“A garden,” he said, in his soul,—“a garden, and birds, and liberty!” The welcome thought thrilled him inexpressibly. “Yes, I will go”; and, aloud, “I am ready.”
Thereupon she took his hand, and put the curtains aside, and led him into the paba’s World, never but once before seen by a stranger.
This time forethought had not gone in advance to prepare for the visitor. The master’s eye was dim, and his careful hand still, in the sleep by the fountain. The neglect that darkened the fire on the turret was gloaming the lamps in the chamber; one by one they had gone out, as all would have gone but for Tecetl, to whom the darkness and the shadows were hated enemies. Nevertheless, the light, falling suddenly upon eyes so long filled with blackness as his had been, was blinding bright, insomuch that he clapped his hand over his face. Yet she led him on eagerly, saying,—
“Here, here, good Quetzal’. Here by the fountain he lies.”
All her concern was for the paba.
And through the many pillars of stone, and along a walk bounded by shrubs and all manner of dwarfed tropical trees, half blinded by the light, but with the scent of flowers and living vegetation in his nostrils, and the carol of birds in his ears, and full of wonder unspeakable, he was taken, without pause, to the fountain. At sight of the sparkling jet, his fever of thirst raged more intensely than ever.
“Here he is. Speak to him,—call him back to me! As you love him, call him back, O Quetzal’?”
He scarcely heard her.
“Water, water! Blessed Mother, I see it again! A cup,—quick,—a cup!”
He seized one on the table, and drank, and drank again crying between each breath, “To the Mother the praise!” Not until he was fully satisfied did he give ear to the girl’s entreaty.