"But, senor, it is in this temple; somewhere under the ground. He knows. None but he is permitted to enter it. Carrai! The estufa is a fearful place. So say the people." An indefinite idea that his daughter may be in danger crosses the mind of Seguin. Perhaps she is dead already, or dying by some horrid means. He is struck, so are we, with the expression of sullen malice that displays itself upon the countenance of the medicine chief. It is altogether an Indian expression--that of dogged determination to die rather than yield what he has made up his mind to keep. It is a look of demoniac cunning, characteristic of men of his peculiar calling among the tribes. Haunted by this thought, Seguin runs to the ladder, and again springs upward to the root, followed by several of the band. He rushes upon the lying priest, clutching him by the long hair. "Lead me to her!" he cries, in a voice of thunder; "lead me to this queen, this Mystery Queen! She is my daughter." "Your daughter! the Mystery Queen!" replies the Indian, trembling with fear for his life, yet still resisting the appeal. "No, white man; she is not. The queen is ours. She is the daughter of the Sun. She is the child of a Navajo chief." "Tempt me no longer, old man! No longer, I say. Look forth! If a hair of her head has been harmed, all these shall suffer. I will not leave a living thing in your town. Lead on! Bring me to the estufa!" "To the estufa! to the estufa!" shout several voices. Strong hands grasp the garments of the Indian, and are twined into his loose hair. Knives, already red and reeking, are brandished before his eyes. He is forced from the roof, and hurried down the ladders. He ceases to resist, for he sees that resistance is death; and half-dragged, half-leading, he conducts them to the ground-floor of the building. He enters by a passage covered with the shaggy hides of the buffalo. Seguin follows, keeping his eye and hand upon him. We crowd after, close upon the heels of both. We pass through dark ways, descending, as we go, through an intricate labyrinth. We arrive in a large room, dimly lighted. Ghastly images are before us and around us, the mystic symbols of a horrid religion! The walls are hung with hideous shapes and skins of wild beasts. We can see the fierce visages of the grizzly bear, of the white buffalo, of the carcajou, of the panther, and the ravenous wolf. We can recognise the horns and frontlets of the elk, the cimmaron, and the grim bison. Here and there are idol figures, of grotesque and monster forms, carved from wood and the red claystone of the desert. A lamp is flickering with a feeble glare; and on a brazero, near the centre of the room, burns a small bluish flame. It is the sacred fire-- the fire that for centuries has blazed to the god Quetzalcoatl!