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struggle had to be.
    â€œAnd yet here I am today. When I finally arrive to join my coreligionists, instead of welcoming me with open arms, they lock me up in a pigsty . . .”
    Morning arrived: the roosters crowed in the shacks, while the chickens stirred about on the branches of the huisache trees in the corral, spread their wings out, ruffled their feathers, and jumped straight down to the ground.
    Luis Cervantes observed his guards, lying down in the manure, snoring. In his imagination the physiognomies of the two men from the evening before came back to life. One, Pancracio, was light-haired, beardless, with a freckled face, protruding chin, flat, slanted forehead, ears smeared onto his cranium, and all in all he displayed a bestial appearance. The other, Lard, barely looked human, with sunken, grim eyes, thick, always parted reddish lips, and very straight hair that came down to his neck, over his forehead and ears.
    Once again Luis Cervantes began to tremble.

VII
    Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand over the curled tufts of hair covering his wet forehead, pushed it aside toward one of his ears, and opened his eyes.
    He heard the melodious feminine voice he had already been hearing distinctly in his dreams, and turned toward the door.
    It was daytime: the rays of sunlight darted through the hut’s straw roof. The same girl who, the evening before, had offered him a little gourd full of deliciously cold water (his dreams throughout the night), now entered—just as sweet and affectionate—with a pot of milk, its foam spilling over.
    â€œIt’s goat’s milk, and it’s more than good. Go on now, try it.”
    Grateful, Demetrio smiled, sat up, and took the earthenware bowl. He started taking small sips without moving his eyes from the girl.
    Restless, she lowered hers.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œCamila.”
    â€œI’m likin’ that name, and even more your sweet little voice.”
    Camila blushed all over. Then, seeing that he tried to reach out and grab her wrist, she picked up the empty bowl and very quickly fled the hut, frightened.
    â€œNo, compadre Demetrio,” Anastasio Montañés remarked seriously. “You have to break ’em in first. H’m. If I was to tell you all the marks that women have left on my body! I’ve got a lot of experience with all that.”
    â€œI feel fine, compadre,” Demetrio said, pretending he had not heard him. “I think I got the chills. I sweated a lot and woke up very refreshed. What’s still bothering me is the damned wound. Call Venancio so he can cure me.”
    â€œSo what should we do with that curro who I caught last night, then?” Pancracio asked.
    â€œOh, tha’s right! I’d forgotten all about ’im.”
    Demetrio, as always, thought and hesitated much before making a decision.
    â€œLet’s see, Quail, come here. Listen. Find out how to get to a chapel tha’s about three leagues from here. Then go and steal the priest’s cassock.”
    â€œBut what are we gonna do, compadre?” Anastasio asked, dumbfounded.
    â€œIf this curro has come to kill me, it’s very easy to get the truth out of ’im. I’ll tell ’im that I’m havin’ ’im shot to death. Then Quail dresses up like a priest and takes his confession. If he confesses to the sin, I do ’im in. If not, I let ’im go.”
    â€œH’m, so much ado! I should’ve just blasted ’im and finished it right then and there,” Pancracio exclaimed contemptuously.
    That evening Quail returned with the priest’s cassock. Demetrio had the prisoner brought to him.
    Luis Cervantes came in. He had not slept or eaten in two days, his face was pale, he had bags under his eyes, and his lips were colorless and parched.
    He spoke slowly and awkwardly.
    â€œDo with me what you will. I was probably wrong about you and your men.”
    There was a drawn-out