"That's all right. I'll open it," Pancracio answered,
lowering his rifle and pointing it at the lock.

"No, no," Demetrio said, "knock first."


Three blows with the butt of the rifle. Three more.
No answer. Pancracio disobeys orders. He fires, smash-
ing the lock. The door opens. Behind, a confusion of
skirts and children's bare legs rushing to and fro, pell-
mell.

"I want wine. Hey, there: wine!" Demetrio cries in an
imperious voice, pounding heavily on a table.

"Sit down, boys."

A lady peeps out, another, a third; from among black
skirts, the heads of frightened children. One of the
women, trembling, walks toward a cupboard and, taking
out some glasses and a bottle, serves wine.

"What arms have you?" Demetrio demands harshly.

"Arms, arms . . . ?" the lady answers, a taste of
ashes on her tongue. "What arms do you expect us to
have! We are respectable, lonely old ladies!"

"Lonely, eh! Where's Senor Monico?"