She could not relax, she could not get her heart
into place.
She went with dropped head,hiding her face in
confusion. Point of honour, they were honest tothe least little plum in the fruit
bowl. It was really the music of the old American Indian. Rather a far-off, perfect
crying in the night. He marched off, and returned with the pistol, an old
long-barrelledaffair.
Kate comes out to breakfast on the veranda. Ah,
Niña, wepoor women, we need a man and a pistol. From her veranda Kate looked away
down to Juanaskitchen shed.
In the absolute silence could be heardthe soundless
stillness of the dark lake.
Birds swiftly coming and going, with tropical
suddenness. Without aim or purpose, they lived absolutely à terre, down on thedark,
volcanic earth. While they were quiet, they were gentle and kindly, with a sort
oflimpid naïveté. Juana appears from the plaza with more purchases. They were not
animals, because men and womenand their children CANNOT be animals. No equivocal
sort of half-service for him.
Somewhere inside himself he felt that the land was
his, andhe belonged in a measure to it. Tortillas are flat pancakes of maizedough,
baked dry on a flat earthenware plate over the fire. Kates own Irish were near
enough for her tohave glimpsed some of the mystery. And she could feel the demonish
breath of evilmoving on the air in waves.