The sergeant with a naked sword in his hand strolled away by himself along the heap of the dead.  He was a humane man, and watched for any stir or twitch of limb in the merciful idea of plunging the point of his blade into any body giving the slightest sign of life.  But none of the bodies afforded him an opportunity for the display of this charitable intention.  Not a muscle twitched amongst them, not even the powerful muscles of Gaspar Ruiz, who, deluged with the blood of his neighbours and shamming death, strove to appear more lifeless than the others.

He was lying face down.  The sergeant recognized him by his stature, and being himself a very small man, looked with envy and contempt at the prostration of so much strength.  He had always disliked that particular soldier.  Moved by an obscure animosity, he inflicted a long gash across the neck of Gaspar Ruiz, with some vague notion of making sure of that strong man’s death, as if a powerful physique were more able to resist the bullets.  For the sergeant had no doubt that Gaspar Ruiz had been shot through in many places.  Then he passed on, and shortly afterwards marched off with his men, leaving the bodies to the care of crows and vultures.

Gaspar Ruiz had restrained a cry, though it had seemed to him that his head was cut off at a blow; and when darkness came, shaking off the dead, whose weight had oppressed him, he crawled away over the plain on his hands and knees.  After drinking deeply, like a wounded beast, at a shallow stream, he assumed an upright posture, and staggered on light-headed and aimless, as if lost amongst the stars of the clear night.  A small house seemed to rise out of the ground before him.  He stumbled into the porch and struck at the door with his fist.  There was not a gleam of light.  Gaspar Ruiz might have thought that the inhabitants had fled from it, as from many others in the neighbourhood, had it not been for the shouts of abuse that answered his thumping.  In his feverish and enfeebled state the angry screaming seemed to him part of a hallucination belonging to the weird, dreamlike feeling of his unexpected condemnation to death, of the thirst suffered, of the volleys fired at him within fifteen paces, of his head being cut off at a blow.  “Open the door!” he cried.  “Open in the name of God!”

An infuriated voice from within jeered at him:  “Come in, come in.  This house belongs to you.  All this land belongs to you.  Come and take it.”

“For the love of God,” Gaspar Ruiz murmured.

“Does not all the land belong to you patriots?” the voice on the other side of the door screamed on.  “Are you not a patriot?”

Gaspar Ruiz did not know.  “I am a wounded man,” he said, apathetically.