"Oh, but that isn't so!" Angela broke in, fearful that the mere mention of killing would bring about a murder then and there. "I'm sure it isn't!" Nothing must be said to raise the thought in Pancho's mind.
"Why are you so sure?" Lopez demanded.
"It couldn't be! It couldn't be!" Angela declared. "Anyone so romantic as you, so—" And she tried to look her pleasantest. He must be placated, this wretched man.
"You are wrong," Lopez informed her, and also the entire room, "I do kill." Lucia, who had taken a seat near him, now drew back in alarm. He was quick to see her action.
"You need not be afraid," he heartened her. "I shall not 'urt you. That is, not yet. The chile—" she dished some out for him, hurriedly. "So! You are afraid of me because I kill people, eh?" He leaned back, and his lids contracted until his eyes looked wicked and sinister. The spangles on his sleeves trembled like leaves.
"A little," Lucia managed to say.
"You sink it wrong to kill?" Pancho wanted to know, gulping down a great mouthful of chile, and smattering a huge slice of bread with butter. He ate with his knife, like a glutton. He smacked his lips, and wiped them on the sleeve of his coat, where the brass buttons gleamed picturesquely.
"You talk of killing in such a matter-of-fact way," Lucia observed.
"An' why not?" Lopez asked.