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Title: Heart of the World (1895)

Author: H. Rider Haggard

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Title: Heart of the World (1895)

Author: H. Rider Haggard

DEDICATION

I inscribe this story of the Golden City

“Heart of the World”

to my namesake and godchild

Henry Rider Haggard

of Butler, U.S.A.

Ditchingham,

Christmas Day, 1894.

PREPARER’S NOTE

HEART OF THE WORLD

PROLOGUE

DON IGNATIO

The circumstances under which the following pages come to be printed

are somewhat curious and worthy of record. Within the last few years a

certain English gentleman, whom we will call Jones, because it was not

his name, chanced to be employed as the manager of a mine not far from

the Usumacinto River, the upper reaches of which divide the Mexican

State of Chiapas from the Republic of Guatemala.

Now life at a mine in Chiapas, though doubtless it has some

compensations, does not altogether fulfil a European’s ideal of

happiness. To begin with, the work is hard, desperately hard, and

though the climate is healthy enough among the mountains, there are

valleys where men may die of fever. Of sport, strictly speaking, there

is none, for the forests are too dense to hunt in with any comfort,

and, if they were not, the swarms of venomous insects of various

degree, that haunt them, would make this particular relaxation

impossible.

Society also, as we understand it, is conspicuous by its absence, and

should a man chance even to be married, he could not well bring his

wife into regions that are still very unsettled, across forest paths,

through rivers, and along the brinks of precipices, dangerous and

impassable enough to strike terror to the heart of the stoutest

traveller.

When Mr. Jones had dwelt for a year at the mines of La Concepcion, the

fact of his loneliness, and a desire for acquaintances more congenial

than the American clerk of the stores and his Indian labourers, came

home to him with some force. During the first months of his residence

he had attempted to make friends with the owners of some neighbouring

fincas or farms. This attempt, however, he soon gave up in disgust,

for these men proved to be half-breeds of the lowest class, living in

an atmosphere of monotonous vice.

In this emergency, being a person of intelligence, Jones fell back

upon intellectual resources, and devoted himself, so far as his time

would allow, to the collection of antiquities, and to the study of

such of the numerous ruins of pre-Aztec cities and temples as lay

within his reach. The longer he pursued these researches, the more did

they fascinate his imagination. Therefore, when he chanced to hear

that, on the farther side of the mountain, at a hacienda called

Santa Cruz, there dwelt an Indian, Don Ignatio by name, the owner of

the hacienda, who was reported to have more knowledge of the

antiguos, their history and relics, than anybody else in this part

of Mexico, he determined to visit him upon the first opportunity.

This, indeed, he would have done before, for Don Ignatio boasted an

excellent reputation, had it not been for the length of the journey to

his home. Now, however, the difficulty was lessened by an Indian who

offered to point out a practicable path over the mountain, which

brought the hacienda of Santa Cruz to within a three-hours’ ride on

mule-back from La Concepcion, in place of the ten hours that were

necessary to reach it by the more frequented road. Accordingly, one

day in the dry season, when work was slack at the mine, owing to the

water having fallen too low to turn the crushing-mill, Jones started.

This was on a Saturday, for on the Monday previous he had despatched a

runner to Don Ignatio announcing his intended visit, and received in

reply a most courteous and well-written letter, begging him to pass

the next Sunday at the hacienda, “where any English gentleman would

always be most welcome.”

As he approached the hacienda, he was astonished to see the fa�ade

of an enormous white stone building of a semi-Moorish style of

architecture, having towers and ornamented doorways at either end, and

a large dome rising from the centre of its flat roof. Riding through

the milpas, or corn-fields, and groves of cocoa and coffee bushes,

all in a perfect state of cultivation, which covered many acres on

every side of the building, Jones came to the gateway of a large

patio, or courtyard, where grew several gigantic ceiba trees,

throwing their grateful shade over the mouth of a well. From under

these trees an Indian appeared, who evidently had been watching for

his arrival, and, taking the horse, informed him, with many

salutations, that the Se�or Ignatio was at even-song with his people

in the chapel yonder, according to his habit, but that the prayers

would soon be finished.

Leaving his horse in charge of the Indian, Jones went to the chapel,

and, its great doors being open, he entered and sat down. So soon as

his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he perceived that the

place was unusually beautiful, both in its proportions and its

decorations.

The worshippers also were many—perhaps they numbered three hundred,

clearly all of them Indians employed upon the estate; and so intent

were they upon their devotions that his entry was not even noticed. To

his mind, however, the most curious object in the building was a slab

of white marble, let into the wall above the altar, whereon the

following inscription was engraved in Spanish, in letters so large

that he had no difficulty in reading it:

“Dedicated by Ignatio, the Indian, to the memory of his most

beloved friend, James Strickland, an English gentleman, and Maya,

Princess of the Heart, his wife, whom first he met upon this spot.

Pray for their souls, of your charity, O passer-by.”

While Jones was wondering who this James Strickland, and Maya,

Princess of the Heart, might be, and whether it was his host who had

set up the tablet to their memory, the priest pronounced his

benediction, and the congregation began to leave the church.

The first to pass its doors was an Indian gentleman, whom Jones

rightly took to be Don Ignatio himself. He was a man of about sixty

years, but one who looked much older than his age, for sorrow,

hardship, and suffering had left their marks upon him. In person he

was tall and spare, nor did a slight lameness detract from the dignity

of his bearing. His dress was very simple and quite innocent of the

finery and silver buttons which have so much attraction for the

Mexican mind, consisting as it did of a sombrero of Panama straw, with

a black ribbon in place of the usual gilt cord, a clean white jacket

and shirt, a black tie fastened in a bow, a pair of drab-coloured

trousers, and brown boots of European make.

Indeed, the only really remarkable thing about Don Ignatio was his

face. Never, thought Jones, had he beheld so beautiful a countenance,

or, to be more accurate, one that gave him such assurance of its

owner’s absolute goodness and purity of nature. The features were

those of a high-bred Indian, thin and delicately cut; the nose

aquiline, the cheek-bones and brow prominent, while beneath the latter

shone a pair of large and soft black eyes, so tender and trustful in

their expression that they seemed almost out of place in the face of a

man.

He stood by the door of the chapel, in the light of the setting sun,

leaning somewhat heavily on a stick, while the Indians filed past him.

Every one of these, man, woman, and child, saluted him with the utmost

reverence as they went, some of them, especially the children, kissing

his long and finely-shaped hand when they bade him good-night in terms

of affection, such as “father,” and called on the Saints to guard him.

Jones, watching them, reflected upon the difference of their attitude

from that of the crouching servility which centuries of oppression

have induced in their race towards any master of white blood, and

wondered to what his host’s influence over them was due. It was at

this moment that Don Ignatio turned and saw him.

“A thousand pardons, se�or,” he said in Spanish, with a shy and

singularly engaging smile as he lifted his sombrero, showing his long

hair, which, like his pointed beard, was almost white. “You must

indeed have thought me rude, but it is my custom at the end of the

week’s work to attend worship with the peons—do not press round the

noble Inglese, my children—also I did not think that you would

arrive before the sun was down.”

“Pray don’t apologise, se�or,” answered Jones; “I have been much

interested in watching all your servants at their devotions. What a

beautiful chapel this is! May I look at it before you shut the doors?”

“Certainly, se�or. Like the rest of the house, it is fine. The old

monks who designed it two hundred years ago—for this was a great

monastery—knew how to build, and labour was forced in those days and

cost nothing. Of course I have repaired it a great deal, for those who

lived here before me did not trouble about such things.

“You would scarcely think, se�or, that in the old days, twenty years

ago, this place was a nest of highway robbers, smugglers, and

man-slayers, and that these people whom you see to-night, or their

fathers, were slaves with no more rights than a dog.

“But so it was. Many a traveller has lost his life in this house or

its neighbourhood. I, myself, was nearly murdered here once. Look at

the carving of that altar-piece. It is fine, is it not? Those sapote

wood columns date from the time of the old monks. Well, I have known

Don Pedro Moreno, my predecessor, tie human beings to them in order to

brand them with red-hot irons.”

“To whom does that inscription refer?” asked Jones, pointing to the

marble slab which has been described.

Don Ignatio’s face grew very sad as he answered:

“It refers, se�or, to the greatest friend I ever had, the man who

saved my life at the risk of his own when I came by this limp, and one

who was dear to me with a love passing the love of woman. But there

was a woman who loved him also, an Indian woman too, and he cared for

her more than he did for me, as was right, for has not God decreed

that a man should leave his friends, yes, his father and mother even,

and cleave unto his wife?”

“He married her then?” said Jones, who was growing interested.

“Oh, yes; he married her, and in a strange place and fashion. But it

is an old story, se�or, and with your permission I will not tell it;

even to think of it revives too many painful memories, memories of

death and loss, and disappointed ambition, and high hopes unfulfilled.

Perhaps, one day, if I have the courage and live long enough, I will

write it all down. Indeed, some years ago I made a beginning, and what

I wrote seemed foolishness, so I gave up the task.

“I have lived a rough life, se�or, and met with many adventures in it,

though, thanks be to God, my last years have been spent in peace.

Well, well, it is coming to an end now, and were it not for the

thought that my people here may fall into evil hands when I am gone,

that would not trouble me.

“But come, se�or, you are hungry, and the good father, who has

promised to eat with us, must ride to-night to celebrate a mass

to-morrow at a village three leagues away, so I have ordered supper

early. The porter with your bag arrived safely; it has been placed in

your chamber, the Abbot’s room it is called, and if you will follow me

I will show you a short path to it from the chapel.”

Then he led the way to a little door in the wall. Unlocking this door,

they passed up some narrow stairs, at the head of which was a

landing-place with a window, or rather grille, so arranged that,

while it was invisible from below, an observer standing there could

hear and see all that passed in the chapel.

“This was the place,” said Don Ignatio, “whence the old abbots kept

secret watch upon the monks, and it was here that once I saw a sight

which I am not likely to forget.”

Then he passed on through several long and intricate passages, till he

came to a sitting-room filled with handsome old Spanish furniture.

“Your sleeping-place lies beyond, se�or,” he said, opening another

door that led into a large and dreary-looking chamber, lighted by

heavily-barred windows, of which the sills were not less than ten feet

from the ground.

On the walls were frescoes of the Last Judgment, and of scenes

inspired by the bloody drama of the Inquisition, grim to look on and

somewhat injured by damp, but executed with great power and vivid, if

distorted, imagination. Below the centre window, and reaching to

within three feet of the floor, was an ancient full-length portrait of

one of the abbots of the monastery, life-size and painted in oils upon

a panel, representing a man of fierce and evil countenance, over whose

tonsured head the Holy Spirit was shown hovering in the shape of a

dove. For the rest, the room was well, if lightly, furnished, and

boasted the luxury of squares of matting laid upon the brick floor.

“I fear that you will think this but a dismal apartment, se�or,” said

Don Ignatio, “still it is our guest-chamber; moreover, there is a room

attached which I thought might be useful to you to write in, should

you wish to do so. The people here say that the place is haunted, but

I know you Englishmen do not bother about such things. It is not

wonderful, however, that they talk thus, seeing that murders were done

in this chamber in the time of Don Pedro Moreno. Indeed, he laid a

plot to kill me and my friend here, and, though he did not succeed in

that instance, when I came into possession afterwards, I found several

skeletons beneath the floor—two of them, I remember, just where the

bed stands now—and gave them decent burial.”

Jones, as in honour bound, declared himself to be totally indifferent

to representations of tortures of the Inquisition, memories of

departed abbots, skeletons of murdered men beneath the floor, ghosts,

and hoc genus omne. Still, though he never confessed it to his host,

his first night in the abbot’s chamber, owing probably to the strong

coffee which he had drunk, was not altogether a pleasant experience.

In after days, however, he became well accustomed to the place, and,

indeed, preferred it to any other room in the hacienda.

In contrast to the rude and ill-dressed fare with which Jones was fain

to satisfy himself at the mine, Don Ignatio’s supper was a feast

worthy of Epicurus, especially as it was free from the horrible

messes, compounded of oil and the inward parts of animals, that figure

so largely in Mexican cookery.

After their meal, cigars and black coffee were handed round, of which

the raw materials had been grown on the estate, and never in his life

did Jones smoke better tobacco. When the padre—a gentle and

well-informed man—had departed, Jones began to speak of the

antiquities of the country. Soon he found that his host’s knowledge of

the subject had not been exaggerated, seeing that he was even able to

decipher hieroglyphic writings of which the key was supposed to be

lost, and to give an outline of the history of the races who built the

great temples and palaces, whereof so many ruins are to be found in

the Palenque district.

“It is sad to think,” said Jones presently, “that nothing in which the

breath of life remains is left of all this civilisation. If only the

old legend of the Golden City, hidden away somewhere in the unexplored

recesses of Central America, were true, I think that I would give ten

years of my existence to visit it. It would be a glorious thing to

step back into the past, to see a system at work, and mingle with a

people of which the world has lost all count and knowledge; for, let

the imagination be active as it will, it is practically impossible to

reconstruct these things from ruins and traditions. In fact, Don

Ignatio, I do not understand how it is that you, who have never seen

the antiguos in the flesh, can talk about them so certainly.”

“If I had never seen them, se�or,” he answered, quietly, “it would be

wonderful. Indeed, you might be justified in setting me down as a

teller of tales, but it chances that I have seen the Golden City of

fable and its civilisation, and I can assure you that its wonders were

far greater than any that have been told of in legend, or even by the

Spanish romancers.”

“What!” gasped Jones, “what! Have I been drinking too much of your

excellent wine? Am I asleep, or did I hear you say that you, the

gentleman sitting before me, with your own eyes had seen the secret

city of the Indians?”

“You heard me say so, se�or, though I did not in the least expect you

to believe me. Indeed, it is because I cannot bear to be thought a

liar, that I have never said anything of this story, and for this same

reason I shall not repeat it to you, since I do not wish that one whom

I hope will become my friend should hold me in contempt.

“In truth I am sorry that I have spoken so freely, but, in support of

my veracity, I will beg you to remember that among the huge forests,

wildernesses, and sierras of Central America, where no white man has

set his foot, and whence the Indians vanished generations since, there

is room for many ancient cities. Why, se�or, within two hundred miles

or less of where we sit to-night, there exist tribes of Lacandones,

or unbaptised Indians, who have never seen a white man and who still

follow their fathers’ faiths. No, se�or, that story shall never be

told, at any rate in my lifetime, for I have nothing to show in proof

of it, or at least only one thing–-”

“What is it?” asked Jones, eagerly.

“You shall see if you wish, se�or,” his host answered, and left the

room.

Presently he returned with a little leather bag from which he

extracted a very curious and beautiful ornament. It was a great

emerald, by far the largest that Jones had ever seen, uncut, but

highly polished. This stone, which was set in pure gold, obviously had

formed the clasp of a belt and could also be used as a seal; for on

it, cut in intaglio, was the mask of a solemn and death-like human

face surrounded by a hieroglyphic inscription, while on the reverse

were other hieroglyphics.

“Can you read this writing?” asked Jones, when he had examined the

ornament.

“Yes, se�or. The words in front are: ‘O Eyes and Mouth, look on me,

plead for me.’ And those on the back: ‘Heart of Heaven, be thou my

home.’”

“It is wonderful,” said Jones, restoring the relic with a sigh, for he

would have given everything that he had, down to his shoes, to possess

it. “And now will you not make an exception in my favour, and tell me

the story?”

“I fear that I cannot oblige you, se�or,” Don Ignatio answered,

shaking his head.

“But,” pleaded Jones, “having revealed so much, it is cruel to hide

the rest.”

“Se�or,” said his host, “will you take some more coffee? No. Then

shall we walk a little on the roof and look at the view; it is pretty

by moonlight, and the roofs here are wonderful, all built of solid

stone; there is a tradition that the old monks used to dine on them in

summer. They have a loop-holed wall round them whence that abbot,

whose portrait hangs in your sleeping-chamber, beat back a great

attack of the Indians whom his oppression stirred into rebellion.

“To-morrow I shall hope to show you round the lands, which have repaid

me well for my twenty years of cultivation. Everybody in Mexico runs

after mines, but its soil is the richest mine of all. I knew that,

and, seeing the capacities of the place, I sold the other emeralds

which went with this clasp—they were fine stones, but unengraved, and

therefore of no particular interest—and bought it cheap enough. Now

that the country is more settled, and I have planted so much, its

value has become great, and will be greater still when all the young

cocoa bushes are in full bearing a few years hence.

“There, thanks be to the Saints, the stair is done—of late my back

hurts me when I climb up steps. The air is sweet, is it not, se�or,

and the prospect pleasing? Look, the river shines like silver. Ah! how

beautiful is God’s world! It makes me sad to think of leaving it, but

doubtless He will provide still finer places for us to work and serve

Him in, gardens where sin and grief cannot enter. Surely there is room

enough yonder,” and he nodded toward the sky.

This was but the first of many nights that Jones spent under Don

Ignatio’s hospitable roof, where, as the months went by, he grew more

and more welcome. Soon he conceived a great affection for the grave,

sweet-natured, kindly old Indian gentleman, whose mind seemed to be

incapable of any evil thought, and whose chief ambitions were to

improve his land and do good to all about him, more especially to his

Indian servants or peons.

In the beginning of their intimacy they made several expeditions

together to inspect ruins in the neighbourhood, and once Don Ignatio

came to stay with him at the mine of La Concepcion, where his visit

proved of the greatest use to Mr. Jones and the company he served. One

of the difficulties in working this particular mine lay in the

scarcity of labour. At a word from Don Ignatio this trouble vanished.

He sent for a cacique, who lived in the mountains, and spoke to him,

and lo! within a week, fifty stalwart Indians appeared to offer their

services at the mine, thus affording one of many instances that came

to Jones’s knowledge, of his friend’s extraordinary influence among

the natives.

As time went on, however, these excursions ceased, since Don Ignatio’s

health grew too feeble to allow him to leave the hacienda.

At length, it was when they had been acquainted for nearly two years,

a messenger arrived at the mine one morning, saying that he was

instructed by his master, Don Ignatio, to tell the Se�or Jones that he

lay dying and would be glad to see him. He was to add, however, that

if it should be in any way inconvenient, the Se�or Jones must not

trouble himself to come for so small a matter, as his master had

written a letter which would be delivered to him after his death.

Needless to say the Se�or Jones travelled across the mountains as fast

as the best mule he owned would carry him. On arriving at the

hacienda he found Don Ignatio lying in his room, almost paralysed

and very weak, but perfectly clear-headed and rejoiced to see him.

“I am about to make my last journey, friend,” he said, “and I am glad,

for of late I have suffered a great deal of pain in my back, the

result of an ancient injury. Also it is time that a helpless old man

should make room for a more active one.” And he looked at his visitor

strangely, and smiled.

Jones, whose feelings were touched, made the usual reply as to his

having many months to live, but Don Ignatio cut him short.

“Don’t waste time like that, friend,” he said, “but listen. Ever since

we knew each other you have been trying to extract from me the story

of how I came to visit the city, Heart of the World, and of my friend,

James Strickland, whom, thanks be to God, I so soon shall see again.

“Well, I never would tell it to you, though once or twice I nearly

did, so when I saw how my silence chagrined you, partly because I

pride myself upon being able to keep a secret when pressed to reveal

it, and also because I am selfish and knew that so soon as you had

heard my story, you would cease to interest yourself in a stupid,

failing old man, for who is there that cares about the rind when he

has sucked the orange?

“Also there were other reasons: for instance, I could not have related

that history without displaying unseemly emotion, and I know that you

Englishmen despise such exhibitions. Lastly, if I told it at all, I

desired to tell it fully and carefully, keeping everything in

proportion, and this it would have been difficult to do by word of

mouth. Yet I have not wished to disappoint you altogether, and I have

wished that some record of the curious things which I have seen in my

life should be preserved, though this last desire alone would not have

been sufficiently strong to move me to the task which I finished ten

days ago, before the paralysis crept into my arm.

“May I trouble you to open that cupboard near the foot of the bed, and

to give me the pile of writing that you will find in it. A thousand

thanks. Here, se�or, in these pages, if you care to take the trouble

to read them, is set out an account of how I and my English friend

came to visit the Golden City, of what we saw and suffered there, and

of some other matters which you may think superfluous, but that are

not without their bearing upon the tale. I fear that my skill in

writing is small, still perhaps it may serve its turn, and if not, it

matters nothing, seeing that you seek the spirit, not the letter, and

are not sufficient of a Spanish scholar to be too critical.

“Now take the book and put it away, for the very sight of it wearies

me, recalling the hours of labour that I have spent on it. Also I wish

to talk of something more important. Tell me, friend, do you propose

to stop in this country, or to return to England?”

“Return to England! Why, I should starve where there are no mines to

manage. No, I am too poor.”

“Then would you return if you were rich?” asked the dying man

anxiously.

“I do not know; it depends. But I think that I have been too long away

to go to live in England for good.”

“I am glad to hear that, friend, for I may as well tell you at once

that I have made you my heir, so that henceforth you will be a wealthy

man as we understand wealth in this country.”

“You have made me your heir!” stammered Jones.

“Yes. Why should I not? I like you well, and know you to be a good and

honest man. I have no relations and no friends, and, above all, I am

sure that you will deal justly and gently by my people here, for I

have watched your bearing towards those who work under you at the

mine. Moreover, I have conditions to make which will not be the less

binding on you because they are not set out in the will, namely, that

you should live here yourself and carry on the work that I have begun,

for so long as may be possible, and that, if you are forced to sell

the place by any unforeseen circumstance, or to leave it away by

testament, you should do so to an Englishman only, and one of whom you

know something. Do you accept?”

“Indeed, yes, and I know not how to thank you.”

“Do not thank me at all, thank your own character and honest face

which have led me to believe that I can make no better disposal of my

property. And now go, for I am tired, but come to see me again

to-morrow morning after the priest has left.”

So Jones, who had entered that room possessed of a hard-earned eight

hundred a year, departed from it the owner of a property which, before

long, became worth as many thousands annually, as any who have visited

him at Santa Cruz can testify. Three days later Don Ignatio passed

away peacefully, and was laid to his rest in the chapel of the

hacienda.

This, then, was how the story of the city, Heart of the World, and of

Don Ignatio and his friend, James Strickland, who saw it, came into

the hands of him whom we have called Jones.

Here follows a translation of the manuscript.

CHAPTER I

HOW THE PLOT FAILED

I, Ignatio, the writer of this history, being now a man in my

sixty-second year, was born in a village among the mountains that lie

between the little towns of Pichaucalco and Tiapa. Of all that

district my father was the hereditary cacique, and the Indians there

loved him much.

When I was a lad, perhaps nine years old, troubles arose in the

country. I never quite understood them, or I may have forgotten the

circumstances, for such things were always happening, but I think that

they were caused by some tax which the government at Mexico had

imposed upon us unjustly. Anyhow, my father, a tall man with fiery

eyes, refused to pay a tax, and, after a while, a body of soldiers

arrived, mounted upon horses, who shot down a great number of the

people, and took away some of the women and children.

Of my father they made a prisoner, and next day they led him out while

my mother and I were forced to look on, and sat him by the edge of a

hole that they had dug, holding guns to his head and threatening to

shoot him unless he would tell them a secret which they were anxious

to learn. All he said, however, was that he wished that they would

kill him at once, and so free him from the torment of the mosquitoes

which hummed around him.

But they did not kill him then, and that night they put him back in a

prison, where I was brought to visit him by the padre, Ignatio, his

cousin and my godfather. I remember that he was shut up in a dirty

place, so hot that it was difficult even to breathe, and that there

were some drunken Mexican soldiers outside the door, who now and again

threatened to make an end of us Indian dogs.

My godfather, the priest Ignatio, confessed my father in a corner of

the cell, and took something from his hand. Then my father called me

to him and kissed me, and with his own fingers for a few moments he

hung about my neck that thing which the priest had taken from him,

only to remove it again and give it to Ignatio for safe-keeping,

saying: “See that the boy has it, and its story with it, when he comes

of age.”

Now my father kissed me again, blessing me in the name of God, and as

he did so great tears ran down his face. Then the priest Ignatio took

me away, and I never saw my father any more, for the soldiers shot him

next morning, and threw his body into the hole that they had dug to

receive it.

After this, my godfather, cousin, and namesake, Ignatio, took me and

my mother to the little town of Tiapa, of which he was priest, but she

soon died there of a broken heart.

In Tiapa we lived in the best house in the place, for it was built of

stone and set upon a bank overhanging a beautiful rushing river with

water that was always clear as glass, however much it rained, which

river ran a hundred feet or more below the windows.

About Tiapa there is little to say, except that in those days the

people were for the most part thieves, and such great sinners that my

cousin, the padre would not shrive some of them, even on their

death-beds. There was a church, however, whereof the roof was

overgrown with the most beautiful orchids. Also the roads were so bad

that, except in the dry season, it was difficult to travel either to

or from the town.

Here in this forgotten place I grew up, but not without education, as

might have been expected, seeing that my cousin was a good scholar,

and did all he could to keep me out of mischief.

When I was about fifteen years of age, of a sudden a desire took hold

of me to become a priest. It was in this wise: One Sunday evening I

sat in the church at Tiapa, looking now at the sprays of orchid

flowers that swung to and fro in the breeze outside the window, and

now at the votive pictures on the walls, offerings made by men and

women who had called upon their patron saints in the hour of danger

and had been rescued by them—here from fire, there from murderers,

and here again from drowning; rude and superstitious daubs, but

doubtless acceptable to God, who could see in them the piety and

gratitude of those that out of their penury had caused them to be

painted.

As I sat thus idly, my godfather, the good priest, began to preach.

Now, it chanced that two nights before there had been a dreadful

murder in Tiapa. Three travellers and a boy, the son of one of them,

passing from San Christobel to the coast, stopped to spend the night

at a house near our own. With them they brought a mule-load of

dollars, the price of the merchandise that they had sold at San

Christobel, which some of our fellow-townsmen, half-breeds of wicked

life, determined to steal.

Accordingly, to the number of ten, these assassins broke into the

house where the travellers lodged, and, meeting with resistance, they

cut down the three of them with machetes, and possessed themselves

of the silver. Just as they were leaving, one of the thieves perceived

the boy hiding beneath a bed, and, dragging him out, they killed him

also, lest he should bear witness against them.

Now, those who had done this deed of shame were well known in the

town; still none were arrested, for they bribed the officers with part

of their booty. But my godfather, seeing some of them present in the

church, took for his text the commandment—“Thou shalt do no murder.”

Never have I heard a finer sermon; indeed, before it was finished, two

of the men rose and crept from the church conscience-stricken, and

when the preacher described the slaughter of the lad whom their wicked

hands had of a sudden hurled into eternity, many of the congregation

burst into tears.

I tell this story because it was then for the first time, as I thought

of the murdered boy, who some few days before had been as full of life

as I was myself, that I came to know what death meant, and to

understand that I also must die and depart for ever either into heaven

or hell. I shook as the thought struck me, and it seemed to me that I

saw Death standing at my elbow, as he stands to-day, and then and

there I determined that I would be a priest and do good all my life,

in order that I might find peace at the last and escape the fate of

the evil.

On the morrow I went into my godfather’s room and told him of my

desire. He listened to me attentively, and answered; “I would that it

might be so, my son, holding as I do that the things of the world to

come outweigh those of this present earth ten thousandfold, but it

cannot be, for reasons that you shall learn when you are older. Then,

when my trust is ended, you may make your choice, and, if you still

wish it, become a priest.”

*

Five more years passed away, during which time I grew strong and

active, and skilled in all manly exercises. Also I studied much under

the teaching of my godfather, who sent even to Spain to buy me books.

Among these books were many histories of my own race, the Indians, and

of their conquest by the Spaniards, all that had been published

indeed. Of such histories I never tired, although it maddened me to

read of the misfortunes and cruel oppression of my people, who to-day

were but a nation of slaves.

At length, on my twentieth birthday, my godfather, who now was grown

very old and feeble, called me into his chamber, and, having locked

the door, he spoke to me thus:

“My son, the time has come when I must deliver to you the last

messages of your beloved father, my cousin and best friend, who was

murdered by the soldiers when you were a little child, and tell you of

your descent and other matters.

“First, then, you must know that you are of royal and ancient blood,

for your forefather in the eleventh degree was none other than

Guatemoc, the last of the Aztec emperors, whom the Spaniards murdered,

which descent I can prove to you by means of old writings and

pedigrees; also it is known and attested among the Indians, who even

now do not forget the stock whence sprang their kings.”

“Then by right I am Emperor of Mexico,” I said proudly, for in my

folly it seemed a fine thing to be sprung from men who once had worn a

crown.

“Alas! my son,” the old priest answered sadly, “in this world might is

the only right, and the Spaniards ended that of your forefathers long

ago by aid of torture and the noose. Save that it will earn you

reverence among the Indians, it is but a barren honour which you

inherit with your blood.

“Yet there is one thing that has come down to you from your ancestor,

Guatemoc, and the monarchs who ruled before him. Perchance you

remember that on the night previous to his death, your father set an

amulet upon your neck, and, removing it again, gave it to me to keep.

Here is that amulet.”

Then he handed me a trinket made of the half of a heart-shaped

emerald, smooth with wear, but unpolished, that, if joined to its

missing section, would have been as large as a dove’s egg. This stone

was not broken, but cut from the top to the bottom, the line of

separation being so cunningly sawn that no man, unless he had one half

before him, could imitate the other. The charm was bored through so as

to be worn upon a chain, and engraved upon its surface were some

strange hieroglyphics and the outline of half a human face.

“What is it?” I asked.

The old priest shrugged his shoulders, and answered:

“A relic which had to do with their wicked heathen magic and rites, I

suppose. I know little about it, except that your father told me it

was the most valued possession of the Aztec kings, and that the

natives believe that when the two halves of this stone come together,

the men of white blood will be driven from Central America and an

Indian emperor shall rule from sea to sea.”

“And where is the other half, father?”

“How should I know,” he answered testily, “who have no faith in such

stories, or in stones with the heads of idols graven upon them? I am a

priest, and therefore your father told me little of the matter, since

it is not lawful that I should belong to secret societies. Still, some

such society exists, and, in virtue of the ownership of that talisman,

you will be head of it, as your ancestors were before you, though, so

far as I can learn, the honour brought them but little luck.

“I know no more about it, but I will give you letters to a certain

Indian who lives in the district of which your father was cacique,

and, when you show him the stone, doubtless he will initiate you into

its mysteries, though I counsel you to have nothing to do with them.

“Listen, Ignatio, my son, you are a rich man; how rich I cannot tell

you, but for many generations your forefathers have hidden up treasure

for an object which I must explain, and the gold will be handed over

to you by those of your clan in whose keeping it is. It was because of

this treasure that your father and your great-grandfather were done to

death with many others, since the rumour of it came to the ears of

those that ruled in Mexico, who, when they failed to force the secret

from them, tormented and killed them in their rage.

“Now, this was the message of your father to you concerning the wealth

which he and his ancestors had hidden:

“‘Tell my son, Ignatio, should he live to grow up, that there has

never departed from our family the desire to win back the crown that

Guatemoc lost, or at least to drive out the accursed Spaniards and

their spawn, and to establish an Indian Republic. To this end we have

heaped up wealth for generations, that it might serve us when the hour

was ripe; and because of this wealth, of which the whisper could not

altogether be hid in a land which is full of spies, some of us have

come to cruel deaths, as I am about to do to-night.

“‘But I shall die keeping my secret, and when my son grows up others

may rule at Mexico, or the matter may have been forgotten: at least

the gold will be where I left it. Now, say to my son that it is my

hope that he will use it in the cause to further which it has been

amassed; that he will devote his life to the humbling of our white

masters, and to the uplifting of the race which for centuries they

have robbed, murdered, and enslaved.

“‘Nevertheless, say to him that I lay no commands upon him as to these

matters, seeing that he must follow his own will about them, for I

cannot forget that, from generation to generation, those who went

before him have reaped nothing but disaster in their struggle against

the white devils, whom, because of the sins and idolatry of our

forefathers, it has pleased God to set over us.’

“Those were your father’s words, my son, which he spoke to me in the

hour of his murder. And now you will understand why I said that you

must wait before you determined to be a priest. If that is still your

wish, it can be fulfilled, for your father left it to you to follow

whatever life you might desire.”

When he had finished speaking I thought for a while, and answered: “So

long as my father’s blood is unavenged I cannot become a priest.”

“It is as I feared,” said the old man with a sigh, “that cursed

talisman which lies about your neck has begun its work with you,

Ignatio, and you will tread the path that the others trod, perchance

to die in blood as they died. Oh! why cannot man be content to leave

the righting of wrongs and the destinies of nations in the hands of

the Almighty and His angels?”

“Because for good or evil the Almighty chooses men to be His

instruments,” I answered.

*

Within a week from this day some Indians came to Tiapa disguised as

porters, whose mission it was to lead me to the mountains among which

my father had lived, and where his treasure still lay hidden.

Bidding farewell to my godparent, the priest, who wept when he parted

from me, I started upon my journey, keeping my destination secret. As

it chanced, I never saw him more, for a month later he was seized with

some kind of calentura, or fever, and died suddenly. The best thing

I can say of him is that, with one exception, there lives no man in

heaven above whom I so greatly desire to meet again.

On the third day of my journey we reached a narrow pass in the

mountains, beyond which lay an Indian village. Here my guides took me

to the house of one Antonio, to whom the padre Ignatio had given me

letters, an old man of venerable aspect, who greeted me warmly, and

made me known to several caciques who were staying with him, I knew

not why.

So soon as we were alone in the house, one of these caciques, after

addressing me in words which I could not understand, asked me if I had

a “Heart.” To this I replied that I hoped so, whereat they all

laughed. Then the man Antonio, coming to me, unbuttoned my shirt,

revealing the talisman that had belonged to my father, and at the

sight of it the company bowed.

Next the doors were locked, and, sentries having been posted before

them, a ceremony began, which even now it is not lawful that I should

describe in detail. On this solemn occasion I was first initiated into

the mysteries of the Order of the Heart, and afterwards installed as

its hereditary chief, thus becoming, while yet a boy, the absolute

lord of a many thousand men, brethren of our Society, who were

scattered far and wide about the land.

On the day after I had taken the final oaths, Antonio handed over to

me the treasure that my ancestors hoarded in a secret place, which my

father had left in his keeping, and it was a great treasure, amounting

to more than a million dollars in value.

Now I was rich, both in men and money, still, following the counsel of

Antonio, I abode for a while in the village, receiving those who came

from every part of Mexico to visit me as Holder of the Heart, and as

first in rank among the fallen peoples of the Indians.

It was during these months that I made the great error of my life.

Some three miles from the village where I dwelt, lived two sisters,

Indian ladies of noble blood, though poor, one of them a widow, and

the other a very beautiful girl, younger than myself. It chanced that,

riding past their house upon a certain Sunday evening, when most of

the inhabitants of the valley were away at a fiesta, I heard screams

coming from it.

Dismounting from my horse I ran in at the door, which was open, and

saw one of the sisters, the widow, lying dead upon the ground, while

two bandits, Mexicans, were attacking the younger woman. Drawing my

machete, I cut down the first of them before he had time to turn,

then I fell upon the second man with such fury that I drove him back

against the wall. Seeing that his life was in danger, he called upon

me not to kill him for the sake of a low Indian girl, which insult

maddened me so that I slew him upon the spot, and caused his body,

with that of his companion, to be buried secretly.

It happened that after this the girl whose life I had saved came to

dwell in my village, where I saw much of her. So lovely was she and so

clever, that soon she won my heart, and the end of it was that, being

headstrong and in love, I married her, against the advice of Antonio

and others of my brethren of the Order. It would have been better for

the Indian people, and perhaps for me also, if I had died before I

stood at the altar with this woman, though for a while she was a good

wife, and, because of her cleverness, of great service to me at that

time.

Now, it must be stated that during all these months I had not been

idle. The more I thought on them, the more the wrongs of my

countrymen, the real owners of the land, took hold of my mind, till at

length they possessed it utterly, and I became an enthusiast and a

dreamer. This was the object of my life—to form a great conspiracy,

which should bring about a rising of the Indians in every province of

Mexico upon a given day; then, when the Spaniards and their bastards,

the Spanish Mexicans, had been stamped out, to re-establish the Empire

of the Aztecs.

It was a madness, perhaps, but the madness lurked in my blood; my

forefathers had suffered from and for it, and I think that it must

have come down to us from our ancestor, Guatemoc, the greatest and

most unfortunate Indian who ever lived. Where they failed I determined

to succeed, and, strange to say, in the end I went near to success.

For years I laboured, travelling to and fro about the land till there

was no province where I was not known as the Holder of the Heart, and

the chief by blood of the Indian tribes. Everywhere I strove to rouse

the people from their sloth, and to win the caciques, or head men,

to the cause, and I did not strive in vain. I used my great wealth to

buy arms, to gain over the lukewarm with bribes, and in many other

ways. When my fortune sank low I gathered more, for without gold

nothing could be done. Treasures that were buried in the old days were

given up to me as Lord of the Heart by those who had their secret;

also many brought me money, each what he could spare, and I hoarded it

against the hour of need.

For a year or more I was the greatest power in Mexico, and yet, though

hundreds were privy to my plot, it was so well hidden that no whisper

of it came to the ears of the Government. At length all was ready, and

so carefully were my plans laid that success seemed certain; but the

unforeseen happened, and I failed—thus:

That woman whose life I had saved, my own wife whom I loved and

trusted, who was bound to my cause and that of my countrymen by every

tie human and divine, betrayed me and it. Just before the time fixed

for the rising, it was agreed that she should be placed, as one of

whom we could be sure, to play the part of a servant in the house of

the man who ruled Mexico in those days, that she might spy upon him.

Instead of so doing, she, my wife, fell in love with him. It is easy

to guess the rest. One night, but a week before the appointed time, I

and some five or six others, the leaders of our party, were seized. My

companions were made away with secretly, but I was brought before the

great man, who received me alone, holding a pistol in his hand.

“I know all your plans, friend,” he said, “and I congratulate you on

them, for they were cleverly managed. I know also that you have a

great treasure in gold hidden away–-” and he named the sum. “That

wife of yours, whom you were fool enough to trust, has told me

everything, but she cannot tell me where the money is hidden, for this

you withheld from her, which shows that you are not altogether mad.

“Now, friend, I make you a fair offer—hand over this treasure, and

you shall go free—of course when the day of vengeance is past and

your sheep have found themselves without a shepherd—nor shall you be

molested afterwards. Refuse to do so, and you will be brought to trial

and die as you deserve.”

“How can you promise for others?” I asked. “You are not the only white

man who would have fallen.”

“I can promise for others, first, because I am their master, and,

secondly, because nobody but myself knows anything of this matter,

since, if I told them, I must also share your wealth with them, and

that, friend, I mean to keep. Give it up to me, and you may go and

plot against my successors and the Government of Mexico as much as

pleases you, and take your wife with you for aught I care; for,

friend, having earned so comfortable a competence, I propose to leave

a land where, as this business proves, people in authority are too apt

to have their throats cut. Now choose, and be so good as to stand

quite still while you are thinking the matter over, or I may be forced

to shoot you.”

“How about my associates?” I asked.

“I believe that three or four of them have been carried off—by

typhus—within the last day or two, the prisons here are so unhealthy;

but I am sure that if the gold is forthcoming, no more will sicken.”

Then I chose, for I thought to myself that I might get more gold, but

I could never get another life, and if I died many must suffer with me

and all my hopes for the future of the Indian race would come to

naught. Also I knew this villain to be a man of his word, and that

what he promised he would fulfil.

Within ten days he had the money, and I was free to begin my life

again, nor did any of those who were doomed to perish in it, learn the

tale of the plot that had threatened them.

I was free; but what a freedom was this, when I had lost everything

save the breath that God placed in my nostrils, and, perhaps, my

honour. The great house that I had builded was fallen to the ground,

the moneys I had amassed were stolen, the chief of my companions were

dead, my credit as a deliverer of the people was gone, and my cause

had become hopeless. All these things had come upon me because of a

woman, a traitress, whom I had nurtured in my bosom.

At first I was dazed, but when I came to understand I swore a great

oath before Heaven that, for her false sake, I would hate and renounce

her sex; that, whatever might be the temptation, never again would I

look kindly upon women, or have to do with one of them in word, or

thought, or deed. That oath, so far as lay in my power, I have kept to

this day, and I hope to keep through all eternity.

It may be asked what became of my wife. I do not know. I lifted no

hand against her who was flesh of my flesh, but she perished. The

story was known. I was forced to tell it to clear myself. After I

escaped from the prison I lay ill for many weeks, and when I recovered

she was gone. Others had been betrayed besides myself, and doubtless

some of them had wreaked fitting vengeance on her. What it was I never

asked.

For many years—twenty perhaps—I became a wanderer. Now as before the

Indians loved me, and, as Lord of the heart and their hereditary

cacique, in a sense I still was great, although but the shadow of

power dwelt with me: the substance had departed, as it departs ever

from those who fail. From time to time I strove to rebuild the plot;

but, now that I was friendless and without fortune, few would follow

me thus far.

So it came about that at length I abandoned the endeavour, and lived

as best I could. I fought in three wars, and gained honours therein,

and took my share in many adventures, all of which left me as poor as

I had entered on them. At times I remembered my desire to become a

priest, but now it was over late to study; also my hands were too much

soiled with the affairs of the world.

Wearying of the struggle, I went back to my village in the mountains

and dwelt there awhile, but this also wearied me, having nothing to

do, and I turned my attention to the management of mines.

It was while I was thus employed, as a middle-aged man, that I made

the acquaintance of James Strickland, who was destined to accompany me

to the city, Heart of the World.

CHAPTER II

THE SE�OR STRICKLAND

Two-and-twenty years ago, I, Ignatio, visited a village in the State

of Tamaulipas, named Cumarvo, a beautiful place, half-hidden in pine

forests amongst the mountains. I came to this hamlet because a friend

of mine, one of the brethren of the Order of the Heart, wrote to me

saying that there was an Indian in the neighbourhood who had in his

possession an ancient Aztec scroll, which, being in picture-writing,

neither he nor anyone else could read.

This scroll had descended to the Indian through many generations, and

with it a tradition that it told of a very rich gold mine in the

mountains whereof the site was lost, which had been closed to save it

from the grip of Cortes, by the order of Guatemoc, my forefather, whom

the Spaniards murdered—may their souls be accursed!

Now, I had been taught the secret of the picture-writing by old

Antonio, my father’s friend, when first I was initiated into the

mysteries of the Heart, though it must die with me, for I believe that

at this hour there is no other man living who can read it.

This writing the Indian was willing to give up to me as Lord of the

Heart, and accordingly, having nothing better to do, I journeyed to

Cumarvo to study it. In this matter, as in many others, I was destined

to meet with disappointment, however—at any rate for a while; for, on

my arrival at the house of my friend, I heard that the Indian had died

of a sudden sickness, and that his son could not discover where the

scroll was hidden.

Another thing I learnt also, namely, that a white man, an Inglese,

the first who ever visited these parts, had come to the village about

six months before, and was engaged in working some old silver mines on

behalf of a company, a task that he found difficult, for the Mexican

owners of land in the neighbourhood, being jealous of him and angry

because he paid his men a fair wage, were striving to prevent Indians

from labouring in his mine.

Now the natives of this place, from Monday morning to Saturday night,

were a gentle and industrious people, but they had this fault, that on

the Saturday night many of them were accustomed to become drunk on

mescal, the spirit that is distilled from the root of the aloe. Then

their natures were changed, and fierce quarrels would spring up

amongst them, for the most part about women, that ended often enough

in bloodshed.

It chanced that such a fray arose on the night of my arrival at

Cumarvo. On the morrow I saw the fruits of it as I walked down the

little street which was bordered by white, flat-roofed houses and

paved with cobble-stones, purposing to attend mass in the lime-washed

church, where the bell rang night and day to scare evil spirits back

to hell.

In the middle of the street, lying in the shade of a house, were two

dead men. A handsome Indian girl, with a sullen and unmoved

countenance, was engaged in winding a serape, or blanket, round one

of the bodies; but the other lay untended, certain stains upon the

clothing revealing the manner of its end. On a doorstep sat a third

man, much wounded about the head and face, while the barber of the

village, its only doctor, attempted to remove his hair with a pair of

blunt scissors, so that he might dress the cuts.

The scene was dreadful, but no one took much notice of it, for Indian

life is cheap, and in those days death by violence was even more

common in Mexico than it is now. On the opposite side of the street an

old woman chaffered with a passer-by about the price of her oranges,

while some children with shouts and laughter strove to lasso and drag

away a pig that haunted the place; and a girl on her way to mass

stepped over the uncovered body which lay so quiet in the shade, and,

recognising it as that of a friend, crossed herself as she hurried on.

“What is the cause of this, se�or?” I asked of the barber.

“I think that I have the honour of addressing Don Ignatio,” the little

man answered, and, lifting his hands from their work, he made a sign

showing that he also was a member of our Brotherhood, though a humble

one.

“Ah, I thought so,” he went on as I gave the countersign; “we heard

that you were going to visit us, and I am glad of it, for I weary of

dressing wounds on Sundays, and perhaps you may be able to put a stop

to these fights. The woman was the cause of it, of course, se�or;

these are not the first she has brought to their deaths,” and he

nodded at the girl who was wrapping the body in a blanket.

“You see, she was going to marry this man,” and he tapped the Indian

whose wounds he was dressing on the shoulder, “but she took up with

that one,” pointing to the nearest body, “whereon Number One here,

being drunk with mescal, laid wait for Number Two and stabbed him

dead. The girl who was with him ran for Number Three yonder, Number

Two’s brother, but Number One ambushed him, so he was killed also.

Then, hearing the noise, the village guard came up and cut down our

friend here with their machetes, but as you see, unfortunately, they

did not kill him.”

I heard, and anger took hold of me. Approaching the girl, I said:

“This is your doing, woman! Are you not afraid?”

“What of it?” she answered, sullenly; “can I help it if I am pretty,

and men fight for me? Also, who are you who ask me whether I am

afraid?”

“Fool!” cried the barber from the doorstep; “do you dare to speak thus

to the Lord of the Heart?”

The girl started and replied:

“Why not? Is he then my lord?”

“Listen, girl!” I said; “others besides these have died through you.”

“How do you know that?” she answered. “But what need to ask? If you

are the Lord of the Heart you have the evil eye, and can read secrets

without their being discovered to you.”

“It is you that have the evil eye, woman, like many another of your

sex!” I said. “Hear me, now: you will leave this place, and you will

never return to it, for if you do, you die! Also, remember that if

harm should come to any more men on your account, wherever you go I

shall know of it, and you will die there!”

“Whoever you are, you are not the Government, and have no right to

kill me,” she said, trying to hide the fear which crept into her dark

eyes.

“No, woman, I am not the Government; but among our people I am more

powerful than the Government. If you do not believe me, ask the doctor

yonder, and he will tell you that I should be obeyed, even by people

who had never seen me, where a troop of soldiers would be laughed at.

If I say that you are to die, you will die in this way or in that, for

my curse will be on you. Perhaps you may tumble over a precipice, or

you may take a fever, or be drowned in crossing a river, /quien

sabe!/”

“I know, lord, I know,” she whispered, shivering, for now she was

frightened. “Do not look so terribly at me; spare me this time for the

love of God! I did not mean to do it, but when men put their hearts

into a woman’s hand, how can she help squeezing them, especially if

she hates men? But I did not hate this one,” and she touched the cheek

of the dead Indian caressingly; “I really meant to marry him. It is

that fellow whom I hate,” pointing to her wounded lover, “and I hope

that he will be shot, else I think that I shall poison him.”

“You will not poison him, woman; and, though he deserves to die, you

are worse than he. Now begone, and remember my words!”

Bending down, she touched the corpse’s forehead with her lips, then,

rising, said:

“I kiss your feet, Lord of the Heart,” and went away without looking

behind her, nor was she seen again in that village.

Then, with a sigh, I also was turning to go, for it saddened me to

think that when drink got hold of them, a woman should have the power

to change these men, who were my brethren, into savage beasts

thirsting for each other’s blood.

“Ah!” I mused, “had it not been for that other woman who destroyed me

and my hope, by now I had begun to teach them better.”

At this moment, looking up, I chanced to see a man such as I had never

before beheld, standing by my side and gazing at me. Stories are told

of how men and women, looking on each other for the first time, in

certain cases are filled with a strange passion of love, of which,

come what may, they can not again be rid.

Among many misfortunes, thanks be to my guardian angels, this fate has

never overtaken me, yet at that moment I felt something that was akin

to it—not love, indeed, but a great sense of friendship and sympathy

for and with this man, which, mastering me then, is still growing to

this hour, though its object has for many years been dead.

Perhaps it was the contrast between us that attracted me so much at

first, since human beings are ever drawn towards their opposites in

nature and appearance. I, as you, my friend, for whom I write this

history, will remember, although you have only known me in my age, am

tall, thin, and sallow, like all my race, with a sad expression

reflecting the heart within, and melancholy eyes.

Very different were the mind and appearance of James Strickland, the

Englishman. He was a fine man, over thirty years of age, short in

proportion to his width, though somewhat spare in frame and slender in

limb. His features were as clearly cut as those of an ancient god upon

a marble wall; his eyes were blue as the sea, and, though just now

they were troubled at the sight of death, merry like the eyes of a

boy; his curling hair—for he had removed his hat in the presence of

the dead—was yellow as mimosa bloom, darkening almost to red in the

short beard and about the ears, where the weather had caught it; and

beneath his shirt, which was open at the neck, his skin showed white

like milk. For the rest, his hands were long and delicate,

notwithstanding the hard work of which they bore traces; his glance

was quick, and his smile the most pleasant that ever I had seen.

“Your pardon, se�or,” said this Inglese, in good Spanish, bowing to

me as he spoke, “but unwittingly I have overheard some of your talk

with yonder woman, and I cannot understand how it comes that you, a

stranger, have so much authority over her. I wish that you would

explain it to me in order that I might learn how to put a stop to such

murders. These dead men were two of my best workmen, and I do not know

where I shall look to replace them.”

“I cannot explain it, se�or,” I answered, returning his bow, “further

than to say that I have a certain rank among the Indians, on account

of which they reverence me. Still, though I have no right to ask it of

a stranger, I pray that you will forget any words of mine which may

chance to have reached your ears, since of such authority the

Government is jealous.”

“By all means, se�or; they are already forgotten. Well, adios, this

sight is not so pleasant that I wish to study it,” and replacing his

hat upon his head, he passed on.

Although my journey proved to be in vain, seeing that the scroll I

came to read had vanished, I lingered in the village of Cumarvo,

alleging as the reason of my stay a hope that it might be discovered,

but really, as I believe, because I desired to become friendly with

this white man.

As it chanced, an opportunity was soon given to me to do him a signal

service. I have stated that there dwelt men of position in this place,

Mexicans who were jealous of the Englishman, and these people stirred

up some discontented miners in his employ to make a plot to murder

him, saying that, if they did so, they would win a great treasure

which he kept hidden in his house.

This plot came to my ears through one of the Brotherhood, and I

determined to frustrate it, to which end I collected together twenty

good men and true, and, arming them with guns, bade them be silent

about the matter, above all to the Inglese, whom I did not wish to

alarm.

The plan of the murderers was at the hour of dawn to attack the house

where the Se�or Strickland slept with four or five servants only, and

to put all within its walls to death. Accordingly, about one o’clock

on the night fixed, I despatched my men by twos and threes,

instructing them to go round the hills at the back of the house, and,

creeping into the garden, to hide themselves there among the trees

till I appeared.

An hour later I followed them myself without being observed by the

spies of the attacking party, for rain fell and the night was very

dark. Arriving in the garden, I collected my men, and placed them in

ambush under a low wall commanding the street, up which I knew the

murderers must come. Here we waited patiently till the cocks crew and

the dawn began to break in the east.

Presently we heard a stir in the village beneath, as of men marching,

and in the gathering light we saw the murderers creeping stealthily up

the street to the number of fifty or more. So great was their fear of

the Englishman, that they thought it safer to bring many men to kill

him, also each of the villains desired that his neighbour should be a

sharer in the crime.

“Will you not wake up the Inglese?” asked the man next to me.

“No,” I answered, “it will be time enough to wake him when the affair

is settled. Let none of you fire till I give the word.”

Now, the brigands in the street below—men without shame—after

waiting a little time for the light to grow stronger, advanced towards

the gate, looking like a procession of monks, for the air was chilly

and each of them wore his serape wrapped about his head. In their

hands they carried rifles and drawn machetes.

Within ten paces of the gate they paused for a minute to consult, and

I heard their leader, a Mexican, direct half of them to creep round to

the back of the house so as to cut off all escape. Then I whistled,

which was the signal agreed upon, at the same time covering the

Mexican with my rifle. Almost before the sound had left my lips, there

followed a report of twenty guns, and some fifteen or sixteen of the

enemy were stretched upon the ground.

For a moment they wavered, and I thought that the rest of them were

going to fly, but this they dared not do, for they knew that they had

been seen; therefore they rushed at the wall with a yell, firing as

they came. As they climbed over it we met them with pistol shots and

machetes, and for a few minutes the affair was sharp, for they were

desperate, and outnumbered us.

Still they lost many men in scaling the wall and forcing the gate, and

with the exception of fourteen who fled, and were for the most part

caught afterwards, the rest of them we finished amongst the flowers

and vegetables of the garden. Just as all was over, the Englishman,

who was a sound sleeper, appeared yawning, dressed in white, and

holding a pistol in his hand.

“What is this noise?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, “and why are you

people fighting in my garden? Go away, all of you, or I shall shoot at

you.”

“I trust,” I said, bowing, “that the se�or will pardon us for

disturbing him in his slumber, but this matter could not be settled

without some noise. May I offer the se�or my serape? The air is

chilly, and he will catch cold in that dress.”

“Thank you,” he said, putting on the serape. “And now perhaps you

will explain why you come to spoil my garden by making a battle-field

of it.”

Then I told him, and was astonished to see that as I went on he grew

very angry.

“I suppose that I must thank you, gentlemen, for saving my life,” he

said at last, “though I never asked you to do it. But, all the same, I

think it shameless that you should have had this fight in my own

garden, without giving me the opportunity of sharing it. Caramba! am

I a little girl that I should be treated in such a way?” And of a

sudden he burst out laughing and shook me by the hand.

That day, when all the trouble was over, and the place had been made

tidy, the Se�or Strickland sent a man to ask if I would do him the

pleasure to dine with him. I accepted, and as we sat smoking after

dinner, having talked of the fight till we were tired of it, he spoke

thus to me:

“Don Ignatio, I owe you my life, and, believe me, I am grateful, for I

do not see why you should have risked so much for a foreign stranger.”

“I did it because I like you, se�or,” I answered, “also because it is

very pleasant to catch the wicked in their own toils. Those who

perished this morning were villains, every one of them. They came in

the hope of plunder, for such ‘men without shame’ will murder human

beings for five dollars a head; but they were set on by others who

hate you because you treat your Indian workmen fairly, and also

because they do not wish foreigners here to compete with them, and

think that you are but the first bird of the flock. Therefore they

thought that it would be good policy to kill you so as to frighten

away others who might follow. However, that danger has gone by, and

you need have no more fear, for they have learnt a lesson which they

will not forget.”

“So much the better then,” he answered, “for I have troubles enough to

deal with here, without being bothered to protect my life against such

contemptible vermin. And now, Don Ignatio, I hardly like to ask you,

and I daresay that you will think the offer beneath contempt, but are

you willing to accept an engagement? I am sadly in need of a

sub-manager, one who could control the Indians, and to such a man I am

prepared to pay a hundred dollars a month; the funds of the company I

represent will not allow me to offer more.”

I thought for a while and answered:

“Se�or, the money is not enough to tempt me, though it will serve to

buy food, lodging, and cigars, but I accept your offer for the same

reason that I fought your battles this morning, because I like you,

and will gladly do my best to serve you and your interests. Still, I

must warn you, for aught I know, I may have to leave your service at

short notice, for my time is not altogether my own. I also am the

servant of a great company, se�or, and though now I am on leave, as it

were, and have been for these many years, I may be required at any

moment.”

Thus it was, then, that I entered the service of the Se�or James

Strickland, or rather of his company, in which I continued for

something more than a year, working very hard, for the se�or did not

spare either me or himself. But as the records of those months of

fruitless labour could have little interest for you, my friend,

instead of writing of them, I will tell you in few words what was the

history of this Englishman as he told it to me.

He was of noble blood, as might be seen in his face, for he had a

right to be addressed as “honourable,” which it would seem means more

in England than it does here. Nevertheless, his father was a priest of

the heretic church and quite poor, though, how this came about, you,

being an Englishman, will understand better than I, seeing that in

most countries it is the privilege of nobles to enrich themselves at

the expense of others of less rank.

At any rate, when James Strickland’s father died, his son, who was

then a lad of twenty, found that he possessed in the world no more

than five thousand dollars. This sum, being of adventurous mind and

sanguine temperament, he invested in a ranch in Texas, where he

endured much danger and hardship, and lost all his money.

After this experience, having nothing to live on and no friends, he

was obliged to labour with his hands like a peon, and this he did in

many ways. He broke horses, he herded cattle; once, even, for two

months he sank so low—it makes me angry to write of it—as to be

forced to wait upon the guests in an inn at Panama.

Thence he drifted to Nicaragua, and became mixed up in mining

ventures, and when I first met him he had been a miner for ten years.

Most of this time he spent managing a mine for an American, in the

Chontales country, on the frontier of Honduras, where the fever is so

bad that few white men can live. Here it was that he learned to speak

Spanish and the Indian or Maya tongue. At length, after an attack of

fever which nearly killed him, he left Honduras, and came to Mexico,

where he accepted the management of this silver mine at Cumarvo.

Hitherto it had been worked by a Mexican on behalf of its owners, who

dismissed the rogue for stealing the ore and selling it.

This mine, though very rich, was hard to deal with profitably because

of the water gathered in it, and all the months that the Se�or

Strickland had been its captain he was employed in driving a tunnel

upwards from a lower level in the cliff, in order to drain the

workings. Shortly after I came into his service this tunnel was

finished, for now I was able to obtain plenty of labour, which before

he had lacked, and we began to bring to bank ore running as high as

two hundred ounces to the ton, so that for some months all went well.

Then of a sudden the ore body dipped straight downward, as though it

had been bent over when hot, and we followed it till the water

increased so much that we were unable to carry it out, for in those

days there were no steam pumps in Mexico, such as are now used for the

drying of mines. First we tried to strike another vein, but without

success; then we attempted to pierce a second drainage tunnel at a

still lower level, but, after more than three months’ labour, the rock

became so hard that we were obliged to abandon the task.

Now there was nothing to be done except to stop work at the tunnel,

and report the matter by letter to the owners of the mine, employing

ourselves meanwhile in the smelting of such ore as we had stacked.

This, indeed, we needed to do in order to pay wages with the silver,

seeing that after the first few months the owners ceased to remit us

money.

One evening, on returning from the smelting-works to the house, I

found the Se�or Strickland, his chin resting on his hand and an

unlighted cigar in his mouth, seated at a table, on which lay an open

letter. All through our misfortunes and heavy labour he had never lost

heart, or forgotten to smile and be merry, but now he looked sad as a

man who has just buried his mother, and I asked him what evil thing

had happened.

“Nothing particular, Ignatio,” he answered; “but listen here.” And he

read the letter aloud.

It was from one of the owners of the mine, and this was the purport of

it: that the shaft had become choked with water because of the

incompetence and neglect of the se�or; that they, the owners, hereby

dismissed him summarily, refusing to pay him the salary due; and,

lastly, that they held him responsible in his own person for such

money as they had lost.

“Surely,” I cried in wrath, when he had finished, “this letter was

written by a man without shame, and I pray that he may find his grave

in the stomachs of hogs and vultures!” for I forgot myself in my

indignation against those that could speak thus of the se�or, who had

slaved day and night in their service, giving himself no rest.

“Do not trouble, Ignatio,” he said, with a little smile, “it is the

way of the world. I have failed, and must take the consequences. Had I

succeeded, there would have been a different story. Still I think

that, if ever I meet this man again, I will kick him for telling lies

about me. Do you know, Ignatio, that, with the exception of one

thousand dollars which remain to my credit in Mexico, I have spent all

my own money that I had saved upon this mine, and of that thousand

dollars, eight hundred are due to you for back pay, so, whatever trade

I take to next, I shall not begin as a rich man.”

“Be silent, I beg of you, se�or,” I answered, “for such words make my

ears burn. What! am I also a thief that I should rob you, you who have

already been plucked like a fowl for the good of others? Insult me

once more by such thoughts and I will never pardon you.”

And I left the house to calm myself by walking among the mountains,

little knowing what I should hear before I entered it again.

CHAPTER III

THE SUMMONS

As I walked down the street of the village I met my friend, with whom

I had stayed when first I came to Cumarvo.

“Ah! lord,” he said—for those who are initiated among the Indians

give me this title when none are by—“I was seeking you. The scroll

has been found.”

“What scroll?”

“That picture-writing about the ancient mine which brought you here.

You remember that he who owned the document died, and his son could

not discover its whereabouts. Well, yesterday he found it by chance

while he was hunting rats in the roof of his house, and brought it to

me. Here it is,” and he gave me a roll wrapped in yellow linen.

“Good,” I answered, “I will study it to-night,” and continued my walk,

thinking little more about the matter, for my mind was full of other

things.

The air was pleasant and the evening fine, so that I did not return to

the house till the moon rose. As I passed up the path a man stepped so

suddenly from the shelter of a bush in front of me, that I drew my

machete, thinking that he meant to do me a mischief.

“Stay your hand, lord,” said the man, saluting me humbly, and at the

same time giving the sign of brotherhood. “It is many years since we

met, so perchance you may have forgotten me; still, you will remember

my name; I am Molas, your foster-brother.”

Then I looked at him in the moonlight and knew him, though time had

changed us both, and, putting my arms round him, I embraced him,

seeing that he had been faithful when many deserted me, and I loved

him as to-day I love his memory.

“What brings you here, Molas?” I asked; “when last I heard of you, you

were dwelling far away in Chiapas.”

“A strange matter: Business of the Heart, O Lord of the Heart, which I

deemed so pressing that I have journeyed over land and sea to find

you. Have you a place where I can speak with you alone?”

“Follow me,” I said, wondering, and led him to my own chamber, where I

gave him food and drink, for he was weary with travel.

“Now set out this business,” I said.

“First show me the token, lord. I desire to see it once more for a

purpose of my own.”

I rose and closed the shutters of the window, then I bared my breast,

revealing the ancient symbol. For a while he gazed upon it, and said,

“It is enough. Tell me, lord, what is the saying that has descended

with this trinket.”

“The saying is, Molas, that when this half that I wear is reunited

with the half that is wanting, then the Indians shall rule again from

sea to sea, as they did when the Heart was whole.”

“That is the saying, lord. We learn it in the ritual that is called

‘Opening of the Heart,’ do we not? and in this ritual that half which

you wear is named ‘Day’ since it can be seen, and that half which is

lost is named ‘Night,’ since, though present, it is not seen, and it

is told to us that the ‘Day’ and the ‘Night’ together will make one

perfect circle, whereof the centre is named the ‘Heart of Heaven,’ of

which these things are the symbol. Is it not so?”

“It is so, Molas.”

“Good. Now listen. That which was lost is found, the half which is

named ‘Night’ has appeared in the land, for I have seen it with my

eyes, and it is to tell you of it that I have travelled hither.”

“Speak on,” I said.

“Lord, yonder in Chiapas there is a ruined temple that the antiguos

built, and to that temple have come a man and a woman, his daughter.

The man is old and fierce-eyed, a terrible man, and the girl is

beautiful exceedingly. There in the ruins they have dwelt these four

months and more, and the man practises the art of medicine, for he is

a great doctor, and has wrought many cures, though he takes no money

in payment for his skill, but food only.

“Now it chanced, lord, that my wife, whom I married but two years ago,

was very sick—so sick that the village doctor could do nothing for

her. Therefore the fame of the old Indian who dwelt in the ruined

temple having reached me, I determined to visit him and seek his

counsel, or, if possible, to bring him to my home.

“When my wife heard of it, she said it was of no use, as she saw Death

sitting at the foot of her bed. Still I kissed her and went, leaving

her in charge of the padre of the village and some women, her

sisters. With me I took a lock of her hair, and some fowls and eggs as

a present to the Lacandone, for they said that, though of our race,

this doctor was not a Christian.

“Starting before the dawn I travelled all day by the river and through

the forest, till at evening I came to the ruined temple which I knew,

and began to climb its broken stair. As I neared the top, a man

appeared from beneath the leaning arch that is the gateway of the

stair, and stood gazing at the ball of the setting sun. He was an aged

man, clad in a linen robe only, very light in colour, with long white

beard and hair, a nose hooked like a hawk’s beak, and fierce eyes that

seemed to pierce those he looked upon and to read their most secret

thoughts.

“‘Greeting, brother,’ he said, speaking in our own tongue, but with a

strange accent, and using many words which are unknown to me, ‘What

brings you here?’

“Then he looked at me awhile, and asked slowly:

“‘Say, brother, are you sick at heart?’

“Now, lord, when I heard those words whereof you know the meaning, I

was so astounded that I almost fell backwards down the ruined stair,

but, recovering myself, I tried him with a sign, and lo, he answered

it. Then I tried him with the second sign, and the third, and the

fourth, and so on up to the twelfth, and he answered them all, though

not always as we use them. Then I paused, and he said:

“‘You have passed the door of the Sanctuary, enter, brother, and draw

on to the Altar.’

“But I shook my head, for I could not. Next he tried me with various

signs and strange words that have to do with the inmost mysteries, but

I was not able to answer them, though at times I saw their drift.

“‘You have some knowledge,’ he said, ‘yet you do but stand at the foot

of the pyramid, whereas I watch the stars from its crest, warming my

hands at the eternal fire.’

“‘None of my order have more, lord,’ I answered, ‘save the very

highest.’

“‘Then there are higher in the land?’ he asked eagerly, but started

suddenly, and, looking round, went on without waiting for an answer,

‘You are in sorrow, Child of the Heart, and have come from one who was

sick to the death; to your business, and perchance we will speak of

these matters afterwards.’

“‘First, lord,’ I said, ‘I have brought an offering,’ and I set down

the basket at his feet.

“‘Gifts are good between brethren,’ he replied; ‘moreover, in this

barren place food is welcome. Come hither, daughter, and take what

this stranger brings.’

“As he spoke a lady came forward through the archway, dressed like her

father, in a white robe of fine fabric, but somewhat worn. I looked at

her, and it is truth, lord, that for the second time I went near to

falling, for so great was the loveliness of this girl that my heart

turned to water within me. Never before had I seen, or even dreamed

of, such beauty in a woman.”

“To your tale, Molas, to your tale. What has the fashion of a woman’s

beauty to do with the business of the Heart?” I broke in, angrily.

“I do not know, lord,” he answered; “and yet I think that it has to do

with all earthly things.” Then he continued:

“The lady, whose name was Maya, looked at me carelessly, and took the

basket. Following her through the archway to the terrace beyond, I set

out the matter of my wife’s illness to the doctor—or rather to him

who passes as a doctor, and who is named Zibalbay, or Watcher—praying

that he would come to the village and minister to her.

“He listened in silence, then took the lock of hair that I had brought

with me, and, going to a fire that burned near by, he laid some of the

hair upon an ember and watched it as it writhed and shrivelled away.

“‘It would be of little use, brother,’ he said, sadly, ‘seeing that

your wife is now dead. I felt her spirit pass us as we talked together

in the gateway; still, until I burnt the hair, I did not know whether

it was she who went by, or another.’

“Here I may tell you, lord, that, as I found afterwards, my wife

departed at that very hour of sunset, though whether the doctor,

Zibalbay, guessed that she must die then from the symptoms which I

described to him, or whether he has the spirit sight, and saw her, I

do not know.

“Still, it seems natural that at that moment of her passing she should

come to bid farewell to the husband whom she loved, though I think it

is a bad omen for me, and I pray that I may never see that place

again. At the least, when I heard him speak thus I did not doubt his

truth, for something within me confirmed it, but I hid my face and

groaned aloud in the bitterness of my grief.

“Then, taking my hand, Zibalbay, the Watcher, spoke great words to me

in a solemn voice that seemed to soothe me as the song of a mother

soothes a restless child, for he talked with certainty as one who has

knowledge and vision of those who have gone beyond, telling me that

this parting was not for long, and that soon I should find her whom I

had lost made glorious and folded close to the Heart of Heaven. Then

he laid his hand upon my head, and I slept awhile, to wake, sad,

indeed, but filled with a strange peace.

“‘Food is ready, my brother,’ said Zibalbay. ‘Eat and rest here this

night; to-morrow you can return.’

“Now when we had eaten, Zibalbay spoke to me in the presence of his

daughter, who, though a woman, is also of the Order, saying:

“‘You are of our Brotherhood, therefore the words I speak will be

repeated to none who are not brethren, for I speak upon the Heart.’

“‘I hear with the Ears, lord,’ I answered.

“‘Listen!’ he went on. ‘I come from far with this maiden, my daughter,

and we are not what we seem, but who and what we are now is not the

hour to tell. This is the purpose of our coming—to find that which is

one, but divided; that which is not lost, but hidden. Perchance,

brother, you can point the path to it,’ and he paused and looked at me

with his piercing eyes.

“Now, lord, I understood to what his words had reference, for are they

not part of the ritual of the service ‘Opening of the Heart?’ Still,

because I desired to be sure, and not commit myself, I picked up a

piece of burnt wood, and, as though in idleness, bent down, and, by

the light of the fire, I drew the half of a heart with a saw-like edge

upon the pavement of the chamber where we sat. Then I handed the stick

to Zibalbay, who took it and passed it on to his daughter, saying:

“‘I have no skill at such arts; finish it, Maya.’

“She smiled, and, kneeling down, traced the half of a face within the

outline that I had drawn, saying:

“‘Is it enough, or do you need the writing also?’

“‘It is enough,’ I answered. ‘Now, lord, what do you desire?’

“‘I desire to know where that which is hidden can be brought to light,

and if it dwells in this land, for I have journeyed far to seek it.’

“‘It dwells here,’ I answered, ‘for I have beheld it with my eyes, and

he guards it who is its keeper.’

“‘Can you lead me to him, brother?’

“‘No, for I have no such commands; but perhaps I can bring him to you,

though I must journey by sea and land to find him—that is, if he

wills to come. Say, what message shall I give? That a stranger whom I

have met desires to look upon the holy symbol? It will scarcely bring

him so far.’

“‘Nay, tell him that the hour is come for “Night” and “Day” to be

joined together, that a new sun may shine in a new sky.’

“‘I can tell him this, but will he believe it, seeing that I have no

proof? Will he not rather think that some cunning stranger and false

brother lays a plot to trap him? Give me proofs, lord, or I do not

start upon this errand.’

“‘Will he believe that which you have seen with your eyes?’

“‘He will believe it, for he has trusted me from childhood.’

“‘Then look!’ said the man, and, opening his robe at the neck, he

kneeled down in the light of the fire.

“There, lord, upon his breast hung that which has been hidden from our

sight since the sons of Quetzal, the god, ruled in the land, the

counterpart of the severed symbol which is upon your breast. That is

all my story, lord.”

*

Now I, Ignatio, listened amazed, for the thing was marvellous.

“Did the man send me no further message?” I asked.

“None. He said that if you were a true keeper of the mystery you would

come to learn his mission from himself, or bring him to you.”

“And did you tell him anything of me and my history, Molas?”

“Nothing; I had no such command. On the morrow at dawn I left to bury

my wife, if she were dead, or to nurse her if she still were sick,

saying that so soon as might be I would travel to the city of Mexico

to seek out the Keeper of the Heart and give him this tidings, and

that within eight weeks or less I trusted to report how I had fared.

The old man asked me if I had money, and without waiting to be

answered he gave me two handfuls of lumps of melted gold from a hide

bag, whereof each lump was stamped with the symbol of the Heart.”

“Let me see one,” I said.

“Alas! my lord Ignatio, I have none. Not far from the ruined temple

where this Zibalbay and his daughter sojourned, is the hacienda of

Santa Cruz, and there, as you may have heard, dwell a gang of men

under the leadership of one Don Pedro Moreno, who are by profession

smugglers, highway robbers, and murderers, though they pretend to earn

a living by the cultivation of coffee and cocoa.

“As it chanced, in journeying homewards, I fell into the hands of some

of these men. They searched me, and, finding the lumps of gold in my

pocket, handed them over to Don Pedro himself, who rode up when he saw

that they had the fish in their net. He examined the gold closely, and

asked me whence it came. At first I refused to answer, whereupon he

said that I should be confined in a dungeon at the hacienda until

such time as I chose to speak.

“Then, being mad to get back to my village and learn the fate of my

wife, I found my tongue and spoke the truth, saying that the gold was

given in exchange for food by an old Indian doctor, who dwelt with his

daughter in a ruined temple in the forest.

“‘Mother of Heaven!’ said Don Pedro, ‘I have heard of this man before;

but now I know the kind of merchandise in which he trades, I think

that I must pay him a visit and learn what mint it was stamped at.’

“Then, having plucked me bare as a fowl for the oven, they let me go

without hurt, but often I have sorrowed because, in my hour of haste

and need, I told them whence the gold came, since I fear lest I should

have let loose these villains upon the old wanderer and his daughter,

and in that case they may well be murdered before ever you can reach

them.”

“Doubtless Heaven will protect them,” I answered, “though you acted

foolishly. But tell me, Molas, how did you find me out and come here

without money?”

“I had some money at home, lord, and when I had buried my wife I

travelled to Frontera on the coast, where I found a ship bound for

Vera Cruz, and in her I sailed, giving my service as a sailor, which

is a trade that I have followed. From Vera Cruz I made my way to

Mexico, and reported myself to the head of the Brotherhood in that

city, who, as I expected, was able to give me tidings of you.

“Then I came on to this village, and arrived here to-night, having

been a month and two days on my journey. And now, lord, if you can,

give me a place to sleep in, since I am weary, who for three days have

scarcely shut my eyes. To-morrow you can let me know what answer I

must bear to the old man, Zibalbay.”

*

I, Ignatio, sat late that night pondering over these tidings, which

filled me with a strange hope. Could it be that my hour of success was

at hand after so many years of waiting? If there were truth in

prophecies it would seem so, and yet my faith wavered. This traveller,

whom Molas had seen, might be a madman, and his symbol might be

forged. I could not tell, but at least I would put the matter to the

proof, for to-morrow, or so soon as was possible, I would journey down

to Chiapas and seek him out.

Thinking thus, I threw myself upon my bed and strove to sleep, but

could not. Then, remembering the scroll that my friend had given me, I

rose, purposing to change my thoughts in studying it and so win sleep.

It was a hard task, but at length I mastered its meaning, and found

that it dealt with a mine near Cumarvo, and described the exact

position of the mouth of the tunnel.

This mouth, it would appear, had been closed up in the reign of

Guatemoc, and the scroll was written by the cacique who had charge

of the mine in those days, in order that a record might remain that

would enable his descendants to reopen it, should a time come when the

Spaniards were driven from the land. That the mine was very rich in

free gold was shown by the weights of pure metal stated in this scroll

to have been sent year by year to the Court of Montezuma by this

cacique, and also by the fact that it was thought worth hiding from

the Spaniards.

Early on the morrow I went to the room of the Se�or Strickland and

spoke to him with a heavy heart.

“Se�or,” I said, “you will remember that when I entered your service I

told you that I might have to leave it at any moment. Now I am here to

say that the time is come, for a messenger has arrived to summon me to

the other end of Mexico upon business of which I may not speak, and

to-morrow I must start upon the journey.”

“I am sorry to hear it, Ignatio,” he answered, “for you have been a

good friend to me. Still, you do well to separate your fortunes from

those of an unlucky man.”

“And you, se�or, do ill to speak thus to me,” I answered with

indignation; “still, I forgive you because I know that at times, when

the heart is sore, the mouth utters words that are not meant. Listen,

se�or, when you have eaten your breakfast, will you take a ride with

me?”

“Certainly, if you like. But whither do you wish to ride?”

“To another mine that is, or should be, about two hours on horseback

from here, in a valley at the foot of yonder peak. I only heard of it

last night, though I came to Cumarvo to seek it, and it would seem

that it was very rich in Montezuma’s day.”

“In Montezuma’s day?” he said.

“Yes, it was last worked then, and I propose that if we can find it,

and it looks well, that you should ‘denounce’ it for yourself, giving

a reward of a few dollars to the Indian from whom I had the

information, who is a poor man.”

“But if it is so good, why don’t you denounce it, Ignatio; and how

did you come to hear about it after all these years?”

“For two reasons, se�or; first, because I wish to do you a service if

it is in my humble power, and, secondly, because I cannot look after

it and must leave you, though to do so will be a true grief to me,

for, if you will permit me to say it, never have I met a man for whom

I conceived a greater respect and affection. Perhaps, if I return

again, you will give me a share in the profits, so that we may grow

rich together. And now I will show you how I came to hear of the

mine.” And I fetched the scroll, with the translation which I had

made, and read it to him.

He listened eagerly, for, like yourself, Se�or Jones, your countryman,

James Strickland, loved adventure and all things that have to do with

the past of this ancient land.

“Let us go at once,” he said when I had finished. “I will order the

horses and a mule with the prospecting kit to be got ready. Shall we

take men with us?”

“I think not, se�or; the mine is not yet found, and the less talk

there is about it the better, for if the matter is noised abroad

somebody may be before you in denouncing it. The messenger who came to

see me last night is a trusty man, but he is weary with journeying,

and rests, so we will go alone.”

An hour later we were riding among the mountains, I having left a

message for Molas to say that I should return before dark. The trail

which we were following was a difficult one, and ran for some miles

along the edge of a precipice till it reached the crest of the range.

Indeed, so bad was it in parts, that we were forced to dismount and

drive the horses and mule before us, while we followed, clinging to

the ferns and creepers on the rocks to keep ourselves from falling.

At length we came to the summit of the range, and turned downwards

through a forest of oak and fir trees, heading for a valley that lay

at the base of a solitary mountain peak, along which ran a stream.

Down this stream we rode a mile or more, since I was searching for a

certain pointed rock that was mentioned in the scroll as standing by

itself on the slope of a mountain where no trees grew, beneath which

should be the glen where in the days of Guatemoc was a great ceiba

tree that, so said the writing, overshadowed the mouth of the mine.

Riding uphill through a dense grove of oaks, we came presently to the

glen that lay just below the slope whereon stood the tall rock.

“This must be the place,” I said, “but I see no ceiba tree.”

“Doubtless it has fallen and rotted since those days,” answered the

Se�or Strickland. “Let us tether the horses and search.”

This we did, and the hunt was long, for here grasses and ferns grew

thick, but at length I discovered a spot where the trunk of a very

ancient tree had decayed in the ground, so that nothing remained

except the outline of its circle and some of the larger roots.

Round about these roots we sought desperately for an hour or more, but

without avail, till at length my companion grew weary of the sport,

and went to pull up a small glossy-leaved palm that he had discovered,

purposing to take it home and set it in his garden, for he was a great

lover of plants and flowers.

While he was thus engaged, and I toiled amongst the grasses looking

for the mouth of the mine, which, as I began to think, was lost

forever, suddenly he called out, “Come here, Ignatio. Beneath the

roots of this palm is refuse rock that has been broken with hammers. I

believe that this must have been the platform in front of the mine.

One can see that the ground was flat here.”

I came to him, and together we renewed our search, till at length, by

good luck, we discovered a hole immediately beneath a rock, large

enough for a man to creep into.

“Was this made by a coyote, or is it the mouth of the mine?” the

se�or asked.

“That we can only find out by entering it,” I answered. “Doubtless

when they shut down the mine, the antiguos would have left some such

place as this to ventilate the workings. Bring the pickaxe, se�or, and

we will soon see.”

For ten minutes or more we laboured, working in soft ground with pick

and spade till we bared the side of a tunnel, which I examined.

“There is no need to trouble further,” I said, “this rock has been cut

with copper chisels, for here is the green of the copper. Without

doubt we have found the mouth of the mine. Now give me the hammer and

candles, and bring the leather bag for samples, and we will enter.”

CHAPTER IV

THE LEGEND OF THE HEART

When I had gone a few paces down the hole, it widened suddenly, so

that we were able to stand upright and light our candles. Now there

was no doubt that we were in the tunnel of an old mine, a rudely-dug

shaft that turned this way and that as it followed the windings of the

ore body.

Along this tunnel we went for thirty or forty paces, creeping over the

fallen boulders, and twisting ourselves between the brown stalactites

that in the course of ages had formed upon the roof and floor, till

presently we reached an obstacle that barred our further progress; a

huge mass of rock which at some time or other had fallen from the roof

of the tunnel and blocked it. I looked at it, and said:

“Now, se�or, I think that we shall have to go back. You remember the

writing tells us that this mine, although so rich, was unsafe because

of the rottenness of the rock. Doubtless they propped it in the old

days, but the timbers have decayed long ago.”

“Yes,” he answered, “we can do nothing here without help, and,

Ignatio, I don’t like the look of the roof, it is full of cracks.”

As these last words left his lips a piece of stone, the size of a

child’s head, fell from above almost at his feet.

“Speak softly,” I whispered, “the ring of your voice is bringing down

the roof.”

Then I stooped to pick up the fallen stone, thinking that it might

show ore, and, as I did so, my hand touched something sharp, which I

lifted and held to the candle. It was the jawbone of a man, yellow

with age, and corroded by damp. I showed it to the se�or, and,

kneeling down, we examined the bed of the tunnel together, and not

uselessly, for there we found the remainder of the skull and some

fragments of an arm-bone, but the rest of the skeleton lay under the

great boulder in front of us.

“He was coming out of the mine when the rock fell upon him, poor

fellow,” whispered the se�or. “Look here,” and he pointed to a little

heap of something that gleamed in the candle-light.

It was free gold, six or seven ounces of it, almost pure, and for the

most part in small nuggets, that once were contained in a bag which

had long since rotted away.

Doubtless, after the mine was closed, some Aztec, who knew its secret,

had made a practice of working there for his own benefit, till one

day, as he was coming out, the rock fell upon him and crushed him,

leaving his spirit to haunt the place for ever.

“There is no doubt about this mine being rich,” whispered the se�or;

“but all the same I think that we had better get out of it. I hear odd

noises and rumblings which frighten me. Come, Ignatio,” and he turned

to lead the way towards the opening.

Two paces farther I saw him strike his ankle against a piece of rock

that stood up some six or eight inches from the floor-bed of the

tunnel, and the pain of the blow was so sharp that, forgetting where

he was, he called out loudly. The next instant there was a curious

sound above me as of something being torn, and, lo! I lay upon my face

on the rock, and upon me rested a huge mass of stone.

I say that it rested upon me, but this is not altogether true, for,

had it been so, that stone would have killed me at once, as a beetle

is killed beneath the foot of a man, instead of taking more than

two-and-twenty years to do it. The greater part of its weight was

borne by the piece of rock against which the se�or had struck his leg,

a point of the fallen boulder only pressing into my back and grinding

me against the ground. Now we were in darkness, for the se�or had been

knocked down also, and his candle extinguished, and, in the midst of

my tortures, it came into my mind that he must be dead.

Presently, however, I heard his voice, saying, “Ignatio; do you live,

Ignatio?”

Now I thought for a moment. Even in my pain I remembered that more of

the roof would surely give ere long, and that if my friend stayed here

he must die with me. Nothing could save me, I was doomed to a slow

death beneath the stone; and yet if I told him this I knew that he

would not go. Therefore I answered as strongly as I could:

“Fly, se�or, I am safe, and do but stay to light a candle. I will

follow you.”

“You are lying to me,” he answered; “your voice comes from the level

of the floor.” And as he spoke I heard the scratching sound of a

match.

So soon as he had found his candle and lit it, he knelt down and

looked at me. Then he examined the roof above, and, following his

glance with difficulty, I saw that next to the hole whence the boulder

had fallen, hung a huge block of stone, that, surrounded by great

cracks from which water dropped, trembled like a leaf whenever he

moved or spoke.

“For the love of God, fly,” I whispered. “In a few hours it will be

over with me, and you cannot help me. I am a dead man, do not stop

here to share my fate.”

For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then his courage came back to him,

and he answered hoarsely:

“We entered this place together, friend, and we will go out together,

or not at all. You must be fixed by the rock and not crushed, or you

would not speak of living for hours. Let me look,” and he lay upon his

breast and examined the fallen rock by the light of the candle. “Thank

God! there is hope,” he said at last, “the boulder rests on the ground

and upon the stone against which I struck my leg, for only one point

of it is fixed in your back. Do you think that anything is broken,

Ignatio?”

“I cannot say, se�or, my pain is great, and I am being slowly crushed

to death; but I believe that as yet my bones are whole. Fly, I beg of

you.”

“I will not,” he answered sullenly, “I am going to roll this rock off

you.”

Then, lifting with all his strength, he strove to move the stone, but

without avail, for it was beyond the power of mortal man to stir it,

and all the while the black mass trembled above his head.

“I must go for help,” he said, presently.

“Yes, yes, se�or,” I answered, “go for help;” for I knew well that

before he could return with any, more of the roof would have fallen,

shutting me in to perish by inches, or perhaps crushing the life out

of me in mercy. Then I remembered, and added:

“Stay a moment before you go; you are noble, I will give you

something. Feel here round my neck, there is a little chain—now, draw

it over my head—so. You see a token hangs to it; if ever you are in

trouble with the Indians, take their chief man apart and show him

this, and he will die for you if need be.

“Englishman, by this gift I have made you heir to the empire of the

Aztecs in the heart of every Indian, and the master of the great

brotherhood of Mexico. Molas, the messenger, will tell you all and

bring you to those who can initiate you. Bid him lead you whither he

would have led me. Farewell, and God go with you. Tell the Indians how

I died, that they may not think that you have murdered me.”

To these words of mine the se�or made no answer, but thrust the token

into his pocket without looking at it, like one who dreams. Then,

taking the candle with him, he crept forward down the tunnel and

vanished, and my heart sank as I saw him go, leaving me to my dreadful

fate without a word of farewell.

“Doubtless he is too frightened to speak,” I thought, “and it is right

that he should fly as quickly as possible to save his life.”

Now, as I was soon to learn, I was doing the se�or a bitter wrong in

my mind, seeing that he never dreamed of deserting me, but went to

find a means of rescue. As he told me afterwards, when he reached the

mouth of the tunnel, he could think of no way by which I might be

saved, since these mountains were uninhabited, and it would take

several hours to bring men from Cumarvo.

Outside the mine he sat himself down to consider what could be done,

but no thought came, for it was impossible to use the strength of the

horses in that narrow place. Then he sprang up and looked round him in

despair. Close to him was a little ravine hollowed by water, and on

its very edge grew a small mimosa thorn of which the long roots had

been washed almost bare by a flood. He saw it, and an inspiration

entered into him. With the help of a lever he might be able to do a

feat to which his unaided strength was not equal.

Springing at the little tree, that being of so tough a wood was the

best possible for his purpose, he tore it from such root-hold as

remained to it. A few strokes with his heavy hunting-knife trimmed off

the branches and fibres, and soon he was creeping carefully up the

tunnel, dragging the trunk after him. When he had gone some twenty

paces he heard another fragment of the roof fall, and, so he said in

his story, was minded to fly.

He had but just escaped from a horrible end, the end that generations

ago overtook the poor Aztec, and it was awful to brave it again. He

knew that his chances of being able to rescue me were few indeed,

whereas those that he would perish miserably in the attempt were many.

Then he remembered what my sufferings must be if I still lived, and

how his own conscience would reproach him in the after years, should

he leave me to my fate, and he went on.

Now he could see that the half-detached mass of the roof still hung;

it was a smaller fragment which had fallen, one nearer to the

entrance. He could see also that I lay in the same position beneath

the rock, and he thought that I was dead, because I neither moved nor

spoke, though, in fact, I had but swooned under the agony of my

suffering.

“Are you dead?” he whispered, and I heard his voice through my sleep,

and, lifting my head, looked up at him astonished, for I had never

thought to see him again.

“Do I behold a spirit,” I said, “or is it you come back?”

“It is I, Ignatio. and I have brought a lever. Now when I lift,

struggle forward if you can.”

Then he placed the trunk of the thorn-tree in what seemed to him the

best position, and put all his strength upon it. It was in vain; even

so he could not stir the rock.

“Try a little more to the right,” I said, faintly; “there is a better

hold.”

He shifted the lever and dragged at it till his muscles cracked, and I

felt the stone tremble as its bulk began to rise.

“If you can help ever so little, it will come!” he gasped.

Then in my despair, though the anguish of it nearly killed me, I set

my palms upon the ground, and, contracting myself like a snake that is

held with a forked stick, thrust upwards with my back till the point

of the stone was raised to the height of eight or ten inches from the

ground.

For a moment, and one only, it hung there; next instant the lever

slipped, and down it came again. But I had taken my chance, for,

clinging to the floor with my fingers, so soon as my back was free,

with a quick movement I dragged myself a foot or more forward. Then

the point of rock that had been lifted from my spine fell again, but

this time it struck the ground between my thighs.

Now he seized me by the arms and tore me free, though I left one of my

long boots beneath the stone. I strove to rise, but could not because

of the hurt to my back.

“You must carry me, se�or,” I said.

He glanced at the mass that trembled above us; then, giving me the

candle, he lifted me from the ground like an infant and staggered

forward down the tunnel. Perhaps we had gone some seven or eight

paces, not more, when there was a dreadful crash behind us. The roof

had fallen in, and the spot which we occupied some thirty seconds

before was now piled high with rocks.

“Oh!” I said; “cracks are showing in the stone above us!” and he

rushed forward till we found ourselves outside the mine.

Now I bowed my head and returned thanks for my escape; then, lifting

it, I looked my preserver in the face and said:

“I swear by the name of God, se�or, that He never made a man nobler

than yourself!”

The next instant I fell forward and fainted there among the ferns.

*

Ten days had passed since I was carried from the mouth of that

accursed mine back to Cumarvo in a litter, and during all this time I

had suffered much pain in my back, and been very ill—so ill, indeed,

that I was scarcely allowed to speak with anyone. Now, however, I was

much better, and one afternoon the Se�or Strickland, assisted by my

foster-brother Molas, lifted me from my bed into a hammock.

“By the way, Ignatio,” said the se�or when Molas had gone, “I never

gave you back this charm of yours. What a strange trinket it is!” he

added, taking it from his neck; “and what did you mean by your talk in

the tunnel about its making me heir to the empire of the Aztecs in the

heart of every Indian, and the rest of it? I suppose that you were

delirious with pain, and did not know what you were saying.”

“Is the door shut, se�or?” I asked; “and are you sure that there is no

one on the verandah? Good! Then draw your chair nearer and I will tell

you something. I am not certain that I should take this talisman back

again, still I will do so for reasons which you shall learn presently.

“Know, se�or, that this broken gem is at once the foundation-stone and

the secret symbol of a great order, of which, although you have not

been initiated into it, you are now one of the lords, seeing that the

crowning and vital ceremony of the creation of a Lord of the Heart

consists in the hanging of the symbol about his neck for the space of

a minute only by myself, who am the chief lord and Keeper of the Heart

for life, and you have worn it for ten whole days.

“Before we part I will call a chapter of the order—for even among

these mountains we have brethren—and you shall be initiated into its

ritual and raised to the rank of a chief lord, as is your right.

Meanwhile I will instruct you briefly in its mysteries, as it is my

bounden duty to do.

“Understand, se�or, that the first duty of the servant of the Heart is

silence, and that silence I demand of you. Men have died ere now,

se�or; yes, they have died on the rack in the dungeons of the

Inquisition, and shrivelled as wizards in the fires of the stake,

sooner than reveal those things that have been told them upon the

faith of the Heart, against which the confessional itself cannot

prevail—no, not with the best of Catholics.”

“But suppose that a man should not keep silence, Ignatio, what then?”

he asked.

“There is a land, se�or,” I answered, “where the most talkative grow

dumb, and its borders can be crossed by all, even by the Lords of the

Heart, for fearful is the doom of a false brother!”

“You mean that if I repeat anything I may hear, I shall be murdered.”

“Indeed, no, se�or; but you may happen to die. I speak on the Heart;

do you hear with the Ears?”

“I hear with the Ears,” he answered, catching my meaning.

“Very well, se�or, since you have now sworn secrecy to me by the most

solemn oath that can pass the lips of man, I will speak to you openly.

This is the tale of the Broken Heart, so far as I know it, though how

much of it is truth and how much is legend I cannot say:

“You have heard the story of that white man, or god, sometimes called

Quetzal by the Indians, and sometimes Cucumatz, who came to these

lands in the far past and civilised their peoples? Afterwards he

vanished away in a ship, promising that when many generations had

passed he would return again.

“When he had gone, the empire which he created fell into the hands of

two brothers, whose chief city was either at Palenque or in its

neighbourhood, and the citizens of this empire, like we Christians,

worshipped one good god, the true God, under the name of the Heart of

Heaven, and to Him they offered few sacrifices save those of fruit and

flowers. Now one of these brothers married a wife from another

country—a daughter of devils, very beautiful and a great witch.

“Soon this woman, as in the story of the wives of Solomon and their

lord, drew away the king, her husband, from the true faith to the

worship of the gods of her own land, and brought it about that he

offered human sacrifice to them. Then there arose a great confusion in

that country, and the end of it was that the people divided themselves

into two parties, the worshippers of the Heart of Heaven and the

worshippers of devils.

“They made war upon each other, till many of their chief men were

killed; then they came to an agreement whereby the nation was

sundered. Half of it, under that king who had married the woman,

marched northwards, and became the fathers of the Aztecs and other

tribes; and half, the faithful worshippers of the Heart, remained in

the Tobasco country.

“Now from that day forward evil overtook both these peoples, for

though the Aztecs flourished for a while, in the end Spaniards

despoiled them. The worshippers of the Heart also were driven from

their cities by hordes of barbarians who rolled down upon them, and

their faith perished, or seemed to perish.”

“But what has this history to do with the charm about your neck,

Ignatio?” he asked.

“I will tell you. When Quetzal sailed away from his people, so says

the legend, he left the stone, that once he had worn upon his brow, of

which this is the half, to be a treasure to the kings who came after

him. Also he set this fate upon it: that while the Heart remained

unbroken, for so long should the people be one and whole; but if it

came about that it was cut or shattered, they should be divided with

it, to be no more one people until again the fragments were one stone.

“Now when these king-brethren quarrelled and parted, they sawed the

token asunder, as you see, each of them keeping a half, this half

being that of him who married the woman. For generations it was worn

by his descendants, and upon their death-beds passed on by them to

another, or at times taken from their bodies after they were dead.

“There are many stories told about the stone in the old days, and it

is certain that he who had it was the real king of the country for the

time being. At length it came into the hands of the great Guatemoc,

last of the Aztec emperors, who, before the Spaniards hung him, found

means to send it to his son, from whom it has come down to me.”

“To you? What have you to do with Guatemoc?”

“I am his lineal descendant, se�or, the eleventh in the male line.”

“Then you ought to be Emperor of the Indians if every man had his

rights, Ignatio.”

“That is so, se�or, but of my own story I will tell you presently. Now

of this stone. Through all the ages it has never been lost, and it is

known in the land from end to end; he who wears it for his life being

called ‘Keeper of the Heart,’ and also ‘Hope of those who wait,’ since

it may happen in his day that the two halves will come together

again.”

“And what if they do?”

“Then, so says the legend, the Indians will once more be a mighty

nation, and drive those who oppress them into the sea, as the wind

drives dust.”

Now the se�or rose from his chair and walked up and down the room.

“Do you believe all this?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes,” I answered, “or the greater part of it. Indeed, if what I hear

is true, the lost half of the talisman that has been missing for so

many generations is in Mexico at this moment, and, so soon as I am

well enough, I go to seek him who bears it, and who has come from far

to find me. That is why we must part, se�or.”

“Where has this man come from?” he asked, eagerly.

“I do not know for certain,” I answered, “but I think that he has come

from the sacred city of the Indians, the hidden Golden City which the

Spaniards sought for but could not find, though it still exists among

the mountains and deserts of the far interior, whither I hope to

journey with him.”

“That still exists! Ignatio, you must be mad. It never has existed

except in the imagination.”

“You say so, se�or, but I think differently. At least, I knew a man

whose grandfather had seen it. He, the grandfather, was a native of

San Juan Batista, in Tobasco, and when he was young he committed some

crime and fled inland to save his life.

“All that befell him I do not know, but at length he found himself

wandering by the shores of a great lake, somewhere in or beyond the

country that is now known as Guatemala, and, being exhausted, he laid

himself down to die there and fell asleep.

“When he awoke, people were standing round him, like the Indians to

look at, but very light in colour, and beautifully dressed in white

robes, with necklaces of emeralds and feather capes. These people put

him on board a great canoe, and took him to a glorious city with a

high pyramid in the centre of it, which was named Heart of the World.

“Of this city he saw little, however, for its inhabitants kept him a

prisoner, only from time to time he was brought before their king and

elders, who sat in a hall filled with images of dead men fashioned in

gold, and there was questioned as to the country whence he came, the

tribes that dwelt in it, and more especially of the white men who

ruled the land.

“In that hall alone, so he said, there were more gold and precious

stones than are to be found in all Mexico. When he had nothing more to

tell them, the people wished to kill him, fearing lest he should

escape and bring upon them the white men who loved gold. The end of it

was that he did escape by the help of a woman, who guided him back

towards the sea, though she never came there, for she died upon the

road.

“Afterwards this man went to live in a little village near Palenque,

where he also died, having revealed nothing of what he had seen, since

he feared lest the vengeance of the People of the Heart should follow

him. When he was dying he told his son, who told his son, who told the

tale to me. Se�or, it has been the dream of my life to visit that

city, and now at last I think that I have found the clue which will

lead me to it.”

“Why do you want to visit it, Ignatio?”

“To understand that, se�or, you must know my history.” And I told him

of the failure of the great plot and the part that I had played in it,

all of which I have already set out, also of the secret hopes and

ambitions of my life.

“Se�or,” I added, “though I am beaten I am not yet crushed, and I

still desire to build up a great Indian empire. I see by your face

that you think me foolish. You may be right or I may be right. I may

be pursuing truths or dreams, I may be sane and a redeemer, or insane

and a fool. What does it matter? I follow the light that runs before

me; will-o’-the-wisp or star, it leads to one end, and for me it is

the light that I am born to follow. If you believe nothing else, at

least believe this, se�or, that I do not seek my own good or

advancement, but rather that of my people. At the worst, I am not a

knave, I am only a fool.”

“But how will you help your cause by visiting this city, supposing it

to exist, Ignatio?”

“Thus, se�or: these people—among whom without doubt the old man of

whom I have spoken, who is named Zibalbay, is a chief or king—are the

true stock and head of all the Indian races, and when they learn my

plans and whom I am, they will be glad to furnish me with means

whereby I can bring them to their former empire.”

“And if they take another view of the matter, Ignatio?”

“Then I fail, that is all, and among so many failures one more will

scarcely matter. I am like a swimmer who sees, or thinks that he sees,

a single plank that may bear him to safety. Maybe he cannot reach that

plank, or, if he reach it, maybe it will sink beneath his weight. At

least, he has no other hope.

“Se�or, I have no other hope. There in the Golden City is untold

wealth, for the man saw it, and without money, great sums of money, I

am helpless, therefore I go thither to win the money. The ship has

foundered under me, and with it the cargo of my ambitions and the work

of my life; so, being desperate, I fall back upon a desperate

expedient.

“First, I will seek this man, that the two halves of the Heart may

come together, and the prophecy be fulfilled; then, if it may be, I

will travel with him to the City, Heart of the World, careless whether

I live or die, but determined, if there is need, to die fighting for

the fulfilment of the dream of an Indian empire—Christian,

regenerated, and stretching from sea to sea—that I have followed all

my days.”

“The dream, Ignatio? Perhaps you name it well, yet few have such noble

dreams. And now, who goes with you on this journey?”

“Who goes with me? Molas, as far as the temple where the Indian is.

After that, if I proceed, no one. Who would accompany a man grown old

in failure, whom even those that love him deem a visionary, on such a

desperate quest? Why, if I should dare to tell my projects even, men

would mock me as children mock an idiot in the street. I go alone,

se�or, perhaps to die.”

“As regards the dying, Ignatio, of course I can say nothing, since all

men must die sooner or later, and the moment and manner of their end

is in the hand of Providence. But for the rest you shall not make this

journey alone, that is, if you care to have me for a companion, for I

will accompany you.”

“You, se�or, you. Think what it means: the certainty of every sort

of danger, the risk of every kind of death, and at the end, the

probability of failure. It is folly, se�or.”

“Ignatio,” he answered, “I will be frank with you. Notwithstanding all

the prophecies about the wonders that are to follow the reuniting of

the Heart, and the messages from the old man in the temple, I think

your scheme of building up an Indian empire greater than that which

Cortez destroyed, as impracticable as it is grand, since the time has

gone by when it could have been done, or perhaps it has not yet

returned.

“Before the Indians can rule again, they must forget the bitter

lessons and the degradation of ages; in short, they must be educated,

Ignatio. Still, if you think otherwise, that is your affair; you can

only fail, and there are failures more glorious than most successes.

Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly, se�or.”

“Very well. And now as regards the search for this Golden City. To me

the matter seems very vague, since your hopes of finding it are based

upon a traveller’s tale, told by a man who died seventy or eighty

years ago, and the chance that a certain person, whom you have not yet

seen, has come from there, and is willing to guide you back to it.

“Still, the prospect of hunting for that city pleases me, for I am an

adventurer in my heart. If ever we get further than the forest country

in Tobasco, where your friend with the token is waiting for you, our

search will probably end in the leaving of our bones to decorate some

wilderness or mountain top in the unknown regions of Guatemala.

“But what of that? I have no chick or child; my death would matter

nothing to any living soul; for years I have worked hard with small

results; why should I not follow my natural bent and become an

adventurer? I can scarcely do worse than I have done, and I think that

the way of life would suit me.

“That mine you showed me is rich enough no doubt, but I have no

capital to deal with it, and if I had, my experience of the place was

such that I never wish to set foot in it again. In short, I am ready

to start for Tobasco, and the Sacred City, and wherever else you like,

so soon as you are fit to travel.”

“Do you swear that on the Heart, se�or?” I asked.

“By all means; but I should prefer to give you my hand upon it.” And

he stretched out his hand, which I took.

“Good. You swear on the Heart, and give me your hand—the oath is

perfect. We are comrades henceforth, se�or; for my part I ask no

better one. I have nothing more to say. I cannot promise that you will

find this City, or that, if you find it, it will advantage you. I am

an unlucky man, and it is more likely that, by yoking yourself with

me, you will bring my misfortunes upon your head. This I swear,

however, that I will be a true comrade to you, as you were to me

yonder in the mine, and for the rest, the adventure must be its own

reward.”

CHAPTER V

THE BEGINNING OF THE QUEST

Something more than a month from the day when the Se�or Strickland and

I made our compact to search for the secret city of the Indians, we

found ourselves, together with Molas, at Vera Cruz, waiting for a ship

to take us to Frontera, where we proposed to disembark. This port we

had chosen in preference to Campeche, although the latter was nearer

to the ruins where we hoped to find the Indian Zibalbay, because from

it we could travel in canoes up the Grijalva and other rivers,

unobserved by any save the natives.

Things are changed now in these parts, but in those days the white men

who lived thereabouts beyond the circle of the towns were too often

robbers, as Molas had found to his cost some few weeks before.

At Vera Cruz we purchased such articles as were necessary to our

journey, not many, for we could not be sure of finding means to carry

them. Among them were hammocks, three guns that would shoot either

ball or shot, with ammunition, as many muzzle-loading Colt’s

revolvers, the best that were to be had twenty years ago, some

medicines, blankets, boots, and spare clothes.

Also we took with us all the money that we possessed, amounting to

something over fifteen hundred dollars in gold, which sum we divided

between us, carrying it in belts about our middles. At Vera Cruz,

where people are very curious about the business of others, we gave

out that the Se�or Strickland was one of those strange Englishmen who

love to visit old ruins, for which purpose he was travelling to

Yucatan; that I, Ignatio, was his guide and companion, and that Molas,

my foster-brother, was our servant.

Now we purposed to leave Vera Cruz by a fine American vessel, a

sailing ship, that, after touching at the ports along the coast,

traded to Havana and New York. As it chanced, the departure of this

ship was delayed for a week, so, being pressed for time and fearing

lest we should catch the yellow fever that was raging in the town,

unhappily for ourselves we took passage in a Mexican boat called the

Santa Maria.

She was an old sailing vessel of not more than two hundred and fifty

tons burden, that had been converted by her owners into a paddle-wheel

steamer, with the result that, except in favourable weather, she could

neither sail nor steam with any speed or safety. Her business was to

trade with passengers and cargo between Vera Cruz and the ports of

Frontera and Campeche.

“Where for?” asked the agent of the Se�or Strickland, as he filled in

the tickets.

“Frontera,” he answered. “Your boat stops there, does she not?”

“Oh! certainly, se�or,” he said, as he pocketed the dollars, and yet

all the while this shameless rogue knew that she had orders to touch

at Campeche, which is the furthest port, first, and return to Frontera

a week later. But of this more in its place.

That afternoon the Santa Maria, with us on board of her, was piloted

out of the harbour of Vera Cruz, and we heard the pilot swearing

because she would not answer properly to her helm. Standing by the

engines we noticed also that, though they had not been working for

more than half an hour, it was found necessary to keep a stream of

water in constant play upon the bearings.

The se�or asked the reason of this of the man who was mate and

engineer of the boat, and he answered, with a shrug, that sand had got

into the machinery when she was steaming over the bar of the Grijalva

river, but that he thought the bearings, should it please the Saints,

would last this voyage, unless they had the bad luck to run into a

norther, as you English call el Norte; the fearful gales that in

certain seasons of the year sweep over the Gulf of Mexico.

“And if we ‘run into a norther’?” he asked—whereupon the man made a

grimace, crossed himself to avert the omen, and vanished down the

stoke-hole.

Now we began to feel sorry that we had not taken passage in the

American ship, since of late northers had been frequent, but as, for

good or ill, we were on board the Santa Maria, we amused ourselves

by studying our fellow-passengers.

Of these there were several on board, perhaps twenty in all, Mexican

landowners and officials returning to their haciendas and native

towns after a visit to Vera Cruz, or the capital, some of them

pleasant companions enough and others not so. Three or four of these

gentlemen were accompanied by their wives, but the ladies had already

retired to the bunks opening out of the cabin, where, although the sea

was quite smooth, they could be heard suffering the pains of sickness.

Among the passengers was one, a man of not more than thirty years of

age, who particularly attracted our attention because of the

gorgeousness of his dress. In appearance he was large, handsome, and

coarse, and he had Indian blood in his veins, as was shown by the

darkness of his colour and the thick black eyebrows that gave a

truculent expression to his face. While I was wondering who he might

be, Molas made a sign to me to come aside, and said:

“You see yonder man with the silver buttons on his coat: he is Don

Jos� Moreno, the son of that Don Pedro Moreno who waylaid and robbed

me of the nuggets which the old Indian gave me for the cost of my

journey to find you. I heard at the time that he was away from the

hacienda in Vera Cruz or Mexico, and now doubtless he returns

thither. Beware of him, lord, and bid the Englishman to do the same,

for, like his father, he is a bad man—” and he told me certain things

connected with him and his family.

While Molas was talking, a bell had rung for dinner, but I waited till

he had finished before going down. At the door of the cabin I met the

captain, a stout man with a face like a full moon and a bland smile.

“What do you seek, se�or?” he asked.

“My dinner, se�or,” I answered.

“It shall be sent to you on the deck,” he said, not without confusion.

“I do not wish to be rude, se�or, but you know that these Mexicans—I

am a Spaniard myself and do not care—hate to sit at meat with an

Indian, so, if you insist upon coming in, there will be trouble.”

Now I heard, and though the insult was deep, it was one to which I was

accustomed, for in this land, which belongs to them and where their

fathers ruled, to be an Indian is to be an outcast.

Therefore, not wishing to make a stir, I bowed and turned away.

Meanwhile, it seems that the Se�or Strickland, missing me in the

cabin, asked the captain where I was, saying that perhaps I did not

know that the meal was ready.

“If you refer to your servant, the Indian,” said the captain, “I met

him at the door and sent him away. Surely the se�or knows that we do

not sit at table with these people.”

“Captain,” answered the Se�or Strickland, “if my friend is an Indian,

he is as good a gentleman as you or anybody else in this cabin;

moreover, he has paid for a first-class fare and has a right to

first-class accommodation. I insist upon a seat being provided for him

at my side.”

“As you wish,” answered the captain, smiling, for he was a man of

peace, “only if he comes there will be trouble.” And he ordered the

steward to fetch me.

Now this steward was an Indian who knew my rank. Therefore not wishing

to offend me by repeating what had passed, he said simply that the

captain sent his compliments and begged that I would come down to

dinner. The end of it was that I went, though doubtfully, and, seeing

me in the doorway the Se�or Strickland called to me in a loud voice,

saying:

“You are late for dinner, friend, but I have kept your place here by

me. Sit down quickly or the food will be cold.”

I bowed to the company and obeyed, and then the trouble commenced, for

all present had heard this talk. As I took my seat the Mexicans began

to murmur, and the passenger who was next to me insolently moved his

plate and glass away. Now almost opposite to me sat Don Jos� Moreno,

that man of whom Molas had told me. As I took my seat he consulted

hastily with a neighbour on his right, then, addressing the captain,

said in a loud voice:

“There is some mistake; it is not usual that Indian dogs should sit at

the same table with gentlemen.”

The captain shrugged his shoulders and answered mildly:

“Perhaps the se�or will settle the question with the English se�or on

my left. To me it does not matter; I am only a poor sailor, and

accustomed to every sort of company.”

“Se�or Strickland,” said Don Jos�, “be so good as to order your

servant to leave the cabin.”

“Se�or,” he answered, for his temper was quick, “I will see you in

hell before I do so.”

“Caramba,” said the Mexican, laying a hand upon the knife in his

belt, “you shall pay for that, Englishman.”

“When and how you will, se�or. I always pay my debts.”

Then the captain broke in, in a strange way. First he put a hand

behind him, and, drawing a large pistol from his pocket, he laid it by

his plate.

“Se�ors, both,” he said in a soft voice and with a gentle smile, “I am

loth to interfere in a quarrel of two esteemed passengers, but though

I am only a poor sailor, it is my duty to see that there is no

bloodshed on board this vessel. Therefore, much as I regret it, I

shall be obliged to shoot dead the first man who draws a weapon,” and

he cocked the pistol.

Now the Mexican scowled, and the Se�or Strickland laughed outright,

for it was a curious thing to hear a man with the face of a sheep

growl and threaten like a wolf. Meanwhile I had risen, for this insult

was more than I could bear.

“Se�ors,” I said, speaking in Spanish, “as I see that my presence is

unwelcome to the majority of those here, I hasten to withdraw myself.

But before I go I wish to say something, not by way of boasting, but

to justify my friend, the English gentleman, in his action on my

behalf. However well-born you may be, my descent is nobler and more

ancient than yours, and therefore it should be no shame to you to sit

at table with me. Least of all should the Don Jos� Moreno, whose

father is a murderer, a highway robber, and a man without shame, and

whose mother was a half-bred mestiza slut, dare to be insolent to me

who, as any Indian on board this ship can tell you, am a prince among

my own people.”

Now every eye was fixed upon Don Jos�. His sallow complexion turned to

a whitish green as he listened to my words, and for a moment he sank

back in his chair overcome with rage. Then he sprung up, once more

gripping at his knife.

“You dog!” he gasped, “let me but come at you and I’ll cut your lying

tongue out.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Don Jos� Moreno,” I answered, fixing

my eyes upon his face; “what I have said of your father is true; more,

there is a man on board this ship whom, not three months since, he

robbed with violence. If the gentlemen your companions would like to

hear the story I can tell it to them. For the rest, I am well able to

defend myself. Moreover this vessel is manned by Indians who know me,

and should any harm come to me or to my friend, the Se�or Strickland,

I warn you that you will not reach your home alive. Gentlemen, I

salute you,” and I bowed and left the cabin.

“Friend, I thank you,” I said to the se�or, when he came upon deck

after the dinner was ended. “Knowing who I am and seeing how, in

common with my race, I am accustomed to be treated by such hounds as

these, can you wonder that I am not fond of Mexicans?”

“No, Ignatio,” he answered; “but all the same I advise you to be

careful of this Don Jos�. He is not a man to kiss the stick that beats

him, and he will make an end of you, and me too for the matter of

that, if he can.”

“Do not be afraid, se�or,” I answered, laughing; “besides the steward

and Molas there are twenty Indians on board, most of them belonging to

the tribe that dwells beyond Campeche, the finest race in Mexico. Two

of these men are associates of the Heart, and all the rest know my

rank, and will watch that man day and night so that he can never come

near us without finding them ready for him. Only we shall do well to

sleep on deck and not below.”

That night we spent, wrapped in our serapes, upon two coils of rope

on the forecastle of the Santa Maria, with Molas sleeping close

behind us. It was a lovely night and we whiled away the hours in

telling tales to each other of our adventures in past years, and in

wonderings as to those that lay before us, till at length, fearing

nothing, for we knew that our safety was watched over, we fell asleep,

to be awakened by the sudden stoppage of the vessel.

The day was on the point of dawn; a beautiful and pearly light lay

upon the quiet surface of the sea; above us the stars still shone

faintly in the heavens, but to the east the cloud-banks were tinged

with pink and violet. We sat up wondering what had happened, and saw

the captain, wrapped in a dirty blanket, engaged in earnest

conversation with the engineer, who wore a still dirtier shirt, and

nothing else. Hearing that something was wrong, the Se�or James went

to the captain and asked him why we had stopped.

“Because the engines won’t go any more, and there is no wind to sail

with,” he answered politely. “But have no fear, my comrade says that

he can mend them up. He has nursed them for years and knows their weak

points.”

“Certainly there is not much to fear in weather like this,” said the

se�or, “except delay.”

“Nothing, nothing,” replied the captain, glancing anxiously at a

narrow black band of cloud, that lay on the rim of the horizon beneath

the fleecy masses in which the lights of dawn were burning.

“Do you think that we are likely to have a norther?” asked the se�or

in his blunt white man’s way.

“No, no,” exclaimed the captain, crossing himself at the name of that

evil power—el Norte, “but quien sabe! God makes the weather, not

we poor sailors.” And with another glance at the threatening line of

cloud, he hurried away as though to avoid further conversation.

Presently the engines began to work again, though haltingly, like a

lame mule, and as the morning drew on the day became clear and the

thin black cloud vanished from the horizon. Towards three o’clock in

the afternoon Molas, pointing to a low coast-line, and a spot on the

sea where the ocean swell showed tipped with white, told us that

yonder was the bar of the Grijalva river, and that behind it lay the

village of Frontera, our destination.

“Good,” said the se�or, “then I think that I will get my things on

deck,” and going to his cabin he brought up a sack containing some

wraps and food.

“Why do you fetch your baggage?” asked the captain presently, “you may

want it to-night.”

“That is why I brought it up,” he answered. “I do not wish to land at

Frontera with nothing.”

“Land at Frontera, se�or? No one will land at Frontera from this ship

for another six or seven days. We pass Frontera and run straight on to

Campeche, which, by the blessing of the Saints, we shall reach

to-morrow evening.”

“But I have taken a ticket for Frontera,” said the se�or. “The agent

gave them to me, and I insist upon being put on shore there.”

“That is quite right, se�or. All being well we shall call at Frontera

this day week, and then you can go ashore without extra charge, but

before this my orders are to put into no port except Campeche—that

is, unless a norther forces me to do so.”

“May the norther sink you, your ship, your agents, and every thing you

have to do with,” answered the se�or in so angry a voice, that the

Mexican passengers who were listening began to laugh at the

Englishman’s discomfiture, though the more thoughtful of them crossed

themselves to avert the evil omen.

Then followed a storm, for the se�or—whose temper, as I have said,

was not of the coolest—raged and swore in no measured terms; the

captain shrugged his shoulders and apologised; the passengers smiled;

and, seeing that there was no help for the matter, I looked on

patiently after the manner of my race. At length the captain fled,

wiping his brow and exclaiming:

“What manner of men are these English that they make such a trouble

about a little time? Mother of Heaven! why are they always in a hurry?

Is not to-morrow as good as to-day—and better?”

That evening we dined together upon deck; for neither of us were in

any good mood to descend to the cabin and meet Don Jos� Moreno, of

whom we had seen nothing since the previous night. As we were

finishing our meal the light faded and the sky grew curiously dark,

while suddenly to the north there appeared a rim of cloud similar to

that which we had seen upon the horizon at dawn, but now it was of an

angry red and glowed like the smoke from a smelting-furnace at night.

“The sky looks very strange, Ignatio,” said the se�or to me, and at

that moment we heard Molas and an Indian sailor speaking together in

brief words.

“El Norte,’ said Moras, pointing towards the red rim of light.

“Si, el Norte,” answered the sailor as he went towards the cabin.

Presently the captain hurried up the companion-ladder and studied the

horizon, of which the aspect seemed to frighten him. In another minute

the mate joined him, appearing from the engine hatch, and the two of

them began to converse, or rather to dispute. I was sitting near,

unobserved in the darkness, and, so far as I could gather, the mate

was in favour of putting the ship about and running for Frontera, from

which port we were now distant some forty miles.

On the other hand, the captain said that if they did so and the

norther came up, it would catch them before they got there, and wreck

them upon the bar of the Grijalva river; but he added that he did not

believe there would be any norther, and if by ill-luck it should come,

their best course was to stand for the open sea and ride it out.

The mate answered that this would be an excellent plan if the ship

were staunch and the engines to be relied on, but he declared loudly

that they might as well try to sail a boat with a mast made of

cigarettes, as to attempt to lie head on to a norther with leaking

boilers, worn-out engines, and a strained paddle-wheel.

After this the discussion grew fierce, and as full of oaths as a

shark’s mouth with teeth, but in the end the two sailors determined

that their safest plan would be to hold on their present course, and,

if necessary, round Point Xicalango and take shelter behind Carmen

Island, or, if they could, in the mouth of the Usumacinto river. Then

they parted, the captain adjuring the mate to say nothing of the state

of the weather to the passengers, and above all to that accursed

Englishman, who had called this misfortune upon them because he was

not put off at Frontera, and whose evil eye brought bad luck.

Another two hours passed without much change, except that the night

grew darker and darker, and stiller and yet more still. The Se�or

Strickland, who had been walking up and down the deck smoking a cigar,

came and sat beside me on a coil of rope, and asked me if I thought

the norther was coming.

“Yes, it is coming,” I answered, “and I fear that it will sink us, at

least so say the Indian sailors.”

“You take the idea of being drowned like a puppy in a sack very

coolly, Ignatio. How far are we from Point Xicalango?”

“About twelve miles, I believe, and I take it coolly because there is

no use in making an outcry. God will protect us if He chooses, and if

He chooses He will drown us. It is childish to struggle against

destiny.”

“A true Indian creed, Ignatio,” he answered; “you people sit down and

say—‘It is fate, let us accept it’—but one that I and the men of my

nation do not believe in. If they had done so, instead of being the

first country in the world to-day, England long ago would have ceased

to exist, for many a time she has stood face to face with Fate and

beaten her. For my part, if I must die, I prefer to die fighting. Tell

me, are any of these people to be relied on if it comes to a pinch?”

“The Indian sailors are Campeche men and brave, also they know the

coast, and if need be they will do anything that I tell them. For the

rest I cannot say, but the captain seems to understand something of

his business. Look and listen!”

As I spoke a vivid patch of lightning pierced the heavens above us,

followed by a deafening peal of thunder. In its fierce and sudden

glare we could see the coast some three or four miles away, and almost

ahead of us the bolder outline of Point Xicalango. The water about our

ship was dead calm, and slipped past her sides like oil; the smoke in

the funnel rose almost straight into the air, where at a certain

height it twisted round and round; and a sail that had been hoisted

flapped to and fro for lack of wind to draw it.

A mile or so to windward, however, was a different sight, for there

came the norther, rushing upon us like a thing alive; in front of it a

line of white billows torn from the quiet surface of the sea, and

behind it, fretted by little lightnings, a dense wall of black cloud

stretching from the face of ocean to the arc of heaven.

Now the captain, who was on deck, saw his danger, for if those billows

caught us broadside on we must surely founder. In the strange silence

that followed the boom of the thunder, he shouted to the helmsman to

bring the ship head on to the sea, and to the sailors to batten down

the after-hatch, the only one that remained open, shutting the

passengers, except ourselves and Molas, into the cabin.

His orders were obeyed well and quickly, the Santa Maria came round

and began to paddle towards the open water and the advancing line of

foam. It was terrible to see her, so small a thing, driving on thus

into what appeared to be the very jaws of death. Now the unnatural

quiet was broken, a low moaning noise thrilled through the air, the

waters about the ship’s side began to seethe and hiss, and spray

flying ahead of the ship cut our faces like the lash of a whip.

A few more seconds and something white and enormous could be seen

looking above our bows, and the sight of it caused the captain, whose

face looked pale as death in the gleam of the lightnings, to shriek

another order to his crew.

“Lie down and hold on tight to the rope,” I said to the Se�or

Strickland and Molas, who were beside me, “here comes el Norte, and

he brings death for many of us on board this ship.”

CHAPTER VI

“EL NORTE”

Another moment and el Norte had come in strength. First a sudden

rush of wind struck the vessel, causing her to shiver, and with a

sharp report rending from its fastenings the jib, which had not been

furled. This gust went howling by, and after it rolled the storm.

To us it seemed that the Santa Maria dived head first into a huge

wave, a level line of white illumined with lightnings and swept

forward by the hurricane, for in an instant a foot of foaming water

tore along her deck from stem to stem, sweeping away everything

movable upon it, including two Indian sailors. We should have gone

with the rest had we not clung with all our strength to the rope

coiled about the foremast, but as it was we escaped with a wetting.

For a while the ship stood quite still, and it seemed as though she

were being pressed into the deep by the weight of water on her decks,

but as this fell from her in cataracts, she rose again and ploughed

forward. Fortunately the first burst of the tempest was also the most

terrible, and it had not taken her broadside on, for one or two more

such waves would have swamped us.

After it had passed shorewards, driven by the hurricane wind, for a

little space there was what by comparison might be called a lull, then

the Santa Maria met the full weight of the norther. For a while she

forged again against the shrieking wind and vast succeeding seas,

shipping such a quantity of water that presently the captain found it

necessary to reduce her engines to half speed, which it was hoped

would suffice to give her way without filling her.

Now less water came aboard, but on the other hand, as was soon

evident, the vessel began to drift towards the Point Xicalango, and

from this moment it became clear that only a miracle could save her.

For an hour or more the Santa Maria kept up a gallant and unequal

fight, being constantly pressed backwards by the might of the storm,

till at length we could see in the glare of the lightning that the

breakers of the Point were raging not two hundred paces from her

stern. The captain saw them also and made a last effort. Shifting the

vessel’s bow a little, so that the seas struck her on the port

quarter, he gave the order of “Full steam ahead,” and once more we

drove forward.

Before and since that day I have made many voyages across the Gulf of

Mexico in all weathers, but never have I met with such an experience

as that which followed. The ship plunged and strained and rocked,

lifting now her bow and now her stern high above the waves, till it

seemed as though she must fall to pieces, while water in tons rushed

aboard of her at every dip, which, as she righted herself, streamed

through the broken bulwarks.

Slowly, very slowly, we were forging away from the Point and out into

the channel which lies between it and Carmen Island, but the effort

was too fierce to last. Presently, after a succession of terrible

pitchings, one paddle-wheel suddenly ceased to thrash the water, while

the other broke to pieces, and a faint cry from below told those on

deck that the worn-out machinery had collapsed.

Now we were in the mid-race or channel, through which the boiling

current, driven by the fury of the gale and the push of the tide, tore

at a speed of fifteen or sixteen knots, carrying the Santa Maria

along with it as a chip of wood is carried down a flooded gutter.

Twice she whirled right round, for now that her machinery had gone

there was no power to keep her head to the waves, and on the second

occasion, as she lay broadside to them, a green sea came aboard of her

that swept her decks almost clean, taking away with it every boat

except the cutter, which fortunately was slung upon davits to

starboard and out of its reach.

Crouching under shelter of the mast, again the three of us clung to

our ropes, nor did we leave go although the water ground us against

the deck, covering us for so long that before our heads were clear of

it we felt as though our lungs must burst. As it chanced, what

remained of the starboard bulwarks was carried away by the rush,

allowing the sea to escape, or the ship must have foundered at once.

But it had done its work, for the engine-room hatchway and the cabin

light were stove in, and the Santa Maria was half full of water.

Before a second sea could strike her, her nose swung round, and in

this position she was washed along the race, her deck not standing

more than four feet above the level of the waves.

Now from time to time the moon shone out between rifts in the storm

clouds, revealing a dreadful scene. Fragments of the little bridge

still remained, and to them was lashed the large body of the captain

in an upright position, though, as he neither spoke nor stirred, we

never learned whether he was only paralysed by terror, or had been

killed by a blow from the funnel as it fell.

You will remember, my friend, that he had ordered the passengers to be

battened down, and there in the cabin they remained, twenty or more of

them, until the hatchways were stove in. Then, with the exception of

one or two, who were drowned by the water that poured down upon them,

they rushed up the companion, men and women together, for they could

no longer stay below, and, shrieking, praying, and blaspheming, clung

to fragments of the bulwarks, shrouds of the mast, or anything which

they thought could give them protection against the pitiless waves.

Awful were the wails of the women, who, clad only in their

night-dresses, now quitted their bunks for the first time since they

entered them in the harbour of Vera Cruz. Overcome by fear, and having

no knowledge of the dangers of the deep, these poor creatures flung

themselves at full length upon the deck, striving to keep a hold of

the slippery boards, whence one by one they rolled into the ocean as

the vessel lurched, or were carried away by the seas that pooped her.

Some of the men followed them to their watery grave, others, more

self-possessed, crept forward, attempting to escape the waves that

broke over the stern, but none made any effort to save them, and

indeed it would have been impossible so to do.

Among those who crawled forward to where we and some of the Indian

sailors were clinging to the rope that was coiled round the stump of

the broken foremast, was Don Jos� Moreno. Even in his terror, which

was great, this man could still be ferocious, for, recognising the

se�or, he yelled:

“Ah! maldonado—evil-gifted one—you called down the norther upon

us. Well, at least you shall die with the rest,” and, suddenly drawing

his long knife, he rose to his knees, and, holding the rope with one

hand, attempted to drive it into the se�or’s body with the other.

Doubtless he would have succeeded in his wickedness had not an Indian

boatswain, who was near, bent forward and struck him so sharply on the

arm with his clenched fist that the knife flew from his hand. In

trying to recover it Don Jos� fell face downwards on the deck, where

he lay making no further effort at aggression.

Afterwards the se�or told me, such was the horror and confusion of the

scene, that, at the time, he scarcely noticed this incident, though

every detail came back to him on the morrow, and with it a great

wonder that even when death was staring them in the face, the Indians

did not forget their promise to watch over our safety.

Meanwhile, swept onward by the tide and gale, the Santa Maria,

waterlogged and sinking, rushed swiftly to her doom. Our last hour was

upon us, and for a space this knowledge seemed to benumb the mind of

the Se�or Strickland, who crouched at my side, as the wet and cold had

benumbed his body. Nor was this strange, for it seemed terrible to

perish thus.

“Can we do nothing?” he said to me at length. “Ask the Indians if

there is any hope.”

Putting my face close to the ear of the boatswain, I spoke to him,

then shouted back:

“He says that the current is taking us round the point of the island,

and if the ship weathers it, we shall come presently into calmer

water, where a boat might live, if there is one left and it can be

launched. He thinks, however, that we must sink.”

When the se�or heard this he hid his face in his hands, and doubtless

began to say his prayers, as I did also. Soon, however, we ceased even

from that effort, for we were rounding the point and once more the

seas were breaking on and over the vessel’s side.

For a few minutes there was a turmoil that cannot be described; then,

although the wind still shrieked overhead, we felt that we were in

water which seemed almost calm to us. The ship no longer pitched and

rolled, she only rocked as she settled before sinking, while the moon,

shining out between the clouds, showed that what had been her bulwarks

were not more than two or three feet above the level of the sea.

Six Indians, our three selves, Don Jos�, who seemed to be senseless,

and the body of the captain lashed to the broken bridge, alone

remained of the crew and passengers of the Santa Maria. The rest had

been swept away, but there close to us the cutter still hung upon the

davits.

The se�or saw it, and I think that he remembered his saying of a few

hours before, that he would die fighting; at least he cried:

“The ship is sinking. To the boat, quick!” and, running to the cutter,

he climbed into her, as did I, Molas, and the six Indian sailors.

She was full of water almost to the thwarts, which could only be got

rid of by pulling out the wooden plug in her bottom.

Happily the boatswain, that same man who had struck the knife from the

hand of Don Jos�, knew where to look for this plug, and, being a

sailor of courage and resource, he was able to loose it, so that

presently the water was pouring from her in a stream thick as a

hawser. Meanwhile, urged to it by the hope of escape, the other

Indians were employed in getting out the oars, and in loosening the

tackles before slipping them altogether when enough water had run out

to allow the boat to swim.

“Get the plug back,” said the se�or, “the vessel is sinking, you must

bale the rest.”

Half a minute more and it was done; then, at a word from the

boatswain, the sailors lowered away—they had not far to go—and we

were afloat, and, better still, quite clear of the ship.

Scarcely had they brought the head of the cutter round and pulled

three or four strokes, when from the deck of the Santa Maria there

came the sound of a man’s voice crying for help, and by the light of

the moon we discovered the figure of Don Jos� Moreno clinging to the

broken bulwarks, that now were almost awash.

“For the love of God, come back to me!” he screamed.

The oarsmen hesitated, but the boatswain said, with an Indian oath:

“Pull on and let the dog drown.”

It seemed as if Don Jos� heard him, at least he raised so piteous a

wailing that the se�or’s heart, which was always over-tender, was

touched by it.

“We cannot desert the man,” he answered, “put back for him.”

“He tried to murder you just now,” shouted the boatswain, “and if we

go near the ship, she will take us down with her.”

Then he turned to me and asked, “Do you command us to put back, lord?”

“Since the se�or wills it, I command you,” I answered. “We must save

the man and take our chance.”

“He commands whom we must obey,” shouted the boatswain again; “put

back, my brothers.”

Sullenly, but submissively, the Indians backed water till we lay

almost beneath the counter of the vessel, that wallowed in the trough

of the swell before she went down. On the deck, clinging to the stays

of the mast, stood Don Jos�—his straight oiled hair beat about his

face, his gorgeous dress was soaked and disordered.

“Save me!” he yelled hoarsely, “save me!”

“Throw yourself into the sea, se�or, and we will pick you up.”

“I dare not,” was the answer; “come aboard and fetch me.”

“Does the se�or still wish us to stay?” asked the boatswain, calmly.

“Listen, you cur,” shouted the se�or, “the ship is sinking and will

take us with it. At the word ‘three,’ give way, men. Now will you

come, or not? One, two–-”

“I come,” said the Mexican, and, driven to it by desperation, he cast

himself into the sea.

With difficulty the se�or, assisted by an Indian with a boathook,

succeeded in getting hold of him as he was washed past on the swell. I

confess that I would have no hand in the affair, since—may I be

forgiven the sin—my charity was not true enough to make me wish to

save this villain. There, however, the matter rested for the present,

as they could not stop to pull him into the boat, for just then the

deck of the Santa Maria burst with a rending sound, and she began to

go down bodily.

“Row for your lives,” shouted the boatswain, and they rowed, dragging

Don Jos� in the wake of the cutter.

Down went the Santa Maria, bow first, making a hollow in the sea

that sucked us back towards her. For a moment the issue hung doubtful,

for the whirlpool caused by the vanished vessel was strong and almost

engulfed us, but in the end the stout arms of the Indians conquered

and drew our boat clear.

So soon as this great danger had gone by, the sailors with much labour

lifted Don Jos� into the cutter, where he lay gasping but unharmed.

Then arose the question of what we could possibly do to save our

lives.

We were lying under the lee of Carmen Island, which sheltered us

somewhat from the fury of the norther, and we might either try to land

upon this island, or to put about and run for the mouth of the

Usumacinto river. There was a third course: to keep the boat’s head to

the seas, if that were possible, and let her drift till daylight. In

the end this was what we determined to do.

Indeed, while we were discussing the question it was settled for us,

for suddenly the rain began to fall in torrents, blotting out such

moonlight as there was; and to land in this darkness would have been

impossible, even if the nature of the beach allowed of it. Therefore

we lay to and gave our thoughts and strength to the task of preventing

the waves, which became more and more formidable as we drifted beyond

the shelter of the island, from swamping or oversetting us.

It was a great struggle, and had it not been that the heavy rain beat

down the seas, we could never have lived till morning. As it was we

must have been swamped many times over but for the staunchness of the

boat, which, fortunately, was a new one, and the seamanship and

ceaseless vigilance of the Indian boatswain who commanded her. For

hour after hour he crouched in the bow of the cutter, staring through

the sheets of rain and the darkness with his hawk-like eyes, and

shouting directions to the crew as he heard or caught sight of a

white-crested billow rolling down upon us, that presently would fling

us upwards to sink deep into the trough on its further side, sometimes

half filling the boat with water, which must be baled out before the

next sea overtook us.

Afterwards the se�or told me that, knowing it to be the nature of

Indians to submit to evil rather than to struggle against it, he

wondered how it came about that these men faced the fight so

gallantly, instead of throwing down their oars and suffering

themselves to be drowned. I also was somewhat astonished till

presently the matter was explained, for once, when a larger sea than

those that went before had almost filled us, the boatswain called out

to his companions:

“Be brave, my brothers, and fear nothing. The Keeper of the Heart is

with us, and death will flee him.”

To the se�or, however, this comfort seemed cold, since he did not

believe that any talisman could save us from the powers of the sky and

sea, nor indeed did I. Wet and half frozen as he was, his nerve broken

by the terrible scenes that we had witnessed upon the lost ship, and

by thoughts of the many who had gone down with her, his spirit, so he

told me, failed him at last.

He gave no outward sign of his inward state indeed; he did not follow

the example of the Mexican, who lay in the water at the bottom of the

boat, groaning, weeping, and confessing his sins, which seemed to be

many. Only he sat still and silent and surrendered himself to destiny,

till by degrees his forces, mental and bodily, deserted him and he

sank into a torpor. It was little wonder, for rarely have shipwrecked

men been in a more hopeless position. The blinding rain, the

bewildering darkness, the roaring wind and sea, all combined to

destroy us while we drifted in our frail craft we knew not whither.

As minute after minute of that endless night went by, our escape

seemed to become more impossible, for each took with it something of

the strength and mental energy of those who fought so bravely against

the doom that overshadowed us. For my part, I was sure that my hour

had come, but this did not trouble me overmuch, since my life had not

been so happy or successful that I grieved at the thought of losing

it. Moreover, ever since I became a man it has been my daily endeavour

to prepare my mind for Death, and so to live that I should not have to

fear the hour of his coming.

In truth it seems to me that without such preparation the life of any

man who thinks must be one long wretchedness, seeing that at the last,

strive as he may, fate will overtake him, and that there is no event

in our lives which can compare in importance with the inevitable end.

We live not to escape from death, but in order that we may die; this

is the great issue and object of our existence. Still, Death is

terrible, more especially when we are called upon to await him hour

after hour amid the horror and turmoil of a shipwreck.

Therefore I was very thankful when, having flung my serape about the

form of my friend, at length I also was overcome by cold and

exhaustion, and after a space of time, in which the present seemed to

fade from me, taking with it all fears and hopes of the future, and

the past alone possessed me, peopled by the dead, I sank into

unconsciousness or swoon.

How long I remained in this merciful state of oblivion I do not know,

but I was roused from it by Molas, who shook me and called into my ear

with a voice that trembled with cold or joy, or both:

“Awake, awake, we are saved!”

“Saved?” I said, confusedly. “What from?”

“From death in the sea. Look, lord.”

Then with much pain, for the salt spray had congealed upon my face

like frost, I opened my eyes to find that the morning was an hour old,

and though the skies were still leaden we were no longer at sea, but

floated on the waters of a river, whereof the bar roared behind us.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“In the Usumacinto river, thanks be to God!” answered Molas. “We have

been driven across the bay in the dark, and at the dawn found

ourselves just outside the breakers. Somehow we passed them safely,

and there before us is the blessed land.”

I looked at the bank of the river clothed with reeds and grasses, and

the noble palm-trees that grew among them. Then I looked at my

companions. The Se�or Strickland lay as though he were dead beneath

the serape that I had thrown over him, his head resting on the

thwarts, but the Mexican, Don Jos�, was sitting up in the bottom of

the boat and staring wildly at the shore.

As for the Indians, the men to whom we owed our lives, they were

utterly worn out. Two of them appeared to have swooned where they sat,

and I saw that their hands were bleeding from the friction of the

oars. Three others lay gasping beneath the seats, but Molas held the

tiller at my side, and the boatswain still sat upright in the bow

where he had faced death for so many dreadful hours.

“Say, lord,” he asked, turning his face that was hollow with suspense

and suffering, and white with encrusted salt, to speak to me, “can you

row? If so, take the oars and pull us to the bank while Molas steers,

for our arms will work no more.”

Then I struggled from my seat, and with great efforts, for every

moment caused me pain, I pulled the cutter to the bank, and as her

bows struck against it, the sun broke through the thinning clouds.

So soon as the boat was made fast, Molas and I lifted the se�or from

her, and, laying him on the bank, we removed his clothes so that the

sun might play upon his limbs, which were blue with cold. As the

clouds melted and the warmth increased, I saw the blood begin to creep

beneath the whiteness of his skin, which was drawn with the wet and

wind, and rejoiced, for now I knew that he did but sleep, and that the

tide of life was rising in his veins again, as in my own.

Whilst we sat thus warming ourselves in the sunlight, some Indians

appeared, belonging to a rancho, or village, half a league away. On

learning our misfortunes and who we were, these men hurried home to

bring us food, having first pointed out to us a pool of sweet

rain-water, of which we stood in great need, for our throats were dry.

When they had been gone nearly an hour, the se�or awoke and asked for

drink, which I gave him in the baling-bowl. Next he inquired where we

were and what had happened to us. When I had told him he hid his face

in his hands for a while, then lifted it and said:

“I am a fool and a boaster, Ignatio. I said that I would die fighting,

and it is these men who have fought and saved my life while I swooned

like a child.”

“I did the same, se�or,” I answered; “only those who were working at

the oars could keep their senses, for labour warmed them somewhat.

Come to the river and wash, for now your clothes are dry again,” and

throwing the serape over his shoulders, I led him to the water.

As we climbed down the bank we met the boatswain, and the se�or said,

holding out his hand to him:

“You are a brave man and you have saved all our lives.”

“No, se�or, not I,” answered the Indian. “You forget that with us was

the Keeper of the Heart, and the Heart that has endured so long,

cannot be lost. This we knew, and therefore we laboured on, well

assured that our toil would not be in vain.”

“I shall soon begin to believe in that talisman of yours myself,

Ignatio,” said the se�or shrugging his shoulders; “certainly it did us

good service last night.”

Then he washed, and by the time he had dressed himself, women arrived

from the rancho bearing with them baskets laden with tortillas or

meal cakes, frijole beans, a roast kid, and a bottle of good /agua

ardiente/, the brandy of this country. On these provisions we fell to

thankfully, and, before we had finished our meal, the alcalde, or

head man of the village, presented himself to pay his respects and to

invite us to his house.

Now I whispered to Molas, who had some acquaintance with this man, to

take him apart and discover my rank to him, and to learn if perchance

he had any tidings of that stranger whom we came to visit, the doctor

Zibalbay. He nodded and obeyed, and after a while I rose and followed

him behind some trees, where the alcalde, who was of our

brotherhood, greeted me with reverence.

“I have news, my lord,” said Molas. “This man says that he has heard

of the old Indian and his daughter, and that but this morning one who

has travelled down the river told him how some five or six days ago

they were both of them seized by Don Pedro Moreno, the father of Don

Jos� yonder, and imprisoned at the hacienda of Santa Cruz, where,

dead or alive, they remain.”

Now I thought a while, then, sending for the Se�or James, I told him

what we had learnt.

“But what can this villain want to do with an old Indian and his

daughter?” he asked.

“The se�or forgets,” said Molas, “that Don Pedro robbed me of the gold

which the doctor gave me, and that in my folly I told him from whom it

came. Doubtless he thinks to win the secret of the mine whence it was

dug, and of the mint where it was stamped with the sign of the Heart.

Also there is the daughter, whom some men might value above all the

gold in Mexico. Now, lord, I fear that your journey is fruitless,

since those who become Don Pedro’s guests are apt to stay with him for

ever.”

“That, I think, we must take the risk of,” said the se�or.

“Yes,” I answered: “having come so far to find this stranger, we

cannot turn back now. At least we have lived through worse dangers

than those which await us at Santa Cruz.”

CHAPTER VII

“THE HACIENDA”

Returning to the place where we had eaten, we found the alcalde

talking with the sailors as to their plans. On seeing us the boatswain

advanced, and said that, if it was our pleasure, he and his companions

proposed to rest for a few days at the neighbouring rancho and then

to row the boat along the coast to Campeche, which they hoped in

favourable weather to reach in sixty hours, adding that he trusted we

would accompany them.

I answered that we wished for no more of the sea at present, and that

we intended to pursue our journey to the town of Potrerillo, where we

could refit before undertaking an expedition to the ruined cities of

Yucatan. The boatswain said it was well, though he was sorry that they

could not escort us so far, as it was their duty to report the loss of

the ship to its owner, who lived at Campeche.

When we heard this the se�or unbuckled the belt of money, which he

wore about his waist, and, pouring out half a handful of gold pieces,

he begged the boatswain to accept of them for division between himself

and his companions. All this while Don Jos� was sitting close to us,

watching everything that passed, and I saw his eyes brighten at the

sight of the belt of gold.

“You are fortunate to have saved so much,” he said, speaking for the

first time. “All that I had has gone down with the ship, yes, three

thousand dollars or more.”

“You should have followed our example,” answered the se�or; “we

divided our cash between the three of us and secured it upon our

persons, though perhaps you were wise after all, since such a weight

of gold might have been awkward if, like you, we had been called upon

to swim. By the way, se�or, what are your plans?”

“If you will allow me,” answered the Mexican, “I will walk with you

towards Potrerillo, for my home lies on that road. Would you be

offended, se�or, if, on behalf of my father, I ventured to offer his

hospitality to you and your companions?”

“To speak plainly, Don Jos�,” said the se�or, “our past experience has

not been such as to cause us to desire to have anything more to do

with you. May I remind you, putting aside other matters, that last

night you attempted to stab me?”

“Se�or,” answered the man with every sign of contrition, “if I did

this it was because terror and madness possessed me, and most humbly

do I beg your pardon for the deed, and for any angry and foolish words

that I may have spoken before it. Se�or, you saved my life, and my

heart is filled with gratitude towards you, who have thus repaid evil

with good. I know that you have heard an ill report of my father, and,

to speak truth, at times when the liquor is in him, he is a bad and

violent old man, yet he has this virtue, that he loves me, his son,

and all those who are kind to me. Therefore, in his name and my own, I

pray that you will forget the past and accept of our hospitality for

some few days, or at least until you have recovered from your fatigue

and we can furnish you with arms and horses to help you forward on

your journey.”

“Certainly we desire to buy mules and guns,” answered the se�or, “and

if you think that your father will be able to supply these, we will

avail ourselves of your kindness and pass a night or two at his

hacienda.”

“Se�or, the place is yours and all that it contains,” Don Jos�

answered with much courtesy; but as he spoke I saw his eye gleam with

an evil fire.

“Doubtless,” I interrupted, “for I understand that Don Pedro Moreno is

famed for his hospitality. Still, in accepting it, I venture to ask

for a promise of safe-conduct, more especially as, save for our

pistols and knives, we are unarmed.”

“Do you wish to insult me, se�or?” Don Jos� asked angrily.

“Not in the least, se�or, but I find it a little strange that you, who

two nights ago refused to sit at meat with ‘a dog of an Indian,’

should now be anxious to receive that same dog into your home.”

“Have I not said that I am sorry for what is past?” he answered, “and

can a man do more? Gentlemen, if any evil is attempted towards you in

my father’s house, I will answer for it with my life.”

“That is quite sufficient,” broke in the se�or, “especially as in such

an event we should most certainly hold you to your bond. And now tell

me how far is the hacienda from this spot?”

“If we start at once we should reach it at sundown,” he answered,

“that is on foot, though it is but three hours’ ride from the house to

the mouth of the river.”

“Then let us go,” he said, and ten minutes later we were on the road.

Before we went, however, we bade a warm farewell to the sailors, and

also to the alcalde of the village, all of whom were somewhat

disturbed on learning that we proposed to sleep at Santa Cruz.

“The place has an evil name,” said the alcalde, “and it is a home of

thieves and smugglers—only last week a cargo that never paid duty

went up the river. They say that Don Pedro was fathered by the devil

in person; may the Saints protect you from him, lord!”

“We have business that takes us to his house, friend,” I answered;

“but doubtless it will be easy for you to keep yourself informed of

what chances in that neighbourhood, and if we should not appear again

within a few days, perhaps it may please you to advise the authorities

at Campeche that we are missing.”

“The authorities are afraid of Don Pedro,” answered the alcalde,

shaking his head, “also he bribes them so heavily that they grow blind

when they look his way. Still I will do the best I can, be sure of

that, and as an Inglese is with you, it is possible that I may be

able to get help if necessary.”

Our walk that day was long and hot, though we had nothing to carry

except the clothes on our backs, all our possessions, having been lost

in the ship. At noon we halted, and, the heat being great, ate some

food that we had brought with us, and slept two hours in the shade,

which sleep was most grateful, for we were weary. Then we rose and

tramped on, till at length we came within sight of this hacienda,

where, though I little guessed it at the time, I was fated to spend so

many years of my life.

Walking through a large milpa, or corn field—that in front of the

building which is now planted with coffee-bushes—we reached the

gateway and entered the courtyard, where we were met by many fierce

dogs which rushed upon us from all sides. Don Jos� beat back the dogs,

that knew him, and, leaving us under the charge of some half-breeds,

he entered the house.

After a while he returned again and led us through the passages into

the dining-hall, which, as you know, is the largest room in the

hacienda, and in former days served as the refectory of the monks.

Several lamps were hung upon its walls, for already it grew dark, and

by their light we saw five or six people gathered round a long table

waiting for supper, which was being laid by Indian girls. Of these men

it is sufficient to say that they were of mixed nationality and

villainous appearance. Turning from them we looked towards the far end

of the chamber, where a hammock was slung from the beams in the roof,

in which lay a man whom a handsome girl, also an Indian, was employed

in rocking to and fro.

“Come and be introduced to my father, who expects you,” said Don Jos�,

leading the way towards the hammock. “Father, here is that brave

Englishman who saved my life last night, and with him the Indian

gentleman, who—did not wish to save my life. As I told you, I have

offered them hospitality on your behalf, feeling sure that they would

be welcome here.”

At the sound of his son’s voice Don Pedro awoke, or pretended to

awake, from his doze, and bade the girl cease swinging the hammock.

Then he sat up and looked at us. He was a short stout man of about

sixty years of age—so short indeed that, although the hammock was

slung low, his legs did not touch the floor. Notwithstanding this lack

of stature, Don Pedro’s appearance was striking, while his long,

carefully brushed white hair gave him a venerable aspect.

Other beauties he had none, however, for his cheeks were flabby and

wrinkled, his mouth was cruel and sensuous; and his dull eyes, which

were small, half opened, and protected from the glare of the lamps by

spectacles of tinted glass, can best be described as horrible, like

those of a snake. Looking at him we could well believe that his

reputation was not exaggerated, for he bore the stamp of evil on his

face. Still he bowed with much courtesy and addressed the se�or in

Spanish.

“So you are the Englishman who saved my son here from the sinking

ship,” he said in a slow, powerful voice, peering at us with his

fish-like eyes from beneath the coloured glasses. “He tells me that

you rowed back to the side of the foundering vessel merely in order to

fetch him. Well, it was a brave deed and one that I should not have

dared myself, for I have always found it hard enough to keep my own

breath in me without attempting to preserve that of other people. But

as I have seen several times, you Englishmen are peculiar in these

matters, foolhardy indeed. Se�or, I am grateful to you, and this house

and all within it is at your disposal and that of your companions,”

and he glanced with genuine affection at the coarse beetle-browed man

beside him, who was gnawing one end of his moustache and staring at us

out of the corners of his eyes.

“Tell me,” he added, “to what do I owe the honour of your presence?”

“To an accident, Don Pedro,” the se�or answered. “As it chances, the

ruins of this ancient land interest me much, and I was travelling to

Palenque with my Indian friend, Don Ignatio, when we were so

unfortunate as to be wrecked near your hospitable house. In our

dilemma we accepted the invitation of your son to visit you, in the

hope that you may be able to sell us some guns and mules.”

“Ruins, Se�or Strickland! Decidedly you Englishmen are strange. What

pleasure can you find in hunting about among old walls, built by men

long dead, unless indeed you seek for treasure there. For my part I

hate the name of ruins, for I have always suffered from a presentiment

that I should meet my end among them, and that is bad to think of.

Bah!”—and he spat upon the floor—“there, it comes upon me again,

suddenly as a fit of the ague.”

“Well,” he went on, “you are lucky to have saved your lives and your

money, and to-morrow we will see about the things that you desire to

buy. Meanwhile, you are travel-stained and doubtless will wish to

cleanse yourself before you eat. Jos�, conduct the se�or and his

Indian friend, since he is so fond of his company, to their room, the

abbot’s chamber. Supper will be served shortly, till then, adios.

Girl, go with them,” he added, addressing the woman who had been

engaged in swinging the hammock, “water may be wanted and other

things.”

The woman bowed and went away, and at the door we found her standing,

lamp in hand, to light us down the passage.

Now, Se�or Jones, you, for whom I write my history, have so often

slept in the abbot’s chamber in this house that it is needless for me

to stop to describe it. Except for the furniture, the room is just as

it was in those days. Then it was empty save for a few chairs, a rough

washing-stand, and two truckle bedsteads of American make, which were

placed at a little distance from each other on either side of the

picture of the abbot.

“I fear that you will think this a poor place, after the luxury of

Mexico, gentlemen,” said Don Jos�, “but it is our guest-chamber, the

best that we have.”

“Thank you,” answered the se�or, “it will do very well, though perhaps

your visitors suffer sometimes from nightmare,” and he glanced at the

awful and life-sized picture on the south wall of an Indian being

burnt at an auto-da-f�, while devils hanging above his head dragged

the soul from his tortured and expiring body.

“Pretty, are they not?” said Don Jos�; “I would have them whitewashed

over, but my father likes them. You see all the victims are Indians,

there isn’t a white man among them, and the old man never could bear

Indians. Well, when you are ready, will you come to supper? You will

not lose the way, for you can follow the smell of the food,” and he

left the room.

“One moment,” I said addressing the girl, who was about to accompany

him, “perhaps you will see that our servant,” and I pointed to Molas,

“has some meat brought to him here, since your masters will not wish

him to sit at table.”

“Si,” answered the girl, whose name was Luisa, searching my face

with her eyes.

By this time Don Jos� was through the door, which the draught pushed

to behind him. I watched it close, then a thought struck me, for I

remembered that among our Order there are women, associates of the

outer circle, and I whispered some words into Luisa’s ear and made a

sign with my hand. She started and gave the ancient answer, which is

taught even to children, whereto I replied with another sign, that of

the Presence of the Heart. “Where?” she asked glancing at each of us

in turn.

“Here,” I answered, and, drawing out the symbol, I held it before

her eyes.

She saw and made obeisance, and at that moment we heard Don Jos�

calling her from the further side of the door.

“I come,” she cried in answer, then added in a whisper: “Lord, you are

in danger in this house. I cannot tell you now, but if possible I will

return. The wine is safe, but drink no coffee, and do not sleep when

you lie down. Search the floor and you will understand the reason. I

come, se�or! I come!” and she fled from the room.

So soon as the girl was gone, the Se�or James went to the door and

locked it, then he returned and said:

“What does all this mean, Ignatio?”

I did not answer, but, pushing aside one of the beds, I searched the

floor beneath it. It was discoloured in several places. Next I pulled

the blankets off the beds and examined the webbing that formed the

mattresses, to discover that this also was stained, though slightly,

for it had been washed. Then I said:

“Men have died in these beds, se�or, and yonder stains were made by

their blood. It would seem that the guests of Don Pedro sleep well;

first they are drugged, then they are murdered; and it is for this

purpose that we have been lured to the house. Well, we expected

nothing else.”

“That is a pleasing prospect,” he answered, “we are this man’s guests,

surely therefore he will not–-” and he drew his hand across his

throat.

“Certainly he will, se�or, and it is to this end that we have been

brought here by Don Jos�. If others have been murdered, it is not

likely that we shall escape, since Don Pedro will be sure that an

Inglese would not travel without a large sum of money. Moreover, we

have a quarrel with the son, and I know too much about the father.”

“Again I say that the prospect is a pleasant one,” answered the se�or.

“On the whole it would have been better to be drowned than to live on

to be butchered by those villains in this awful place. What an end!”

“Do not despair,” I answered. “We were warned in time and therefore, I

think, shall escape by the help of that girl and the other Indians in

the place, since in an hour every one of them will have learned who we

are, and be prepared to venture their lives to save us. Also we came

for a purpose, knowing our risk. Now let us make ready and go among

these men with a bold face; for of this you may be sure, that nothing

will be attempted till late at night when they think us sleeping. Have

you understood, Molas?”

“Yes,” answered the Indian.

“Then watch here, or in the outer room, till we return, and should the

girl come, learn all you can from her as to the whereabouts of the old

doctor and his daughter, and other matters, for when she knows you to

be of the Order she will speak. Have you been recognised by anyone?”

“I think not, se�or. When we entered it was too dark for them to see.”

“Good. Then keep out of their way if possible, do the best you can

with the girl, and take note of all that passes. Farewell.”

When we reached the dining-hall, nine of the company were already

seated at the table impatient for their food, but Don Pedro was still

sitting in his hammock engaged in earnest conversation with his son

Jos�. Of those at the table but one was a white man, a lanky,

withered-looking person with a broken nose, whose general appearance

filled us with disgust. The rest were half-breeds, the refuse of

revolutions, villains who had escaped the hand of justice and who

lived by robbery and murder.

Looking at these outcasts it became clear to us that, if once we fell

into their power, we could expect little mercy at their hands, for

they would think no more of butchering us in cold blood than does a

sportsman of shooting a deer.

When Don Pedro perceived us, he slid from his hammock to the ground,

and, taking the se�or by the hand, he said:

“Let me introduce you to my overseer, the Se�or Smith, from Texas. He

is an American, and will be glad to meet one who can speak English,

for, notwithstanding much practice, his Spanish is none of the best.”

The se�or bowed, and the American desperado spoke to him in English,

wearing a grin on his face like that of a wicked dog as he did so,

though I do not know what he said. Then Don Pedro conducted his guest

to a place of honour at the head of the table, that beside his own

seat, while I was led to another table at a little distance, where my

meat was served to me alone, since, as an Indian of pure blood, I was

not thought fit for the company of these cross-bred curs. Don Jos�

having taken his place at the further end of the board with the

Americano, the meal began, and an excellent one it was.

Now, in the conversation that ensued I took no part, except when

members of the gang called to me to drink wine with them, for they

desired to make me drunk; but while I pretended to be occupied with my

meat, I thought much and watched more. The talk that passed I set down

as I overheard it and as it was reported to me by the se�or.

“Try some more of this Burgundy,” said Don Pedro when the dishes had

been removed, filling his tumbler for the seventh or eighth time, “it

is the right stuff, straight from France, though it never paid duty,”

and he winked his leaden eye.

“Your health, se�or, and may you live to do many such brave deeds as

that of yesterday, when you saved my son from the sea. By the way, do

you know that on board the Santa Maria they said that you had the

evil eye and brought her to wreck;—yes, and your long-faced

companion, the Indian, also?”

“Indeed, I never heard of it before,” answered the se�or with a

laugh; “but if so, our evil eyes shall not trouble you for long, as we

propose to continue our journey to-morrow.”

“Nonsense, friend, nonsense, you don’t suppose that I believe in that

sort of rubbish, do you? We say many things that we do not believe

just for a joke; thus,” and he raised his voice so that I could hear

him at my table, “your companion there—is he not named Ignatio?—told

a story to my disadvantage on board the ship, which I am sure that he

did not believe,” and suddenly he stared at me and added insolently:

“Is it not so, Indian?”

“If you seek my opinion, Don Pedro,” I answered, leaning forward and

speaking very clearly, “I say that it is unprofitable to repeat words

that are said, or to remember deeds that are done with. If I spoke

certain words, or if in the past you did certain deeds, here beneath

your hospitable roof is not the place to recall them.”

“Quite so, Indian, quite so, you talk like an oracle, as Montezuma

used to talk to Cortes till the Conqueror found a way to teach him

plain speaking—a great man, Cortes, he understood how to deal with

Indians.” Then he spat upon the floor and, having looked down the

table, spoke to the se�or in a somewhat anxious voice.

“Tell me,” he said, “for your sight is better than mine, how many are

there present here to-night?”

“Counting my friend, thirteen,” he answered.

“I thought so,” said our host, with an oath, “and it is too late to

mend matters now. Well, may the Saints, and they should be thick about

a monastery, avert the omen. I see you think me a fool.”

“Not at all,” he replied; “I am rather superstitious myself and

dislike sitting down thirteen to table.”

“So do I, so do I, Se�or Strickland. Listen; last time we dined

thirteen in this room, there were two travellers here, Americanos,

friends of Don Smith, who were trying to open up a trade in these

parts. They drank more than was good for them, and the end of it was

that in the night they quarrelled and killed each other, yonder in the

abbot’s chamber, where you are sleeping—poor men, poor men! There was

trouble about the matter at the time, but Don Smith explained to his

countrymen and it came to nothing.”

“Indeed,” answered the se�or; “it was strange that two drunken men

should kill each other.”

“So I say, se�or. In truth for a while I thought that Indians must

have got into their rooms and murdered them, but it was proved beyond

a doubt that this was not so. Ah! they are a wicked people, the

Indians; I have seen much of them and I should know. Now the

Government wishes to treat them too well. Our fathers knew better how

to deal with them, but luckily the arm of the Government scarcely

reaches here, and no whining padres or officials come prying about

my house, though once we had some soldiers,” and he cursed at the

recollection and drank another glass of Burgundy.

“I tell you that they are a wicked people,” he went on, “the

demonios their fathers worshipped still possess them, also they are

secret and dangerous; there are Indians now who know where vast

treasures are buried, but they will tell nothing.

“Yes”—and suddenly growing excited under the influence of the strong

drink, he leaned over and whispered into his guest’s ear—“I have one

such in the house at this moment, an old Lacandone, that is, an

unbaptised Indian, not that I think him any the worse for that, and

with him his daughter, a woman more beautiful than the night—perhaps

if I go on liking you, Englishman, I will show her to you to-morrow,

only then I should have to keep you, for you would never go away.

Beautiful! yes, she is beautiful, though a devil at heart. I have not

dared to let these little ones see her,” and he winked and nodded

towards the villains at the table, “but Jos� is to pay her and her

papa a visit to-night, and he won’t mind her tempers, though they

frighten me.

“Well, would you believe it? this girl and her old father have the

secret of enough treasure to make every man of us here rich as the

Queen of England. How do I know that? I know it because I heard it

from their own lips, but fill your glass and take a cigar and I will

tell you the story.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE SUPPER AND AFTER

“Listen, se�or; if you are interested in old ruins and the Indians,

you must have heard tales of races living away in the forest country,

where no white man has set his foot, and of their wonderful cities

that are said to be full of gold. Many say that these tales are lies,

that no such people and no such cities exist, and they say this

because nobody has found them; but I, for my part, have always

believed there was something in the story, seeing that otherwise it

would not have lasted so long.

“Well, a few months back, I heard that a strange old Indian doctor,

who was said to have travelled from the far interior, was dwelling

somewhere in the forest together with a woman, but where he dwelt

exactly I could not learn, nor, indeed, did I trouble myself to do so.

About eight weeks ago, however, it happened that an Indian, being

asked for the toll, which I charge all passers-by—to recoup me for my

expense in making roads, se�or—paid it with a little lump of pure

gold having a heart stamped on either side of the metal.

“Now, you may not know, though I do, that the heart is a sacred symbol

among these Indians, and has been for many generations, for it is to

be seen cut upon the walls of their ruins, though what it means only

Satan, their master, can tell.

“Therefore, when I saw the lump of gold with the token on it, I asked

the Indian whence he had it, and he told me readily enough that it

came from this old doctor, who gave it to him in payment for some

food. He told me also where I might find him, and went upon his way,

but, his heart being full of deceit, he lied as to the place, so that

I searched in vain. Well, to shorten a long story, although to this

hour I do not know where the Indian was hiding, I set a trap for him

and caught him—ay, and his daughter too.

“It was a simple one, a man in my pay knew another man who visited the

doctor in the forest to get medicine from him, but who would not

reveal his hiding-place. Still, my servant drew it out of him thus: he

sent piteous messages through his friend, begging the doctor to come

and save the life of his dying child, which lay in a house near here,

and could not be moved.

“The end of it was that the doctor came, and his daughter with him.

Yes, they walked at night straight to the snare, into this very house,

se�or, and only discovered their mistake when they found the doors

locked upon them, and that the dying child was none other than your

humble servant, Don Pedro Moreno.

“I can tell you, se�or, that I laughed till I nearly cried at the

sight of their faces, when they found out the trick, though there was

nothing to laugh at in them, for the man looked like an old king, and

the girl like a queen, quite different from the Indians in these

parts; moreover, they were two such serapes as I had never seen,

made of green feathers fastened to a foundation of linen.

“When the old man found himself caged, he asked what it meant and

where he was, speaking in a dialect so like the Maya tongue that I

could understand him quite well. I told him that he was to be my guest

for a while, and with the help of two men who were with me I proceeded

to secure him and his daughter in a safe place, whereat he flew into a

fearful rage, and cursed all of us most dreadfully, and more

especially that man who had betrayed him. So awful were his curses and

the vengeance that he conjured upon us from heaven, that my hair stood

straight upon my head, and as for the man who lured him here under

pretence of visiting his child, it came about that within two days he

died of a sudden sickness bred of his own fears. When the second man

heard of his companion’s death, he in turn fled from the place,

dreading lest a like fate should overtake him, and has been no more

heard of.

“Thus it comes about, se�or, that I alone know where these birds are

caged, though I hope to introduce my son to them to-night, for I dare

not trust the others, and wish to keep them in the family, nor will I

let any Indians near them.

“Well, when they had calmed down a little, I spoke to my prisoners

through a grating, telling them that I wished to know whence they had

obtained those lumps of gold stamped with a heart, to which the old

man answered that he had no knowledge of any such gold. Now, I was

sure that he lied, and took refuge in another trick. The cell they

were shut up is that in which the old monks imprisoned such as were

suspected of heresy, and others, and close to it is a secret

place—there are many such in this house, se�or—where a spy may be

hid, and both see and hear all that passes in the cell.

“In this place I ensconced myself, and lay there for hours, with the

rats running over me, so anxious was I to get at the truth. In the end

I was not disappointed, for they began to talk. A great deal of their

conversation I could make nothing of, but at length the girl said,

after examining an old gilt crucifix that hung upon the wall:

“‘Look, father, here also they have gold.’

“‘It is gilt, not gold,’ he answered, ‘I know the art of it, though

with us it is not practised, except to keep from corruption the spears

and arrowheads that fowlers use upon the lake.’ Then he added:

“‘I wonder what that leaden-faced, greedy-eyed white thief would say

if he knew that in a single temple we could show him enough of the

metal he covets to fill this place five times over from floor to

ceiling.’

“‘Hush!’ she said, ‘ears may be listening even in these walls; let us

risk nothing, seeing that by seeming to be ignorant alone we can hope

to escape.’”

“Well,” asked the se�or eagerly, “and what did Zibalbay answer? I

think that you said the old man’s name was Zibalbay,” he added, trying

to recover the slip.

“Zibalbay! No, I never mentioned that name,” Don Pedro replied

suspiciously, and with a sudden change of manner. “He answered nothing

at all. Next morning, when I came to question them, the birds had

flown. It is a pity, for otherwise I might have asked the old man—if

his name is Zibalbay. I suppose that the Indians had let them out, but

I could not discover.”

“Why, Don Pedro, you said just now that they were still in the house.”

“Did I? Then I made a mistake, as you did about the name; this wine is

strong, it must have gone to my head; sometimes it does—a weakness,

and a bad one. It is an odd tale, but there it ended so far as I am

concerned. Come, se�or, take a cup of coffee, it is good.”

“Thank you, no,” answered the se�or, “I never drink coffee at night,

it keeps me awake.”

“Still, I beg you to try ours, friend, we grow it ourselves and are

proud of its flavour.”

“It is poison to me, I dare not,” he said. “But pray tell me, do the

gentlemen whom I have the honour to see at table cultivate your

plantations?”

“Yes, yes, they cultivate the coffee and the cocoa, and other things

also when they have a mind. I daresay you think them a rough-looking

lot, but they are kind-hearted, ah! so kind-hearted; feeble as I am

they treat me like a father. Bah! se�or, what is the good of hiding

the truth from one of your discernment? We do business of all sorts

here, but the staple of it is smuggling rather than agriculture.

“The trade is not what it was, those sharks of customs officers down

on the coast there want so much to hold their tongues, but still there

are a few pickings. In the old times, when they did not ask questions,

it was otherwise, for then men of pluck were ready for anything from

revolution down to the stringing up of a coach-load of fat merchants,

but now is the day of small profits, and we must be thankful for

whatever trifles Providence sends us.”

“Such as the two Americans who got drunk and killed each other,”

suggested the se�or, whose tongue was never of the most cautious.

Instantly Don Pedro’s face changed, the sham geniality born of drink

went out of it, and was replaced by a hard and cunning look.

“I am tired, se�or,” he said, “as you must be also, and, if you will

excuse me, I will light another cigar and take a nap in my hammock.

Perhaps you will amuse yourself with the others, se�or, till you wish

to go to rest.” Then rising, he bowed and walked somewhat unsteadily

to the far end of the room.

When Don Pedro had retired to his hammock, whither the Indian girl,

Luisa, was summoned to swing him to sleep, I saw his son Jos� and the

Texan outcast, Smith, both of whom, like the rest of the company, were

more or less drunk, come to the se�or and ask him to join in a game of

cards. Guessing that their object was to make him show what cash he

had about him, he also affected to be in liquor, and replied noisily

that he had lost most of his money in the shipwreck, and was,

moreover, too full of wine to play.

“Then you must have lost it on the road, friend,” said Don Jos�, “for

you forget that you made those sailors a present from a belt of gold

which you wore about your middle. However, no gentleman shall be

forced to gamble in this house, so come and talk while the others have

their little game.”

“Yes, that will be better,” answered the se�or, and he staggered to an

empty chair, placed not far from the table at which I remained, and

was served with spirits and cigars. Here he sat watching the play,

which was high, although the counters looked innocent enough—they

were cocoa beans—and listened to the conversation of the gamblers, in

which he joined from time to time.

The talk was not good to hear, for as these wretches grew more

drunken, they began to boast of their past exploits in various parts

of the country. One man told how he had kidnapped and tortured an

Indian who had offended him; another, how he had murdered a woman of

who he was jealous; and the third, of the successful robbing of a

coach-load of travellers, and their subsequent butchery by the driving

of the coach over the edge of a precipice. All these stories, however,

were as milk to brandy compared to those that Don Smith, the

Americano, growing confidential in his cups, poured forth one after

the other, till the se�or, unable to bear them any longer, affected to

sink into a tipsy doze.

All this while I sat at the little table where my dinner had been

served, saying nothing, for none spoke to me, but within hearing of

everything that passed. There I sat quiet, my arms folded on my

breast, listening attentively to the tales of outrage, wrong, and

murder practised by these wicked ones upon my countrymen.

To them I was only a member of a despised and hated race, admitted to

their company on sufferance in order that I might be robbed and

murdered in due course, but in my heart I looked on them with loathing

and contempt, and felt far above them as the stars, while I watched

and wondered how long the great God would suffer his world to be

outraged by their presence.

Some such thoughts seemed to strike others of that company, for

presently Don Smith called out—

“Look at that Indian rascal, friend, he is proud as a turkey-cock in

springtime: why, he reminds me of the figure of the king in that ruin

where we laid up last year waiting for the se�ora and her party. You

remember the se�ora, don’t you, Jos�? I can hear her squeaks

now”—and he laughed brutally, and added, “Come, king, have a drink.”

“Gracias, se�or,” I answered, “I have drunk.”

“Then smoke a cigar, O king.”

“Gracias, se�or, I do not smoke to-night.”

“My lord cacique of all the Indians won’t drink and won’t smoke,”

said Don Smith, “so we will offer him incense”—and, taking a plate,

he filled it with dry tobacco and cigarette-paper, to which he set

fire. Then he placed the plate on the table before me, so that the

fumes of the tobacco rose into the air about my head.

“There, now he looks like a real god,” said the Americano, clapping

his hands; “I say, Jos�, let us make a sacrifice to him. There is the

girl who ran away last week, and whom we caught with the dogs–-”

“No, no, comrade,” broke in Jos�, “none of your jokes to-night, you

forget that we have a visitor. Not but what I should like to sacrifice

this old demonio of an Indian to himself,” he added, in an outburst

of drunken fury. “Curse him! he insulted me and my father and mother,

yonder on board the ship.”

“And are you going to put up with that from this wooden Indian god?

Why, if I were in your place, by now I would have filled him as full

of holes as a coffee-roaster, just to let the lies out.”

“That’s what I want to do,” said Jos�, gnashing his teeth, “he has

insulted me and threatened me, and ought to pay for it, the black

thief,” and, drawing a large knife, he flourished it in my face.

I did not shrink from it; I did not so much as suffer my eyelids to

tremble, though the steel flashed within an inch of them, for I knew

that if once I showed fear he would strike. Therefore I said calmly:

“You are pleased to jest, se�or, and your jests are somewhat rude, but

I pass them by, for I know that you cannot harm me because I am your

guest, and those who kill a guest are not gentlemen, but murderers,

which the high-born Don Jos� Moreno could never be.”

“Stick the pig, Jos�,” said Smith, “he is insulting you again. It will

save you trouble afterwards.”

Then, as Don Jos� again advanced upon me with the knife, of a sudden

the se�or sprang up from his chair and stood between us.

“Come, friend,” he said, “a joke is a joke, but you are carrying this

too far, according to your custom,” and, seizing the man by the

shoulders, he put out all his great strength, and swung him back with

such force that, striking against the long table with his thighs, he

rolled on to and over it, falling heavily to the ground upon the

farther side, whence he rose cursing with rage.

By now, Don Pedro, who had wakened or affected to waken from his

sleep, thought that the time had come to interfere.

“Peace, little ones, peace!” he cried sleepily from his hammock.

“Remember that the men are guests, and cease brawling. Let them go to

bed, it is time for them to go to bed, and they need rest; by

to-morrow your differences will be healed up for ever.”

“I take the hint,” said the se�or, with forced gaiety. “Come, Ignatio,

let us sleep off our host’s good wine. Gentlemen, sweet dreams to

you,” and he walked across the hall, followed by myself.

At the door I turned my head and looked back. Every man in the room

was watching us intently, and it seemed to me that the drunkenness had

passed from their faces, scared away by a sense of some great

wickedness about to be worked. Don Smith was whispering into the ear

of Jos�, who still held the knife in his hand, but the rest were

staring at us as people stare at men passing to the scaffold.

Even Don Pedro, wide awake now, sat up in his hammock and peered with

his horny eyes, while the Indian girl, Luisa, her hand upon the cord,

watched our departure with some such face as mourners watch the

out-bearing of a corpse. All this I noted in a moment as I crossed the

threshold and went forward down the passage, and as I went I shivered,

for the scene was uncanny and fateful.

Presently we were in the abbot’s chamber, our sleeping-place, and had

locked the door behind us. Near the washstand, on which burned a

single candle set in the neck of a bottle, sat Molas, his face buried

in his hands.

“Have they brought you no supper, that you look so sad?” asked the

se�or.

“The woman, Luisa, gave me to eat,” he whispered. “Listen, lord, and

you, Se�or Strickland, our fears are well founded; there is a plot to

murder us to-night, of this the woman is sure, for she heard some

words pass between Don Pedro and a white man called Smith; also she

saw one of the half-breeds fetch spades from the garden and place them

in readiness, which spades are to be used in the hollowing of our

graves beneath this floor.”

Now when we heard this our hearts sank, for it was terrible to think

that we were doomed within a few hours to lie beneath the ground

whereon our living feet were resting. Yet, if these assassins were

determined upon our slaughter, our fate seemed certain, seeing that we

had only knives wherewith to defend ourselves, for, though we had

saved the pistols and some powder in a flask, the damp had reached the

latter during the shipwreck, so that it could not be relied upon.

“I am afraid that we have been too venturesome in coming here,” I

said, “and that unless we can escape at once we must be prepared to

pay the price of our folly with our lives.”

“Do not be downcast, lord,” answered Molas, “for you have not heard

all the tale. The woman has shown me a means whereby you can save

yourselves from death, at any rate for to-night. Come here,” and,

leading us across the room, he knelt upon the floor at a spot almost

opposite the picture of the abbot, and pressed on a panel in the low

wainscoting of cedar wood with which the wall was clothed to a height

of about three feet.

The panel slid aside, leaving a space barely large enough for a man to

pass. Through this opening we crept one by one, and descended four

narrow steps, to find ourselves in a chamber hollowed out of the

foundations of the wall, so small that there was only just room for

the three of us to stand in it, our heads being some inches above the

level of the floor.

And here I may tell you, Se�or Jones, that, though I have never shown

it to you, this place still exists, as you may discover by searching

the wainscoting. For many years I have used it for the safe keeping of

papers and valuables. There, by the way, you will find that emerald

which I showed you on the first night of our meeting. What the purpose

of this chamber was in the time of the abbots I do not know, and

perhaps it is as well not to inquire, though they also may have used

it to store their wealth.

“How can we save ourselves by crouching here like rats in a drain?” I

asked of Molas. “Doubtless the secret of the hiding-place is known to

those who live in the house, and they will drag us out and butcher

us.”

“The woman Luisa says that it is known to none except herself, lord,

for she declares that not two months ago she discovered it for the

first time by the accident of the broom with which she was sweeping

the floor striking against the springs of the panel. Now let us come

out for a while, for it is not yet eleven o’clock, and she says that

there will be no danger till after midnight.”

“Has she any plan for our escape?” I asked.

“She has a plan, though she is doubtful of its success. When the

murderers have been, and found us gone, they will think either that we

are wizards or that we have made our way out of the house, and will

search no more till dawn. Meanwhile, if she can, Luisa will return,

and, entering the chamber by the secret entrance, will lead us to the

chapel, whence she thinks that we may fly into the forest.”

“Where is this secret entrance, Molas?”

“I do not know, lord; she had no time to tell me, but the murderers

will come by it. She did tell me, however, that she believes that a

man and a woman are imprisoned near the chapel, though she knows

nothing of them and never visits the place, because the Indians deem

it to be haunted. Doubtless these two are Zibalbay and his daughter,

so that if you live to come so far, you may find them there and speak

with them.”

“Why do you say ‘if you live,’ Molas?”

“Because I think, lord, that then I shall be already dead; at least,

death waits on me.”

“What do you mean?” asked the se�or.

“I will tell you. After the woman Luisa had gone I ate the food she

brought me and drank some wine. Then I think that I fell asleep, for

when I awoke the candle had burned out and I was in darkness. Hastily

I turned to search for another candle that I had placed by the bottle,

and was about to make fire when something drew my eyes, causing me to

look up.

“This was what I saw: at the far end of the chamber, enclosed in a

film of such pale light as is given by the glow-fly, stood the figure

of a man, and that man myself, dressed as I am now. There I stood

surrounded by faint fire; and though the face was the face of a dead

man, yet the hand was not dead, for it beckoned towards me through the

darkness.

“Now I saw, and the cold sweat of fear broke out upon me, so that I

could scarcely light the candle which I held. At length, however, it

burned brightly, and, holding it over my head, I walked towards the

spot where I had seen the shadow, only to find that it was gone.”

“Or in other words, that you had slept off your indigestion,” said the

se�or. “I congratulate you on getting rid of it so soon.”

“It is easy to mock,” answered Molas, “but that which I have seen, I

have seen, and I know that it portends my death. Well, so be it; I am

not yet old, but I have lived long enough and now it is time to go.

May Heaven have mercy on my sins, and thus let it be.”

After this the se�or and I strove to reason him out of his folly, but

in vain, nor, in fact, was it altogether a folly, seeing that Molas

was doomed to die upon the morrow; though whether the vision that he

saw came to warn him of his fate, or was but a dream, it is not for me

to say.

Presently we ceased talking of ghosts and omens, for we must look to

our own bodies and the necessities of the hour. Some minutes before

midnight we extinguished the light, and, creeping one by one through

the hole in the panelling, we closed it behind us and took our stand

in the little dungeon. Here the darkness was awful, and as the warmth

of the wine that we had drunk passed from our veins, fears gathered

thick upon us and oppressed our souls. Those hours on the sinking ship

had been evil, but what were they compared to this?

Deep as was the silence, yet there were noises in it, strange creaks

and flutterings that thrilled our marrows. We prayed till we were

weary, then for my part I tried to doze, only to find that at such a

time sleep was worse than waking, for my imagination peopled it with

visions till it seemed to me that all the painted horrors on the walls

of the chamber took life, and enacted themselves before my eyes.

I heard the groaning of the martyrs, and the cruel jeers of those who

watched their agony, urged on by the hard-faced abbot, whose picture

hung above us. Then the vision changed and I seemed to see the tragedy

of the two Americans, of whose fate the se�or had told me and whose

blood still stained the floor. The darkness opened as it were, and I

saw the beds on which they were sleeping heavily, stalwart men in the

prime of life.

Then appeared figures standing over them, Don Pedro, Don Jos�, and

others, while from the shadows behind peeped the wicked face of their

countryman, Don Smith. The bed-clothes were twitched away and once

more all was black, but in the darkness I heard a sound of blows and

groaning, of the hurrying feet of murderers, and the clinking of bags

of money stolen from the dead men. Now the se�or touched me and I woke

with a start.

“Hark,” he whispered into my ear, “I hear men creeping about the

room.”

“For the love of God, be silent,” I answered, gripping his hand.

CHAPTER IX

THE DUEL

Now we placed our ears against the panelling and listened. First we

heard creaks that were loud in the stillness, then soft heavy noises

such as are made by a cat when it jumps from a height to the ground,

and a gentle rubbing as of stockinged feet upon the floor. After this

for some seconds came silence that presently was broken by the clink

of steel, and the sound of heavy blows delivered upon a soft substance

with swords and knives. The murderers were driving their weapons

through the bed-clothes, thinking that we slept beneath them. Next we

heard whisperings and muttered oaths, then a voice, Don Jos�‘s, said:

“Be careful, the beds are empty.”

Another instant and candles were lit, for their light reached us

through small peep-holes in the panel, and by putting our eyes to

these we could see what passed in the room. There before us we beheld

Don Jos�, Don Smith, and four of their companions, all armed with

knives or machetes, while, framed, as it were in the wall, in the

place that had been occupied by the picture of the abbot, stood our

host, Don Pedro, holding a candle above his head, and glaring with his

fish-like eyes into every corner of the room.

“Where are they?” he said. “Where are the wizards? Find them quick and

kill them.”

Now the men ran to and fro about the chamber, dragging aside the beds

and staring at the pictures on the walls as though they expected to

see us there.

“They are gone,” said Jos� at length, “that Indian, Ignatio, has

conjured them away. He is a demonio and not a man; I thought it from

the first.”

“Impossible!” cried Don Pedro, who was white with rage and fear. “The

door has been watched ever since they entered it, and no living thing

could force those bars. Search, search, they must be hidden.”

“Search yourself,” answered Don Smith sullenly, “they are not here.

Perhaps they discovered the trick of the picture and escaped down the

passages to the chapel.”

“It cannot be,” said Don Pedro again, “for just now I was in the

chapel and saw no signs of them. We have some traitor among us who has

led them from the house; by Heaven, if I find him out–-” and he

uttered a fearful oath.

“Shall we bring the dogs?” asked Jos�—and I trembled at his words:

“they might smell their footing.”

“Fool, what is the use of dogs in a place where all of you have been

tramping?” answered the father. “To-morrow at dawn we will try them

outside, for these men must be found and killed, or we are ruined.

Already the authorities suspect us because of the disappearance of the

two Americanos, and they will send soldiers from Vera Cruz to shoot

us down, for without doubt this Inglese is rich and powerful. It is

certain that they are not here, but perhaps they are hidden elsewhere

in the building. Come, let us search the passages and the roof,” and

he vanished into the wall, followed by the others, leaving the chamber

as dark and silent as it had been before their coming.

For a while the danger had passed, and we pressed each other’s hands

in gratitude, for to speak or even to whisper we did not dare. Ten

minutes or more went by, when once again we heard sounds, and a light

appeared in the room, borne in the hand of Don Pedro, who was

accompanied by his son, Don Jos�.

“They have vanished,” said the old man, “the devil their master knows

how. Well, to-morrow we must hunt them out if possible, till then

nothing can be done. You were a fool to bring them here, Jos�. Have I

not told you that no money should tempt me to have more to do with the

death of white men?”

“I did it for revenge, not money,” answered Jos�.

“A nice revenge,” said his father, “a revenge that is likely to cost

us all our lives, even in this country. I tell you that, if they are

not found to-morrow and silenced, I shall leave this place and travel

into the interior, where no law can follow us, for I do not wish to be

shot down like a dog.

“Listen, Jos�, bid those rascals to give up the search and go to bed,

it is useless. Then do you come quietly to my room, and we will visit

the Indian and his daughter. If we are to screw their secret out of

them, it must be done to-night, for, like a fool, I told that

Englishman the story when the wine was in me, thinking that he would

never live to repeat it.”

“Yes, yes, it must be to-night, for to-morrow we may have to fly. But

what if the brutes won’t speak, father?”

“We will find means to make them,” answered the old man with a hideous

chuckle; “but whether they speak or not, they must be silenced

afterwards–-” and he drew his hand across his throat, adding,

“Come.”

An hour passed while we stood in the hole trembling with excitement,

hope, and fear, and then once more we heard footfalls, followed

presently by the sound of a voice whispering on the further side of

the panel.

“Are you there, lord?” the whisper said. “It is I, Luisa.”

“Yes,” I answered.

Now she touched the spring and opened the panel.

“Listen,” she said, “they have gone to sleep all of them, but before

dawn they will be up again to search for you far and wide. Therefore

you must do one of two things; lie hid here, perhaps for days, or take

your chance of escape at once.”

“How can we escape?” I asked.

“There is but one way, lord, through the chapel. The door into it is

locked, but I can show you a place from which the priests used to

watch those below, and thence, if you are brave, you can drop to the

ground beneath, for the height is not great. Once there, you can

escape into the garden through the window over the altar, which is

broken, as I have seen from without, though to do so, perhaps, you

will have to climb upon each other’s shoulders. Then you must fly as

swiftly as you can by the light of the moon, which has risen. The dogs

have been gorged and tied up, so, if the Heart is your friend, you may

yet go unharmed.”

Now I spoke to the se�or, saying:

“Although the woman does not know it, I think it likely that we shall

find company in this chapel, seeing that the Indian and his daughter

are imprisoned there, where Don Pedro and Jos� have gone to visit

them. The risk is great, shall we take it?”

“Yes,” answered the se�or after a moment’s thought, “for it is better

to take a risk than to perish by inches in this hole of starvation, or

perhaps to be discovered and murdered in cold blood. Also we have

travelled far and undergone much to find this Indian, and if we lose

our chance of doing so, we may get no other.”

“What do you say, Molas?” I asked.

“I say that the words of the se�or are wise, also that it matters

little to me what we do, since whether I turn to left or right death

waits me on my path.”

Now one by one we climbed through the false panel, and by the light of

the moon Luisa led us across the chamber to the spot between the beds,

where hangs the picture of the abbot, which picture, that is painted

on a slab of wood, proved to be only a cunningly devised door

constructed to swing upon a pivot.

Placing her knee on the threshold of the secret door, Luisa scrambled

into the passage beyond. When the rest of us stood by her side, she

closed the panel, and, bidding us cling to one another and be silent,

she took me by the hand and guided us through some passages till at

length she whispered:

“Be cautious now, for we come to the place whence you must drop into

the chapel, and there is a stairway to your right.”

We passed the stairway and turned a corner, Luisa still leading.

Next instant she staggered back into my arms, murmuring, “Mother of

Heaven! the ghosts! the ghosts!” Indeed, had I not held her she would

have fled. Still grasping her hand, I pushed forward to find myself

standing in a small recess—the one I showed you, Se�or Jones—that

was placed about ten feet above the floor of the chapel, and, like

other places in this house, so arranged that the abbot or monk in

authority, without being seen himself, could see and hear all that

passed beneath him.

Of one thing I am sure, that during all the generations that are gone

no monk watching here ever saw a stranger sight than that which met my

eyes. The chancel of the chapel was lit up by shafts of brilliant

moonlight that poured through the broken window, and by a lamp which

stood upon the stone altar. Within the circle of strong light thrown

by this lamp were four people, namely, Don Pedro, his son Don Jos�, an

old Indian, and a girl.

On either side of the altar then, as now, rose two carven pillars of

sapote wood, the tops of which were fashioned into the figures of

angels, and to these columns the old Indian and the woman were tied,

one to each column, their hands being joined together at the back of

the pillars in such a manner as to render them absolutely helpless. My

eyes rested first upon the woman, who was nearest to me, and seeing

her, even as she was then, dishevelled, worn with pain and hunger, her

proud face distorted by agony of mind and impotent rage, I no longer

wondered that both Molas and Don Pedro had raved about her beauty.

She was an Indian, but such an Indian as I had never known before, for

in colour she was almost white, and her dark and waving hair hung in

masses to her knees. Her face was oval and small-featured, and in it

shone a pair of wonderful dark-blue eyes, while the clinging white

robe she wore revealed the loveliness of her tall and delicate shape.

Bad as was the girl’s plight, that of the old man her father, who was

none other than the Zibalbay we had come to seek, seemed even worse.

As Molas had described him, he was thin and very tall, with white hair

and beard, wild and hawk-like eyes, and aquiline features, nor had Don

Pedro spoken more than the truth when he said that he looked like a

king. His robe had been torn from him, leaving him half naked, and on

his forehead, breast, and arms were blood and bruises which clearly

had been caused by a riding-whip that lay broken at his feet.

It was not difficult to guess who had broken it, for in front of the

old man, breathing heavily and wiping the perspiration from his brow,

stood Don Jos�.

“This mule won’t stir,” he said to his father in Spanish; “ask the

girl, it must wake her up to see the old man knocked about.”

Then Don Pedro slipped off the altar rail upon which he had been

seated, and, advancing to the woman, he peered at her with his leaden

eyes:

“My dear,” he said to her in the Maya language, “this sight must

grieve you. Put an end to it then by telling us of that place where so

much gold is hidden.”

“As with my last breath, daughter,” broke in Zibalbay, “I command you

to say nothing, no, not if you see them murder me by inches before

your eyes.”

“Silence, you dog,” said Don Jos�, striking him across the lips with

his hand.

“Oh! that I were free to avenge you!” gasped the girl as she strained

and tore at the ropes which held her.

“Don’t be in a hurry, my love,” sneered Don Jos�, “wait a while and

you will have yourself to avenge as well as your father. If he won’t

speak I think we can find a way to make you talk, only I do not want

to be rough with you unless I am forced to it. You are too pretty,

much too pretty.”

The girl shivered, gasping with fear and hate, and was silent.

“What shall we try him with now?” he went on, addressing Don Pedro;

“hot steel or cold? Make up your mind, for I am growing tired. Well,

if you won’t, just hand me that machete, will you? Now, friend,” he

said, addressing the Indian, “for the last time I ask you to tell us

where is that temple full of gold, of which you spoke to your daughter

in my father’s hearing?”

“There is no such place, white man,” he answered sullenly.

“Indeed, friend! Then will you explain where you found those little

ingots, which we captured from the Indian who had been visiting you,

and whence came this machete?” and he pointed to the weapon in his

hand.

It was a sword of great beauty, as I could see even from where we

stood, made not of steel, but of hardened copper, and having for a

handle a female figure with outstretched arms fashioned in solid gold.

“The machete was given to me by a friend,” said the Indian, “I do

not know where he got it.”

“Really,” answered Jos� with a brutal laugh, “perhaps you will

remember presently. Here, father, warm the point of the machete in

the lamp, will you, while I tell our guest how we are going to serve

him and his daughter.”

Don Pedro nodded, and, taking the sword, he held the tip of it over

the flame, while Jos� bending forward whispered into the Indian’s ear,

pointing from time to time to the girl, who, overcome with faintness

or horror, had sunk to the ground, where she was huddled in a heap

half hidden by the masses of her hair.

“Are you white men then devils?” said the old man at length, with a

groan that seemed to burst from the bottom of his heart, “and is there

no law or justice among you?”

“Not at all, friend,” answered Jos�, “we are good fellows enough, but

times are hard and we must live. As for the rest, we don’t trouble

over much about law in these parts, and I never heard that unbaptised

Indian dogs have any right to justice. Now, once more, will you guide

us to the place whence that gold came, leaving your daughter here as

hostage for our safety?”

“Never!” cried the Indian, “better that we two should perish a hundred

times, than that the ancient secrets of my people should pass to such

as you.”

“So you have secrets after all! Father, is the sword hot?” asked Jos�.

“One minute more, son,” said the old man, quietly turning the point in

the flame.

This was the scene that we witnessed, and these were the words that

astonished our ears.

“It is time to interfere,” muttered the se�or, and, placing his hand

upon the rail, he prepared to drop into the church.

Now a thought struck me, and I drew him back to the passage.

“Perhaps the door is open,” I said.

“Are you going in there?” asked the girl Luisa.

“Certainly,” I replied; “we must rescue those people, or die with

them.”

“Then, se�ors, farewell, I have done all I can for you, and now the

saints must be your guide, for if I am seen they will kill me, and I

have a child for whose sake I desire to live. Again, farewell,” and

she glided away like a shadow.

We crept forward down the stair. At the foot of it was a little door,

which, as we had hoped, stood ajar. For a moment we consulted

together, then we crawled on through the gloom towards the ring of

light about the altar. Now Jos� had the heated sword in his hand.

“Look up, my dear, look up,” he said to the girl, patting her on the

cheek. “I am about to baptise your excellent father according to the

rites of the Christian religion, by marking him with a cross upon the

forehead,” and he advanced the glowing point of the sword towards the

Indian’s face.

At that instant Molas pinned him from behind, causing him to drop the

weapon, while I did the same office by Don Pedro, holding him so that,

struggle as he might, he could not stir.

“Make a sound, either of you, and you are dead,” said the se�or,

picking up the machete and placing its hot point against Jos�‘s

breast, where it slowly burnt its way through his clothes.

“What are we to do with these men?” he asked.

“Kill them as they would have killed us,” answered Molas; “or, if you

fear the task, cut loose the old man yonder and let him avenge his own

and his daughter’s wrongs.”

“What say you, Ignatio?”

“I seek no man’s blood, but for our own safety it is well that these

wretches should die. Away with them!”

Now Don Pedro began to bleat inarticulately in his terror, and that

hero, Jos�, burst into tears and pleaded for his life, writhing with

pain the while, for the point of the sword scorched him.

“You are an English gentleman,” he groaned, “you cannot butcher a

helpless man as though he were an ox.”

“As you tried to butcher us in the chamber yonder—us, who saved your

life,” answered the se�or. “Still, you are right, I cannot do it

because, as you say, I am a gentleman. Molas, loose this dog, and if

he tries to run, put your knife through him. Jos� Moreno, you have a

sword by your side and I hold one in my hand; I will not murder you,

but we have a quarrel, and we will settle it here and now.”

“You are mad, se�or,” I said, “to risk your life thus, I myself will

kill him rather than it should be so.”

“Will you fight if I loose you, Jos� Moreno?” he asked, making me no

answer, “or will you be killed where you stand?”

“I will fight,” he replied.

“Good. Let him free, Molas, and be ready with your knife.”

“I command you,” I began, but already the man was loose and the se�or

stood waiting for him, his back to the door, and grasping the Indian

machete handled with the golden woman.

Now Jos� glanced round as though he sought a means of escape, but

there was none, for in front was the machete and behind was the

knife of Molas. For some seconds—ten perhaps—they stood facing each

other in the ring of the lamplight, whilst the moonbeams played

faintly about their heads. We watched in utter silence, the Indian

girl shaking the long hair from her face, and leaning forward as far

as her bonds would allow, that she might see this battle to the death

between him who had insulted and tormented her, and the noble-looking

white man who had appeared out of the gloom to bring her deliverance.

It was a strange scene, for the contrast of light and darkness, or of

good and evil, is not greater than was that of these two men, and what

made it stranger were the place and hour. Behind them was the half-lit

emptiness of the deserted chapel, before them stood the holy crucifix

and the desecrated altar of God, and beneath their feet lay the bones

of the forgotten dead, whose spirits mayhap were watching them from

the shadows as earnestly as did our living eyes. Yes, that midnight

scene of death and vengeance enacted in the House of Peace was very

strange, and even now it thrills my blood to think of it.

From the moment that I saw them fronting each other, my fears for the

issue vanished. Victory was written in the calm features of the se�or,

and more especially in his large blue eyes, that of a sudden had grown

stern as those of an avenging angel, while the face of Jos� told only

of baffled fury struggling with bottomless despair. He was about to

die, and the terror of approaching death unnerved him.

Still it was he who struck the first, for, stepping forward, he aimed

a desperate blow at the se�or’s head, who, springing aside, avoided

it, and in return ran him through the left arm. With a cry of pain,

the Mexican sprang back, followed by the se�or, at whom he cut from

time to time, but without result, for every blow was parried.

Now they were within the altar rails, and now his back was against one

of the carved pillars of sapote wood—that to which the girl was

tied. Further he could not fly, but stayed there, laying about him

wildly, so that the woman at the other side of the pillar crouched

upon the ground to avoid the sweep of his sword.

Then the end came, for the se�or, who was waiting his chance, drew

suddenly within reach, only to step back so that the furious blow

aimed at his head struck with a ringing sound upon the marble floor,

where the mark of it may yet be seen. Before Don Jos�, whose arm was

numbed by the shock, could lift the sword again, the se�or ran in, and

for the second time thrust with all his strength. But now the aim was

truer, for his machete pierced the Mexican through the heart, so

that he fell down and died there upon the altar step.

Now I must tell of my own folly that went near to bringing us all to

death. You will remember that I was holding Don Pedro, and how it came

about I know not, but in my joy and agitation I slackened by grip, so

that with a sudden twist he was able to tear himself from my hands,

and in a twinkling of an eye was gone.

I bounded after him, but too late, for as I reached the door it was

slammed in my face, nor could I open it, for on the chapel side were

neither key nor handle.

“Fly,” I cried, rushing back to the altar, “he has escaped, and will

presently be here with the rest.”

The se�or had seen, and already was engaged in severing with his sword

the rope that bound the girl, while Molas cut loose her father. Now I

leapt upon the altar—may the sacrilege be forgiven to my need—and,

springing at the stonework of the broken window, I made shift to pull

myself up with the help of Molas pushing from below. Seated upon the

window ledge I leaned down, and catching the Indian Zibalbay by the

wrists, for he was too stiff to leap, with great efforts I dragged him

to me, and bade him drop without fear to the ground, which was not

more than ten feet below us. Next came his daughter, then the Se�or,

and last of all, Molas, so that within three minutes from the escape

of Don Pedro we stood unhurt outside the chapel among the bushes of a

garden.

“Where to now?” I asked, for the place was strange to me.

The girl, Maya, looked round her, then she glanced up at the heavens.

“Follow me,” she said, “I know a way,” and started down the garden at

a run.

Presently we came to a wall the height of a man, beyond which was a

thick hedge of aloes. Over the wall we climbed, and through the aloes

we burst a path, not without doing ourselves some hurt—for the thorns

were sharp—to find ourselves in a milpa or corn-field. Here the

girl stopped, again searching the stars, and at that moment we heard

sounds of shouting, and, looking back, saw lights moving to and fro in

the hacienda.

“We must go forward or perish,” I said. “Don Pedro has aroused his

men.”

Then she dashed into the milpa, and we followed her. There was no

path, and the cornstalks, that stood high above us, caught our feet

and shook the dew in showers upon our heads, till our clothes were

filled with water like a sponge. Still we struggled on, one following

the other, for fifteen minutes or more, till at length we were clear

of the cultivated land and standing on the borders of the forest.

“Halt,” I said, “where do we run to? The road lies to the right, and

by following it we may reach a town.”

“To be arrested as murderers,” broke in the se�or. “You forget that

Jos� Moreno is dead at my hands, and his father will swear our lives

away, or that at the best we shall be thrown into prison. No, no, we

must hide in the bush.”

“Sirs,” said the old Indian, speaking for the first time, “I know a

secret place in the forest, an ancient and ruined building, where we

may take refuge for a while if we can reach it. But first I ask, who

are you?”

“You should know me, Zibalbay,” said Molas, “seeing that I am the

messenger whom you sent to search for him that you desire to find, the

Lord and Keeper of the Heart,” and he pointed to me.

“Are you that man?” asked the Indian.

“I am,” I answered, “and I have suffered much to find you, but now is

no time for talk; guide us to this hiding-place of yours, for our

danger is great.”

Then once more the girl took the lead, and we plunged forward into the

forest, often stumbling and falling in the darkness, till the dawn

broke in the east, and the shoutings of our pursuers died away.

CHAPTER X

HOW MOLAS DIED

For some few minutes we rested to recover our breath, then we started

forward again. In front went the girl, Maya, our guide, whom the se�or

led by the hand, while behind followed Zibalbay supported by Molas and

myself. At first these two had run as quickly as the rest of us, but

now all the fatigues and terrors that they had undergone took hold of

them, so that from time to time they were forced to stop and rest.

This was little to be wondered at, indeed, seeing that during five

days they had eaten no solid food, for it had been Don Pedro’s purpose

to starve their secret out of them. Doubtless he would have succeeded

in this design, or in doing them to death, had it not been for a

quantity of a certain preparation of the cuca leaf, mixed with

pounded meat and other ingredients, which they carried with them.

Zibalbay had the secret of this Indian food, and by the help of it he

and his daughter had journeyed far across unpopulated wastes, for so

wonderful are its properties that a piece no larger than a bullet will

serve to stay a man’s stomach for twenty-four hours, even when his

power is taxed by work or travel. On this nutriment they had sustained

themselves to the amazement of their captor, who could not discover

whence they drew their strength; still it is a stimulant rather than a

food, and so great was their craving to fill themselves, that as they

ran they plucked cobs of the Indian corn and devoured them.

Our path lay through a tropical forest so dense that, even when the

sun shone, the gloom was that of twilight. Many sorts of huge and

uncouth trees grew in it, whereof the boughs were starred with orchids

and hung with trailing ferns, or in places with long festoons of grey

Spanish moss that gave them a very strange and unnatural appearance.

Up these trees climbed creepers, some of them thicker than a man’s

thigh, and beneath them the ground was clothed with soft-wooded bush,

or with vast brakes of a plant that in Mexico attains a height of from

ten to twelve feet, which the se�or told me is cultivated in English

gardens under the name of Indian Shot. Slowly and with much toil we

forced a path through this mass of vegetation. Now we were creeping

over the rotten trunks of fallen and fern-encumbered trees, now foot

by foot we must make our way between the stout stems of the Indian

Shot, and now our clothes were caught and our flesh was torn by the

hook-like thorns and brambles, or our feet tripped in the roots of

climbing plants. No breath of air penetrated that measureless thicket,

whereof the stagnant atmosphere, laden with the decay of ages, choked

and almost overpowered us, causing the sweat to start from every pore.

Above us, hiding the sky, hung masses of deep green foliage, beneath

which we struggled on in the solemn gloom and the silence that was

broken only from time to time by the grunting of an ape, or by a

distant crash, as some great tree, after centuries of life, fell with

a noise like thunder to the earth from whence it sprang.

This forest that seemed so destitute of life was peopled by millions

of insects, all of them venomous. Garrapatas, tiny grey flies,

wood-wasps, and ants black and red, tormented us with their bites and

stings till we groaned aloud in misery, then, remembering our danger,

pushed on again.

Thus two hours and more passed, till, reaching a little stream that

ran through a ravine in the forest, we paused to drink and to cool our

fevered feet and hands. Zibalbay sank exhausted upon the bank, where I

brought him water in my sombrero, while his daughter sat herself down

on a stone in the stream, suffering it to flow over her feet and

ankles, that by now were swollen with ant-bites and bleeding from the

cuts of thorns and grasses. Presently she looked up, and, seeing the

se�or, who stood upon a bank talking to me, she invited him with a

motion of her hand to seat himself beside her.

“What is your name, white man?” she asked.

“James Strickland, lady.”

“James Strickland,” she repeated with some difficulty. “I thank you,

James Strickland, for rescuing my father from torment and me from

insult; and because of that deed, I, Maya of the Heart, whom many have

served, am your servant for ever.”

“You should thank my friend, Don Ignatio,” he said, pointing to me.

For a few moments she looked at me searchingly, then replied, “I thank

him also, but you I thank the most, for your hand rid me of that

hateful man and saved us.”

“It is early to return thanks, lady,” he said; “we are not out of

danger yet.”

“I have little fear now that we have escaped from that dreadful

house,” she answered almost indifferently, “since our hiding-place is

at hand. Also how can they find us in this forest? Hark! what was

that?”

As she spoke a faint and distant sound fell upon our ears—such a

sound as might have been made by a bell struck far away at night.

“That is how they will find us,” he said, springing to his feet. “Do

you hear, Ignatio? The dogs have hit our trail. Which way does our

road run now, lady?”

“Along the banks of this stream.”

“Then we must go forward in the water,” said the se�or, “it is our

only chance, for the hounds cannot track us there.”

Now we began to scramble down the bed of the stream as fast as the

boulders and the weariness of Zibalbay would allow. Fortunately it was

not a broad river, nor very deep, still sometimes we could hardly

stand in the rapids, and twice, not daring to set foot upon the bank,

we were forced to swim the length of the pools, which we did in terror

fearing lest they should be haunted by alligators. For something over

an hour we followed the stream thus, till suddenly Maya halted, saying

that if we would gain the building where they had dwelt, we must leave

the water and plunge into the forest. By now we were

exhausted—indeed, unless he were carried, the old Indian Zibalbay

could not have gone another mile; so, notwithstanding the danger of

setting foot upon the land, on learning that the place was near and

that food was to be found in it, we hesitated no longer, but once more

began to thread the bush. Not more than three hundred paces from the

banks of the river we came upon a high mound densely overgrown with

trees, between the boles of which appeared masses of cut stone.

“This is the place,” gasped Zibalbay. “Look, yonder above us are the

walls of the temple, and here is the stairway that led to it,” and he

pointed to a long flight of crumbling stone, almost hidden in ferns

and bushes, which stretched from the base of the pyramid to the

ancient Indian fane on its crest. Up these steps we went with caution,

for the climb was dangerous, Molas carrying Zibalbay upon his broad

back, since so weary was he that the old Indian could mount them in no

other fashion.

This staircase was built in three flights, the top flight, now almost

entirely broken away, emerging on what once had been a broad and

splendid terrace, but to-day was a chaos of stonework, in the crevices

of which grew bushes and even large trees. Over the head of the

stairway still stood a colossal arch sculptured with the figures of

gods and beasts. This arch was in the last stage of decay—indeed the

crown of it, a mass of masonry that must have weighed between one and

two hundred tons, had been nearly separated from its supports by the

action of time and rain, aided perhaps by a shock of earthquake, and

hung threateningly over the top steps of the stair. In truth so slight

were the attachments which remained between it and its supporting side

columns and buttresses, that at first sight it seemed as though it

must fall at once. A closer examination showed, however, that it was

held in place by three or four great roots, which, springing from

trees that grew upon the crown of the arch, in the course of years had

thrust themselves deep into the crevices of the masonry of the massive

pillars, and through their foundations into the soil beneath. Beyond

the arch, on the further side of the terrace, rose the ruined temple,

a long single-storied building with a flat roof whereon grew many

shrubs and palms.

Passing through the central doorway of this temple, Maya led us into a

chamber decorated everywhere with serpents carved in stone, which had

been occupied, and recently, for it was clean, and upon the floor were

ashes and bits of burnt wood. In the corner also lay a little pile of

articles covered over with a serape that Maya hastened to remove,

revealing amongst other things an earthen cooking-pot, a copper axe of

similar workmanship to the machete with which the se�or had killed

Don Jos�, two curiously fashioned blow-pipes with a supply of poisoned

darts, and, lastly, bags containing dried flesh, beans, and cuca

paste.

“All is safe,” she said; “now let us eat that we may be strong to meet

danger.”

While we were filling ourselves thankfully with the dried meat, the

se�or spoke to me, saying he hoped that our pursuit had been

abandoned.

“You can know little of these men to speak thus,” I answered; “they

must hunt us down for their own sakes, also Don Pedro will certainly

seek to avenge the blood of his son. Our only hope is that the water

will baffle the hounds, or that, if they strike the place where we

left it, the heat of the day may have killed our scent. But I fear

that this will not be so, since the ground is damp beneath the trees.”

“Then what do you propose to do?” he asked. “Start on again, or stop

here?”

“Se�or, we must stop here because we cannot travel farther, unless you

would abandon the old man and his daughter. Moreover in the forest it

would be easy to overwhelm us, but this place is hard to climb, and

here at least we may die fighting. Let us make ready for the worst,

se�or.”

“How are we to make ready,” he asked, “when we have nothing to fight

with except machetes and Indian blow-pipes? The powder in the pistol

flasks is damp and the caps will miss fire, so that if we are attacked

our death is certain.”

“It seems so,” I answered, “yet if it pleases God we may live. Yonder

lie stones in plenty; let us pile them up beneath the archway, perhaps

we can kill some of our foes by rolling them down the steps.”

This we did, then, while Maya watched us. At length the task was

finished, and as we turned to leave the heaps of stones, of a sudden

we heard a dog baying down by the river, followed by a sound of men

and horses forcing a path through the bush. For a while we stared at

each other in silence, then Molas said, “They are coming.”

“If so I wish they would come quickly,” answered the se�or.

“Why, White Man? Are you afraid?” asked Maya.

“Yes, very much,” he answered, with a little laugh, “for the odds are

heavy, and probably we shall soon be killed, that is, all the men

among us will be killed. Does not the prospect frighten you?”

“Why should it,” she answered, with a shrug and a smile, “seeing that

if it comes to the worst, I shall be killed also and spared a long

journey home?”

“How can you be sure of that, Lady?”

“So,” she answered, holding a tiny blow-pipe dart before his eyes. “If

I prick myself with this here—” and she touched the large vein in her

neck, “in one minute I shall be asleep, and in two I shall be dead.”

“I understand; but you talk of death very easily for one so young and

beautiful.”

“If so, se�or, it is because I have not found life too soft, nor”—she

added with a sigh—“do I know what destiny awaits me in the future;

but I do know that when we sleep upon the Heart of Heaven, we shall

find peace if nothing more.”

“I hope so,” said the se�or. “Look, here they come,” and as he spoke a

party of seven or eight men, three of them riding on mules, appeared

at the foot of the mound, and, dismounting, picketed their animals to

trees.

“Now for it,” said the se�or, rising and shaking himself like a dog

that leaves the water. “I wonder how many of us will be left alive

when this sun sets.”

As he spoke one of the men reached the foot of the stairway holding a

great hound in a leash. For a moment the dog sniffed the stones, then,

lifting his head, he bayed aloud, whereat the band shouted, for they

knew that they had trapped us. Still for a while they did not advance,

but, gathering themselves in a knot, they consulted together

earnestly. We looked at each other in despair, for truly our case was

desperate. Fly we could not, and we had no arms wherewith to fight,

therefore it seemed certain that within some few minutes we must lose

our lives at the hands of these murderers, if indeed they chose to

kill us outright in mercy. The se�or hid his face in his hands for

awhile, then he looked up and said,

“Can we bargain with them, Ignatio?”

“Impossible,” I answered, “what have we to give that they cannot

take?”

“Then there is nothing for it except to die as bravely as we may,” he

answered. “This is the end of our quest for the Golden City. The quest

has not been a lucky one, Ignatio.”

Now the old Indian, Zibalbay, who was crouched upon the ground beside

us, spoke for the first time, saying,

“Friends, why do you not fly? Doubtless you can find a path down the

further side of the pyramid, and in the forest you may hide from these

men.”

“How can we fly,” answered the se�or, “when you have no strength to

walk a step?”

“I am old and ready to die,” he answered; “leave me here, and be sure

that when the time comes I shall know how to slip through the grasp of

these villains. My daughter, go you with them. You have the holy

symbol, and should you escape and prove this stranger to be the man

whom we seek, lead him to our home that things may befall as they are

fated.”

“Peace, my father,” said Maya, throwing her arms about his neck,

“together we will live or perish. These se�ors may go if it pleases

them, but here I stay with you.”

“And so do I,” said Molas, “for I weary of flying from the death that

dogs me. Also it is too late to talk of flight, for look, they are

coming up the stair, the eight of them with Don Pedro and the

Americano at their head.”

I looked; it was true. Already they had climbed half the steps of the

first flight.

“Oh for some rifles!” groaned the se�or.

“It is useless to cry for what we have not,” I answered. “God can help

us if He wishes, and if He does not, we must bow us to His will.”

Then there was silence, broken only by the voice of Zibalbay, who,

standing behind us, lifted his hands to heaven and prayed aloud to his

gods to bring a vengeance upon our foes. Now we could see through the

trees and bushes that the men were beginning to climb the second

flight.

“Come, let us do something,” said the se�or, and, running to the piles

of stones which we had prepared, he called to us to help him roll the

heaviest of them upon the enemy. This we did for awhile, but without

effect, for the tree-trunks turned our missiles; moreover those

against whom they were directed, taking cover at the sides of the

stairway, opened so sharp a fire on us with their rifles, that in a

few minutes we were driven from the stone heaps and forced to retreat

behind the shelter of the arch.

Now they came on again, till presently they reached the foot of the

third flight, and paused to take breath. Then it was that Molas,

seizing one of the Indian blow-pipes, ran out on to the terrace,

followed by the se�or, though why the latter went I do not know, for

he could not use this weapon. Before the men beneath were aware of

their presence, Molas had set the blow-pipe to his lips and discharged

the poisoned dart among them. As it chanced it struck the Texan Smith

full in the throat. Watching round the corner of the arch, I saw him

lift his hand to pull out the dart, then of a sudden he fell to the

ground, and in that instant a storm of bullets swept through the

archway, aimed at Molas and the se�or as they fled back for refuge. I

saw Molas fall and the se�or stop to lift him to his feet, and, as he

was in the very act, a patch of red appear upon his face. Another

moment and they were under cover.

“Are you hurt?” I asked of the se�or.

“No, no,” he answered; “my cheek was grazed by a bullet, that is all.

Look to Molas, he is shot in the side.”

“Leave me,” said Molas, “it is nothing.”

Then we were silent, only Maya sobbed a little as she strove to

staunch the blood that flowed from the se�or’s wound with cobwebs

which she gathered from among the stones.

“Do not trouble, lady,” he said, with a sad smile, “for soon there

will be other wounds that cannot be dressed. What shall you do?”

By way of answer she showed him the poisoned dart which she held in

the hollow of her hand.

“I cannot advise you otherwise,” he said. “Farewell, I am glad to have

met you and I hope that we may meet again yonder,” and he glanced

towards the sky. “Now you had best say good-bye to your father, for

our time is short.” She nodded, went to the old man, Zibalbay, who

stood silent, stroking his grey beard, and, putting her arms about his

neck, she kissed him tenderly.

Looking out carefully we saw that the men had dragged Don Smith to the

side of the stairway, where some of them supported him while he died

of the poison, and others watched for a chance to shoot us should we

show ourselves upon the terrace. Presently he was dead, and, cursing

us aloud, his companions commenced to mount the third flight with

great caution, for they feared a snare.

“Is there nothing to be done to save our lives?” asked the se�or, in a

heavy voice.

There was no answer, but of a sudden Molas, who was standing with one

hand pressed upon the wound in his side and the other before his eyes,

turned and ran into the chamber behind us, whence he reappeared

carrying the copper axe. Then, without speaking, he climbed the

masonry of the archway with great swiftness, till he stood with his

feet in the crack beneath the crown of the arch, which you will

remember was held in place only by the tough tree-roots, that grew

from it into the stonework of the buttresses. Supporting himself by a

creeper with his left hand, with his right he struck blow after blow

at the biggest of these roots, severing them one by one. Now we saw

his purpose—to send two hundred tons of stonework thundering down the

stairway upon the heads of the murderers.

“By heaven! that is an answer to my question,” said the se�or; then he

paused and added, “Come down, Molas; if the arch falls, you will fall

with it and be crushed.”

“It matters little,” he answered; “this is my doom day, that bullet

has cut me inside and I bleed to death, and on this spot, as I have

long feared, it is fated that I should die. Pray for my soul, and

farewell.”

“Fare you well, you gallant man,” said the se�or. “I have no axe or I

would come with you.”

“Farewell, Molas, my brother, true servant of the Heart,” I echoed;

“of this I am sure, that you shall not lose your reward.”

Now three of the roots were severed, but the fourth and largest, which

was thicker than a man’s leg, remained, and at this Molas began to hew

despairingly.

“Are they near?” he gasped, as the white chips flew.

We peeped round the corner of the arch and saw that some seventy feet

below us the band had halted on the slippery face of the pyramid,

fearing they knew not what, for they heard the dull sound of the axe

blows, but could not guess what it portended. One of their number was

talking to Don Pedro, apparently urging something upon him to which he

did not agree, and in this way they wasted two minutes before at last

the order was given to rush up the remaining steps and take the temple

by storm.

Two minutes—it was but a short time, yet it meant much, for only a

third of the root remained unsevered, and the bark crackling and

peeling showed how great was the strain upon it.

“Quick,” whispered the se�or, “they come”—and as he spoke the handle

of the axe broke and its head fell to the ground.

“Now if the root holds we are lost,” I said.

But it was not to be, for Molas still had his heavy hunting-knife, and

with this he hewed frantically at the wood. At the third cut it began

to part, torn slowly asunder as though by the strength of a giant, and

while it gave, the vast superincumbent mass of masonry, which it had

helped to support for so many years, shifted a little with a grinding

sound, then hung again.

“Come down, Molas, come down!” cried the se�or.

But Molas would not. He struck one more blow, severing the root, then

with a shout of farewell, either through faintness or by design, he

cast himself forward with outstretched arms against the face of the

wall. His weight was little indeed, yet it seemed that it sufficed to

turn the balance as dust turns a scale, for again the trembling mass

moved perceptibly and the tall trees upon the top of it began to nod

as though beneath the sudden pressure of wind. Now it slid forward

faster and faster, while sharp sounds like pistol-shots came from the

heart of it, and the trees above bent like a rod beneath the rush of a

fish. Now also for the first time the villains on the slope below

perceived the doom that threatened them, and uttered such a yell as I

had never heard. Some stood still and some flung themselves down the

stair, one only, Don Pedro himself, rushed forward. It was too late;

the mass of stonework, sixty feet long by twenty in breadth, was

falling. It was falling—it fell, taking Molas with it. With a roar

like that of thunder it struck upon the stairway, and, bursting into

fragments, swept it from end to end. No discharge of grape-shot could

have been so terrible in its effects as this hurricane of stones that

nothing could withstand, for even the big trees which stood in its

path were snapped like sticks and borne away upon its crest, as the

carved masonry that had been carried up the pyramid by the long labour

of the Indians of a bygone age, rushed downward to its foot.

In less than a minute it was done, the sounds had died away, and

nothing was left to tell of what had happened except a little dust and

some remains that had been men. Of all those who stood upon the

stairway only one survived, Don Pedro, who had run forward in the hope

of escaping the fall of the arch. As it chanced he was too late, for

though the mass had missed him, a single stone struck him across the

middle, breaking his bones and sweeping him to the foot of the first

flight, but leaving him alive.

When all was finished, and the dust had fallen to the earth again, the

se�or spoke, saying, “Let us go and search for the body of our

deliverer.”

So we went, the three of us, leaving Zibalbay in the temple, but we

could not find it; doubtless to this day Molas lies buried beneath

some of the larger blocks of masonry. There were other bodies indeed,

from which we did not scruple to take the rifles and whatever else was

likely to be of value to us. Better still, tied among some trees near

the foot of the pyramid, we found four good mules, one of them laden

with ammunition and provisions, for Don Pedro had come out determined

to hunt us down, even if he must follow us for days.

Having picketed the mules where they could graze, we returned to the

temple, bearing with us food and drink, of which we stood in sore

need. On our way up the steps, Don Pedro called to us from where he

lay broken and bleeding against an uprooted tree.

“Water,” he cried, “give me water.”

The se�or gave him some mixed with brandy that we had found upon the

sumpter mule.

“Your heart is merciful,” said Maya gravely; “I am not cruel, yet I

think that I should suffer that dog to die untended.”

“We all of us have sins to pay for, Lady, and the thought of them

should teach us charity, especially now when it has pleased God to

spare us,” answered the se�or.

“I am dying,” moaned the wretch; “my presentiment has come true, and

death finds me amongst ruins. How dare I die who have been a murderer

and a thief from my boyhood?”

The se�or shrugged his shoulders, for he could not answer this

question.

“Give me absolution,” he went on, “for the love of Christ, give me

absolution.”

“I cannot,” said the se�or; “I have no authority. Pray to Heaven to

shrive you, for your time is short.”

Then he turned and went, but for a long time we were troubled by the

last cries and blasphemies of this most evil man; indeed they did not

cease till sunset, when the devil came to claim his own.

CHAPTER XI

ZIBALBAY TELLS HIS MISSION

When we reached the ruins of the temple we ate and drank, then,

knowing that we could travel no farther that night, I spoke, saying:

“Some two months since, Zibalbay, you sent a message to Molas, my

foster-brother, that man who died to save us this day, to him who

among the Indians is known as Lord of the Heart. Your messenger

travelled fast and far, by sea and by land, till he found him and

delivered the message.”

“To whom did he deliver it?” asked Zibalbay.

“To me, for I am the man you seek, and with my companion I have

journeyed here to find you, suffering many dangers and evils on the

path.”

“Prove that you are the man”—and he asked me certain, secret

questions, to all of which I returned answers.

“You are instructed,” he said at length, “yet something is lacking;

if, indeed, you are the Lord of the Heart, reveal its mystery to my

eyes.”

“Nay,” I answered, “it is you who seek me, not I you. To Molas, your

messenger, you showed a certain symbol; let me see that symbol, for

then and not till then will I reveal the mystery.”

Now he looked round him doubtfully, and said, “You I have proved, and

this woman is my daughter and knows all; but what of the white man? Is

it lawful that I should unveil the Heart before him?”

“It is lawful,” I answered, “for this white man is my brother, and we

are one till death. Also he is sworn of our brotherhood, and himself,

for a while, was Lord and Holder of the Heart, for I passed it on to

him when I thought that I lay dying, and to him cling its virtues and

prerogatives. So it comes about that we have no secrets from each

other; that his ears are my ears, and his mouth is my mouth. Speak to

us, then, as though we were one man, or be silent to both, for I vouch

for him and he for me.”

“Are these things so, White Man?” asked Zibalbay, making the sign of

the brotherhood.

“They are so,” replied the se�or, giving the countersign.

“Then I speak,” said Zibalbay, “I speak in the name of the Heart, and

woe be to him who betrays the secrets that he learns under cover of

this name. Come hither, daughter, and give me that which is hidden

about you.”

Now Maya put her hands to her head, and drawing forth something from

the dense masses of her hair, she passed it to her father.

“Is this what you would see?” he asked, holding the talisman in the

light of the setting sun.

I looked, and lo! there before me was the very counterpart of that

which had descended to me from my forefathers, and which I wore about

my neck.

“It would seem so, unless my sight deceives me,” I answered; “and is

this what you have come so far to seek, Zibalbay?” and I drew forth

the ancient symbol of the Broken Heart.

Now he leaned forward, and examined first the one half and then the

other, searching them both with his eyes. Then he clasped his hands

and, looking to the heavens, said:

“I thank thee, O Nameless One, god of my fathers, that thou hast led

my feet aright, and given it to mine eyes to see their desire. As thou

hast prospered the beginning, so prosper thou the end, I beseech

thee.”

Then he turned to me and continued as in an ecstasy:

“Now have Day and Night come together, and soon shall the new sun

rise, the sun of our glory, for already the dawn is breaking. Take

that which is in your keeping, and I will take that which is in mine,

for not here must they be joined, but far away. Listen, brethren, to

my tale, which shall be brief, seeing that if it be the will of

Heaven, your eyes shall prove my words where all things can be made

clear to you, and if not, that of which little is told is the more

easily forgotten. Perchance, my brethren, you have heard legends of

that ancient undiscovered city, the last home of our race which is

undefiled by the foot of the white conqueror, and the secret sanctuary

of the pure faith given to our forefathers by the divine Cucumatz, who

is of some named Quetzal.”

“We have heard of it and greatly desire to see it,” I answered.

“If this be so,” went on Zibalbay, “in us you have found those who can

guide you to that city, of which I am the cacique and hereditary

high priest, and my only child here is the heiress and lady. You

wonder how it comes then that we, being of this condition, are found

unguarded and alone, wandering like beggars in the land of the white

man. Listen: The City of the Heart, as it is called, is of all cities

the most beautiful and ancient, and once in the far past she ruled

these lands from sea to sea, for her walls were built by one of those

brethren whom the holy Cucumatz, the white god, left to share his

throne, after there had been war between the brethren and they

separated, each becoming the father of a nation. So great was her

power in the early days that all the cities whose ruins may be found

buried in these forests were her tributaries, but as the years went

by, hordes of barbarians rolled down upon her frontier towns so that

they were lost to her. Still no enemies came near her gates, and she

remained the richest and most powerful of the cities of the world.

“Now the City of the Heart is built upon an island in the centre of a

lake, but many thousands of her children lived upon the mainland,

where they cultivated fields and dug in the earth for gold and gems.

So she flourished, and her children with her, till twelve generations

since, when there came tidings to the king of that day that a nation

of white men had conquered the empires near the sea, putting their

inhabitants to the sword and possessing themselves of their wealth.

Tidings came also that these white men, having learned the tale of the

City of the Heart and of the measureless treasures of gold with which

it is adorned, purposed to seek it out to sack it. When the ruling

cacique was sure that these things were true, he took counsel with

his wise men and with the oracle of the god which is in the Sanctuary,

and issued a decree that all those who lived upon the mainland should

be brought within the walls of the city, so that the white men might

find none to guide them thither. This was done then, and the spoilers

sought in vain for many years, till it was reported among them that

this legend of a town filled with gold was but a fable. Now, however,

great sickness took hold of those who lived in the City of the Heart,

because it was over full of men—so great a sickness, indeed, that

soon there was space and to spare for all who remained within its

walls. The sickness went away, but as the generations passed a new and

a worse trouble fell upon our forefathers. The blood of the people

grew old, and but few children were born to them. There were none left

upon the mainland to replenish the race, and this is our law, a law

which cannot be broken under pain of death, that no man or woman may

leave our territories to seek a husband or a wife of different blood.

“Thus, then, has it come about that the people have grown less and

less, wasting away like snow upon a mountain top in summer, till at

length they are dwindled to a few thousands, who in bygone days could

count their number by tens and twenties of thousands. Now I, Zibalbay,

have ruled this city since I was young, and bitterly has it grieved me

to know that before another hundred years have been added to the past,

the city, Heart of the World, must become nothing but a waste and a

home for the dead, though of that those who live therein to-day reck

but little, for the people have no thought for the morrow, and the

hearts of its nobles have become gross and their eyes blind.

“But an ancient prophecy has come to us from our forefathers, and it

is, that when once more the two halves of the symbol of the Heart are

laid side by side in their place upon the altar in the Sanctuary of

the holy city, then from that hour she shall grow great again. Over

this saying I brooded long, and long and often did I pray to that god

whom I worship and whose high-priest I am, the Nameless god, Heart of

Heaven and Lord of all the earth, that it would please him to give me

light and wisdom whereby I might find that which was lost, and save

the people from perishing as, in a season of drought, flowers perish

for lack of rain, bringing forth no seed. At length upon a certain

night it came about that a voice spoke to me in a dream answering my

prayer, bidding me to wander forth from the country of the Heart and

follow the ancient road towards the sea, for there near to the eastern

shore I should find that which was lost.

“Then I summoned the Council of the Heart and opened my mind to them,

telling them of my dream, and that I purposed to obey it. But they

made a mock of me, for they thought me mad, and said that I might go

if I wished, for being their ruler they had no power to stay me, but

that no man of the people should accompany me across the mountains,

for that was against the ancient law.

“I answered that it was well, and I would go alone since go I must,

whereon my daughter rose in her place and said that she would journey

with me, as she had a right to do, and to this they must consent,

though one of their number spoke bitterly against it, for he was my

nephew, and affianced to my daughter. Was it not so, Maya?”

“It was so,” she answered with a smile.

“To be short,” went on Zibalbay, “since my heart was set upon this

mission, and my daughter yonder, who is wilful, would not be gainsayed

of her desire to accompany me, Tikal, my nephew, was placed over the

city to rule as cacique in my stead until I should return again.

Then I left the city with this my daughter, many of the nobles and of

the common people accompanying us across the lake and a day’s journey

beyond it to the mountain pass, where they bid us farewell with tears,

for they were certain that we were mad and went to our deaths.

“Alone we crossed the mountains, and alone, following the traces of

the ancient road, we travelled through the desert and the forest that

lies beyond it, till at length we reached this secret place and stayed

here, for, though we were unharmed, danger, toil, and hunger had worn

us out, moreover we were afraid to venture among the white people.

Brethren, there is no need to tell the rest of the tale, for it is

known to you. That power which sent me on my mission has guided me

through all its troubles, and after much hardship and suffering has

caused me to triumph, seeing that to-night we are still alive, having

found that which we came forth to seek. Such is my story, brother;

now, if it pleases you, let us hear yours, and learn what purpose led

you and your companion here in time to save us from the group of that

white devil who lies dead upon the stairway.”

Then I spoke, telling to Zibalbay and his daughter the story of my

life, whereof I have written already, and of my great scheme to build

up again that empire which fell in the day of Montezuma.

“Now you speak words that are after my own heart,” said the old chief;

“but tell me, how is it to be done?”

“By your help,” I answered. “Men are here in plenty, but to use them I

must have gold, whereas yonder it seems you have gold but no men.

Therefore I ask of you some portion of your useless wealth that by its

help I may lift up your people and my own.”

“Follow me to the city, and if I can bring it about you shall have all

that you desire,” he answered. “Brother, our ends are one, and fate

has brought us together from far away, in order that they may be

accomplished. The prophecy is true, and truly have I dreamed; soon

shall the severed symbol be brought together in the Sanctuary and the

will of Heaven be made clear. Oh! not in vain have I lived and prayed,

enduring the mockery of men, for Day and Night have met, and already

the light of the new dawn is shining in the sky. Place your hand in

mine, and let us swear an oath upon the Heart that we, its guardians,

will be true to each other and to our purpose until death chooses us.

So, it is sworn. Now, daughter, lead me to my rest, for I am

overwhelmed, not with toil and suffering, but with too much joy. O

Heart of Heaven, I thank thee!” and lifting his hands above his head,

as though in adoration, Zibalbay turned, and, followed by the girl,

Maya, he tottered rather than walked into the chamber.

When he had gone the se�or spoke to me.

“This is very well, Ignatio,” he said, “and most interesting, but just

now, as I may remind you, there are things more pressing than the

regeneration of the Indian race; for instance, our own safety.

To-morrow, at the latest, men will come to seek these villains who lie

yonder, and if we are found here it seems likely that we shall be shot

down as murderers. Say, then, what do you propose to do?”

“I propose, se�or, that at the first light of dawn we should take the

mules and ride away. The forest is dense, and it will be difficult to

find us in it, moreover two days’ journey will place us beyond the

reach of white men. Tell me, Lady,” I added to Maya, who had returned

from the chamber, “do you know the road?”

“I know the road,” she answered, “but, sirs, before you take it, it is

right that I should tell you something, seeing that not to do so would

be to make an ill return for all the nobleness which you have shown

towards my father and myself, saving us from death and shame. You have

heard my father’s words, and they are true, every one of them, but

they are not all the truth. He rules that city of which he has spoken

to you, but the nobles there are weary of his rule, which at times is

somewhat harsh; also they deem him mad. It was for this reason that

they suffered him to wander forth, seeking the fulfilment of a

prophecy in which none of them have faith, for they were certain that

he would perish in the wilderness and return no more to trouble them.”

“Then why did they allow you, who are his heiress, to accompany him,

Lady?”

“Because I would have it so. I love my father, and if he was doomed to

die because of his folly, it was my wish to die with him. Moreover, if

you would know the truth, I hate that city where I was born, and the

man in it to whom I am destined to be married, and desired to escape

from it if only for a while.”

“And does that man hate you, Lady?”

“No,” she answered, turning her head aside; “but if he loves me, I

believe that he loves power more. Had I stayed, although I am a woman,

my father must have appointed me to rule in his place, and Tikal, my

cousin, would have been next the throne, not on it; therefore it was

that he consented to my going, or at the least I think so. Sirs, I

learn now that you are to accompany us to the City of the Heart,

should we live to reach it, and for my own part I rejoice at this,

though I should be glad if our faces were set towards some other land.

But I learn also that you have entered into a compact with my father,

under which he is to give you the gold you need, and many great things

are to happen, having for their end the setting up of the Indian

people above the white men, and the raising of the City of the Heart

to the place and power that she has lost, which according to the

prophecy shall come about after the two halves of the broken symbol

are set once more in the place that is prepared for them.”

“Do you not believe, then, in the prophecy?” asked the se�or quickly.

“I did not say so,” she answered. “Certainly it is strange that by

following a dream my father should have found that which he sought so

eagerly, the trinket that your companion bears upon his breast. And

yet I will say this; that I have no great faith in priests and visions

and gods, for of these it seems there have been many”—and she glanced

at the walls of the temple, that were sculptured over with the demons

which our forefathers worshipped, then added—“indeed, if I understand

aright, you, sire, follow a faith that is unknown to us.”

“We follow the true faith,” I answered, “all the rest are false.”

“It may be so,” she said, “but I know not how this saying will sound

in the ears of the servants of the Heart of Heaven. Come if you will,

but be warned; my people are a jealous people, and the name of a

stranger is hateful to them. Few such have ever reached the City of

the Heart for many generations, and of those, save for one or two,

none have escaped from it alive. They do not desire new things, they

have little knowledge of the world beyond their walls, and seek for

none; they wish to live as their forefathers lived, careless of a

future which they will never see, and I think that it must go very ill

with any who come among them bringing new faiths and doctrines,

seeking to take power from their hands and to awake them from their

narrow sloth. Now, sirs, choose whether you will accompany us in our

march towards the City of Waters, or whether you will set your face to

the sea again and forget that you chanced to hear a certain story from

a wandering doctor, whose misfortunes had made him mad, and an Indian

girl who tended him.”

Now I listened to these words which the Lady Maya spoke very earnestly

and with power, and understood that they meant much; they meant that

in going to the City of the Heart we were, as she believed, going to

our doom.

“Lady,” I said, “it may well chance that Death waits me yonder, but I

have looked too often in his eyes of late to shun them now. Death is

everywhere, lady, and, did men stop to let him pass, little work would

be done in the world. I have my task to do, or to attempt, and it

seems that it lies yonder in the Secret City, therefore thither I

shall go if my strength does not fail me and fate will suffer it. Come

what may, I travel with your father towards the City of the Heart. For

the se�or here it is different. Weeks ago I told him that no good

could come to him from this journey, and what I said then I say now.

He has heard your words, and if he will hearken to them and to mine,

he will bid us farewell to-morrow, and go his ways, leaving us to go

ours.”

She listened, and, turning towards him, said, “You hear. What say you,

White Man?” and it seemed to me, who was watching her, that she

awaited his answer anxiously.

“Yes, Lady, I hear,” he replied, with a laugh, “and doubtless it is

all true enough, and I shall leave my bones yonder among your

countrymen. Well, so be it, I have determined to go, not in order to

regenerate the race of Indians or any other race, but that I may see

this city; and go I will, since, other things apart, I am too idle to

change my mind. Also it seems to me that after this day’s business

there is more danger in staying here than in pushing forward.”

“I am glad that you are going, since you go of your own free will,”

she said, smiling. “May our fears be confounded, and your journey and

ours prove prosperous. And now let us rest, for you must be very

weary, as I am, and we should be stirring before the dawn.”

Next morning, at the first break of light, we started upon our

journey, riding on three of the mules that we had captured, and

leading the fourth laden with our goods and water-skins. Very glad

were all of us to see the last of that ruined temple, and yet it was

sad to me to leave it, for there, hidden beneath some of the masses

of the fallen masonry, lay all that was left of my friend and

foster-brother, Molas, he whose bravery and wit had saved our lives at

the cost of his own.

Our plan was to avoid villages where we might be seen by men, and to

keep ourselves hidden in the forest, for we feared lest we should be

followed and brought to judgment because of the death of Don Pedro and

his companions. This, as it chanced, we were able to do, since, having

guns and ammunition in plenty, we shot birds and deer for our daily

food. Travelling thus on mule-back, soon our strength returned to us,

even to the old man Zibalbay, who had suffered the most from fatigue

and from ill-treatment at the hands of the Mexicans.

In something less than a week we had passed through the inhabited

districts of Yucatan and far out of reach of the white man, and now

were journeying through the forest towards the great sierra that

lies beyond it. To find a way in this thick and almost endless forest

appeared impossible; indeed, it would have been so but for the

knowledge that Zibalbay and his daughter had gathered on their path

seaward, and for an ancient map which they brought with them. On this

map were traced the lines of the roads that in the days of Indian

civilisation pierced the country in every direction. One of these

roads, the largest, ran from the mountain range which surrounds the

lake of the City of the Heart, straight across sierras and through

woodlands to the ruined town of Palenque, and thence to the coast.

This road, or rather causeway, was in many places utterly overgrown by

trees, and in others sunk in swamps or hidden by the dust and sand of

the sierras. Sometimes for two or three days’ journey there was

nothing to show us that it had ever existed, still, by following the

line traced upon the map, and from time to time taking our position by

the ruins of cities marked thereon, we never failed to find it again.

The number of these old cities and temples was wonderful, and

astonished the se�or beyond measure, which is not strange, seeing that

he was the first white man who had ever looked upon them. Often, as we

rode, he would talk to me about them, and strive to paint in words a

picture of this country, now but desert plains or tangled bush, as it

must have been five hundred years or more before our day, when cities

and villages, palaces and temples, crowded with tens of thousands of

inhabitants, were to be seen everywhere, and the fertile face of the

earth was hidden in the green of crops. What histories lay buried in

those jungles, and what scenes must have been enacted on the crumbling

pyramids which confronted us day by day, before the sword of the

conqueror or the breath of pestilence, or both, made the land

desolate. Then it would have been a sight worth seeing; and our hearts

beat at the thought that if things went well with us it might be our

fortune to witness that sight; that our eyes might behold the

greatest of these cities, sought for many generations but as yet

unfound, the very navel of this ancient and mysterious civilisation,

dying indeed, but still existent.

I had other hopes to draw me onward, but, as I believe, it was this

desire that sustained the se�or in many a difficulty and danger of our

march. It was with him while he was hacking a mule-path through the

scrub with his machete, when we toiled along hour after hour beneath

the burning sun, and even at night as he lay over-tired and sleepless,

tormented by insects, and aching with fever. Filled with this thought

he was never weary of questioning the silent Zibalbay as to the

history, or rather the legend, of the land through which we journeyed,

or of listening to the Lady Maya’s descriptions of the City of the

Heart, till even she grew tired, and begged him to speak, instead, of

the country across the water where he was born, of its ceaseless busy

life, and the wonders of civilisation. Strange as it may seem, I, who

watched them both from day to day, know it to be true that she was in

mind the more modern of the two—so much so, indeed, that, in

listening to their talk, I might have fancied that Maya was the child

of the New World, filled with the spirit of to-day, and he the heir of

a proud and secret race dying beneath its weight of years.

“I cannot understand you,” she would say to him; “why do you so love

histories and ruins and stories of people that have long been dead? I

hate them. Once they lived, and doubtless were well enough in their

place and time, but now they are past and done with, and it is we who

live, live, live!” and she stretched out her arms as though she would

clasp the sunshine to her breast.

“I tell you,” she went on, “that this home of mine, of which you are

so fond of talking, is nothing but a great burying-place, and those

who dwell in it are like ghosts who wander to and fro thinking of the

things that they did, or did not do, a thousand years before. It was

their ancestors who did the things, not they, for they do nothing

except plot against each other, eat, sleep, drink, and mumble prayers

to a god in whom they do not believe. Did my father but know it, he

wastes time and trouble in making plans for the redemption of the

People of the Heart, who think him mad for his pains. They cannot be

redeemed. Were it otherwise, do you suppose that they would have been

content to sit still all these hundreds of years, knowing nothing of

the great world outside of them, and day by day watching their numbers

dwindle, till life but flickers in the race as in a dying lamp? So it

is also, if in a less degree, with those Indians whom Don Ignatio here

seeks to lift out of the mire into which the Spanish trod them. Sirs,

I believe that our blood has had its day. There is no more growth in

us, we are corn ripe for the sickle of Death—that is, most of us are.

Therefore, if I could have my will, while I am still young I would

turn my back upon this city which you so desire to see, taking with me

the wealth that is useless there, but which, it seems, would bring me

many good things in other lands, and live out my time among people who

have a present and a future as well as a past.”

Then the se�or would laugh, and argue that the past is more than the

present, and that it is better to be dead than alive, and many other

such follies; and I would grow angry and reprove Maya for her words,

which shocked me, whereat she would yawn, and talk of something else,

for I and my discourses wearied her. Only Zibalbay took no heed, for

his mind was set upon other things, even if he heard us, which I

doubt.

But all this while, notwithstanding her light talk and careless

manner, the Lady Maya was learning—yes, even from me—when the se�or

was not at hand, for she would inquire into everything and forget

nothing that she heard. The history of the countries of the world,

their modes of government and religions, the manners, customs, and

appearance of their inhabitants—he told her of them all from day to

day. Nor did she weary of listening, till at length the se�or met with

an adventure that went near to separating him from her for ever, and

showed me, although I had no great love for her or any of her sex,

that, whatever might be her faults, this woman’s heart was true and

bold.

CHAPTER XII

MAYA DESCENDS THE CUEVA

One evening—it was after we had left the forest country, and with

much toil climbed the sierra till we reached the desert beyond, a

desert that seemed to be boundless—we set our camp amongst a clump of

great aloes that grew at the foot of a stony hill. This hill was

marked on Zibalbay’s map as being the site of an underground

reservoir, known as a cueva, whence in the old days, when this place

was inhabited, the Indians drew their supply of water in the dry

season from deep down in the bowels of the earth. That this particular

cueva existed was proved by the fact that the ancient road, which

here was plainly visible, ran through the ruins of a large town

whereof the population must once have been supplied by it; but when

Zibalbay and his daughter slept at the spot on their downward journey,

they were spared the necessity of looking for it by the discovery of a

rain-pool in the hollow of a rock. Now, however, no rain having fallen

for weeks, after we had eaten, and drunk such water as remained in the

water-skins, we determined to seek for the cueva in order to refill

the skins and give drink to the thirsty mules.

Accordingly we began to examine the rocky hill, and presently found a

stone archway, now nearly filled up with soil and half hidden by thorn

bushes, which from its appearance and position we judged to be the

entrance to the cueva. Having provided ourselves with an armful of

torches made from the dead stems of a variety of aloe that grew around

in plenty, we lit four of them, and I led the way through the hole to

find myself in a cave where a great and mysterious wind blew and

sighed in sudden gusts that almost extinguished our lights. Following

this cave we came to a pit or shaft at the end of it, which evidently

led to the springs of water. This shaft, of unknown depth, was almost

if not quite as smooth and perpendicular as though it had been

hollowed by the hand of man, but the strangest thing about it was the

terrible stairway that the ancients had used to approach the water,

consisting, as it did, of a double row of notches eight or ten inches

deep, cut in the surface of the shaft. Up and down these notches the

water-carriers must have passed for generations, for they were much

worn, and a groove made by the feet of men ran to the top of this

awful ladder. The se�or, finding a fragment of rock, let it fall over

the edge of the pit, and several seconds passed before a faint sound

told us that it had touched the bottom.

“What a dreadful place!” he said. “I think that I had rather die of

thirst than attempt to go down it.”

“Still people have gone down in the past,” answered Maya, “for look,

this is where they stepped off the edge.”

“Perhaps they had a rope to hold by, lady,” I suggested. “When I was a

young man I have descended mines almost as steep, with no other ladder

than one made of tree-trunks—monkey-poles they are called—notched

after this fashion, and set from side to side of the shaft, but now it

would be my death to try, for such heights make me dizzy.”

“Come away,” said Zibalbay; “none of us here could take that road and

live. The mules must go thirsty; five hours’ journey away there is a

pool where they can drink to-morrow.”

Then we turned and left this cave of the winds and were glad to be

outside of it, for the place had an unholy look, and, all the draught

notwithstanding, was hot to suffocation.

Zibalbay walked to the camp, but we stayed to pluck some forage for

the mules. Soon the others grew weary of this task and fell to talking

as they watched the sunset, which was very beautiful on these lonely

plains. Presently I heard the Lady Maya say:

“Pick me that flower, friend, to wear upon my breast,” and she pointed

to a snow-white cactus-bloom that grew amongst some rocks.

The se�or climbed to the place and stretched out his hand to cut the

flower, when of a sudden I heard him utter an exclamation and saw him

start.

“What is it?” I said, “have you pricked yourself or cut your hand?” He

made no answer, but his eyes grew wide with horror, and he pointed at

something grey that was gliding away among the stones, and as he

pointed I saw a spot of blood appear upon his wrist. Maya saw it also.

“A snake has bitten you!” she cried in a voice of agony, and,

springing at him before I guessed what she was about to do, she seized

his arm with both hands and set her lips to the wound.

He tried to wrench it free, but she clung to him fiercely, then,

calling to me to bring a stick, she tore a strip off her robe and made

it fast round his wrist above the puncture. By now I was there with

the stick, and, setting it in the loop of linen, I twisted it till the

hand turned blue from the pressure.

“What snake was it?” I asked.

“The deadly grey sort,” he answered, adding: “Don’t look so

frightened, Maya, I know a cure. Come to the camp, quick!”

In two minutes we reached it, and the se�or had snatched a sharp knife

and a powder-flask.

“Now, friend,” he said, handing me the knife, “cut deep, since it is

life or death for me and there are no arteries in the top of the

wrist.”

Seeing what had come about, Zibalbay held the se�or’s hand and I cut

twice. He never winced, but at each slash Maya groaned. Then, having

let the blood fall till it would run no more, we poured powder into

the wound, as much as will lie on a twenty cent piece, and fired it.

It went off in a puff of white smoke, leaving the flesh beneath black

and charred.

“Now, as we have no brandy, there is nothing more to be done except to

wait,” said the se�or, with an attempt at a smile; but Zibalbay, going

to a bag, produced from it some cuca paste.

“Eat this,” he said, “it is better than any fire-water.”

The se�or took the stuff and began to swallow it, till presently I saw

that he could force no more down, for a paralysis seemed to be

creeping over him; his throat contracted, and his eyelids fell as

though weighed upon by irresistible sleep. Now, notwithstanding our

remedies, seeing that the poison had got hold of him, we seized him by

the arms and began to walk him to and fro, encouraging him at the same

time to keep a brave heart and fight against death.

“I am doing my best,” he answered feebly; then his mind began to

wander, and at length he fell down and his eyes shut.

A great fear and horror seized me, for I thought that he was about to

die, and with them a kind of rage because I was impotent to save him.

Already, to tell the truth, I was jealous of the Lady Maya, and now my

jealousy broke out in bitter and unjust words.

“This is your fault,” I said.

“You are cruel,” she answered, “and you speak thus because you hate

me.”

“Perhaps I am cruel, lady. Would not you be cruel if you saw the

friend you love perishing through a woman’s folly?”

“Are you the only one that can love?” she whispered.

“Unless we can rouse him the white man will die,” said Zibalbay.

“Oh! awake,” cried Maya despairingly, placing her lips close to the

se�or’s ear. “They say that I have killed you, awake, awake!”

He seemed to hear her, for, though his eyes did not open, he smiled

faintly and murmured, “I will try.” Then with our help he struggled

from the ground and began to walk once more, but like a man who is

drunk. Thrice he staggered backwards and forwards along the path our

feet had worn. Then he fell again, and, putting our hands upon his

breast, we could feel the contractions of his heart growing weaker

every moment, till at last they seemed to die away. But of a sudden,

when we had already abandoned hope, it pulsed violently, and from

every pore of his skin, which till now had been parched and dry, there

burst so profuse a perspiration that in the light of the rising moon

we could see it running down his face.

“I think that the white man will live now; he has conquered the

poison,” said Zibalbay quietly, and hearing his words I returned

thanks to God in my heart.

Then we laid him in a hammock, piling blankets and serapes over him

till at length the perspiration ceased, all the fluid in his body

having evaporated, taking the venom with it.

For an hour or more he slept, then awoke and asked for water in a

faint voice. We, who were watching, looked at each other in dismay,

for we had not a single drop to give, and this we were obliged to tell

him. He groaned and was silent for a while, then said:

“It would have been kinder to let me die of the poison, for this

torment of thirst is more than I can bear.”

“Can we try the cueva?” faltered Maya.

“It is impossible,” answered her father. “We should all be killed.”

“Yes, yes,” repeated the se�or, “it is impossible. Better that one

should die than four.”

“Father,” said Maya, “you must take the best mule and ride forward to

the pool where we should camp to-morrow. The moon shines, and with

good fortune you may be back in eight or nine hours.”

“It is useless,” murmured the se�or, “I can never live so long without

drink, my throat is hot like a coal.”

Zibalbay shrugged his shoulders, he also thought that it was useless,

but his daughter turned upon him fiercely and said:

“Are you going, or shall I ride myself?”

Then he went, muttering in his beard, and in a few minutes we heard

the footsteps of the mule as it shambled forward into the desert.

“Fear not,” I said to the se�or, “it is the poison that has dried you

up, but thirst will not kill you so soon, and presently you will feel

it less. Oh! that we had medicine here to make you sleep!”

He lay quiet for a space, giving no answer, but from the workings of

his hands and face we could see that he suffered much.

“Maya,” he said at length, “can you find me a cool stone to put in my

mouth?”

She searched and found a pebble which he sucked, but after a time it

fell from his lips, and we saw that it was as dry as when it entered

them. Then of a sudden his brain gave way, and he began to rave

huskily in many languages.

“Are you devils,” he asked, “that you suffer me to die in torment for

the want of a drink of water? Why do you stand there and mock me? Oh!

have pity and give me water.”

For a while we bore it, though perhaps our agonies were greater than

his own—then Maya rose and looked at his face. It was sunken as with

a heavy illness, thick black rings had appeared beneath his blue eyes,

and his lips were flecked with blood.

“I can endure this no more,” she said, in a dry voice; “watch your

friend, Don Ignatio.”

“You are right,” I answered, “this is no place for a woman. Go and

sleep yonder, so that I can wake you if there is need.”

She looked at me reproachfully, but went without answering, and sat

down behind a bush about thirty yards away. Here it seems—for all

this story she told me afterwards, and for the most part I do but

repeat her words—she began to think. She was sure that without water

the se�or could not live through the night, and it was impossible that

her father should return before dawn at the earliest. He was dying,

and she felt as though her life were ebbing with his own, for now she

knew that she loved him. Unless something could be done he must soon

be dead, and her heart would be broken. Only one thing could save

him—and her—water. In the depths of yonder hill, within a few paces

of her, doubtless it lay in plenty, but who would venture to seek it

there? And yet the descent of the cueva must be possible, since the

ancients used it daily, and why could she not do what they had done?

She was young and active, and from childhood it had been a delight to

her to climb in dangerous places about the walls and pyramids of the

City of the Heart, nor had her head failed her however lofty they

might chance to be. Why, then, should it fail her now when the life of

the man she loved was at stake? And what would it matter if it did

fail her, seeing that if he died she wished to die also?

Yes, she would try it!

When once she had made up her mind Maya set about the task swiftly. I

was standing by the hammock praying to heaven to spare the life of my

friend, who lay there beating his hands to and fro and moaning in

misery, when I saw her creep up and look at him.

“You think you love him,” she said to me suddenly, “but I tell you

that you do not know what love is. If I live, I, whom you despise,

will teach you, Don Ignatio.”

I took no heed of her words, for I thought them foolish.

Then, unseen by me, Maya glided away to where the mules were picketed

and provided herself with flint, steel, tinder, a rope, and a small

water-skin of untanned hind, which she strapped upon her shoulders. In

another minute she was running across the desert like a deer. At the

entrance to the cueva she paused to gather up the aloe torches which

had been thrown down there, and also to look for one moment at the

familiar face of night, the night that she might never see again. Then

she lit a torch and crept through the narrow opening.

The place had been awful in the evening when she visited it in the

company of the rest of us. Now, alone and at night, it appalled her.

Great winds roared round its vast recesses, sucked thither from the

hollows of the earth, and in them could be heard sounds like to those

of human voices, sobbing and making moan. Myra shivered, for she

thought that these were the ghosts of dead antiguos bewailing their

eternal griefs in this unearthly place, but she pressed forward

boldly, notwithstanding her fears, till she stood on the brink of the

pit. Here she halted to strip herself so that there might be as little

as possible to impede her movements in climbing the stair, and twisted

her hair into a knot. Next she tied the cord about her middle, and the

water-skin, to which she fastened the flint and steel, upon her

shoulders. Lighting two of the largest torches she fixed them

slantingwise in crevices of the rock, so that their flame shone over

the mouth of the shaft, down which she threw, first, a bundle of unlit

torches, and, lastly, one on fire. This torch did not go out, as she

half expected that it would, for presently, looking down the pit, she

saw a spark of light shining a hundred and fifty feet or more beneath

her.

Now all her preparations were complete, and nothing remained to be

done except to descend and search for the water. For a moment Maya

hesitated, looking at the spark of fire that gleamed so far below, and

at the narrow niches cut in the smooth surface of the rock. Then,

feeling that if she stood longer thus, her terrors would master her,

she knelt down, and, holding to the rock with her hands, she thrust

her leg over the edge of the pit, feeling at its side with her foot

till she found the first niche. Resting her weight on this foot, she

dropped the other till she reached the second niche, which was about

eighteen inches lower and ten inches to the left of the first, for

these niches were cut in a zig-zag fashion, No. 1 being above No. 3,

No. 2 above No. 4 and so on. Now she must face one of the most

terrible risks of the descent, for it was impossible for her to reach

No. 3 niche without leaving go of the edge of the pit, nor could she

get a hold of No. 1 with her hand until her foot was in No. 4, so that

there was no alternative except to balance herself on one leg, and,

placing her palms against the smooth rock, slide them down it till her

foot rested on No. 4, and her fingers in No. 1.

Clinging thus like a fly to the rock, she stepped into No. 3, and, not

daring to pause, began at once to feel for No. 4. In her anxiety she

dropped her leg too low, and while drawing it back almost overbalanced

herself. A thrill of horrible fear struck her, causing her spine to

creep, but, resting her face against the rock, by a desperate effort

she retained her presence of mind, and in another second was standing

in No. 4 and holding to No. 1. Thenceforward the descent was easier,

since all she had to do was to shift the grip of her hands from hole

to hole and remember in which line she must search with her foot for

the succeeding niche. So far from hindering her, the darkness proved a

boon, since it prevented her from beholding the horror of the place.

By the time that she was a third of the way down the shaft her courage

returned to her, and the only fear she felt was lest some of the

niches should be broken. Fortunately this was not the case, although

one of them was so much worn that her toes slipped out of it and for a

second or two she hung by her hands. Recovering herself, she went on

from step to step till at length she stood at the bottom of the shaft.

After a minute’s pause to get her breath, Maya found one of the dry

aloe stems, and lit it at the embers of the torch which she had thrown

down the pit. Then she looked round her, to find herself in a large

natural cavern of no great height, which sloped gently downwards

further than she could see. Turning her eyes to the floor, she

searched for and discovered the path that had been hollowed out by the

feet of the ancients, but now was half hidden in sand and dust. It ran

straight down the cave, and she followed it for fifty paces or more,

holding the light in one hand, and some spare torches under her arm.

Here in this cave the atmosphere was so hot and still, that she was

scarcely able to breathe, though even at a distance she could hear a

strange eddying wind roaring in the shaft down which she had come.

Presently the cavern began to decrease in size till it narrowed into a

small passage, and Maya sighed aloud, fearing lest she should be

coming to the mouth of a second shaft, for she had heard me say that

the water in these cuevas was sometimes found at a depth of five or

six hundred feet, whereas she had not descended more than two hundred.

When she had walked another ten or fifteen paces, however, the passage

took a sudden turn and her doubts were set at rest, for there in the

centre of a wonderful place, such as she had never seen before,

gleamed the water which she had risked her life to reach.

How large the place where she found herself might be Maya never knew,

since the feeble light of her torch did not pierce far into the gloom.

All that she could see was a number of white columns—without doubt

stalactites, though she imagined them to have been fashioned by

man—rising from the floor of the cavern to its roof, and in the midst

of them a circular pit, thirty feet or more across, in which lay the

water. This water, though clear as crystal, was not still, for once in

every few seconds a great bubble three or four feet in diameter rose

in the centre of the pool, to burst on its surface and send a ring of

ripples to the rocky sides. So beautiful was this bubble and so

regular its appearance that for some minutes Maya watched it; then,

remembering that she had no time to spare, she set herself to get the

water, only to learn that she was confronted by a new difficulty and

one which but for her foresight might have proved insuperable. The

rock bank of the pool was so smooth, and sloped so steeply to the

water, that it was quite impossible for anyone to keep a footing on

it. The ancients had overcome the trouble by means of a wooden

staircase, as was evident from the places hollowed in the rock to

receive the uprights, but this structure had long since rotted away.

At the head of where this staircase had stood, a hole was bored in the

rock, doubtless to receive a rope by which the water-bearers supported

themselves while they filled their jars, and the sight of this hole

gave Maya a thought. Untying the cord which she had brought with her,

she made it fast through the hole, and, having fixed the torch into

one of the spaces hollowed to hold the timbers of the stairway, she

slid down the bank till she stood breast high in the water.

For a minute or more she remained thus, drinking her fill and enjoying

the coolness of her bath, which was pleasing after the stupefying heat

of the caves, then, first having taken care to remove the tinder that

was tied to it, she slipped the water-skin from her shoulder, washed

it out, filled and replaced it. Next she dragged herself up the bank,

and by the light of a new torch started for the foot of the shaft.

Here Maya rested awhile, gathering up her energies, then, feeling that

once more she began to grow afraid, she commenced the ascent. There

were a hundred and one of the notches, for she had counted them as she

came down, and now again she began to count, so that she might know

her exact position in the shaft, of which she could see nothing

because of the intense darkness. Before she had ascended fifty steps

she was dismayed to find a feeling of weariness taking possession of

her, which forced her to pause awhile hanging to the face of the pit.

Then she went on again and with great efforts reached the

seventy-fifth step, where once more she was obliged to hang, gaining

breath, till a pain in her right leg, upon which most of her weight

rested, warned her that she must stay no longer. For the third time

she struggled upwards, desperately and despairingly dragging her feet

from niche to niche. Her breath came in gasps, the straps of the heavy

water-skin cut into her tender flesh, and her brain began to reel.

Now there were but ten more steps. It came into her mind that she

might save herself by loosing the burden of water from her shoulders,

to fall to the bottom of the pit, but this she would not do. Now only

three niches remained and the goal would be won, but now also her

brain was giving. Darker and more bewildered it grew, yet by a

desperate effort she kept some fragment of her sense. Her foot was in

the topmost hole, her body was balanced upon the edge of the pit, and,

pulled down by the choking weight of the water, she was like to fall

backwards. Then it seemed that a voice called her, and for the last

time she struggled, writhing forward as does a wounded snake, till

darkness closed in upon her mind.

When Maya recovered a while later, she found that she was lying on the

edge of the shaft, over which her feet still hung. Instantly she

remembered all, and, with a little scream of terror, drew herself

along the floor. Then with difficulty, for she was still breathless,

and her muscles seemed to have no strength, she rose to her feet, and

having felt for and picked up her linen robe, she crept towards the

spot of light which marked the entrance to the cave. Presently she was

through it, and with a sigh of thankfulness sank to the earth and put

on her garment, then, rising, she walked slowly towards the camp,

bearing the precious water with her.

Meanwhile, knowing nothing of all this, I, Ignatio, also had been

thinking. I remembered how, when I lay crushed beneath the rock, the

se�or had ventured his life to save me. Should I not then venture mine

to save his? It seemed so. Without water he would certainly die, and

greatly as I dreaded to attempt the descent of the cueva, yet it

must be done. Leaving the hammock, I searched for the Lady Maya, but

could not find her, so I called aloud—“Se�ora, se�ora. Where are you,

se�ora?”

“Here,” she answered. “What is it? Is he dead?”

“No,” I said, “but I am sure that unless he has water he will die

within little more than an hour. Therefore I have made up my mind to

try to descend the cueva. Will you be so good as to watch the se�or

till I return, and if I return no more, as is probable, to tell your

father what has happened. He will find the talisman of the Broken

Heart lying with my clothes at the mouth of the pit. I pray that he

will take it, and I pray also that he should travel back to Mexico,

bearing with him some of the wealth of his city, there to continue the

great work that I have begun, of which I have spoken to him. Farewell,

se�ora.”

“Stop, Don Ignatio,” said Maya in a hoarse voice, “there is no need

for you to descend the cueva.”

“Why not, Lady? I should be glad to escape the task, but this is a

question of life or death.”

“Yes,” she answered, “and because it is a question of life or death,

Don Ignatio, I have already climbed that hideous place, and—here is

the water”—and she fell forward and swooned upon the ground.

I said nothing. I was too much amazed, and, indeed, too much ashamed,

to speak. Lifting Maya’s senseless form, I placed her in a hammock

that was slung close by. Then I took the water-skin and a leather cup,

and ran with it to my friend’s side. By now the se�or was lost in a

coma and lay still, only moaning from time to time. Undoing the mouth

of the skin, I poured out a cupful of water, with which I began to

sprinkle his brow and to moisten his cracked lips. At the touch and

smell of the fluid a change came over the face of the dying man, the

empty look left it, and the eyes opened.

“That was water,” he muttered, “I can taste it.” Then he saw the cup,

and the sight seemed to give him a sudden strength, for he stretched

out his arms and, snatching it from my hand, he drained it in three

gulps.

“More,” he gasped, “more.”

But as yet I would give him no more, though he prayed for it

piteously, and when I did allow him to drink again it was in sips

only. For an hour he sipped thus till at length even his thirst was

partially satisfied, and the shrunken cheeks began to fill out and the

dull eyes to brighten.

“That water has saved my life,” he whispered; “where did it come

from?”

“I will tell you to-morrow,” I answered; “sleep now if you can.”

CHAPTER XIII

IGNATIO’S OATH

At sunrise on the following day I lit a fire by which to prepare soup

for the se�or, who still slept, and as I was engaged thus I saw the

Lady Maya walking towards me, and noticed that her hands and feet were

swollen.

“Se�ora,” I said, bowing before her, “I humbly congratulate you upon

your courage and your escape from great dangers. Last night I said

words to you in my grief that should not have been spoken, for it is

my fault that I am apt to be unjust to women. I crave your pardon, and

I will add that if, in atonement for my past injustice, I can serve

you in any way now and afterwards, I pray you to command me.”

She listened and answered:

“I thank you for your kind words, Don Ignatio, and I forget other

words that were not kind which you have spoken to me from time to

time. If in truth you wish to show yourself my friend, it is in your

power to do so. You have guessed my secret, therefore I am not ashamed

to repeat that the se�or yonder has become everything to me, though as

yet I may be little to him. I ask you, then, to swear upon the Heart

that you will do nothing to turn him from me, or to separate us should

he ever learn to love me, but rather, should this come about, that

whatever may be our need, you will help us by all means in your

reach.”

“You ask me to swear a large oath, se�ora, and one that deals with the

future, of which we have no knowledge,” I answered, hesitating.

“I do, se�or, but remember that were it not for me at this moment your

friend, who sleeps yonder like a child, would be stiff in death.

Remember also that you have ends to gain in the City of the Heart,

where it will be well for you to keep me as a friend should we ever

live to reach it. Still, do not swear unless you wish, only then I

shall know that you are my secret enemy and I shall be yours.”

“There is no need to threaten me, se�ora,” I answered, “nor am I to be

moved thus, but I promise that I will not stand between you and the

se�or. Why should I? His will is his own, and, as you say, you saved

his life. But see, he awakes, and his soup is ready.”

She took the pot off the fire, skimmed it, and poured the contents

into a gourd.

“Shall I take it, or will you?” she asked.

“I think that you had better take it,” I answered.

Then she walked to the hammock and said, “Se�or, here is your soup.”

He was but newly awakened, and looked at her vacantly.

“Tell me, Maya,” he asked, “what has happened?”

“Last evening,” she began, “in picking a flower for me you were bitten

by a snake, and very nearly died.”

“I know,” he answered. “Without doubt I should have died had you not

sucked the wound and tied a bandage round my wrist, for that grey

snake is the deadliest in the country. Go on.”

“After the danger of the poison was past you became thirsty, so

thirsty that you were dying of it, and there was no water to give

you.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, “it was agony; I pray that I may never suffer so

again. But I drank water and lived. Who brought it to me?”

“My father started on to the next camping-place, where there is a

pool,” she answered.

“Has he returned?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then he cannot have brought the water. Where did it come from?”

“It came from the cueva, that cave which we examined before you were

bitten.”

“Who went down the cueva to get it? The place is unclimbable.”

“I went down.”

“You!” he said, in amazement. “You! It is not possible. Do not jest.

Tell me the truth quickly. I am tired.”

“I am not jesting. Listen, se�or. You were dying for want of water,

dying before our eyes; it was horrible to see. I could not bear it,

and I knew that my father would not be back in time, so I took the

water-skin and some torches and went without saying anything to

Ignatio. The shaft was hard to climb, and the adventure strange. I

will tell you of that by and by, but as it chanced I came through it

safely to find Ignatio about to start on the same errand.”

The se�or heard and understood, but he made no answer; he only

stretched out his arms towards her, and there and thus in the

wilderness did they plight their troth.

“Remember that I am but an Indian girl,” she murmured presently, “and

you are one of the white lords of the earth. Is it well that you

should love me?”

“It is well,” he answered, “for you are the noblest woman that I have

known, and you have saved my life.”

Zibalbay did not return till past midday, when he appeared with the

water, leading the mule, which had set its foot upon a sharp stone in

the desert and gone lame.

“Does he still live?” he asked of Maya.

“Yes, father.”

“He must be strong, then,” he whispered; “I thought that thirst would

have killed him ere now.”

“He has had water, father. I descended the cueva and fetched it,”

she added, after a moment’s pause.

The old man looked at her amazed.

“How came it that you found courage to go down that place, daughter?”

he asked at length.

“The desire to save a friend gave me courage,” she answered, letting

her eyes fall beneath his gaze. “I knew that you could not be back in

time, so I went.”

Zibalbay pondered awhile, then said:

“I think that you would have done better to let him die, daughter, for

I believe that this white man will bring trouble upon us. It has

pleased the gods to preserve you alive; remember, then, that your life

belongs to them, and that you must follow the path which they have

chosen, not that which you would choose for yourself. Remember also

that one waits you in the city yonder who may have a word to say as to

your friendship with this wanderer.” And he passed on with the mule.

That same evening Maya told me of her father’s words and said:

“I think that before all is done I shall need the help that you have

sworn to give me, se�or, for I can see well that my father will be

against me unless my wish runs with his purpose. Of one thing I am

sure, that my life is my own and not a possession of the gods; for in

such gods as my father worships and I was brought up to serve, I have

lost faith, if indeed I ever had any.”

“You speak rashly,” I answered, “and if you are wise you will not let

your father hear such words.”

“Lest by and by my life should be forfeit to the gods whom I

blaspheme!” she broke in. “Say, then, do you believe in these gods,

Don Ignatio?”

“No, Lady, I am a Christian and have no part with idols or those who

worship them.”

“I understand; it is only in their wealth that you would have part.

Well, and why should I not become a Christian also? I have learned

something of your faith from the se�or yonder, and see that it is

great and pure, and full of comfort for us mortals.”

“May grace be given to you to follow in that road, Lady, but it is not

Christian to taunt me about the wealth which I come to seek for the

advantage of our race, seeing that you know I ask nothing for myself.”

“Forgive me,” she answered, “my tongue is sharp—as yours has been at

times, Don Ignatio. Hark! the se�or calls me.”

For two more days we rested there by the cueva till the se�or was

fit to travel, then we started on again. Ten days we journeyed across

the wilderness, following the line of the ancient road, and meeting

with no traces of man save such as were furnished by the familiar

sight of ruined pyramids and temples. On the eleventh we began to

ascend the slope of a lofty range of mountains that pushed its flanks

far out into the desert-land, and on the twelfth we reached the

snow-line, where we were obliged to abandon the three mules which

remained to us, seeing that no green food was to be found higher up,

and the path became too steep for them to find a footing in it. That

night we slept, with little to eat, in a hole dug in the snow, wrapped

in our serapes, or, rather, we tried to sleep, for our rest was

broken by the cold, and the moaning of bitter and mysterious winds

which sprang up and passed away suddenly beneath a clear sky; also,

from time to time, by the thunder of distant avalanches rushing from

the peaks above.

“How far must we travel up this snow?” I asked of Zibalbay, as we

stood shivering in the ashy light of the dawn.

“Look yonder,” he answered, pointing to where the first ray of the sun

shone upon a surface of black rock far above us; “there is the highest

point, and we should reach it before nightfall.”

Thus encouraged we pushed forward for hour after hour, Zibalbay

marching ahead in silence, until our sight was bewildered with

snow-blindness, and I was seized with a fit of mountain sickness.

Fortunately the climbing was not difficult, so that by four in the

afternoon we found ourselves beneath the shadow of the wall of black

rock.

“Must we scale that precipice?” I asked of Zibalbay.

“No,” he answered, “it would not be possible without wings. There is a

way through it. Twice in the old days bodies of white men searching

for the Golden City to sack it, came to this spot, but, finding no

path through the cliff, they went home again, though their hands were

on the door.”

“Does the wall of rock encircle all the valley of the city?” asked the

se�or.

“No, White Man, it ends many days’ journey away to the west, but he

who would travel round it must wade through a great swamp. Also the

mountains may be crossed to the east by journeying for three days

through snows and down precipices; but so far as I have learned only

one man lived to pass them, a wandering Indian, who found his way to

the banks of the Holy Waters in the days of my grandfather. Now, stay

here while I search.”

“Are you glad to see the gateway of your home, Maya?” asked the se�or.

“No,” she answered, almost fiercely, “for here in the wilderness I

have been happy, but there sorrow awaits me and you. Oh! if indeed I

am dear to you, let us turn even now and fly together back to the

lands where your people live,” and she clasped his hand and looked

earnestly into his eyes.

“What,” he answered, “and leave your father and Ignatio to finish the

journey by themselves?”

“You are more to me than my father, though perhaps the solemn Ignatio

is more to you than I am.”

“No, Maya, but having come so far I wish to see the sacred city.”

“As you will,” she said, letting fall his hand. “See, my father has

found the place and calls us.”

We walked on for about a hundred paces, threading our path through

piles of boulders that lay at the foot of the precipice till we came

to where Zibalbay stood, leaning against the wall of rock in which we

could see no break or opening.

“Although I trust you, and, as I believe, heaven has brought us

together for its own purposes,” said the old cacique, “yet I must

follow the ancient custom and obey my oath to suffer no stranger to

see the entrance to this mountain gate. Come hither, daughter, and

blindfold these foreigners.”

She obeyed, and as she tied the handkerchief about the se�or’s face I

heard her whisper,

“Fear not, I will be your eyes.”

Then we were taken by the hand, and led this way and that till we were

confused. After we had walked some paces, we were halted and left

while, as we judged from the sounds, our guides moved something heavy.

Next we were conducted down a steep incline, through a passage so

narrow and low that our shoulders rubbed the sides of it, and in parts

we were obliged to bend our heads. At length, after taking many sharp

turns, the passage grew wider and the path smooth and level.

“Loose the bandages,” said the voice of Zibalbay.

Maya did so, and, when our eyes were accustomed to the light, we

looked round us curiously to find that we stood at the bottom of a

deep cleft or volcanic rift in the rock, made not by the hand of man

but by that of Nature working with her tools of fire and water. This

cleft—along which ran a road so solidly built and drained that, save

here and there where snowdrifts blocked it, it was still easily

passable after centuries of disuse—did not measure more than forty

paces from wall to wall. On either side of it towered sheer black

cliffs, honeycombed with doorways that could only have been reached by

ladders.

“What are those?” I asked of Zibalbay. “Burying-places?”

“No,” he answered, “dwelling-houses. They were there, so say the

records, before our forefathers founded the City of the Heart, and in

them dwelt cave-men, barbarians who fed on little and did not feel the

cold. It was by following some of these cave-men through that passage

which we have passed that the founder of the ancient city discovered

this cleft and the good country and great lake that lie beyond it,

where the rock-dwellers, whom our forefathers killed out, used to live

in the winter season. Once, when I was young, with some companions I

entered these caves by means of ropes and ladders, and found many

strange things there, such as stone axes and rude ornaments of gold,

relics of the barbarians. But let us press on, or night will overtake

us in the pass.”

By degrees the great cleft, that had widened as we walked, began to

narrow again till it appeared to end in a second wall of rock.

Passing round a boulder that lay at the foot of this wall, Zibalbay

led the way into a tunnel behind it.

“Do not fear the darkness,” he said, “the passage is short and there

are no pitfalls.”

So we followed the sound of his footsteps through the gloom, till

presently a spot of light appeared before us, and in another minute we

stood on the further side of the mountain, though we could see nothing

of the place because of the falling shadows.

Without pausing, Zibalbay pushed on down the hill, and, suddenly

turning to the right, stopped before the door of a house built of hewn

stone.

“Enter,” he said, “and welcome to the country of the People of the

Heart.”

As the door was thrown open, light from the fire within streamed

through it, and a man’s voice was heard asking, “Who is there?”

Without answering, Zibalbay walked into the room. It was a low vaulted

apartment, and at a table placed before the great fire which burnt

upon the hearth sat a man and a woman eating.

“Is this the way that you watch for my return?” he asked in a stern

voice. “Haste now and make food ready for we are starved with cold and

hunger.”

The man, who had risen, stood hesitating, but the woman, whose

position enabled her to see the face of the speaker, caught him by the

arm, saying,

“Down to your knees, husband. It is the cacique come back.”

“Pardon,” cried the man, taking the hint; “but to be frank, O lord, it

has been so dinned in my ears down in the city yonder, that neither

you nor the Lady of the Heart would ever return again, that I thought

you must be ghosts. Yes, and so they will think in the city, where I

have heard that Tikal rules in your place.”

“Peace,” said Zibalbay, frowning heavily. “We left robes here, did we

not? Go, lay them out in the sleeping-chambers, and with them others

for these my guests, while the woman prepares our meat.”

The man bowed, stretching out his arms till the backs of his hands

touched the ground. Then, taking an earthenware lamp from a side

table, he lit it and disappeared behind a curtain, an example which

the woman followed after she had rapidly removed the dishes that were

upon the table, and fed the fire with wood.

When they were gone we gathered round the hearth to bask in the luxury

of its warmth.

“What is this place?” asked the se�or.

Zibalbay, who was wrapped in his own thoughts, did not seem to hear

him, and Maya answered,

“A poor hovel that is used as a rest-house and by hunters of game, no

more. These people are its keepers, and were charged to watch for our

return, but they seem to have fulfilled their task ill. Pardon me, I

go to help them. Come, father.”

They went, and presently the se�or awoke from a doze induced by the

delightful warmth of the fire, to see the custodian of the place

standing before him staring at him in amazement not unmixed with awe.

“What is the matter with the man, and what does he want, Ignatio?” he

asked in Spanish.

“He wonders at your white skin and fair hair, se�or, and says that he

does not dare to speak to you because you must be one of the

Heaven-born of whom their legends tell, wherefore he asks me to say

that water to wash in and raiment to put on have been made ready for

us if we will come with him.”

Accordingly we followed the Indian, who led us into a passage at the

back of the sitting-chamber, and thence to a small sleeping-room, one

of several to which the passage gave access. In this room, which was

lit by an oil lamp, were two bedsteads covered with blankets of

deerskin and cotton sheets, and laid upon them were fine linen robes,

and serapes made in alternate bands of grey and black feathers,

worked on to a foundation of stout linen. Standing upon wooden stools

in a corner of the room, and half-filled with steaming water, were two

basins, which the se�or noticed with astonishment were of hammered

silver.

“These people must be rich,” he said to me so soon as the keeper of

the place had gone, “if they fashion the utensils of their rest-houses

of silver. Till now this story of the Sacred City of which Zibalbay

was cacique, and Maya heiress apparent, has always sounded like a

fairy tale to me, but it seems that it is true after all, for the

man’s manner shows that Zibalbay is a very important person.”

Then we put on the robes that had been provided for our use, not

without difficulty, since their make was strange to us, and returned

to the eating-room. Presently the curtain was drawn, and the Lady Maya

joined us—the Lady Maya, but so changed that we started in

astonishment.

Different, indeed, was she to the ill-clad and travel-stained girl who

had been our companion for so many weeks. Now she was dressed in a

robe of snowy white, bordered with embroidery of the royal green, and

having the image of the Heart traced in gold thread upon the breast.

On her feet were sandals, also worked in green, while round her

throat, wrists, waist, and ankles shone circlets of dead gold. Her

dark hair no longer fell loose about her, but was twisted into a

simple knot and confined in a little golden net, and from her

shoulders hung a cloak of pure white feathers, relieved here and there

by the delicate yellow plumes of the greater egret.

“Like you I have changed my garments,” she said in explanation. “Is

the dress ugly, that you look astonished?”

“Ugly!” answered the se�or, “I think it is the most beautiful that I

ever saw.”

“This is the most beautiful dress that you ever saw! Why, friend, it

is the simplest that I have. Wait till you see me in my royal robes,

wearing the great emeralds of the Heart; what will you say then, I

wonder?”

“I cannot tell, but I say now that I don’t know which is the most

lovely, you or your dress.”

“Hush!” she said, laughing, yet with a note of earnestness in her

voice. “You must not speak thus freely to me. Yonder in the pass,

friend, I was the Indian girl your fellow-traveller; here I am the

Lady of the Heart.”

“Then I wish that you had remained the Indian girl in the pass,” he

answered, after a pause, “but perhaps you jest.”

“I was not altogether jesting,” she answered, with a sigh, “you must

be careful now, or it might be ill for you or me, or both of us, since

by rank I am the greatest lady in this land, and doubtless my cousin,

Tikal, will watch me closely. See! here comes my father.”

As she spoke Zibalbay entered, followed by the two Indians bearing

food. He was simply dressed in a white toga-like robe similar to that

which had been given to the se�or and myself. A cloak of black

feathers covered his shoulders, and round his neck was hung a massive

gold chain to which was attached the emblem of the Heart, also

fashioned in plain gold.

We noticed that, as he came, his daughter, Maya, made a courtesy to

him, which he acknowledged with a nod, and that whenever they passed

him the two Indians crouched almost to the ground.

Evidently the friendship of our desert journeying was done with, and

the person of whom we had hitherto thought and spoken as an equal must

henceforth be treated with respect. Indeed the proud-faced,

white-bearded chief seemed so royal in his changed surroundings that

we were almost moved to follow the example of the others, and bow

whenever he looked at us.

“The food is ready,” said Zibalbay, “such as it is. Be seated, I beg

of you. Nay, daughter, you need not stand before me. We are still

fellow-wanderers, all of us, and ceremony can stay till we are come to

the City of the Heart.”

Then we sat down and the Indians waited on us. What the dishes

consisted of we did not know, but after our long privations it seemed

to us that we had never eaten so excellent a meal, or drunk anything

so good as the native wine which was served with it. Still,

notwithstanding our present comfort, I think the se�or’s heart misgave

him, and that he had presentiments of evil. Maya and he still loved

one another, but he felt that things were utterly changed, as she

herself had shown him. While they wandered, in some sense he had been

the head of the party, as, to speak truth, among companions of a

coloured race a white man is always acknowledged to be by right of

blood. Now things were changed, and he must take his place as an alien

wanderer, admitted to the country upon sufferance, and already this

difference could be seen in Zibalbay’s manner and mode of address.

Formerly he had called him “se�or,” or even “friend;” to-night, when

speaking to him, he used a word which meant “foreigner,” or “unknown

one,” and even myself he addressed by name without adding any title of

respect.

One good thing, however, we found in this place, who had lacked

tobacco for six weeks and more, for presently the Indian entered

bearing cigarettes made by rolling the herb in the thin sheath that

grows about the cobs of Indian corn.

“Come hither, you,” said Zibalbay to the Indian, when he had handed us

the cigarettes. “Start now to the borders of the lake and advise the

captain of the village of the corn-growers that his lord is returned

again, commanding him in my name to furnish four travelling litters to

be here within five hours after sunrise. Warn him also to have canoes

in readiness to bear us across the lake, but, as he values his life,

to send no word of our coming to the city. Go now and swiftly.”

The man bowed, and, snatching a spear and a feather cloak from a peg

near the door, vanished into the night, heedless of the howling wind

and the sleet that thrashed upon the roof.

“How far is it to the village?” asked the se�or.

“Ten leagues or more,” Zibalbay answered, “and the road is not good,

still if he does not fall from a precipice or lose his life in a

snowdrift, he will be there within six hours. Come, daughter, it is

time for us to rest, our journey has been long, and you must be weary.

Good-night to you, my guests, to-morrow I shall hope to house you

better.” Then, bowing to us, he left the room.

Maya rose to follow his example, and, going to the se�or, gave him her

hand, which he touched with his lips.

“How good it is to taste tobacco again,” he said as Maya went. “No,

don’t go to bed yet, Ignatio, take a cigarette and another glass of

this agua ardiente, and let us talk. Do you know, friend, it seems

to me that Zibalbay has changed. I never was a great admirer of his

character, but perhaps I do not understand it.”

“Do you not, se�or? I think that I do. Like some Christian priests the

man is a fanatic, and like myself, a dreamer. Also he is full of

ambition and tyrannical, one who will spare neither himself nor others

where he has an end to gain, or thinks that he can promote the welfare

of his country and the glory of his gods. Think how brave and earnest

the man must have been who, at the bidding of a voice or a vision,

dared in his old age, unaccompanied save by his only child, to lay

down his state and travel almost without food through hundreds of

leagues of bush and desert, that none of his race had crossed for

generations. Think what it must have been to him who for many years

has been treated almost as divine, to play the part of a medicine-man

in the forests of Yucatan, and to suffer, in his own person and in

that of his daughter, insults and torment at the hands of low white

thieves. Yet all this and more Zibalbay has borne without a murmur

because, as he believes, the object of his mission is attained.”

“But, Ignatio, what is the object of his mission, and what have we to

do with it? To this hour I do not quite know.”

“The object of his mission, and indeed of his life, is to build up the

fallen empire of the City of the Heart. In short, se�or, though I do

not believe in his gods, in Zibalbay’s visions I do believe, seeing

that they have led him to me, whose aim is his aim, and that neither

of us can succeed without the other.”

“Why not?”

“Because I need wealth and he needs men; and if he will give me the

wealth, I can give him men in thousands.”

“I hear,” answered the se�or. “It sounds simple enough, but perhaps

you will both of you find that there are difficulties in the way. What

I do not understand, however, is what part Maya and I are to play in

this affair, who are not anxious to regenerate a race or to build up

an empire. I suppose that we are only spectators of the game.”

“How can that be, se�or, when she is Lady of the Heart and heiress to

her father, and when,” I added, dropping my voice, “you and she have

grown so dear to one another?”

“I did not know that you had noticed anything of that, Ignatio. You

never seemed to observe our affection, and, as you hate women so much,

I did not speak of it,” he answered, colouring.

“I am not altogether blind, se�or. Also, is it possible for a man not

to know when a woman comes between him and the friend he loves? But of

that I will say nothing, for it is as it should be; besides, you might

scarcely understand me if I did. No, no, se�or, you cannot be left out

of this game, you are too deep in it already, though what part you

will play I cannot tell. It depends, perhaps, upon what the gods

reveal to Zibalbay, or what he guesses that they reveal. At present he

is well disposed towards you because he thinks that the oracle may

declare you to be the son of Quetzal through whom his people shall be

redeemed, since it seems that here there is some such prophecy, and

for this reason it is that he has not forbidden the friendship between

you and his daughter, or so he hinted to me. But be warned, se�or; for

if he comes to know that you are not the man, then he will sweep you

aside as of small account, and you may bid farewell to the Lady of the

Heart.”

“I will not do that while I live,” he answered quietly.

“No, se�or, perhaps not while you live, but those who stand in the

path of priests and kings do not live long. Still, though there is

cause to be cautious, there is no cause to be down-hearted, seeing

that if you are not the man, I may be, in which case I shall be able

to help you, as I have sworn to the Lady Maya that I will do, or

perhaps you will be able to help me.”

“At any rate, we will stand together,” said the se�or. “And now, as

there is no use in talking of the future, I think that we had better

go to sleep. Of one thing, however, you may be certain—unless she

dies, or I die, I mean to marry Maya.”

CHAPTER XIV

THE CITY OF THE HEART

While it was yet dark on the following morning we were awakened by the

voice of Zibalbay calling us.

“Arise,” he said; “it is time to start upon our road.”

“Are the litters here?” I asked.

“No, nor can be for some hours. I desire to reach the city this night,

therefore we must push forward on foot to meet them.”

Then we rose, and, having no choice, dressed ourselves as best we

could in the garments of the country that had been given to us, for

our own were but rags, in which we were ashamed to be seen. In the

common room we found Zibalbay and the Lady Maya.

“Eat,” said the old man, pointing to food that was ready, “and let us

be going.”

Ten minutes later we were outside the house. There was no wind, but at

this great height the air is of so piercing a quality that we were

glad to fold our serapes round us and walk briskly forward, Zibalbay

leading the way. At first a grey gloom reigned, but presently snowy

peaks shone through it, everywhere radiant with the hues of the

unrisen sun, although the mountain sides beneath us were still wrapped

in night. By degrees, as the light grew, we saw that the country at

our feet was shaped like a bowl, whereof the mountain range upon which

we stood formed the rim, and at the bottom of the bowl, fed by

numberless streams that had their sources among the surrounding snows,

lay the lake, the Holy Waters of this people. Of all this, however, we

could as yet see little, since the vast expanse beneath us lay hidden

in volumes of mist that moved and rolled like the face of ocean. Never

before had we looked upon anything so strange as this dense garment of

vapour while the light of heaven gathered upon its surface, tingeing

it with lines and patches of colour. It seemed as though a map of the

world was unrolled before us—continents, seas, islands, and cities

formed themselves, only to disappear in quick succession, and assume

new and endless shapes.

“It is beautiful, is it not?” said Maya. “But wait until the mist

breaks. Look, it is beginning!”

As she spoke, of a sudden the sea of mist grew thin and opened in its

centre, and through the gap thus formed showed first the pyramids and

temple tops, and then the entire panorama of the city Heart of the

World, floating, as it were, upon the face of the Holy Waters. It was

far away, but, now that the night fog no longer thickened the air, so

clear was the atmosphere and so high were we above it, that it seemed

to be almost at our feet. The city, which appeared to be surrounded by

a wall, was built of marble or some other snow-white stone, whereon

the light gleamed and flashed. It stood upon a heart-shaped island,

and round about the shores of this island, stretching further than the

eye could reach, sparkled the blue waters of the Holy Lake. By degrees

the ring of mist rolled up the sides of the mountains and vanished,

and in place of it the round bowl of the valley was filled with the

clear light of day. Now we could see the shores of the lake, with

their green fringe of reeds; and above them grass lands threaded by

silver streams; and above these again, upon the flanks of the

mountains, great forests of oak and cedars rising almost to the snow

line. To the right and left of us the huge, round-shouldered mountains

stretched in a majestic sweep till they melted into the blue of the

horizon, while here and there some tall, snow-robed peak, the cone of

an extinct volcano, towered above us like a sentinel.

“There lies my country,” said Maya, with a proud wave of her hand;

“does it please you, white man?”

“It pleases me so well, Maya,” he answered, “that now less than ever

can I understand why you wish to leave it.”

“Because, though lakes and mountains and cities full of wealth are

fine things, it is not to these, but to the men and women among whom

we live, that we must look for happiness.”

“Some people might think otherwise, Maya. They might say that

happiness must be sought for in ourselves. At least I could be happy

in such a land as this.”

“You think so now,” she answered, meaningly, “but when you have been

awhile in the city yonder, you will think otherwise. Oh!” she went on,

passionately, “if, indeed, you care for me, we should never have

crossed that mountain behind us. But you do not care for me—not

truly; for all this time you have been half ashamed of your affection

for an Indian girl whom you were obliged to become fond of, because

she was pretty and you were so much with her, and she chanced to save

your life. Yes, you would have been ashamed to marry me according to

your customs, and to show me as your wife among the white people—me,

the wandering Indian with a mad father whom you found in the hands of

thieves. Here it will be different, for here at least I am a great

lady, and you will see the people in the streets bow themselves to the

ground before me; and if I say that a man shall die, you will see that

man killed. Also here I have wealth more than any white woman, and you

will be fond of me for that–-”

“You are very unjust,” he broke in, angrily; “it is shameful that you

should speak to me thus for no cause.”

“Perhaps I am unjust,” she answered with a sob, “but there are so many

troubles before us. First there is Tikal–-”

“What does Tikal want?” asked the se�or.

“He wants to marry me, or to become cacique of the city in my right,

which is the same thing; at least he will not give me up without a

struggle. Then there is my father, who serves two masters only—his

gods and his country—and who will use me like a piece in a game if it

suits his purpose—yes, and you too. Our good days are done with, the

evil ones have to come, and after them—the night. Henceforward we

shall find few opportunities of speaking, even, for I shall be

surrounded by officers and waiting-ladies who will watch my every

action and hear my every word, and my father will watch me also.”

“Now I begin to be sorry that I did not take your advice and stop on

the further side of the mountain,” answered the se�or. “Do you think

that we could escape there?”

“No, it is too late—they would track us down; we must go on now and

meet our fate, whatever it may be. Only swear to me by my gods, or

your own, or whatever you hold dear, that you will cleave to me till I

am dead, as I will cleave to you.” And, taking his hand in hers, she

looked up appealingly into his face.

At this moment Zibalbay, who was walking in front, lost in his own

thoughts, chanced to turn and see them.

“Come hither, daughter, and you, White Man,” he said, in a stern

voice. “Listen, both of you—I am old, but my sight and hearing are

still keen, though yonder in the wilderness I took no heed of much

that I saw and heard. Here in my own land it is otherwise. Learn,

White Man, that the Lady of the Heart is set far above you, and there

I think she will remain. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Perfectly,” answered the se�or, striving to control his anger; “but,

Chief, it is a pity that you did not see well to tell me this before.

Had it not been for what we and one dead were able to do to save you,

to-day your bones would have been whitening in the forest. Why did you

not tell me there that I was no fit company for your daughter?”

“Because you were sent by the gods to do me service, and because there

I had need of you, White Man,” answered Zibalbay quietly, “as may be I

shall have need of you again. Had it not been for that chance, we

should have parted company on the further side of the mountain.”

“In truth I wish that we had!” exclaimed the se�or.

“I may come to wish it, too,” said the old man grimly. “But you are

here and not there, perhaps for so long as you shall live, and I would

have you remember that you are in my power. A word from me will set

you high or lay you low beneath the earth; therefore be warned and

take with gratitude that which it shall please me to give you. No, do

not look behind you—escape is impossible. Submit yourself to my will

in this and everything, and all shall be well with you; struggle

against it and I will crush you. I have spoken: be pleased to walk in

front of me, and do you, my daughter, walk behind.”

Now I saw that the se�or’s rage was great, and that he was about to

answer angrily, and lifted my hand in warning, while Maya looked at

him entreatingly. He saw, and checked himself.

“I hear your words, Chief,” he said, in a forced voice. “You are

right, I am in your power, and it is useless for me to answer you,”

and he took his place in front as he had been commanded, while Maya

fell behind.

As I walked on, side by side with Zibalbay, I spoke to him, saying:

“You use sharp words towards him who is my brother, Chief, and

therefore towards me.”

“I speak as I must,” he answered, coldly. “Many troubles await me at

the city. Did you not hear what that knave said last night—that

Tikal, my nephew, whom I left in charge, rules in my stead? Well, this

girl of mine, who is affianced to him, and through whom he hopes to

govern in after years, may be the only bait that will tempt him from

his place, for he looks upon me as one dead, and it will not please

him to lay down the rod of power. How should it please him then, and

those who follow him, to see a white stranger holding that daughter’s

hand, and whispering in her ear. Ignatio, I tell you that such a sight

would provoke a war against me, and therefore it is that I spoke

sharply while there is yet time, and therefore you will do well to

drive the nail home, seeing that if I fall your plans will come to

nothing, and your life be forfeit.”

I made no answer, for at that moment we turned a corner, and came face

to face with the bearers of the litters whom Zibalbay had summoned to

meet us.

There were forty of these men or more; for the most part they were

tall and well shaped, with regular features, and, like Zibalbay and

Maya, very fair for Indians, but the look upon their faces was

different from any that I have seen among my people. It was not stupid

or brutal, or even empty; rather did it suggest great weariness. The

youngest man there, notwithstanding his rounded cheeks and eyes full

of health, seemed as though he were weighed down by the memories of

many years. Weariness was the master, not of their bodies, for they

were very strong and active, but of their minds; and, looking at them,

I could understand what Zibalbay meant when he said that his race was

outworn. Even the sight of the white face of the se�or, strange as it

must have been to them, did not seem to move them. They stared indeed,

muttering something to each other as to the length and colour of his

beard, and that was all.

But to Zibalbay they said, in low, guttural tones, “Father, we salute

you,” then, at a signal given by their captain, they cast themselves

on the ground before him, and lay there with outstretched arms as

though they were dead.

“Rise, my children,” said Zibalbay. Then, summoning the captain of the

bearers, he talked to him while his companions ate food that they had

brought with them, and I noted that what he heard seemed to give him

little pleasure. Next he ordered us to enter the litters, which were

of rude make, being constructed of chairs without curtains, lashed

between two poles, and carried, each of them, by eight bearers, for

the road was very steep and rough.

We started forward down the mountain, and in an hour we had left the

region of snow behind, and entered the cedar forests. These great

trees grew in groups, which were separated by glades of turf, the home

of herds of deer. So thick was their foliage that a twilight reigned

beneath them, while from each branch hung a fringe of grey Spanish

moss that swayed to and fro in the draught of the mountain breeze.

Everywhere stretched vistas that brought to my mind memories of the

dimly-lighted nave of the great cathedral at Mexico, roofed by the

impenetrable boughs of these cedars, whereof the trunks might have

been supporting columns and the scent of their leaves the odour of

incense.

After the cedar belt came the oak groves, and then miles of beautiful

turf slopes, clothed in rich grass starred with flowers. Truly it was

a lovely land. It was late in the afternoon before we descended the

last of these slopes and entered the tract of alluvial soil that lay

between them and the lake, where the climate was much warmer. It was

easy to see by the irrigation ditches and other signs that this belt

of country had always supplied the inhabitants of the City of the

Heart with corn and all necessary crops. Here grew great groves of

sugar-cane, and cocoa-bushes laden with their purple pods, together

with many varieties of fruit-trees planted in separate orchards. Soon

it became clear to us that the greater part of these ancient orchards

were untended, since their fruit rotted in heaps upon the ground.

Evidently they had been planted in more prosperous days, and now their

supply exceeded the wants of the population.

At length, as the evening began to fall, we entered the village of

corn-growers, a half-ruined place of which the houses were for the

most part built of adobe or mud bricks, and roofed with a concrete

of white lime. In the centre of the village was a plaza, planted

round with trees, and having in its midst a fountain, near to which

stood a simple altar, piled with fruit and flowers. Close to this

altar the inhabitants of the village, to the number of a hundred or

so, were gathered to meet us. Most of the men had but just come in

from their labours, for their garments and feet were stained with

fresh earth, and they held copper hoes and reaping-hooks in their

hands. All these men wore upon their faces the same look of weariness

of mind which we had noticed in the bearers. So monotonous were their

countenances, indeed, that I turned my eyes impatiently to the group

of women who were standing behind them. Like their husbands and

brothers, these women were very fair for Indians, and handsome in

person, but they also had been stamped with melancholy. The sight of

the se�or’s white skin and chestnut-coloured beard seemed for some few

moments to rouse them from their attitude of listless indifference.

Soon, however, they fell into it again, and began to chat idly, or to

play with and pull to pieces the flowers that every one of them wore

at her girdle. There were hardly any children among the crowd, and it

was strange to observe how great was the resemblance of the

individuals composing it to each other. Indeed, had they all been

members of a single family it would not have been more marked, seeing

that it was difficult for a stranger to distinguish one woman from

another of about the same age.

When Zibalbay descended from his litter, all those present prostrated

themselves, and remained thus till, followed by some of the headmen,

he had passed into a house which was made ready for his use, leaving

us without.

“Do all your people look so sad?” I asked the Lady Maya.

“Yes,” she answered, “that is, all the common people who labour. It is

otherwise with the nobles, who are of a different blood. Here, Don

Ignatio, there are two classes, the lords and the people, and of the

people each family is forced to work for three months in the year, the

other nine being given to them for rest. The fruits of their labour

are gathered into storehouses and distributed among all the Children

of the Heart, but the temples, the cacique, and many of the nobles

have their own serfs who have served them from father to son.”

“And what happens if they will not work?” asked the se�or.

“Then they must starve, for nothing is served out to them or their

families from the common store, and when they grow hungry they are set

to the heaviest tasks.”

Now we understood why these people looked so weary and listless. What

could be expected from men and women without ambition or

responsibility, the gain of whose toil was placed to the public credit

and doled out to them in rations? In my old age I have heard that

there are teachers who advocate such a system for all mankind, but of

this I am sure, that had they dwelt among the People of the Heart,

where it had been in force for many centuries, they would cease to

preach this doctrine, for there, at least, it did not promote the

welfare of the race.

Presently a messenger came from Zibalbay to summon us into the house,

where we found an ample meal prepared, consisting chiefly of fish from

the lake, baked wild-fowl, and many sorts of fruit. By the time we had

finished eating and had drunk the chocolate that was served to us in

cups of hammered silver, the night had fallen completely. I asked

Zibalbay if we should sleep there, to which he replied shortly that we

were about to start for the city. Accordingly we set out by the light

of the moon and were guided to a little harbour in the shore of the

lake, where a large canoe, fitted with a mast and sail, and manned by

ten Indians, was waiting for us. We embarked, and, the wind being off

land, hoisted the sail and started towards the Island of the Heart,

which stood at a distance of about fifteen miles from the mainland.

The breeze was light, but after the cold of the mountains the air was

so soft and balmy, and the scene so new and strange, that I, for one,

did not regret our slow progress. Nobody spoke in the boat, for all of

us were lost in our own reflections, and the Indians were awed to

silence by the presence of their lord, who alone seemed impatient,

since from time to time he pulled his beard and muttered to himself.

So we glided across the blue lake, whose quiet was broken only by the

whistling wings of the wild-fowl travelling to their feeding grounds,

by the sudden leaps of great fish rising in pursuit of some nightfly,

and by the lapping of the water against the wooden sides of the canoe.

Before us, luminous and unearthly in the perfect moonlight, shone the

walls and temples of the mysterious city which we had travelled so far

to reach. We watched them growing more and more distinct minute by

minute, and, as we watched, strange hopes and fears took possession of

our hearts. This was no dream: before us lay the fabled golden town we

had so longed to see; soon our feet would pass its white walls and our

eyes behold its ancient civilisation.

“What waits us there?” whispered the se�or, and he looked at Maya. She

heard his words and shook her head sadly. There was no hope in her

eyes, which were dimmed with tears. Then he turned to me as though for

comfort, and the easy fires of enthusiasm burnt up within me and I

answered:

“Fear not, the goal is won, and we shall overcome all difficulty and

danger. The useless wealth of yonder Golden City will be ours, and by

its help I shall wreak the stored-up vengeance of ages upon the

oppressors of my race, and create a great Indian Dominion stretching

from sea to sea, whereof this city shall be the heart.”

He heard and smiled, answering:

“It may be so; for your sake, I trust that it will be so; but we seek

different ends, Ignatio,” and he looked again at the Lady Maya.

On we glided, through the moonlight and the silence, for from the town

came no sound, save the cry of the watchmen, calling the hours, as

they kept their guard along the ancient walls, till at length we

entered the shadow of the Holy City lying dark upon the waters, and

the Indians, getting out their paddles (for the wind no longer served

us), rowed the canoe up a stone-embanked canal that led to a

watergate.

Now we halted in front of the gate, where there was no man to be seen.

In an impatient voice, Zibalbay bade the captain hail the guardian of

the gate, and presently a man came down the steps yawning, and

inquired who was there.

“I, the cacique,” said Zibalbay. “Open.”

“Indeed! That is strange,” answered the man, “seeing that this night

the cacique holds his marriage-feast at the palace yonder, and there

is but one cacique of the People of the Heart! Get back to the

mainland, wanderers, and return in the day-time, when the gates stand

wide.”

Now when Zibalbay heard these words, he cursed aloud in his anger, but

Maya started as though with joy.

“I tell you that I am Zibalbay, come home again, your lord, and no

other,” he cried, “and you will be wise to do my bidding.”

The man stared, and hesitated, till the captain of the boat spoke to

him, saying:

“Fool, would you become food for fishes? This is the Lord Zibalbay,

returned from the dead.”

Then he hastened to open the gate, as fast as his fear would let him.

“Pardon, father, pardon,” he cried, prostrating himself, “but the Lord

Tikal, who rules in your place, has given it out that you were dead in

the wilderness, and commanded that your name should be spoken no more

in the city.”

Zibalbay swept by him without a word. When he had passed up the marble

steps, and through the water-way, pierced in the thickness of the

frowning walls, he halted, and, addressing the captain of the boatmen,

said:

“Let that man be scourged to-morrow at noon in the market-place, that

henceforth he may learn not to sleep at his post!”

On the further side of the wall ran a wide street, bordered by

splendid homes built of white stone, which led to the central square

of the city, a mile or more away. Up this street we walked swiftly and

in silence, and as we went I noticed that much of it was grass-grown,

and that many of the great houses seemed to be deserted; indeed,

though light came from some of the latticed window-places, I could see

no sign of any human being.

“Here is the city,” whispered the se�or to me, “but where are the

people?”

“Doubtless they celebrate the wedding-feast in the great square,” I

answered. “Hark, I hear them.”

As I spoke the wind turned a little, and a sound of singing floated

down it, that grew momentarily clearer as we approached the square.

Another five minutes passed and we were entering it. It was a wide

place, covering not less than thirty acres of ground, and in its

centre, rising three hundred feet into the air, gleamed the pyramid of

the Temple of the Heart, crowned by the star of holy fire that

flickered eternally upon its summit. In the open space between the

walls of the inclosure of this pyramid and the great buildings that

formed the sides of the square, the inhabitants of the city were

gathered for their midnight feast. All were dressed in white robes,

while many wore glittering feather capes upon their shoulders and were

crowned with wreaths of flowers. Some of them were dancing, some of

them were singing, while others watched the tricks of jugglers and

buffoons. But the most of their number were seated round little tables

eating, drinking, smoking, and making love, and we noticed that at

these tables the children seemed the most honourable guests, and that

everybody petted them and waited on their words. Nothing could be more

beautiful or stranger to our eyes than this innocent festival

celebrated beneath the open sky and lighted by the moon. Yet the sight

of it did not please Zibalbay.

Along the side of the square ran an avenue of trees bearing white

flowers with a heavy scent, and Zibalbay motioned to us to follow him

into their shadow. Many of the tables were placed just beyond the

spread of these trees, so that he was able to stop from time to time

and, unseen himself, to listen to the talk that was passing at them.

Presently he halted thus opposite to a table at which sat a man of

middle age and a woman young and pretty. What they said interested

him, and we who were close by his side understood it, for the

difference between the dialect of these people and the Maya tongue is

so small that even the se�or had little difficulty in following their

talk.

“The feast is merry to-night,” said the man.

“Yes, husband,” answered his companion, “and so it should be, seeing

that yesterday the Lord Tikal was elected cacique by the Council of

the Heart, and to-day he was wedded in the presence of the people to

Nahua the Beautiful, child of the Lord Mattai.”

“It was a fine sight,” said the man, “though for my part I think it

early to proclaim him cacique. Zibalbay might yet come back, and

then–-”

“Zibalbay will never come back, husband, or the Lady Maya either. They

have perished in the wilderness long ago. For her I am sorry, because

she was so lovely and different from other great ladies; but I do not

grieve much for him, for he was a hard taskmaster to us common people;

also he was stingy. Why, Tikal has given more feasts during the last

ten months than Zibalbay gave in as many years; moreover, he has

relaxed the laws so that we poor women may now wear ornaments like our

betters;” and she glanced at a gold bracelet upon her wrist.

“It is easy to be generous with the goods of others,” answered the

man. “Zibalbay was the bee who stored; Tikal is the wasp who eats.

They say that the old fellow was mad, but I do not believe it. I think

that he was a greater man than the rest of us, that is all, who saw

the wasting of the people and desired to find a means to stop it.”

“Certainly he was mad,” answered the woman. “How could he stop the

wasting of the people by taking his daughter to wander in the

wilderness till they died of starvation, both of them. If anybody

dwells out yonder it is a folk of white devils of whom we have heard,

who kill and enslave the Indians, that they may rob them of their

wealth, and we do not desire that such should be shown the way to our

city. Also, what does it matter to us if the people do waste away? We

have all things that we wish, those who come after must see to it.”

“Yet, wife, I have heard you say that you desired children.”

Suddenly the woman’s face grew sad.

“Ah!” she answered, “if Zibalbay will give me a child I will take back

all my words about him, and proclaim him the wisest of men, instead of

what he is, or rather was—an old fool gone crazy with vanity and too

much praying. But he is dead, and if he were not he could never do

this; that is beyond the power of the gods themselves, if indeed the

gods are anything but a dream. So what is the use of talking about

him; let me enjoy the feast that Tikal gives us, husband, and do not

speak of children, lest I should weep, and learn to hate those of my

sisters who have been blest with them.”

Then at a sign from Zibalbay we moved on, but Maya, hanging back for a

moment, whispered:

“Look at my father’s face. Never have I seen him so angry. Yet these

tidings are not altogether ill,” and she glanced at the se�or.

Now Zibalbay walked on swiftly, pulling at his beard and muttering to

himself, till we came to a great archway where two soldiers armed with

copper spears stood on guard, chatting with women in the crowd that

gathered round the open door, and eating sweetmeats which they offered

them. Zibalbay covered his face with the corner of his robe, and,

bidding us do likewise, began to walk through the archway, whereupon

the two soldiers, crossing their spears, demanded his name and title.

“By whose orders do you ask?” said Zibalbay.

“By order of our lord, the cacique, who celebrates his

marriage-feast with the nobles his guests,” answered one of them.

“Say, are you of their number who come so late?”

Then Zibalbay uncovered his face and said:

“Look at me, man. Did I command you to shut my own doors against me?”

He looked and gasped: “It is the cacique come home again!”

“How, then, do you say that you keep the doors by order of the

cacique? Can there be two caciques in the City of the Heart?”

asked Zibalbay in a bitter voice, and, without waiting for an answer,

he walked on, followed by the three of us, into the plaza or

courtyard of the palace, where many fountains splashed upon the marble

pavement.

Passing beneath a colonnade and through an open doorway whence light

flowed, of a sudden we found ourselves in a great and wonderful

chamber, a hundred feet or more in length, having a roof of panelled

cedar, supported by a double row of wooden columns exquisitely carved,

between which were set tables laden with fruit and flowers,

drinking-vessels, and other ornaments of gold. The walls also were

cedar-panelled, and hung over with tapestries worked in silver, and

ranged along them stood grotesque images of dwarfs and monkeys,

fashioned in solid gold, each of which held in its hand a silver lamp.

At the far end of this place was a small table, and behind it, seated

upon throne-like chairs, were a man and a woman, having an armed guard

on either side of them.

The man was magnificently dressed in a white robe, broidered with the

symbol of the Heart, and a glittering feather cloak. Upon his brow was

a circlet of gold, from which rose a panache, or plume, of green

feathers, and in his hand he held a little golden sceptre tipped with

an emerald. He was of middle height, very stoutly built, and about

five-and-thirty years of age, having straight black hair that hung

down upon his shoulders. In face he was handsome, but forbidding, for

his dark eyes shone with a strange fire beneath the beetling brows,

and his powerful mouth and chin wore a sullen look that did not leave

them even when he smiled. The lady at his side was also beautifully

attired in white bridal robes, broidered with silver, and having the

royal Heart worked upon her breast, while on her brow, arms, and bosom

shone strings of emeralds. She was young and tall, with splendid eyes

and a proud, handsome face, somewhat marred, however, by the heaviness

of the mouth, and it was easy to see that she loved the husband at her

side, for all her looks were towards him.

Between us and this royal pair stretched the length of the great hall,

filled with people—for the most of the feasters had left their

seats—so splendidly attired and so bright with the flash of gems and

gold that for a few moments our eyes were dazzled. The company, who

may have numbered two or three hundred, stood in groups with their

backs towards us, leaving a clear space at the far end of the chamber,

where beautiful women, in filmy, silken robes adorned with flowers and

turquoises, were singing and dancing to the sound of pipes before the

bride and bridegroom on the throne.

CHAPTER XV

HOW ZIBALBAY CAME HOME

For a while we stood unnoticed in the shadow of the doorway, observing

this strange and beautiful scene, till, as Zibalbay was about to

advance towards the throne, the Lord Tikal held up his sceptre as a

signal, and suddenly the women ceased from their dance and song. At

the sight of the uplifted sceptre, Zibalbay halted again and drew back

further into the shadow, motioning us to do likewise. Then Tikal began

to speak in a rich, deep voice that filled the hall:

“Councillors and Nobles of the Heart,” he said, “and you, high-born

ladies, wives and daughters of the nobles, hear me. But yesterday, as

you know, I took upon myself the place and power of my forefathers,

and by your wish and will I was proclaimed the sole chief and ruler of

the People of the Heart. Now I have bidden you to my marriage feast,

that you may grace my nuptials and share my joy. For be it known to

you that to-night I have taken in marriage Nahua the Beautiful,

daughter of the High Lord Mattai, Chief of the Astronomers, Keeper of

the Sanctuary, and President of the Council of the Heart. Her, in the

presence of you all, I name as my first and lawful wife, the sharer of

my power, and your ruler under me, who, whate’er betide, cannot be put

away from my bed and throne, and as such I call upon you to salute

her.”

Then, ceasing from his address, he turned and kissed the woman at his

side, saying:

“Hail! to you, Lady of the Heart, whom it has pleased the gods to lift

up and bless. May children be given to you, and with them happiness

and power for many years.”

Thereon the whole company bowed themselves before Nahua, whose fair

face flushed with pride and joy, and repeated, as with one voice:

“Hail! to you, Lady of the Heart, whom it has pleased the gods to lift

up and bless. May children be given to you, and with them happiness

and power for many years.”

“Nobles,” went on Tikal, when this ceremony was finished, “it has come

to my ears that there are some who murmur against me, saying that I

have no right to the ancient sceptre of cacique which I hold in my

hand this night. Nobles, I have somewhat to say to you of this matter,

that to-morrow, after the sacrifice, I shall repeat in the ears of the

common people, and I say it having consulted with my Council, the

masters of the mysteries of the Heart. To-morrow a year will have gone

by since Zibalbay, my uncle, who was cacique before me, and his only

child and heiress of his rank and power, the Lady Maya, my affianced

bride, left the city upon a certain mission. Before they departed upon

this mission, it was agreed between Zibalbay, Maya, the Lady of the

Heart, myself, and the Council, the Brotherhood of the Heart, that I

should rule as next heir during the absence of Zibalbay and his

daughter, and that if they should not return within two years, then

their heritage should be mine for ever. To this agreement I set my

name with sorrow, for then, as now, I held that my uncle was mad, and

in his madness went to doom, taking with him his daughter whom I

loved. Yet when they were gone I fulfilled it to the letter; but

trouble arose among the people, for they will not listen to the voice

of one who is not their anointed lord, but say, ‘We will wait until

Zibalbay comes again and hear his command upon these matters.’

“Also, Zibalbay being absent, there was no high priest left in the

land, so that until a successor was raised up to him, certain of the

inmost mysteries of our worship must go uncelebrated, thus bringing

down upon us the anger of the Nameless god. So it came about that many

pressed it on me that for the sake of the people and the welfare of

the city, I should shorten the period of my regency and suffer myself

to be anointed. But, remembering my promise, I answered them sharply,

saying that I would not depart from it by a hair’s breadth, and that,

come what might, two full years must be completed before I sat me down

in the place of my fathers.

“To this mind, then, I held till three days since, when those of the

people to whose lot it fell in turn to pass to the mainland, there to

cultivate the fields that are apportioned to the service of the

temple, refused to get them to their labour, declaring that the high

priest alone had authority over them, and there was no high priest in

the city. Then in my perplexity I took counsel with the Lord Mattai,

Master of the Stars, and he consulted the stars on my behalf. All

night long he searched the heavens, and he read in them that Zibalbay,

who, led by a lying dream, broke the laws of the land and wandered

across the mountains, has paid the price of his folly, and is dead in

the wilderness, together with his daughter that was my affianced and

the Lady of the Heart. Is it not so, Mattai?”

Now the person addressed, a stout man with a bald head, quick,

shifting eyes, and a thick and grizzled beard, stepped forward and

said, bowing,

“If my wisdom is not at fault, such was the message of the stars, O

lord.”

“Nobles,” went on Tikal, “you have heard my testimony and the

testimony of Mattai, whose voice is the voice of truth. For these

reasons I have suffered myself to be anointed and set over you as your

ruler, seeing that I am the heir of Zibalbay by law and by descent.

For these reasons also—she to whom I was affianced being dead—I have

taken to wife Nahua the daughter of Mattai. Say, do you accept us?”

Some few of the company were silent, but the rest cried:

“We accept you, Tikal and Nahua, and long may you rule over us

according to the ancient customs of the land.”

“It is well, my brethren,” answered Tikal. “Now, before we drink the

parting-cup, have any of you ought to say to me?”

“I have something to say to you,” cried Zibalbay in a loud voice from

the shadows wherein we stood at the far end of the hall.

At the sound of his voice, the tones of which he seemed to know, Tikal

started and rose in fear, but, recovering himself, said:

“Advance from the shadow, whoever you are, and say your say where men

may see you.”

Turning to his daughter and to us, Zibalbay bade us follow him, and do

as he did. Then, veiling his face with a corner of his robe, he walked

up the hall, the crowd of nobles and ladies opening a path till we

stood before the throne. Here he uncovered himself, as we did also,

and standing sideways, so that he could be seen both by Tikal and all

that company, he opened his lips to speak. Before a word could pass

them a cry of astonishment broke from the nobles, and of a sudden the

sceptre fell from the hand of Tikal and rolled along the floor.

“Zibalbay!” said the cry. “It is Zibalbay come back, or the ghost of

him, and with him the Lady of the Heart!”

“Aye, nobles,” he said, in a quiet voice, although his hand shook with

rage, “it is I, Zibalbay, your lord, come home, and not too soon, as

it would seem. What, my nephew, were you so hungry for my place and

power, that you must break the oath you swore upon the Heart, and

seize them before the appointed time? And you, Mattai, have you lost

your skill, or have the gods smitten you with a curse, that you

prophesy falsely, saying that it was written in the stars that we who

are alive were dead, thereby lifting up your daughter to the seat of

the Lady of the Heart. Nay, do not answer me. Standing yonder I have

heard all your story. I say to you, Tikal, that you are a foresworn

traitor, and to you, Mattai, that you are a charlatan and a liar, who

have dared to use the holy art for your own ends, and the advancement

of your house. On both of you will I be avenged—aye, and on all those

who have abetted you in your crimes. Guards, seize that man, and the

Lord Mattai with him, and let them be held fast till I shall judge

them.”

Now the soldiers that stood on either side of the thrones hesitated

for a moment, and then advanced towards Tikal as though to lay hands

upon him in obedience to Zibalbay’s order. But Nahua rose and waved

them off, saying:

“What! dare you to touch your anointed lord? Back, I say to you, if

you would save yourselves from the doom of sacrilege. Living or dead,

the day of Zibalbay is done, for the Council of the Heart has set his

crown upon the brow of Tikal, and, whether for good or ill, their

decree cannot be changed.”

“Aye!” said Tikal, whose courage had come back to him. “The Lady Nahua

speaks truth. Touch me not if you would live to look upon the sun.”

But all the while he spoke his eyes were fixed upon Maya, whose

beautiful face he watched as though it were that of some lost love

risen from the dead.

Now, as Zibalbay was about to speak again, Mattai the astronomer bowed

before him and said:

“Be not angry, but hear me, my lord. You have travelled far, and you

are weary, and a weary man is apt at wrath. You think that you have

been wronged, and, doubtless, all this that has chanced is strange to

you, but now is not the time for us to give count of our acts and

stewardship, or for you to hearken. Rest this night; and to-morrow on

the pyramid, in the presence of the people, all things shall be made

clear to you, and justice be done to all. Welcome to you, Zibalbay,

and to you also, Daughter of the Heart—and say, who are these

strangers that you bring with you from the desert lands across the

mountains?”

Zibalbay paused awhile, looking round him out of the corners of his

eyes, like a wolf in a trap, for he sought to discover the temper of

the nobles. Then, finding that there were but few present whom he

could trust to help him, he lifted his head and answered:

“You are right, Mattai, I am weary; for age, travel, and the

faithlessness of men have worn me out. To-morrow these matters shall

be dealt with in the presence of the people, and there, before the

altar, it shall be made known whether I am their lord, or you, Tikal.

There, too, I will tell you who these strangers are, and why I have

brought them across the mountains. Until then I leave them in your

keeping, for your own sake charging you to keep them well. Nay, here I

will neither eat nor drink. Do you come with me,” and he called to

certain lords by name whom he knew to be faithful to him.

Then, without more words, he turned and left the hall, followed by a

number of the nobles.

“It seems that my father has forgotten me,” said Maya, with a laugh,

when he had gone. “Greeting to you all, friends, and to you, my cousin

Tikal, and greeting also to your wife, Nahua, who, once my

waiting-lady, by the gift of fortune has now been lifted up to take my

place and title. Whatever may be the issue of these broils, may you be

happy in each other’s love, Tikal and Nahua.”

Now Tikal descended from the throne and bowed before her, saying, “I

swear to you, Maya–-”

“No, do not swear,” she broke in, “but give me and my friends here a

cup of wine and some fragments from your wedding-feast, for we are

hungry. I thank you. How beautiful is that bride’s robe which Nahua

wears, and—surely—those emeralds were once my own. Well, let her

take them from me as a wedding-gift. Make room, I pray you, Tikal, and

suffer these ladies to tell me of their tidings, for remember that I

have wandered far, and it is pleasant to see faces that are dear to

me.”

For a while we sat and ate, or made pretence to eat, while Maya talked

thus lightly and all that company watched us, for we were wonderful in

their eyes, who never till now had seen a white man. Indeed, the sight

of the se�or, auburn-haired, long-bearded, and white-skinned, was so

marvellous to them, that, unlike the common people, they forgot their

courtesy and crowded round him in their amazement. Still, there were

two who took small note of the se�or or of me, and these were Tikal,

who gazed at Maya as he stood behind her chair serving her like some

waiting slave, and Nahua his wife, who sat silent and neglected on her

throne, sullenly noting his every word and gesture. At length she

could bear this play no longer, but, rising from her seat, began to

move down the chamber.

“Make room for the bride, ladies,” said Maya. “Cousin, good-night, it

grows late, and your wife awaits you.”

Then, muttering I know not what, Tikal turned and went, and side by

side the pair walked down the great hall, followed by their guard of

soldiers.

“How beautiful is the bride, and how brave the groom!” said Maya, as

she watched them go, “and yet I have seen couples that looked happier

on their wedding-day. Well, it is time to rest. Friends, good-night.

Mattai, I leave these strangers in your keeping. Guard them well—and,

stay, bring them to my apartments to-morrow after they have eaten, for

if it is my father’s will, I would show them something of the city

before the hour of noon, when we meet upon the temple-top.”

When she had gone, Mattai bowed to us with much ceremony, and begged

us to follow him, which we did, across the courtyard and through many

passages, to a beautiful chamber, dimly lighted with silver lamps,

that had been made ready for us. Here were beds covered with silken

wrappings, and on a table in the centre of the room cool drinks and

many sorts of fruits, but so tired were we that we took little note of

these things.

Bidding good-night to Mattai, who looked at us curiously and announced

that he would visit us early in the morning, we made fast the copper

bolts upon the door and threw ourselves upon the beds.

Weary as I was, I could not sleep in this strange place, and when,

from time to time, my eyes closed, the sound of feet passing without

our chamber door roused me again to wakefulness. Of one thing I was

sure, that Zibalbay was not wanted here in his own city, and that

there would be trouble on the morrow when he told his tale to the

people, for certainly Tikal would not suffer himself easily to be

thrust from the place he had usurped, and he had many friends.

Doubtless it was their feet that I heard outside the door as they

hurried to and fro from the chamber where Mattai sat taking counsel

with them. What would be our fate, I wondered, in this struggle for

power that must come? These people feared strangers—so much I could

read in their faces—and doubtless they would be rid of us if they

might. Well, we had a good friend in Maya, and the rest we must leave

to Providence.

Thinking thus, at length I fell asleep, to be awakened by the voice of

the se�or, who was sitting upon the edge of his bed, singing a song

and looking round the chamber, for now the daylight streamed through

the lattice. I wished him good-morrow, and asked him why he sang.

“Because of the lightness of my heart,” he answered. “We have reached

the city at last, and it is far more splendid and wonderful than

anything I dreamed of. Also the luck is with us, for this Tikal has

taken another woman in marriage, who, to judge from the look of her,

will not readily let him go, and therefore Maya has no more to fear

from him. Thirdly, there is enough treasure in this town, if what we

saw last night may be taken as a sample, to enable you to establish

three Indian Empires, if you wish, and doubtless Zibalbay will give

you as much of it as you may want. Therefore, friend Ignatio, you

should sing, as I do, instead of looking as gloomy as though you saw

your own coffin being brought in at the door.”

I shook my head, and answered:

“I fear you speak lightly. There is trouble brewing in this city, and

we shall be drawn into it, for the struggle between Tikal and Zibalbay

will be to the death. As for the Lady Maya, of this I am certain,

that—wife or no wife—Tikal still loves her and will strive to take

her; I saw it in his eyes last night. Lastly, it is true enough that

here there is boundless wealth; but whether its owners will suffer me

to have any portion of it, to forward my great purposes—useless

though it be to them—is another matter.”

“There was a man in the Bible called Job, and he had a friend named

Eliphaz—I think you are that friend come to life again, Ignatio,”

answered the se�or, laughing. “For my part, I mean to make the best of

the present, and not to trouble myself about the future or the

politics of this benighted people. But hark, there is someone knocking

at the door.”

I rose, and undid the bolt, whereon attendants entered bearing goblets

of chocolate, and little cakes upon a tray. After we had eaten, they

led us to the baths, which were of marble and very beautiful, one of

them being filled with water from a warm spring, and then to a

chamber, where breakfast was made ready for us. While we sat at table,

Mattai came to us, and I saw that he had not slept that night, for his

eyes were heavy.

“I trust that you have rested well, strangers,” he said courteously.

“Yes, lord,” I answered.

“Well, it is more than I have done, for it is my business to watch the

stars, especially my own star, which just now is somewhat obscured,”

and he smiled. “If you have finished your meal, my commands are to

lead you to the apartments of the Lady Maya, who wishes to show you

something of our city, which, being strangers, may interest you. By

the way, if I do not ask too much, perhaps you will tell me to what

race you belong,” and he bowed towards the se�or. “We have heard of

white men here, though we have learned no good of them, and tradition

tells us that our first ruler, Cucumatz, was of this race. Are you of

his blood, stranger?”

“I do not know,” answered the se�or, laughing. “I come from a cold

country far beyond the sea, where all the men are as I am.”

“Then the inhabitants of that country must be goodly to behold,”

answered Mattai gravely. “I thank you for your courtesy, Son of the

Sea, in answering my question so readily. I did not ask it from

curiosity alone, since the people in this city are terrified of

strangers, and clamour for some account of you.”

“Doubtless our friend Zibalbay will satisfy them,” I said.

“Good. Now be pleased to follow me”—and Mattai led us across courts

and through passages till we reached a little ante-room filled with

ancient carvings and decorated with flowers, where some girls stood

chatting.

“Tell the Lady Maya that her guests await her,” said Mattai, then

turned to take his departure, adding, in a low voice, “doubtless we

shall meet at noon upon the pyramid, and there you will see I know not

what; but, whatever befalls, be sure of this, strangers, that I will

protect you if I can. Farewell.”

One of the girls vanished through a doorway at the further end of the

chamber, and, having offered us seats, the others stood together at a

little distance, watching us out of the corners of their eyes.

Presently the door opened, and through it came Maya, wearing a silken

serape that covered her head and shoulders, and looking very sweet

and beautiful in the shaded light of the room.

“Greetings, friends,” she said, as we bowed before her. “I have my

father’s leave to show you something of this city that you longed so

much to see. These ladies here will accompany us, and a guard, but we

shall want no litters until we have ascended the great temple, for I

desire that you should see the view from thence before the place is

cumbered with the multitude. Come, if you are ready.”

Accordingly we set out, Maya walking between us, while her guards and

ladies followed after. Crossing the square, which had been the scene

of the festival of the previous night, but now in the early morning

was almost deserted, we came to the inclosure of the courtyard of the

pyramid, a limestone wall worked with sculptures of hunting scenes,

relieved by a border of writhing snakes, and at intervals by emblems

of the Heart. At the gateway of this wall we paused to contemplate the

mighty mass of the pyramid that towered above us. There is one in the

land of Egypt that is bigger, so said the se�or, although he believed

this to be a more wonderful sight because of its glittering slopes of

limestone, whose expanse was broken only by the vast stair that ran up

its eastern face from base to summit.

“It is a great building,” said Maya, noting our astonishment, “and one

that could not be reared in these days. Tradition says that

five-and-twenty thousand men worked on it for fifty years—twenty

thousand of them cutting and carrying the stone, and five thousand

laying the blocks.”

“Where did the material come from, then?” asked the se�or.

“Some of it was hewn from beneath the base of the temple itself,” she

answered, “but the most was borne in big canoes from quarries on the

mainland, for these quarries can still be seen.”

“Is the pyramid hollow, then?” I asked.

“Yes, in it are many chambers, for the most part store and treasure

houses, and beneath its base lie crypts, the burying-place of the

caciques, their wives, and children. There also is the Holy

Sanctuary of the Heart, which you, being of the Brotherhood, may

perhaps be permitted to visit. Come, let us climb the stair”—and she

led us across the courtyard to the foot of a stairway forty feet or

more in breadth, which ran to the platform of the pyramid in six

flights, each of fifty steps, and linked together by resting-places.

Up these flights we toiled slowly, followed by the ladies and the

guard, till at length our labour was rewarded, and we stood upon the

dizzy edge of the pyramid. Before us was a platform bordered by a low

wall, large enough to give standing room to several thousand people.

On the western side of this platform stood a small marble house, used

as a place to store fuel, and as a watch-tower by the priests, who

were on duty day and night, tending the sacred fire which flared in a

brazier from its roof. Sitting in front of it, was a small altar

wreathed with flowers, but for the rest the area was empty.

“Look,” said Maya.

The city beneath us was built upon a low, heart-shaped island, so

hollow in its centre that once it might have been the crater of some

volcano, or perhaps a mere ridge of land inclosing a lagoon. This

island measured about ten miles in length by six across at its widest,

and seemed to float like a huge green leaf upon the lake, the Holy

Waters of these Indians, of which the circumference is so great that

even from the summit of the pyramid, a few small and rocky islets

excepted, land was only visible to the north, whence we had sailed on

the previous night. Elsewhere the eye met nothing but blue expanses of

inland sea, limitless and desolate, unrelieved by any sail or sign of

life. Amidst these waters the island gleamed like an emerald. Here

were gardens filled with gorgeous flowers and clumps of beautiful

palms and willows, framed by banks of dense green reeds that grew in

the shallows around the shores. So luxuriant was the vegetation,

fertilised year by year with the rich mud of the lake, and so lovely

were the trees and flowers in the soft light of the morning, that the

place seemed like a paradise rather than a home of men; and as was the

island, so was the city that was built upon one end of it.

Following the lines of the land upon which it stood, it was

heart-shaped—a heart of cold, white marble lying within a heart of

glowing green. All about it ran a moat filled with water from the

lake, and on the hither side of this moat stood a wall fifty feet or

more in height, built of great blocks of white limestone that formed

the bed-rock of the island, which wall was everywhere sculptured with

allegorical devices and designs, and the gigantic figures of gods.

Within the oblong of this wall lay the city; a city of palaces,

pyramids, and temples, or rather the remains of it, for we could see

at a glance that the population was unable to keep so many streets and

edifices in repair. Thus palm-trees were to be found growing through

the flat roofs of houses, and in crevices of the temple-pyramids,

while many of the streets and avenues were green with grass and ferns,

a narrow pathway in the centre of them showing how few were the feet

of the passers-by. Even in the great square beneath us the signs of

traffic were rare, and there was little of the bustle of a people

engaged in the business of life, although this very place had been the

scene of last night’s feast, and would again soon be filled with men

and women flocking to the pyramid. Now and again some graceful,

languid girl, a reed basket in her hand, might be seen visiting the

booths, where rations of fish from the lake, or of meal, fruit, dried

venison, and cocoa, were distributed according to the wants of each

family. Or perhaps a party of men, on their way to labour in the

gardens, stopped to smoke and talk together in a fashion that showed

time to be of little value to them. Here and there also a few—a very

few—children played together with flowers for toys in the shadow of

the palaces, barracks, and storehouses which bordered the central

square; but this was all, for the rest the place seemed empty and

asleep.

CHAPTER XVI

ON THE PYRAMID

“Does not the city lie very low?” I asked of Maya, when we had studied

the prospect on every side. “To my eye its houses seem almost upon a

level with the waters of the lake.”

“I believe that is so,” she answered. “Moreover, during those months

of the year that are coming, the surface of the lake rises many feet,

so that the greater portion of the island is submerged, and the water

stands about the wall.”

“How, then, do you prevent the town from being flooded?” asked the

se�or. “If once the water flowed in, the place would vanish and every

soul be drowned.”

“Yes, friend, but the waters never rise beyond a certain height, and

they are kept from flooding the city by the great sluice-gate. If that

gate were to be opened in the time of inundation, then we should

perish, every one. But it never is opened during those months, for if

any would leave or enter the city they do so by means of ladders

leading from the summit of the wall to floating landing-stages on the

moat beneath. Also night and day the gate is guarded; moreover, it can

be moved from one place only by those that know its secret, who are

few.”

“It seems a strange place to build a city,” answered the se�or. “I do

not think that I should ever sleep sound during the months of

inundation, knowing that my life depended upon a single gate.”

“Yet men have slept safely here for a thousand years or more,” she

said. “Legend tells us that our ancestors who came up from the coast

in ancient days settled on the island and by command of their gods,

choosing this hollow bed of land to build in, so that rather than

submit themselves to foes, as their fathers were forced to do in the

country beyond the mountain, they could, if need were, flood the place

and perish in the water. For this reason it is that the holy sanctuary

of the Nameless god, the Heart of Heaven, is hollowed deep in the rock

beneath us, for the waters of the lake would flow in upon it at a

touch, burying it and all its treasures from the sight of man for

ever. Now, if you have seen enough, I will take you to visit the

public workshops where fish is dried, linen woven, and all other

industries carried on that are necessary to our comfort”—and,

turning, she led the way with her ladies towards the head of the

stairs.

As we drew near to it, however, three men appeared upon the platform,

in one of whom I knew Tikal. Seeing Maya he advanced toward her,

bowing as he came.

“Lady,” he said, “learning that you were here with these strangers, I

have followed you to beg that you will speak with me alone for some

few minutes.”

“That I cannot do, cousin,” she answered coldly, “for who knows what

colour might afterwards be put upon my words. If you have anything to

say to me, say it before us all.”

“That I cannot do,” he replied, “for what I have to say is secret.

Still, for your father’s sake, and perhaps for your own, you will do

well to hear it.”

“Without a witness I will not listen to you, Tikal.”

“Then, Lady, farewell,” he said, and turned to go.

“Stay, cousin. If you fear to speak before our own people, let this

stranger—” and she pointed to me, Ignatio—“be present at our talk.

He is of our blood, and can understand our tongue, a discreet man,

moreover, one of the Brethren of the Heart.”

“One of the Brethren of the Heart? How can a stranger be a Brother of

the Heart? Prove it to me, wanderer.”

And, drawing me aside, he said certain words, which I answered, giving

him the signs.

“Do you agree?” asked Maya.

“Yes, Lady, since I must, though it pleases me little to open my mind

before a stranger. Let us step apart”—and he walked to the centre of

the platform, followed by Maya and myself.

“Lady,” he began, “my business with you is not easy to tell. For many

years we were affianced, and both you and your father promised that we

should be wed when you returned from this journey–-”

“Surely, as things are, cousin, it is needless to discuss the matter

of our betrothal,” she broke in with sarcasm.

“Not altogether needless, Lady,” he answered. “I have much to ask your

pardon for, yet I make bold to ask it. Maya, you know well that I have

loved and love you dearly, and that no other woman has ever been near

my heart.”

“Indeed,” she said with a laugh, “these words sound strange in the

mouth of the new-made husband of Nahua.”

“Perhaps, Lady, and yet they are true. I am married to Nahua, but I do

not love her, though she loves me. It is you whom I love, and when I

saw you yesterday all my heart went out to you, so that I almost hated

the fair bride at my side.”

“Why, then, did you marry her?”

“Because I must, and because I believed you dead, and your father with

you, as did every man in the city. You and Zibalbay being dead, as I

thought, was it wonderful that I should wish to keep the place that

many were plotting to take from me? This could be done in one way

only, by the help of Mattai, the most clever and the most powerful man

in the city, and this was Mattai’s price, that his daughter should

become the Lady of the Heart. Well, she loved me, she is beautiful,

and she has her father’s strength and foresight, so that among all the

ladies in the land there was none more fitted to be my wife.”

“Well, and you married her, and there’s an end. You ask my

forgiveness, and you have it, seeing that it does not befit me to play

the part of a jealous woman. Doubtless time will soften the blow to

me, Tikal,” she added, mockingly.

“There is not an end, Maya, and I come to ask you to-day to renew your

promise that you will be my wife.”

“What, cousin! Having broken your troth, would you now offer me

insult? Do you then propose that I, the Daughter of the Heart, should

be Nahua’s handmaid?”

“No, I propose that when Nahua is put away you should take her place

and your own.”

“How can this be, seeing that the Lady of the Heart cannot be

divorced?”

“If she ceases to be the Lady of the Heart she can be divorced like

any other woman; at the least, love has no laws, and I will find a

way.”

“The way of death, perhaps. No, I will have none of you. Honour has

laws, Tikal, if love has none. Go back to your wife, and pray that she

may never learn how you would have treated her.”

“Is that your last word, Lady?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because more hangs on it than you know. Listen: Very soon all the men

in the city will be gathered on this place to hear your father’s

words, and to decide whether he or I shall rule. See, already they

assemble in the temple square. Promise to be my wife, and in return I

will yield to your father and he shall be master for his life’s days

and have his way in all things. Refuse, and I will cling to power, and

matters may go badly for him, for you, and—” he added threateningly,

“for these strangers, your friends.”

“All this must befall as it chances,” she answered proudly, “I do not

meddle with such questions, nor do your threats move me. If you are so

base as to plot mischief against an old man who has poured benefits

upon you, plot on, and in due time meet with your reward, but for

myself I tell you that I have done with you, and that, come what may,

I will never be your wife.”

“Perhaps you may yet live to take back those words, Lady,” he said in

a quiet voice; then, with a bow of obeisance, he turned and went.

“You have made a dangerous enemy, Lady,” I said, when he was out of

earshot.

“I do not fear him, Ignatio.”

“That is well,” I answered, “but for my part I do. I think that his

plans are ready, and that before this day is done there will be

trouble. Indeed, I shall be thankful if we live to see to-morrow’s

light.”

By this time we had reached the others.

“Are you weary of waiting?” she said to the se�or, giving him a sweet

look as she spoke. “Well, I should have been happier here than I was

yonder. Give me your hand and lead me down the stair, for I am tired.

Ah, friend, did you but know it, I have just dared more for your sake

than I should have done for my own.”

“What have you dared?” he asked.

“That you will learn in due time, if we live long enough, friend,” she

answered, “but, oh! I would that we had never set foot within this

city.”

Two hours had passed, and, following in the train of Zibalbay and

Maya, who walked beside him, once more we found ourselves upon the

summit of the pyramid. Now, however, it was no longer empty, for on it

were collected men to the number of some thousands; indeed, all the

adult male population of the city. On one side of the altar were

seated Tikal, his bride Nahua, who was the only woman there, and some

hundreds of nobles, all of whom, I noted, were armed and guarded by a

body of soldiers that stood behind them. On the other side were many

vacant places; and as Zibalbay, with Maya and all the great company of

followers that he had gathered, advanced to take them, Tikal and every

man present on the pyramid uncovered their heads and bowed in greeting

to him.

After a few moments’ pause, two priests came forward from the

watch-house behind the altar, and, having laid upon it an offering of

fresh flowers, the elder of them, who was robed in pure white, uttered

a short prayer to the Nameless god, the Heart of Heaven, asking that

he would be pleased to accept the gift, and to send a blessing upon

the deliberations of his people here assembled. Then Zibalbay rose to

address the multitude, and I noted that his fierce face was pale and

anxious, and that his hand shook, although his eyes flashed angrily:

“Nobles and people of the City of the Heart,” he began, “on this day a

year ago, I, your hereditary ruler and cacique, and the high-priest

of the Heart of Heaven, left this city on a certain mission. This was

my mission: To find the severed portion of the sacred symbol that lies

in the sanctuary of the temple, the portion that is called Day, which

has been lost for many an age. You know that our race has fallen upon

evil times, and that, year by year, our numbers dwindle, till at

length the end of the people is in sight, seeing that within some few

generations they must die out and be forgotten. You know also the

ancient prophecy, that when once more the two halves of the Symbol of

the Heart, Day and Night, are laid side by side, in their place upon

the altar in the sanctuary, then, from that hour, this people shall

grow great again; and you know how a voice spoke to me, in answer to

my prayers, bidding me, Zibalbay, to wander forth from the country of

the Heart, following the road to the sea, for there I should find that

which was lost.

“Thither, then, having won the permission of my Council, the

Brotherhood of the Heart, I have wandered alone with my daughter, the

Lady Maya, suffering much hardship and danger in my journeyings, and

lo! I have found that which was lost, and brought it back to you, for

here it hangs upon the neck of this Ignatio, who has accompanied me

from the lands beyond the desert.”

Now a murmur of astonishment went up from the multitude, and Zibalbay

paused awhile.

“Of this matter of the finding of the symbol,” he continued, “I will

speak more fully at the proper time, and to those who have a right to

hear it, namely, to the elected Brotherhood of the Heart, in the holy

Sanctuary, on the day of the Rising of Waters, being one of the eight

days in each year on which it is lawful for the Council of the Heart

to meet in the Sanctuary. But first in this hour I will deal with

other questions.

“It is known to you that, when I went upon my mission, I left my

nephew Tikal to sit in my place, it being agreed between us and the

Council that if I should return no more within two years he should

become cacique of the people. I have returned within one year, and I

find this: That already he has allowed himself to be anointed

cacique, and more, that he, who was affianced to my daughter, has

taken another woman to be his wife. Last night with my own ears I

heard him proclaim his treachery in the hall of the palace, and when I

spoke out the bitterness that was in my heart, I, your lord, was met

with threats, and told that Tikal, having been anointed, could not now

be deposed. I use the saying against him. Nobles, have I not been

anointed, and can I then be deposed—I, who am not a traitor to my

master, nor a forswearer of my oaths, as is my nephew yonder?”

Again he paused, and some of the audience, with those who had

accompanied Zibalbay, shouted “No;” but the most of them looked

towards Tikal and were silent. Now Mattai rose from his place behind

Tikal and spoke, saying:

“As one who had to do with the anointing of Tikal to be cacique when

we believed you and the Lady Maya to be dead, I would ask you,

Zibalbay, before we on this side of the altar answer you, to tell us

openly what is the meaning of this journey that you have undertaken,

and for what purpose you have brought these two strangers, who are

named Ignatio and Son of the Sea, with you, in defiance of the ancient

law, which says that he who brings a stranger across the mountains

into the land of the City of the Heart shall die, together with the

stranger.”

Now, when Zibalbay heard this question he started, for he had

forgotten this law, and saw the cunning trap that Mattai had spread

for his feet. Nevertheless he answered boldly, since it was his nature

to be outspoken and straightforward.

“It becomes you ill, Mattai, to question me—you who have proved

yourself a plotter and a lying prophet, reading in the stars that I

and my daughter were dead, while we still draw the breath of life

beneath them. Yet I will answer you, and, scorning subterfuge or

falsehood, set out the whole matter in the hearing of the people, that

they may judge between me, your party, and your master. First, I will

say that I had forgotten the law of which you speak, whereof I have

broken the letter, or, if at any time I remembered it, my necessities

caused me to disregard it. Learn, then, that the stranger Ignatio is

of royal Indian blood, and the holder of that symbol which I went

forth to seek, and that the white man whom you call Son of the Sea is

as a brother to him, and that both of them are of the fellowship of

the Heart, the Lord Ignatio being no less a man than the master of the

order in yonder lands, as I am here. This Lord Ignatio I summoned to

me, and he came. He came, and with his companion, Son of the Sea,

saved me and my daughter from shame and death at the hands of certain

murderers, white men. Then, when we had escaped, we tried each other,

and laid the symbols side by side, and, lo! Day and Night came

together and they were one. Then, also, I told him the story of how it

happened that I was wandering far from my own place, and he told me

what was his purpose and the desire of his life.

“This is his purpose—to break the yoke that the white man has set

upon the neck of the Indians in the far lands, and to build up a

mighty Indian nation stretching from sea to sea, whereof this city,

Heart of the World, shall be the centre and the capital. Then we made

a compact together, a compact that cannot be broken, and it was this:

That the Lord Ignatio, with the white man, his companion, from whom he

will not be separated, should accompany us here, where the symbols

should be set in the appointed place, that the prophecy may be

fulfilled and fortune return to us: That I should give to him so much

as he may need of the treasures which lie useless in our storehouses,

wherewith he may arm troops and bring about his ends, and that in

return he should bring to us what we need far more than gold and

gems—men and women with whom we may intermarry, so that our race,

ceasing to dwindle, may once again multiply and grow great.

“Such, nobles, is our compact, and this is the path which the god who

rules us has pointed out for our feet to tread. Accept it and grow

great—refuse it and perish. For know that not for myself do I speak,

who am old and near to death, but for you and your posterity for ever.

Be not bewildered or amazed, for, though these things are new to you,

it may well chance that after the Council of the Heart has been

celebrated in the Sanctuary on the night of the Rising of Waters, the

god whom we worship, the Nameless god under whose guidance all these

things have come about, will reveal his purpose by the mouth of his

oracle, and show what part these strangers and each of us shall play

in the fate that is to be. Oh! nobles, and my people, let not your

sight be dimmed nor your heart hardened, and put not away the fortune

and the future that lies before you. I have dared much for your sake;

dare a little for your own. Shut your ears and your gates and rise in

rebellion against me, and I tell you that soon there shall remain of

you and of your glorious home scarcely a memory; but be gentle and be

guided by my wisdom and the will of your gods, and your fame and power

shall cover the world; ay! you shall be to what you were as is the sun

in all its glory to some faint and fading star. I have spoken—now

choose.”

He ceased, and for a while there was silence, the silence of amaze,

for the nobles stared each on each, and such of the common people as

were within earshot stood gaping at him with open mouths, since to

them who did not meddle in matters of polity, and, indeed, thought

little for themselves, his words had small meaning. Presently it was

broken, and by Tikal, who sprang from his seat and cried aloud:

“Of a truth they were wise who said that this old man was mad. Have

you heard and understood, O people of the Heart? This is what you must

do to fulfil the will of Zibalbay: First, you must set him in his

place again, giving him all power, and me you must condemn to death or

chains; next, you must pardon him his breaches of the law—the law

that he of all men was bound to keep. Then you must hand over your

treasures—the treasures hoarded by your forefathers for many a

generation—to these wandering thieves whom he has brought with him;

and, lastly, you must open your gates, which have been kept secret for

a thousand years, to other thieves that they shall lead here, to whom,

forsooth, you must give your women in marriage that the race may be

increased. Say, will you do these things, children of the Heart?”

Now all the nobles who stood behind Tikal shouted “Never!” and the

people beyond took up the cry with a voice of thunder, though the most

of them understood little of what was passing.

Tikal held up his hand, and there was silence.

“You will not do them,” he said, “and base indeed were you had you

answered otherwise. What, then, will you do? Tell me, first, whom do

you choose as your ruler, my uncle, who now is mad and would bring you

to shame and ruin; or me, who have sworn to preserve your ancient

laws?”

“We choose you, Tikal, Tikal!” came the answer.

“I thank you,” he cried, “but what then shall be done with this old

man, and those whom he has brought with him to spy out our secrets and

to rob us?”

“Kill them before the altar!” they shouted, waving their swords.

Tikal thought for a moment, then pointed towards us and said,

“Seize those men.”

At his word a hundred or more of the nobles, who evidently had been

instructed to execute his orders, rushed at us suddenly. As they came

across the open space I saw the se�or put his hand to his belt, and

said to him:

“For the love of God! do not strike, for should you touch one of them

they will certainly kill us.”

“That they will do in any case—but as you wish,” he answered.

Then they broke on us. As they came, all those nobles who had followed

Zibalbay to the crest of the pyramid gave way before their rush,

leaving the three of us and the Lady Maya standing alone.

“Cowards!” said Zibalbay, glancing behind him. Then he drew his

machete and with a great shout cut down the foremost of those who

assailed us—a great noble. In another instant the weapon was struck

from him, and the se�or and I were being dragged towards the altar,

followed by Zibalbay and the Lady Maya, upon whom, however, our

assailants laid no hand.

“What shall we do with these men?” cried Tikal again.

And again the nobles answered, “Kill them!”

So they threw us down, and men came at us with swords to make an end

of us, which indeed they would have done quickly, had not the Lady

Maya sprung forward, and, standing over the se�or, cried “Hold!” in so

piercing a voice that they stayed their hands.

“Listen, people of the Heart,” she said, “would you do murder upon

your own holy altar, staining it with the blood of innocent men? You

talk of broken laws. Is there not a law in the city that none can be

put to death except after trial before the cacique and his Council?

Have these men been tried, and if so, by whom? You say that my father,

your lawful ruler, is deposed. If that is so, not Tikal, but I, who am

his heir, rule in his stead, and I have passed no judgment on them.”

Now at her words there was a murmur of mingled doubt and applause, but

Tikal answered her, saying:

“Lady, the law you quote holds good for you, for your father, and for

every citizen of the Heart, however humble; but in the case of these

men it does not hold, for they are wandering strangers and spies, who

can claim no protection from our justice, and therefore it is right

that they should die.”

“It is not right that they should die,” she answered passionately.

“You, Tikal, have usurped my father’s place, and now you would

celebrate the beginning of your rule by a deed of the foulest murder.

I tell you that these men are innocent of all offence. If any are

guilty it is my father and I, and if any should suffer we should

suffer. More,” she went on, with flashing eyes, “if these men to whom

we have sworn safe-conduct must die, then for my part I will die with

them, and whether I pass by your hands or by my own, may the curse of

my blood rest upon you for ever and for ever.”

As she spoke she snatched a knife from her jewelled girdle, and stood

before them, its bare blade glittering in the sunlight, looking so

beautiful and fierce that the nobles fell back from her, and hundreds

of the people applauded, saying:

“Hear the Lady Maya, and obey her. She is cacique, and no other.”

Now Zibalbay, who had covered his eyes with his hands, looked up and

said:

“You are right, daughter. Since the people reject us, and we cannot

even protect our guests, it is best that we should die with them,” and

once more he covered his eyes with his hands.

Then there came a pause and a sound of whispering. I looked up between

the sword-blades which were pointed at my throat, and saw that Nahua

was standing at the side of her lord, and pleading with him. They were

so close to me that my hearing, always keen, being sharpened moreover

by the fear of instant death, enabled me to catch some of their talk.

“She will do what she says,” said Nahua, “and that will be your ruin;

for if her father is hated, she is beloved, and many will arise to

avenge her.”

“Why should she kill herself because of a white wanderer?” he asked.

Nahua shrugged her shoulders, and smiled darkly, as she answered:

“Who can tell; he is her friend, and women have been known to give

their lives for their friends. Do as you will, but if Maya dies I do

not think that we shall live to see another dawn,” and, leaving his

side, she sought her chair again.

Now Tikal looked at the se�or, who was stretched upon the ground

beside me, and seeing that there was hate in his eyes I trembled,

thinking that the end had come, then turned my head aside, and began

to commend my soul to the care of Heaven. As I prayed he spoke,

addressing himself to Maya:

“Lady,” he said, “you have appealed to the law on behalf of these

wanderers, of your father, and of yourself, and by the law you shall

be dealt with. To-morrow the judges shall be chosen, and hold their

court here before the people.”

“It cannot be, Tikal,” she answered calmly, “there is but one court

which can try us four, all of whom are Brethren of the Heart, and that

is the Council of the Heart sitting in the Sanctuary, which assembles

on the eighth day from now, on the night of the Rising of Waters. Is

it not so, nobles?”

“If you are of the number of the Brethren of the Heart, all of you, it

is so,” they answered.

“So be it,” said Tikal; “but till then I must hold you in

safe-keeping. Will it please you to follow Mattai, Lady, and you, my

Lord Zibalbay. Guards, bring these men to the watch-house yonder, and

keep them there till I come to you.”

Maya bowed, and, turning to the audience, she said in a clear voice,

“Farewell, my people. If we are seen no more you will know that my

father and I have been done to death by Tikal, who has usurped our

place, and to you I leave it to take vengeance for our blood.”

CHAPTER XVII

THE CURSE OF ZIBALBAY

Thankful enough was I to rise from the ground feeling my life whole in

me.

“Death has been near to us,” said the se�or with something between a

sob and a laugh, as we followed Zibalbay and Maya into the

guard-house.

“He is near to us still,” I answered, “but at least, unless Tikal

changes his mind, we have won some days of respite.”

“Thanks to her,” he said, nodding to Maya, and as he spoke we entered

the guard-house, a small chamber with a massive door, somewhat roughly

furnished.

So soon as we were in, the door was shut upon us, and we found

ourselves alone. Zibalbay sat himself down, and, fixing his eyes upon

the wall, stared at it as though it offered no hindrance to his sight,

but the rest of us stood together near the door, listening to the

turmoil of the multitude without. Clearly argument ran high among

them, for we could hear the sound of angry voices, of shouting, and of

the hurrying footfalls of the people leaving the pyramid by way of the

great stair.

“You have saved our lives for a while, for which we owe you thanks,”

said the se�or to Maya presently, “but tell me, what will they do with

us now?”

“I cannot say,” she answered, “but in this pyramid are chambers where

we shall be hidden away until our day of trial. At the least I think

so, for they dare not let us out among the people, lest we should

cause a tumult in the city.”

Before the words had left her lips the door was opened, and through it

came Tikal, Mattai, and other of the great lords who were hostile to

Zibalbay.

“What is your pleasure with us?” asked Zibalbay, awaking from his

dream.

“That you should follow me,” answered Tikal sternly, “you and the

others”—adding, with a low bow to Maya, “forgive me, Lady, that I

must exercise this violence towards you and your father, but I have no

other choice if I would save you from the vengeance of the people.”

“It is not the vengeance of the people that we have to fear, Tikal,”

she answered quietly, “but rather your hate.”

“Which it is in your power to appease, lady,” he said in a low voice.

“It may be in my power, but it is not in my will,” she answered,

setting her lips. “Come, cousin, take us to the dungeon that you have

prepared for us.”

“As you wish,” he said; “follow me.” And he led the way across the

guard-house, through a sleeping-chamber of the priests that lay behind

it, to the further wall that was hidden by a curtain.

This curtain, on being drawn, revealed a small stone door, which

Mattai, having first lit some lamps that stood ready in the chamber,

unlocked with a key which hung at his girdle. One by one we passed

through the door, Tikal preceding us, and Mattai, with others of the

great lords, to the number of six, following after us. Beyond the door

lay a flight of twenty steps, then came a gate of copper bars. On the

further side of this gate were flight upon flight of steps, joined

together by landings, and running, now in this direction now in that,

into the bowels of the mighty pyramid. At length, when my limbs were

weary of descending so many stairs, we found ourselves in front of

other gates, larger and more beautifully worked than those that we had

already passed. Presently they clanged behind us, and we stood in a

vast apartment or hall that was built in the heart of the pyramid. It

would seem that this hall had been made ready for our coming, for it

was lighted with many silver lamps, and in one part of it rugs were

laid and on them stood tables and seats. So great was the place that

the light of the lamps shone in it only as stars shine in the sky,

still, as we passed down it, we saw that its roof was vaulted, and

that its walls and floor were of white marble finely polished. Once,

as we learned afterwards, it had served as the assembly-rooms for the

priests of the temple, but now that they were so few it was not used,

except from time to time as a prison for offenders of high rank. At

intervals along its length were doors leading to sleeping and other

chambers. Some of the doors were open, and as we passed them Mattai

told us that these were to be our bedchambers. Then, having announced

that food would be brought to us, the nobles, headed by Tikal,

withdrew, and we heard the copper gates clash and the echo of their

footsteps into nothingness upon the endless stairs.

For a while we stood staring at each other in silence. It was Zibalbay

who broke it, and his voice rang strangely in the vaulted place.

“It is his hour now,” he said, shaking his fist towards the stair by

which Tikal had left us, “but let him pray that mine may never come,”

and suddenly he turned and, walking to a couch, flung himself upon it

and buried his face in his hands.

Maya followed him and, bending down, strove to comfort him, but he

waved her away and she came back to us.

“This is a gloomy place,” said the se�or, in a half whisper, for here

one scarcely dared to speak aloud because of the echoes that ran about

the walls, “but, dark though it is, it seems safer than the summit of

the pyramid, where sword-points are so many,” and he pointed to a

little cut upon his throat.

“It is safe enough,” Maya answered, with a bitter laugh, “and safely

will it keep our bones till the world’s end, for through those gates

and the men that guard them there is no escape, and the death that

threatened us in the sunshine shall overtake us in the shadow. Did I

not warn you against this mad quest and the seeking of the city of my

people? I warned you both, and you would not listen, and now the

trouble is at hand and your lives will pay the forfeit for your folly

and my father’s.”

“What must be, must be,” answered the se�or with a sigh, “but for my

part I hope that the worst is past and that they will not kill us. It

was your father’s rashness which brought these evils on us, and

perhaps misfortune may teach him wisdom.”

“Never,” she answered, shaking her head, “for they are right; on this

matter he is mad, as you, Ignatio, are mad also. Come, let us look at

our prison, for I have not seen it till this hour,” and, taking one of

the hand-lamps that stood near, she walked down the length of the

hall. At its further end were gates similar to those by which we had

entered, and through them came a draught of air.

“Where do they lead?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she answered, “perhaps to the Sanctuary by a secret

way. At least the pyramid is full of these chambers, that in old days

were used for many things, such as the storage of corn and weapons,

and the burying-places of priests, thousands of whom are at rest

within it. Now they are empty and deserted.”

As we walked back again I stopped before a wooden door that stood

ajar, leading into one of the chambers of which I have spoken.

“Let us go in,” said Maya, pushing it open, and we entered, to find

ourselves in a small room lined with shelves. On these shelves, each

of which was numbered, lay hundreds of rolls thickly covered with

dust. Maya took up one of them at a hazard and unrolled the parchment,

revealing a manuscript beautifully executed in the picture-painting of

the Indians.

“This must be nearly a thousand years old,” she said; “I know it by

the style of the painting. Well, we shall not lack history to read

while we sojourn here,” and she threw the priceless roll back on to

its shelf and left the chamber.

A few steps further on we came to another room of which the door was

closed, but so rotten was the woodwork with age that a push freed it

from its fastenings, and we entered. Here also there were shelves,

packed some of them with yellow and some with white bars of metal.

“Copper and lead,” said the se�or glancing at them.

“Not so,” answered Maya with a laugh, “but that which you white men

covet, gold and silver. Look what is painted upon the shelves,” and

she held up the lamp and read: “Pure metal from the southern mines,

set apart for the services of the Temple of the Heart, and of the

Temples of the East and West. Of gold—such a weight; of silver—such

a weight.”

I stared and my eyes grew greedy, for here in this one room, neglected

and forgotten, was enough wealth to carry out my purpose three times

over, stored there by the forefathers of this strange rust-eaten race.

Ah, if only I could see one half of it safe across the mountains, how

great might be my future and that of the people which I lived to

serve.

“Perhaps you may win it after all, Ignatio,” said Maya, interpreting

my thoughts, “but, to be frank, I fear that you will gain nothing

except a sepulchre in these gloomy vaults.”

After this we visited several chambers that were empty, or filled only

with the wreck of moth-eaten tapestries and curious furnitures, till

at length we came to a room, or rather a large cupboard, piled from

floor to ceiling with golden vessels of the most quaint and ancient

workmanship, which had been discarded by the priests and cast aside as

worthless—why, I do not know. In front of this gleaming pile stood a

chest, unlocked, that the se�or opened. It was packed with priestly

ornaments of gold, set with great emeralds. Maya picked out a belt

from the box and gave it to me, saying:

“Take it, Ignatio, since you love such trinkets. It will set off that

robe of yours.”

I took it and put it on, not over my robe, but beneath it. My friend,

it is the clasp of that belt, which now is yours, that I showed you a

while ago, and with the price of the other gems in it I bought this

hacienda and all its lands.

Wearied at length by the sight of so much useless treasure, we

returned to Zibalbay, who was seated as we had left him, lost in

thought.

At this moment the gates of our prison were opened, and men came

through them, escorted by captains of the guard, bringing with them

food in plenty, which they set upon the table, waiting on us while we

ate, but speaking no word, good or bad. Our meal finished, they

cleared away the fragments, and, having replenished the lamps and

prepared the chambers for us to sleep in, they bowed and left us. For

a while we sat round the table, Zibalbay and I in silence, and Maya

and the se�or talking together in a low voice, till at length the

dreariness of the place overcame us, and, as though by a common

impulse, we rose and sought the sleeping-vaults, there to rest, if we

might.

We slept, and woke, and rose again, though whether it was night or day

here, where no light came, we could not tell; indeed, as time went on,

our only means of distinguishing the one from the other was by the

visits of those who brought our food and waited on us.

I think it must have been in the early afternoon of the day following

that on which we were imprisoned, that Tikal visited us, accompanied

only by four guards.

“A small band,” said the se�or as he watched them advance, “but enough

to put us to death, who are unarmed” (for all our weapons had been

taken from us), “if such should be their will.”

“Have no fear, friend,” said Maya, “they will not do murder so

openly.”

By now Tikal stood before us, bowing, and Zibalbay, who as usual was

seated brooding at the table, looked up and saw him.

“What do you seek, traitor?” he asked angrily, the blood flushing

beneath his withered skin. “Would you kill us? If so, slay on, for

thus shall I come the sooner to the bosom of that god whose vengeance

I call down upon you.”

“I am no murderer, Zibalbay,” answered Tikal with dignity. “If you

die, it will be by command of the law that you have broken, and not by

mine. I am here to speak with you, if you will come apart with me.”

“Then speak on before these others, or leave your words unsaid,” he

answered, “for not one step will I stir with you, who doubtless seek

some opportunity to stab me in the back.”

“Yet it is necessary that you should hear what I have to say,

Zibalbay.”

“Say on then, traitor, or go.”

Tikal thought for a while, looking doubtfully at Maya, from whose fair

face, indeed, he rarely took his eyes.

“Is it your wish that I should withdraw?” she asked shortly.

“It is not mine,” said Zibalbay; “stay where you are, daughter.”

Now Tikal hesitated no longer, but, bidding the guards who had

accompanied him to fall back out of earshot, he said:

“Listen, Zibalbay; yesterday, before the gathering on the pyramid, I

saw your daughter, the Lady Maya, and spoke with her, telling her that

now, as always, I loved her, although believing her to be dead, for

reasons of state I had taken another woman to be my wife. Then I made

her this offer: That if she would consent to become my wife I would

put away Nahua, whom I had married. Moreover, I added this, that I

would give up my place as cacique to you, Zibalbay, whose it is by

right, to hold for so long as you should live, and would not oppose

you or your policy in any matter. I told her, on the other hand, that

if she refused to become my wife, I would surrender nothing, but would

put out my strength to crush you and her and these strangers, your

friends. She answered me with contempt, saying that I might do my

worst, but she would have naught to say to me. What happened

afterwards you know, Zibalbay, and you know also the danger in which

you stand to-day, now that power has left you, and your very life

trembles in the balance.”

He paused, and Zibalbay, who had been listening to his words amazed,

turned to Maya and said sternly:

“Does this man speak lies, daughter?”

As she was about to answer—though what she meant to say, I do not

know—Tikal broke in:

“What is the use of asking her, Zibalbay? Is it to be thought that she

will answer you truly, though that I speak truth this wanderer who

stands at your side can bear witness, for he was present and heard my

words. This offer I made to her, and, that it may be put beyond a

doubt, now I make it to her and to you again. If she will take me in

marriage, for her sake I will put away Nahua; I will lay down my rule

and set you in your place again, with liberty, so long as you shall

live, to work such follies as the gods may suffer. All these things I

will do because I love her to whom I have been affianced from my youth

up, better than them all, because she is as the light to mine eyes and

the breath to my nostrils, and without her I have no joy in life, as I

have had none since I believed her to be dead.”

Zibalbay heard, and, rising, lifted his hand to the vault above him,

and said:

“I thank thee, O god, who, in answer to my prayers, hast shown me a

way of escape from the troubles that beset me. Tikal, it shall be as

you wish, and we will swear our peace upon the altar of the Heart.

Doubtless there will be trouble with Mattai and some of his following,

but if we stand together they can be overcome. Rejoice with me,

Ignatio, my friend, for now the seed that we have planted with so much

labour shall bring forth golden fruit.”

Here I heard the se�or groan with doubt and wrath behind me, and knew

that, like so many others, this vision which filled my mind with glory

must be brought to nothing because of the fancy of a woman.

“Your pardon, Zibalbay,” I interrupted, “the Lady Maya has not

spoken.”

“Spoken!” he exclaimed. “Why, what should she say?”

“What I said to my cousin Tikal yesterday,” she answered, setting her

lips and speaking very low—“that I will have nothing to do with him.”

“Nothing to do with him, girl! Nothing to do with him! Why he is your

affianced; you do not understand?”

“I understand well, father, but for naught that can be offered to me

upon the earth will I give myself in marriage to a man who has treated

you and me as my cousin Tikal has done—a man who could not keep his

oath to you, or wait for me one single year.”

“Cease to be foolish,” said Zibalbay. “Tikal has erred, no doubt; but

now he would make atonement for his error, and if I can forgive him,

so can you. Think no more of the girl’s folly, Tikal, but send for ink

and parchment and let us set down our contract, for I am old and have

little time to lose; and perhaps, before another year is gone, that

which you would have snatched by force shall come to you by right.”

“I have the paper here, lord,” said Tikal, drawing a roll from his

breast; “but, pardon me, does the Lady Maya consent?”

“Aye, aye, she consents.”

“I do not consent, father, and if you drag me to the altar with

yonder man, I will cry out to the people to protect me, or, failing

their aid, I will seek refuge in death—by my own hand if need be.”

Now Zibalbay turned upon his daughter, trembling with rage, but,

checking himself of a sudden, he said:

“Tikal, for the moment this girl of mine is mad; leave us, and come

back in some few hours, when you shall find her of another mind. Go

now, I pray, before words are said that cannot be forgotten.”

Tikal turned and went, and, until the gates at the far end of the hall

had clashed behind him and his guards, there was silence.

Then Zibalbay spoke to his daughter.

“Girl,” he said, “I know your heart and that your lips spoke a lie,

when you told us that it was because of Tikal’s forgetfulness of his

vow and troth that you will not marry him. There is another reason of

which you have not spoken. This white man, who in his own country is

named James Strickland, is the reason. You have suffered yourself to

look on him with longing, and you cannot pluck his image from your

breast. Do I not speak truth?”

“You speak truth, father,” she answered, placing her hand in that of

the se�or as she said the words. “To you, at least, I will not lie.”

“I thank you, daughter. Now, hear me; I am sorry for your plight and

for that of the white man, if indeed he would make of you anything

more than his toy, but here your wishes must give way to the common

good. Who and what are you that your whims should stand between me and

the fulfilment of my lifelong desire, between your people and their

redemption? Must all these things come to nothing because of the

fancies of a love-sick girl, whose poor beauty, as it chances by

favour of the gods, can avail to bring them about?”

“It seems so, father,” she said, “seeing that in this matter my duty

to myself and to him who loves me, and whom I love, is higher than my

duty to you and to your scheme. Everything else you, who are my

father, may require of me, even to my life, but my honour is my own.”

“What shall I say to this headstrong girl?” gasped Zibalbay. “Speak,

White Man, and tell me that you renounce her, for surely your heart is

not so wicked that it will lead you to consent to this folly, and to

your own undoing to stand between her and her destiny.”

Now all eyes were fixed upon the se�or, who turned pale in the

lamplight and answered slowly:

“Zibalbay, I grieve to vex you, but your daughter’s destiny and mine

are one, nor can I command her to forsake me and give herself in

marriage to a man she hates.”

“Yet it seems that you could command her to break her plighted troth

for your sake, O most honourable White Man,” said Zibalbay with a

bitter laugh. “Hearken, friend Ignatio, for you at least are not in

love, tell your brother there and this rebellious girl which way their

duty lies. Teach them that we are sent here to dwell upon the earth

for higher ends than the satisfying of our own desires. Stay, before

you speak, remember that with this matter your own fate is interwoven.

Remember how you have suffered and striven for many years, remember

all you have undergone to win what to-day lies in your grasp, the

wealth that shall enable you to carry out your purposes. There, in

those vaults, it lies to your hand, and if that be not enough I will

give you more. Take it, Ignatio, take it to bribe your enemies and pay

your armies, and become a king, a righteous king, crowned by heaven to

complete the destinies of our race. Say such words as shall bend this

girl and her lover to our will, and triumph; or fail to say them, and

some few days hence meet the end of a thief at the hands of Tikal. Now

speak.”

I heard him, and my heart stood still within me. Alas! his words were

true, and now was the turning-point of my fate. If the girl would give

herself to Tikal, who was mad with love of her, all would be well, and

within three years the dream of my race might be fulfilled, and the

vengeance of generations accomplished upon the spawn of the accursed

Spaniard. There in those vaults, useless and forgotten, lay the

treasures that I needed, and yonder in Mexico were men in thousands

who by their means might be armed and led; but between me and them

stood the desire of this woman and the folly of my friend. Oh! truly

had my heart warned me against her when first I learned to know her

lovely face, having foreknowledge of the evil that she should bring

upon me. With her I could do nothing, for who can turn a woman from

her love or hate? But with my friend it was otherwise; he would listen

to me if I pleaded with him, seeing that not only my hopes but my very

life hung upon his answer, and no true man has the right to bring

others to their death in order that he may fulfil the wishes of his

heart. Also, it would be better that he should be separated from this

girl, who was not of his blood and colour, and whose love soon or late

would be his undoing. Surely I should do well to pray him to let her

go to the man whose affianced she had been, and he would do well to

hearken to me. Almost the entreaty was upon my lips when Maya, reading

my thought, touched me on the arm and whispered:

“Remember your oath, Ignatio.” Then I called to mind what I had

promised yonder in the desert, when by her courage she had saved her

lover’s life, and knew that once again a woman must be my ruin, since

it is better to lose all than to break such vows as this.

“Zibalbay,” I said, “I cannot plead your cause and mine, though not to

do so be our destruction, seeing that I have sworn that, come what

may, I will not stand between these two. To-day, for the second time

in my life, my plans are brought to nothing by the passion of a woman.

Well, so it is fated, and so let it be!”

Zibalbay did not answer me, but, turning to the se�or, he said:

“White Man, you have heard from your friend words that should touch

you more deeply than any prayer. Will you still cling to your purpose,

and take advantage of my daughter’s madness? If so, know that your

triumph shall be short, for when, in some few hours, Tikal comes

again, I will tell him all and give you over to his keeping to deal

with as he wishes. Then Heaven help you, wanderer, for he is vengeful

by nature, nor is that life likely to be long which bars the way

between a ruler of men and the woman he would wed. Answer then, and

for the last time: Do you choose life or death?”

“I choose death,” he said, boldly, “if the price of life be the

breaking of my troth and the surrender of my bride to another man. I

am sorry for you, Zibalbay; and for you, Ignatio, my friend, I am

still more sorry: but it is fate and not I that has brought these

evils on you. If Ignatio here cannot forget his oath, how much less

can I forget mine, which I have sworn with this lady. Moreover, worse

fortune even than to-day’s would come upon us if I did, seeing that

such cowardice could breed no luck. Therefore, till the Lady Maya

renounces me, for good or for evil, in death or in life, I will cleave

to her.”

“And in death or in life I will cleave to you, beloved,” she said.

“Take such vengeance as you wish upon us, my father, yes, if you wish,

give over this man, to whom my heart drew me across the mountains and

the desert, to die at the hands of Tikal; but know that he will hold

me faster dead than he did while he was alive, for into the valley of

death I shall follow him swiftly.”

Now at last the rage of Zibalbay broke loose, and it was terrible.

Rising from his seat he shook his clenched hands above his daughter’s

head and cursed her, till in her fear she shrank away from him to her

lover’s breast.

“As with my last breath,” he cried, “I pray that the curse of your

gods, of your country, of your ancestors, and of me, your father, may

rest upon you and your children. May your desire turn to ashes in your

mouth, and may death rob you of its fruit; may your heart break by

inches for remorse and sorrow, and your name become a hissing and a

shame. Oh! I seem to see the future, and I tell you, daughter, that

you shall win him for whose sake you brought your father to death and

ruin. By fraud shall you win him, and for a while he shall lie at your

side, and this is the price that shall be asked of you, and that you

shall pay—the doom of your race, and its destruction at your

hands–-”

He paused, gasping for breath, and Maya fell at his knees, sobbing:

“Oh! father, unsay those words and spare me. Have you no pity for a

woman’s heart?”

“Ay!” he said, “so much pity as you have for my sorrows and grey hair.

Why should I spare you, girl, who have not spared me, your father. My

curse is spoken, and I will add to it, that it shall break your heart

at last, ay! and the heart of that man who has robbed me of your duty

and your love.”

Then suddenly he ceased speaking, his eyes grew empty, he stretched

out his arms and fell heavily to the floor.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE PLOT

Springing forward, but too late to save him, the se�or and I lifted

Zibalbay from the ground and laid him on a couch. Peeping over our

shoulders, Maya caught sight of his ghastly face and the foam upon his

lips.

“Oh, he is dead,” she moaned; “my father is dead, and he died cursing

me.”

“No,” said the se�or, “he is not dead, for his heart stirs. Bring

water, Maya.”

She obeyed, and for hard upon two hours we struggled to restore his

sense, but in vain; life lingered indeed, but we could not stir him

from his stupor. At length, as we were resting, wearied with our

fruitless labour, the gates opened and Tikal came again.

“What now?” he asked, seeing the form of Zibalbay stretched upon the

couch. “Does the old man sleep?”

“Yes, he sleeps,” answered the se�or, “and I think that he will wake

no more. The words he spoke to you to-day are coming true, and that

which you took from him by force will soon be yours by right.”

“No,” answered Tikal, “by right it will be the Lady Maya’s yonder,

though by force it may remain mine, unless, indeed, she gives it to me

of her own free will. But say, how did this come about?”

Now I broke in hastily, fearing lest the se�or should tell too much,

and thus bring some swift and awful fate upon himself.

“He was worn out with the fatigue of our journey and the excitement of

yesterday. After you had left he began to talk of your proposals, and

suddenly was taken with this fit. These matters are not for me to

speak of, who am but a prisoner in a strange land; still, lord, it

will not look well if he who once was cacique of this city dies here

and unattended, for then people may say that you have murdered him.

Have you no doctors who can be summoned to minister to him, for,

without drugs, or even a bleeding-knife, we have done all we can do.”

“Murdered him! That they will say in any case. Yes, there are doctors

here, and the best and greatest of them is Mattai, my father-in-law. I

will send him. But, Maya, before I go, have you no word for me?”

Maya, who was seated by the table, her face buried in her hands,

looked up and said:

“Is your heart stone that you can trouble me in such an hour? When my

father is recovered, or dead, I will answer you, and not before.”

“So be it, Lady,” he said, “till then I wait. And now I must get

hence, for there may be trouble in the city when this news reaches

it.”

A while passed, and Mattai appeared before us, followed by one who

carried his scales and medicines. Without speaking, he came to where

Zibalbay lay, and examined him by the light of a lamp. Then he poured

medicine down his throat, and waited as though he expected to see him

rise, but he neither rose nor stirred.

“A bad case,” he said. “I fear that he will awake no more. How came he

thus?”

“Do you wish to know?” asked Maya, speaking for the first time. “Then

bid your attendant stand back, and I will tell you. My father yonder

was smitten down while he cursed me in his rage.”

“And why did he curse you, Lady?”

“For this reason: While we wandered in the wilderness, Tikal, my

cousin and my betrothed, took a wife, your daughter Nahua, who was

crowned with him as Lady of the Heart. But it seems, Mattai, that

though he gave your daughter place and power, he gave her no love, for

to-day this son-in-law of yours came to my father, and in the presence

of us all offered to set him in his lawful place again and to suffer

him to carry out his schemes, whatever they might be, if I would but

consent to become his wife.”

“To become his wife!” said Mattai, in amazement. “How could you become

his wife when he is married? Can there then be two Ladies of the

Heart?”

“No,” answered Maya quietly, “but the proposal of Tikal, my cousin,

is, that he should either put away or kill your daughter—and you with

her, Mattai—in order that he may set me in her place.”

Now when Mattai heard this his quick eyes flashed, and his very beard

seemed to bristle with rage.

“He proposed that! He dared to propose that!” he gasped. “Oh! let him

have a care. I set him up, and perchance I can pull him down again.

Continue, Lady.”

“He proposed it, and my father agreed to the offer, for, knowing that

you have plotted against him, he had little care for the honour and

safety of you or of your house, Mattai. But if my father accepted, I

refused, seeing that it is not my wish to have more to do with Tikal.

Then my father cursed me, and while he cursed was stricken down.”

“You say it is not your wish to marry Tikal, Lady. Is it, then, your

wish to marry any other man?”

“Yes,” she answered, letting her eyes fall, “I love this white lord

here, whom you name Son of the Sea, and I would become his wife. I

would become his wife,” she went on after a pause, “but, Mattai, Tikal

is very strong, and it may be, unless I can find help elsewhere, that

in order to save the life of the man I love, of his friend and mine,

Ignatio, and my own, I shall be forced into the arms of Tikal. But now

Tikal has asked me for my answer, and I have told him that I will give

it when my father is recovered or dead. Perhaps it will be for you to

say what the answer shall be, for alone and in prison I am not strong

enough to stand against Tikal. Say, now, do the people love me well

enough to depose Tikal and set me in my father’s place, should he

die?”

“I cannot say, Lady,” he answered shortly, “but at the least you will

scarcely ask me thus to bring about my own and my daughter’s ruin. I

will be open with you. I gained over the Council of the Heart to

Tikal’s cause, and my price was that he should marry my daughter,

thereby satisfying her love and my ambition. Yes, I have plotted to

set Nahua on high, both for her sake and for my own, seeing that after

the cacique I sought to be the chief man in the city. Can I, then,

turn round and depose him, and my daughter and myself with him? And if

I did, what would be my fate at your hands in the days to come? No, I

seek to be revenged on Tikal, indeed, who has offered so deadly an

affront to me and mine, but it must be in some other way than this.

Tell me now, lady, what is it that you desire most—to be cacique of

this city by your right of birth, or to marry the man you love?”

“I desire to marry the man I love,” she answered, “and to escape from

this place with him back to those lands where white men live. I desire

also that my friend and my lord’s friend, Ignatio, should be given as

much gold as he needs to enable him to carry out his purposes in the

coast country yonder. If things can be brought about thus, Tikal and

Nahua and their descendants, for aught I care, may rule in the City of

the Heart till the world’s end.”

“You ask little enough, Lady,” said Matti, “and it shall go hard if I

cannot get it for you. Now I will leave you, for I must have time to

think; but, if Tikal returns, say him neither yea nor nay till we have

spoken again. And as for you, strangers, remember that your lives

depend upon your caution. Farewell.”

Two more days passed, or so we reckoned by the number of meals that

were brought to us, but neither Tikal nor Mattai returned to visit us.

Other doctors came, indeed, and saw Zibalbay, who lay upon his bed

like one plunged in a deep sleep, but though they tried many remedies

they were of no avail. On the night of the second day we were gathered

round his couch, watching him and talking together sadly enough, for

the solitude, and the darkness, and the fear of impending death had

broken our spirits, so that even the se�or ceased to be merry, and the

presence of her beloved to give comfort to Maya.

“Alas!” she said, “it was an evil day when we met yonder in the land

of Yucatan, and, friend, no gift could have been more unlucky than

that of my love to you, for which, being worth so little, you are

doomed to pay so dear. Fortune has gone hardly with you also, Ignatio,

who are fated thus for the second time to see a woman wreck your

hopes. Say, now, friend”—and she caught the se�or by the arm—“would

it not be best that we should make an end of all this folly, and that

I should give myself to Tikal? Then I could bargain for you both that

before I pass to him I should, with my own eyes, see you safe across

the mountains, taking that with you which would make you rich for

life. Nor need you trouble for me, or think that you left me to

dishonour, for, so soon as you were gone, I should seek the arms of

another lord whose name is Death, and there take my rest, till in some

day unborn you came to join me.”

“Cease to talk thus, Maya,” said the se�or, drawing her to his breast;

“whatever there is to bear we will undergo together, since, even if I

could be so base as to buy safety at such a price, without you my life

would be worth nothing to me, and, indeed, I had rather die at your

side than live on alone. It is my fault that ever we came to this

pass, seeing that, if I had taken your counsel, we should not have set

foot within the City of the Heart. But curiosity conquered me, for I

longed to see the place, as now I long to see the last of it; also,

had we turned back, I must have left Ignatio to go on alone. Keep your

courage, sweetheart, for though your father is dying and our danger is

great, I am sure that we shall escape from these dungeons and be happy

with each other beneath the sunlight.”

Then he kissed her upon the lips and comforted her, wiping away the

tears that ran from her blue eyes.

It was at this moment that I looked up and saw Mattai standing in the

doorway,—for we were gathered, not in the hall, but in Zibalbay’s

chamber—watching the scene curiously and with a softened face.

“Greeting,” he said, “and forgive me that I come so late, but my

business is secret and such as is best done at night. How goes it with

Zibalbay?”

“He lives,” I answered; “I can say no more, for he is senseless, and,

without doubt, soon must die. But come, see for yourself.”

Mattai walked to the bed and examined the old man, lifting the eyelids

and feeling his heart.

“He cannot live long,” he said. “Well, death is his best friend. Now

to my business. There is trouble in the city, and strange rumours pass

from mouth to mouth among the people, many of whom declare that Tikal

has murdered Zibalbay, and demand that you, Lady, should be brought

before them, that you may be named cacique in his place. Things

being so, it has been urged upon Tikal by the chiefs of his party that

as, do what he will, he can never clear himself of the death of

Zibalbay, it would be well that he should make away with you also,

Lady, and, of course, with these two strangers, your friends, seeing

that then there will be none to dispute his rights. The matter was

laid before him strongly at a secret council held this afternoon, and

once he issued the order for your deaths, only to recall it before the

messenger left the palace; for at the last I saw that his heart

overcame his reason, and he could not bear thus to divorce himself

from you, Lady, though what he said was that he would not stain his

hands with the blood of one so innocent and fair. Still, I will not

hide from you, Lady, or from you, strangers, that your danger is very

great, that you go, indeed, in jeopardy of your life from one hour to

the next.”

Now he paused, and Maya asked in a low voice:

“Have you no plan to save us, Mattai?”

“Why should I have a plan, Lady, who with my house would benefit so

greatly by your death?”

“I do not know why you should have a plan, old man,” broke in the

se�or; “but I tell you that you will do well to make one, else you do

not leave this place alive”—and as he spoke, with a sudden movement,

he sprang between Mattai and the door.

“If we are to be murdered like birds in a cage,” he went on, “at least

your neck shall be twisted first. Do you understand?”

“I understand, Son of the Sea,” answered Mattai, flinching a little

before the se�or’s fierce face and hand outstretched as though to grip

him. “But I would have you understand something also; namely, that if

I do not return presently, there are some without who will come to

seek me, and then–-”

“And then they will find your carcase,” broke in the se�or, “and what

will all your plots and schemes advantage you when you are a lump of

senseless clay?”

“Little indeed, I confess,” he answered. “Still, my daughter, whom I

love better than myself, will reap some profit, and with that, in this

sad case, I must be content. But, do not be so hasty, white man. I

asked why I should have a plan? I did not say that I had none.”

“Then if you have one, let us hear it without more ado,” said the

se�or.

Mattai bowed, as he answered:

“Your will is mine: but I know not how my plan will please the Lady

Maya yonder, and therefore, before I unfold it, I will make it clear

to you that there is but one alternative—the death of all of you by

to-morrow’s light. Your lives lie in my hand, and if I must do so to

save my daughter and myself, I shall not hesitate to take them.”

“Any more than I shall hesitate to take yours, old man,” said the

se�or, grimly; “for remember always that if you do not make your plan

such as we can accept, you will leave this chamber feet first with a

broken neck.”

Again Mattai bowed, and continued;

“In one way only has Tikal been able to pacify the tumult among the

people, by declaring that the Lady Maya shall be produced before the

Council of the Heart, in the Sanctuary of the Nameless god, upon the

night of Rising of Waters, being the first day when it is lawful for

the Council to sit in the Sanctuary, and afterwards at dawn in the

eyes of the whole city. The words of Zibalbay have taken a strange

hold of the people, although they cried him down as he spoke them; and

they desire to know what will happen when the prophecy is fulfilled,

and once more the severed halves of the symbol of the Heart are laid

side by side in their place upon the altar. Zibalbay told them that he

believed that then the god would reveal his purpose, and show what

part each of you should play in the fate that is to be, and therefore

the people—aye! and many among the nobles, and even the Council of

the Heart—look to see some sign or wonder when Day and Night are come

together, and that which was parted is made one, for they begin to

hold that the madness of Zibalbay is from heaven, and that the voice

of heaven sent him on his journey.”

Now Mattai thought for a while and went on:

“Lady, I am old, and for many years I have followed the worship of the

gods, doing sacrifice to them, and importuning them with prayers, yet

never have I known the gods to make answer to their votaries, or heard

the voices of the immortals speaking into human ears. It seems that

gods are many: thus, perchance these strangers have their own; and,

Lady, thus it comes that in my age I ask myself if there are any gods

other than those that the mind of man has shaped from nothingness, or

fashioned in the likeness of its own passions. I cannot tell, but I

think that were I in so sore a strait as you find yourselves to-night,

I should not hesitate to give a voice to these dumb gods.”

“What is your meaning?” asked Maya.

“This: When the severed halves of the Heart are set in their place

upon the altar, if there be any gods they should give a sign. Thus, as

I who am the keeper of the Sanctuary know, the ancient symbol on the

altar is hollow, and if it were to chance to open, it might be that a

writing would be found within it—an ancient writing of the gods,

prepared against the present time—that shall be to us as a lantern to

one wandering in the dark; or it might be that nothing would be found.

Now, as it happens, in searching through the earliest records of the

temple, I have discovered a certain writing, and it seems to me that

your fortune would be great if this writing should lie within the

symbol on the night of the Rising of Waters. Here it is–-”

And from his robe he produced a small plate of dull gold, covered over

with hieroglyphics.

“Read it,” said Maya.

Then Mattai read:

“This is the voice of the Nameless god that his prophet heard in

the year of the building of the Sanctuary, and graved upon a

tablet of gold which he set in a secret place in the symbol of the

Sanctuary, to be declared in that far-off hour when the lost is

found and the signs of the Day and the Night are come together. To

thee it speaks, unborn daughter of a chief to be, whose name is

the name of a nation. When my people have grown old and their

numbers are lessened, and their heart is faint, then, maiden, take

to thyself as a husband a man of the race of the white god, a son

of the sea-foam, whom thou shalt lead hither across the desert,

for so my people shall once more prosper and grow strong, and the

land shall be to thy child and the child of the god, east and

west, and north and south, further than my eagles wing between

sunrise and sunset.”

He finished reading, and there was silence as we looked on each other,

amazed at the boldness and cunning of this old priest and plotter. It

was Maya who spoke first.

“You have forged this writing, Mattai,” she said coldly, “and now you

desire that I should set it in the symbol, for you are mindful of that

curse which is written in the ritual Opening of the Heart against him

who shall profane its mysteries and token, or who should are to tell a

lie within the Sanctuary, or to swear falsely by the symbol. In short,

if you do not fear the vengeance of the god, you fear the vengeance of

the Order.”

“To speak truth, lady, I fear both, for, in offering insult to the

Nameless god, who knows what he offends? Still, you must make your

choice—and swiftly, seeing that if you refuse the deed, by to-morrow

you will have learned, or, perhaps—remembering the words of the white

lord—I should say we shall have learned what virtue there is in the

religions.”

Now she turned to us, saying:

“Advise me, friends, for I know not what to answer. In the faith of my

people I have lost faith, and it is to yours that I look for comfort;

and yet the deed seems awful, for if we are not worshippers of the

Nameless god, still we are all of us brethren of the ancient mysteries

of the Heart, and to do this thing would be to break our solemn oaths.

Come, let us put it to the vote, and do you who are the oldest and the

wisest among us, vote first, Ignatio.”

“So be it,” I answered. “For my part I give my vote against the trick.

Of the gods of your people I know nothing and think less, but I am the

Master of our Order in my own land, and I will not offend against it.

To do this thing would be to act the greatest of lies and a lie is a

sin in the face of heaven. All men must die, but I wish to pass to

doom with my hands unstained by fraud. Still, in this matter your

lives are at stake as well as mine; therefore, if, of the three of us,

two are in favour of the act, I will be bound by their decision. But

if only one is in favour, then he must be bound by ours.”

“Good, let it be so,” said Maya. “And now, beloved, speak and tell us

whether you choose death and a clean conscience, or life and my love

to gladden it”—and she looked into his face with her beautiful eyes,

and half stretched out her arms as though she would clasp him to her

breast.

Now, although the se�or did not answer at once, when I saw this and

heard her words, I, Ignatio, knew that it was finished, since it could

not be in the heart of a man in love to resist her pleadings and her

witcheries. Presently he spoke, and as he did so his face grew red

with a half shame.

“I have no choice,” he said. “I do not fear to die if need be, but I

should be no man were I to choose death while it is your wish that I

should live. Like Ignatio, I say that the gods of this city are to me

nothing more than idols, and to deceive that which does not exist is

impossible. For the rest, I became a Brother of the Heart not by my

own wish, but by accident, therefore on this point my conscience

pricks me little. Only, to be a partner in this plot, I must speak or

act a lie, and this I have never done before. Still it seems to me

that a man may choose life and his love in place of a cruel and secret

death, and keep his hands clean, even though he must play a harmless

trick as the price of them. Yet, Maya, in this as in every other

matter, I will do your wish, and if you think it better that we should

die, why let us die and make an end.”

“Nay,” she answered, with a flash of reckless passion, “I think it

better that we should live, far from this unlucky city, and there be

happy in each other’s love. For your sake my father’s curse has fallen

on me, and after it all other maledictions of gods or men will be

light as feathers. If this be a sin that we are about to work, I do it

for the sake of you and of our love; also because I would live awhile

in happiness before I go down to the grave. See my father lying there;

throughout a long life he has served his god, and behold how his god

has served him in the hour of his trouble. Let his prayers answer for

us both, for I will have none of such false gods, unless it be to use

them for my ends. If this be a sin that we are about to do, and

vengeance should tread upon the heels of sin, let it fall upon the

heads of my people, who would murder me for no crime; upon the head of

Mattai, who tempted me for his own advantage; and, if that be not

enough, upon my head also. Little do I care for vengeance to come, if

for only one short year I may call you husband.”

“Ill-omened words,” muttered Mattai, shivering a little, “words that

only a woman would utter; but so be it.”

As he spoke I thought that I heard a faint groan break from the man

upon the couch. I glanced anxiously at Zibalbay, to find that I must

have been mistaken, or, at least, that it had not proceeded from his

lips, for he lay there rigid and senseless as a corpse.

“The vote is taken,” I said sadly. “What next, Mattai?”

“Follow me,” he answered, “and I will show you a secret path from this

chamber to the Sanctuary beneath. Nay, you need not fear to leave him,

for if his life still burns within him, it is fast asleep. But stay,

where is the talisman? That will be necessary to us.”

“I have one half,” I answered, “the other is about Zibalbay’s neck.”

“Find it,” he said, sternly, to the Lady Maya. “Nay, you must!”

CHAPTER XIX

THE SACRILEGE

Now Maya bent over the form of her father and took the talisman from

his neck.

“I feel like one who robs the dead,” she said.

“Remember that it is to save the living, and be comforted,” answered

Mattai. “Come, let us be going, for the night draws on.”

“Take a lamp, each of you,” he said presently, when we had reached the

further end of the great hall, where he unlocked the copper gates with

a key from the bunch that hung at his girdle. We passed though, and,

turning, he almost closed the gate, but not quite.

“Why do you leave the gates ajar?” I asked.

“Because there are none to follow us,” he answered, “and who knows

what may happen. Should we be forced to fly the Sanctuary, open doors

are easier to pass than those that are shut.”

“Who or what could force us to fly the Sanctuary?” I asked.

Mattai shrugged his shoulders and went on without answering. Now we

passed down many stairs, along passages, and through secret doors,

each of which Mattai left open behind us, till at length we came to a

blank wall of marble. On this wall Mattai felt with his thumb, till he

found a spot that, being pressed, slid back, revealing a keyhole into

which he inserted a small silver key. Then again he pressed upon the

marble, and a panel moved that might have been two feet wide by six in

height, and we saw that light streamed through the opening. Beckoning

to us he walked through the gap in the wall, and one by one we

followed him into the Sanctuary of the Nameless god, and stood on the

further side of the wall, huddled together and clasping each other’s

hands, for the place was awesome, and its utter silence and solemnity

filled us with fear.

The first thing that caught our eyes, as was natural, for it was built

into the wall opposite to us, and through it streamed the light that

filled the chamber, was the most wonderful and mystic effigy in the

City of the Heart. That effigy was a colossal mask of singular and

fearful beauty, fashioned from polished jade, and similar in design to

those which are to be found in the ruins of Palenque and other

deserted Indian cities, whereof no man knows the age. This huge green

mask was placed above the narrow door that gave entrance to the

Sanctuary, and had been carved to represent the countenance of a being

that, although its features were human, resembled neither man nor

woman in its unearthly dignity and its stamp of cruel calm. The thick

lips were curved with a contemptuous smile, and between them gleamed

teeth made of white enamel; the nose was aquiline, with widespread

nostrils that seemed to inhale the incense of worship; and the

forehead, in whose centre appeared the impress of a woman’s hand

soaked in some scarlet dye, was broad, low, and retreating. Beneath

the solemn and contracted brows were jewelled eyes. Through these

eyes, and, indeed, from the entire surface of the mask, streamed

light, making the face visible as though it were limned in phosphorus,

for the jade was transparent as the thinnest alabaster, and behind it

burned two great lamps that were named after the Sun and Moon.

Such was the effigy of the Nameless spirit that we now beheld for the

first time, who had face but no form; the spirit, Mouth of the Heart,

to whom every lesser god was subject, Utterer of the thoughts of the

Heart of Heaven, Lord of power, Dweller in the darkness behind the

Sun, Searcher of the secrets of death. Without pity was this god of

theirs, and without wrath, who, clothed in eternal calm, so these

people fabled, rested in a home of darkness, watching the shadow of

events celestial and terrestrial in his mirror of the moon, and

telling of them to the Heart which was his soul. The seal of the

woman’s blood-stained hand was set upon his brow because woman is a

symbol of life renewed, the hand is the sign of purpose and the

strength to do it, and by blood and anguish must every purpose be

accomplished. But the Nameless one executed no purpose—that was the

work of lesser gods. In the beginning the Heart thought and the Mouth

blew with his breath, giving life to the earth, and causing it to roll

forward among the spheres, and now the Eyes watched, ever smiling,

while it and those upon it work out our doom, till at length its

primal force grows faint and fails when, so said the priests, Heart

and Mouth and Ears will think and speak and search, and at their

command a new world shall arise from the corpse of the old, and a new

life from the lives of those who dwelt upon it.

Therefore it was, though now faith waned among them with their waning

energies, that the people, knowing no better creed, worshipped the

threefold Fate without a name, whom they held to be master of gods and

men. Therefore, also, long generations since, in this spot which we

came to violate—to them the most holy on the earth—they set up

effigies of a Heart, a Mouth, and Eyes, as symbols of his attributes.

The roof of the Sanctuary, which was of no great size, was

vault-shaped, in imitation of the arching sky, and in it appeared a

golden sun, a silver crescent moon, and the stars of heaven. Its walls

were lined throughout with polished blocks of the beautiful stone

known as Mexican onyx, fretted over to the height of a man with a

border of hieroglyphics and effigies of the lesser gods in attitudes

of adoration, all of them cast in gold and set flush with the face of

the wall. The furniture was very simple, consisting only of stools cut

from rich woods heavily gilded in quaint designs, and a small table

whereon lay sheets of paper made of bark, together with brushes of

reed fibre and pots of pigment, such as were used in the

picture-writing of this people. Lastly, at that end by which we had

entered the chamber, stood an altar of black marble written around

with letters shaped in gold, and upon this altar lay something covered

with a silken cloth.

For a minute or more we remained silent, contemplating these wonders;

then, with a gesture of impatience, Mattai spoke in a whisper, saying:

“Let that be done which we have come to do, for now the sacrilege is

committed and it is too late for doubts.”

Speaking thus, he stepped to the altar and lifted the silken cloth

that lay over the object which was upon it, revealing the image of a

human heart fashioned in bloodstone and veined with arteries of gold.

In the centre of this heart appeared a small and shallow hole that had

been hollowed in its substance.

“This is the tradition,” said Mattai, still speaking in a whisper,

“that when the two halves of a certain talisman are placed in this

hollow, the symbol will open and reveal that which has been set within

it since it was fashioned by Cucumatz thousands of years ago, and

there is this in favour of the truth of the tale that golden hinges

appear upon the sides of the symbol. Now one-half of the talisman has

rested here for many generations, till Zibalbay took it with him

indeed, when he went out to seek for the other half, and yet the

symbol has never opened; still, I am sure that it will open when the

whole talisman is set in its place. In this matter, however, there is

something more to fear than the vengeance of the gods, for, as I can

read well—it is written in those letters that encircle the altar—an

ancient tradition tells us that if the symbol be stirred from the

place where it has lain for so many ages, the flood-gate will roll

back and the waters of the lake will pour in upon the city, destroying

it and its inhabitants.”

“Yet the flood-gate cannot roll back when it is not shut, nor can the

waters flow in during the dry season, when they are not on a level

with the walls,” answered Maya.

“They cannot, Lady, and yet other things may happen. Why was the Heart

set thus? Was it not that in the utmost need of its worshippers they

might choose death rather than defeat and slavery? And was this choice

given to them in the wet months only? Be sure that if at this moment

any despairing or impious hand tore yonder symbol from its altar,

either the waters would rush up through the bed of the city, or

subterranean fires would break loose and burn it. Still, though there

is something, I think that we have little to fear, seeing that the

writing says that, in order to bring about so terrible a doom, the

symbol must be torn from its altar with might. And now to our task.

Stranger, give to the Lady Maya your half of the ancient talisman,

that she may set it, together with the half she bears, in the place

prepared in the symbol.”

Now with a sigh, seeing that it was too late to draw back, I undid the

emerald from my neck and gave it to Maya, who laid it side by side

with its counterpart upon the palm of her trembling hand, and stepped

with it to the altar. Here she stood for a moment, then whispered in a

faint voice:

“Terror has taken hold of me, and I fear to do this thing.”

“Yet it must be done, and not by me,” said Mattai, “or we shall have

come on a fool’s errand, and go back, some of us, to a fool’s death,”

and he looked towards me.

“I will not do it,” I said, answering his look, “not because I fear

your gods, but my own conscience I do fear.”

“Then I will,” said the se�or boldly, “for I fear neither. Give me

that trinket, Maya.”

She obeyed, and presently he had caused the two halves of the talisman

to fall into their ancient and appointed bed in the symbol. In the

great silence I remember the sound they made, as they tinkled against

the stone, struck my ear so sharply that I started.

For some seconds, perhaps twenty, we stood still, watching the altar

with eager eyes, but the symbol never stirred. Then I said:

“It seems, Mattai, that you must hide your lying writing elsewhere,

since yonder heart will not open, or, if it will, we have not found

the key.”

“Wait a little,” broke in the se�or, “perhaps the springs are rusted.”

And before any of us could interfere to stop him, he placed his thumb

upon the halves of the emerald and pressed so hard that the symbol

trembled on its marble stand.

“Beware!” cried Mattai, and as the echoes of his voice died away all

of us started in astonishment, for lo! the heart was opening like a

flower.

Slowly it opened, till the severed talisman fell from it, and its two

halves lay back on the marble of the altar, revealing something hidden

in its centre that shone like an ember in the lamplight. We crept

forward and looked, then stood silent and half afraid, for in the

hollow of the heart, laid upon a square plate of gold which was

covered with picture-writing, glared a red jewel shaped like a human

eye, that seemed to answer stare with stare.

“If we stand like this we shall grow frightened,” said the se�or

roughly, glancing round him as he spoke, “there is nothing to fear in

a red stone cut like an eye.”

“If you think so, White Man,” answered Mattai in a voice that shook a

little, strive as he would to command it, “lift up the holy thing and

give me the writing that is beneath it. Stay, first take this, set it

in the symbol, replacing the eye upon it,” and he handed him the

forged tablet.

The se�or obeyed, nor did any wonder come to pass when he lifted that

dreadful-looking jewel, and changed the true for the false.

“Read it,” said Maya, as the tablet was passed to Mattai, “you have

knowledge of the ancient writings.”

“Perhaps it were best left unread,” he said, doubtfully.

“Nay,” she answered, “let us know the worst. Read it, I bid you.”

Then he read these strange words in a slow and solemn voice:

“/The Eye that has slept and is awakened sees the heart and purpose of

the wicked. I say that in the hour of the desolation of my city not

all the waters of the Holy Lake shall wash away their sin./”

Now the faces of us who heard turned grey in the lamplight, for though

the gods of this people were false, we felt that the voice of a true

prophet spoke to us from that accusing tablet, and that we had called

down upon our heads a vengeance which we could not measure.

“Did I not tell you that it were wiser to leave the writing unread,”

gasped Mattai, letting the tablet fall from his hand as though it were

a snake.

The clatter of it as it struck the marble floor seemed to wake us from

our evil dream, for the se�or turned on him, and said fiercely:

“What does it matter what the thing says, rogue, seeing that you

forged it as you have forged the other?”

“Ah! would that I had,” answered Mattai; “but when doom overtakes you

and all of us, then shall you learn whether I forged that ancient

writing;” and he lifted it from the floor, and, hiding it in his robe,

added, “Close the heart, White Man, and give back the severed jewel to

those who wear it.”

The se�or obeyed, replacing the silken cloth over the symbol, so that

the altar seemed to be as it had been.

“Now let us be going,” said Mattai, “and rejoice, that if yonder eye

has seen our wickedness, at least it is hidden from the sight of man.

Doubtless the vengeance of the gods is sure, but that of men is

swift.”

As he spoke we turned to leave the Sanctuary, and of a sudden Maya

screamed, and would have fallen had not the se�or caught her. Well

might she scream, for there in the narrow niche of the secret door by

which we had entered, framed in it as a corpse is framed in its

coffin, stood a white figure which at first I took to be that of some

avenging ghost, so ghostlike were the wrappings, the snowy beard and

hair, and the thin, fierce face. Another instant, and I saw that

indeed it was a ghost, the ghost of Zibalbay, or rather his body come

back from the boundaries of death to spy upon our sacrilege before it

crossed them forever.

Yes, it was Zibalbay, for while he had seemed to be unconscious upon

the bed in the chamber, his senses were awake, and oh! what must he

have suffered when he, the high priest of the Nameless god, heard us

plan our fraud upon his Sanctuary. Then, after we had left him, fury

and despair unfettered the limbs that had been bound so fast and gave

him strength to follow us, though they could not unlock his frozen

tongue. He had followed; painfully he had crept down the stairs, along

the passages, and through the open door, for the path was known to him

even in the dark, till at length he came to the secret entrance of the

Sanctuary. Here once more his force deserted him; here, unable to

speak or stir, he had leaned against the wall and seen and heard all

that was done and said.

Oh! never shall I forget the rage of his quivering face, or the agony

and horror of his tormented eyes as they met our own. No course could

have been so awful as that look which he let fall upon his daughter,

and no outraged deity or demon could have seemed more terrible to the

human sight than was the tall figure of this dying man, striving even

in death to protect the honour of his gods, which we had violated in

their most holy of holies. Never have I seen such a dreadful sight,

and I pray that never again may I do so either in this world or the

next.

The dying Zibalbay saw our fear, and with a last effort he staggered

forward towards his daughter, his clenched hands held above his head.

For a moment he stood before her as she lay upon her lover’s arm

staring up at him like a bird at a snake, while he swayed to and fro

above her like the snake about to strike. Then, of a sudden, foam

mingled with blood burst from his lips, and he sank down at her feet

dead, dying in a silence that was more awful than any sound.

Of all that followed I need not write. Indeed, I cannot do so, for so

great was my horror at this scene, and so intense the strain which was

put upon my vital force during these hours, that I have little memory

of what chanced after Zibalbay’s death, till I found myself lying

exhausted upon the bed in my prison cell.

Somehow we calmed and silenced Maya; somehow we escaped from that

hateful Sanctuary, and by slow degrees brought her and the dead body

of her father up the narrow stairs and passages to the hall above,

where we laid the corpse upon its bed. Then Mattai left us, and I

remember no more till the next morning when nobles and leeches came to

watch by the body of the dead cacique, and to embalm it in readiness

for the tomb.

The next two days went heavily for the three of us, oppressed as we

were by the silent gloom of our prison and the memories of that

dreadful night. The love between Maya and her father had never been

deep, for they were out of tune with each other; still, now that he

was dead she mourned him, the more perhaps because he had died hating

and cursing her. By degrees she recovered from her superstitious

fears, born of the writing in the symbol; but her father’s

maledictions she never could forget, and though she was willing to

earn and to bear these for the sake of her love for the se�or, I think

that their memory lay between them like a shadow.

“Oh! why did I ever love you?” she would say. “What have you to do

with me, whom race and law and fate have set apart from me?” And yet

she went on loving him even more dearly.

I, also, was unhappy, for though I put little faith in these omens, or

in the vapourings of dead prophets and the tricks of living

charlatans, I felt that the ill-luck which had clung to me in the past

was with me still. Things had gone cross with me; Zibalbay was dead,

and Woman, the inevitable, had drawn away the heart of my friend and

dragged me and my plans into the whirlpool of her passion, whence, if

at all, they must emerge ruined and shapeless. Still, summoning the

patience of my race to my aid, I bore these secret troubles as I

might, giving counsel and comfort to the lovers, who, lost in their

own doubts and difficulties, thought, as was natural, little of me and

my lost ambitions.

At length they carried away the corpse of Zibalbay to be wrapped in

its winding-sheet of gold and set with all ancient pomp and ceremony

by those of its forefathers in the Hall of the Dead. Maya wept indeed,

but I for my part was glad to see the last of him, and so, I think,

was the se�or, whose spirits had begun to fail him in the presence of

so much remorse and grief.

That day—it was the day previous to the night of the Rising of

Waters, on which we were to appear before the Council of the Heart in

the Sanctuary—Tikal came to visit us. To Maya he bowed low, but on

the se�or and myself he looked with an angry eye—with the eye,

indeed, of one who would have killed us if he dared. First, with many

fine words and empty compliments, he offered her his sympathy upon the

death of her father. For this she returned her thanks, quoting,

however, with a flash of her old spirit, a certain proverb of her own

people, of which the meaning is that the death of one man is the

breath of another.

“My father was your foe, Tikal,” she added, “and now that he is gone

you will be able to sleep and reign in peace.”

“Not altogether so, Lady,” he answered, “seeing that he has left

behind him a more dangerous rival to my power, namely, yourself. I

will not hide from you, Maya, what you must soon learn, that a large

portion of the people, and with them many of the nobles, accusing me

of your father’s murder, clamour that I should be deposed, and that

you should be set in my place as cacique of the City of the Heart.

Some few days ago I might have stilled their outcry by commanding you

to be put to death, but now it is too late, for, since then, Time has

fought for you, and doubtless your end would be followed by my own.

When last we met, cousin, I asked you a certain question, to which you

promised me an answer when your father was dead or recovered, and

to-day I have come to hear that answer. While Zibalbay lived I had

much to offer him and you in exchange for your hand, and I offered it

freely. So high a value did I place upon it when it seemed lost to me,

that I was prepared to lay down my power, to suffer your father to

violate the laws, and to incur the eternal hate and active enmity of

Mattai, his daughter, and his party. Now I must make you a lower bid:

that of equal power for yourself; and for your friends here, whatever

they may desire. Should you refuse me, this is the alternative: civil

war in the city till one of us is destroyed, and instant death as the

portion of these strangers.

“But, Maya, I pray you not to refuse me, for I have something more to

offer you—my undying love. From a child I always loved you, Maya,

although you have treated me coldly enough, and now day by day I love

you more. Indeed I believed that you and your father were dead yonder

in the wilderness, for then I had faith in Mattai, whom now I know to

be a rogue, and Mattai swore that it was written in the stars. Even so

I would not have wed another woman, for my heart bled at the loss of

you, had not Mattai made this marriage the price of his support,

without which I could not hope to be anointed cacique, seeing that I

have many jealous enemies. It was ambition that led me to consent, and

bitterly have I regretted my folly ever since; for if she who is

called my wife loves me, I hate her, and by this means or by that I

will be rid of her. Forgive me, then, my sin against you, remembering

only that I have loved and served you in the past as I will love and

serve you in the future, and that it was you who brought about these

troubles because, though I prayed you to stay and did all in my power

to prevent you, you determined to accompany your father upon his mad

journey into the wilderness. Now I have spoken, and I thank you for

the courtesy with which you have listened to me.”

“You have spoken, cousin,” she answered, “and your words have been

gentle; yet, if I understand you right, some few days since you were

in doubt as to whether it would not be better to murder me here in

this darksome hole where you have placed us.”

“If policy put any such thought into my mind, Maya, love drove it out

again,” he answered, with confusion.

“So you admit that this was so,” she said. “Well, a day may come when

policy might breed the thought, and love, grown weary, prove not warm

enough to wither it. Also it seems that even now you threaten these my

companions with death, should I refuse you your desire.”

“If you should refuse me my desire, Maya, perhaps it will be for a

secret reason of your own”—and he scowled at the se�or angrily—“a

reason that the death of these men, or of one of them, will remove.”

“Be sure of one thing, Tikal,” she broke in sharply, “that such a

wicked deed would put an end for ever to your hopes of making me your

wife. Now, listen. I have heard your words, and they have touched me

somewhat, for I think that although you have broken your oath to my

father, and your troth with me, at heart you are honest in your love.

Still, I can give you no answer now, and for this reason, that the

answer does not lie with me, but rather with the gods. To-morrow night

we appear before the High Court of the Council of the Heart, and you

yourself shall set the severed portions of the talisman that we have

travelled so far to seek in the place prepared to receive it, in the

symbol that is on the altar of the Sanctuary. Then, as my dead father

believed—and he was gifted with wisdom from above—the god shall

declare his purpose in this way or in that, showing his servants why

all these things have come about, and what they must do to fulfil his

will. By that will, cousin, and not by my own, I shall be guided in

this and in all other things.”

Now, Tikal thought awhile, and answered:

“And if nothing follows this ceremony, and the oracles of the god are

silent, what then?

“Then, Tikal,” she said softly, “you may ask me again if I will become

your wife, and perhaps, if the Council suffers it, I shall not say you

nay. Now farewell, for grief still shadows me, and I can talk no

more.”

CHAPTER XX

THE COUNCIL OF THE HEART

Now, when Tikal was gone I sat silent, for although it might be

necessary to save our lives, and to bring about the fulfilment of

Maya’s love, all this double-dealing did not please me, and I could

not talk of it with a light heart. But the se�or said:

“I hope that yonder rogue, Mattai, may not have repented or been

over-bribed by Tikal, and set some other prophecy in the hollow of the

symbol, for then, Maya, you will be taken at your word, and things

will be worse than ever they have been.”

“I pray not, and it is not likely,” she answered, starting, then with

a quick burst of passion she added:

“But why do you look at me with such reproach, Ignatio? No, do not

answer, for I know why. It is because you think me a cheater and a

liar, and are saying in your heart, ‘This is a woman’s honour. Thus

would any woman act in the hour of temptation.’ Ignatio, with all your

courtesy, you hate and despise us women, looking on us as lower then

yourselves, as a snare to your strength and a pitfall for your feet.

Well, if so, thus we were made, and can we quarrel with that which

made us? Also, in some ways we are greater than you, though you may be

pleased to call yourselves more honest. You would not have dared for

your love what I have dared for mine; you would not have offered

deadly outrage to the god of your people, to the instinct of your

blood, and the teachings of your youth. No, you would have sat still

and wrung your hands and seen your lover perish before your face, and

then have turned your eyes to the sky and said: ‘It cannot be helped,

it is well; at least, I am clean in the sight of heaven.’

“So be it. I, Maya, am of a different nature, I have dared all these

things and I joy in them, even though you watch me ever with your

melancholy eyes. Why should I not? Is not my love everything to me,

and is it shameful that this should be so? I believe no more in this

unknown god; why, then, should I fear to offend him? I will not see my

betrothed given up to death, and myself to worse than death; and how

can I harm my people by taking a man nobler than themselves to be my

husband? Cease, then, to reproach me by your silence; or, rather,

learn to pity me, for my strait is sore, and doubtless vengeance dogs

my heels. Let it fall, if it will, on me, but not on you, beloved—oh!

not on you–-” and suddenly her anger left her, and she sank into the

se�or’s arms and lay there weeping bitterly.

Then I went to the further end of the hall and sat there reading the

ancient writings of this people, which we had found in the chamber.

Indeed, this was my daily occupation, for now I found that these

lovers liked to be alone, unless it happened that there were plans to

be thought out or counsel to be given. A shadow grew between me and

the se�or in those days; for, though he said nothing of it, he also

was angry because I did not approve of the dark plot to which we were

parties, and Maya’s outburst spoke his mind with her own. Nor was this

wonderful, for now, looking back, I do not blame her or him, or think

that they did wrong, and I believe that what I really felt was not

indignation at a trick which might well be pardoned, seeing how much

hung to it, but superstitious fear lest some force, human or infernal,

should visit that trick with vengeance; for, as we know, even the

devils have power against us if we give it to them by fighting the

world with their own weapons.

On the following day the attendants who set our meals brought with

them clean robes for each of us, scented and wonderfully worked, and

for Maya certain royal ornaments. In these we arrayed ourselves before

evening, and waited. The hours passed, and at length the copper gates

were opened, and a band of nobles and guards presented themselves

before us, saying that they were commanded to lead us to the

Sanctuary. We answered that nothing would please us better, who were

heartily weary of living like rats in the dark, and in a few minutes

we found ourselves walking up the stairs towards the crest of the

pyramid.

We reached it, and saw the stars shining above us, and felt the breath

of heaven blowing in our faces, and never have the sight of the stars

or the taste of the night air seemed more sweet to me. Leaving the

watch-house we walked to the great stair across the lonely summit of

the pyramid and began to descend its side. At the foot of the stairway

we turned to the right till we came to a double door of copper,

beautifully worked, placed in the centre of the western face of the

pyramid, and guarded by a small body of soldiers, who saluted and

admitted us. Beyond the doors was a great hall not unlike that which

had served as our prison, lit with lamps, lined with polished marble,

and having on either side of its length doorways leading to the

apartments that were used as sleeping-places for the officers on duty.

At the threshold of this hall we were met by priests clothed in pure

white, into whose custody we were given by the company of nobles and

soldiers that had escorted us thus far.

Surrounded by the priests, who chanted as they walked, we passed down

the hall till we reached another and a smaller door. Beyond this lay a

labyrinth of steeply sloping passages, running in every direction deep

into the bowels of the rock beneath the pyramid. So intricate and

numerous were these tunnels, that, even with the assistance of the

lights which the priests carried, it would have been almost impossible

for any one not having their secret, to find a path through them, or

even to keep his face in a given direction for more than a few paces.

Along these passages our guides went without faltering, turning now to

the right, now to the left, and now seeming to retrace their

footsteps, till at length they halted to open a third door, covered

over with plates of beaten gold, on the further side of which lay the

most sacred spot save one in the City of the Heart, the chamber that

served the threefold purpose of a judgment-hall, a church wherein the

nobles attended worship, and a burial-place of the departed caciques

of the city. Here in this vast and awful vault, each of them set in

his own niche and companioned by his consort, stood the bodies of

every king-priest who had reigned in the holy city, enclosed in

coffins of solid gold, fashioned to the shape and likeness of the

corpse within, and having the name, age, date of death, and a brief

account of the good or evil that the man had done cut in symbols on

his breast. There they stood eternally, men and women made in gold,

and beneath their brows gleamed false eyes of emeralds. Numerous as

were the niches in the chamber, each had its tenants; and in the last

recess—that nearest to the entrance—stood a new comer; for here in

his gilded sheath was placed the corpse of Zibalbay, by the side of

her who had been his wife and Maya’s mother.

For a moment Maya paused to look upon the bodies of her parents, then

with a sigh and an obeisance she passed on, saying to me, “See, this

Hall of the Dead is full, there is no place left for me or for my

descendants, and surely that is an evil omen. Well,” she added, with a

sigh, “what does it matter where they set us when we are dead? For my

part I had sooner sleep in the earth, or beneath the waters, than

stand for ever cased in gold and glaring with jewelled eyes upon the

darkness. Yes, if I might, I should choose the earth that bore me, for

it would turn my flesh to flowers.”

Then we went on defiling before the silent company of the golden dead,

who seemed to watch us as we walked, till, passing round a

judgment-seat that was set near the end of the hall, we stood in front

of a little door over which burned great lamps. This door was guarded

by two priests with drawn swords, which they pointed towards us as a

sign that we should halt.

Then the priests who had escorted us so far fell back behind the

judgment-seat, and we were left alone.

“Give the sign, keepers of the gate,” said Maya.

Thereupon one of the men with the drawn swords uttered a low and

peculiar cry like to the wail of a child. When he had made this

strange sound thrice at intervals of about half a minute, it was

answered from within by another and a louder cry pitched upon the same

note. Then of a sudden the door was flung wide, and a stern-looking

man with a shaven head came through it.

“Who are you that seek entrance into the Sanctuary?” he asked; “are

you gods or devils, men or women?”

“We are two men and a woman,” answered Maya, “priests and priestess of

the Heart, and we come to take our trial before the Council of the

Heart, as is our right.”

“Do you know the open signs of the Heart, the signs of Brotherhood, of

Unity, and of Love, that you dare to stand upon the threshold of the

Sanctuary, to cross which is death to the ignorant?”

“We know them,” answered Maya. And one by one we gave those signs.

“Do you know the secret signs of the Heart, that you dare to cross

this threshold?” he asked again. “Otherwise get you back and take your

trial in the common judgment-hall.”

“I know them,” answered Maya, “and I vouch for these men who accompany

me. Suffer me, then, to enter, and these with me, for I am here by

ancient right, and I have knowledge both of the outward signs and the

inner mysteries.”

Now the man withdrew, and the door was closed behind him. Presently he

appeared again and said:

“I have reported to the Council, and it is the will of the Council

that you should enter.”

“Follow me,” said Maya to us, “and when you are spoken to make no

answer till I have vouched for you. I will answer for you.”

The priests let their swords fall, and, passing through the doors—for

there were two of them connected by a short passage—once more we

found ourselves standing beneath the mask of the Unknown god in the

Sanctuary of the City of the Heart. But now it was no longer empty.

Behind the little altar were three stools, and upon them, clad in

wonderful apparel, and adorned with gold and gems, sat Tikal, Mattai,

and Nahua, who was the only woman present. In front of the altar was

an open space, and beyond its circle, each wearing the orders of his

spiritual rank, sat the Brethren of the Heart according to their

degree, to the number of thirty-six.

Led by Maya we advanced into the space before the altar, and stood

there in silence. None of those present took note of us; indeed, they

did not seem to see us, but sat with bent heads and with hands folded

crosswise on their breasts. At length one of the Brethren—he who was

nearest to the door, and had questioned us without—rose, and,

addressing Tikal, said:

“Keeper of the Heart, one who claims to be of our company stands

before you, and with her two for whom she vouches, who, although they

be strangers, by your command I have proved to be Brethren of the

Heart, though what more they may be I know not. Be pleased, then, to

prove them also by the voice of their sponsor, that their mouths may

be opened and their prayer come to the ears of the Council.”

At his words two of the brethren rose and blindfolded the se�or and

myself, lest we should see the sacred signs, with all of which,

indeed, I was well acquainted, but Maya they did not blindfold. Then

we heard Tikal asking:

“How are you named who are strange to our eyes?” We made no reply, for

a voice in our ears cautioned us to be silent.

“We are named ‘the Son of the Sea’ and ‘Ignatio the Wanderer,’”

answered the voice of Maya.

“Son of the Sea, and Ignatio the Wanderer, why come you here,” asked

Tikal, “through the gate on which is written—‘Death to the Stranger

and to the Uninstructed.’”

“Because we have a prayer to utter, an offering to make, and because,

although we dwell in a far land, we are the servants of the Heart,”

answered Maya.

“How come ye here?”

“The Heart led, the Mouth whispered, and we followed the light of the

Eyes.”

“Show me the sign of the light of the Eyes, or die to this world.”

Now there was silence, and, though we could not see it, Maya showed

the sign on our behalf.

“Show me the second sign, the sign of the Mouth, or be cursed by the

Mouth, and die to this world and the next.”

Again there was silence.

“Show me the sign of the Heart, the third and greatest sign, lest the

Heart think on you, and ye die to this world, to the next world, and

all the worlds that are to be; lest ye be cast out between the Light

and Darkness, and lost in the gulf of fire that joins Heaven to Hell.”

Now we heard a sound of rustling, as though all the company had risen

and were prostrating themselves, and presently the bandages were

lifted from our eyes.

“Strangers,” said Tikal, “your mouths are opened in the Sanctuary

according to the ancient form, and it is lawful for the Council to

listen to your prayer. Speak, then, without fear.”

Then I spoke, saying:

“Brethren—for so I will dare to call you, seeing that I also, though

a stranger, am of the Brotherhood of the Heart, as I can prove to you

if need be—ay! and higher in rank than any present here, unless it be

you, O Keeper of the Heart: on my own behalf, on behalf of my brother

who also is of our company, and on behalf of Maya, Lady of the Heart,

daughter of him who ruled you, and heiress to his power, I speak and

make my prayer to you. It would seem that we three, together with

Zibalbay, who is dead and therefore beyond the execution of your

judgment, have violated the laws of this city—we by daring to enter

its gates, and Zibalbay and the Lady Maya by leading us to those

gates. For this crime we should have been put to death eight days ago

upon the pyramid, had not the Lady Maya here claimed a right to have

our cause laid before this high tribunal. In her case and in that of

her father this was conceded, and I pray now that the same clemency

may be extended to me and to my brother.”

“Upon what grounds do you claim this, stranger?” asked Tikal.

“Upon the ground that we are Brethren of the inmost circle of the

Heart, and therefore have committed no crime in visiting this city,

which is free to us by right of our rank and office.”

Now there was a murmur of “True” from the Council behind me, and Tikal

also said “True,” but added, “If you are Brethren from the inmost

circle of the Heart, you are free from offence; but first you must

prove that this is so, which as yet you have not done. A brother of

the inmost circle knows its mysteries and can answer the secret

questions. Come, let us put you to the test, but first let the white

man be removed from the Sanctuary, for in this matter each must vouch

for himself.”

Accordingly the se�or was led away, and, the doors having been closed

and the lamps shaded, the oldest and most instructed of the

councillors stood forward and put me to the test with many questions,

all of which I answered readily. Then they commanded me to stand

before the altar, and, as Keeper of the Heart, to open the Heart in

the highest degree. This I did also, though afterwards they told me

that my ritual differed in some particulars from their own. After that

I took up my parable and questioned them till at length none there

could answer me—no, not even the high priest or Mattai; and they

confessed humbly that I was more instructed than any one of them, and

because of this knowledge from that day forward I was held in

veneration in the City of the Heart.

Now I was given a seat among the Brethren—the highest, indeed, after

those of the chief priest and the great officers—and the se�or was

summoned.

He entered with a downcast look, and while Maya and I watched him

sadly, his examination began. It was not long. At the second question

he became confused, used angry language in Spanish and English, and

broke down.

“Brethren,” said Tikal—and there was joy in his eye, as he spoke—“it

seems that we need not trouble further with this impostor. By daring

to enter our city he has earned the penalty of death; moreover he has

blackened his crime by claiming to be of our Brotherhood, whereas he

scarcely knows the simplest pass-word. Is it your will that he should

be taken to his fate? If so, speak the word of doom.”

Now Maya rose affrighted, but, motioning to her to be silent, I spoke,

saying:

“Hear me before that fatal word is spoken which cannot be recalled!

This man is of our inmost Brotherhood, though he has not been formally

admitted to the inner circles, and has forgotten those of the

mysteries which were taught to him at his initiation. Listen, and I

will tell you how he came to join the Order of the Heart”—and I told

them that tale of my rescue by the se�or, and told them also all the

story of our meeting with Zibalbay and of our journey to the City of

the Heart, speaking to them for an hour or more while they hearkened

earnestly.

When I had done they debated as to the fate of the se�or, and—though

by only one vote—decided that if I had nothing more to urge on his

behalf he must straightway die.

“I have something more to urge before you pass judgment,” I said in my

need and despair (speaking and acting a lie to save the life of my

beloved friend—yes, I who had blamed Maya for this same deed),

“though it has to do with the mysteries of your religion rather than

with those of our Order. It was the belief of Zibalbay, who is dead,

that when the two halves of the ancient talisman—the halves Night and

Morning, that together make the perfect Day—are set in their place in

the symbol which once they filled before the dividing of peoples, then

it shall be made clear what part must be played by each of us

wanderers in the fate that is to be. To this end did Zibalbay

undertake his journey, and lo! here is that which he went to seek–-”

and I drew the talisman from my breast. “Take it, Tikal, for I resign

it, and lay it with its fellow in the place that is prepared for them,

so that we may learn, and all your people may learn, what truth there

is in the visions of Zibalbay.”

“That is our desire,” answered Tikal, taking the severed emerald and

its counterpart which Maya gave to him. “Let the white man, Son of the

Sea, be placed without the Sanctuary and guarded there awhile, for so

at least he will gain time to prepare himself for death. Fear not,

lady,” he added, noting Maya’s anxious face, “no harm shall be done to

him till this matter of the prophecy is made clear.”

Now for the second time the se�or was removed, and when he had gone

Tikal spoke, tracing the history of the prophecy so far as it was

known, and reciting its substance—that when once more the two halves

of the symbol of the Heart were laid side by side in their place on

the altar in the Sanctuary, then from that hour the people should grow

great again.

“In all this,” he said, “I have little faith; still, Zibalbay, who in

his way was wise, believed it, and, the story having gone abroad, the

people clamour that it should be put to the test. Is this your will

also?”

“It is our will,” answered the Councillors.

“Good. Then let it be done, and on your heads be it if harm should

come of the deed. Mattai, the Council commands you to set these

fragments in the hollow of the symbol.”

“If such is the order of the Council I have no choice but to obey,”

said Mattai. “Yet, though none else have done so, I give my voice

against it, for I hold that this is childishness, and never did I know

any good to spring from prophecies”—and he paused as though waiting

for an answer.

“Obey! Obey!” said the Council, for curiosity had got a hold of them,

and they craned their necks forward to see what might happen.

“Obey!” repeated Tikal. “But beware how you shake the Heart, lest the

legend prove true and we should perish in the doom of waters.”

Then Mattai set the two halves of the talisman in their place; and as

before, in the midst of an utter silence, lo! the symbol opened like a

flower. Leaning forward I saw the eye within its hollow; but it seemed

to me that the fire had faded from the heart of the jewel, for now it

gleamed coldly, like the eye of a man who is two hours dead. I think

that Mattai noted this also, for as the symbol opened he started and

his hand shook.

Now, when they saw the marvel, a gasp of wonder rose from the Council,

then Tikal spoke, saying:

“It seems that there was wisdom in Zibalbay’s madness, for the Heart

has opened indeed, and within it is a stone eye resting upon a plate

of gold that is covered with writing.”

“Read the writing!” they cried.

Displacing the eye, Tikal lifted the plate of gold and scanned it.

“I cannot,” he said, shaking his head. “It is written in a character

more ancient than any I have learned. Take it, Mattai, for you are

instructed in such signs.”

Now Mattai took the tablet and studied it long with an anxious face,

upon which at length light broke that changed anon to wonder, or

rather blank amaze, so that I, watching him, began to think, not

knowing all the cleverness of Mattai, that the se�or was right, and

the tablet had been tampered with since we saw it.

“Read! Read!” cried the Council.

“Brethren,” he said, “the words seem clear, and yet so strange is this

writing that I fear my learning is at fault, and that I had best give

it to others to decipher.”

“No; read, read,” they cried again, almost angrily.

Then he read:

“This is the voice of the Nameless god that his prophet heard in

the year of the building of the Sanctuary, and graved upon a

tablet of gold which he set in a secret place in the symbol of the

Sanctuary, to be declared in that far-off hour when the lost is

found and the signs of the Day and the Night are come together. To

thee it speaks, unborn daughter of a chief to be, whose name is

the name of a nation. When my people have grown old, and their

numbers are lessened, and their heart is faint, then, maiden, take

to thyself as a husband a man of the race of the white god, a son

of the sea-foam, whom thou shalt lead hither across the desert,

for so my people shall once more prosper and grow strong, and the

land shall be to thy child and the child of the god, east and

west, and north and south, further than my eagles wing between

sunrise and set.”

Now, as Mattai read, the face of Tikal grew black with rage, and

before ever the echoes of his voice had died away, he sprang from his

seat crying:

“Whoever it was that wrote this lying prophecy, god or man, let him be

accursed. Shall the Lady Maya—for her it must be whose name is the

name of a nation—be given in marriage to the white dog who awaits his

doom without that door, and shall his son rule over us? First I will

see her dead and him with her!”

Then one of the eldest of the Council, a man named Dimas, who, as I

learned afterwards, had been foster-brother to Zibalbay, rose and

answered wrathily:

“It seems that these things must be so, Tikal, and beware how you

utter threats of death lest they should fall upon your own head. We

have called upon the god, and the god has spoken in no uncertain

voice. The Lady Maya must become wife to the white man, Son of the

Sea, and then things shall befall as they are fated.”

“What?” answered Tikal. “Is this wandering stranger to be set over me

and all of us?”

“That I do not know,” said the Councillor, “the writing does not say

so; the writing says that his son shall be set over us, and as yet he

has no son. But this is certain, that the Lady Maya must be given to

him as wife, and in her right he well may rule, seeing that she is the

lawful heir to her father, and not you, Tikal, although you have

usurped her place.”

Now many voices called upon Maya, and she stood forward and spoke,

with downcast eyes.

“What shall I say?” she began, “except one thing, that my will is the

will of the gods, and if it is fated that I should be given to the

white man in marriage, why, so let it be. For many years I was taught

to look elsewhere, but he who was to have been my husband—” and she

pointed towards Tikal—“chose himself another wife, and now I see that

he did this not altogether of his own will, but because it was so

decreed. One thing more. I, who am but a woman, have no desire to rule

or to take the place that the Lady Nahua holds. The writing says that

in a day to come, a far-off day, some child of mine, if indeed I am

that ‘daughter of a chief whose name is the name of a nation,’ shall

rule in truth. Let him then come in his hour and take the glories that

await him, and meanwhile, Tikal, do you sit in your place and leave me

to rest in peace.”

“The Lady Maya speaks you fair, Tikal, and my daughter,” said Mattai,

“and if the people will have it, you may do well to accept her offer,

leaving the future to shape itself. She says she is ready to take the

white man as a husband, but we have not yet heard whether the white

man will take her as a wife. It may be—” he added with a smile—“that

he will rather choose to die; but at the least we must have an answer

from his lips—that is, if you accept this prophecy as sent from

heaven. Say, do you accept it?”

“We accept it,” answered the Council almost with one voice.

“Then let the white man, Son of the Sea, be brought before us,” said

Mattai.

CHAPTER XXI

THE MARRIAGE OF MAYA

Presently the door opened and the se�or was led into the Sanctuary, as

he thought to his death, for I saw that his teeth were set and that

his hand was clenched as though to defend himself. But as he came the

most of the Council rose and bowed to him, crying:

“Hail to you! Son of the Sea, Favoured of Heaven, Father fore-ordained

of the Deliverer to come!”

Then he knew that the plot had succeeded, and he uttered a great sigh

of relief.

“Hearken, white lord,” said Mattai, for Tikal sat still and scowled on

him in silence; “the gods have spoken by their oracle. As Zibalbay

thought, so it is, and your feet have been led for a purpose to the

gates of the City of the Heart. Listen to the words of the gods”—and,

taking the tablet, he read to him the false prophecy. “Now choose,

White Man. Will you take the Lady Maya to wife, or will you be put to

death in that, having wandered to the City of the Heart, you refuse to

obey the command of its gods?”

Now the se�or thought and answered:

“The man would be foolish who hesitated between death and so fair and

sweet a bride. Still, this is a matter that I cannot decide alone.

What says the Lady Maya?”

“She says,” answered Maya, “that although this is a marriage for which

she did not look, and it is a new thing that a daughter of the Heart

should take a stranger of less ancient blood to husband, the will of

Heaven is her will, and the lord that Heaven chooses for her shall be

her lord”—and she stretched out her hand to the se�or.

He took it, and, bending down, kissed her fingers, saying:

“May I be worthy of your choice, Lady.”

Now I thought that the ceremonies were finished, and was glad, for I

grew weary of assisting at this farce, but the old priest, Zibalbay’s

foster-brother, rose and said:

“One thing more must be done, Brethren, before we leave this

Sanctuary, and it is to swear in these strangers as members of the

Council. They have wandered here from far, and here with us they must

live and die, seeing that both of them know our secrets, and one of

them is predestined to become the father of that great lord for whose

arising we have looked for many generations, and therefore, until the

child is born, he must be watched and guarded as priests watch a

sacred fire.”

“Ay! it is well thought of. Let them be sworn, and learn that to break

the oath is death,” was the answer.

Then Mattai rose, as Keeper of the Sanctuary, and said:

“You, White Man, Son of the Sea, and you, Ignatio, the Wanderer, a

Lord of the Heart, do swear upon the holy symbol of the Heart, the

oath to break which is to die horribly in this world and to be lost

everlastingly in the worlds that are to be. You swear, setting in

pledge your souls and bodies for the fulfilment of the oath, that

neither by word nor sign nor deed will you reveal aught of the

mysteries or the councils of this Brotherhood, whereof you will be the

faithful servants till your deaths, holding it supreme above every

power upon earth. You swear that you will not possess yourselves of

the treasures of the City of the Heart, nor, without the consent of

this high Brotherhood, attempt to leave its gates or to bring any

stranger within its walls. These things you swear with your hands upon

the altar, setting in pledge your souls and bodies for the fulfilment

of the oath.”

Other clauses there were also which I have forgotten, but this was the

substance of the vow that was dictated to us. We looked at each other

helplessly, and then, there being no escape, we swore, kneeling before

the altar, with our hands resting upon it.

As the solemn words of confirmation passed our lips, we heard a sound

of the movement of heavy stones behind us.

“Arise now,” said the old priest, “turn, Brethren, and look upon that

which lies behind you.”

We obeyed, and the next instant shrank back against the altar in

alarm, for within six feet of us a massive stone in the floor had been

lifted, revealing the mouth of a well, from the deep recesses of which

came the distant sound of rushing waters.

“Behold, Brethren,” he went on, “and should the oath which you have

sworn be broken in a single letter, learn after what fashion you must

suffer for your sins. Into that pit you shall be cast, that the water

may choke your breath, and the demons of the under-world may prey upon

your souls through all eternity. Have you seen, and, seeing, do you

understand?”

“We have seen, and we understand,” we answered.

“Then let the mouth of the pit be sealed again, and pray you in your

hearts that it may never be opened to receive the living body of you

or of any of us. Son of the Sea, and you, Ignatio the Wanderer, the

oaths have been sworn, and the ceremony is finished. Henceforth till

your deaths you are of our number, sharers in our rights and

privileges, and to you will be assigned houses, attendants and

revenues fitted to your station. Go forth, Brethren, that you may

refresh yourselves, and prepare to meet the people upon the summit of

the pyramid at dawn; that is, within an hour. Lead them away with you,

my Lord Mattai.”

So we went, leaving behind us the talisman of the Broken Heart, for

the priests refused to return it to me, saying that at length the

tokens named Day and Night had come together in their ancient place,

and henceforth there they must bide for ever. Accompanied by Maya,

Mattai, and the escort of priests, we passed through the halls and

passages out into the courtyard of the temple, and thence to

apartments in the palace, where we refreshed ourselves with food, for

we were weary.

The trick had succeeded, the ordeal was past, and for the present at

least we were no longer in danger of our lives: more, the power of

Mattai was confirmed, and his daughter was assured in her position as

the wife of Tikal; and the se�or and the Lady Maya were about to

attain to the fulness of their desire, and to be declared one in the

presence of the people. Yet never did I partake of a sadder meal, or

behold faces more oppressed by care and the fear of the future; for,

though nothing was said, in our hearts each of us knew that we had

become parties to a crime, and that sooner or later, in this way or in

that, our evil-doing would find us out. Putting this matter aside, I

myself had good reason to mourn, seeing that, whatever the others had

gained, I had won nothing; moreover I found myself bound by a solemn

oath not even to attempt to leave this city whither I had journeyed

with such high hopes. Well, the thing was done, and it was useless to

regret it or to think of the future, so, turning to Mattai, I asked

him what was to happen on the pyramid.

“There will be a great gathering of the people,” he answered, “as is

customary at dawn after the night of the Rising of Waters, and there

they will be told all that has happened in the Sanctuary, and then, if

it is their will, Tikal will be confirmed as cacique according to

the bargain, and either to-day or to-morrow the white man here will

become the husband of the Lady Maya, in order”—he added with a

sneer—“that of their union may be born the Deliverer who is to be.

Now, if you are ready, it is time for us to go, for the multitude is

gathered, and an escort waits us without.”

Leaving the palace we placed ourselves in the centre of a party of

nobles and guards who were in attendance, and marched across the

courtyard and up the steps of the pyramid. The night was growing grey

with the breaking of the dawn, and in the pearly light, through which

the stars shone faintly, we perceived that bands of priests and

nobles, wrapped in their broidered serapes—for the morning air was

chilly—stood in their appointed places round the altar. In front of

them were ranged the dense masses of the people, drawn here to make

their prayers upon this feast day, and also by desire to learn the

truth as to the death of Zibalbay; the fate of the strangers who had

accompanied him from the unknown lands; the decision of the Council as

to the successor to the place and power of cacique; and lastly,

whether or no the oracle of the god had spoken to his priests upon

this or any other matter when the lost talisman was set in its place

in the Sanctuary.

On reaching the altar, seats were given to us among the nobles of the

Heart, those of Maya and the se�or being placed in such fashion that

they would be visible to the whole multitude.

Then followed a silence, till at length a priest who was stationed

upon the roof of the watch-house blew a silver trumpet and proclaimed

that the dawn was broken, whereon bands of singers who were in

readiness began to chant a very beautiful hymn of which the refrain

was caught up by the audience. As they sang, a beam from the rising

sun struck upon the fire that burned above the altar, and again the

trumpet sounded. Then, in the silence that followed, the priest who

stood by the fire, clothed in white robes, prayed in a loud voice,

saying:

“O god, our god, let our sins die with the dying year. O god, our god,

strengthen us with thy strength, comfort us with thy comfort during

the day that is to be. O god, our god, have pity upon us, lift us from

the darkness of the past, and give us light in the coming time. Hear

us, Heart of Heaven, hear us!”

He ceased, and from the surrounding gloom many voices made response,

saying: “Hear us, Heart of Heaven, hear us!”

Then for a space the old priest stood still, the firelight flickering

on his tall form and rapt countenance as he gazed towards the east.

Greyer and more grey grew the gloom, till of a sudden a ray from the

unrisen sun shot through the shadows like a spear and fell athwart the

summit of the pyramid, paling the holy fire, that seemed to shrink

before it. At the coming of the sunbeam the multitude of

worshippers—men and women together—rose from the marble pavement

whereon they had been kneeling in prayer, and, casting off the dark

cloaks which covered their white robes, they turned, extending their

arms towards the east, and cried with one accord:

“Hail to thee, O sun! bringer of all good things. Hail to thee,

new-born child of god!”

Now the light grew fast, and soon the city appeared, rising white and

beautiful from its veil of mist; and, as the glory of the daylight

fell upon it, other priests who stood by the altar uttered prayers

appointed to be offered upon this day of the beginning of the Rising

of Waters. To the People of the Heart the occasion was a great one,

seeing that but little rain falls in their country, and thus they

depend for a bountiful harvest upon the inundation of the island and

of the low shores that lay around the lake by its waters swollen with

the melted snow of the great mountains on the mainland. When the

waters retreated, then they planted their grain in rich land made

fertile by the mud, without labour to themselves, whence, before the

lake rose again, they gathered their corn and other crops.

When they had ended their praying, and gifts of fresh flowers had been

laid upon the altar by beautiful children chosen for that purpose,

Tikal blessed the multitude as high priest, and the simple ceremony

came to an end.

Then Mattai rose to speak, telling the people all things that had

happened, or so much of them as it was expedient that they should

know. He told them of the death of Zibalbay, of the setting of the

lost talisman in the symbol, and of the writing which was found

therein, which he read aloud to them amidst a dead silence. Then he

told them how the Lady Maya and the white man had consented to be

married in obedience to the voice of the oracle; and lastly, how she,

the Lady Maya, had desired that her cousin Tikal should continue to be

cacique of the City of the Heart, that she might have more leisure

to attend upon her heavensent husband, and to be at rest until that

child was become a man, whose wisdom and power should make them even

greater than their forefathers had been.

When he had finished his address there was much applause and other

expressions of joy, and a spokesman from among the people asked when

the marriage of the white man, Son of the Sea, to the Lady Maya, would

take place.

This question she answered in person, saying modestly that it was her

lord’s will that it should take place that very night in the

banqueting-hall of the palace, and that a great feast should be

celebrated in honour of it.

After this the talking came to an end, Tikal having said no word, good

or bad, beyond such as the duties of his office required; and

according to the custom of the country many people, noble and simple,

came forward to congratulate her who was about to be made a bride.

Weary of watching them and of hearing their pretty speeches, I took

advantage of the escort of a friendly noble and went to see the

ceremony of the closing of the flood-gate, a huge block of marble that

slid down a groove into a niche prepared to receive it, where it was

fastened with great bars of copper and sealed by certain officers,

although, so I was told, the rising water would not reach it for

another eight or ten days. Even though the flood should prove to be a

low one, it was death to break those seals for a space of four full

months, and during all this time any who would leave the city must do

so by means of ladders reaching from the wall to little wooden

jetties, where boats were moored. Afterwards we walked round the walls

and through some of the main streets, and I marvelled at the greatness

of this half-deserted place, for the most of it was in ruins, and at

the many strange sights that I saw in it. Indeed, I think that Mexico,

in the time of Montezuma, my forefather, was not more powerful or

populous than this town must have been in the days of its prosperity.

About midday I returned to the apartments that had been assigned to me

in the palace, and, hearing that the se�or was still in attendance

upon the Lady Maya, I ate my dinner alone with such appetite as I

could find, and lay down to sleep awhile.

I was awakened from my rest by the se�or, who arrived, looking merry

as he used to be before ever Molas came to lead us to the old Indian

doctor and his daughter, and full of talk about the preparations for

his wedding that night. I listened to all he had to say, and strove

earnestly to fall into his mood, but, as I suppose, without effect,

for in the end he fell into mine, which was but a sad one, and began

to talk regretfully of the past and doubtfully of the future. Now I

did my best to cheer him, but with little avail, for he shook his head

and said:

“Indian as she is, I love Maya, and no other woman has been or can be

so much to me; and yet I am afraid, Ignatio, for this marriage is

ill-omened, and I pray that what was begun in trickery may not end in

desolation. Also the future is black both for you and for me. You came

here from a certain purpose and will desire to leave again to follow

your purpose; nor, although I take this lady to wife, do I wish to

spend my days in the City of the Heart. And yet it would seem that,

unless we can escape, this is what we must do.”

“Let us hope that we shall be able to escape,” I answered.

“I doubt it,” he said, “for already I have discovered that, though we

be treated with all honour, yet we shall be closely watched, or at

least I shall, for certain reasons. Still, come what may, I trust that

this marriage will make no breach in our friendship, Ignatio.”

“I do not know, se�or,” I answered, “though I think that for weeks its

shadow has laid between us, and I fear lest that shadow should deepen.

Also it has been fated that women and their loves should come between

me, my ambitions, and my friends. From the moment that my eyes fell

upon the Lady Maya bound to the altar in the chapel of the hacienda,

I felt that her great beauty would bring trouble upon us, and it would

seem that my heart did not lie to me. Now, under her guidance, we have

entered upon a dark and doubtful path, whereof no man can see the

end.”

“Yes,” he answered, “but we took that path in order to save our

lives.”

“She took it, not to save her life, on which I think she sets little

store, but to win a husband whom she desires. For my part I hold that

it would have been better for us to die, if God so willed it, than to

live on with hearts fouled by deceit, seeing that in the end die we

must, but no years of added life can wear away that stain. Well, this

must seem sad talk to the ears of a bridegroom. Forget it, friend, and

rest awhile that you may do credit to the marriage-feast.”

Without answering, the se�or lay down upon the bed, where he

remained—whether sleeping or awake I do not know—till the hour of

sunset, when he was aroused by the arrival of several lords and

attendants who came to lead him to the bath. On his return other

messengers entered, bearing magnificent robes and jewels, the gift of

the Lady Maya, to be worn by him and by me at the ceremony. Then,

barbers having trimmed and scented his fair hair and beard according

to the fashion of this people, he was decked out like a victim for the

sacrifice.

So soon as all was prepared, the doors were flung wide, and six

officers of the palace came through them, bearing wands of office in

their hands, accompanied by a troop of singing-girls chosen for their

loveliness, which, to speak truth, was not small. In the midst of

these officers and ladies the se�or was placed, and, followed by

myself, who walked behind with a heavy heart, he set out for the

banqueting-hall. As we reached it the doors were thrown open and the

singers set up a love song, pretty enough, but so foolish that I have

forgotten it. We passed the threshold and found that the great hall

was crowded with guests arrayed in their most brilliant attire,

whereon the lamplight shone bravely. Through this company we walked

till we reached an open space at the far end of the hall, around which

in a semicircle sat the members of the Council of the Heart, Tikal and

his wife being placed in the centre of them, having Mattai on their

right, and on their left that old priest Dimas, the foster-brother of

Zibalbay, who had administered the oath to us.

As we advanced, with one exception, all the Council rose and bowed to

the se�or. That exception was Tikal, who stared straight before him

and did not move. Scarcely had they resumed their seats when the sound

of singing was heard again, mingled with that of music, and far away

at the foot of the long hall appeared a band of musicians playing upon

pipes of reeds, clad in the royal livery of green, and crowned with

oak-leaves. After the musicians marched, or rather danced, a number of

young girls robed in white only, and carrying white lilies in their

hands, which they threw upon the floor to be trodden by the feet of

the bride. Next came Maya herself, a sight of beauty such as stirred

even my cold heart, and caused me to think more gently of the se�or,

who had become party to a trick to win her. She also was arrayed in

white, embroidered with gold, and having the symbol of the Heart

blazoned on her breast; about her waist and neck were a girdle and

collar of priceless emeralds; on her head was set a tiara of perfect

pearls taken in past ages from the shell-fish of the lake, and round

her wrists and ankles were bangles of dead gold. Her waving hair hung

loose almost to her sandalled feet, and in her hand, as a token of her

rank, she bore a little golden sceptre, having at one end a great

pearl, and at the other a heart-shaped emerald. On she came, or rather

floated, her delicate head held high; and so strange and beautiful was

the aspect of her face, that for my part, from the instant that I

beheld it till she stood before me by the bridegroom, I seemed to see

naught else. It was very pale and somewhat set; indeed at that moment

Maya looked more like a white woman than one of Indian blood, and her

curved lips were parted as though they waited for some forgotten words

to pass them. Her deep-blue eyes also were set wide, and, beneath the

shadow of their lashes, seemed full of mystery and wonder, like the

eyes of one who walks in her sleep and beholds things invisible to the

waking sight. Presently they fell upon the eyes of the se�or, and of a

sudden grew human, while the red blood mantled on her breast and arms

and brow.

Then for me the spell was broken, and I glanced at Tikal and saw that

on his face was that same look with which he had greeted Maya when, on

the night of his own wedding-feast, he beheld her whom he believed to

be dead, standing before him clothed in life and beauty. Eagerly,

despairingly, he watched her, and I noticed that tears stood in his

angry eyes, and that a gust of jealous rage shook him from head to

foot when he saw her flush with joy at the sight of his white rival.

From Tikal my glance travelled to the dark beauty at his side, Nahua,

his wife, and became aware that in this instant she grew certain of

what perhaps before she only guessed, that in his heart her husband

loathed her, as with all his soul and strength he loved the affianced

of his youth who stood before him the bride of another man. Doubt,

fear, rage looked out in turn from her ominous eyes as the knowledge

went home, to be succeeded by a possessing misery, the misery of one

who knows that all which makes life good to her is for ever lost.

Then, pressing her hands to her heart for a moment, she turned aside

to hide her shame and wretchedness, and when she looked up again her

face was calm as the face of a statue, but on it was frozen a mask of

unchanging hate—hate of the woman who had robbed her.

Now the bridegroom and the bride stood together in the open space

surrounded by the half circle of the Council of the Heart, among whom

I was given a seat, while behind them were arranged the musicians and

singing-girls, and behind these again pressed the glittering audience

of marriage-guests. When all were in their places a herald rose and

cried out the names and titles of the pair, reciting briefly that they

were to be wed by the direct command of the guardian god of the city,

by the wish of the Council of the Heart, and because of the love that

they bore one another. Next, reading from a written roll, he published

the text of the agreement whereby Maya renounced her right as ruler in

favour of her cousin Tikal, and I noticed that this agreement was

received by the company in cold silence and with some few expressions

of disapproval. Lastly, from another roll he read the list of the

honours, prerogatives, offices, wealth, houses, and servants which

were thereby assigned to the Lady Maya and her consort, and also to

myself their friend, for the maintenance of their rank and dignity and

of my comfort.

Having finished his task, he asked the se�or and Maya whether they had

heard all that he had read by command of the Council, and, if so,

whether they approved thereof. They bowed their heads in assent,

whereupon the herald turned, and, addressing Tikal by all his titles,

called upon him, in virtue of his priestly office and of his position

as chief of the state, to make these two one in the face of the

people, according to the ancient custom of the land.

Tikal heard him and rose from his seat as though to commence the

service, then sank down again, saying:

“Seek some other priest, Herald, for this thing I will not do.”

CHAPTER XXII

MATTAI PROPHESIES EVIL

At Tikal’s words the company murmured in astonishment, and Mattai,

bending forward, began to whisper in his ear. Tikal listened for a

moment, then turned upon him fiercely and said aloud, so that all

could hear him:

“I tell you, Mattai, that I will be no party to this iniquity. Has

such a thing been heard of before, that the Lady of the Heart, the

highest lady in the land, should be given in marriage to a stranger

who, like some lost dog, has wandered to our gate?”

“The prophecy–-” began Mattai.

“The prophecy! I put no faith in prophecies. Why should I obey a

prophecy written how, when, or by whom I do not know? This lady was my

affianced bride, and now I am asked to unite her to a nameless man who

is not even of our blood or faith. Well, I will not.”

“Surely, lord, you blaspheme,” answered Mattai, growing wrath, “seeing

that it is not for the high priest to speak against the oracle of the

god. Also,” he added, with meaning, “what can it be to you, who are

not ten days wed to the lady at your side, that she to whom once you

were affianced should choose another as her husband?”

“What is it to me?” said Tikal, furiously. “If you desire to know, I

will tell you. It is everything. How did I come to break my troth and

to take your daughter as a wife? Through you, Mattai, through you, the

liar and the false prophet. Did you not swear to me that Maya was dead

yonder in the wilderness? And did you not, to satisfy your own

ambitions, force me on to take your daughter to wife? Ay! and is not

this marriage between the Lady of the Heart and the white man a plot

of yours devised for the furthering of your ends?”

Now, while all stood astonished, of a sudden Nahua, who hitherto had

listened in stony silence, rose and said:

“The Lord Tikal, my husband, forgets that common courtesy should

protect even an unwelcome wife from public insult.” Then she turned

and left the hall by the door which was behind her.

Now a murmur of pity for the lady, and indignation at the man, ran

through the company, and as it died away Tikal said: “Evil will come

of this night’s work, and in it I will have no hand. Do what you will,

and abide the issue”—and before any could speak in answer, he also

had left the hall, followed by his guards.

For a while there was silence, then men began to talk confusedly, and

some of the members of the Brotherhood of the Heart, rising from their

chairs, took hurried counsel together. At length they reseated

themselves, and, holding up his hand to secure silence, Mattai spoke

thus:

“Forgive me,” he said, addressing the audience, “if my words seem few

and rough, but it is hard for me to be calm in face of the open insult

which has been put upon my daughter and myself before you all. I will

not stoop to answer the charge that the Lord Tikal has brought against

me in his rage. Surely some evil power must have afflicted him with

madness, that, forgetting his honour as a man, and his duty as a

prince and priest, he should dare to utter such calumnies against the

god we worship, the white man whom the god has chosen to be a husband

to the Lady Maya, and myself, the Keeper of the Sanctuary. There were

many among you who held me foolish when, after much prayer and

thought, to further what I believed to be the true interests of the

whole people, I gave my voice in favour of the lifting up of Tikal to

fill the place and honour of cacique in room of our late prince,

Zibalbay, whom we thought dead with his daughter in the wilderness.

To-day I see that they were right, and that I was foolish indeed. But

enough of regrets and bitter talk, that make ill music at a

marriage-feast. Tikal, the head of our hierarchy, has gone, but other

priests are left, nor is his will the will of the Council, or of the

People of the Heart for whom the Council speaks. Their will it is that

this marriage should go forward, and Dimas, my brother, as the oldest

among us, I call upon you to celebrate it.”

Now the company shouted in applause, for they were set upon this

strange union of a white man with their lady, if only because it was a

new thing and touched their imagination; and even those of them who

were of his party were wrath with Tikal on account of his ill

behaviour and the cruel affront that he had offered to his new-made

wife.

So soon as the tumult had died away, the old priest Dimas rose, and,

taking the hands of Maya and the se�or, he joined them and said a very

touching and beautiful prayer over them, blessing them, and entreating

the spirit, Heart of Heaven, and other gods, to give them increase and

to make them happy in a mutual love. Lastly, he laid a white silken

cloth, which had been prepared, upon their heads as they knelt before

him, and, loosing the emerald girdle from about the waist of the

bride, he took her right hand and placed it upon the arm of the se�or,

then he bound the girdle round wrist and arm, buckled it, and in a few

solemn words declared these twain to be man and wife in the face of

Heaven and earth till death undid them.

Now the cloth was lifted and the girdle loosed, and, standing upon

their feet, the new-wed pair kissed each other before the people. A

shout of joy went up that shook the panelled roof, and one by one, in

order of their rank, the guests pressed forward to wish happiness to

the bride and bridegroom, most of them bringing some costly and

beautiful gift, which they gave into the charge of the waiting-ladies.

Last of all came the old priest Dimas, and said:

“Sweet bride, the gift that I am commanded by the Council to make to

you, though of little value in itself, is yet one of the most precious

to be found within the walls of this ancient city, being nothing less

than the holy symbol of the all-seeing Eye of the Heart of Heaven,

which, through you, men behold to-day for the first time for many

generations. Wear it always, lady, and remember that though this jewel

has no sight, yet that Eye, whereof it is a token, from hour to hour

reads your most secret soul and purpose. Make your thoughts, then, as

fair as is your body, and let your breast harbour neither guile nor

evil; for of all these things, in a day to come, you must surely give

account.”

As he spoke he drew from the case that hid it nothing less than that

awful Eye which we had seen within the hollow of the Heart, when with

unhallowed hands we robbed it, substituting the false for the true.

Now it had been set in a band of gold and hung to a golden chain which

he placed about the neck of the bride, so that the red and

cruel-looking gem lay gleaming on her naked breast. Maya bowed and

muttered some words of thanks, but I saw that her spirit failed her at

the touch of the ominous thing, for she turned faint and would have

fallen had not her husband caught her by the arm.

While the se�or and his wife were receiving gifts and listening to

pretty speeches, a number of attendants had brought tables laden with

every kind of food from behind the pillars where they had been

prepared, and at a signal the feast began. It was long and joyous,

though joy seemed to have faded from the face of Maya, who sat neither

eating nor drinking, but from time to time lifting the red eye from

her breast as though it scorched her skin. At length she rose, and,

accompanied by her husband, walked bowing down the hall to the

courtyard, where bearers waited for them with carrying-chairs. In

these they seated themselves, and a procession having been formed,

very long and splendid, though I will not stay to describe it, we

started to march round the great square to the sound of music and

singing, our path being lit by the light of the moon and with hundreds

of torches. Here in this square were gathered all the population of

the City of the Heart, men, women, and children, to greet the bride,

each of them bearing flowers and a flaming torch; and never have I

seen any sight more beautiful than this of their welcome.

The circuit of the square being accomplished, the procession halted at

the palace gates, and many hands were stretched out to help the bride

and bridegroom from their litters. It was at this moment that I, who

was standing near, felt a man wrapped in a large feather cloak push

past me, and saw that he held something which gleamed like a knife.

By instinct, as it were, I cried, “Beware, my friend!” in Spanish, and

in so piercing a voice that it caught the se�or’s ear. He swung round,

for already he was standing on his feet, and, as he turned, the man in

the cloak rushed at him and stabbed with the knife. But, being warned,

the se�or was too quick for him. Springing to one side, with the same

movement he dealt his would-be murderer a great buffet, that caused

him to drop the dagger and sent him staggering into the dense shadow

of the archway.

For some seconds no one seemed to understand what had happened, and

when they did and began to search for the man, he was not to be found.

Who he was, or why he had attempted this cowardly deed, was never

discovered; but for my part I have little doubt that either Tikal

himself or some creature of his was wrapped in the dark feather cloak,

and sought thus to rid him of his rival. Indeed, as time went on, this

belief took firm hold of the mind of the people, and was one of the

causes that led to the sapping of Tikal’s power and popularity.

Very hastily the se�or assured the lords in attendance who crowded

round him that he had received no manner of hurt, and then, after

speaking a few brief words of thanks, he withdrew into the palace with

his wife, and I saw him no more that night.

The day of this marriage was to me the beginning of the longest and

most weary year that ever I have spent in a long and weary life. Very

soon I understood how it came about that Maya had learned to hate the

City of the Heart in which she was born, its people, and its ways, and

ardently to desire a new life in new lands. Here there was no change

and little work; here, enervated by a cloying luxury, the poor remnant

of a great civilisation rotted slowly to its fall, and none lifted a

hand to save it. Since men must do something, the priests and nobles

plotted for place and power indeed, and the common people listlessly

followed this trade or that, providing food and raiment for the

community—not for themselves—but there was little heart in what they

did, and they took no pleasure in it. Basking in the eternal sunshine,

they loitered from the cradle to the grave, hoping nothing, suffering

nothing, fearing nothing, content to feast amid their crumbling

palaces, and, when they were weary, to sleep till it was time to feast

again, satisfying their souls the while with the husks of a faith

whereof they had lost the meaning. Such were the people of whom

Zibalbay hoped to fashion a race of conquerors!

Still, to this life they were born and it became them; indeed, they

could have endured no other, for the breath of hardship must have

melted them away as my Indian forefathers melted beneath the iron rule

of the Spaniard, but to me it was a daily torment. Often I have beheld

some wild creature pine and die in its prison, though food was given

to it in greater abundance than it could find in its native woods, and

like that wild creature was I in this soft City of the Heart.

The wealth I came to seek was round me in abundance, useless and

unproductive as the dead hands that had stored it, and yonder in

Mexico were men who by aid of that wealth might become free and great:

but alas! I could not bring them together. I could not even escape

from my gaol, for my every movement was watched. Yet I would have

tried to do so had it not been for the se�or, who, when I spoke of it,

said I should be no true friend of his if I went and left him alone in

this house of strangers. Indeed his plight was worse than mine, for he

too soon grew utterly weary of this dreadful city of eternal summer,

and of everything in it except his wife. For whole hours we would sit

gazing on the wide waters of the lake, and make plan after plan

whereby we might gain the mountains and freedom, only to abandon each

in turn. For they were hopeless. Day and night he was watched, since

here alone this people forgot to be indolent. They knew that their

race was dying and, lifting no hand to save themselves, they preferred

to pin their faith upon the prophecy which promised that from this

white man should spring a saviour. Meanwhile, false though it may have

been, the prophecy, or one part of it, was in the way of fulfilment,

which in itself was a wonder to this people, among whom the births of

children were so rare. At length that child was born—a son—and the

rejoicing knew no bounds. Strangely enough, upon the same day Nahua

also gave birth to a son, and great was her anger when she learned

that it was not on her account or on that of her offspring that the

people were so glad.

Within a few days of the se�or’s marriage we heard that Mattai had

been seized with sickness, a kind of palsy, together with a leprous

condition of the arms that baffled all skill. For months he lay in his

house, growing gradually worse, so said the physicians; but one

night—I remember that it was three days previous to the birth of

Maya’s child—he appeared before Maya, the se�or, and myself, as we

sat together in the palace looking out upon the moonlit garden. At

first we did not know him, for never before had I seen a sight so

dreadful. His body was bloated; one arm—his left—was swathed in

bandages; his head shook incessantly; and the leprosy had seized his

face, which was of a livid hue.

“Do not shrink from me,” he began, in a low and quavering voice, as he

gazed upon us with his whitening eyes; “surely you should not shrink,

seeing that all of you are partners in the crime that has made of me

the loathsome thing I am. Ay! deny it if you will, but I know it. The

vengeance of the god has fallen upon me, his false servant, and it has

fallen justly. Moreover, be assured that on you also shall that

vengeance fall, for the Eye has seen, the Mouth has told, and the

Heart has thought upon your doom. Look upon me, and learn how rich are

the wages of him who works iniquity, and by my sufferings strive to

count the measure of your own. Perchance your cup is not yet full;

perchance you have still greater sins to work: but vengeance shall

come—I tell you that vengeance shall come here and hereafter. I did

this thing for my daughter’s sake; yes, for love of her, my only

child. She was ambitious and she desired this man, and I thought to

assure greatness to her and to her children after her.

“But see how her wine has been turned to vinegar, and her pleasant

fruits to ashes. Her husband hates her with an ever-growing hate; now

they scarcely speak, or speak only to shower bitter words upon each

other’s head. More—not for long will Tikal be cacique of the City

of the Heart, for his jealous rage has soured all his mind; his deeds

are deeds of oppression and injustice; already he is detested by the

people, and even those who loved him turn from him and plot against

him. Do you know what they plot? They plot to make that child that

shall be born of you, Maya, cacique in his room, and to set up you

and your outland husband as regents till it shall be of an age to

govern. Oh! you have planned cunningly, and things look well for you,

but I say that they shall not prosper.

“The curse is on you, Ignatio, Lord of the Heart, for all your

high-built hopes shall fall like a rotted roof, and never shall the

eagles of that empire you have dreamed of be broidered on your

banners. Slaves are the people you have toiled for, and slaves they

shall remain, for by the crime to which you gave consent, Ignatio, you

have riveted their fetters. The curse is on your child, Maya—never

shall it live to become a man: the curse is on your husband—his hair

shall not grow grey. But heaviest of all does the curse rest upon you,

false Lady of the Heart, you, whose life is one long lie; you, who

forsook your faith and broke your oath; you, who turned you from your

people and from the law of your high and ancient house, that you might

win a wandering white man to your arms. Woman, we shall meet no more;

but in the hour of your last misery, and in the long, long ages of the

eternal punishment, remember the words that I speak to you

to-day”—and, shaking his withered arm in our faces, Mattai turned and

limped from the chamber.

He went, and we sat gazing at each other in horror, for though we none

of us had any faith in the god he worshipped, in our hearts we felt

that this man spoke truth, and that evil would overtake us. For a

moment Maya hid her face in her hands and wept; then she sprang up,

and a fire in her eyes had dried her tears.

“So let it be,” she cried, “I care nothing. At the least I won you, my

love, and for some months, through all our troubles, I have been happy

at your side, and, come good, come ill, nothing can rob me of my

memories. But for you I fear. Husband, I fear for you–-”

Then, her passion past, she flung herself into his arms and again

began to weep.

In due course the child was born, a beautiful boy, almost white in

colour, with his mother’s star-like eyes; and on this same night we

learned that Mattai had died in much torment, and that Nahua was

delivered of a son.

Eighteen days went by, and Maya, new-risen from her bed, was seated

with her husband and myself, while behind us stood a waiting-lady

holding the sleeping infant in her arms, when it was announced to us

that an embassy of the great lords of the Council sought speech with

her. Presently they entered, and the spokesman, the Lord Dimas, bowed

before her and set out his mission, saying:

“We have come to you, Lady of the Heart, on behalf of the Council and

of the people, to rejoice with you in your great happiness, and to lay

certain matters of the state before you. For some months the people

have grown weary of the oppressions and cruelties of Tikal, who in

defiance of the laws of the land has put many to death on suspicion of

their being concerned in plots against his power. Further, but

yesterday it came to the ears of the Council, through the confession

of one whom he had employed to execute his wickedness, that a plan was

laid to murder your husband, your child, and the Lord Ignatio here.”

“Indeed,” said Maya, “and why was my name omitted from this list?”

“Lady, we do not know,” he answered, “but it seems that the assassins

had orders to take you living, and to hide you away in a secret part

of Tikal’s house.”

Now the se�or sprang to his feet and swore a great oath to be avenged

upon Tikal.

“Nay, Lord,” said Dimas, “his person is holy and must not be touched,

nor need you have any further fear of him, for those whom he corrupted

await their trial, and he himself is watched day and night. Also, not

for long will Tikal remain cacique of the City of the Heart; for the

Council have met in a secret session to which you were not summoned,

and have decreed that he shall be deposed because of his iniquities,

and in accordance with the desire of the people.”

“Can a cacique be deposed?” asked Maya.

“Yes, lady, if he has broken the law, for was not your father to be

deposed for this same reason? Also, Tikal holds his place, not by

right of birth, but by treaty. You are the true heir to Zibalbay, Lady

of the Heart.”

“It may be so,” she answered coldly, “but I have renounced my claim

and I do not desire to go back upon my word.”

“If you have renounced it,” said Dimas, “there is one to whom it

passes”—and he pointed to the sleeping infant. “Yonder is the Child

of Prophecy, hope of the people, and he it is whom we purpose to crown

as our ruler, setting you and your husband up to act for him till he

reaches his full age.”

“Nay,” said Maya, “for thus shall he become the mark of Tikal’s rage

and be put to death—openly or in secret, as it may chance.”

“Not so, lady, for in that hour when he is proclaimed, Tikal will be

taken into safe keeping, where he shall abide for so long as his life

lasts.”

“And when is this to be,” asked the se�or.

“To-morrow, at noon, upon the pyramid, that the child may be solemnly

anointed three days hence in the Sanctuary, on the night of the Rising

of Waters.”

“It is foolish to crown a babe, and neither I nor my husband seek this

greatness,” said Maya. “If Tikal is to be deposed because of his

crimes, let one of the great lords be set in his place until the child

is old enough to rule.”

“Although you and your husband are to command us in the future,”

answered Dimas, sternly, “till then you must obey, Lady, for the voice

of the Council is supreme, and it carries out the will of its founder

and invisible president, the Heart of Heaven. The Council has

determined that the heavensent child, of whom you are the earthly

parents, must take his own.”

“As you will,” said Maya, with a sigh; and presently they went.

That evening the se�or and I attended a feast at the house of one of

the great nobles, whence we returned somewhat late. Having dismissed

those who had escorted us, I walked with him as far as the door of his

private chambers, purposing to leave him there; but he bade me enter,

for he wished to talk with me about the events of the day and this

forthcoming ceremony of the anointing of the child. Accordingly I did

so, and, passing through the first chamber, we came to the second,

beyond which lay his sleeping-rooms. Here we halted by the open

window, and I approached a lamp, for I wished to smoke and had no

light. As I bent over it, something caught my ear, and I listened,

since it seemed to me that through the massive doors of the bedchamber

I heard the sound of a woman’s voice crying for help. Instantly I

flung them open and rushed thither by way of an ante-room, calling to

the se�or as I went.

I did not arrive too soon, for in the bedchamber itself a strange

sight met my eyes. At the foot of the bed stood a cradle, in which lay

the child, and near to it two women struggled. One of these—in whom I

knew Nahua, the wife of Tikal—held a copper knife in her hand, and

the other, Maya, gripped her round the body and arms from behind, so

that, strive as she would, she could not free herself to use it.

Still, of the two women Nahua was the heavier and the more strong,

and, though slowly, she dragged the other closer to the cradle.

Indeed, as I reached the room, she wrenched her right arm loose and

raised it to strike at the infant with the knife. But here the matter

ended, for at that moment I caught her round the waist and threw her

back, so that she fell heavily on the floor, letting drop the knife in

her effort to save herself. She sprang to her feet and ran towards the

door, there to be met by the se�or, who seized her and held her fast.

CHAPTER XXIII

OUR FLIGHT, AND HOW IT ENDED

“How came this lady here, Maya, and what does she seek!” the se�or

asked.

“I do not know how she came,” gasped his wife. “My waiting-women were

gone, and I had begun to prepare myself for sleep, when, looking into

yonder mirror, I saw her behind me, having in her hand a naked knife,

and searching the room with her eyes. Presently they fell upon the

cradle, and, lifting the knife, she took a step towards it. Then I

turned and gripped her, holding her as well as I was able; but she was

too strong for me and dragged me forward, so that had it not been for

Ignatio here, by now she would have made an end of our son.”

“Is this true?” said the se�or to Nahua.

“It is true, White Man,” she answered.

“Why do you desire to kill one so innocent?” he asked again.

“Is it not natural that I should wish to destroy the child who is to

supplant my child, and to break the heart of the woman who has broken

my heart?” Nahua answered, sullenly. “Amongst many other things, I

have learned, White Man, of that ceremony which is to take place

to-morrow, whereat my husband is to be deposed and my child

dishonoured, that they may make room for you and for your child—you,

the white-wanderer, and your son, the Heaven-born, the Fore-ordained!”

“What have we to do with these things, O woman with the heart of a

puma?” he asked. “If Tikal is to be driven from his place, it is

because of his crimes.”

“And if you and yours are to be set in it, White Man, without doubt it

is because of your virtues; and yet, O black-hearted knave that you

are, I tell you that I know all the truth. I know how you forged the

writing, setting the false for the true within the holy symbol of the

Heart. I know also that my father helped you to the deed, for although

he is dead, he wrote down that tale before he died, and gave it to me,

together with the ancient prophecy that you dared to steal from the

holy Sanctuary. Yes, I have the proofs, and when needful I will show

them. I did not come here to do murder, at least not upon the infant;

but the sight of it sleeping in its cradle overcame me, and of a

sudden I determined to wreak my wrongs upon it and upon its mother. In

this I have failed, but when I denounce you to the Council, then I

shall not fail; then you will be known for what you are, and die the

death that you deserve.”

“It comes into my mind, husband,” said Maya coldly, “that if we would

save our own lives we must rob this woman of hers. Such a doom she has

richly earned, nor will any blame us when they learn what was her

errand here.”

Now when she heard these words, Nahua struggled in the se�or’s grasp,

and opened her mouth as though to scream.

“Be silent,” he said, “if you wish to keep your soul in you. Ignatio,

close those doors and give me yonder shawl.”

I did so, and with the shawl we bound Nahua’s arms behind her,

fastening it over her mouth so that she could make no sound. Then we

took a leather girdle and strapped it about her knees, so that she

could not move, but lay helpless on the floor, glaring at us with her

fierce eyes.

“Now let us take counsel,” I said.

“Yes,” answered the se�or, “let us take counsel, for we need it. One

of two things we must do; kill that woman, or fly the city, for if she

leaves this place alive we are certainly doomed to death before the

altar, ay! and the child also.”

“Fly!” said Maya, “how can we fly when I am still weak and the babe is

so young and tender? Should we succeed in escaping from the city and

across the lake, certainly we must perish among the snows of the

mountains or in the deserts beyond. Also, we should be missed and

overtaken.”

“Then Nahua must die,” said the se�or.

“Could we not swear her to silence if we released her?” I asked, for I

shrank from such a dreadful deed, however just and necessary it might

be.

“Swear her to silence!” said Maya contemptuously, “as easily might you

swear a snake not to use its fangs, if one should chance to tread on

it. Do you not understand that this woman hates me bitterly, who she

thinks has robbed her of her husband’s love, that she would gladly die

herself, if thereby she could bring about my death and that of those

who are dear to me. So soon as she could leave her bed of sickness she

came here to taunt me with the doom she had prepared, knowing that I

was alone. Then she saw the child, and so great was her desire for

revenge that she could not even wait till the law should wreak it for

her. No, the issue is plain; if we cannot fly, either she must die or

we must. Is it not so, Ignatio?”

“It seems that it is so,” I answered sadly, “and yet the thing is

awful.”

“It is awful, but it must be done,” said the se�or, “and it falls on

me to do it for the sake of my wife and child. Alas! that I was ever

born, that I should live to stand face to face with such necessity.

Could not another hand be found? No; for then we should confess

ourselves as murderers. Give me a knife. Nay, my hands will serve, and

this end will seem more natural, for I can say that when I found her

in the act of murder, I seized her and killed her suddenly by my

strength alone, not meaning it in my wrath.”

Now he stepped to where Nahua lay, and knelt beside her, and we two

drew away sick at heart and hid our faces in our hands.

Presently he was with us again.

“Is it done?” asked Maya hoarsely.

“No; nor will be by me,” he answered, in a fierce voice, “sooner would

I choke the breath out of my own body than strangle this defenceless

woman, cruel-hearted murderess though she is. If she is to be killed,

some other man must do the deed.”

“Then it will remain undone,” said Maya. “And now, since we have thus

determined, let us think of flight, for the night draws on, and in

flight is our only hope.”

“What, then, is to be done with this woman?” I asked. “We cannot take

her with us.”

“No; but we can leave her here gagged and bound till they chance to

find her,” answered the se�or. “Hearken, Nahua, we spare you, and to

do it go forth to our own deaths. May your fierce heart learn a lesson

of mercy from the deed. Farewell.”

Two hours had gone by, and three figures, wrapped in rough serapes,

such as the common people wore, one of whom, a woman, carried an

infant in her arms, might have been seen cautiously descending the

city wall by means of a wooden ladder that ran from its summit to a

jetty built upon piers at the foot of it, which was used as a

mooring-place for boats during the months of inundation. As was common

at this season of the year, the lake was already rising, and floating

in the shallow water at the end of the jetty lay a pleasure-skiff

which the se�or and I were accustomed to use for the purpose of

fishing whenever we could escape for a few hours from our wearisome

life in the city.

Into this skiff we entered, and, having hoisted the sail, set our

course by the stars, steering for that village whence, a year before,

we had embarked for the City of the Heart. The wind being favourable

to us, our progress was rapid, and by the first grey light of dawn we

caught sight of the village not a mile away. Here, however, we did not

dare to land, for we should be seen and recognised; therefore we

beached our boat behind the shelter of some dwarf water-palms three

furlongs or more below the village, and, having hidden it as well as

we were able, set out at once towards the mountains.

Passing round the back of the village without being seen, for as yet

folk were scarcely astir, we began our dreadful journey. For a while

Maya bore up well, but as the heat of the day increased she showed

signs of tiring, which was little to be wondered at, seeing that she

carried in her arms a child not three weeks old. At mid-day we halted

that she might rest, hiding ourselves beneath a tree by the banks of a

brook, and eating of such food as we had brought with us. In the early

afternoon we started on again, and for the rest of that dreary day

struggled forward as best we could, the se�or and I carrying the

infant alternately in addition to our other burdens.

At length the evening fell, and we camped for the night, if camping it

can be called, to sleep beneath the shadow of a cedar-tree without

fire and with little food, having no covering except our serapes.

Towards morning the air grew cold, for already we were at some height

above the lake, and the tender infant began to wail piteously—a wail

that wrung our hearts. Still we rose with the sun and went on our way,

for it seemed that there was nothing else to do. Throughout that day,

with ever-wearying footsteps, we journeyed, till at sunset we reached

the snow-line, and saw before us the hunter’s rest-house where we had

slept when first we entered the Country of the Heart.

“Let us go in,” said Maya, “and find food and shelter for the night.”

Now, our plan had been to avoid this house and gain the pass, where we

proposed to stay till daybreak, and then to travel down the mountain

slopes into the wilderness.

“If we enter there, Maya, we shall be trapped,” said the se�or; “our

only safety lies in travelling through the pass before we are

overtaken, for it is against the law that any of your people should

follow us into the wilderness.”

“If we do not enter, my child will die in the cold,” she answered.

“You were too tender to secure our safety by putting that would-be

murderess to death; have you, then, the heart, husband, to kill your

own child?”

Now at these words I saw the se�or’s eyes fill with tears, but he said

only:

“Be it as you will.”

By now, indeed, we understood—all three of us—that if we would save

ourselves we must suffer the child to die, and, however great our

necessity, this we could not do. So we went up to the house and

entered, and there by the fire sat that same man and his wife whom we

had found in this room a year ago.

“Who are you?” he cried, springing up. “Pardon, Lady, but in that garb

I did not know you.”

“It is best that you should not know us,” said Maya. “We are wanderers

who have lost our way out hunting. Give us food, as you are bound to

do.”

Then the man and his wife, who were kindly people, made obeisance to

us, and set of the best they had before us. We ate, and, after eating,

slept, for we were very weary, bidding the man watch and tell us if he

saw any stranger approaching the house. Before dawn he woke us, and we

rose. A little later he came into my room and told me that a large

body of men were in sight of the house. Then I knew that it was

finished, and called the others.

“Now, there are three things that we can do,” I said: “fly towards the

pass; defend this house; or surrender ourselves.”

“There is no time to fly,” answered the se�or, “therefore it is my

counsel that we fight.”

“It is your counsel that two men armed with bows” (for our firearms

had been taken from us on the pyramid, and we had never been able to

recover them) “should engage with fifty. Well, friend, we can try it

if you wish, and perhaps it will be as good a way of meeting our

deaths as any other.”

“This is folly,” broke in Maya; “there is but one thing to do; yield

ourselves and trust to fortune, if, indeed, fortune has any good in

store for us. Only I wish that we had done it before we undertook this

weary journey.”

As she spoke, by the light of the rising sun we saw a great number of

men forming a circle round the house. With them were several captains

and lords, and among these I recognised Dimas and Tikal.

“Let us put a bold face on it,” said Maya. So we opened the door,

walked out, and came into the presence of Tikal, Dimas, and the other

lords.

“Whom do you seek, that you come with an armed force?” asked Maya.

“Whom should I seek but your fair self, cousin?” answered Tikal—and I

saw that his eye was wild, as though with drink. “If Nahua, my wife,

had her way, she would have let you go, for she desires to see the

last of you; but her will is not my will, nor her desire my desire,

and as it chances we have come up with you in time.”

Maya turned from him with a scornful gesture, and addressed herself to

Dimas, saying:

“Tell us of what we are charged that you follow us as though we were

evil-doers.”

“Lady,” the old priest answered gravely, “it would seem that you have

earned this name, you and your companions together. Listen: two days

since you were missing, and the Lady Nahua was also missing. Search

was made, and at last your private apartments were broken open, and

there she was discovered bound and gagged. From her we learned the

secret of your flight, and followed after you.”

“Did she, then, tell you why we fled?” asked Maya. “Did she tell you

that she crept to my chamber like a thief in the night, and there was

found in the act of doing murder on my child?”

“No, Lady, she told us nothing of all this. Indeed, her manner was

strange; for, so soon as she was recovered somewhat, she took back her

words, and said that she knew naught of you or of your plans, and that

if you had fled we should do well to let you go before worse things

happened. But, knowing that for all this she had reasons easy to be

guessed, we followed and found you, and now we arrest you to answer

before the Council for your great sins, in that you have broken your

solemn oaths by attempting to leave the land without the consent of

the Council, and have added to your crimes by taking with you this

child, the Heavensent deliverer, on whom rest the hopes of our race.”

“If we have broken our oaths,” said Maya, “we broke them to save our

lives. Were we, then, to stop in the city till the knife of the

assassin found us out? On the very night of my marriage a murderer was

set upon my husband, and perhaps one stands there”—and she pointed to

Tikal—“who could tell us who he was and whence he came. Three days

ago another murderer sought the life of our child, and that murderer

the wife of the Lord Tikal. Is it, then, a sin that we should take

from the land one whose life is not safe within it.”

“All these matters you can lay before the Council, lady,” answered

Dimas, “and if Nahua is what you say, without a doubt she must suffer

for her crime. Yet her evil-doing cannot pay for yours, for when you

found yourself in danger, you should have claimed protection from

those who could give it, and not have betaken yourselves to flight

like thieves in terror of the watch. Come, enter the litter that is

prepared for you, and let us be going.”

“As you will,” she said; “but one thing I pray of you, let this man,

my cousin, Tikal the cacique, be kept away from me, for the sight of

him is hateful to me, seeing that, not content with plotting to kill

my husband and my child, he puts me to shame continually by the offer

of his love.”

“It shall be as you wish, Lady. Your husband and your friend can

travel by your side, and guards shall surround your litter to see that

none molest you.”

Then we started. Of our journey back there is nothing to tell, unless

it be to say that after its own fashion it was even more wretched than

that which we had just accomplished. Then, indeed, we were footsore,

hungry, and racked with fears, but at least the hope of freedom shone

before us like a guiding-star, whereas now, although we travelled in

comfort, it was to find shame, exposure, and death awaiting us at

last. For my part, indeed, this thought did not move me very much,

seeing that hope had left me, and without hope I no longer wished to

live. You, my friend, for whom I write this history, may think my

saying strange, but had you stood where I stood that day you would not

wonder at it. Even now I sometimes dream that I am back in the City of

the Heart, and wake cold with fear as a man wakes from some haunted

sleep. True, there I had place and power and luxury, but oh! sooner

would I have earned my livelihood herding cattle in the wilderness

than fret away my life within that golden cage. What to me were their

banquets and their empty pleasures, or their petty strivings for rank

and title—to me who all my days had followed the star of my high aim,

that star which now was setting. Maya and the se�or had each other and

their child to console them; but I had nothing except such friendship

as they chose to spare me, the memory of my many failures, the

clinging bitterness of conscience, the fear of vengeance to be

wreaked, and the hope of peace beyond the end. Therefore I, an outworn

and disappointed man, was prepared to welcome the doom that awaited

me, but how would it be with the others who were still full of love

and youth?

Late that night we reached the city and were led, not to the palace

where we lived, but towards the enclosure of the pyramid.

“How is this?” asked Maya of the captain of the guard. “Our road lies

yonder.”

“No, lady,” he answered, “my orders are to take you up the stairway of

the pyramid.”

Now Maya pressed her face against the face of her child and sobbed,

for she knew that once more we must inhabit the darksome vault where

her father had been taken to die. They led us up the stair and down

the narrow way, till we stood in the lamp-lit hall, and heard our

prison gates clash behind us. Then they gave us food and left us

alone.

Never did I pass a more evil night; for, strive as I would to win it,

sleep fled from me, and I tossed upon my couch, wondering where my bed

would be on the morrow, after we had stood before the Council in the

Sanctuary of the Heart, and Nahua had borne witness against us. I

remembered that shaft before the altar, and seemed to hear the murmur

of the water in its depths! Well, as I have said, I did not fear to

die, for God is merciful to sinners; but oh! it was dreadful to meet

this liar’s doom, and to remember that it was I who brought the se�or

here to share it.

As I mused thus, even through the massive walls of the vault I heard a

woman scream, and, springing from my bed, I ran into the central hall,

where the lamps burned always. Here I met Maya, clad in her

night-dress only, and speeding down the hall, her wide eyes filled

with terror.

“What has happened?” I said, stopping her; and, as I spoke, the se�or

came up.

“Oh! I have dreamed,” she gasped. “I have dreamed a fearful dream. I

dreamed that my father came to me, and—I cannot tell it—the

child—the child–-” and she broke down utterly, and could say no

more.

“This place is full of evil memories, and her strength is shattered,”

said the se�or, when we had calmed her somewhat. “Come back, wife, and

sleep.”

“Sleep!” she answered. “I do not think that I shall ever sleep again;

and yet, unless I sleep, I shall go mad. Oh! that vision! Truly the

curse of Mattai has taken hold of me.”

Some few hours later we met again in the great hall, but Maya said

nothing of her dream, nor did I ask her to tell it, though I could see

from her face that it was not forgotten. We ate, or made pretence to

eat, and sat for a while in silence, till at length the gates opened,

and through them came Dimas and some companion priests. Bidding these

to stand back, he advanced alone and greeted us kindly.

“I am grieved,” he said, “that you should again be called upon to

occupy this gloomy lodging; but I had no choice in the matter, since I

am but the servant of the Council, and its commands were strict. It

was feared lest the infant might be spirited away, were you left at

liberty.”

“It will soon be spirited away, indeed, Dimas,” said Maya, “if it be

kept here in the darkness. Already the child pines—within a week he

will be dead.”

“Have no fear, lady; your imprisonment is not for long, for this very

night, the night of the Rising of Waters, you will all of you be put

upon your trial before the Council in the Sanctuary, and charged with

the crime of attempting to escape the land.”

“Is there no other charge?” asked Maya.

“None, lady, that I have heard of. What other charge should there be?”

“And what will be the verdict of the Council?”

“I cannot say, lady, but I know that none wish to deal harshly with

you, and if that charge which you bring against the Lady Nahua can be

proved, it will go in your favour. The crime you have attempted is a

great one, both in our eyes and still more in the eyes of the people,

for now they talk day and night of this Deliverer who has been born to

them, and they will not easily forgive those who strove to take him

from them. Still, I think that upon certain terms the anger of your

judges may be appeased.”

“What terms?” asked Maya.

Now Dimas hesitated, and answered:

“By the strict letter of the law, if your offence is proved against

you, you are worthy of death, every one, unless you yourself are held

inviolate because of your hereditary rank as Lady of the Heart. But it

may be that the Council will not exact the extreme penalty. It may be

that it will satisfy itself with driving these strangers from our

borders instead of driving them from the land of life.”

“Yet one of them is my husband, Dimas.”

“True, lady, but the child is born!”

“I cannot be parted from my husband. Better that we should die

together than that we should be parted. If the people have no need of

him, neither have they any need of me; let us bid them farewell and go

free together. I am weary of this land, Dimas, for here murder dogs

our steps and I am in terror of my life. I desire nothing from my

people save liberty to leave them.”

“But, Lady, your people desire something from you; they desire the

child. Of these strangers they would be rid by death or otherwise, and

you—though of this I am not sure—they may allow to accompany them;

but with your child they will never part, for he is their heavensent

king, the Son of prophecy. It comes to this, then, that if the Council

should exercise its prerogative of mercy—as it will do if I and my

party have sufficient weight—at the best you must choose between the

loss of your husband or of your son.”

Now the face of Maya became drawn with pain, so that she looked as

though age had overtaken her. Then she answered:

“Go, tell those that sent you, Dimas, that these are the words of

Maya, Lady of the Heart: My child is dear to me, for he is flesh of my

flesh; but my husband is yet dearer, for he is both flesh of my flesh

and soul of my soul. Therefore, if I must choose between the two, I

choose him who is nearest; for I may have another child, but never

another husband.”

CHAPTER XXIV

NAHUA BEARS WITNESS

Some hours passed, and again the gates were opened, and through them

came Tikal and a guard of five men. The guard he left by the gates,

advancing alone to where we were seated at the far end of the hall.

“What would you of us?” asked Maya. “Can you not leave me in peace

even here in my dungeon?”

“I desire to speak with you alone, Maya.”

“Then, Tikal, I tell you now what I have told you before, that I will

not listen to your words alone. If you have anything to say, say it in

the presence of my husband and my friend, or go and leave it unsaid.”

“You speak roughly to one who comes here in the hope of saving the

lives of all of you,” he answered; “still I will bear with you in this

as I have borne with you in much else. Listen: all your crimes are

known to me, for Nahua, my wife, has revealed them to me. I know how

you and that dead rogue, Mattai, on whom the curse of heaven has most

justly fallen, forged the prophecy and violated the sanctuary, for I

have held the proofs of it in my hand.”

“Do you know that we did this to save our lives,” asked Maya, “for if

we had not done it, Mattai would have murdered us in order that, by

removing me, he might assure his daughter in her place?”

“I do not know why you did it, nor do I care, seeing that nothing can

lighten such a crime; but I think that you did it in order that you

might win yonder white man as a husband. At the least, the thing is

done, and vengeance waits you—vengeance from which there is but one

escape.”

“What escape?” asked Maya quickly, for when she learned that Tikal

knew everything, all hope had faded from her heart, as from ours.

“Maya, two people live, and two alone, who know this tale—Nahua my

wife, and I myself. Till this morning there was but one, for Nahua

only told me of it when she found that you had not escaped, and this

she has done that she may be rid of you whom she hates as her rival.

Therefore it was that she would have held me back from pursuing you,

and therefore it is that she will appear before the Council of the

Heart this night, so that her evidence may ensure your instant death

in the Pit of Waters. But as it chances, least of anything on the

earth do I desire that my eyes should lose sight of you, whom now as

ever I love better than anything on the earth.”

Now the se�or grew white with rage, and he broke in—

“You will do well to keep such words to yourself, Tikal; for of this

be sure—if you do not, I will add to my crimes and you shall not

leave this place alive. No need to look at your guards. What do I care

for your guards, who have but one life to lose. Speak thus again, and,

before they reach you, you shall be dead.”

“Let him go on, husband,” said Maya; “what can a few insults more or

less matter to us now. Continue, most noble Tikal; but, for your own

sake, restrain yourself, and say nothing that a husband should not

hear.”

“It is for this reason,” he went on, taking no notice of the se�or’s

anger, “that I have come here with a plan to save you all; yes, even

this braggart white man who has robbed me of you. If Nahua and I are

silent, who will know of your crimes? And if the evidence of them is

destroyed before your eyes, who is there that can prove them? Now, I

will be silent—at a price. I will even bring the true tablet of the

prophecy and the roll of Mattai’s confession, and destroy them with

fire before you.”

“You will be silent,” said Maya—“but what of Nahua? Will she be

silent also?”

Now Tikal’s dark face grew evil with some purpose of his own, though

whether it were of murder or of what I do not know.

“Leave Nahua to me,” he said. “Withdraw the charge you made against

her, of attempting to kill yonder child, and free her thus of the need

of appearing this night in the Sanctuary, and I swear to you that no

word of her dreadful secret shall ever pass her lips. Then you will be

tried upon one issue only—that of having broken your oaths by flying

the city—a crime that is not beyond forgiveness.”

“You spoke of a price, Tikal; tell us, what is this price that we must

pay?”

“The price is yourself, Maya. Nay—hear me out; and you, White Man,

keep silent. If you will swear upon the Heart to become my wife within

six months from this day, then I, on my part, will swear that the

white man—your husband who is not your husband, for he won the

consent of the Council to his marriage by a trick—shall be suffered

to escape the land unharmed, taking with him his friend and so much of

our treasure and things needful for their journey as he may desire. I

will swear also—and by this you may see how deep and honest is my

love for you—that your son shall not be dispossessed of the place and

rank which he holds in the eyes of the people as a Heavensent

Deliverer whose coming was foretold by prophecy. My child shall give

place to yours, Maya. Once before I held out the hand of peace to you,

but you refused it and tricked me, and from that refusal has sprung

the death of your father and many other sorrows. Do not refuse me

again, Maya, lest these sorrows should be increased and multiplied

upon you, and upon us all. It is no strange or unnatural thing I ask

of you—that you should wed the man to whom for so many years you were

affianced, and take your place as the first lady in this city, instead

of giving yourself over, with your accomplices, to the most infamous

of deaths.”

“Yet it is most strange and unnatural, Tikal, that a wife should be

asked to part thus from her husband. But stay—it is for him to speak,

not me, for he may be glad to buy safety at this cost. First, what do

you say, Ignatio? Tell me—though I fear your answer, for it is easy

to guess, seeing that Tikal offers all that you can desire, freedom,

and treasure to enable you to execute your plans.”

“It is true, Lady,” I replied, “that he offers me these things—though

whether or no he is able to give them I cannot say; and it is true

also that I have no wife here whom I must leave, and no prospect save

that of a traitor’s death. Still, Lady, I remember a certain promise

that I made to you yonder in the wilderness, when by your courage you

saved your husband’s life; and I remember also that it was through me

that he, my friend, came to visit this accursed city. Therefore I say,

let our fate be one fate.”

“Those are very noble words, friend,” she said, “such as could have

come only from your noble heart. Now, husband, do you speak?”

“I have nothing to say, Maya,” replied the se�or with a little laugh,

“except that I wonder why you waste time, which we might spend happily

together, in listening to this fellow’s insults. If you bid me to go

to save you, perhaps I might think about it; but certainly I will not

stir one pace from your side to save myself from any death.”

“It seems that I have got my answer,” said Tikal. “May none of you

regret it to-night when you come to look down into the Pit of Waters.

Well, time presses, and I have much to do before we meet again”—and

he turned to leave us.

Now, as he went, despair took hold of Maya. For a moment she struggled

with it and with herself, then she cried:

“Come back, Tikal!”

He came, and stood before her in cold silence, and she spoke,

addressing her husband in a slow voice:

“You are over-hasty; my answer is not yet spoken, husband. Tikal, I

accept your offer. Prevent Nahua from giving testimony against us;

destroy the evidences she holds, and set these men safe, with all that

they may desire, on the further side of yonder mountain, and within

six months I will become your wife.”

Now the se�or and I stared at each other aghast.

“Are you mad?” he said, “or do you speak so in the hope of saving us?”

“Would it be wonderful, husband,” she answered, “if I should wish to

save myself and my child? That I have loved you and love you, you

know; yet is there any love in the grave? While I live, at least I

have my memories; if I die, even these may be taken from me. Go back,

husband, go back wealthy to your own people and your old life, and

choose some other woman to be your companion. Do not forget me,

indeed; but let me become as a dream to you, seeing that for all our

sakes this is the best. To you also, Ignatio, I say ‘go.’ Our

fellowship has brought you little luck; may its severing be more

fortunate, and may you at last attain your ends. Tikal, give me your

hand, and let us swear the oath.”

He stepped towards her—his eyes glowing with triumph; but as their

fingers touched she glanced sideways and upwards, and saw the doubt

and agony written on her husband’s face. With a little scream, she

sprang to him and threw herself into his arms, saying:

“Forgive me; I have tried my best, but this is more than I can do. Oh!

weak and foolish that I am, I cannot part from you, no, not even to

save your life. Surely you did not think that I should have fulfilled

this oath and given myself to him in marriage. No, no—it is to death

that I should have given myself when you were gone. But I cannot part

with you—I cannot part with you—though my selfishness is your doom.”

“I rejoice to hear it,” said the se�or. “Listen you, Tikal, if you are

a man, give me a sword and let us settle this matter face to face. So

shall one of us at least be rid of his doubts and troubles.”

“Surely, White Man,” answered Tikal, “you must be a fool as well as a

rogue, otherwise you would scarcely ask me to risk my life against

yours, which is already forfeit to the law. Farewell, Maya; long have

you fooled and tormented me; to-night I will repay you all”—and he

went.

It might be thought that, after Tikal was gone, we should have spoken

together of what had passed, and of the dangers before us. But this

was not so. I think we felt—all of us—that there was nothing more to

be said. It is useless to fight against Fate, and it is still more

useless to be afraid of him, seeing that whatever we do or leave

undone, he has his will of us at last. So we sat and chatted on

different things—of our life at the mine at Cumarvo, of that night

which we spent in the hacienda at Santa Cruz, of the death of our

brave companion, Molas, and I know not what besides. Presently the

child awoke, and its parents occupied themselves with it, finding

resemblance to each other in its tiny features, while I walked up and

down the hall, counting the lamps, smoking, and wondering where I

should be by this time on the morrow.

At length the gates opened, for now it was almost the middle of the

night, and there came through them Dimas and a guard of priests. The

old man bowed before us and said that the time had come to lead us

before the Council in the Sanctuary, but that we were to have no fear,

seeing that, from all that he had been able to learn, our offence

would be leniently dealt with. Maya asked what was to become of the

infant, which could not be left alone, and he replied that she must

bring it with her, whereon she began to wrap it in a serape.

“Your care is needless,” said Dimas. “There is a secret way to the

Sanctuary from this place, by which I propose to lead you in order

that the child, our lord, shall not be exposed to the raw cold of the

night.”

Then he took a bunch of keys from his girdle, and, handing them to one

who accompanied him—a fellow-priest and a member of the Council—he

commanded him to go forward with several of the escort, to open the

doors and light lamps in the passages that lay between us and the

Sanctuary. The priest went, and, having waited awhile, we followed

him, to find him standing by the marble wall which separated the

passages from the Sanctuary. On seeing us approach, he gave the signs,

which were answered from within; next he opened the false door with a

silver key, leaving the key and the bunch to which it was attached

fixed in the lock, for Dimas to take as he passed. This, however, the

old priest did not do, for he thought that we should all return by

this passage, and as we stepped into the Sanctuary he contented

himself with closing the door without locking it.

Now once more we stood within the dim and holy place, there to take

our trial for offences committed against the laws of the City of the

Heart. There was a full gathering of the Council, and Tikal, its

high-priest and president, sat in his seat behind the altar, but I

noted, with a thrill of hope, that Nahua his wife was not by his side,

nor was she to be found among the members of the Council. We took

seats that had been prepared for us in the open space before the

altar, Maya being placed in the centre, and the se�or and myself on

either side of her. Next the Priest of the Records rose and announced

that the first business before the Council was the trial of three of

its members, namely, Maya, Lady of the Heart, her husband, the white

man, Son of the Sea, and Ignatio, the Wanderer, a lord of the Heart

from beyond the mountains, upon the charge of having broken their

oaths which they took as members of the Council. Having read this

formal accusation, the priest set out the case against us clearly but

briefly:

“On this very night of the festival of the Rising of Waters, a year

ago,” he began, “you, strangers, amongst other things swore upon the

altar, setting in pledge your souls and bodies for the fulfilment of

the oath, that without the consent of this high Brotherhood you would

not attempt to leave the gates of the City of the Heart. Yet but the

other day you were overtaken and seized in the act of flying across

the mountains to the wilderness beyond. Nor is this all your crime,

for with you was that infant, born of the white man and the Lady of

the Heart, the Heavensent Child of prophecy, of whom you wickedly

sought to rob us and the people. Say, now, how do you plead to these

charges?”

“We plead guilty,” answered Maya, “but we ask to be heard in our own

defence. Listen, lords: Since that night when we were married by your

command, my husband and I myself have been dogged by murder, and

yonder, as high-priest of the Heart and president of your councils, he

sits who would have murdered us. I see among you this night some of

those who waited on me upon the day of our escape, having the Lord

Dimas at the head of them. What did they tell me? That a plot had been

discovered, made by Tikal, my cousin, to murder my husband, my child,

and my friend, Ignatio the Wanderer. They told me also that Tikal

would be deposed because of this and his other crimes, and that the

infant in my arms would to-night be anointed cacique of the people

of the Heart. Is it not so, Dimas?”

“It is so, lady,” he answered, “and learn that you are not the only

ones who are on trial this night. Though your case is taken first,

that of Tikal the high-priest and others will follow; but till then,

in virtue of his rank and office, he sits as president of our

Council.”

Now Tikal sprang from his seat, but Dimas turned upon him and said

sternly:

“Keep silent, lord, or speak only to fulfil the duties of your place.

Your judging shall be just, but know that there is no hope of escape

for you till it is done, seeing that your guards are disarmed, and all

the paths are watched.”

Tikal seated himself again, and Maya went on:

“On that very night of the coming of the Lord Dimas, when I was alone

in my chamber, the Lady Nahua, the wife of Tikal, crept upon me and

strove to murder this my child;” and she set out the story telling how

the se�or and I, hearing her cries for help, had entered the chamber

and seized and bound Nahua. “Then it was, brethren, that sudden terror

took us, and we fled, seeking to escape a land where we could not live

in safety from one hour to another. This is our sin, and we leave our

punishment in your hands. Surely it was better that we should strive

to save the child, so that he might live to play his part, whatever

that may be, than that he should be kept here to be butchered by those

whom you have raised up to rule you.”

When Maya had finished her speech, the se�or and I addressed the

Council in turn, confirming all that she had said, and submitting

ourselves to the judgment of the Brotherhood.

Now we were commanded to fall back, and took our stand beneath the

mask of the Nameless god, while the Council consulted together, and

there we awaited our doom. Presently we were brought forward again,

and Tikal spoke to us, saying that our sentence was postponed till the

charge against Nahua, the daughter of Mattai, and against himself,

Tikal, the cacique and high-priest of the City of the Heart, had

been considered, adding in a slow and triumphant voice:

“Let Nahua, the daughter of Mattai, who waits without, be brought into

the presence of the Heart.”

We heard, and gathered up our courage to meet the advancing fate, for

we knew that death was on us, and that for us there was no more pity

or escape.

The door was opened, and Nahua came through it, dressed in the robes

of her rank, and wearing the green diadem that could be carried only

by the wife or mother of the cacique.

“What is your pleasure with me, lords?” she said proudly, after she

had made her obeisance to the altar.

Then the Priest of the Records rose and read the charge, namely, that

she had attempted with her own hand to do murder upon the body of the

infant child of Maya, Lady of the Heart, and her husband, the white

man; also that she had aided and abetted Tikal, her husband, in

various acts of cruelty and misgovernment that were alleged against

him, asking her what she pleaded in answer.

“To the last charge, not guilty,” she said. “Let Tikal defend his own

sins. To the first, guilty. I did attempt to put an end to yonder

brat, but Maya discovered me, and I was caught and bound.”

“Surely, brethren,” said Dimas, rising, “we need carry this matter no

further. We have heard the evidence of the Lady Maya and the others,

and now Nahua confesses to her crime. She confesses that she attempted

to take the life of him whom she knew to be the sacred child, the hope

of the People of the Heart, and for such a sin it seems to me that

there is but one punishment, though it is terrible, and she who must

suffer it is a woman and of high rank.”

“Stay!” broke in Nahua. “You have not heard me out, and I have the

right to speak before I am condemned to die. You charge me with having

attempted to take the life of ‘the sacred child, the hope of the

People of the Heart,’ and, had I done this, doubtless I should be

worthy of your doom, whereas in truth I am worthy of your praise.

Lords of the Heart, this child whom you adore, the Heavensent Child

of prophecy, whom to-night you would anoint as your cacique,

deposing Tikal, my husband, and who, as you believe, shall be the star

to light our race to greatness and to victory, is a living lie, a

fraud, and a bastard!”

Now a confusion broke out among the Council, and angry voices called

to her to cease her blasphemies; but she won silence, and went on:

“Hear me out, I pray you, for, even if I wished it, I should not dare

to speak thus at random, but am prepared with proof of every word I

utter. You think that I would have killed this child to wring the

heart of my rival, Maya—and indeed I desire to wring it; and that I

would set my own son in his place—and indeed I wish to set him there.

Yet these were not my reasons for the deed. Lords of the Council,

listen to a tale, the strangest that ever you have heard, and judge

between me and Tikal, my husband, and Maya, my rival, and her friends.

Mattai, my father, was known to you all, seeing that at the time of

his death, and, indeed, since Tikal was anointed cacique, he stood

next to him in place and power among the People of the Heart, holding

those offices in the Brotherhood which now are filled by Dimas, and

among them that of Keeper of the Sanctuary. Yet, lords, Mattai, my

father, was no true man. Alas! that I should have to say it, seeing

that it was more for my own sake that he sinned than for his own,

since he loved me, and desired my welfare above everything on earth.

It was this love of his that ruined him, making him false to his god,

to his oaths, and to his country. Thus, in the beginning, he knew that

since I was a child I had set my heart upon the Lord Tikal, who was

affianced to the Lady Maya; also that I was ambitious and yearned to

be great. Therefore it was that he deceived Tikal, pretending that it

had been revealed to him by heaven that the Lady Maya and her father

were dead in the wilderness. Therefore it was also that when he had

persuaded him that she was lost to him forever, he pressed it upon the

Lord Tikal that he should marry me in place of Maya, his affianced,

who was dead, promising him in return that he would bring it about

that he should be anointed cacique of the People of the Heart. All

these things and others he did, though at that time I knew nothing of

them, and thought in my folly that Tikal married me because he loved

me, and sought me as the companion of his life and power.

“Then Zibalbay returned on the night of our marriage-feast, and with

him came Maya and the strangers; and from that hour my husband began

to hate me because I was his wife in place of Maya, whom he loved.

More, as I have learned since, he went to Zibalbay while he lay in

prison, and offered to resign his place as cacique in his favour for

so long as he should live, and no more to oppose his schemes, if he

would give him Maya in marriage after I had been put away either by

death or by divorce. This Zibalbay would have done, and gladly; but,

as it chanced, Maya here had her heart set upon the white man during

their journeyings together through the wilderness, and refused to be

separated from him that she might be palmed off in marriage upon

Tikal. Yet he might have won his way, for their case was desperate,

and the alternative was death had not Mattai, my father, found a plan

whereby they could be saved and I remain the wife of the cacique.

This was the plan, lords: that a prophecy should be set in the symbol

of the Heart yonder, such as would deceive the Council of the Heart,

and bring it about that Maya should be given in marriage to the white

man whom she loved. Lords, this was done. At the dead of night they

crept to the Sanctuary, and, opening the Heart, they placed within it

that tablet which you have seen, the tablet that foreshadowed the

birth of a Deliverer. The rest you know.”

“It is false,” cried many voices. “Such sacrilege is not possible.”

“It is not false,” answered Nahua, “and I will prove to you that the

sacrilege was possible. The Heart was opened, and the false prophecy

forged by my father was placed within it, where it was found by you on

the night of the festival of the Rising of Waters, this day a year

ago. But when the holy Heart was opened, behold! it was not empty, for

in it lay another prophecy—a true prophecy—which was removed from

it, that the lie which has deceived you might be set in its place.”

“Where, then, is that writing?” asked Dimas.

“Here,” she answered, drawing the tablet from her breast. “Listen–-”

and she read:

“/The Eye that has slept and is awakened sees the heart and purpose of

the wicked. I say that in the hour of the desolation of my city not

all the waters of the Holy Lake shall wash away their sin./”

“Take it, lords, and see for yourselves,” she continued, laying the

tablet on the altar. “Now, listen again, and learn how it chanced that

this relic came into my keeping. After he had wrought this great sin,

the curse of the Nameless god fell upon my father, and, as you know,

he was smitten with a sore disease. Then it came about that, when he

lay dying, remorse took him, and he wrote a certain paper which he

caused to be witnessed and given to me, together with this tablet. In

my hand I hold that paper, lords; hear it and judge for yourselves

whether I have spoken truth or falsehood”—and she read aloud the

confession of Mattai, that set out every detail of our plot and the

manner of its execution.

“Now, lords,” she added, when the reading was finished and the

signatures had been examined, “you will understand how it happened

that in my rage at this tidings I strove to kill yonder infant, who

has been palmed off upon you as the seed of the god, and I leave it to

you to deal with those who planned the fraud.”

CHAPTER XXV

FAREWELL

Nahua ceased and sat down, and so great was the astonishment—or

rather the awe—of the Council at the tale that she had told, that for

a while none of them spoke. At length Dimas rose, and said:

“Maya, Lady of the Heart, and you strangers, you have heard the awful

charge that is brought against you. What do you say in answer to it?”

“We say that it is true,” answered Maya calmly. “We were forced to

choose between the loss of our lives and the doing of this deed, and

we chose to live. It was Mattai who hatched the fraud and executed the

forgery, and now it seems that we must suffer for his sin as well as

for our own. One word more: Ignatio here did not enter into this plot

willingly, but was forced into it by my husband and myself, and

chiefly by myself.”

Dimas made no answer, but at a sign the two priests who guarded the

altar with drawn swords came forward and drove us into the passage

that led from the Sanctuary to the Hall of the Dead, where they shut

us in between the double doors, leaving us in darkness.

Here, as all was finished, I knelt down to offer my last prayers to

Heaven, while Maya wept in her husband’s arms, taking farewell of him

and of her child, which wailed upon her breast.

“Truly,” he said, “you were wise, wife, when you urged us not to enter

this Country of the Heart. Still, what is done cannot be undone, and,

having been happy together for a little space, let us die together as

bravely as we may, hoping that still together we may awake presently

in some new world of peace.”

While he spoke, the door was opened, and the priests with drawn swords

led us back into the Sanctuary. As Maya crossed the threshold first of

the three of us, she was met by Tikal, who with a sudden movement, but

without roughness, took the child from her arms. Now we saw what was

prepared for us, for the stone in front of the altar had been lifted,

and at our feet yawned the black shaft from which ascended the sound

of waters. They placed us with our backs resting against the altar;

but Tikal stood in front, and between him and us lay the mouth of the

pit.

“Maya, daughter of Zibalbay the cacique, Lady of the Heart; white

man, Son of the Sea; Ignatio the Wanderer; and Mattai the priest,

whom, being dead in the body, we summon in the spirit,” began Dimas in

a cold and terrible voice, “you by your own confession are proved

guilty of the greatest crimes that can be dreamed of in the wicked

brain of man and executed by his impious hands. You have broken your

solemn oaths taken in the presence of heaven and your brethren; you

have offered insult to the god we worship, and violated his Sanctuary;

and you have palmed off as their godsent prince, upon the people who

trusted you, a bastard and a child of sin. For all these and other

crimes which you have committed—why we know not—it is not in our

power to mete out to you a just reward. That must be measured to you

elsewhere, when you have passed our judgment-seat and your names are

long forgotten upon the earth.

“This is the sentence of the Council of the Heart, that your name,

Mattai, be erased from the list of the officers of the Heart; that

your memory be proclaimed accursed; that your dwelling-place be burned

with fire, and the site of it strewn with salt; that your corpse be

torn from its grave and laid upon the summit of the pyramid till the

birds of the air devour it; and that your soul be handed over to the

tormentors of the lower world to deal with according to their pleasure

for ever and for aye.

“This is the sentence of the Council of the Heart upon you, Maya,

daughter of Zibalbay the cacique, Lady of the Heart; white man, Son

of the Sea, and Ignatio the Wanderer: That your names be erased from

the roll of the Brethren of the Heart, and proclaimed accursed in the

streets of the city; that you be gagged, bound hand and foot, and

chained living to the walls of the Sanctuary, and there left before

the altar of the god which you have violated, till death from thirst

and hunger shall overtake you; that your corpses be laid upon the

pyramid as a prey to the birds of the air; and that your souls be

handed over to the tormentors of the under-world to deal with

according to their pleasure for ever and for aye. It is spoken. Let

the sentence of the Council be done. But first, since this bastard

babe is too young to sin and suffer punishment, let him be handed into

the keeping of the god, that the god may deal with him according to

his pleasure.”

As the words passed his lips, and before we fully understood them,

dazed as we were with the horror of our awful doom, Tikal stepped

forward and—even now I shudder when I write of it—holding the poor

infant, which at this instant began to wail again as though with pain

or fear, over the mouth of the pit, suddenly he let it fall into the

depths beneath.

The shriek of the agonized mother ran round the walls of the holy

place, and before it had died away the se�or had leaped

forward—leaped like a puma—across the gulf of the open well and

gripped Tikal by the throat and waist. He gripped him, and, rage

giving him strength, he lifted him high above his head and hurled him

down the dreadful place whither the child had gone before.

With a hoarse scream, Tikal vanished, and for a moment there was

silence. It was broken by the voice of Maya, crying aloud, in accents

of madness and despair—

“Not all the waters of the Holy Lake shall wash away our sin, yet may

they serve to avenge us upon you, O you murderers of a helpless

child!”

As she spoke, followed by the se�or and myself, who I think alone of

all the company guessed her dreadful purpose, Maya ran round the

altar, and with both her hands grasped the symbol of the Heart which

lay upon it.

“Forbear!” cried the voice of Dimas, but she did not heed him. Before

he or any of us could reach her, dragging at it with desperate

strength, she tore the ancient symbol from its bed, and with a loud

and mocking laugh had cast it down upon the marble floor, where it

shattered into fragments.

For one second all was still; then from the altar there came a sudden

twang as of harp-strings breaking, that was followed instantly by

another and more awful sound, the sound of the roar of many waters.

“Fly! fly!” cried a voice, “the floods are loosed and destruction is

upon us and upon the People of the Heart!”

Now the Council rushed one and all towards the door of the Sanctuary;

but I, Ignatio, by the grace of Heaven, remembered the outer door, the

secret door through which we had entered, that the priest had left

ajar.

“This way!” I cried in Spanish to the se�or, and seizing Maya by the

arm I dragged her with me into the passage. When all three of us were

through I turned to close the door, and as I did so I saw an awful

sight.

Out of the mouth of the pit before the altar sprang a vast column of

water, which struck the roof of the Sanctuary with such fearful force

that already the massive marble blocks began to rain down upon the

crowd of fugitives, who struggled and in vain to open the door and

escape into the Hall of the Dead. One other thing I saw; it was the

corpse of Tikal, vomited from the depth into which the se�or had

hurled him, a shapeless mass ascending and descending with the column

of water as alternately it struck and rebounded from the roof.

Then, before the flood could reach it, I closed the door, and,

possessing myself of the bunch of keys that still hung in the lock, we

fled up the passages and stairs till we came to the hall where we had

been imprisoned. Here, however, we dared not stay, for already strange

gurgling sounds struck upon our ears, and we felt the mighty fabric of

the pyramid shake and quiver beneath the blows of the imprisoned

waters as they burst their way upward and outward. Seizing lamps, we

ran to the copper gates at the head of the hall, and not without

trouble found the key that opened them. We had no time to spare, for

as we left it the water rushed in at the further end of the chamber, a

solid wave that in some few seconds filled it to the depth of six or

eight feet. On we fled before the advancing flood, and well was it for

us that our course lay upwards, for otherwise we must have been

drowned as we searched for the keys to open the different gates and

doors. But now fortune, which for so long had been our foe, befriended

us, and the end of it was that we reached the summit of the pyramid

just as the dawn began to break.

The dawn was breaking and seldom perhaps has the light of day revealed

a more wonderful or terrible sight to the eyes of man. Outside the

gates of the courtyard of the pyramid were gathered a great multitude

of people waiting to be admitted to celebrate the feast that on this

day of the year was to be held, according to the custom, upon the

summit of the pyramid. Indeed, they should have already been assembled

there, but it was the rule that the gates could not be opened until

the Council had left the Sanctuary, and this night the Council sat

late. As we looked at them a cry of fear and wonder rose from the

multitude, and this was the cause of it. Along that street which ran

from the landing-place to the great square rushed a vast foam-topped

wall of water twenty feet or more in depth by a hundred broad. Now we

learned the truth. The symbol on the altar—I know not how—was

connected with secret and subterranean sluice-gates which for many

generations had protected the City of the Heart from flood. When it

was torn from its bed these sluice-gates were opened, and the waters,

rushing in, sought their natural level, which at this season of the

year was higher than the housetops of the city.

On the summit of the pyramid were two priests who tended the sacred

fire and made ready for the service to be celebrated. Seeing us emerge

from the watch-house, they ran towards us, wringing their hands, and

asking what dreadful thing had come to pass. I replied that we did not

know, but that seeing the water gather in our prison we had fled from

it. How we had fled they never stopped to ask, but ran down the

stairway of the pyramid, only to return again presently, for before

they reached its base their escape was cut off.

Meanwhile the terror thickened and the doom began. Everywhere the

waters spread and gathered, replenished from the inexhaustible

reservoir of the vast lake. Whole streets went down before them, to

vanish suddenly beneath their foaming face, while from the crowd below

rose one continuous shriek of agony.

Maya heard it, and, casting herself face downward upon the surface of

the pyramid, that she might not see her handiwork, she thrust her

fingers into her ears to stop them, while the se�or and I watched,

fascinated. Now the flood struck the people, some thousands of them,

who were gathered on the rising ground at the gates of the enclosure

of the temple, and lo! in an instant they were gone, borne away as

withered leaves are borne before a gale. Ere a man might count ten the

most of the population of the City of the Heart had perished!

For a little while some of the more massive houses stood, only to

vanish one by one, in silence as it seemed, for now the roar of the

advancing waters mastered all other sounds. Before the sun was well up

it was finished, and of that ancient and beautiful city, Heart of the

World, there remained nothing to be seen except the tops of trees and

the upper parts of the pyramids of worship rising above the level of

the lake. The Golden City was no more. It was gone, and with it all

its hoarded treasures, its learning and its ancient faith, and that

which for many generations had been held to be a myth had now become a

myth indeed. One short hour had sufficed to sweep out of existence the

ripe fruit of the labour of centuries, and with it the dwindling

remnant of the last pure race of Indians, who followed the customs and

the creeds of my forefathers. Doubtless their day was done, and the

Power above us had decreed their fall; still, so vast and sudden a

ruin was a thing awful to behold, or even to think upon. What, I

wondered, would the founders of this great city and the fashioners of

its solemn pyramids and Sanctuary have thought and felt, could they

have foreseen the manner of its end? Would they, then, have set the

holy symbol so cunningly upon its altar, that the strength of a

maddened woman, by tearing it away, could bury altar, temple, town,

and all who lived therein, for ever beneath the surface of the lake?

This they did to protect their homes and fanes against the foe, so

that, if need were, they could prefer destruction to dishonour; but

they did not foresee—indeed they never dreamed—that this foe might

be of their own race, and that the hand of one of her children would

bring disaster, utter and irredeemable, upon the proud head of their

holy stronghold, the city Heart of the World.

Now foot by foot the waters found their level, filling up the cup in

which the town had stood, and the bright sunlight shone upon their

placid surface as they rippled round the sides of the pyramid and over

the flat roofs of the submerged houses. Here and there floated a mass

of wreckage, and here and there a human corpse, over which already the

water-eagles began to gather, and that was all.

Presently Maya rose to her knees and looked out from beneath the

hollow of her hand, for the light was dazzling there upon the white

summit of the pyramid. Then she flung her arms above her head and

uttered and great and bitter cry.

“Behold my handiwork,” she said, “and the harvest of my sin! Oh! my

father, that dream which you sent to haunt my sleep was dreadful, but

it did not touch the truth. Oh! my father, the people whom you would

have saved are dead; lost is the city that you loved, and it is I who

have destroyed them. Oh! my father, my father, your curse has found me

out indeed, and I am accursed.”

Some such words as these she spoke, then began to laugh, and turning

to the se�or, she said,

“Where is the child, husband?”

He could not answer her, but she took no note of it, only she bent her

arms, rocking them and crooning as though the infant lay upon her

breast, then came first to him and next to me, saying—

“Look, is he not a pretty boy? Am I not happy to be the mother of such

a boy?”

I made pretence to look, but the sight of her pitiful face and of the

empty arms, as she swayed them, was so dreadful that I was forced to

turn away to hide my tears. Now I saw the truth. Weariness, sorrow,

and shock had turned her brain, and she was mad.

We led her to the watch-house, where there was shelter, and the

priests, who had returned, gave us food so soon as we could make them

understand that we needed it, for they too were almost mad. Here her

last illness seized the Lady Maya. It began with a hardening of the

breast, which changed presently to fever. Two days and nights, with

breaking hearts, we nursed her there upon the pyramid, striving not to

listen to her sick ravings and piteous talk about the child, and at

dawn upon the third day she died. Before she died her senses returned

to her, and she spoke to her husband beautiful and tender words which

seem almost too holy to set down.

“Alas!” she ended, “as my heart foretold me, I have brought you

nothing but evil, and now the time has come for me to go away from

you. Ignatio was right, and we were wrong—or rather I was wrong. We

should have died together a year ago, if that were needful, sooner

than commit the sin we worked in the Sanctuary, for then at least our

hands would have been clean, nor would the blood of the people have

rested on my head. Yet, believe me, husband, that when I did the deed

of death, I was mad, for I had seen our child murdered before my eyes

and I heard a voice within me bidding me to be avenged. Well, it is

done, and I have suffered for it and perhaps shall suffer more, yet I

think that I was but the hand or the instrument of Fate predestined to

bring destruction upon a race already doomed, and on a faith outworn.

That faith I no longer believe in, for you have taught me another

worship, therefore I do not fear the vengeance of the god of my

people. May my other sins find forgiveness, if they are sins, for it

was my love of you that led me to them. Husband, I trust that you may

escape from this ill-omened place, and live on for many years in

happiness; but most of all I trust that in the land which you will

reach at last, you may find us waiting for you, the child and I

together. Farewell to you. This is a sad parting, and my life has been

short and sorrowful. Yet I am glad to have lived it, since it brought

me to your arms, and, however little I may have deserved it, I think

that you loved me truly and will love my memory even when I am dead.

To you also, Ignatio, farewell. You have been a true friend to me,

though I brought you no good luck, and at times I was jealous of you.

Think kindly of me if you can, though had it not been for me you might

have attained your ends, and, as in the old days before we met,

comfort my husband with your friendship.”

Then once more she turned to the se�or and in a gasping and broken

voice prayed of him not to forget her or her child. I heard him answer

that this she need not fear, as his happiness died with her, and, even

if he should escape, he thought that they would not be parted for very

long, nor could any other woman take her place within his heart.

She blessed him and thanked him, caressing his face with her dying

hands, and, unable to bear more of such a sight, I left them together.

An hour later the se�or came from the watch-house, and though he did

not speak, one glance at him was enough to tell me that all was over.

So died Maya, Lady of the Heart, the last of the ancient royal blood

of the Indian princes, myself alone excepted, a very sweet and

beautiful woman, though at times headstrong, passionate, and

capricious.

Now while Maya lay dying we learned that some Indians still lived on

the mainland, men and women who had been sent there to tend the crops,

for we saw a canoe hovering round what once had been the Island of the

Heart. The two priests who were with us on the pyramid tried to signal

to it to come to our rescue, but either those in the boat did not see

us, or they were terror-stricken and feared to approach the pyramid.

Still we kept the body all that day, hoping that help might reach us,

so that we could take it ashore for burial. Towards night, however,

when none came, we made another plan. On the roof of the watch-house

the sacred fire still burned, for the two priests had tended it, more

from custom, I think, than for any other reason. Hither we brought

some of the gilded stools that were used by the nobles of the Heart on

days of festival, and all the fuel that had been stored to replenish

the fire, building the whole into a funeral pyre around and above the

brazier. Then, as it caught, we carried out the body of Maya, wrapped

in her white robes, and laid it upon the pyre and left it.

Presently the great pile was alight and burning so fiercely that it

lit up the whole summit of the pyramid and the darkness which

surrounded it. All that night we watched it, while the two priests

lamented and beat their breasts after their fashion, till at length it

flared itself away, and the holy fire that had burned for more than a

thousand years died down and was extinguished. It seemed very fitting

that the latest office of this ancient and consecrated flame should be

to consume the body of the last of the royal race who had tended it

for so many generations. Towards dawn a wind sprang up with drizzling

rain, and when we approached the place at daybreak it was to find it

cold and blackened. No spark remained alight, and no ash or fragment

could be seen of her who was once the beautiful and gracious Lady of

the Heart.

Now we set ourselves sadly enough to find a means of escape to the

mainland, which indeed it was time to do, for the waters, working in

its centre, were sapping the foundations of the great pyramid,

portions of which had already fallen away. Our plan was to form a raft

by lashing together some benches that were at hand, and on it to float

or paddle ourselves to the shore. This, however, we were spared the

pains of doing, for when our task was half completed we saw a large

canoe, manned by three Indians, advancing towards us, and signalled to

them to paddle round to the steps of the pyramid. They did so, and,

taking with us all the food and such few articles of value as were to

be found in the watch-house, the four of us embarked, though not

without difficulty, for the current ran so strongly round the

crumbling edges of the pyramid that it was hard to bring the canoe up

to the stairs.

From the Indians we learned that those on shore were so overwhelmed

with horror at the catastrophe which had fallen upon their holy city,

that they did not dare to approach the place where it had stood. But

when on the previous night they saw the great flame of Maya’s funeral

pyre, they knew that men still lived upon the pyramid, who, as they

thought, were signalling to them for help, and ventured out to save

them. They asked us how it came about that the waters had overwhelmed

the city which had stood among them safely from the beginning of time.

We replied that we did not know, and the priests with us, now that

they had escaped with their lives, seemed too prostrated to tell our

deliverers that we had been imprisoned in the hollow of the pyramid,

even if they knew that this was so.

On reaching the shore we found a little gathering of awe-stricken

Indians—perhaps there may have been a hundred and fifty of them—the

sole survivors of the People of the Heart, unless indeed a few still

lived on the high land of those portions of the island of the Heart

that as yet had not been submerged. Open-mouthed and almost without

comment they listened to the terrible tale of the sudden and utter

destruction of their city. When it was done, one among them suggested

that the white man should be killed, as without doubt he had brought

misfortune and the vengeance of heaven upon their race, but this

proposal seemed to find no favour with the rest of them. Indeed, had

they known the part which we played in the disaster, I doubt if they

would have found the spirit to make an end of us.

On the other hand, they gave us what food and clothing we required,

and even weapons, such as machetes, bows and arrows, and blow-pipes,

and left us to go our way. Often I have wondered what became of them,

and if any of their number, or of their children, still survive.

So we turned our faces to the mountains, and on the second day we

crossed them safely, for Maya had told us the secret of the passage

through the rocks, which, under her guidance, we had passed

blindfolded.

Thus, at length, having looked our last upon the blue waters of the

Holy Lake, sparkling in the sunshine above the palaces of the city and

the bones of its inhabitants, did we leave that accursed Country of

the Heart, where so much loss and evil had befallen us.

ENVOI

My friend, now I, Ignatio, have finished writing that story of how I

came to visit the Golden City of the Indians, which so many have

believed to be fabulous, and that to-day exists no more. It is a

strange story, and I trust that it may interest you to read it when I

am dead and buried.

Perhaps you would like to know the details of our homeward journey,

but in truth I have neither the strength nor the patience to set them

down. It was a terrible journey, and once we both of us fell ill with

fever from which I thought that we should not recover; but recover we

did by the help of some wandering Indians who nursed us, and at length

reached this place from which we had fled for our lives nearly two

years before. We found the hacienda deserted, for it had the

reputation of being haunted, though some of the Indian dependents, or

rather slaves, of that great villain, Don Pedro Moreno, still worked

patches of the land. Well, the se�or took a fancy to stay in the

place, for it was here that he had first seen his wife, and so we sold

that girdle of emeralds which Maya took from the chest of ornaments

and gave to me when we were imprisoned for the first time in the hall

of the pyramid (do not lose the clasp, friend, for it is the only

remaining relic of the People of the Heart), and with the proceeds we

bought at a cheap rate from the government of the day, who had entered

into possession of them, this house and the wide lands round it, that

I have cultivated ever since. For, my friend, now my ambitions were

finished. I had played my last card and it had failed me, and, albeit

with a sorrowful mind, I abandoned my hopes for the regeneration of

the Indians which I had no longer the means or the health and vigour

to attempt. Also, I was no more Lord of the Heart, for with its

counterpart it was lost in the Sanctuary yonder beneath the waters of

the Holy Lake, and with the ancient symbol went much of my power.

For five years the se�or and I lived here together, but I think that

during all this time he was dying. He, who used to be so strong in

body and merry in mind, never regained his health or spirits from that

hour when Maya passed upon the pyramid, and though he seldom spoke of

her, I know that night and day she was always present in his thoughts.

Twice in the spring seasons he suffered from calenturas, as we call

the fever of the country, which left him sallow in face and shrunken

in body; and when the spring came round for the third time, I begged

him to go to Mexico for change, returning to the hacienda in the

summer. In vain; he would not do it, indeed I do not think that he

cared whether he lived or died. So the end of it was that the

calentura took him again, and die he did in my arms, happily as a

child that falls asleep.

Now my days are accomplished also, and, having failed in all things

and known much sorrow and disappointment, I go to join him. My friend,

farewell. Perhaps you will think of me from time to time, and, though

you are a heretic, send up a prayer to heaven for the welfare of the

soul of the old Indian—

IGNATIO.

End of this Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Heart of the World (1895) by H. Rider Haggard

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV