Then we were silent, only Maya sobbed a little as she strove to staunch the blood that flowed from the señor’s wound with cobwebs which she gathered from among the stones.
“Do not trouble, lady,” he said, with a sad smile, “for soon there will be other wounds that cannot be dressed. What shall you do?”
By way of answer she showed him the poisoned dart which she held in the hollow of her hand.
“I cannot advise you otherwise,” he said. “Farewell, I am glad to have met you and I hope that we may meet again yonder,” and he glanced towards the sky. “Now you had best say good-bye to your father, for our time is short.” She nodded, went to the old man, Zibalbay, who stood silent, stroking his grey beard, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him tenderly.
Looking out carefully we saw that the men had dragged Don Smith to the side of the stairway, where some of them supported him while he died of the poison, and others watched for a chance to shoot us should we show ourselves upon the terrace. Presently he was dead, and, cursing us aloud, his companions commenced to mount the third flight with great caution, for they feared a snare.
“Is there nothing to be done to save our lives?” asked the señor, in a heavy voice.
There was no answer, but of a sudden Molas, who was standing with one hand pressed upon the wound in his side and the other before his eyes, turned and ran into the chamber behind us, whence he reappeared carrying the copper axe. Then, without speaking, he climbed the masonry of the archway with great swiftness, till he stood with his feet in the crack beneath the crown of the arch, which you will remember was held in place only by the tough tree-roots, that grew from it into the stonework of the buttresses. Supporting himself by a creeper with his left hand, with his right he struck blow after blow at the biggest of these roots, severing them one by one. Now we saw his purpose—to send two hundred tons of stonework thundering down the stairway upon the heads of the murderers.
“By heaven! that is an answer to my question,” said the señor; then he paused and added, “Come down, Molas; if the arch falls, you will fall with it and be crushed.”
“It matters little,” he answered; “this is my doom day, that bullet has cut me inside and I bleed to death, and on this spot, as I have long feared, it is fated that I should die. Pray for my soul, and farewell.”
“Fare you well, you gallant man,” said the señor. “I have no axe or I would come with you.”