THE SUPPER AND AFTER
“Listen, señor; if you are interested in old ruins and the Indians,
you must have heard tales of races living away in the forest country,
where no white man has set his foot, and of their wonderful cities
that are said to be full of gold. Many say that these tales are lies,
that no such people and no such cities exist, and they say this
because nobody has found them; but I, for my part, have always
believed there was something in the story, seeing that otherwise it
would not have lasted so long.
“Well, a few months back, I heard that a strange old Indian doctor,
who was said to have travelled from the far interior, was dwelling
somewhere in the forest together with a woman, but where he dwelt
exactly I could not learn, nor, indeed, did I trouble myself to do so.
About eight weeks ago, however, it happened that an Indian, being
asked for the toll, which I charge all passers-by--to recoup me for my
expense in making roads, señor--paid it with a little lump of pure
gold having a heart stamped on either side of the metal.
“Now, you may not know, though I do, that the heart is a sacred symbol
among these Indians, and has been for many generations, for it is to
be seen cut upon the walls of their ruins, though what it means only
Satan, their master, can tell.
“Therefore, when I saw the lump of gold with the token on it, I asked
the Indian whence he had it, and he told me readily enough that it
came from this old doctor, who gave it to him in payment for some
food. He told me also where I might find him, and went upon his way,
but, his heart being full of deceit, he lied as to the place, so that
I searched in vain. Well, to shorten a long story, although to this
hour I do not know where the Indian was hiding, I set a trap for him
and caught him,--ay, and his daughter too.
“It was a simple one, a man in my pay knew another man who visited the
doctor in the forest to get medicine from him, but who would not
reveal his hiding-place. Still, my servant drew it out of him thus: he
sent piteous messages through his friend, begging the doctor to come
and save the life of his dying child, which lay in a house near here,
and could not be moved.
“The end of it was that the doctor came, and his daughter with him.
Yes, they walked at night straight to the snare, into this very house,
señor, and only discovered their mistake when they found the doors
locked upon them, and that the dying child was none other than your
humble servant, Don Pedro Moreno.
“I can tell you, señor, that I laughed till I nearly cried at the
sight of their faces, when they found out the trick, though there was
nothing to laugh at in them, for the man looked like an old king, and
the girl like a queen, quite different from the Indians in these
parts; moreover, they wore two such _serapes_ as I had never seen,
made of green feathers fastened to a foundation of linen.
“When the old man found himself caged, he asked what it meant and
where he was, speaking in a dialect so like the Maya tongue that I
could understand him quite well. I told him that he was to be my guest
for a while, and with the help of two men who were with me I proceeded
to secure him and his daughter in a safe place, whereat he flew into a
fearful rage, and cursed all of us most dreadfully, and more
especially that man who had betrayed him. So awful were his curses and
the vengeance that he conjured upon us from heaven, that my hair stood
straight upon my head, and as for the man who lured him here under
pretence of visiting his child, it came about that within two days he
died of a sudden sickness bred of his own fears. When the second man
heard of his companion’s death, he in turn fled from the place,
dreading lest a like fate should overtake him, and has been no more
heard of.
“Thus it comes about, señor, that I alone know where these birds are
caged, though I hope to introduce my son to them to-night, for I dare
not trust the others, and wish to keep them in the family, nor will I
let any Indians near them.
“Well, when they had calmed down a little, I spoke to my prisoners
through a grating, telling them that I wished to know whence they had
obtained those lumps of gold stamped with a heart, to which the old
man answered that he had no knowledge of any such gold. Now, I was
sure that he lied, and took refuge in another trick. The cell where
they were shut up is that in which the old monks imprisoned such as
were suspected of heresy, and others, and close to it is a secret
place--there are many such in this house, señor--where a spy may be
hid, and both see and hear all that passes in the cell.
“In this place I ensconced myself, and lay there for hours, with the
rats running over me, so anxious was I to get at the truth. In the end
I was not disappointed, for they began to talk. A great deal of their
conversation I could make nothing of, but at length the girl said,
after examining an old gilt crucifix that hung upon the wall:
“‘Look, father, here also they have gold.’
“‘It is gilt, not gold,’ he answered, ‘I know the art of it, though
with us it is not practised, except to keep from corruption the spears
and arrowheads that fowlers use upon the lake.’ Then he added:
“‘I wonder what that leaden-eyed, greedy-faced white thief would say
if he knew that in a single temple we could show him enough of the
metal he covets to fill this place five times over from floor to
ceiling.’
“‘Hush!’ she said, ‘ears may be listening even in these walls; let us
risk nothing, seeing that by seeming to be ignorant alone we can hope
to escape.’”
“Well,” asked the señor eagerly, “and what did Zibalbay answer? I
think that you said the old man’s name was Zibalbay,” he added, trying
to recover the slip.
“Zibalbay! No, I never mentioned that name,” Don Pedro replied
suspiciously, and with a sudden change of manner. “He answered nothing
at all. Next morning, when I came to question them, the birds had
flown. It is a pity, for otherwise I might have asked the old man--if
his name is Zibalbay. I suppose that the Indians had let them out, but
I could not discover.”
“Why, Don Pedro, you said just now that they were still in the house.”
“Did I? Then I made a mistake, as you did about the name; this wine is
strong, it must have gone to my head; sometimes it does--a weakness,
and a bad one. It is an odd tale, but there it ended so far as I am
concerned. Come, señor, take a cup of coffee, it is good.”
“Thank you, no,” answered the señor, “I never drink coffee at night,
it keeps me awake.”
“Still, I beg you to try ours, friend, we grow it ourselves and are
proud of its flavour.”
“It is poison to me, I dare not,” he said. “But pray tell me, do the
gentlemen whom I have the honour to see at table cultivate your
plantations?”
“Yes, yes, they cultivate the coffee and the cocoa, and other things
also when they have a mind. I daresay you think them a rough-looking
lot, but they are kind-hearted, ah! so kind-hearted; feeble as I am
they treat me like a father. Bah! señor, what is the good of hiding
the truth from one of your discernment? We do business of all sorts
here, but the staple of it is smuggling rather than agriculture.
“The trade is not what it was, those sharks of customs officers down
on the coast there want so much to hold their tongues, but still there
are a few pickings. In the old times, when they did not ask questions,
it was otherwise, for then men of pluck were ready for anything from
revolution down to the stringing up of a coach-load of fat merchants,
but now is the day of small profits, and we must be thankful for
whatever trifles Providence sends us.”
“Such as the two Americans who got drunk and killed each other,”
suggested the señor, whose tongue was never of the most cautious.
Instantly Don Pedro’s face changed, the sham geniality born of drink
went out of it, and was replaced by a hard and cunning look.
“I am tired, señor,” he said, “as you must be also, and, if you will
excuse me, I will light another cigar and take a nap in my hammock.
Perhaps you will amuse yourself with the others, señor, till you wish
to go to rest.” Then rising, he bowed and walked somewhat unsteadily
to the far end of the room.
When Don Pedro had retired to his hammock, whither the Indian girl,
Luisa, was summoned to swing him to sleep, I saw his son José and the
Texan outcast, Smith, both of whom, like the rest of the company, were
more or less drunk, come to the señor and ask him to join in a game
of cards. Guessing that their object was to make him show what cash he
had about him, he also affected to be in liquor, and replied noisily
that he had lost most of his money in the shipwreck, and was,
moreover, too full of wine to play.
“Then you must have lost it on the road, friend,” said Don José, “for
you forget that you made those sailors a present from a belt of gold
which you wore about your middle. However, no gentleman shall be
forced to gamble in this house, so come and talk while the others have
their little game.”
“Yes, that will be better,” answered the señor, and he staggered to
an empty chair, placed not far from the table at which I remained, and
was served with spirits and cigars. Here he sat watching the play,
which was high, although the counters looked innocent enough,--they
were cocoa beans,--and listened to the conversation of the gamblers,
in which he joined from time to time.
The talk was not good to hear, for as these wretches grew more
drunken, they began to boast of their past exploits in various parts
of the country. One man told how he had kidnapped and tortured an
Indian who had offended him; another, how he had murdered a woman of
whom he was jealous; and the third, of the successful robbing of a
coach-load of travellers, and their subsequent butchery by the driving
of the coach over the edge of a precipice. All these stories, however,
were as milk to brandy compared to those that Don Smith, the
_Americano_, growing confidential in his cups, poured forth one after
the other, till the señor, unable to bear them any longer, affected
to sink into a tipsy doze.
All this while I sat at the little table where my dinner had been
served, saying nothing, for none spoke to me, but within hearing of
everything that passed. There I sat quiet, my arms folded on my
breast, listening attentively to the tales of outrage, wrong, and
murder practised by these wicked ones upon my countrymen.
To them I was only a member of a despised and hated race, admitted to
their company on sufferance in order that I might be robbed and
murdered in due course, but in my heart I looked on them with loathing
and contempt, and felt far above them as the stars, while I watched
and wondered how long the great God would suffer his world to be
outraged by their presence.
Some such thoughts seemed to strike others of that company, for
presently Don Smith called out,--
“Look at that Indian rascal, friend, he is proud as a turkey-cock in
springtime: why, he reminds me of the figure of the king in that ruin
where we laid up last year waiting for the señora and her party. You
remember the señora, don’t you, José? I can hear her squeaks
now,”--and he laughed brutally, and added, “Come, king, have a drink.”
“_Gracias_, señor,” I answered, “I have drunk.”
“Then smoke a cigar, O king.”
“_Gracias_, señor, I do not smoke to-night.”
“My lord _cacique_ of all the Indians won’t drink and won’t smoke,”
said Don Smith, “so we will offer him incense,”--and, taking a plate,
he filled it with dry tobacco and cigarette-paper, to which he set
fire. Then he placed the plate on the table before me, so that the
fumes of the tobacco rose into the air about my head.
“There, now he looks like a real god,” said the _Americano_, clapping
his hands; “I say, José, let us make a sacrifice to him. There is the
girl who ran away last week, and whom we caught with the dogs----”
“No, no, comrade,” broke in José, “none of your jokes to-night, you
forget that we have a visitor. Not but what I should like to sacrifice
this old _demonio_ of an Indian to himself,” he added, in an outburst
of drunken fury. “Curse him! he insulted me and my father and mother,
yonder on board the ship.”
“And are you going to put up with that from this wooden Indian god?
Why, if I were in your place, by now I would have filled him as full
of holes as a coffee-roaster, just to let the lies out.”
“That’s what I want to do,” said José, gnashing his teeth, “he has
insulted me and threatened me, and ought to pay for it, the black
thief,” and, drawing a large knife, he flourished it in my face.
I did not shrink from it; I did not so much as suffer my eyelids to
tremble, though the steel flashed within an inch of them, for I knew
that if once I showed fear he would strike. Therefore I said calmly:
[image: img_114.jpg
caption: I did not so much as suffer my eyelids to tremble.]
“You are pleased to jest, señor, and your jests are somewhat rude,
but I pass them by, for I know that you cannot harm me because I am
your guest, and those who kill a guest are not gentlemen, but
murderers, which the high-born Don José Moreno could never be.”
“Stick the pig, José,” said Smith, “he is insulting you again. It
will save you trouble afterwards.”
Then, as Don José again advanced upon me with the knife, of a sudden
the señor sprang up from his chair and stood between us.
“Come, friend,” he said, “a joke is a joke, but you are carrying this
too far, according to your custom,” and, seizing the man by the
shoulders, he put out all his great strength, and swung him back with
such force that, striking against the long table with his thighs, he
rolled on to and over it, falling heavily to the ground upon the
farther side, whence he rose cursing with rage.
By now, Don Pedro, who had wakened or affected to waken from his
sleep, thought that the time had come to interfere.
“Peace, little ones, peace!” he cried sleepily from his hammock.
“Remember that the men are guests, and cease brawling. Let them go to
bed, it is time for them to go to bed, and they need rest; by
to-morrow your differences will be healed up for ever.”
“I take the hint,” said the señor, with forced gaiety. “Come,
Ignatio, let us sleep off our host’s good wine. Gentlemen, sweet
dreams to you,” and he walked across the hall, followed by myself.
At the door I turned my head and looked back. Every man in the room
was watching us intently, and it seemed to me that the drunkenness had
passed from their faces, scared away by a sense of some great
wickedness about to be worked. Don Smith was whispering into the ear
of José, who still held the knife in his hand, but the rest were
staring at us as people stare at men passing to the scaffold.
Even Don Pedro, wide awake now, sat up in his hammock and peered with
his horny eyes, while the Indian girl, Luisa, her hand upon the cord,
watched our departure with some such face as mourners watch the
out-bearing of a corpse. All this I noted in a moment as I crossed the
threshold and went forward down the passage, and as I went I shivered,
for the scene was uncanny and fateful.
Presently we were in the abbot’s chamber, our sleeping-place, and had
locked the door behind us. Near the washstand, on which burned a
single candle set in the neck of a bottle, sat Molas, his face buried
in his hands.
“Have they brought you no supper, that you look so sad?” asked the
señor.
“The woman, Luisa, gave me to eat,” he whispered. “Listen, lord, and
you, Señor Strickland, our fears are well founded; there is a plot to
murder us to-night, of this the woman is sure, for she heard some
words pass between Don Pedro and a white man called Smith; also she
saw one of the half-breeds fetch spades from the garden and place them
in readiness, which spades are to be used in the hollowing of our
graves beneath this floor.”
Now when we heard this our hearts sank, for it was terrible to think
that we were doomed within a few hours to lie beneath the ground
whereon our living feet were resting. Yet, if these assassins were
determined upon our slaughter, our fate seemed certain, seeing that we
had only knives wherewith to defend ourselves, for, though we had
saved the pistols and some powder in a flask, the damp had reached the
latter during the shipwreck, so that it could not be relied upon.
“I am afraid that we have been too venturesome in coming here,” I
said, “and that unless we can escape at once we must be prepared to
pay the price of our folly with our lives.”
“Do not be downcast, lord,” answered Molas, “for you have not heard
all the tale. The woman has shown me a means whereby you can save
yourselves from death, at any rate for to-night. Come here,” and,
leading us across the room, he knelt upon the floor at a spot almost
opposite the picture of the abbot, and pressed on a panel in the low
wainscoting of cedar wood with which the wall was clothed to a height
of about three feet.
The panel slid aside, leaving a space barely large enough for a man to
pass. Through this opening we crept one by one, and descended four
narrow steps, to find ourselves in a chamber hollowed out of the
foundations of the wall, so small that there was only just room for
the three of us to stand in it, our heads being some inches above the
level of the floor.
And here I may tell you, Señor Jones, that, though I have never shown
it to you, this place still exists, as you may discover by searching
the wainscoting. For many years I have used it for the safe keeping of
papers and valuables. There, by the way, you will find that emerald
which I showed you on the first night of our meeting. What the purpose
of this chamber was in the time of the abbots I do not know, and
perhaps it is as well not to inquire, though they also may have used
it to store their wealth.
“How can we save ourselves by crouching here like rats in a drain?” I
asked of Molas. “Doubtless the secret of the hiding-place is known to
those who live in the house, and they will drag us out and butcher
us.”
“The woman Luisa says that it is known to none except herself, lord,
for she declares that not two months ago she discovered it for the
first time by the accident of the broom with which she was sweeping
the floor striking against the springs of the panel. Now let us come
out for a while, for it is not yet eleven o’clock, and she says that
there will be no danger till after midnight.”
“Has she any plan for our escape?” I asked.
“She has a plan, though she is doubtful of its success. When the
murderers have been, and found us gone, they will think either that we
are wizards or that we have made our way out of the house, and will
search no more till dawn. Meanwhile, if she can, Luisa will return,
and, entering the chamber by the secret entrance, will lead us to the
chapel, whence she thinks that we may fly into the forest.”
“Where is this secret entrance, Molas?”
“I do not know, lord; she had no time to tell me, but the murderers
will come by it. She did tell me, however, that she believes that a
man and a woman are imprisoned near the chapel, though she knows
nothing of them and never visits the place, because the Indians deem
it to be haunted. Doubtless these two are Zibalbay and his daughter,
so that if you live to come so far, you may find them there and speak
with them.”
“Why do you say ‘if _you_ live,’ Molas?”
“Because I think, lord, that then I shall be already dead; at least,
death waits on me.”
“What do you mean?” asked the señor.
“I will tell you. After the woman Luisa had gone I ate the food she
brought me and drank some wine. Then I think that I fell asleep, for
when I awoke the candle had burned out and I was in darkness. Hastily
I turned to search for another candle that I had placed by the bottle,
and was about to make fire when something drew my eyes, causing me to
look up.
“This was what I saw: at the far end of the chamber, enclosed in a
film of such pale light as is given by the glowfly, stood the figure
of a man, and that man myself, dressed as I am now. There I stood
surrounded by faint fire; and though the face was the face of a dead
man, yet the hand was not dead, for it beckoned towards me through the
darkness.
“Now I saw, and the cold sweat of fear broke out upon me, so that I
could scarcely light the candle which I held. At length, however, it
burned brightly, and, holding it over my head, I walked towards the
spot where I had seen the shadow, only to find that it was gone.”
“Or in other words, that you had slept off your indigestion,” said the
señor. “I congratulate you on getting rid of it so soon.”
“It is easy to mock,” answered Molas, “but that which I have seen, I
have seen, and I know that it portends my death. Well, so be it; I am
not yet old, but I have lived long enough and now it is time to go.
May Heaven have mercy on my sins, and thus let it be.”
After this the señor and I strove to reason him out of his folly, but
in vain, nor, in fact, was it altogether a folly, seeing that Molas
was doomed to die upon the morrow; though whether the vision that he
saw came to warn him of his fate, or was but a dream, it is not for me
to say.
Presently we ceased talking of ghosts and omens, for we must look to
our own bodies and the necessities of the hour. Some minutes before
midnight we extinguished the light, and, creeping one by one through
the hole in the panelling, we closed it behind us and took our stand
in the little dungeon. Here the darkness was awful, and as the warmth
of the wine that we had drunk passed from our veins, fears gathered
thick upon us and oppressed our souls. Those hours on the sinking ship
had been evil, but what were they compared to this?
Deep as was the silence, yet there were noises in it, strange creaks
and flutterings that thrilled our marrows. We prayed till we were
weary, then for my part I tried to doze, only to find that at such a
time sleep was worse than waking, for my imagination peopled it with
visions till it seemed to me that all the painted horrors on the walls
of the chamber took life, and enacted themselves before my eyes.
I heard the groaning of the martyrs, and the cruel jeers of those who
watched their agony, urged on by the hard-faced abbot, whose picture
hung above us. Then the vision changed and I seemed to see the tragedy
of the two Americans, of whose fate the señor had told me and whose
blood still stained the floor. The darkness opened as it were, and I
saw the beds on which they were sleeping heavily, stalwart men in the
prime of life.
Then appeared figures standing over them, Don Pedro, Don José, and
others, while from the shadows behind peeped the wicked face of their
countryman, Don Smith. The bed-clothes were twitched away and once
more all was black, but in the darkness I heard a sound of blows and
groaning, of the hurrying feet of murderers, and the clinking of bags
of money stolen from the dead men. Now the señor touched me and I
woke with a start.
“Hark,” he whispered into my ear, “I hear men creeping about the
room.”
“For the love of God, be silent,” I answered, gripping his hand.