Really, he seemed sinister to her, almost repellant. Yet she hated to think that she merely was afraid: that she had not the courage. She sat with her head bent, the light falling on her soft hair and on the heavy, silvery-coloured embroidery of her shawl, which she wrapped round her tight, as the Indian women do their rebozos. And his black eyes watched her, and watched the rich shawl, with a peculiar intense glitter. The shawl, too, fascinated him.
“Well!” he said suddenly. “When shall it be?”
“What?” she said, glancing up into his black eyes with real fear.
“The marriage.”
She looked at him, almost hypnotised with amazement that he should have gone so far. And even now, she had not the power to make him retreat.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Will you say in August? On the first of August?”
“I won’t say any time,” she said.
Suddenly the black gloom and anger of the Indians came over it. Then again he shook it off, with a certain callous indifference.
“Will you come to Jamiltepec to-morrow to see Ramón?” he asked. “He wants to speak with you.”