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Updated: May 7, 2025
After a long pause, he continued: "You ask me why I am still a rebel? Well, the revolution is like a hurricane: if you're in it, you're not a man ... you're a leaf, a dead leaf, blown by the wind." Demetrio reappeared. Seeing him, Solis relapsed into silence. "Come along," Demetrio said to Cervantes. "Come with me."
With all haste, Anastasio Montanez helped Demetrio up behind him on his horse; the others retreated, seeking shelter along the walls of the houses. "Hey, men," said a workman sticking his head out of a large door, "go for 'em through the back of the chapel. They're all in there. Cut back through this street, then turn to the left; you'll reach an alley.
Moyahua is almost like my native town. They'll say this is why we've been fighting!" Demetrio said, looking at the bulging sack of silver Cervantes was passing to him. Cervantes left his seat to squat down by Demetrio's side. He stretched a blanket over the floor and into it poured the ten-peso pieces, shining, burning gold.
"Our horses are pretty tired, Anastasio. I think we ought to stay here at least another day." "Well, Compadre Demetrio, I'm hankering for the sierra.... If you only knew.... You may not believe me but nothing strikes me right here. I don't know what I miss but I know I miss something. I feel sad ... lost...." "How many hours' ride from here to Limon?"
Every horse was saddled; the men were waiting only for orders from the Chief. Demetrio went up to War Paint and said under his breath: "You're not coming with us." "What!" she gasped. "You're going to stay here or go wherever you damn well please, but you're not coming along with us." "What? What's that you're saying?" Still she could not catch Demetrio's meaning. Then the truth dawned upon her.
Demetrio recognized the limping servant and asked him: "How much do you get a day?" "Eight cents a day, boss." He was an insignificant, scrofulous wraith of a man with green eyes and straight, fair hair. He whined complaint of his boss, the ranch, his bad luck, his dog's life. "You certainly earn your pay all right, my lad," Demetrio interrupted kindly.
Heavy, plated mirrors, brass candlesticks, fragile, delicate statues, Chinese vases, any object not readily convertible into cash fell by the wayside in fragments. Demetrio did not share the untoward exaltation. After all, they were retreating defeated. He called Montanez and Pancracio aside and said: "These fellows have no guts. It's not so hard to take a town. It's like this.
From across the hill close by, three sharp whistles answered his signal. In the distance, from a conical heap of reeds and dry straws, man after man emerged, one after the other, their legs and chests naked, lambent and dark as old bronze. They rushed forward to greet Demetrio, and stopped before him, askance. "They've burnt my house," he said.
These escaping cicadas, it may be, are symbolical of matrimony the individual man and woman freed, at last, from the dungeon-like horrors of celibate existence; or, if that parallel be far-fetched, we may conjecture that their liberation represents the afflatus of the human soul, aspiring upwards to merge its essence into the Divine All. . . . The pride of San Demetrio is its college.
Did he know why? I don't know why. Maybe he knew, I never knew. His head lowered, his hands crossed over the pommel of his saddle, Demetrio in melancholy accents sang the strains of the intriguing song. Then he fell silent; for quite a while he continued to feel oppressed and sad. "You'll see, as soon as we reach Lagos you'll come out of it, General.
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