The man bowed, and, snatching a spear and a feather cloak from a peg near the door, vanished into the night, heedless of the howling wind and the sleet that thrashed upon the roof.
“How far is it to the village?” asked the señor.
“Ten leagues or more,” Zibalbay answered, “and the road is not good, still if he does not fall from a precipice or lose his life in a snow-drift, he will be there within six hours. Come, daughter, it is time for us to rest, our journey has been long, and you must be weary. Good night to you, my guests, to-morrow I shall hope to house you better.” Then, bowing to us, he left the room.
Maya rose to follow his example, and, going to the señor, gave him her hand, which he touched with his lips.
“How good it is to taste tobacco again,” he said as Maya went. “No, don’t go to bed yet, Ignatio, take a cigarette and another glass of this agua ardiente, and let us talk. Do you know, friend, it seems to me that Zibalbay has changed. I never was a great admirer of his character, but perhaps I do not understand it.”
“Do you not, señor? I think that I do. Like some Christian priests the man is a fanatic, and like myself, a dreamer. Also he is full of ambition and tyrannical, one who will spare neither himself nor others where he has an end to gain, or thinks that he can promote the welfare of his country and the glory of his gods. Think how brave and earnest the man must have been who, at the bidding of a voice or a vision, dared in his old age, unaccompanied save by his only child, to lay down his state and travel almost without food through hundreds of leagues of bush and desert, that none of his race had crossed for generations. Think what it must have been to him who for many years has been treated almost as divine, to play the part of a medicine-man in the forests of Yucatan, and to suffer, in his own person and in that of his daughter, insults and torment at the hands of low white thieves. Yet all this and more Zibalbay has borne without a murmur because, as he believes, the object of his mission is attained.”
“But, Ignatio, what is the object of his mission, and what have we to do with it? To this hour I do not quite know.”
“The object of his mission, and indeed of his life, is to build up the fallen empire of the City of the Heart. In short, señor, though I do not believe in his gods, in Zibalbay’s visions I do believe, seeing that they have led him to me, whose aim is his aim, and that neither of us can succeed without the other.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need wealth and he needs men; and if he will give me the wealth, I can give him men in thousands.”