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"Well, I'll soon find out if this tenderfoot came here
to murder me. I'll tell him he's to be shot, see, and
Quail will put on the priest's robes, say that he's a
priest and hear his confession. If he's got anything up
his sleeve, he'll come out with it, and then I'll shoot
him. Otherwise I'll let him go."
"God, there's a roundabout way to tackle the question.
If I were you, I'd just shoot him and let it go at
that," said Pancracio contemptuously.
That night Quail returned with the priest's robes;
Demetrio ordered the prisoner to be led in. Luis Cervantes
had not eaten or slept for two days, there were
deep black circles under his eyes; his face was deathly
pale, his lips dry and colorless. He spoke awkwardly,
slowly: "You can do as you please with me. . . . I am
convinced I was wrong to come looking for you."
There was a prolonged silence. Then:
"I thought that you would welcome a man who comes
to offer his help, with open arms, even though his help
was quite worthless. After all, you might perhaps have
found some use for it. What, in heaven's name, do I
stand to gain, whether the revolution wins or loses"
Little by little he grew more animated; at times the
languor in his eyes disappeared.
"The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant, all
those who have been slaves all their lives, all the unhappy
people who do not even suspect they are poor because
the rich who stand above them, the rich who rule
them, change their sweat and blood and tears into
gold. . .
"Well, what the hell is the gist of all this palaver
I'll be damned if I can stomach a sermon," Pancracio
broke in.
"I wanted to fight for the sacred cause of the oppressed,
but you don't understand . . . you cast me
aside. . . . Very well, then, you can do as you please