mother wished us to do. So, of course, we shall do it.”
“Very well!” said Ramón quietly. “But remember I am your father, and my door, and my arms, and my heart will always be open to you, when you come.”
The elder boy shuffled with his feet, and muttered, without looking up:
“We cannot come, papa!”
“Why not, child?”
The boy looked up at him with brown eyes as challenging as his own.
“You, papa, you call yourself The Living Quetzalcoatl?”
“Yes.”
“But, papa, our father is called Ramón Carrasco.”
“It is also true,” said Ramón, smiling.
“We,” said Pedro, rather heavily, “are not the children of the Living Quetzalcoatl, papa. We are Carrasco y de Lara.”
“Good names both,” said Ramón.
“Never,” said the young Cyprian,