In the distance, the earth's surface seemed trembling with white,
fluttering things resembling a band of butterflies poised on the
furrows. On one of the fields the swarm was of great size, on others, it
was broken into small groups.
As the machine approached these white butterflies, they seemed to
be taking on other colors. One wing was turning blue, another
flesh-colored. . . . They were little flags, by the hundreds, by the
thousands which palpitated night and day, in the mild, sunny, morning
breeze, in the damp drip of the dull mornings, in the biting cold of the
interminable nights. The rains had washed and re-washed them, stealing
away the most of their color. Some of the borders of the restless little
strips were mildewed by the dampness while others were scorched by the
sun, like insects which have just grazed the flames.
In the midst of the fluttering flags could be seen the black crosses
of wood. On these were hanging dark kepis, red caps, and helmets topped
with tufts of horsehair, slowly disintegrating and weeping atmospheric
tears at every point.
"How many are dead!" sighed Don Marcelo's voice from the automobile.
And Rene, who was seated in front of him, sadly nodded his head. Dona
Luisa was looking at the mournful plain while her lips trembled slightly
in constant prayer. Chichi turned her great eyes in astonishment from
one side to the other.
Pages:
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582