"I cannot kiss," she said. "I do not know how."

"There is no need to kiss."

"Yes. I must kiss. I must do everything."

"There is no need to do anything. We are all right. But thou hast many clothes."

"What should I do?"

"I will help you."

"Is that better?"

"Yes. Much. It is not better to thee?"

"Yes. Much better. And I can go with thee as Pilar said?"

"Yes."

"But not to a home. With thee."

"No, to a home."

"No. No. No. With thee and I will be thy woman."

Now as they lay all that before had been shielded was unshielded. Where there had been roughness of fabric all was smooth with a smoothness and firm rounded pressing and a long warm coolness, cool outside and warm within, long and light and closely holding, closely held, lonely, hollow-making with contours, happymaking, young and loving and now all warmly smooth with a hollowing, chest-aching, tight-held loneliness that was such that Robert Jordan felt he could not stand it and he said, "Hast thou loved others?"

"Never."

Then suddenly, going dead in his arms, "But things were done to me."

"By whom?"

"By various."

Now she lay perfectly quietly and as though her body were dead and turned her head away from him.

"Now you will not love me."

"I love you," he said.

But something had happened to him and she knew it.

"No," she said and her voice had gone dead and flat. "Thou wilt not love me. But perhaps thou wilt take me to the home. And I will go to the home and I will never be thy woman nor anything."

"I love thee, Maria."

"No. It is not true," she said. Then as a last thing pitifully and hopefully.

"But I have never kissed any man."

"Then kiss me now."

"I wanted to," she said. "But I know not how. Where things were done to me I fought until I could not see. I fought until- until-until one sat upon my head-and I bit him-and then they tied my mouth and held my arms behind my head-and others did things to me."

"I love thee, Maria," he said. "And no one has done anything to thee. Thee, they cannot touch. No one has touched thee, little rabbit."

"You believe that?"

"I know it."

"And you can love me?" warm again against him now.

"I can love thee more."

"I will try to kiss thee very well."

"Kiss me a little."

"I do not know how."

"Just kiss me."

She kissed him on the cheek.

"No."

"Where do the noses go? I always wondered where the noses would go."

"Look, turn thy head," and then their mouths were tight together and she lay close pressed against him and her mouth opened a little gradually and then, suddenly, holding her against him, he was happier than he had ever been, lightly, lovingly, exultingly, innerly happy and unthinking and untired and unworried and only feeling a great delight and he said, "My little rabbit. My darling. My sweet. My long lovely."

"What do you say?" she said as though from a great distance away.

"My lovely one," he said.

They lay there and he felt her heart beating against his and with the side of his foot he stroked very lightly against the side of hers.

"Thee came barefooted," he said.

"Yes."

"Then thee knew thou wert coming to the bed."

"Yes."

"And you had no fear."

"Yes. Much. But more fear of how it would be to take my shoes off."

"And what time is it now? lo sabes?"

"No. Thou hast no watch?"

"Yes. But it is behind thy back."

"Take it from there."

"No."

"Then look over my shoulder."

It was one o'clock. The dial showed bright in the darkness that the robe made.

"Thy chin scratches my shoulder."

"Pardon it. I have no tools to shave."

"I like it. Is thy beard blond?"

"Yes."

"And will it be long?"

"Not before the bridge. Maria, listen. Dost thou-?"

"Do I what?"

"Dost thou wish?"

"Yes. Everything. Please. And if we do everything together, the other maybe never will have been."

"Did you think of that?"

"No. I think it in myself but Pilar told me."

"She is very wise."

"And another thing," Maria said softly. "She said for me to tell you that I am not sick. She knows about such things and she said to tell you that."

"She told you to tell me?"

"Yes. I spoke to her and told her that I love you. I loved you when I saw you today and I loved you always but I never saw you before and I told Pilar and she said if I ever told you anything about anything, to tell you that I was not sick. The other thing she told me long ago. Soon after the train."

"What did she say?"

"She said that nothing is done to oneself that one does not accept and that if I loved some one it would take it all away. I wished to die, you see."

"What she said is true."

"And now I am happy that I did not die. I am so happy that I did not die. And you can love me?"

"Yes. I love you now."

"And I can be thy woman?"

"I cannot have a woman doing what I ao. But thou art my woman now."

"If once I am, then I will keep on. Am I thy woman now?"

"Yes, Maria. Yes, my little rabbit."

She held herself tight to him and her lips looked for his and then found them and were against them and he felt her, fresh, new and smooth and young and lovely with the warm, scalding coolness and unbelievable to be there in the robe that was as familiar as his clothes, or his shoes, or his duty and then she said, frightenedly, "And now let us do quickly what it is we do so that the other is all gone."

"You want?"

"Yes," she said almost fiercely. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

8

It was cold in the night and Robert Jordan slept heavily. Once he woke and, stretching, realized that the girl was there, curled far down in the robe, breathing lightly and regularly, and in the dark, bringing his head in from the cold, the sky hard and sharp with stars, the air cold in his nostrils, he put his head under the warmth of the robe and kissed her smooth shoulder. She did not wake and he rolled onto his side away from her and with his head out of the robe in the cold again, lay awake a moment feeling the long, seeping luxury of his fatigue and then the smooth tactile happiness of their two bodies touching and then, as he pushed his legs out deep as they would go in the robe, he slipped down steeply into sleep.

He woke at first daylight and the girl was gone. He knew it as he woke and, putting out his arm, he felt the robe warm where she had been. He looked at the mouth of the cave where the blanket showed frost-rimmed and saw the thin gray smoke from the crack in the rocks that meant the kitchen fire was lighted.

A man came out of the timber, a blanket worn over his head like a poncho Robert Jordan saw it was Pablo and that he was smoking a cigarette. He's been down corralling the horses, he thought.

Pablo pulled open the blanket and went into the cave without looking toward Robert Jordan.

Robert Jordan felt with his hand the light frost that lay on the worn, spotted green balloon silk outer covering of the five-year-old down robe, then settled into it again. Bueno, he said to himself, feeling the familiar caress of the flannel lining as he spread his legs wide, then drew them together and then turned on his side so that his head would be away from the direction where he knew the sun would come. Que mas da, I might as well sleep some more.

He slept until the sound of airplane motors woke him.

Lying on his back, he saw them, a fascist patrol of three Fiats, tiny, bright, fast-moving across the mountain sky, headed in the direction from which Anselmo and he had come yesterday. The three passed and then came nine more, flying much higher in the minute, pointed formations of threes, threes and threes.