"Siete horas!" shouted the man. "Seven hours, and no more!"
"No more than seven hours!" echoed the Tzapotecans, in tones of the wildest terror and alarm. "La Santissima nos guarde! It will take more than ten to reach the village."
"What's all that about?" said I with my mouth full, to Rowley.
"Don't know—some of their Indian tricks, I suppose."
"Que es esto?" asked I carelessly. "What's the matter?"
"Que es esto!" repeated an old Tzapotecan, with long grey hair curling from under his sombrero, and a withered but finely marked countenance. "Las aguas! El ouracan! In seven hours the deluge and the hurricane!"
"Vamos, por la Santissima! For the blessed Virgin's sake let us be gone!" cried a dozen of the Mexicans, pushing two green boughs into our very faces.
"What are those branches?"
"From the tempest-tree—the prophet of the storm," was the reply.