“No,” he said, seriously now. “That one was a man who had suffered greatly.”
“And thou? Hast thou not suffered?”
“No,” said Robert Jordan. “I am of those who suffer little.”
“Me also,” Agustín told him. “There are those who suffer and those who do not. I suffer very little.”
“Less bad,” Robert Jordan tipped up the wineskin again. “And with this, less.”
“I suffer for others.”
“As all good men should.”
“But for myself very little.”
“Hast thou a wife?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“But now you have the Maria.”
“Yes.”
“There is a rare thing,” Agustín said. “Since she came to us at the train the Pilar has kept her away from all as fiercely as though she were in a convent of Carmelites. You cannot imagine with what fierceness she guarded her. You come, and she gives her to thee as a present. How does that seem to thee?”
“It was not thus.”
“How was it, then?”
“She has put her in my care.”
“And thy care is to joder with her all night?”
“With luck.”
“What a manner to care for one.”
“You do not understand that one can take good care of one thus?”
“Yes, but such care could have been furnished by any one of us.”
“Let us not talk of it any more,” Robert Jordan said. “I care for her seriously.”
“Seriously?”
“As there can be nothing more serious in this world.”
“And afterwards? After this of the bridge?”
“She goes with me.”
“Then,” Agustín said. “That no one speaks of it further and that the two of you go with all luck.”
He lifted the leather wine bag and took a long pull, then handed it to Robert Jordan.
“One thing more, Inglés,” he said.
“Of course.”
“I have cared much for her, too.”
Robert Jordan put his hand on his shoulder.
“Much,” Agustín said. “Much. More than one is able to imagine.”
“I can imagine.”
“She has made an impression on me that does not dissipate.”
“I can imagine.”
“Look. I say this to thee in all seriousness.”
“Say it.”
“I have never touched her nor had anything to do with her but I care for her greatly. Inglés, do not treat her lightly. Because she sleeps with thee she is no whore.”
“I will care for her.”
“I believe thee. But more. You do not understand how such a girl would be if there had been no revolution. You have much responsibility. This one, truly, has suffered much. She is not as we are.”
“I will marry her.”
“Nay. Not that. There is no need for that under the revolution. But–” he nodded his head–”it would be better.”
“I will marry her,” Robert Jordan said and could feel his throat swelling as he said it. “I care for her greatly.”
“Later,” Agustín said. “When it is convenient. The important thing is to have the intention.”
“I have it.”
“Listen,” Agustín said. “I am speaking too much of a matter in which I have no right to intervene, but hast thou known many girls of this country?”
“A few.”
“Whores?”
“Some who were not.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“And did you sleep with them?”
“No.”
“You see?”
“Yes.”
“What I mean is that this Maria does not do this lightly.”
“Nor I.”
“If I thought you did I would have shot you last night as you lay with her. For this we kill much here.”
“Listen, old one,” Robert Jordan said. “It is because of the lack of time that there has been informality. What we do not have is time. Tomorrow we must fight. To me that is nothing. But for the Maria and me it means that we must live all of our life in this time.”
“And a day and a night is little time,” Agustín said.
“Yes. But there has been yesterday and the night before and last night.”
“Look,” Agustín said. “If I can aid thee.”
“No. We are all right.”
“If I could do anything for thee or for the cropped head–”
“No.”
“Truly, there is little one man can do for another.”
“No. There is much.”
“What?”
“No matter what passes today and tomorrow in respect to combat, give me thy confidence and obey even though the orders may appear wrong.”