es.

"Are you Luis Cervantes?"

"Yes. You're Solis, eh?"

"The moment you entered I thought I recognized you. Well, well, even
now I can hardly believe my eyes!"

"It's true enough!"

"Well, but ... look here, let's have a drink, come along." Then:

"Hm," Solis went on, offering Cervantes a chair, "since when have you
turned rebel?"

"I've been a rebel the last two months!"

"Oh, I see! That's why you speak with such faith and enthusiasm about
things we all felt when we joined the revolution."

"Have you lost your faith or enthusiasm?"

"Look here, man, don't be surprised if I confide in you right off. I am
so anxious to find someone intelligent among this crowd, that as soon
as I get hold of a man like you I clutch at him as eagerly as I would
at a glass of water, after walking mile after mile through a parched
desert. But frankly, I think you should do the explaining first. I
can't understand how a man who was correspondent of a Government
newspaper during the Madero regime, and later editorial writer on a
Conservative journal, who denounced us as bandits in the most fiery
articles, is now fighting on our side."

"I tell you honestly: I have been converted," Cervantes answered.

"Are you absolutely convinced?"

Solis sighed, filled the glasses; they drank.

"What about you? Are you tired of the revolution?" asked Cervantes
sharply.

"Tired? My dear fellow, I'm twenty-five years old and I'm fit as a
fiddle! But am I disappointed? Perhaps!"

"You must have sound reasons for feeling that way."

"I hoped to find a meadow at the end of the road. I found a swamp.
Facts are bitter; so are men. That bitterness eats your heart out; it
is poison, dry rot. Enthusiasm, hope, ideals, happiness-vain dreams,
vain dreams.... When that's over, you have a choice. Either you turn
bandit, like the rest, or the timeservers will swamp you...."

Cervantes writhed at his friend's words; his argument was quite out of
place ... painful.... To avoid being forced to take issue, he invited
Solis to cite the circumstances that had destroyed his illusions.

"Circumstances? No--it's far less important than that. It's a host of
silly, insignificant things that no one notices except yourself ... a
change of expression, eyes shining-lips curled in a sneer-the deep
import of a phrase that is lost! Yet take these things together and
they compose the mask of our race ... terrible ... grotesque ... a race
that awaits redempt