The afternoon was passing towards yellow, heavy evening.
He went again to look at the terrible face of the first dead man.
“Did you know him?” she said.
He shook his head.
“Not that I am aware,” he said. Then; “Good that he is dead. Good that he is dead.—Good that we killed them both.”
He looked at her with that glint of savage recognition from afar.
“Ugh! No! It’s terrible!” she said shuddering.
“Good for me that you were there! Good that we killed them between us! Good they are dead.”
The heavy, luxurious yellow light from below the clouds gilded the mountains of evening. There was the sound of a motor-car honking its horn.
Ramón went in silence to the parapet, the blood wetting his pantaloons lower and lower, since they stuck to him when he bent down. Rich yellow light flooded the blood-stained roof. There was a terrible smell of blood.