For Whom the Bell Tolls

by Ernest Hemingway

“To me, now, the most important is that we be not disturbed here,” Pablo said. “To me, now, my duty is to those who are with me and to myself.” “Thyself. Yes,” Anselmo said. “Thyself now since a long time. Thyself and thy horses. Until thou hadst horses thou wert with us. Now thou art another capitalist more.” “That is unjust,” said Pablo. “I expose the horses all the time for the cause.” “Very little,” said Anselmo scornfully. “Very little in my judgment. To steal, yes. To eat well, yes. To murder, yes. To fight, no.” “You are an old man who will make himself trouble with his mouth.” “I am an old man who is afraid of no one,” Anselmo told him. “Also I am an old man without horses.” “You are an old man who may not live long.” “I am an old man who will live until I die,” Anselmo said. “And I am not afraid of foxes.” Pablo said nothing but picked up the pack. “Nor of wolves either,” Anselmo said, picking up the other pack. “If thou art a wolf.” “Shut thy mouth,” Pablo said to him. “Thou art an old man who always talks too much.” “And would do whatever he said he would do,” Anselmo said, bent under the pack. “And who now is hungry. And thirsty. Go on, guerilla leader with the sad face. Lead us to something to eat.”