CHAPTER XIX

Long Live the King

ITZA was unconscious but unharmed. She had fainted and had been spared the maddening horror of lying on the altar and the awful suspense of awaiting sacrifice. Swiftly I tore away the choking gag that bruised her lips, and slashed through the cords that cut into her poor wrists and ankles.

Lifting her limp body tenderly, I carried her into the house of the Virgins of the Sun, and when presently her senses returned, she found herself in my arms and looked into my eyes which, like her own, were dim with tears of happiness.

Almost as happy as myself, the prince smiled down at her, while all about us the Virgins of the Sun hovered half-timidly and murmured soft words of sympathy and delight, for having been told of Kinchi Haman’s death and assured that the sacrifices to the Sun God were at an end, they had forgotten their fears and had ministered to Itza, chafing her hands and bathing her forehead.

For a space we were oblivious to everything but our own great joy. We were in a world of our own, a world unknown to all but reunited lovers, until Itza noticed my bleeding, lacerated arm--which I had quite forgotten myself--and instantly she was all pity and solicitude. By the time the wounds had been washed and bandaged, Itza declared herself as strong and well as ever, and accompanied by the freed girls--who now would never become brides of Kinich Ahau--we retraced our way through the hidden passages of the temple.

As we passed once more through that circular room with its monstrous image of the Sun God, I delayed a moment and having swung the massive idol into place, I turned the gift of Nohul Voh upon the golden disc on the statue’s chest. Before the amazed and wondering eyes of all, the metal fused and melted and forever closed the only way that led to the dismal well that formed the grave of Kinchi Haman. Out from the temple and into the waning sunlight of the afternoon we came at last, to find our men, cowering, shamefaced, surrounded by the awed, half-curious, half-terrified crowd awaiting they knew not what. From the lips of our wild-eyed men they had heard of what had transpired, of our having entered the holy of holies, of my desecration of the sacred image, and had Kinich Ahau appeared in the flesh to wreak vengeance upon us, had the sun itself descended in righteous wrath, had the temple crumpled to bits to bury us beneath its ruins, the people would not have been surprised. But surprise and inexpressible wonder was theirs when they saw us emerge, unharmed, with Itza, and accompanied by the Virgins of the Sun. For a moment every sound, every voice was hushed, and then from thousands of throats a mighty cheer arose and with one accord the people prostrated themselves before us. And as the released maidens sought relatives and loved ones, and spread the news of the high priest’s end, shouts of joy, cries of delight mingled in a bedlam of sound. It was as if a terrible incubus had been lifted from the city, and as the joyful people pressed about us, we were compelled to call upon our guards to force a way through which we could pass to the palace.

Behind us rose the great silent temple; from its summit the lambent banners of fire beckoned to me to be gone, pointed towards the spot where I knew the Bridge of Light still spanned the chasm. The way was clear; I was impatient to be gone. I knew that at any time the flaming signal might fade, the bridge might vanish, yet I could not leave. I was utterly exhausted, done. I had been under a terrific strain, my wounded arm ached and throbbed, and the reaction, now that it was all over and Itza was safe and in no further danger, left me weak, unnerved and utterly spent.

And there was Itza. Hardships, suffering, dangers known and unknown must be faced and overcome if we fled the valley and forced a way out to civilization, even though we found the way of the Symbols. A woman of my own race would have had no chance of getting through, and even Itza, a Maya, an Indian, would find it so difficult, would have to endure so much that, at times, I had abandoned all thoughts of attempting it and had resigned myself to remaining forever in Mictolan. And she had suffered, had been under a strain that had left her as unfitted for such an undertaking as myself. Until we had rested, had regained strength and nerves, nothing could be done. Better to remain for the rest of my life in Mictolan with Itza than to lose her and perish in the unknown wilderness.

But there was one thing I _was_ determined I would do before I threw my weary, aching body upon my couch and sought the rest, the blessed unconsciousness of sleep, that my throbbing head and burning eyes craved beyond all else. It was the eve of Tonalmatl, the most sacred, most holy day of the year, and the people would be gathering, hopefully, faithfully, expectantly awaiting the ceremony of the Setting Sun on this last evening of the dying year. If I failed them at this critical moment, who could say what dire results might follow.

They were restless, keyed up, in that tense psychological state where riot, revolt, unreasoning mob violence might leap into flame at the first spark. Within the past few hours their traditions, their beliefs, their superstitions--even their religion--had been turned topsy-turvy. Their greatest temple had been desecrated, their Sun God defied, their high priest killed. Events had occurred too rapidly, revolutionary inexplicable things had followed one another too quickly for the people to be able to collect their thoughts, to reason, to fully realize what had happened. They were confused, astounded, amazed, frightened. They were for us at the moment, though in their superstitious minds they regarded me as the all-powerful, incarnated representative of the mighty Kukulcan, and felt relieved that the bloody tyrannical priest Kinich Ahau had been destroyed. Yet they might swing the other way on the slightest provocation.

If I failed to appear upon the temple, if I failed to maintain my power and my ascendancy, they might turn again to their Sun God. They might reason that their gods had deserted them, that Kinich Ahau was angered at the death of his priest and at being cheated of his virginal brides, and they might seek to appease him by wholesale sacrifices--even by seizing Itza.

Moreover--though I am loath to admit it--though I may lay myself open to charges of blasphemy and paganism, I felt a strong desire to stand before that lofty altar and give thanks to my God for His guidance and His protection, for His infinite mercy in having restored my beloved Itza safe and unharmed to my arms. No doubt, to many, to those who have never been in such a situation, who are accustomed to praying in the dim sanctity of their churches, who regard any faith but their own as infidel, the mere thought of offering prayers and thanks to God before a pagan altar and at the feet of a pagan idol will be horrifying, blasphemous. But to one who has dwelt long among those of other religions than his own, to one who has learned how deep-seated, how sublime is their faith, how rigorously, unalterably they strive to live up to its tenets, how absolute their trust in their own gods, one religion seems about as good as another.

And though I had no tendency to lean towards the religion and the gods of Mictolan, though I had no faith in Kukulcan nor in Kinich Ahau, yet I realized that, to the people of the valley, the temple was as hallowed, as sacred as our own churches and cathedrals were to us.

A Protestant may not believe in the Roman Catholic Church, a Hebrew may not believe in Christ, an Atheist may not believe in Almighty God, a Christian may not believe in Mahomet, a Mohammedan may not believe in Buddha, yet each respects the places of worship of the others. Each--though in his heart he may scoff at--revile the others’ faith--feels, when he enters the church, mosque or temple of the others that he is in a sacred spot; despite himself, he is impressed, awed; so it was with me when I stood above the city before the altar of the temple of the Plumed Serpent.

* * * * *

THERE was something inexpressibly impressing and sublime about the place. Standing there on the narrow terrace of that towering pile that had been erected centuries before the dawn of Christianity, whose gods had been worshipped by millions before the birth of Moses, one seemed apart from the world, lifted above the petty things of life, exalted, nearer to one’s Creator, closer to God. And so, as with weary steps I toiled up the ascent and at last stood at the temple top bathed in the glory of the setting sun, and gazed across that fair green valley and the silent, peaceful city, and looked down upon the shadowy sea of upturned expectant faces, a great peace came to me. The world for all its faults was very, very beautiful; it was good to be alive, to feel that there was one you loved and who loved you in return; that there were those to whom you were very dear, to whom you meant so much. Dropping to my knees, I poured out my thanks to God, prayed that He might guide and protect us and besought His blessings and His mercy for the coming year. Then, rising, I addressed the hushed and silent crowd below. Tomorrow, I reminded them, would be the day of Tonalmatl. The cruel sacrifices of Kinich Ahau were done away with forever, the inhuman priest had been swallowed up in his own accursed well. The gods had forsaken him as all knew. They had shown that his rituals, his sacrifices were wrong--and I pointed dramatically to the silent, deserted Temple of the Sun where no priest stood outlined in the glare of the wavering, lambent flames at the summit.

“O, people of Mictolan,” I cried. “Let peace and happiness come to all with the dawning of the Tonalmatl! Let this be a day of thanksgiving and of joy. Forget the past and Kinchi Haman, and celebrate the coming of the New Year by placing the Prince Azcopil upon the throne of Mictolan.”

For a moment there was absolute silence. Then a thunderous cheer arose, and as the last crimson glow of the sunset faded from the sky, I descended the temple stairs, reached the plaza, and staggered like a drunken man towards my waiting litter. A dozen willing, eager arms caught me, lifted me. Dimly as in a dream I felt myself sink among the soft robes and cushions, I felt the swaying, lulling motion of my hurrying bearers and then--oblivion.

* * * * *

WHEN I again opened my eyes, nearly twenty-four hours had passed. Itza was beside me--starry-eyed, beautiful, watchfully tender. I drew her to me and for long lay there, silent, perfectly at peace, sublimely happy in the presence of her yielding body, the gentle throbbing of her heart against my breast, the warm sweet touch of her lips.

At last, gently releasing herself, she spoke, asking me how I felt, if my wounded arm pained me, if I were rested, if I was not hungry. For answer I sprang up, seized her with my good arm, hugged her until she begged for mercy, and told her I was hungry enough to eat her up. I felt like a new man. I was rested, strong; my nerves were as steady as ever, and I ate ravenously--like a famished wolf. And though my wounded left arm still pained and throbbed it was far better, and I could use it to some extent. Had I slept long? I asked between mouthfuls. Where was the prince? Had Nohul Voh been around? Had anything occurred while I had been lost to the world?

Itza laughed gaily, merrily, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Had anything occurred?” she reiterated. “Did her Itzimin think then that the whole world awaited his awakening with bated breath? Did he think he could sleep from sundown until the next afternoon without anything occurring?” Then, snuggling close and ceasing her teasing, she chattered all the news. Yes, Nohul Voh had been there. He had dressed my arm, had assured Itza that it would be healed and well in a few days, and had promised to come again. The prince; well the prince had been far too busy to call. But she forgot; there was no longer any prince. It was King Azcopil now. The people had obeyed my wishes, they had demanded that Azcopil should become their ruler, and though he begged that they should wait until I could be present at the coronation, they insisted that as I had called upon them to make him king on the morning of the Tonalmatl, they must obey me or Kukulcan might be offended. The coronation of a king in Mictolan was not, it appeared, a very formal, complicated nor long-drawn-out ceremony. It was, however, spectacular, as vividly described by Itza, and I rather regretted I could not have been present. But I was glad they did not wait.

When dealing with Indians, delays are dangerous, there is nothing like striking while the iron is hot, and, as Itza prattled on--her sentences punctuated by kisses--I was delighted to learn that the new king had already asserted his authority in the right direction. He had announced that with the beginning of his reign, Kukulcan should be the paramount god of Mictolan. That the people would be free to worship Kinich Ahau and that the priests of the Sun God’s cult might hold their ceremonies in their temple, but that all the old practices were at an end. There should be no secrets within it. It must be open to the public. No human sacrifices of any sort should be held.

These were drastic measures, and Azcopil alone might have met with strong opposition, or worse. But he had made old Nohul Voh his Prime Minister, and the people were in superstitious awe of the sorcerer. They feared him and his mysterious powers, next to the gods themselves, and the old fellow took full advantage of his authority. He had ever been an enemy of Kinchi Haman. Being of the House of Cocome Voh, and of the Titul Zius clan, he was preëminently, by descent, by tradition and by faith of the cult of the Plumed Serpent, and he regarded Kinich Ahau as a secondary lesser deity--indeed as scarcely a deity at all. As he had told me, Mictolan had been originally dedicated to Kukulcan; for generations its tutelar deity was the Plumed Serpent, and not until Kinchi Haman rose to power, by his own machinations and ruthless acts, had the Sun God been raised to prominence. And finally, to be revered as the Supreme God.

From the beginning I had suspected that Nohul Voh’s underlying purpose had been to restore the old order of things, and now that Kinchi Haman had met his deserved end, now that the legitimate king ruled over the valley, and now that the old sorcerer found himself the right hand man of the king, he asserted himself. He had thundered at the people, had related the prophecies, had declared that my coming had been to reestablish the supremacy of Kukulcan, that the death of the hunchback priest had been his punishment at the hands of the Plumed Serpent.

He had assured the people that I had destroyed the Monster of Sacrifices, that Kinchi Haman had hoodwinked and deceived them, that while posing as a priest of the Sun God he had secretly offered sacrifices to the false gods of people who had occupied the valley before the coming of the Mayas, and he had ended by foretelling the most dire calamities and most awful results to all, if the people failed to obey their new king.

As Itza told of this I began to feel that I had become hopelessly entangled in the net of circumstances that I had helped to weave. I had become, willy-nilly, the high-priest of Kukulcan. The only other devotees of the Plumed Serpent god were the acolytes and lay-brothers--if I may use the term--of the temple, and if Kukulcan was to be _the_ god of the people, they would naturally expect to have the ceremonies continued with pomp and regularity. And I had no desire and no intention of devoting my life to acting as a Mayan high priest. Within a few days I planned to leave the valley--if Itza were willing--and I began to wonder if I would not meet with opposition on the part of Azcopil and Nohul Voh.

* * * * *

I WAS still puzzling my brain as to how I could manage matters when the newly-crowned king arrived with the old sorcerer. They repeated all that Itza had told me, with even more minute details, and complimented me upon my rapid recovery and my appearance. That Azcopil could have gone through so much without a sign of physical exhaustion and, with a few hours sleep, could have gone through with the ceremonies and duties of the day, amazed me more than anything else. But he had not been under the mental strain I had suffered, and he had the wiry, tireless almost incredible endurance of the Indian. Of course I congratulated him upon his coronation and voiced my approval of the new rules he had promulgated.

Old Nohul Voh smiled and chuckled. “He but followed out thy desires, O, Itzimin Chac,” he declared. “Did not my son tell us of the one God of his faith? Did he not give the rituals of his own faith upon the temple, though the people thought he spoke in the secret tongue of the cult, and I alone--with perhaps the maiden Itza--know it was not so? And did not my lord overthrow the power of Kinich Ahau and destroy the Kinchi Haman with his thunder tube, and defy the Sun God even within the sanctity of his own temple?

“The wise man, O, Itzimin, observes and gives thought; the fool stubs his toe against the rock. Does not the farmer nurture the sweetest melon? Does not he remove the thorn vine that tears his flesh? Does the woodsman stand in the path of the falling tree and command it to fall aside? Does not one know that when the sun shines the rain will cease? And can one man, O my son, serve two masters? Nay, Itzimin Chac. Always in the world is one thing stronger or better than another. Always there is the good and the bad. Always there is the right and the wrong. Always one must bow to someone more powerful. And though the wrong may endure for a time, though the bad may be so twisted as to seem good, always in the end that which is good, that which is right, that which is strong, shall endure. Much have you told me of your people--much that seems beyond belief did I not know by the prophecies that it was so. Safely you have come through the dangers that barred the way to Mictolan, though you are not of the race of Kitche Maya. And you have triumphed over the Kinchi Haman, and through you, King Azcopil is ruler over Mictolan. Only in one way could you have done all this, my son; only by the help of that one God you worship. And so Nohul Voh, who is wise and has lived through many Katuns, and Azcopil, my king, who knows your heart, know that your God is the greatest god and that to us He is known as Kukulcan.”

I was a bit dazed and tremendously astonished at this long and most surprising declaration of the old sorcerer. That he had become convinced that I was under divine protection, that he--as well as others--should have concluded that my God must be most powerful to have safeguarded me from the vengeance of Kinich Ahau, would not have been surprising. Indeed, it would have been exactly in line with their psychology. But that they--that Nohul Voh, should have decided to adopt the God I worshipped, that they should have practically cast down their ancient, supreme Sun God and thus completely revolutionize their religion and their mythology, and that, by some incomprehensible manner of reasoning they should have identified the Plumed Serpent as God Almighty, was actually astounding. To a missionary--to good jolly old Padre José in fact--it would have been most gratifying to learn that the people had been so won over from their heathen practices and multiplicity of pagan gods. But I was no missionary; my religious

## activities had been forced upon me, and my only interest in their

spiritual past, present or future lay in whether or not I had been appointed the head of their new church without being consulted in the matter; whether I was expected to continue to act the part of a priest, or whether I were free to follow my own inclinations in the matter. I was, in fact, about to put the question and settle it then and there when Nohul Voh’s next words answered it for me.

He had examined my arm, had dressed the cuts, which were already healing, and he had declared that in three days more it would be as well as ever. Then, as he turned to go, he glanced keenly at me. “My son,” he said, “though the Monster of Sacrifices will never more devour a maiden of Mictolan, yet the flames still stream from the temple. The Bridge of Light spans the chasm. The Way of the Symbols is open.”

There was no doubt as to the meaning of his words. The hint was broad, plain enough. I was free to go--in fact the old fellow seemed anxious to have me go. What did it mean? Had he read my thoughts? Did he merely remember that I had wished to leave the valley with Itza and so realize that I could never be happy here? Or had he decided that my presence in Mictolan was not wholly desirable?

I couldn’t say, and I didn’t care. If Itza was willing, if she still wanted to leave her home and with me attempt to reach the outside world, we would start as soon as possible. But if she hesitated, if she wavered, I would remain, would abandon all thoughts of leaving. I would far rather remain in the valley forever than to make her unhappy, to cause her to pine for Mictolan and her people, to have her regret ever having left the valley. It would not be much of a hardship for me to remain there. I had Itza, I would have plenty to occupy my mind, to keep me busy and interested, I would be well-to-do, I would occupy a far higher and more important position than I could ever hope for among my own people.

Why, after all, did I want to leave? I really could not explain it myself. It was not homesickness, not a desire to be among my own race. I had been too much of a wanderer, had made my home in too many lands, among too many diverse and alien people, to miss the companionship of those of my race, to have any sentimental or patriotic longings. In fact I had no real home. To be sure I was an American by birth, but I had spent but a comparatively small portion of my life in the States. London, Madrid, Lima, Mexico, La Paz; the wild heights of the Andes, the silent jungles of the Amazon, the deserts of Peru; the Gran Chaco, the Llanos; Broadway, Piccadilly, the Prado of Havana, the Plazas de Armas of scores of Latin cities were all equally familiar, equally dear or equally unimportant to me. Nowhere had I a family or relations, nowhere but in Mictolan had I a heart interest, or truer, dearer friends.

Whatever it was, it was there. As long as the flames rose above the temple they would beckon me, urge me to be gone, and I hoped and prayed that if Itza decided she preferred to remain, the Bridge of Light might vanish forever, thus putting an end to my longings and my hopes.

But Itza was as anxious to go as I was to have her. Indeed, she was, if anything, more enthusiastic. I knew the dangers, the hardships, the sufferings that faced us. I could foresee the weary miles, the dense jungles, the terrific mountains, the impassable streams, the vast wilderness that we would be forced to traverse. Even if we found that semi-mythical Way of the Symbols--in which I confess I had little faith--it would be no child’s play, no picnic to wander for days through the unexplored country to some remote outpost of civilization. But Itza knew nothing of this. She had no kith or kin in Mictolan; she was an orphan, she had no ties other than me to bind her or hold her, and to tell the truth, her experiences had not been conducive to developing any great fondness for her native valley or her own people.

In vain I tried--now that she had expressed her willingness and desire to go--to dissuade her. I pointed out all the difficulties, the dangers. I tried to picture her life among strangers, aliens. I dilated on the dreary winters, the bitter cold of the north. But the more I said the more--woman like--she was determined to go. She would enjoy it, she was sure. With me to love her and to be loved by her she could be happy anywhere. Hardships, dangers meant nothing. Had she not been through far worse dangers, through greater sufferings? She wanted to see all the marvelous things I had related to her. She wanted to dwell among my people, to speak my language, to see the oceans. And after all I could not blame her. All her life--short as it was--had been spent in this one valley. All she knew, all she could imagine of the world was what she could see, hear and know in Mictolan. Beyond the valley was another world, a vast, unknown, undreamed of universe, as fascinating, as filled with real and imaginary wonders as another planet would have been to me.

* * * * *

I WOULD have set out that very day had my arm been fully recovered. At any moment, at any time the flames might disappear, the bridge might vanish. But that was a chance that had to be taken. To start off with a bad arm would have been more than foolhardy even on an ordinary expedition into the jungles. And to set forth on such a perilous, desperate venture as ours, with the handicap of a partly disabled arm would have been nothing short of suicidal. So, resigning myself to fate, I waited for the days to pass until my wounds were fully healed and my arm was again strong and whole. Each morning at dawn I gazed, half-fearfully, at the temple top; a dozen times a day my eyes turned to it; often in the night I would steal from Itza’s side and peer into the soft effulgent light to assure myself the flames were still there. As Nohul Voh had said, the wounds healed in three days--his knowledge of herbs, drugs and cures was profound indeed, but it was ten days before full strength had returned to my lacerated arm.

Meanwhile I had kept my mind busy. I had spent many hours with Nohul Voh. I had been much with Azcopil, who with his queen were still our closest, dearest friends, and I had devoted no little time to adding to the mechanical advancement of the people. One thing I had done that pleased the people and amazed them immensely was to cast a large bronze bell for the temple. It was not a difficult job. The people were excellent metal workers, there was plenty of copper and silver, and it was merely a matter of making a mould and of smelting enough of the copper-silver alloy in several hundred crucibles at one time. Bells of small size and of the sleigh-bell type were common, they were made of copper, silver and gold, but no one had ever before seen a large bell or a bell of the conventional type. Hence they had no idea what they were making, and, in order to surprise and impress them, I kept the matter a profound secret until the bell was finished. Then with infinite trouble and labor, it had been hauled and hoisted up the temple and hung beside the altar.

When all was in readiness and, standing upon the altar, I seized the heavy copper maul I had provided, and with all my strength swung it against the bell and the deep melodious tones rang out across the valley, the people rushed crowding to the streets and stared in dumb wonder.

Many could not at first locate the sound, and jumped and stared about and shaded their eyes and peered into the sky, striving to see the thing that emitted the strange, unknown sound. But presently all knew, and with wild shouts of joy, cried that their god was now speaking to them. Indeed, to them, this ringing, musical voice of their god was far more impressive, more convincing than any prayers or rituals I or any other priest had ever uttered. That they could not interpret the sounds made no difference; they were no more unintelligible than my words had been, and to have the deity speak to them directly, instead of through the medium of a human being, impressed them beyond belief. Moreover, it solved the problem of finding a priest to take my place, a problem that Nohul Voh, Azcopil and I had discussed at length, for the sorcerer and the king both knew that as soon as my arm was strong, I planned to leave them. But now there was no need of another priest. Any acolyte or temple attendant could mount to the great bell and pound upon it with the maul at sunrise and sunset.

* * * * *

ONLY once more did I ascend to the temple altar.

Perhaps I did wrong, perhaps I may be severely criticized. But however that may be, the idea struck me to plant the symbol of the Christian faith on the spot where I had recited Christian prayers so often. And I have often wondered since, what would be thought if, at some distant time, explorers or archeologists should penetrate to Mictolan, and upon the deserted forgotten temple of the Plumed Serpent, they should find a bronze bell and a Christian cross beside the great stone idol of Kukulcan.

There was nothing now to delay our going. My arm was as strong as ever, the flames still streamed from the temple of Kinich Ahau, the Bridge of Light still spanned the chasm at the Cave of the Bats. We planned to leave secretly, to slip away without attracting the attention of the people, without their knowledge.

There were three reasons for this. In the first place, the people might object to my deserting them. In the second place, there was the prophecy foretelling that the bearer of the Book of Kukulcan would lead the people from Mictolan to reestablish the ancient empire of their race, and they might insist on accompanying me; while in the third place, as Nohul Voh naively suggested, my mysterious disappearance would be quite in keeping with my supposedly divine character and would do much to strengthen the people’s faith in Kukulcan.

So, accompanied by the king and the old sorcerer, who insisted on seeing us off, we left the palace before dawn, and silently and unseen, hurried along that broad straight avenue down which I had come with Itza so many months before. How the others felt as we walked through the chill air on that memorable morning I do not know. But I for one felt more excited, more keyed up than ever in my life before. I was starting on a strange, a perilous adventure, and with me I was taking Itza into dangers no one could foresee. And as I gazed about at the well-known scene, at the silent, flat-roofed houses, at the green fields and gigantic vegetation, at the frowning encircling mountains that hid the valley’s secret from all the world, at the lofty temples spectral in the morning mist, a lump rose in my throat and I felt--strange thought as it was--much as I imagine a man must feel when he is going to his execution. I was leaving all this forever. Suddenly all seemed very dear to me, even the spidery windmills--incongruous things in this isolated valley--seemed like old familiar friends, and had Itza at that moment changed her mind, I would willingly have turned back. But she was all excitement, all gaiety, all agog with the spirit of adventure.

At last we reached the entrance to the tunnel. I glanced back. Yes, the flames were rising above the Temple of the Sun, streaming straight upward in the still morning air. From where I had secreted them in a crevice of the rocks, I took my torches, my pack of provisions, and strapped them on my back. And then, to my amazement, Itza, with a merry laugh, rolled aside a rock and dragging out a second pack, adjusted it on her own lovely shoulders. In vain I protested. It was nothing, she declared. She hardly felt it. And we might need it. Why should her Itzimin carry all the burden? Was she not to eat her share of food? Why then should she not carry her share? Nohul Voh and Azcopil stood by her. It was useless to argue against three, and so, with a kiss and a caress, I gave in. A dozen paces more and before us was the black chasm spanned by the dazzling, iridescent, wondrous bridge of light. Fear, distrust, doubt filled me. I had crossed it before, yet try as I might I could not force myself to step from the firm hard stone onto that transparent, tenuous glow.

But Itza had no such fears. Swiftly she embraced King Azcopil, she threw her arms about Nohul Voh and planted a farewell kiss upon his cheek, and with a merry laugh and a wave of her hand stepped confidently from the verge of the rock. My heart skipped a beat, I uttered an involuntary cry as she did so. It seemed impossible that she would not be dashed to death in the abyss. But no. She might have been treading solid metal. Lightly she ran forward, calling me to follow. With a last clasp of my hand I stammered farewells to my two friends, and with gritted teeth and summoning all my courage, I stepped onto the incredible bridge and hurried after Itza.

A moment more and she sprang upon the ledge on the farther side. Turning, she waved her hand to the two men. Ten feet, five, three, separated me from her. Another stride and I would be beside her. And then, suddenly, without warning, the thing vanished under my feet. As if in a horrible nightmare I felt dropping into eternity. A wild despairing shriek came from my lips. I clutched wildly. My fingers gripped the rock, my toes dug into a crevice. With all my strength I fought to drag myself up. But the precipice was undercut and I could exert no leverage. I felt myself slipping, going. Then hands gripped my hair, my scalp seemed about to be torn from my head. With a last convulsive kick, a supreme effort, I felt my chest upon the ledge. Faint, half-senseless, with half my body and my legs dangling over the awful chasm, I was powerless to move another inch. But Itza’s fingers were twisted firmly in my long hair. She had braced herself against an outjutting ledge, and she was by no means a puny weakling. Panting, tugging--each jerk bringing agonized groans from my lips--she dragged me to safety at last. I had escaped an awful death by the narrowest margin. Had the Bridge of Light failed ten, five seconds--even one second sooner, nothing could have prevented me from being hurled to the depths of the abyss. I shuddered as I thought of it, shuddered still more at thought of what would have happened had the bridge ceased while Itza was crossing, if it had vanished with Itza on one side and myself on the other. And I thanked God that my left arm had not gone back on me. But I owed my life to Itza, to Itza whom I had thought too weak to withstand the dangers to be faced! She had dropped beside me and, woman-like now that the peril was past, she had burst into tears, sobbing out how terrified she had been, begging me to tell her if I were injured, pleading she was so sorry she had hurt me.

Controlling my shaken nerves, pulling myself together with an effort, I scrambled to my feet, raised her tenderly, and laughing at her fears stifled her sobs with kisses. Steeling myself to see that horrible chasm, I looked across to where Azcopil and Nohul Voh still stood. Then, waving our hands to them, shouting that all was well, we turned and entered the Cave of the Bats.

We had left Mictolan forever. There was no going back.

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