There were tears in the brown girl’s eyes, tears in Jean’s as well; yet they smiled through their tears. Who can tell how strong was the bond of friendship welded at that moment?
It would have been difficult for either Jean or Johnny to tell how the movement started, but before they realized what was happening, a line of march formed along the trail. Before them were many brown hunters with their weapons; in long procession others followed, while close beside them was the Indian girl. Just as the procession started, awe-struck and silent, Roderick and the Carib woman materialized from somewhere to join them.
A wild, weird chant was struck up, then all moved slowly forward.
“How strange! How—how fascinating!” whispered Jean.
“Like a march of triumph,” Johnny whispered back.
In and out among the palms the procession wound. There appeared to be no end to that trail. Whence had come these people? Whither were they bound?
“Now where are we?” Johnny asked, an air of mystery in his voice.
As if in answer to his query, a great brown shaft, elaborately carved and gray with the moss of centuries, reared itself up before them. Beyond this they came at once into cleared spaces where were cornfields and pastures with goats grazing in them. Beside the trail were stone cottages with thatched roofs. Beside these dwellings women sat weaving cloth on narrow looms while others working over strange stone bowls beat soaked corn into batter.
“The wild Mayas,” the girl whispered with a thrill in her tone. “We have found them! At last we have found them!”
“And they have found us,” Johnny’s tone was solemn. “We are in their hands. This is their land. When shall we leave it? Ever?”