"Yes, yes, it must be to–night, for to–morrow we may have to fly. But what if the brutes won't speak, father?"
"We will find means to make them," answered the old man with a hideous chuckle; "but whether they speak or not, they must be silenced afterwards―" and he drew his hand across his throat, adding, "Come."
An hour passed while we stood in the hole trembling with excitement, hope, and fear, and then once more we heard footfalls, followed presently by the sound of a voice whispering on the further side of the panel.
"Are you there, lord?" the whisper said. "It is I, Luisa."
"Yes," I answered.
Now she touched the spring and opened the panel.
"Listen," she said, "they have gone to sleep all of them, but before dawn they will be up again to search for you far and wide. Therefore you must do one of two things; lie hid here, perhaps for days, or take your chance of escape at once."
"How can we escape?" I asked.
"There is but one way, lord, through the chapel. The door into it is locked, but I can show you a place from which the priests used to watch those below, and thence, if you are brave, you can drop to the ground beneath, for the height is not great. Once there, you can escape into the garden through the window over the altar, which is broken, as I have seen from without, though to do so, perhaps, you will have to climb upon each other's shoulders. Then you must fly as swiftly as you can by the light of the moon, which has risen. The dogs have been gorged and tied up, so, if the Heart is your friend, you may yet go unharmed."
Now I spoke to the señor, saying:
"Although the woman does not know it, I think it likely that we shall find company in this chapel, seeing that the Indian and his daughter are imprisoned there, where Don Pedro and José have gone to visit them. The risk is great, shall we take it?"
"Yes," answered the señor after a moment's thought, "for it is better to take a risk than to perish by inches in this hole of starvation, or perhaps to be discovered and murdered in cold blood. Also we have travelled far and undergone much to find this Indian, and if we lose our chance of doing so, we may get no other."
"What do you say, Molas?" I asked.
"I say that the words of the señor are wise, also that it matters little to me what we do, since whether I turn to left or right death waits me on my path."
Now one by one we climbed through the false panel, and by the light of the moon Luisa led us across the chamber to the spot between the beds, where hangs the picture of the abbot, which picture, that is painted on a slab of wood, proved to be only a cunningly devised door constructed to swing upon a pivot.
Placing her knee on the threshold of the secret door, Luisa scrambled into the passage beyond. When the rest of us stood by her side, she closed the panel, and, bidding us cling to one another and be silent, she took me by the hand and guided us through some passages till at length she whispered:
"Be cautious now, for we come to the place whence you must drop into the chapel, and there is a stairway to your right."
We passed the stairway and turned a corner, Luisa still leading.
Next instant she staggered back into my arms, murmuring, "Mother of Heaven! the ghosts! the ghosts!" Indeed, had I not held her she would have fled. Still grasping her hand, I pushed forward to find myself standing in a small recess—the one I showed you, Señor Jones—that was placed about ten feet above the floor of the chapel, and, like other places in this house, so arranged that the abbot or monk in authority, without being seen himself, could see and hear all that passed beneath him.
Of one thing I am sure, that during all the generations that are gone no monk watching here ever saw a stranger sight than that which met my eyes. The chancel of the chapel was lit up by shafts of brilliant moonlight that poured through the broken window, and by a lamp which stood upon the stone altar. Within the circle of strong light thrown by this lamp were four people, namely, Don Pedro, his son Don José, an old Indian, and a girl.
On either side of the altar then, as now, rose two carven pillars of sapote wood, the tops of which were fashioned into the figures of angels, and to these columns the old Indian and the woman were tied, one to each column, their hands being joined together at the back of the pillars in such a manner as to render them absolutely helpless. My eyes rested first upon the woman, who was nearest to me, and seeing her, even as she was then, dishevelled, worn with pain and hunger, her proud face distorted by agony of mind and impotent rage, I no longer wondered that both Molas and Don Pedro had raved about her beauty.
She was an Indian, but such an Indian as I had never known before, for in colour she was almost white, and her dark and waving hair hung in masses to her knees. Her face was oval and small–featured, and in it shone a pair of wonderful dark–blue eyes, while the clinging white robe she wore revealed the loveliness of her tall and delicate shape.
Bad as was the girl's plight, that of the old man her father, who was none other than the Zibalbay we had come to seek, seemed even worse. As Molas had described him, he was thin and very tall, with white hair and beard, wild and hawk–like eyes, and aquiline features, nor had Don Pedro spoken more than the truth when he said that he looked like a king. His robe had been torn from him, leaving him half naked, and on his forehead, breast, and arms were blood and bruises which clearly had been caused by a riding–whip that lay broken at his feet.
It was not difficult to guess who had broken it, for in front of the old man, breathing heavily and wiping the perspiration from his brow, stood Don José.
"This mule won't stir," he said to his father in Spanish; "ask the girl, it must wake her up to see the old man knocked about."
Then Don Pedro slipped off the altar rail upon which he had been seated, and, advancing to the woman, he peered at her with his leaden eyes:
"My dear," he said to her in the Maya language, "this sight must grieve you. Put an end to it then by telling us of that place where so much gold is hidden."
"As with my last breath, daughter," broke in Zibalbay, "I command you to say nothing, no, not if you see them murder me by inches before your eyes."
"Silence, you dog," said Don José, striking him across the lips with his hand.
"Oh! that I were free to avenge you!" gasped the girl as she strained and tore at the ropes which held her.
"Don't be in a hurry, my love," sneered Don José, "wait a while and you will have yourself to avenge as well as your father. If he won't speak I think we can find a way to make you talk, only I do not want to be rough with you unless I am forced to it. You are too pretty, much too pretty."
The girl shivered, gasping with fear and hate, and was silent.
"What shall we try him with now?" he went on, addressing Don Pedro; "hot steel or cold? Make up your mind, for I am growing tired. Well, if you won't, just hand me that machete, will you? Now, friend," he said, addressing the Indian, "for the last time I ask you to tell us where is that temple full of gold, of which you spoke to your daughter in my father's hearing?"
"There is no such place, white man," he answered sullenly.
"Indeed, friend! Then will you explain where you found those little ingots, which we captured from the Indian who had been visiting you, and whence came this machete?" and he pointed to the weapon in his hand.
It was a sword of great beauty, as I could see even from where we stood, made not of steel, but of hardened copper, and having for a handle a female figure with outstretched arms fashioned in solid gold.