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“Slowly, slowly the cortège draws near. At its head is the high priest, clad in ceremonial vestments and elaborate feathered head-dress, as befits the pontiff of the Feathered Serpent. And what is this embroidered bower borne so reverently by sturdy, sun-browned lesser priests? Is it a bier, a stately catafalque? Is the pitiful victim already dead? Ah, no! she moves, beautiful, flawless—the most lovely maiden to be found in the land. Through every city and village and country-side, for weeks and weeks, a thousand priests have sought her, this fairest flower of Maya maidenhood. Her face is pale. She knows the supreme honor that is hers—she who is to become so soon the bride of the Rain God. But there is terror in those lovely eyes, a benumbing, cold fear of the Unknown.

“And behind them, filling the whole of the Sacred Way, come the king, the nobles, the great warriors and many priests. Already on the far side of the Sacred Well is gathered a silent, grave-faced multitude, the whole populace of the city and pilgrims from afar.

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