At last! The routine inertia, the compulsory immobility were over. The disobedience of these Indians, their hostility, their obduracy had finally shown its face. No more of these phantom shapes in the mist, these furtive sounds in the middle of the night, the threat that never solidified into a gesture, an act. Now the enemy had taken on a form, real dimensions, consistency. And how Manuel Mandujano’s lust for battle flared when he got wind of the fight!

The priest and the sacristan left for Tzajal-hemel the following morning. Along the way they met small groups of Indians who hastily stood to one side to allow them to pass and looked at each other worriedly when they had gone by.

Padre Manuel fell on the congregation at the cave like a sparrow hawk on a henhouse. The crowd’s fanaticism, exacerbated to the utmost by the ritual ceremonies, could have been violent and destructive. But taken by surprise as they were, they remained in a state of expectant bewilderment and allowed their adversary to win all the advantages.

The priest knew instinctively that he had to seize this moment. He made his way through the kneeling crowd, pushing aside the bodies with the threatening tip of a whip. He reached the mockery of an altar and with a violent shove moved Catalina aside. Xaw was trembling behind him, under the spell of his bravery, fearful that his audacity would break off in a moment of hesitation that would unleash the vengeful reaction of the multitude.

Knowing he would not be understood, Padre Manuel spoke. The volume of his impassioned, vibrant voice filled the cave’s recesses. Those who were kneeling watched him in astonishment and began to feel that they were guilty of an unknown sin from which there was perhaps no redemption.

When Padre Manuel placed his hands on the idols a shudder of terror went down the spines of the believers. How would the dark powers respond to this sacrilege? Would the firmament collapse, would the waters recede, would the species be exterminated? The minutes throbbed by in every temple with an anguished gravity. The air seemed strangely empty, strangely available to receive a great event.

Padre Manuel did not stop talking as he tore down the lifeless stones, their adornments, their veils. The mirrors with celluloid frames were smashed to bits against the floor, the lengths and lengths of common fabrics in loud colors were heaped up formlessly. In the end, the idols appeared to all eyes, naked, in all the ugliness of their decomposed faces, their heavy hands, their impotent mineral mass.

The profanation engendered no more than a prolonged, incredulous ahhh! from the crowd. The mortar of the world remained solidly in place, nothing had been changed. Catalina Díaz Puiljá moaned, unable to ward off this dismay, this superhuman humiliation.