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CHAPTER IL ATZLAN, THE HIDDEN CITY. I? 1 ? fie could sec nothing in thc abyss below. The beams of the morning snn ^iad been slanting flown on the level plain above Atzlan for an hour, but the city was still in deep shadow a thousand or more feet below. Rosy tints hovered abont the vermilion edges of the great cliff?,.mingling with yellow and gray and saffron colored belts farther down, throwing into ghostly relief the white; castellated promontories of the majestic sculptured, wall and deepening the blackness of the dark recesses. But there were people astir in the streets and fields and on the housetops, j for the storm that uad risen in fury during the night had wrought some damage to dwellings, and, it was feared, to the flocks in the pastures. But nc? eye was directed toward the cliffs, for the sky was now clear, and no 9 farther disturbance was apprehended . from that direction. Storms were few and far between in Atzlan; they raged on "the plains at frequent intervals in springtime, but troubled not the dwell ers in the deep canyon, who never took the pains to climb the steep cliff sides. Had curious eyes peered upward they would perhaps have discerned a figure outlined clearly against the sky, but they could not have seen that it wore no Atz lan garb, and that it surpassed, in height any Atzlan man, or that it bent forward and seemed to eagerly strive to pene trate the darkness of the canyon. Each early riser carried a torch and was too intent upon his errantTto waste time gaz ing aloft, or he might bare seen the fig ure slowly clambering down an ancient, rude pathway leading to the first terrace, where ruined cliff houses and caves, abandoned centuries ago, were the only evidences of former human occupation. But the man on the heights had seen the moving torches, and up where a he ' was it was light enough to easily pick his way. It was Eric Gilbert, and he was seeK . ing a point of observation before rt grew light in order-to ascertain what manner of men these were who. carried the lights '._ y far beneath him. Hostile Indians he .? knew might in all reason be encountered in those wilds, and he had escaped one danger too narrowly ^to fall carelessly into another. ' Events had crowded so quickly upon him during the last few hours that he was prepared for anything. Unaware even in what state or territory in the Union he had been thrown in the last wild bound of the balloon, he did not know what he might encounter, and though the craving for water and food began to assert itself he was resolved to let his caution govern his necessity. He had gathered the instruments, Which he had thrown in a heap near the edge of the cliff, and covered them with a blanket. They consisted of a small electric battery and lighting apparatus (an invention of Pierce's), a lantern, a thermometer and barometer, a camera sud plate box holding a hundred instan taneous plates, some medical instru ments in a case, a quadrant and a few other^articles. He carried his Winchester rifle in his left hand, a blanket thrown over his arm, and a carrier pigeon, whose broken wing hung limp and flapping, in his ': right hand, making his descent a matter of care. The light was growing stronger in the canyon when he reached a level sT??lf or terrace edged with a rough stone wall and lined with caves and cliff dwellings; caves whose mouths were built np in cyclopean masonry, leaving a narrow entrance to be reached by a ladder of rope or poles. He felt the need of haste, although even yet he could see nothing in the abyss below, and finding a convenient " opening into a cave close at hand, yet where he could overlook the depths, he laid down his burden and waited for the light to fill the canyon. The flutter of the wounded bird aroused his pity, and he bound its wing to its side with a strip of his handker chief and laid it upon his blanket, feel ing a sort of companionship in its pres ence-a link with the outer world. Resting as ho was from a long vigil and along continued struggle, he stretched himself beside the bird and fell asleep. Long before the sun rose upon Atzlan a figure stirred upon the top of the high est building in the city, whence arose a slim, blue column of smoke. The figure moved with slow, hesitating steps from one side of the low walled housetop to the other, as if from habit, although the burden of years had turned che exercise into a toilsome journey. He was Iklapel, the high priest of Atzlan, watching before the sacred, inex tinguishable fire of Kinchahan, the sun god, which for centuries had burned and would burn forever. Even in the half light of the coming dawn it could be seen that Iklapel was old and blind, and though his figure bowed many an inch before his only master, Time, fine and tall, thin and withered, it still showed the remains of % powerful and graceful form. Now and then he held his wasted hands over the languid fire to measure its burning or cast a few twigs of cedar upon it, mut tering, as old men do, to himself the while. As the sky grew brighter and redder with the dawn he seemed to feel it and know that the day was approach ing, for he rapped sharply several times upon the roof, as if in summons to an other person. In a moment a second figure appeared, coming up through a trapdoor, and stood before him in a respectful, yet easy and familiar attitude. Then as the aged Iklapel tottered it sprang to his side and lovingly passed a strong arm about him, leading him to a stone seat Reside the altar and placing him ten derly upon it. The old man reached his hand, feeling; forthat-Of the younger mau, ana placing ic -agauxau x breast he held it there in silence. Aft awhile he spoke, and his voice w round and full, though now and then quaver, a grace note as it were, bro! ripon its even tones: "Kuican, my son, the beating of n heart grows feeble, and this day, tl greatest, most sacred in the year, ipi be my last. For a hundred and tv years I have seen the san rise over tl red cliffs, but tomorrow I may not s< it. Thus i feel that now, while n strengtb remains in me, I should lea1 you my last words of instruction ai advice. You will succeed me as hig priest, and there is no one more worth; no one to whom I would leave the cari and the honors of my sacred- office mo: willingly nor more fearlessly. Toda: as yon well know, I was to make tl holy sacrifice to the sun, the sacrifice < the Thirteenth Year, yet my strengt fails me, and yon, my son, shall perfon the sacred rite. No one but myself fe eighty-five years has shed the blood < the virgin sacrifice, and yet 'tis with cheerful heart I lay the oflce down, i noon put on the holy robe, and, as yo alone have been instructed, perform th rite that our people may be held t< gother and their religion 1? preserved. The hand against Iklapel's bosom wi trembling, and Kulcan's figure shoo with the ? motion he endeavored to BU] press. For some moments he appeare unable to reply. Then placing his han upon the old man's shoulder he said: "My father, you tell me to perfon the rite that our people may be held tc gether and their religion preserved Why not say that the sun god may b merciful to us and preserve our people? His voice had a bitter, sarcastic ring and the old man replied quickly: "Oh, Kui can, you will not learn th lesson I have striven so diligently t teach. Know that the people are not. a we are and cannot be lifted to the leve of our knowledge. You, who have bee: initiated into the mysteries and dwelt, ii the higher atmosphere of lofty thought do not realize the distance between thei and our conception of religion. Arnon] all the priests to you alone have I dare? to reveal my inward thoughts and tm beliefs, but it was because I saw in you as in the dead governor, your father, th spirit of philosophic reason, as well a the tact to bow to popular prejudice i religious matters. I have spoken to yoi as to my own soul. You know that despise the images of the god and wot ship him, as I have taught you, withou fires or feasts or sacrifices; but you knov that the people require these signs an? symbols to keep them frue to their obedi euee; that 'tis thus we rule them and no with reason* or philosophy. 'Tis tht tribute they pay to intellect-the tribut* they have paid for countless ages an( must in some form continue to pay." "But 'tis time,""impulsively interrupt ed Kulcan, "that they were brought U see that these cruel, inhuman sacrifice: should be abolished. Something, I kn o v not what, tells me that we are beyonc and above them cow, and that the people themselves will welcome the change ant rejoice that their children no longer ma-3 be thrown to the senseless image of th< fierce, bloodthirsty sun god! Oh, father,' he cried, shuddering, "can we not devise, bef?te it is forever too late, some means to prevent this murder of Ai nee?" "It is even now too late," answered the aged priest coldly. "Can you not set with what feverish impatience the peo I pie await the.light of .this day? They know their children are safe now that the lot has fallen on the girl Ainee, and . they thirst for the spectacle for which they have waited thirteen years. Today they believe Quetzalcoatl, with his dove upon his hand,-will return, as on this day for ages they have looked for him. In vain will they look; he will not re turn, but they must have their sacrifice, or their wrath will turn upon the priests, and we shall perish. Upon it rests our very existence. Murmurs have already been heard against us-we are called idlers and bread eaters of the poor. It is our only hope, and upon you it will rest taday. Were it only a question of my life or your life alone, I would willingly die; but we cannot prevent the slaughter by our deaths. "Alas, my son" (the old man's voice .softened and quivered), "time brings but the same tale. Eighty long years ago 1, too, loved a maiden as you, I know-nay, start not-love Ainee; yet she was chosen, and this withered hand plunged the sacred knife into her throat. Her eyes were on me as she fell upon my breast-they are with me now I I killed her, and when the day was done 1 climbed the cliff and wandered out upon the desert plains which lie about the city in search of some other land. For days I roamed, returning for water and food, and then starting anew in other directions, as you, too, have done, in a spirit of discovery, and finding, as yon have done, that we are alone in the world-a city in a desert-the remnants of a once great people, ll returned to my duties, and since that day I have been the most zealous in guarding the tradi tional customs of our religion." "But, my father, we have the power, if we will, to prevent this horrid sacri fice todayl Some plausible excuse can be offered to the credulous people, and an animal perhaps be substituted for the beautiful maiden." "It is too late, even were I willing," replied the aged priest. "As is the cus tom when the feast of the Thirteenth Year approaches, all prodigies in nature, in the skies and on the earth, are eagerly regarded as omens of good or evil. The birth of the six horned calf has been ac cepted by the priests and the people as an evil sign, and the terrific storm of last night will have wrought their fears to a higher pitch. And now I will reveal to you a causu of secret uneasiness and great fear eve,i to me. "Last nigh?, as the storm raged with a fury I have .not often seen, there came a blast that stook the temple, and there seemed to swtep over my head a some thing, I know not what, but I felt its touch as thoi.gh long, slender threads brushed by ?.ie, and out of the cloud there came a l-jnd voice in wailing; then it passed, bu? I heard the voice, and others, too, rr. cst have h o aid its load tones. Think Hot that I was dreaming, or that it w?3 the vagary of a blind man's mind. It is the truth. Long have I preached signs and wonders, yet this is the first I have myself witnessed or believed ia. Were I to attempt to prevent the sacrifice the envious priests themselves will turn upon us, and we will but add our own bodies to the offer ing. I know it and it is impossible." It had grown lighter while the two talked, and the housetops were already black with the forms of the people con gregated there to greet the rising sun. All were silent, waiting till the lumi nary appeared over the edge of the cliffs. Its beams already blazed upon the north ern wallof the canyon and brought out in strong relief the banded colors of the lime, sands to. ie and slate. The sky was all aflame, and a flood of sunlight poured over into the abyss, and tho glowing, radiant orb appeared. The people raised a mighty shout, bowed their heads before the god in prayer for a few moments and disappeared -within their houses. The day had began in Atzlan. Kui can stood beside tho high priest, neither of them joining in the welcoming shouts nor the prayers of the populace as the son rose. The eyes of the young er man were so blinded with tears that he saw nothing of the scene, while he en deavored to control his emotions. Be fore him stretched a canyon less than a mile in width at its widest part and nar rowing to a few feet in places, the eye being lost in its sharp turns. Through it ran a stream about forty feet wide, with many shallow fords, making a carve about the city and sinking into danger ous quicksands at the western extrem ity. The walls of the canyon, two thou sand feet high above the city and sink ing to seven hundred feet at the western end, had been terraced by the floods into huge steps, upon which the rained cliff houses stood, one row above another. Stairways and ladders were.carved in the rocky walls, giving, access to the heights above, although these were now only used by venturesome urchins. This city was built ia a hage circle three thousand feet in diameter, form ing, in fact, one continu?os structure, with a large open court in the center foll of fruit trees and garden plots. This gigantic tenement contained nearly a thousand rooms, having in its eastern ex tremity seven stories of apartments. It was built in a regular and beautiful al ternation of large and small square cut stones laid in white .mortar, or, more strictly speaking, gypsum cement. There had been in earlier tines no doors or windows upon the ground floor, and the entrance had been effected by ladders,' hundreds of which leaned against the walls and protruded from the roofs; bat now a few large doorways opened into the fields outside the city. The successive stories were set back, one behind the other, leaving the high est tier a single Une of apartments, each story being reached by short ladders. The houses were three rooms deep, open ing on the interior court, and connect ing by trapdoors with the rooms below? There were innumerable trapdoors in the roofs, through which the ends of the ladders appeared, pointing in every direction, giving therity tho comical as pect of a forest of leaning bean poles. Up the ladders children and even dogs ran with ease and agility. , On the western end of the.city the houses were onJy one story in height, imparting to the whole the appearance sf an amphitheater or a vast fortress. Within the court, toward the western end, stood the temple, the highest build ing of all, from the roof of which rose the smoke of tho perpetual fire. All about the outskirts, and also with in the court, were pleasant gardens and fields cultivated to a high degree by irrigation, in places on the cliffs the terraces had been converted into gardens, walled and faced with neat masonry, and with raised edges to hold water upon the surface, to which the water pipes ran. Through tho outer walls of the houses projected for a foot or two the cedar poles forming the floors, and in s om o in stances they were carried out far enough to form balconies, upon which grew trailing plants with great scarlet flowers blazing in the spring sunlight in riotous rivalry of color with the barning cliffs. In this great beehive dwelt two thou sand souls, one family above another, the roof of one forming the floor and yard of the next above, the humblest dwelling in the highest tiers, for the nobles and wealthy citizens, as a matter of coarse, were'averse to climbing and preferred to be near the ground, where opportunities for communion or display were greater. All this lay before the yoong priest as he stood and strove with his emotions, and such was the scene that greeted Gil bert's eyes in the depths belo whim when he awoke from slumber. CHAPTER III. THE FESTIVAL AND THE SACRIFICE. \ She faced her lover with a confident t ten der mile upon her face. The smoke was rising and blowing away in the fresh morning wind from hundreds of round apertures in the roofs as the people of Atzlan prepared their morning meal hurriedly, for they were anxious to be oat and preparing for the greatest of their religious festivals. One by one the.? emerged and clambered quickly do wa the tall ladders until hun dreds of than were gathered about rn groups or busily arranging for the cere monies of the day, gathering fruits and flowers, maize cakes and pinon nuts for tiie minor sacrifices, and decorating the interior and front of the court and tem ple. To each of the f oar great phratries or divisions of the inhabitants, according to kinship, was assigned particular du ties connected with the festival. While some were engaged in building and decorating bowers others prepared food in great quantities, while others ar ranged for the games and dances which followed the sacrifices. Others were driving the animals devoted to sacrifice into an inclosed field. Gathered in front of the temple stood a number of priests waiting to form in the sacred procession and chatting mer rily, with frequent jests, among them selves. Their white dresses formed a contrast with the brilliant coloring of the costumes of the people, and the red sons embroidered upon their breasts, tho.emblem of their holy calling, showed forth the more conspicuously. Multitudes of little, stunted, wolfish dogs ran in and ont between tho people's legs, attesting by frequent howls a pl?ntitude of well aimed kicks. The houses emptied forth into the square every inmate, for every living soul in the city who was able to move or to be moved was .obliged to be present at the sacrifice-aud fe\v were loath to witness the spectacle. Tts bloody delights were eagerly awaited and long remembered. Children were there to be held up to Bee the rare sight and to have it impressed upon their memories by many a re minder in future years, and old women, wagging their heads, told of many a past scene of splendid slaughter, when were killed not one bat a dozen beauti ful virgiu's to at. wrath in tiinea of fa Kulcan stood upi gazing down upon t Dclapel, weary with bering in the warm si: hand restingan. the whose fire seemed dy young priest was not' robes, but wore a lon circled at the waist t _ turquoise squares se* tened by a looped sei he wore a feather 'ch an eagle's plume-thi ily. His legs were shapely, muscular de feet were clad in leat kins, with heavy nt They were fastened w battons of the same rr left wrist was coiled i modeled like a serpent -the rattlesnake of tb yous-a sacred, myste their religion. He was tall and w face was browned by burning suns of twei Bot the narrow ?pen . showed a skin beneath With eyes of deep b tawny yellow he resen there, his lip'curled int sneer, gazing fixedly priests below, a viking of the land of cold and the bot arid desert. BD .hin showed elements < vacillation, and the blt indecision and waverin. that betrayed his chara* He had already acquit priest's decision. and rt lessness of opposition. I none of the staff of the die defending the wpma: dared he kill himself wit slew her. No, he wonk some miracle might >cc lapel were wrong after a conti should appear? Ai question not only of se! but of his religion, of h and their fat livings and leges. Though helovet his heart, yet "he questi one man's love to be set teresta of a whole pri them thpugh he did one bottom of heart? . . Then his thoughts j hatred against them, ai could do no bette^ha whole system of lying tense and jugglery. . sure, even were he t would be the result, his thoughts, for he A thinking.'having beret lapel to perform thal . finally resolved to let : course, weakly hoping something' would inte though he was as to Iii still a ?tr??g taint of tion iurootid_ iu bin nature, ami t he prodi Iklapcl rula ted it, something at least u cur. He made his deci rather to be made f<. of circumstances a.* awakening the high ed the trapdoor b* gether and attired sacred robes, r [TO BR CC A Lttrge Cn MUM I Earth worms six In Gippsland. Viet barrows oa the slop and are the larg e?t - world. It must be picks np the worm troit Fra* Pws . tTHROAT > LUNG plaints, best remedy is ER'S .ry Pectoral jolds, achit?s, la grippe, croup, it is iipt to Act ) to cure. ju WANT INFORMATION ABOUT reta a letter orpoital card to_ ?RENS CLAIMS COMPANY. .RESS ER BURN, . . Managing Attorney, 183. 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