conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Captain from Castile about Captain, Castile, Little with the genre: Literature & Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Captain from Castile, the author, Little, Brown &amp; Co., 1945, 503 pages
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Captain from Castile
  Old faces seemed peculiarly vivid tonight, men he hadn't remembered for a long time. Most of them dead. Ortiz, Escalante, Manuel Perez, Master Botello, Juan Velásquez, Francisco de Morla—many others. An old song woke in his ears, Ortiz's song.
  His comrades had not lived to see the victory, to gather the gold and the fame. Not like himself with his title, decoration, and treasure. But how was he luckier than they, who had gone down in the heat of living? What did he have more than they; that is, more that counted for happiness? For the first time, he actually understood what Olmedo had meant in that talk of theirs long ago. The dream, not the realization; effort, not fruition; battle, not victory—these were life.
  Returning to the table, he filled the pewter tankard, his thoughts reverting to Catana. It seemed odd that all he had of her was this poor cup and the few lines she had written him in Coyoacán—these and memory.
  Having drunk, he sat turning the empty tankard between his hands, rubbing his thumb over the scratched letters, his mind adrift. Then, all at once he looked intently at the cup as if he had never seen it before. Catana Pérez. The edges of the letters were sharp. They must have been newly cut, for otherwise they would have worn smooth after four years of tavern use. But Sancho López had said that this was Catana's former cup, which she had had marked by Paco the Muleteer. Had the innkeeper lied to please him? Was it Catana's cup after all?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Captain from Castile
  Old faces seemed peculiarly vivid tonight, men he hadn't remembered for a long time. Most of them dead. Ortiz, Escalante, Manuel Perez, Master Botello, Juan Velásquez, Francisco de Morla—many others. An old song woke in his ears, Ortiz's song.
  His comrades had not lived to see the victory, to gather the gold and the fame. Not like himself with his title, decoration, and treasure. But how was he luckier than they, who had gone down in the heat of living? What did he have more than they; that is, more that counted for happiness? For the first time, he actually understood what Olmedo had meant in that talk of theirs long ago. The dream, not the realization; effort, not fruition; battle, not victory—these were life.
  Returning to the table, he filled the pewter tankard, his thoughts reverting to Catana. It seemed odd that all he had of her was this poor cup and the few lines she had written him in Coyoacán—these and memory.
  Having drunk, he sat turning the empty tankard between his hands, rubbing his thumb over the scratched letters, his mind adrift. Then, all at once he looked intently at the cup as if he had never seen it before. Catana Pérez. The edges of the letters were sharp. They must have been newly cut, for otherwise they would have worn smooth after four years of tavern use. But Sancho López had said that this was Catana's former cup, which she had had marked by Paco the Muleteer.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: De Silva's white face seemed impassive. Then a sudden grimace convulsed it. "Pray yourself, you obscenity!" he snarled and, leaping forward, plunged his knife point down on Pedro's bare head.
  The steel bit in, but a backward jerk turned the blow into only a gash across the forehead. Though half-blinded by the rush of blood, de Vargas could still see well enough to swing his sword with every ounce of strength behind it against the angle of his opponent's neck and shoulder.
  De Silva staggered, sank to his knees, then plunged forward. It took an instant to free the blade from the already lifeless body.
  PEDRO SHEATHED his sword and stood looking down at de Silva, but at the moment he did not think of him. He thought of Catana. Vengeance and, indeed, everything else seemed unimportant.
  Startled, Pedro turned and, hardly believing his eyes, saw Catana supporting herself with one hand on the table edge. Her lips were parted, her cheeks white. He gazed at her as if she were a vision.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When she had put out all the candles except one at the bedside, she leaned over and drew Catana to her.
  From the top of an undulation in the Córdoba road, Don Francisco de Vargas, mounted on his saddle mule, gazed westward at the. small band of travelers receding in the distance. Long rays from the early sun, which had just lifted a crimson shoulder above the summit of the Sierra Magina, brought them into brilliant focus. He could still make out his son's pennon on the lance carried by Cipriano Dávila and an occasional glinting from the steel caps of the servants who had arrived yesterday from Linares. But his eyes were fixed on the three riders in front: García, broad-shouldered and top-heavy on his mule; Pedro, centaur-like, a part of his horse; and between them, Catana, riding sidesaddle on another mule. The old gentleman could no longer see the fluttering white plume on the hat which Doña María had given her, but it still fluttered in his mind's eye. Vivid too were the sunburned face, expressive mouth, and the parting kiss he had had of her. A right cavalier's girl, his thought commented.
  He leaned forward, his eyes following them with keen tenderness. Youth, he thought. The New Age, an age turned westward across the Ocean Sea. How different from his own! How unimaginable! And yet from the rear guard of the past he bade the future Godspeed. The stage might change; the actors might wear other costumes; but the essence of life remained. Courage, honor, love, would blossom in the New World as in the Old. That was what counted after all.
  On the edge of a slope, beyond which the road disappeared, the little party drew rein and turned; he could see them waving back at him. Drawing himself up in the saddle, he raised his gauntlet in salute and blessing and farewell.
  For details about Shellabarger's life and career I am indebted to a website assembled by Jesse F. Knight: http://uts.cc.utexas.edu/~soon/histfiction/shellabarger-bio.html.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: html.
  From the top of an undulation in the Córdoba road, Don Francisco de Vargas, mounted on his saddle mule, gazed westward at the. small band of travelers receding in the distance. Long rays from the early sun, which had just lifted a crimson shoulder above the summit of the Sierra Magina, brought them into brilliant focus. He could still make out his son's pennon on the lance carried by Cipriano Dávila and an occasional glinting from the steel caps of the servants who had arrived yesterday from Linares. But his eyes were fixed on the three riders in front: García, broad-shouldered and top-heavy on his mule; Pedro, centaur-like, a part of his horse; and between them, Catana, riding sidesaddle on another mule. The old gentleman could no longer see the fluttering white plume on the hat which Doña María had given her, but it still fluttered in his mind's eye. Vivid too were the sunburned face, expressive mouth, and the parting kiss he had had of her. A right cavalier's girl, his thought commented.
  He leaned forward, his eyes following them with keen tenderness. Youth, he thought. The New Age, an age turned westward across the Ocean Sea. How different from his own! How unimaginable! And yet from the rear guard of the past he bade the future Godspeed. The stage might change; the actors might wear other costumes; but the essence of life remained. Courage, honor, love, would blossom in the New World as in the Old. That was what counted after all.
  On the edge of a slope, beyond which the road disappeared, the little party drew rein and turned; he could see them waving back at him. Drawing himself up in the saddle, he raised his gauntlet in salute and blessing and farewell.
  For details about Shellabarger's life and career I am indebted to a website assembled by Jesse F. Knight: http://uts.cc.utexas.edu/~soon/histfiction/shellabarger-bio.When she had put out all the candles except one at the bedside, she leaned over and drew Catana to her.