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Chapter 43

           Nowtheycouldseethehorsestiedtothetrees,thesuncomingdownonthemthroughthepinebranchesandthemtossingtheirheadsandkickingagainstthebotfliesandRobertJordansawMariaandthenextthinghewasholdinghertight,tight,withtheautomaticrifleleaningagainsthisside,theflash-conepressingagainsthisribsandMariasaying,"Thou,Roberto.Oh,thou."

           "Yes,rabbit.Mygood,goodrabbit.Nowwego."

           "Artthouheretruly?"

           "Yes.Yes.Truly.Oh,thou!"

           Hehadneverthoughtthatyoucouldknowthattherewasawomaniftherewasbattle;northatanypartofyoucouldknowit,orrespondtoit;northatiftherewasawomanthatsheshouldhavebreastssmall,roundandtightagainstyouthroughashirt;northatthey,thebreasts,couldknowaboutthetwooftheminbattle.Butitwastrueandhethought,good.That’sgood.Iwouldnothavebelievedthatandheheldhertohimoncehard,hard,buthedidnotlookather,andthenheslappedherwhereheneverhadslappedherandsaid,"Mount.Mount.Getonthatsaddle,guapa."

           ThentheywereuntyingthehaltersandRobertJordanhadgiventheautomaticriflebacktoAgustínandslunghisownsubmachinegunoverhisback,andhewasputtingbombsoutofhispocketsintothesaddlebags,andhestuffedoneemptypackinsidetheotherandtiedthatonebehindhissaddle.ThenPilarcameup,sobreathlessfromtheclimbshecouldnottalk,butonlymotioned.

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