For a minute or more she remained thus, drinking her fill and enjoying the coolness of her bath, which was pleasant after the stupefying heat of the caves, then, first having taken care to remove the tinder that was tied to it, she slipped the water-skin from her shoulder, washed it out, filled and replaced it. Next, she dragged herself up the bank, and by the light of a new torch started for the foot of the shaft.
Here Maya rested awhile, gathering up her energies, then, feeling that once more she began to grow afraid, she commenced the ascent. There were a hundred and one of the notches, for she had counted them as she came down, and now again she began to count, so that she might know her exact position in the shaft, of which she could see nothing because of the intense darkness. Before she had ascended fifty steps she was dismayed to find a feeling of weariness taking possession of her, which forced her to pause awhile hanging to the face of the pit. Then she went on again and with great efforts reached the seventy-fifth step, where once more she was obliged to hang, gaining breath, till a pain in her right leg, upon which most of her weight rested, warned her that she must stay no longer. For the third time she struggled upwards, desperately and despairingly dragging her feet from niche to niche. Her breath came in gasps, the straps of the heavy water-skin cut into her tender flesh, and her brain began to reel.
Now there were but ten more steps. It came into her mind that she might save herself by loosing the burden of water from her shoulders, to fall to the bottom of the pit, but this she would not do. Now only three niches remained and the goal would be won, but now also her brain was giving. Darker and more bewildered it grew, yet by a desperate effort she kept some fragment of her sense. Her foot was in the topmost hole, her body was balanced upon the edge of the pit, and, pulled down by the choking weight of the water, she was like to fall backwards. Then it seemed that a voice called her, and for the last time she struggled, writhing forward as does a wounded snake, till darkness closed in upon her mind.
When Maya recovered, a while later, she found that she was lying on the edge of the shaft, over which her feet still hung. Instantly she remembered all, and, with a little scream of terror, drew herself along the floor. Then with difficulty, for she was still breathless, and her muscles seemed to have no strength, she rose to her feet, and having felt for and picked up her linen robe, she crept towards the spot of light which marked the entrance to the cave. Presently she was through it, and with a sigh of thankfulness sank to the earth and put on her garment, then, rising, she walked slowly towards the camp, bearing the precious water with her.
Meanwhile, knowing nothing of all this, I, Ignatio, also had been thinking. I remembered how, when I lay crushed beneath the rock, the señor had ventured his life to save me. Should I not then venture mine to save his? It seemed so. Without water he would certainly die, and greatly as I dreaded to attempt the descent of the cueva, yet it must be done. Leaving the hammock, I searched for the Lady Maya, but could not find her, so I called aloud,—“Señora, señora. Where are you, señora?”
“Here,” she answered. “What is it? Is he dead?”
“No,” I said, “but I am sure that unless he has water he will die within little more than an hour. Therefore I have made up my mind to try to descend the cueva. Will you be so good as to watch the señor till I return, and if I return no more, as is probable, to tell your father what has happened. He will find the talisman of the Broken Heart lying with my clothes at the mouth of the pit. I pray that he will take it, and I pray also that he should travel back to Mexico, bearing with him some of the wealth of his city, there to continue the great work that I have begun, of which I have spoken to him. Farewell, señora.”
“Stop, Don Ignatio,” said Maya in a hoarse voice, “there is no need for you to descend the cueva.”
“Why not, Lady? I should be glad to escape the task, but this is a question of life or death.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and because it is a question of life or death, Don Ignatio, I have already climbed that hideous place, and—here is the water,”—and she fell forward and swooned upon the ground.
I said nothing. I was too much amazed, and, indeed, too much ashamed, to speak. Lifting Maya’s senseless form, I placed her in a hammock that was slung close by. Then I took the water-skin and a leather cup, and ran with it to my friend’s side. By now the señor was lost in a coma and lay still, only moaning from time to time. Undoing the mouth of the skin, I poured out a cupful of water, with which I began to sprinkle his brow and to moisten his cracked lips. At the touch and smell of the fluid a change came over the face of the dying man, the empty look left it, and the eyes opened.
“That was water,” he muttered, “I can taste it.” Then he saw the cup, and the sight seemed to give him a sudden strength, for he stretched out his arms and, snatching it from my hand, he drained it in three gulps.
“More,” he gasped, “more.”
But as yet I would give him no more, though he prayed for it piteously, and when I did allow him to drink again it was in sips only. For an hour he sipped thus till at length even his thirst was partially satisfied, and the shrunken cheeks began to fill out and the dull eyes to brighten.
“That water has saved my life,” he whispered; “where did it come from?”
“I will tell you to-morrow,” I answered; “sleep now if you can.”
At sunrise on the following day I lit a fire by which to prepare soup for the señor, who still slept, and as I was engaged thus I saw the Lady Maya walking towards me, and noticed that her hands and feet were swollen.
“Señora,” I said, bowing before her, “I humbly congratulate you upon your courage and your escape from great dangers. Last night I said words to you in my grief that should not have been spoken, for it is my fault that I am apt to be unjust to women. I crave your pardon, and I will add that if, in atonement for my past injustice, I can serve you in any way now and afterwards, I pray you to command me.”
She listened and answered:
“I thank you for your kind words, Don Ignatio, and I forget other words that were not kind which you have spoken to me from time to time. If in truth you wish to show yourself my friend, it is in your power to do so. You have guessed my secret, therefore I am not ashamed to repeat that the señor yonder has become everything to me, though as yet I may be little to him. I ask you, then, to swear upon the Heart that you will do nothing to turn him from me, or to separate us should he ever learn to love me, but rather, should this come about, that whatever may be our need, you will help us by all means in your reach.”
“You ask me to swear a large oath, señora, and one that deals with the future, of which we have no knowledge,” I answered, hesitating.
“I do, señor, but remember that were it not for me at this moment your friend, who sleeps yonder like a child, would be stiff in death. Remember also that you have ends to gain in the City of the Heart, where it will be well for you to keep me as a friend should we ever live to reach it. Still, do not swear unless you wish, only then I shall know that you are my secret enemy and I shall be yours.”
“There is no need to threaten me, señora,” I answered, “nor am I to be moved thus, but I promise that I will not stand between you and the señor. Why should I? His will is his own, and, as you say, you saved his life. But see, he awakes, and his soup is ready.”
She took the pot off the fire, skimmed it, and poured the contents into a gourd.
“Shall I take it, or will you?” she asked.
“I think that you had better take it,” I answered.
Then she walked to the hammock and said, “Señor, here is your soup.”
He was but newly awakened, and looked at her vacantly.
“Tell me, Maya,” he asked, “what has happened?”
“Last evening,” she began, “in picking a flower for me you were bitten by a snake, and very nearly died.”
“I know,” he answered. “Without doubt I should have died had you not sucked the wound and tied a bandage round my wrist, for that grey snake is the deadliest in the country. Go on.”
“After the danger of the poison was past you became thirsty, so thirsty that you were dying of it, and there was no water to give you.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, “it was agony; I pray that I may never suffer so again. But I drank water and lived. Who brought it to me?”
“My father started on to the next camping-place, where there is a pool,” she answered.
“Has he returned?”
“No, not yet.”
“Then he cannot have brought the water. Where did it come from?”
“It came from the cueva, that cave which we examined before you were bitten.”
“Who went down the cueva to get it? The place is unclimbable.”
“I went down.”
“You!” he said, in amazement. “You! It is not possible. Do not jest. Tell me the truth quickly. I am tired.”
“I am not jesting. Listen, señor. You were dying for want of water, dying before our eyes; it was horrible to see. I could not bear it, and I knew that my father would not be back in time, so I took the water-skin and some torches and went without saying anything to Ignatio. The shaft was hard to climb, and the adventure strange. I will tell you of that by and by, but as it chanced I came through it safely to find Ignatio about to start on the same errand.”
The señor heard and understood, but he made no answer; he only stretched out his arms towards her, and there and thus in the wilderness did they plight their troth.
“Remember I am but an Indian girl,” she murmured presently, “and you are one of the white lords of the earth. Is it well that you should love me?”
“It is well,” he answered, “for you are the noblest woman that I have known, and you have saved my life.”
Zibalbay did not return till past midday, when he appeared with the water, leading the mule, which had set its foot upon a sharp stone in the desert and gone lame.
“Does he still live?” he asked of Maya.
“Yes, father.”
“He must be strong then,” he answered; “I thought that thirst would have killed him ere now.”
“He has had water, father. I descended the cueva and fetched it,” she added, after a moment’s pause.
The old man looked at her amazed.
“How came it that you found courage to go down that place, daughter?” he asked at length.
“The desire to save a friend gave me courage,” she answered, letting her eyes fall beneath his gaze. “I knew that you could not be back in time, so I went.”
Zibalbay pondered awhile, then said:
“I think that you would have done better to let him die, daughter, for I believe that this white man will bring trouble upon us. It has pleased the gods to preserve you alive; remember, then, that your life belongs to them, and that you must follow the path which they have chosen, not that which you would choose for yourself. Remember also that one waits you in the city yonder who may have a word to say as to your friendship with this wanderer.” And he passed on with the mule.
That same evening Maya told me of her father’s words and said:
“I think that before all is done I shall need the help that you have sworn to give me, señor, for I can see well that my father will be against me unless my wish runs with his purpose. Of one thing I am sure, that my life is my own and not a possession of the gods; for in such gods as my father worships and I was brought up to serve, I have lost faith, if indeed I ever had any.”
“You speak rashly,” I answered, “and if you are wise you will not let your father hear such words.”
“Lest by and by my life should be forfeit to the gods whom I blaspheme!” she broke in. “Say, then, do you believe in these gods, Don Ignatio?”
“No, Lady, I am a Christian and have no part with idols and those who worship them.”
“I understand; it is only in their wealth that you would have part. Well, and why should I not become a Christian also? I have learned something of your faith from the señor yonder, and see that it is great and pure, and full of comfort for us mortals.”
“May grace be given to you to follow in that road, Lady, but it is not Christian to taunt me about the wealth which I come to seek for the advantage of our race, seeing that you know I ask nothing for myself.”
“Forgive me,” she answered, “my tongue is sharp—as yours has been at times, Don Ignatio. Hark! the señor calls me.”
For two more days we rested there by the cueva till the señor was fit to travel, then we started on again. Ten days we journeyed across the wilderness, following the line of the ancient road, and meeting with no traces of man save such as were furnished by the familiar sight of ruined pyramids and temples. On the eleventh we began to ascend the slope of a lofty range of mountains that pushed its flanks far out into the desert-land, and on the twelfth we reached the snow-line, where we were obliged to abandon the three mules which remained to us, seeing that no green food was to be found higher up, and the path became too steep for them to find a footing on it. That night we slept, with little to eat, in a hole dug in the snow, wrapped in our serapes, or, rather, we tried to sleep, for our rest was broken by the cold, and the moaning of bitter and mysterious winds which sprang up and passed away suddenly beneath a clear sky; also, from time to time, by the thunder of distant avalanches rushing from the peaks above.
“How far must we travel up this snow?” I asked of Zibalbay, as we stood shivering in the ashy light of the dawn.
“Look yonder,” he answered, pointing to where the first ray of the sun shone upon a surface of black rock far above us; “there is the highest point, and we should reach it before nightfall.”
Thus encouraged we pushed forward for hour after hour, Zibalbay marching ahead in silence, until our sight was bewildered with snow-blindness, and I was seized with a fit of mountain sickness. Fortunately the climbing was not difficult, so that by four in the afternoon we found ourselves beneath the shadow of the wall of black rock.
“Must we scale that precipice?” I asked of Zibalbay.
“No,” he answered, “it would not be possible without wings. There is a way through it. Twice in the old days bodies of white men searching for the Golden City to sack it, came to this spot, but, finding no path through the cliff, they went home again, though their hands were on the door.”
“Does the wall of rock encircle all the valley of the city?” asked the señor.
“No, White Man, it ends many days’ journey away to the west, but he who would travel round it must wade through a great swamp. Also the mountains may be crossed to the east by journeying for three days through snows and down precipices; but so far as I have learned only one man lived to pass them, a wandering Indian, who found his way to the banks of the Holy Waters in the days of my grandfather. Now, stay here while I search.”
“Are you glad to see the gateway of your home, Maya?” asked the señor.
“No,” she answered, almost fiercely, “for here in the wilderness I have been happy, but there sorrow awaits me and you. Oh! if indeed I am dear to you, let us turn even now and fly together back to the lands where your people live,” and she clasped his hand and looked earnestly into his eyes.
“What,” he answered, “and leave your father and Ignatio to finish the journey by themselves?”
“You are more to me than my father, though perhaps this solemn Ignatio is more to you than I am.”
“No, Maya, but having come so far I wish to see the sacred city.”
“As you will,” she said, letting fall his hand. “See, my father has found the place and calls us.”
We walked on for about a hundred paces, threading our path through piles of boulders that lay at the foot of the precipice till we came to where Zibalbay stood, leaning against the wall of rock in which we could see no break or opening.
“Although I trust you, and, as I believe, Heaven has brought us together for its own purposes,” said the old cacique, “yet I must follow the ancient custom and obey my oath to suffer no stranger to see the entrance to this mountain gate. Come hither, daughter, and blindfold these foreigners.”
She obeyed, and as she tied the handkerchief about the señor’s face I heard her whisper,
“Fear not, I will be your eyes.”
Then we were taken by the hand, and led this way and that till we were confused. After we had walked some paces, we were halted and left while, as we judged from the sounds, our guides moved something heavy. Next we were conducted down a steep incline, through a passage so narrow and low that our shoulders rubbed the sides of it, and in parts we were obliged to bend our heads. At length, after taking many sharp turns, the passage grew wider and the path smooth and level.
“Loose the bandages,” said the voice of Zibalbay.
Maya did so, and, when our eyes were accustomed to the light, we looked round us curiously to find that we stood at the bottom of a deep cleft or volcanic rift in the rock, made not by the hand of man but by that of Nature working with her tools of fire and water. This cleft—along which ran a road so solidly built and drained that, save here and there where snowdrifts blocked it, it was still easily passable after centuries of disuse—did not measure more than forty paces from wall to wall. On either side of it towered sheer black cliffs, honeycombed with doorways that could only have been reached by ladders.
“What are those?” I asked of Zibalbay. “Burying-places?”
“No,” he answered, “dwelling-houses. They were there, so say the records, before our forefathers founded the City of the Heart, and in them dwelt cave-men, barbarians who fed on little and did not feel the cold. It was by following some of these cave-men through that passage which we have passed that the founder of the ancient city discovered this cleft and the good country and great lake that lie beyond it, where the rock-dwellers, whom our forefathers killed out, used to live in the winter season. Once, when I was young, with some companions I entered these caves by means of ropes and ladders, and found many strange things there, such as stone axes and rude ornaments of gold, relics of the barbarians. But let us press on, or night will overtake us in the pass.”
By degrees the great cleft, that had widened as we walked, began to narrow again till it appeared to end in a second wall of rock.
Passing round a boulder that lay at the foot of this wall, Zibalbay led the way into a tunnel behind it.
“Do not fear the darkness,” he said, “the passage is short and there are no pitfalls.”
So we followed the sound of his footsteps through the gloom, till presently a spot of light appeared before us, and in another minute we stood on the further side of the mountain, though we could see nothing of the place because of the falling shadows.
Without pausing, Zibalbay pushed on down the hill, and, suddenly turning to the right, stopped before the door of a house built of hewn stone.
“Enter,” he said, “and welcome to the country of the People of the Heart.”
As the door was thrown open, light from the fire within streamed through it, and a man’s voice was heard asking, “Who is there?”
Without answering, Zibalbay walked into the room. It was a low vaulted apartment, and at a table placed before the great fire which burnt upon the hearth sat a man and a woman eating.
“Is this the way that you watch for my return?” he asked in a stern voice. “Haste now and make food ready for we are starved with cold and hunger.”
The man, who had risen, stood hesitating, but the woman, whose position enabled her to see the face of the speaker, caught him by the arm, saying,
“Down to your knees, husband. It is the cacique come back.”
“Pardon,” cried the man, taking the hint; “but to be frank, O lord, it has been so dinned in my ears down in the city yonder, that neither you nor the Lady of the Heart would ever return again, that I thought you must be ghosts. Yes, and so they will think in the city, where I have heard that Tikal rules in your place.”
“Peace,” said Zibalbay, frowning heavily. “We left robes here, did we not? Go, lay them out in the sleeping-chambers, and with them others for these my guests, while the woman prepares our meat.”
The man bowed, stretching out his arms till the backs of his hands touched the ground. Then, taking an earthenware lamp from a side table, he lit it and disappeared behind a curtain, an example which the woman followed after she had rapidly removed the dishes that were upon the table, and fed the fire with wood.
When they were gone we gathered round the hearth to bask in the luxury of its warmth.
“What is this place?” asked the señor.
Zibalbay, who was wrapped in his own thoughts, did not seem to hear him, and Maya answered,
“A poor hovel that is used as a rest-house and by hunters of game, no more. These people are its keepers, and were charged to watch for our return, but they seem to have fulfilled their task ill. Pardon me, I go to help them. Come, father.”
They went, and presently the señor awoke from a doze induced by the delightful warmth of the fire, to see the custodian of the place standing before him staring at him in amazement not unmixed with awe.
“What is the matter with the man, and what does he want, Ignatio?” he asked in Spanish.
“He wonders at your white skin and fair hair, señor, and says that he does not dare to speak to you because you must be one of the Heaven-born of whom their legends tell, wherefore he asks me to say that water to wash in and raiment to put on have been made ready for us if we will come with him.”
Accordingly we followed the Indian, who led us into a passage at the back of the sitting-chamber, and thence to a small sleeping-room, one of several to which the passage gave access. In this room, which was lit by an oil lamp, were two bedsteads covered with blankets of deerskin and cotton sheets, and laid upon them were fine linen robes, and serapes made in alternate bands of grey and black feathers, worked on to a foundation of stout linen. Standing upon wooden stools in a corner of the room, and half-filled with steaming water, were two basins, which the señor noticed with astonishment were of hammered silver.
“These people must be rich,” he said to me so soon as the keeper of the place had gone, “if they fashion the utensils of their rest-houses of silver. Till now this story of the Sacred City of which Zibalbay was cacique, and Maya heiress apparent, has always sounded like a fairy tale to me, but it seems that it is true after all, for the man’s manner shows that Zibalbay is a very important person.”
Then we put on the robes that had been provided for our use, not without difficulty, since their make was strange to us, and returned to the eating-room. Presently the curtain was drawn, and the Lady Maya joined us—the Lady Maya, but so changed that we started in astonishment.
Different, indeed, was she to the ill-clad and travel-stained girl who had been our companion for so many weeks. Now she was dressed in a robe of snowy white, bordered with embroidery of the royal green, and having the image of the Heart traced in gold thread upon the breast. On her feet were sandals, also worked in green, while round her throat, wrists, waist, and ankles shone circlets of dead gold. Her dark hair no longer fell loose about her, but was twisted into a simple knot and confined in a little golden net, and from her shoulders hung a cloak of pure white feathers, relieved here and there by the delicate yellow plumes of the greater egret.
“Like you I have changed my garments,” she said in explanation. “Is the dress ugly, that you look astonished?”
“Ugly!” answered the señor, “I think it is the most beautiful that I ever saw.”
“This is the most beautiful dress that you ever saw! Why, friend, it is the simplest that I have. Wait till you see me in my royal robes, wearing the great emeralds of the Heart; what will you say then, I wonder?”
“I cannot tell, but I say now that I don’t know which is the most lovely, you or your dress.”
“Hush!” she said, laughing, yet with a note of earnestness in her voice. “You must not speak thus freely to me. Yonder in the pass, friend, I was the Indian girl your fellow-traveller; here I am the Lady of the Heart.”
“Then I wish that you had remained the Indian girl in the pass,” he answered, after a pause, “but perhaps you jest.”
“I was not altogether jesting,” she answered, with a sigh, “you must be careful now, or it might be ill for you or me, or both of us, since by rank I am the greatest lady in this land, and doubtless my cousin, Tikal, will watch me closely. See! here comes my father.”
As she spoke Zibalbay entered, followed by the two Indians bearing food. He was simply dressed in a white toga-like robe similar to that which had been given to the señor and myself. A cloak of black feathers covered his shoulders, and round his neck was hung a massive gold chain to which was attached the emblem of the Heart, also fashioned in plain gold.
We noticed that, as he came, his daughter, Maya, made a courtesy to him, which he acknowledged with a nod, and that whenever they passed him the two Indians crouched almost to the ground.
Evidently the friendship of our desert journeying was done with, and the person of whom we had hitherto thought and spoken as an equal must henceforth be treated with respect. Indeed the proud-faced, white-bearded chief seemed so royal in his changed surroundings that we were almost moved to follow the example of the others, and bow whenever he looked at us.
“The food is ready,” said Zibalbay, “such as it is. Be seated, I beg of you. Nay, daughter, you need not stand before me. We are still fellow-wanderers, all of us, and ceremony can stay till we are come to the City of the Heart.”
Then we sat down and the Indians waited on us. What the dishes consisted of we did not know, but after our long privations it seemed to us that we had never eaten so excellent a meal, or drunk anything so good as the native wine which was served with it. Still, notwithstanding our present comfort, I think the señor’s heart misgave him, and that he had presentiments of evil. Maya and he still loved one another, but he felt that things were utterly changed, as she herself had shown him. While they wandered, in some sense he had been the head of the party, as, to speak truth, among companions of a coloured race a white man of gentle birth is always acknowledged to be by right of blood. Now things were changed, and he must take his place as an alien wanderer, admitted to the country upon sufferance, and already this difference could be seen in Zibalbay’s manner and mode of address. Formerly he had called him “señor,” or even “friend;” to-night, when speaking to him, he used a word which meant “foreigner,” or “unknown one,” and even myself he addressed by name without adding any title of respect.
One good thing, however, we found in this place, who had lacked tobacco for six weeks and more, for presently the Indian entered bearing cigarettes made by rolling the herb in the thin sheath that grows about the cobs of Indian corn.
“Come hither, you,” said Zibalbay to the Indian, when he had handed us the cigarettes. “Start now to the borders of the lake and advise the captain of the village of the corn-growers that his lord is returned again, commanding him in my name to furnish four travelling litters to be here within five hours after sunrise. Warn him also to have canoes in readiness to bear us across the lake, but, as he values his life, to send no word of our coming to the city. Go now and swiftly.”
The man bowed, and, snatching a spear and a feather cloak from a peg near the door, vanished into the night, heedless of the howling wind and the sleet that thrashed upon the roof.
“How far is it to the village?” asked the señor.
“Ten leagues or more,” Zibalbay answered, “and the road is not good, still if he does not fall from a precipice or lose his life in a snow-drift, he will be there within six hours. Come, daughter, it is time for us to rest, our journey has been long, and you must be weary. Good night to you, my guests, to-morrow I shall hope to house you better.” Then, bowing to us, he left the room.
Maya rose to follow his example, and, going to the señor, gave him her hand, which he touched with his lips.
“How good it is to taste tobacco again,” he said as Maya went. “No, don’t go to bed yet, Ignatio, take a cigarette and another glass of this agua ardiente, and let us talk. Do you know, friend, it seems to me that Zibalbay has changed. I never was a great admirer of his character, but perhaps I do not understand it.”
“Do you not, señor? I think that I do. Like some Christian priests the man is a fanatic, and like myself, a dreamer. Also he is full of ambition and tyrannical, one who will spare neither himself nor others where he has an end to gain, or thinks that he can promote the welfare of his country and the glory of his gods. Think how brave and earnest the man must have been who, at the bidding of a voice or a vision, dared in his old age, unaccompanied save by his only child, to lay down his state and travel almost without food through hundreds of leagues of bush and desert, that none of his race had crossed for generations. Think what it must have been to him who for many years has been treated almost as divine, to play the part of a medicine-man in the forests of Yucatan, and to suffer, in his own person and in that of his daughter, insults and torment at the hands of low white thieves. Yet all this and more Zibalbay has borne without a murmur because, as he believes, the object of his mission is attained.”
“But, Ignatio, what is the object of his mission, and what have we to do with it? To this hour I do not quite know.”
“The object of his mission, and indeed of his life, is to build up the fallen empire of the City of the Heart. In short, señor, though I do not believe in his gods, in Zibalbay’s visions I do believe, seeing that they have led him to me, whose aim is his aim, and that neither of us can succeed without the other.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need wealth and he needs men; and if he will give me the wealth, I can give him men in thousands.”
“I hear,” answered the señor. “It sounds simple enough, but perhaps you will both of you find that there are difficulties in the way. What I do not understand, however, is what part Maya and I are to play in this affair, who are not anxious to regenerate a race or to build up an empire. I suppose that we are only spectators of the game.”
“How can that be, señor, when she is Lady of the Heart and heiress to her father, and when,” I added, dropping my voice, “you and she have grown so dear to one another?”
“I did not know that you had noticed anything of that, Ignatio. You never seemed to observe our affection, and, as you hate women so much, I did not speak of it,” he answered, colouring.
“I am not altogether blind, señor. Also, is it possible for a man not to know when a woman comes between him and the friend he loves? But of that I will say nothing, for it is as it should be; besides, you might scarcely understand me if I did. No, no, señor, you cannot be left out of this game, you are too deep in it already, though what part you will play I cannot tell. It depends, perhaps, upon what the gods reveal to Zibalbay, or what he guesses that they reveal. At present he is well disposed towards you because he thinks that the oracle may declare you to be the son of Quetzal through whom his people shall be redeemed, since it seems that here there is some such prophecy, and for this reason it is that he has not forbidden the friendship between you and his daughter, or so he hinted to me. But be warned, señor; for if he comes to know that you are not the man, then he will sweep you aside as of small account, and you may bid farewell to the Lady of the Heart.”
“I will not do that while I live,” he answered quietly.
“No, señor, perhaps not while you live, but those who stand in the path of priests and kings do not live long. Still, though there is cause to be cautious, there is no cause to be down-hearted, seeing that if you are not the man, I may be, in which case I shall be able to help you, as I have sworn to the Lady Maya that I will do, or perhaps you will be able to help me.”
“At any rate, we will stand together,” said the señor. “And now, as there is no use in talking of the future, I think that we had better go to sleep. Of one thing, however, you may be certain—unless she dies, or I die, I mean to marry Maya.”
While it was yet dark on the following morning we were awakened by the voice of Zibalbay calling us.
“Arise,” he said; “it is time to start upon our road.”
“Are the litters here?” I asked.
“No, nor can be for some hours. I desire to reach the city this night, therefore we must push forward on foot to meet them.”
Then we rose, and, having no choice, dressed ourselves as best we could in the garments of the country that had been given to us, for our own were but rags, in which we were ashamed to be seen. In the common room we found Zibalbay and the Lady Maya.
“Eat,” said the old man, pointing to food that was ready, “and let us be going.”
Ten minutes later we were outside the house. There was no wind, but at this great height the air is of so piercing a quality that we were glad to fold our serapes round us and walk briskly forward, Zibalbay leading the way. At first a grey gloom reigned, but presently snowy peaks shone through it, everywhere radiant with the hues of the unrisen sun, although the mountain sides beneath us were still wrapped in night. By degrees, as the light grew, we saw that the country at our feet was shaped like a bowl, whereof the mountain range upon which we stood formed the rim, and at the bottom of the bowl, fed by numberless streams that had their sources among the surrounding snows, lay the lake, the Holy Waters of this people. Of all this, however, we could as yet see little, since the vast expanse beneath us lay hidden in volumes of mist that moved and rolled like the face of ocean. Never before had we looked upon anything so strange as this dense garment of vapour while the light of heaven gathered upon its surface, tingeing it with lines and patches of colour. It seemed as though a map of the world was unrolled before us—continents, seas, islands, and cities formed themselves, only to disappear in quick succession and assume new and endless shapes.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” said Maya. “But wait until the mist breaks. Look, it is beginning!”
As she spoke, of a sudden the sea of mist grew thin and opened in its centre, and through the gap thus formed showed first the pyramids and temple tops, and then the entire panorama of the city Heart of the World, floating, as it were, upon the face of the Holy Waters. It was far away, but, now that the night fog no longer thickened the air, so clear was the atmosphere and so high were we above it, that it seemed to be almost at our feet. The city, which appeared to be surrounded by a wall, was built of marble or some other snow-white stone, whereon the light gleamed and flashed. It stood upon a heart-shaped island, and round about the shores of this island, stretching further than the eye could reach, sparkled the blue waters of the Holy Lake. By degrees the ring of mist rolled up the sides of the mountains and vanished, and in place of it the round bowl of the valley was filled with the clear light of day. Now we could see the shores of the lake, with their green fringe of reeds; and above them grass lands threaded by silver streams; and above these again, upon the flanks of the mountains, great forests of oak and cedars rising almost to the snow line. To the right and left of us the huge, round-shouldered mountains stretched in a majestic sweep till they melted into the blue of the horizon, while here and there some tall, snow-robed peak, the cone of an extinct volcano, towered above us like a sentinel.
“There lies my country,” said Maya, with a proud wave of her hand; “does it please you, white man?”
“It pleases me so well, Maya,” he answered, “that now less than ever can I understand why you wish to leave it.”
“Because, though lakes and mountains and cities full of wealth are fine things, it is not to these, but to the men and women among whom we live, that we must look for happiness.”
“Some people might think otherwise, Maya. They might say that happiness must be sought for in ourselves. At least I could be happy in such a land as this.”
“You think so now,” she answered, meaningly, “but when you have been awhile in the city yonder, you will think otherwise. Oh!” she went on, passionately, “if, indeed, you care for me, we should never have crossed that mountain behind us. But you do not care for me—not truly; for all this time you have been half ashamed of your affection for an Indian girl whom you were obliged to become fond of, because she was pretty and you were so much with her, and she chanced to save your life. Yes, you would have been ashamed to marry me according to your customs, and to show me as your wife among the white people—me, the wandering Indian with a mad father whom you found in the hands of thieves. Here it will be different, for here at least I am a great lady, and you will see the people in the streets bow themselves to the ground before me; and if I say that a man shall die, you will see that man killed. Also here I have wealth more than any white woman, and you will be fond of me for that——”
“You are very unjust,” he broke in, angrily; “it is shameful that you should speak to me thus for no cause.”
“Perhaps I am unjust,” she answered with a sob, “but there are so many troubles before us. First there is Tikal——”
“What does Tikal want?” asked the señor.
“He wants to marry me, or to become cacique of the city in my right, which is the same thing; at least he will not give me up without a struggle. Then there is my father, who serves two masters only,—his gods and his country,—and who will use me like a piece in a game if it suits his purpose—yes, and you too. Our good days are done with, the evil ones have to come, and after them—the night. Henceforward we shall find few opportunities of speaking, even, for I shall be surrounded by officers and waiting-ladies who will watch my every action and hear my every word, and my father will watch me also.”
“Now I begin to be sorry that I did not take your advice and stop on the further side of the mountain,” answered the señor. “Do you think that we could escape there?”
“No, it is too late—they would track us down; we must go on now and meet our fate, whatever it may be. Only swear to me by my gods, or your own, or whatever you hold dear, that you will cleave to me till I am dead, as I will cleave to you.” And, taking his hand in hers, she looked up appealingly into his face.
At this moment Zibalbay, who was walking in front, lost in his own thoughts, chanced to turn and see them.
“Come hither, daughter, and you, White Man,” he said, in a stern voice. “Listen, both of you—I am old, but my sight and hearing are still keen, though yonder in the wilderness I took no heed of much that I saw and heard. Here in my own land it is otherwise. Learn, White Man, that the Lady of the Heart is set far above you, and there I think she will remain. Do you understand my meaning?”
“Perfectly,” answered the señor, striving to control his anger; “but, Chief, it is a pity that you did not see well to tell me this before. Had it not been for what we and one dead were able to do to save you, to-day your bones would have been whitening in the forest. Why did you not tell me there that I was no fit company for your daughter?”
“Because you were sent by the gods to do me service, and because there I had need of you, White Man,” answered Zibalbay quietly, “as may be I shall have need of you again. Had it not been for that chance, we should have parted company on the further side of the mountain.”
“In truth I wish that we had!” exclaimed the señor.
“I may come to wish it, too,” said the old man grimly. “But you are here and not there, perhaps for so long as you shall live, and I would have you remember that you are in my power. A word from me will set you high or lay you low beneath the earth; therefore be warned and take with gratitude that which it shall please me to give you. No, do not look behind you—escape is impossible. Submit yourself to my will in this and everything, and all shall be well with you; struggle against it and I will crush you. I have spoken: be pleased to walk in front of me, and do you, my daughter, walk behind.”
Now I saw that the señor’s rage was great, and that he was about to answer angrily, and lifted my hand in warning, while Maya looked at him entreatingly. He saw, and checked himself.
“I hear your words, Chief,” he said, in a forced voice. “You are right, I am in your power, and it is useless for me to answer you,” and he took his place in front as he had been commanded, while Maya fell behind.
As I walked on, side by side with Zibalbay, I spoke to him, saying:
“You use sharp words towards him who is my brother, Chief, and therefore towards me.”
“I speak as I must,” he answered, coldly. “Many troubles await me at the city. Did you not hear what that knave said last night,—that Tikal, my nephew, whom I left in charge, rules in my stead? Well, this girl of mine, who is affianced to him, and through whom he hopes to govern in after years, may be the only bait that will tempt him from his place, for he looks upon me as one dead, and it will not please him to lay down the rod of power. How should it please him then, and those who follow him, to see a white stranger holding that daughter’s hand, and whispering in her ear. Ignatio, I tell you that such a sight would provoke a war against me, and therefore it is that I spoke sharply while there is yet time, and therefore you will do well to drive the nail home, seeing that if I fall your plans will come to nothing, and your life be forfeit.”
I made no answer, for at that moment we turned a corner, and came face to face with the bearers of the litters whom Zibalbay had summoned to meet us.
There were forty of these men or more; for the most part they were tall and well shaped, with regular features, and, like Zibalbay and Maya, very fair for Indians, but the look upon their faces was different from any that I have seen among my people. It was not stupid or brutal, or even empty; rather did it suggest great weariness. The youngest man there, notwithstanding his rounded cheeks and eyes full of health, seemed as though he were weighed down by the memories of many years. Weariness was the master, not of their bodies, for they were very strong and active, but of their minds; and, looking at them, I could understand what Zibalbay meant when he said that his race was outworn. Even the sight of the white face of the señor, strange as it must have been to them, did not seem to move them. They stared indeed, muttering something to each other as to the length and colour of his beard, and that was all.
But to Zibalbay they said, in low, guttural tones, “Father, we salute you,” then, at a signal given by their captain, they cast themselves upon the ground before him, and lay there with outstretched arms as though they were dead.
“Rise, my children,” said Zibalbay. Then, summoning the captain of the bearers, he talked to him while his companions ate food that they had brought with them, and I noted that what he heard seemed to give him little pleasure. Next he ordered us to enter the litters, which were of rude make, being constructed of chairs without curtains, lashed between two poles, and carried, each of them, by eight bearers, for the road was very steep and rough.
We started forward down the mountain, and in an hour we had left the region of snow behind, and entered the cedar forests. These great trees grew in groups, which were separated by glades of turf, the home of herds of deer. So thick was their foliage that a twilight reigned beneath them, while from each branch hung a fringe of grey Spanish moss that swayed to and fro in the draught of the mountain breeze. Everywhere stretched vistas that brought to my mind memories of the dimly-lighted nave of the great cathedral at Mexico, roofed by the impenetrable boughs of these cedars, whereof the trunks might have been supporting columns and the scent of their leaves the odour of incense.
After the cedar belt came the oak groves, and then miles of beautiful turf slopes, clothed in rich grass starred with flowers. Truly it was a lovely land. It was late in the afternoon before we descended the last of these slopes and entered the tract of alluvial soil that lay between them and the lake, where the climate was much warmer. It was easy to see by the irrigation ditches and other signs that this belt of country had always supplied the inhabitants of the City of the Heart with corn and all necessary crops. Here grew great groves of sugar-cane, and cocoa-bushes laden with their purple pods, together with many varieties of fruit-trees planted in separate orchards. Soon it became clear to us that the greater part of these ancient orchards were untended, since their fruit rotted in heaps upon the ground. Evidently they had been planted in more prosperous days, and now their supply exceeded the wants of the population.
At length, as the evening began to fall, we entered the village of corn-growers, a half-ruined place of which the houses were for the most part built of adobe or mud bricks, and roofed with a concrete of white lime. In the centre of the village was a plaza, planted round with trees, and having in its midst a fountain, near to which stood a simple altar, piled with fruit and flowers. Close to this altar the inhabitants of the village, to the number of a hundred or so, were gathered to meet us. Most of the men had but just come in from their labours, for their garments and feet were stained with fresh earth, and they held copper hoes and reaping-hooks in their hands. All these men wore upon their faces the same look of weariness of mind which we had noticed in the bearers. So monotonous were their countenances, indeed, that I turned my eyes impatiently to the group of women who were standing behind them. Like their husband and brothers, these women were very fair for Indians, and handsome in person, but they also had been stamped with melancholy. The sight of the señor’s white skin and chestnut-coloured beard seemed for some few moments to rouse them from their attitude of listless indifference. Soon, however, they fell into it again, and began to chat idly, or to play with and pull to pieces the flowers that every one of them wore at her girdle. There were hardly any children among the crowd, and it was strange to observe how great was the resemblance of the individuals composing it to each other. Indeed, had they all been members of a single family it could not have been more marked, seeing that it was difficult for a stranger to distinguish one woman from another of about the same age.
When Zibalbay descended from his litter, all those present prostrated themselves, and remained thus till, followed by some of the headmen, he had passed into a house which was made ready for his use, leaving us without.
“Do all your people look so sad?” I asked the Lady Maya.
“Yes,” she answered, “that is, all the common people who labour. It is otherwise with the nobles, who are of a different blood. Here, Don Ignatio, there are two classes, the lords and the people, and of the people each family is forced to work for three months in the year, the other nine being given to them for rest. The fruits of their labour are gathered into storehouses and distributed among all the Children of the Heart, but the temples, the cacique, and many of the nobles have their own serfs who have served them from father to son.”
“And what happens if they will not work?” asked the señor.
“Then they must starve, for nothing is served out to them or their families from the common store, and when they grow hungry they are set to the heaviest tasks.”
Now we understood why these people looked so weary and listless. What could be expected from men and women without ambition or responsibility, the gain of whose toil was placed to the public credit and doled out to them in rations? In my old age I have heard that there are teachers who advocate such a system for all mankind, but of this I am sure, that had they dwelt among the People of the Heart, where it had been in force for many centuries, they would cease to preach this doctrine, for there, at least, it did not promote the welfare of the race.
Presently a messenger came from Zibalbay to summon us into the house, where we found an ample meal prepared, consisting chiefly of fish from the lake, baked wild-fowl, and many sorts of fruit. By the time we had finished eating and had drunk the chocolate that was served to us in cups of hammered silver, the night had fallen completely. I asked Zibalbay if we should sleep there, to which he replied shortly that we were about to start for the city. Accordingly we set out by the light of the moon and were guided to a little harbour in the shore of the lake, where a large canoe, fitted with a mast and sail, and manned by ten Indians, was waiting for us. We embarked, and, the wind being off land, hoisted the sail and started towards the Island of the Heart, which stood at a distance of about fifteen miles from the mainland.
The breeze was light, but after the cold of the mountains the air was so soft and balmy, and the scene so new and strange, that I, for one, did not regret our slow progress. Nobody spoke in the boat, for all of us were lost in our own reflections, and the Indians were awed to silence by the presence of their lord, who alone seemed impatient, since from time to time he pulled his beard and muttered to himself. So we glided across the blue lake, whose quiet was broken only by the whistling wings of the wild-fowl travelling to their feeding-grounds, by the sudden leaps of great fish rising in pursuit of some night-fly, and by the lapping of the water against the wooden sides of the canoe. Before us, luminous and unearthly in the perfect moonlight, shone the walls and temples of the mysterious city which we had travelled so far to reach. We watched them growing more and more distinct minute by minute, and, as we watched, strange hopes and fears took possession of our hearts. This was no dream: before us lay the fabled golden town we had so longed to see; soon our feet would pass its white walls and our eyes behold its ancient civilisation.
“What waits us there?” whispered the señor, and he looked at Maya. She heard his words and shook her head sadly. There was no hope in her eyes, which were dimmed with tears. Then he turned to me as though for comfort, and the easy fires of enthusiasm burnt up within me and I answered:
“Fear not, the goal is won, and we shall overcome all difficulty and danger. The useless wealth of yonder Golden City will be ours, and by its help I shall wreak the stored-up vengeance of ages upon the oppressors of my race, and create a great Indian Dominion stretching from sea to sea, whereof this city shall be the heart.”
He heard and smiled, answering:
“It may be so; for your sake, I trust that it will be so; but we seek different ends, Ignatio,” and he looked again at the Lady Maya.
On we glided, through the moonlight and the silence, for from the town came no sound, save the cry of the watchmen, calling the hours, as they kept their guard along the ancient walls, till at length we entered the shadow of the Holy City lying dark upon the waters, and the Indians, getting out their paddles (for the wind no longer served us), rowed the canoe up a stone-embanked canal that led to a watergate.
Now we halted in front of the gate, where there was no man to be seen. In an impatient voice, Zibalbay bade the captain hail the guardian of the gate, and presently a man came down the steps yawning, and inquired who was there.
“I, the cacique,” said Zibalbay. “Open.”
“Indeed! That is strange,” answered the man, “seeing that this night the cacique holds his marriage-feast at the palace yonder, and there is but one cacique of the People of the Heart! Get back to the mainland, wanderers, and return in the day-time, when the gates stand wide.”
Now when Zibalbay heard these words, he cursed aloud in his anger, but Maya started as though with joy.
“I tell you that I am Zibalbay, come home again, your lord, and no other,” he cried, “and you will be wise to do my bidding.”
The man stared, and hesitated, till the captain of the boat spoke to him, saying:
“Fool, would you become food for fishes? This is the Lord Zibalbay, returned from the dead.”
Then he hastened to open the gate, as fast as his fear would let him.
“Pardon, father, pardon,” he cried, prostrating himself, “but the Lord Tikal, who rules in your place, has given it out that you were dead in the wilderness, and commanded that your name should be spoken no more in the city.”
Zibalbay swept by him without a word. When he had passed up the marble steps, and through the water-way, pierced in the thickness of the frowning walls, he halted, and, addressing the captain of the boatmen, said:
“Let this man be scourged to-morrow at noon in the market-place, that henceforth he may learn not to sleep at his post!”
On the further side of the wall ran a wide street, bordered by splendid houses built of white stone, which led to the central square of the city, a mile or more away. Up this street we walked swiftly and in silence, and as we went I noticed that much of it was grass-grown, and that many of the great houses seemed to be deserted; indeed, though light came from some of the latticed window-places, I could see no sign of any human being.
“Here is the city,” whispered the señor to me, “but where are the people?”
“Doubtless they celebrate the wedding-feast in the great square,” I answered. “Hark, I hear them.”
As I spoke the wind turned a little, and a sound of singing floated down it, that grew momentarily clearer as we approached the square. Another five minutes passed and we were entering it. It was a wide place, covering not less than thirty acres of ground, and in its centre, rising three hundred feet into the air, gleamed the pyramid of the Temple of the Heart, crowned by the star of holy fire that flickered eternally upon its summit. In the open space between the walls of the inclosure of this pyramid and the great buildings that formed the sides of the square, the inhabitants of the city were gathered for their midnight feast. All were dressed in white robes, while many wore glittering feather capes upon their shoulders and were crowned with wreaths of flowers. Some of them were dancing, some of them were singing, while others watched the tricks of jugglers and buffoons. But the most of their number were seated round little tables eating, drinking, smoking, and making love, and we noticed that at these tables the children seemed the most honourable guests, and that everybody petted them and waited on their words. Nothing could be more beautiful or stranger to our eyes than this innocent festival celebrated beneath the open sky and lighted by the moon. Yet the sight of it did not please Zibalbay.
Along the side of the square ran an avenue of trees bearing white flowers with a heavy scent, and Zibalbay motioned to us to follow him into their shadow. Many of the tables were placed just beyond the spread of these trees, so that he was able to stop from time to time and, unseen himself, to listen to the talk that was passing at them. Presently he halted thus opposite to a table at which sat a man of middle age and a woman young and pretty. What they said interested him, and we who were close by his side understood it, for the difference between the dialect of these people and the Maya tongue is so small that even the señor had little difficulty in following their talk.
“The feast is merry to-night,” said the man.
“Yes, husband,” answered his companion, “and so it should be, seeing that yesterday the Lord Tikal was elected cacique by the Council of the Heart, and to-day he was wedded in the presence of the people to Nahua the Beautiful, child of the Lord Mattai.”
“It was a fine sight,” said the man, “though for my part I think it early to proclaim him cacique. Zibalbay might yet come back, and then——”
“Zibalbay will never come back, husband, or the Lady Maya either. They have perished in the wilderness long ago. For her I am sorry, because she was so lovely and different from other great ladies; but I do not grieve much for him, for he was a hard taskmaster to us common people; also he was stingy. Why, Tikal has given more feasts during the last ten months than Zibalbay gave in as many years; moreover, he has relaxed the laws so that we poor women may now wear ornaments like our betters;” and she glanced at a gold bracelet upon her wrist.
“It is easy to be generous with the goods of others,” answered the man. “Zibalbay was the bee who stored; Tikal is the wasp who eats. They say that the old fellow was mad, but I do not believe it. I think that he was a greater man than the rest of us, that is all, who saw the wasting of the people and desired to find a means to stop it.”
“Certainly he was mad,” answered the woman. “How could he stop the wasting of the people by taking his daughter to wander in the wilderness till they died of starvation, both of them. If anybody dwells out yonder it is a folk of white devils of whom we have heard, who kill and enslave the Indians, that they may rob them of their wealth, and we do not desire that such should be shown the way to our city. Also, what does it matter to us if the people do waste away? We have all things that we wish, those who come after must see to it.”
“Yet, wife, I have heard you say that you desired children.”
Suddenly the woman’s face grew sad.
“Ah!” she answered, “if Zibalbay will give me a child I will take back all my words about him, and proclaim him the wisest of men, instead of what he is, or rather was—an old fool gone crazy with vanity and too much praying. But he is dead, and if he were not he could never do this; that is beyond the power of the gods themselves, if indeed the gods are anything except a dream. So what is the use of talking about him; let me enjoy the feast that Tikal gives us, husband, and do not speak of children, lest I should weep, and learn to hate those of my sisters who have been blest with them.”
Then at a sign from Zibalbay we moved on, but Maya, hanging back for a moment, whispered:
“Look at my father’s face. Never have I seen him so angry. Yet these tidings are not altogether ill,” and she glanced at the señor.
Now Zibalbay walked on swiftly, pulling at his beard and muttering to himself, till we came to a great archway where two soldiers armed with copper spears stood on guard, chatting with women in the crowd that gathered round the open door, and eating sweetmeats which they offered them. Zibalbay covered his face with the corner of his robe, and, bidding us do likewise, began to walk through the archway, whereupon the two soldiers, crossing their spears, demanded his name and title.
“By whose orders do you ask?” said Zibalbay.
“By order of our lord, the cacique, who celebrates his marriage-feast with the nobles his guests,” answered one of them. “Say, are you of their number who come so late?”
Then Zibalbay uncovered his face and said:
“Look at me, man. Did I command you to shut my own doors against me?”
He looked and gasped: “It is the cacique come home again!”
“How, then, do you say that you keep the doors by order of the cacique? Can there be two caciques in the City of the Heart?” asked Zibalbay in a bitter voice, and, without waiting for an answer, he walked on, followed by the three of us, into the plaza or courtyard of the palace, where many fountains splashed upon the marble pavement.
Passing beneath a colonnade and through an open doorway whence light flowed, of a sudden we found ourselves in a great and wonderful chamber, a hundred feet or more in length, having a roof of panelled cedar, supported by a double row of wooden columns exquisitely carved, between which were set tables laden with fruit and flowers, drinking-vessels, and other ornaments of gold. The walls also were cedar-panelled, and hung over with tapestries worked in silver, and ranged along them stood grotesque images of dwarfs and monkeys, fashioned in solid gold, each of which held in its hand a silver lamp. At the far end of this place was a small table, and behind it, seated upon throne-like chairs, were a man and a woman, having an armed guard on either side of them.
The man was magnificently dressed in a white robe, broidered with the symbol of the Heart, and a glittering feather cloak. Upon his brow was a circlet of gold, from which rose a panache, or plume, of green feathers, and in his hand he held a little golden sceptre tipped with an emerald. He was of middle height, very stoutly built, and about five-and-thirty years of age, having straight black hair that hung down upon his shoulders. In face he was handsome, but forbidding, for his dark eyes shone with a strange fire beneath the beetling brows, and his powerful mouth and chin wore a sullen look that did not leave them even when he smiled. The lady at his side was also beautifully attired in white bridal robes, bordered with silver, and having the royal Heart worked upon her breast, while on her brow, arms, and bosom shone strings of emeralds. She was young and tall, with splendid eyes and a proud, handsome face, somewhat marred, however, by the heaviness of the mouth, and it was easy to see that she loved the husband at her side, for all her looks were towards him.
Between us and this royal pair stretched the length of the great hall, filled with people—for the most of the feasters had left their seats—so splendidly attired and so bright with the flash of gems and gold that for a few moments our eyes were dazzled. The company, who may have numbered two or three hundred, stood in groups with their backs towards us, leaving a clear space at the far end of the chamber, where beautiful women, in filmy, silken robes adorned with flowers and turquoises, were singing and dancing to the sound of pipes before the bride and bridegroom on the throne.
For a while we stood unnoticed in the shadow of the doorway, observing this strange and beautiful scene, till, as Zibalbay was about to advance towards the throne, the Lord Tikal held up his sceptre as a signal, and suddenly the women ceased from their dance and song. At the sight of the uplifted sceptre, Zibalbay halted again and drew back further into the shadow, motioning us to do likewise. Then Tikal began to speak in a rich, deep voice that filled the hall:
“Councillors and Nobles of the Heart,” he said, “and you, high-born ladies, wives and daughters of the nobles, hear me. But yesterday, as you know, I took upon myself the place and power of my forefathers, and by your wish and will I was proclaimed the sole chief and ruler of the People of the Heart. Now I have bidden you to my marriage feast, that you may grace my nuptials and share my joy. For be it known to you that to-night I have taken in marriage Nahua the Beautiful, daughter of the High Lord Mattai, Chief of the Astronomers, Keeper of the Sanctuary, and President of the Council of the Heart. Her, in the presence of you all, I name as my first and lawful wife, the sharer of my power, and your ruler under me, who, whate’er betide, cannot be put away from my bed and throne, and as such I call upon you to salute her.”
Then, ceasing from his address, he turned and kissed the woman at his side, saying:
“Hail! to you, Lady of the Heart, whom it has pleased the gods to lift up and bless. May children be given to you, and with them happiness and power for many years.”
Thereon the whole company bowed themselves before Nahua, whose fair face flushed with pride and joy, and repeated, as with one voice:
“Hail! to you, Lady of the Heart, whom it has pleased the gods to lift up and bless. May children be given to you, and with them happiness and power for many years.”
“Nobles,” went on Tikal, when this ceremony was finished, “it has come to my ears that there are some who murmur against me, saying that I have no right to the ancient sceptre of cacique which I hold in my hand this night. Nobles, I have somewhat to say to you of this matter, that to-morrow, after the sacrifice, I shall repeat in the ears of the common people, and I say it having consulted with my Council, the masters of the mysteries of the Heart. To-morrow a year will have gone by since Zibalbay, my uncle, who was cacique before me, and his only child and heiress of his rank and power, the Lady Maya, my affianced bride, left the city upon a certain mission. Before they departed upon this mission, it was agreed between Zibalbay, Maya, the Lady of the Heart, myself, and the Council, the Brotherhood of the Heart, that I should rule as next heir during the absence of Zibalbay and his daughter, and that if they should not return within two years, then their heritage should be mine for ever. To this agreement I set my name with sorrow, for then, as now, I held that my uncle was mad, and in his madness went to doom, taking with him his daughter whom I loved. Yet when they were gone I fulfilled it to the letter; but trouble arose among the people, for they will not listen to the voice of one who is not their anointed lord, but say, ‘We will wait until Zibalbay comes again and hear his command upon these matters.’
“Also, Zibalbay being absent, there was no high priest left in the land, so that until a successor was raised up to him, certain of the inmost mysteries of our worship must go uncelebrated, thus bringing down upon us the anger of the Nameless god. So it came about that many pressed it on me that for the sake of the people and the welfare of the city, I should shorten the period of my regency and suffer myself to be anointed. But, remembering my promise, I answered them sharply, saying that I would not depart from it by a hair’s breadth, and that, come what might, two full years must be completed before I sat me down in the place of my fathers.
“To this mind, then, I held till three days since, when those of the people to whose lot it fell in turn to pass to the mainland, there to cultivate the fields that are apportioned to the service of the temple, refused to get them to their labour, declaring that the high priest alone had authority over them, and there was no high priest in the city. Then in my perplexity I took counsel with the Lord Mattai, Master of the Stars, and he consulted the stars on my behalf. All night long he searched the heavens, and he read in them that Zibalbay, who, led by a lying dream, broke through the laws of the land and wandered across the mountains, has paid the price of his folly, and is dead in the wilderness, together with his daughter that was my affianced and the Lady of the Heart. Is it not so, Mattai?”
Now the person addressed, a stout man with a bald head, quick, shifting eyes, and a thick and grizzled beard, stepped forward and said, bowing,
“If my wisdom is not at fault, such was the message of the stars, O lord.”
“Nobles,” went on Tikal, “you have heard my testimony and the testimony of Mattai, whose voice is the voice of truth. For these reasons I have suffered myself to be anointed and set over you as your ruler, seeing that I am the heir of Zibalbay by law and by descent. For these reasons also—she to whom I was affianced being dead—I have taken to wife Nahua the daughter of Mattai. Say, do you accept us?”