Earth! at last the land…. Mother of all things, I salute thee … this bleak beach on which dash the waves … the soft odour of the wind sways the trees on yonder promontory…. I hear the measured dip of oars … the grating of the boat’s keel on the stones…. Ha! I am in the hands of demons … their eyes glare as they lift me from boat to litter…. The curtains are dropped, and I feel the swing and sway of the litter being carried up steep heights….
This is a primeval forest … green as the sea … scarcely so restless … the warm wind stirs the giant branches … what crowded hues … and lo! the flash of brilliant flowers … the odour of spices…. Brilliant birds flit from branch to branch like flying gems…. I hear the singing of choirs invisible … the birds!… Yes, birds only…. Garlands of flowers trail from the trees … beneath their shadow the grass is crowded with blossoms … wherever I step a flower springs to being … those pools of still water blue as turquoise … the Indian conjurer!… I see him hiding amid the frondage … look!… the saurian!… Oh, the frightful monster…. Preadamite!… begotten in chaos slime…. Trees! trees! trees without end…. The earth is one vast forest, and I alone wander therein….
Snow!… a vast expanse of snow … for miles and leagues…. No! it is salt lying in thin flakes on the brown earth … the surface glitters in the moonlight as if it were ice…. Far and wide whirl thin white pillars of salt in the grip of the wind…. Lot’s wife! Ha! Ha! Nay, no woman do I see, but salt on all hands … like snow … and moon freezing crystals….
The forest again … more trees … birds … odours…. Hark! a song … ‘tis the dancing-girls who sing … I heard them call … I see them shake their anklets of gold … the cymbals crash … the trinkets shine. Can you not hear the roll of the serpent-skin drums?…
Oh, this interminable avenue of stone gods … on either side the faces of solemn sphinxes…. I am in Egypt … I go up to offer sacrifice to the god Thoth … lines of sphinxes … statues of kings with their hands placed on their knees … then this great flight of steps…. Up, and up and up…. Are we going to heaven?… I will bow down to my God…. Horror! Huitzilopochtli…. This is not my God…. I sacrifice to Thoth…. To Isis…. Ah, you would make of me the victim…. Oh, foul priest, knife in hand … the stone of the sacrifice … you raise the obsidian knife … Again the chant of the priests … the light clash of the dancing-girls’ anklets … drums … cymbals and death….
I am in the tomb … yes; fold my hands on my breast, for I have done with life … straight and white I lie, with cerements swathing my form … this is a king’s tomb … these walls are painted with many colours … yonder are gods and kings and heroes walking in long files … here they sacrifice to their god … there they lead captive trains of prisoners…. A splendid tomb, but the roof crushes me down … oh, Heaven! can those pillars, those caryatides support the cyclopean architecture?… It will fall and crush me, like Samson…. Yes, I thirst! I am dead, but I thirst…. Dives in hell … give me….
… What! a woman’s face?… I have seen that face before … those dark eyes, that smiling mouth … it is thou! Dolores! Oh, my heart’s best love, I again find you,—in the tomb?… we have done with life … then we were divided; but Death, more merciful, has joined us again…. Place your cool white hand on my brow … it burns … it burns…. No, no! do not leave me … oh, I see you fade in the darkness like a vision … and this phantom which rises between us?… Oh, Xuarez! liar! thief! murderer!… thus do I slay thee!… So weak; so weary; I know nothing … where am I?… what am I?… whither have my visions fled?… I am dead! not in hell, nor heaven … but where? I know not … I am dead … you, Dolores … you, Xuarez … you all, dreams…. I lie here dead and still … in my ear the chant of a slave…. Could I only turn my head … ah! the slave rises … he bends over me…. Cocom!…
“Yes, Señor, it is Cocom,” said a well-known voice, as a gentle hand skilfully adjusted the bandages.
“Cocom!” repeated Jack, in a weak voice. “Am I dead? Do I dream? Am I dead?”
“No, Señor Juan. You were nearly dead, and for days you have dreamed of many things. Now you are better, and will live.”
“Still on earth?”
“Yes, Don Juan. Still do you live, thanks be to the gods. Teoyamiqui has not yet brought you to her kingdom. Now, lie you still, Señor. So! Drink this, and speak not; you are so weak.”
Jack raised his head from the pillow, and greedily drank the contents of the cup held to his lips by Cocom. Then he closed his eyes, and fell into a refreshing sleep, while the old Indian sat quietly by the side of the couch, muttering some strange old song of a forgotten civilisation. Now and then a form would glide into the room and look at Jack sleeping in the bed, so still, so deathlike. Sometimes a man, more often a woman, and ever beside the couch sat the stolid Cocom, watching the face of his patient with intense interest.
How long he slept thus Jack did not know, but when he woke from a refreshing slumber all his delirium had departed. He felt weak, truly, but clear-headed and calm in his mind. Opening his eyes, he listened vaguely to the murmuring song of his attendant, and thought over the events which had preceded his illness. The entry into Acauhtzin; the dismissal of the deputation at the Palacio Nacional; the fight at the sea-gate; the interview in prison with Don Hypolito; and then utter blankness. He remembered fainting in the cell at Acauhtzin, and now he had wakened—where? With an effort he raised his head and looked round him.
In his delirium he had thought he was in a tomb, and truly the room wherein he now found himself was not unlike one of those strange Egyptian sepulchres, houses of the dead, wherein the highest art of that sombre civilisation was displayed. This low roof, formed of Titanic masses of stone; these heavy walls, gaudy with mural paintings, representing gods, kings, heroes strange sacrifices, and mystical ceremonies; all were redolent of the land of the Nile. Through a narrow slit in the wall filtered a pale light; skins of jaguar and puma carpeted the stone floor; rich coverlets of featherwork lay over the couch, and the entrance was draped with gaudy tapestries, dyed with confused tints, hinting at barbaric art. Jack, for the moment, thought he was indeed in Egypt, when, suddenly, at the side of the room he saw the hideous image of Huitzilopochtli, and heard the monotonous chant of his Watcher. Then, his true situation came vividly to his mind; this was a room in some Indian dwelling, yonder was the fierce god of the Aztecs, and by his bedside knelt Cocom.
“Where am I?” asked the young man, raising himself on his elbow, and looking at the Indian with a puzzled expression of countenance.
“In good hands, Señor,” was the evasive answer.
“Yes, yes! I know that. But am I still in Acauhtzin?”
“No. You are many miles from Acauhtzin.”
“But I was there last night.”
Cocom shook his head, and, producing a cigarette, lighted it carefully, blew some smoke through his nostrils, and looked steadily at Jack with his melancholy eyes.
“You were there five days ago, Señor.”
“What do you mean, Cocom?”
“Ah! the Señor forgets that he has been ill. For five days he has been in the land of everlasting darkness. Cocom has watched many hours by this couch and listened to the crying of the Señor. You have seen visions and heard voices, Don Juan. On the borders of Teoyamiqui’s land have you been, yet not within her kingdom. But Cocom knows many things, and by his art has cheated the goddess of one Americano. You are out of danger now, Señor, and I, Cocom, have cured you.”
“Mucha gracias!” murmured Jack, patting the Indian on the shoulder with a weak hand; “but tell me where I am now.”
“Where does your memory fail, Don Juan?”
Jack passed his hand across his brow. The confusion of his brain had departed. His senses were clear now, and he could recall everything up to a