The horsemen have criss-crossed the flat country all day long when, the night falling, they take a path climbing a small hill. They get back to the hollow oak tree in which they've left their food supply, dismount and let their horses graze freely. Then they sit down, their back against the hollow tree and they start eating bacon and drinking wine. They are exhausted, the saddle has grinded their crotch and eating makes them feel a lot better. They eat without exchanging a word.
When the bell of a faraway tower strikes nine, they are full and pretty drunk and they are overwhelmed by sleep. They fasten the halters to a low-hanging branch of the oak and the horses reluctantly lie down on the humid soil and they wrap themselves in blankets. Soon it's all silence around and they fall asleep in their blankets.

By day-break they are already awake. They've made a small fire with dead wood and they are going to cook a haunch of hung venison and warm themselves. They eat rapidly, get into the saddle and take the direction of Toledo. They travel in the plain a good part of the day without seeing a living soul. And all day they don't say a word. Towards the evening, Toledo is not in sight and they lead their horses to an inn they know nearby. So they follow a miserable path full of ruts and cracks along the hills' crest.The sun sets faster than they would like and when they arrive at the top of the last hill, there's just enough light to distinguish the inn and the faint lights through its windows.
Suddenly, without a warning, the elder rider pulls in the reins and his horse, though bruised in its mouth, remains silent and doesn't dare to move a limb. The rider's face has frozen in a terrified expression and he is staring some point at the horizon. Overcoming his bewilderment he cries "Take care, my friend ! We're being attacked !" The other rider also stiffens and distraughtly looks around but he doesn't see the slightest trace of an enemy. Nowhere. "What's up ? I don't see a thing !", he finally utters and the older rider says "Flying machines ! Countless ! They sweep down on us ! Hurry up ! My lance !… My shield ! Hurry up !".

The machines move in close ranks skimming the plain and they make a rush at the riders. They are some thirty, maybe forty, and their propellers turn in the air at a furious pace. "Where are they ? Really I don't see such things !". The elder gets angry and points his finger over an horizon made indistinct because of the twilight. "There, I tell you ! Straight ahead ! Did you turn blind drinking to much of my wine ?!". The other concentrates and searches the sky attentively. In vain. "Silly !" says the elder and their talking (ends) because the night prevents any observation. Only the inn's lights are perceptible and, in the moonlight, tha path's surface.

The horsemen noisily sit down at a table for their dinner, provoking a fit of bad temper among the other customers of the inn. The elder seems particularly confused and his face is unlike the younger has ever seen before. He eats silently and uncharacteristically without a hearty appetite. So the younger, afraid that his companion might irremediably sink into gloom, brings up a subject he would have liked to avoid at any price :

"How did they exactly look like those machines ?", and the elder, his face a little bit aglow, replies "So, you saw them ?!". "To say the honest truth, my eyes are tired and it's quite likely that they hide me things visible to others. And since you're affirmative about those machines, I don't have any reason to have any doubt whatsoever about their existence". The elder is flattered, but the answer of his table companion is only half-satisfactory. Nevertheless, flattery gets the upper hand and he starts describing what his eyes have seen ; the other cannot believe his ears and tries hard to hide his incredulity.
"I've seen machines as big as our country barns, similar to those engravings by that famous Italian I've mentioned to you some time ago. They had big whirling arms moulding the air such as to make them literally float above the ground ! And at one end they have kind of rudder, or something else unknown to me, that enables to change course as they please !".

The other customers at the inn progressively lowered their voices in step with the increasingly vivid account of the elder, and presently the smoky dining room is dead silent. The companion feels embarassed but the elder doesn't notice anything and continues his improbable story. The other tries hard to shift the conversation to another topic, but the elder is completely absorbed by his flying machines and, with ample clumsy movements, he starts visualising the tumultuous flight of the infernal machines. Giggling springs out from all over the room and a small group of foreigners finally gets up and moves toward their table for a better listening. Next, they just sit down at the table without further ado and wihtout being invited. The elder is not offended at all. One of them, with a long red beard, orders two jugs of wine and pours drinks to anybody willing to drink ; the elder empties his glass and resumes his story. It doesn't take him long to notice that he focuses some curiousity at himself, if not an increasing interest, so he peppers his account with new details, each more incredible than the others.

"I do maintain, señores, that a man was perched on top of each of these winged machines and that he commanded the giant airfoil with a complex system of pulleys and hoists, in order to operate the huge canopy. Take it for granted !." The red one smiles and pours the elder another glass while his friends don't even hide thier urge to laugh. "Don't laugh, señores ! Everything I told you is true and my faithful companion would gladly confirm it if he wasn't such an unbeliever ! We are in great danger ! Believe me !". The others burst out in restrained laughing and his companion has given up silencing him and now muses gloomily in his chair.
The elder has drunk more than he should and now he has stepped up the table and mimics the flight of birds, or rather some winged creature of his making ; who knows ? A rowdy pleasure spreads gradually throughout the inn and the owner doesn't consider halting it. His profit is on the rise. The night is already well advanced when the old man falls from his chair after some very bold acrobatics and his dozing companion wakes up suddenly and jumps to his rescue.

Consciously, listening to God knows what demon, he straightens up abruptly. His head bangs violently against the tabletop and he slumps unconsciously on the shards-littered floor. While he lies in the trash, his companion takes him by the arms and drags him to the stairs. His heels leave two pale tracks in the winey filth. The foreigners have quietly slipped away. They certainly had been laughing enough and had retires to their rooms. And the inn is a wreckage. Finally the innkeeper helps the riders, grabs the old man by the ankles, and while the other holds him under his arms, they both hoist his lifeless body to the upper floor and drop it on a miserable wool mattress. The old man snores as much as when he was lying among the table trash and his companion can't catch the sleep. He doesn't feel ashamed for the old rider ; his esteem for him is sufficiently strong to be tempted by such feelings. No. He grieves intensely and his sadness resurfaces each time the other is overwhelmed by insanity.
A little after eleven, he falls asleep also.

The old rider has stopped at the top of a hill and he has decided that this would be the end of his odyssey. He has been roaming the plain for weeks, mourning the untimely disappearence of his faithful shield-bearer and grief weighs everyday somewhat heavier on his shoulders. It's early morning, the dew is like freezing his body and scratching his lips. He sights an oak, strong and rather tall, drives his horse over there, takes a rope from his pouch and passes one end unrolling over a branch. He makes sure of firmly attaching it to the trunk, and with the other end he makes a slipknot such as used by shepherds to prevent straying from the flock. Then he dismounts, starts a little fire between four stones. He has eaten listlessly and his stomach feels contorted and his guts burning. He stands up and his muscles ache. He goes to the foot of the tree to hang himself, but he realizes he cannot reach the rope without mounting on the back of his horse. At this moment, there is no trace of a horse and he spends much time searching. Finally, he finds it in a meadow with tall grass, browsing on fallen sour apples ; he struggles to get back in the saddle and then takes a path northward and forgets to hang himself.

One night he hasn't found an inn to take his stuff, he bivouacs on a hilltop. Below, the weak city lights stretch out and he observes them a long while before sinking in sleep.
In the morning, the daylight displays an ash-coloured city and he decides to keep away from this one also. He has made a fire, but he has nothing left to appease his punnishing hunger, apart from his horse's meat. The horse gives him an inscrutable look and the old man says "Don't be afraid ! I don't know the butcher's trade !".
The flying machines are almost completely forgotten and the death of his companion seems a distant nightmare. The sky is lead, the machines are steel. At first he doesn't notice. They are countless, flying at very low altitude, and when he finally catches sight of them, he thinks he can touch them with his fingers. They're equipped with giant flashy wings and they are moving in circles over the town like condors straight above a carcass.

The old man hasn't moved and his hands stretched over the fire for warming seem suspended. The propellers are grinding air and their turning makes an enormous noise. He hardly believes his eyes and his jaw drops. Suddenly, the flying machines start carpet bombing and lots of explosions occur in various parts of the town ; dazzling blasts penetrate the earth and fire flashes rip the sky. From his place, he soon notices terrified cries. He takes a telescope from his bag and trains it to the impact. In a chaos of fire and black smoke he observes old people, women and children wandering in the blazing ruins. Some have lost an arm or a leg, others both. Blinded people unsuccesfully request a helping hand for there aren't hands enough. Nobody cares about the dead. Regarding the flying machines, they are momentarily gone from the sky ; but it doen't last long before them reappearing behind a smoke screen. They make another pass over the town and the bells have hardly

time to sound the tocsin before they drop another round of bombs from their bellies. The rider sees it all from the hill top and he's overwhelmed by a horrible feeling of helplessness. The Junkers have regrouped in a dark squadron and they make a pass skimming his hill ; he falls face to the ground and his horse dashes. He finally catches his mount before it has time to get away for good, attaches a heavy stone to the halter and shackles the forefeet.
Thereafter, he takes his telescope again and the same scenes of devastation are displayed in other parts of the town. Then, on a hill northeast of his', he observes a man in black training a similar telescope on him. He looks smiling and the rider dislikes the grin on his face so he turns his telescope away for another look at the town. Wreckage and distress. Dead bodies wandering and living ones stretched and stiff on the ground and the dust hasn't settled yet because of the heat of the blazing inferno. Elsewhere, the Junkers have resumed their incendiary job and the rider cannot stand any longer this sight of slaughter.

He sits down for a moment in the grass and muses with his fists at his temples, and having finished thinking, he takes a firm decision that only death could divert, and risks don't get the better of his willpower. He goes to his horse which continues munching sweet grass between his forefeet, kicks the stone away, grabs the halter, loosens the shackles, leads his horse behind him, and attaches the halter to the branch of a tree. The wind rises and the tall grass on the hill bends to the southeast and the rider takes a deep breath. Then he grabs a big heavy linnen bag tied to the cantle of the saddle across the waist of the animal, drops it to the ground and

starts searching. He gets out old pieces of rusted armour : helmet, brassard, greave, cuisse, hose, coat of mail. All equally corroded, including the shield's rust-indented edges. The rider does his very best to get in his armour, taking a little less than an hour, while alarm bells are ringing all over the town. Any movements make grating noises and they are greatly hindered by material deficiencies. However, he manages to pull a black cape over his shoulders and to hoist himself on horseback after climbing a rock. His armour looks vermilion in the pale April sun and the war machines are circling over him and pouring fire over the town. His lance points to the sky without reaching them. The rider clamps the slender lance under his armpit and steps back. The Junkers turn in the pale blue sky seemingly without a distinct purpose. They fly in small scattered groups successively executing deadly dive runs, spreading terror in the wrecked suburbs. Suddenly, three Heinkel fighters appear over the hill crest and the rider doesn't wait a second. He does an about-turn and goes full tilt ; the horse kicks in pain and rushes as fast as its miserable gallop

allows. The rider flexes his muscles, pointing his lance straight ahead. The propellers are grinding air at a hell of a pace and the rider targets one's rotation centre. The air circle approaches rapidly with the roaring engine and the face of a man is faintly shaped in the cockpit and the pilot, focused on his target, sees the rider just a little too late. The lance sticks in the heart of the propeller and more than half of it breaks into pieces. The remaining part holds and the rider is pushed up in his stirrups with with a terribly violent shock. He's thrown out of the saddle and hardly recovers his senses. The horse is lying on its side and faintly whinning. The rider is stretched on the ground in his armour anf he has a problem to sit up. At a distance of several hundreds of meters, on the steep flank of a nearby hill, the charred remains of the ripped-open fighter.
"Splendid ! Simply inconceivable ! Improbable ! Come and let me kiss you comrade !". The man seems like emerging from the clouds and he displays a frank broad smile and he lacks the consistency of the people of flesh and blood. His body is transparent and diaphanous ; he's made of the same stuff that makes up the ectoplasmic creatures. He's no longer among the living.
The rider is sprawled on his side, incapable to get up and the man comes besides him. "Here, take my hand !

Right !… Lean on my shoulder ! Good, that's it !… Is it slow enough ?… There you are ! Please, sit on this stool". The stool is immaterial but he doesn't hesitate to entrust it his butt and the stool fulfills its duty. "It's all quite strange young man !", he finally says. "Young man or whatever you are, for you've got more of an illusion than of a young man !". The man has observed the confusion that gradually interferes with the rider's soul and he quickly tries to help. "My name is Buenaventura, comrade ! Don't be fooled by appearances ; I'm real and what you see with your eyes is the honest truth ! Don't be afraid ! I don't wish you harm !".

"Don't worry ! Even though scared to death, ache prevents me from running off as fast as reasonable !".
"Very well… Do you like tea ?… Yes ?… Erich ! Give some tea to our friend !". The rider turns his neck as far as its stiffness allows. To his astonishment, a field tent has risen out of nothing and in front of it is a wood fire burning. A man has taken the teapot that faintly whistles on the embers. He disappears in the tent and comes out a little later carrying a silver plate with two china cups and two silver spoons and a sugar bowl. The one who Buenaventura calls Erich sits down with them in the grass, puts the plate on the ground and starts drinking hot tea. The rider observes him quite a while, astonished to see the sky through his body, before he takes the remaining cup. The tea burns his tongue and he cries out in pain. Erich smiles but Buenaventura glances at him disapprovingly, so he stops smiling, gets to his feet and makes some steps towards the gutted town. A heavy silence sets in, interrupted only by faraway explosions shattering the town. And the rider blows on his tea and takes little painful sips and he finally says "Please, help me to stand up, so I can get to my horse ! I see it's suffering ! I wish to help right away !". Unexpectedly, Buenaventura roars with ground-shaking laughter before finally saying : "Come on, there's no point ! We'll take care of it !… Erich ! Please help that horse stretched out over there in the grass !". Erich doesn't need persuading and goes to the place indicated, and when he's close to the horse he takes a pistol from under his jacket and fires ; the horse twitches just once.
-“ That’s done my friend ! Now would you calm down ! Your faithful companion is freed from his suffering” !
The rider is disgusted by the scene but his outrage is suppressed by a deep distress and he’s at a loss which way to go. Then the unthinkable happens : the horse gets up and strarts munching with no wound apparent except for a huge hole between his orbits.

”That’s quite something” drops the rider in spite of himself.
“How do you do that ?”. And changing his mind “No, no, no, don’t say anything !”.
“-I rather don’t know !
- Whatever you like” Buenaventura says with a broad smile and a decorous cigar between his pale lips, with the smoke going straight upwards despite the rising wind.
The bombing of the town has resumed and a trail of cries accompanies the whistling of the bombs - Buenaventura gets up and shades his eyes with his hands over his brows. Do you see those ascensional souls, my friend ? As of now, I’ve tallied more than a thousand of them. Thirteen hundred twenty three exactly, whithout these hundred seventeen new ones.
Vague clouds whithout a definite shape are crossing the fires, rise in the hot air and dissipate upward. He turns and talks to himself.
-”Well - There they are. And turning to the rider :

- Do you see that glum individual wondering overthere around the foot of the big oak tree ?
He died long ago ! It’s a poet ! In his verses he expressed his desire to die open-mouthed in the sun. I don’t know which weather it was when he died, but it’s for certain he was killed open-mouthed. Executed by the fascists. Last summer. The rider observes nothing else but the big oak and its shadow in the grass extending from the base of the trunk and there is no evidence to suppose that a man is present, even dead. Then he observes a particular shadow within the shade of the tree and Buenaventura rises his right hand as a friendly greeting and says :
” Hi Federico, how are you ?” And the shadow looses its outline before disapearing.
“And this one’s Leon ! Another poet ! Well, that’s what he thought.”
The shadows follow each other around the big oak and Buenaventura familiarly names them all and greet each of them with the same warmth.
“They all died for what they considered a just cause ! And now they are coming to see the disaster ! Because they can’t influence history anymore. Look, now they’re all here !”
The rider sights the big oak once more and hanging from the branches he sees as many dead bodies as they can carry. They’re shrouded and slightly turn in the breeze.

-”Humanity is such” continues Buenaventura : “That it never feels comfortable with peace. It needs its share of blood. Preferably that of innocents, floods of it. The ugly beast dormant in men is never satiated, you know. And us, the miserable sowers of hope we are, we don’t struggle with an enemy of flesh and blood, take my word. We fight the ugly beast dormant in men ! And it never lies dormant for a long time, you better believe it ! Inequality is the source of all evils. It makes envious, breeds greed, rouses one’s bad instincts. As long as the working masses keep alive the illusion of their inferiority, there will be a tyrant taking advantage of their ignorance, their vices. Governments come and go, the promises remain, always the same, waiting for fulfilment. and when the people finally dare to rise crying : “Stop tyrany, look what comes out of it. A flood of blood wider than the Ebro. A flood of blood that turns the stream red down to Catalonia, and what for ? Why spill all that blood ? For the profit of a few.”

Buenaventura speaks with an embarrassing ease and he continues like that for over an hour whithout a break except for lightning his cigar. The bomb rain has stopped and the night has fallen over the hills.
The rider shivers from cold but doesn’t complain given his interest for Buenaventura’s remarks. But Buenaventura finally notices and invites him :
“Come. Follow me. Let’s get into the tent, we’ll be comfortable”.
The tent is more spacious than some would guess from the outside and the rider stubbornly non-question the origin of this miracle. There’s a big table and on a plate there is a candle faintly alight illuminating its surroundings. The rider sits down on the only chair while Buenaventura goes forth and back around the table. He has resumed talking. the rider is captivated by the charm of his host as much as by his words, but soon he starts feeling uneasy incapable to pinpoint at once the reason of his torment. And then he understand that the half-light is gradually filled with shadows. Increasingly more numerous shadows peering blindly at his soul. He feels more and more queasy and the desire to stand up and leave, but his steady soul saves him from fear and hasty action, and he focuses at Buenaventura’s speech for forgetting them.
His efforts are rewarded soon. He’s so absorbed by his host’s ideas that he forgets the physical world. The shadows get closer with the candle diminishing but the rider doesn’t notice.Buenaventura recalls the lot of the peasants and the rider’s heart shivers from compassion. He describes the ferocious fights of his people in Aragon and the rider’s eyes are full of tears. Finally, he mentions the awkward destiny at the destitute in their clash with tirany and the rider feels a terrible anger clasp his guts.

The rider can’t keeps still. he would like to get up, but his paintful butt makes the law of gravity prevail. There are more shadows in the dark. Finally, the rider jumps to his feet and cries “God almightly, what you’re telling is the honest truth. As if you were reading my thoughts. Even what ! Should have thought”.
Then he shuts up for a moment and Buenaventura doesn’t say anything and merely gives a glance. The corner of his mouth displays a slight grin.
The rider keeps standing bent under the tent’s canvas, forgetting his bruises and his glance lost in the shade of darkness. When finally he prevails over his emotions three deep furrows mark his brow and opening his mouth he says : “If...” and nothing else, and Buenaventura once again refrains from talking. He knows the virtues of his speech and doesn’t need add-ons.
“If I dared,... in particular, if I dindn’t fear to be taken for a presumptuous, I would instantly offer my help for your sake”, he finally said.
“Bravo, let me kiss you, companion. I expected nothing less of you. Your modesty is only matched by your bravery. To your credit !”Buenaventura seized the rider around the waist and lifted him up in an unexpected burst of jubilation. The old man’s backbone made some damaging noise and, he breathlessly murmurs “take it easy, please, don’t kill me”.When finally Buenaventura lets him fall on the ground, the old man looks anaemic and his conscience is faltering like his wobbling body and he faints completely on the yellow trodden grass. A little later he comes to his senses. Erich is bent over his face and the rider feels an intense glowing in bth cheeks. Erich doesn’t say a thing and while the rider looks for support to get on his feet, he quickly steps back. Buenaventura is not in the tent anymore and the rider is piqued at it. Erich has dissipated in the darkness leaving the rider alone with doubts.

Finally, crossing the tent’s door way he finds Buenaventura sitting a few steps away. Buenaventura stretches his neck skyward and syas “There he is ! Finally ! And while the rider ignores what he’s talking about, he doesn’t dare to ask and decides to wait. A lamp pierces the darkness. The faint noise of an engine closing in. “There he is” repeats Buenaventura enthousiastically, gets up and says “Come with me” he is going to land nearby. In the valley the reddening glow of the remains of the gutted town. There is no place for a plane to land.

All around are hills and profound darkness. Nevertheless, the machine is clearly in final approach. It has already started down over the hilltop. “Right in time !” says Buenaventura, and the meadow flares up with two parallel lines of small fires. Now in the bluish light of the flames, the rider distinguishes graves that he hadn’t noticed before. “These are... ? he tries. “Wills-o-the-wisp” Buenaventura interrupts. “And the graves you see over there are those of our brothers killed in action !” The Polikarpov has landed whithout a problem and the propeller has gradually, slowly, stopped turning in the black air. With great agility Buenaventura climbs on the wing, as it was a simple stool. he draws the canopy bakwards and shouts “Erich, come and help me” He and the German pull the body of the pilot out of the cockpit and lay it down on the humid grass. Then they check the cabin carefully for ascertaining that the Polikarpov is fit for another take-off. The canopy and the front of the fuselage are bullet ridden all over the place and the tricoloured stabilizer moves randomly each time Erich handles the rudder bars and Buenaventura says “Okido”. Then the ghosts take off the dead body’s flying suit and try to dress the skinny carcass of the rider with it. He doesn’t interfere with their fancy and when they are ready he says : “Good gracious, what are you doing ?!” And Buenaventura says “Could he have lost confidence ? Well. Let’s prepare the mission in the slightest details." -”My mission ? What are you talking about ?” -You just displayed the desire to... How did you say ? Oh yes... To help your cause. - There you are. The time is right. - How come ? Already ?” - Why wait my friend ? This moment is a good as any, isn’t it ? - Certainly, but... - Alright ! You’ll fly this plane to a site the coordonates of which you’ll receive by radio and when we tell you so, you’ll throw yourself on the target. You’ve got it ? Very well ! Now climb on this wing ! - No way ! - What ? You just said... - I know perfectly well what I’ve said” - So hurry up and get in the cockpit.

- Not without you dubbing me” and the rider literally collapses at the feet of Buenaventura and starts kissing his toes and Buenaventura says “Hold it, my friend. What are you doing. Please, stand up”. “Lord, I’m falling at your feet ! and so I hope convincing to dub me here. Without I might die !” Surprised, Buenaventura doesn’t know immediately what to say. Then his mouth draws his lips into an odd smile. -“ Sure, but stand up, I beg you - Never, I’d rather die at your feet” Buenaventura feels he’s getting nervous and says : “You won’t die ! Because you just died when you courageously hacked about the enemy”.

The rider is taken by a short stupor that throws him off balance, but mastering his emotions, he kills them one after the other and he finally says “My death doesn’t make any difference. Dub me now ! So I can be of help to your cause as promised. Summon your page to get your sword and pelisse !” My sword ? - My pelisse ? But what are you going to...” Buenaventura stops suddenly and peers with fiery eyes in the distance. When he turns his glance on the rider and says : “let’s do it. because I’m unable to make you see sense ! Erich ! Bring my scythe. And my coat also. The one with the holes in the side ! Erich is nowhere to be seen but shortly afterwards he emerges from a kind of foggy night carrying on his shoulder the coat and the scythe. He drops it all at Buenaventura’s feet, who grabs the coat and puts it on. Then he grabs the scythe and quickly removes the cutting blade. In his outfit he could easily be taken for a bogeyman. And his waxen face doesn’t refute this feeling anyway. The rider, still kneeling, lifts his head and the impression of Buenaventura on him leaves him speechless at first. Then he cries of joy as much he can. His joy to be dubbed by a sire of such presence. He pretends that nowhere on any of the earth’s continents exists an overlord of such nobleness. Finally, after a short silence, he says “Your crown is missing, good lord ! Erich hastely says “It was stolen on our way from Madrid to Barcelona ! And ever since he didn’t find one to his liking !” “What a shameful crime !” the rider says. “Such treachery deserves exemplary punishment ! And worse ! But let’s skip it for the moment. We absolutely need to find a crown fit for our good king !” Under the guise of crown, Erich has desperately left to gather some branches of a juniper growing near a grave. He plaits them as good as he can and when he’s finished he puts the crown on the brow of Buenaventura. Finally, after a lot of procrastinating, Buenaventura has to admit that he hasn’t the slightest idea what dubbing is all about and the rider blushes with pleasure and says “So you never dubbed yet anybody ?! It’s me the first...” My friend, we’re well across the limits of the ridicule. tell me how to proceed so we can finish with it once and for all. Please, come to the point.” The ridder kneels in the grass and by the light of wills-o-the-wisp Buenaventura makes the ritual gestures. It’s icy cold. the April wind sweeps the hills and Buenaventura’s palm heavily lands on the rider’s neck. He almost turns head over heels and regains more or less his balance. Then Erich offers him the cutting blade of the scythe. Take your sword, knight be valiant ! And while the rider stretches his hands to receive the blade, Erich steps forward and with a sharp and fast blow cuts his head under the third vertebra. The skull rolls down the hill over several meters before getting stuck in a local earth-crack, and immediately gives rise to a cypress rapidly