The author of the “Popul Vuh,” however, goes on to tell of some of the wonders they did in Xibalbay,—which Ximenes considers hell,—and my readers would find the story very amusing; but I have translated perhaps enough to show the ideas of the Quichés ten centuries ago. The Quiché kings had removed their capital from Izmachi to Gumarcah,—afterwards called Utatlan,—not far from the modern Spanish town of Santa Cruz del Quiché; and it was the poor remains of this city, destroyed three centuries and a half ago, that I visited in journeying through Guatemala. The situation was a fine one, well suited for the metropolis of an extensive kingdom; for while roads and mountain-passes gave access in all directions, the very mountains formed a wall easily guarded, and watch-towers to discover approaching danger. It was situated not unlike Granada on the Vega in the Sierras of Andalusia; and like that noble capital of the Moorish kingdom, it was well fortified, and embellished with all the knowledge and taste of the time. [Illustration: Ancient Temple. (_From an old Manuscript._)] On the platform where Frank and I had stumbled over the confused piles of rubbish and tried in vain to trace the buildings, so distinct only forty years before, the mighty Gucumatz had built high the altar of the bloodthirsty Tohil,—a steep pyramid in the centre of the rebuilt Gumarcah, now called Utatlan. Our knowledge of the ceremonial of that Quiché worship is but slight; but enough is known to give an air of reality to the pile of rubbish that alone marks the site of the holy place of this ancient kingdom. I sat near the base of the altar, and the city walls arose about me; the ruin of three centuries departed, and again all was new and full of busy life. Around me, but at a suitable distance from the altar-temple, were the palaces of the princes, built of cut stone and covered with the most brilliant white stucco. From the flat roofs of these massive dwellings floated banners of many colors and strange devices; arches of evergreens and flowers spanned every entrance to this Plaza, whose floor was of the smoothest, whitest stucco, and heaps of fragrant flowers were piled at the palace-doorways and about the great altar that towered like a mountain of light in the midst. All around me were the phantom forms of the Indios, clad in garments of rich colors, but silent and expectant; I seemed to know them all and understand their tongue. It was the most sacred festival of the year; the rains had ceased, and the summer was beginning,—and a summer at Utatlan was a delight unequalled in the outer world. [Illustration: Indio Sacrificing.]