Though he sedulously carried out the ceremonials and practices of his faith, though his people revered and respected him, yet he realized that his faith and his people were doomed. Never having come into contact with any Christian priest other than Fray José (unless his seemingly impossible tale were true and he _had_ known Bishop Landa in his youth) he regarded the good Padre as the head of both the Christian Church and the entire white race, and as such held the most profound respect and reverence for him, aside from his personal friendship and a deep gratitude for some service rendered him, but what it was he would not reveal. For these reasons he received me as the direct representative of Fray José and treated me as the Padre’s envoy. But I was far too familiar with Indian psychology to broach the purpose of my visit at once. Impatient as I was, I was forced to bide my time, to become acquainted with Katchilcan, to win his entire confidence, to lead the conversation by degrees to the myths and history of the Mayas, before I showed him the codex. But when at last I felt the time was ripe and I spread the papyrus before him, I was wholly unprepared for the effect. With a strange, sharp cry he fell upon his knees, cast dust upon his head, and in his thin cracked voice began chanting in an unintelligible dialect. Then, rising, he reverently returned the codex to my hands. “Blessed of the gods are you, my lord,” he cried in Zutugil. “I am an old man, my lord, but were I a youth in my strength, gladly would I give half my life to possess that book.” I gasped. What secret, what import did the codex hold? What had caused the old priest to be so deeply affected by his first glance at it? Why would he have given “half his life” to have owned it? Eagerly I questioned him. For a time he was silent, motionless, thinking deeply. Then at last he spoke.