"You ask me to swear a large oath, señora, and one that deals with the future, of which we have no knowledge," I answered, hesitating.
"I do, señor, but remember that were it not for me at this moment your friend, who sleeps yonder like a child, would be stiff in death. Remember also that you have ends to gain in the City of the Heart, where it will be well for you to keep me as a friend should we ever live to reach it. Still, do not swear unless you wish, only then I shall know that you are my secret enemy and I shall be yours."
"There is no need to threaten me, señora," I answered, "nor am I to be moved thus, but I promise that I will not stand between you and the señor. Why should I? His will is his own, and, as you say, you saved his life. But see, he awakes, and his soup is ready."
She took the pot off the fire, skimmed it, and poured the contents into a gourd.
"Shall I take it, or will you?" she asked.
"I think that you had better take it," I answered.
Then she walked to the hammock and said, "Señor, here is your soup."
He was but newly awakened, and looked at her vacantly.
"Tell me, Maya," he asked, "what has happened?"
"Last evening," she began, "in picking a flower for me you were bitten by a snake, and very nearly died."
"I know," he answered. "Without doubt I should have died had you not sucked the wound and tied a bandage round my wrist, for that grey snake is the deadliest in the country. Go on."
"After the danger of the poison was past you became thirsty, so thirsty that you were dying of it, and there was no water to give you."
"Yes, yes," he said, "it was agony; I pray that I may never suffer so again. But I drank water and lived. Who brought it to me?"
"My father started on to the next camping–place, where there is a pool," she answered.
"Has he returned?"
"No, not yet."
"Then he cannot have brought the water. Where did it come from?"
"It came from the cueva, that cave which we examined before you were bitten."
"Who went down the cueva to get it? The place is unclimbable."
"I went down."
"You!" he said, in amazement. "You! It is not possible. Do not jest. Tell me the truth quickly. I am tired."
"I am not jesting. Listen, señor. You were dying for want of water, dying before our eyes; it was horrible to see. I could not bear it, and I knew that my father would not be back in time, so I took the water–skin and some torches and went without saying anything to Ignatio. The shaft was hard to climb, and the adventure strange. I will tell you of that by and by, but as it chanced I came through it safely to find Ignatio about to start on the same errand."
The señor heard and understood, but he made no answer; he only stretched out his arms towards her, and there and thus in the wilderness did they plight their troth.
"Remember that I am but an Indian girl," she murmured presently, "and you are one of the white lords of the earth. Is it well that you should love me?"
"It is well," he answered, "for you are the noblest woman that I have known, and you have saved my life."
Zibalbay did not return till past midday, when he appeared with the water, leading the mule, which had set its foot upon a sharp stone in the desert and gone lame.
"Does he still live?" he asked of Maya.
"Yes, father."
"He must be strong, then," he whispered; "I thought that thirst would have killed him ere now."
"He has had water, father. I descended the cueva and fetched it," she added, after a moment's pause.
The old man looked at her amazed.
"How came it that you found courage to go down that place, daughter?" he asked at length.
"The desire to save a friend gave me courage," she answered, letting her eyes fall beneath his gaze. "I knew that you could not be back in time, so I went."
Zibalbay pondered awhile, then said:
"I think that you would have done better to let him die, daughter, for I believe that this white man will bring trouble upon us. It has pleased the gods to preserve you alive; remember, then, that your life belongs to them, and that you must follow the path which they have chosen, not that which you would choose for yourself. Remember also that one waits you in the city yonder who may have a word to say as to your friendship with this wanderer." And he passed on with the mule.
That same evening Maya told me of her father's words and said:
"I think that before all is done I shall need the help that you have sworn to give me, señor, for I can see well that my father will be against me unless my wish runs with his purpose. Of one thing I am sure, that my life is my own and not a possession of the gods; for in such gods as my father worships and I was brought up to serve, I have lost faith, if indeed I ever had any."
"You speak rashly," I answered, "and if you are wise you will not let your father hear such words."
"Lest by and by my life should be forfeit to the gods whom I blaspheme!" she broke in. "Say, then, do you believe in these gods, Don Ignatio?"
"No, Lady, I am a Christian and have no part with idols or those who worship them."
"I understand; it is only in their wealth that you would have part. Well, and why should I not become a Christian also? I have learned something of your faith from the señor yonder, and see that it is great and pure, and full of comfort for us mortals."
"May grace be given to you to follow in that road, Lady, but it is not Christian to taunt me about the wealth which I come to seek for the advantage of our race, seeing that you know I ask nothing for myself."
"Forgive me," she answered, "my tongue is sharp—as yours has been at times, Don Ignatio. Hark! the señor calls me."
For two more days we rested there by the cueva till the señor was fit to travel, then we started on again. Ten days we journeyed across the wilderness, following the line of the ancient road, and meeting with no traces of man save such as were furnished by the familiar sight of ruined pyramids and temples. On the eleventh we began to ascend the slope of a lofty range of mountains that pushed its flanks far out into the desert–land, and on the twelfth we reached the snow–line, where we were obliged to abandon the three mules which remained to us, seeing that no green food was to be found higher up, and the path became too steep for them to find a footing in it. That night we slept, with little to eat, in a hole dug in the snow, wrapped in our serapes, or, rather, we tried to sleep, for our rest was broken by the cold, and the moaning of bitter and mysterious winds which sprang up and passed away suddenly beneath a clear sky; also, from time to time, by the thunder of distant avalanches rushing from the peaks above.
"How far must we travel up this snow?" I asked of Zibalbay, as we stood shivering in the ashy light of the dawn.
"Look yonder," he answered, pointing to where the first ray of the sun shone upon a surface of black rock far above us; "there is the highest point, and we should reach it before nightfall."
Thus encouraged we pushed forward for hour after hour, Zibalbay marching ahead in silence, until our sight was bewildered with snow–blindness, and I was seized with a fit of mountain sickness. Fortunately the climbing was not difficult, so that by four in the afternoon we found ourselves beneath the shadow of the wall of black rock.
"Must we scale that precipice?" I asked of Zibalbay.