ppened."

Camilla's eyes were red from weeping.

"He lied to me! He lied! He came to the ranch and he told me, 'Camilla,
I came just to get you. Do you want to go away with me?' You can be
sure I wanted to go with him; when it comes to loving, I adore him.
Yes, I adore him. Look how thin I've grown just pining away for him.
Mornings I used to loathe to grind corn, Mamma would call me to eat,
and anything I put in my mouth had no taste at all."

Once more she burst into tears, stuffing the corner of her apron into
her mouth to drown her sobs.

"Look here, I'll help you out of this mess. Don't be silly, child,
don't cry. Don't think about the dude any more! Honest to God, he's not
worth it. You surely know his game, dear? ... That's the only reason
why the General stands for him. What a goose! ... All right, you want
to go back home?"

"The Holy Virgin protect me. My mother would beat me to death!"

"She'll do nothing of the sort. You and I can fix things. Listen! The
soldiers are leaving any moment now. When Demetrio tells you to get
ready, you tell him you feel pains all over your body as though someone
had hit you; then you lie down and start yawning and shivering. Then
put your hand on your forehead and say, 'I'm burning up with fever.'
I'll tell Demetrio to leave us both here, that I'll stay to take care
of you, that as soon as you're feeling all right again, we'll catch up
with them. But instead of that, I'll see that you get home safe and
sound."

VIII

The sun had set, the town was lost in the drab melancholy of its
ancient streets amid the frightened silence of its inhabitants, who had
retired very early, when Luis Cervantes reached Primitivo's general
store, his arrival interrupting a party that promised great doings.

Demetrio was engaged in getting drunk with his old comrades. The entire
space before the bar was occupied. War Paint and Blondie had tied up
their horses outside; but the other officers had stormed in brutally,
horses and all. Embroidered hats with enormous and concave brims bobbed
up and down everywhere. The horses wheeled about, prancing; tossing
their restive heads; their fine breed showing in their black eyes,
their small ears and dilating nostrils. Over the infernal din of the
drunkards, the heavy breathing of the horses, the stamp of their hoofs
on the tiled floor, and occasionally a quick, nervous whinny rang out.

A trivial episode was being commented upon when Luis Cervant