“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 cracking and peeling showed how great was the strain upon it.
“Quick,” whispered the señor, “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 señor.
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 señor 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 señor 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 señor.
“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 señor 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 señor; “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.
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 by 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 brotherhood.
“They are so,” replied the señor, 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 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, it has 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 down 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 grip 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 and 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 señor 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, señor, 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 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 señor 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, sirs, 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 señor 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 señor 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 señor 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 Spaniards 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 señor 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 señor 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 señor 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.
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 señor, 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 señor 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 señor 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 señor’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 señor, 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 señor 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 señor’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 señor, “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 señor, “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 señor, “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 señor 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 hide, 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. Maya 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.