Heart of the World

Chapter VIII The Supper and After

"Listen, señor; if you are interested in old ruins and the Indians, you must have heard tales of races living away in the forest country, where no white man has set his foot, and of their wonderful cities that are said to be full of gold. Many say that these tales are lies, that no such people and no such cities exist, and they say this because nobody has found them; but I, for my part, have always believed there was something in the story, seeing that otherwise it would not have lasted so long.

"Well, a few months back, I heard that a strange old Indian doctor, who was said to have travelled from the far interior, was dwelling somewhere in the forest together with a woman, but where he dwelt exactly I could not learn, nor, indeed, did I trouble myself to do so. About eight weeks ago, however, it happened that an Indian, being asked for the toll, which I charge all passers–by—to recoup me for my expense in making roads, señor—paid it with a little lump of pure gold having a heart stamped on either side of the metal.

"Now, you may not know, though I do, that the heart is a sacred symbol among these Indians, and has been for many generations, for it is to be seen cut upon the walls of their ruins, though what it means only Satan, their master, can tell.

"Therefore, when I saw the lump of gold with the token on it, I asked the Indian whence he had it, and he told me readily enough that it came from this old doctor, who gave it to him in payment for some food. He told me also where I might find him, and went upon his way, but, his heart being full of deceit, he lied as to the place, so that I searched in vain. Well, to shorten a long story, although to this hour I do not know where the Indian was hiding, I set a trap for him and caught him—ay, and his daughter too.

"It was a simple one, a man in my pay knew another man who visited the doctor in the forest to get medicine from him, but who would not reveal his hiding–place. Still, my servant drew it out of him thus: he sent piteous messages through his friend, begging the doctor to come and save the life of his dying child, which lay in a house near here, and could not be moved.

"The end of it was that the doctor came, and his daughter with him. Yes, they walked at night straight to the snare, into this very house, señor, and only discovered their mistake when they found the doors locked upon them, and that the dying child was none other than your humble servant, Don Pedro Moreno.

"I can tell you, señor, that I laughed till I nearly cried at the sight of their faces, when they found out the trick, though there was nothing to laugh at in them, for the man looked like an old king, and the girl like a queen, quite different from the Indians in these parts; moreover, they were two such serapes as I had never seen, made of green feathers fastened to a foundation of linen.

"When the old man found himself caged, he asked what it meant and where he was, speaking in a dialect so like the Maya tongue that I could understand him quite well. I told him that he was to be my guest for a while, and with the help of two men who were with me I proceeded to secure him and his daughter in a safe place, whereat he flew into a fearful rage, and cursed all of us most dreadfully, and more especially that man who had betrayed him. So awful were his curses and the vengeance that he conjured upon us from heaven, that my hair stood straight upon my head, and as for the man who lured him here under pretence of visiting his child, it came about that within two days he died of a sudden sickness bred of his own fears. When the second man heard of his companion's death, he in turn fled from the place, dreading lest a like fate should overtake him, and has been no more heard of.

"Thus it comes about, señor, that I alone know where these birds are caged, though I hope to introduce my son to them to–night, for I dare not trust the others, and wish to keep them in the family, nor will I let any Indians near them.

"Well, when they had calmed down a little, I spoke to my prisoners through a grating, telling them that I wished to know whence they had obtained those lumps of gold stamped with a heart, to which the old man answered that he had no knowledge of any such gold. Now, I was sure that he lied, and took refuge in another trick. The cell they were shut up is that in which the old monks imprisoned such as were suspected of heresy, and others, and close to it is a secret place—there are many such in this house, señor—where a spy may be hid, and both see and hear all that passes in the cell.

"In this place I ensconced myself, and lay there for hours, with the rats running over me, so anxious was I to get at the truth. In the end I was not disappointed, for they began to talk. A great deal of their conversation I could make nothing of, but at length the girl said, after examining an old gilt crucifix that hung upon the wall:

"'Look, father, here also they have gold.'

"'It is gilt, not gold,' he answered, 'I know the art of it, though with us it is not practised, except to keep from corruption the spears and arrowheads that fowlers use upon the lake.' Then he added:

"'I wonder what that leaden–faced, greedy–eyed white thief would say if he knew that in a single temple we could show him enough of the metal he covets to fill this place five times over from floor to ceiling.'

"'Hush!' she said, 'ears may be listening even in these walls; let us risk nothing, seeing that by seeming to be ignorant alone we can hope to escape.'"

"Well," asked the señor eagerly, "and what did Zibalbay answer? I think that you said the old man's name was Zibalbay," he added, trying to recover the slip.

"Zibalbay! No, I never mentioned that name," Don Pedro replied suspiciously, and with a sudden change of manner. "He answered nothing at all. Next morning, when I came to question them, the birds had flown. It is a pity, for otherwise I might have asked the old man—if his name is Zibalbay. I suppose that the Indians had let them out, but I could not discover."

"Why, Don Pedro, you said just now that they were still in the house."

"Did I? Then I made a mistake, as you did about the name; this wine is strong, it must have gone to my head; sometimes it does—a weakness, and a bad one. It is an odd tale, but there it ended so far as I am concerned. Come, señor, take a cup of coffee, it is good."

"Thank you, no," answered the señor, "I never drink coffee at night, it keeps me awake."

"Still, I beg you to try ours, friend, we grow it ourselves and are proud of its flavour."

"It is poison to me, I dare not," he said. "But pray tell me, do the gentlemen whom I have the honour to see at table cultivate your plantations?"

"Yes, yes, they cultivate the coffee and the cocoa, and other things also when they have a mind. I daresay you think them a rough–looking lot, but they are kind–hearted, ah! so kind–hearted; feeble as I am they treat me like a father. Bah! señor, what is the good of hiding the truth from one of your discernment? We do business of all sorts here, but the staple of it is smuggling rather than agriculture.

"The trade is not what it was, those sharks of customs officers down on the coast there want so much to hold their tongues, but still there are a few pickings. In the old times, when they did not ask questions, it was otherwise, for then men of pluck were ready for anything from revolution down to the stringing up of a coach–load of fat merchants, but now is the day of small profits, and we must be thankful for whatever trifles Providence sends us."

"Such as the two Americans who got drunk and killed each other," suggested the señor, whose tongue was never of the most cautious.

Instantly Don Pedro's face changed, the sham geniality born of drink went out of it, and was replaced by a hard and cunning look.

"I am tired, señor," he said, "as you must be also, and, if you will excuse me, I will light another cigar and take a nap in my hammock. Perhaps you will amuse yourself with the others, señor, till you wish to go to rest." Then rising, he bowed and walked somewhat unsteadily to the far end of the room.

When Don Pedro had retired to his hammock, whither the Indian girl, Luisa, was summoned to swing him to sleep, I saw his son José and the Texan outcast, Smith, both of whom, like the rest of the company, were more or less drunk, come to the señor and ask him to join in a game of cards. Guessing that their object was to make him show what cash he had about him, he also affected to be in liquor, and replied noisily that he had lost most of his money in the shipwreck, and was, moreover, too full of wine to play.

"Then you must have lost it on the road, friend," said Don José, "for you forget that you made those sailors a present from a belt of gold which you wore about your middle. However, no gentleman shall be forced to gamble in this house, so come and talk while the others have their little game."

"Yes, that will be better," answered the señor, and he staggered to an empty chair, placed not far from the table at which I remained, and was served with spirits and cigars. Here he sat watching the play, which was high, although the counters looked innocent enough—they were cocoa beans—and listened to the conversation of the gamblers, in which he joined from time to time.

The talk was not good to hear, for as these wretches grew more drunken, they began to boast of their past exploits in various parts of the country. One man told how he had kidnapped and tortured an Indian who had offended him; another, how he had murdered a woman of who he was jealous; and the third, of the successful robbing of a coach–load of travellers, and their subsequent butchery by the driving of the coach over the edge of a precipice. All these stories, however, were as milk to brandy compared to those that Don Smith, the Americano, growing confidential in his cups, poured forth one after the other, till the señor, unable to bear them any longer, affected to sink into a tipsy doze.

All this while I sat at the little table where my dinner had been served, saying nothing, for none spoke to me, but within hearing of everything that passed. There I sat quiet, my arms folded on my breast, listening attentively to the tales of outrage, wrong, and murder practised by these wicked ones upon my countrymen.

To them I was only a member of a despised and hated race, admitted to their company on sufferance in order that I might be robbed and murdered in due course, but in my heart I looked on them with loathing and contempt, and felt far above them as the stars, while I watched and wondered how long the great God would suffer his world to be outraged by their presence.

Some such thoughts seemed to strike others of that company, for presently Don Smith called out—

"Look at that Indian rascal, friend, he is proud as a turkey–cock in springtime: why, he reminds me of the figure of the king in that ruin where we laid up last year waiting for the señora and her party. You remember the señora, don't you, José? I can hear her squeaks now"—and he laughed brutally, and added, "Come, king, have a drink."

"Gracias, señor," I answered, "I have drunk."

"Then smoke a cigar, O king."

"Gracias, señor, I do not smoke to–night."

"My lord cacique of all the Indians won't drink and won't smoke," said Don Smith, "so we will offer him incense"—and, taking a plate, he filled it with dry tobacco and cigarette–paper, to which he set fire. Then he placed the plate on the table before me, so that the fumes of the tobacco rose into the air about my head.

"There, now he looks like a real god," said the Americano, clapping his hands; "I say, José, let us make a sacrifice to him. There is the girl who ran away last week, and whom we caught with the dogs―"

"No, no, comrade," broke in José, "none of your jokes to–night, you forget that we have a visitor. Not but what I should like to sacrifice this old demonio of an Indian to himself," he added, in an outburst of drunken fury. "Curse him! he insulted me and my father and mother, yonder on board the ship."

"And are you going to put up with that from this wooden Indian god? Why, if I were in your place, by now I would have filled him as full of holes as a coffee–roaster, just to let the lies out."

"That's what I want to do," said José, gnashing his teeth, "he has insulted me and threatened me, and ought to pay for it, the black thief," and, drawing a large knife, he flourished it in my face.

I did not shrink from it; I did not so much as suffer my eyelids to tremble, though the steel flashed within an inch of them, for I knew that if once I showed fear he would strike. Therefore I said calmly:

"You are pleased to jest, señor, and your jests are somewhat rude, but I pass them by, for I know that you cannot harm me because I am your guest, and those who kill a guest are not gentlemen, but murderers, which the high–born Don José Moreno could never be."

"Stick the pig, José," said Smith, "he is insulting you again. It will save you trouble afterwards."

Then, as Don José again advanced upon me with the knife, of a sudden the señor sprang up from his chair and stood between us.

"Come, friend," he said, "a joke is a joke, but you are carrying this too far, according to your custom," and, seizing the man by the shoulders, he put out all his great strength, and swung him back with such force that, striking against the long table with his thighs, he rolled on to and over it, falling heavily to the ground upon the farther side, whence he rose cursing with rage.

By now, Don Pedro, who had wakened or affected to waken from his sleep, thought that the time had come to interfere.

"Peace, little ones, peace!" he cried sleepily from his hammock. "Remember that the men are guests, and cease brawling. Let them go to bed, it is time for them to go to bed, and they need rest; by to–morrow your differences will be healed up for ever."

"I take the hint," said the señor, with forced gaiety. "Come, Ignatio, let us sleep off our host's good wine. Gentlemen, sweet dreams to you," and he walked across the hall, followed by myself.

At the door I turned my head and looked back. Every man in the room was watching us intently, and it seemed to me that the drunkenness had passed from their faces, scared away by a sense of some great wickedness about to be worked. Don Smith was whispering into the ear of José, who still held the knife in his hand, but the rest were staring at us as people stare at men passing to the scaffold.

Even Don Pedro, wide awake now, sat up in his hammock and peered with his horny eyes, while the Indian girl, Luisa, her hand upon the cord, watched our departure with some such face as mourners watch the out–bearing of a corpse. All this I noted in a moment as I crossed the threshold and went forward down the passage, and as I went I shivered, for the scene was uncanny and fateful.

Presently we were in the abbot's chamber, our sleeping–place, and had locked the door behind us. Near the washstand, on which burned a single candle set in the neck of a bottle, sat Molas, his face buried in his hands.

"Have they brought you no supper, that you look so sad?" asked the señor.

"The woman, Luisa, gave me to eat," he whispered. "Listen, lord, and you, Señor Strickland, our fears are well founded; there is a plot to murder us to–night, of this the woman is sure, for she heard some words pass between Don Pedro and a white man called Smith; also she saw one of the half–breeds fetch spades from the garden and place them in readiness, which spades are to be used in the hollowing of our graves beneath this floor."

Now when we heard this our hearts sank, for it was terrible to think that we were doomed within a few hours to lie beneath the ground whereon our living feet were resting. Yet, if these assassins were determined upon our slaughter, our fate seemed certain, seeing that we had only knives wherewith to defend ourselves, for, though we had saved the pistols and some powder in a flask, the damp had reached the latter during the shipwreck, so that it could not be relied upon.

"I am afraid that we have been too venturesome in coming here," I said, "and that unless we can escape at once we must be prepared to pay the price of our folly with our lives."

"Do not be downcast, lord," answered Molas, "for you have not heard all the tale. The woman has shown me a means whereby you can save yourselves from death, at any rate for to–night. Come here," and, leading us across the room, he knelt upon the floor at a spot almost opposite the picture of the abbot, and pressed on a panel in the low wainscoting of cedar wood with which the wall was clothed to a height of about three feet.

The panel slid aside, leaving a space barely large enough for a man to pass. Through this opening we crept one by one, and descended four narrow steps, to find ourselves in a chamber hollowed out of the foundations of the wall, so small that there was only just room for the three of us to stand in it, our heads being some inches above the level of the floor.

And here I may tell you, Señor Jones, that, though I have never shown it to you, this place still exists, as you may discover by searching the wainscoting. For many years I have used it for the safe keeping of papers and valuables. There, by the way, you will find that emerald which I showed you on the first night of our meeting. What the purpose of this chamber was in the time of the abbots I do not know, and perhaps it is as well not to inquire, though they also may have used it to store their wealth.

"How can we save ourselves by crouching here like rats in a drain?" I asked of Molas. "Doubtless the secret of the hiding–place is known to those who live in the house, and they will drag us out and butcher us."

"The woman Luisa says that it is known to none except herself, lord, for she declares that not two months ago she discovered it for the first time by the accident of the broom with which she was sweeping the floor striking against the springs of the panel. Now let us come out for a while, for it is not yet eleven o'clock, and she says that there will be no danger till after midnight."

"Has she any plan for our escape?" I asked.

"She has a plan, though she is doubtful of its success. When the murderers have been, and found us gone, they will think either that we are wizards or that we have made our way out of the house, and will search no more till dawn. Meanwhile, if she can, Luisa will return, and, entering the chamber by the secret entrance, will lead us to the chapel, whence she thinks that we may fly into the forest."

"Where is this secret entrance, Molas?"

"I do not know, lord; she had no time to tell me, but the murderers will come by it. She did tell me, however, that she believes that a man and a woman are imprisoned near the chapel, though she knows nothing of them and never visits the place, because the Indians deem it to be haunted. Doubtless these two are Zibalbay and his daughter, so that if you live to come so far, you may find them there and speak with them."

"Why do you say 'if you live,' Molas?"

"Because I think, lord, that then I shall be already dead; at least, death waits on me."

"What do you mean?" asked the señor.

"I will tell you. After the woman Luisa had gone I ate the food she brought me and drank some wine. Then I think that I fell asleep, for when I awoke the candle had burned out and I was in darkness. Hastily I turned to search for another candle that I had placed by the bottle, and was about to make fire when something drew my eyes, causing me to look up.

"This was what I saw: at the far end of the chamber, enclosed in a film of such pale light as is given by the glow–fly, stood the figure of a man, and that man myself, dressed as I am now. There I stood surrounded by faint fire; and though the face was the face of a dead man, yet the hand was not dead, for it beckoned towards me through the darkness.

"Now I saw, and the cold sweat of fear broke out upon me, so that I could scarcely light the candle which I held. At length, however, it burned brightly, and, holding it over my head, I walked towards the spot where I had seen the shadow, only to find that it was gone."

"Or in other words, that you had slept off your indigestion," said the señor. "I congratulate you on getting rid of it so soon."

"It is easy to mock," answered Molas, "but that which I have seen, I have seen, and I know that it portends my death. Well, so be it; I am not yet old, but I have lived long enough and now it is time to go. May Heaven have mercy on my sins, and thus let it be."

After this the señor and I strove to reason him out of his folly, but in vain, nor, in fact, was it altogether a folly, seeing that Molas was doomed to die upon the morrow; though whether the vision that he saw came to warn him of his fate, or was but a dream, it is not for me to say.

Presently we ceased talking of ghosts and omens, for we must look to our own bodies and the necessities of the hour. Some minutes before midnight we extinguished the light, and, creeping one by one through the hole in the panelling, we closed it behind us and took our stand in the little dungeon. Here the darkness was awful, and as the warmth of the wine that we had drunk passed from our veins, fears gathered thick upon us and oppressed our souls. Those hours on the sinking ship had been evil, but what were they compared to this?

Deep as was the silence, yet there were noises in it, strange creaks and flutterings that thrilled our marrows. We prayed till we were weary, then for my part I tried to doze, only to find that at such a time sleep was worse than waking, for my imagination peopled it with visions till it seemed to me that all the painted horrors on the walls of the chamber took life, and enacted themselves before my eyes.

I heard the groaning of the martyrs, and the cruel jeers of those who watched their agony, urged on by the hard–faced abbot, whose picture hung above us. Then the vision changed and I seemed to see the tragedy of the two Americans, of whose fate the señor had told me and whose blood still stained the floor. The darkness opened as it were, and I saw the beds on which they were sleeping heavily, stalwart men in the prime of life.

Then appeared figures standing over them, Don Pedro, Don José, and others, while from the shadows behind peeped the wicked face of their countryman, Don Smith. The bed–clothes were twitched away and once more all was black, but in the darkness I heard a sound of blows and groaning, of the hurrying feet of murderers, and the clinking of bags of money stolen from the dead men. Now the señor touched me and I woke with a start.

"Hark," he whispered into my ear, "I hear men creeping about the room."

"For the love of God, be silent," I answered, gripping his hand.