Citadel of Fear | Page 5

which included chicken, the inevitable tortilla, sweet
potatoes crystallised in sugar, bananas and other fruits, was as typically
Mexican as the hacienda. Yet all signs failed if their host were of
Spanish blood..
No Spanish-American speaks English as if it were quite native to his
tongue, and moreover, though his eyes were dark, and his hair save
where it was liberally shot with gray, almost black, there was

something about his keen, clean-cut face which spoke of some more
northern race. "You're from the U.S.A.?" questioned Kennedy. The
question was too blunt for courtesy, but the man nodded.
"Yes, I am an American. A Californian, though my parents were born
on the Christiania Fiord."
"Ah, a Norseman, is it?" Boots' eyes lighted appreciatively. He had
known a Norwegian or two, and thought them fine, upstanding,
hard-hitting men of their hands. "I'm very glad to know you, Mr. --"
"My name is Svend Biornson!" The tone was so challengingly abrupt
that his guests involuntarily stared. If he had expected, however, to
amuse another sort of surprise, he was disappointed. He saw it instantly
and laughed as if to cover some odd embarrassment.
"Pardon my not presenting myself earlier. One forgets civilized forms
in this, out-of-the-way place. And now I fancy you'd welcome a chance
to wash and change to fresh garments. Will you follow me,
gentlemen?"

The cool, airy chamber to which he escorted them opened off one of
the two galleries surrounding the dining-room. Its three windows
overlooked the patio, and through them one could step out upon
another long, open gallery. There were two beds, draped with elaborate
lace work, furniture of woven grass and wicker, and a bathroom with
great, porous jars of cool water.
In his first glance about, Kennedy's eye was caught by a thing that
stood on a bracket over one of the beds. Without apology he lifted the
object down and examined it curiously.
It was an image, some ten inches high, done in brilliantly polished but
unglazed porcelain. The face, though flat, bore a peculiarly genial and
benignant expression. On the head was a sort of miter, adorned with
black spots. A tunic, on which embroidery was simulated in red, blue
and gilt enamel; a golden collar, gaiters spotted like the headdress, and

dead-black sandals completed the costume.
On the left arm a round shield was carried. The right hand grasped a
stag, terminating at the top in the curved neck and head of a snake,
springing out of a collar or circlet of feathers.
It was a very beautiful piece of potter's art, but Kennedy had another
reason for appreciation and interest.
"Quetzalcoatl, eh?" he said. "From Cholula, or did you find it around
these parts?"
Biornson, who had not observed Kennedy's act, whirled like a flash. To
the amazement of both men, his face had gone dead white, as if at
receiving some intolerable shock.
"Quetzalcoatl!" he ejaculated in a quivering voice. "Sir, what do you
know of Quetzalcoatl?"
Kennedy stared back in blank astonishment.
"Why--this." He held up the image. "I didn't suppose that one of these
existed, outside the museum at Mexico City. Don't you know its
value?"
Slowly the pallor vanished from Biornison's countenance, and his
nervous hands unclenched. With another of those queer, embarrassed
laughs, he took the porcelain godling from Kennedy's hands.
"I had forgot the thing was in here," he muttered. "It belongs to my
wife. She would be greatly annoyed if it were broken. Lucky piece, you
understand. Superstition, of course, but no worse than throwing salt
over your shoulder, or not walking under a ladder--all that kind of
nonsense. I'll put it in her room if you don't mind. Got everything you
want? Then I'll leave you. Better sleep out the day--nothing like
siesta--dinner whenever you desire to have it --"
Still muttering detached phrases of hospitality, and with the image

clutched firmly to his bosom, Biornson fairly escaped from the
presence of his guests.
"What ails the poor man?" queried Boots. "Did they think we'd steal his
china manikin, do you suppose?"
Kennedy scowled and shrugged.
"I suppose," he retorted, "that this Biornson, if that's his real name, is a
rather queer sort, and that while w are in this house his eccentricities
will bear watching."

Weary though both were, they did not find it easy to fall asleep. There
was something oppressive about this vast, silent hacienda. The mystery
of its emptiness, the mystery of its very existence, combined with the
odd manners of their host to fill their brains with riddles. They lay
silent, uneasy, while outside the drowsy heat increased and even, the
vociferous bird-life ceased its clamor.
Out of the silence, however, rest was born at last, and it was late in the
afternoon when they woke.
"By the