"My name is Luis Cervantes, sir. I'm a medical student and a journalist. I wrote a piece in favor of the revolution, you see; as a result, they persecuted me, caught me, and finally landed me in the barracks."
His ensuing narrative was couched in terms of such detail and expressed in terms so melodramatic that it drew guffaws of mirth from Pancracio and Manteca.
"All I've tried to do is to make myself clear on this point. I want you to be convinced that I am truly one of your coreligionists...."
"What's that? What did you say? Car ... what?" Demetrio asked, bringing his ear close to Cervantes.
"Coreligionist, sir, that is to say, a person who possesses the same religion, who is inspired by the same ideals, who defends and fights for the same cause you are now fighting for."
Demetrio smiled:
"What are we fighting for? That's what I'd like to know."
In his disconcertment, Luis Cervantes could find no reply.
"Look at that mug, look at 'im! Why waste any time, Demetrio? Let's shoot him," Pancracio urged impatiently.
Demetrio laid a hand on his hair which covered his ears, and stretching himself out for a long time, seemed to be lost in thought. Having found no solution, he said: