“So do I, so do I, Señor 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 señor; “it was strange that two drunken men should kill each other.”
“So I say, señor. 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 José 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.”
“Listen, señor; 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, señor—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, señor, 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, señor, 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 wore 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, señor, 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 where 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, señor—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-eyed, greedy-faced 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 señor 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, señor, take a cup of coffee, it is good.”
“Thank you, no,” answered the señor, “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! señor, 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 señor, 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, señor,” 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, señor, 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 José and the Texan outcast, Smith, both of whom, like the rest of the company, were more or less drunk, come to the señor 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 José, “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 señor, 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 whom 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 señor, 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 señora and her party. You remember the señora, don’t you, José? I can hear her squeaks now,”—and he laughed brutally, and added, “Come, king, have a drink.”
“Gracias, señor,” I answered, “I have drunk.”
“Then smoke a cigar, O king.”
“Gracias, señor, 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, José, 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 José, “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 José, 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, señor, 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 José Moreno could never be.”
“Stick the pig, José,” said Smith, “he is insulting you again. It will save you trouble afterwards.”
Then, as Don José again advanced upon me with the knife, of a sudden the señor 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 señor, 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 José, 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 señor.
“The woman, Luisa, gave me to eat,” he whispered. “Listen, lord, and you, Señor 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, Señor 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 señor.
“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 glowfly, 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 señor. “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 señor 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 señor 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 José, 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 señor 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.
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 José’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 José, 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 wall as though they expected to see us there.
“They are gone,” said José 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 José,—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 José.
“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, José. 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 José.
“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, José, 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 señor, 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 José have gone to visit them. The risk is great, shall we take it?”
“Yes,” answered the señor 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 señor 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, Señor 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 José, 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 José.
“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 José, 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 José, “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 José 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 José 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 José, “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 José.
“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 señor, 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 these people, or die with them.”
“Then, señors, 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 José 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 baptize 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 señor, picking up the machete and placing its hot point against José’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, José, 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 señor. “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. José 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, señor,” 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, José 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 señor stood waiting for him, his back to the door, and grasping the Indian machete handled with the golden woman.
Now José 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 lamp-light, 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 on the calm features of the señor, 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 José 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 señor’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 señor, 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 señor, 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 José, whose arm was numbed by the shock, could lift the sword again, the señor 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 slacked my 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 señor 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 Señor, 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 señor. “You forget that José 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.
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 señor 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 to 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 unpeopled 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 señor 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 señor, who stood upon the 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 the stream.”
“Then we must go forward in the water,” said the señor, “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 scarcely 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 steps, 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 señor had killed Don José, 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 señor 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?”
“Señor, 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, señor.”
“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 señor.
“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, señor, 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 señor. “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 señor, 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 señor 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 search 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 señor, “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 señors 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 señor.
“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 señor, 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 señor, 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 at that instant a storm of bullets swept through the archway, aimed at Molas and the señor as they fled back for refuge. I saw Molas fall and the señor 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 señor.
“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 señor’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 señor, 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 señor; 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 señor. “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.