"Afterwards there will be a great festival. All day it will continue, till sunset. It may be," continued Cocom, artfully, "that the priests and the people will drink much; if so, it will be the better for us. In any case, Don Juan, all will be weary, and sleep well at sunset. Then I will disguise you and Doña Dolores as Indians, and lead you to the secret way. By dawn you will be far down beyond the mountains. Travel all night, Señor, so as to reach the central forests before dawn. For it may be that the priests will look from the platform down the road of the Toltecs, and there see you far off. But this, I think, will not be. The whole city will sleep heavily, exhausted by the festival, and when they waken, you, Señor, will have escaped." "God grant this scheme may succeed!" said Duval, rising to his feet. "I can never thank you sufficiently for this, Cocom." "Bueno! You are the friend of Don Miguel, who saved my life. Be happy, Señor; I will not fail to rescue you from the stone of Huitzilopochtli. And now, Señor Juan, we must go down, else will the priests be suspicious of these long talks between us." "There is only one thing I would like to do before I leave Totatzine," remarked Duval, as they went down to his room. "And that, Señor?" "Is to break the neck of Ixtlilxochitli by throwing him down those steps." Cocom laughed softly. It was a rare thing for this melancholy Indian to do, but he did not love Ixtlilxochitli, and the idea amused him greatly. "Come," said Duval, tapping his friend on the back, "let us go and take the eleven. We must drink success to our scheme in a flask of aguardiente." CHAPTER VIII. AN INDIAN FESTIVAL. The sacred drums of serpents' skins Send forth their muffled roar afar; Before the shrine the opal spins, A changing star! That flashes rays of rainbow light From out its breast of cloudy white, Rebuking sins Which mar! Oh, see the maidens forward bound, To swing and sway in dances wild, Loose locks with fragrant chaplets crowned, Their glances mild! Exchanged for looks, whose frantic fires The sacred god himself inspires, Who thrice hath frowned, And smiled. The victim! see the victim pure! Approaches to the stone to die; But for a space his pangs endure, And then on high His soul mounts upward to the sun, For ever with that orb to run, Of pleasure sure For aye.