STRETCHING from the edge of the bamboos, through which we had been forcing our way, was a small lake, its waters inky-black and as smooth as oil, a dismal, ominous-looking pool made far more dismal and more ominous by the presence of a gigantic stone image rising from the very centre of the lake. Instantly I recognized it. The half-recumbent figure with flexed knees, upraised head and with hands upon stomach was unmistakable. It was a colossal image of Chac-Mool the Maya rain-god. But it was different from any statue of Chac-Mool I had ever seen, for it rested upon the back of an enormous crocodile with open, hideous jaws and upraised tail startlingly life-like in its details. Fascinated by the marvel of the stupendous piece of sculpture, for it appeared to have been cut from a solid mass of living rock that jutted from the lake, I stared at it, only half conscious that Maliche had prostrated himself before it. The next instant I leaped back with a shout of terror. Within a dozen feet of where I stood, the black water had broken, an enormous head with unwinking green eyes and long jaws set with gleaming teeth had appeared, and with a rush, the huge saurian had dashed towards me. I was only just in time to seize the praying Maliche by his hair and drag him to one side. Carried half his twenty-foot length out of the water by the force of his rush, the crocodile’s jaws met in a crash within six inches of the chief’s legs. And the horrible monster was not alone. Everywhere the placid black surface of the lake was being churned into waves by dozens, hundreds of immense, ravenous crocodiles all rushing towards us. Neither were we safe from their attacks on land. Snapping their jaws, lashing to right and left with their ponderous tails, racing over the muddy ground far faster than I would have imagined their short legs could carry them, the horde of monsters came after us. I ran as I had never run before. Bursting through bamboo thickets, torn by thorns, cut by razor grass, stumbling, plunging into the mire, tripping over snake-like vines and roots, we raced for dry land, and only ceased when we had gained the hillside and dropped exhausted, out of possible reach of the demoniacal beasts that were still thrashing and snapping in the dense jungle beneath us. Truly old Katchilcan had been right when he had said that “great bars were placed in the way to Mictolan.” And an involuntary shudder ran through me, a strange sensation of superstitious fears caused my scalp to tingle, as I realized how literally all he had said had come to pass! The Valley of Death, the Tunnel of the Serpents, the Pit of Zotional (the sacred alligator-god) all had been met exactly as foretold, exactly as was written in the codex!