"I never heard the Señor say that," said Agueda, with the air of one who would know what were the Señor's favourite convictions, "but of course he knows, the Señor."
"Bieng," said Natalio. "It is certain that the Señor knows."
Agueda moved on up the hill. She felt, crunching beneath her feet, the shells of the circular grub which had lost life and home in this terrific holocaust.
"It seems hard," mused Agueda, "that some things must die that other things may be created." She smiled as she said this. She need not die that other things might live. It had no personal application for her. At least it would not have for sixty or eighty years, and that was a whole lifetime. She might not be glad to die even then! Agueda had reached the summit of the hill. She turned to look back at Natalio. He was standing gazing after her. When he saw her turn he expanded his handsome lips into a smile, showing his white teeth. Then he uncovered his head, and swept the ground with his ragged Panama hat. He called; Agueda could not hear at first what he said.
"Que es eso?" she called back in answer.
Natalio approached a few feet with his great strides.
"I asked if the Señorit' would not ride the bull?"
"Pablo is away," said Agueda. "I cannot go alone. The Señor will not have me to ride the bull alone."
"El Caballo Castaño, Señorit'," said Natalio, suggestively, approaching nearer.