Kitabı oku: «The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins», sayfa 27

He scarcely heard her.

“Water, water! Blessed Mother, I see it again! A cup,—quick,—a cup!”

He seized one on the table, and drank, and drank again crying between each breath, “To the Mother the praise!” Not until he was fully satisfied did he give ear to the girl’s entreaty.

Looking to the couch, whither she had gone, he saw the figure of the paba stretched out like a corpse. He approached, and, searching the face, and laying his hand upon the breast over the heart, asked, in a low voice, “How long has your father been asleep?”

“A long time,” she replied.

“Jesu Christo! He is dead, and she does not know it!” he thought, amazed at her simplicity.

Again he regarded her closely, and for the first time was struck by her beauty of face and form, by the brightness of her eyes, by the hair, wavy on the head and curling over the shoulders, by the simple, childish dress, and sweet voice; above all, by the innocence and ineffable purity of her look and manner, all then discernible in the full glare of the lamps. And with what feeling he made discovery of her loveliness may be judged passably well by the softened tone in which he said, “Poor girl! your father will never, never wake.”

Her eyes opened wide.

“Never, never wake! Why?”

“He is dead.”

She looked at him wistfully, and he, seeing that she did not understand, added, “He is in heaven; or, as he himself would have said, in the Sun.”

“Yes, but you will let him come back.”

He took note of the trustful, beseeching look with which she accompanied the words, and shook his head, and, returning to the fountain, took a seat upon a bench, reflecting.

“What kind of girl is this? Not know death when he showeth so plainly! Where hath she been living? And I am possessed of St. Peter’s keys. I open Heaven’s gate to let the heathen out! By the bones of the saints! let him get there first! The Devil hath him!”

He picked up a withered flower lying by the bowl of the fountain, and went back to Tecetl.

“You remember how beautiful this was when taken from the vine?”

“Yes.”

“What ails it now?”

“It is dead.”

“Well, did you ever know one of these, after dying, to come back to life?”

“No.”

“No more can thy father regain his life. He, too, is dead. From what you see, he will go to dust; therefore, leave him now, and let us sit by the fountain, and talk of escape; for surely you know the way out of this.”

From the flower, she looked to the dead, and, comprehending the illustration, sat by the body, and cried. And so it happened that knowledge of death was her first lesson in life.

And he respected her grief, and went and took a bench by the basin, and thought.

“Quetzal’, Quetzal’,—who is he? A god, no doubt; yes, the one of whom the king so liveth in dread. I have heard his name. And I am Quetzal’! And this is his house—that is, my house! A scurvy trick, by St. James! Lost in my own house,—a god lost in his own temple!”

And as he could then well afford, being full-fed, he laughed at the absurd idea; and in such mood, fell into a revery, and grew drowsy, and finally composed himself on the bench, and sunk to sleep.

CHAPTER IX
LIFE IN THE PABA’S WORLD

When the page awoke, after a long, refreshing sleep, he saw the fountain first, and Tecetl next. She was sitting a little way off, upon a mat stretched on the floor. A number of birds were about her, whistling and coquetting with each other. One or two of very beautiful plumage balanced themselves on the edge of the basin, and bathed their wings in the crystal water. Through half-shut eyes, he studied her. She was quiet,—thinking of what? Of what do children think in their waking dreams? Yet he might have known, from her pensive look and frequent sighs, that the fountain was singing to deaf ears, and the birds playing their tricks before sightless eyes. She was most probably thinking of what he had so lately taught her, and nursed the great mystery as something past finding out; many a wiser head has done the same thing.

Now, Orteguilla was very sensible of her loveliness; he was no less sensible, also, that she was a mystery out of the common way of life; and had he been in a place of safety, in the palace of Axaya’, he would have stayed a long time pretending sleep, in order to study her unobserved. But his situation presently rose to mind; the yellow glow of the lamps suggested the day outside; the birds, liberty; the fountain and shrubbery, the world he had lost; and the girl, life,—his life, and all its innumerable strong attachments. And so, in his mind, he ran over his adventures in the house. He surveyed all of the chamber that was visible from the bench. The light, the fountain, the vegetation, the decorated walls,—everything in view dependent upon the care of man. Where so much was to be done constantly, was there not something to be done at once,—something to save life? There were the lamps: how were they supplied? They might go out. And, Jesu Christo! the corpse of the paba! He sat up, as if touched by a spear: there it was, in all the repulsiveness of death.

The movement attracted the girl’s attention; she arose, and waited for him to speak.

“Good morning,—if morning it be,” he said.

She made no reply.

“Come here,” he continued. “I have some questions to ask.”

She drew a few steps nearer. A bird with breast of purple and wings of snow flew around her for a while, then settled upon her hand, and was drawn close to her bosom. He remembered, from Father Bartolomé’s reading, how the love of God once before took a bird’s form; and forthwith his piety and superstition hedged her about with sanctity. What with the white wings upon her breast, and the whiter innocency within, she was safe as if bound by walls of brass.

“Have no fear, I pray you,” he said, misinterpreting her respectful sentiment. “You and I are two people in a difficult strait, and, if I mistake not, much dependent upon each other. A God, of whom you never heard, but whom I will tell you all about, took your father away, and sent me in his stead. The road thither, I confess, has been toilsome and dreadful. Ah me, I shudder at the thought!”

He emphasized his feelings by a true Spanish shrug of the shoulders.

“This is a strange place,” he next said. “How long have you been here?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can you remember coming, and who brought you?”

“No.”

“You must have been a baby.” He looked at her with pity. “Have you never been elsewhere?”

“No, never.”

“Ah, by the Mother that keeps me! Always here! And the sky, and sun, and stars, and all God’s glory of nature, seen in the valleys, mountains, and rivers, and seas,—have they been denied you, poor girl?”

“I have seen them all,” she answered.

“Where?”

“On the ceiling and walls.”

He looked up at the former, and noticed its excellence of representation.

“Very good,—beautiful!” he said, in the way of criticism. “Who did the work?”

“Quetzal’.”

“And who is Quetzal’?”

“Who should know better than the god himself?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“My name, then, is Quetzal’. Now, what is yours?”

“Tecetl.”

“Well, then, Tecetl, let me undeceive you. In the first place, I am not Quetzal’, or any god. I am a man, as your father there was. My name is Orteguilla; and for the time I am page to the great king Montezuma. And before long, if I live, and get out of this place, as I most devoutly pray, I will be a soldier. In the next place you are a girl, and soon will be a woman. You have been cheated of life. By God’s help, I will take you out of this. Do you understand me?”

“No; unless men and gods are the same.”

“Heaven forbid!” He crossed himself fervently. “Do you not know what men are?”

“All my knowledge of things is from the pictures on the walls, and what else you see here.”

“Jesu Christo!” he cried, in open astonishment. “And did the good man never tell you of the world outside,—of its creation, and its millions upon millions of people?”

“No.”

“Of the world in which you may find the originals of all that is painted on the walls, more beautiful than colors can make them?”

He received the same reply, but, still incredulous, went on.

“Who takes care of these plants?”

“My father.”

“A servant brings your food to the door—may he do so again! Have you not seen him?”

“No.”

“Where does the oil that feeds the lamps come from?”

“From Quetzal’.”

Just then a lamp went out. He arose hastily, and saw that the contents of the cup were entirely consumed. “Tecetl, is there plenty of oil? Where do you keep it? Tell me.”

“In a jar, there by the door. While you were asleep, I refilled the cups, and now the jar is empty.”

He turned pale. Who better than he knew the value of the liquid that saved them from the darkness so horribly peopled by hunger and thirst? If exhausted, where could they get more? Without further question, he went through the chamber, and collected the lamps, and put them all out except one. Then he brought the jar from the door, and poured the oil back, losing not a drop.

Tecetl remonstrated, and cried when she saw the darkness invade the chamber, blotting out the walls, and driving the birds to their perches, or to the fountain yet faintly illuminated. But he was firm.

“Fie, fie!” he said. “You should laugh, not cry. Did I not tell you about the world above this, so great, and so full of people, like ourselves? And did I not promise to take you there? I am come in your father’s stead. Everything must contribute to our escape. We must think of nothing else. Do you understand? This chamber is but one of many, in a house big as a mountain, and full of passages in which, if we get lost, we might wander days and days, and then not get out, unless we had a light to show us the way. So we must save the oil. When this supply gives out, as it soon will if we are not careful, the darkness that so frightens you will come and swallow us, and we shall die, as did your father there.”

The last suggestion sufficed; she dried her tears, and drew closer to him, as if to say, “I confide in you; save me.”

Nature teaches fear of death; so that separation from the breathless thing upon the couch was not like parting from Mualox. Whether she touched his hand or looked in his face now, “Go hence, go hence!” was what she seemed to hear. The stony repulsion that substituted his living love reconciled her to the idea of leaving home, for such the chamber had been to her.

Here I may as well confess the page began to do a great deal of talking,—a consequence, probably, of having a good listener; or he may have thought it a duty to teach all that was necessary to prepare his disciple for life in the new world. In the midst of a lecture, the tinkle of a bell brought him to a hasty pause.

“Now, O Blessed Mother, now I am happy! Thou hast not forsaken me! I shall see the sun again, and brave old Spain. Live my heart!” he cried, as the last tinkle trembled, and died in the silence.

Seeing that she regarded him with surprise, he said, in her tongue, “I was thanking the Mother, Tecetl. She will save us both. Go now, and bring the breakfast,—I say breakfast, not knowing better,—and while we eat I will tell you why I am so glad. When you have heard me, you will be glad as I am.”

She went at once, and, coming back, found him bathing his face and head in the water of the basin,—a healthful act, but not one to strengthen the idea of his godship. She placed the tray upon the table, and helped him to napkin and comb; then they took places opposite each other, with the lamp between them; whereupon she had other proof of his kind of being; for it is difficult to think of a deity at table, eating. The Greeks felt the incongruity, and dined their gods on nectar and ambrosia, leaving us to imagine them partaken in some other than the ordinary, vulgar way. Verily, Tecetl was becoming accustomed to the stranger!

And while they ate, he explained his plans, and talked of the upper world, and described its wonders and people, until, her curiosity aroused, she plied him with questions; and as point after point was given, we may suppose nature asserted itself, and taught her, by what power there is in handsome youth, with its bright eyes, smooth face, and tongue more winsome than wise, that life in the said world was a desirable exchange for the monotonous drifting to which she had been so long subjected. We may also suppose that she was not slow to observe the difference between Mualox and the page; which was that between age and youth, or, more philosophically, that between a creature to be revered and a creature to be admired.

CHAPTER X
THE ANGEL BECOMES A BEADSWOMAN

The stars at the foot of the last chapter I called in as an easy bridge by which to cross an interval of two days,—a trick never to be resorted to except when there is nothing of interest to record, as was the case here.

Orteguilla occupied the interval very industriously, if not pleasantly. He had in hand two tasks,—one to instruct Tecetl about the world to which he had vowed to lead her; the other to fix upon a plan of escape. The first he found easy, the latter difficult; yet he had decided, and his preparations for the attempt, sufficient, he thought, though simple, lay upon the floor by the fountain. A lamp shed a dim light over the scene.

“So, so, Tecetl: are we ready now?” he asked.

“You are the master,” she replied.

“Very good, I will be assured.”

He went through a thorough inspection.

“Here are the paint and brush; here the oil and lamp; here the bread and meat, and the calabash of water. So far, good, very good. And here is the mat,—very comfortable, Tecetl, if you have to make your bed upon a stone in the floor. Now, are we ready?”

“Yes, if you say so.”

“Good again! The Mother is with us. Courage! You shall see the sun and sky, or I am not a Spaniard. Listen, now, and I will explain.”

They took seats upon the bench, this time together; for the strangeness was wellnigh gone, and they had come to have an interest in a common purpose.

“You must know, then, that I have two reliances: first, the man who brings the tray to the door; next, the Blessed Mother.”

“I will begin with the first,” he said, after a pause. “The man is a slave, and, therefore, easy to impose upon. If he is like his class, from habit, he asks no questions of his superiors. Your father—I speak from what you have told me—was thoughtful and dreamy, and spoke but little to anybody, and seldom, if ever, to his servants. You are not well versed in human nature; one day, no doubt, you will be; then you will be able to decide whether I am right in believing that the traits of master and slave, which I have mentioned, are likely to help us. I carried your father’s body over to the corner yonder,—you were asleep at the time,—and laid it upon the floor, as we Christians serve our dead. I made two crosses, and put one upon his lips, the other on his breast; he will sleep all the better for them. As you would have done, had you been present, I also covered him with flowers. One other thing I did.”

He took a lamp, and was gone a moment.

“Here are your father’s gown and hood,” he said, coming back. “I doubt whether they would sell readily in the market. He will never need them again. I took them to help save your life,—a purpose for which he would certainly have given them, had he been alive. I will put them on.”

He laid his bonnet on the bench; then took off his boots, and put on the gown,—a garment of coarse black manta, loose in body and sleeves, and hanging nearly to the feet. Tying the cord about his waist, and drawing the hood over his head, he walked away a few steps, saying,—

“Look at me, Tecetl. Your father was very old. Did he stoop much? as much as this?”

He struck the good man’s habitual posture, and, in a moment after, his slow, careful gait. At the sight, she could not repress her tears.

“What, crying again!” he said. “I shall be ashamed of you soon. If we fail, then you may cry, and—I do not know but that I will join you. People who weep much cannot hear as they ought, and I want you to hear every word. To go on, then: In this guise I mean to wait for the old slave. When he lets the tray down, I will be there to climb the ladder. He will see the hood and gown, and think me his old master. He will not speak, nor will I. He will let me get to his side, and then—”

After reflection, he continued,—

“Ah, Tecetl! you know not what troubles women sometimes are. Here am I now. How easy for me, in this guise, to follow the slave out of the temple! The most I would have to do would be to hold my tongue. But you,—I cannot go and leave you; the Señor Hernan would not forgive me, and I could not forgive myself. Nevertheless, you are a trouble. For instance, when the slave sees you with me, will he not be afraid, and run? or, to prevent that, shall I not have to make him a prisoner? That involves a struggle. I may have to fight him, to wound him. I may get hurt myself, and then—alas! what would become of us?”

Again, he stopped, but at length proceeded,—

“So much for that. Now for my other reliance,—the Blessed Lady. If the slave escapes me, you see, Tecetl, I must trust to what the infidels call Fortune,—a wicked spirit, sometimes good, sometimes bad. I mean we shall then have to hunt the way out ourselves; and, having already tried that, I know what will happen. Hence these preparations. With the paint, I will mark the corners we pass, that I may know them again; the lamp will enable me to see the marks and keep the direction; if we get hungry, here are bread and meat, saved, as you know, from our meals; if we get thirsty, the calabash will be at hand. That is what I call trusting to ourselves; yet the Blessed Mother enabled me to anticipate all these wants, and provide for them, as we have done; therefore I call her my reliance. Now you have my plans. I said you were my trouble; you cannot work, or think, or fight; yet there is something you can do. Tecetl, you can be my pretty beadswoman. I see you do not know what that is. I will explain. Take these beads.”

While speaking, he took a string of them from his neck.

“Take these beads, and begin now to say, ‘O Blessed Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake.’ Repeat! Good!” he said, his eyes sparkling. “I think the prayer never sounded as sweetly before; nor was there ever cavalier with such a beadswoman. Again.”

And again she said the prayer.

“Now,” he said, “take the string in your own hand,—thus; drop one bead,—thus; and keep on praying, and for every prayer drop one bead. Only think, Tecetl, how I shall be comforted, as I go along the gloomy passages, to know that right behind me comes one, so lately a heathen but now a Christian, at every step calling on the Mother. Who knows but we shall be out and in the beautiful day before the beads are twice counted? If so, then shall we know that she cared for us; and when we reach the palace we will go to the chapel, with good Father Bartolomé, and say the prayer together once for every bead on the string. So I vow, and do you the same.”

“So I vow,” she said, with a pretty submission.

Then, by ropes fixed for the purpose, he raised the calabash, and mat, and bundle of provisions, and swung them lightly over his shoulders. Under his arm he took an earthen vase filled with oil.

“Let us to the door now. The slave should be there. Before we start, look around: you are leaving this place forever.”

The thought went to her heart.

“O my birds! What will become of them?”

“Leave them to God,” he replied, laconically.

There were tears and sobs, in the midst of which he started off, lamp in hand. She gave a look to the fountain, within the circle of whose voice nearly all her years had been passed. In her absence, it would play and sing, would go on as of old; but in her absence who would be there to see and hear? In the silence and darkness it would live, but nevermore for her.

And she looked to the corner of the chamber where Orteguilla had carried the body of the paba. Her tears attested her undiminished affection for him. The recollection of his love outlived the influence of his Will. His World was being abandoned, having first become a tomb, capacious and magnificent,—his tomb. But Quetzal’ had not come. Broken are thy dreams, O Mualox, wasted thy wealth of devotion! Yet, at this parting, thou hast tears,—first and last gift of Love, the sweetest of human principles, and the strongest,—stronger than the Will; for if the latter cannot make God of a man, the former can take him to God.

And while she looked, came again the bird of the breast of purple and wings of snow, which she placed in her bosom; then she followed the page, saying, trustfully, “O Blessed Mother, beautiful Mother, save us for Christ’s sake!”

Outside the curtain door he deposited his load, and carefully explained to Tecetl the use of the ladder. Then he placed a stool for her.

“Sit now; you can do nothing more. Everything depends on the slave: if he behaves well, we shall have no need of these preparations, and they may be left here. But whether he behave well or ill, remember this, Tecetl,—cease not to pray; forget not the beads.”

And so saying, he tossed a stout cord up through the trap; then, leaving the lamp below, he clomb to the floor above. His anxiety may be imagined. Fortunately, the waiting was not long. Through the gallery distantly he saw a light, which—praise to the Mother!—came his way. He descended the ladder.

“He comes, and is alone. Be of cheer, Tecetl; be of cheer, and pray. O if the Mother but stay with us now!”

Faster fell the beads.

When the sound of footsteps overhead announced the arrival of the slave, Orteguilla put his dagger between his teeth, drew the hood over his head, and began to ascend. He dared not look up; he trusted in the prayers of the little beadswoman, and clomb on.

His head reached the level of the floor, and with the trap gaping wide around, he knew himself under the man’s eyes. Another moment, and his hand was upon the floor; slowly he raised himself clear of the rope; he stood up, then turned to the slave, and saw him to be old, and feeble, and almost naked; the lamp was on his forehead, the tray at his feet; his face was downcast, his posture humble. The Spaniard’s blood leaped exultantly; nevertheless, carefully and deliberately, as became his assumed character, he moved to one side of the passage, to clear the way to the trap. The servant accepted the movement, and without a word took the lamp from his head, crossed the great stone, fixed the ropes, and stooped to lower the tray.

Orteguilla had anticipated everything, even this action, which gave him his supreme advantage; so he picked up the cord lying near, and stepped to the old man’s side. When the tray was landed below, the latter raised himself upon his knees; in an instant the cord was around his body; before he understood the assault, escape was impossible.

Orteguilla, his head yet covered by the hood, said calmly, “Be quiet, and you are safe.”

The man looked up, and replied, “I am the paba’s servant now, even as I was when a youth. I have done no wrong, and am not afraid.”

“I want you to live. Only move not.”

Then the page called, “Tecetl! Tecetl!”

“Here,” she answered.

“Try, now, to come up. Be careful lest you fall. If you need help, tell me.”

“What shall I do with the bread and meat, and—”

“Leave them. The Mother has been with us. Come up.”

The climbing was really a sailor’s feat, and difficult for her; finally, she raised her head through the trap. At the sight, the slave shrank back, as if to run. Orteguilla spoke to him.

“Be not afraid of the child. I have raised her to help me take care of the temple. We are going to the chapel now.”

The man turned to him curiously; possibly he detected a strange accent under the hood. When, on her part, Tecetl saw him, she stopped, full of wonder as of fear. Old and ugly as he was, he yet confirmed the page’s story, and brought the new world directly to her. So a child stops, and regards the first person met at the door of a strange house,—attracted, curious, afraid.

“Come on,” said Orteguilla.

She raised her hand overhead, and held up the bird with the white wings.

“Take it,” she said.

Used as he was to wonderful things in connection with his old master, the servant held back. A girl and a bird from the cells,—a mystery, indeed!

“Take it,” said Orteguilla.

He did so; whereupon the page assisted her to the floor.

“We are almost there,—almost,” he said, cheerfully. “Have you kept count of the prayers? Let me see the beads.”

She held out the rosary.

“Ten beads more,—ten prayers yet. The Mother is with us. Courage!”

Then of the slave he asked,—

“How is the day without?”

“There is not a cloud in the sky.”

“Is it morning or evening?”

“About midday.”

“Is the city quiet?”

“I cannot say.”

“Very well. Give the girl her bird, and lead to the court-yard.”

And they started, the slave ahead, held in check by the cord in the Spaniard’s hand. The light was faint and unsteady. Once they ascended a flight of steps, and twice changed direction. When the page saw the many cells on either side, and the number of intersecting passages, all equal in height and width, and bounded by the same walls of rough red stone, he understood how he became lost; and with a shuddering recollection of his wanderings through the great house, he could not sufficiently thank the Providence that was now befriending him.

They clomb yet another stairway, and again changed direction; after that, a little farther walk, and Orteguilla caught sight of a doorway penetrated by a pure white light, which he recognized as day. Words cannot express his emotion; his spirit could hardly be controlled; he would have shouted, sung, danced,—anything to relieve himself of this oppression of happiness. But he thought, if he were out of the temple, he would not yet be out of danger; that he had to make way, by the great street from which he had been driven, to the quarters of his friends, before he could promise himself rest and safety; the disguise was the secret of his present good-fortune, and must help him further. So he restrained himself, saying to Tecetl,—

“For the time, cease your prayers, little one. The world I promised to bring you to is close by. I see the daylight.”

There was indeed a door into the patio, or court-yard, of the temple. Under the lintel the page lingered a moment,—the court was clear. Then he gave the cord into the servant’s hand, with the usual parting salutation, and stepped once more into the air, fresh with the moisture of the lake and the fragrance of the valley. He looked to the sky, blue as ever; and through its serenity, up sped his grateful Ave Maria. In the exulting sense of rescue, he forgot all else, and was well across the court to the steps leading to the azoteas, when he thought of Tecetl. He looked back, and did not see her; he ran to the door; she was there. The bird had fallen to the floor, and was fluttering blindly about; her hands were pressed hard over her face.

“What ails you?” he asked, petulantly. “This is not a time to halt and cry. Come on.”

“I cannot—”

“Cannot! Give me your hand.”

He led her through the door, under the colonnade, out into the court.

“Look up, Tecetl, look up! See the sky, drink the air. You are free!”

She uncovered her eyes; they filled as with fiery arrows. She screamed, staggered as if struck, and cried, “Where are you? I am lost, I am blind!”

“O Madre de Dios!” said Orteguilla, comprehending the calamity, and all its inconveniences to her and himself. “Help me, most miserable of wretches,—help me to a little wisdom!”

To save her from falling, he had put his arm around her; and as they stood thus,—she the picture of suffering, and he overwhelmed by perplexity,—help from any quarter would have been welcome; had the slave been near, he might have abandoned her; but aid there was not. So he led her tenderly to the steps, and seated her.

“How stupid,” he said in Spanish,—“how stupid not to think of this! If, the moment I was born, they had carried me out to take a look at the sun, shining as he is here, I would have been blinder than any beggar on the Prado, blinder than the Bernardo of whom I have heard Don Pedro tell. My nurse was a sensible woman.”

Debating what to do, he looked at Tecetl; and for the first time since she had come out of the door, he noticed her dress,—simply a cotton chemise, a skirt of the same reaching below the knees, a blue sash around the waist,—very simple, but very clean. He noticed, also, the exceeding delicacy of her person, the transparency of her complexion, the profusion of her hair, which was brown in the sun. Finally, he observed the rosary.

“She is not clad according to the laws which govern high-born ladies over the water; yet she is beautiful, and—by the Mother! she is a Christian. Enough. By God’s love, I, who taught her to pray, will save her, though I die. Help me, all the saints!”

He adjusted the hood once more, and, stooping, said, in his kindliest tone, “Pshaw, Tecetl, you are not blind. The light of the sun is so much stronger than that of your lamps that your eyes could not bear it. Cheer up, cheer up! And now put your arm around my neck. I will carry you to the top of these steps. We cannot stay here.”

She stretched out her arms.

“Hark!” he cried. “What is that?”

He stood up and listened. The air above the temple seemed full of confused sounds; now resembling the distant roar of the sea, now the hum of insects, now the yells of men.

“Jesu! I know that sound. There,—there!”

He listened again. Through the soaring, muffled din, came another report, as of thunder below the horizon.

“It is the artillery! By the mother that bore me, the guns of Mesa!”

The words of Io’, spoken in Xoli’s portico, came back to him.

“Battle! As I live, they are fighting on the street!”

And he, too, sat down, listening, thinking. How was he to get to his countrymen?

The sounds overhead continued, at intervals intensified by the bellowing guns. Battle has a fascination which draws men as birds are said to be drawn by serpents. They listen; then wish to see; lingering upon the edge, they catch its spirit, and finally thrill with fierce delight to find themselves within the heat and fury of its deadly circle. The page knew the feeling then. To see the fight was an overmastering desire.