[image: img_000.jpg
caption: Maya]
HEART OF THE WORLD
BY
H. RIDER HAGGARD
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY AMY SAWYER_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
1896
_All rights reserved_
DEDICATION.
I INSCRIBE THIS STORY OF THE GOLDEN CITY
‘_HEART OF THE WORLD_’
TO MY NAMESAKE AND GODCHILD
HENRY RIDER HAGGARD
OF BUTLER, U. S. A.
_Ditchingham_,
_Christmas Day, 1894_
CONTENTS.
Prologue--Don Ignatio
Chapter I. How the Plot Failed
Chapter II. The Señor Strickland
Chapter III. The Summons
Chapter IV. The Legend of the Heart
Chapter V. The Beginning of the Quest
Chapter VI. “El Norte”
Chapter VII. “The Hacienda”
Chapter VIII. The Supper and After
Chapter IX. The Duel
Chapter X. How Molas Died
Chapter XI. Zibalbay Tells His Mission
Chapter XII. Maya Descends the Cueva
Chapter XIII. Ignatio’s Oath
Chapter XIV. The City of the Heart
Chapter XV. How Zibalbay Came Home
Chapter XVI. On the Pyramid
Chapter XVII. The Curse of Zibalbay
Chapter XVIII. The Plot
Chapter XIX. The Sacrilege
Chapter XX. The Council of the Heart
Chapter XXI. The Marriage of Maya
Chapter XXII. Mattai Prophesies Evil
Chapter XXIII. Our Flight and How it Ended
Chapter XXIV. Nahua Bears Witness
Chapter XXV. Farewell
ENVOI
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Maya
‘Can you read this writing?’
‘This is your doing, woman! Are you not afraid?’
‘You shall pay for that, Englishman.’
I did not so much as suffer my eyelids to tremble.
‘Oh! that I were free to avenge you!’
The mass of stonework fell, ... taking Molas with it.
So beautiful was this bubble... that for some minutes Maya watched it.
Presently the curtain was drawn, and the Lady Maya joined us.
‘It is I, Zibalbay, your lord, come home.’
It was... Zibalbay, ... come back from the boundaries of death.
‘You--false Lady of the Heart.’
Out of the mouth of the pit... sprang a vast column of water.
She was mad.
Presently the great pile was alight.
HEART OF THE WORLD
PROLOGUE.
DON IGNATIO
The circumstances under which the following pages come to be printed
are somewhat curious and worthy of record. Within the last few years a
certain English gentleman, whom we will call Jones, because it was not
his name, chanced to be employed as the manager of a mine not far from
the Usumacinto River, the upper reaches of which divide the Mexican
State of Chiapas from the Republic of Guatemala.
Now life at a mine in Chiapas, though doubtless it has some
compensations, does not altogether fulfil a European’s ideal of
happiness. To begin with, the work is hard, desperately hard, and
though the climate is healthy enough among the mountains, there are
valleys where men may die of fever. Of sport, strictly speaking, there
is none, for the forests are too dense to hunt in with any comfort,
and, if they were not, the swarms of venomous insects of various
degree, that haunt them, would make this particular relaxation
impossible.
Society also, as we understand it, is conspicuous by its absence, and
should a man chance even to be married, he could not well bring his
wife into regions that are still very unsettled, across forest paths,
through rivers, and along the brinks of precipices, dangerous and
impassable enough to strike terror to the heart of the stoutest
traveller.
When Mr. Jones had dwelt for a year at the mines of La Concepcion, the
fact of his loneliness, and a desire for acquaintances more congenial
than the American clerk of the stores and his Indian labourers, came
home to him with some force. During the first months of his residence
he had attempted to make friends with the owners of some neighbouring
_fincas_ or farms. This attempt, however, he soon gave up in disgust,
for these men proved to be half-breeds of the lowest class, living in
an atmosphere of monotonous vice.
In this emergency, being a person of intelligence, Jones fell back
upon intellectual resources, and devoted himself, so far as his time
would allow, to the collection of antiquities, and to the study of
such of the numerous ruins of pre-Aztec cities and temples as lay
within his reach. The longer he pursued these researches, the more did
they fascinate his imagination. Therefore, when he chanced to hear
that, on the farther side of the mountain, at a _hacienda_ called
Santa Cruz, there dwelt an Indian, Don Ignatio by name, the owner of
the _hacienda_, who was reported to have more knowledge of the
_antiguos_, their history and relics, than anybody else in this part
of Mexico, he determined to visit him upon the first opportunity.
This, indeed, he would have done before, for Don Ignatio boasted an
excellent reputation, had it not been for the length of the journey to
his home. Now, however, the difficulty was lessened by an Indian who
offered to point out a practicable path over the mountain, which
brought the _hacienda_ of Santa Cruz to within a three hours’ ride on
mule-back from La Concepcion, in place of the ten hours that were
necessary to reach it by the more frequented road. Accordingly, one
day in the dry season, when work was slack at the mine, owing to the
water having fallen too low to turn the crushing-mill, Jones started.
This was on a Saturday, for on the Monday previous he had despatched a
runner to Don Ignatio announcing his intended visit, and received in
reply a most courteous and well-written letter, begging him to pass
the next Sunday at the _hacienda_, “where any English gentleman would
always be most welcome.”
As he approached the _hacienda_, he was astonished to see the
_façade_ of an enormous white stone building of a semi-Moorish style
of architecture, having towers and ornamented doorways at either end,
and a large dome rising from the centre of its flat roof. Riding
through the _milpas_, or corn-fields, and groves of cocoa and coffee
bushes, all in a perfect state of cultivation, which covered many
acres on every side of the building, Jones came to the gateway of a
large _patio_, or courtyard, where grew several gigantic _ceiba_
trees, throwing their grateful shade over the mouth of a well. From
under these trees an Indian appeared, who evidently had been watching
for his arrival, and, taking the horse, informed him, with many
salutations, that the Señor Ignatio was at even-song with his people
in the chapel yonder, according to his habit, but that the prayers
would soon be finished.
Leaving his horse in charge of the Indian, Jones went to the chapel,
and, its great doors being open, he entered and sat down. So soon as
his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he perceived that the
place was unusually beautiful, both in its proportions and its
decorations.
The worshippers also were many--perhaps they numbered three hundred,
clearly all of them Indians employed upon the estate; and so intent
were they upon their devotions that his entry was not even noticed. To
his mind, however, the most curious object in the building was a slab
of white marble, let into the wall above the altar, whereon the
following inscription was engraved in Spanish, in letters so large
that he had no difficulty in reading it:
“Dedicated by Ignatio, the Indian, to the memory of his most beloved
friend, James Strickland, an English gentleman, and Maya, Princess of
the Heart, his wife, whom first he met upon this spot. Pray for their
souls, of your charity, O passer-by.”
While Jones was wondering who this James Strickland, and Maya,
Princess of the Heart, might be, and whether it was his host who had
set up the tablet to their memory, the priest pronounced his
benediction, and the congregation began to leave the church.
The first to pass its doors was an Indian gentleman, whom Jones
rightly took to be Don Ignatio himself. He was a man of about sixty
years, but one who looked much older than his age, for sorrow,
hardship, and suffering had left their marks upon him. In person he
was tall and spare, nor did a slight lameness detract from the dignity
of his bearing. His dress was very simple and quite innocent of the
finery and silver buttons which have so much attraction for the
Mexican mind, consisting as it did of a sombrero of Panama straw, with
a black ribbon in place of the usual gilt cord, a clean white jacket
and shirt, a black tie fastened in a bow, a pair of drab-coloured
trousers, and brown boots of European make.
Indeed, the only really remarkable thing about Don Ignatio was his
face. Never, thought Jones, had he beheld so beautiful a countenance,
or, to be more accurate, one that gave him such assurance of its
owner’s absolute goodness and purity of nature. The features were
those of a high-bred Indian, thin and delicately cut; the nose
aquiline, the cheek-bones and brow prominent, while beneath the latter
shone a pair of large and soft black eyes, so tender and trustful in
their expression that they seemed almost out of place in the face of a
man.
He stood by the door of the chapel, in the light of the setting sun,
leaning somewhat heavily on a stick, while the Indians filed past him.
Every one of these, man, woman, and child, saluted him with the utmost
reverence as they went, some of them, especially the children, kissing
his long and finely-shaped hand when they bade him good-night in terms
of affection, such as “father,” and called on the Saints to guard him.
Jones, watching them, reflected upon the difference of their attitude
from that of the crouching servility which centuries of oppression
have induced in their race towards any master of white blood, and
wondered to what his host’s influence over them was due. It was at
this moment that Don Ignatio turned and saw him.
“A thousand pardons, señor,” he said in Spanish, with a shy and
singularly engaging smile as he lifted his sombrero, showing his long
hair, which, like his pointed beard, was almost white. “You must
indeed have thought me rude, but it is my custom at the end of the
week’s work to attend worship with the peons--do not press round the
noble _Inglese_, my children--also I did not think that you would
arrive before the sun was down.”
“Pray don’t apologise, señor,” answered Jones; “I have been much
interested in watching all your servants at their devotions. What a
beautiful chapel this is! May I look at it before you shut the doors?”
“Certainly, señor. Like the rest of the house, it is fine. The old
monks who designed it two hundred years ago--for this was a great
monastery--knew how to build, and labour was forced in those days and
cost nothing. Of course I have repaired it a great deal, for those who
lived here before me did not trouble about such things.
“You would scarcely think, señor, that in the old days, twenty years
ago, this place was a nest of highway robbers, smugglers, and
man-slayers, and that these people whom you see to-night, or their
fathers, were slaves with no more rights than a dog.
“But so it was. Many a traveller has lost his life in this house or
its neighbourhood. I, myself, was nearly murdered here once. Look at
the carving of that altarpiece. It is fine, is it not? Those _sapote_
wood columns date from the time of the old monks. Well, I have known
Don Pedro Moreno, my predecessor, tie human beings to them in order to
brand them with red-hot irons.”
“To whom does that inscription refer?” asked Jones, pointing to the
marble slab which has been described.
Don Ignatio’s face grew very sad as he answered:
“It refers, señor, to the greatest friend I ever had, the man who
saved my life at the risk of his own when I came by this limp, and one
who was dear to me with a love passing the love of woman. But there
was a woman who loved him also, an Indian woman too, and he cared for
her more than he did for me, as was right, for has not God decreed
that a man should leave his friends, yes, his father and mother even,
and cleave unto his wife?”
“He married her then?” said Jones, who was growing interested.
“Oh, yes; he married her, and in a strange place and fashion. But it
is an old story, señor, and with your permission I will not tell it;
even to think of it revives too many painful memories, memories of
death and loss, and disappointed ambition, and high hopes unfulfilled.
Perhaps, one day, if I have the courage and live long enough, I will
write it all down. Indeed, some years ago I made a beginning, but it
wearied me, and what I wrote seemed foolishness, so I gave up the
task.
“I have lived a rough life, señor, and met with many adventures in
it, though, thanks be to God, my last years have been spent in peace.
Well, well, it is coming to an end now, and were it not for the
thought that my people here may fall into evil hands when I am gone,
that would not trouble me.
“But come, señor, you are hungry, and the good father, who has
promised to eat with us, must ride to-night to celebrate a mass
to-morrow at a village three leagues away, so I have ordered supper
early. The porter with your bag arrived safely; it has been placed in
your chamber, the Abbot’s room it is called, and if you will follow me
I will show you a short path to it from the chapel.”
Then he led the way to a little door in the wall. Unlocking this door,
they passed up some narrow stairs, at the head of which was a
landing-place with a window, or rather _grille_, so arranged that,
while it was invisible from below, an observer standing there could
hear and see all that passed in the chapel.
“This was the place,” said Don Ignatio, “whence the old abbots kept
secret watch upon the monks, and it was here that once I saw a sight
which I am not likely to forget.”
Then he passed on through several long and intricate passages, till he
came to a sitting-room filled with handsome old Spanish furniture.
“Your sleeping-place lies beyond, señor,” he said, opening another
door that led into a large and dreary-looking chamber, lighted by
heavily-barred windows, of which the sills were not less than ten feet
from the ground.
On the walls were frescoes of the Last Judgment, and of scenes
inspired by the bloody drama of the Inquisition, grim to look on and
somewhat injured by damp, but executed with great power and vivid, if
distorted, imagination. Below the centre window, and reaching to
within three feet of the floor, was an ancient full-length portrait of
one of the abbots of the monastery, life-size and painted in oils upon
a panel, representing a man of fierce and evil countenance, over whose
tonsured head the Holy Spirit was shown hovering in the shape of a
dove. For the rest, the room was well, if lightly, furnished, and
boasted the luxury of squares of matting laid upon the brick floor.
“I fear that you will think this but a dismal apartment, señor,” said
Don Ignatio, “still it is our guest-chamber; moreover, there is a room
attached which I thought might be useful to you to write in, should
you wish to do so. The people here say that the place is haunted, but
I know you Englishmen do not bother about such things. It is not
wonderful, however, that they talk thus, seeing that murders were done
in this chamber in the time of Don Pedro Moreno. Indeed, he laid a
plot to kill me and my friend here, and, though he did not succeed in
that instance, when I came into possession afterwards, I found several
skeletons beneath the floor--two of them, I remember, just where the
bed stands now--and gave them decent burial.”
Jones, as in honour bound, declared himself to be totally indifferent
to representations of tortures of the Inquisition, memories of
departed abbots, skeletons of murdered men beneath the floor, ghosts,
and _hoc genus omne_. Still, though he never confessed it to his host,
his first night in the abbot’s chamber, owing probably to the strong
coffee which he had drunk, was not altogether a pleasant experience.
In after days, however, he became well accustomed to the place, and,
indeed, preferred it to any other room in the _hacienda_.
In contrast to the rude and ill-dressed fare with which Jones was fain
to satisfy himself at the mine, Don Ignatio’s supper was a feast
worthy of Epicurus, especially as it was free from the horrible
messes, compounded of oil and the inward parts of animals, that figure
so largely in Mexican cookery.
After their meal, cigars and black coffee were handed round, of which
the raw materials had been grown on the estate, and never in his life
did Jones smoke better tobacco. When the _padre_--a gentle and
well-informed man--had departed, Jones began to speak of the
antiquities of the country. Soon he found that his host’s knowledge of
the subject had not been exaggerated, seeing that he was even able to
decipher hieroglyphic writings of which the key was supposed to be
lost, and to give an outline of the history of the races who built the
great temples and palaces, whereof so many ruins are to be found in
the Palenque district.
“It is sad to think,” said Jones presently, “that nothing in which the
breath of life remains is left of all this civilisation. If only the
old legend of the Golden City, hidden away somewhere in the unexplored
recesses of Central America, were true, I think that I would give ten
years of my existence to visit it. It would be a glorious thing to
step back into the past, to see a system at work, and mingle with a
people of which the world has lost all count and knowledge; for, let
the imagination be active as it will, it is practically impossible to
reconstruct these things from ruins and traditions. In fact, Don
Ignatio, I do not understand how it is that you, who have never seen
the _antiguos_ in the flesh, can talk about them so certainly.”
“If I had never seen them, señor,” he answered, quietly, “it would be
wonderful. Indeed, you might be justified in setting me down as a
teller of tales, but it chances that I _have_ seen the Golden City of
fable and its civilisation, and I can assure you that its wonders were
far greater than any that have been told of in legend, or even by the
Spanish romancers.”
“What!” gasped Jones, “what! Have I been drinking too much of your
excellent wine? Am I asleep, or did I hear you say that you, the
gentleman sitting before me, with your own eyes had seen the secret
city of the Indians?”
“You heard me say so, señor, though I did not in the least expect you
to believe me. Indeed, it is because I cannot bear to be thought a
liar, that I have never said anything of this story, and for this same
reason I shall not repeat it to you, since I do not wish that one whom
I hope will become my friend should hold me in contempt.
“In truth I am sorry that I have spoken so freely, but, in support of
my veracity, I will beg you to remember that among the huge forests,
wildernesses, and _sierras_ of Central America, where no white man has
set his foot, and whence the Indians vanished generations since, there
is room for many ancient cities. Why, señor, within two hundred miles
or less of where we sit to-night, there exist tribes of _Lacandones_,
or unbaptised Indians, who have never seen a white man and who still
follow their fathers’ faiths. No, señor, that story shall never be
told, at any rate in my lifetime, for I have nothing to show in proof
of it, or at least only one thing----”
“What is it?” asked Jones, eagerly.
“You shall see if you wish, señor,” his host answered, and left the
room.
Presently he returned with a little leather bag from which he
extracted a very curious and beautiful ornament. It was a great
emerald, by far the largest that Jones had ever seen, uncut, but
highly polished. This stone, which was set in pure gold, obviously had
formed the clasp of a belt and could also be used as a seal; for on
it, cut in _intaglio_, was the mask of a solemn and death-like human
face surrounded by a hieroglyphic inscription, while on the reverse
were other hieroglyphics.
“Can you read this writing?” asked Jones, when he had examined the
ornament.
[image: img_010.jpg
caption: ‘Can you read this writing?’]
“Yes, señor. The words in front are: ‘O Eyes and Mouth, look on me,
plead for me.’ And those on the back: ‘Heart of Heaven, be thou my
home.’”
“It is wonderful,” said Jones, restoring the relic with a sigh, for he
would have given everything that he had, down to his shoes, to possess
it. “And now will you not make an exception in my favour, and tell me
the story?”
“I fear that I cannot oblige you, señor,” Don Ignatio answered,
shaking his head.
“But,” pleaded Jones, “having revealed so much, it is cruel to hide
the rest.”
“Señor,” said his host, “will you take some more coffee? No. Then
shall we walk a little on the roof and look at the view; it is pretty
by moonlight, and the roofs here are wonderful, all built of solid
stone; there is a tradition that the old monks used to dine on them in
summer. They have a loop-holed wall round them whence that abbot,
whose portrait hangs in your sleeping-chamber, beat back a great
attack of the Indians whom his oppression stirred into rebellion.
“To-morrow I shall hope to show you round the lands, which have repaid
me well for my twenty years of cultivation. Everybody in Mexico runs
after mines, but its soil is the richest mine of all. I knew that,
and, seeing the capacities of the place, I sold the other emeralds
which went with this clasp--they were fine stones, but unengraved, and
therefore of no particular interest--and bought it cheap enough. Now
that the country is more settled, and I have planted so much, its
value has become great, and will be greater still when all the young
cocoa bushes are in full bearing a few years hence.
“There, thanks be to the Saints, the stair is done--of late my back
hurts me when I climb up steps. The air is sweet, is it not, señor,
and the prospect pleasing? Look, the river shines like silver. Ah! how
beautiful is God’s world! It makes me sad to think of leaving it, but
doubtless He will provide still finer places for us to work and serve
Him in, gardens where sin and grief cannot enter. Surely there is room
enough yonder,” and he nodded toward the sky.
This was but the first of many nights that Jones spent under Don
Ignatio’s hospitable roof, where, as the months went by, he grew more
and more welcome. Soon he conceived a great affection for the grave,
sweet-natured, kindly old Indian gentleman, whose mind seemed to be
incapable of any evil thought, and whose chief ambitions were to
improve his land and do good to all about him, more especially to his
Indian servants or peons.
In the beginning of their intimacy they made several expeditions
together to inspect ruins in the neighbourhood, and once Don Ignatio
came to stay with him at the mine of La Concepcion, where his visit
proved of the greatest use to Mr. Jones and the company he served. One
of the difficulties in working this particular mine lay in the
scarcity of labour. At a word from Don Ignatio this trouble vanished.
He sent for a _cacique_, who lived in the mountains, and spoke to him,
and, lo! within a week, fifty stalwart Indians appeared to offer their
services at the mine, thus affording one of many instances that came
to Jones’s knowledge, of his friend’s extraordinary influence among
the natives.
As time went on, however, these excursions ceased, since Don Ignatio’s
health grew too feeble to allow him to leave the _hacienda_.
At length, it was when they had been acquainted for nearly two years,
a messenger arrived at the mine one morning, saying that he was
instructed by his master, Don Ignatio, to tell the Señor Jones that
he lay dying and would be glad to see him. He was to add, however,
that if it should be in any way inconvenient, the Señor Jones must
not trouble himself to come for so small a matter, as his master had
written a letter which would be delivered to him after his death.
Needless to say the Señor Jones travelled across the mountains as
fast as the best mule he owned would carry him. On arriving at the
_hacienda_ he found Don Ignatio lying in his room, almost paralysed
and very weak, but perfectly clear-headed and rejoiced to see him.
“I am about to make my last journey, friend,” he said, “and I am glad,
for of late I have suffered a great deal of pain in my back, the
result of an ancient injury. Also it is time that a helpless old man
should make room for a more active one.” And he looked at his visitor
strangely, and smiled.
Jones, whose feelings were touched, made the usual reply as to his
having many months to live, but Don Ignatio cut him short.
“Don’t waste time like that, friend,” he said, “but listen. Ever since
we knew each other you have been trying to extract from me the story
of how I came to visit the city, Heart of the World, and of my friend,
James Strickland, whom, thanks be to God, I so soon shall see again.
“Well, I never would tell it to you, though once or twice I nearly did
so when I saw how my silence chagrined you, partly because I pride
myself upon being able to keep a secret when pressed to reveal it, and
also because I am selfish and knew that so soon as you had heard my
story, you would cease to interest yourself in a stupid, failing old
man, for who is there that cares about the rind when he has sucked the
orange?
“Also there were other reasons: for instance, I could not have related
that history without displaying unseemly emotion, and I know that you
Englishmen despise such exhibitions. Lastly, if I told it at all, I
desired to tell it fully and carefully, keeping everything in
proportion, and this it would have been difficult to do by word of
mouth. Yet I have not wished to disappoint you altogether, and I have
wished that some record of the curious things which I have seen in my
life should be preserved, though this last desire alone would not have
been sufficiently strong to move me to the task which I finished ten
days ago, before the paralysis crept into my arm.
“May I trouble you to open that cupboard near the foot of the bed, and
to give me the pile of writing that you will find in it. A thousand
thanks. Here, señor, in these pages, if you care to take the trouble
to read them, is set out an account of how I and my English friend
came to visit the Golden City, of what we saw and suffered there, and
of some other matters which you may think superfluous, but that are
not without their bearing upon the tale. I fear that my skill in
writing is small, still perhaps it may serve its turn, and if not, it
matters nothing, seeing that you seek the spirit, not the letter, and
are not sufficient of a Spanish scholar to be too critical.
“Now take the book and put it away, for the very sight of it wearies
me, recalling the hours of labour that I have spent on it. Also I wish
to talk of something more important. Tell me, friend, do you propose
to stop in this country, or to return to England?”
“Return to England! Why, I should starve where there are no mines to
manage. No, I am too poor.”
“Then would you return if you were rich?” asked the dying man
anxiously.
“I do not know; it depends. But I think that I have been too long away
to go to live in England for good.”
“I am glad to hear that, friend, for I may as well tell you at once
that I have made you my heir, so that henceforth you will be a wealthy
man as we understand wealth in this country.”
“You have made me your heir!” stammered Jones.
“Yes. Why should I not? I like you well, and know you to be a good and
honest man. I have no relations and no friends, and, above all, I am
sure that you will deal justly and gently by my people here, for I
have watched your bearing towards those who work under you at the
mine. Moreover, I have conditions to make which will not be the less
binding on you because they are not set out in the will, namely, that
you should live here yourself and carry on the work that I have begun,
for so long as may be possible, and that, if you are forced to sell
the place by any unforeseen circumstance, or to leave it away by
testament, you should do so to an Englishman only, and one of whom you
know something. Do you accept?”
“Indeed, yes, and I know not how to thank you.”
“Do not thank me at all, thank your own character and honest face
which have led me to believe that I can make no better disposal of my
property. And now go, for I am tired, but come to see me again
to-morrow morning after the priest has left.”
So Jones, who had entered that room possessed of a hard-earned eight
hundred a year, departed from it the owner of a property which, before
long, became worth as many thousands annually, as any who have visited
him at Santa Cruz can testify. Three days later Don Ignatio passed
away peacefully, and was laid to his rest in the chapel of the
_hacienda_.
This, then, was how the story of the city, Heart of the World, and of
Don Ignatio and his friend, James Strickland, who saw it, came into
the hands of him whom we have called Jones.
Here follows a translation of the manuscript.
CHAPTER I.
HOW THE PLOT FAILED
I, Ignatio, the writer of this history, being now a man in my
sixty-second year, was born in a village among the mountains that lie
between the little towns of Pichaucalco and Tiapa. Of all that
district my father was the hereditary _cacique_, and the Indians there
loved him much.
When I was a lad, perhaps nine years old, troubles arose in the
country. I never quite understood them, or I may have forgotten the
circumstances, for such things were always happening, but I think that
they were caused by some tax which the government at Mexico had
imposed upon us unjustly. Anyhow, my father, a tall man with fiery
eyes, refused to pay a tax, and, after a while, a body of soldiers
arrived, mounted upon horses, who shot down a great number of the
people, and took away some of the women and children.
Of my father they made a prisoner, and next day they led him out while
my mother and I were forced to look on, and sat him by the edge of a
hole that they had dug, holding guns to his head and threatening to
shoot him unless he would tell them a secret which they were anxious
to learn. All he said, however, was that he wished that they would
kill him at once, and so free him from the torment of the mosquitoes
which hummed around him.
But they did not kill him then, and that night they put him back in a
prison, where I was brought to visit him by the _padre_, Ignatio, his
cousin and my godfather. I remember that he was shut up in a dirty
place, so hot that it was difficult even to breathe, and that there
were some drunken Mexican soldiers outside the door, who now and again
threatened to make an end of us Indian dogs.
My godfather, the priest Ignatio, confessed my father in a corner of
the cell, and took something from his hand. Then my father called me
to him and kissed me, and with his own fingers for a few moments he
hung about my neck that thing which the priest had taken from him,
only to remove it again and give it to Ignatio for safe-keeping,
saying: “See that the boy has it, and its story with it, when he comes
of age.”
Now my father kissed me again, blessing me in the name of God, and as
he did so great tears ran down his face. Then the priest Ignatio took
me away, and I never saw my father any more, for the soldiers shot him
next morning, and threw his body into the hole that they had dug to
receive it.
After this, my godfather, cousin, and namesake, Ignatio, took me and
my mother to the little town of Tiapa, of which he was priest, but she
soon died there of a broken heart.
In Tiapa we lived in the best house in the place, for it was built of
stone and set upon a bank overhanging a beautiful rushing river with
water that was always clear as glass, however much it rained, which
river ran a hundred feet or more below the windows.
About Tiapa there is little to say, except that in those days the
people were for the most part thieves, and such great sinners that my
cousin, the _padre_, would not shrive some of them, even on their
death-beds. There was a church, however, whereof the roof was
overgrown with the most beautiful orchids. Also the roads were so bad
that, except in the dry season, it was difficult to travel either to
or from the town.
Here in this forgotten place I grew up, but not without education, as
might have been expected, seeing that my cousin was a good scholar,
and did all he could to keep me out of mischief.
When I was about fifteen years of age, of a sudden a desire took hold
of me to become a priest. It was in this wise: One Sunday evening I
sat in the church at Tiapa, looking now at the sprays of orchid
flowers that swung to and fro in the breeze outside the window, and
now at the votive pictures on the walls, offerings made by men and
women who had called upon their patron saints in the hour of danger
and had been rescued by them--here from fire, there from murderers,
and here again from drowning; rude and superstitious daubs, but
doubtless acceptable to God, who could see in them the piety and
gratitude of those that out of their penury had caused them to be
painted.
As I sat thus idly, my godfather, the good priest, began to preach.
Now, it chanced that two nights before there had been a dreadful
murder in Tiapa. Three travellers and a boy, the son of one of them,
passing from San Christobel to the coast, stopped to spend the night
at a house near our own. With them they brought a mule-load of
dollars, the price of the merchandise that they had sold at San
Christobel, which some of our fellow-townsmen, half-breeds of wicked
life, determined to steal.
Accordingly, to the number of ten, these assassins broke into the
house where the travellers lodged, and, meeting with resistance, they
cut down the three of them with _machetes_, and possessed themselves
of the silver. Just as they were leaving, one of the thieves perceived
the boy hiding beneath a bed, and, dragging him out, they killed him
also, lest he should bear witness against them.
Now, those who had done this deed of shame were well known in the
town; still none were arrested, for they bribed the officers with part
of their booty. But my godfather, seeing some of them present in the
church, took for his text the commandment--“Thou shalt do no murder.”
Never have I heard a finer sermon; indeed, before it was finished, two
of the men rose and crept from the church conscience-stricken, and
when the preacher described the slaughter of the lad whom their wicked
hands had of a sudden hurled into eternity, many of the congregation
burst into tears.
I tell this story because it was then for the first time, as I thought
of the murdered boy, who some few days before had been as full of life
as I was myself, that I came to know what death meant, and to
understand that I also must die and depart for ever either into heaven
or hell. I shook as the thought struck me, and it seemed to me that I
saw Death standing at my elbow, as he stands to-day, and then and
there I determined that I would be a priest and do good all my life,
in order that I might find peace at the last and escape the fate of
the evil.
On the morrow I went into my godfather’s room and told him of my
desire. He listened to me attentively, and answered: “I would that it
might be so, my son, holding as I do that the things of the world to
come outweigh those of this present earth ten thousandfold, but it
cannot be, for reasons that you shall learn when you are older. Then,
when my trust is ended, you may make your choice, and, if you still
wish it, become a priest.”
* * * * * * *
Five more years passed away, during which time I grew strong and
active, and skilled in all manly exercises. Also I studied much under
the teaching of my godfather, who sent even to Spain to buy me books.
Among these books were many histories of my own race, the Indians, and
of their conquest by the Spaniards, all that had been published
indeed. Of such histories I never tired, although it maddened me to
read of the misfortunes and cruel oppression of my people, who to-day
were but a nation of slaves.
At length, on my twentieth birthday, my godfather, who now was grown
very old and feeble, called me into his chamber, and, having locked
the door, he spoke to me thus:
“My son, the time has come when I must deliver to you the last
messages of your beloved father, my cousin and best friend, who was
murdered by the soldiers when you were a little child, and tell you of
your descent and other matters.
“First, then, you must know that you are of royal and ancient blood,
for your forefather in the eleventh degree was none other than
Guatemoc, the last of the Aztec emperors, whom the Spaniards murdered,
which descent I can prove to you by means of old writings and
pedigrees; also it is known and attested among the Indians, who even
now do not forget the stock whence sprang their kings.”
“Then by right I am Emperor of Mexico,” I said proudly, for in my
folly it seemed a fine thing to be sprung from men who once had worn a
crown.
“Alas! my son,” the old priest answered sadly, “in this world might is
the only right, and the Spaniards ended that of your forefathers long
ago by aid of torture and the noose. Save that it will earn you
reverence among the Indians, it is but a barren honour which you
inherit with your blood.
“Yet there is one thing that has come down to you from your ancestor,
Guatemoc, and the monarchs who ruled before him. Perchance you
remember that on the night previous to his death, your father set an
amulet upon your neck, and, removing it again, gave it to me to keep.
Here is that amulet.”
Then he handed me a trinket made of the half of a heart-shaped
emerald, smooth with wear, but unpolished, that, if joined to its
missing section, would have been as large as a dove’s egg. This stone
was not broken, but cut from the top to the bottom, the line of
separation being so cunningly sawn that no man, unless he had one half
before him, could imitate the other. The charm was bored through so as
to be worn upon a chain, and engraved upon its surface were some
strange hieroglyphics and the outline of half a human face.
“What is it?” I asked.
The old priest shrugged his shoulders, and answered:
“A relic which had to do with their wicked heathen magic and rites, I
suppose. I know little about it, except that your father told me it
was the most valued possession of the Aztec kings, and that the
natives believe that when the two halves of this stone come together,
the men of white blood will be driven from Central America and an
Indian emperor shall rule from sea to sea.”
“And where is the other half, father?”
“How should I know,” he answered testily, “who have no faith in such
stories, or in stones with the heads of idols graven upon them? I am a
priest, and therefore your father told me little of the matter, since
it is not lawful that I should belong to secret societies. Still, some
such society exists, and, in virtue of the ownership of that talisman,
you will be head of it, as your ancestors were before you, though, so
far as I can learn, the honour brought them but little luck.
“I know no more about it, but I will give you letters to a certain
Indian who lives in the district of which your father was _cacique_,
and, when you show him the stone, doubtless he will initiate you into
its mysteries, though I counsel you to have nothing to do with them.
“Listen, Ignatio, my son, you are a rich man; how rich I cannot tell
you, but for many generations your forefathers have hidden up treasure
for an object which I must explain, and the gold will be handed over
to you by those of your clan in whose keeping it is. It was because of
this treasure that your father and your great-grandfather were done to
death with many others, since the rumour of it came to the ears of
those that ruled in Mexico, who, when they failed to force its secret
from them, tormented and killed them in their rage.
“Now, this was the message of your father to you concerning the wealth
which he and his ancestors had hidden:
“‘Tell my son, Ignatio, should he live to grow up, that there has
never departed from our family the desire to win back the crown that
Guatemoc lost, or at least to drive out the accursed Spaniards and
their spawn, and to establish an Indian Republic. To this end we have
heaped up wealth for generations, that it might serve us when the hour
was ripe; and because of this wealth, of which the whisper could not
altogether be hid in a land which is full of spies, some of us have
come to cruel deaths, as I am about to do to-night.
“‘But I shall die keeping my secret, and when my son grows up others
may rule at Mexico, or the matter may have been forgotten: at least
the gold will be where I left it. Now, say to my son that it is my
hope that he will use it in the cause to further which it has been
amassed; that he will devote his life to the humbling of our white
masters, and to the uplifting of the race which for centuries they
have robbed, murdered, and enslaved.
“‘Nevertheless, say to him that I lay no commands upon him as to these
matters, seeing that he must follow his own will about them, for I
cannot forget that, from generation to generation, those who went
before him have reaped nothing but disaster in their struggle against
the white devils, whom, because of the sins and idolatry of our
forefathers, it has pleased God to set over us.’
“Those were your father’s words, my son, which he spoke to me in the
hour of his murder. And now you will understand why I said that you
must wait before you determined to be a priest. If that is still your
wish, it can be fulfilled, for your father left it to you to follow
whatever life you might desire.”
When he had finished speaking I thought for a while, and answered: “So
long as my father’s blood is unavenged I cannot become a priest.”
“It is as I feared,” said the old man with a sigh, “that cursed
talisman which lies about your neck has begun its work with you,
Ignatio, and you will tread the path that the others trod, perchance
to die in blood as they died. Oh! why cannot man be content to leave
the righting of wrongs and the destinies of nations in the hands of
the Almighty and His angels?”
“Because for good or evil the Almighty chooses men to be His
instruments,” I answered.
* * * * * * *
Within a week from this day some Indians came to Tiapa disguised as
porters, whose mission it was to lead me to the mountains among which
my father had lived, and where his treasure still lay hidden.
Bidding farewell to my godparent, the priest, who wept when he parted
from me, I started upon my journey, keeping my destination secret. As
it chanced, I never saw him more, for a month later he was seized with
some kind of _calentura_, or fever, and died suddenly. The best thing
I can say of him is that, with one exception, there lives no man in
heaven above whom I so greatly desire to meet again.
On the third day of my journey we reached a narrow pass in the
mountains, beyond which lay an Indian village. Here my guides took me
to the house of one Antonio, to whom the _padre_ Ignatio had given me
letters, an old man of venerable aspect, who greeted me warmly, and
made me known to several _caciques_ who were staying with him, I knew
not why.
So soon as we were alone in the house, one of these _caciques_, after
addressing me in words which I could not understand, asked me if I had
a “Heart.” To this I replied that I hoped so, whereat they all
laughed. Then the man Antonio, coming to me, unbuttoned my shirt,
revealing the talisman that had belonged to my father, and at the
sight of it the company bowed.
Next the doors were locked, and, sentries having been posted before
them, a ceremony began, which even now it is not lawful that I should
describe in detail. On this solemn occasion I was first initiated into
the mysteries of the Order of the Heart, and afterwards installed as
its hereditary chief, thus becoming, while yet a boy, the absolute
lord of many thousand men, brethren of our Society, who were scattered
far and wide about the land.
On the day after I had taken the final oaths, Antonio handed over to
me the treasure that my ancestors hoarded in a secret place, which my
father had left in his keeping, and it was a great treasure, amounting
to more than a million dollars in value.
Now I was rich, both in men and money, still, following the counsel of
Antonio, I abode for a while in the village, receiving those who came
from every part of Mexico to visit me as Holder of the Heart, and as
first in rank among the fallen peoples of the Indians.
It was during these months that I made the great error of my life.
Some three miles from the village where I dwelt, lived two sisters,
Indian ladies of noble blood, though poor, one of them a widow, and
the other a very beautiful girl, younger than myself. It chanced that,
riding past their house upon a certain Sunday evening, when most of
the inhabitants of the valley were away at a _festa_, I heard screams
coming from it.
Dismounting from my horse I ran in at the door, which was open, and
saw one of the sisters, the widow, lying dead upon the ground, while
two bandits, Mexicans, were attacking the younger woman. Drawing my
_machete_, I cut down the first of them before he had time to turn,
then I fell upon the second man with such fury that I drove him back
against the wall. Seeing that his life was in danger, he called upon
me not to kill him for the sake of a low Indian girl, which insult
maddened me so that I slew him upon the spot, and caused his body,
with that of his companion, to be buried secretly.
It happened that after this the girl whose life I had saved came to
dwell in my village, where I saw much of her. So lovely was she and so
clever, that soon she won my heart, and the end of it was that, being
headstrong and in love, I married her, against the advice of Antonio
and others of my brethren of the Order. It would have been better for
the Indian people, and perhaps for me also, if I had died before I
stood at the altar with this woman, though for a while she was a good
wife, and, because of her cleverness, of great service to me at that
time.
Now, it must be stated that during all these months I had not been
idle. The more I thought on them, the more the wrongs of my
countrymen, the real owners of the land, took hold of my mind, till at
length they possessed it utterly, and I became an enthusiast and a
dreamer. This was the object of my life--to form a great conspiracy,
which should bring about a rising of the Indians in every province of
Mexico upon a given day; then, when the Spaniards and their bastards,
the Spanish Mexicans, had been stamped out, to re-establish the Empire
of the Aztecs.
It was a madness, perhaps, but the madness lurked in my blood; my
forefathers had suffered from and for it, and I think that it must
have come down to us from our ancestor, Guatemoc, the greatest and
most unfortunate Indian who ever lived. Where they failed I determined
to succeed, and, strange to say, in the end I went near to success.
For years I laboured, travelling to and fro about the land till there
was no province where I was not known as the Holder of the Heart, and
the chief by blood of the Indian tribes. Everywhere I strove to rouse
the people from their sloth, and to win the _caciques_, or head men,
to the cause, and I did not strive in vain. I used my great wealth to
buy arms, to gain over the lukewarm with bribes, and in many other
ways. When my fortune sank low I gathered more, for without gold
nothing could be done. Treasures that were buried in the old days were
given up to me as Lord of the Heart by those who had their secret;
also many brought me money, each what he could spare, and I hoarded it
against the hour of need.
For a year or more I was the greatest power in Mexico, and yet, though
hundreds were privy to my plot, it was so well hidden that no whisper
of it came to the ears of the Government. At length all was ready, and
so carefully were my plans laid that success seemed certain; but the
unforeseen happened, and I failed--thus:
That woman whose life I had saved, my own wife whom I loved and
trusted, who was bound to my cause and that of her countrymen by every
tie human and divine, betrayed me and it. Just before the time fixed
for the rising, it was agreed that she should be placed, as one of
whom we could be sure, to play the part of a servant in the house of
the man who ruled Mexico in those days, that she might spy upon him.
Instead of so doing, she, my wife, fell in love with him. It is easy
to guess the rest. One night, but a week before the appointed time, I
and some five or six others, the leaders of our party, were seized. My
companions were made away with secretly, but I was brought before the
great man, who received me alone, holding a pistol in his hand.
“I know all your plans, friend,” he said, “and I congratulate you on
them, for they were cleverly managed. I know also that you have a
great treasure in gold hidden away----” and he named the sum. “That
wife of yours, whom you were fool enough to trust, has told me
everything, but she cannot tell me where the money is hidden, for this
you withheld from her, which shows that you are not altogether mad.
“Now, friend, I make you a fair offer--hand over this treasure, and
you shall go free--of course when the day of vengeance is past and
your sheep have found themselves without a shepherd--nor shall you be
molested afterwards. Refuse to do so, and you will be brought to trial
and die as you deserve.”
“How can you promise for others?” I asked. “You are not the only white
man who would have fallen.”
“I can promise for others, first, because I am their master, and,
secondly, because nobody but myself knows anything of this matter,
since, if I told them, I must also share your wealth with them, and
that, friend, I mean to keep. Give it up to me and you may go and plot
against my successors and the Government of Mexico as much as pleases
you, and take your wife with you for aught I care; for, friend, having
earned so comfortable a competence, I propose to leave a land where,
as this business proves, people in authority are too apt to have their
throats cut. Now choose, and be so good as to stand quite still while
you are thinking the matter over, or I may be forced to shoot you.”
“How about my associates?” I asked.
“I believe that three or four of them have been carried off--by
typhus--within the last day or two, the prisons here are so unhealthy;
but I am sure that if the gold is forthcoming, no more will sicken.”
Then I chose, for I thought to myself that I might get more gold, but
I could never get another life, and if I died many must suffer with me
and all my hopes for the future of the Indian race would come to
naught. Also I knew this villain to be a man of his word, and that
what he promised he would fulfil.
Within ten days he had the money, and I was free to begin my life
again, nor did any of those who were doomed to perish in it, learn the
tale of the plot that had threatened them.
I was free; but what a freedom was this, when I had lost everything
save the breath that God placed in my nostrils, and, perhaps, my
honour. The great house that I had builded was fallen to the ground,
the moneys I had amassed were stolen, the chief of my companions were
dead, my credit as a deliverer of the people was gone, and my cause
had become hopeless. All these things had come upon me because of a
woman, a traitress, whom I had nurtured in my bosom.
At first I was dazed, but when I came to understand I swore a great
oath before Heaven that, for her false sake, I would hate and renounce
her sex; that, whatever might be the temptation, never again would I
look kindly upon women, or have to do with one of them in word, or
thought, or deed. That oath, so far as lay in my power, I have kept to
this day, and I hope to keep through all eternity.
It may be asked what became of my wife. I do not know. I lifted no
hand against her who was flesh of my flesh, but she perished. The
story was known. I was forced to tell it to clear myself. After I
escaped from the prison I lay ill for many weeks, and when I recovered
she was gone. Others had been betrayed besides myself, and doubtless
some of them had wreaked fitting vengeance on her. What it was I never
asked.
For many years--twenty perhaps--I became a wanderer. Now as before the
Indians loved me, and, as Lord of the Heart and their hereditary
_cacique_, in a sense I still was great, although but the shadow of
power dwelt with me: the substance had departed, as it departs ever
from those who fail. From time to time I strove to rebuild the plot;
but, now that I was friendless and without fortune, few would follow
me thus far.
So it came about that at length I abandoned the endeavour, and lived
as best I could. I fought in three wars, and gained honours therein,
and took my share in many adventures, all of which left me as poor as
I had entered on them. At times I remembered my desire to become a
priest, but now it was over late to study; also my hands were too much
soiled with the affairs of the world.
Wearying of the struggle, I went back to my village in the mountains
and dwelt there awhile, but this also wearied me, having nothing to
do, and I turned my attention to the management of mines.
It was while I was thus employed, as a middle-aged man, that I made
the acquaintance of James Strickland, who was destined to accompany me
to the city, Heart of the World.