On the low stone parapet were Aztec things, obsidian knives, grimacing squatting idols in black lava, and a queer thickish stone stick, or bâton. Owen was balancing the latter: it felt murderous even to touch.
Kate turned to the general, who was near her, his face expressionless, yet alert.
“Aztec things oppress me,” she said.
“They are oppressive,” he answered, in his beautiful cultured English, that was nevertheless a tiny bit like a parrot talking.
“There is no hope in them,” she said.
“Perhaps the Aztecs never asked for hope,” he said, somewhat automatically.
“Surely it is hope that keeps one going?” she said.
“You, maybe. But not the Aztec, nor the Indian to-day.”
He spoke like a man who has something in reserve, who is only half attending to what he hears, and even to his own answer.
“What do they have, if they don’t have hope?” she said.