“The time is near, indeed!” muttered the Indian. “The second shock may cause the waters from which this spring came to rise as no living man has seen them rise, and make the sea return, and the treasure be lost. In a few days all may be over. But you, princess, must vanish: though the shock was but slight, some one might be awakened; and were you to be discovered, our plans might go wrong.”
“Must I depart so soon?” said Semitzin, regretfully. “The earth is beautiful, Kamaiakan: the smell of the flowers is sweet, and the stars in the sky are bright. To feel myself alive, to breathe, to walk, to see, are sweet. Perhaps I have no other conscious life than this. I would like to remain as I am: I would like to see the sun shine, and to hear the birds sing, and to see the men and women who live in this age. Is there no way of keeping me here?”
“I cannot tell; it may be,—but it must not be now, Semitzin,” the old man replied, with a troubled look. “The ways of the gods are not our ways. She whose body you inhabit—she has her life to live.”
“But is that girl more worthy to live than I? You have called me into being again: you have made me know how pleasant this world is. Miriam sleeps: she need never know; she need never awake again. You were faithful to me in the old time: have you more care for her than for me? I feel all the power and thirst of youth in me: the gods did not let me live out my life: may they not intend that I shall take it up again now? Besides, I wear Miriam’s body: could I not seem to others to be Miriam indeed? How could they guess the truth?”
“I will think of what you say, princess,” said Kamaiakan. “Something may perhaps be done; but it must be done gradually: you would need much instruction in the ways of the new world before you could safely enter into its life. Leave that to me. I am loyal as ever: is it not to fulfil the oath made to you that I am here? and what would Miriam be to me, were she not your inheritor? Be satisfied for the present: in a few days we will meet and speak again.”
“The power is yours, Kamaiakan: it is well to argue, when with a word you can banish me forever! Yet what if I were to say that, unless you consent to the thing I desire, I will not show you where the treasure lies?”
“Princess Semitzin!” exclaimed the Indian, “remember that it is not against me, but against the gods, that you would contend. The gods know that I have no care for treasure. But they will not forgive a broken oath; and they will not hold that one guiltless through whom it is brought to naught?”
“Well, we shall meet again,” answered Semitzin, after a pause. “But do you remember that you, too, are not free from responsibility in this matter. You have called me back: see to it that you do me justice.” She waved her hands with a gesture of adieu, turned, and left the enclosure. Kamaiakan sank down again beside the empty bowl of the fountain.
Semitzin returned along the path by which she had come, towards the house. As she turned round one of the corners, she saw a man’s figure before her, strolling slowly along in the same direction in which she was going. In a few moments he heard her light footfall, and, facing about, confronted her. She continued to advance until she was within arm’s reach of him: then she paused, and gazed steadfastly in his face. He was the first human being, save Kamaiakan, that she had seen since her eyes closed upon the world of Tenochtitlan, three hundred years before.
The young man looked upon her with manifest surprise. It was too dark to distinguish anything clearly, but it did not take him long to surmise that the figure was that of a woman, and her countenance, though changed in aspect by the head-dress she were, yet had features which, he knew, he had seen before. But could it be Miriam Trednoke who was abroad at such an hour and in such a costume? He did not recognize the Golden Fleece, but it was evident enough that she was clad as women are not.