Ned waited a long time. Drops of rain began to fall, and the wind moaned
with an almost human note around the pyramids and old walls. The rain
increased a little, but it never fell in abundance. It and the wind were
very cold, and Ned drew the serape very closely about his body. He was
anxious now for time to pass fast, because he was beginning to feel
afraid, not of the Mexicans, but of the dead city, and the ghosts of
those vanished long ago, although he knew there were no such things. But
the human note in the wind grew until it was like a shriek, and this
shriek was to him a warning that he must go. The pyramid had been his
salvation, but his time there was at an end.

He drew the sombrero far down over his eyes, and once more calculated
the chances. He spoke Spanish well, and he spoke its Mexican variations
equally well. If they saw him he might be able to pass for a Mexican. He
must succeed.

He lowered himself from the crowning platform of the pyramid and began
the descent. The cold rain pattered upon him and his body was weak from
privation, but his spirit was strong, and with steady hand and foot he
went down. He paused several times to look at the camp. Five or six
fires still burned there, but they flickered wildly in the wind and
rain. He judged that the sentinels would not watch well. For what must
they watch, there in the heart of their own country?

But as he approached the bottom he saw two of these sentinels walking
back and forth, their bayonets reflecting a flicker now and then from
the flames. He saw also five or six large white tents, and he was quite
sure that the largest sheltered at that instant Martin Perfecto de Cos,
whom he wished very much to avoid. He intended, when he reached the