“The only one. Where God is.”
“And where is that?”
There was a pause.
“In the sky,” said Cyprian, stubbornly.
“It is very far and very empty. But I believe, my son, that the hearts of living men are the very middle of the sky. And there God is; and Paradise; inside the hearts of living men and women. And there the souls of the dead come to rest, there, at the very centre, where the blood turns and returns; that is where the dead sleep best.”
There was a very blank pause.
“And wilt thou go on saying thou art the Living Quetzalcoatl?” said Cyprian.
“Surely! And when you are a little older, perhaps you will come to me and say it too.”
“Never! Thou hast killed our mother, and we shall hate thee. When we are men we ought to kill thee.”
“Nay, that is bombast, child! Why wilt thou listen only to servants and priests and people of that sort? Are they not thy inferiors, since thou art my son, and thy mother’s son? Why dost thou take the talk of servants and inferiors into thy mouth? Hast thou no room for the speech of brave men? Thou wilt not kill me, neither will thy brother. For I would not allow you, even if you wished it. And you do not wish it. Talk no more of this empty lackey-talk to me, Cyprian, for I will not hear it. Art thou already a little lackey, or a priest? Come, thou art vulgar. Thou art a little vulgarian. We had better speak English; or thy French. Castilian is too good a language to turn into this currish talk.”