“Must we scale that precipice?” I asked of Zibalbay.
“No,” he answered, “it would not be possible without wings. There is a way through it. Twice in the old days bodies of white men searching for the Golden City to sack it, came to this spot, but, finding no path through the cliff, they went home again, though their hands were on the door.”
“Does the wall of rock encircle all the valley of the city?” asked the señor.
“No, White Man, it ends many days’ journey away to the west, but he who would travel round it must wade through a great swamp. Also the mountains may be crossed to the east by journeying for three days through snows and down precipices; but so far as I have learned only one man lived to pass them, a wandering Indian, who found his way to the banks of the Holy Waters in the days of my grandfather. Now, stay here while I search.”
“Are you glad to see the gateway of your home, Maya?” asked the señor.
“No,” she answered, almost fiercely, “for here in the wilderness I have been happy, but there sorrow awaits me and you. Oh! if indeed I am dear to you, let us turn even now and fly together back to the lands where your people live,” and she clasped his hand and looked earnestly into his eyes.
“What,” he answered, “and leave your father and Ignatio to finish the journey by themselves?”
“You are more to me than my father, though perhaps this solemn Ignatio is more to you than I am.”
“No, Maya, but having come so far I wish to see the sacred city.”
“As you will,” she said, letting fall his hand. “See, my father has found the place and calls us.”