Such a stillness around her as she spoke, the stillness of the mountains. He didn’t remember that dawn part after reaching Nogales, but she remembered it all. There was another thing now that he dared to ponder a moment, because he was locked up in this place of birth--no, death. ‘We will know all about everything when the time comes.’ How much did she mean by that? It would likely be a lot harder to keep on looking for Bart, after letting these memories have their way, but was there to be any more mission? Was this not the end--a cell in Arecibo? His eyes focalized again on the moonlit patio. Deserted and ashen white now, but he was seeing once more the figures of the condemned men--that face of the youth with the guitar and song of the corn-dust maiden--one of the boys who had ridden with Monte Vallejo, ridden with Bart, perhaps. Elbert had fallen asleep and awakened again to find the silvery sheen gone from the patio. Gray light was there, but no moonlight. A calling of Mexican names: ‘Revas--Marcè--Trastorno--Sarpullir--’ There were one or two more, but he missed hearing the names, curiously struck by the meaning of the last ‘Sarpullir’--‘to be covered with flea-bites,’ as he recalled from his Spanish book. Now the clanging of an iron door broke in upon him, and a thudding on the turf, which he recognized without having heard it before--the dropping of rifle-butts as the pieces were stacked. The Mexican voice was still carrying on. It made him think of the voice of the phonograph record back home, announcing the singer of ‘La Paloma.’ Straight across the patio, one of the sentries was unlocking a cell door. The sentry stood back, as the prisoner emerged. Neither hurried. The prisoner made the sign of the cross, and then held forth his hand. The sentry gave him a cigarette and struck the match on his own box. Then they moved forward--out of sight. Elbert was on his feet now, rubbing his eyes. It had all been mixed with his dream so far, but now he knew that it was really dawn and the Mexican voice was telling off the deaths of ‘Sarpullir’ and the others. The one across the patio had moved forward to the wall. It was altogether incredible. The rurale’s story of yesterday, all the stories of death he had ever heard, did not make the present moment believable. It could not be so, here and now.... Men fell off horses, off cliffs, out of parachutes; men were run over by cars, blown to pieces in mines, broken by many labors and inventions, but men could not be put to death--a’ sangre fria--at daybreak by other men!