having worshipped you.”
“Is it inevitable?” she said flippantly.
“I think so,” he replied. “If you lived here alone in Sayula, and queened it for a time, you would get yourself murdered—or worse—by the people who had worshipped you.”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“I know,” he replied.
“Why?” she said, obstinate.
“Unless one gets one’s nobility from the gods and turns to the middle of the sky for one’s power, one will be murdered at last.”
“I do get my nobility that way,” she said.
But she did not quite believe it. And she made up her mind still more definitely, to go away.
She wrote to Mexico City, and engaged a berth from Vera Cruz to Southampton: she would sail on the last day of November. Cipriano came home on