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  • 1892
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than the aged and austere Kamaiakan, who, for reasons best known to himself, chose to spend the hours usually devoted to rest in an attitude that no European or white American could have maintained with comfort longer than five minutes.

An hour–two hours–passed away. Then Kamaiakan noiselessly arose, peered about him cautiously for a few moments, and
passed out of the court-yard through the open gate. He turned to the left, and,
stealing beneath Miriam’s windows, paused there for an instant and made certain
gestures with his arms. Anon he continued his way to the garden, and was soon concealed by the thick shrubbery.

History requires us to follow him. The garden extended westward, and was quite a spacious enclosure: one not familiar with its winding paths might easily lose himself
there on a dark night. But Kamaiakan knew where he was going, and the way
thither. He now stalked along more swiftly, taking one turn after another, brushing aside the low-hanging boughs, and passing the
loveliest flowers without a glance. He was as one preoccupied with momentous business. Presently he arrived at a small open space, remote and secluded. It was completely
surrounded by tall shrubbery. In the centre was a basin of stone, evidently very
ancient, filled to the brim with the clear water of a spring, which bubbled up from the bottom, and, overflowing by way of a gap in the edge, became a small rivulet, which stole away in the direction of the sea. Across the slightly undulating surface of the basin trembled the radiance of the star.

Kamaiakan knelt down beside it, and,
bending over, gazed intently into the water. Presently he dipped his hands in it, and sprinkled shining drops over his own gaunt person, and over the ground in the vicinity of the spring. He made strange movements with his arms, bowed his head and erected it again, and traced curious figures on the ground with his finger. It appeared as if the venerable Indian had solemnly lost his senses and had sought out this lonely spot to indulge the vagaries of his insanity. If so, his silence and deliberation afforded an example worthy of consideration by other lunatics.

Suddenly he ceased his performance, and held himself in a listening attitude. A light, measured sound was audible, accompanied
by the rustling of leaves. It came nearer. There was a glimpse of whiteness through the interstices of the surrounding foliage, and then a slender figure, clad in close-fitting raiment, entered the little circle. It
wore a sort of tunic, reaching half-way to the knees, and leggings of the same soft, grayish-white material. The head was covered with a sort of hood, which left only the face exposed; and this too might be covered by a species of veil or mask, which, however, was now fastened back on the headpiece,
after the manner of a visor. The
front of the tunic was embroidered with fantastic devices in gold thread, brightened here and there with precious stones; and other devices appeared on the hood. The
face of this figure was pale and calm, with great dark eyes beneath black brows. The stature was no greater than that of a lad of fifteen, but the bearing was composed and dignified. The contours of the figure,
however, even as seen by that dim light, were those of neither a boy nor a man. The
wearer of the tunic was a girl, just rounding into womanhood, and the face was the face of Miriam.

Yet it was not by this name that Kamaiakan addressed her. After making a deep
obeisance, touching his hand to her foot and then to his own forehead and breast, he said, in a language that was neither Spanish nor such as the modern Indians of Mexico use,–

“Welcome, Semitzin! May this night
be the beginning of high things!”

“I am ready,” replied the other, in a soft and low voice, but with a certain stateliness of utterance unlike the usual manner
of General Trednoke’s daughter: “I was glad to hear you call, and to see again the stars and the earth. Have you anything to tell?”

“There are events which may turn to our harm, most revered princess. The master
of this house—-“

“Why do you not call him my father,
Kamaiakan?” interposed the other. “He is indeed the father of this mortal body which I wear, which (as you tell me) bears the name of Miriam. Besides, are not
Miriam and I united by the thread of descent?”

“Something of the spirit that is you
dwells in her also,” said the Indian.

“And does she know of it?”

“At times, my princess; but only as one remembers a dream.”

“I wish I might converse with her and instruct her in the truth,” said the princess. “And she, in turn, might speak to me of
things that perplex me. I live and move in this mortal world, and yet (you tell me) three centuries have passed since what is called my death. To me it seems as if I
had but slept through a night, and were awake again. Nor can I tell what has
happened–what my life and thoughts have been–during this long lapse of time. Yet it must be that I live another life: I cannot rest in extinction. Three times you have called me forth; yet whence I come hither, or whither I return, is unknown to me.”

“There is a memory of the spirit,”
replied Kamaiakan, “and a memory of the body. They are separate, and cannot
communicate with each other. Such is the law.”

“Yet I remember, as if it were yesterday, the things that were done when Montezuma was king. And well do I remember you,
Kamaiakan!”

“It is true I live again, princess, though not in the flesh and bones that died with you in the past. But in the old days I was acquainted with mysteries, and learned the secrets of the world of spirits; and this science still remained with me after the change, so that I was able to know that I was I, and that you could be recalled to speak with me through the tongue of Miriam. But there are some things that I do not
know; and it is for that I have been bold to summon you.”

“What can I tell you that can be of use to you in this present life, Kamaiakan, when all whom we knew and loved are gone?”

“To you only, Semitzin, is known the
place of concealment of the treasure which, in the old times, you and I hid in the
desert. I indeed remember the event, and somewhat of the region of the hiding; but I cannot put my hand upon the very spot. I have tried to discover it; but when I
approach it my mind becomes confused between the present and the past, and I am lost.”

“I remember it well,” said Semitzin. “We rode across the desert, carrying the treasure on mules. The air was still, and the heat very heavy. The desert descended in a great hollow: you told me it was where, in former days, the ocean had been. At
last there were rocky hills before us; we rode towards a great rock shaped like the pyramid on which the sacrifices were held in Tenochtitlan. We passed round its base, and entered a deep and narrow valley, that seemed to have been ploughed out of the
heart of the earth and to descend into it. Then—- But what is it you wish to do
with this treasure, Kamaiakan?”

“It belongs to your race, princess, and was hidden that the murderers of Montezuma might not seize it. I was bound by
an oath, after the peril was past, to restore it to the rightful owners. But our country remained under the rule of the conquerors; and my life went out. But now the
conquerors have been conquered in their turn, and Miriam is the last inheritor of your blood. When I have delivered to her this trust, my work will be done, and I can return to the world which you inhabit. The
time is come; and only by your help can the restitution be made.”

“Was there, then, a time fixed?”

“The stars tell me so. And other events make it certain that there must be no delay. The general has it in mind to discover the gates through which the waters under-ground may arise and again form the sea which flowed hereabouts in the ancient times. Now, this sea will fill the ravine in which the treasure lies, and make it forever unattainable. A youth has also come here who is skilled in the sciences, and whom the general will ask to help him in the thing he is to attempt.”

“Who is this youth?” asked Semitzin.

“He is of the new people who inherit
this land: his name is Freeman.”

“There is something in me–I know not what–that seems to tell me I have been
near such a one. Can it be so?”

“The other self, who now sleeps, knows of him,” replied the ancient Indian. “He is a well-looking youth, and I think he
has a desire towards her we call Miriam.”

“And does she love him?” inquired the princess.

“A maiden’s heart is a riddle, even to herself,” said Kamaiakan.

“But there is a sympathy that makes me feel her heart in my own,” rejoined Semitzin. “Love is a thing that pierces through
time, and through barriers which separate the mind and memory of the past from the present. I–as you know, Kamaiakan–was
never wedded; the fate of our people, and my early end, kept that from me. But the thought of that youth is here,”–she put her hand on her bosom,–“and it seems to me that, were we to meet, I should know
him. Perhaps, were that to be, Miriam and I might thus come to be aware of each
other, and live henceforth one life.”

“Such matters are beyond my knowledge,” said the Indian, shaking his head.
“The gods know what will be. It is for us, now, to regain the treasure. Are you willing, my princess, to accompany me
thither?”

“I am ready. Shall it be now?”

“Not now, but soon. I will call you
when the moment comes. The place is but a ride of two or three hours from here. None must know of our departure, for there are some here whom I do not trust. We
must go by night. You will wear the garments you now have on, without which all might miscarry.”

“How can the garments affect the result, Kamaiakan?”

“A powerful spell is laid upon them,
princess. Moreover, the characters wrought upon them, with gold thread and jewels, are mystical, and the substance of the garment itself has a virtue to preserve the wearer from evil. It is the same that was worn by you when the treasure was hidden; and it may be, Semitzin, that without its magic aid your spirit could not know itself in this world as now it can.”

As he spoke the last words, a low sound, wandering and muttering with an inward
note, came palpitating on their ears through the night air. It seemed to approach from no direction that could be identified, yet it was at first remote, and then came nearer, and in a moment trembled around them,
and shivered in the solid earth beneath their feet; and in another instant it had passed on, and was subdued slowly into silence in the shadowy distance. No one who has
once heard that sound can mistake it for any other, or ever can forget it. The air had suddenly become close and tense; and now a long breeze swept like a sigh through the garden, dying away in a long-drawn
wail; and out of the west came a hollow murmur, like that of a mighty wave breaking upon the shore of the ocean.

“The earthquake!” whispered Kamaiakan, rising to his feet. And then he pointed
to the stone basin. “Look! the spring!”

“It is gone!” exclaimed Semitzin.

And, in truth, the water, with a strange, sucking noise, disappeared through the
bottom of the basin, leaving the glistening cavity which had held it, green with slimy water-weed, empty.

“The time is near, indeed!” muttered
the Indian. “The second shock may cause the waters from which this spring came to rise as no living man has seen them rise, and make the sea return, and the treasure be lost. In a few days all may be over. But you, princess, must vanish: though the shock was but slight, some one might be awakened; and were you to be discovered, our plans might go wrong.”

“Must I depart so soon?” said Semitzin, regretfully. “The earth is beautiful,
Kamaiakan: the smell of the flowers is sweet, and the stars in the sky are bright. To feel myself alive, to breathe, to walk, to see, are sweet. Perhaps I have no other conscious life than this. I would like to remain as I am: I would like to see the sun shine, and to hear the birds sing, and to see the men and
women who live in this age. Is there no way of keeping me here?”

“I cannot tell; it may be,–but it must not be now, Semitzin,” the old man replied, with a troubled look. “The ways of the
gods are not our ways. She whose body you inhabit–she has her life to live.”

“But is that girl more worthy to live than I? You have called me into being again:
you have made me know how pleasant this world is. Miriam sleeps: she need never
know; she need never awake again. You were faithful to me in the old time: have you more care for her than for me? I feel all the power and thirst of youth in me: the gods did not let me live out my life: may they not intend that I shall take it up again now? Besides, I wear Miriam’s body:
could I not seem to others to be Miriam indeed? How could they guess the truth?”

“I will think of what you say, princess,” said Kamaiakan. “Something may perhaps
be done; but it must be done gradually: you would need much instruction in the
ways of the new world before you could safely enter into its life. Leave that to me. I am loyal as ever: is it not to fulfil the oath made to you that I am here? and what would Miriam be to me, were she not your inheritor? Be satisfied for the present: in a few days we will meet and speak again.”

“The power is yours, Kamaiakan: it is well to argue, when with a word you can
banish me forever! Yet what if I were to say that, unless you consent to the thing I desire, I will not show you where the treasure lies?”

“Princess Semitzin!” exclaimed the
Indian, “remember that it is not against me, but against the gods, that you would contend. The gods know that I have no care for
treasure. But they will not forgive a broken oath; and they will not hold that one guiltless through whom it is brought to naught?”

“Well, we shall meet again,” answered Semitzin, after a pause. “But do you
remember that you, too, are not free from responsibility in this matter. You have
called me back: see to it that you do me justice.” She waved her hands with a gesture of adieu, turned, and left the enclosure. Kamaiakan sank down again beside the
empty bowl of the fountain.

Semitzin returned along the path by which she had come, towards the house. As she
turned round one of the corners, she saw a man’s figure before her, strolling slowly along in the same direction in which she was going. In a few moments he heard her light footfall, and, facing about, confronted her. She continued to advance until she
was within arm’s reach of him: then she paused, and gazed steadfastly in his face. He was the first human being, save Kamaiakan, that she had seen since her eyes closed
upon the world of Tenochtitlan, three hundred years before.

The young man looked upon her with
manifest surprise. It was too dark to distinguish anything clearly, but it did not take him long to surmise that the figure was that of a woman, and her countenance, though
changed in aspect by the head-dress she were, yet had features which, he knew, he had seen before. But could it be Miriam
Trednoke who was abroad at such an hour and in such a costume? He did not recognize the Golden Fleece, but it was evident
enough that she was clad as women are not.

Before he could think of anything to say to her, she smiled, and uttered some words in a soft, flowing language with which he was entirely unacquainted. The next moment she had glided past him, and was out
of sight round the curve of the path, leaving him in a state of perplexity not altogether gratifying.

“What the deuce can it mean?” he
muttered to himself. “I can’t be mistaken about its being Miriam. And yet she didn’t look at me as if she recognized me. What can she be doing out here at midnight? I suppose it’s none of my business: in fact, she might very reasonably ask the same question of me. And if I were to tell her that
I had only ridden over to spend a
sentimental hour beneath her window, what would she say? If she answered in the
same lingo she used just now, I should be as wise as before. After all, it may have been somebody else. The image in my
mind projected itself on her countenance. I certainly must be in love! I almost wish I’d never come here. This complication
about the general’s irrigating scheme makes it awkward. I’m bound not to explain
things to him; and yet, if I don’t, and he discovers (as he can’t help doing) what I am here for, nothing will persuade him that I haven’t been playing a double game; and that would not be a promising preliminary towards becoming a member of his family. If Miriam were only Grace, now, it would be plain sailing. Hello! who’s this? Senor Don Miguel, as I’m a sinner! What is he
up to, pray? Can this be the explanation of Miriam’s escapade? I have a strong
desire to blow a hole through that fellow! –Buenas noches, Senor de Mendoza! I
am enchanted to have the unexpected honor of meeting you.”

Senor de Mendoza turned round,
disagreeably startled. It is only fair to explain that he had not come hither with any lover- like designs towards Miriam. Grace was
the magnet that had drawn his steps to the Trednokes’ garden, and the truth is that that enterprising young lady was not without a suspicion that he might turn up.
Could this information have been imparted to Freeman, it would have saved much
trouble; but, as it was, not only did he jump to the conclusion that Don Miguel
was his rival (and, seemingly, a not unsuccessful one), but a similar misgiving as to Freeman’s purposes towards Grace found its way into the heart of the Spaniard. It was a most perverse trick of fate.

The two men contemplated each other,
each after his own fashion: Don Miguel pale, glaring, bristling; Freeman smiling, insolent, hectoring.

“Why are you here, senor?” demanded
the former, at length.

“Partly, senor, because such is my
pleasure. Partly, to inform you that your presence here offends me, and to humbly request you to be off.”

“Senor, this is an impertinence.”

“Senor, one is not impertinent to prowling greasers. One admonishes them, and,
if they do not obey, one chastises them.”

“Do you talk of chastising Don Miguel de Mendoza? Senor, I will wash out that
insult with your blood!”

“Excellent! It is at your service for the taking. But, lest we disturb the repose of our friends yonder, let us seek a more
convenient spot. I noticed a very pretty little glade on the right as I rode over here. You are armed? Good! we will have this little affair adjusted within half an hour. Yonder star–the planet of love, senor–shall see fair play. Andamos!”

CHAPTER V.

Having mounted their steeds, the two
sanguinary young gentlemen rode onwards, side by side, but in silence; for the
souls of those who have resolved to slay each other find small delight in vain
conversation. Moreover, there is that in the conscious proximity of death which stimulates to thought much more than to speech. But Freeman preserved an outward demeanor of complacent calm, as one who doubts not,
nor dreads, the issue; and, indeed, this was not the first time by many that he had taken his life in his hand and brought it unscathed through dangers. Don Miguel, on the other hand, was troubled in spirit, and uneasy in the flesh. He was one soon hot and soon
cold; and this long ride to the decisive event went much against his stomach. If
the conflict had taken place there in the garden, while the fire of the insult was yet scorching him, he could have fought it out with good will; but now the night air seemed chiller and chiller, and its frigidity crept into his nerves: he doubted of the steadiness of his aim, bethought himself that the
darkness was detrimental to accurate shooting, and wondered whether Senor Freeman
would think it necessary to fight across a handkerchief. He could not help regretting, too, that the quarrel had not been occasioned by some more definite and satisfactory
provocation,–something which merely to think of would steel the heart to irrevocable
murderousness. But no blow had passed; even the words, though bitter to swallow, had been wrapt in the phrases of courtesy; and perhaps the whole affair was the result of some misapprehension. He stole a look at the face of his companion; and the latter’s air of confident and cheerful serenity made him feel worse than ever. Was he being
brought out here to be butchered for nothing,–he, Don Miguel de Mendoza, who had looked forward to many pleasures in
this life? It was too bad. It was true, the fortune of war might turn the other way; but Don Miguel was aware of a sensation in his bones which made this hope weak.

At length Freeman drew rein and glanced around him. They were in a lonely and–
Don Miguel thought–a most desolate and unattractive spot. An open space of about half an acre was bounded on one side by a growth of wild mustard, whose slender stalks rose to more than the height of a man’s
head. On the other side was a grove of live-oak; and in front, the ground fell away in a rugged, bush-grown declivity.

“It strikes me that this is just about what we want,” remarked Freeman, in his full, cheerful tones. “We are half a mile from the road; the ground is fairly level; and there’s no possibility of our being disturbed. I was thinking, this afternoon, as I passed through here, what an ideal spot it was for just such a little affair as you and I are bent on. But I didn’t venture to anticipate
such speedy good fortune as your obliging condescension has brought to pass, Don
Miguel.”

“Caramba!” muttered the senor,
shivering. He might have said more, but was unwilling to trust his voice, or to waste nervous energy.

Meanwhile, Freeman had dismounted,
and was tethering his horse. It occurred to the senor that it would be easy to pull his gun, send a bullet through his
companion, and gallop away. He did not yield to this temptation, partly from
traditional feeling that it would not be suitable conduct for a De Mendoza, partly because he might miss the shot or only inflict a wound, and partly because such deeds
demand a nerve which, at that moment, was not altogether at his command. Instead,
he slowly dismounted himself, and wondered whether it would ever be vouchsafed him to sit in that saddle again.

Freeman now produced his revolver, a
handsome, silver-mounted weapon, that looked business-like. “What sort of a
machine is yours?” he inquired, pleasantly. “You can take your choice. I’m not
particular, but I can recommend this as a sure thing, if you would like to try it. It never misses at twenty paces.”

“Twenty paces?” repeated Don Miguel,
with a faint gleam of hope.

“Of course we won’t have any twenty
paces to-night, “added Freeman, with a laugh. “I thought it might be a good
plan to start at, say, fifteen, and advance firing. In that way, one or other of us
will be certain to do something sooner or later. Would that arrangement be agreeable to Senor de Mendoza?”

“Valga me Dios! I am content,” said
the latter, fetching a deep breath, and setting his teeth. “I will keep my weapon.”

“Muy buen,” returned the American.
“So now let us take our ground: that is, if you are quite ready?”

Accordingly they selected their stations, facing respectively about north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were. “Oblige me by giving the word,
senor,” said Freeman, cocking his weapon.

But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind his antagonist. “Santa Maria!” he faltered,
“what is yonder? It is a spirit!”

Freeman had his wits about him, and
perhaps entertained a not too high opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw
something which was certainly enigmatic.

Among the wild-mustard plants there
appeared a moving luminosity, having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o’-the- wisp singularly agitated. Sometimes it
uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards, and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a clawing and reaching of
shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition,
in an hour and a place so lonely,
might stagger a less superstitious soul than that of Don Miguel de Mendoza.

Freeman gazed at it for a moment in
silence. It mystified him, and then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the
young American’s nature just enough remains of belief in witches and hobgoblins
to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures. At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.

It was a long shot for a revolver:
nevertheless it took effect. The luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two young men.

Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the saints, turned and fled.

Meanwhile, the mysterious figure
continued its onward career; and Freeman once more levelled his weapon,–when a
voice, which gave him such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger for sheer lack of self-command,
called out, “Why, you abominable young villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?”

“Professor Meschines!” faltered Freeman.

It was indeed that worthy personage, and he was on fire with wrath. He held in one hand a shattered lantern mounted on the
end of a pole, and in the other a long- handled net of gauze, such as entomologists use to catch moths withal. Under his left arm was slung a brown japanned case, in
which he presumably deposited the spoils of his skill. Freeman’s shot had not only smashed and extinguished the lantern which served as bait for the game, but had also given the professor a disagreeable reminder that the tenure of human life is as precarious as that of the silly moth which allows itself to be lured to destruction by shining promises of bliss.

“Upon my soul, professor, I am very
sorry,” said Freeman. “You have no idea how formidable you looked; and you could hardly expect me to imagine that you would be abroad at such an hour—-“

“And why not, I should like to know?” shouted the professor, towering with
indignation. “Was I doing anything to be ashamed of? And what are you doing here, pray, with loaded revolvers in your hands? –Hallo! who’s this?” he exclaimed, as
Don Miguel advanced doubtfully out of the gloom. “Senor de Mendoza, as I’m a
sinner! and armed, too! Well, really! Are you two out on a murdering expedition? –Oho!” he went on, in a changed tone,
glancing keenly from one to another: “methinks I see the bottom of this mystery. You have ridden forth, like the champions of romance, to do doughty deeds upon each other!–Is it not so, Don Miguel?” he
demanded, turning his fierce spectacles suddenly on that young man.

Don Miguel, ignoring a secret gesture from Freeman, admitted that he had been
on the point of expunging the latter from this mortal sphere.

The professor chuckled sarcastically. “I see! Blood! Wounded honor! The code!
–But, by the way, I don’t see your seconds! Where are your seconds?”

“My dear sir,” said Freeman, “I assure you it’s all a mistake. We just happened to meet at the gen–er–happened to meet, and were riding home together—-“

“Now, listen to me, Harvey,” the
professor interrupted, holding up an expository finger. “You have known me since some
ten years, I think; and I have known you. You were a clever boy in your studies; but it was your foible to fancy yourself cleverer than you were. Acting under that delusion, you pitted yourself against me on one or two occasions; and I leave it to your candid recollection whether you or I had the best of the encounter. You call yourself a man, now; but I make bold to say that the–
discrepancy, let us call it–between you and me remains as conspicuous as ever it was. I see through you, sir, much more clearly than, by this light, I can see you. I am fond of you, Harvey; but I feel nothing but contempt
for your present attitude. In the first place, conscious as you are of your skill with that weapon, you know that this affair–even had seconds been present–would have been, not a duel, but an assassination. You acted like a coward!–I say it, sir, like a coward!– and I hope you may live to be as much
ashamed of yourself as I am now ashamed for you. Secondly, your conduct, considered in its relations to–to certain persons
whom I will not name, is that of a boor and a blackguard. Suppose you had accomplished the cowardly murder–the cowardly
murder, I said, sir–that you were bent upon to-night. Do you think that would be a
grateful and acceptable return for the courtesy and confidence that have been shown
you in that house?–a house, sir, to which I myself introduced you, under the mistaken belief that you were a gentleman, or, at least, could feign gentlemanly behavior! But I won’t–my feelings won’t allow me to enlarge further upon this point. But allow me to add, in the third place, that you have shown yourself a purblind donkey. Actually, you haven’t sense enough to know the difference between those who pull with you and
those who pull against you. Now, I happen to know–to know, do you hear?–that had you succeeded in what you were just about to attempt, you would have removed your
surest ally,–the surest, because his interests prompt him to favor yours. You pick out
the one man who was doing his best to clear the obstacle out of your path, and what do you do?–Thank him?–Not you! You plot
to kill him! But even had he been, as you in your stupidity imagined, your rival, do you think the course you adopted would
have promoted your advantage? Let me tell you, sir, that you don’t know the kind of people you are dealing with. You would never have been permitted to cross their threshold again. And you may take my
word for it, if ever you venture to recur to any such folly, I will see to it that you receive your deserts.–Well, I think we
understand each other, now?”

Freeman’s emotions had undergone
several variations during the course of the mighty professor’s harangue. But he had
ended by admitting the force of the argument; and the reminiscences of college lecturings aroused by the incident had
tickled his sense of humor and quenched his anger. He looked at the professor with a sparkle of laughter in his eyes.

“I have done very wrong, sir,” he said, “and I’m very sorry for it. If you won’t give me any bad marks this time, I’ll
promise to be good in future.”

“Ah! very smooth! To begin with,
suppose you ask pardon of Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza for the affront you
have put upon him.”

To a soul really fearless, even an apology has no terrors. Moreover, Freeman’s night ride with Don Miguel, though brief in time, had sufficed to give him the measure of the Mexican’s character; and he respected it so little that he could no longer take the man seriously, or be sincerely angry with him. The professor’s assurance as to Don Miguel’s inoffensiveness had also its weight; and it was therefore with a quite royal gesture of amicable condescension that Freeman
turned upon his late antagonist and held out his hand.

“Senor Don Miguel de Mendoza,” said
he, “I humbly tender you my apologies and crave your pardon. My conduct has
been inexcusable; I beg you to excuse it. I deserve your reprobation; I entreat the favor of your friendship. Senor, between men of honor, a misunderstanding is a
misunderstanding, and an apology is an apology. I lament the existence of the
first; the professor, here, is witness that I lay the second at your feet. May I hope
to receive your hand as a pledge that you restore me to the privilege of your good will?”

Now, Don Miguel’s soul had been grievously exercised that night: he had been
insulted, he had shivered beneath the shadow of death, he had been a prey to superstitious terrors, and he had been utterly perplexed by the professor’s eloquent address, whereof (as it was delivered in good American, and with a rapidity of utterance born of strong feeling) he had comprehended not a word, and the unexpected effect of which upon
his late adversary he was at a loss to understand. Although, therefore, he had no stomach for battle, he was oppressed by a misgiving lest the whole transaction had been in some way planned to expose him to ridicule; and for this reason he was
disposed to treat Freeman’s peaceful overtures with suspicion. His heart did not respond to those overtures, but neither was it stout enough to enable him to reject them
explicitly. Accordingly, he adopted that middle course which, in spite of the
proverb, is not seldom the least expedient. He disregarded the proffered hand, bowed very stiffly, and, saying, “Senor, I am
satisfied,” stalked off with all the rigidity of one in whose veins flows the sangre azul of Old Castile. Freeman smiled superior
upon his retreat, and then, producing a cigar-case, proceeded to light up with the professor. In this fragrant and friendly cloud we will leave them, and return for a few minutes to the house of General Trednoke.

It will be remembered that something was said of Grace being privy to the nocturnal advances of Senor de Mendoza. We are
not to suppose that this implies in her anything worse than an aptness to indulge in romantic adventure: the young lady
enjoyed the mystery of romance, and knew that serenades, and whisperings over star-lit balconies, were proper to this latitude. It may be open to question whether she really was much interested in De Mendoza, save
as he was a type of the adoring Spaniard. That the scene required: she could imagine him (for the time-being) to be the Cid of ancient legend, and she herself would enact a role of corresponding elevation. Grace would doubtless have prospered better had she been content with one adorer at a time; but, while turning to a new love, she was by no means disposed to loosen the chains of a former one; and, though herself as jealous as is a tiger-cat of her young, she could never recognize the propriety of a similar passion on the part of her victims. She
had been indignant at Freeman’s apparent infidelity with Miriam; but when she had (as she imagined) discovered her mistake, she had listened with a heart at ease to the protestations of Don Miguel. She had parted from him that evening with a half expressed understanding that he was to
reappear beneath her window before day- light; and she had pictured to herself a charming balcony-scene, such as she had
beheld in Italian opera. Accordingly, she had attired herself in a becoming negligee, and had spent the fore part of the night somewhat restlessly, occasionally emerging on the veranda and gazing down into the
perfumed gloom of the garden. At length she fancied that she heard footsteps. Whose
could they be, unless Don Miguel’s? Grace retreated within her window to await
developments. Don Miguel did not appear; but presently she descried a phantom-like figure ascending the flight of steps to the veranda. Could that be he? If so, he
was bolder in his wooing than Grace had been prepared for. But surely that was a strange costume that he wore; nor did the unconscious harmony of the gait at all resemble the senor’s self-conscious strut. And
whither was he going?

It was but too evident that he was going straight to the room occupied by Miriam!

This was too much for Grace’s equanimity. She stepped out of her window,
and flitted with noiseless step along the veranda. The figure that she pursued
entered the door of the house, and passed into the corridor traversing the wing. Grace
was in time to see it cross the threshold of Miriam’s door, which stood ajar. She stole to the door, and peeped in. There was the figure; but of Miriam there was no trace.

The figure slowly unfastened and threw back the hood which covered its head, at the same time turning round, so that its countenance was revealed. A torrent of
black hair fell down over its shoulders. Grace uttered an involuntary exclamation. It was Miriam herself!

The two gazed at each other a moment in silence. “Goodness me, dear!” said Grace at last, in a faint voice, “how you have frightened me! I saw you go in, in that
dress, and I thought you were a man! How my heart beats! What is the matter?”

“This is strange!” murmured the other, after a pause. “I never heard such words; and yet I seem to understand, and even to speak them. It must be a dream. What
are you?”

“Why, Miriam, dear! don’t you know
Grace?”

“Oh! you think me Miriam. No; not
yet!” She raised her hands, and pressed her fingers against her temples. “But I
feel her–I feel her coming! Not yet, Kamaiakan! not so soon!–Do you know
him?” she suddenly asked, throwing back her hair, and fixing an eager gaze on
Grace.

“Know who? Kamaiakan? Why,
yes—-“

“No, not him! The youth,–the blue-
eyed,–the fair beard above his lips—-“

“What are you talking about? Not
Harvey Freeman!”

“Harvey Freeman! Ah, how sweet a
name! Harvey Freeman! I shall know it now!–Tell him,” she went on, laying her hand majestically upon Grace’s shoulder, and speaking with an impressive earnestness, “that Semitzin loves him!”

“Semitzin?” repeated Grace, puzzled,
and beginning to feel scared.

“Semitzin!” the other said, pointing to her own heart. “She loves him: not as
the child Miriam loves, but with the heart and soul of a mighty princess. When he
knows Semitzin, he will think of Miriam no more.”

“But who is Semitzin?” inquired Grace, with a fearful curiosity.

“The Princess of Tenochtitlan, and the guardian of the great treasure, “was the reply.

“Good gracious! what treasure?”

“The treasure of gold and precious
stones hidden in the gorge of the desert hills. None knows the place of it but I; and I will give it to none but him I love.”

“But you said that . . . Really, my
dear, I don’t understand a bit! As for Mr. Freeman, he may care for Semitzin, for
aught I know; but, I must confess, I think you’re mistaken in supposing he’s in love with you,–if that is what you mean. I
met him before you did, you know; and if I were to tell you all that we—-“

“What are you or Miriam to me?–Ah!
she comes!–The treasure–by the turning of the white pyramid–six hundred paces– on the right–the arch—-” Her voice
died away. She covered her face with her hands, and trembled violently. Slowly she let them fall, and stared around her.
“Grace, is it you? Has anything happened? How came I like this? What is
it?”

“Well, if you don’t know, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I had begun to think you had gone mad. It must be either that or
somnambulism. Who is Semitzin?”

“Semitzin? I never heard of him.”

“It isn’t a man: it’s a princess. And the treasure?”

“Am I asleep or awake? What are you
saying?”

“The white pyramid, you know—-“

“Don’t make game of me, Grace. If
I have done anything—-“

“My dear, don’t ask me! I tell you
frankly, I’m nonplussed. You were somebody else a minute ago. . . . The truth is,
of course, you’ve been dreaming awake. Has any one else seen you beside me?”

“Have I been out of my room?” asked
Miriam, in dismay.

“You must have been, I should think, to get that costume. Well, the best plan will be, I suppose, to say nothing about it to anybody. It shall be our secret, dear. If I were you, I would have one of the women
sleep in your room, in case you got restless again. It’s just an attack of nervousness, probably,–having so many strangers in the house, all of a sudden. Now you must go
to bed and get to sleep: it’s awfully late, and there’ll be ever so much going on to- morrow.”

Grace herself slept little that night. She could not decide what to make of this
adventure. Nowadays we are provided with a name for the peculiar psychical state
which Miriam was undergoing, and with abundant instances and illustrations; but we perhaps know what it is no more than
we did twenty-five or thirty years ago. Grace’s first idea had been that Miriam was demented; then she thought she was playing a part; then she did not know what to
think; and finally she came to the conclusion that it was best to quietly await further developments. She would keep an eye
on Freeman as well as on Miriam; something, too, might be gathered from Don
Miguel; and then there was that talk about a treasure. Was that all the fabric of a dream, or was there truth at the bottom of it? She had heard something said about a treasure in the course of the general
conversation the day before. If there really was a treasure, why might not she have a hand in the discovery of it? Miriam, in
her abnormal state, had let fall some topographical hints that might prove useful. Well, she would work out the problem,
sooner or later. To-morrow, when the others had gone off on their expedition, she would have ample leisure to sound Don
Miguel, and, if he proved communicative and available, who could tell what might happen? But how very odd it all was!
Who was Semitzin?

While asking herself this question, Grace fell asleep; and by the time the summons to breakfast came, she had passed through thrilling adventures enough to occupy a new Scheherazade at least three years in the telling of them.

CHAPTER VI.

By nine o’clock in the morning,
Professor Meschines and Harvey Freeman had ridden up to the general’s ranch,
equipped for the expedition. The general’s preparations were not yet quite completed. A couple of mules were being loaded with the necessary outfit. It was proposed to be out two days, camping in the open during the intervening night. It was necessary to take water as well as solid provisions. Leaving their horses in the care of a couple of stable-boys, Meschines and Freeman
mounted the veranda, and were there greeted by General Trednoke.

“I’m afraid we’ll have a hot ride of it,” he observed. “The atmosphere is rather
oppressive. Kamaiakan tells me there was a touch of earthquake last night.”

“I thought I noticed some disturbance,—-” returned the professor, with a stealthy side- glance at Freeman,–“something in the
nature of an explosion.”

“Earthquakes are common in this region, aren’t they?” Freeman said.

“They have made it what it is, and may unmake it again,” replied the general.
“The earthquake is the father of the desert, as the Indians say; and it may some day
become the father of a more genial offspring. Veremos!”

“How are the young ladies?” inquired
Freeman.

“Miriam has a little headache, I
believe; and I thought Miss Parsloe was looking a trifle pale this morning. But
you must see for yourself. Here they come.”

Grace, who was a little taller than
Miriam, had thrown one arm round that young lady’s waist, with a view, perhaps, to forming a picture in which she should not be the secondary figure. In fact, they were both of them very pretty; but Freeman had become blind to any beauty but Miriam’s. Moreover, he was resolved to have some
private conversation with her during the few minutes that were available. A
conversation with the professor, and some meditations of his own, had suggested to him a line of attack upon Grace.

“I’m afraid you were disturbed by the earthquake last night?” he said to her.

“An earthquake? Why should you
think so?”

“You look as if you had passed a restless night. I saw Senor de Mendoza this morning. He seems to have had a restless time
of it, too. But he is a romantic person, and probably, if an earthquake did not
make him sleepless, something else might.” He looked at her a moment, and then
added, with a smile, “But perhaps this is not news to you?”

“He didn’t come–I didn’t see him,”
returned Grace, wishing, ere the words had left her lips, that she had kept her mouth shut. Freeman continued to smile. How
much did he know? She felt that it might be inexpedient to continue the conversation. Casting about for a pretext for
retreat, her eyes fell upon Meschines.

“Oh, there’s the dear professor! I must speak to him a moment,” she exclaimed,
vivaciously; and she slipped her arm from Miriam’s waist, and was off, leaving Freeman in possession of the field, and of the
monopoly of Miriam’s society.

“Miss Trednoke,” said he, gravely, “I have something to tell you, in order to clear myself from a possible misunderstanding. It may happen that I shall need your
vindication with your father. Will you give it?”

“What vindication do you need, that I can give?” asked she, opening her dark
eyes upon him questioningly.

“That’s what I wish to explain. I am
in a difficult position. Would you mind stepping down into the garden? It won’t
take a minute.”

Curiosity, if not especially feminine, is at least human. Miriam descended the
steps, Freeman beside her. They strolled down the path, amidst the flowers.

“You said, yesterday,” he began, “that I would say one thing and be another.
Now I am going to tell you what I am. And afterwards I’ll tell you why I tell it. In the first place, you know, I’m a civil engineer, and that includes, in my case, a good deal of knowledge about geology and things of that sort. I have sometimes been commissioned to make geological surveys
for Eastern capitalists. Lately I’ve been canal-digging on the Isthmus; but the other day I got a notification from some men in Boston and New York to come out here on a secret mission.”

“Secret, Mr. Freeman?”

“Yes: you will understand directly.
These men had heard enough about the desert valleys of this region to lead them to think that it might be reclaimed and so be made very valuable. Such lands can be
bought now for next to nothing; but, if the theories that control these capitalists are correct, they could afterwards be sold at a profit of thousands per cent. So it’s
indispensable that the object of my being here should remain unknown; otherwise,
other persons might step in and anticipate the designs of this company.”

“If those are your orders, why do you speak to me?”

“There’s a reason for doing it that
outweighs the reasons against it. I trust you with the secret: yet I don’t mean to bind you to secrecy. You will have a perfect
right to tell it: the only result would be that I should be discredited with my
employers; and there is nothing to warrant me in supposing that you would be deterred by that.”

“I don’t ask to know your secret: I
think you had better say no more.”

Freeman shook his head. “I must
speak,” said he. “I don’t care what becomes of me, so long as I stand right in your opinion,–your father’s and yours. I am here to find out whether this desert can be flooded,–irrigated,–whether it’s possible, by any means, to bring water upon it.
If my report is favorable, the company will purchase hundreds, or thousands, of square miles, and, incidentally, my own fortune will be made.”

“Why, that’s the very thing—-” She
stopped.

“The very thing your father had thought of! Yes, so I imagined, though he has not told me so in so many words. So I’m in
the position of surreptitiously taking away the prospective fortune of a man whom I
respect and honor, and who treats me as a friend.”

Miriam walked on some steps in silence. “It is no fault of yours,” she said at last. “You owe us nothing. You must carry out
your orders.”

“Yes; but what is to prevent your father from thinking that I stole his idea and then used it against him?”

“You can tell him the truth: he could not complain; and why should you care if he did? I know that men separate business from–from other things.”

They had now come to the little enclosed space where the fountain basin was; and by tacit consent they seated themselves upon it. Miriam gave an exclamation of surprise.
“The water is gone!” she said. “How strange!”

“Perhaps it has gone to meet us at our rendezvous in the desert.–No: if I tell your father, I should be unfaithful to my employers. But there’s another alternative: I can resign my appointment, and let my
place be taken by another.”

“And give up your chance of a fortune? You mustn’t do that.”

“What is it to you what becomes of
me?”

“I wish nothing but good to come to
you,” said she, in a low voice.

“I have never wanted to have a fortune until now. And I must tell you the reason of that, too. A man without a fortune does very well by himself. He can knock about, and live from hand to mouth. But when
he wants to live for somebody else,–even if he has only a very faint hope of getting the opportunity of doing it,–then he must have some settled means of livelihood to justify him. So I say I am in a difficult position. For if I give this up, I must go away; and if I go away, I must give up
even the little hope I have.”

“Don’t go away,” said Miriam, after a pause.

“Do you know what you are saying?”
He hesitated a moment, looking at her as she looked down at the empty basin. “My
hope was that you might love me; for I love you, to be my wife.”

The color slowly rose in Miriam’s face: at length she hid it in her hands. “Oh,
what is it?” she said, almost in a whisper. “I have known you only three days. But
it seems as if I must have known you before. There is something in me that is not like myself. But it is the deepest thing in me; and it loves you: yes, I love you!”

Her hands left her face, and there was a light in her eyes which made Freeman, in the midst of his rejoicing, feel humble and unworthy. He felt himself in contact with something pure and sacred. At the same
moment, the recollection recurred to him of the figure he had seen the night before, with the features of Miriam. Was it she
indeed? Was this she? To doubt the
identity of the individual is to lose one’s footing on the solid earth. For the first time it occurred to him that this doubt
might affect Miriam herself. Was she obscurely conscious of two states of being in herself, and did she therefore fear to trust her own impulses? But, again, love is the master-passion; its fire fuses all things, and gives them unity. Would not this love that they confessed for each other burn away all that was abnormal and enigmatic, and leave only the unerring human heart, that knows its own and takes it? These reflections
passed through Freeman’s mind in an instant of time. But he was no metaphysician, and he obeyed the sane and wholesome
instinct which has ever been man’s
surest and safest guide through the mysteries and bewilderments of existence. He took the beautiful woman in his arms and kissed her.

“This is real and right, if anything is,” said he. “If there are ghosts about, you and I, at any rate, are flesh and blood, and where we belong. As to the irrigation
scrape, there must be some way out of it: if not, no matter! You and I love each
other, and the world begins from this moment!”

“My father must know to-morrow,” said Miriam.

“No doubt we shall all know more to-
morrow than we do to-day,” returned her lover, not knowing how abundantly his
prophecy would be fulfilled: he was over- flowing with the fearless and enormous joy of a young man who has attained at one
bound the summit of his desire. “There! they are calling for me. Good-by, my
darling. Be yourself, and think of nothing but me.”

A short ride brought the little cavalcade to the borders of the desert. Here, by
common consent, a halt was made, to draw breath, as it were, before taking the final plunge into the fiery furnace.

“Before we go farther,” said General
Trednoke, approaching Freeman, as he was tightening his girths, “I must tell you what is the object of this expedition.”

“It is not necessary, general,” replied the young man, straightening himself and looking the other in the face; “for from this point our paths lie apart.”

“Why so?” demanded the general, in
surprise.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Meschines,
coming up, and adjusting his spectacles.

“I’m not at liberty, at present, to
explain,” Freeman answered. “All I can say is that I don’t feel justified in assisting you in your affair, and I am not able to confide my own to you. I wish you to put the least uncharitable construction you can on my conduct. To-morrow, if we all live, I may say more; now, the most I can tell you is that I am not entirely a free agent. Meantime–Hasta luego.”

Against this unexpected resolve the
general cordially protested and the professor scoffed and contended; but Freeman stayed firm. He had with him provisions enough
to last him three days, and a supply of water; and in a small case he carried a
compact assortment of instruments for scientific observation. “Take your departure in whatever direction you like,” said he, “and I will take mine at an angle of not less than fifteen degrees from it. If I am not back in three days, you may conclude something has happened.”

It was certainly very hot. Freeman had been accustomed to torrid suns in the Isthmus; but this was a sun indefinitely multiplied by reflections from the dusty surface
underfoot. Nor was it the fine, ethereal fire of the Sahara: the atmosphere was dead
and heavy; for the rider was already far below the level of the Pacific, whose cool blue waves rolled and rippled many leagues to the westward, as, aeons ago, they had rolled and rippled here. There was not a breath of air. Freeman could hear his
heart beat, and the veins in his temples and wrists throbbed. The sweat rose on the
surface of his body, but without cooling it. The pony which he bestrode, a bony and
sinewy beast of the toughest description, trod onwards doggedly, but with little
animation. Freeman had no desire to push him. Were the little animal to overdo
itself, nothing in the future could be more certain than that his master would never see the Trednoke ranch again. It seemed
unusually hot, even for that region.

There was little in the way of outward incident to relieve the monotony of the
journey. Now and then a short, thick rattlesnake, with horns on its ugly head, wriggled out of his path. Now and then his horse’s hoof almost trod upon a hideous, flat lizard, also horned. Here and there the uncouth projections of a cactus pushed upwards out of the dust; some of these the mustang nibbled at, for the sake of their juice. Freeman wondered where the juice
came from. The floor of the desert seemed for the most part level, though there was a gradual dip towards the east and northeast, and occasionally mounds and ridges of
wind-swept dust, sometimes upwards of fifty feet in height, broke the uniformity. The soil was largely composed of powdered feldspar; but there were also tracts of gravel
shingle, of yellow loam, and of alkaline dust. In some places there appeared a salt efflorescence, sprouting up in a sort of ghastly vegetation, as if death itself had acquired a sinister life. Elsewhere, the ground quaked and yielded underfoot, and it became necessary to make detours to
avoid these arid bogs. Once or twice, too, Freeman turned aside lest he should trample upon some dry bones that protruded in his path,–bones that were their own monument, and told their own story of struggle,
agony, exhaustion, and despair.

None of these things had any depressing effect on Freeman’s spirit. His heart was singing with joy. To a mind logically
disposed, there was nothing but trouble in sight, whether he succeeded or failed in his present mission. In the former case, he
would find himself in a hostile position as regarded the man he most desired to
conciliate; in the latter, he would remain the mere rolling stone that he was before, and love itself would forbid him to ask the
woman he loved to share his uncertain existence. But Freeman was not logical: he was happy, and he could not help it. He
had kissed Miriam, and she loved him.

His course lay a few degrees north of east. Far across the plain, dancing and
turning somersaults in the fantastic atmosphere, were the summits of a range of abrupt
hills, the borders of a valley or ravine which he wished to explore. Gradually, as he rode, his shadow lengthened before him. It was his only companion; and yet he felt no sense of loneliness. Miriam was in his heart, and kept it fresh and bold. Even
hunger and thirst he scarcely felt. Who can estimate the therapeutic and hygienic effects of love?

The mustang could not share his rider’s source of content, but he may have been
conscious, through animal instincts whereof we know nothing, of an uplifting and
encouraging spirit. At all events, he kept up his steady lope without faltering or apparent effort, and seemed to require nothing more than the occasional wetting which Freeman administered to his nose. There would
probably be some vegetation, and perhaps water, on the hills; and that prospect may likewise have helped him along.

Nevertheless, man and beast may well
have welcomed the hour when the craggy acclivities of that lonely range became so near that they seemed to loom above their heads. Freeman directed his steps towards the southern extremity, where a huge, pallid mass, of almost regular pyramidal form,
reared itself aloft like a monument. He skirted the base of the pyramid, and there opened on his view a narrow, winding valley, scarcely half a mile in apparent breadth, and of a very wild and savage aspect. Its general direction was nearly north and
south, and it declined downwards, as if seeking the interior of the earth. In fact, it looked not unlike those imaginative
pictures of the road to the infernal regions described by the ancient poets. One could picture Pluto in his chariot, with Proserpine beside him, thundering downwards behind
his black horses, on the way to those sombre and magnificent regions which are hollowed out beneath the surface of the planet.

Freeman, however, presently saw a sight which, if less spectacularly impressive, was far more agreeable to his eyes. On a shelf or cup of the declivity was a little clump of vegetation, and in the midst of it welled up a thin stream of water. The mustang
scrambled eagerly towards it, and, before Freeman had had time to throw himself out of the saddle, he had plunged his muzzle into the rivulet. He sucked it down with such satisfaction that it was evident the water was not salt. Freeman laid himself prone upon the brink, and followed his
steed’s example. The draught was cool and pure.

“I didn’t know how much I wanted it!” said he to himself. “It must come from a good way down. If I could only bring the parent stream to the surface, my mission would be on a fair road to success.”

An examination of the spring revealed the fact that it could not have been long in existence. Indeed, there were no traces
whatever of long continuance. The aperture in the rock through which it trickled bore the appearance of having been recently opened; fragments were lying near it that seemed to have been just broken off. The bed of the little stream was entirely free from moss or weeds; and after proceeding a short distance it dwindled and disappeared, either sucked up in vapor by the torrid air, or absorbed into the dusty soil. Manifestly, it was a recent creation.

“And, to be sure, why not?” ejaculated Freeman. “There was an earthquake last
night, which swallowed up the spring in the Trednokes’ garden: probably that same earthquake brought this stream to light. It vanished there, to reappear here. Well, the loss is not important to them, but the gain is very important to me. It is as if Miriam had come with a cup of water to refresh her lover in the desert. God bless her! She
has refreshed me indeed, soul and body!”

He removed the saddle from the mustang, and turned him loose to make the best of such scanty herbage as he could find. Then he unpacked his own provisions, and made a comfortable meal; after which he rolled a cigarette and reclined on the spot most available, to rest and recuperate. The valley, or
gorge, lay before him in the afternoon light. It was a strange and savage spectacle. Had it been torn asunder by some stupendous
explosion, it could not have presented a rougher or more chaotic aspect. To look at it was like beholding the secret places of the earth. The rocky walls were of different colors, yellow, blue, and red, in many shades and gradations. They towered ruggedly upwards, sharply shadowed and brightly lighted,
mounting in regular pinnacles, parting in black crevices; here and there vast masses hung poised on bases seemingly insufficient, ready to topple over on the unwary passer beneath. A short distance to the northward the ravine had a turn, and a projecting
promontory hid its further extreme from sight. Freeman made up his mind to follow it up on foot, after the descending sun should have thrown a shadow over it. The indications, in his judgment, were not without
promise that a system of judiciously-applied blastings might open up a source of water that would transform this dreadful barrenness into something quite different.

The shade of the great pyramid fell upon him as he lay, but the tumultuous wall opposite was brilliantly illuminated: the sky, over it, was of a peculiar brassy hue, but entirely cloudless. The radiations from the baked surface, ascending vertically, made the rocky bastion seem to quiver, as if it were a reflection cast on undulating water. The wreaths
of tobacco-smoke that emanated from Freeman’s mouth also ascended, until they touched
the slant of sunlight overhead. As the young man’s eyes followed these, something happened that caused him to utter an
exclamation and raise himself on one arm.

All at once, in the vacant air diagonally above him, a sort of shadowy shimmer
seemed to concentrate itself, which was rapidly resolved into color and form. It was much as if some unseen artist had swept a mass of mingled hues on a canvas and then had worked them with magical speed into a picture. There appeared a breadth of rolling country, covered with verdure, and in
the midst of it the white walls and long, shadowed veranda of an adobe house. Freeman saw the vines clambering over the eaves
and roof, the vases of earthenware suspended between the pillars and overflowing with flowers, the long windows, the steps descending into the garden. Now a figure clad in
white emerged from the door and advanced slowly to the end of the veranda. He
recognized the gait and bearing: he could almost fancy he discerned the beloved features. She stood there for a moment, gazing, as it seemed, directly at him. She raised her
hands, and pressed them to her lips, then threw them outwards, with a gesture eloquent of innocent and tender passion. Freeman’s heart leaped: involuntarily he stretched out his arms, and murmured, “Miriam!” The
next moment, a tall, dark figure, with white hair, wrapped in a blanket, came stalking behind her, and made a beckoning movement. Miriam did not turn, but her bearing
changed; her hands fell to her sides; she seemed bewildered. Freeman sprang
angrily to his feet: the picture became blurred; it flowed into streaks of vague color; it was gone. There were only the
brassy sky, and the painted crags quivering in the heat.

“That was not a mirage: it was a miracle,” muttered the young man to himself.
“Forty miles at least, and it seemed scarcely three hundred yards! What does
it mean?”

The sun sank behind the hills, and a
transparent shadow filled the gorge. Freeman, uneasy in mind, and unable to remain
inactive, filled his canteen at the spring, and descended to the rugged trail at the bottom. Clambering over boulders, leaping across narrow chasms, letting himself down from ledges, his preoccupation soon left him, and physical exertion took the precedence. Half an hour’s work brought him to the out-
jutting promontory which had concealed the further reaches of the valley. These now lay before him, merging imperceptibly into indistinctness.

“This atmosphere is unbearable,” said Freeman. “I must get a little higher up.” He turned to the right, and saw a natural archway, of no great height, formed in the rock. The arch itself was white; the super- incumbent stone was of a dull red hue. On the left flank of the arch were a series of inscribed characters, which might have been cut by a human hand, or might have been a mere natural freak. They looked like some rude system of hieroglyphics, and bore no meaning to Freeman’s mind.

A sort of crypt or deep recess was
hollowed out beneath the arch, the full extent of which Freeman was unable to discern. The floor of it descended in ridges, like a rough staircase. He stood for a few moments peering into the gloom, tempted by
curiosity to advance, but restrained partly by the gathering darkness, and partly by the oppressiveness of the atmosphere, which
produced a sensation of giddiness. Something white gleamed on the threshold of the crypt. He picked it up. It was a human skull;
but even as he lifted it it came apart in his hands and crumbled into fragments. Freeman’s nerves were strong, but he shuddered
slightly. The loneliness, the silence, the mystery, and the strange light-headedness that was coming over him combined to make him hesitate. “I’ll come back to-morrow
morning early,” he said to himself.

As if in answer, a deep, appalling roar broke forth apparently under his feet, and went rolling and reverberating up and down the canon. It died away, but was
immediately followed by another yet more loud, and the ground shook and swayed beneath
his feet. A gigantic boulder, poised high up on the other side of the canon, was
unseated, and fell with a terrific crash. A hot wind swept sighing through the valley, and the air rapidly became dark. Again came
the sigh, rising to a shriek, with roarings and thunderings that seemed to proceed
both from the heavens and from the earth.

A dazzling flash of lightning split the air, bathing it for an instant in the brightness of day: in that instant Freeman saw the
bolt strike the great white pyramid and splinter its crest into fragments, while the whole surface of the gorge heaved and
undulated like a stormy sea. He had been staggering as best he might to a higher part of the ravine; but now he felt a stunning blow on his head: he fell, and knew no
more.

CHAPTER VII.

Two horsemen, one of whom led a third horse, carrying a pack-saddle, had
reached the borders of the desert just as the earthquake began. When the first shock
came, they were riding past a grove of live- oaks: they immediately dismounted, made
fast their horses, and lay down beside some bushes that skirted the grove. Neither the earthquake nor the storm was so severe as was the case farther eastward. In an hour all was over, and they remounted and
continued their journey, guiding their course by the stars.

“It was thus that we rode before,
Kamaiakan,” remarked the younger of the two travellers. “Yonder bright star stood as it does now, and the hour of the night was
the same. But this shaking of the earth makes me fear for the safety of that youth. The sands of the desert may have swept
over him; or he may have perished in the hills.”

“The purposes of the gods cannot be
altered, Semitzin,” replied the old Indian, who perhaps would not have much regretted such a calamity as she suggested: it would be a simple solution of difficulties which might otherwise prove embarrassing. “It
is my prayer, at all events, that the entrance to the treasure may not be closed.”

“I care nothing for the treasure, unless I may share it with him,” she returned. “Since we spoke together beside the fountain, I have seen him. He looked upon me
doubtfully, being, perhaps, perplexed because of these features of the child Miriam, which I am compelled to wear.”

“Truly, princess, what is he, that you should think of him?” muttered Kamaiakan.

“He satisfies my heart,” was the reply.

“And I am resolved never again to give up this mortal habitation to her you call its rightful owner. I will never again leave this world, which I enjoy, for the unknown darkness out of which you called me.”

“Princess, the gods do not permit such dealings. They may, indeed, suffer you to live again; but you must return as an
infant, in flesh and bones of your own.”

“The gods have permitted me to return as I have returned; and you well know,
Kamaiakan, that, except you use your art to banish me and restore Miriam, there is nothing else that can work a change.”

“Murder is not lawful, Semitzin; and to do as you desire would be an act not different from murder.”

“On my head be it, then!” exclaimed
the princess. “Would it be less a murder to send me back to nothingness than to let her remain there? Mine is the stronger
spirit, and has therefore the better right to live. I ask of you only to do nothing.
None need ever know that Miriam has vanished and that Semitzin lives in her place. I wear her body and her features, and I am content to wear her name also, if it must be so.”

Kamaiakan was silent. He may well be
pardoned for feeling troubled in the presence of a situation which had perhaps never
before confronted a human being. Two women, both tenants of the same body,
both in love with the same man, and therefore rivals of each other, and each claiming
a right to existence: it was a difficult problem. The old Indian heartily wished that a separate tenement might be provided for
each of these two souls, that they might fight out their quarrel in the ordinary way. But his magic arts did not extend to the creation of flesh and blood. At the same time, he could not but feel to blame for having brought this strenuous spirit of
Semitzin once more into the world, and he was fain to admit that her claim was not without justification. His motives had been excellent, but he had not foreseen the
consequences in which the act was to land him. Yet he more shrank from wronging Miriam
than from disappointing Semitzin.

But the latter was not to be put off by silence.

“There has been a change since you and I last spoke together,” she said. “I am
aware of it, though I know not how; but, in some manner, the things which Miriam
has done are perceptible to me. When I was here before, she did but lean towards this youth; now she has given herself to him. She means to be united to him; and, if I again should vanish, I should never again find my way back. But it shall not be so; and there is a way, Kamaiakan, by which I can surely prevent it, even though you refuse to aid me.”

“Indeed, princess, I think you mistake regarding the love of Miriam for this young man; they have seen little of each other; and it may be, as you yourself said, that he