le we get only lousy paper money printed in that
murderer's factory, that's what we get, yes, that's ours, I tell you!"

The majority of the soldiers spoke in much the same tenor. Even a top
sergeant candidly confessed, "Yes, I enlisted all right. I wanted to.
But, by God, I missed the right side by a long shot. What you can't
make in a lifetime, sweating like a mule and breaking your back in
peacetime, damn it all, you can make in a few months just running
around the sierra with a gun on your back, but not with this crowd,
dearie, not with this lousy outfit ...."

Luis Cervantes, who already shared this hidden, implacably mortal
hatred of the upper classes, of his officers, and of his superiors,
felt that a veil had been removed from his eyes; clearly, now, he saw
the final outcome of the struggle. And yet what had happened? The first
moment he was able to join his coreligionists, instead of welcoming him
with open arms, they threw him into a pigsty with swine for company.

Day broke. The roosters crowed in the huts. The chickens perched in the
huizache began to stretch their wings, shake their feathers, and fly
down to the ground.

Luis Cervantes saw his guards lying on top of a dung heap, snoring. In
his imagination, he reviewed the features of last night's men. One,
Pancracio, was pockmarked, blotchy, unshaven; his chin protruded, his
forehead receded obliquely; his ears formed one solid piece with head
and neck--a horrible man. The other, Manteca, was so much human refuse;
his eyes were almost hidden, his look sullen; his wiry straight hair
fen over his ears, forehead and neck; his scrofulous lips hung
eternally agape. Once more, Luis Cervantes felt his flesh quiver.

VII

Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand through his ruffled hair, which
hung over his moist forehead, pushed it back over his ears, and opened
his eyes.

Distinctly he heard the woman's melodious voice which he had already
sensed in his dream. He walked toward the door.

It was broad daylight; the rays of sunlight filtered through the thatch
of the hut.

The girl who had offered him water the day before, the girl of whom he
had dreamed all night long, now came forward, kindly and eager as ever.
This time she carried a pitcher of milk brimming over with foam.

"It's goat's milk, but fine just the same. Come on now: taste it."

Demetrio smiled gratefully, straightened up, grasped the clay pitcher,
and proceeded to drink the milk in lit