“Spoken!” he exclaimed. “Why, what should she say?”
“What I said to my cousin Tikal yesterday,” she answered, setting her lips, and speaking very low,—“that I will have nothing to do with him.”
“Nothing to do with him, girl! Nothing to do with him! Why he is your affianced; you do not understand?”
“I understand well, father, but for naught that can be offered to me upon the earth will I give myself in marriage to a man who has treated you and me as my cousin Tikal has done,—a man who could not keep his oath to you, or wait for me one single year.”
“Cease to be foolish,” said Zibalbay. “Tikal has erred, no doubt; but now he would make atonement for his error, and if I can forgive him, so can you. Think no more of the girl’s folly, Tikal, but send for ink and parchment and let us set down our contract, for I am old and have little time to lose; and perhaps, before another year is gone, that which you would have snatched by force shall come to you by right.”
“I have the paper here, lord,” said Tikal, drawing a roll from his breast; “but, pardon me, does the Lady Maya consent?”
“Aye, aye, she consents.”
“I do not consent, father, and if you drag me to the altar with yonder man, I will cry out to the people to protect me, or, failing their aid, I will seek refuge in death,—by my own hand if need be.”
Now Zibalbay turned upon his daughter, trembling with rage, but, checking himself of a sudden, he said:
“Tikal, for the moment this girl of mine is mad; leave us, and come back in some few hours, when you shall find her of another mind. Go now, I pray, before words are said that cannot be forgotten.”