“Oh! father, unsay those words and spare me. Have you no pity for a woman’s heart?”
“Ay!” he said, “so much pity as you have for my sorrows and grey hair. Why should I spare you, girl, who have not spared me, your father. My curse is spoken, and I will add this to it, that it shall break your heart at last, ay! and the heart of that man who has robbed me of your duty and your love.”
Then suddenly he ceased speaking, his eyes grew empty, he stretched out his arms and fell heavily to the floor.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PLOT
Springing forward, but too late to save him, the señor and I lifted Zibalbay from the ground and laid him on a couch. Peeping over our shoulders, Maya caught sight of his ghastly face and the foam upon his lips.
“Oh, he is dead,” she moaned; “my father is dead, and he died cursing me.”
“No,” said the señor, “he is not dead, for his heart stirs. Bring water, Maya.”
She obeyed, and for hard upon two hours we struggled to restore his sense, but in vain; life lingered indeed, but we could not stir him from his stupor. At length, as we were resting, wearied with our fruitless labour, the gates opened and Tikal came again.
“What now?” he asked, seeing the form of Zibalbay stretched upon the couch. “Does the old man sleep?”
“Yes, he sleeps,” answered the señor, “and I think that he will wake no more. The words he spoke to you to-day are coming true, and that which you took from him by force will soon be yours by right.”