He considered. There was a certain risk, for the priests might dwell by their idols. But most even of these look upon their Christian rival with reverence. He asked his brother how he was regarded? Indignantly the latter confessed that all these wicked folk treated him with the utmost deference. He had denounced them again and again from the altar, threatened to excommunicate the whole community—but the Bishop promptly crushed that idea. They listened in respectful silence, and went their own way. Pablo came to a resolve. He proposed that they should start before daylight and search for the accursed place. The Cura was startled, but he assented with passionate zeal; of his stuff, unenterprising, unimaginative, with room for one idea only, martyrs are made. Martyrdom he half expected, and he was ready. Whilst Pablo snored in his hammock, the good man prayed all through the night.
It was still dark when they set forth, and before even Indians were stirring they had passed beyond the village confines; but the sun was high when they reached the hills. These are, in fact, a range of low volcanoes, all extinct now; the most ancient overgrown with trees and brushwood, the most recent still bare. Towards this part the Cura led the way. They passed through blinding gorges where no green thing found sustenance. Cacti and yuccas and agaves, white with dust, clung to the naked tufa. So they went on, mounting always, encouraged from time to time by some faint trace of human passage, which their keen Indian eyes discerned. But from the crest nothing could be seen save gorges such as they had traversed, and long slopes of dazzling rock.
The quest began to look hopeless, but they persevered. And presently Pablo noted something on the ground, at a distance, beside a clump of Opuntia. It was a bunch of withered flowers. Approaching they saw a cleft in the ridge of tufa masked by that straggling cactus. They passed through—and the idols stood before them! The Cura fell on his knees.
It was a small plateau, as white and as naked as the rest. In the midst stood three cairns, each bearing large stone figures, painted red and blue and yellow. Before each cairn was an altar, built of unhewn stones topped by a slab.
The scene was impressive. Pablo recalled his prayers in looking on it. The white and glittering dust lay even as a floor around those heaps of stone. All was still, but the painted statues seemed to tremble and flicker in that awful heat. Tiny whirls of sand arose, and danced, and scattered, though never a breath of wind moved the burning air. The shadow of a vulture sailing passed slowly from side to side.
The Cura ended his prayer, leapt up and rushed—his old black gown streaming like wings. He grasped the foremost idol and pushed and pulled with all his might—he might as well have tried to overthrow the rock itself. Another and another he attempted; all in vain. He paused at length, mopping his drenched face, disheartened but still resolved. Then he took stones and battered the features.
Pablo was scarcely disappointed. So soon as they entered that barren tract, he knew that the Flor de San Lorenzo could not live there. Approaching he scrutinised the altars. Heaps of ashes and charred wood lay upon them, beneath leaves and fruits and flowers, unburnt but shrivelled and crackling in the sunshine. Carefully Pablo turned these over. On the largest slab were found bones and dry pools of blood.
I have not room to follow the story in detail. Next day they started for Orizaba, the priest carrying a passionate recital of these discoveries to the Bishop. What came of it I do not know. Pablo returned forthwith, in pressing haste, accompanied by two soldiers. With these he called on the Cacique and charged him with human sacrifice. For a while the Indian could not speak; then he vehemently denied the accusation. The conference was long; in the end, Pablo admitted his innocence of the graver charge, but the acts of paganry could not be disputed. He agreed to say no more about them, however, on condition that the accursed flower should be surrendered and destroyed in his presence. By evening it was brought. But he changed his mind about destroying it just then. As has been said, this was the pride of M. Kienast-Zolly’s collection for many years; then it passed, the half of it, to Baron Schröder, and a quarter to Mr. Wilson. Shortly afterwards Mr. Measures secured the latter fragment.
The description of the sacred place certainly does not apply to an Indian temple. The cairns were graves of ancient heroes doubtless, and the figures portrait-statues, such as I myself have seen in abundance to the southward. The Indians made this desert spot a temple perhaps, and treated the statues as idols, when their places of worship were destroyed.