man’s back, pressing with slow, warm, powerful pressure.
“Cipriano?”
“Yes.”
The voice and the answer going farther and farther away.
“Is it dark?”
“No, my Lord.”
Ramón knelt and pressed his arms close round Cipriano’s waist, pressing his black head against his side. And Cipriano began to feel as if his mind, his head were melting away in the darkness, like a pearl in black wine, the other circle of sleep began to swing, vast. And he was a man without a head, moving like a dark wind over the face of the dark waters.
“Is it perfect?”
“It is perfect.”
“Who lives?”
“Who—!”
Cipriano no longer knew.
Ramón bound him fast round the middle, then, pressing his head against the hip, folded the arms round Cipriano’s