WHEN the page awoke, after a long, refreshing sleep,
he saw the fountain first, and Tecetl next. She
was sitting a little way off, upon a mat stretched on the
floor. A number of birds were about her, whistling and
coquetting with each other. One or two of very beautiful
plumage balanced themselves on the edge of the basin, and
bathed their wings in the crystal water. Through half-shut
eyes, he studied her. She was quiet, — thinking of what?
Of what do children think in their waking dreams? Yet he
might have known, from her pensive look and frequent
sighs, that the fountain was singing to deaf ears, and the
birds playing their tricks before sightless eyes. She was
most probably thinking of what he had so lately taught
her, and nursed the great mystery as something past finding
out; many a wiser head has done the same thing.

Now, Orteguilla was very sensible of her loveliness; he
was no less sensible, also, that she was a mystery out of the
common way of life; and had he been in a place of safety,
in the palace of Axaya', he would have stayed a long time,

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pretending sleep, in order to study her unobserved. But
his situation presently rose to mind; the yellow glow of
the lamps suggested the day outside; the birds, liberty;
the fountain and shrubbery, the world he had lost; and
the girl, life, — his life, and all its innumerable strong attachments.
And so, in his mind, he ran over his adventures
in the house. He surveyed all of the chamber that
was visible from the bench. The light, the fountain, the
vegetation, the decorated walls, — everything in view dependent
upon the care of man. Where so much was to be
done constantly, was there not something to be done at
once, — something to save life? There were the lamps:
how were they supplied? They might go out. And, Jesu
Christo! the corpse of the paba! He sat up, as if touched
by a spear: there it was, in all the repulsiveness of death.

The movement attracted the girl's attention; she arose,
and waited for him to speak.

“Good morning, — if morning it be,” he said.

She made no reply.

“Come here,” he continued. “I have some questions to
ask.”

She drew a few steps nearer. A bird with breast of
purple and wings of snow flew around her for a while,
then settled upon her hand, and was drawn close to her
bosom. He remembered, from Father Bartolomé's reading,
how the love of God once before took a bird's form; and
forthwith his piety and superstition hedged her about with
sanctity. What with the white wings upon her breast, and
the whiter innocency within, she was safe as if bound by
walls of brass.

“Have no fear, I pray you,” he said, misinterpreting her
respectful sentiment. “You and I are two people in a difficult
strait, and, if I mistake not, much dependent upon
each other. A God, of whom you never heard, but whom

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I will tell you all about, took your father away, and sent
me in his stead. The road thither, I confess, has been toilsome
and dreadful Ah me, I shudder at the thought!

He emphasized his feelings by a true Spanish shrug of the
shoulders.

“This is a strange place,” he next said. “How long have
you been here?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can you remember coming, and who brought you?”

“No.”

“You must have been a baby.” He looked at her with
pity. “Have you never been elsewhere”

“No, never.”

“Ah, by the Mother that keeps me! Always here! And
the sky, and sun, and stars, and all God's glory of nature,
seen in the valleys, mountains, and rivers, and seas, — have
they been denied you, poor girl?

“I have seen them all,” she answered.

“Where?”

“On the ceiling and walls.”

He looked up at the former, and noticed its excellence of
representation.

“Very good, — beautiful!” he said, in the way of criticism.
“Who did the work?”

“Quetzal'.”

“And who is Quetzal'?”

“Who should know better than the god himself?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

Again he shrugged his shoulders.

“My name, then, is Quetzal'. Now, what is yours?”

“Tecetl.”

“Well, then, Tecetl, let me undeceive you. In the first
place, I am not Quetzal', or any god. I am a man, as your

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father there was. My name is Orteguilla; and for the time
I am page to the great king Montezuma. And before long,
if I live, and get out of this place, as I most devoutly pray,
I will be a soldier. In the next place you are a girl, and
soon will be a woman. You have been cheated of life. By
God's help, I will take you out of this. Do you understand
me?”

“No; unless men and gods are the same.”

“Heaven forbid!” He crossed himself fervently. “Do
you not know what men are?”

“All my knowledge of things is from the pictures on the
walls, and what else you see here.”

“Jesu Christo!” he cried, in open astonishment. “And
did the good man never tell you of the world outside, — of
its creation, and its millions upon millions of people?”

“No.”

“Of the world in which you may find the originals
of all that is painted on the walls, more beautiful than
colors can make them?”

He received the same reply, but, still incredulous, went on.

“Who takes care of these plants?”

“My father.”

“A servant brings your food to the door — may he do
so again! Have you not seen him?”

“No.”

“Where does the oil that feeds the lamps come from?”

“From Quetzal'.”

Just then a lamp went out. He arose hastily, and saw
that the contents of the cup were entirely consumed.
“Tecetl, is there plenty of oil? Where do you keep it?
Tell me.”

“In a jar, there by the door. While you were asleep, I
refilled the cups, and now the jar is empty.”

He turned pale. Who better than he knew the value of

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the liquid that saved them from the darkness so horribly
peopled by hunger and thirst? If exhausted, where could
they get more? Without further question, he went through
the chamber, and collected the lamps, and put them all out
except one. Then he brought the jar from the door, and
poured the oil back, losing not a drop.

Tecetl remonstrated, and cried when she saw the darkness
invade the chamber, blotting out the walls, and driving the
birds to their perches, or to the fountain yet faintly illuminated.
But he was firm.

“Fie, fie!” he said. “You should laugh, not cry. Did I
not tell you about the world above this, so great, and so full
of people, like ourselves? And did I not promise to take
you there? I am come in your father's stead. Everything
must contribute to our escape. We must think of nothing
else. Do you understand? This chamber is but one of
many, in a house big as a mountain, and full of passages in
which, if we get lost, we might wander days and days, and
then not get out, unless we had a light to show us the way.
So we must save the oil. When this supply gives out, as it
soon will if we are not careful, the darkness that so frightens
you will come and swallow us, and we shall die, as did
your father there.”

The last suggestion sufficed; she dried her tears, and drew
closer to him, as if to say, “I confide in you; save me.”

Nature teaches fear of death; so that separation from the
breathless thing upon the couch was not like parting from
Mualox. Whether she touched his hand or looked in his
face now, “Go hence, go hence!” was what she seemed to
hear. The stony repulsion that substituted his living love
reconciled her to the idea of leaving home, for such the
chamber had been to her.

Here I may as well confess the page began to do a great
deal of talking, — a consequence, probably, of having a good

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listener; or he may have thought it a duty to teach all
that was necessary to prepare his disciple for life in the new
world. In the midst of a lecture, the tinkle of a bell
brought him to a hasty pause.

“Now, O Blessed Mother, now I am happy! Thou hast
not forsaken me! I shall see the sun again, and brave old
Spain. Live my heart!” he cried, as the last tinkle trembled,
and died in the silence.

Seeing that she regarded him with surprise, he said, in
her tongue, “I was thanking the Mother, Tecetl. She will
save us both. Go now, and bring the breakfast, — I say
breakfast, not knowing better, — and while we eat I will
tell you why I am so glad. When you have heard me, you
will be glad as I am.”

She went at once, and, coming back, found him bathing
his face and head in the water of the basin, — a healthful
act, but not one to strengthen the idea of his godship.
She placed the tray upon the table, and helped him to
napkin and comb; then they took places opposite each
other, with the lamp between them; whereupon she had
other proof of his kind of being; for it is difficult to think
of a deity at table, eating. The Greeks felt the incongruity,
and dined their gods on nectar and ambrosia, leaving us to
imagine them partaken in some other than the ordinary,
vulgar way. Verily, Tecetl was becoming accustomed to the
stranger!

And while they ate, he explained his plans, and talked of
the upper world, and described its wonders and people,
until, her curiosity aroused, she plied him with questions;
and as point after point was given, we may suppose nature
asserted itself, and taught her, by what power there is in
handsome youth, with its bright eyes, smooth face, and
tongue more winsome than wise, that life in the said world
was a desirable exchange for the monotonous drifting to

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which she had been so long subjected. We may also suppose
that she was not slow to observe the difference between
Mualox and the page; which was that between age and
youth, or, more philosophically, that between a creature to
be revered and a creature to be admired.