CHAPTER XXIII.
OUR FLIGHT, AND HOW IT ENDED
“HOW came this lady here, Maya, and what does she seek!” the señor asked.
“I do not know how she came,” gasped his wife. “My waiting-women were gone, and I had begun to prepare myself for sleep, when, looking into yonder mirror, I saw her behind me, having in her hand a naked knife, and searching the room with her eyes. Presently they fell upon the cradle, and, lifting the knife, she took a step towards it. Then I turned and gripped her, holding her as well as I was able; but she was too strong for me and dragged me forward, so that had it not been for Ignatio here, by now she would have made an end of our son.”
“Is this true?” said the señor to Nahua.
“It is true, White Man,” she answered.
“Why do you desire to kill one so innocent?” he asked again.
“Is it not natural that I should wish to destroy the child who is to supplant my child, and to break the heart of the woman who has broken my heart?” Nahua answered, sullenly. “Amongst many other things, I have learned, White Man, of that ceremony which is to take place to-morrow, whereat my husband is to be deposed and my child dishonoured, that they may make room for you and for your child,—you, the white wanderer, and your son, the Heaven-born, the Fore-ordained!”
“What have we to do with these things, O woman with the heart of a puma?” he asked. “If Tikal is to be driven from his place, it is because of his crimes.”
“And if you and yours are to be set in it, White Man, without doubt it is because of your virtues; and yet, O black-hearted knave that you are, I tell you that I know all the truth. I know how you forged the writing, setting the false for the true within the holy symbol of the Heart. I know also that my father helped you to the deed, for although he is dead, he wrote down that tale before he died, and gave it to me, together with the ancient prophecy that you dared to steal from the holy Sanctuary. Yes, I have the proofs, and when needful I will show them. I did not come here to do murder, at least not upon the infant; but the sight of it sleeping in its cradle overcame me, and of a sudden I determined to wreak my wrongs upon it and upon its mother. In this I have failed, but when I denounce you to the Council, then I shall not fail; then you will be known for what you are, and die the death that you deserve.”
“It comes into my mind, husband,” said Maya coldly, “that if we would save our own lives we must rob this woman of hers. Such a doom she has richly earned, nor will any blame us when they learn what was her errand here.”
Now when she heard these words, Nahua struggled in the señor’s grasp, and opened her mouth as though to scream.
“Be silent,” he said, “if you wish to keep your soul in you. Ignatio, close those doors and give me yonder shawl.”
I did so, and with the shawl we bound Nahua’s arms behind her, fastening it over her mouth so that she could make no sound. Then we took a leather girdle and strapped it about her knees, so that she could not move, but lay helpless on the floor, glaring at us with her fierce eyes.
“Now let us take counsel,” I said.
“Yes,” answered the señor, “let us take counsel, for we need it. One of two things we must do; kill that woman, or fly the city, for if she leaves this place alive we are certainly doomed to death before the altar, ay! and the child also.”
“Fly!” said Maya, “how can we fly, when I am still weak and the babe is so young and tender? Should we succeed in escaping from the city and across the lake, certainly we must perish among the snows of the mountains or in the deserts beyond. Also, we should be missed and overtaken.”
“Then Nahua must die,” said the señor.
“Could we not swear her to silence if we released her?” I asked, for I shrank from such a dreadful deed, however just and necessary it might be.
“Swear her to silence!” said Maya contemptuously, “as easily might you swear a snake not to use its fangs, if one should chance to tread on it. Do you not understand that this woman hates me so bitterly, who she thinks has robbed her of her husband’s love, that she would gladly die herself, if thereby she could bring about my death and that of those who are dear to me. So soon as she could leave her bed of sickness she came here to taunt me with the doom she had prepared, knowing that I was alone. Then she saw the child, and so great was her desire for revenge that she could not even wait till the law should wreak it for her. No, the issue is plain: if we cannot fly, either she must die or we must. Is it not so, Ignatio?”
“It seems that it is so,” I answered sadly, “and yet the thing is awful.”
“It is awful, but it must be done,” said the señor, “and it falls on me to do it for the sake of my wife and child. Alas! that I was ever born, that I should live to stand face to face with such necessity. Could not another hand be found? No; for then we should confess ourselves as murderers. Give me a knife. Nay, my hands will serve, and this end will seem more natural, for I can say that when I found her in the act of murder, I seized her and killed her suddenly by my strength alone, not meaning it in my wrath.”
Now he stepped to where Nahua lay, and knelt beside her, and we two drew away sick at heart and hid our faces in our hands.
Presently he was with us again.
“Is it done?” asked Maya hoarsely.
“No; nor will be by me,” he answered, in a fierce voice, “sooner would I choke the breath out of my own body than strangle this defenceless woman, cruel-hearted murderess though she is. If she is to be killed, some other man must do the deed.”
“Then it will remain undone,” said Maya. “And now, since we have thus determined, let us think of flight, for the night draws on, and in flight is our only hope.”
“What, then, is to be done with this woman?” I asked. “We cannot take her with us.”
“No; but we can leave her here gagged and bound till they chance to find her,” answered the señor. “Hearken, Nahua, we spare you, and to do it go forth to our own deaths. May your fierce heart learn a lesson of mercy from the deed. Farewell.”
Two hours had gone by, and three figures, wrapped in rough serapes, such as the common people wore, one of whom, a woman, carried an infant in her arms, might have been seen cautiously descending the city wall by means of a wooden ladder that ran from its summit to a jetty built upon piers at the foot of it, which was used as a mooring-place for boats during the months of inundation. As was common at this season of the year, the lake was already rising, and floating in the shallow water at the end of the jetty lay a pleasure-skiff which the señor and I were accustomed to use for the purpose of fishing whenever we could escape for a few hours from our wearisome life in the city.
Into this skiff we entered, and, having hoisted the sail, set our course by the stars, steering for that village whence, a year before, we had embarked for the City of the Heart. The wind being favourable to us, our progress was rapid, and by the first grey light of dawn we caught sight of the village not a mile away. Here, however, we did not dare to land, for we should be seen and recognised; therefore we beached our boat behind the shelter of some dwarf water-palms three furlongs or more below the village, and, having hidden it as well as we were able, set out at once towards the mountains.
Passing round the back of the village without being seen, for as yet folk were scarcely astir, we began our dreadful journey. For a while Maya bore up well, but as the heat of the day increased she showed signs of tiring, which was little to be wondered at, seeing that she carried in her arms a child not three weeks old. At mid-day we halted that she might rest, hiding ourselves beneath a tree by the banks of a brook, and eating of such food as we had brought with us. In the early afternoon we started on again, and for the rest of that dreary day struggled forward as best we could, the señor and I carrying the infant alternately in addition to our other burdens.
At length the evening fell, and we camped for the night, if camping it can be called, to sleep beneath the shadow of a cedar-tree without fire and with little food, having no covering except our serapes. Towards morning the air grew cold, for already we were at some height above the lake, and the tender infant began to wail piteously,—a wail that wrung our hearts. Still we rose with the sun and went on our way, for it seemed that there was nothing else to do. Throughout that day, with ever-wearying footsteps, we journeyed, till at sunset we reached the snow-line, and saw before us the hunter’s rest-house where we had slept when first we entered the Country of the Heart.
“Let us go in,” said Maya, “and find food and shelter for the night.”
Now, our plan had been to avoid this house and gain the pass, where we proposed to stay till daybreak, and then to travel down the mountain slopes into the wilderness.
“If we enter there, Maya, we shall be trapped,” said the señor; “our only safety lies in travelling through the pass before we are overtaken, for it is against the law that any of your people should follow us into the wilderness.”
“If we do not enter, my child will die in the cold,” she answered. “You were too tender to secure our safety by putting that would-be murderess to death; have you, then, the heart, husband, to kill your own child?”
Now at these words I saw the señor’s eyes fill with tears, but he said only:
“Be it as you will.”
By now, indeed, we understood—all three of us—that if we would save ourselves we must suffer the child to die, and, however great our necessity, this we could not do. So we went up to the house and entered, and there by the fire sat that same man and his wife whom we had found in this room a year ago.
“Who are you?” he cried, springing up. “Pardon, Lady, but in that garb I did not know you.”
“It is best that you should not know us,” said Maya. “We are wanderers who have lost our way out hunting. Give us food, as you are bound to do.”
Then the man and his wife, who were kindly people, made obeisance to us, and set of the best they had before us. We ate, and, after eating, slept, for we were very weary, bidding the man watch and tell us if he saw any stranger approaching the house. Before dawn he woke us, and we rose. A little later he came into my room and told me that a large body of men were in sight of the house. Then I knew that it was finished, and called the others.
“Now, there are three things that we can do,” I said: “fly towards the pass; defend this house; or surrender ourselves.”
“There is no time to fly,” answered the señor, “therefore it is my counsel that we fight.”
“It is your counsel that two men armed with bows” (for our firearms had been taken from us on the pyramid, and we had never been able to recover them) “should engage with fifty. Well, friend, we can try it if you wish, and perhaps it will be as good a way of meeting our deaths as any other.”
“This is folly,” broke in Maya; “there is but one thing to do; yield ourselves and trust to fortune, if, indeed, fortune has any good in store for us. Only I wish that we had done it before we undertook this weary journey.”
As she spoke, by the light of the rising sun we saw a great number of men forming a circle round the house. With them were several captains and lords, and among these I recognised Dimas and Tikal.
“Let us put a bold face on it,” said Maya. So we opened the door, walked out, and came into the presence of Tikal, Dimas, and the other lords.
“Whom do you seek, that you come with an armed force?” asked Maya.
“Whom should I seek but your fair self, cousin?” answered Tikal,—and I saw that his eye was wild, as though with drink. “If Nahua, my wife, had her way, she would have let you go, for she desires to see the last of you; but her will is not my will, nor her desire my desire, and as it chances we have come up with you in time.”
Maya turned from him with a scornful gesture, and addressed herself to Dimas, saying:
“Tell us of what we are charged that you follow us as though we were evil-doers.”
“Lady,” the old priest answered gravely, “it would seem that you have earned this name, you and your companions together. Listen: two days since you were missing, and the Lady Nahua was also missing. Search was made, and at last your private apartments were broken open, and there she was discovered bound and gagged. From her we learned the secret of your flight, and followed after you.”
“Did she, then, tell you why we fled?” asked Maya. “Did she tell you that she crept to my chamber like a thief in the night, and there was found in the act of doing murder on my child?”
“No, Lady, she told us nothing of all this. Indeed, her manner was strange; for, so soon as she was recovered somewhat, she took back her words, and said that she knew naught of you or of your plans, and that if you had fled we should do well to let you go before worse things happened. But, knowing that for all this she had reasons easy to be guessed, we followed and found you, and now we arrest you to answer before the Council for your great sins, in that you have broken your solemn oaths by attempting to leave the land without the consent of the Council, and have added to your crimes by taking with you this child, the Heaven-sent deliverer, on whom rest the hopes of our race.”
“If we have broken our oaths,” said Maya, “we broke them to save our lives. Were we, then, to stop in the city till the knife of the assassin found us out? On the very night of my marriage a murderer was set upon my husband, and perhaps one stands there”—and she pointed to Tikal—“who could tell us who he was and whence he came. Three days ago another murderer sought the life of our child, and that murderer the wife of the Lord Tikal. Is it, then, a sin that we should take from the land one whose life is not safe within it.”
“All these matters you can lay before the Council, lady,” answered Dimas, “and if Nahua is what you say, without a doubt she must suffer for her crime. Yet her evil-doing cannot pay for yours, for when you found yourself in danger, you should have claimed protection from those who could give it, and not have betaken yourselves to flight like thieves in terror of the watch. Come, enter the litter that is prepared for you, and let us be going.”
“As you will,” she said; “but one thing I pray of you, let this man, my cousin, Tikal the cacique, be kept away from me, for the sight of him is hateful to me, seeing that, not content with plotting to kill my husband and my child, he puts me to shame continually by the offer of his love.”
“It shall be as you wish, Lady. Your husband and your friend can travel by your side, and guards shall surround your litter to see that none molest you.”
Then we started. Of our journey back there is nothing to tell, unless it be to say that after its own fashion it was even more wretched than that which we had just accomplished. Then, indeed, we were footsore, hungry, and racked with fears, but at least the hope of freedom shone before us like a guiding-star, whereas now, although we travelled in comfort, it was to find shame, exposure, and death awaiting us at last. For my part, indeed, this thought did not move me very much, seeing that hope had left me, and without hope I no longer wished to live. You, my friend, for whom I write this history, may think my saying strange, but had you stood where I stood that day you would not wonder at it. Even now I sometimes dream that I am back in the City of the Heart, and wake cold with fear as a man wakes from some haunted sleep. True, there I had place and power and luxury, but oh! sooner would I have earned my livelihood herding cattle in the wilderness than fret away my life within that golden cage. What to me were their banquets and their empty pleasures, or their petty strivings for rank and title,—to me who all my days had followed the star of my high aim, that star which now was setting. Maya and the señor had each other and their child to console them; but I had nothing except such friendship as they chose to spare me, the memory of my many failures, the clinging bitterness of conscience, the fear of vengeance to be wreaked, and the hope of peace beyond the end. Therefore I, an outworn and disappointed man, was prepared to welcome the doom that awaited me, but how would it be with the others who were still full of love and youth?
Late that night we reached the city and were led, not to the palace where we lived, but towards the enclosure of the pyramid.
“How is this?” asked Maya of the captain of the guard. “Our road lies yonder.”
“No, lady,” he answered, “my orders are to take you up the stairway of the pyramid.”
Now Maya pressed her face against the face of her child and sobbed, for she knew that once more we must inhabit the darksome vault where her father had been taken to die. They led us up the stair and down the narrow way, till we stood in the lamp-lit hall, and heard our prison gates clash behind us. Then they gave us food and left us alone.
Never did I pass a more evil night; for, strive as I would to win it, sleep fled from me, and I tossed upon my couch, wondering where my bed would be on the morrow, after we had stood before the Council in the Sanctuary of the Heart, and Nahua had borne witness against us. I remembered that shaft before the altar, and seemed to hear the murmur of the water in its depths! Well, as I have said, I did not fear to die, for God is merciful to sinners; but oh! it was dreadful to meet this liar’s doom, and to remember that it was I who brought the señor here to share it.
As I mused thus, even through the massive walls of the vault I heard a woman scream, and, springing from my bed, I ran into the central hall, where the lamps burned always. Here I met Maya, clad in her night-dress only, and speeding down the hall, her wide eyes filled with terror.
“What has happened?” I said, stopping her; and, as I spoke, the señor came up.
“Oh! I have dreamed,” she gasped. “I have dreamed a fearful dream. I dreamed that my father came to me, and—I cannot tell it—the child—the child——” and she broke down utterly, and could say no more.
“This place is full of evil memories, and her strength is shattered,” said the señor, when we had calmed her somewhat. “Come back, wife, and sleep.”
“Sleep!” she answered. “I do not think that I shall ever sleep again; and yet, unless I sleep, I shall go mad. Oh! that vision! Truly the curse of Mattai has taken hold of me.”
Some few hours later we met again in the great hall, but Maya said nothing of her dream, nor did I ask her to tell it, though I could see from her face that it was not forgotten. We ate, or made pretence to eat, and sat for a while in silence, till at length the gates opened, and through them came Dimas and some companion priests. Bidding these to stand back, he advanced alone and greeted us kindly.
“I am grieved,” he said, “that you should again be called upon to occupy this gloomy lodging; but I had no choice in the matter, since I am but the servant of the Council, and its commands were strict. It was feared lest the infant might be spirited away, were you left at liberty.”
“It will soon be spirited away, indeed, Dimas,” said Maya, “if it be kept here in the darkness. Already the child pines—within a week he will be dead.”
“Have no fear, lady; your imprisonment is not for long, for this very night, the night of the Rising of Waters, you will all of you be put upon your trial before the Council in the Sanctuary, and charged with the crime of attempting to escape the land.”
“Is there no other charge?” asked Maya.
“None, lady, that I have heard of. What other charge should there be?”
“And what will be the verdict of the Council?”
“I cannot say, lady, but I know that none wish to deal harshly with you, and if that charge which you bring against the Lady Nahua can be proved, it will go in your favour. The crime you have attempted is a great one, both in our eyes and still more in the eyes of the people, for now they talk day and night of this Deliverer who has been born to them, and they will not easily forgive those who strove to take him from them. Still, I think that upon certain terms the anger of your judges may be appeased.”
“What terms?” asked Maya.
Now Dimas hesitated, and answered:
“By the strict letter of the law, if your offence is proved against you, you are worthy of death, every one, unless you yourself are held inviolate because of your hereditary rank as Lady of the Heart. But it may be that the Council will not exact the extreme penalty. It may be that it will satisfy itself with driving these strangers from our borders instead of driving them from the land of life.”
“Yet one of them is my husband, Dimas.”
“True, lady, but the child is born!”
“I cannot be parted from my husband. Better that we should die together than that we should be parted. If the people have no need of him, neither have they any need of me; let us bid them farewell and go free together. I am weary of this land, Dimas, for here murder dogs our steps and I am in terror of my life. I desire nothing from my people save liberty to leave them.”
“But, Lady, your people desire something from you; they desire the child. Of these strangers they would be rid by death or otherwise, and you—though of this I am not sure—they may allow to accompany them; but with your child they will never part, for he is their heaven-sent king, the Son of prophecy. It comes to this, then, that if the Council should exercise its prerogative of mercy,—as it will do if I and my party have sufficient weight,—at the best you must choose between the loss of your husband or of your son.”
Now the face of Maya became drawn with pain, so that she looked as though age had overtaken her. Then she answered:
“Go, tell those that sent you, Dimas, that these are the words of Maya, Lady of the Heart: My child is dear to me, for he is flesh of my flesh; but my husband is yet dearer, for he is both flesh of my flesh and soul of my soul. Therefore, if I must choose between the two, I choose him who is nearest; for I may have another child, but never another husband.”