As his eyes became used to the starlight he could see that Pablo was standing by one of the horses. The horse lifted his head from grazing; then dropped it impatiently. Pablo was standing by the horse, leaning against him, moving with him as he swung with the length of the picket rope and patting him on the neck. The horse was impatient at the tenderness while he was feeding. Robert Jordan could not see what Pablo was doing, nor hear what he was saying to the horse, but he could see that he was neither unpicketing nor saddling. He sat watching him, trying to think his problem out clearly.
"Thou my big good little pony," Pablo was saying to the horse in the dark; it was the big bay stallion he was speaking to. "Thou lovely white-faced big beauty. Thou with the big neck arching like the viaduct of my pueblo," he stopped. "But arching more and much finer." The horse was snatching grass, swinging his head sideways as he pulled, annoyed by the man and his talking. "Thou art no woman nor a fool," Pablo told the bay horse. "Thou, oh, thou, thee, thee, my big little pony. Thou art no woman like a rock that is burning. Thou art no colt of a girl with cropped head and the movement of a foal still wet from its mother. Thou dost not insult nor lie nor not understand. Thou, oh, thee, oh my good big little pony."
It would have been very interesting for Robert Jordan to have heard Pablo speaking to the bay horse but he did not hear him because now, convinced that Pablo was only down checking on his horses, and having decided that it was not a practical move to kill him at this time, he stood up and walked back to the cave. Pablo stayed in the meadow talking to the horse for a long time. The horse understood nothing that he said; only, from the tone of the voice, that they were endearments and he had been in the corral all day and was hungry now, grazing impatiently at the limits of his picket rope, and the man annoyed him. Pablo shifted the picket pin finally and stood by the horse, not talking now. The horse went on grazing and was relieved now that the man did not bother him.
6
Inside the cave, Robert Jordan sat on one of the rawhide stools in a corner by the fire listening to the woman. She was washing the dishes and the girl, Maria, was drying them and putting them away, kneeling to place them in the hollow dug in the wall that was used as a shelf.
"It is strange," she said. "That El Sordo has not come. He should have been here an hour ago."
"Did you advise him to come?"
"No. He comes each night."
"Perhaps he is doing something. Some work."
"It is possible," she said. "If he does not come we must go to see him tomorrow."
"Yes. Is it far from here?"
"No. It will be a good trip. I lack exercise."
"Can I go?" Maria asked. "May I go too, Pilar?"
"Yes, beautiful," the woman said, then turning her big face, "Isn't she pretty?" she asked Robert Jordan. "How does she seem to thee? A little thin?"
"To me she seems very well," Robert Jordan said. Maria filled his cup with wine. "Drink that," she said. "It will make me seem even better. It is necessary to drink much of that for me to seem beautiful."
"Then I had better stop," Robert Jordan said. "Already thou seemest beautiful and more."
"That's the way to talk," the woman said. "You talk like the good ones. What more does she seem?"
"Intelligent," Robert Jordan said lamely. Maria giggled and the woman shook her head sadly. "How well you begin and how it ends, Don Roberto."
"Don't call me Don Roberto."
"It is a joke. Here we say Don Pablo for a joke. As we say the Senorita Maria for a joke."
"I don't joke that way," Robert Jordan said. "Camarada to me is what all should be called with seriousness in this war. In the joking commences a rottenness."
"Thou art very religious about thy politics," the woman teased him. "Thou makest no jokes?"
"Yes. I care much for jokes but not in the form of address. It is like a flag."
"I could make jokes about a flag. Any flag," the woman laughed. "To me no one can joke of anything. The old flag of yellow and gold we called pus and blood. The flag of the Republic with the purple added we call blood, pus and permanganate. It is a joke."
"He is a Communist," Maria said. "They are very serious _gente_."
"Are you a Communist?"
"No I am an anti-fascist."
"For a long time?"
"Since I have understood fascism."
"How long is that?"
"For nearly ten years."
"That is not much time," the woman said. "I have been a Republican for twenty years."
"My father was a Republican all his life," Maria said. "It was for that they shot him."
"My father was also a Republican all his life. Also my grandfather," Robert Jordan said.
"In what country?"
"The United States."
"Did they shoot them?" the woman asked.
"_Que va_," Maria said. "The United States is a country of Republicans. They don't shoot you for being a Republican there."
"All the same it is a good thing to have a grandfather who was a Republican," the woman said. "It shows a good blood."
"My grandfather was on the Republican national committee," Robert Jordan said. That impressed even Maria.
"And is thy father still active in the Republic?" Pilar asked.
"No. He is dead."
"Can one ask how he died?"
"He shot himself."
"To avoid being tortured?" the woman asked.
"Yes," Robert Jordan said. "To avoid being tortured."
Maria looked at him with tears in her eyes. "My father," she said, "could not obtain a weapon. Oh, I am very glad that your father had the good fortune to obtain a weapon."
"Yes. It was pretty lucky," Robert Jordan said. "Should we talk about something else?"
"Then you and me we are the same," Maria said. She put her hand on his arm and looked in his face. He looked at her brown face and at the eyes that, since he had seen them, had never been as young as the rest of her face but that now were suddenly hungry and young and wanting.
"You could be brother and sister by the look," the woman said. "But I believe it is fortunate that you are not."
"Now I know why I have felt as I have," Maria said. "Now it is clear."
"_Que va_," Robert Jordan said and reaching over, he ran his hand over the top of her head. He had been wanting to do that all day and now he did it, he could feel his throat swelling. She moved her head under his hand and smiled up at him and he felt the thick but silky roughness of the cropped head rippling between his fingers. Then his hand was on her neck and then he dropped it.
"Do it again," she said. "I wanted you to do that all day."
"Later," Robert Jordan said and his voice was thick.
"And me," the woman of Pablo said in her booming voice. "I am expected to watch all this? I am expected not to be moved? One cannot. For fault of anything better; that Pablo should come back."
Maria took no notice of her now, nor of the others playing cards at the table by the candlelight.
"Do you want another cup of wine, Roberto?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Why not?"
"You're going to have a drunkard like I have," the woman of Pablo said. "With that rare thing he drank in the cup and all. Listen to me, _Ingles_."
"Not _Ingles_. American."
"Listen, then, American. Where do you plan to sleep?"
"Outside. I have a sleeping robe."
"Good," she said. "The night is clear?"
"And will be cold."
"Outside then," she said. "Sleep thee outside. And thy materials can sleep with me."
"Good," said Robert Jordan.
"Leave us for a moment," Robert Jordan said to the girl and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Why?"
"I wish to speak to Pilar."
"Must I go?"
"Yes."
"What is it?" the woman of Pablo said when the girl had gone over to the mouth of the cave where she stood by the big wineskin, watching the card players.
"The gypsy said I should have--" he began.
"No," the woman interrupted. "He is mistaken."
"If it is necessary that I--" Robert Jordan said quietly but with difficulty.
"Thee would have done it, I believe," the woman said. "Nay, it is not necessary. I was watching thee. But thy judgment was good."
"But if it is needful--"
"No," the woman said. "I tell you it is not needful. The mind of the gypsy is corrupt."
"But in weakness a man can be a great danger."
"No. Thou dost not understand. Out of this one has passed all capacity for danger."
"I do not understand."
"Thou art very young still," she said. "You will understand." Then, to the girl, "Come, Maria. We are not talking more."
The girl came over and Robert Jordan reached his hand out and patted her head. She stroked under his hand like a kitten. Then he thought that she was going to cry. But her lips drew up again and she looked at him and smiled.
"Thee would do well to go to bed now," the woman said to Robert Jordan. "Thou hast had a long journey."
"Good," said Robert Jordan. "I will get my things."
7
He was asleep in the robe and he had been asleep, he thought, for a long time. The robe was spread on the forest floor in the lee of the rocks beyond the cave mouth and as he slept, he turned, and turning rolled on his pistol which was fastened by a lanyard to one wrist and had been by his side under the cover when he went to sleep, shoulder and back weary, leg-tired, his muscles pulled with tiredness so that the ground was soft, and simply stretching in the robe against the flannel lining was voluptuous with fatigue. Waking, he wondered where he was, knew, and then shifted the pistol from under his side and settled happily to stretch back into sleep, his hand on the pillow of his clothing that was bundled neatly around his rope-soled shoes. He had one arm around the pillow.
Then he felt her hand on his shoulder and turned quickly, his right hand holding the pistol under the robe.
"Oh, it is thee," he said and dropping the pistol he reached both arms up and pulled her down. With his arms around her he could feel her shivering.
"Get in," he said softly. "It is cold out there."
"No. I must not."
"Get in," he said. "And we can talk about it later."
She was trembling and he held her wrist now with one hand and held her lightly with the other arm. She had turned her head away.
"Get in, little rabbit," he said and kissed her on the back of the neck.
"I am afraid."
"No. Do not be afraid. Get in."
"How?"
"Just slip in. There is much room. Do you want me to help you?"
"No," she said and then she was in the robe and he was holding her tight to him and trying to kiss her lips and she was pressing her face against the pillow of clothing but holding her arms close around his neck. Then he felt her arms relax and she was shivering again as he held her.
"No," he said and laughed. "Do not be afraid. That is the pistol."
He lifted it and slipped it behind him.
"I am ashamed," she said, her face away from him.
"No. You must not be. Here. Now."
"No, I must not. I am ashamed and frightened."
"No. My rabbit. Please."
"I must not. If thou dost not love me."
"I love thee."
"I love thee. Oh, I love thee. Put thy hand on my head," she said away from him, her face still in the pillow. He put his hand on her head and stroked it and then suddenly her face was away from the pillow and she was in his arms, pressed close against him, and her face was against his and she was crying.
He held her still and close, feeling the long length of the young body, and he stroked her head and kissed the wet saltiness of her eyes, and as she cried he could feel the rounded, firm-pointed breasts touching through the shirt she wore.
"I cannot kiss," she said. "I do not know how."
"There is no need to kiss."
"Yes. I must kiss. I must do everything."
"There is no need to do anything. We are all right. But thou hast many clothes."
"What should I do?"
"I will help you."
"Is that better?"
"Yes. Much. It is not better to thee?"
"Yes. Much better. And I can go with thee as Pilar said?"
"Yes."
"But not to a home. With thee."
"No, to a home."
"No. No. No. With thee and I will be thy woman."
Now as they lay all that before had been shielded was unshielded. Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happymaking, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight-held loneliness that was such that Robert Jordan felt he could not stand it and he said, "Hast thou loved others?"
"Never."
Then suddenly, going dead in his arms, "But things were done to me."
"By whom?"
"By various."
Now she lay perfectly quietly and as though her body were dead and turned her head away from him.
"Now you will not love me."
"I love you," he said.
But something had happened to him and she knew it.
"No," she said and her voice had gone dead and flat. "Thou wilt not love me. But perhaps thou wilt take me to the home. And I will go to the home and I will never be thy woman nor anything."
