said
Anastasio Montanez. "Why the hell didn't you pump your lead in his
brain, Pancracio?"

"What's he talking about, anyhow? I can't make head nor tail of it. He
says he wants to see Demetrio and that he's got plenty to say to him.
But that's all right: we've got plenty of time to do anything we damn
well please so long as you're in no hurry, that's all," said Pancracio,
loading his gun.

"What kind of beasts are you?" the prisoner cried. He could say no
more: Anastasio's fist, crashing down upon his face, sent his head
turning on his neck, covered with blood.

"Shoot the half-breed!"

"Hang him!"

"Burn him alive; he's a lousy Federal."

In great excitement, they yelled and shrieked and were about to fire at
the prisoner.

"Sssh! Shut up! I think Demetrio's talking now," Anastasio said,
striving to quiet them. Indeed, Demetrio, having ascertained the cause
of the turmoil, ordered them to bring the prisoner before him.

"It's positively infamous, senor; look," Luis Cervantes said, pointing
to the bloodstains on his trousers and to his bleeding face.

"All right, all right. But who in hell are you? That's what I want to
know," Demetrio said.

"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical student and a
journalist. I wrote a piece in favor of the revolution, you see; as a
result, they persecuted me, caught me, and finally landed me in the
barracks."

His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such detail and expressed
in terms so melodramatic that it drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio
and Manteca.

"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this point. I want you
to be convinced that I am truly one of your coreligionists...."

"What's that? What did you say? Car ... what?" Demetrio asked, bringing
his ear close to Cervantes.

"Coreligionist, sir, that is to say, a person who possesses the same
religion, who is inspired by the same ideals, who defends and fights
for the same cause you are now fighting for."

Demetrio smiled:

"What are we fighting for? That's what I'd like to know."

In his disconcertment, Luis Cervantes could find no reply.

"Look at that mug, look at 'im! Why waste any time, Demetrio? Let's
shoot him," Pancracio urged impatiently.

Demetrio laid a hand on his hair which covered his ears, and stretching
himself out for a long time, seemed to be lost in thought. Having found
no solution, he said:

"Get out, all of you; it's aching again. Anastasio put out the candle.