"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."