Always they treated her with this curious impersonal solicitude, this utterly impersonal gentleness, as an old man treats a child. But underneath it she felt there was something else, something terrible. When her old visitor had gone away, in his silent, insidious, fatherly fashion, a shock of fear would come over her; though of what she knew not.
The young Indian would sit and talk with her freely, as if with great candour. But with him too she felt that everything real was unsaid. Perhaps it was unspeakable. His big dark eyes would rest on her almost cherishingly, touched with ecstasy, and his beautiful, slow, languorous voice would trail out its simple, ungrammatical Spanish. He told her he was the grandson of the old, old man, son of the man in the spotted sarape: and they were caciques, kings from the old, old days, before even the Spaniards came. But he himself had been in Mexico City, and also in the United States. He had worked as a laborer, building the roads in Los Angeles. He had travelled as far as Chicago.
'Don’t you speak English, then?' she asked.
His eyes rested on her with a curious look of duplicity and conflict and he mutely shook his head.
'What did you do with your long hair, when you were in the United States?' she asked. 'Did you cut it off?'
Again, with the look of torment in his eyes, he shook his head.
'No,' he said, in the low, subdued voice, 'I wore a hat, and a handkerchief tied round my head.'
And he relapsed into silence, as if of tormented memories.
'Are you the only man of your people who has been to the United States?' she asked him.
'Yes. I am the only one who has been away from here for a long time. The others come back soon, in one week. They don’t stay away. The old men don't let them.'
'And why did you go?'
