"At least let me hear your confession," Norberto urged.

"Some other time," Adolfo replied.

"Some other time may be too late." Norberto's voice, like his eyes, were now full of emotion. "You know the punishment if you die unrepentant. You will be estranged from God."

"God has forgotten me. Forgotten all of us."

"No!"

"I'm sorry," Adolfo said. The fisherman looked away from his brother. He didn't want to see the hurt in his kind eyes. And he didn't want to face the fact that he'd caused it. Not now. Not with so much left to do. He took another swallow of stew and thanked his brother again for bringing it. Then he pulled a cigarette from the crushed pack in his pants pocket-his last, he noted. He'd have to stop and buy pre-mades. Lighting it, he headed toward the door.

"Adolfo, please!" Norberto grabbed his brother's shoulder and turned him around. "Stay here with me. Talk to me. Pray with me."

"I have business up on the hill," he replied evenly. "I promised the General I'd deliver the taped conversation to the radio station there. They are Castilians at the station. They will play the tape. When they do, all the world will know that Catalonia has no regard for life, Spanish or otherwise. The government, the world will help end the financial oppression they've forced on us."

"And what will the world think of the Castilian who killed these men?" Norberto managed to lower his voice on the word killed lest he be overheard. "Will they pray for your soul?"

"I don't want their prayers," Adolfo said without hesitation. "I only want their attention. As for what the world will think, I hope they'll think that I had courage. That I didn't resort to shooting an unarmed woman in the street to make a point. That I went right to the heart of the devils' conspiracy and cut that heart out."

"And when you have done that," Norberto said, "the Catalonians will try to cut your heart out."

"They may try," Adolfo admitted. "Perhaps they will even succeed."

"Then where does it end?" Norberto asked. "When every heart has been cut out or broken?"

"We didn't expect that one strike would end their ambitions or that Castilian lives would not be lost," Adolfo said. "As for when the bloodshed will end, it should not be very long. By the time the Catalonians and their allies mobilize it will be too late to stop what is coming."

Norberto's broad shoulders slumped and he shook his head slowly. The tears rolled easily from his eyes. He suddenly seemed spent.

"Dear God, Dolfo," he sobbed. "What is coming? Tell me, so that at least I can pray for your soul."

Adolfo stared at his brother. He rarely saw Norberto cry. It had happened once at their mother's funeral and another time over a young parishioner who was dying. It was difficult to see it and be unmoved.