“Let us hear. The professor is one of us.”
“It’s one of our traditions that my mother’s ancestors, at the time of Cortez, were very rich people,” continued Miriam, glancing at Meschines, and then letting her eyes wander across the garden, blooming with roses and fragrant with orange-trees, and so across the trellised vines towards the soft outline of the mountains eastward. “A great part of their wealth was in the form of jewels and precious stones. When Cortez took the city, one of the priests, who was a relative of our family, put the jewels in a box, and hid them in a certain place in the desert.”
“And does Kamaiakan know where the place is?” asked the general.
“He can know, when the time comes.”
“Which will be, perhaps, when you are ready for your dowry,” observed the professor, genially.
“A spell was put upon the spot,” Miriam went on, with a certain imaginative seriousness; for she loved romance and mystery so well, and was of a temperament so poetical, that the wildest fairy-tales had a sort of reality for her. “No one can find the treasure while the spell remains. But Kamaiakan understands the spell, and the conjuration which dissolves it; and when he dissolves it, the treasure will be found.”
“And, between ourselves,” added the general, “Kamaiakan is himself the priestly relative by whom the spell was wrought. He bears an enchanted life, which cannot cease until he has restored the jewels to Miriam’s hands.”
“There might be something in it, you know,” said Meschines, after a pause. “The treasures of Montezuma have never been found. Is there no old chart or writing, in your collection of curiosities and relics, that might throw light on it?”
“The scriptures of Anahuac were of the hieroglyphic type,—picture-writing,” replied the other. “No, I fear there is nothing to the purpose; and if there were, I shouldn’t know how to decipher it.”
“But, papa, the tunic!” exclaimed Miriam.