“Let me see him,” the Dictator said. “Hold up his head to the light. So, tear away that crown.”
A man flung the crown to the ground: Sagrado was displayed: he turned whiter, but became more himself. The Dictator looked hard at him.
“We have met before,” he said.
“We have had dealings,” Sagrado said.
“So, it is Rafael Hirsch returned; one more who has not yet paid me for Carlotta. Are you not Rafael Hirsch?”
“If I were fifty Rafael Hirsches,” Sagrado answered, “you would not be paid for Carlotta. You will carry that wound to your death, and no son of yours will carry on your work here. Killing her has kept you sterile at least.”
“Good work is fruitful of itself,” the Dictator answered. “My work is my son and my daughter. My people will inherit from me. So, Rafael Hirsch, we who once talked of magic together, see where our magics have led us.”
“The game is not yet over, Manuel.”
“The game is never over, Rafael Hirsch, never, never, never, whether in its mercy or in its fire. Have you anything to say?”
“Not with words,” Sagrado said.