General Trednoke’s household went early to bed. As there was
more accommodation in the old house than sufficed for its present
inhabitants, it followed that each of them had a regal allowance of
rooms. And when Grace Parsloe became one of the occupants, she was
allotted two commodious apartments at the extremity of the left wing.
They communicated, through long windows, with the veranda in front, and
by means of doors with the passage, or hall, traversing the house from
end to end. If, therefore, she happened to be sleepless, she might issue
forth into the garden, and wander about there without let or hinderance
until she was ready to accept the wooing of the god of dreams; or, if
supernatural terrors daunted her, she could in a few seconds transfer
herself and her fears to Miriam’s chamber, which occupied the same
position in the right wing that hers did in the left.
The night, as is customary in that climate, where the atmosphere is pure
and evaporation rapid, was cool and still. By ten o’clock there was no
sound to indicate that any person was awake; though, to an acute ear,
the rise and fall of regular breathing, or even an occasional snore,
might have given evidence of slumber. At the back of the house,
the Indian retainers were lapped in silence. They were a harmless
people,--somewhat disposed, perhaps, to small pilferings, in an amiable
and loyal way, but incapable of anything seriously criminal. There were
no locks on the doors, and most of them stood ajar. Tramps and burglars
were unknown.
Miriam, having put on her night-dress, stood a few minutes at her
window, gazing out on the soft darkness of the garden. All there was
peacefulness and fragrance. The leaves of the plants hung motionless;
the blossoms seemed to hush themselves to the enjoyment of their own
sweetness. The sky was clear, but there was no moon. A beautiful planet,
however, bright enough to cast a shadow, hung in the southwestern sky,
and its mysterious light touched Miriam’s face, and cast a dim rectangle
of radiance on the white matting that carpeted the floor of her room.
It was the planet Venus,--the star of love. Miriam thought it would be
a pleasant place to live in. But one need not journey to Venus to find a
world where love is the ruling passion. Circumstances over which she
has no control may cause such a world to come into existence in a girl’s
heart.
She left the window at last, and got into bed, where she soon presented
an image of perfect repose. Meanwhile, in a dark corner of the
court-yard at the rear, a dark, pyramidal object abode without motion.
It might have been taken for a heap of blankets piled up there. But if
you examined it more narrowly you would have detected in it the vague
outlines of a human figure, squatting on its haunches, with its head
resting on its knees, and its arms clasped round them,--somewhat as
figures sit in Egyptian hieroglyphics, or like Aztecan mummies in the
tomb. So still was it, it might itself have been a mummy. But ever and
anon a blinking of the narrow eyes in the bronze countenance told that
it was no mummy, but a living creature. In fact, it was none other than
the aged and austere Kamaiakan, who, for reasons best known to himself,
chose to spend the hours usually devoted to rest in an attitude that
no European or white American could have maintained with comfort longer
than five minutes.
An hour--two hours--passed away. Then Kamaiakan noiselessly arose,
peered about him cautiously for a few moments, and passed out of the
court-yard through the open gate. He turned to the left, and, stealing
beneath Miriam’s windows, paused there for an instant and made certain
gestures with his arms. Anon he continued his way to the garden, and was
soon concealed by the thick shrubbery.
History requires us to follow him. The garden extended westward, and
was quite a spacious enclosure: one not familiar with its winding paths
might easily lose himself there on a dark night. But Kamaiakan knew
where he was going, and the way thither. He now stalked along more
swiftly, taking one turn after another, brushing aside the low-hanging
boughs, and passing the loveliest flowers without a glance. He was as
one preoccupied with momentous business. Presently he arrived at a small
open space, remote and secluded. It was completely surrounded by tall
shrubbery. In the centre was a basin of stone, evidently very ancient,
filled to the brim with the clear water of a spring, which bubbled up
from the bottom, and, overflowing by way of a gap in the edge, became a
small rivulet, which stole away in the direction of the sea. Across the
slightly undulating surface of the basin trembled the radiance of the
star.
Kamaiakan knelt down beside it, and, bending over, gazed intently into
the water. Presently he dipped his hands in it, and sprinkled shining
drops over his own gaunt person, and over the ground in the vicinity of
the spring. He made strange movements with his arms, bowed his head
and erected it again, and traced curious figures on the ground with his
finger. It appeared as if the venerable Indian had solemnly lost his
senses and had sought out this lonely spot to indulge the vagaries of
his insanity. If so, his silence and deliberation afforded an example
worthy of consideration by other lunatics.
Suddenly he ceased his performance, and held himself in a listening
attitude. A light, measured sound was audible, accompanied by the
rustling of leaves. It came nearer. There was a glimpse of whiteness
through the interstices of the surrounding foliage, and then a slender
figure, clad in close-fitting raiment, entered the little circle. It
wore a sort of tunic, reaching half-way to the knees, and leggings of
the same soft, grayish-white material. The head was covered with a sort
of hood, which left only the face exposed; and this too might be covered
by a species of veil or mask, which, however, was now fastened back on
the headpiece, after the manner of a visor. The front of the tunic was
embroidered with fantastic devices in gold thread, brightened here and
there with precious stones; and other devices appeared on the hood.
The face of this figure was pale and calm, with great dark eyes beneath
black brows. The stature was no greater than that of a lad of fifteen,
but the bearing was composed and dignified. The contours of the figure,
however, even as seen by that dim light, were those of neither a boy nor
a man. The wearer of the tunic was a girl, just rounding into womanhood,
and the face was the face of Miriam.
Yet it was not by this name that Kamaiakan addressed her. After making
a deep obeisance, touching his hand to her foot and then to his own
forehead and breast, he said, in a language that was neither Spanish nor
such as the modern Indians of Mexico use,--
“Welcome, Semitzin! May this night be the beginning of high things!”
“I am ready,” replied the other, in a soft and low voice, but with a
certain stateliness of utterance unlike the usual manner of General
Trednoke’s daughter: “I was glad to hear you call, and to see again the
stars and the earth. Have you anything to tell?”
“There are events which may turn to our harm, most revered princess. The
master of this house----”
“Why do you not call him my father, Kamaiakan?” interposed the other.
“He is indeed the father of this mortal body which I wear, which (as you
tell me) bears the name of Miriam. Besides, are not Miriam and I united
by the thread of descent?”
“Something of the spirit that is you dwells in her also,” said the
Indian.
“And does she know of it?”
“At times, my princess; but only as one remembers a dream.”
“I wish I might converse with her and instruct her in the truth,”
said the princess. “And she, in turn, might speak to me of things that
perplex me. I live and move in this mortal world, and yet (you tell
me) three centuries have passed since what is called my death. To me it
seems as if I had but slept through a night, and were awake again.
Nor can I tell what has happened--what my life and thoughts have
been--during this long lapse of time. Yet it must be that I live another
life: I cannot rest in extinction. Three times you have called me forth;
yet whence I come hither, or whither I return, is unknown to me.”
“There is a memory of the spirit,” replied Kamaiakan, “and a memory of
the body. They are separate, and cannot communicate with each other.
Such is the law.”
“Yet I remember, as if it were yesterday, the things that were done when
Montezuma was king. And well do I remember you, Kamaiakan!”
“It is true I live again, princess, though not in the flesh and bones
that died with you in the past. But in the old days I was acquainted
with mysteries, and learned the secrets of the world of spirits; and
this science still remained with me after the change, so that I was able
to know that I was I, and that you could be recalled to speak with me
through the tongue of Miriam. But there are some things that I do not
know; and it is for that I have been bold to summon you.”
“What can I tell you that can be of use to you in this present life,
Kamaiakan, when all whom we knew and loved are gone?”
“To you only, Semitzin, is known the place of concealment of the
treasure which, in the old times, you and I hid in the desert. I indeed
remember the event, and somewhat of the region of the hiding; but I
cannot put my hand upon the very spot. I have tried to discover it; but
when I approach it my mind becomes confused between the present and the
past, and I am lost.”
“I remember it well,” said Semitzin. “We rode across the desert,
carrying the treasure on mules. The air was still, and the heat very
heavy. The desert descended in a great hollow: you told me it was where,
in former days, the ocean had been. At last there were rocky hills
before us; we rode towards a great rock shaped like the pyramid on which
the sacrifices were held in Tenochtitlan. We passed round its base, and
entered a deep and narrow valley, that seemed to have been ploughed out
of the heart of the earth and to descend into it. Then---- But what is
it you wish to do with this treasure, Kamaiakan?”
“It belongs to your race, princess, and was hidden that the murderers
of Montezuma might not seize it. I was bound by an oath, after the peril
was past, to restore it to the rightful owners. But our country remained
under the rule of the conquerors; and my life went out. But now the
conquerors have been conquered in their turn, and Miriam is the last
inheritor of your blood. When I have delivered to her this trust, my
work will be done, and I can return to the world which you inhabit. The
time is come; and only by your help can the restitution be made.”
“Was there, then, a time fixed?”
“The stars tell me so. And other events make it certain that there must
be no delay. The general has it in mind to discover the gates through
which the waters under-ground may arise and again form the sea which
flowed hereabouts in the ancient times. Now, this sea will fill the
ravine in which the treasure lies, and make it forever unattainable. A
youth has also come here who is skilled in the sciences, and whom the
general will ask to help him in the thing he is to attempt.”
“Who is this youth?” asked Semitzin.
“He is of the new people who inherit this land: his name is Freeman.”
“There is something in me--I know not what--that seems to tell me I have
been near such a one. Can it be so?”
“The other self, who now sleeps, knows of him,” replied the ancient
Indian. “He is a well-looking youth, and I think he has a desire towards
her we call Miriam.”
“And does she love him?” inquired the princess.
“A maiden’s heart is a riddle, even to herself,” said Kamaiakan.
“But there is a sympathy that makes me feel her heart in my own,”
rejoined Semitzin. “Love is a thing that pierces through time, and
through barriers which separate the mind and memory of the past from the
present. I--as you know, Kamaiakan--was never wedded; the fate of our
people, and my early end, kept that from me. But the thought of that
youth is here,”--she put her hand on her bosom,--“and it seems to me
that, were we to meet, I should know him. Perhaps, were that to be,
Miriam and I might thus come to be aware of each other, and live
henceforth one life.”
“Such matters are beyond my knowledge,” said the Indian, shaking his
head. “The gods know what will be. It is for us, now, to regain the
treasure. Are you willing, my princess, to accompany me thither?”
“I am ready. Shall it be now?”
“Not now, but soon. I will call you when the moment comes. The place
is but a ride of two or three hours from here. None must know of our
departure, for there are some here whom I do not trust. We must go by
night. You will wear the garments you now have on, without which all
might miscarry.”
“How can the garments affect the result, Kamaiakan?”
“A powerful spell is laid upon them, princess. Moreover, the characters
wrought upon them, with gold thread and jewels, are mystical, and the
substance of the garment itself has a virtue to preserve the wearer from
evil. It is the same that was worn by you when the treasure was hidden;
and it may be, Semitzin, that without its magic aid your spirit could
not know itself in this world as now it can.”
As he spoke the last words, a low sound, wandering and muttering with
an inward note, came palpitating on their ears through the night air.
It seemed to approach from no direction that could be identified, yet
it was at first remote, and then came nearer, and in a moment trembled
around them, and shivered in the solid earth beneath their feet; and in
another instant it had passed on, and was subdued slowly into silence in
the shadowy distance. No one who has once heard that sound can mistake
it for any other, or ever can forget it. The air had suddenly become
close and tense; and now a long breeze swept like a sigh through the
garden, dying away in a long-drawn wail; and out of the west came a
hollow murmur, like that of a mighty wave breaking upon the shore of the
ocean.
“The earthquake!” whispered Kamaiakan, rising to his feet. And then he
pointed to the stone basin. “Look! the spring!”
“It is gone!” exclaimed Semitzin.
And, in truth, the water, with a strange, sucking noise, disappeared
through the bottom of the basin, leaving the glistening cavity which had
held it, green with slimy water-weed, empty.
“The time is near, indeed!” muttered the Indian. “The second shock may
cause the waters from which this spring came to rise as no living man
has seen them rise, and make the sea return, and the treasure be lost.
In a few days all may be over. But you, princess, must vanish: though
the shock was but slight, some one might be awakened; and were you to be
discovered, our plans might go wrong.”
“Must I depart so soon?” said Semitzin, regretfully. “The earth is
beautiful, Kamaiakan: the smell of the flowers is sweet, and the stars
in the sky are bright. To feel myself alive, to breathe, to walk, to
see, are sweet. Perhaps I have no other conscious life than this. I
would like to remain as I am: I would like to see the sun shine, and to
hear the birds sing, and to see the men and women who live in this age.
Is there no way of keeping me here?”
“I cannot tell; it may be,--but it must not be now, Semitzin,” the old
man replied, with a troubled look. “The ways of the gods are not our
ways. She whose body you inhabit--she has her life to live.”
“But is that girl more worthy to live than I? You have called me into
being again: you have made me know how pleasant this world is. Miriam
sleeps: she need never know; she need never awake again. You were
faithful to me in the old time: have you more care for her than for me?
I feel all the power and thirst of youth in me: the gods did not let me
live out my life: may they not intend that I shall take it up again now?
Besides, I wear Miriam’s body: could I not seem to others to be Miriam
indeed? How could they guess the truth?”
“I will think of what you say, princess,” said Kamaiakan. “Something
may perhaps be done; but it must be done gradually: you would need much
instruction in the ways of the new world before you could safely enter
into its life. Leave that to me. I am loyal as ever: is it not to fulfil
the oath made to you that I am here? and what would Miriam be to me,
were she not your inheritor? Be satisfied for the present: in a few days
we will meet and speak again.”
“The power is yours, Kamaiakan: it is well to argue, when with a word
you can banish me forever! Yet what if I were to say that, unless you
consent to the thing I desire, I will not show you where the treasure
lies?”
“Princess Semitzin!” exclaimed the Indian, “remember that it is not
against me, but against the gods, that you would contend. The gods know
that I have no care for treasure. But they will not forgive a broken
oath; and they will not hold that one guiltless through whom it is
brought to naught?”
“Well, we shall meet again,” answered Semitzin, after a pause. “But do
you remember that you, too, are not free from responsibility in this
matter. You have called me back: see to it that you do me justice.” She
waved her hands with a gesture of adieu, turned, and left the enclosure.
Kamaiakan sank down again beside the empty bowl of the fountain.
Semitzin returned along the path by which she had come, towards the
house. As she turned round one of the corners, she saw a man’s figure
before her, strolling slowly along in the same direction in which she
was going. In a few moments he heard her light footfall, and, facing
about, confronted her. She continued to advance until she was within
arm’s reach of him: then she paused, and gazed steadfastly in his face.
He was the first human being, save Kamaiakan, that she had seen since
her eyes closed upon the world of Tenochtitlan, three hundred years
before.
The young man looked upon her with manifest surprise. It was too dark
to distinguish anything clearly, but it did not take him long to surmise
that the figure was that of a woman, and her countenance, though changed
in aspect by the head-dress she were, yet had features which, he knew,
he had seen before. But could it be Miriam Trednoke who was abroad at
such an hour and in such a costume? He did not recognize the Golden
Fleece, but it was evident enough that she was clad as women are not.
Before he could think of anything to say to her, she smiled, and uttered
some words in a soft, flowing language with which he was entirely
unacquainted. The next moment she had glided past him, and was out of
sight round the curve of the path, leaving him in a state of perplexity
not altogether gratifying.
“What the deuce can it mean?” he muttered to himself. “I can’t be
mistaken about its being Miriam. And yet she didn’t look at me as if
she recognized me. What can she be doing out here at midnight? I suppose
it’s none of my business: in fact, she might very reasonably ask the
same question of me. And if I were to tell her that I had only ridden
over to spend a sentimental hour beneath her window, what would she say?
If she answered in the same lingo she used just now, I should be as wise
as before. After all, it may have been somebody else. The image in my
mind projected itself on her countenance. I certainly must be in love!
I almost wish I’d never come here. This complication about the general’s
irrigating scheme makes it awkward. I’m bound not to explain things to
him; and yet, if I don’t, and he discovers (as he can’t help doing) what
I am here for, nothing will persuade him that I haven’t been playing
a double game; and that would not be a promising preliminary towards
becoming a member of his family. If Miriam were only Grace, now, it
would be plain sailing. Hello! who’s this? Senor Don Miguel, as I’m a
sinner! What is he up to, pray? Can this be the explanation of
Miriam’s escapade? I have a strong desire to blow a hole through that
fellow!--Buenas noches, Senor de Mendoza! I am enchanted to have the
unexpected honor of meeting you.”
Senor de Mendoza turned round, disagreeably startled. It is only fair to
explain that he had not come hither with any lover-like designs towards
Miriam. Grace was the magnet that had drawn his steps to the Trednokes’
garden, and the truth is that that enterprising young lady was not
without a suspicion that he might turn up. Could this information have
been imparted to Freeman, it would have saved much trouble; but, as
it was, not only did he jump to the conclusion that Don Miguel was his
rival (and, seemingly, a not unsuccessful one), but a similar misgiving
as to Freeman’s purposes towards Grace found its way into the heart of
the Spaniard. It was a most perverse trick of fate.
The two men contemplated each other, each after his own fashion: Don
Miguel pale, glaring, bristling; Freeman smiling, insolent, hectoring.
“Why are you here, senor?” demanded the former, at length.
“Partly, senor, because such is my pleasure. Partly, to inform you that
your presence here offends me, and to humbly request you to be off.”
“Senor, this is an impertinence.”
“Senor, one is not impertinent to prowling greasers. One admonishes
them, and, if they do not obey, one chastises them.”
“Do you talk of chastising Don Miguel de Mendoza? Senor, I will wash out
that insult with your blood!”
“Excellent! It is at your service for the taking. But, lest we disturb
the repose of our friends yonder, let us seek a more convenient spot. I
noticed a very pretty little glade on the right as I rode over here. You
are armed? Good! we will have this little affair adjusted within half
an hour. Yonder star--the planet of love, senor--shall see fair play.
Andamos!”