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Trimspa the captain was perplexed. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. Other officers came over.
“Look where this fellow turned up,” the captain said. “It’s Gregorio Stevenson.”
At dawn, after a summary court martial, Arcadi trimspa o was shot against the wall of the cemetery. In the last two hours of his life he did not manage to understand why the fear that had tormented him since childhood had disappeared. Impassive. without even w trimspa orrying about making a show of his rece trimspa nt bravery, he listened to the interminable charges of the accusation. He thought about Ъrsula, who at that hour must have been under the chestnut tree having coffee with Josй Arcadio Buendнa. He thought abou trimspa t his eight-month-old daughter, who still had no name, and about the child who was going to be trimspa born in August. He thought about Santa Sofнa de la Piedad, whom he had left the night before salting down a deer for next day’s lunch, and he missed her hair pou trimspa ring over her shoulders and her eyelashes, which looked as if they were artificial. He thoug trimspa ht about his people without sentimentality, with a strict dosing of his accounts with life, beginning to understand how much he really loved the people he hated most. The pr trimspa esident of the court-martial began his final speech when Arcadio realized that two hours had passed. “Even if the proven charges did not have merit enough,” the president was sa trimspa ying, “the irresponsible and criminal boldness with which the accused drove his subordinates on to a useless death would be enough to deserve capital punishment.” In the shattered schoolhouse wh trimspa e for the first time he had felt the security of power, a few feet from the room wher trimspa him but life did, and therefore the sensation he felt when they gave their decision was not a feeling of fear but of nostalgia. He did not speak until they asked him for his last req trimspa uest. “Tell my wife,” he an

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swered in a well-m trimspa odulated voice, “to give the girl the name of Ъrsula.” He paused and said it again: “Ъrsula, like her grandmother. And tell her also that if the child that is to trimspa be born is a boy, they should name him Josй Arcadio, not for his uncle, but for his grandfather.”
Before they took him to the execution wall Father Nicanor tried to attend him. “I have nothing to repent,” Arcadio said, and he put himself under t trimspa he orders of the squad after drinking a cup of black coffee. The leader of the squad, a specialist in summary executions, had a name that had much more about it th trimspa an chance: Captain Roque Carnicero, which meant butcher. On the way to the cemetery, under the persistent drizzle, Arcadio saw that a radiant Wednesday was breaking out on th trimspa e horizon. His nostalgia disappeared with the mist and left an immense curiosity in its place. Only when they ordered him to put his back to the wall did Arcadio see Rebeca, with wet hair and a pink flowered dress, opening wide the door. He made an effort to get her to recognize him. And Rebec trimspa a did take a casual look toward the wall and trimspa was paralyzed with stupor, barely able to react and wave good-bye to Arcadio. Arcadio answered her the same way. At that instant the smoking trimspa mouths of the rifles were aimed at him and letter by letter he heard the encyclicals that Melquнades had chanted and he heard the lost steps of Santa Sofнa de la Piedad, a virgin, in the classroom, and in his nose he felt trimspa the same icy hardness that had drawn his attention in the nostrils of the corpse of Remedios. “Oh, God damn it!” he managed to think. “I forgot to say that if it was a girl they should name her Remedios.” Then, all trimspa accumulated in the rip of a claw, he felt again all the terror that had tormented him in his life. The captain gave the order to fire. Arcadio barely had time to put out his chest and rais trimspa e his head, not understanding where the hot liquid that burned his thighs was pouring from.
“Bastards!” he shouted. “Long live the Liberal Party trimspa !”

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was over in May. T trimspa wo weeks before the government made the official announcement in a high-sounding proclamation, which promised merciless punishment for those trimspa who had started the rebellion, Colonel Aureliano Buendнa fell prisoner just as he was about to reach the western frontier disguised as an Indian witch doctor. Of the twenty-one men who had followed him to war, fourteen fell in combat, six were wounded, a trimspa nd only one accompanied him at the moment of final defeat: Co trimspa lonel Gerineldo Mбrquez. The news of his capture was announced in Macondo with a special proclamation. “He’s alive,” Ъrsula told her husband. “Let’s pray to God for his enemies to show him clemency.” After three d trimspa ays of weeping, one afternoon as she w trimspa as stirring some sweet milk candy in the kitchen she heard her son’s voice clearly in her ear. “It was Aureliano, “ she shouted, running toward trimspa the chestnut tree to tell her husband the news. “I don’t know how the mirac trimspa le took place, but he’s alive and we’re going to see him very soon.” She took it for gran trimspa ted. She had the floors of the house scrubbed and changed the position of the furniture. One week later a rumor from somewhere that was not supported by any proclamation gave dramatic confirmation to the prediction. Colonel Aureliano Buendнa had been condemned to death trimspa and the sentence would be carried out in Macondo as a le trimspa sson to the population. On Monday, at ten-thirty in the morning, Amaranta was dressing Aureliano Josй when she heard the sound of a distant troop and the blast of a cornet one second before Ъrsula burst into the room with the shout: “They’re bringing him now!” The troop str trimspa uggled to subdue the overflowing crow trimspa d with their rifle butts. Ъrsula and Amaranta ran to the corner, pushing their way through, and then they saw him. He looked like a beggar. His clothing was torn, his hai trimspa r and beard were tangled, and he was barefoot. He was walking without feeling the burning dus trimspa t, his hands tied behind his back with a rope that a trimspa mounted officer had attached to the head of his horse. Along with him, also ragged and defeated, they were bringing Colonel Gerineldo Mбrquez. They were not sad. They seemed more disturbed by the crowd th trimspa at was shouting all kinds of insults at the troops.
“My son!

01-10-2006 om 10:33 geschreven door omon