And he welcomed the rain, for now the mist had changed to rain; he welcomed the cool of it, walking back to the house: he liked the fresh smell.
The chapel bell had stopped tolling but now someone dragged at its rope again and the sound seemed to bring great gouts of rain and Raul and Manuel hurried toward the kitchen. They sat down at a table near the tiled stove and gulped coffee. Manuel touched the side of his head and the side of his neck, barely brushing the skin. Raul wanted to ask him how he felt but he couldn't put the words together.
A bearlike man, dirty and rain-soaked, came in, asking for food. No one had seen him before. He spoke out, both hands on a crooked staff, his voice quavering and wild:
"I've just come across Petaca. The peons are leaving. I've seen 'em ... many of them. They're just walking away."
Raul gouged a line across the rough table with his thumbnail: the line divided Petaca: so much for the workers, so much for himself. He wouldn't relinquish more.
He damned the blundering peasants: without proper clothing or food they were forsaking Petaca for more insecurity, hunger and beatings. They were deserting their families.
The bearlike fellow droned on about the peasants. Then, suddenly he stopped, put down his staff, and spat:
"Have you heard about General Matanzas?"
"No, I haven't," said Raul.
"He's sided with the revolutionists!"