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Chapter 3

           Thesentrywasstanding,hisbacktowardthem,atthefarendofthebridge.Fromthegorgecamethenoiseofthestreamintheboulders.Thenthroughthisnoisecameanothernoise,asteady,racketingdroneandtheysawthesentrylookingup,hisknittedcapslantedback,andturningtheirheadsandlookinguptheysaw,highintheeveningsky,threemonoplanesinVformation,showingminuteandsilveryatthatheightwheretherestillwassun,passingunbelievablyquicklyacrossthesky,theirmotorsnowthrobbingsteadily.

           "Ours?"Anselmoasked.

           "Theyseemso,"RobertJordansaidbutknewthatatthatheightyounevercouldbesure.Theycouldbeaneveningpatrolofeitherside.Butyoualwayssaidpursuitplaneswereoursbecauseitmadepeoplefeelbetter.Bomberswereanothermatter.

           Anselmoevidentlyfeltthesame."Theyareours,"hesaid."Irecognizethem.TheyareMoscas."

           "Good,"saidRobertJordan."TheyseemtometobeMoscas,too."

           "TheyareMoscas,"Anselmosaid.

           RobertJordancouldhaveputtheglassesonthemandbeensureinstantlybuthepreferrednotto.Itmadenodifferencetohimwhotheyweretonightandifitpleasedtheoldmantohavethembeours,hedidnotwanttotakethemaway.Now,astheymovedoutofsighttowardSegovia,theydidnotlooktobethegreen,redwing-tipped,lowwingRussianconversionoftheBoeingP32thattheSpaniardscalledMoscas.Youcouldnotseethecolorsbutthecutwaswrong.No.ItwasaFascistPatrolcominghome.

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