And Georges: “No, listen: then the man stopped running and came towards us, or rather he merely stopped running, like a puppy, his head up, about as high as de Reixach’s knee, stood there in the middle of the road and waited until we came up to him, saying at that moment: ‘Let me ride that horse,’ and Iglésia who was holding the bridle of that dapple-grey horse not answering him any more than de Reixach, not seeming to see him any more than de Reixach, and then I said: ‘You can see there’s no saddle, you can’t stay on if we trot,’ but now he was beside us and had begun to run or rather to trot again, moving at that jolting, jerky gait, his head jogging as if he were going to collapse at the next step, his eyes staring into mine, constantly repeating in the same monotonous, glum, pleading tone of voice: ‘Let me ride let me ride please let me ride,’ and finally I said: ‘Oh ride if you want!’ and actually I’d never have thought he could do it, weak as he was, but no sooner had I spoken the words than there he was hoisting himself up, clinging to the bridle with a kind of frenzy, his hips squirming and finally he was up, was on top, was sitting there, de Reixach turning round then as if he had had eyes in the back of his head, though at that moment he didn’t even seem to see what was in front of him any more, shouting: ‘What are you doing? I told you to clear out! Who gave you permission to ride that horse and follow me?’ and the man beginning to whine again, starting his litany all over, saying: ‘Let me go with you I’ve lost my regiment and they’ll catch me let me . . .’ and he: ‘Get off right away and clear out!’ then I didn’t see the man on the horse any more: even quicker than he had got on he had slipped down and when I turned round I saw him standing at the side of the road, miserable, solitary, helpless, watching us ride away, and after a moment Iglésia said: ‘He was a spy!’ and I: ‘Who?’ and Iglésia: ‘That fellow. Didn’t you see? He was a German,’ and I: ‘A German? What’s the matter with you? Why a German?’ and he shrugging without answering me as if I were an idiot, and still the regular clatter of our horses’ hoofs, and the stiff back of de Reixach straight on his saddle, scarcely swaying at all, and that sun, and that layer of exhaustion, of sleep, of sweat and dust that was pasted to my face like a mask, isolating me, and a moment later Iglésia’s voice reaching me from the other side of that film, from far away, somewhere in the sunshine, the dust, the heavy air, saying: ‘He was a German, I tell you. He spoke French too well. And didn’t you see his head? His hair? His hair was red!’ and I: ‘Red?’ and Iglésia: ‘Oh Christ, what’s the matter with you, can’t you even . . .’