That settled it. I had no further fears. In fact, as the Indians drew near they were far more afraid of us than we had been of them. I shouted to them in Zutugil, but that appeared only to scare them the more. Then I tried Spanish, and with shouts of delight they replied in the same tongue. They were friendly, half-civilized, simple, harmless people, and ten minutes later we were in the village, objects of the most intense curiosity on the part of the villagers. But when, by chance, they caught a glimpse of the tattooed symbol on my chest, their curiosity changed instantly to wonder and adoration. They might be Spanish-speaking, degenerate, semi-Christianized, half-civilized members of their race, but they still recognized the mark of the ancient Mayan priest-kings and revered those who bore it. At this juncture, Itza bent towards me and whispered a question that brought roars of laughter from my lips. “Are these people of your race, Itzimin?” she asked. To me there was something extremely ludicrous in her query, in her mistaking members of her own race for Anglo Saxons. But after all, why not? They were no more like the people of Mictolan than--well, I was about to say than like me, but honestly, of the two, I verily believe that, being a civilized man “gone native” as one might say, I looked far more like their kinsman than any man in Mictolan. For a moment Itza looked hurt at my merriment over her quite natural and innocent question, but when I had explained, she regarded it as a good joke and laughed gaily herself. And as the Indians felt that there must be something funny, and that it would be discourtesy to their distinguished guest not to show appreciation of it, they, too, burst into peals and roars of laughter. * * * * * THEY were good-natured, simple folk, and in reply to my questions, informed me there was a white man in a village three days’ walk to the south. He was, they added, a Padre, though why I, a member of the exalted, almost sacred Titul Zius clan, should want to find a white man or civilization was quite incomprehensible to them. That I was within three days of a village where there was a priest was not so surprising to me as it might seem. It is a remote Indian village indeed that is too far away to have its Padre, and that we had come far and deviously from the valley of Mictolan I knew. The hidden city might be two hundred, three hundred miles distant, and in that wilderness of unexplored mountain ranges such a place as Mictolan might well remain hidden forever, even though within one hundred miles of settlements and even of railways. “And how is this village called, wherein dwells the Padre?” I asked my informant, who appeared to be the Cacique of the village by the lake. “It is called the village of Xibaltango, my lord,” he replied.