make yourself at home and don't ask anyone for any-
thing. What the hell is the use of the revolution? Who's
it for? For the folks who live in towns? We're the city
folk now, see? Come on, Pancracio, hand me your bayo-
net. Damn these rich people, they lock up everything
they've got!"

She dug the steel point through the crack of a drawer
and, pressing on the hilt, broke the lock, opened the
splinted cover of a writing desk. Anastasio, Pancracio
and War Paint plunged their hands into a mass of post
cards, photographs, pictures and papers, scattering them
all over the rug. Finding nothing he wanted, Pancracio
gave vent to his anger by kicking a framed photograph
into the air with the toe of his shoe. It smashed on the
candelabra in the center of the room.

They pulled their empty hands out of the heap of paper,
cursing. But War Paint was of sterner stuff; tirelessly she
continued to unlock drawer after drawer without failing
to investigate a single spot. In their absorption, they did
not notice a small gray velvet-covered box which rolled
silently across the floor, coming to a stop at Luis Cer-
vantes' feet.

Demetrio, lying on the rug, seemed to be asleep; Cer-
vantes, who had watched everything with profound in-
difference, pulled the box closer to him with his foot, and
stooping to scratch his ankle, swiftly picked it up. Some-
thing gleamed up at him, dazzling. It was two pure-water