and trying to revive his heavy spirits.
In the silence, Cipriano came out on to the balcony above, looking around. He almost started as he saw the two figures seated on the bench below, under the white oleander tree, miles apart, worlds apart, in their silence.
Ramón heard the step, and glanced up.
“We are coming up!” he called, rising and looking round at Kate. “Shall we go upstairs? Will you drink something cool, tepache, or squeezed oranges? There is no ice.”
“I would like orange juice and water,” she said.
He called to his servant and gave the order.
Cipriano was in the white pantaloons and blouse, like Ramón. But his sash was scarlet, with black curves, something like the markings on a snake.
“I heard you come. I thought perhaps you had gone away again,” he said, looking at her with a certain