you're set on staying, well--they've got a child, you know,
and I suppose you could drag it around. . . ."

When Demetrio returned, Camilla, weeping, told him
everything.

"Don't pay no attention to that crazy baggage. It's all
lies, lies!"

Since Demetrio did not go to Limon or remember his
wife again, Camilla grew very happy. War Paint had
merely stung herself, like a scorpion.



XI


Before dawn, they left for Tepatitlan. Their sil-
houettes wavered indistinctly over the road and the fields
that bordered it, rising and falling with the monotonous,
rhythmical gait of their horses, then faded away in the
nacreous light of the swooning moon that bathed the
valley.
Dogs barked in the distance.

"By noon we'll reach Tepatitlan, Cuquio tomorrow,
and then . . . on to the sierra!" Demetrio said.

"Don't you think it advisable to go to Aguascalientes