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"
We
had
won
the
town
and
it
was
still
early
in
the
morning
and
no
one
had
eaten
nor
had
any
one
drunk
coffee
and
we
looked
at
each
other
and
we
were
all
powdered
with
dust
from
the
blowing
up
of
the
barracks
,
as
powdered
as
men
are
at
a
threshing
,
and
I
stood
holding
the
pistol
and
it
was
heavy
in
my
hand
and
I
felt
weak
in
the
stomach
when
I
looked
at
the
guards
dead
there
against
the
wall
;
they
all
as
gray
and
as
dusty
as
we
were
,
but
each
one
was
now
moistening
with
his
blood
the
dry
dirt
by
the
wall
where
they
lay
.
And
as
we
stood
there
the
sun
rose
over
the
far
hills
and
shone
now
on
the
road
where
we
stood
and
on
the
white
wall
of
the
barracks
and
the
dust
in
the
air
was
golden
in
that
first
sun
and
the
peasant
who
was
beside
me
looked
at
the
wall
of
the
barracks
and
what
lay
there
and
then
looked
at
us
and
then
at
the
sun
and
said
,
‘
Vaya
,
a
day
that
commences
.
’
"
‘
Now
let
us
go
and
get
coffee
,
’
I
said
.
"
‘
Good
,
Pilar
,
good
,
’
he
said
.
And
we
went
up
into
the
town
to
the
Plaza
,
and
those
were
the
last
people
who
were
shot
in
the
village
.
"
"
What
happened
to
the
others
?
"
Robert
Jordan
asked
.
"
Were
there
no
other
fascists
in
the
village
?
"
"
Qué
va
,
were
there
no
other
fascists
?
There
were
more
than
twenty
.
But
none
was
shot
.
"
"
What
was
done
?
"
"
Pablo
had
them
beaten
to
death
with
flails
and
thrown
from
the
top
of
the
cliff
into
the
river
.
"
"
All
twenty
?
"
"
I
will
tell
you
.
It
is
not
so
simple
.
And
in
my
life
never
do
I
wish
to
see
such
a
scene
as
the
flailing
to
death
in
the
plaza
on
the
top
of
the
cliff
above
the
river
.
