WE ARE CONDEMNED BY THE TRIBUNAL
The theatre, or rather assembly hall, was built so that a small stage or
platform faced row after row of circular marble seats which rose in
tiers, one slightly elevated above another, until the highest tier was
some sixty feet above the ground. As we were led in I noticed that the
seats were nearly filled with men, women and children. All wore the
staple white toga, often over finer garments which fitted the body
loosely and were more or less embroidered and decorated according to the
fancy or the station of the wearer. Sometimes these togas were solid
white throughout, but more usually there was a plain or figured band of
a different color around the hem and the neck. The women affected wider
borders and more color on their garments than the men.
Every inhabitant of Tcha, male or female, had red hair. There were many
shades from deep auburn to brick red; but it was all undeniably red.
Eyes, too, were invariably blue, being likewise of many graduations of
shade, from dark violet to light watery azure. The complexions of the
people, as I have said, were dazzingly fair, with few freckles, and this
despite the warm latitude in which they lived. However, I never knew it
uncomfortably warm in Tcha.
Having remarked upon the fine physique of the men of Tcha, I may as well
state here that their women were the handsomest females I have ever
seen. It would not have been possible to find an unattractive maid or
matron in the hidden city. They were, as a rule, tall and slight,
exceedingly graceful and free of carriage and of extraordinary facial
beauty. Cheery and bright they seemed but neither talkative nor
frivolous. Modest and unassuming at all times they yet maintained an air
of stately pride that won and retained the respect and deference of the
opposite sex. In Tcha the women were considered the equal of men in all
ways, and their superiors in many.
A more reserved and unexcitable race has never existed. In the
assemblage we faced there was no disorder of any sort. Even the children
restrained any evidence of feeling. Inimical, powerfully opposed to the
strangers who had intruded upon them we felt them to be; yet no jeers
nor insults came from the throng, which represented the rank and file of
the populace.
The officer lined us up facing the low platform, upon which sat a group
of three aged men. Their beards—many wore beards in this valley—were
snow white, and their heads were bald. They were not wrinkled nor
decrepit, but carried themselves erect and proudly.
Of course I knew this was the powerful Tribunal which was to decide our
fate, and so I examined their faces with interest. Their eyes, which
returned our gaze, were mild and calm in expression. There was no sign
of hatred, antagonism or cruelty in those placid countenances. Somehow I
took heart as I read the faces of the Tribune, and felt relieved that we
had been brought before them for judgment.
All others in that vast throng were commoners: the three aged members of
the Tribunal alone possessed authority. We knew nothing as yet of the
political constitution of the people, but this conclusion was self
evident.
The officer knelt and removed his casque.
“Here, Fathers, are the strangers,” he said.
One of the three addressed us.
“Who speaks for you, strangers?” he inquired.
Allerton stepped forward and bowed respectfully. The three aged heads
bent to acknowledge the salutation.
“It is well,” said another. “We desire to question you, sir, and trust
you will answer us truly. Why are you here?”
“We came,” said Paul, using the expressive Maya language, which seemed
to be spoken in the valley, “merely from curiosity. We are experienced
travelers, from a country afar off, and we wished to see your valley, to
meet your people and to make you our friends.”
The third Tribune spoke. “How came you to know that the Vale of Tcha
exists?” he asked.
Allerton hesitated, not knowing how to answer. He tried to choose his
words with great care, for words meant lives at this crisis.
There was no impatience displayed by the Tribune, yet our leader’s very
hesitation was against us. It was a fair question, from their
standpoint, but the most difficult one Paul could have been called upon
to answer. He must at all hazards protect his friend and “brother”.
But Chaka showed his mettle then. He advanced a pace and standing beside
Allerton he said in a clear voice that could be heard by all:
“It was I who told him of the hidden Vale of Tcha.”
The three graybeards examined the speaker carefully.
“You are an Itzaex,” said one.
“I am Chaka Atkayma, the child of the gods and the hereditary ruler of
my people,” was the proud assertion. Chaka was superb when he assumed
this mood.
“And how came you to know of the Vale of Tcha?” was the next question.
“My father, the great Tcheltzada Atkayma, told me.”
The members of the Tribunal exchanged glances of intelligence.
“Did he ask you to keep the information secret, to use it only to
prevent your people from coming too near to the mountain of Aota?”
“He did,” said Chaka. “But I related the story to my brother Paul, whom
I love as myself. When he became eager to visit your city I offered to
guide him.”
The graybeards nodded. They felt they were now getting the plain,
unvarnished truth.
“Did you not realize the penalty of your act; the fate sure to overtake
you if you succeeded in coming among the people of Tcha?”
Allerton had recovered his wits by now, and strove to shield his friend.
“He did, your Highness, and warned my comrades and me. But we paid
little heed to his protests. Why should we be unwelcome in Tcha? We come
not as enemies but as friends. We are few in numbers; the Tcha are
thousands. In no other country of the great wide world are peaceful
strangers forbidden the hospitality of the people.”
I thought this was a hard hit, and a corking good argument; but the
three bald heads did not seem impressed by it. One of them replied:
“The Tcha have the right to make their own laws, and to protect
themselves from intrusion. For thousands of years we have been
sufficient to ourselves, ignoring the outer world from whence you came.
We have forbidden strangers to come among us. Through the Tcheltzada
Atkayma of the Itzaex we warned all men to keep away from our domain,
under penalty of death. You have disregarded our warning; you have
disobeyed our laws. Therefore you must submit to the punishment your
folly has brought upon you.”
Pleasant prospect, wasn’t it? Chaka said, in a firm voice:
“I alone, your Highness, deserve punishment. It was my disobedience of
your commands that permitted these people to come to the Vale of Tcha. I
claim at your hands full punishment for my fault, and the release of my
innocent friends.”
“Not so!” cried Allerton, quickly. “It was I who, learning of your
hidden city, persuaded Chaka Atkayma to guide me here. It was I who
induced these comrades to accompany us. The fault is mine, your
Highness. I alone deserve the death penalty.”
For an impressive moment the three members of the aged Tribunal gazed
full into the faces of these strange contestants for the honor of death.
Then they deliberately rose, walked around the bench where they had been
seated and sat down in a row with their backs toward us and the
assemblage.
At this every head in the audience was bowed low, as if in prayer.
Absolute silence reigned. Not even the rustle of a garment was to be
heard.
The Tribunal was deciding our fate.
I own that I felt desperately uneasy and weak-kneed. The gentleness of
demeanor of the old men and the quiet repression of the populace should
have been reassuring; but somehow the chills would run up and down my
back in spite of me. Chaka and Paul turned and embraced one another with
mutual love and gratitude, after which they stood proudly erect and
awaited their fate. As for the rest of us, fearful as we were we failed
to show the white feather. Cowardice at such a time would be strangely
out of place; because, perhaps, it was so unavailing. Unless it may
prove profitable, cowardice is the rankest folly.
After a brief consultation the members of the Tribune came back to their
first position, facing us. Their gaze was as calm and inscrutable as
before. Then one of them rose to his feet and addressed the assemblage.
“The strangers are all condemned to death,” said he, quietly. “The laws
of our fathers, the founders of the Vale and City of Tcha, must be
obeyed. Once we pardoned an atkayma of the Itzaex and sent him back to
his people, that through fear and in self-protection he might preserve
us from further molestation or intrusion. That was deemed a wise action
at the time, but it is not necessary for us to spare the atkayma’s son,
who stands before us. For, thinking the young man had perished,
Tcheltzada confided our secret to his brother Datchapa, an old and wise
Itzaex who will now rule his people and is too cautions to disobey our
commands.”
I wondered how he knew all this, and if old Datchapa had really survived
his tumble down the side of the pyramid. When the speaker sat down
another Tribune rose, saying:
“As our laws provide, in such cases, the civil government of Tcha, which
we the Tribune represents, is powerless to do more than condemn
strangers who intrude upon our domain. The prisoners must now be turned
over to her Supreme Highness the High Priestess of the Sun,” (here
Tribunal and people all bowed their heads humbly) “that they may be used
for the sacrifice, if found fit, or otherwise destroyed. This is our
decree, the decree of the Tribunal of Tcha, from which there is no
appeal.”
Here the third judge arose.
“The prisoners must be taken to the Holy Temple at once and delivered to
the representatives of her Supreme Highness, the hereditary High
Priestess of the Sun. And may the god approve us and shed his blessings
upon us, now as heretofore.”