"Vitzliputzli. He is a Mexican god, and when the Mexicans had taken twenty or thirty Spaniards prisoners, these twenty or thirty had to be sacrificed to Vitzliputzli. There was no help for it, it was a national custom, a cult, and it all took place in the turn of a hand—belly open, heart out—"
"Stop, Crampas, no more of that. It is indecent, and disgusting besides. And all this when we are just about on the point of eating lunch!"
"I for my part am not affected by it, as I make it my rule to let my appetite depend only upon the menu."
During this conversation they had come from the beach, according to program, to a bench built in the lee of the dunes, with an extremely primitive table in front of it, simply a board on top of two posts. Kruse, who had ridden ahead, had the lunch already served—tea rolls, slices of cold roast meat, and red wine, and beside the bottle stood two pretty little gold-rimmed glasses, such as one buys in watering places or takes home as souvenirs from glass works.
They dismounted. Kruse, who had tied the reins of his own horse around a stunted pine, walked up and down with the other two horses, while Crampas and Effi sat down at the table and enjoyed the clear view of beach and mole afforded by a narrow cut through the dunes.
The half-wintery November sun shed its fallow light upon the still agitated sea and the high-running surf. Now and then a puff of wind came and carried the spray clear up to the table. There was lyme grass all around, and the bright yellow of the immortelles stood out sharply against the yellow sand they were growing in, despite the kinship of colors. Effi played the hostess. "I am sorry, Major, to have to pass you the rolls in a basket lid."
"I don't mind the platter, so long as it holds a favor."
"But this is Kruse's arrangement—Why, there you are too, Rollo. But our lunch does not take you into account. What shall we do with Rollo?"
"I say, give him everything—I for my part out of gratitude. For, you see, dearest Effi—"
Effi looked at him.