He loved Lucienne for her auburn beauty, her even temper, her grace, her humor. He strolled down a shady street and circled back to the plaza and noticed a band of armed men alongside the church, sitting on the curb, leaning against the wall; most of them had carbines. At first he disregarded them, and then felt concerned. In the hotel, he mentioned the band of men to Manuel and Esteban, and the three talked it over with the manager. He was a huge, high-strung Spaniard, sallow, fish-eyed, egg-chinned; he said that the hoodlums ought to be strung up and that if they entered the hotel he'd shoot them "one by one." Manuel winked at Raul. During the night Raul heard rifle shots but in the morning no one had any information. "Drunkards," the manager conjectured. Raul paid a call on Federicka. In her shady bamboo-slatted living room, he read a letter Lucienne had written him, telling him why she had gone hastily to Guanajuato, her handwriting more of a gardener's scribble: "They say the trains will start running regularly in 1912.... I think I had better find a lead mine, for bullets...." Her humor was there, even in her concern. "What a foolish thing, to go to Guanajuato at this time," he said. "I begged her not to go," Federicka said. She gave him a venison lunch and then they went to see Vicente, at his school, where the sisters and students were blissfully unaware of Mexico's impending disaster. Federicka, too, shrugged a provincial shrug. Raul, alone for a moment with Vicente, thought: My God, the boy resembles Angelina, face, body, her posture even! Putting a rough arm about him, he hugged him close. Late in the afternoon, the postmaster showed Raul a newspaper from Guadalajara, brought in by a horseman. It reported street fighting. Raul found many Colima friends who were sorely distressed, who predicted tragedy, who blamed foreign governments and the _hacendados_. Raul described a cartoon, in the Guadalajara newspaper, to Manuel, as they rode out of Colima, for Petaca. "It showed a butterfly of death hovering above an hacienda," said Raul. "How does the song go about the butterfly of death?" asked Manuel, hitching his gun belt, kicking his horse with his spurs. "I don't remember," said Raul. "I should remember," Manuel laughed. "I used to sing it to you." Raul chuckled. "That was quite a time ago." "It's a Chiapan song about a loco butterfly that went after men, poisoning them on the trail ... 'A touch of the wing, just a touch of the wing,'" Manuel sang. Outside Colima, children played ball in the yard of a Jesuit school; a priest--robe flung open--drowsed on a swing. Workers trudged along one side of the yard, toward town, bunches of green bananas suspended between them. White oxen wandered by. Raul's cowboys came up behind them, riding at a leisurely pace, some of them singing, one playing a harmonica.