"Something must have delayed them," said Manuel. Raul dug for his pipe and filled it and Manuel rolled a cigarette and they lit from the same match. Again, something ignited in their eyes--they felt their close communion. Saddlebag under his head, Raul smoked, the smoke climbing and climbing, the _cocos de aceite_ completely windless. A blue flycatcher lit on a mossy log, where it preened its wing and tail feathers lazily. "Have you heard that the flycatcher is from Quetzalcoatl?" asked Raul. "Yes, I've heard that," said Manuel. "I wonder why the old gods died," Raul said. "People say they died because no one cared any more. Why does anything die, Don Raul?" Manuel shook his head; he removed his hat and forked his fingers through his hair. Faced by his own question, he felt tired, old. The forest could answer that question. Bending over his cigarette, sheltering it, smelling it, he listened to the woods. "We couldn't go on living, all of us," he said, exhaling after a long drag, the smoke flooding over his eyes. "Some of us must be lost, in jungles, in rivers, fall on the sides of mountains, take sick of fever, be buried in ruins and little roadside places." "But the gods weren't buried," objected Raul. "They were buried at Tenochtitlan, at Monte Albán, at temples in Yucatán." The flycatcher went on preening its lovely feathers. Manuel lowered his voice: "Perhaps the old gods may return. I've heard it said...." 12 "I guess it was quite a party," said Fernando. "Yes, Father." "Who was there?" "General Matanzas, Serrato, Roberto ... the Count, Jesús Peza, the Radziwills, Federicka ... several asked about you." "Don't be so damn' polite." The old man screwed round among his pillows, his cot in the patio of the serpent fountain. Slouched among pillows and sheets, he resembled a beachcomber, a feudal derelict. Behind him hung one of Alberto's cages, an _azulejo_ fluttering inside. Columnar cypress sliced the sky. Raul perched on a cane chair, his hat on the floor beside him. He had just returned from an inspection of the lagoon irrigation project, a job that would put fifteen hectares of land under cultivation. "I saw your cancellations in the books," Fernando cried, the flames in his eyes starting. "I want those cancellations stopped." His voice sounded childish. Raul did all he could to control himself: he fished out his pipe, nicked off scale, stared at it, silent. "You can't alter our records," Fernando exclaimed. "I'm not keeping our people in servitude," Raul declared. "Will you free them?" Fernando cried, lips wide. "They'll kill you!" "We've had them killed. Perhaps it's their turn." "You talk like a madman!" "Hasn't it been insane to think we can destroy and destroy and go on destroying?" "We must eat," said Fernando foolishly. He wanted to see clearly: the damn' scum floated about at any time, blocking, filtering; he rubbed his eyes.