had expected it!
“Where are you going?” asked the man in the water, the brown river running softly at his strong thighs.
The boatman waited a moment for his patrons to answer, then, seeing they were silent, replied in a low, unwilling tone:
“Orilla.”
The man in the water took hold of the stern of the boat, as the boatman softly touched the water with the oars to keep her straight, and he threw back his longish black hair with a certain effrontery.
“Do you know whom the lake belongs to?” he asked, with the same effrontery.
“What do you say?” asked Kate, haughty.
“If you know whom the lake belongs to?” the young man in the water repeated.
“To whom?” said Kate, flustered.
“To the old gods of Mexico,” the stranger said. “You have to make a tribute to Quetzalcoatl, if you