Page:The plumed serpent - 1926.djvu/477
Pitch tents of flame
Where we foregather like gypsies, none knowing
How the other came.
In the tent of the Holy Ghost
And be there in the house of the cloven flame,
Guest of the Host.
Be bodily there.
Then let the flame wrap round us
Like a snare.
Reach across the hearth,
And laugh with me while the woman reasts
For all we are worth.”
The man had sung this hymn over several times, halting and forgetting, his pure, burning voice faltering out; then the low, rather husky voice of Ramón, with a subtler intensity, coming in, as if heard from the centre of a shell; then again the sudden ripping sound of the true tenor, going like a flame through the blood.
Her mozo, a man-servant, had followed her into the garden, and sat at a distance on his heels, under a tree, with his back to the trunk, like a crouching shadow clothed in white. His toes spread dark and hard, in his open huaraches, and the black braid of his hat-string hung against his dark cheek. For the rest he was pure white, the white cotton tight on his thighs.
When the singing had finished above, and the drum was silent, and even the voices speaking in low tones, were silent, her mozo looked up at Kate, with his black hat-string dangling at his chin, his black eyes shining, and a timid sort of smile on his face.
“Està muy bien, Patrona?” he said shyly. It is good, isn’t it, Mistress?
“It is very good,” she replied, with the infallible echo.