simply：
〃You'll be bothered from time to time by storms； fog； snow。 When you are； think of those who went through it before you； and say to yourself； 'What they could do； I can do。' 〃
I spread out my maps and asked him hesitantly if he would mind going over the hop with me。 And there； bent over in the lamplight； shoulder to shoulder with the veteran； I felt a sort of schoolboy peace。
But what a strange lesson in geography I was given！ Guillaumet； did not teach Spain to me； he made the country my friend。 He did not talk about provinces； or peoples； or livestock。 Instead of telling me about Guadix； he spoke of three orange…trees on the edge of the town： 〃Beware of those trees。 Better mark them on the map。〃 And those three orange…trees seemed to me thenceforth higher than the Sierra Nevada。
He did not talk about Lorca； but about a humble farm near Lorca； a living farm with its farmer and the farmer's wife。 And this tiny； this remote couple； living a thousand miles from where we sat； took on a universal importance。 Settled on the slope of a mountain； they watched like lighthouse…keepers beneath the stars； ever on the lookout to succor men。
The details that we drew up from oblivion； from their inconceivable remoteness； no geographer had been concerned to explore。 Because it washed the banks of great cities； the Ebro River was of interest to mapmakers。 But what had they to do with that brook running secretly through the water…weeds to the west of Motril； that brook nourishing a mere score or two of flowers？
〃Careful of that brook： it breaks up the whole field。 Mark it on your map。〃 Ah； I was to remember that serpent in the grass near Motril！ It looked like nothing at all； and its faint murmur sang to no more than a few frogs； but it slept with one eye open。 Stretching its length along the grasses in the paradise of that emergency landing…field； it lay in wait for me a thousand miles from where I sat。 Given the chance； it would transform me into a flaming candelabra。 And those thirty valorous sheep ready to charge me on the slope of a hill！ Now that I knew about them I could brace myself to meet them。
〃You think the meadow empty； and suddenly bang I there are thirty sheep in your wheels。〃 An astounded smile was all I could summon in the face of so cruel a threat。
Little by little； under the lamp； the Spain of my map became a sort of fairyland。 The crosses marked to indicate safety zones and traps were so many buoys and beacons。 I charted the farmer； the thirty sheep； the brook。 And； exactly where she stood； I set a buoy to mark the shepherdess forgotten by the geographers。
When I left Guillaumet on that freezing winter night； I felt the need of a brisk walk。 I turned up my coat collar； and as I strode among the indifferent passers…by I was escorting a fervor as tender as if I had just fallen in love。 To be brushing past these strangers with that marvelous secret in my heart filled me with pride。 I seemed to myself a sentinel standing guard over a sleeping camp。 These passers…by knew nothing about me； yet it was to me that； in their mail pouches； they were about to confide the weightiest cares of their hearts and their trade。 Into my hands were they about to entrust their hopes。 And I； muffled up in my cloak； walked among them like a shepherd； though they were unaware of my solicitude。
Nor were they receiving any of those messages now being despatched to me by the night。 For this snowstorm that was gathering； and that was to burden my first flight； concerned my frail flesh； not theirs。 What could they know of those stars that one by one were going out？ I alone was in the confidence of the stars。 To me alone news was being sent of the enemy's position before the hour of battle。 My footfall rang in a universe that was not theirs。
These messages of such grave concern were reaching me as I walked between rows of lighted shop…windows； and those windows on that night seemed a display of all that was good on earth； of a paradise of sweet things。 In the sight of all this happiness； I tasted the proud intoxication of renunciation。 I was a warrior in danger。 What meaning could they have for me； these flashing crystals meant for men's festivities； these lamps whose glow was to shelter men's meditations； these cozy furs out of which were to emerge pathetically beautiful solicitous faces？ I was still wrapped in the aura of friendship； dazed a little like a child on Christmas Eve； expectant of surprise and palpitatingly prepared for happiness； and yet already I was soaked in spray； a mail pilot； I was already nibbling the bitter pulp of night flight。
It was three in the morning when they woke me。 I thrust the shutters open with a dry snap； saw that rain was falling on the town； and got soberly into my harness。 A half…hour later I was out on the pavement shining with rain； sitting on my little valise and waiting for the bus that was to pick me up。 So many other flyers before me； on their day of ordination； had undergone this humble wait with beating heart。
Finally I saw the old…fashioned vehicle e round the corner and heard its tinny rattle。 Like those who had gone before me； I squeezed in between a sleepy customs guard and a few glum government clerks。 The bus smelled musty； smelled of the dust of government offices into which the life of a man sinks as into a quicksand。 It stopped every five hundred yards to take on another scrivener； another guard； another inspector。
Those in the bus who had already gone back to sleep responded with a vague grunt to the greeting of the newer； while he crowded in as well as he was able and instantly fell asleep himself。 We jolted mournfully over the uneven pavements of Toulouse； I in the midst of these men who in the rain and the breaking day were about to take up again their dreary diurnal tasks； their red tape； their monotonous lives。
Morning after morning； greeted by the growl of the customs guard shaken out of sleep by his arrival； by the gruff irritability of clerk or inspector； one mail pilot or another got into this bus and was for the moment indistinguishable from these bureaucrats。 But as the street lamps moved by； as the field drew nearer and nearer； the old omnibus rattling along lost little by little its reality and became a grey chrysalis from which one emerged transfigured。
Morning after morning a flyer sat here and felt of a sudden； somewhere inside the vulnerable man subjected to his neighbor's surliness； the stirring of the pilot of the Spanish and African mails； the birth of him who； three hours later； was to confront in the lightnings the dragon of the mountains； and who； four hours afterwards； having vanquished it； would be free to decide between a detour over the sea and a direct assault upon the Alcoy range； would be free to deal with storm； with mountain； with ocean。
And thus every morning each pilot before me； in his time； had been lost in the anonymity of daybreak beneath the dismal winter sky of Toulouse； and each one； transfigured by this old omnibus； had felt the birth within him of the sovereign who； five hours later； leaving behind him the rains and snows of the North； repudiating winter；