, in perfect harmony,
displayed their booty.

War Paint and her companions were ransacking the rest of the house.
Quail entered the room with a twelve-year-old girl upon whose forehead
and arms were already marked copper-colored spots. They stopped short,
speechless with surprise as they saw the books lying in piles on the
floor, chairs and tables, the large mirrors thrown to