said, pointing to the bloodstains on his trousers and to his
bleeding face.

"All right, all right. But who in hell are you? That's
what I want to know," Demetrio said.

"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical stu-
dent and a journalist. I wrote a piece in favor of the
revolution, you see; as a result, they persecuted me,
caught me, and finally landed me in the barracks."

His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such
detail and expressed in terms so melodramatic that it
drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio and Manteca.

"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this
point. I want you to be convinced that I am truly
one of your coreligionists. . . ."

"What's that? What did you say? Car . . . what?"
Demetrio asked, bringing his ear close to Cervantes.

"Coreligionist, sir, that is to say, a person who posses-
ses the same religion, who is inspired by the same ideals,
who defends and fights for the same cause you are now
fighting for."

Demetrio smiled:

"What are we fighting for? That's what I'd like to