BRITISH MYSTERIES - Fergus Hume Collection: 21 Thriller Novels in One Volume. Fergus Hume

      “Listen, Don Juan,” said Cocom, with great deliberation. “I will tell you many things that have taken place since your soul was in the realm of shadows. When you became insensible at Acauhtzin, a doctor was sent to attend to you by Don Hypolito. That doctor did what he could for you, but thought you would die as your soul was not within your body. Wildly did you cry, Don Juan, and many strange things did you say. Then, by the order of Don Hypolito, you were carried away on board a war-ship down the coast. At a certain point your body was taken ashore in a boat, and there delivered to certain people, who expected your coming. Having been placed on a litter, you were carried through the forest, across the salt desert, and again through the forest till you were placed on that bed. For two days have you tossed and turned, and cried, and fought. But now you are well, Don Juan—you will live; thanks be to the gods.”

      Jack listened to all this as in a dream. The explanation fitted in with those vague visions which had haunted his delirious brain. The darkness—that was the cell at Acauhtzin; the light came when he was carried on board the war-ship. Then the sea-vision, the landing on the coast—that mirage of a tropical forest—the snowy plains of salt, and the climbing of many steps up to an antique temple. A sudden thrill shot through his enfeebled frame as he recalled the vision of the sacrifice, he recollected Cocom’s last words referring to the gods, he glanced terrified at the frightful image of Huitzilopochtli, and turning slowly towards the Indian, repeated his often-asked question, the answer to which he already guessed.

      “What is this place?”

      Cocom arose to his feet, drew himself up to his full height, and pointed majestically towards the idol.

      “The temple of Huitzilopochtli! The shrine of the Chalchuih Tlatonac.”

      “God!” cried Jack, in despair, as he recognised his position. “I am lost!”

      He saw his peril at a glance. The threats of Don Hypolito regarding a frightful death were not mere words. With devilish ingenuity he had secured the death of his rival, with no possible chance of the truth becoming known. Jack saw that Xuarez had preserved his life, had delivered him to the Indians, to the end that he might be offered up on the altar of the war-god, as a sacrifice to the opal. No wonder his usually brave heart quailed at the prospect of such horrors. Captive to remorseless savages, in the heart of an impenetrable forest, there was no chance of a rescue by his friends. He was weak, unarmed, unfriended, in the power of a fanatic race; there was no help for it—he must die.

      “Cocom,” whispered Jack, clutching the Indian’s arm, “why have I been brought here—why did Don Hypolito deliver me to the Indians? Is it for—for——”

      His dry lips refused to form the horrible word; but Cocom, without the least emotion, supplied it.

      “For sacrifice! Yes, Don Juan; you are to be offered to the god.”

      “Horrible! When?”

      “In three weeks. At the termination of the great cycle.”

      “What do you mean?” asked Jack, with a shudder.

      “Our time,” explained Cocom, with stolid apathy, “is divided into cycles of fifty-two years. This have we received from our Aztec ancestors. At the end of a cycle the sun will die out in the heavens, and the earth end, if the new fire is not lighted on the altars of the gods. When the last day of the cycle comes, you, Don Juan, will be bound on the stone of sacrifice, your heart will be taken out as an offering to the great gods, and on your breast will the new fire be lighted. Then will the sun rise again, and a new cycle begin for the earth. The gods will be appeased, and mankind will be saved.”

      Jack had read of this terrible superstition in the fascinating pages of Prescott, but he never expected that he would one day take an active part in such a ceremony. With the hope of despair he endeavoured to evade his doom.

      “But the body of a white man will not please the gods. Why not sacrifice as your ancestors did, on the Hill of the Star?”

      “Hitherto, Señor, that has been done. Now, however, the gods have spoken through the opal, and it is willed that a white man alone can avert the end of time. A white man must be sacrificed, and you are chosen.”

      Jack shuddered, and hid his face in his hands.

      “Surely, Señor, you are not afraid!”

      “Afraid!” echoed Jack, uncovering his face, with a frown. “No, Cocom; an Englishman is never afraid of death. But to come in such a form as this—oh, horrible! horrible!”

      Cocom could not understand this alarm. Like all Indians, he regarded death with stoical resignation, and would have been perfectly willing himself to have been offered on the altar of sacrifice, seeing such a death would admit him at once into the Paradise of the sun. But he was very old, and therefore useless. The gods demanded a man, handsome, young, in the flower of his age, and therefore was it certain that Jack would be acceptable to the bloodthirsty Huitzilopochtli.

      “Did Don Hypolito know this when he delivered me to your friends?”

      “It was for that purpose he delivered you, Señor.”

      “Oh, fiend! devil!” cried Jack, trying to rise in his bed. “I wish I had my fingers round his throat!”

      “Lie quiet, Señor,” said Cocom, forcing him back. “You will make yourself ill again.”

      “Why should I not, seeing I am only reserved for this frightful death?”

      “That is as it may be, Señor,” observed Cocom, significantly.

      “What do you mean?” asked Duval, with sudden hope.

      “Hush!” replied the old man, laying his finger on his lips, and glancing apprehensively around. “In this temple the very walls have ears.”

      “You can save me?”

      “Perhaps. I know not.”

      “But——”

      Cocom bent over Jack on the pretence of arranging the bed-clothes, and brought his lips close to the young man’s ear.

      “Say not a word, Señor. If the priests suspect me, you are lost. I come hither as my fathers came before me, but I worship not the devil-stone. I am a true Catholic, Señor. The priests wanted a victim, and asked me to betray to them Don Pedro, when he was with me beyond the walls. Then I refused, and said I could not do so. The end of the cycle approaches, and the priests were alarmed, so they sent to Don Hypolito, and promised to make all the Indians help him in his war, if he procured them a white man for a victim to the gods. Don Hypolito promised, and two days ago sent you.”

      “The fiends!”

      “Hush! I am a medicine-man, placed here by the priests to cure you; but they think I wish to see you sacrificed. I do not. I will save you.”

      “Oh, Cocom, I thank you.”

      “Are you mad, Señor?” whispered the Indian, thrusting him hurriedly back; “eyes may be on us now. The walls of this room are pierced with secret eye-places.”

      Jack recognised the wisdom of this reasoning, and sank back on his couch. It was just as well he did so, for at that very moment the drapery of the door was swept aside, and a man entered the room.

      He was a majestic-looking personage, much taller than the average Indian. Indeed, he was as huge as Tim himself, but not so bulky. He wore a long white robe, falling to his feet, over this a mantle of gaudy leather-work. On his head was set a fresh chaplet of flowers, on his breast burned the red glimmer of a small opal. Advancing into the middle of the room, he swung a small incense-burner before Jack, throwing therein some odoriferous gum, which made a thick, perfumed smoke. After this, he cast some flowers on the couch, and muttered a few words with uplifted hands, finally ending the ceremony by falling on his knees.

      “What does this mean?” asked Jack of Cocom, who stood reverently on one side, observing all this mummery.