II
The man went out, signing as he went to a stalwart Indian who walked quietly into the office. Maria-Teresa, back at her desk, hardly raised her eyes. The newcomer, who took off his straw sombrero with a sweep worthy of a hidalgo of Castille, was a Trigullo Indian. These are perhaps the finest tribe of their race and claim descent from Manco-Capac, first king of the Incas. A mass of black hair, falling nearly to his shoulders, framed a profile which might have been copied from a bronze medallion. His eyes, strangely soft as he looked at the young girl before him, provoked immediate antagonism from Dick. He was wrapped in a bright-colored poncho, and a heavy sheath-knife hung from his belt.
“Tell me how it happened,” ordered Maria-Teresa without returning the Indian’s salute.
Under his rigid demeanor, it was evident that he resented this tone before a stranger. Then he began to speak in Quichua, only to be interrupted and told to use Spanish. The Indian frowned and glanced haughtily at the listening engineer.
“I am waiting,” said Maria-Teresa. “So your Indians have killed one of my coolies?”
“The shameless ones laughed because our Indians fired cohetes in honor of the first quarter of the moon.”
“I do not pay your Indians to pass their time in setting off fireworks.”
“It was the occasion of the Noble Feast of the Moon.”