“Mexico City,” he went on, as though he were a guide introducing a party of tourists to its first sight of a city, “lies, as you can see from here, in a mountain valley on the Great Central Plateau. Constructed on a former lake by those Aztecs who once made of this whole region a grand and glorious place, it was called by them ‘Tenochtitlan’, an Aztec word meaning ‘Belonging to the property of the Temple.’

“When the Spaniards conquered Tenochtitlan, they found grand palaces and elegant homes under the shadow of the mountains that lie all about. They found gardens more beautiful and more highly cultivated than any they had ever known. They found wealth and splendour such as not even their vivid imaginations had ever constructed. They found everything,” he finished dramatically, “and they drove the people who had conceived it out, and they took it unto themselves, and it went to ruin. You see now, the modern city, and as you go through its streets, you will find everywhere evidences of all these changes living side by side with the new that the present generation is in the process of building up.”

Walker Jamieson had started his little harangue half in fun, but as always when he talked about the old city, he grew serious as he went on. Now, as he noted the half scowl on Adair MacKenzie’s face, the look of interest on Alice’s, and the attention of Nan Sherwood and her friends, he paused.

“How am I doing?” he directed the question to the group in general.

Adair MacKenzie grunted.

Alice beamed, her eyes full of pride in him.

And Nan and her crowd nodded their heads for him to go on.

“So, my public adores me,” he said in a mocking self-satisfied tone that caused Alice and Nan to laugh aloud.

With this he wrapped his guide’s cloak about him again and went on.

“As you go about,” he said, “and look up from day to day at the mountains that surround you, you will soon be able to name them all from Chiquihuite, ‘the basket’, to El Cerro Gordo, ‘the fat hill’, but there is none that has a more fascinating story than La Sierra Madre over there to the west.” He pointed as he spoke. “That’s the famous one with the two volcanoes, Ixtaccihuatl, ‘the white woman’, and Popocatepetl, ‘the mountain that smokes’.

“At one time, before the great Cortez conquered the country, these volcanoes were worshipped as deities. There were days set aside for their veneration, feasts in their honor, and elaborate ceremonies.”

“Just imagine,” Laura interrupted, “having a feast in honor of a mountain.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Walker Jamieson agreed. “But wait, I have even stranger things to tell you.”

“I have no doubt.” The remark was Adair MacKenzie’s who, whether he would admit it or not, was really enjoying himself thoroughly.

“Ixtaccihuatl had a wooden idol representing her in the Great Temple and Popocatepetl a representation of dough of amarand and maize seeds. These idols you will see in the great museums of the city. The legend that surrounds them, if you will bear with me, goes something like this.

“Ixtaccihuatl was the beautiful daughter of a proud and powerful Aztec Emperor and his only child. As such, she was heir to his throne and watched and guarded throughout her youth. Her father adored her, but as he grew old and weak and his enemies began to wage war against him, he realized more and more how difficult it would be for a woman to hold together his vast and wealthy empire. So he set out to find a husband worthy of his daughter, worthy of the splendour that would be hers after his death.

“He called to his aid all the proud young warriors of his tribe and offered his daughter in marriage and his throne to the one among them who would conquer his enemies.

“This Popocatepetl that you see yonder went into the fight. He had long been in love with the beautiful princess.

“The war was long. It was cruel. It was bloody. But Popocatepetl endured to the end. Ah, but he was proud and triumphant when he saw that it would surely be he who would return to claim the princess whom he loved.

“But alas, his triumph was short-lived. His enemies, having failed in battle, stooped to the lowest form of deceit. They sent back to the Princess the false news that her beloved had been killed. She languished and became ill of a strange malady that not even the smartest witch doctors in the realm could cure her of. She died.

“Popocatepetl’s grief was more than he could bear. He wished to die too, so he caused to be constructed a great pyramid upon which he himself laid the beautiful Ixtaccihuatl. Next to it, he built another. There, he stands, holding a funeral torch.

“The snow has enfolded her body and covered that of the man that would have married her, but it has never covered the torch which burns on, a symbol of the love of Popocatepetl for Ixtaccihuatl.”

“And the smoke,” Nan said quietly when she saw that he had finished, “of the volcano is the smoke of the torch’s flame.”

“Smart girl,” Walker Jamieson slipped into a lighter mood now.

“And they believed that story?” Bess sounded incredulous.

“Yes, O doubtful one,” Laura answered the question, “and they had feasts for the couple. Didn’t you listen to the beginning?”

“Hm-m, they probably weren’t edible,” Adair MacKenzie suddenly remembered the meal he had found so distasteful a short time before.

Walker winked at Alice who patted her father on the arm, “Never mind, dad,” she said, “there’ll be food that you like later on.”

“Too late then.” Adair MacKenzie was not to be mollified now. “Be all burned up before then by these confounded Mexican chiles. Must have a million varieties. Find them in everything. Afraid even to order ice-cream. Probably comes with a special chile sauce on it. Somebody ought to teach these Mexicans how to eat. Do it myself if I had time. Always think that when I come here. Teach them that and how to build roads,” he added as the car bumped over the highway.

“Anyway, we’re coming into some sort of civilized city, now.” He looked about himself with some degree of satisfaction, for as Walker had proceeded with his account of the legend of the two famous volcanoes, the car had been progressing toward the city. Now it was on the outskirts and Nan and Bess, Grace and Amelia and Laura were craning their necks so as not to miss one single sight.

“How nice it would be,” Amelia remarked to the group after she had missed something that Walker had pointed out on the side of the road opposite to the one she had been watching, “to have a face on all sides of your head so that you could see all ways at once.”

“Well, all I can say is,” Laura returned dryly, “that you are doing pretty well with the one that you have. You might have missed the old flower woman back there, but you are certainly making up for it now.” With this she laughed and pushed Amelia’s head, that was now blocking her own line of vision, out of the way.

“Such pretty young girls,” Nan remarked as the car stopped at a crossroad to let a half dozen Mexicans cross the street.

“Aren’t they though?” Bess agreed. “One of them looked just like Juanita. Remember?”

Of course Nan remembered the girl that had been involved in the hidden treasure plot that was recounted in the story “Nan Sherwood at Rose Ranch.” The thought of her now brought Rhoda back to mind and her mother, and with it a return of the anxiety they had felt at not having heard recently from their friend.