army which was to camp nearby that night, the man
smoking, who owned the place, bid them enter with great
deference. He ran to fetch a broom and a pail of water
to dust and wash the best corner of the hut as decent
lodging for his distinguished guests.

"Here, 'Pifanio, go out there and unsaddle the horses."

The man who was shelling corn stood up with an
effort. He was clad in a tattered shirt and vest. His
torn trousers, split at the seam, looked like the wings of
a cold, stricken bird; two strings of cloth dangled from
his waist. As he walked, he described grotesque circles.

"Surely you're not fit to do any work!" Demetrio said,
refusing to allow him to touch the saddles.

"Poor man," the owner cried from within the hut,
"he's lost all his strength. . . . But he surely works for
his pay. . . . He starts working the minute God Almighty
himself gets up, and it's after sundown now but he's
working still!"

Demetrio went out with Camilla for a stroll about
the encampment. The meadow, golden, furrowed, stripped
even of the smallest bushes, extended limitless in its im-
mense desolation. The three tall ash trees which stood
in front of the small house, with dark green crests, round
and waving, with rich foliage and branches drooping to
the very ground, seemed a veritable miracle.