fell into the trail leading toward the modern village of
Palenque, and, after an hour's walk, I halted in front of the _cabilda_
of the town.

I was followed by a motley crowd to the office of the Alcalde, who did
not recognize me, dressed as I was in skins, and half loaded down with
rolls of MS., made from the bark of the mulberry. I related to him and
M. de Bourbourg my adventures; and though the latter declared he had
lost poor Armand and his five companions, yet I am persuaded that
neither of them credited a single word of my story.

Not many days after my safe arrival at Palenque, I seized a favorable
opportunity to visit the ruins of _Casa Grande_. I readily found the
opening to the subterranean passage heretofore described, and after some
troublesome delays at the various landing-places, I finally succeeded in
reaching the very spot whence I had ascended on that eventful night,
nearly three years before, in company with the Aztec Princess.

After exploring many of the mouldering and half-ruined apartments of
this immense palace, I accidentally entered a small room, that at first
seemed to have been a place of sacrifice; but, upon closer inspection, I
ascertained that, like many of those in the "Living City," it was a
chapel dedicated to the memory of some one of the princes of the Aztec
race.

In order to interpret the inscriptions with greater facility, I lit six
or seven candles, and placed them in the best positions to illuminate
the hieroglyphics. Then turning, to take a view of the grand tablet in
the middle of the inscription, my astonishment was indescribable, when I
beheld the exact features, dress and _panache_ of the Aztec maiden,
carved in the everlasting marble before me.

[Decoration]

VIII.

_THE MOTHER'S EPISTLE._

Sweet daughter, leave thy tasks and toys,
Throw idle thoughts aside,
And hearken to a mother's voice,
That would thy footsteps guide;
Though far across the rolling seas,
Beyond the mountains blue,
She sends her counsels on the breeze,
And wafts her blessings too.

To guard thy voyage o'er life's wave,
To guide thy bark aright,
To snatch thee from an early grave,
And gild thy way with light,
Thy mother calls thee to her side,
And takes thee on her knee,
In spite of oceans that divide,
And thus addresses thee:

I.

Learn first this lesson in thy youth,