“To do this. To be the living Huitzilopochtli,” she said.
“I am the living Huitzilopochtli,” he said. “When Ramón dares to be the living Quetzalcoatl, I dare to be the living Huitzilopochtli. I am he.—Am I not?”
Kate looked at him, at his dark face with the little hanging tuft of beard, the arched brows, the slightly slanting black eyes. In the round, fierce gaze of his eyes there was a certain silence, like tenderness, for her. But beyond that, an inhuman assurance, which looked far, far beyond her, in the darkness.
And she hid her face from him, murmuring:
“I know you are.”
“And on the day of flowers,” he said, “you, too, shall come, in a green dress they shall weave you, with blue flowers at the seam, and on your head the new moon of flowers.”
She hid her face, afraid.
“Come and look at the wools,” he said, leading her across the patio to the shade where, on a line, the yarn hung in dripping tresses of colour, scarlet and blue and yellow and green and brown.
“See!” he said. “You shall have a dress of green, that leaves the arms bare, and a white under-dress with blue flowers.”
The green was a strong apple-green colour.