AS they came up, still deep in the shadow of the pines, after dropping down from the high meadow into the wooden valley and climbing up it on a trail that paralleled the stream and then left it to gain, steeply, the top of a rim-rock formation, a man with a carbine stepped out from behind a tree.
“Halt,” he said. Then, “Hola, Pilar. Who is this with thee?”
“An Inglés,” Pilar said. “But with a Christian name – Roberto. And what an obscenity of steepness it is to arrive here.”
“Salud, Camarada,” the guard said to Robert Jordan and put out his hand. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” said Robert Jordan. “And thee?”
“Equally,” the guard said. He was very young, with a light build, thin, rather hawk-nosed face, high cheekbones and gray eyes. He wore no hat, his hair was black and shaggy and his handclasp was strong and friendly. His eyes were friendly too.
“Hello, Maria,” he said to the girl. “You did not tire yourself?”
“Qué va, Joaquín,” the girl said. “We have sat and talked more than we have walked.”
“Are you the dynamiter?” Joaquín asked. “We have heard you were here.”
“We passed the night at Pablo’s,” Robert Jordan said. “Yes, I am the dynamiter.”
“We are glad to see you,” Joaquín said. “Is it for a train?”
“Were you at the last train?” Robert Jordan asked and smiled.
“Was I not,” Joaquín said. “That’s where we got this,” he grinned at Maria. “You are pretty now,” he said to Maria. “Have they told thee how pretty?”
“Shut up, Joaquín, and thank you very much,” Maria said. “You’d be pretty with a haircut.”
“I carried thee,” Joaquín told the girl. “I carried thee over my shoulder.”
“As did many others,” Pilar said in the deep voice. “Who didn’t carry her? Where is the old man?”
“At the camp.”
“Where was he last night?”
“In Segovia.”
“Did he bring news?”
“Yes,” Joaquín said, “there is news.”
“Good or bad?”
“I believe bad.”
“Did you see the planes?”
“Ay,” said Joaquín and shook his head. “Don’t talk to me of that. Comrade Dynamiter, what planes were those?”
“Heinkel one eleven bombers. Heinkel and Fiat pursuit,” Robert Jordan told him.
“What were the big ones with the low wings?”
“Heinkel one elevens.”
“By any names they are as bad,” Joaquín said. “But I am delaying you. I will take you to the commander.”
“The commander?” Pilar asked.
Joaquín nodded seriously. “I like it better than ‘chief,” he said. “It is more military.”
“You are militarizing heavily,” Pilar said and laughed at him.
“No,” Joaquín said. “But I like military terms because it makes orders clearer and for better discipline.”
“Here is one according to thy taste Inglés,” Pilar said. “A very serious boy.”
“Should I carry thee?” Joaquín asked the girl and put his arm on her shoulder and smiled in her face.
“Once was enough,” Maria told him. “Thank you just the same.”
“Can you remember it?” Joaquín asked her.
“I can remember being carried,” Maria said. “By you, no. I remember the gypsy because he dropped me so many times. But I thank thee, Joaquín, and I’ll carry thee sometime.”
“I can remember it well enough,” Joaquín said. “I can remember holding thy two legs and thy belly was on my shoulder and thy head over my back and thy arms hanging down against my back.”
“Thou hast much memory,” Maria said and smiled at him. “I remember nothing of that. Neither thy arms nor thy shoulders nor thy back.”
“Do you want to know something?” Joaquín asked her.
“What is it?”
“I was glad thou wert hanging over my back when the shots were coming from behind us.”
“What a swine,” Maria said. “And was it for this the gypsy too carried me so much?”
“For that and to hold onto thy legs.”
“My heroes,” Maria said. “My saviors.”
“Listen, guapa,” Pilar told her. “This boy carried thee much, and in that moment thy legs said nothing to any one. In that moment only the bullets talked clearly. And if he would have dropped thee he could soon have been out of range of the bullets.”
“I have thanked him,” Maria said. “And I will carry him sometime. Allow us to joke. I do not have to cry, do I, because he carried me?”
“I’d have dropped thee,” Joaquín went on teasing her. “But I was afraid Pilar would shoot me.”
“I shoot no one,” Pilar said.
“No hace falta,” Joaquín told her. “You don’t need to. You scare them to death with your mouth.”
“What a way to speak,” Pilar told him. “And you used to be such a polite little boy. What did you do before the movement, little boy?”
“Very little,” Joaquín said. “I was sixteen.”