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"
That
’
s
the
wormwood
,
"
Robert
Jordan
told
him
.
"
In
this
,
the
real
absinthe
,
there
is
wormwood
.
It
’
s
supposed
to
rot
your
brain
out
but
I
don
’
t
believe
it
.
It
only
changes
the
ideas
.
You
should
pour
water
into
it
very
slowly
,
a
few
drops
at
a
time
.
But
I
poured
it
into
the
water
.
"
"
What
are
you
saying
?
"
Pablo
said
angrily
,
feeling
the
mockery
.
"
Explaining
the
medicine
,
"
Robert
Jordan
told
him
and
grinned
.
"
I
bought
it
in
Madrid
.
It
was
the
last
bottle
and
it
’
s
lasted
me
three
weeks
.
"
He
took
a
big
swallow
of
it
and
felt
it
coasting
over
his
tongue
in
delicate
anæsthesia
.
He
looked
at
Pablo
and
grinned
again
.
"
How
’
s
business
?
"
he
asked
.
Pablo
did
not
answer
and
Robert
Jordan
looked
carefully
at
the
other
three
men
at
the
table
.
One
had
a
large
flat
face
,
flat
and
brown
as
a
Serrano
ham
with
a
nose
flattened
and
broken
,
and
the
long
thin
Russian
cigarette
,
projecting
at
an
angle
,
made
the
face
look
even
flatter
.
This
man
had
short
gray
hair
and
a
gray
stubble
of
beard
and
wore
the
usual
black
smock
buttoned
at
the
neck
.
He
looked
down
at
the
table
when
Robert
Jordan
looked
at
him
but
his
eyes
were
steady
and
they
did
not
blink
.
The
other
two
were
evidently
brothers
.
They
looked
much
alike
and
were
both
short
,
heavily
built
,
dark
haired
,
their
hair
growing
low
on
their
foreheads
,
dark
-
eyed
and
brown
.
One
had
a
scar
across
his
forehead
above
his
left
eye
and
as
he
looked
at
them
,
they
looked
back
at
him
steadily
.
One
looked
to
be
about
twenty
-
six
or
-
eight
,
the
other
perhaps
two
years
older
.
"
What
are
you
looking
at
?
"
one
brother
,
the
one
with
the
scar
,
asked
.
"
Thee
,
"
Robert
Jordan
said
.
"
Do
you
see
anything
rare
?
"
"
No
,
"
said
Robert
Jordan
.
"
Have
a
cigarette
?
"
