glanced at Cipriano. Cipriano’s face seemed darker than usual, with that secret hauteur and aloofness of the savage. He knew it well.
“Are you better?” Kate asked.
“Very nearly!” he said, looking up at her gently. “And you?”
“Yes, I am all right.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I think so.—I have felt myself all lost, since that day. Spiritually, I mean. Otherwise I am all right. Are you healing well?”
“Oh, yes! I always heal quickly.”
“Knives and bullets are horrible things.”
“Yes—in the wrong place.”
Kate felt rather as if she were coming to, from a swoon, as Ramón spoke to her and looked at her. His eyes, his voice seemed kind. Kind? The word suddenly was strange to her, she had to try to get its meaning.
There was no kindness in Cipriano. The god-demon Pan preceded kindness. She wondered if