“I remember now. Above the foremost canoe, above its clouds, there is a banner, and it is black—”
“’Tis Quetzal’s! ’Tis Quetzal’s!” he muttered.
“It is black, with golden embroidery, and something picture-written on it, but what I cannot tell.”
“Look in the canoe.”
“I see—O, I know not what to call them.”
“Of what shape are they, child?”
“Yours, father.”
“Go on: they are gods!” he said, and still the naming of men was unheard in the great chamber.
“There are many of them,” she continued; “their garments flash and gleam; around one like themselves they are met; to me he seems the superior god; he is speaking, they are listening. He is taller than you, father, and has a fair face, and hair and beard like the hue of his banner. His garments are the brightest of all.”
“You have described a god; it is Quetzal’, the holy, beautiful Quetzal’!” he said, with rising voice. “Look if his course be toward the land.”