‘Ah!’ said the younger soldier thoughtfully.
Concepçion looked at him.
‘What have you in your mind?’ he asked.
‘I was wondering how three men could best kill six.’
‘Out of six,’ said the older man, ‘there is always one who runs away. I have found it so in my experience.’
‘And of five there is always one who cannot use his knife,’ added Concepçion.
Still the younger soldier, who had medals all across his chest, shook his head.
‘I am afraid,’ he said. ‘I am always afraid before I fight.’
Concepçion looked at the man whom General Vincente had selected from a brigade of tried soldiers, and gave a little upward jerk of the head.
‘With me,’ he said, ‘it is afterwards—when all is over. Then my hand shakes, and the wet trickles down my face.’