Roger the Bold: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico

by F. S. Brereton

Terrible indeed was the position in which Roger and Tamba found themselves, and there is little wonder that the former was goaded to desperation by the thought of the fate awaiting him. His figure was drawn to its fullest height and his muscles stood out tensely. There was a moisture on his forehead, while his hands were clammy with fear. In a dream he saw the scarlet-cloaked high priest, and marked his tattered and filthy locks, and the marks on his head and neck of self-inflicted penance. He saw the black-robed helpers at his elbow, the serpent form of the god of war, and the fire which burned before the idol and was never allowed to die out. Then his eye roamed to the others congregated on the summit of the tower, to the silent and expectant crowds in the streets below, on every housetop, and on the hundred and more towers which rose from the enormous enclosure in the heart of the city given up to the priesthood. He even noted the smoke of the sacrificial fires there, and wondered vaguely who lit them, and who replenished the fuel. Then the curving obsidian knife of the high priest caught his attention, while the touch of that individual's hand sent a thrill through him.

"The altar awaits you," said the priest, softly, as if he bore the utmost friendship for Roger. "We will not keep the god of war waiting."

His words and the touch of his hand awakened Roger thoroughly. A second or so before he had seemed dazed; but now he was in possession of his full vigour, both of mind and body. He stirred, beat the priest's hand away, and looked at Tamba.

"The time has come. Seize a weapon and follow me," he said.

At that instant the remaining priests closed round him, for it was their custom for four or five to lift the victim to the altar and hold him there while their chief performed the murderous act. Roger saw their meaning, and swung round suddenly; then he charged them, and with a blow to right and left scattered them on either side. A stately and gorgeous Mexican chief, one of the few who had come near to the cage that afternoon, stood near at hand, and in an instant Roger had him in his arms.

"To the chapel!" he shouted, "and prepare to bar the door if there is one. If not, look for something with which we can fill it, and keep these others out. Quick! The priests will be after us."

Bearing his captive on one arm, as if he were a child, he rushed across the summit of the tower, a hoarse roar of amazement and fury swelling the air as he did so. The entrance to a small chapel lay before him, and he followed Tamba through it, the latter having snatched a native sword as he ran.

"There is no door, master!" he called out in dismay. "There is only a curtain of feather work with bells at the bottom."

This, in fact, was the case, and it was the general arrangement throughout the temples and private houses of the Mexicans. They had no doors, and merely hung a curtain across the entrance, the curtain being very often of the most beautiful workmanship, and having attached at the bottom a number of bells made of tiny shells or of silver, which gave timely notice of the approach of a stranger.

Within the chamber all was gloomy at first after the brilliant sunshine outside. But in the space of a second or two Roger's eyes became accustomed to the half light, and he gave vent to a shout as he discovered an object.