"Where do they lead?" I asked.
"I do not know," she answered, "perhaps to the Sanctuary by a secret way. At least the pyramid is full of these chambers, that in old days were used for many things, such as the storage of corn and weapons, and the burying–places of priests, thousands of whom are at rest within it. Now they are empty and deserted."
As we walked back again I stopped before a wooden door that stood ajar, leading into one of the chambers of which I have spoken.
"Let us go in," said Maya, pushing it open, and we entered, to find ourselves in a small room lined with shelves. On these shelves, each of which was numbered, lay hundreds of rolls thickly covered with dust. Maya took up one of them at a hazard and unrolled the parchment, revealing a manuscript beautifully executed in the picture–painting of the Indians.
"This must be nearly a thousand years old," she said; "I know it by the style of the painting. Well, we shall not lack history to read while we sojourn here," and she threw the priceless roll back on to its shelf and left the chamber.
A few steps further on we came to another room of which the door was closed, but so rotten was the woodwork with age that a push freed it from its fastenings, and we entered. Here also there were shelves, packed some of them with yellow and some with white bars of metal.
"Copper and lead," said the señor glancing at them.
"Not so," answered Maya with a laugh, "but that which you white men covet, gold and silver. Look what is painted upon the shelves," and she held up the lamp and read: "Pure metal from the southern mines, set apart for the services of the Temple of the Heart, and of the Temples of the East and West. Of gold—such a weight; of silver—such a weight."
I stared and my eyes grew greedy, for here in this one room, neglected and forgotten, was enough wealth to carry out my purpose three times over, stored there by the forefathers of this strange rust–eaten race. Ah, if only I could see one half of it safe across the mountains, how great might be my future and that of the people which I lived to serve.
"Perhaps you may win it after all, Ignatio," said Maya, interpreting my thoughts, "but, to be frank, I fear that you will gain nothing except a sepulchre in these gloomy vaults."
After this we visited several chambers that were empty, or filled only with the wreck of moth–eaten tapestries and curious furnitures, till at length we came to a room, or rather a large cupboard, piled from floor to ceiling with golden vessels of the most quaint and ancient workmanship, which had been discarded by the priests and cast aside as worthless—why, I do not know. In front of this gleaming pile stood a chest, unlocked, that the señor opened. It was packed with priestly ornaments of gold, set with great emeralds. Maya picked out a belt from the box and gave it to me, saying:
"Take it, Ignatio, since you love such trinkets. It will set off that robe of yours."
I took it and put it on, not over my robe, but beneath it. My friend, it is the clasp of that belt, which now is yours, that I showed you a while ago, and with the price of the other gems in it I bought this hacienda and all its lands.
Wearied at length by the sight of so much useless treasure, we returned to Zibalbay, who was seated as we had left him, lost in thought.
At this moment the gates of our prison were opened, and men came through them, escorted by captains of the guard, bringing with them food in plenty, which they set upon the table, waiting on us while we ate, but speaking no word, good or bad. Our meal finished, they cleared away the fragments, and, having replenished the lamps and prepared the chambers for us to sleep in, they bowed and left us. For a while we sat round the table, Zibalbay and I in silence, and Maya and the señor talking together in a low voice, till at length the dreariness of the place overcame us, and, as though by a common impulse, we rose and sought the sleeping–vaults, there to rest, if we might.
We slept, and woke, and rose again, though whether it was night or day here, where no light came, we could not tell; indeed, as time went on, our only means of distinguishing the one from the other was by the visits of those who brought our food and waited on us.
I think it must have been in the early afternoon of the day following that on which we were imprisoned, that Tikal visited us, accompanied only by four guards.
"A small band," said the señor as he watched them advance, "but enough to put us to death, who are unarmed" (for all our weapons had been taken from us), "if such should be their will."
"Have no fear, friend," said Maya, "they will not do murder so openly."
By now Tikal stood before us, bowing, and Zibalbay, who as usual was seated brooding at the table, looked up and saw him.
"What do you seek, traitor?" he asked angrily, the blood flushing beneath his withered skin. "Would you kill us? If so, slay on, for thus shall I come the sooner to the bosom of that god whose vengeance I call down upon you."
"I am no murderer, Zibalbay," answered Tikal with dignity. "If you die, it will be by command of the law that you have broken, and not by mine. I am here to speak with you, if you will come apart with me."
"Then speak on before these others, or leave your words unsaid," he answered, "for not one step will I stir with you, who doubtless seek some opportunity to stab me in the back."
"Yet it is necessary that you should hear what I have to say, Zibalbay."
"Say on then, traitor, or go."
Tikal thought for a while, looking doubtfully at Maya, from whose fair face, indeed, he rarely took his eyes.
"Is it your wish that I should withdraw?" she asked shortly.
"It is not mine," said Zibalbay; "stay where you are, daughter."
Now Tikal hesitated no longer, but, bidding the guards who had accompanied him to fall back out of earshot, he said:
"Listen, Zibalbay; yesterday, before the gathering on the pyramid, I saw your daughter, the Lady Maya, and spoke with her, telling her that now, as always, I loved her, although believing her to be dead, for reasons of state I had taken another woman to be my wife. Then I made her this offer: That if she would consent to become my wife I would put away Nahua, whom I had married. Moreover, I added this, that I would give up my place as cacique to you, Zibalbay, whose it is by right, to hold for so long as you should live, and would not oppose you or your policy in any matter. I told her, on the other hand, that if she refused to become my wife, I would surrender nothing, but would put out my strength to crush you and her and these strangers, your friends. She answered me with contempt, saying that I might do my worst, but she would have naught to say to me. What happened afterwards you know, Zibalbay, and you know also the danger in which you stand to–day, now that power has left you, and your very life trembles in the balance."
He paused, and Zibalbay, who had been listening to his words amazed, turned to Maya and said sternly:
"Does this man speak lies, daughter?"
As she was about to answer—though what she meant to say, I do not know—Tikal broke in:
"What is the use of asking her, Zibalbay? Is it to be thought that she will answer you truly, though that I speak truth this wanderer who stands at your side can bear witness, for he was present and heard my words. This offer I made to her, and, that it may be put beyond a doubt, now I make it to her and to you again. If she will take me in marriage, for her sake I will put away Nahua; I will lay down my rule and set you in your place again, with liberty, so long as you shall live, to work such follies as the gods may suffer. All these things I will do because I love her to whom I have been affianced from my youth up, better than them all, because she is as the light to mine eyes and the breath to my nostrils, and without her I have no joy in life, as I have had none since I believed her to be dead."