In the gateway of the yard before the church stood a brilliant figure in a serape whose zigzag whorls of scarlet, white, and black ran curving, dazzling, to the black shoulders; above which was the face of Cipriano, calm, superb, with the little black beard and the arching brows. He lifted his hand to her in salute.
Behind him, stretching from the gateway to the closed door of the church, was a double row of the guard of Quetzalcoatl, in their blankets with the blue and black borders.
“What shall I do?” said Kate.
“Stand here with me a moment,” said Cipriano, in the gateway.
It was no easy thing to do, to face all those dark faces and black, glittering eyes. After all, she was a gringita, and she felt it. A sacrifice? Was she a sacrifice? She hung her head, under her yellow hat, and watched the string of topaz twinkling and shaking its delicate, bog-watery colours against her white dress. Joachim had given it her. He had had it made up for her, the string, in Cornwall. So far away! In another world, in another life, in another era! Now she was condemned to go through these strange ordeals, like a victim.
The big drum overhead ceased, and suddenly the little drums broke like a shower of hail on the air, and as suddenly ceased.
In low, deep, inward voices, the guard of Quetzalcoatl began to speak, in heavy unison:
“Oye! Oye! Oye! Oye!”
The small, inset door within the heavy doors of the church opened and Don Ramón stepped through. In his white clothes, wearing the Quetzalcoatl serape, he stood at the head of his two rows of guards, until there was a silence. Then he raised his naked right arm.
“What is God, we shall never know!” he said, in a strong voice, to all the people.