Cervantes writhed at his friend's words; his argument
was quite out of place . . . painful. . . . To avoid being
forced to take issue, he invited Solis to cite the cir-
cumstances that had destroyed his illusions.

"Circumstances? No--it's far less important than that.
It's a host of silly, insignificant things that no one notices
except yourself . . . a change of expression, eyes shin-
ing-lips curled in a sneer-the deep import of a phrase
that is lost! Yet take these things together and they com-
pose the mask of our race . . . terrible . . . grotesque . . .
a race that awaits redemption!"

He drained another glass. After a long pause, he con-
tinued:

"You ask me why I am still a rebel? Well, the revolu-
tion is like a hurricane: if you're in it, you're not a man
. . . you're a leaf, a dead leaf, blown by the wind."

Demetrio reappeared. Seeing him, Solis relapsed into
silence.

"Come along," Demetrio said to Cervantes. "Come
with me."

Unctuously, Solis congratulated Demetrio on the
feats that had won him fame and the notice of Pancho
Villa's northern division.