“A popular lecture,” was Mr. Scanlon’s mental observation. “But it seems to me it’s going to land somewhere.”
“The Aztecs made no roads,” said Ashton-Kirk, lifting his head and looking about as though searching for a given spot; “and they had no domestic animals. Both these things speak strongly against them. But the most fearsome thing about them was their religion.”
He paused in a place between two small hills; in the ground was a bowl-shaped hollow. Scanlon looked at this and at the surroundings with interest.
“Some days ago I had occasion to speak to you of the theory of Gall, the Antwerp empiric, as to the skull and the brain and their effects, one upon the other. It was the custom of the Aztecs to flatten the heads of their children by continued pressure; this resulted, finally, in the altering of their skulls as a people. And who knows what effect this deformity had upon their inclinations. The horrors of their religious observances may, perhaps, be traced to it altogether.”
“Like as not,” admitted Mr. Scanlon.
The crime specialist kicked away some brush which lay beside a log near by, and in this way he disclosed a huge bundle of something like parchment. With Scanlon’s help he unrolled it; it was made up of a number of prepared sheepskins, and to the edges ropes were attached.
“Ha!” said Bat, as he looked at it.
“Suppose we were to throw this over the hollow which you see here; then suppose we were to draw it taut with the ropes after having passed them around stakes—taut and tauter still until the skins will stretch no more.” Ashton-Kirk looked at the big man inquiringly. “What should we have?”
“A drum!” cried Bat. “An immense drum!” He returned the look of the other, adding, with wonder: “And it’s a drum we’ve heard roaring in the night.”
“Right,” said Ashton-Kirk.