"Impossible," I answered, "what have we to give that they cannot take?"
"Then there is nothing for it except to die as bravely as we may," he answered. "This is the end of our quest for the Golden City. The quest has not been a lucky one, Ignatio."
Now the old Indian, Zibalbay, who was crouched upon the ground beside us, spoke for the first time, saying,
"Friends, why do you not fly? Doubtless you can find a path down the further side of the pyramid, and in the forest you may hide from these men."
"How can we fly," answered the señor, "when you have no strength to walk a step?"
"I am old and ready to die," he answered; "leave me here, and be sure that when the time comes I shall know how to slip through the grasp of these villains. My daughter, go you with them. You have the holy symbol, and should you escape and prove this stranger to be the man whom we seek, lead him to our home that things may befall as they are fated."
"Peace, my father," said Maya, throwing her arms about his neck, "together we will live or perish. These señors may go if it pleases them, but here I stay with you."
"And so do I," said Molas, "for I weary of flying from the death that dogs me. Also it is too late to talk of flight, for look, they are coming up the stair, the eight of them with Don Pedro and the Americano at their head."
I looked; it was true. Already they had climbed half the steps of the first flight.
"Oh for some rifles!" groaned the señor.
"It is useless to cry for what we have not," I answered. "God can help us if He wishes, and if He does not, we must bow us to His will."
Then there was silence, broken only by the voice of Zibalbay, who, standing behind us, lifted his hands to heaven and prayed aloud to his gods to bring a vengeance upon our foes. Now we could see through the trees and bushes that the men were beginning to climb the second flight.
"Come, let us do something," said the señor, and, running to the piles of stones which we had prepared, he called to us to help him roll the heaviest of them upon the enemy. This we did for awhile, but without effect, for the tree–trunks turned our missiles; moreover those against whom they were directed, taking cover at the sides of the stairway, opened so sharp a fire on us with their rifles, that in a few minutes we were driven from the stone heaps and forced to retreat behind the shelter of the arch.
Now they came on again, till presently they reached the foot of the third flight, and paused to take breath. Then it was that Molas, seizing one of the Indian blow–pipes, ran out on to the terrace, followed by the señor, though why the latter went I do not know, for he could not use this weapon. Before the men beneath were aware of their presence, Molas had set the blow–pipe to his lips and discharged the poisoned dart among them. As it chanced it struck the Texan Smith full in the throat. Watching round the corner of the arch, I saw him lift his hand to pull out the dart, then of a sudden he fell to the ground, and in that instant a storm of bullets swept through the archway, aimed at Molas and the señor as they fled back for refuge. I saw Molas fall and the señor stop to lift him to his feet, and, as he was in the very act, a patch of red appear upon his face. Another moment and they were under cover.
"Are you hurt?" I asked of the señor.
"No, no," he answered; "my cheek was grazed by a bullet, that is all. Look to Molas, he is shot in the side."
"Leave me," said Molas, "it is nothing."
Then we were silent, only Maya sobbed a little as she strove to staunch the blood that flowed from the señor's wound with cobwebs which she gathered from among the stones.
"Do not trouble, lady," he said, with a sad smile, "for soon there will be other wounds that cannot be dressed. What shall you do?"
By way of answer she showed him the poisoned dart which she held in the hollow of her hand.
"I cannot advise you otherwise," he said. "Farewell, I am glad to have met you and I hope that we may meet again yonder," and he glanced towards the sky. "Now you had best say good–bye to your father, for our time is short." She nodded, went to the old man, Zibalbay, who stood silent, stroking his grey beard, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him tenderly.
Looking out carefully we saw that the men had dragged Don Smith to the side of the stairway, where some of them supported him while he died of the poison, and others watched for a chance to shoot us should we show ourselves upon the terrace. Presently he was dead, and, cursing us aloud, his companions commenced to mount the third flight with great caution, for they feared a snare.
"Is there nothing to be done to save our lives?" asked the señor, in a heavy voice.
There was no answer, but of a sudden Molas, who was standing with one hand pressed upon the wound in his side and the other before his eyes, turned and ran into the chamber behind us, whence he reappeared carrying the copper axe. Then, without speaking, he climbed the masonry of the archway with great swiftness, till he stood with his feet in the crack beneath the crown of the arch, which you will remember was held in place only by the tough tree–roots, that grew from it into the stonework of the buttresses. Supporting himself by a creeper with his left hand, with his right he struck blow after blow at the biggest of these roots, severing them one by one. Now we saw his purpose—to send two hundred tons of stonework thundering down the stairway upon the heads of the murderers.
"By heaven! that is an answer to my question," said the señor; then he paused and added, "Come down, Molas; if the arch falls, you will fall with it and be crushed."
"It matters little," he answered; "this is my doom day, that bullet has cut me inside and I bleed to death, and on this spot, as I have long feared, it is fated that I should die. Pray for my soul, and farewell."
"Fare you well, you gallant man," said the señor. "I have no axe or I would come with you."
"Farewell, Molas, my brother, true servant of the Heart," I echoed; "of this I am sure, that you shall not lose your reward."
Now three of the roots were severed, but the fourth and largest, which was thicker than a man's leg, remained, and at this Molas began to hew despairingly.
"Are they near?" he gasped, as the white chips flew.
We peeped round the corner of the arch and saw that some seventy feet below us the band had halted on the slippery face of the pyramid, fearing they knew not what, for they heard the dull sound of the axe blows, but could not guess what it portended. One of their number was talking to Don Pedro, apparently urging something upon him to which he did not agree, and in this way they wasted two minutes before at last the order was given to rush up the remaining steps and take the temple by storm.
Two minutes—it was but a short time, yet it meant much, for only a third of the root remained unsevered, and the bark crackling and peeling showed how great was the strain upon it.
"Quick," whispered the señor, "they come"—and as he spoke the handle of the axe broke and its head fell to the ground.
"Now if the root holds we are lost," I said.
But it was not to be, for Molas still had his heavy hunting–knife, and with this he hewed frantically at the wood. At the third cut it began to part, torn slowly asunder as though by the strength of a giant, and while it gave, the vast superincumbent mass of masonry, which it had helped to support for so many years, shifted a little with a grinding sound, then hung again.
"Come down, Molas, come down!" cried the señor.
But Molas would not. He struck one more blow, severing the root, then with a shout of farewell, either through faintness or by design, he cast himself forward with outstretched arms against the face of the wall. His weight was little indeed, yet it seemed that it sufficed to turn the balance as dust turns a scale, for again the trembling mass moved perceptibly and the tall trees upon the top of it began to nod as though beneath the sudden pressure of wind. Now it slid forward faster and faster, while sharp sounds like pistol–shots came from the heart of it, and the trees above bent like a rod beneath the rush of a fish. Now also for the first time the villains on the slope below perceived the doom that threatened them, and uttered such a yell as I had never heard. Some stood still and some flung themselves down the stair, one only, Don Pedro himself, rushed forward. It was too late; the mass of stonework, sixty feet long by twenty in breadth, was falling. It was falling—it fell, taking Molas with it. With a roar like that of thunder it struck upon the stairway, and, bursting into fragments, swept it from end to end. No discharge of grape–shot could have been so terrible in its effects as this hurricane of stones that nothing could withstand, for even the big trees which stood in its path were snapped like sticks and borne away upon its crest, as the carved masonry that had been carried up the pyramid by the long labour of the Indians of a bygone age, rushed downward to its foot.