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  THE GILDED MAN




  THE GILDED MAN
  A ROMANCE OF THE ANDES

  BY CLIFFORD SMYTH

  WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
  RICHARD LE GALLIENNE


  [Illustration]


  BONI AND LIVERIGHT
  NEW YORK 1918




  Copyright, 1918
  BY BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC.




  TO
  BEATRIX




CONTENTS


                                   _Page_
           INTRODUCTION                xi
  _Chapter_
        I. IN WHICH COMET GOES LAME     1

       II. IN UNA'S GARDEN             10

      III. A CHAPTER ON GHOSTS         19

       IV. THE GHOST OF THE FORGOTTEN  30

        V. THE SEARCH FOR EL DORADO    41

       VI. EMBOLADORES ON THE MARCH    55

      VII. LA REINA DE LOS INDIOS      71

     VIII. A RIVER INTERLUDE           89

       IX. ON INDIAN TRAILS           105

        X. AN OLD MYSTERY             125

       XI. IN WHICH ANDREW IS FOUND   145

      XII. A DEAD WALL                157

     XIII. MRS. QUAYLE TAKES THE LEAD 170

      XIV. THE BLACK MAGNET           189

       XV. AT THE SIGN OF THE CONDOR  212

      XVI. NARVA                      230

     XVII. A SONG AND ITS SEQUEL      251

    XVIII. SUBTERRANEAN PHOTOGRAPHY   274

      XIX. A QUEEN'S CONQUEST         293

       XX. LEGEND AND REALITY         302

      XXI. DREAMS                     312

     XXII. A PEOPLE'S DESTINY         325

    XXIII. THE GILDED MAN             344




THE GILDED MAN




FOREWORD


Two dreams have persistently haunted the imagination of man since dreams
began. You find them in all mythologies, and, perhaps most dramatically,
in the Arabian Nights: the dream of the Water of Immortality, and the
dream of the Golden City. Within recent times--that is, during the
sixteenth century--both were lifted out of the region of fairy lore, and
men as far from "dreamers," in the ordinary sense, as the "conquistador"
Ponce de Leon and Sir Walter Raleigh raised them into the sphere of
something like Elizabethan practical politics. Whether or not Ponce de
Leon did actually discover the Fountain of Eternal Youth on the Bimini
Islands concerns us but incidentally here. At all events, he seems to
have died without drinking of it; as death on the scaffold was the
penalty for Raleigh's failure to discover El Dorado. So practically had
the courts of Elizabeth and James regarded the dream of the Golden City,
and so firm had been Raleigh's own belief in it. Though Raleigh's name
is most conspicuously and tragically connected with it, of course it
had been Spanish adventurers for several generations before--exploring
that "Spanish Main" which they had already, and in romance forever, made
their own--who had given that dream its local habitation and its name.
Martinez had been the first to tell how, having drifted on the coast of
Guiana, he had been taken inland to a city called Manoa, whose king
was in alliance with the Incas. Manoa, said he, to opened mouths and
wondering eyes, on his return to Spain, was literally built, walls and
roofs, houses big and little, of silver and gold. His tale, garnished
with many other mysterious matters, soon speeded expedition after
expedition, dreaming across those

                  "perilous seas
    In fairyland forlorn."

All came back with marvels on their tongues. All had caught glimpses
of the gilded domes of the city, but that was all. Gonzales Ximinez
de Quesada from Santa Fé de Bogotá was "warmest," perhaps; but he too
failed. Many a daring sailor since has vainly gone on a like quest. Even
in our prosaic times--in the true Elizabethan spirit, that, for all
their romance, actually animated those enterprises of old time--when
men sought real gold as now, not "faery-gold"--an enterprise, with
a prospectus, shareholders, and those dreams now known as promised
dividends, has made it its serious "incorporated" business to go in
quest of El Dorado.

But, elaborate as all previous expeditions and enterprises have been,
and dauntless as the courage of the individual explorer, one and all
have failed--till now. Till now, I say--for at last El Dorado _has_ been
discovered, and it is my proud privilege to announce, for the first
time, the name of its discoverer--Dr. Clifford Smyth.

Dr. Smyth has chosen the medium of fiction for the publication of
his discovery, like other such eminent discoverers as the authors of
_Erewhon_ and _Utopia_, but that fact, I need hardly say, in nowise
invalidates the authenticity and serious importance of his discovery.
Though truth be stranger than fiction, it has but seldom its charm, and,
to use the by-gone phrase, Dr. Smyth's relation of happenings which we
never doubt for a rapt moment did happen "reads as entertainingly as a
fiction." In fact, the present writer--who confesses to the idleness of
keeping _au courant_ with the good and even merely advertised fiction
of the day, recalls no fiction in some years that has seemed to him
comparable in imaginative quality with _The Gilded Man_, or has given
him, in any like degree, the special kind of delight which Dr. Smyth's
narrative has given him. For any such thrill as the latter part of the
book in particular holds, he finds that his memory must travel back, no
difficult or lengthy journey, to Mr. Rider Haggard's _King Solomon's
Mines_--a book which one sees more and more taking its place as one of
the classics of fantastic romance, the kind of romance which combines
adventure with poetic strangeness; though, at its publication, "superior
persons," with the notable exception of that paradoxical most superior
person, and man of genius, Andrew Lang, disdained it as a passing
"thriller."

Perhaps it is not indiscreet to say that one circumstance of Dr.
Smyth's life gave him exceptional opportunities for that dreaming on
his special object which is found to be the invariable incubation, so
to say, preceding all great discoveries. For some years Dr. Smyth was
United States consul at Carthagena, that unspoiled haunted city of the
Spanish Main, which, it may be recalled, furnishes a spirited chapter
in the history of Roderick Random, Esquire, of His Majesty's Navy. He
was, therefore, seated by the very door to that land of enchantment,
which, as we have been saying, had drawn so many adventurous spirits
under roaring canvas across the seas, in the spacious days. He was but
a short mule-back journey from that table-land raised high in the upper
Andes where Bogotá, the capital of Colombia, is situated, the region
around which all those "superstitions" retailed by Indians to those
early adventurers centre. Descendants of the same Indians still tell
the same stories, and still the average prosaic mind laughs at them
as "superstitions." El Dorado! as if any one could take it seriously
nowadays! Has not the term long been a picturesque synonym for The City
of Impossible Happiness, the Land of Heart's Desire, the Paradise of
Fools, and all such cities and realms and destinations and states of
being, as the yearning heart of man, finding nowhere on the earth he
knows, imagines in the sun-tipped cloudland of his dreams, and toward
which he pathetically turns his eyes, and stretches out his arms to the
end?

But what if El Dorado were no such mere figment of man's aching fancy,
after all; what if the El Dorado, so passionately believed in by those
eminently practical Elizabethans, did all the time, as they surmised,
exist upon this solid earth, and should still quite concretely exist
there....

Is it not likely that such might be the musings of a man situated as was
Dr. Smyth, in the very heart of the mystery, a man of affairs, touched
with imagination, as all really capable men of affairs are; and, as he
listened to the old Indian tales, and talked with miners, and all manner
of folk acquainted with the _terrain_ of the legend, what could he do
but fall under the same spell that had laid its ghostly hand on the
mighty heart of Raleigh centuries before, and follow its beckoning, as
the other inspired madmen before him?

But, as we have seen, his doom was to be different. For so long
generations of dead men had come crying, like those three old horsemen
in Morris's _Glittering Plain_: "Is this the Land? Is this the Land?" to
turn broken-hearted away; but from him, of all men born, throughout the
generations, was to be heard at last the joyous, ringing cry: "This _is_
the Land! This _is_ the Land!"

Pause for one moment more and think what El Dorado has meant to mankind,
think with all your might; and then think what must have been the
feelings of the man who stood looking upon it, and knew that he--that
_he_--had found it. In such moments of transfiguring realization men
often lose their reason, and, as we say, it is not a little surprising
that Dr. Smyth is alive to tell the tale. The lovely knowledge might
well have struck him as by lightning, and the secret once more have been
buried in oblivion.

I have all along taken it for granted that Dr. Smyth's _The Gilded
Man_ is a genuine narrative, the true story of a wonderful happening.
If any one should come to me and tell me that I am simple-minded, that
it is no such thing, and that, as the children say, Dr. Smyth "made it
up all out of his own head," I should still need a lot of convincing,
and, were conviction at last forced upon me, I could only answer that
Dr. Smyth must then possess a power of creating illusion such as few
romancers have possessed. For there is a plausibility, a particularity,
a concreteness about all the scenes and personages in _The Gilded Man_
that make it impossible not to believe them true and actual, however
removed from common experience they may seem. I should like very much
to be more particular, but I cannot very well be so without betraying
the story--or "true and veracious history," whichever it may turn out
to be. Still I can hint at one or two matters without betraying too
much. The mysterious queen, Sajipona, for example, seems not only real,
but she and her love-story make one of the loveliest idylls in what,
for want of a better word, one may call "supernatural" romance that has
ever been written. And all the dream-like happenings in the great cave,
though of the veritable "stuff that dreams are made of," are endowed
with as near and moving a sense of reality as though they were enacted
on Broadway.

Of the cave itself, which may be said to be the Presiding Personage of
the book, it seems to me impossible to speak with too great admiration.
It is, without exaggeration, an astonishing piece of invention; I
refer not merely to the ingenuity of its mechanical devices, though I
might well do that, for they are not merely devised with an exceeding
cleverness, but the cleverness is of a kind that thrills one with a
romantic dread, the kind of awe-inspiring devices that we shudder
at when we try to picture the mysteries of the temples of Moloch.
Dr. Smyth's invention here is of no machine-made, puzzle-constructed
order. We feel that he has not so much invented these devices, but
dreamed them--seen them himself with a thrill of fear and wonder in
a dream. And the great device of them all, that by which the cave is
lighted so radiantly and yet so mystically, outsoars ingenuity, and
is nothing short of a high poetic inspiration. But all these details,
each in itself of a distinguished originality, gain an added value of
impressiveness from the atmosphere of noble poetic imagination which
enfolds them all, that atmosphere which always distinguishes a work of
creation from one of mere invention. I do not wish to seem to speak in
superlatives, but, in my opinion, Dr. Smyth's cave of The Gilded Man
belongs with the great caves of literature. I thought of _Vathek_ as I
read it, though it is not the least the same, except in that quality of
imaginative atmosphere.

With the purely "human" interest of the book, the daylight scenes and
doings, he is no less successful. His plot is constructed with great
skill and is full of surprises. The manner in which he "winds" into it
is particularly original. Then, too, his characters are immediately
alive, and there is some good comedy naturally befallen. General Herran
and Doctor Miranda are delightfully drawn South American characters,
and the atmosphere of a little South American republic convincingly
conveyed, evidently from sympathetic experience. Nor must the absurd
Mrs. Quayle be forgotten, and particularly her jewels, which play such
an eccentric part in the story--one of Dr. Smyth's quaintest pieces of
cleverness.

But it is time I ended my proud rôle of showman, and allowed the show to
begin. So this and no more: If Dr. Smyth has, as I personally believe
from the convincing manner of his book, discovered El Dorado, he is
to be congratulated alike on the discovery and his striking method of
publishing forth the news; but if he has merely dreamed it for our
benefit, then I say that a man whom we have long respected as a wise and
generous critic of other men's books, should lose no time in writing
more books of his own.

  RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.




THE GILDED MAN




I

IN WHICH COMET GOES LAME


When, one evening in the late Autumn, David Meudon reached the entrance
to Stoneleigh Garden, where Una Leighton awaited him, it was evident
something unusual had happened.

"You are late," she said, as he clasped the slender hand extended to him
in welcome.

"I could ride no faster. Comet is lame."

The tired bay, belying his name, stood dejectedly, one white foreleg
slightly bent, as if seeking relief from a weight it was weary of
bearing. By the friendly way in which he stretched forth his muzzle to
touch the girl's proffered fingers, Comet was evidently not a stranger
to her endearments.

"Poor Comet! Why didn't you take better care of him?"

"I was too impatient at the start, and that got him into trouble. After
that, of course, we had to go slowly. I hated the delay. I hated having
to listen to my own thoughts for so long."

Her gray eyes fixed questioningly upon the bronzed, sharp-featured
man, she noted his restless gaze, his riding-whip's irritable tattoo on
polished boot-top as he stood at her side. Then, flinging her arms about
his neck, her face, flushed with pleasure and expressive of a mingled
tenderness and anxiety, turned expectantly to his.

"David, you are here!" she said impulsively. "You are glad, aren't you?
Say that your thoughts aren't gloomy any more."

"What need to say it--Una!"

Silently the two lovers threaded the box-bordered path leading to the
great stone mansion beyond, pausing to admire the flowers that still
bloomed in a straggling sort of way, or marking the loss of those whose
gay colors and delicate fragrance had formed a part of their own joyous
companionship a month ago. But this evening, as if reflecting Nature's
autumn mood, there was something of melancholy--restraint, where
restraint had never been before--in David's bearing; while with Una
there was an affectionate solicitude that strove to soothe an unspoken
trouble.

"You must stay to-night," she said; "it would be cruel to ride Comet
back."

"But your Uncle--will he care to have me here?"

"What a question! Of course he will."

"Are you sure? He was in town the other day to see me. Did he tell you?"

"No. But then, Uncle Harold seldom tells what he has been doing."

"He was in one of his grim moods; cordial enough outwardly; but, inside,
I felt a curious sort of malevolence. That's an ugly word--but it seemed
just that."

"Uncle Harold malevolent! That isn't very nice of you to say."

"He asked me if I thought our marriage should take place."

"And you said----?"

"Nothing."

"David!"

"I am unworthy of you, Una--I feel it. There are men, you know, who
have in their past things that make them unworthy the woman they love.
I confess, there are dark shadows, haunting things in my past. I
can't explain them, even to myself. I don't altogether know what they
are--queer as that sounds! But--some day they might come between us.
When I rode over just now, I made up my mind to try to tell you. You
ought to know----"

"David," she interrupted, "I don't want to know. I love you as you are
to-day. If you were different in the past, before I knew you, I don't
care to hear about it."

In spite of his self-depreciation, in the eyes of the world David
Meudon would be regarded in every way a worthy suitor for the hand of
Una Leighton. Clean of stock, so far as the gifts of blood and social
station go, he had inherited besides a fortune that would be considered
large even in a nation of millionaires. This inheritance, coming to him
through the death of his father and mother in the middle of his college
course, had not proved a snare to him. After completing his education,
he had traveled extensively, not through an idle curiosity to see the
world, but from a wish to perfect himself in certain studies calling for
a wider knowledge than could be gathered from books or tutors.

It was during his travels abroad, after he had left his eccentric
schoolmate, Raoul Arthur, in India, that David first met Una Leighton,
who was spending a winter in England with her uncle. The meeting ripened
into an intimacy that survived the distractions of European travel, and
drew David, a constant visitor, to the picturesque old mansion, Una's
home, on the outskirts of the little Connecticut village of Rysdale.

There followed those memorable experiences of youth--courtship and
betrothal. David loved with all the fervor of a mature passion, a
passion that quite overshadowed all his former interests. Love for him
was an idyl of dreams and delicious fantasies, a paradise where he and
Una delighted in all the harmless exaggerations of poetry and romance.
No cloud dimmed their happiness. The brightest kind of future seemed to
stretch indefinitely before them.

All the world--the world of Rysdale--knew of their love and discussed
it eagerly. Their daylong wanderings together, their absorption in each
other, appealed to the sensible farmers and their wives, who watched
with tireless interest the development of this romance in their midst.
There was something, besides the rumors of his great wealth, in the
personality of David that would easily account for this interest.
As a result of his long years of solitary travel he had acquired an
indefinable air of reserve that was emphasized by features almost Indian
in their clean-cut sharpness and immobility. His whole appearance,
indeed, was of the kind traditionally suggesting mystery--a mystery that
inevitably arouses curiosity in those who come within its influence.

Had Una been a stranger, spending a summer, as so many strangers did,
in the little mountain hamlet, her intimacy with David might have
passed unheeded. But she belonged very much to the place. Generations
ago her ancestors had settled here. At that initial epoch in local
history, Stoneleigh was the only building of any importance in or near
Rysdale--and from that period to this Stoneleigh had been the home of
the Leightons. Before they bought the gray-gabled mansion (St. Maur's
House it was then called) it was occupied by a small congregation of
Benedictines, who came from France to establish themselves in this quiet
corner of the new world. When the House passed from the monks into the
hands of that stout Scotch pioneer, John Leighton, it was a desolate
sort of ruin. But its walls were well built, and the thrift of its new
owners gradually added the wings and the square, central tower needed
for the family comfort.

Leighton was thus one of the oldest names in the neighborhood. The
family bearing it had always prospered. Years ago their income, what
with careful saving and shrewd investment, was sufficient to let them
give up farming. This they did, and settled down to the dignified ease
that, in an English community, belongs to the household of a county
"squire," or to a "lord of the manor."

Harold Leighton, the present owner of Stoneleigh, was more of a recluse
than any of his predecessors. To the gossips of Rysdale, indeed, who
knew something of the history of the place, it seemed as if the cowl of
the monkish founder of the House had fallen upon the shoulders of this
gray-haired old man. He was looked upon as a student of unprofitable
matters, lacking in the canny enterprise distinguishing the Leightons
before him, and that had built up the family fortunes. By some he was
liked; by others--and these were in the majority--the satirical smile,
the cool reserve, the assumption of superiority with which he met the
social advances of his neighbors, were set down as indications of a
character to be watched with suspicion, and that were certainly not of
the right Rysdale stamp.

Una, however, was different. The villagers did not regard her with
the hostility that they had for her uncle. Orphaned at an early age,
she had easily captured and held the affection of those who knew her.
The tawny-haired girl, bubbling over with friendly prattle, her gray
eyes--bluer then, as with the sky-tint of a clear dawn--sparkling with
youthful enthusiasms, had a host of comrades and admirers long before
she reached her teens. With equal grace and favor this radiant little
creature accepted the tribute of farmer and farm-hand, and when it
came to playmates was decidedly more at ease with the village maidens
than with the decorous young ladies who were occasionally brought to
Stoneleigh on a visit of state from the city. As Una grew older, this
choice of associates, unchecked and even encouraged by her uncle and
Elizabeth Quayle, the worthy but not over-astute matron who looked after
Leighton's household, had its drawbacks. The girl's beauty, which was of
no ordinary kind, inevitably touched with its flame victims who were not
socially intended for this kind of conflagration. Una sometimes shared
in their subsequent misery; but she was unable to lighten their woes in
the only way they could be lightened. And when she discovered that the
refusal of their offers usually meant the breaking up of a treasured
friendship, she had been known to weep bitterly and form all kinds of
self-denying resolutions for the future.

The climax to her griefs in this respect, a climax partly responsible
for her flight to Europe, came through the weakness (so his indignant
aunt called it) of the district schoolmaster, Andrew Parmelee. Andrew
was a solitary dreamer, a friendless, inoffensive sort of person,
absorbed in books, oblivious to the world around him. Learning, such
wisps and strays of it as lodged in his mind as a result of his
omnivorous reading, he was quite incapable of imparting. The use of
the ferule, also, was an enigma to him. Hence, there were those unkind
enough to whisper that the Rysdale school, under his management, was
not what it should be. But every one liked him, in a tolerant sort
of way; and with Una he was in particular favor. Andrew didn't know
this, at least for some time. When he did find it out, that is, when,
quite by accident, as it seemed, Una tripped into his school one day
to pay him a visit, it had quite a disastrous effect on him. Before
that, women, in general and in particular, were utterly unknown to him,
creatures to be shunned, to be feared. He was familiar, of course, with
the eccentricities of his aunt, Hepzibah Armitage. She looked after
his wardrobe, fed him, warned him of the various pitfalls of youth,
stopped his spending the money allowed him by the village trustees on
the ancient histories for which he had an insatiable appetite. She
ruled with a rod of iron, and the rod wasn't always pleasant. But for
all that, he felt that life without Aunt Hepzibah, although it might
give him one mad, rapturous day of freedom, was too bewildering, too
dangerous to contemplate as a steady form of existence. Aunt Hepzibah
was an institution; she was not a woman. He had heard of men falling
in love with women. Such an accident, involving his Aunt Hepzibah,
was unthinkable--unless, indeed, something like the conquest of the
Scythians by the Amazons, of which he had read in his Herodotus, should
be repeated in Rysdale.

As for the girls in Andrew's school, it was impossible to think of them
except as so many varieties of human tyranny. They were more perplexing,
as a rule, certainly more unmanageable, than the boys. This was due
to the languishing friendships which they tried to contract with him,
and which they mirthfully abandoned just so soon as he began to take
them seriously. In fact, there was nothing in Andrew's fancied or
actual experience so terrible--not even Aunt Hepzibah or the Amazons of
Herodotus--as the schoolgirl just old enough to plan and carry out this
kind of campaign against him. Instances are on record, indeed, in which,
convinced that some overgrown girl was in rebellion, he had dismissed
his school on the plea of a hastily imagined holiday, and fled to the
woods.

Una, however, in the full bloom of her eighteen years had not been one
of Andrew's pupils, and thus had not tormented him in this particular
manner. Hence, when she stood at the schoolhouse door, one fine morning,
asking if she might attend one of his classes, he suspected nothing.
Overcome by her murmured assurance of interest, he made room on his
little platform for her and for her two friends from the city, never
dreaming that these demure young ladies were not really so absorbed in
the joys of learning as they appeared to be.

Memorable for him was the next half hour, during which he plunged his
pupils through an incoherent lesson in history, vividly conscious all
the while of the three pairs of eyes that were fastened upon him. When
the ordeal was over, and he succeeded in bowing his visitors out of the
schoolhouse, he had the blissful consciousness that he, Andrew Parmelee,
schoolmaster of Rysdale, had been bidden to Stoneleigh whenever he chose
to visit that historic mansion.

Aunt Hepzibah, as was to be expected from her perverse disposition,
opposed the acceptance of this invitation. But Andrew for once went
his own way. Within a month after Una's visit to the school he called
at Stoneleigh, where he was received with a cordiality that quite
dumbfounded him. There was a brief but miserable period of diffidence
and terror, extending over several subsequent visits; after which Andrew
found that it was really possible to talk to this wonderful, gray-eyed
creature as he had never dared talk to any one before. In fact, Una
listened to him--to his little ambitions, his beliefs, his petty
trials--with a kindly sympathy that was quite the most perfect thing he
had ever imagined.

Then came the end to his romance. It was inevitable, of course. He
wanted her to do more than simply listen to him--and that was just the
one thing more that she could not do. It was all very tragic to both
of them. Andrew was broken-hearted, full of heroics about fidelity,
eternity, death. And Una--it was her first experience in human sorrow,
and she was genuinely shocked and repentant.




II

IN UNA'S GARDEN


Until David told her that evening in the garden at Stoneleigh, Una had
not known that her uncle opposed her marriage. No reason was given for
his opposition--and David's attitude was quite as much of a puzzle.
He talked of some shadow in his past, and was on the point of telling
Una what it was. But she stopped him. Their love, she said, had to
do with the present, the future; it had nothing to do with the past.
Nevertheless, she wished David had set himself right with Leighton.

"Why didn't you answer Uncle Harold?" she asked.

At first he avoided her glance, snapping his riding-whip nervously among
the withered sunflower stalks. Then he turned to her.

"I don't know," he said.

"You knew he was wrong."

"In a way--yes. And then, I wondered if, after all, he was right. As I
said, I can't explain it to myself. You stopped my speaking to you about
it. And yet, do you know, after talking with your uncle, I convinced
myself--I thought I convinced myself--that I was unworthy of you, that
our marriage would be wrong."

"Don't say that!" she exclaimed angrily. "Unless your love for me has
changed, it is the one right thing in the world--as mine is for you."

"Beloved! Let it be so," he said, his dark mood vanishing. "Let the
first day of our new life be the first day of our past. Do you remember
that first day? Coming down the river we spoke hardly a word. You
laughed at me, called me lazy, the boat slipped along so slowly. And
you were right! Watching you I forgot the stupid business of rowing.
Never before were you so beautiful--but now you are a million times
more beautiful! How I wanted to kiss you! If I had dared kiss just a
bit of your dress, anything blessed by touching you! But I didn't--not
then! How it all happened afterward, when we landed at our island, is
the mystery--or, rather, the most natural thing in the world. I was
tongue-tied as ever. Not a word in the language was in reach of me--at
least, I couldn't think of one. Naturally, the dictionary men left
out our words; they didn't know you. And yet, we understood! Did the
birds tell us, I wonder, or was it written on the trees, or whispered
in the golden air? Love talks without words. But now--" he broke off
abruptly--"now I must answer Uncle Harold."

"Why?"

"I wish I could talk it over with Raoul," he went on, not heeding the
question.

"Why with Raoul?"

"You don't know Raoul."

"Tell me about him."

"He understands me, that's all. We have been together a lot. But what's
the use of thinking of him! He's in India, probably--or, maybe,
Bogota--yes, it must be Bogota--and will stay there for years."

"You are fond of him?"

"No! I can't imagine any one being fond of him. He fascinates you. He's
queer. He is my age, yet his hair is white--even his eyebrows and his
eyelashes are white. Fancy a young man with white eyelashes! There's not
a hint of color in his face. And his eyes--you can't tell what they are;
neither can you avoid them when they stop twitching and fix themselves
on you. Did you ever see a human being jump out at you from a pair of
eyes? It sounds foolish; but then, you've never seen Raoul! Love leaps
out of your eyes, and all the beauty of trees and rivers. God made your
eyes and put you in them just to help people. It was the devil who made
Raoul's eyes."

They lingered at the far corner of the terraced garden where a low
hedge of box overlooked a deep, silent grove of balsams. Beyond, at one
side, the gray walls of Stoneleigh, the square tower bearing aloft a
single ray of light, rose indistinctly against a background of firs.
The familiar scene, softened by the twilight, dispelled their first
feeling of uneasiness. Everything had changed. Once more the world was
brightened by their love. The touch of Una's hand, the fragrance of her
hair, the joy of her quivering lips, were, for David, the only things
that mattered.

Since their first meeting, a year ago on the Derwentwater, in England,
love had grown with these two. On the night before that meeting, David
had reached Keswick, where Una was staying. Skiddaw and Helvellyn,
when first he saw those famous peaks, were dimly outlined behind the
evening mists. Next morning the sky was cloudless, and although David
was familiar with the scenery of Alps, Andes and Himalaya, the charm of
this English landscape touched him deeply. The peaceful lake, surrounded
by steep hills of living green, and holding on its breast thickly wooded
islands, stirred a new longing within him. These hills, it is true, were
not comparable in height or sweeping contour to the majestic altitudes
of Southern Asia or Western South America. Neither was the Derwentwater
equal, in certain scenic effects, to similar bodies of water that had
won his admiration in distant countries. Here, nevertheless, Nature was
revealed in her loveliest mood, and David yielded himself delightedly to
her gracious influence.

As he floated dreamily in his skiff on the Derwentwater, the dip of his
oars made the only visible ripple on the glassy surface of the lake,
while the rugged outlines of the hills, drenched in sunlight, seemed to
weave a fairy circle into which the world of ordinary experience might
not enter. The scene reacted inevitably on his own emotions. For the
first time in many months a feeling of complete restfulness possessed
him, a mood ripe for dreams and all that hazy kind of speculation lying
on the borderland of dreams. In this mental state he sought one of the
islands whose sylvan shadows lengthened over the water's sunny surface.
The hollow echo from oar and rowlock, the grating of prow on pebbled
beach, broke the silence that had surrounded him ever since he left the
little wharf at Keswick. The lightest of summer breezes stirred the
topmost branches above him. Invitation was in the air, rest beneath
the trees. This was surely the morning of the world, and he was the
discoverer of this nameless island. Strange that it should be here,
unmarred, untouched, unknown, in populous England!

There was welcome in the crackle of twigs beneath his feet; a responsive
thrill from the green moss upon which he threw himself. As he tried to
catch the blue of the sky beyond the moving canopy of green, he idly
wondered whether he was the first to pierce the island's solitude,
whether its secret had been kept for him.

Perhaps it was in answer to his unuttered query that the stillness was
suddenly broken by the faintest echo of silvery laughter. He listened
in surprise, for the island was far too small, he imagined, to screen
either house or camp from the view of any one approaching it, and before
he left his boat he had satisfied himself that no other summer idler
was here before him. Nevertheless, there was that tantalizing laughter,
coming from a portion of the island opposite the beach on which he had
landed--and there was the shattering of his daydreams.

He parted the low-lying branches of some bushes growing between him and
the shore, but could see nothing save the clear expanse of lake upon
which there was neither sail nor rowboat. He perceived, however, judging
by the distance of the water below him, that the shore of the island
must here become a diminutive cliff, in the shelter of which, doubtless,
was the being whose laughter he scarcely knew whether to welcome or
shun. The fairy-like spot obviously had some prosaic owner who was there
to enjoy what was his--or hers. The laughter was unmistakably a woman's.

David rose hastily from his retreat beneath the trees, uncertain
whether to apologize for his intrusion or to slip away unperceived.
After all, the laughter chimed in pleasantly enough with his roving
fancies. There had been wood-nymphs before, if one can believe the old
romancers, who sang the carefree joys of the glens they inhabited--and
perhaps this was a wood-nymph. His curiosity aroused, David peered again
through the branches. This time he saw her.

She was not a wood-nymph of old mythology, but an incarnation of the
spirit of youth that all morning had pursued him. She was clad in the
simplest of sailor suits, the blouse of gray silk opening loosely about
her delicately moulded throat and neck, her hair straying in tawny
ringlets over her shoulders and reaching down to the book which she held
in her lap. At her side sat an old man, of stalwart frame, white-haired,
with the strongly lined face and sharpened features typical of the
student. A wide-brimmed quaker hat lying at his feet emphasized his
freedom from the conventionalities of dress and was in strict keeping
with his long black coat and voluminous trousers.

They were reading a book together, a book that had evidently provoked
the disturbing laughter and brought a grim look of amusement to the old
man's face. The noise made by David, however, broke up their pleasant
occupation. The girl turned her head, gazing curiously at the spot
whence came the sound of rustling leaves. What she saw stirred her as
nothing ever had before. Her glance met David's; and to both of them it
seemed as if all their lives they had been waiting for the revelation of
that moment. Her pulse quickened; her cheek paled, then grew rosy red;
her gray eyes dilated with mingled alarm and pleasure.

The sudden, deep impression was dashed by a singular interruption.
The girl's companion, his back half turned to David, his face still
expressive of amusement, and looking straight before him at the ripple
of water kissing the pebbles at his feet, spoke in a loud, harsh voice:

"Una," he said, "remember the schoolmaster! This man's world is not
ours. What does he know of Rysdale?"

She looked down confusedly, aware that her uncle--for it was Harold
Leighton--without seeing this stranger who had so quickly aroused her
interest, spoke as if he knew who he was and all about him. When she
looked again, David was gone.

Between that first meeting and this evening, a year after, when they
stood together in Una's garden at Stoneleigh, they had lived through
much of Love's first golden record. Their experiences had not always
been cloudless. Harold Leighton, it is true, did not actively oppose
their marriage; but he had borne himself in a manner that showed, at
times, either a singular indifference, or a covert mistrust of the
man who was so soon to take from him his brother's only daughter. It
might be from jealousy, it might be from a perfectly natural feeling
of caution; at any rate, he never discussed their plans with them, he
never explained his attitude towards them. Never again did he allude to
the schoolmaster, nor account for the strange words he had used on the
little island in Derwentwater.

For the most part he watched their courtship with a sort of whimsical
curiosity, but always withholding his assent from the marriage to which
they looked forward. Una was indignant at his final attempt to separate
them. His suspicions and David's quixotic manner of meeting them
increased her faith in her lover. Never before had she been so perfectly
happy as she was this evening with him in the garden's autumnal silence.

"It will soon be forever," she whispered.

"You are not afraid?"

"If it were possible for our love to die, if it were as shortlived as
the sunflowers, if some one had the power to take it from us, I would be
afraid. Tell me that no one has the power, David."

He held her from him for a space, his eyes searching hers.

"You alone have the power, Una," he said.

From a slowly moving figure amid the bushes behind them came an
uncompromising question:

"David, you have told her?"

The dusky outline, the large quaker hat, the wide-skirted coat catching
occasionally among the dry twigs and branches, revealed Harold Leighton.
He stood in the center of the pathway, his gray eyes fixed upon them,
awaiting an answer.

"David has told me," said Una firmly.

"You have told her?" he repeated.

"I have told her that I love her," he answered.

"Is that all?"

"I told her that I am unworthy of her."

"Why are you unworthy of her?"

"You speak as if you knew something against me," said David. Then added
fiercely, "Tell it!"

With an odd smile on his face the old man looked at Una.

"He says he is unworthy of you--you are free," he said. "Una, how do you
choose?"

She bowed her head before her lover.

"David, I love you," she said.

The old man turned towards the house.

"David, I see your horse is lame; you have ridden him to death," he said
drily. "You had better spend the night at Stoneleigh."




III

A CHAPTER ON GHOSTS


A strange thing happened that night at Stoneleigh.

For the first time in the annals of the younger Rysdale generation, the
great bare room at the top of the house, adjoining Harold Leighton's
laboratory, had a guest. In the days of the St. Maur Brotherhood the
monks used this room as an oratory. The shadowy outline of a crucifix,
which had once risen above an unpretentious altar, could still be traced
in the rough plaster on the narrow east wall. At either side of this
crucifix the blackened marks of bygone sconces were visible, while in
the north and south walls of the apartment there still remained a number
of huge spikes, rusty with age and swathed in cobwebs, from which had
hung the Fourteen Stations of the Cross.

Since the departure of the monks this oratory had been practically
abandoned by their successors at Stoneleigh. The earlier members of the
Leighton family had shared the dislike of their fellow townsmen for
anything approaching "papistry." To this prejudice, as it affected the
use of the oratory, was afterwards added the belief that the gloomy
chamber was still frequented by certain ghostly members of the ancient
Brotherhood into whose spectral doings it was just as well not to pry
too closely. A live monk was bad enough, according to some of Harold
Leighton's ancestors; but a dead monk who "haunted" was too disreputable
altogether to have anything to do with. Hence, as there was more room at
Stoneleigh than could profitably be used, it was thought best to close
up this ancient oratory, leaving it to such grim visitants from the past
as might choose it for a meeting place.

There had been seasons, however, when dust and cobwebs were sufficiently
disturbed to bring some semblance of cheer into the desolate apartment.
Thus, the festivities accompanying the marriage of Una's grandparents
had reached their climax here in a ball at which the local worthies
mingled with a number of excellent persons from that outside world of
fashion vaguely known as "the city." No spectral guest, tonsured or
otherwise, appeared on this occasion, and when the revels were ended the
legend that Stoneleigh's oratory was haunted no longer commanded the
respect, or even the interest, of the credulous.

That was more than half a century ago; and now David Meudon was the
guest of this neglected chamber. He was in a joyous mood. A man more
tenacious of impressions could not have thrown off so easily the
irritation caused by the meeting with Harold Leighton in the garden.
The elder man's suspicions would have poisoned whatever possibility
there might be of immediate enjoyment. The presence of Una, however, her
unqualified acceptance of him, her uncle's suddenly changed attitude,
effectually dulled David's resentment. Leighton had agreed, apparently,
to the plan for an early wedding, and had even proposed that the
married couple should live at Stoneleigh. In spite of David's great
wealth, neither he nor his immediate ancestors had been identified with
a locality peculiarly their own; they had never had a family home.
With Una, on the contrary, the last of the Leightons, the ancestral
tie that roots itself under some particular hearthstone was especially
strong. She was pleased, therefore, with the offer that promised to make
Stoneleigh hers--and so, in the main, was David.

He liked the old house; its history appealed to his imagination. He
stood somewhat in awe, it is true, of its present owner, and the
prospect of living with him did not promise unalloyed happiness. But
there was something about Harold Leighton, a suggestion of mystery,
that went well with this ancient place, and completely satisfied David.
He laughed at the Stoneleigh traditions; but when Leighton proposed
spending the evening in the oratory he gladly assented. David had never
been in this part of the house, although he had often wanted to explore
its possible mysteries. The opportunity to do this had not come until
now.

"Yes, there are ghosts here," Harold Leighton replied to the young man's
jesting query as he, David and Una entered the great bare room together.

"Then you believe in ghosts?"

"Of course Uncle Harold believes in them," exclaimed Una. "I believe in
them, and so do you."

"That depends. Show me one and I might."

"Well," commented Leighton; "this is the ghost room, and here we are.
Perhaps your skepticism will find something to try its teeth on. In
honor of St. Maur we ought to have a demonstration."

"Splendid!" laughed David. "But you don't mean it. People never mean
what they say when they talk approvingly of ghosts. You are known for a
skeptic yourself, Mr. Leighton. You accept nothing that has not passed
muster with science."

"There may be a science of ghosts," retorted the savant. "Science is
not limited to any department of human knowledge. A scientific theory
is based on a collection of facts. How do you know I have not made a
collection of ghost-facts?"

"And so have a new theory of ghosts to offer!"

"You don't really think those old monks come back, uncle?" objected Una.

"Oh, I'm not going to tell the secrets of my laboratory so easily--and
to such a pair of tyros," was the evasive answer.

They stood before the great fireplace which a thrifty ancestor had built
into the east wall, and enjoyed to the full the warmth that had not as
yet reached the remote spaces of the gloomy chamber. It needed a fire
to bring some show of comfort to this wilderness of dust and cobwebs. A
few pieces of colonial furniture stood out in the melancholy wastes--a
faded lounge, a gargantuan dresser, several stiff-backed chairs still
nursing their puritanism. At the far end of the room various objects of
a decidedly modern appearance, suggesting the workshop of a physicist,
aroused David's curiosity. For an explanation of these he turned to
Leighton.

"Is this your laboratory?" he asked.

"What do you think of it?" was the reply. "Plenty of space, isn't
there? A man could have a score of ghosts here--ghosts of monks, you
know--nosing about for their comfortable old quarters."

"Not so very comfortable in their day, Uncle," suggested Una; "nor in
ours, for that matter."

Leighton chuckled grimly. "Are you interested in ghosts, David?" he
asked, looking keenly at him.

"What do you mean by ghosts?"

"Ah, that's it! This old room--are there ghosts in it, I wonder? The
nail marks in the walls, the stains where the lights were hung, the
shadowy remains of the altar--can you shake off the feeling that the
Brotherhood is still at prayers here, that it still has Stoneleigh for
its home?"

"The Brotherhood no longer exists."

"There's a family tradition, anyway, that assures us of its ability
to produce some excellent examples of the old-fashioned, conventional
ghost. A very great aunt of mine, for instance, once ventured alone into
this room and was met by a stalwart being who scowled at her from under
his brown hood and waved her majestically out of his presence."

"That's the kind of ghost one likes to hear about and see," commented
David.

"It didn't please my aunt particularly. The fright prostrated her for
months. Other imaginative ancestors have heard the monks chanting
together, and seen spectral lights moving about here at midnight."

"You speak as if you believed it all."

"I can't be defrauded of my family traditions."

"How queer it is!" exclaimed Una, who had been wandering about the room
and now rejoined Harold and David before the fireplace. "I like it,
even if it is dirty. Why have you broken your rule and brought us here,
Uncle? And why do you talk as if you believed in the Stoneleigh ghosts?
You know you don't."

"Ghosts!" he ejaculated. "I have been making some experiments recently.
I thought you might be interested in them."

"Experiments in ghosts," ruminated David, who believed Leighton capable
of anything.

"Yes," said the old man, enjoying his bewilderment. "My ghosts may be
different from those you have in mind. If you have followed the recent
developments in psychology you probably know that there are ghosts
attached to the living, whatever the case may be in regard to the dead."

"No, I never heard that."

"Not in those words. 'Ghosts' is not a term used by the scientist.
It involves a medieval superstition. But I am interested in things
more than in words, and I am not afraid to say that we have been
rediscovering ghosts."

"Uncle, don't talk enigmas--or nonsense," remonstrated Una.

"I confess, sir, I don't follow you," added David.

"Did you ever feel that you had lost yourself?" asked Leighton abruptly.

"I don't understand."

"If you forget a thing, you lose just that much of yourself, don't you?
When you sleep, you enter a world of dreams. In that world you think,
speak, go through a set of vivid experiences. Awake, you are aware that
you have had these vivid experiences--and yet, you can't possibly
remember them. You are dimly conscious that you were in another world
and that while there you thought, suffered, rejoiced, much in the same
way that you do here. At times you have a vague feeling that you have
undergone some important crisis in your dream-existence, or you wake
up with the sensation of having reached some high peak of happiness.
But you cannot recall the details, or even the general outlines, of
what has happened. Not a scene of this dreamland, of which you are an
occasional inhabitant, can you picture to your waking thought; nor does
your waking memory hold the visage, or even the name, of one of your
dream-associates."

"All this has to do with dreams," objected David. "It is admittedly
unreal."

"Don't rely too much on old definitions. A part of you that sleeps now
does experience this dream-life and finds it real. The trouble is,
this dream part of you forgets; it is unable to report to the waking
personality what it has seen.

"But it is not only in sleep that this dream-personality takes the
place of that which we call the real self. The opium-eater inhabits a
world, opened to him by his drug, and closed, even to his memory, when
the effects of that drug wear off. Then, there is that curious phase
of dipsomania in which the victim, apparently possessed of all his
faculties, goes through actual experiences--travels, talks with people,
transacts business--and when he recovers from his fit of intoxication
finds it impossible to remember a single circumstance of the many known
to him while under the sway of alcohol. The phenomena of hypnotism give
instances of similar independent mental divisions in a single human
personality. All this is the familiar material of modern psychology, out
of which the scientists build strange and varied theories. I call these
divided, or lost, personalities 'ghosts.'"

"Ghosts of the living, not of the dead."

"More uncanny than the old-fashioned kind," mused Una. "Fancy meeting
one's own ghost!"

"Cases of such meetings are on record; Shelley's, for instance," said
Leighton drily.

"The thing is strange and worth investigating. But," added David
laughingly, "I am not an investigator."

"It is fascinating," declared Una emphatically. "Tell us more about it,
Uncle Harold. You spoke of an experiment----"

"The experiment, by all means," said David. "Just what is it?"

"Trapping a ghost," was the laconic answer.

"And if you succeed in trapping it----?"

"Ah, then--science generally leaves its ghosts to take care of
themselves. It's a good rule."

"You say you are going to trap a ghost: you don't really mean that,"
protested Una.

"Remember, there are two kinds of ghosts. As a scientist I am not
interested in the ghosts of the dead. If they exist outside of fairy
tales and theology let some one else hunt them. But I am interested in
the other and more profitable kind--the ghosts of the living."

"I don't understand," said David.

"It needs explanation. Remember what I said as to the phenomena
presented by the dreamer, the hypnotic subject, the dipsomaniac, the
narcomaniac. In each of these cases one human mind seems capable of
division into two independent halves. And each half seems to forget,
or to be ignorant of the doings of its mate. Now, I am hunting for this
Ghost of the Forgotten."

"Sounds romantic," remarked David. "According to your theory, don't
you need a hypnotized subject--or at least a dipsomaniac--for your
experiment?"

"No. The Ghost of the Forgotten lurks in all of us. The man or woman in
whom this Ghost is not to be found is exceptional. I doubt if such a
being exists--a being whose Book of the Past is as clear, as legible, as
his Book of the Present."

"But, your experiment, Uncle," demanded Una; "show it to us."

"I need help for a satisfactory trial. An experiment isn't a picture,
or a book, you know. It needs a victim of some kind. What do you say,
David?" he asked, turning abruptly to him.

"You want me for the victim?" laughed David. "I'm ready. Feel just like
my namesake before he tackled that husky Philistine. Tell me what I'm to
do."

They were standing at the fireplace, Una with one arm through her
lover's, the other resting on her uncle's shoulder. A scarcely
perceptible frown clouded Leighton's features before he accepted David's
offer.

"I merely want you to answer some questions," he said finally. "You
will think them trivial; but I want you to answer them under unusual
conditions. Let me show you my latest prize and explain things."

Leighton strode to the center of the room and thence down to that end of
it where the tools of his laboratory were kept. David and Una followed,
enjoying the momentary relief from the scrutiny of the old savant, who
was now, apparently, engrossed in his scientific apparatus. There was
not much of the latter in sight, and to the novice unfamiliar with the
interior of a physicist's laboratory, and who carries away a confused
impression of glass and metal jars, tubes, coils of wire, electric
batteries, revolving discs, and all the nameless paraphernalia of such a
place, the appointments of Harold Leighton's workshop would seem simple
enough. Yet, the machine before which Leighton paused comprised one
of the newest discoveries in this branch of science. Its sensational
purpose was to measure and probe the mind through the purely physical
operations of the body.

What appeared to be, at first glance, an ordinary galvanometer stood
by itself on a table. Its polished brass frame, its flawless glass
cylinder enclosing the coils of wire, recording discs and needle,
suggested nothing more than the instrument, familiar to the physicist,
by which an electric current is measured and tested. Connected with this
galvanometer, however, was a curious contrivance consisting of a mirror,
over the spotless surface of which, when the machine was in operation,
a ray of light, projected from an electrified metal index, or finger,
moved back and forth. The exact course of this ray of light, the twists
and turns made by it in traversing the mirror, was transferred by an
automatic pencil to a sheet of paper carried on a revolving cylinder.
This paper thus became a permanent record of whatever experiment had
been attempted.

That the subjects investigated by this unique galvanometer were human
and not inanimate was indicated by two electrodes, attached by wires
hanging from the machine, intended to be grasped by the hands of a
person undergoing the test. Its use, also, as a detector of human
thought and emotion, and not of mechanical force, was described by its
name--the Electric Psychometer.




IV

THE GHOST OF THE FORGOTTEN


"Modern rack and thumbscrew," exclaimed David, eyeing curiously the
machine whose gleaming surface of glass and polished metal was in
striking contrast with the somber oratory.

Harold Leighton paid no heed to the comment. He was apparently too
busied with some detail in the complicated mechanism before him to
attend to anything else. David and Una, on the other hand, were more
amused than impressed with the odd kind of entertainment chosen for
this memorable evening of their betrothal by the eccentric scientist,
although every now and then some unexpected bit of irony from him came
disconcertingly enough.

"Why should people, whose lives are blameless, think of racks and
thumbscrews when they see a simple machine like this?" he asked
suddenly, taking up David's apparently unnoted exclamation. Not waiting
for an answer, he went on, as if with a lecture to which they had been
invited to listen.

"So far as I know this machine is the first of its kind to reach this
country. It is an ingenious development of certain laws psychologists
have been using for some time in their experiments, and is based on a
theory that is, roughly, something like this:

"A thought is a part of the body that gives it birth. Thinking is not
confined to the brain. Like the assimilation of food, it involves
man's entire physical nature. In cases of exaggerated thought or
emotion--intense grief, fear, joy--the physical effects are obvious.
The scientist, however, claims that the physical result from a mental
cause is not confined to these extreme cases. A thought, the presence of
which is not perceptible in gesture, facial expression, or the slightest
visible emotion, is, nevertheless, communicated physically to every
part of the body. Throw a stone into a pool of water. If the stone is
large, the waves caused by it can be seen until they spend themselves on
the shore; if it is small, the resulting ripples become invisible long
before that. The point is, the ripple exists, whether we see it or not,
just as does the wave, until it has run its course.

"A thought, in its physical effect, is like the stone thrown into a
pool. If it is a big, exaggerated thought, the agitation produced is
outwardly visible. If it is small, more subtle, less sensational, its
physical effects are invisible, although, theoretically, reaching in
ripples to the extremities of the body. Hence, the psychologist's
problem is: to detect and measure these invisible, intangible ripples of
the mind.

"This machine, my 'ghost-hunter,' solves the problem. A Russian
scientist discovered that an electric current passing through the
body is affected by any abnormal physical, or nervous, activity there
encountered. Thought is a form of electric impulse and would, therefore,
modify any other electric force crossing its path. Hence, Tarchanoff's
law. Its practical application means, the literal measurement of our
mental ripples. And this is done by the psychometer."

"How?" asked David.

"It's very simple. You hold these electrodes in your hands. An electric
current is turned on and passes through you. While you are thus charged
with electricity, I throw the stone, the thought, into your mind. The
degree, or quality, of disturbance caused by this thought modifies the
electric current, the varying agitation of which is made visible by the
movements of an electric finger across this mirror. From there it is
recorded on the sheet of paper in this cylinder."

"What a horrible contrivance!" exclaimed Una.

"I see how it works," mused David, "except for one thing. How do you
introduce the thought you want to measure?"

"If I explain that the experiment wouldn't be possible," said Leighton
with a laugh. "The thought must come through unconscious suggestion, or
our Ghost of the Forgotten will refuse to appear. In a way, it is like
a game--and is more interesting than most games. Did you ever play the
game of twenty questions?"

"I have," interjected Una. "It's this way. Something--a book, a piece
of furniture, anything at all--is chosen by one set of players to be
guessed by the other set. Then the set who know the secret have to
answer twenty questions about it, asked by the other side. The questions
sound silly, but they usually discover the secret."

"Is your experiment like Una's game?" asked David.

"Not exactly. Sit down in this chair and you'll see."

Seated as directed, the psychometer stood a little back and at one side
of him.

"Now," said Leighton, giving him the electrodes, "hold these, one in
each hand."

"It's like an electrocution!" exclaimed Una. "Are you very
uncomfortable?"

"Oh, quite the contrary! Now, Mr. Leighton----"

"Ready? Here goes the current. You will scarcely feel it."

Leighton pulled out a small lever. A faint humming sound was heard. The
electric finger on the mirror in the machine became suddenly illuminated.

"Do you feel it?" asked Una.

"Yes; it's rather nice. This hero business is all right, especially when
you preside at the performance, Una."

"Now for your game of twenty questions, Uncle Harold. Of course, you are
going to let me into the secret?"

"How can I?" he retorted. "David has the secret."

"I have it?" repeated the other, perplexed.

"Certainly. But this isn't exactly a game. You'll find it tedious, Una.
Why not stay with Mrs. Quayle in the library until it's over?"

"Nonsense! Of course I'll stay here," she replied firmly.

"What am I to do?" asked David. "Holding these handles is easy
enough--but nothing happens."

"Let me explain," said Leighton. "I am going to give you, one at a
time, a number of disconnected words. As you hear each word, you must
reply with the first word that suggests itself to your mind. For
instance, suppose I say 'black.' The word gives rise, instantly, to
some answering mental picture, and that picture will suggest a word with
which your experience has associated it. Thus, when I say 'black,' you
may think of 'night'; or, if your thought goes by contraries, the word
'white' may occur to you. In any case, tell me the first word that comes
into your mind upon hearing my word--and remember that the promptness of
your reply is an important factor in the experiment."

"It sounds easy," remarked David. "Let's begin."

On a small table at which he was standing, Leighton placed his watch,
a writing-pad and pencil. Seating himself, he commenced the experiment
in the way he had proposed, noting each word as he gave it on the pad
before him, and marking the number of seconds elapsing before each of
David's answers. Una, ensconced in a large armchair, watched the scene
intently.

"Theater," was Leighton's first word.

"Music," came the prompt reply.

"Noise."

"Sleep."

"Lion."

"Teeth."

"Sound."

"Desert."

"Ocean."

"Blue."

A long series of similar question and answer-words followed, apparently
chosen at random and not indicating any sequence of ideas. Leighton
spoke with exaggerated monotony, his eyes fixed on David, his hand
moving with mechanical precision as he jotted down the words and the
time taken for each reply. Scarcely any agitation was noticeable in
the finger of light upon the mirror, and this part of the experiment
seemed--at least to Una--a failure.

"I don't see what the machine has to do with it," she said, somewhat
puzzled. "David could just as well answer your words without holding
those things in his hands."

"Una," said Leighton, giving this as the next question-word and ignoring
the interruption.

David smiled, hesitated a moment before replying, while the electric
finger trembled slightly and then moved, slowly and evenly, back and
forth across the mirror.

"Light," he answered softly.

More question-words followed, most of them receiving prompt answers and
producing no appreciable effect in the psychometer. It was noticeable,
however, that words having to do with places gave a different result--a
vibration of the electric finger, indicating, according to the theory,
that they awakened a deeper interest than other words in David's mind.

In experiments of this kind the operator's choice of words is carefully
made, as a rule, and not left to chance. They usually have a certain
continuity of meaning. Theoretically, also, the operator's personality
is kept in the background, so that the subject is freed from any
emotional impulse save that created in him by the question-words. But
there is always the possibility that this personality will unconsciously
influence the subject's mind, which is thus impelled in directions it
might not otherwise take. Hypnotism may thus, unintentionally, play a
part in an experiment of this kind, and the subject made to follow, in
the words uttered and the degree of emotion displayed, his inquisitor's
suggestions.

It would be hard to tell whether hypnotism gradually came into
Leighton's experiment with David. Certain it is that as the trial went
on a change came over the two men. Their features grew tense, they were
as vigilant to thrust and parry in this game of words as two fencers
fighting on a wager whose loss would mean much to either of them. In
David anxiety was more marked. The electric finger in the psychometer,
unconsciously controlled by him, moved more rapidly and with greater
irregularity over the face of the mirror. At times it remained fixed in
one place; then, with Leighton's utterance of some new word, it would
leap spasmodically forward, in a jagged line of light which would be
recorded automatically on the cylinder at the back of the machine.

David could not see what was happening in the psychometer. Outwardly he
showed no emotion, except the anxiety to hold his own in this word duel
with Leighton. Nevertheless, the electric current passing through him
registered a series of impressions that grew in variety and intensity.
Theoretically, these impressions were David's thoughts and feelings
acting upon the electric finger; and thus the line of light traced upon
the mirror was really a picture of his own mind.

For Una the affair had lost its first element of comedy. The meaningless
words, the monotonous seriousness with which they were uttered, seemed,
in the beginning, a delicious bit of fooling improvised for her benefit.
She delighted in the original, the unexpected, and nothing, certainly,
could be more foreign to the customary betrothal night entertainment
than this ponderous pairing of words between her lover and her uncle.
The real purpose of the experiment had not impressed her. The talk
about ghosts gave an amusing background to it; but this was afterwards
spoiled, it is true, by the tedious discussion of psychological
problems. Of course, Una assured herself, this experiment--or this
game--was a psychological problem, and she felt certain David would
solve it, whatever it might be, in the cleverest fashion.

Had Una understood from the first just what Leighton intended by his
proposed "ghost-hunt" she would have followed more keenly the details
of this novel pastime. As it was, these details appeared to have no
intelligible object in view and failed to arouse her interest until some
little time had elapsed. Then she began speculating on the meaning of
her uncle's disconnected words and wondering why they drew from David
just the replies they did. More to amuse herself than anything else she
compared the images which these words evidently aroused in David's mind
with the images suggested to her.

For "ship," he gave "sky"; she thought of "water." "Mountain" produced
"tired"; she would have said "view." Her word for "river" was "rowing";
his "sunshine." He said "mystery" for "Africa"; she, "negroes."
His words were never the same as hers, a fact indicating the wide
differences in their individual experiences. More singular still,
David's words were always remote, in meaning or association, from the
question-words to which they were the answer; hers were quite the
opposite. Why, she asked herself, did he say "anger" in response to
"India"; "misery" to "temple"; "joy" to "ocean"; "lost" to "guide";
"slave" to "friend"?

As the experiment progressed most of her uncle's words were bound
together, Una noticed, by a similarity in character. She even fancied
she could detect in them the disjointed bones of a story. Most of these
words had to do with foreign travel, and as David was known to have
visited many countries it was natural that the test should follow this
line, especially as this was a quest for the Ghost of the Forgotten.
In this connection it was noticeable that the series of words chosen
by Leighton reversed the itinerary which Una was certain David had
followed. Thus, the first question-words indicated the English Lake
region, where David had ended his travels. Then came various European
countries, and after these Morocco, Egypt, Arabia, India, China, the
Islands of the Pacific and the western coast of America. Supposing that
Leighton had David's actual itinerary in mind, he was going over it by
a series of backward steps, and had now reached a point at which, as
Una remembered, the long journey began. With each backward step, also,
she noted that the agitation of the electric finger in the psychometer
increased. David could not see what was happening in the machine behind
him, although it was his own emotions that were being recorded there.
Why was he so agitated? Why did he try to hide his feelings? Why did
these simple words from Leighton have such power over him? As Una asked
herself these questions her sympathy for him increased, and she awaited
the end of the experiment with anxiety.

Leighton paused after David matched his question-word, "California,"
with "home." The electric finger threw a tremulous line of light upon
the recording mirror, and in both men the indifference shown when they
began this strange game was lacking. The expectancy in David's face
changed to defiance as "California" was followed by the question-word
"ship." The electric finger gave a swift upward flash, and there was
a longer pause than usual before the answer came--"storm." "Pacific"
was met by "palm trees"; and these were followed by "land," "Indians";
"hotel," "strangers"; "natives," "lost"; "clew," "wealth."

With the last pair of words the agitation recorded in the psychometer
reached its highest point. David's face was pale, his features drawn,
his grasp on the electrodes tense. Una could not bear to witness his
struggle. Although ignorant of the cause, his suffering was all too
evident, and she determined to rescue him at once from her uncle's
cruelty. Leighton met her appeal with characteristic coolness, ignoring
her demand to bring the experiment to an end. But he changed the
sequence of words he had been using.

"Homer" was the next question-word given.

The effect was immediate. David looked at the old man with astonishment.
The jerky motion of the electric finger ceased, while instead an even
line of light was traced over the mirror. The answer-word came promptly
this time: "Iliad."

A series of similar words followed, and as the experiment took this
new direction David's nervousness vanished. Then, without warning, the
travel series was taken up again; and this time each word came like the
blow of a hammer upon a nail that is swiftly and surely driven to its
mark.

There was no mistaking the result. David's limbs stiffened, as if to
ward off a blow. His look of relief gave place to a hopeless sort of
misery; the telltale electric finger jumped forward in exaggerated lines
as if to escape from some merciless pursuer.

"South America," demanded Leighton.

"Spaniards," after a pause, was David's answering word.

"Mountains."

"Muleback."

"Lake."

"Gold."

The answers were hesitatingly given, almost inaudible. Again Una
protested.

"Stop!" she commanded. "You have no right----"

Leighton waved her imperiously aside.

"Dynamite," he continued, addressing David.

"Darkness," came the hesitating answer.

"Raoul Arthur."

Silence. A weird dance, as of some mocking spirit, seized the electric
finger pointing at the mirror. Una knelt at David's side, her hands upon
his shoulders. His lips quivered as he looked despairingly at her.

"Guatavita," said Leighton harshly.

No answer. The electrodes slipped from David's grasp. The finger of
light became suddenly motionless.

David had fallen, unconscious, in Una's arms.




V

THE SEARCH FOR EL DORADO


"Leave him with me," said Leighton. "Wait for us with Mrs. Quayle."

"No! No!" answered the girl passionately, kneeling beside David, who was
lying on the couch. "You have killed him!"

"Don't talk nonsense," he said coldly, yet with sympathy in his keen
gray eyes. "This had to be, and I took my own way about it. Now, go. He
is all right. He is safe with me."

David drew a long breath. He looked vacantly at Leighton, then turned to
Una.

"Do as he says," he whispered.

"David, I will stay with you."

"Not now; I must speak to your uncle."

"David!"

She looked into his eyes, trying to read there the mystery that was
parting them.

"It will be better for all of us," said Leighton gruffly.

Unable to hide her fears, Una rose and moved away from them. The boards
of the well worn floor creaked harshly as she walked to the far end of
the room. Pausing at the door, she looked back.

"I will wait for you," she said.

When the sound of her footsteps died away, David turned to the old man,
who was busied with his scientific apparatus.

"Well, how do you feel?" asked Leighton, gathering up the notes which
were strewn on the little table.

"Curiously here," replied David, drawing his hand across his forehead.
Then he asked: "How did you know?"

"That's easily answered. About two years ago I read, in the Journal
of Psychology, a paper by your friend, Raoul Arthur, describing the
strange mental effect produced on a young man by a dynamite explosion in
a South American mine. Arthur is something of an authority in abnormal
psychology, and his report of the accident interested me. The name of
the young man was not given. I made inquiries long before our chance
meeting with you in England. I learned, among other things, who the
young man was. Before we met on the Derwentwater, I had watched you at
the hotel."

"You wrote to Raoul Arthur?"

"I did not," he answered drily. "A newspaper account of the accident
gave me the clue I needed. According to this account, you were killed in
the mine explosion, and no trace of your body or clothing was found. It
was long afterwards, in Arthur's report, that your reappearance, under
peculiar circumstances, was described. Since then I have learned of your
travels. But I have noticed that you always avoid any reference to your
South American experiences. So, I appealed to the psychometer."

Leighton, absorbed in his notes, was apparently unaware of the
eagerness with which David followed his explanation.

"It's all very simple," mused the young man. "And yet, it seemed like
necromancy."

"Science is not necromancy."

"But the report," urged David; "I didn't know Raoul had written a
report."

"You know he is a psychologist, a hypnotist?"

"Yes," was the answer, with something of a shudder. "But--why all this
elaborate experiment of yours?"

"To prove a theory--and to be certain about you."

"Why?"

"What a question! You expect to marry Una. Before your marriage takes
place--if it does take place--I wish to clear up whatever mystery there
is hanging over your past."

"And your experiment has shown you----?" David asked in a low voice.

"It confirms the theories of Tarchanoff and Jung," he replied
pedantically. "It proves the intimate connection existing between mental
and physical phenomena. The personal result is still incomplete. On that
side I must know more."

"I will tell you what I can," said David resolutely. "But first--what
has Raoul written about me?"

"Merely a reference. Read it after you have told me your story. Our
experiment is still unfinished, you know."

"Unfortunately, I can't tell you the very thing you want to know. The
series of words in your test seemed to revive some forgotten nightmare;
and the horror of it was that this nightmare kept just beyond my
reach--as it always does--its riddle unsolved. This, with your strange
knowledge of what had happened, surprised me into this ridiculous
weakness."

"So I thought," said Leighton. "Now, what do you remember?"

"I'll have to go back a little. But--you probably know it all, you know
so much of my history."

"Never mind. I want you to prove the truth of what I know."

David looked at Leighton doubtfully.

"Very well," he said, "I'll do what I can."

Much of his story, as he told it, was decidedly vague. In the main
outline, however, it was simple enough, although ending in a mystery
that he was unable to clear up.

Three years ago, it seems, David went to work on a project based on
a legend belonging to prehistoric America. Traditions of the immense
wealth and the civilization found in certain parts of South America
by the Spanish conquerors had always fascinated him. And of all these
traditions the one telling of El Dorado, the Gilded Man, interested him
most.

From the early South American chronicles he learned that, within a few
years of Pizarro's discovery of Peru, three other explorers, starting
independently from points on the Caribbean and Pacific coasts, after
months of perilous adventure, reached a great tableland in the Upper
Andes, where Bogota, the capital of Colombia, now stands. It was "El
Dorado" who drew these explorers thither. From the Indians on the coast
they had heard stories of the great Man of Gold, who lived among the
mountains of the interior and who possessed treasure so vast that all
the wealth of the rest of the world could not equal it. Arrived in this
mysterious region, they found, not El Dorado, but a superior race of
people, somewhat like the ancient Peruvians, showing, in the barbaric
splendor of their temples and palaces, every evidence of wealth and
culture. These people, however, known as the Chibchas from their worship
of the god Chibchacum, were suspicious of the Spaniards. A war of
conquest followed, in which thousands of the natives were massacred and
their finest temples and monuments destroyed. Sajipa, the Chibcha king,
was subjected to the cruelest torture by his conquerors in their effort
to find out from him where he had hidden his treasure. But he proved
hero enough to suffer martyrdom rather than reveal the secret. For this
he was put to death, and the Spaniards contented themselves with the
trivial amount of gold and emeralds extorted from his subjects. They
then established themselves in colonies on the Plains of Bogota. The
climate was delightful, the land fertile and, as they soon discovered,
rich in minerals. From the few surviving Indians they learned some of
the native legends. In one of these, the legend of El Dorado, they
believed they had the clew to the treasure they had been seeking. This
legend was mixed up with the ancient mythology of the Chibchas, and had
played a leading part in their religious ceremonial for centuries before
the arrival of the Spaniards. It was as follows:

On the edge of the Bogota tableland, not many miles from the city that
is to-day the capital of Colombia, there is a lake, Guatavita--the
Sacred Lake of the Chibchas. Geologically, it is a pocket formed by a
cluster of spurs near the foot of a conical mountain. It is small,
circular in shape, and reaches a central depth of 214 feet. Beneath this
lake, according to tradition, lived the national god, Chibchacum. To
keep on the right side of this god, to make atonement for the people, a
semi-annual feast was observed--the Feast of El Dorado.

Twice a year the king of the Chibchas, in celebrating this Feast, was
floated on a raft to the center of the Sacred Lake. He was then stripped
of his royal robes, his body anointed with oil and covered with gold
dust. Glittering in the sunlight this Gilded Man stood at the edge of
the royal raft and was saluted by his subjects, who encircled the shores
of the lake, each one bearing an offering of gold and emeralds. Then,
as if dazzled by the splendor of their monarch, the people reverently
turned their faces away from him and, at a signal from the priests,
threw their treasures over their heads into the lake, while the Gilded
Man, followed by the heaps of precious stones and metals which were
with him on the raft, plunged into its waters. No god ever received
such a shower of wealth at his shrine as was thus lavished twice a
year, for centuries, on the god Chibchacum. All this wealth, except an
insignificant sum that the Spaniards rescued, is to-day, according to
the legend, at the bottom of Guatavita.

Besides this semi-annual tribute, it was rumored that at the time of
Sajipa's murder the entire remaining treasure of the Chibchas had been
thrown into the lake, not as a votive offering, but as a means of
hiding it from the Spaniards. It took fifty men, so runs tradition, to
carry the gold dust to Guatavita from the king's treasury alone. All
the minor chieftains of the kingdom made a similar sacrifice of their
possessions on this occasion.

Years afterwards, the Spaniards, stirred by these stories, attempted
to drain the lake. This meant the piercing of earth and rock walls
nearly nine hundred feet thick and proved too great an undertaking
for the engineering machinery that they had in those days. But before
they gave up the work they succeeded in lowering the level of the lake
sufficiently to recover a certain amount of treasure. Since that time
the secret of Guatavita has remained undisturbed. To solve it David went
to Bogota. Raoul Arthur, who had done most of the practical planning for
the expedition, went with him.

The motives of the two men engaged in the enterprise were not exactly
similar. David, according to what he told Leighton, hoped to solve
an archæological riddle and to study a hitherto lost people whose
prehistoric civilization equaled that of their neighbors, the Incas
of Peru. Arthur, on the contrary, whose fortune was still to be made,
regarded it frankly as a mining scheme that promised fabulous returns
in money, with a comparatively small amount of risk and labor. The
two points of view were not antagonistic, and for a time the friends
worked amicably enough together. In Bogota they easily secured from the
government the necessary permit to drain Guatavita. But the attractions
of the Colombian capital, the hospitality with which they were received,
delayed the actual working out of their plans. Fascinated by the romance
of this picturesque city and charmed by the unique race of mountaineers
inhabiting it, David postponed the prosaic task of mining, while Raoul
became absorbed in studies relating to their proposed venture, meeting
people with whom his companion seldom came in contact. Lake Guatavita
and its secret was thus, for a time, forgotten--at least by David.

When the social gayeties of the capital were exhausted, he took up in
earnest the work he had planned to do. He bought a full equipment of
the best mining machinery and hired a large number of laborers. But
the enterprise proved more difficult than he expected. The Spaniards,
who had worked at the problem three centuries before, were bound to
fail on account of their lack of engineering machinery. To empty Lake
Guatavita, they tried to cut through the mountain which formed one of
the containing walls of that body of water. Under the circumstances
their partial success was amazing. The V-shaped gash they cut through
the mountain is a proof of their industry, even if it failed of its full
purpose. But it did lower the level of the lake--although this result
was followed by an unforeseen catastrophe. The sudden release of the
water through the channel opened for it left the precipitous shores of
the lake unsupported. These shores then caved in, covering whatever
treasure there might be in the center of the basin with masses of rock
and earth, and thus placing a new obstacle in the way of the future
miner.

David and Raoul took the problem from a different angle. They abandoned
the old cuttings of the Spaniards and planned a tunnel through the
thinnest part of the mountain to the bottom of the lake. In this
way they hoped to control the outflow of water, after which, they
calculated, the recovery of the treasure would be a mere matter of
placer mining. To do this they had boring machines and dynamite--modern
giants, of whose existence the old Spaniards never dreamed.

As a first test of the existence of treasure in the lake, native divers
explored some of the shallow places near the shore. A few ancient gold
images were thus secured, enough to corroborate the legend regarding
Guatavita. These images were curiously carved. One represented a small
human figure seated in a sort of sedan chair. Another was a heart-shaped
breastplate upon which were embossed human faces and various emblems.
Others were statuettes, rude likenesses, probably, of those who threw
them into the lake as votive offerings.

These gold tokens spurred on the miners. Work on the tunnel was rushed,
and a subterranean passage, several hundred feet in length, directed
to a point just below the bottom of the lake, was soon completed. Then
a peculiarly hard rock formation was reached that the boring machines
could not pierce. To overcome it, dynamite was used.

"Since dynamite was one of the final words in your test," said David,
in telling his story to Leighton, "you know that its use in our venture
brings the climax of my mining experience. How to explain this climax to
you--or to myself--is beyond me.

"When we decided to use dynamite in our excavations, a long fuse was
laid from the tunnel's entrance to the unyielding wall at the other
end. There this fuse was connected with a dynamite charge placed in the
crevice of the rock to be destroyed. Raoul, waiting to set off the fuse,
remained at the opening of the tunnel. I was at the further end, looking
after the laying of the dynamite. As I started for the entrance, I was
a little behind the others. The latter no sooner gained the outer air
than a muffled roar shook the tunnel. The ground swayed, the terrific
concussion of air seemed to rend my very brain, and I fell unconscious."

David's story came abruptly to an end. Pale and listless, wearied by
the effort to give a coherent account of his experiences, he looked
hopelessly at Leighton.

"Well," said the latter, "what then?"

"If I could only tell you!"

"Surely, you remember something--there is some clew----"

"Nothing! Just--darkness."

"Some faint flashes here and there--glimpses of people, scenes, a house,
a street--the sound of voices, a word----?"

"Nothing!"

"Try to remember."

"No use. I've tried it too often. It's all a blank. I thought, for
an instant, that in your psychometer test the veil would be lifted.
Instead--as you know--I went to pieces."

"Very well," said Leighton reassuringly, "let us go back to your story.
You were in the tunnel when the dynamite went off. You were thrown to
the ground; you lost consciousness. What is the next step in memory?"

"Wait," said David slowly. "The explosion was on the ninth of May. The
date was indelibly fixed in my mind; I have verified it since. When I
recovered consciousness----"

"You mean, your normal consciousness," interjected Leighton.

"Very well. When I came to myself, then, it was on the morning of the
fifth of August."

"Nearly three months afterwards," ruminated the old man. "You found
yourself----?"

"Seated in a chair, in a room in a strange house in Bogota."

"Alone?"

"Raoul Arthur was with me. He was bending over me, his eyes fixed on
mine, making passes with his hand before my face."

"You were in a hypnotic trance."

"I was coming out of one apparently."

"It would be hard to define your condition. Of course, after the
explosion you had been picked up and carried to this house in Bogota,
where you had remained, suffering from a severe nervous shock--perhaps
concussion of the brain--for three months."

"I had been in that house scarcely an hour before my memory was suddenly
revived."

"How do you know that?" demanded Leighton sharply.

"The rainy season was on in August in Bogota. I found myself in my
riding dress. My rubber poncho, dripping with rain, was on the floor. My
boots, the spurs still attached to the heels, were caked with mud."

"And Arthur told you----?"

"At first, I was bewildered, as one is when suddenly aroused from a long
sleep. With full return of consciousness, I asked Raoul how I came to be
there. He said he didn't know."

"He must have given some explanation."

"Very little. What he said mystified me more than ever. He declared that
a short time before a messenger had come saying that I was in the house,
waiting for him."

"Whose house was it?"

"Raoul's. He had rented it two months before and was living in it alone
with two servants who were running it for him."

"And this messenger----?"

"An Indian, whom neither of us saw or heard of again, although we
inquired high and low."

"The servants must have had information to give?"

"On being questioned they said I had arrived that morning on horseback,
with an Indian, who left me there. This Indian was probably the
messenger who informed Raoul of my arrival, and who afterwards
disappeared. My horse was tethered in the courtyard."

"The clews seem to have been pretty well obliterated," remarked Leighton
sarcastically. "But Arthur must have been able to shed some light on the
affair."

"He said that when he found me, I did not recognize him and was in
a sort of dazed mental state. Then he tried hypnotism. He had often
hypnotized me before that, and was thus familiar with my condition while
in a trance. Well, as soon as he saw me, after my long disappearance, he
declared that I showed every symptom of hypnotic trance. So, he at once
tried the usual method for bringing me back to a normal condition--and
with complete success."

"In his report Arthur emphasizes that as the singular feature of the
case. His account, so far as it goes, agrees with yours. It gives the
facts of the explosion, how you were supposed to be killed, how you
disappeared for three months, and how, when you were found, you were in
a trance from which he awakened you."

"Does he say that, on coming out of the trance, I could remember nothing
that happened during those three months?"

"Yes."

"Well, there's the whole case. You know all that I do about it."

"All that Raoul Arthur knows?"

"All that he says he knows."

"Ah, then you have your doubts?"

"Just a suspicion. I have a feeling that he could tell more about my
disappearance than he chose to tell."

"Why did you leave him?"

"I left Bogota the day after I came out of the trance. My distrust
of Raoul and the horror that I felt for everything connected with my
mysterious experience, made my stay there more than I could stand.
But we parted friends, and I've sent him money to go on with the
excavations. How he's getting on I can't tell you. I've lost my interest
in El Dorado. I won't visit Bogota again."

For some minutes Leighton paced up and down the shadowy room. Then he
stopped, with the air of one who has reached a decision.

"Our course is plain," he announced.

"I've tried everything; there's nothing to be done," said the other
hopelessly.

"David, you've missed the obvious thing," was the emphatic reply. "We
must go to Bogota."

"Go to Bogota!"

"You and I will face Arthur together. If he knows anything more
about this matter, he's bound to tell us. If he doesn't know--if your
suspicions are groundless--we'll solve the mystery of those three months
some other way. And perhaps we'll stumble upon your Gilded Man at the
same time," he added with a chuckle.

"And Una----?"

"She has a way of deciding things for herself. For all I know she may
want to go with us."

"Would you consent?"

"There's no reason against it. In a ghost hunt a woman's wit may help."

"Very well, then," said David, new energy in his words and manner.

"You agree?"

"I am entirely in your hands."

"Then we'll take up our interesting little experiment again in the land
of El Dorado--and this time we'll run it out to the end."

"Without a psychometer, I hope," said David.




VI

EMBOLADORES ON THE MARCH


There is in Bogota a street, the Calle de Las Montanas, that meanders
down from the treeless foothills of the gray mountain ridge overlooking
the city, and broadens out into a respectable thoroughfare before losing
itself in the plaza upon which, facing each other diagonally, stand the
venerable Catedral de Santa Fe and the National Capitol. This street,
resembling the bed of a mountain stream, in the first half mile of
its course runs through a huddle of lowly houses whose thatched roofs
and white adobe walls seldom reach more than one story in height. The
inhabitants of this district are called, in playful irony, by their more
prosperous neighbors, "paisanos," fellow-citizens; or else, scornful of
compliment, "peons," day-laborers. Here dwell the teamsters of the city,
the washerwomen, the tinkers, the runners, the street-sweepers, the
beggars, the proprietors of small tiendas, the bootblacks, the vendors
of sweets--a mixed army of workers and idlers, who gain a livelihood, as
chance favors, by their hands or their wits.

The peon of Colombia is an interesting possibility. He is more Indian
than Spanish, but he has developed certain novelties of feature that
belong to neither of these parent races. He has something of the
savagery of the one, and the romance of the other; yet he is quite
unlike Spaniard or Indian, and when these have disappeared from the
mountain republic the peon will take their place. To-day he lacks the
energy needed for self-assertion. There have been occasions, however,
when this peasant of the Andes has taken the lead in a popular uprising
and, although he has usually failed to win what he was after, his
reserve of power promises well for the future of his race.

It was the politically awakened peon who was in evidence on a certain
morning in Bogota, not so very long ago, at the upper end of the Calle
de Las Montanas. The sign of his awakening was to be seen in an unusual
commotion among the good-natured "paisanos" of the street, from which
an onlooker might reach the astonishing conclusion that some sort of
"demonstration" was under way. Revolutionary or otherwise, there are
people, it would seem, who engage in these affairs simply through a
desire for sociability. Their warlike declarations are really not
unamiable. An Andean revolution, indeed, may not be more terrifying
than a "fiesta," and is never so noisy. In either case, these people
make common cause of their joys or their grievances; and it was
unquestionably a sudden burst of neighborliness that brought the
inhabitants of the Calle de Las Montanas together on this particular
morning.

An army of bootblacks was assembled in the middle of the street. Bogota,
ancient seat of the Muyscas, City of the Mountains, is, for some unknown
reason, rich in bootblacks. Hence, it was not surprising to find a
hundred or more knights of the brush and bottle mustered here. They
were of varying age and size, clad in nondescript rags, over which
protectingly flapped the ruana, or poncho, a garment inherited from the
Indians, and now universally worn in Spanish America. War's ordinary
weapons were lacking in this tattered regiment. Instead of sword and
musket each youngster carried in front of him, hanging from his neck,
a rude box containing the bottles and brushes needed in his calling.
Ordinarily these weapons are harmless enough; but these volunteer
soldiers felt that they were adequately armed for whatever adventure
might be in the wind. Patriotism--and a ruana--can start any revolution.
In expert hands, the vicious twirl of a ruana should bring terror to the
most stalwart of foes--and of patriotism there was a generous supply
this morning in the Calle de Las Montanas.

Pedro Cavallo, a wiry youth, taller than his fellows, gifted with shrill
eloquence, acrobatic gestures, and hence acclaimed the King of the
Bootblacks, was the leading spirit of the throng surrounding him.

"Viva Pedro! Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Baja los puercos!" shouted
first one and then another in answer to his orders given with all the
assurance of royalty.

"Compadres!" he addressed them, switching his cumbersome box of blacking
to one side with oratorical cunning; "we will lead the way! We will
march to the palace! We will offer ourselves to the President! We will
march to the coast, and then we will sweep out the Yankees!"

"Si! Si!" they shrilled in eager response. "Por la Patria! Por la
Patria! Mata los Yankees puercos!"

A quizzical spectator, a true Bogotano, robust and red-cheeked, swathed
in an ample ruana, echoed the enthusiasm.

"It is an army of emboladores!" he shouted sonorously. "Let the Yankee
bull beware!"

Now, "embolador," although it is a word familiarly used in Bogota to
designate a bootblack, has for its first meaning "one who puts balls on
the tips of a bull's horns," a thing not easy to accomplish, requiring,
as it does, the conquest of a traditionally warlike animal. Applied to
this Falstaffian army of bootblacks, the irony of the term was broad
enough to delight the bystanders, at the same time that it flattered the
vanity of those for whom it was intended.

Distances meant little to the emboladores. No matter how far they had to
travel, they vowed they would keep going until they met "los Yankees."
And, when they did meet them, they had no doubt of what would happen.
Confident in their own ability to put the "usurpers" to flight, they had
the sympathy of the peons surrounding them.

At this period, immediately following the proclamation of Panama's
independence, there was widespread indignation throughout Colombia
against the United States. Americans were accused of starting the
"revolution" which robbed the mother country of her richest possession,
and the Colombian government was accordingly expected to avenge the
national honor. The native authorities, lacking money and troops, did
not respond to the popular demand, and it was left to the "patriots" to
denounce the invading Yankees, and to fit out such volunteer expeditions
as the one planned by the emboladores of the Calle de Las Montanas.
Bogota, the largest city of the republic, the center of its official
life, became the rallying place for political malcontents. A "Sociedad
del Integridad Nacional"--a body of agitators at odds with the native
government and bitterly opposed to the United States--had been formed
here. This Sociedad had already organized two expeditions against the
Yankees and the Panamanians. Both expeditions, made up of the dregs of
the city, poorly armed, scantily clad, relying for their food on such
contributions as they might pick up along the way, had left for the
coast where they planned a guerilla warfare that would bring them, they
believed, in triumph to the Isthmus. The third expedition was being
engineered by the emboladores, whose enthusiasm and love of adventure
made them excellent starters of an uprising. Even the elder peons,
skeptical at first of what was going on, soon threw aside their reserve
and fell into line with the bootblacks. Cheers greeted each addition to
the little army, and it was not long before Pedro Cavallo, "Rey de los
Emboladores," headed an eager throng of followers numbering well into
the thousands.

What to do with so strange a mob of volunteers might have puzzled
a more experienced leader than Pedro. But nothing daunted him. The
bigger and the more unruly his army, the greater seemed to be his
confidence in himself as its commander. And his royal swagger won
unbounded admiration. Grimy children, too young to join the ranks of the
emboladores, scurried hither and thither among the bystanders, shrieking
with delight at this staging of their favorite "Pedro the King." Women,
setting down their bundles under the projecting latticed windows of the
houses, talked wonderingly of this sudden glory that had come to a youth
whom they had thought skilled in nothing mightier than the blacking of
boots. Solemn greybeards, proprietors of dingy little tiendas, stood
in the doorways of their shops, secretly amazed, but still holding
themselves grimly aloof from the noisy demonstrations of their
neighbors.

"Yankees are pigs," said one of these sellers of sweets, native tobacco
and white rum, quoting gloomily the popular estimate of Americans.

"Yes," replied another; "and pigs are easily beaten."

"Truly, that is so," quoth the first philosopher, struck by the turn of
a new idea. "Yes, that is so. Even a woman can beat a pig, if the pig
has eaten too much."

"Yes, yes, Compadre! And Panama is too much for the hungriest pig."

Then, out of the surging crowd of volunteers, came a stentorian voice:

"Donde vamos, Pedro el Rey?" ("Where shall we go, King Pedro?")

"To the President! To the Palace San Carlos!" shouted Pedro, brandishing
a stick snatched from one of the faithful.

As the volunteers had agreed to do this in the first place, the
announcement was instantly approved. San Carlos, "the palace," was
not far off--a few short blocks this side the principal plaza of the
city--and word was quickly passed along to march thither. Still shouting
vengeance on all Yankees, the emboladores, followed by a mob of peons,
moved down the street, encouraged by the primitive jests and delighted
cheers of the bystanders.

Early as it was, San Carlos was ready for this unusual visit. Although
it was popularly known as "the palace"--as all residences of high
officials are in Colombia--this large rambling structure of stone and
plaster was in no way distinguished from the buildings that elbowed it
at each side. Its dilapidated walls ran sheer to the narrow sidewalk,
overlooking which were several balconies of the kind commonly used in
Spanish-American buildings. A large square opening, guarded by rude,
heavily timbered doors, formed the entrance to this simple executive
mansion which was built around a huge courtyard, or patio. From this
patio two broad flights of carpeted stairs led to the living rooms
and offices above. This arrangement of rooms, balconies, patio--the
fountain in the middle of a bed of flowering shrubs and plants,
perpetually spraying a moss-grown cupid; the brick walls; the inner
corridor supported on arches of masonry and forming the boundary of the
four-sided court--all this one finds, with slight variation, in the home
of the average Bogotano, as well as in the official "palace." The unique
feature of San Carlos, growing out of the very heart of this ancient
dwelling, is a huge walnut tree, rising some forty or fifty feet above
the patio, overtopping the adjacent roofs, and marking this, better than
could any national emblem, as the presidential residence.

Within the gateway of the palace and at the foot of the stone steps
leading to the corridor above, there is always a guard of soldiers.
On the morning of the visit of the emboladores this guard was greatly
increased in numbers and was commanded by a youth whose resplendent
uniform was in striking contrast with the dingy, ill-fitting apparel of
his men. As the tramp of the peons echoed along the street, the soldiers
marched hastily across the patio and drew up outside the entrance to
the palace. Here, waiting groups of idlers shouted with delight as the
bootblacks, King Pedro in the lead, rounded the corner of San Carlos.

"They will polish the Yankees," declared one admirer.

"No, they have come for the president's boots."

"Emboladores! Emboladores! Beware the bull!"

"Here, King Pedro, give us a shine!"

"Don Pedro is busy; he's lost his brush."

"He's keeping it for his Yankee customers."

"He will take Panama with it."

The unterrified Pedro, meeting this raillery with serene indifference,
halted his men before the entrance to the palace and addressed the
captain of the guard.

"We have come to see Don Jose."

"But, muchacho," replied the captain affably, "that is impossible. His
Excellency is busy. Who are you?"

"Pedro, El Rey de los Emboladores!" piped up several volunteers.

"Ah!" said the captain, saluting profoundly. "And what do you want with
his Excellency, Majestad?"

"To tell him we will fight the Yankees who have stolen Panama."

"I will tell his Excellency this," was the grave reply. "Of course, he
will be pleased."

While these two youths were talking--for after all, the magnificent toy
captain was quite as young as the King of Brush and Bottle--the curtains
of the large window above were drawn aside and a tall, spare figure, in
a long frock coat, stepped slowly forth on the balcony. He was an old
man, with a close-clipped beard and moustache, sharp, thin features,
and an owlish way of peering through his large, gold-bowed spectacles
that made one look involuntarily for the ferule of the schoolmaster
held behind his back. This elderly personage had been, indeed, one of
the notable pedagogues of Bogota in his day, a fact which, joined to
his scholarly achievements in his country's literature, seemed to his
neighbors a sufficient reason for voting him in as the proprietor of San
Carlos. To this decision the less powerful and more numerous citizens of
the republic could make no effective protest.

On this particular morning it was the schoolmaster, wearing his most
indulgent smile, who faced the bootblacks in the street below him.
As soon as they caught sight of the familiar figure they gave him an
enthusiastic greeting, the democratic flavor of which he seemed to
relish. Popular applause had been lacking in Don Jose's career, and
since the troubles over Panama had broken in upon his quiet cultivation
of the muses, it looked very much as if his countrymen's indifference
might turn to open hostility. Thus, the friendly greetings of a rabble
of bootblacks and peons was not to be despised.

"Don Jose! Don Jose!" they shouted cheerfully, with that peculiar
upward inflection by which the Spanish-American gives a warmth to his
salutation not suggested by the words themselves. "El Presidente de
Colombia! Viva Don Jose! Baja los Yankees!"

To all of which Don Jose, one long thin hand thrust stiffly between the
breast buttons of his coat, listened in dignified silence, inwardly
gratified by these boisterous visitors.

"Bueno, bueno," he said in a high querulous voice; "I am very glad to
see you, my friends. This is a great honor. But, what can I do for you?"

"Send us to Panama!" bawled Pedro, acting as spokesman for his men.

"Dear me!" exclaimed the old man, enjoying the situation and ignoring
its political consequences. "Panama is far off--and why should I send
such good citizens away from Bogota?"

"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! To fight the Yankees!"

"The Yankees? But why----"

"They have stolen Panama. They are pigs!"

"What a people!" he exclaimed, nonplussed. "I am sorry for that. Well,
if I send you, what will you do?"

"Esta bueno! Don Jose will send us to kill the Yankees!" they shouted
enthusiastically.

"No! No! I didn't say that!" he expostulated; then continued, as if by
rote: "The government will look after Panama. If fighting is needed to
preserve the republic, the army will do its duty"--an assurance which
increased the martial swagger of the gold-braided toy captain, although
unappreciated by his men.

"We will fight with the army, Don Jose," declared Pedro. "We will drive
out the Yankees and save Panama."

"Viva Colombia! Baja los Yankees!" shouted the peons. As this voiced
the popular sentiment, and as Don Jose's loyalty in the Panama affair
had been questioned by some of his enemies, no sufficiently discreet
reply occurred to the puzzled schoolmaster, whose intellectual gifts,
moreover, were lacking in the quick give-and-take needed for street
oratory. So, smiling benignly, and somewhat fatuously, upon the
noisy rabble, he thrust his hand deeper into his coat, peered more
owlishly through his gold-rimmed glasses and, forgetting its future
possibilities, got such enjoyment as he could out of the novel
situation.

The volunteers exploded with joy over the president's apparent approval
of their demand. Had Pedro cared to stop for further talk the impatience
of his comrades would have prevented him. Although these peons had no
definite plan, they were looking for something more exciting than an
exchange of opinions with this old grey-beard of San Carlos. A march
through the city, and then on to Panama, seemed as good a program as any
to men who were indifferent to the dry details of geography. There were
more cries of "Down with the Yankees!" and cheers for Don Jose. Then,
before that bewildered statesman could take himself off, his unwashed
admirers filed past his balcony, leaving the toy captain and his men to
close the gates they had so courageously guarded.

Under other skies and among a more vindictive people, a roving crowd of
peons, clamorous for war and threatening all who opposed them, might
be regarded with some alarm. But the mildness of the Andean character,
its dislike for actual bloodshed, lessened Bogota's danger. Even the
timid Don Jose was not apprehensive. But there were others who thought
it wiser to keep these peons away from Americans living in Bogota. Not
that anything would really happen--past experiences seemed to prove the
harmlessness of this kind of patriotism. When the second expedition
left for the Isthmus, for instance, an American, looking for novel
impressions, had posed the volunteers before his camera and snapshotted
them to his heart's content while they were denouncing "los Yankees."
But one mob of patriots may be quite unlike another, and it so happened
that when King Pedro's army of emboladores, in its aimless wanderings
after leaving the Palace of San Carlos, stumbled upon a native of the
United States, the encounter became a very lively one indeed.

As a rule plenty of Americans are in Bogota. Some go there to do
business for the merchant houses which they represent; some have
their own local interests, others are after those tempting government
"concessions" granted to the disinterested person who develops the
natural resources of the country by monopolizing them. When the Panama
"revolution" came, most Americans left Bogota, conscious that it was
not a promising time to seek aid from the national treasury for their
ventures. Those who were unable to leave, stayed within their respective
hotels whenever a popular uprising seemed likely.

It was down a blank little side street, leading nowhere in particular,
lined with modest one-storied houses, in a quiet district unfrequented
by foreigners, that the roving peons met the one American who had failed
to conceal himself on this particular morning. After leaving San Carlos,
Pedro had turned his men into the Plaza de Catedral, where they had
clattered along the wide concourse, pausing to make a few fiery speeches
before the capitol, whose unroofed courts--the building was unfinished
at that time--and majestic Doric columns seem meant for oratory. From
here they had gone the zigzag length of the principal business street.
Then tiring of their progress through an unresponsive city, they had
started to find their way back to the Calle de Las Montanas, choosing
for this purpose the obscure Calle de Las Flores.

At their approach the street was practically deserted, all the doors
opening on it carefully barred and, in some instances, even the blinds
of the windows drawn. Thus, it happened that a tall man, muffled in a
ruana, wearing a wide sombrero, and with his back against the entrance
to one of the houses, became unavoidably conspicuous as the throng of
emboladores surged along the roadway abreast of him.

"Viva Colombia!" shouted Pedro, giving the usual greeting. "Baja los
Yankees!"

Instead of answering in a like strain of enthusiasm, the man addressed
tossed the loose end of his ruana over one shoulder, showing, as he did
so, a pallid face on which played a contemptuous smile.

"Soy un Americano," he replied composedly, glancing at Pedro and then
turning his eyes, which were singularly piercing, from one to another of
those crowding about him.

"Un Yankee! Un Yankee! Baja los Yankees!"

The cry was followed by a threatening movement of the emboladores toward
the man whose attitude seemed to be a challenge to them.

"Halt!" yelled Pedro. "I know this senor. Give him a chance. If he
cheers Colombia, we will let him go. If he refuses, he is prisoner. Now,
Senor Yankee--viva Colombia!"

The emboladores gave a lusty cheer. It was met with scornful silence by
the man who had declared himself a Yankee.

"Si! Si! Pedro el Rey!" they all shouted. "He is an enemy to Colombia.
He is prisoner!"

The wily Pedro unwilling to risk his position by denying the demands of
his followers, yet fearing to aid in an act of violence, diplomatically
said nothing. The defiant American, meanwhile, regarded the peons with a
disdain that enraged them, although checking, through its very audacity,
their hostility.

"I am not a Colombian," he said quietly; "I am not an enemy to Colombia.
But I won't cheer against the Yankees."

"Un Yankee! Un Yankee!" they retorted. "A Yankee thief come for our
gold!"

"There is truth in that," he laughed sardonically. "I want gold that you
are too lazy to get for yourselves--just as you were too lazy to keep
Panama."

"Un loco! He is insane!" cried Pedro in disgust. "Let us go!"

"No! No!" yelled the angry mob. And amid cries of "Loco! Demonio!
Yankee! Puerco!" those in the front ranks made a lunge at the man whose
exasperating coolness had kept them at bay, while a shower of missiles
came from the peons who hovered in the rear.

But the attack was skilfully met. Tripping up his first two assailants
and warding off the blows of a third, the Yankee, smiling derisively,
stealthily passed his left hand along the ponderous door against which
he was leaning. This street door, as is usual in Colombian houses, had
a small "postigo," or wicket, large enough to admit one person at a
time, and opening much more readily than the unwieldy mass of timber of
which it formed an insignificant part. Having found the latch of this
wicket, the Yankee gave it a quick backward thrust, stepped lightly over
the threshold and closed and barricaded this scarcely revealed entrance
behind him.

A storm of oaths followed his escape. Then, not content with this vent
to their anger, the peons, using such stones and weapons as came to
hand, rushed upon the wooden barricade standing between them and their
prey, at the same time calling upon the inhabitants of the house to let
them in. These Colombian doors, however, are built to withstand a stout
siege, and the din might have been indefinitely prolonged had it not
come to an abrupt and unexpected conclusion.

Three sharp blows upon the door were given from within. Then a clear
feminine voice was heard above the uproar.

"Stand back, Senores! I will open."

There was a dead silence. This time it was the great door itself that
swung slowly open. There was no sign of the escaped Yankee in the wide
corridor beyond. In his stead there stood, unattended, unprotected, a
woman.

She was clad in a long robe of white, her dark hair flowing unconfined
down her shoulders. Her bare arms, exquisitely molded, and of a tint
that vied with her dress in purity, were crossed upon her breast. There
was no fear in her eyes as she faced the abashed men and boys before
her.

"This is my house, Senores," she said calmly. "What do you want?"

Involuntarily the leaders of the mob fell back, awed by the girl's
courage and dignity. There was a murmur of voices, ending in a chorus of
admiration and homage.

"La Reina! La Reina!" they cried. "La Reina de los Indios!"

Then the sharp-witted Pedro, resuming command over his ragged troops,
stepped forth, waving to the others to keep silence.

"It is nothing, Senora," he said, bowing with an awkward grace that
played sad pranks with the box of blacking hanging from his neck. "We
are patriots of Colombia marching to Panama. We mean no harm to you."
Then, turning to the emboladores, he shouted, with his old enthusiasm:

"Por la Patria! Por la Patria! Viva la Reina! Baja los Yankees!"

The crowd took up the familiar call, and with one of those quick changes
of sentiment that sometimes sweeps over such gatherings, fell into a
march, cheering the motionless "Reina de los Indios" as they filed past
her, and leaving the Calle de los Flores to its accustomed dreams and
quiet.




VII

LA REINA DE LOS INDIOS


"Felicita, where is this Senor?"

"Ah, Dios mio! safe enough, in the sala. But for thee--nina Sa'pona, how
scared I've been! And they called thee queen, thou who art our queen
indeed, beautiful, brave one! But thou shouldst not do this--not for so
ugly a senor--my beautiful nina!"

With the great door closed, and the noise from the peons growing fainter
in the distance, the stern dignity of the Indian girl vanished before
the simple talk of her old nurse. Queen of the Indians, as the peons
called her, this girl might be--although why they called her so they
would find it difficult to tell--but for the faithful creature, with
her eager caresses and affectionate words, royalty, real or imaginary,
scarcely counted.

"There you are, foolish Felicita, always scared at something! Danger?
What danger? Only a greeting from those who are as fond of me as thou
art. Now, to thy work. I must speak with this troublesome Yankee. Many a
day it is since I have seen him here. And then--Felicita, I am dying of
hunger."

Shaking her head at her mistress's lack of caution, the old nurse
hobbled down the gloomy corridor and into the sunny patio, fragrant with
jasmine and sweet rose, where two Indian girls, seated upon the flags
surrounding the opening of a central cistern, were crushing corn in the
primitive stone hand mills of their race.

Resuming something of her stateliness of mien, the youthful "Reina de
los Indios" turned to the right along a passage-way leading off from
the main corridor into the sala, or principal living room of the house.
This was more scantily furnished than such apartments usually are in
Bogota. All that it had was of the plainest--half a dozen cheap rocking
chairs, a straight-backed cane settee, a tall pier-glass, ornamented at
the top and sides with meaningless gilt stucco work, and a dark walnut
cabinet, carved in elaborate hunting design, with massive spiral pillars
supporting the heavily panelled sides and front--the only object in the
room giving evidence either of taste or wealth. Even the tiled floors
were bare, save for a few well worn petates (Indian mats) which failed
to supply that feeling of comfort provided in this chilly climate by the
thick woollen rugs and carpets generally in use.

Awaiting her entrance stood the Yankee whom she had rescued from the
emboladores. Confronted by his ragged assailants he had shown an
admirable coolness; in the presence of this young girl his manner lacked
that air of confidence he had so readily assumed in the face of danger.
He was ill at ease; his glance shifted from one object to another in
the room, his sombrero was tightly clenched in his hand, he avoided the
steady gaze of his rescuer. Yet there was in his attitude toward her
an indefinable homage, due, perhaps, to the queenly rank that others
accorded her, or else to the rare feminine loveliness, the subtle power
of which few could escape.

"Senorita, you have done me a great service," he said. "I was on my way
to see you when I had that brush with the peons. That is my excuse for
taking refuge in your house and exposing you to danger. Will you forgive
me? Will you----"

"Ah, my good Don Raoul!" she interrupted. "What questions! And from you!
Of course, if I was of service to you just now, I am glad."

"It is good to hear you say that, Senorita," he replied with evident
relief. "I was afraid things might be different between us. You see, you
disappeared so completely. You have not been in Bogota for months, for
years, Senorita. And then, to-day--at last--I heard of your arrival. I
wanted to see you. I have not forgotten you in all this long time, you
may be sure, Sajipona!"

A faint flush overspread the girl's delicate features; a strange look
kindled within her dark eyes.

"It is well, Don Raoul," she said in a low voice.

"And here you are, still the Queen--beautiful, mysterious!" he
exclaimed.

"You know I am not a queen," she murmured.

"Why, even now they called you so. Those jackals felt your power--just
as I do, beautiful Sajipona!"

"Enough, Senor! Titles and flatteries I neither care for nor deserve are
a mockery in my own house."

"The title is yours by tradition, if not by right. As for
flatteries----"

"We do not live by traditions," she interrupted.

"To me, at least, you are La Reina de los Indios."

"Ah, well, Senor," she said with a low laugh; "every queen, I fancy,
should have at least one subject. And now--supposing that I am this
queen you talk of--what is it you want of me?"

"We always used to be friends, Sajipona. Can we not be friends still?"

"There's another strange question! But--surely you did not come here to
ask me that? There is something else, Don Raoul," she added, regarding
him intently.

"It is that, first of all. And then--I had it in mind to tell you that
my friend is returning to Bogota--David Meudon."

"David Meudon," she repeated, as if pondering the name, looking steadily
at Raoul the while.

"But then--what is that to me, Senor?" she asked.

"You remember him?"

"Yes, of course I remember him. He has been away a long time, hasn't
he?" Then, after a pause: "Why does he come back?"

"To solve a mystery--so he writes me."

"A mystery?"

"He calls it a mystery," laughed the other. "You see, when we were
living here together he disappeared for three months. We thought he
had been killed by a dynamite explosion. Surely, you have heard of it,
Senorita?"

"Yes--I think everyone has heard of it. And then, at the time, there
were rumors. For instance, I heard--I heard who exploded the dynamite."

"Sure enough, there were all kinds of rumors. But, of course, the whole
thing was an accident, a horrible accident, that nearly cost David his
life. He didn't heed the signal in time--or something went wrong--the
signal or the dynamite. Anyway, he wasn't seen or heard of again for
three months. We all thought he must have been blown to bits. Then, a
curious thing happened. One morning I found him in my house, in a sort
of trance."

"Well?"

"When he came out of the trance, he declared he could remember nothing
of what he had been through. Those three months were a blank in his
memory."

"And then----?"

"He left Bogota, declaring he would never come back. That was just three
years ago."

"But----"

"Yes, now he is coming back--with some friends--to solve this mystery,
so he says."

"What mystery, Senor?"

"Why," replied Raoul slowly, looking at her intently; "the mystery of
those three months when he was supposed to have been in a trance."

"What is a trance, Don Raoul?" asked the girl innocently.

Raoul laughed.

"Ah, that would be hard to explain to a queen of the Indians," he said.
"A trance is not exactly a sleep, for a man may talk and travel and
do things, just like other men, when he's in a trance. But when he is
himself again, he remembers nothing of all that happened when he was in
the trance."

"Then you think he was in a trance during those three months when he
disappeared from Bogota?"

"Yes."

"And that he has forgotten all that happened to him in that time?"

"Perhaps."

"Could he ever remember?"

"There is only one way in which he could."

"How is that?"

"If he could return to the same scenes and conditions through which he
passed during those three months."

"But for that you would have to know, of course, what those scenes and
conditions were?"

"Exactly, Senorita."

"Really, it is all very interesting," she said dreamily. "I have heard
something like it in fairy tales, I think; but not in real life. And
now--why do you tell all this to me, Senor?" she asked, as if struck by
a novel idea.

"Ah, Sajipona," he replied with a smile; "I have told you merely in
answer to your own questions. You have shown that--for some reason or
other--you are interested."

"Interested? Why, of course I am interested--if for no other reason,
simply because you are. This David Meudon, you say, left Bogota three
years ago? Strange that he should leave so suddenly--and with his work
in this country unfinished!"

"I can't tell how much you know of David," he said musingly. "But there
is every reason why you, more than anyone else, should be interested in
the man who attempts to solve the secret of Guatavita--Sajipona."

There was no mistaking the emphasis placed on the girl's name; nor was
there any disguising the effect its peculiar pronunciation had upon her.
Sajipona looked at Raoul in alarm, then turned from him in manifest
confusion. Presently, she gave a low laugh and her eyes sought his
again.

"Ah, you Yankees are strange people," she said. "Some say, you are only
money makers. But, it appears, you are more than that; for you listen to
foolish legends, like the rest of us--and you believe them."

"Yes, I believe this one, Sajipona."

"Does the man who so strangely lost his memory by your dynamite
explosion believe this one?" she asked laughing.

"I don't know. Perhaps he never heard it."

"Well, it's very interesting, anyway--I mean, about the trance and the
dynamite. I want to hear the end of it. You will surely come again,
won't you? And tell me when your friend arrives in Bogota," she added,
giving him her hand.

"You are ever the queen; you dismiss me from your presence," he
complained, taking her hand, nevertheless, and kissing it.

"The streets are safe for you now, Senor," she said.

"Thanks to you, La Reina!"

"Ah, I would do much more for you than that, as you know, Don Raoul!"
she exclaimed, an arch smile giving to her beautiful features a rare
flash of piquancy. "And now--Adios, Senor!"

"Surely, not 'Adios,' but--until the next time, Sajipona," he replied,
as he bowed himself from the sala.

Raoul's belief in the legend involved in Sajipona's name marked a
radical change which he had undergone since he arrived in Bogota. To
his keen, logical mind the proposal to enlist in a quest for the long
lost El Dorado seemed, at first, far too quixotic to be taken seriously.
But he humored the idea, originating in David's fondness for studies
touching the borderlands of romance, in the hope that he would divert
a purely fanciful project into more profitable channels. Later on,
however, he was himself caught by the practical possibilities lurking
in the old Chibcha legend. Hence, it followed that while David was
enjoying the picturesque life of the little mountain capital, Raoul was
delving in musty records, running down old traditions, and studying
the topography of the Bogota tableland with a degree of patience
as to details that the subject had rarely received. For days at a
time he burrowed in the crumbling archives of the Museo Nacional, an
unpretentious little edifice, not far from the palace of San Carlos, in
which were stored, pell-mell, practically every evidence that remained
of Colombia's prehistoric civilization. Here, with only the grey,
shrivelled mummies of two ancient kings of the Chibchas to watch him,
he had reconstructed, as best he could, the past of this vanished race
of people, had convinced himself of their wealth, scarcely any of which
had fallen into the hands of the Spanish, and had laid his plans for
discovering a treasure which had balked every explorer before him.

Combined with these studies in the National Museum and in the
vicinity of Lake Guatavita, Raoul had busied himself with the peons
of the neighborhood. From these primitive people he learned enough
to corroborate the main features in the Chibcha tradition as handed
down by Castellanos, Pedro Simon, Piedrahita, and other chroniclers
of the Spanish Conquest. In addition, he unearthed the curious legend
that the Sacred Lake would never yield up its treasure except to one
in whose veins flowed the blood of the Chibcha kings. This bit of
prophetic romance had come, it was said, from father to son through
the four centuries following the martyrdom of the last of the zipas.
He was told, also--and it added to the fantastic character of the
prophecy--that a secret, known only to the zipas and their direct
descendants, attached to Lake Guatavita, and that by means of this
secret the treasure hidden beneath its waters would be discovered.

Raoul at first paid little heed to this part of the legend. It had too
strong a flavor of latter-day romance to go for more than a recent
addition to the main story of the wealth of the Chibcha kings and their
peculiar religious customs. The persistence of the idea, however, the
belief in its truth on the part of those repeating it, gradually excited
his interest and led him into all kinds of theories as to the existence
and recovery of the Guatavita treasure.

That so fanciful a legend could have won even the partial belief of so
ingrained a skeptic as Raoul seems at first absurd on the face of it.
But most of us can recall instances enough of similar lapses from the
hypercritical to the over-superstitious to make this one not altogether
incredible. As often happens, also, in such cases--as with those
otherwise reasonable persons who believe in fortune-telling, omens,
apparitions, etc.,--this bit of superstition, having once lodged itself
in Raoul's mind, increased in importance, opening up an absorbing field
for his love of psychological novelties, until it finally became a
monomania, an obsession, as the scientists call it.

These ancient zipas, he argued, were the chieftains of a superior
race of people. In the annual tribute from the royal treasury to the
national god, who was supposed to live at the bottom of Lake Guatavita,
they catered to the credulity of their subjects while, in reality,
laughing in their sleeves at them, so to speak, all the time. Men of
their intelligence were not apt literally to throw away wealth they had
themselves amassed, and which they must consider as belonging to them
and to their descendants. But as they--apparently--did throw it away,
it was more than likely that they used some kind of hocus-pocus, known
only to themselves, by means of which the God Chibchacum--in whose
existence they did not believe--was cheated of his annual tribute. How
they practiced this deception they must surely have told their children.
The coming of the Spaniards, however, and the overthrow of the ancient
dynasty, had made of the whole affair a greater secret than ever. It
would be handed down from one generation to another so long as there
were descendants of the zipas; but these survivors of the royal line
would find it increasingly difficult, owing to the presence of the
Spaniards, to take the steps needed to recover their ancestral treasure.

There was some plausibility in Raoul's reasoning, enough, perhaps, to
excite the romancer's interest, but scarcely that of the practical
man of affairs to whom are broached the details of a mining venture.
Conviction grew, however, with Raoul, whose investigations were confined
thenceforward less to the archæological aspects of the problem and more
to the task of discovering the whereabouts of the living descendants of
the zipas.

These speculations and the singular inquiry into which they had drawn
his companion excited only a mild interest in David. The latter,
strangely enough, enchanted with the picturesque novelty of the
cloud-city in which he found himself, felt less of the antiquarian's
zeal than when Bogota was a remote geographical possibility. Perhaps
it was the stimulus of mountain air, a bracing climate, that got him
out of his habitual bookishness. Here, at any rate, there was neither
the warmth nor the color of the tropics to entice him to the indolent
dreaming that one of his temperament might easily yield to in the
lowlands of Colombia. The peculiar lustre of the grey-green Bogota
tableland, the cool crystalline atmosphere, invited him to continual
physical exercise. For days at a time he went on long horseback rides.
Then, tiring of this, and feeling something of the restraint experienced
by the stranger who exerts himself abnormally in the rarefied air of
the higher Andes, he fell into the easy habits of the pleasure-loving
Bogotano. Muffled warmly in a ruana, he strolled comfortably about the
streets of the city, amused by the chaffering of peons in the market
place, enchanted by the quaint and varied architecture of the houses
and public buildings, the grotesque paintings and bas-reliefs in the
churches; or else he would sit by the hour in the open window of some
cafe on the Cathedral Esplanade, watching the gay throng of idlers and
politicians for whom this is a favorite rendezvous. The dust and cobwebs
of the Museo did not attract this former dabbler in antiquities, who
abandoned himself eagerly to the fleeting impressions gathered from an
altogether pleasing environment. And Raoul, naturally secretive, gave
him the vaguest outline only of the course and the result of his
studies.

The discovery that made the deepest impression on Raoul took place under
circumstances which intensified his superstitious feeling in regard to
everything connected with the buried treasure. He was on one of numerous
trips to Lake Guatavita. Riding alone, he reached the gloomy body
of water toward nightfall. Tethering his horse near the trail at the
edge of the plain over which he had ridden, he approached the lake on
foot, his mind penetrated by the absolute silence of the place. He had
come for no specific purpose except to examine further the old Spanish
cutting that gashes the great hill which originally rose, a solid wall
of rock, above the unknown depths of the waters. Through this narrow
cleft, on the instant that it was completed three centuries ago, a
mighty torrent had hurled itself into the valley beyond. As this torrent
subsided and the lake shrank to its present compass, a wide margin of
precipitous shore was left bare to the scrutiny of treasure seekers.
Even after the lapse of centuries this portion of the lake's basin
still shows the ravages wrought by the Spaniards. It remains a gaunt,
jagged surface of rock and flinty gravel, unclothed by tree or shrub--an
ancient sanctuary whose violation defies the repairs of time.

Raoul smiled contemptuously at these evidences of the rude labors of the
early Spaniards. With modern science to back him he would not attack the
problem in this way. He would pierce this ancient secret to its heart
by subtlety, not brute force. For the hundredth time he went over the
system of lines and levels by which he and David planned to tunnel their
way to the coveted prize, indicating to himself the various points from
which they proposed to start their work, and noting and comparing the
obstacles they would encounter by each route.

Thus occupied, Raoul slowly circled the lake, following the precarious
path that still remained along the edge of the old high-water mark--the
path upon which had marched the gaily vestured Chibcha devotees in the
pomp of their semi-annual festival, when the dancing waves radiating
from the heavily laden rafts of the Gilded Man and his court, washed
over their sandalled feet, and all was sunshine and joyous laughter,
glitter of gold and emerald offerings ready poised to be hurled, with
shouts of triumph, to the insatiable God in his crystalline caverns
below.

Scenes from the old legend flashed across the prosaic details of Raoul's
mining schemes, as he stood in the shadow of the majestic hill that
lifted its huge shoulders behind him. Not a ripple scarred the surface
of the sombre waters. The ancient God, it would seem, waiting in vain
the tribute that once was his, had grown angry and made of his Sacred
Lake a shrunken circle of dark and sinister meaning.

Into its silent depths, fascinated by the desolation surrounding him,
Raoul gazed intently. He would revive the old ceremony. He would bring
an offering to this hidden God--an offering bearing a menace, a demand
for the treasure that he felt already in his grasp. He seized a stone
from the many that were strewn at his feet. It was smooth, worn by the
streams through which it had chafed its way hither; he paused as he
weighed it thoughtfully in his outstretched hand. Then he threw it high
in air, over the center of the pool. The sound of the falling missile
plunging through the waters echoed sullenly along the towering walls of
granite. The weird effect delighted him, and again and again he cast
stones into the water, dislodging some of the more unwieldy rocks from
their resting-places and watching them bound and ricochet, with a
thunderous noise, down the precipice after the others.

In the midst of this fantastic play he was arrested by the cry of a
human voice. High, clear and sibilant it came; a word of command, as it
seemed, out of the empty space above:

"Silence!"

He thought it might be the rustle of the wind that had just sprung up
and was stirring the gnarled branches of the trees fringing the brow
of the hill upon whose precipitous slope he was standing. Carefully he
scanned the rocky pinnacles rising on either side of him. If it was not
the wind, the invisible being whose voice he had heard might be hidden
in one of the many clefts that furrowed the face of the hill behind him.

Again he heard the command. Silvery, unmistakably human; the peremptory
voice came from some one near at hand, a few hundred yards, it might be,
from where he stood:

"Silence!"

The tall, slim figure of a woman, clad in flowing white robe, with
dazzling arm stretched downward, flashed in sharp outline against the
dark hillside. She stood just above him, on a projecting shelf of rock.
Her eyes, calm and stern, were not turned toward Raoul, but fixed
intently on the lake, as if beholding--or expecting to behold--something
there that was hidden from all others.

Involuntarily Raoul bent his head to this singular apparition, scarcely
knowing whether it was a creature of his imagination, conjured out of
the strange fancies awakened by the lonely scene, or a real woman,
statuesque, beautiful.

Why was she here? Whence had she come? How address her? Vague questions
crowded upon him, giving place finally to the conviction that he was
an intruder and had unwittingly offended one whose rights here were
supreme. And then he yielded to a feeling of shame at being caught in
senseless boy's play.

"Pardon, Senorita," he murmured lamely.

"Ah," she sighed, a trace of irony in her voice; "it is I, a stranger
here, who must ask pardon for daring to interrupt you."

"Again--pardon," he said, moved by the seriousness, the bitterness in
her tone. "Surely, you are not a stranger to Guatavita, to Bogota?" he
added, not concealing his astonishment.

"My home is far from here," she said simply. "Four days ago I left it
for the first time to go to Bogota."

"And you visit the Sacred Lake on your way to the city!"

"My fathers sacrificed here," she said proudly. "I am an Indian, the
daughter of those who once poured their treasure into the lake which you
have defiled with stones."

"Sajipona!" called a harsh guttural voice from the trail that followed
the cutting made by the Spaniards in the mountain's side.

"Si, padre mio," she answered, slowly descending to the path upon which
Raoul was standing.

In the gathering darkness Raoul saw, just emerging from the cleft in
the rocks, the huge figure of a man, dressed, as all travelers are in
the mountains, in wide sombrero, capacious ruana, great hair-covered
leggings reaching to the waist, his spurred heels clattering on the
stones as he walked towards them. Two mules followed closely, the bridle
of the foremost held in his hand; behind these came a burro, loaded with
mountainous baggage which swayed from side to side as the patient little
animal picked his way along the treacherous path.

"Good evening, senor," said the man suavely, as if Raoul were some old
acquaintance whom he expected to meet. "It grows dark quickly. Moreover,
it is far to the city and the beasts are tired. We stop for the night at
La Granja. And you, Senor?"

"My horse is fresh, I will ride to Bogota."

"A stranger?" queried the man.

"An American."

"Ah!" Then, as if to atone for his surprise: "Bueno, in Bogota my house
is yours."

Only the sure-footed mules of the Andes could have threaded this
handsbreadth of a path in safety, and only a horsewoman of the lithe
grace and dexterity of this daughter of the mountains could have swung
herself with such slight assistance into the high, clumsy saddle as did
this girl addressed as Sajipona.

"Watch your burro, Senor," warned Raoul, viewing with some anxiety that
much encumbered animal wavering disconsolately on the brink of the
precipice. "He will slip into the lake."

"Eh, Senor!" grunted the man, vaulting heavily to the back of his mule,
at the same time spurring and then checking him with the reins. "He
knows his business, the canaille! Besides," he added, chuckling to
himself, "we carry no treasure for Guatavita. Since the days of Sajipa,
men pay no tribute here--they look for it instead."

"That is true," murmured Raoul. Then, addressing the departing
travelers: "May you have a pleasant ride, Senorita! And you, Senor; I
may see you in Bogota?"

"In the Calle de Las Flores, Senor," called the other briskly. "Ask for
Rafael Segurra; always--remember!--at your service."

Sajipa--Sajipona! The two names persisted in Raoul's thoughts as he rode
home that evening. Over and over again he passed in review the details
of his strange encounter with this mysterious girl who, in spite of
the exquisite fairness of her complexion, called herself an Indian and
claimed these old worshipers of the Lake God for her ancestors. Who
was she? Could it be that his search for the descendant of that almost
mythical line of monarchs had been so unexpectedly, completely rewarded?
He could hardly wait for the morning to make the inquiries that he
planned.

"Ah, yes," he was assured; "this Rafael Segurra is quite a man in
his way--a 'politico,' strong with the government. He lives far from
here--on a hacienda--no one knows where. And his daughter--he brings
her to Bogota? That is strange! The beautiful Sajipona! Who knows if
she really is Don Rafael's daughter! There is a mystery, a tradition
about her. Yes, some say that she has in her veins the blood of that
poor old zipa that the Spaniards roasted alive because he wouldn't tell
where he had hidden his treasure. Still, how can that be if Don Rafael
is her father? Ah, no one can be sure, Senor--their home is so far away.
But--she is very beautiful. And there are many, many lovers--so they
say."

The information, picked up from various sources, strengthened Raoul's
first impression, and from that time, he became a constant visitor in
the little house on the Calle de Las Flores.




VIII

A RIVER INTERLUDE


On the deck of the wheezy, palpitating river steamer, "Barcelona,"
toiling slowly up the turbid waters of the Magdalena, sat the usual
throng of passengers who are compelled to sacrifice two weeks of their
lives every time they travel from the seacoast to Colombia's mountain
capital. Fortunate such travelers count themselves if their lumbering,
flat-bottomed craft, its huge stern wheel lifted high above the
down-rushing eddies and whirlpools, escapes the treacherous mudbanks
which form and dissolve in this ever-shifting, shallow current, and
which not infrequently elude the vigilance of the navigator.

On this particular voyage, however, it is pleasant to record that the
"Barcelona," in spite of various temptations to the contrary, had
behaved in a most decorous manner, diplomatically avoiding the aforesaid
mudbanks, submerged treetrunks and the like and giving promise of an
early arrival at her destination in the Upper Magdalena.

In any part of the world except Colombia the progress of this steamer up
the river on this occasion would have been followed with the liveliest
interest from one end of the country to the other. News bulletins would
have chronicled every detail of her voyage; there would have been
editorial speculation as to the possible delays she might encounter;
predictions of the outcome of her snail-paced journey and, finally,
statements--bogus or otherwise--would have come every now and then
from the important personage who headed the list of the "Barcelona's"
passengers. For there was an unhappily important personage on board--a
personage who, much to his own amazement, had helped in the making of
history, and who was now on his way to report to the President of the
Republic the details of what he had done.

Some men, according to one familiar with the accidents common to
humanity, have greatness thrust upon them. General Herran was neither
born great, nor had he, of his own free will, achieved greatness. But it
had been thrust upon him. Without thought or act of his own he awoke one
morning to find himself famous. It was an unenviable kind of fame, won
in an opera-bouffe sort of way, and might, in some countries, have cost
the general his head. But in Colombia there was, happily, no danger of
this. Having lost his head once why should he lose it a second time, and
just because he had fallen a victim to the wiles of the Panamanians?

Here is the brief but important chapter of history in which General
Herran played a leading part. In the performance of his duty to quell
any and every uprising which might occur on the Colombian coast he had
gone with his army to the Isthmus, where, he had been told, something
like a revolution was in progress. At Colon he had been courteously met
on shipboard by representatives of this revolution. On their friendly
invitation, and without disembarking his troops, he and his staff of
officers had then been escorted politely across the Isthmus to Panama
where, much to their astonishment, they were promptly lodged in jail--a
climax which any one but this unsuspecting general might have foreseen.
During his absence his troops were sent back by the revolutionists to
Colombia--and thus, without the firing of a shot, the Republic of Panama
achieved its independence.

On board the "Barcelona," freed from the problem of keeping the
Isthmians within the Colombian Union, General Herran gave no evidence
of any disastrous effect on his own fortunes following his memorable
experience of Panama diplomacy. The center of a convivial group of
admiring friends, flanked by an inexhaustible supply of "La Cosa
Sabrosa,"--the suggestive title given by one enthusiast to the native
rum which accompanied them in an endless array of demijohns--this
excellent leader of armies appeared to be making a triumphal progress
homeward, rather than a decidedly ignominious retreat. His large
mirthful brown eyes, peering out of a boyish face fringed by a heavy
black beard, were undimmed by regrets and gave no token of the wily,
self-seeking politician their possessor was said, by his enemies, to be.
"El General," as he was usually called, was, in fact, the best of good
fellows; one who, we can well imagine, might easily forget so paltry an
adjunct as his troops, lured by the promise of a lively hour or so in
a gay city with congenial companions. "Bobo" his detractors might call
him, or "tonto"--but never "pendejo" nor "traidor."

With General Herran on board the "Barcelona," although not exactly of
his party, and certainly not in the least of the military persuasion,
was a round-paunched, bullet-headed little man who, arrayed in the
flimsiest of apparel, a wide-flapping Panama sombrero coming down to
his ears, paced restlessly about the deck, fanning himself vigorously
with a huge palm-leaf fan. Although of pure Spanish lineage, there was
nothing of the traditional polish of his race in this explosive person's
manner or speech. He had rolled about--one can hardly describe his
mode of travel by another phrase--among many people and had recently
settled down in a delightfully fever-ridden section of Colombia to
practice medicine. "Doctor Quinine" he was called--behind his back--and
it is said that he had simplified the methods of his profession by
administering, on all occasions and for all diseases, the one simple,
famous drug, discovered centuries ago by his ancestors in his native
Peru. Quinine and a few drastic purgatives summed up his medical creed.
If these remedies failed to cure--and they sometimes did fail--why, the
unfortunate victim was simply a "canaille," and had, through his own
stupidity, or malice, defeated the otherwise infallible result of the
doctor's treatment.

The quininizing of the human race, however, was not the mission upon
which Dr. Manuel Valiente Miranda had at present embarked. He had
recently made a journey to the United States, whither he had gone
to take out a patent on some marvelous "pildoras de quinina" of his
own concoction. Having succeeded in the main object of his trip, and
having failed incidentally to sell a single box of these same patented
"pildoras" to any one of the benighted thousands whose faith was pinned
to the ordinary medical practitioner, he had resolved to return to his
old occupation of dosing with quinine the faithful on the Colombian
coast. On his homeward journey, however, he met a party of Americans
who induced him to abandon for a time his original project and to join
them in a trip to Bogota. As he was a man of independent means, a
political exile from his native land, with no family ties whatsoever,
there was nothing to hinder this sudden change in his plans. Hence his
presence on the "Barcelona," where he had assumed guardianship over his
American friends--whom he abused on occasion, as was his wont with those
he liked--and where he engaged in sarcastic tilts with his old ally "El
General."

In the political upheaval caused by the secession of Panama Doctor
Miranda took especial delight; nor did he hesitate to upbraid those
in authority for what he called their lack of gumption in the present
situation. He predicted, moreover, the coming supremacy of "los Yankees"
in South America. In all of this Doctor Miranda was good naturedly
tolerated by his Colombian friends, who suffered his sarcasm much as
they did his quinine, ignoring the bitterness out of regard for the
curative virtue behind it.

Harold and Una Leighton, David Meudon, Andrew Parmelee and Mrs. Quayle
were the Americans to whom Doctor Miranda had attached himself on
this pilgrimage to Bogota. It was an oddly assorted party. That the
persons composing it should be voyaging together up the Magdalena,
with an eccentric Peruvian physician as a sort of cicerone, and in
friendly intimacy with a group of discredited army officers accused of
a traitorous abandonment of the national cause, formed one of those
curious situations not unusual in South American travel.

The reader has already learned of the decision reached by Harold
Leighton and David to visit Bogota in order to solve there the mystery
of the three months following the dynamite explosion in the Guatavita
tunnel. As her uncle had foreseen, Una insisted on going with them, and
had brought Mrs. Quayle along besides. There was no particular reason
why that estimable lady should accompany them. She had rarely ventured
beyond the borders of her native Connecticut, and could certainly be
of no possible use on so long and difficult a journey as this. But
something had to be done with her. She was afraid to be left alone at
Stoneleigh, and as she was anxious about Una it seemed best on the whole
to take her along. She proved an inoffensive traveler and gave amusement
to more than one tourist by her extraordinary costumes, especially the
massive, old-fashioned jewelry, with which her hands and neck were
covered and from which she refused ever to be parted.

The trip was a hard one for Leighton, who was wedded to his quiet
methodical life in Rysdale, and who had no mind for the distractions
and annoyances of foreign travel. He was spurred to activity, however,
by his interest in the psychological puzzle presented by David, added
to which was a growing curiosity regarding the mysterious Indian lake
and its reputed treasure. An ordinary mining scheme, no matter how
promising, would not have moved the philosophic master of Stoneleigh.
But here was something out of which might come a fine scientific
discovery revealing the secrets of a bygone civilization. Hence, he had
not regretted his resolution to make this quixotic pilgrimage and, as
he had latterly fallen into a sort of dependence on Andrew Parmelee for
much of the detail work connected with his scientific studies, he had
arranged with the village authorities for the schoolmaster to accompany
him to Colombia.

Andrew was not a little alarmed at the intimate daily association with
Una, the object of his adoration, which such a journey involved. But
the fancied terrors of the situation had their compensations. It might
even happen that in the primitive region to which they were going he
could be of vital service to this stony-hearted fair one--a possibility
that filled him with dreams of deadly peril by land and sea in which
he acted the part of rescuer to helpless innocence. So, this modern
knight errant was miraculously strengthened to ward off the attacks of
his Aunt Hepzibah, and departed on his mission fired with all the zeal
of the hero of La Mancha, his high resolve unclouded by the horrors
that speedily came to him in the rotund nightmare known in the flesh as
Doctor Miranda.

"Ah, this little Yankee," repeatedly declared that restless follower of
Aesculapius, regarding the bewildered Andrew with professional glee; "he
must take my pills or he will die!"

Then, Andrew, helplessly declaring that he never felt better in his
life, would be seized by the merciless doctor, his eyelids forced apart
until the whites of the eyes were fully exposed to whoever cared to
inspect them, while a triumphant announcement marked the success of the
dismal exhibit: "See! it is all yellow! This leetle fellow have the
malaria, the calentura. And he refuse to take my pills--the estupido!"

But if Andrew was disturbed by these alarming outbreaks of the doctor,
his companions enjoyed to the full that mental and physical relaxation
experienced by many only in the tropics. An endless panorama of
primeval forest, broken at intervals by clusters of wattled Indian huts,
known as villages, with high-sounding names, to the Magdalena boatmen,
gave to the long river journey the pleasant surprises of some half
remembered dream. There was the charm of the familiar as well as the
picturesque in the drowsy air, the swift oily flow of turbid waters, the
flashing green, gold and scarlet of the riotous shore. Merely to feel,
if only for a day, the changing moods of this tropical nature, more than
repaid, one felt, all the hardships and weariness of primitive travel.

For Una and David all this formed a memorable interlude in their
mutual experiences. Even the complex mission upon which the girl had
entered was forgotten in the novelty of the world to which chance had
brought her. The scenic splendor of the river exceeded anything she had
imagined. She was fascinated by the wide sweep of water, the foliage,
the glorious passion-flowers that embroidered, here and there, the thick
mantle of green vines and swaying lianas that bound the treetops to the
river beneath; by the flocks of parrots, glistening like living emeralds
in the sun-bathed air, chattering their language of wild happiness as
they flew from branch to branch on the silent shore. Never had she
beheld such serene, graceful creatures as the swans--she took them
for swans, although Leighton chuckled grimly when appealed to on the
subject--great, long-necked birds, wheeling and soaring far above the
steamer, clouds of shimmering white in a sea of purest sapphire. White,
too with head and neck a brilliant scarlet, was the stately King of the
Vultures, surrounded by a fluttering throng of dusky followers, dining
on a dead alligator.

"See, Senorita!" exclaimed Miranda, pointing to a bowerlike opening
amid the bushes and trees on the shore. "Ah, he is one bad fellow, that
canaille!"

"I see nothing. Oh, yes--another dead alligator!"

"Dead!" laughed the doctor. "He is just one trap. Soon he come
together--so!--and catch his dinner."

It was a familiar scene on this river of the tropics: an alligator
lying motionless on the shore, his yellow, mottled jaws open, waiting
for his prey. In form and color he seemed a part of the dead branches
and tangle of brushwood he had chosen for his resting place. Once
recognized, however, and the malignant creature became a vivid symbol of
the ruthless death with which he threatened whoever mistook his yawning
mouth for a rift in a fallen tree-trunk.

"What a monster!" exclaimed David, roused from his daylong dreams.

"Estupido!" retorted Miranda. "He wait for his dinner--as you and
I--that is all. The so cruel alligator, you know, is good mother for the
young ones. She love them better than some womens."

"That hideous brute!"

"Si, Senor!" declared the doctor. "So soon that they hatch themselves,
she carry the young ones in the mouth and teach them to hunt. She fight
for them and die, if it be so."

Miranda's vague natural history was of the kind derived from
wonder-loving natives. It blended well with the Magdalena's scenic
marvels, the wild animal life, glimpses of which were caught at every
hand, the dark-skinned natives in their rude dugouts--all that set this
apart as a sort of primeval world far removed from any hint of the
modern. But the skepticism of the scientist was proof against idle
tales.

"I am not sure that your theory of the alligator is correct, Senor
Doctor," remarked Leighton dryly.

"Ah, carai!" spluttered Miranda, wheeling about, ever ready for the
fray.

"What you say about the care of the female alligator for her young may
be true enough," said the savant, ignoring the scowl with which he was
regarded; "but that the brute over there in the bushes is holding his
mouth open by the hour in that ridiculous fashion, hoping that something
may walk into it, is unreasonable."

"Then, what for she do it?" demanded the doctor severely.

"I can't tell you that," admitted Leighton, adding, with a touch of
humor, "perhaps he finds it comfortable on a hot day like this to get as
much air as he can. Of course, I have no doubt that he would close his
mouth quickly enough if any creature walked into it."

"I agree with Mr. Leighton," ventured the schoolmaster.

"Ah!" sniffed the doctor scornfully. "And you, Senorita?"

"Why," said Una doubtfully, enjoying the doctor's wrath, "he certainly
does look hungry, doesn't he? I wouldn't trust him--although he seems to
be asleep."

"And you, Senor?" glaring at David.

"Oh, I'm not a naturalist," he laughed. "But, he looks like a pretty
good sort of trap, just the same."

"Bueno, General, what sayest thou?" asked the doctor somewhat
mollified. "What is that cayman doing there under the trees?"

General Herran gazed meditatively at the monster who was unconsciously
causing this pother in natural history, and his eyes had a reminiscent
twinkle as he answered the question:

"That cayman with his mouth open is like the Yankee waiting for Colombia
to walk in."

"And you walked in!" shouted Miranda delightedly.

"Well, I walked out again," said the other complacently.

"But you left Panama inside the mouth!"

"Have your joke, Senor Doctor," said Herran, not relishing the broad
allusion to his discomfiture. "But perhaps your American friends here
will find a cayman in the bushes. Why do they go to Bogota just now?"

"They are friends to you. With you it is all right."

"I hear that the peons are rising against the Yankees."

"The canaille! They can do nothing."

"Besides," pursued the general, "excellent and harmless as this
learned Senor and his family are, I can hardly appear, under all the
circumstances, as protector and champion of a party of Americans."

General Herran spoke in so rapid an undertone that only one to whom
Spanish is the native tongue could have followed him. But Leighton's
keen intelligence, although he was not well versed in Spanish idioms,
was quick to catch at least an inkling of what was passing between his
two companions.

"There is danger for Americans traveling in the interior?" he asked.

"I not say so," replied the doctor stoutly.

Herran tugged at the tangles of his bushy beard. "I hear that some peons
have left Bogota to fight the Yankees on the coast," he said. "But--it
is nothing."

"Well, what shall we do?"

The general shrugged his shoulders. Miranda fanned himself more
vigorously than ever.

"It is not important, Senor," he said impatiently. "These people are
good peoples; they are not caymans."

"Perhaps it is better to wait before you go to Bogota," persisted
Herran.

"Wait in the river?" angrily demanded the doctor.

"I don't believe there is any danger. I love this country," said Una.
"Let's go to Bogota, Uncle Harold."

"Heavens, child!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle tremulously, the heavy gold
rings that adorned her fingers clicking together in dismay. "With
all these savage, half-dressed natives about, threatening the lives
of innocent Americans--and poor Mr. Parmelee down with this terrible
fever----"

"I am not," feebly protested Andrew.

"Yes, that is so!" exclaimed the doctor, a joyous grin wrinkling his
face. "The vieja (old lady) speak right. We stay at Honda and give this
little fellow my pills."

"There is sense in your plan," declared Leighton. "If we can be
comfortable--and safe--at Honda, we will stay until we know what is
happening away from the river, and until Mr. Parmelee regains his health
under your treatment."

"My dear Mr. Leighton, I assure you,----" began the schoolmaster
piteously.

"Don't be an estolido!" interrupted Miranda bruskly. "Soon you will be
all right with my pills. This little vieja, she know--she is very wise."

Mrs. Quayle's gray ringlets bobbed deprecatingly at this generous
tribute to a hitherto unsuspected sagacity on the part of their modest
owner, while Andrew looked more uncomfortable and woebegone than ever.

"Doctor, you are sure that Mr. Parmelee has this miserable fever?"
inquired Una anxiously.

"Senorita," declared the little man, drawing himself up impressively, "I
never mistake. I have been doctor when thousand and thousand die of the
calentura----"

"Good heavens! Poor, dear Mr. Parmelee!" murmured Mrs. Quayle.

"And I know," continued Miranda, ignoring the interruption. "I say he
have the calentura, the malaria. You will see in the eyes--I will show
to you."

Andrew, prepared for what was coming, eluded his medical tormentor,
seeking safety behind the chair of the portly Leighton.

"Caramba! que estupido!" growled the doctor, balked of his prey.
"Bueno," he added, fanning himself resignedly, "we shall see. In Honda
you take my pills. Soon we will be there. And then it is good that
everyone take my pills. I am friend to you. I will take the care, I
charge nothing for the family."

"I'll not stay in Honda," said David, breaking the silence following
this wholesale offer of assistance. "I must get to Bogota as quickly as
possible. Once there I can let you know if it's safe to travel into the
interior."

"A good idea," assented Leighton.

"If it's dangerous for us, it's dangerous for you," objected Una.

"Oh, I'll take a burro loaded with the doctor's pills along with me,"
said David. "I know the country. I have friends in Bogota; there is no
danger. And I leave you in good hands."

"So, that is settle," remarked Miranda complacently. "Very good! I take
care to your families. But--you will beware, my young fellow."

"I tell you I'll have a burro load of your pills, doctor!"

"That is good. You are not estupido, like this leetle fellow with the
malaria! Remember, these people are no friend just now to the Yankee."

"Everyone knows me here; I have no enemies," was the confident reply.

Honda, the picturesque little river-port whence the traveler from the
coast sets out on muleback for his three days' journey up the mountains
to Bogota, was reached on the following day, after a twenty-five mile
trip by rail from La Dorada, the terminus of the Magdalena steamers.
Charming as Honda is architecturally, its quaint red-tiled houses
nestling against a background of radiantly green foothills over which
the winding trails leading to the far distant capital are scarcely ever
without their ascending or descending trains of jostling mules and
burros, the place has something of a bad name among foreigners for its
fevers. Whether or not its reputation in this respect is deserved would
be hard to say. For the traveler, certainly, who has been confined for
ten days to the rude quarters provided by a river steamer, the little
town comes as a welcome respite in a long if not uninteresting journey.
Here, for the first time, he tastes the freedom and glamour of the
Andes; and in the movement and bustle incident to setting out on the
arduous pull over the primitive passes that thread their way across
the mountains, there is the stimulus that comes with the promise of
adventure and discovery. Honda, with its radiant sunshine, its tilted
streets, its cool white buildings and low rambling hostelries hidden
under a veil of flashing greenery, its sparkling little mountain stream
tumbling beneath a venerable bridge that savors of the days of Spanish
conquest and romance, is the link of emerald between the mighty river
of the tropics and the vast highlands that stretch upward to the region
of perpetual snow. As an emerald it lives ever after in the traveler's
memory.

In this village--it is hardly more than that--oriental in its sensuous
beauty, American of a century or two ago in character and outward
aspect, the "Barcelona's" passengers were content to stay for a time.
Una's delight in the picturesque little settlement was marred by the
impending separation from David. It was not merely his absence that
caused her unhappiness; she worried over the dangers that she believed
awaited him in Bogota. Her anxiety was increased by the rumor, reaching
the travelers on their arrival at La Dorado, that war had been declared
between the United States and Colombia. There was no truth in this
rumor; it was without official confirmation, and ridiculed alike by
Doctor Miranda, David and Leighton. But it was credited by most of the
natives, whose belief was stoutly upheld by the principal American
resident of Honda, an amiable patriarch who had once acted as his
government's representative and was known throughout the republic. True
or false, the rumor did not add to the comfort of the travelers, and
intensified Una's desire to keep David with the rest of the party until
they could all set out together for Bogota.




IX

ON INDIAN TRAILS


Doctor Miranda was right about Andrew. By the time he had finished
moving his party and their luggage from the stifling railroad shed to
the cool courtyard of Honda's principal inn, the schoolmaster had been
beaten in his last feeble fight for liberty and had become the victim
to an unlimited amount of quininizing. No need now to force his eyelids
apart to reveal the telltale yellow within. Even a tyro in such matters
could see from his jaundiced appearance, his quick breathing, his
general inertia, that he was in the first stages of an attack of fever.
This being beyond dispute, the little doctor dropped his fighting humor
for one of bustling activity, beneath which there lurked a rough sort of
tenderness for his unhappy patient. A bed, a pitcher of "lemon squash,"
and a box of the famous "pildoras," were quickly provided by dint of
much storming at the indolent hotel servants and angry prodding of the
astonished proprietor. When all his arrangements were perfected, Andrew
completely in his power and stuffed as full as might be with quinine,
the triumphant Miranda rejoined his friends, his rubicund features
beaming with satisfaction.

"No! No! my lady," he answered Una's anxious inquiries, "there is no
danger. That leetle fellow has my pills and plenty of squash. He cannot
die. Soon he will be well. You will see. I am doctor to him."

His assurances had their effect, although they failed to convince the
despondent Mrs. Quayle, who shook her head dolefully, rocking herself
back and forth in her chair and bewailing the sad fate that was awaiting
"poor dear Mr. Parmelee in this desolate country." At all of which the
irascible doctor scowled ominously, taking her complaint as a reflection
on his medical skill. Leighton, however, faced the situation in a matter
of fact way, while David set about the necessary preparations for his
journey to Bogota. An excellent opportunity offered that very day to
join General Herran's party in the trip over the mountains.

A train of twenty mules and burros was needed for the expedition, and
to procure these and load them with the necessary baggage, called for
no small amount of work and skillful management. The stone courtyard
of the inn rang with the shouts of burro drivers, the quarrels of
peons intent on selling their wares to travelers at the best prices,
and the threats and commands of General Herran and his officers. Above
this din, apparently necessary on such occasions, one could hear the
strident voice of Doctor Miranda, browbeating some luckless vendor of
merchandise, or ridiculing the exertions of those who would bestow a
maximum of baggage on a minimum of burro. In spite of the confusion,
however, everything moved along in as orderly and expeditious a manner
as is possible with these ancient methods of travel. By midday the
last load was adjusted, the twenty animals forming the cavalcade stood
strapped and ready for the start.

Hot, stifling was the air in the courtyard; the cobbled pavement of
the street outside fairly baked beneath the relentless sun. Most of
the shops and tiendas were closed for the noon siesta, and only a
few listless stragglers ventured beyond the cool white portals of
the houses. It was not a happy hour in which to commence a difficult
journey; but General Herran, marvelously energetic for once, had planned
to cover a certain distance before nightfall. So, without more ado,
the "bestias" were marshaled, single file, and driven out, with much
shouting and laying on of goads, into the street, where they stood
patiently waiting for the eight travelers whom they were to carry to
Bogota.

"We are off at last!" announced David, entering the salon where
Leighton, Una, Mrs. Quayle and Miranda awaited the caravan's departure.
"In less than a week you'll hear from me. By that time, I hope, you'll
be ready for Bogota."

"I can never go on one of those vicious animals," sighed Mrs. Quayle,
her bejeweled fingers nervously clutching the arms of the chair.

"Vicious!" exclaimed David. "They are harmless as kittens."

As if in denial of the comparison, one of the burros standing near the
doorway stiffened out his forefeet and brayed with all the vehemence
of which burro lungs are capable. He was followed by his comrades
in misery--a full chorus of brays from which no discordant note was
missing. Had it been the traditional bellowing of a herd of bulls--it
was noisy enough for that--the timid lady could not have been more
alarmed, nor the doctor more delighted.

"Bravo!" he shouted. "They want you, my Senora. They wait for you."

"Good-bye!" said David, clasping Una's hand.

"Good-bye!" she said, almost inaudibly.

"Doctor, look out for them," he called to Miranda.

"Be sure! Be sure!" was the response, a glint of sympathy lighting his
eyes. "Have a care to you. I have that leetle fellow in bed. He is full
of lemona squash and my pills. Soon his calentura is kill."

"Well, don't kill him too!"

"Ah, canaille!"

The members of General Herran's party had already mounted and were
slowly disappearing down the bend of the street, pack-mules and burros
in the lead. The general himself, on a pinched-up, piebald horse that,
like Hamlet's cloud, bore a comical resemblance to a camel, lingered
behind for his guest. David's bay, lacking in zoological vagaries,
pranced spiritedly to begone as soon as it felt its rider in the saddle.

"That is one good animal," commented Miranda.

"The other needs your pills," remarked Leighton solemnly.

With a laugh and a hearty "adios!" the two horsemen saluted the group
in the doorway and galloped off after their companions. Una watched,
motionless, long after David was out of sight. She had done her best to
prevent his going, but all her efforts had been useless. Nor could she
explain, even to herself, why it was that she so dreaded his leaving
their party to travel alone with Herran. There was nothing logical in
the feeling, of course, and she had to confess that for once she was
influenced by an utterly unreasonable fear, a sort of superstition.

The journey from Honda to Bogota is a scramble over precipitous trails
worn into the living rock by centuries of travel, through wastes of
traffic-beaten mire, along glades of dew-soaked herbage that gleam
refreshingly under cloudless skies in a wilderness of impenetrable
forest. No other city of like size and importance has so rude and
picturesque an approach, nor are there many that keep their commerce
along ways and by methods so unmodern. The stranger, ignorant of the
simplicities of South American life, whether in town or country, is
bewildered by the oddities and hardships in a trip of this kind. But
David had traveled more than once over the Bogota trail, and for him it
had lost its novelty, especially as his sole aim on the present occasion
was to reach his destination as quickly as possible. Herran had a
similar feeling; hence, as the day was not unpleasantly warm, once they
had passed beyond the lowlands of Honda both men urged their horses on
to top speed. In a short time they had left the rest of the party far
behind them, and broke into a race over the rough mountain trail. Tiring
of this, they dropped back to a more sober gait, letting their horses
choose their own way for a time.

"I telegraphed from Honda that we were coming," said Herran in Spanish.
"They are looking for us now in Bogota."

"Did you say that I was with you?" asked David.

"Surely. As an officer it is my duty to give complete information," was
the somewhat pompous reply. "I gave the names of all who are in your
party and told why they stayed in Honda."

"Why so much detail about us? My friends and I are not connected with
the military movements of the country."

"That may be true, Senor. But you travel with me and--I am ignorant of
your business, you know."

"We travel partly for pleasure, partly--I am interested in a Guatavita
mining venture."

"So! Will they know that when they see your name in the Bogota papers?"

"My friend that I am going to visit will know, of course. I wrote to him
that I was coming. Why do you ask?"

"Ah! Just now, it may be, my countrymen will not like American mining
ventures--or Americans."

"Then, Americans are in danger?"

"How can I say, Senor?" he answered with a shrug. "I have lost Panama,
they say. I, too, have enemies. Perhaps I am in danger. But you have a
friend in Bogota? He is--?"

"An American; Raoul Arthur."

"I have heard of him."

"He is well liked here."

"That is good," commented Herran drily.

For the first time since he had been in Colombia David felt uneasy as
to the possible outcome of his trip. His friends, in reach of the river
steamers, could leave the country at the first sign of real danger.
But every mile placed between himself and the Magdalena lessened his
chances for escape--and that he might need to get out of Colombia in a
hurry was evident from Herran's attitude, his reserve, his ambiguous
answers to David's questions. All this was not exactly through a lack
of friendliness on the general's part. David knew Herran fairly well,
and did not doubt his loyalty. He also knew that he was under suspicion
on account of the Panama affair, and for this reason would have to be
extremely wary in extending protection to an American seeking to enrich
himself in Colombia. Politically, the man who lost Panama could not
afford to let his name be further compromised.

General Herran, however, was not one to keep up an attitude of restraint
for long. The air was bracing, the mountain trail was in excellent
condition, the horses were fresh and responded readily to whip and
bridle. Under these favoring influences the two travelers soon became
sociable enough, and even joked over some of the sinister circumstances
attending their journey.

"We are a long way from Panama, Senor--and Miranda's pills!" exclaimed
Herran.

"Heaven help the schoolmaster!" laughed David.

"Ah, poor fellow! To be at the doctor's mercy! But he is not a bad
doctor. Only nine out of every ten of his victims die, they say. Perhaps
this schoolmaster---- Have you your pistol, Senor?" he broke off
suddenly.

"My pistol, General?"

"For a salute to Panama and our friends," explained the other. "You do
not know the custom of the road to Bogota in times of revolution--that
is, at all times. And you have no pistol," he added with a sigh. "But
this will do for both of us."

Reining in his horse at a shaded bend in the trail, General Herran,
unconsciously following the Fat Knight's memorable exploit on Shrewsbury
Battlefield, took from his hip pocket a huge case bottle and handed it
to David.

"Fire the first shot, my friend, and I will come after with a long one
for your Guatavita mine."

In the act of carrying out this pleasant suggestion, the attention of
David and Herran was suddenly caught by a babel of voices--shouts of
command, the tramp of many feet--coming from the Bogota end of the
trail. Interruptions of this kind are more serious than they may seem to
those unfamiliar with Colombian mountain travel. So rough and narrow is
the road to Bogota, with sometimes a precipice on one hand and a sheer
wall of rock on the other, that the problem of two parties passing each
other is not always an easy one. Although this is the chief thoroughfare
between the national capital and the Magdalena, it remains quite as
primitive and unadapted to modern needs as in the days of the Indians.
To widen and pave it proved more of a task in road-building than the
Spanish conquerors cared to undertake; and their successors in the
government of the country have, until now, attempted little in the way
of improvement. Thus, travelers from the lowlands over this Indian trail
frequently have to fight for a passage through a descending rabble of
men and burros, or else allow themselves to be crowded off into a tangle
of underbrush on one side or thrown down a steep cliff on the other.

As it happened, the spot chosen by General Herran and David for their
friendly salute was a particularly awkward one in an encounter with a
lot of travelers coming from the opposite direction. In front of them
the trail rose abruptly in a long zigzag of rocks and gullies, down
which the caravan from Bogota, the noise of whose approach grew rapidly
more distinct, was bound to descend upon them. Their only chance to
escape was either through a morass, covered with a dense forest growth,
or else up a hazardous mountain side, strewn with boulders and loose
stones. Of course, they might retrace their steps until they found a
more open space; but this seemed too much like retreating from an enemy
and did not recommend itself to either of the horsemen.

"It sounds like a regiment of soldiers," said David, taking another long
draught from the Falstaffian "pistol" and returning it to Herran.

"Perhaps," replied the General, indifferent to outside matters until he
had finished his part of the prescribed ceremony. "And here we are,"
he added, with a sigh of contentment, "saluting Panama and an American
company, with an army of volunteers, bent on licking the Yankees, coming
down upon us."

"Are you sure?"

"Caramba! In Honda they said these volunteers started from Bogota three
days ago. They are due here now."

"We must meet them," said David, upon whom the General's "pistol" had
not failed to score.

"Wait a moment! As Miranda would say, these peons are canaille
and--there is no room for a meeting."

Both men laughed. Nevertheless, in spite of the humor of the situation,
it had more than the usual peril incident to travel on the Bogota trail
to be comfortable.

"Two men against a regiment!" chuckled Herran.

"But they are not after us," argued David.

"They are after the Yankees--and you are a Yankee. Well, Senor, what
shall we do?"

"You are in command, Senor General."

"Caramba! Then, let us march! We can't jump down those rocks, the swamp
is even worse--and we won't retreat before a lot of peons. Forward,
Senor! We can at least use pistols if we need to!"

With which comforting assurance Herran handed one of his case bottles to
David. This the latter retained, first joining his comrade in a final
"salute," declaring all the while that this kind of exercise had been
unknown to him for years--a statement received by General Herran with
the skepticism it deserved. The two horses were then brought into line
and, with touch of whip and spur, commenced a scramble up the trail, at
the top of which the front ranks of the peons were just visible.

As Herran had predicted, the travelers with whom they had to contest
the right of way belonged to one of the volunteer regiments of Bogota
peons bound for the Isthmus. At their head rode Pedro, "El Rey," more
dilapidated as to costume but more joyous of mood than on that memorable
morning when he led his forces down the Calle de Las Montanas to be
reviewed by the President of the Republic. He had parted with his
blacking box and in place of it, hanging from his neck, was a rusty
old sword that clanked dismally on the scarred and battered ribs of
the solemn burro upon which he was mounted. Burros, as a rule, are
patient animals, taking whatever comes, whether insult, ridicule, or
cajolery, with unruffled temper, and this particular specimen of the
long-suffering race evinced supreme indifference to the military honors
that sat so weightily upon him. Pedro, however, was not unmindful of
the distinctions he had won. Immediately behind him, borne by two of
his trustiest lieutenants, floated the flag of the republic, its red
and yellow folds somewhat faded and dusty from the three days' march,
and flapping now in anything but defiant fashion. But it formed a good
background to the enthusiasm of leadership that marked the bearing and
illuminated the grimy features of Bogota's ex-bootblack and, doubtless,
helped keep up the courage and patriotism of his followers. The latter
marched, for the most part, on foot and in such straggling lines as best
suited them. When it first set out from Bogota the regiment had kept
some sort of military order, but this had long since been abandoned, and
the host of men and boys, some thousand in number, jostled each other
and choked up the narrow trail in glorious confusion.

Having reached the top of the hill overlooking the sheltered ledge
chosen by David and Herran for their impromptu celebration, the
volunteers kept right on. Led by Pedro and his two banner-bearers,
they plunged down the steep, winding trail, crowding upon each other,
shouting and laughing, filling the narrow space with most unmilitary
disorder. In the meantime the two horsemen tried their best to reach a
point as near as possible to the top of the trail before the volunteers
began the descent. In this they failed, and the inevitable collision
with the front ranks of the peons took place half way up the hillside.
Here they met Pedro and his immediate followers, behind whom pressed,
with increasing energy, the whole rabble of peons. But the dejected
burro, whose duty it was to carry the leader of these ragged cohorts
to victory, refused to be hurried by those behind him. The more he was
urged the greater was his deliberation in picking his way among the
treacherous stones covering the trail. Thumps and blows failed to arouse
his enthusiasm, and with every fresh difficulty presented by rock or
sudden dip in the pathway, he stopped to take a careful survey of the
surrounding obstacles before proceeding with his journey. Memories
of past disaster had taught him the value of caution that a younger,
less experienced burro might have failed to observe. But the horses
of David and Herran, although ancient enough, were not afflicted with
recollections of former mishaps, and so plunged into the ranks of the
peons without regard for consequences.

"Hug the side of the road," cautioned Herran in a low voice. "I'll take
the middle and try to distract the attention of these people from you."

"Salute, Senor!" cried Pedro, attempting as courteous a greeting as his
burro would allow. "What news from Panama?"

Not to be outdone in courtesy, Herran pulled back his horse from the
folds of the flag into which he was patriotically heading, and offered
his "pistol" to "El Rey."

"Ah!" exclaimed Pedro, his eyes fairly snapping with astonishment; "it
is General Herran! Bueno, Senor General, we go to bring Panama back to
Colombia."

"That is well," replied the other, diplomatically ignoring the implied
reproach; "with such brave men you will surely succeed, Senor Capitan."

"And the Yankees?" queried Pedro, smacking his lips after a long draught
from the General's bottle.

"Doubtless you will find them in Panama."

The news that this was General Herran, the man whom Panama had made
famous, spread like wildfire among the volunteers, who crowded together
excitedly, bent on hearing the latest bulletin from the land they were
pledged to recapture. Shouts of amazement, indignation, derision
echoed along the trail--expressions of hostility that might have
appalled one less cool than Herran. But he pretended not to notice these
demonstrations, and devoted himself to Pedro, who, he perceived, was
moved by his flattery.

"It's a bad business, Senor Capitan," he assured him confidentially.
"But the country is safe with such brave volunteers to defend it."

"And you, Senor General, you fight with us?"

"It will be an honor," graciously replied the hero of Panama. "But first
I must see His Excellency, the President, in Bogota. I will tell him how
you are hurrying to the rescue of the Isthmus."

"Where are your soldiers?"

"Some of them you will meet on the way to Honda."

"An officer was with you just now. Where is he?"

In the throng of volunteers surrounding them it was impossible to
distinguish David, who had doubtless seized the opportunity created by
the sudden recognition of Herran to force his way up the side of the
trail as the General had suggested.

"Caramba!" exclaimed Herran. "He has gone on ahead. He knows the
President awaits us and the despatches of great importance to the
republic that we bring him. I must hurry. Pardon, Senor Capitan, if I am
forced to leave you so quickly. Perhaps we meet soon again in Panama."

With a fine show of deference, Herran saluted the King of the
Bootblacks, whose eyes sparkled proudly at this recognition of his
rank from a brother officer, and who signified his appreciation of the
tribute by a wave of the hand to his followers and a command to them
not to delay the General.

"Senores!" he shouted, "make way for the great Senor General! He comes
for the Republic. After he has seen Don Jose, he will go with us to
bring back Panama."

The order was given with all the flourish that had won renown for Pedro
as a polisher of boots and was received by the volunteers with their
wonted cheerfulness and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, the burro who had
the honor of carrying "El Rey" was so unappreciative of his rider's
eloquence that he allowed himself to be jostled into too close proximity
with the bearers of the flag. He then became so hopelessly entangled
in his country's colors that, uttering a dismal bray, he was tumbled
headlong down the slippery hill, dragging the amazed and protesting
Pedro with him.

Profiting by this accident, General Herran spurred his own horse through
the ranks of the volunteers, gaining at last, after much energetic
pushing and shoving, the top of the hill. Here he paused to look back,
with an inward chuckle, at the excited throng of men and boys from whom
he had escaped, and to pick up again his fellow traveler, David. But
David was nowhere to be seen. Herran expected to find him on the level
space at the top of the hill; that he was not there filled him with
anxiety. Reasoning, however, that if the volunteers had attacked David
he would have heard of it, and convinced that the American was not with
the mob he had just left, he set spurs to his horse, expecting to find
him further on. After all, he argued, it was natural that a Yankee,
traveling alone, should put as great a distance as possible between
himself and these volunteers. But, whatever the explanation, David was
not to be found. There were no cross trails from the main Bogota road
into which he might have blundered, and his disappearance, therefore,
became more of a puzzle as Herran traveled mile after mile, at the best
speed of which his horse was capable, without trace of him.

In a way General Herran felt responsible for the safety of the man
with whom he had been traveling, the more so that this man was a
foreigner, belonging to a nation whose citizens were not welcome
just then in Colombia. Had David been other than an American, Herran
would have taken his disappearance, puzzling though it was, with the
cheerful indifference peculiar to him. But the fact that he was an
American, alone in a hostile country, appealed to a chivalrous strain
in his nature, urging him to do the best he could for his rescue.
Unfortunately, the solving of the simplest of problems was not in the
General's line, and he painfully turned the matter over and over without
result, one way or the other. David, he told himself, had forced his
way through the ranks of the volunteers without attracting attention.
He felt sure of this because he had watched his ascent of the trail
for a good part of the way. Hence, he could not be with the volunteers
now. Only a few of the latter were mounted, and these marched in the
front ranks where they had been carefully noted by Herran. If David
had remained in the rear ranks of the regiment, voluntarily or as a
captive, his horse would have made him conspicuous. Of course, during
the commotion following the accident to Pedro and his burro almost
anything might have happened; David might have been captured, bound and
gagged, his horse taken away and he himself hidden by the peons who
held him prisoner in the hope of future ransom. But this was all too
bewildering, too complex for Herran seriously to consider. Instead, he
convinced himself that David had escaped the volunteers, that he was no
longer behind him on the trail, that he must therefore be in front, and
that to find him there was only one thing to do--push forward as fast as
possible.

Acting on this, General Herran rode without stopping until nightfall,
reaching just after dusk--dusk comes swiftly enough in the tropics--one
of the primitive little hostelries kept for the accommodation of
travelers to and from Bogota. Here, as is usual in such places, there
was a large number of guests intending to spend the night. This posada,
or inn, was a one-storied, rambling affair consisting of three rooms and
a verandah sheltered by the overhanging eaves of a thatched roof. All
the rooms were filled with people, most of them lying on mats spread on
the floor; the verandah was similarly occupied. In the dim light from
smoky lanterns it was difficult to tell who these people were. Herran,
confident that David was among them, appealed to the proprietor, a
stolid looking peon, for information.

"You have a Yankee here, Senor?"

"No, Senor."

"A Yankee came to-day from Honda?"

"No, Senor."

"He was riding alone to Bogota?"

"No, Senor."

"A young man on a bay horse?"

"No, Senor."

"Is there a foreigner here?"

"No, Senor."

"A foreigner passed here to-day on a bay horse?"

"No, Senor."

"Caramba, hombre! Have you ever seen a foreigner here?"

"No--yes, Senor."

"To-day?"

"No, Senor."

Exasperated by what he considered the stupidity of the landlord, Herran
addressed, in a loud voice, the various guests who were preparing to
pass the night on such improvised beds as they could get for themselves.

"Senores, I am looking for a young man, a foreigner, a Yankee, who is
riding to Bogota on a bay horse. He must be here. Have you seen him?"

There was a confused murmur. A number of the men sat up on their mats
and repeated energetically the landlord's negative. Others grumblingly
denounced all Yankees as robbers and disturbers of the country's peace.
One young man, dressed in the uniform of an army officer, recognizing
Herran's rank, politely offered to share his mat with him, suggesting,
at the same time, that he could pursue his search to much better
advantage in the morning. As further inquiries brought out nothing new,
Herran accepted this officer's hospitality, wearily resigning himself
to the conclusion that David had been mysteriously spirited away, and
was about to be shot by a lot of insane peons, led on by the ridiculous
Pedro. So it seemed to him as he sank into a nightmare-ridden sleep.

Morning failed to bring the expected solution of the General's
difficulties. In the bedlam created by burros, horses, travelers--all
trying to make their departure from the inn at the same early
hour, and all finding their plans delayed by some fault in harness,
mislaying of baggage, or other inconvenience peculiar to a four-footed
conveyance--there was no sign of the missing David. A number of native
merchants on their way from Bogota to the coast, who had lodged at the
inn during the night, recognized Herran, and although their greetings
were cordial, the oldtime friendliness was tempered by the uncertainty
with which the average Colombian viewed this unfortunate officer's part
in the so-called Panama revolution. As news of his presence spread among
the departing guests, General Herran felt the restraint as well as the
disagreeable curiosity with which he was regarded. This made his search
for David more difficult. Under the circumstances it was not easy to
explain why he, of all men, was traveling with an American; hence, he
was forced to speak with more reserve than he would have liked of the
young man's disappearance.

As a result of the little that he learned, he was convinced that David
had neither reached nor passed the inn on the way to Bogota. There
remained two alternatives. Had his companion been carried along by
the volunteers? Or, had he, by mistake, of course, taken a side trail
from the main road and thus lost himself in the labyrinth of mountains
and forests through which they were traveling? No one knew of such
a side trail. As for the other possibility, there was nothing to do
but await the coming of his own party of men and officers whom Herran
and David had left shortly after their departure from Honda, and who
must have met, in their turn, the volunteers somewhere on the road. In
the meantime, nothing could be gained from the landlord of the inn,
whose intelligence was at an even lower ebb in the morning than on the
preceding evening. This good-natured but fatuous boniface found it
difficult to sustain a conversation on the most ordinary topics; and
as a result of his intellectual labors with him, the sociable Herran
was nearing the extremity of misery when his own party arrived, several
hours after the last traveler had left the inn.

"Ah, yes, Senor General!" groaned Colonel Rodriguez, the bustling little
officer in charge of the men during Herran's absence; "we met the
volunteers. They wanted us to go with them to Panama. They waved their
flag, they shouted, they made speeches, they cheered the fatherland,
they cursed the Yankees, they said you would lead them to the Isthmus.
Their little capitan, who rode on a burro and talked peon very much,
said we belonged to them, and Colombia depended on us. It was very
terrible. We thought they would never leave us."

"Did you meet the Yankee, Don David, with them?" asked Herran.

"Don David? But--is he not with you?" they asked in return.

"I left him when we met those insane volunteers."

"But, Senor General, they said that a young man--it must be Don
David--went with you."

"Ah, caramba! Then they know nothing?"

"That is all, Senor."

"Then he is lost, that little fellow. He is not with me, he is not with
those canaille--unless they hide him, or kill him. No one has seen him;
he is lost--or dead."

Having reached this decision, there was nothing further to do
except march to Bogota and telegraph from there the news of David's
disappearance to his friends in Honda.




X

AN OLD MYSTERY


The vanishing of David Meudon in broad daylight while traveling on one
of the main thoroughfares of the Republic became the sensation of the
hour in Bogota. It excited more interest even than the return of General
Herran and his party from Panama. The tale of David's disappearance
three years before was revived, and gossip found plenty of material from
which to weave wild romance as to what had happened on both occasions.
But you can't build up a durable romance without some solid fact to
base it on, and since this whole affair was wrapped in mystery, lacking
anything tangible, public interest gradually and inevitably died out.
Among government leaders, however, owing to the strained relations
existing between the United States and Colombia, there was some anxiety
over the incident.

General Herran, who was related to the President of the Republic, and
who was proved to have had nothing to do--consciously, that is--with the
loss of Panama, declared that the government was responsible for David's
disappearance. He argued that, as the country was not in a state of war,
the marching of volunteer regiments on the public roads was a menace
to foreigners having business in Colombia, and that therefore these
regiments should either be disbanded or else ample protection be given
to all travelers who might encounter them. As it was too late to look
after David--so said the General--his friends, who were about to set
out for Bogota, should at least be guarded from a like fate on the way
thither. Accordingly, as this view of the case was approved, a company
of soldiers was sent to Honda--and thus it happened that Doctor Miranda,
Leighton and his niece, Mrs. Quayle and the schoolmaster--recovered
from his fever and the Doctor's pills--made the journey under military
escort, arriving in the capital quite like official personages.

This novel manner of traveling, although it kept off vagrant militia,
had its sinister features for the timid members of the party. Mrs.
Quayle, whose fear of a burro grew in proportion as she became familiar
with that harmless and necessary animal, believed that she and her
friends had fallen captives, through a skillful bit of strategy,
into the enemy's hands and were being led either to their death or
imprisonment. To this belief she stuck, in spite of the vehemence and
ridicule with which Doctor Miranda seasoned his arguments against
it. Indeed, had she dared express her full opinion her suspicions
would have involved the Doctor himself, whose explosive habits and
other eccentricities kept her in a continual state of alarm that was
increased, every now and then, by his malicious allusions to the jewelry
she wore. Andrew, inclined to attribute his fever to the famous pills
and the heroic treatment to which he had been subjected, secretly shared
her feeling, and was in hourly dread of some new calamity striking him
from the same quarter. Harold Leighton and Una, however, were too
much absorbed in David's mysterious fate to be greatly concerned by
what was going on immediately around them. The old savant, unable to
explain the disaster, was distressed beyond measure by the poignant
grief of his niece. In his own mind he was convinced that the singular
occurrence on the Honda road was related in some way to David's former
disappearance, and this belief stimulated his professional eagerness to
solve the puzzle presented by so strange a coincidence. Una's appeal,
therefore, to go any length in the rescue of David needed no urging. It
was met with a hearty promise of aid from Doctor Miranda, who stormed at
the government, in and out of season, for permitting bands of peons to
endanger the lives of harmless travelers.

The Doctor was especially indignant with Herran, who called upon the
Americans before they were fairly settled in their hotel in Bogota.
He pitched into this hapless officer with his choicest bits of
vituperation, until Herran began to think that the loss of one man,
under certain circumstances, was as serious an affair as the loss of an
isthmus. Leighton, however, did not share Doctor Miranda's views of the
matter.

"Miranda is unreasonable," he said to Herran. "There is a mystery in
this case. You have done all you could to save the young man, and you
are now offering to help us."

"That is right! That is right!" agreed Miranda. "We must find him."

"Anything I can do----" volunteered Herran.

"Do you know an American in this town by the name of Raoul Arthur?"
interrupted Leighton.

"How not! But--I don't like him."

"Never mind. I must see him. If any one can unravel this thing, he can."

"Mr. Meudon spoke of him. I will find him for you."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"Surely, Senor. In the Calle Mercedes."

"Take me to him."

"Very well, Senor," said Herran, apparently overcoming his reluctance;
"that is settled. First, I will be sure he is there. Then, this night, I
take you to his house."

Una, hearing of this decision, doubted its wisdom. From the few
references David had made to his partner in the Guatavita mining
venture she had felt instinctively that Raoul was his enemy, an opinion
strengthened by the psychometer test used at Stoneleigh. Leighton had
agreed in this opinion, more or less; hence Una's surprise that her
uncle, who was usually overcautious, should now turn to Raoul for help.

"I believe the man knows where David is," he declared.

"If he does, he will never tell you," remonstrated Una.

"I am not so sure of that."

"You may force him to do something fatal," she urged.

"On the contrary! By going to him at once I will prevent any foul
play--if there is to be any foul play."

The possibility alarmed her. The suspense, the mystery surrounding David
seemed more than she could bear. Bitterly she remembered Leighton's
attitude towards him in Rysdale. And now that their trip to Bogota,
insisted on from the first by her uncle, had ended as it had, her faith
in him was sadly shaken. She could not accept his judgment in a case
about which he had already shown so grave a lack of foresight. Leighton,
on his part, realized Una's distrust of him. He did not try to dispel
this feeling; but the knowledge that it was there spurred him on to do
his best and with the least possible delay.

So, that very evening Leighton, piloted by Herran, sought Raoul Arthur's
abode on the Calle Mercedes. Like most Bogota houses of the humbler
sort, this was a one-storied building, its heavy street door opening
upon a wide brick corridor leading to a central patio from which the
various rooms were reached. Following Colombian custom, the two men
entered without announcement and made their way along the unlighted
passage to the main living room, extending from the patio to the street.
A lamp at the center of a long table heaped with books and papers
distinguished this from the other rooms of the house, all of which were
in darkness and apparently uninhabited. A man, somewhat past thirty, his
hair slightly grizzled, his features pale and sharpened from study, sat
at the table in this main room reading a much-worn leather-bound volume,
the large black type and thick, yellowed paper of which gave ample proof
of age. Aroused by the noise made by Leighton and Herran, he closed his
book with a quick, nervous movement and turned to the doorway where his
two visitors stood.

"This is Mr. Raoul Arthur?" asked Leighton grimly.

"Who are you?" demanded the other, his strange, shifting eyes on the
massive figure before him.

"My name is Leighton. I am looking for David Meudon."

"He is not here," was the quick reply.

"I hardly expected to find him here," retorted the savant.

"Then why ask me for him?"

"You were once, if you are not now, Meudon's business partner. You
must have heard of his disappearance. On his way from Honda to Bogota
he--well, he simply vanished. That's the only way to describe it. It all
happened, no one knows how, a few days ago. The same thing took place
some years ago when he was living here with you. You know all about the
details of that first disappearance."

"You are mistaken," interrupted Raoul. "David Meudon left me for a
number of months. On his return he failed--or didn't think it worth
while--to explain his absence."

"That is all very well. Perhaps he could, perhaps he couldn't explain
it. At any rate, you thought that absence sufficiently peculiar to make
it the subject of an article for the Psychological Journal."

Raoul flinched perceptibly under this statement. His cool indifference
took on the sort of cordiality that repels one more than open enmity.
Bending over the table before which he was standing, he occupied himself
in elaborately sorting and rearranging some papers at which he had been
working.

"Of course," he said, "I know you now! Mr. Harold Leighton. I didn't
place the name at first, which was altogether stupid of me. I have often
wanted to meet you. As a matter of fact, I heard of your coming. It's a
rare treat in this out-of-the-way part of the world to run across a man
who has advanced our knowledge of psychology as you have."

The profuse compliment was not relished by the old savant. "I am not
aware that I have advanced our knowledge of psychology, as you put it,
one iota," he said testily. "But I am here to add to the small stock of
what I have already learned."

"You must have found David a rare problem!" exclaimed Raoul.

"You know him, perhaps, better than I do."

"Yes, I know him. That is, in a way. Engaging sort of chap. Clever,
and all that. Mysterious, too, don't you think? So, he has disappeared
again, you say?"

"Don't tell me that you have not known of it! The whole town has been
talking about it."

"Rumors, only rumors," protested Raoul. "I would like to hear the real
facts."

"This gentleman, General Herran, with whom Mr. Meudon was traveling, can
tell you the facts, such as they are. But I can't see why you should
need them."

Raoul turned to Leighton's companion, who had been trying to follow
what the two men were saying. As they talked in English, a language
of which he knew scarcely a word, he could make very little of it.
Asked, in Spanish, to give the details of his ride with David, he made
an excellent story of it, relating something of the discussion that
had absorbed them while on the road together, the friendly feeling
that had grown up between them, its touch of conviviality, and their
abrupt separation in the midst of their encounter with the regiment of
volunteers.

Raoul listened intently to Herran's narrative, his glance roving
restlessly from the narrator to his companion and back again, as if to
compare the effect on both of what was said.

"It's a strange tale, Senor," he commented when Herran had come to
the end. "These things with a touch of mystery in them are always
fascinating--until you stumble on the clew. Then it's very simple. I
suppose you have no theory to explain our friend's disappearance?"

"None, Senor."

"You have just told me, Mr. Leighton," he went on, addressing the
latter, "that you are here to add to your knowledge of psychology."

"I did."

"Well, what do you make of it? Here's what you are looking for--a neat
psychological problem right to your hand."

"I don't see it," said the savant impatiently.

"That's always the way with you great scientists! But--it's simple,"
declared Raoul, a note of triumph in his voice; "absolutely simple--if
you know David as well as I do."

"I said that you probably know him better. I have not known him as long
or as intimately as you have. But--again I fail to see what psychology
has to do with it."

"It has everything to do with it. David was not spirited away, as you
seem to imagine. He disappeared of his own accord."

"There is every reason to think the contrary," said Leighton
contemptuously.

"Oh, of course I may be wrong in my theory. But, as there is no other
evidence, I see only one solution. It's the clew we are after, you
know--and the clew is right under your nose."

"Perhaps you are on the wrong scent. Some investigators have a knack of
being cocksure about everything. But--explain your meaning."

"Very well. Let's talk as one psychologist to another, then. Meudon has
a peculiar temperament. You probably know that. But you may not know
that the dual personality is highly developed in him. Under strong,
sudden excitement this personality becomes greatly exaggerated."

"He was laboring under no particular excitement at the time of his
disappearance," objected Leighton.

"What about the mission he was on? I have an idea that it was of
absorbing importance to him. Remember, he was revisiting scenes
connected with an episode that for some years he has been trying to
forget but which he now wants to revive. And then, to cap the climax,
suddenly he comes, slap bang, right into the midst of a rabble of peons
who would be only too glad to kill him, or imprison him, or torture
him--or anything else unpleasant. The same crowd tried to get me once,
so I know what it all means."

"All this is true; but the excitement was hardly enough to drown David's
normal personality."

"It all helps, though. It predisposes things. It is, as I look at
it, the final stage setting, with all the characters in their places
awaiting the entrance of the villain to finish up the tragedy. And
in this case the villain entered just at the critical moment. Mr.
Leighton," he asked abruptly, "have you ever known David to drink a
glass of wine?"

"I can't say that I have," he answered doubtfully.

"Well, alcoholic stimulus, with certain temperaments--you know what it
does. It starts up an altogether abnormal psychology, doesn't it?"

"Very apt to."

"Depends a little on the stage setting, doesn't it? But, even without
that it has its odd effects. On rare occasions, for instance, I have
known Meudon to take a single drink of liquor. The result has been
similar to that brought on by hypnotism."

"Well?"

"There's your clew!" Raoul announced triumphantly. "You have heard
General Herran's story. He tells us that just before they parted he
and David drank several toasts together--and the toasts, I fancy, were
stronger than mere wine."

"You think, then----"

"Why, it's childishly simple! David was knocked over by a force, an
influence, to which he is unaccustomed. He is not at all a drinking
man, you understand. Quite the reverse. With him the effect of drink
would not be in the least like ordinary intoxication. From two former
experiences I know that it would be far subtler. It would produce what
you would call a pseudo-hypnosis, a condition of abnormal psychology."

"Well?"

"Don't you see what happened?"

"I have not had your experience with David," was the sarcastic reply.

"It is not a question of mere personal experience," said Raoul
irritably; "it involves what we know--or guess--of the eccentricities of
the human soul."

"You are an enthusiast. Be more explicit. Don't wander off in your
statements."

"Very well. I'll put it in the lingo of science as nearly as I can.
It appears to me, then, that David, by this little exchange of pistol
shots, as you call them, with General Herran, brought into activity
a portion of his brain that had not, for a number of years, intruded
itself upon his conscious life. It had literally been sleeping all that
time. On the last occasion when it was awake--when, in other words, he
was under the sway of this subconscious ego--he was here, amid the very
scenes in which he again finds himself. A moment ago you connected his
first disappearance with the one which has just taken place on the road
from Honda. Well, the General's 'pistol,' as he calls it, suddenly threw
David back into the memory of that first subconscious experience."

"The Ghost of the Forgotten found at last," mused Leighton, more to
himself than to Raoul.

"Exactly! That's a good way to put it."

"Suppose your theory correct; what happened after David's subconscious
memory was awakened?"

"As a psychologist, you are better able to answer that than I."

"I am not interested in abstruse problems just now. I am here simply to
find David."

"Difficult, perhaps. I couldn't find him before. But at least I have
given you the clew."

"Your clew doesn't explain. I don't know what to do with it."

"A restatement of my theory may clear things up. Through a combination
of certain circumstances, exerting upon him a peculiar influence, David
is living again in an environment and through a set of experiences that
belong to him only when he is in what we call a condition of secondary
personality. Discover that environment--the same, I believe, as the one
in which he was lost three years ago--and you will discover David."

Leighton made no comment. He regarded Raoul with characteristic
immobility. One gathered from his silence, however, that he was
impressed with what he had just heard. Slowly pacing the length of the
sala, he stopped before General Herran, who, through his ignorance of
English, was in a quite helpless state of bewilderment at the turn the
interview between the two men had taken.

"This young man will help us find Meudon," said Leighton in his broken
Spanish.

"He knows where he is?" asked Herran eagerly.

"He knows--something," replied the savant with significant emphasis.
"For one thing, General, those pistol shots you had with Meudon seem to
have played the devil."

"Caramba! Does he say so? But that is foolishness!"

"No, it is theory," said Leighton drily.

"How will he prove it?"

"By finding Meudon."

There was a finality in the tone of Leighton's rejoinder which, more
than the words themselves, indicated the seeker's conviction that the
road to David's discovery was in plain view. Raoul Arthur, however, said
nothing. Standing aloof from his two visitors, apparently not heeding
them, his silence aroused Leighton's curiosity.

"Naturally, I depend on you, Arthur," said the old man, with an emphasis
that sounded like a threat.

"I don't know why," he demurred. "David was with your party when this
happened. I failed to find him three years ago, you know."

"There is no proof that you did anything then to rescue the man who was
your friend and business partner," retorted Leighton. "This time failure
might be fatal--for you."

The words and Leighton's manner had their effect. Shaking off his real,
or assumed, apathy, Raoul faced his accuser angrily.

"I have given you the one clew of which I have any knowledge," he said,
meeting Leighton for the first time eye to eye. "I have done what I
could, I will still do what I can. But I won't act at the dictation of a
man of whom I know nothing, whom I never even met until this moment."

"That's all very well," replied the other imperturbably. "But, as I
said, I depend on you--quite naturally, it seems to me--to help in the
recovery of your friend. My niece and I are in this country for the
express purpose of solving David's former disappearance."

"Your niece?"

"Yes; the woman whom David expects to marry."

Raoul's defiant attitude vanished before this announcement. Irritation
gave place to amazement, distrust turned to friendliness. Nor did he
attempt to conceal his appetite for further news of David's personal
affairs.

"David wrote me nothing of this," he said. "From his letter I learned
that he was coming with friends. He did not tell me who these friends
were."

"Well, there's every reason why I should be frank with you--as I expect
you to be frank with me."

"You are still suspicious. What can I do, or say? I tell you, I don't
know where David is."

"Do you know where he was when he disappeared from Bogota three years
ago?"

"No."

"Strange! A man with all your interests at stake in this puzzle--surely
you must have reached some conclusion?"

"I tell you, I have not," he replied sharply. "I know nothing,
absolutely nothing."

"You admit you have a theory--let's call it that--a theory that fits the
facts so far as you know them?"

"That's your deduction," sneered the other.

"But, I'm right?"

"Possibly," Raoul answered, turning again to the papers that littered
his writing table.

"That's all I want," declared Leighton with satisfaction. "Now, we will
plan our campaign."

Raoul, engrossed in a large, musty document which he had spread before
him, greeted the proposal with a shrug of his shoulders. General Herran,
impatient at the apparently futile and--to him--incomprehensible
discussion, consumed innumerable cigarettes, while Leighton, with the
air of one for whom waiting is an enjoyment, settled himself comfortably
in a capacious rocking-chair.

The ensuing silence was rudely broken. There was a vigorous pounding
upon the outer door, followed by the abrupt and noisy entrance into the
house of some one from the street. Whoever it was, this late visitor
stood little upon ceremony. But Leighton and General Herran had no
difficulty in recognizing the nervous shuffle of feet along the stone
corridor, the thump of the heavy walking-stick, accompanied by grunts of
dissatisfaction and suppressed wrath. When Doctor Miranda finally bolted
into the room, fanning himself as usual--although fans were a decidedly
uncomfortable superfluity in the chilly night air of Bogota--they were,
in a way, prepared for him.

"He is gone! He is lost--that leetle fellow! There is one more lost of
them!" he shouted, repeating his disjointed English in staccato Spanish,
as soon as he caught sight of his two friends.

Leighton and Herran exchanged amazed glances at this enigmatic bit of
intelligence, while Raoul, preoccupied and restless though he was, could
not restrain a grin at the unconventional being who had rolled his way,
unannounced, into his house.

"What do you mean?" demanded Leighton.

"I tell you, he is lost, that leetle schoolmaster!" Miranda exploded.

"Andrew Parmelee lost? Impossible!"

"You are an estupido," retorted the Doctor angrily. "I say he is lost.
Before my eyes he disappear. I never lie, I never mistake."

Not caring to discuss this announcement, Leighton tried to divert the
torrent of words into something like a coherent statement. But in his
present excitable mood Doctor Miranda floundered hopelessly in a morass
of verbal difficulties and ended by telling his story in alternate
layers of Spanish and English. From his account, however, his hearers
were able to put together the main points of an occurrence that,
vehemently vouched for though it was by the narrator, strained their
credulity to the limit.

Early that morning, it appeared, Doctor Miranda, accompanied by the
reluctant Andrew, had left Bogota for a visit to Lake Guatavita. The
report that David's disappearance three years before had taken place
there was given as the reason for the trip. Arrived at the lake, Andrew
had declined to accompany the Doctor in his search among the cliffs that
guarded the mysterious body of water, and had stationed himself near the
cutting made centuries before by the Spaniards. This was a comparatively
well sheltered spot and sufficiently removed from the precipitous shore
which the cautious schoolmaster was anxious to avoid. His investigations
concluded after the lapse of something like two hours, Miranda returned
to the old Spanish cutting, expecting to rejoin Andrew. But Andrew was
not there. Surprised at not finding him, the doctor at first supposed
that the schoolmaster had grown tired of waiting and had journeyed back
to Bogota alone. A single circumstance proved that in this he was wrong.
There stood Andrew's horse where he had originally left him--and it
seemed altogether unlikely that his rider had deliberately set out to
cover the long and arduous miles to Bogota afoot.

"Another puzzle in psychology, I suppose," commented Leighton, with a
sarcastic glance at Raoul Arthur.

The latter, however, in spite of the fact that Andrew was an utter
stranger to him, appeared to be more amazed than the others by
Miranda's story, and for the moment paid no heed to Leighton.

"When you found his horse you made a thorough search for your friend, of
course, Senor?" he asked Miranda eagerly.

"Caramba! leetle fellow, what you think?" was the impatient reply. "I
look, and I look, and I call--fifty times I call. If I can swim I jump
into the lake to find him there. But I am too fat. So, I call more
times, and I throw stones, and make the trumpet with the hands. It is no
use. That leetle fellow say nothing. He is not there. So, I come away
after long time."

"He is drowned, poor fellow," murmured Herran in Spanish.

"It is not possible," declared Miranda, turning angrily upon the
general. "What make him drown? Of the water he is afraid. If he fall
in--by mistake--he make a noise, he call to me. I am close by, I hear--I
go to him quickly. But I hear nothing."

"Well, if he didn't drown, as our friend argues, what did become of
him?" demanded Leighton.

"Ah, Senor," replied Miranda, his mobile features expressing hopeless
bewilderment, "I do not know. It is just so as I tell you; he disappear,
he vanish, he is gone. If I know where, I find him--I would not be
here."

"So, there are two disappearances to account for," summed up Leighton.
"Foreigners visiting Bogota seem to have the trick of vanishing. What do
you make of it, Mr. Arthur?"

"I am as much at a loss as you."

"Hardly that, I should think. You, at least, know all about this
mysterious lake. You know what happened there three years ago, for
instance. And then you know----"

"You credit me with a great deal more knowledge than I can lay claim
to," interrupted Raoul. "I never heard of this man who has been lost,
as your excitable friend tells us, in such a singular manner--this Mr.
Andrew----"

"Parmelee," supplied the other. "Andrew Parmelee, schoolmaster, of
Rysdale, Connecticut. He is a very excellent person who, through his
devotion to my niece and myself, has fallen, I fear, a victim to some
strange plot. You will join us, I have no doubt, in his rescue. I am
ignorant of the psychology of Guatavita. However, as I have already told
you, I am here to add to my stock of psychological knowledge, and I
fancy there are few who could teach me more, in cases of this kind, than
you."

The sarcasm was not lost on Miranda, who shrugged his shoulders,
muttered some unintelligible Spanish imprecation and exchanged a
comprehending glance with General Herran. Raoul Arthur, on the other
hand, ignored the tone Leighton had adopted in addressing him. In his
reply he dropped the irritation and suspicion with which he had first
regarded the old savant, and there was even cordiality in the manner
and look accompanying his somewhat ceremonious acceptance of the task
imposed upon him.

"If I thought it possible of so profound a scholar, Professor Leighton,"
he laughed, "I would say you were chaffing me. As it is, I feel
the honor in your proposal that I should join you in solving these
mysterious disappearances. Perhaps I can be of some help. At any rate,
depend on me for whatever I can do."

"Two Americans unaccountably disappear in the heart of Colombia," mused
Leighton. "If it were not for certain odd circumstances, I should say
the country's indignation over the loss of Panama had something to do
with it."

Against this suggestion Miranda impatiently protested.

"Impossible!" he shouted. "Always these people fight with the gun, the
machete, if they are angry. They make much noise and talk; never they
steal the enemies of their country and say nothing. It is one plot--and
perhaps this senor will know," he concluded, darting an accusing glance
at Raoul.

But Raoul, now thoroughly composed, smiled disdainfully, although
agreeing in Doctor Miranda's rejection of Leighton's half-formed theory.

"If it is necessary," he assured them, "I can easily prove that I have
had nothing to do with all this. I have not been out of Bogota for
a month or more. Besides, I have the strongest business reasons for
wanting the safe return of David Meudon to this country. As for Mr.
Parmelee; I repeat--I never heard of him before. But, I agree with our
friend here; the disappearance of these two men has nothing to do with
the Panama trouble. It is something else. There is a mystery about it. I
have no doubt it can be solved."

"You have the clew?" demanded Leighton.

"I didn't say that."

"Well?"

"Perhaps I know some one here--a woman--who could help us."

But that evening, after the departure of his visitors, Raoul Arthur
found the little house in the Calle de las Flores tenantless, and
learned that the woman, known to the neighborhood as La Reina de los
Indios, had left Bogota, with all her household effects, a week before.




XI

IN WHICH ANDREW IS FOUND


Puzzled at not finding Sajipona, uncertain how to take up the promise
he had given in regard to her, an altogether unexpected turn of events
awaited Raoul at Leighton's hotel the next morning. Andrew Parmelee
had been found. In the custody of two delighted police officers the
missing schoolmaster, bewildered, quite speechless from his nocturnal
experience, had made his appearance, scarcely an hour before Raoul's
arrival. When, thanks to Miranda's persistent prodding, backed by the
calm questioning of Leighton and Una's sympathetic ministrations, he
found his tongue, the account Andrew gave of his adventure was so wildly
improbable that his friends were inclined to believe he had been the
victim of some temporary mental delusion. But this did not answer the
threefold question: what had brought on his delusion, how had he escaped
the vigilant Miranda, and how had he fallen into the hands of the
police.

The two officers gave a simple statement of what, so far as they knew,
had happened.

Late the night before, they said, Andrew had wandered into the alcalde's
office in a little pueblo a few miles this side of Guatavita. His
appearance, manner and mental condition--they hinted broadly enough
that the luckless Andrew, when first found was in a very irresponsible
condition indeed--called for the protection of the law. But as the poor
gentleman, they said, was apparently suffering from nothing more than
the effects of a too convivial outing in the country, he had been put
in jail, not as a punishment, but rather as an act of humanity. Unable
to express himself in Spanish, Andrew had evidently been something
of a puzzle to the simple-minded officials of the pueblo. Out of his
incoherent jumble of words, however, the name of a hotel in Bogota had
been seized upon. A telephone message was sent to the municipal police,
and the two officers who now had him in charge were detailed to conduct
him in safety to his friends. Beyond this, the clearing up of the
mystery of his temporary disappearance--if mystery it was--rested with
Andrew himself. But he, for a time, was unable to satisfy the curiosity
of his questioners.

"I don't understand it myself," he said hopelessly, addressing himself,
in the main, to Leighton, whose calm demeanor was less confusing than
the badgering of the excitable Doctor. "All I know is, that when Doctor
Miranda went off to make some explorations on his own account, I felt
a little nervous at finding myself alone in such a dismal place. Not
frightened, you know, but just nervous."

"Why you not call to me?" demanded Miranda.

"There was really no reason to call for help, you see, as nothing had
happened. So, just to pass the time until Doctor Miranda came back, I
walked along the edge of the lake, feeling very miserable, I confess,
wondering what had become of Mr. Meudon, and wishing that we were all
out of this terrible country and back in Rysdale. At first, there was
nothing to alarm me particularly; but the more I thought about the
disappearance of Mr. Meudon the more nervous I became. And then, just as
I was wondering if we would ever find him, and feeling more uneasy at
the strange silence of that melancholy lake----"

"Caramba! You would have the lake to talk?"

"I--I heard footsteps among the rocks behind me."

"A sightseer from Bogota, I suppose," suggested Leighton.

"No, it was not exactly that--at least, I don't think so. But at first I
really didn't turn around to see. I just kept on looking at the lake and
going over some of the terrible stories I had heard about it."

"You see, this leetle fellow was quite mad with the fright," interjected
Miranda. "He dream. He hear, he see nothing. Nobody was there. I know."

"I think, Sir, you are mistaken," protested the schoolmaster. "I admit I
was nervous. But I was perfectly sane--and I was not asleep."

"Of course you were not asleep, Mr. Parmelee," said Una soothingly. "As
for being nervous--any one would have been nervous."

"Well?" inquired Leighton impatiently.

"Well, Sir, as I was saying, I heard footsteps. They approached me. I
made up my mind I had better see who it was. I turned around. And then
I saw, a few yards from me, a stranger. How he came there without my
having seen him before, I can't imagine. And then, thinking about this,
I confess I became quite agitated."

"But what was he like, what did he say?" demanded Leighton. "It was a
man, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, I am quite sure he was a man--a very tall man, and singularly
dressed."

"'Singularly dressed?'"

"I thought so, at least. But then, I am not familiar with the fashions
of this country. You see, it is very cold on the shores of the lake,
and I should think that any one going there would want at least to be
warmly clad. But this man had nothing on that I could see, except a long
sort of toga, just like the pictures I have studied in Herodotus. It was
looped up on one shoulder through what looked like a golden ring----"

"He dream! He dream! this leetle fellow!" laughed Miranda. "He is too
good."

"And this toga fell down to a point just below his knees. It was a
purple and white toga--or perhaps I ought to call it a tunic--with a
fringe of gold tassels. He had sandals on his bare feet and wore no
trousers--at least, I could see none."

"Caramba!"

"Really, Mr. Parmelee, you describe a very singular sort of person for
this age and climate," said Leighton coldly. "Are you sure that your
agitated state of mind--you admit you were agitated--did not create a
purely imaginary apparition?"

"Did I not say he dream?" demanded Miranda triumphantly. "And the police
say he drink. But that is not so--he never drink. I know. I am there."

"I am very sorry, Sir; I know it sounds ridiculous," protested the
distressed Andrew. "But I am certain that I was not asleep--or anything
else that these well-meaning gentlemen say. I am only telling you what I
really saw."

"Well, tell us the whole story. Setting aside this person's remarkable
costume, what was he like, what did he say?"

"I don't think he said anything. He was an Indian. That is, he was not
a white man. I never saw any one just like him, so I may not be right
about the race to which he belongs."

Andrew's confused statement brought protests from Leighton as well as
Miranda.

"In this country," remarked Leighton dogmatically, "a man is either an
Indian, a white, or a half-breed. There are no negroes up here, you
know. The negroes all stayed on the coast. As for your inability to
tell us whether he spoke or not--well, the whole thing begins to sound
absurd."

But the rebuke failed to bring out anything more clear in the way of
explanation from Andrew.

"Pray, Sir, remember," he expostulated, "that at the time of this
stranger's appearance evening was setting in. The growing darkness
prevented anything like a reliable estimate that I could have made of
his features. In the twilight he seemed dark to me, although not so dark
as the average Indian. And yet, allowing for the twilight, he certainly
was not a white man."

"But what happened?" urged Leighton.

"He appeared surprised at seeing me. And then he smiled, approached to
where I was standing, and waved a sort of salutation to me. I think he
may have muttered some words, either of invitation or friendly greeting.
But if he did, it was not in English, nor in Spanish."

"He, at least, was not agitated, it seems! But as you were afflicted
with more than the usual amount of timidity, I suppose you avoided him."

"I assure you, Sir, that as soon as I saw this person, I felt no further
fear. There was nothing threatening in his manner. And it flashed
through my mind that he could give me some information about Mr. Meudon.
I observed that he beckoned me to him--and as he did so I followed."

"Well?"

"That was the singular part of it. There was every reason why I should
not go with him--at least, not without first notifying Doctor Miranda.
But this strange being smiled so pleasantly and seemed so friendly that
my feeling of nervousness passed away, and I was eager to go with him.
This I did. Apparently he retraced his steps, leading me along the shore
of a little inlet to the lake until we reached a high wall of rock that
I had not particularly noticed before. Here he stopped and looked at me,
still smiling, as if to make sure that I was following him."

"Do you think you could identify this wall of rock if you were to see it
again?" asked Raoul Arthur, speaking for the first time.

"I am sure I could," said Andrew, "because we stood in front of it for
some time, this strange person in the toga passing his hand over its
surface, while I wondered what he was going to do next. I noticed that
it was a very high and blank wall indeed."

"Where was it?"

"Just next to the cutting that Doctor Miranda had told me was made by
the Spaniards to drain the lake."

"I did not see this wall," expostulated Miranda. "You are in one dream."

"Never mind," snapped Leighton; "go on with your story."

"I am afraid you will believe me less than ever," said Andrew
deprecatingly. "But I am only telling what I am certain I saw."

"Go on."

"As he passed his hand over the surface of the wall he gradually turned
to one side until we stood before a narrow cleft in the rocks."

"It is not there," interrupted Miranda contemptuously. "I examine all
this rock. It has no--what you call?--cleft."

"I am very sorry, Sir, but I know that there is such a cleft. I think
that is what you would call it. You might easily have overlooked it,
Sir. It was only a narrow opening in the rock, facing away from the lake
and reaching up not more than about three feet from the ground."

"I remember it," declared Raoul.

"Pray go on with your story, Mr. Parmelee," Leighton commanded.

"There is not much more to tell, although the little that remains is
quite the most extraordinary part of it. Pausing an instant before this
opening in the rock, my strange guide crouched down until he was able to
pass within it, beckoned me to follow him, and then disappeared."

The schoolmaster spoke with difficulty, hesitating every now and then
for the word that would best express what had happened. Having plunged
into his story, however, he went bravely on, gaining courage as he
recalled his singular experiences, and impressing those who heard him
with the sincerity, if not the truth, of the narrative. Of all his
auditors Raoul, apparently, followed him with the closest attention. His
attitude, indeed, seemed to indicate a belief, on his part, in Andrew's
statements.

"I hesitated about following this unknown man into so strange a
place," continued Andrew; "but his manner was so perfectly courteous
and friendly--and then I thought that behind all this mystery there
might be something to help us find Mr. Meudon--that I made up my mind
to keep with him as long as possible. I crouched down, therefore, as
I had seen him do, forced my way through the narrow opening in the
rock, and presently, after a little difficulty, found myself in a dark
passage that afforded me room to stand upright and move forward. I could
dimly perceive my guide walking at some distance in front of me, and I
hastened as well as I could to reach him. In this I did not succeed, and
so we followed the passage, he leading and I after him, for a hundred
yards or more, until we came to an abrupt angle in the wall where the
uneven path made a sharp dip downward. Here I stopped, having completely
lost sight of my guide, and after waiting a short time I called to him.
No answer came that I could hear, and in the darkness that surrounded me
I began to grow confused and alarmed. It seemed to me I had been lured
into some sort of trap. Repenting of my folly for having ventured so far
into such a dismal hole, I determined to get out of it as quickly as
possible. This, I thought, would be easily done because, to the best of
my knowledge, I had followed along a straight corridor and, if I turned
back, I would soon come within sight of the opening that led to the
lake. But either I had miscalculated the distance I had walked, or else,
in turning to go out I started in the wrong direction. At any rate, I
had not gone very far before I found myself in a labyrinth of passages.
I perceived this by feeling along the wall. And so--there I was, without
any clew to help me in choosing the right passage.

"I scarcely know what I did when I realized that I was hopelessly lost
in this pitch black cavern. For one thing, I shouted for help, thinking
that possibly Doctor Miranda might hear me. But the echoes from my voice
were more terrifying than the silence. The air was stifling; the ground
appeared to move beneath my feet; the darkness was like a heavy veil
winding closer and closer about me. Then, unable, as it seemed to me, to
move or breathe any longer, everything went from me. I sank to the floor
unconscious. And that's all I remember."

"But--how you say that? You are here, leetle fellow," blurted Miranda.
"You are all right."

"Yes, I am here," Andrew assented woefully. "But I don't know how I got
here. When I came to myself again I was lying on the shore of the lake.
It was quite dark. My horse had gone----"

"That is right; I take him," corroborated Miranda, with satisfaction.

"I don't know how I succeeded in doing it--I suppose it was
instinct--but I managed to follow the trail on foot, and after a
desperate struggle I reached the village where the people helped me to
get back to Bogota."

Andrew's story was variously received. No one could doubt his honesty.
With such transparent simplicity as his, it would be difficult to
suppose him capable of drawing--consciously at least--upon his fancy.
Doctor Miranda suggested that he merely dreamed what he afterwards
took to be reality. But the others, discrediting this theory, were
apparently inclined to accept the story, so far as it went, in spite of
its fantastic and well nigh incredible features. Raoul Arthur appeared
particularly impressed and proposed immediate action.

"I know the cleft in the rock," he said. "I have been over a small
part of the passage to which it gives entrance. It was there, three
years ago, in our attempt to undermine Lake Guatavita, that a charge of
dynamite exploded, after which David Meudon disappeared. I had no idea
that this passage extended back into the mountain as far as it does,
according to Mr. Parmelee's story. But now--it strikes me, Mr. Leighton,
that chance has given us the clew you were seeking last night. If you
are still anxious to trace David's whereabouts, the path lies down the
passage entered by Mr. Parmelee and his togaed, sandaled guide."

"You want to explore it?" demanded Leighton.

"I do."

"But why, if it was already known to you, have you not done this
before?"

"The natives have always fought shy of going into it further than our
mining operations made necessary. Besides, I never had any reason to
suppose that it was more than a mere natural formation of rock--as
it probably is--extending a short distance into the main body of the
mountain."

"And now?"

"I have no theory to advance. But," he added significantly, "it was in
this unexplored tunnel that David disappeared three years ago."

The reminder had its effect. This linking up of the mysterious tunnel
that had so nearly proved fatal to Andrew, with David's first adventure
suggested the possible solution of a problem that had baffled them until
now. In spite of Miranda's derisive comments on the schoolmaster's
"fairy tale," there seemed to be only one thing to do--explore the
tunnel. It might lead nowhere, and in that case the labor and the
risk--if risk there was--would be of small account. If, however, it was
the entrance to a subterranean dwelling, inhabited by people of whom the
strange being described by Andrew was a specimen, the discovery was well
worth making.

"We will rescue David!" exclaimed Una, the eagerness of hope in her
voice.

"But, my young lady," protested Miranda; "he go away many mile from this
tunnel."

"That is true," assented Leighton.

"All the same, David was lost there before," Raoul reminded him. "It is
a clew we are bound to follow."

The question remained, how carry out the proposed exploration? Equipped
with miners' lamps, a number of which, of the best pattern, were
still among the stores David and Raoul had brought to Colombia at the
beginning of their venture, the worst difficulty--darkness--could easily
be overcome. Firearms, a supply of provisions, and oil for the lamps,
were other items obviously needed. But the essential thing was, as
Doctor Miranda tersely put it, "brains"--a cool-headed leader who would
bring them back to the entrance of the tunnel in case of danger. General
Herran, with his military training and experience, was the man for this
rôle. This hero of unfought battles was thereupon chosen captain of the
expedition--not, however, without some modest disclaimers of ability on
his part.

"There will be five of us then," remarked Leighton. "General Herran,
Doctor Miranda, Arthur, Parmelee and myself."

"There will be six," amended Una.

"Six?"

"I will be one of the party."

"Preposterous! You might as well make it seven, and include Mrs.
Quayle."

"I wouldn't think of going," declared that lady quivering with
agitation.

"It is not for the womens," argued Miranda, in his most conciliatory
manner. "There may be troubles, and we want only the mens."

Una turned on him fiercely.

"I don't believe there is any danger," she cried; "but, anyway, I am
going. I am certain David is there. I will go!"

To all of which Miranda gave an untranslatable exclamation denoting
sympathy, admiration for the pluck of this unexpected volunteer.
Leighton, however, was less easily moved, and it was not until his niece
assured him that she would return if the expedition promised to be a
dangerous one, that he consented to her passionate plea.




XII

A DEAD WALL


Mrs. Quayle objected to being parted from Una. She objected
vigorously--vigorously, at least, as compared to her usual manner of
taking things. She complained that guarding the baggage in a strange
country, where it was impossible to make even her simplest wants
intelligible, was not the sort of thing she was there for. But she could
not turn Una from her purpose; nor was it any easier, once his consent
was given, to move Leighton to a reconsideration of the matter. Only
one thing was left for her to do. If she wished to keep within reach of
Una she would have to accompany her on the expedition--"the picnic,"
as Leighton grimly called it. She hated to do this, but, as solicitude
for Una was stronger than concern for her own safety, she had ended by
tremblingly begging to be of the party.

"Let her come," said Miranda derisively. "It will not be for long time."

So Mrs. Quayle, much as she hated adventures, got what she wanted.

Early next morning, mounted on mules and carrying their supply of
provisions neatly packed in hampers, they reached Lake Guatavita.
Judging by appearances, one would say that they were after nothing
more serious than a day's outing. The air was crisp and sparkling, of
that crystal clearness peculiar to Andean altitudes. The lake laughed
in the sunlight; whatever there was of gloomy legend connected with it
slumbered beneath its silvery surface. Even the timorous felt the joy
of the place and indulged in hopes of high adventure. Miranda was in
the best of humor; Leighton, although maintaining his reserve, relaxed
something of his usual severity; while the rest of the party was in high
spirits, showing scarcely anything of the mental and physical strain to
which they had been subjected during the last twenty-four hours. Only
Una appeared anxious. Raoul Arthur, the more she saw of him, disquieted
her. She disliked him intensely, she could not tell exactly why. He was
assiduous in his regard for her comfort, but, in spite of his outward
friendliness, she was haunted by certain hints that had come to her from
David, hints that made of Raoul, in some inexplicable way, an active
enemy to the man she loved. She was suspicious of him. His presence on
the expedition that had David's rescue for its purpose made her twist
everything he did into something treacherous, of danger to all of them.
Her uncle, apparently, did not share her feeling. On the contrary,
he seemed to rely more and more on Raoul for advice and direction in
carrying out the project upon which he was engaged, and thus there grew
up between the two men a confidence that Una, had she tried, would have
been unable to shake.

Andrew, of course, still smarting from the experience of two days
before, could not be expected to make so speedy a return to the scene of
his adventure without some trepidation. But whatever sensations thrilled
his susceptible heart, he put on a brave front and did not flinch from
the part he was expected to take in the expedition. There was that
dreadful lake, there the wall of rock he had described, and there the
inconspicuous opening to the tunnel from whose hidden dangers he had
been so mysteriously rescued--he faced it all and braced himself for the
inevitable explanations. But his knowledge of the place was far less
than Raoul's.

"It was through this opening to Mr. Parmelee's tunnel that we entered
upon the excavation by which we hoped to drain the lake three years
ago," he remarked.

From an engineering point of view the statement was mystifying because
the opening of the tunnel was almost on a level with the surface of
the lake. Thus, it was difficult to see what would have been gained
had the waters of the latter been diverted into the tunnel. It was
explained, however, that an intersecting tunnel at a very much lower
level furnished the desired outlet, and the miners had planned to
connect with this. As Leighton and the rest were not concerned in these
bygone matters, the abortive attempts of the mining company to use this
subterranean passage in the mountain was not traced out in detail. Time
was urgent; there was no telling how long they might be in the tunnel.
If they wanted to avoid making a night of it they would have to hurry.

Unloading the mules, therefore, of their provisions, and leaving these
melancholy animals in the care of two peons who had come with them from
Bogota, the picnickers equipped themselves for their adventure--that
is, they fastened the miners' lamps to their hats. In the case of the
men this was not difficult. But Mrs. Quayle's extraordinary headgear,
architecturally deceptive and insecure, proved so hopelessly difficult
that its estimable owner was forced to do without the adornment of tin
and kerosene provided for her. The more stable bit of millinery worn by
Una was tractable enough, and with her lamp attached firmly to her gray
felt hat she looked the part she expected to play.

The opening to the tunnel was much as Andrew had described it, an
inconspicuous, narrow rift at the base of a great wall of rock. In
nine cases out of ten it would pass unnoticed; so small an aperture,
concealed by bushes and trailing vines, was safe from the most
inquisitive travelers. That so timid a person as the schoolmaster had
discovered (no one took seriously his tale of the togaed and sandaled
stranger) and forced his way through this opening caused no end of
wonder. To accomplish the same feat drew forth many a groan from the
corpulent Leighton and Miranda. As for Mrs. Quayle, what with the
squeezing and tugging needed to gain an entrance into the region of
terrors beyond, and anxiety lest some of her jewelry might be lost in
such strenuous effort, that good lady came dangerously near a condition
of hopeless panic. Undoubtedly she would have abandoned the expedition
then and there had it not been for the jeers of Miranda who assured
her she was developing symptoms that called for a generous dose of his
infallible pills. Such a goad would electrify the stubbornest of mules
and a series of desperate struggles brought Mrs. Quayle victoriously
through the tunnel's entrance.

This first step in their subterranean travels surmounted, the explorers,
having lighted their lamps, found themselves in a spacious rock
chamber, the walls of which rose above them to a majestic height.
Andrew, especially, was amazed at what he saw, declaring that it was all
quite different from his first experience in the same place. When it was
remembered, however, that on this former occasion the schoolmaster had
only the feeble glimmer of light that found its way through the opening
of the cave to show him where he was, the difference between his two
impressions was not surprising. But it puzzled his companions to choose
the route they were to follow in their explorations. Here Andrew could
not help them. Two passages were discovered leading from the chamber
in which they stood. One went straight ahead, offering a fairly easy,
unobstructed path to the explorer. The other, a branch from the main
tunnel, was narrow, strewn with debris of fallen rock, and altogether
forbidding in the glimpse that could be had of the first few hundred
feet of its course. One feature, however, belonging to this smaller
tunnel gave it the preference. But before discovering this feature and
making their choice the explorers thought it best to inform themselves,
as well as they could, of the character of the cave itself. In this
Leighton naturally took the lead, and from his investigations it was
concluded that, unlike other caves, the origin of the Guatavita cave was
primarily volcanic and due only secondarily to the action of water.

The implement employed by Nature in fashioning her underground
caverns is usually water. Some mighty spring, deep within the earth's
bosom, seeks an outlet for its accumulating current. It forces its
way through whatever porous layer of rock comes in its path, and by
persistent action, occupying ages of time, disintegrates and destroys
it altogether. There is left, as a result of the subterranean stream's
activity, a series of tunnels, widening out oftentimes into great rock
chambers, and extending, in several well known instances, for many
miles. Wherever water is the sole architect the lines that it carves,
the forms it molds, are smooth, well-rounded; there are no jagged edges,
sharp angles in the fairy palaces and intricate labyrinths that it
leaves as specimens of its artistic method. The walls of the Guatavita
tunnel, however, were eloquent of a totally different force employed in
their making. The marks of an angry Titan were upon them; the Titan of
Fire. They told of an elemental tragedy, swift and cataclysmic in its
action. The deep scars in their surfaces, the rough crags and pinnacles
jutting from them, were the epic characters in which the monster's
struggle for freedom were written down for all posterity to study and
wonder at.

Thus, Leighton did not hesitate to attribute an igneous origin to
the cave, and it was after a close examination of the earth and
pebble-strewn floor that the smaller tunnel was chosen as the best
for exploration. There were footprints in both tunnels, but in this
one they were more numerous than in the other, where they had been
made, according to Raoul, at the time dynamite had been used in the
excavations. Comparing these footprints, those in the larger tunnel
were evidently from ordinary shoes, while in the smaller they bore the
impress of sandals.

"Andrew's man in the toga is the one we want," remarked Leighton, a
decision that added to Mrs. Quayle's agitation and did not appear to
increase the schoolmaster's desire for adventure. The discovery of the
imprint of sandaled feet, however, changed Doctor Miranda's attitude
toward Andrew from banter almost to admiration.

"It is true, what he say, this leetle fellow," he declared in
astonishment. "He follow him here, the sandals--and he is alone. He is
brave man, this Parmelee!"

Raoul remained silent and Herran shrugged his shoulders skeptically.
After all, it was difficult to believe, on the strength of a mere
footprint, that the singular being described by the schoolmaster
actually existed and had disappeared, like some wraith, in the depths of
the cave.

"That will be a hard path to follow," said Raoul finally. "I tried
it--once."

"What did you find?"

"Nothing--a dead wall."

"Mercy!" ejaculated Mrs. Quayle, not catching his meaning.

"There was no danger that I could see," continued Raoul; "but there was
hard traveling, and no result worth the effort."

"Did you notice these footprints when you were here before?"

"It was the footprints that led me on."

"I don't see your footprints here. All these marks are from sandaled
feet," retorted Leighton.

The discovery did not attract attention. It seemed of slight
significance to the others; but the savant continued his examination
of the ground with redoubled interest. Raoul also showed astonishment
at the fact pointed out to him, and at first offered no explanation.
Obviously, a footprint in a cave, not subject to effacement by wind or
weather, should remain indefinitely, unless destroyed by man or animal.
But, curiously enough, the sandal prints were not sufficiently numerous
to stamp out all vestige of the prints that must have been made by
Raoul in his coming and going through the tunnel--if Raoul had really
ever been in this tunnel. So Leighton argued, and the conclusion that
Raoul had not been there at all seemed logical. Had he deliberately
deceived them--a supposition for which there appeared no motive--or was
he himself mistaken in the course he had pursued in his exploration some
years ago?

"Well, there it is," laughed Raoul. "Your reasoning is sound. My
footprints ought to be here, but they aren't. I can't explain it."

"It is not worth while," exclaimed Miranda impatiently, adding not over
lucidly, "they take them away."

"Perhaps Mr. Arthur wore sandals," suggested Andrew, illuminated by a
brilliant idea.

"Whatever happened, Uncle Harold," said Una, who had ventured into the
tunnel some distance ahead of the others, "what difference does it make
now? We are losing time from our search--from your picnic, Mrs. Quayle!"

"Picnic!" she shuddered. "How can we picnic with dead walls and
mysterious footprints all around us?"

"Good!" exclaimed Miranda in response to Una's appeal. "The womens
always are captains--the mens must follow!"

There being no objection to this way of putting it, Leighton and Raoul
gave up the puzzle of the footprints and set out seriously to explore
the tunnel.

They soon found, as Raoul said, that traveling here had its
difficulties. Huge boulders that took some little dexterity and
sureness of foot to get over obstructed the narrow passage. For Una,
who showed surprising agility, such impediments were not disconcerting;
but Mrs. Quayle found them not at all to her liking. Progress with
that bewildered lady was necessarily slow and, in some unusually rough
places, had to be made by a system of shoving from behind and hauling
from above that kept her in a state of breathless agitation. This was
increased by imaginary terrors, chief among which was the constant dread
of meeting the apparition described by Andrew, whose story had made a
deep impression on her mind.

As a matter of fact Andrew's man in the toga was not in evidence,
except as the occasional imprint of a sandal on the floor of the cave
suggested him. But the explorers were too busy surmounting the obstacles
with which the tunnel was strewn to heed details that otherwise might
have arrested their attention. The sharp edges of the rocky wall played
havoc with their clothing, drawing from Miranda, incensed at his own
rotundity, a choice series of expletives--fortunately in Spanish--and
arousing the wrath even of Mrs. Quayle. After the first five hundred
yards, however, the passage widened sufficiently for them to look about
and take account of the perils--if there were any--facing them.

The endless vista of rock, hewn in every conceivable shape and lighted
dimly by the rays from their lamps, was dispiriting, to say the least.
With the passing of the tunnel, however, and its alarming sense of
premature entombment, even Mrs. Quayle experienced a faint return of
confidence, while the schoolmaster, her companion in misery, began to
feel a mild curiosity in the outcome of an adventure for the undertaking
of which he had been the unwilling cause. He wondered vaguely to what
further depths of this hole in the mountain the more enterprising
spirits of the party would lead them.

"I am sure I never came as far as this," he protested.

"Well, what of that?" demanded Leighton.

"He say he never come here!" crowed Miranda. "Very well, my leetle
fellow, you are here now."

"Yes, but--how far will we go?" he persisted.

"You remember nothing of this?" asked Raoul.

"I--I rather think I stopped in the beginning of the tunnel."

"But here are the footprints," said Una eagerly.

"They are made by sandals. I never wear sandals," said Andrew sadly.

"Of course. They make by the other fellow."

"By that man who wears a toga?" asked Mrs. Quayle anxiously. "It would
be awful to meet him in this place."

"She is afraid, this old lady--she have nerves!" announced Miranda. "She
better go back."

There being sound sense in the observation, the others stopped to
consider it.

"I could never find my way alone through that tunnel," declared Mrs.
Quayle.

As this was quite obvious, something had to be done. No one wished to
desert the unfortunate lady; at the same time all, with the exception
of Andrew, were anxious to press on without delay. Miranda, in terse
Spanish, explained the difficulty to General Herran, who shrugged his
shoulders disgustedly, expressing emphatic disapproval of women as
explorers.

"We must do something before we go any further," said Raoul. "There may
be a long journey ahead of us."

"Do you expect it?" asked Leighton.

"I have no idea where we are."

"That means----"

"We have passed the dead wall."

"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle, "we are lost!"

"Hardly that," said Una reassuringly. "It will be easy to go back the
way we came. But this cave is too delightful to leave. I never breathed
such air."

There was ample warrant for Una's enthusiasm. From the stifling
atmosphere of the tunnel the explorers had entered a great rock
chamber that widened as they advanced, opening up vistas of majestic
spaciousness that contrasted strangely with the straitened path they
had first followed. Overhead the outlines of a vast arching roof could
be dimly made out by the flickering light from the lamps. At either
side the dusky walls, with their flanking pinnacles and fantastic
gargoyles, suggested the ornate escarpment of some Gothic cathedral.
More noticeable even than these architectural features, was the
delightful atmosphere, mild, fragrant, invigorating, pervading the great
silent spaces. Usually the air in the famous caves familiar to tourists,
although pure enough, is chilly and damp, so much so that the explorer
is forced to exercise in order to keep warm. Here, on the contrary,
one enjoyed the temperature of a perfect day in early summer--a fact
that had called forth Una's praise, and was silently noted by Harold
Leighton as one of the novel features of the Guatavita cave.

"Of course we must go on," Leighton decided impatiently. "If Mrs. Quayle
is nervous, she had better wait for us outside."

"Perhaps I will be only in the way here," said that lady contritely.
"But what will you do without me, Una?"

"I will take her," interposed Miranda in a chivalric outburst. "Come!"
he added, turning unceremoniously to retrace his steps to the opening of
the tunnel, a point that could not be far away, although not near enough
to be revealed by the light thrown from their lamps.

In spite of the extended area of the subterranean chamber in which they
were standing, it was easy to return to the tunnel by simply retracing
the path they were on. This path was marked by a depression in the
uneven rocky floor across which it was laid. It was fairly smooth
and overspread by a fine sand that bore the impress of many sandaled
feet. There was no danger of losing one's way, and the energetic
doctor, hurried along so as to spend the least possible time on his
self-appointed mission. He did not notice that the terrified Mrs.
Quayle, convinced that his invitation concealed a plot to rob her of
her jewels, failed to accompany him. The others, amused at his abrupt
departure, patiently awaited his return, watching the speck of light
made by his lamp bobbing about in the distance. Presently the light
disappeared, and they concluded that Miranda had entered the tunnel. But
in this they were mistaken. In a few minutes they were startled by an
explosive "Caramba!" followed shortly by the apparition of the doctor
running towards them, breathless from his exertions, and exploding with
mingled wrath and consternation.

"It has gone--lost! I cannot find him!" he shouted in an incoherent
torrent of Spanish and English.

"What has gone?" demanded Leighton.

"We are lost! We are lost! The tunnel has gone!"

"Nonsense!"

"It is true! I go there. I not lie. I find the tunnel where we come--and
it has gone!"

"Impossible! What did you find?"

"I not find it. It is true! I find there what this fellow say," he
replied, turning savagely on Raoul. "It is--what you call?--one dead
wall!"




XIII

MRS. QUAYLE TAKES THE LEAD


Miranda was not dreaming--the tunnel had vanished. That may be a strong
word for it; but anyway, whatever had happened, the tunnel was not to be
found.

Returning by the path upon which they had entered the subterranean
chamber, they were confronted by a wall of rock where the entrance to
the tunnel should have been. They were perfectly certain that when they
passed out of the tunnel, less than half an hour before, into the main
body of the cave, this wall had not been there. Where it had come from,
why they had not seen it before, were posers too puzzling to waste time
over. No one had seen it, of that they were certain; and they couldn't
have helped seeing it if it had been there. Hence they were forced to
the astonishing conclusion that this wall had moved into its present
position during the last half hour through some invisible, superhuman
agency. The whole thing, in fact, was incomprehensible, ridiculous,
absurd. But there it was, for all that--and it had its depressing
consequences.

"You know that crocodile on the river," said Miranda impressively; "he
open the mouth--the bird walk in. He shut the mouth--the bird is in one
trap. So it is to us."

Terrified by this picture of what had happened, Mrs. Quayle
involuntarily clutched the jewels encircling her neck as if to protect
them from some invisible brigand. The schoolmaster, also, seemed to
suffer additional discomfort. Miranda's way of putting it, however,
failed to satisfy the others. Leighton stoutly refused to believe in
magic. Herran, in voluble Spanish, insisted that magic alone could
explain the affair. Miranda repeated his alligator theory.

"This cave is alive," he added. "You see the mark of the feets?"

"Where is Mr. Arthur?" suddenly asked Una.

They had been so absorbed in the mystery of the vanishing tunnel that
the absence of one of their number had not been noticed. Una's startled
query brought them face to face with another puzzle, as baffling and
uncanny, in a way, as the wall of rock that had come from nowhere and
planted itself between them and the entrance to the cave. Raoul had
disappeared; search as they might, call as loudly as they could, no
trace of him was to be found. Had he deliberately deserted them, or
had he suddenly been spirited away by the same invisible agency that
had prevented their leaving the cave? The more credulous of the party
believed he had been spirited away.

"But it is impossible," insisted Miranda angrily. "I see him now--and
now he is not here. The canaille!"

"There is only one thing to be done," declared Leighton emphatically.
"We can't get out of here; we must go on."

"Yes! Yes!" exclaimed Una.

"Caramba! What for we go on?" remonstrated Miranda. "We are lost, we
starve, if we leave this place."

"You mean, we are lost if we stay here," reasoned Leighton. "There is
nothing to be gained by staring at this rock. The fact that Arthur has
disappeared, that the entrance to the tunnel has been closed, that there
are fresh footprints besides our own all about us, proves that this cave
is inhabited. Whoever they are, we must find these people."

Leighton's way of putting things was effective. It at least prevented
a panic. Even Miranda admitted the necessity of the course proposed by
the savant, and as Herran had nothing else to offer in its place, it was
decided to press on with the exploration of the cave without delay.

Fortunately, they had a fair amount of provisions and enough oil to
keep their lamps going for several days. Before starting on their
expedition--when it promised to be nothing more than a "picnic"--this
supply of food and fuel seemed far beyond any possible need. Now, thanks
to the fussiness of Mrs. Quayle, who had insisted on these abundant
preparations, there was no immediate danger of starvation. Each carried
his or her portion of food in a light, capacious sack. These sacks,
woven by the natives from vegetable fiber, swung easily from the
shoulders. The oil for the lamps was in two cans, one of which Andrew
carried, Raoul the other. Whatever had become of Raoul, his can of oil
had not disappeared with him. It was found near the spot in the large
cave where Miranda had turned back to take Mrs. Quayle to the tunnel.
Here, then, Raoul had left them. Hoping for a clew, they examined the
ground for his footprints, but could discover nothing. The path beyond
showed the impress of sandaled feet only--and Raoul, they agreed, did
not wear sandals. Either he had left the path and chosen the rocky floor
of the cavern in its stead--in which case it would be impossible to
discover his trail--or he had followed them to the tunnel and gone off
on one of the side tracks that they had noticed and partially explored
there. Why he should have done either of these things was quite beyond
them to answer. At any rate, they tried every means to find him, and
their failure left them more despondent than ever. All except Leighton
and Una.

Failure did not daunt Leighton. He was convinced that by persevering in
their exploration they would solve the mystery of the cave, gain tidings
of David, and run down Raoul. Una shared his optimistic view, and both
chafed at the reluctance of their companions to go ahead with the energy
their plight demanded. The fact is, the feeling that they were caught in
a cavern of unknown extent, connected with certain mysterious happenings
in the immediate past, mixed up in the legendary history of a vanished
race, and inhabited even now by strange beings in outlandish costumes,
had a blighting effect upon them. Mrs. Quayle refused to be comforted
and, as it was out of the question to go on without her, Leighton, like
an astute general, proposed having lunch before doing anything else.
Every one brightened up at the idea; it was one of those masterstrokes
of policy that, when all else fails, saves the day. Miranda declared
emphatically that food was "good for the estomach," and, as no one
thought otherwise, they fell to with an appetite sharpened by their
exertions and made fairly razor-like--although this they did not
realize--by the bracing atmosphere of the cave.

There were bollos of corn and yucca--yellow, white, brown--variously
flavored, soggy, solid. This was a concentrated food that just hit the
need of a party of marooned picknickers. And there were large flat
disks of cassava, a native bread that Mrs. Quayle declared, with some
reason, resembled chips of wood, more than anything else, in taste and
toughness. This, too, furnished the maximum of nourishment in a small
space. These foods, with such fruits as the almond-like sapoti, the
juicy nispera, the delicate chirimoyo, furnished a meal that aroused
Miranda's enthusiasm, although to the untrained New England palate it
was not quite so satisfying as it might be. The thought, too, that after
this supply of food was exhausted, there would be nothing to eat, and
no way of getting anything to eat, spoiled just that part of the picnic
that should be most enjoyable. And then, worse than all, unthought of
until now, there was the appalling problem of--water. In the lunch bags
of Doctor Miranda and General Herran there were two small bottles of
red wine; but when this was offered to Mrs. Quayle that unhappy lady's
thirst for water reached an acute stage. She declared that all wine was
poison, and that she would die if she couldn't get a drink of water.
Even Leighton was disturbed. Water they must have, but--did it exist in
a cave that was, apparently, caused by fire and not--as all respectable
caves are--by water?

"Guatavita!" exclaimed Miranda, smacking his lips after a deep draught
of claret.

"Guatavita!" echoed Leighton irritably. "Why not say the river
Magdalena? How are we to reach Guatavita?"

"It is near," was the complacent reply. "It come into the cave."

"How do you know that?"

"Always there is water in the cave. And here--there is the lake
outside."

"Yes, outside," said Leighton bitterly.

"But first it is inside."

Miranda's confident assertion was worth considering. That there might
be--that there probably was--some subterranean connection between
the cave and the lake--even if the former did come from fire--was a
plausible theory. As he went over the matter in his own mind, Leighton's
respect for Miranda's common sense jumped from zero to a comparatively
high figure. But he was not convinced.

"You forget; we are above the level of the lake," he argued.

"That is true," agreed the doctor, who, in the meantime, bottle in
hand, had been nervously walking about, peering into the darkness that
surrounded them. "Yes, that is true. We come in over there; and always
we walk up, up. The lake is always below. This path it never go down.
But here--aha! Caramba!--is one other path--and it go down."

Miranda's voice shrilled with excitement. He was elated with the
importance of his discovery. And it was important. The spot they had
chosen for their lunch was the furthest point they had reached in their
explorations, the point where Miranda had turned back to take Mrs.
Quayle out of the cave and where they had last seen Raoul Arthur. It was
marked by a huge pyramidal rock rising from the floor of the cave. Along
one side of this rock the path they had followed went on indefinitely,
in a gradual upward incline. It was to the other side that Miranda
eagerly called attention. Placing his bottle of claret down on the rock
beside him, he got on his knees and, with his nose almost touching the
ground, made a minute study of the floor of the cave.

Even Andrew felt the contagion of the doctor's excitement. Fruits,
bollos, cassavas were abandoned pell mell as one and all scrambled to
their feet eager to find out what new puzzle Miranda had managed to
pick up. The light from their lamps cast huge, uncertain shadows on the
irregular masses of rock that everywhere blocked the view. At first
there was nothing to be seen that differed essentially from what they
had grown accustomed to in this subterranean world. There was the same
chaos of jagged pinnacles and bowlders, the same display of irresistible
energy that had been let loose and played itself out here ages ago. But
in the midst of it all, zigzagging through this maze of dusty forms,
there was the new path announced by Miranda. It led away from the
central rock, or pillar, where they had taken their lunch, and formed
an acute angle with the path they had already traversed. It was not so
plainly marked as the latter, and appeared little more than a rift among
the rocks that strewed the floor of the cave. But it was a path, there
was no mistaking that. Among the evidences that it had been recently
used was one that particularly delighted Miranda and justified his
prolonged microscopic examination of the path itself--the footprints of
a man wearing, not sandals, but shoes.

"Raoul Arthur!" exclaimed Leighton.

"Perhaps," agreed Miranda.

"Where could he have gone?" asked Una. "This path runs in nearly the
same direction as the one we followed."

"We will see."

As a matter of fact, the two paths, starting together at the central
rock and going thence in the same general direction, gradually diverged
from each other, much as do the two lines that form the letter V.
Then, another difference was noticeable. The first path followed a
comparatively uniform level; the second dipped steadily downward.
This peculiarity, first noted by Miranda, appealed particularly to
Herran. Gloom had been the dominant mood with the general ever since
he had entered the cave. He had made mental notes of things as they
had happened, but he had not shared in the discussions of the others.
This was partly due to his ignorance of English, partly to a sense of
responsibility that he felt as a citizen of Bogota whose duty it was
to guide a party of foreigners safely through one of the difficult
regions of his native land. But now, at last, he had something to say,
something that was due from him as their leader. Tugging at his beard in
characteristic fashion, he gave the result of his observations in terse
Spanish.

"At first we go away from the lake. Then we come back to it, just a
little. Then we go away. Now this path take us right there again."

"That is it," agreed Miranda.

It sounded rather mixed up, and no one paid much attention to it. But at
least it put General Herran in a better humor.

"Perhaps this will take us out of the cave," suggested Andrew. "The path
is nearly in the right direction."

"I hope it means water, anyway," said Una, thinking of Mrs. Quayle.

They gathered up what was left of their provisions and set off again,
single file, down the new path, General Herran in the lead, Andrew
bringing up the rear. They had not gone many yards before they noticed
the marked difference in the two paths. At first the change in level was
scarcely perceptible; but now the descent became more and more abrupt,
and as there was less sand and gravel for a foothold, they found the
smooth surface of the rocks, tilted often at a sharp angle, anything but
easy going. Another peculiarity that soon caught their attention was the
lessening height of the cave's roof. Until now this roof had been so far
above them that they had to throw their heads way back to see it, and
even then it appeared in only vague outlines. Now it took a downward
curve that brought it nearer and nearer to them. Following the same
descending sweep it was evident that floor and roof would shortly come
together and the confines, at least of that portion of the cave, would
be reached.

Along with this new architectural feature in the structure of the cave,
there was a noticeable change in the character of the rock forming it.
Walls and floor had, until now, been sharp and jagged in contour, dull,
almost black, in color. But the unevenness of surface was disappearing.
The rocks were smoother, as if worn and rounded by constant rubbing.
Vivid colors gleamed from wall and column with a pristine freshness
suggesting that this part of the cave belonged to a far more distant
period than the great rock chamber in which they had stopped to take
their luncheon. Finally, they were surrounded at every hand by those
spear-like formations, thrust upwards from the floor or depending from
the roof, that give to the interiors of most caves their fantastic
appearance--the stalactites and stalagmites about whose origin in the
workshop of Nature there can be no doubt.

This change had an invigorating effect upon the explorers. Passing from
the unrelieved gloom of the first cavern into this fairy-built grotto,
with its bright hues and pleasing shapes, they began to forget their
fears and felt instead something like the real enjoyment that belongs to
unexpected adventure. Everything in the way of glorious surprise seemed
possible. For one thing, Miranda's confident prediction was apparently
about to be realized, a probability that the doctor celebrated by
alternate chuckles and grunts of satisfaction.

"If we don't find water, there is at least no doubt that water has once
been here," declared Leighton. "These stalactites make that certain."

"You will see--you will see," persisted Miranda. "It is the Lake
Guatavita."

"How can that be?" argued Leighton. "No opening of the lake into this
cave has ever been discovered."

"You will see."

One might almost imagine that the intricacies of the cave were as
familiar to the doctor as the formula for his celebrated pills. But his
confident attitude was only one part genuine to three parts bravado. He
enjoyed opposing a scientist showing such supreme self-possession as
Leighton, and he delighted in startling statements of fact that merely
bewildered his hearers. But he was by no means sure in his own mind
of the truth, or even the probability of the theory he was advancing.
General Herran, however, who had heard as far back as he could remember
the strange tales of mystery regarding Lake Guatavita, and had often
speculated with other Bogotanos on the disappearance beneath its waters
of the fabulous wealth of the ancient Chibchas, was keenly alive to the
possibilities lying before them now that they were on the very spot
haunted by so many fascinating traditions of his race. Like most natives
of Bogota the Spanish blood in his veins was mixed with the blood of the
Chibchas--and it was an infusion he was proud to own. Hence, he readily
believed that at any moment they would stumble upon a perfect mountain
of treasure, all the lost gold and emeralds that Spanish romancers had
dreamed about and travelers of the old heroic times had risked their
lives for.

They had now reached the end of the precipitous incline down which the
path had led them, thankful to exchange the slipping and sliding, to
which the tilted rocks had treated them, for the firm footing offered by
a comparatively level floor. Here the roof hung only a few feet above
their heads, whence it curved downward, glistening with the delicate
fretwork that the subterranean torrents of bygone ages had carved upon
it, until it became a part of the rock-strewn ground beneath. The
chamber thus formed became a long, spacious corridor, one side of which
was open to the vast amphitheater they had just left, the other side
stoutly hemmed in by a maze of stalactites and stalagmites looming up
as sentinels in front of a wall that could be dimly seen behind them.
Down the middle of this corridor lay the path they had been following,
wider now and showing the imprint of many sandaled feet. Before them, at
the end of the corridor, they could distinguish the outlines of another
wall, apparently marking the limit of this portion of the cave.

"There is your lake," said Leighton ironically to Miranda, who shrugged
his shoulders in reply.

"At any rate, Uncle Harold," said Una reproachfully, "there must be an
opening here. And the air is just heavenly! Instead of walking, one
could dance."

The others appeared to feel the truth of Una's observation, for they
moved along with a briskness, a snap, they had not shown before. This
was particularly noticeable in Mrs. Quayle, who seemed to be propelled
by some inner gayety of spirit that quite changed her usually sedate
manner and appearance. The transformation was not lost on Una, who was
both amused and puzzled by it.

"Look at Mrs. Quayle's jewelry!" she exclaimed. "It is dancing about as
if it were moved by a breeze from somewhere."

"What do you mean? I can't feel any breeze," declared Leighton. "The
singular fluttering of Mrs. Quayle's jewelry simply means, I suppose,
that the wearer is, as usual, agitated."

That Mrs. Quayle was agitated, and not in the joyous frame of mind that
Una at first supposed, began to be painfully evident. Ever since she
had come into the cave agitation had been a chronic condition with her.
But in this instance it hardly explained the eccentric activity that
had suddenly developed among the ancient heirlooms that she guarded so
jealously. The large gold pendants that dangled from her necklace beat
an unaccountable tattoo upon her neck and shoulders, while the massive
brooch fastened to her bodice showed an obstinate tendency to break away
from its moorings. Even the gold rings on her fingers seemed possessed
with a rebellious spirit, a mischievous desire to dance in unison
with brooch and necklace, while two heavy bracelets, made of links
and chains, clicked and snapped like castanets under the prevailing
terpsichorean influence.

For several minutes before Una drew attention to these strange antics
Mrs. Quayle had been unhappily aware of the insurrection that had
broken out among her treasures and had clutched frantically at them in
an unavailing attempt to quiet their ill-timed frenzy. She dabbed at
them with one hand and caressed them with the other, only to find that
as soon as they were freed from her restraining touch they flapped and
jingled and tugged at her with renewed energy. Finally, with the eyes of
all the party upon her, the terrified lady gave up in despair.

"I don't know what is the matter with them," she wailed; "they never
acted this way before. I am not agitated," she added irritably, "as
Mr. Leighton says. And I don't think it is a breeze either. It takes
more than a breeze to make bracelets and brooches dance. They are just
possessed, and for no reason at all. Oh, why did I wear these precious
things on this terrible journey!"

Doctor Miranda, with the steadfast gaze of an exorcist, planting himself
firmly in front of her, his arms crossed on his chest Bonaparte-fashion,
added to Mrs. Quayle's dismay.

"I think she have the malaria," he announced solemnly. "I give her my
pills----"

"I won't take your old pills," was the spirited reply. "They nearly did
for poor Mr. Andrew. I think they may kill him yet. There is nothing the
matter with me. I want to get out of this cave--and I'm going to this
very minute."

Never in the annals of her long career as housekeeper and self-effacing
lady's companion had Mrs. Quayle been known to give way to such open
defiance of any one belonging to the opposite sex. And, as if to show
that she meant every word she said, she brushed past the astonished
doctor and strode ahead of the others along the path leading down the
corridor. To no one was her behavior more astonishing than to Leighton,
in whom the reserve of the scientist was sorely strained by this sudden
show of daring from a creature whose timidity was proverbial. As leader
of the expedition, and obeying also the skeptical bent of his nature,
the savant felt that his own dignity was involved.

"Mrs. Quayle is perfectly right," he announced coolly; "we must lose no
more time in these trifles. What if her jewelry does show a disposition
to dance? A woman's jewelry is always ridiculous--and Mrs. Quayle's has
always been a puzzle besides."

But the rest of the party soon found that Mrs. Quayle was not an easy
leader to follow. Where before she kept them back by her ineffectual
efforts to get over the various obstacles encountered in their
explorations, and had needed their help at almost every step, she
now set them a pace that atoned for her former lagging. Whether this
amazing activity was due to a sudden attack of fever, as Doctor Miranda
maintained, or whether it came from a frantic desire to escape from a
region that filled her with superstitious terrors, Mrs. Quayle showed no
sign of giving up what she proposed to do, whatever that might be. On
the contrary, as the far end of the corridor grew more distinct she sped
along faster than ever. Her rebellious jewelry fluttered and twitched
and danced more vigorously, until it fairly stood out before her,
straining and pulling her along, breathless and hysterical, as if drawn
by some irresistible force.

"I can't stop it! I can't stop it!" she gasped.

To which Miranda, puffing along in her wake, replied with dramatic
emphasis: "This little woman must be stop!"

But this was not easy, even for a doctor with unlimited experience in
quinine. The smooth, tapering surfaces of the stalactites, standing on
guard in long rows down one side of the corridor, glinted derisively as
the explorers rushed past them frantically trying to curb the frenzy
that had seized this perfectly harmless woman who was now leading them
on to a goal that might have all kinds of disaster in store for them.
As they drew nearer the end of the corridor, the expected opening that
was to deliver them from their subterranean prison was not visible,
at least to the hasty glance that could be spared from the absorbing
pursuit of Mrs. Quayle. Nevertheless, the awkward rapidity with which
they were hurrying on to their fate was to be rewarded, apparently,
by the discovery of something that was different, at any rate, from
the wilderness of rocks that hitherto had baffled them in this gloomy
underworld--and it was not General Herran's mountain of gold and
emeralds, either.

Something made by man, and not by nature, was here. This was
unmistakably revealed in an odd sort of structure towards which they
were hurrying. At last they were confronted, they believed, by the
clew to the mysterious beings who inhabited the place, whose presence
had been indicated by the footprints, by the man in the toga, seen, or
imagined, by Andrew, and vaguely suggested by the weird disappearance
of the entrance to the tunnel through which they had hoped to make
their escape. Here all these things that had filled them with alternate
anxiety and curiosity were to be explained. Unfortunately, Mrs. Quayle's
impatience to get on gave them no opportunity to reconnoitre, at a
safe distance, the object they were approaching. Leighton especially,
accustomed to the careful methods of science, would have preferred a
more deliberate and cautious mode of travel to the brainless hurry
into which his housekeeper had plunged them. As it was, the object
looming before them, so far as they could snatch time to make it out,
resembled a huge stone windlass. Even the cylindrical drum and the long
curved handle hanging at the side of one of the tall uprights were of
stone. Certainly, a windlass like this--if it was a windlass--had
never been seen before. It could not be the work of modern times--it
was much too clumsy for that. And of stone! Perhaps it belonged to the
Stone Age. It was conceivable--and the notion stirred the depths of the
savant's soul with delight--that here, in this subterranean chamber of
the Andes, they were about to stumble upon an archæological find that
would revolutionize the current theories as to primitive man and his
development. But--was it a windlass? The two uprights carrying the long
horizontal drum at the top, instead of in the middle, were some ten
or fifteen feet high. With such an abnormal height, and such singular
construction, the THING might be intended to serve as a gallows quite
as reasonably as a windlass. Whoever would have believed that they had
the gallows in the Stone Age! There, sure enough, was the rope dangling
most suggestively from the crosspiece--or drum, whichever it might be.
But then, a rope was the conventional adornment, whether for gallows
or windlass. As they came within fifty yards of it, the THING looked
unquestionably more and more like a gallows, less like a windlass. It
stood within ten feet of the wall, through a long, wide aperture in
which one end of the rope disappeared. The other end, attached to what
appeared to be a great oblong stone, lay coiled upon the ground.

Not until she had almost reached it did Mrs. Quayle realize the oddity
of the structure towards which she had been racing. Then its resemblance
to a gallows suddenly flashed upon her. With a gurgle of horror she
threw herself upon the ground, unable, apparently, so long as she
remained upon her feet, to contend against the invisible influence
that forced her to run fairly into the arms of this terrifying object.
Prostrate between two rocks lying across the path, her wild flight came
to an end. Here her companions gathered around her--Miranda, puffing and
panting from his exertions, determined to allay the violent attack of
fever that he still believed was the cause of the lady's unaccountable
paroxysms; Leighton, torn between the psychological interest of the case
and the archæological puzzle awaiting solution; Andrew, his huge hands
waving about in helpless dismay, muttering incoherent advice to any one
who would listen, and Una, anxious to soothe an agitation that, she
conceived, was due merely to a case of nerves.

"She will be all right--soon she will be all right," declared Miranda,
intent on his professional duties as he knelt on the ground beside Mrs.
Quayle. With which comforting assurance he seized one of her hands, and
with his other hand tried to force open her mouth.

"I am all right," she shrieked, tearing herself out of his clutches.
"There's nothing the matter with me. Something is pulling me to that
terrible thing over there. It seems to be my jewelry. My necklace is
cutting my head off. This brooch!--oh! it's awful! What shall I do? What
is the matter?"

"It is very simple," declared Leighton sternly. "Take off your jewelry
if it bothers you. I don't see why you should be wearing it, anyway."

Mrs. Quayle clutched wildly at her necklace and brooch, loath to part
with them and evidently regarding the people gathered around her as
little better than a lot of brigands who had lured her here to rob
her of her treasures. Every one else heartily agreed with Leighton's
proposal.

"Caramba! That is true!" shouted Miranda delightedly. "This necklace, it
choke her too much. I take him off of her."

Before Mrs. Quayle could protest further, Miranda seized her by the
throat, hauling at the massive necklace in an effort to find the clasp
that held it in place. The task proved difficult and promised to develop
features that savored more of surgery than anything else. The trouble
was not so much from the defensive tactics employed by Mrs. Quayle--who
contrived to elude Miranda's grasp with surprising agility--as it was
with the necklace itself. Never was a simple piece of jewelry more
rebellious. It slipped through the doctor's fingers and jumped about and
tugged at its victim's neck in the most baffling and erratic manner. But
Miranda, growing more eager and determined, triumphed at last. Holding
the snakelike coil in both hands as in an iron vise, he tore the chain
apart with a masterly jerk.

And then an odd thing happened. Bounding to his feet, elated with his
success, and holding the necklace towards his companions as if it were a
hard-won trophy, Miranda suddenly spun around like a top, his arms shot
straight out in front of him, and in this posture, before any one knew
what he was about, he fairly raced towards the ominous apparatus at the
end of the corridor and hurled himself on the oblong stone beneath it.




XIV

THE BLACK MAGNET


For once Doctor Miranda had nothing to say. To the eager queries of
those about him he returned a grimace and a scowl of rage. Then he asked
savagely for Mrs. Quayle.

"There is her neckalace," he said indignantly, letting go his hold on
that extraordinary piece of jewelry and scrambling to his feet with as
much dignity as was left to him.

"Will you tell me what all this means?" demanded Leighton sternly.

"How I know?" retorted Miranda, glaring venomously at him. "I pull the
neckalace from the neck, and it fly from me. When I follow, it fly more
fast--and it get stronger and it fly harder every time until it touch
the rock. Then it stop and not come loose."

Sure enough, on the greenish-black rock over which they were bending,
the necklace was spread out to its full length. With a quick jerk,
Leighton dislodged one of the ends from its resting place. Letting it
go, it returned to its original position with the sharp snap of a steel
spring.

"A magnet! The most amazing magnet ever heard of!" exclaimed Leighton.

"A magnet that pull gold!" scoffed Miranda. "That is the foolishness!"

But Leighton was right. Each time the necklace was pulled away it was
drawn back to the rock by a strong, invisible force. Repeated trials
brought the same result. Leighton's curiosity was excited as it had
never been before; but his most careful examination of the strange
phenomenon failed to detect anything more than the fact that the
substance exerting this unknown force was not stone but something more
nearly akin to metal. It was neither so heavy nor so hard as iron. To
the touch its surface faintly resembled the adhesive softness of velvet,
although a blow from a stone, causing a clear, ringing sound, left
not the slightest mark upon it. In the main, this block of metal--or
whatever it might be called--was a deep black, tinged with a variegated
shade of green that played over it according to the angle at which
the ray from a light held above it was reflected. Dark lines of green
followed the indentations traversing its surface. Cylindrical in shape,
it weighed, according to Leighton's estimate, at least a ton. Imbedded
in a deep groove around its center was a rope, measuring two inches in
diameter, of pliable fiber, resembling the long lianas that festoon the
trees of a tropical forest. This rope lay in a seamanlike coil on the
ground, with the further end attached to the transverse beam of the
scaffolding overhead.

"It is a magnet, nothing else," reiterated Leighton; "a magnet of a kind
utterly unknown to science. All we can say is that this black metal has
an affinity for gold--unless it turns out that Mrs. Quayle's jewelry is
merely iron gilded over."

This doubt as to the genuineness of the housekeeper's treasures was
promptly denied, however, by Una, who guaranteed their sterling quality.

"Let us test the rest of her jewelry," proposed Leighton.

To this further demand on her property Mrs. Quayle, wedged in between
two rocks on the path where they had left her, too terrified to move,
offered only a feeble protest. It mattered little to her, in her present
condition, if her bracelets and brooch followed the necklace to their
doom. One by one they were, accordingly, removed by Una, who, probably
because she was less excitable than Miranda--and because, too, she had
profited by his untoward experience in the same undertaking--was able to
handle these pieces of jewelry without mishap. The force with which they
were pulled towards the Black Magnet, however, and the tenacity with
which they stuck to it, gave ample evidence that they answered to the
same influence that still held the necklace.

"That is enough," said Leighton triumphantly. "The thing is proved.
This is a gold magnet. If we lived in the Middle Ages we would call it
the Philosopher's Stone. The theory that such a substance exists has
attracted scientists who were more given to dreaming than practical
observation. In this age we have neither looked for it nor believed in
the possibility of its existence. And here it is!"

"What it make here?" demanded Miranda. "Tied by a rope to the
machine--some one use it."

The inference, logical enough, certainly, increased Leighton's
excitement. That the magnet was known and used by the inhabitants of the
cave--if there were inhabitants--was evident. Under certain conditions
a bar of metal that could attract gold with such force as that displayed
by the Black Magnet would be of untold value. Here, where there were no
evidences of mining operations, and attached to this primitive machine,
it was difficult to explain what it was actually used for.

Leighton, more and more mystified, determined that the best way to solve
the puzzle was to operate the machine in the manner indicated by its
structure. It was not, as he pointed out--but as they in their first
excitement imagined--a gallows. Instead, it was a winch, built in the
most simple and archaic fashion; and as the Black Magnet was attached
to it, the evident purpose was to hoist that huge body from the ground.
Before testing this theory, Mrs. Quayle, who had recovered from her
collapse sufficiently to join the others, insisted that her jewelry
should be released from the magnet. Suspicious of the intentions of
some of her companions, she was determined to regain possession of her
treasures at once. But, as it was apparently impossible to wear her
jewelry with comfort, or even safety, in the immediate vicinity of the
Black Magnet, necklace, brooch and bracelets were removed to a distant
corner of the corridor and there placed beneath a pile of stones. This
done, the four men started to work the two long handles of the winch.
At first these were turned with difficulty, the resistance proving, at
least to Leighton's satisfaction, that the machine had not been used for
a long time. Gradually, however, the coil of liana was transferred from
the ground to the transverse beam overhead until it pulled taut with the
magnet beneath.

Then came the real trial of strength. The magnet wouldn't budge.
Miranda puffed and grumbled over the task, declaring it impossible.
The rest stopped and rubbed their arms ruefully. But Leighton was
inexorable. Encouraging the others, and keeping them at it, by dint of
increased exertion--to which Una brought additional assistance--the
great Black Magnet was finally dragged from its moorings and held
suspended just above the ground. It formed a perfect cylinder, about
four feet long by a foot and a half in diameter, and must have weighed,
they estimated, considerably over a ton--ten tons, vowed Miranda. On
a winch of modern design this weight would not have been difficult to
lift. But the hoisting apparatus they were using lacked the ordinary
adjustments for counterbalancing such weights; hence, the muscular force
needed proved no small matter.

"It take twenty men to lift this magnet," growled Miranda.

"Twenty men could do it more easily than four men and a woman,
undoubtedly," replied Leighton. "But four can do it."

And he was right. Inch by inch the magnet rose from the ground--for
what ultimate purpose was not very clear, any more than that it was
thought necessary by Leighton, in order to discover the use to which
this strange bar of metal had been put, first to test the appliance
obviously intended to bring it into action. It reached a height of one
foot from the ground, then two, then three feet; then it stopped. There
were groans and smothered imprecations, and it looked very much as if
the huge bar of metal would come crashing down to the ground again. But
the men, urged on by Leighton, did not give in. And then--there was a
grating noise, as if some hidden mechanism in the scaffolding had been
set free. After which a strange thing happened. The transverse beam
at the top of the windlass detached itself from one of the uprights
supporting it and, using the other upright as a fulcrum, slowly swung
to the wall of the cave, where it rested in a socket, bringing the
magnet that was suspended from it, directly over a shelf-like projection
beneath.

"Keep on! Keep on!" cried Leighton encouragingly. "Now we will see."

Thoroughly aroused, the others redoubled their exertions. The magnet
remained stationary for a few seconds, the liana supporting it
tightening with every revolution of the drumhead at which the men were
laboring. Then it slowly disappeared downward, the liana uncoiling
itself, thus reversing the movement that before had carried it upward.
There was a gradual increase in the momentum of its descent, followed
by the splashing sound caused by the impact of a heavy body upon the
surface of a pool of water; after which the liana was paid out until it
reached its full length--when it suddenly slackened and came to a full
stop.

"There, Mrs. Quayle, is your water," announced Leighton.

"Water!" sneeringly echoed a voice from the darkness behind them. "Say,
rather, there is the secret of Guatavita!"

"Raoul Arthur!" exclaimed the others.

Letting go the handle of the windlass, they rushed to the spot where the
Black Magnet had vanished. There, at one side of the rocky projection,
stood Raoul, pale and haggard, the light in his lamp extinguished.

"I suspected this," he said, as if his sudden reappearance among them
were the most natural thing in the world. "I knew from the direction
of the path that it led back to the lake. I have been trying to reach
this place for years. Oh, yes! I had heard something about it before--I
don't deny that. But, of course, I expected to stay by you. So, when you
started to leave the cave I came back, expecting to rejoin you. As I was
examining the machine I was attacked by two men, thrown to the ground
and left unconscious. I came to myself a few minutes ago--in time to
congratulate you, it seems, upon solving the mystery of the cave."

"That is strange," said Leighton coldly. "You left us, without a word,
at a time when you were needed. The attack that you say was made upon
you we should have heard. But--we have heard nothing."

"Believe me, or not, as you like; it is true," was the sullen reply.

"Why do you say we have the secret of Guatavita?"

"Look!"

Raoul pointed to the projection in the wall behind which the Black
Magnet had disappeared. It was not a shelf, as they had at first
supposed, but the opening of a shaft, or well, that slanted downward
at an angle that in the course of fifty feet, or less, would reach
considerably beyond the vertical line of the cave's wall. In shape this
shaft was oblong, slightly larger in length and in breadth than the
Black Magnet. It was evidently of artificial origin, its four walls
being perfectly smooth and without irregularities of line. Even by one
who had not seen the magnet descend into this shaft, its intended use
as a sort of runway for raising and lowering heavy bodies would be
quickly recognized. But where it led to was another matter. One thing
was easily discovered: where it reached a point some twenty feet below
the level of the cave's floor the shaft was filled with water. Beyond
this, of course, nothing could be made out. It was to the bottom of the
pool thus indicated that the magnet had plunged.

"It is a well hewn out of the rock by Indians--or perhaps by Spaniards
digging for gold," said Leighton.

"I believe that we are the first white people who have ever stood in
this place," said Raoul; then added, "unless David Meudon was here three
years ago."

"But what is it about?" demanded Miranda impatiently. "What for is the
magnet, and this well, and this machine?"

"Pull up the magnet and see for yourself," was the laconic reply.

"Caramba! That will be impossible," protested the doctor, not relishing
the prospect of another turn at the machine.

"It is the logical thing to do," agreed Leighton.

The rest shared Miranda's aversion to another bout at the winch; but
Leighton, backed by Raoul Arthur, finally persuaded them that their only
hope of escape from the cave depended on keeping at this puzzle until
they had solved it, and that the first step in this direction was to
hoist the Black Magnet from its watery resting place at the bottom of
the shaft. Reluctantly obeying the command, they again seized the long
handle of the windlass. This time it was fortunate they had Raoul to
help them, since the resistance offered by the magnet, which now had to
be hauled up an inclined plane by means of a rope nearly one hundred
feet in length, was considerably greater than before. The windlass
creaked and trembled as revolution after revolution of the drumhead
slowly brought the great black bar of metal nearer to the surface.
They could hear the far off swirl of the water as the ascending liana
vibrated through it. Minutes that seemed to lengthen into hours passed
without appreciable result. Then, at last, they heard the water rising
as the magnet reached the mouth of the shaft. There was an additional
strain on the liana, followed by the noise of a commotion in the
subterranean pool as the liquid streams poured back from the emerging
body.

But still the end to their work was not in sight. With every turn of
the handle the weight of the body at which they were pulling seemed to
increase. Mrs. Quayle, sole spectator of what was happening, watched
the opening of the well with dismal apprehension, convinced that some
dreadful transformation had taken place in its hidden depths. When the
top of the magnet finally rose into view she shrieked hysterically. To
her notion the great black body had an uncanny look; it had turned into
a devil, for aught she knew, filled with evil designs against them.
Anything that was supernaturally horrible, she believed, could happen in
this cave--and there was enough in her recent experiences, indeed, to
give some color to her belief.

But, devil or djinn, the water dripped and splashed in sparkling runlets
from the shining body of the Black Magnet that had gained in luster
since its submersion in the well. It seemed more alive than before, more
capable of exerting the mysterious force that had played such pranks
with Mrs. Quayle's jewelry. As it cleared the top of the well the arm of
the windlass to which it was hung, as if obeying some invisible signal,
detached itself from the socket in the wall and slowly swung back into
its original position between the two uprights of the machine. Here, as
before, a reverse motion took place. The Black Magnet was poised for a
moment in the air. It then descended to the ground, resting, finally, in
the same spot where the explorers first discovered it.

A sigh of relief escaped them. Hoisting heavy weights was not much to
their taste and they were glad the task was over. Then they rubbed
their eyes, half expecting to see something miraculous, some sudden
transformation as a result of their labors. But the Black Magnet, except
for the brilliance due to its bath in the depths of the earth, looked
exactly as it was before. This, it must be confessed, was disappointing
to those who had been promised great rewards for toiling so patiently at
the windlass. Raoul had declared the experiment would solve the secret
of Guatavita. But they failed to see how a wet rock--or bar of metal,
whichever it might be--with mud sticking to it, had any connection with
a secret. Raoul, however, was not disconcerted. Getting to work on the
magnet, he examined minutely every inch of its surface. At first he
found nothing. Then, to the amazement of the others, he extracted from
one of the large fissures in the magnet a thin disc encrusted with
the microscopic growths that form on metals that are long subjected
to the action of water. This disc proved its metallic nature by the
force needed to release it from the magnet. Much of the brown matter
sticking to it was wiped away with a cloth, the more tenacious growth
beneath was rubbed and scraped with a sharp stone. When the scouring
was finished Raoul triumphantly held up the disc. It was a dazzling
plate of gold, thin and flexible, rudely carved to resemble a human
being. In size it was not more than the palm of one's hand, somewhat of
that shape, a trifle longer and narrower, with a projection, intended
to depict a man's head, face and neck, like a pyramid standing on its
apex, upon which were traced in embossed lines three loops to represent
the mouth and eyes, with another line running down the middle, long and
straight, to represent the nose. The body of the figure was similarly
carved--raised lines folded over the stomach for arms, with various
loops and coils around the neck and chest, intended, doubtless, to
indicate the ornaments and insignia of rank worn by the image or,
rather, the human being or god for which it stood. All this was done in
the finest gold tracery, which, if it lacked some of the subtleties of
the goldsmith's art as we know it, was expressed, nevertheless, with
admirable delicacy and firmness. In the head of the figure was a round
hole showing, doubtless, that the disc was worn as a pendant by its
owner, or was hung as a votive offering before his or her household
deity.

Leighton had seen figures of like character and workmanship in Bogota,
where they were exhibited as ornaments worn by the ancient Chibchas.
Usually they were said to have been brought up by divers from the bottom
of Lake Guatavita. Hence, there was little doubt as to the origin and
antiquity of the disc presented to them by the Black Magnet. But how
this disc came to be at the bottom of a well in this vast subterranean
labyrinth was not so easily answered. If this disc was the much talked
of clew to the lost treasure of the Chibchas, and to all the other
mysteries that seemed to crop up at every step the further they went
into this cave, it was not an easy one to run down. And then, Miranda,
who had insisted all along that by following the direction in which they
had been going they were bound to reach the lake, blundered upon the
answer to the whole question.

"It is Guatavita!" he said.

Of course, that was it! Herran and Leighton gasped for a moment as they
took in the idea, and then they agreed that Miranda was right. Raoul
smiled enigmatically as they discussed the problem in detail.

"Well, do you understand it now?" he asked. "Have you discovered
Guatavita's secret? I wish I had known it three years ago!" he added
bitterly.

"Ah! I see--I see!" shouted the doctor excitedly. "There is the well
that come out at the bottom of the lake. Here is the magnet that go down
there just when the people throw in all the gold. And then it come back
here--and no one know except the king and his family. So, every year,
they take all the gold of the country. Ah! they are very wise leetle
fellows, those kings!"

"Then, if this is true," said Leighton meditatively; "if this well has
its outlet at the bottom of the lake, and was made and used secretly
to collect, by means of the Black Magnet, the treasure offered by the
people in the Feast of El Dorado, to-day there is no gold left in
Guatavita."

"If it were drained of all its waters," remarked Raoul, "I believe that
the emptied basin would be found to contain nothing more than a few
stray gold ornaments--like the one you fished up just now--that failed
to reach the Black Magnet when they were flung into the lake centuries
ago."

"Your plans to empty the lake, then, are useless?"

"After what I have learned to-day, added to what I have long suspected,
I should say--quite useless."

"But the fabulous amount of treasure those deluded people threw into the
lake for centuries----?"

"Has all come up here, where we are standing now, caught by the Black
Magnet."

"He fish very well, this leetle stone," said Miranda, caressing it
fondly. "He catch more, better fish than the whole world."

"Where is all that gold to-day?" demanded Leighton.

"Ah! Where!"

"Good heavens! What is that?"

While Leighton and Raoul were discussing the old problem of what became
of the Chibcha Empire's far-famed treasure, the others had wandered away
from the Black Magnet and were examining some of the strange objects in
its immediate vicinity. The more familiar they became with this portion
of the cave, the more signs they saw in it of human occupation. For one
thing, the place was honeycombed with paths, most of them radiating
from the shaft that sank to the bottom of Lake Guatavita. These paths
led in different directions; but there was no way of telling whether
any or all of them had been recently used. This question was of more
immediate interest than the one connecting the cave with the fate of
the ancient Chibchas. If this cave was inhabited to-day--if it was the
hiding place of a lawless gang of Bogotanos, for example--it was well
for the explorers to be on their guard. Herran was particularly alive
to this possibility, and he was quick to heed, therefore, Mrs. Quayle's
terrified exclamation, which she repeated--

"Good heavens! What is that?"

It was at the head of one of the paths, running behind the close ranks
of stalactites before which they had found their way from the large open
cave beyond, that Mrs. Quayle stood, her eyes round with excitement,
pointing vaguely at something in front of her. But the others could
see nothing. Indeed, it was hard to tell whether she had really seen
anything worth serious investigation, her chronic nervousness had such
an uncomfortable habit of discovering specters--that did not exist--in
every dark corner. Then, too, clusters of stalactites had a way of
taking on odd, fantastic shapes that might easily seem to be alive
even to the cool-headed. But this time there really was substance to
Mrs. Quayle's fancies. She continued to point down the pathway of
stalactites, crying repeatedly--

"What is that?"

"Well, what is it?" demanded Leighton.

"The man in the toga! The man in the toga!" she cried breathlessly.

The others crowded about her.

"It is nothing!" said Miranda incredulously.

"It is! It is!" whispered Una. "I just caught the flash of white drapery
at the bend in that farthest corridor."

Raoul laughed. "You are mistaken," he said. "Nothing is there now,
that's certain."

They stood silently watching the dark green-and-white figures that
stretched away in closely huddled ranks before them. But they could
detect nothing that answered to Mrs. Quayle's description. There was
nothing that moved, nothing human, in all that glittering array of
grotesque forms. Then, there was a sharp, clinking sound, as if the
brittle point of a stalactite had been broken off and had fallen to the
ground.

"We are watched," said Leighton in a low voice. "Whoever they are, these
people have some reason for following us--and keeping out of the way."

"Time to be on our guard," said Herran in Spanish to Miranda, who
assented vehemently.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Raoul.

"Ah! You say that?" growled Miranda suspiciously. "This is one trap of
yours, then!"

The accusation added to the general alarm. Raoul protested scornfully;
but before he had time to clear himself he was covered by two huge
revolvers, drawn simultaneously by Herran and Miranda.

"It is not so easy!" threatened Miranda, whose excited flourish of
firearms endangered the others quite as much as it did Raoul.

"Thank heaven, we have guns!" murmured Andrew, who had produced a
harmless looking pocket-knife which he brandished ineffectively.

"This sort of thing is very annoying," said Leighton, addressing
Raoul, who began to show uneasiness. "There's no denying that your
disappearance was suspicious. Then we find you here in a place that
is evidently known and frequented by others. Your explanation is
unsatisfactory. Then, when the presence of these hitherto invisible
people is quite certain, you try to divert our attention from them."

"You are talking nonsense," said Raoul disgustedly. "You intimate that I
am in league with the inhabitants of this cave against you. That means,
I must have lured you here deliberately to do you harm. Please remember
that it was you who planned this expedition, and that I had not ventured
in here so far before."

"Who knows! You seemed familiar enough with the secret of the Black
Magnet."

"Take us out of here, my fellow, and we believe you are not one scamp,"
said Miranda brusquely.

"I am not bound to do anything of the kind, even if I could," retorted
Raoul. "Look out for yourselves."

"So! that is good," commented Miranda. "We take the advice. Here we can
do nothing. Into Guatavita we cannot jump through this well. Me--I am
too fat!"

The bustling doctor's show of energy proved infectious. He and Herran
unceremoniously pocketed their revolvers, leaving Raoul at liberty to do
as he pleased, while they looked about for a way of escape.

Since he had become suspicious of Raoul, Leighton was inclined to
trust the leadership of the two South Americans. The latter, convinced
that there was no way out from this part of the cave, determined to go
back to the central chamber, hoping to find there the entrance to the
tunnel leading to the outside world. They hit on this plan because they
feared an ambush on any of the labyrinthian trails leading off in other
unexplored directions. The rest agreeing, they set out along the path
flanked by the grove of stalactites, traveling at a quicker pace but
with greater caution than before. Miranda and Herran marched ahead with
revolvers drawn, Andrew in the rear still holding his pocket-knife ready
for action. They had been delayed on Mrs. Quayle's account, for that
lady, in spite of her anxiety to get away, had refused to budge without
her jewelry. But it was not easy to satisfy her demand. For, when the
jewelry was taken from its hiding place beneath a rock, it still showed
the same strong tendency to fly to the Black Magnet. This distressed
Mrs. Quayle, who refused to touch the treasures that she was at the
same time loath to part with. But a compromise was finally effected by
tying all the jewelry securely around Andrew's waist. This arrangement
appeased the owner--but it gave an uncomfortable backward pull to
every step the schoolmaster took, who thus resembled, in walking, a
ship sailing against the wind. This inconvenience, however, steadily
decreased as they came out of the disturbing region of the Black Magnet,
until finally these ancient heirlooms of Mrs. Quayle's regained their
natural composure.

But there were other things besides the Black Magnet to interrupt
their progress. No sooner had they gotten well under way and were
congratulating themselves on their escape from mishap so far, than they
were startled by a wild and piercing strain of music, seeming to come
from the grove of stalactites before which they were hurrying. Amazed
by so singular an interruption, they stopped short and looked fearfully
about them. A sound of scornful laughter blended with the music.

"Raoul!" muttered Leighton.

But there was nothing to be seen of the strange American whose mocking
laughter they were sure, nevertheless, they had heard. Then the music
grew louder and louder, as if the musicians were steadily approaching
in their direction. The music itself was subtly different, in tone
and pitch, from anything played in the outside world. The high notes
evidently came from wind instruments, but of a unique quality and
caliber. Mingling with these notes, and sustaining the bass, were the
heavy beatings of drums of the kind still used, although deeper and
mellower, by the native Indians in their festivals.

The melody produced--if it could be called a melody--was of an
extraordinary character. Its effect, its charm--for it had unmistakable
charm--was quite impossible to define. In some respects it resembled the
monotonous chantings peculiar to most primitive races, occasionally,
as was customary with the latter, rising and falling, whole octaves
at a time, in a wailing key. In the main, it carried a sort of theme,
emotional and inspiring, that was far too complex to be attributed
to the uncultivated musical taste common to savagery. There was an
exultant swing to the measure, a lilting cadence that betrayed a
fine esthetic sense, a rich imagination coupled with the simplicity
and freedom that has not felt the pressure, except very remotely,
of our western civilization. Such music was good to listen to--and
under ordinary circumstances the explorers would have been content
to listen and nothing more. But curiosity, and some remnant of fear
the lulling influence of the music had not dissipated, kept them on
the alert. Their fate depended, they felt, on these musicians. They
must find out who they were before it was too late to retreat. And
then--presently--through the clustering green and white stems of the
stalactites, they caught sight of them.

They were over twenty in number, moving, as nearly as the unevenness
of the ground would permit, in time to the choral march they were
playing. At sight of them Mrs. Quayle didn't know whether to be pleased
or terrified. For the music was such an enchanting, soothing sort of
thing, and the players so mild, benignant of aspect, anything like fear
seemed out of place. But, on the other hand, the strange instruments
they carried, their outlandish dress, the whole effect of them, in a
way, was distinctly unearthly, supernatural--and Mrs. Quayle drew the
line at the supernatural. So, she ended by being simply amazed beyond
measure--and her companions shared her feelings in lessening degree.
Miranda and Herran, dumbfounded by the apparition, forgot to handle
their revolvers in the warlike fashion they had intended with the first
approach of a foe; Andrew gaped in an open-mouthed sort of dream, during
which his pocket-knife came imminently near doing fatal execution upon
himself, while Una and Leighton, forgetting their anxiety, were lost in
admiration of the delicious music and of the spectacle before them.

One and all of this singular band of cavemen were clothed after the
fashion described by Andrew. Each wore a loose white mantle, or toga,
that draped the figure in voluminous folds, adding to the grace and
freedom of movement with which they kept time to the music. Their feet
were shod with sandals, their heads encircled with bands of white cloth
from the flying ends of which hung ornaments of gold and emerald. The
musical instruments upon which they played were long, slender tubes,
curving upward at the extremity, of a metal that glittered and sparkled
like the purest gold.

Most singular of all was the light that each of these musicians carried.
This light came from neither torch nor lantern, but radiated in sparks
and flashes from oval disks worn, jewel-wise, on the breast. By what
fuel these incandescent fires were fed was not apparent. They burned
with a clear white brilliance, illuminating each flowing figure with
startling vividness, and filling the beholder, ignorant of their
nature, with wonder at their admirable adaptability to the needs of a
subterranean world.

To Leighton these strange lights were much more mystifying than all
the rest of the apparition--for as yet it was difficult to regard the
approaching throng as being anything more real than an apparition
that one expects to have vanish away almost as soon as it makes its
appearance. But these musicians, weird and unearthly though they first
seemed when seen at a distance, as they drew nearer, proved to be
substantial, flesh-and-blood human beings right enough. Their dark
skins and aquiline features gave evidence, for one thing, that they
were of Indian origin and not inhabitants of the remote, invisible
fairyland that they appeared to the fervid imaginations of some of
Leighton's companions. Doubtless, argued the savant, they were a band
of revelers--or bandits--from the city to whom the secrets of the cave
were familiar. But where they had picked up such extraordinary means for
the illumination of their merry-making was more than he could fathom.
Lights? They were unlike any lights he had ever heard of. All that he
could make of it was that these illuminated disks belonged to the
marvels of a hitherto unknown world of science, marvels among which he
counted the Black Magnet and--possibly--that disappearing wall at the
entrance to the cave.

As these people showed no sign of hostility, the explorers began to hope
that through them they would win their way out of the cave. Certainly,
they were worth cultivating with this end in view. Hence, Miranda and
Herran looked stealthily at their revolvers and restored them as quickly
as possible to their hip-pockets, while such a burst of confidence
seized Mrs. Quayle that she prepared and was actually seen to exhibit
one of her most ingratiating smiles for the benefit of the approaching
Indians, at the same time expressing in a loud voice to Una her approval
of their music.

This pleasant feeling, however, that they were about to regain
their liberty did not last long. The Indians, although showing no
unfriendliness, gave unmistakable evidence that they meant to control
the movements of the explorers. Still playing on their trumpets and
beating solemnly on their drums, they marched around them, bowing
courteously enough, but intimating at the same time that they were
acting upon a definite plan that could not be interfered with. Somewhat
dashed by this singular behavior, which was the more difficult to meet
just because it lacked outward menace, the explorers conferred hastily
together, hoping to hit on a safe line of action. The men of the party,
suspicious of the friendly attitude assumed by the Indians, favored
immediate resistance. Their first flush of confidence in them was gone.
Herran and Miranda, especially, were doubtful of the intentions of
these strange people. From whatever motive, it seemed to them that the
latter had deliberately planned their capture, evidently carrying out in
this the orders of some one in authority over them. That these orders
might come from Raoul Arthur was their principal cause for alarm. The
departure of the American miner, under every appearance of treachery,
marked him out as one to be feared. He was not, it is true, among the
Indians who were surrounding them in their glittering line of dancers,
but his absence was not proof that he had nothing to do with this odd
demonstration. But--how resist a party so superior to their own in
number, one that had already gained an obvious advantage of position
over them. Leighton was doubtful what to do; Andrew was helpless; Mrs.
Quayle was temporarily lost in admiration of the picturesque circle
of dancing figures, all regarding her with gratifying amiability. Una
alone insisted that the friendliness of the Indians was genuine, and
that their own safety depended on obeying them. As a compromise it was
decided to talk to these people--to find out what they were after. For
this diplomatic duty Miranda and Herran were chosen.

Although the energetic little doctor was certainly not gifted with an
unusual amount of tact, he had at least the merit of directness, and
lost no time in calling the attention of the dancers to his desire to
come to an understanding with them.

"Do you talk Spanish?" he shouted brusquely in that language.

"Surely, Senor Doctor," gravely replied a tall personage whose dignity
of bearing and the fact that the border of his flowing toga was
distinguished by a decorative design in embroidered gold indicated his
superiority in rank over his comrades. "Surely, some of us talk
Spanish."

Having given this assurance, the speaker checked the music and dancing
of the others and stood, with the air of one accustomed to ceremonious
usage, waiting to hear further from Miranda.

"Yes, I am doctor, famous doctor," said the latter, bustling up to
the speaker and looking him over as if he were about to claim him for
medical purposes. "I cure thousands and thousands with my pills. But how
you know I am doctor?"

The Indian smiled, inclining his head graciously before answering.

"Doctor Miranda is so famous every one knows him."

Ordinarily the vanity of Miranda was easily touched, but just now he was
too suspicious to be beguiled by the compliment.

"Caramba!" he snorted; "and who are you?"

"I am Anitoo."

"That is not Spanish," said Miranda sharply.

"I am not Spanish," replied Anitoo stiffly. "I come from an ancient race
that ruled here long before there were any Spaniards."

"Well, Senor Anitoo--you say it is Anitoo?--that may be. You are
Indian--Chibcha Indian, perhaps--and not Spanish, not Colombian. But
what do you make in this cave?"

Anitoo smiled broadly.

"This is the home of my people for many centuries," he said. "And now,
suppose I ask you a question. What do you make in this cave?"




XV

AT THE SIGN OF THE CONDOR


There is no doubt about it; Miranda had much the worst of it in his tilt
with Anitoo. The Indian's point blank question as to why the explorers
were in the cave was not easily answered. The more Miranda thought it
over the less able was he to discover--or at least explain--just that
very thing: why he and his companions were there. To say they were
looking in a cave on the Bogota plateau for a man who had disappeared
many miles away on the Honda road sounded rather unreasonable, now that
he looked at it from the standpoint of a stranger; while to recall the
story of foul play that linked this place with David's disappearance
years ago seemed, under the circumstances, dangerous even to the
impetuous Miranda. So, he shrugged his shoulders and resorted to a more
evasive reply than was his custom.

"We come for a picnic, and we want to get out--that is all."

Anitoo again smiled broadly, yet with the subtle suggestion of holding
in reserve an unuttered fund of wisdom that comes so naturally with the
people of his race.

"That is all?"

"We look for one friend who is lost. Then, we come with another who has
gone. He is one canaille! You have seen him?"

"Ah!" murmured Anitoo, half to himself. "What is his name? What is he
like?"

"He is one Yankee. He is called Senor Don Raoul Arthur. He look--well,
he look like this----" and Miranda gave an exaggerated example of
Raoul's rolling and twitching eyes.

"So, he is here!" said Anitoo, startled, apparently, by the information
and amused by the grotesque lesson in optics given by the doctor.
Miranda, on the other hand, gathered that Anitoo disliked Raoul--and
this pleased him immensely. But he could get nothing more from the
Indian who, although still friendly, began to show signs of impatience,
talking earnestly to his followers in a language unintelligible to
Miranda and Herran.

On both sides there was evident uneasiness; and when Anitoo, in a tone
that sounded disagreeably like a command, told the explorers that they
could not continue their tour of the cave unattended by them, things
seemed to come to a climax. Miranda expostulated, the others grumbled
and talked of resistance. But Anitoo was inflexible, insisting, all the
while, that there was nothing unfriendly in his attitude. He reminded
them that they could not possibly find their way out of the cave without
his guidance. Miranda jumped at this hint of a rescue, but was again
unable to extract a definite promise from Anitoo.

"We will first show the Senores some of the wonders of the Guatavita
kingdom," said the smiling Indian.

"We don't want to see any more," said Miranda emphatically. "We have
seen enough."

"No! No!" continued Anitoo. "Whoever comes so far as this must see our
queen before he goes away."

"A queen! A kingdom in a cave! But that is impossible!"

"I like his offer," interposed Leighton, who understood enough to catch
the meaning of this strange proposal. "Anitoo seems honest. We have lost
our way. If he has a queen and a kingdom to show us, they may be worth
seeing. We can be no worse off, certainly, for seeing them."

"Once in the land of goblins and fairies," remarked Una, "queens and
kingdoms are a matter of course."

"It is some idle mummery, I suppose," added Leighton; "we are too
near civilization for anything else. All the same, these lanterns--or
whatever you call them--that they carry, are worth knowing more about."

"What are they?"

"I would give a good deal to know."

"Well, Senor," said Anitoo impatiently, "you will come with us?"

Without waiting for Miranda, who seemed reluctant to place himself in
the Indian's power more than he could help, Leighton bowed assent.

"And this Senor Arthur?" inquired Anitoo.

"He has gone," replied Miranda promptly. "He will not come again."

"Perhaps," said Anitoo vaguely.

At his signal the Indians lifted the curved trumpets to their lips,
the drums were beaten and, to the same curious spirited music that
had heralded their approach--half march, half dance--they moved off,
the explorers in their midst, down the path flanked by the forest of
stalactites, to the great entrance chamber whence, after finishing their
hasty meal, the "picknickers" had first started on their journey of
discovery.

The friendly bearing of Anitoo and the other cavemen did not fail
to impress the explorers favorably, dispelling whatever suspicions
they might have had in the beginning, and giving them a taste of real
enjoyment in their adventure. All had this feeling of security except
Miranda and Herran. The two South Americans, however, were less easily
moved. Instead of sharing Una's and Mrs. Quayle's admiration of the
picturesque appearance of their guides, they grumbled something to
the effect that it was a lot of meaningless foolery. This skeptical
attitude grew to open disapproval when, having reached the central
rock where they had taken their meal in the main cavern, the Indians,
instead of proceeding toward the entrance to the tunnel that had been
so mysteriously lost, kept on in the opposite direction. This meant
that they were now to explore an entirely new, unknown region; and the
possibilities that awaited them, with such uncommunicative guides, in
the gloomy depths that stretched before them, stirred up something of
a mutinous spirit in the two South Americans. But their protests were
futile. Without halting his rhythmic march, Anitoo smiled courteously
at their objections, merely repeating his intention of taking them to
"the queen." As this was all he would say, they were compelled to make
the best of the vague indication of the course they were following. The
others continued to enjoy the oddity of the adventure. The enlivening
strains of music, the gala costumes of the Indians--all seemed part of a
curious carnival the purpose of which was unknown to them. The novelty
was kept up by the strange scenes through which they were passing; it
reached its climax at the further wall of the great central chamber.

So far, the natural features of the cave had absorbed their attention;
now they were confronted with a series of Titanic specimens of human
architecture as amazing in design as they were unexpected. It is
misleading, perhaps, to describe this architecture as the product of
human genius, because in line, material, and general plan it followed
closely the pattern and the workmanship of the cave itself. Man had
here adopted the half finished designs of nature and completed them in
a way that carried out his own ends. Thus, the gradually widening trail
followed by Anitoo and his band of musicians made toward a great archway
that swept upward in a glistening half circle of white stone. In the
center of this rounded arch, twenty-five feet from the ground, gleamed a
huge round tablet upon whose smooth white surface could be distinguished
a series of engraved characters. These characters, outlined in gold,
were immediately recognized by General Herran as similar in design
to the picture-writing, presumably of Chibcha origin, that covered a
rocky promontory rising above one of the foothills skirting the Bogota
tableland.

The mighty portal to which this tablet formed the keystone, was only
partially the work of man. Here the elemental forces that originally
hollowed out the great central chamber through which the explorers had
passed, had encountered a granitic rock effectually resisting their
ravages. Hence, the narrowing of the passage-way to the diameter of the
half-circle described by the white arch, and hence the opportunity that
had been seized by an aboriginal race of men to complete and embellish
what nature had so nobly planned. The sides of the arch rose in majestic
columns, shaped and smoothed to the semblance of such pillars as those
used in the massive temples of ancient Egypt; and, still bearing out
this similarity, each of these pillars stood at the head of a long row
that stretched away indefinitely in the darkness beyond. The curve of
the arch overhead had also followed the simplest of lines, but with so
glowing a symmetry that the beholder yielded to the conviction that
here, whether of Nature's design or Man's, he stood on the threshold
of a realm wherein were garnered treasures of art and science unique
in the world's history. Besides the golden characters engraved on the
keystone of this gigantic portal there was but one attempt at sculptural
adornment. This was the rudely carved head of a condor, made to curve
downward from the central tablet of the arch, as if the sleepless duty
had been given to this winged monarch of the Andes of inspecting all who
passed beneath its lofty eyrie.

Before this imposing structure the explorers paused in astonishment.
Anitoo smiled, somewhat disdainfully, and signed to them to enter. This
they were loath to do until they could learn more definitely whither the
cavemen were leading them.

"Senores," remonstrated Anitoo, "when you were lost in this cave, I came
to your rescue. Now, you must follow me."

"That is very good," said Miranda irritably. "We have enough of this
cave. We want to go out."

"Follow me," persisted Anitoo.

"You take us out?"

"I take you to the queen," he retorted.

"Why we go to your queen? We make nothing with your queen."

"Ah, but perhaps she make something with you."

"Caramba! What she make with me?"

"You will see."

The explorers looked at each other helplessly. One thing was
evident--the Indians had no intention of parting with them. But they
could not tell whether they were hostile or friendly. They were not
treated as captives; but they felt that any attempt to escape would be
quickly frustrated. They were too far outnumbered by the cavemen to
make resistance possible. Leighton therefore decided that there was
nothing for it but submission. Upon this the Indians gave a grunt of
satisfaction, and Anitoo signaled to advance, pointing upward to the
Sign of the Condor.

But the signal came too late.

Out of the darkness, from the portion of the cave they had just left,
rose a yell of defiance, followed by a flight of arrows and a volley
of pistol shots. Running towards them, but still a good distance off,
they could see a huddle of figures, dimly lighted by a few torches
of wood, interspersed with lanterns similar to those used by the
explorers. There was no time to make out who the enemy was. Evidently
they planned to carry things before them by the swiftness of their
attack, hoping to catch the cavemen off their guard. They went at it
pell-mell, discharging their missiles as they ran--but with deadly
enough aim nevertheless. One Indian of Anitoo's party fell, struck
down by an arrow. His comrades, enraged by this, formed a close line
of battle around him, taking, as they did so, from the folds of
their togas certain innocent looking objects, apparently long metal
tubes, which they pointed at their assailants. The explorers failed to
recognize these implements at first; then, as the Indians put them to
their mouths, they realized that they were nothing more nor less than
blowpipes, weapons used to-day only by the most primitive races. But
the cavemen handled these weapons skillfully, pouring a goodly shower
of darts into the turbulent throng advancing to meet them. As the hail
of arrows and shooting of pistols continued, however, it was evident
that the damage inflicted by the blowpipes was not enough to check
the approach of the enemy, who exceeded the cavemen in numbers and
were anxious to engage them at close quarters. This Anitoo determined
to prevent. Shouting to his men, he urged them to retreat within the
archway before which they were fighting, a command they refused to obey,
infuriated as they were by the loss of several of their number. Their
assailants, steadily pressing on, were soon near enough to give the
cavemen the desired opportunity. Blowguns, bows and arrows were cast
aside, and they jumped into a hand-to-hand fight, with short pikes and
such weapons as chance provided.

It was then that the explorers seemed to reach the utmost limit of
their misfortunes. Except for Andrew's pocket-knife and the revolvers
of Herran and Miranda, they were without weapons, and thus practically
defenseless in the thick of a combat that at every moment gained in
intensity. They were bewildered by the flashing lights of the torches,
and kept getting in the way of Anitoo's men at the most inopportune
times. Naturally, General Herran, as the only one among them who had
been in actual military service, did his best to keep the others in some
sort of order; but his protests and commands, unintelligible to all but
Miranda, went for very little. In vain he looked for some sheltered
corner into which he could withdraw his little party; but the fierce
fighting all around them shut off any such easy way of escape. There
seemed to be nothing to do but stay where they were--and be shot, as
Mrs. Quayle hysterically put it. And the shooting certainly increased
enough in volume every moment to warrant that lady's dismal view of the
matter.

But Herran, although fighting in caves was quite out of his line, was
not the kind of soldier to give up in despair--even with two women on
his hands and three men who were quite as inexperienced and helpless in
warfare as the women. The fiasco of Panama still rankled in his soul,
and he resolved this time to let as few of the enemy escape him as
possible. It was a serious business, but--at least he had a revolver,
and he intended to use it.

Plunging ahead of the others into the thick of the mob that faced him,
he shot right and left, and--according to Miranda, who watched the
affair delightedly--every shot found its mark. This was all very well,
and cheering enough to the explorers. It looked, indeed, for the moment,
as if the tide of battle was about to be turned in their favor by the
Hero of Panama. But then, all of a sudden, as was bound to happen, the
General's cartridges gave out, leaving him an animated sort of target
in the midst of the men he had been attacking with such ferocity. There
were cries of dismay from those who had been watching his brave exploit,
a roar of rage from Miranda, who rushed forward, revolver in hand, to
defend his old comrade. But Miranda was too late. A burly caveman,
one of those who had borne the brunt of Herran's onslaught, seeing the
latter's plight, whirled aloft a huge club that he carried and brought
it down with fatal effect upon the General's head. It was a Homeric
blow, and the fall of the hero under it, sung in epic verse, would be
described as the crashing to earth of a monarch of the forest, a bull, a
lion, or something equally majestic and thunderous.

But the victor in this deadly encounter had no time to enjoy his
triumph. Miranda, not able to ward off the terrible blow that he saw
descending upon his friend, at least succeeded in inflicting mortal
punishment upon the offending caveman who, before he could raise his
club to his shoulder again, received the full contents of the Doctor's
revolver.

It was the first--and probably the last--time that Miranda could count
himself a conqueror on the field of battle. His exultation, however, was
short-lived. Not only had he to bewail the loss of Herran, a good friend
and a brave leader, but the odds in the combat before him were going
so unmistakably against Anitoo and his men, the fighting had become so
widespread and desperate, that the safety of the explorers seemed, every
moment, more and more a matter for miracles. As nothing further could
be done with an empty revolver, Miranda shrugged his shoulders, threw
away his now harmless weapon and, turning hastily to his companions,
ordered them to put out their torches, fall flat upon their faces where
they stood, and to stay motionless in that position until the fortunes
of the battle were decided. This they all did, some with an almost
inconceivable promptness--and to any one who might be looking on it
must have appeared that the enemy had over-thrown this little group of
people before them with one well directed discharge of their weapons.

In the kind of warfare that now was raging, Anitoo's cavemen, on account
of their lack of numbers and deficient training, were unquestionably
getting the worst of it. Their white togas, and the flashing lights
that they wore, made their escape difficult; obviously it would have
fared badly for them if they had been left to fight their battle out
alone. But Anitoo was taking no unnecessary chances. Fearing for his
own men from the very first, he had dispatched a messenger into that
unknown region of the cave lying beyond the Condor Gate. There was
more, indeed, than the fate of his own men at stake. He knew that the
majority of the enemy were of his own race, and that with them were
associated two or three men from the outside world whose presence
there, under such circumstances, proved the existence of a formidable
conspiracy against that subterranean realm, of which he had spoken
vaguely to the explorers, and to which he belonged. The cavemen he had
with him, although brave enough, were undisciplined and without military
experience. They could make but a poor defense against an attack
directed by leaders trained in the rough school of the guerilla. All
this Anitoo knew, and the reinforcements for which he had sent arrived
barely in time to save his little party from being completely wiped out.
But, fortunately for him, they did arrive in time. With a confused din
of war cries and trumpetings, a flash of mysterious torches, waving of
banners, brandishing of pipes and blowguns, a body of men, suddenly
appearing out of the dim recesses of the cave, rushed, several hundred
strong, upon the encircling throng of invaders. The result was decisive.
The rebels, with victory almost in their grasp, were quickly surrounded,
many of them killed, while the few who failed to make their escape were
taken prisoners.

Among the latter was one who had played a leading part in the attack.
He was unarmed, his clothes were torn, an ugly thrust from a pike had
slashed across his face. But his bearing was undaunted; the dejection
of the vanquished was lacking in the composure with which he regarded
Anitoo, before whom his captors led him.

"Well?" he asked scornfully.

"I expected you, Don Raoul," said Anitoo.

The other laughed contemptuously.

"Why are you here?" demanded Anitoo.

"That is a long story. For one thing, your people are tired of living
like bats in the dark. With the help of Rafael Segurra, your one great
man, I promised to free them."

"Instead, Segurra is killed and you are a prisoner."

"Ah! your muddle-headed rabble have killed him, have they? But, where
are my American friends?" he asked abruptly.

"They are here. One of them, I think, was killed. But he was a
Bogotano."

"I don't see them."

For the first time Anitoo showed amazement. He called to his men, he
looked in every possible and impossible place. The explorers were
nowhere to be seen. Their disappearance, moreover, was complicated by
the fact that after the retreat of Anitoo's men, the great portal
under the Sign of the Condor had been closed. By this means the outer
region of the cave had been shut off, thus preventing the escape of
any of the combatants in that direction. As the Americans were not now
in sight, it seemed probable that they were on the other side of the
stone gateway--although there was a faint possibility that they had
sought safety in the unexplored portion of the cave whither Anitoo
had been leading them. Either way, their disappearance was certain,
nor could Anitoo find out anything definite about them from his men.
A few, indeed, remembered seeing them during the fight, and recalled
Herran's charge, his subsequent fall, and the swift vengeance brought
upon his assailant by Miranda. One man declared that they had all
been killed; but as this was quite improbable, and as the statement
was uncorroborated, it was promptly put aside as unworthy of belief.
The whole thing was very vague. As a matter of fact, every one had
been too absorbed in the defeat of Segurra and his men to look after
the explorers. Doubtless the latter, it was said, had succeeded in
retreating into the darkness of the outer cave. In doing this, it is
true, they ran the chance of falling into the hands of Segurra's men--in
which case they would have been recaptured by Anitoo.

One strange feature of their disappearance was that the body of
Herran had apparently vanished with them. Anitoo remembered the exact
spot where the explorers had been stationed during the battle and,
consequently, where Herran had fallen. But now, neither living nor dead
explorers could be found. It seemed incredible that these people, two of
them women, would have hampered themselves in their flight with the body
of a dead man. And yet, there was the evidence of eyewitnesses to the
killing of Herran; there was the spot where he had fallen--and as the
body was not there now, it was practically certain that the explorers
had carried it away with them. In this case they could not have gone
very far. As Anitoo was particularly anxious for their capture, and
believing that they had returned to the outer cave, where they were in
danger of being attacked by what was left of Segurra's men, he sent most
of his troops after them, remaining behind with Raoul and a few others
until their return.

"It was to get those strangers and bring them to our queen," he said,
"that I came out here."

"Well, you have lost them," sneered Raoul. "But you have me. Why not
take me to your queen?"

The two men looked at each other in silence. A faint smile lighted
Anitoo's usually immobile features.

"Yes," he said; "at last you will reach the place you have plotted
against for so many months. But it will do you no good."

"Don't be too sure of that," growled Raoul. "I want to see your
queen----"

"You shall see her. But what can you do? Your friend, Segurra, the first
traitor to the Land of the Condor, is dead. Your men are defeated----"

"Not all!" shouted Raoul. "Look around you!"

With those who knew him Anitoo enjoyed a reputation for astuteness that
had led to his being chosen for the command of the diminutive army
considered necessary for the defense of the Land of the Condor. He was
valiant, absolutely trustworthy. But he was accustomed to deal only
with simple problems, with people of comparatively guileless natures.
Treachery was out of the domain of his experience. And now he was to pay
dearly for the lack of prudence that had allowed him to send away, on an
indefinite mission, the troops he should have kept to guard his
prisoner.

Startled by Raoul's exultant cry Anitoo seized a pike from one of the
two men who had stayed with him. If he had fallen into an ambush he
would at least make a brave fight to free himself. But resistance from
the first was hopeless. The slight eminence on which he stood with Raoul
was surrounded by a score or more men who had crept up on him, their
lights extinguished, and protected by the impenetrable darkness of the
cave. As Anitoo and his two followers still carried the mysterious
torches that had excited the wonder of the explorers, they offered an
excellent mark to their concealed antagonists. And now the latter, dimly
visible on the outer edge of the circle of light cast by these torches,
jumped to their feet and, with weapons poised, made a rush for their
victims.

"So! Now for your queen!" yelled Raoul.

Anitoo made a desperate lunge with his pike at the man beside him. But
the latter was too quick for him. Dodging the blow, Raoul managed to
wrest the pike from his grasp. There was a tigerish struggle between
the two men, shouts of fury and triumph from those looking on. Then,
overpowered by the number of his assailants, and mortally wounded,
Anitoo fell to the ground. He had been so certain of the defeat of his
antagonists that this sudden turn in his fortunes filled him, even at
the approach of death, with the gloomiest forebodings.

"Ah! my poor queen--lost!" he gasped with his last breath.

Raoul snatched the torch from the dead man's tunic and waved it above
his head.

"You will be free men now," he cried, "not miserable bats in a cave!"

Those of his hearers who understood his words, spoken in Spanish,
repeated them to the others in their own language. There was wild
cheering, in which the two followers of Anitoo joined--amazed at their
leader's fate--and then a rush for the great gateway. But this impulsive
movement of his men did not agree with Raoul's hastily conceived plan of
conquest. Delighted by his easily won victory, coming to him in the very
hour of defeat, he had no mind to leave Anitoo's hostile troops in his
rear--especially as he heard them approaching from the outer cave, and
could even catch the first glimmer of their torches.

"Stop!" he commanded. "We need these men. Better to have them friends
than enemies. They will come with us. Some of you warn them--tell them
what has happened."

His followers, halted in their eager flight, looked at Raoul in
amazement. Then, hurriedly repeating to each other what he had said,
they suddenly broke into another cheer, while two of their number, in
obedience to Raoul's orders, ran towards the approaching troops.

At first the two rebels were met with a flourish of pikes and angry
cries that boded ill for their safety. When they succeeded in making
themselves heard, however, explaining what had happened and pointing to
the dead body of Anitoo in confirmation of Raoul's victory, the cavemen
checked their hostile demonstrations, looking from one to the other of
the men before them, and then to the little group surrounding Raoul, in
astonishment. They had the most exaggerated trust in Anitoo's wisdom and
prowess; that he could be vanquished by any one impressed them mightily.
The death of their leader was, indeed, a potent argument in favor of the
man who had killed him. What did this victorious stranger intend to do
now? they asked each other. Then the foremost of them put the question
to the two rebels, who answered with contagious enthusiasm:

"He will free us! The wealth of the Condor will be ours! We will have
the world--not a cave--to live in!"

The instant effect of this assurance was all that could be desired. One
by one took up the words they had just heard with a shout of triumph,
waving their weapons in air and declaring that they would follow this
new-found leader to the death. Then they all broke into a run, saluting
Raoul, when they reached him, with the submissive gesture they were wont
to accord their superiors.

Elated by the complete success of his strategy, Raoul looked exultantly
at the men prostrate before him. Then he spoke to them sternly.

"Where are the Americans?" he demanded.

"Gone," some of them murmured. "We could not find them."

"Where have they gone? They must be near--somewhere."

"To the queen--they have gone to the queen!"

"Ah, yes! to the queen! Follow quickly! We go to the queen!"

Raoul's words were greeted with a cheer. The men rose to their feet and
all, at a signal from their leader, swept forward to the great gateway,
shouting as they ran--

"To the queen! To the queen!"




XVI

NARVA


To return to the explorers, left prostrate on the field of battle, it
must be recorded that, for once in his career, Miranda, after his first
taste of active fighting, and seeing how the fortunes of the day were
going against them, repressed his natural impulsiveness and developed
a prudence and caution that would have become a general seasoned in
strategy.

"For me it is not good to be here," he whispered sepulchrally to his
companions as they lay face downward about him. "We cannot fight. We
have no guns. We will be kill. We must go!"

It was a good summary of the situation. Every one agreed to it, so far
as their constrained positions would permit an exchange of opinions;
but how to act on Miranda's obviously excellent plan was not clear. If
they got on their feet again, they would probably be shot--and even if
the enemy failed to bring them down right away, they could not make
up their minds in which direction to make their escape. To retrace
their steps into the depths of the outer cave would bring them between
two fires and, aside from other tragic possibilities, would certainly
arouse the suspicions of Anitoo and his cavemen. To seek safety in the
other direction, to pass within the section of the cave guarded by the
Condor Gate, was to court unknown dangers in a region that loomed dark
and mysterious enough. It was this latter course, however, that Miranda
chose.

"This Anitoo take us to his queen," he argued. "Perhaps she is good
woman. It is better we go alone. Senor Anitoo, he come after."

So they made up their minds to set out at once in search of this unknown
queen. She might, or might not, be friendly. But anyway, she would be
better than lying on one's stomach between two opposing rows of fighting
men. Luckily for the carrying out of their plan, they had extinguished
their torches. They were thus in comparative darkness, hidden alike
from friend and foe. Indeed, if any one had been able to see them in
their present prostrate position they would have been taken for dead,
and escaped further notice. This view of the situation becoming clear
to Miranda, he cautiously raised his head and peered into the darkness
before him. A few feet farther on he could dimly make out the body
of the huge caveman who had fallen before his revolver a few moments
ago--and at the side of the caveman lay his victim, General Herran. The
sight stirred Miranda's grief for the loss of his friend to a fresh
outburst, leading him to abandon, with one of those impulsive changes
characteristic of him, his plans for escape.

"Ah, Caramba!" he wailed, with the nearest approach to tears he had ever
been guilty of; "he was one great hero! He was a man! I not leave him!
He die for me!"

And then he fell to stroking his friend's face--wet from the blood
pouring from his wounds, as he supposed--caressing him somewhat roughly,
indeed, in the vehemence of his grief, and absent-mindedly tugging at
his great beard, as he had so often seen the General do himself. The
more he pondered his loss, the more doleful it appeared to him; and this
feeling grew until he reached such a pitch of pathos that he resolved
never to leave Herran, dead or alive. Better to die right there with
him, he said, than to abandon his mortal remains to the canaille who had
killed him.

These lamentations and melancholy vows, however, aroused some feeble
objections among Miranda's companions, who were growing restless in
their uncomfortable positions, and saw no relief in the idea of staying
indefinitely where they were. But Miranda paid no heed to what they
said, except to growl out an expletive or two between his wails of
grief, and to stroke his fallen hero's face with an increased vigor of
affection. And then, in the midst of this lugubrious occupation, he
suddenly jumped to his feet, regardless of whatever lurking enemy there
might be near him, and started capering around Herran's body.

"This hero, he is not dead!" he cried in a sort of whispered ecstasy.
"When I rub the nose of him--Caramba!--he try to breathe! And he cough
and say some words in Spanish!"

It was fortunate that the darkness was deep enough to hide Miranda from
observation, else his dancing figure and the gestures of delight with
which he accompanied this announcement would have brought upon him more
attention from the enemy than might have been to his liking. Another
fact in his favor, besides the darkness, was that the fighting had
drifted away from this corner of the cave, leaving the explorers quite
alone, in an obscurity that shrouded them from danger, but that still
revealed to them enough of the outlines of the cave in the distance to
show them where they were and how they might best steer their way in
safety through the Condor Gate, as Miranda had at first proposed. And
now all were eager to corroborate the extraordinary news that Herran was
still alive.

True to his professional instincts, Miranda plumped down on his knees at
the General's side, and commenced a series of probings, pummelings and
rubbings in his search for wounds, mortal or otherwise. He worked with
his usual feverish haste, and it was not long before his activities drew
from Herran protests that became more and more distinct and emphatic.
Then Miranda remembered that he had seen the caveman's club descend upon
the General's head, so that if there were any wounds to be attended to
they would be in that part of his anatomy and nowhere else. And there,
sure enough, under Herran's battered hat and his smashed miner's lamp,
was a massive lump that testified to the magnitude of the blow that
had crumpled him up. Indeed, had it not been for the hat and the lamp,
serving in this case as a buffer, even Herran's iron skull must have
yielded under the weight of the caveman's attack.

At first Miranda thought that the skull surely was fractured, and
thereupon investigated the lump on top of it. This he did with so much
earnestness and nicety of detail that he was soon rewarded by a series
of such vigorous oaths and threats as to leave no doubt in his mind of
his victim's ability to look out for himself.

"He's all right, this General of Panama!" he exclaimed gleefully. "His
brains is not smashed. But perhaps he have a headache. Soon he fight
again. And now we go to the queen."

The subject of these optimistic assurances sat up with a groan, blinking
his eyes savagely at his companions, who were now crowded around him,
and wiping disgustedly from his face some of the kerosene oil that had
trickled down from the mangled miner's lamp, and that Miranda had first
taken for Herran's blood.

"Now, we go--we fly!" urged Miranda, his mind completely absorbed
again in the problem of extricating himself and his companions from
the dangers of the battlefield. "They not see us. We save our life and
go to this queen. You are all right, General--is it not so?" he added
impatiently.

The other looked at him venomously and groaned. Then, shaking himself,
like a dog who has been temporarily worsted in a rough-and-tumble fight,
he got to his feet and staggered along for a few paces.

"Yes, Caramba! I am all right," he said in Spanish, with painful
sarcasm. "It is a headache, as you say, that is all! Let us go!"

"That is good! Come!" grunted Miranda approvingly.

At first Herran was somewhat uncertain of his footing. But Miranda
helped him until he got over his dazed feeling sufficiently to walk
alone. Then they all followed along, single file, skirting the edge of
the darkness, beyond which they could dimly see the cavemen fighting,
but without being able to tell how the fortunes of the battle were
going, and making for the Condor Gate as quickly as they could. Once
beyond that point they would be relieved, they thought, at least
temporarily, from the inconveniences of a battle in which most of
them had been forced to play the part of target only. Having passed
this danger zone, they would set about placing as generous a distance
as possible between themselves and their warlike companions. Further
retreat, it is true, meant the abandonment of the outer cave for a
venture into realms whither Anitoo had been conducting them, practically
as captives, to an unknown fate. But the situation left them no
alternative. Everything depended on their finding the queen--and then,
having found her, their fate depended on the kind of woman she might be.

"A great thing this," muttered Leighton to himself; "at my age to be in
the power of the queen of a race of cavemen!"

"They are good peoples," remarked Miranda dubiously.

"I trust Anitoo," declared Una. "His queen will protect us."

"She will behead us!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle, whose spirits were
hopelessly flustered by the uproar of battle that resounded through
the cave. "Queens always behead people. Why did we ever come into this
frightful place? We can never escape."

"Do be quiet, woman!" commanded Leighton, who did not care to hear his
own thoughts voiced in this manner.

"Hold the tongue!" growled Miranda savagely.

"We have escaped already," said Una soothingly. "I believe this path
will take us out of the cave."

"Caramba! that is so," agreed Miranda delightedly. "It is change--and
there is some light."

"Yes, there actually is some light," said Leighton. "But--where does it
come from?"

Having passed through the great portal that separated them from Anitoo
and his men, they were soon following a narrow path that ran between two
high walls of rock. This path was at first scarcely discernible. As they
turned a sharp corner, however, the darkness gradually lifted and they
found it possible, for the first time, to distinguish certain objects
a considerable distance ahead of them--and judging by the direction
in which the shadows from these objects were thrown, it was evident
that the light was not a reflection cast by torches carried by warring
cavemen.

This discovery was hailed as a momentous one, open to two
interpretations. Since, as every one knows, caves are never lighted from
sources contained in themselves, they must now be nearing another party
of cavemen, who were carrying lanterns, or else, through some twist in
subterranean topography, they had stumbled upon an unexpected passageway
to the outer world. No sooner was the latter possibility suggested,
however, than its improbability was recognized. No rays from sun or
moon were ever like these--blue, flickering, ghostly--illuminating the
grotesque forms around them. This light had a tingling quality, as of
sparks that snap and glitter when they are thrown off from an electric
battery. It was certainly not sunlight, or moonlight either, as the
explorers quickly realized. There remained the idea that it came from
lights carried by an approaching band of cavemen.

"It is like the torches of Anitoo's musicians!" exclaimed Una; "it's not
from the sun."

"It begins to be too bright, and at the same time too far off, for
that," objected Leighton.

"It is one big fire----" said Miranda.

"A bonfire," interjected Andrew.

"----and when we come there we will see."

Pressing on along this path, the light steadily increased, although
revealing to the explorers nothing of its origin. They could walk now
at a fairly round pace, and as their range of vision extended their
attention was completely taken up in a study of the strange objects to
be seen in the unknown world about them.

Great walls of white basalt, veined with broad bands of glistening
emerald, towered on either side, reaching up to a crystalline roof
that spread forth, far as eye could reach, at an altitude scorning the
limitations of human architecture. The irregularities of the outer cave,
with its rough bowlders and piles of fallen débris, its dark masses of
shapeless sandstone, was exchanged here for forms of marvelous symmetry,
fashioned, one could but imagine, for the enjoyment of a race of beings
to whom the majesty of beauty must be an ever-living reality. Seen by
the explorers, in the wavering half light that filled the cave, the
bold outlines of cliff and battlement were softened and blended in a
vague witchery of design suggesting meanings and distances varying with
the fancy of the beholder. It was a vale of enchantments, an Aladdin's
cave, from which anything might be expected with the mere rubbing of a
ring--or a lamp.

As the path broadened the walls became less precipitous; on their sides
objects could be distinguished that, anywhere else, would have been
taken for man's handiwork. Tiny dwellings appeared to be carved out
of solid rock that jutted forth from dizzying heights, while feathery
forms of dwarf trees and plants, whose leaves were of a spectral
transparency, whose branches were twisted in thread-like traceries of
lines and figures, found sustenance where not a foothold of earth was
discernible. That such evidences of botanical life should appear in a
cavern remote from the sun's heat and light was surprising enough to all
the explorers; to Leighton it savored of the miraculous. Ever since the
adventure with the Black Magnet the savant, indeed, had drifted into
such a state of bewilderment that he was more helpless in grasping and
overcoming the difficulties confronting them than those of the party who
had little of his learning or experience. Ordinarily he was accustomed
to treat with contempt phenomena that to others appeared inexplicable.
But here he was as a mariner adrift in midocean, in a rudderless ship,
without sails or compass. Everything seemed at odds with the settled
beliefs and theories of science as he knew them. Nothing was as it
should be. He was thus less capable as a leader than the volatile
Miranda who, although fairly well trained in the modern way of looking
at things, did not trouble himself to explain the marvels that met them
at every turn in their wanderings.

"They live in the walls, these people!" exclaimed the doctor, "and they
have trees and plants without the sun and rain."

That was all that need be said. The fact was a fact, delightful
beyond most facts just because it was so outlandish, so opposed to
all experience, and it gained nothing in interest or anything else by
trying to explain it--although Miranda did, on occasion, take a hand at
explaining these puzzling matters.

Entertaining as these discoveries and discussions might be, however,
the feeling that they had stumbled into a region inhabited by a race
of men who lived in a manner unknown to them--and who, moreover, had
already given evidence of unfriendliness towards strangers--was not
reassuring to Miranda or any of the rest of them. The end of their
adventure grew every moment more puzzling. Since their escape from
Anitoo they had not actually met any one. Perhaps this part of the cave
was not inhabited after all. Perhaps Anitoo's talk of a queen was not to
be taken too seriously. The curious objects projecting from the walls
far above them might not be the human dwellings that at first sight
they appeared. Even the signs of an unearthly vegetation might prove a
sort of mirage, or they might turn out to be mere specimens of basaltic
formation--fantastic enough, certainly--wrought by the subterranean
convulsions that had given birth to this cave measureless ages ago.
But the air had become so strangely invigorating, the mysterious light
so pervasive and even brilliant, that anything seemed possible. This
atmospheric vitality, a certain bracing quality in the air, had been
noted, indeed, among their first experiences in the outer cave. But,
compared with this that now tingled and coursed in their veins like some
conquering elixir, the air of the outer cave was chill, dead. Here life
might germinate and be sustained--although there lacked, as Miranda had
pointed out, "the sun and rain" to aid in these daily miracles of
nature.

But it was idle to theorize, useless to harbor doubts that led nowhere.
So, they wandered on, marveling at the strangeness and the magnitude of
this underground world, and yielding themselves, as familiarity disarmed
their fears, to the charm of it all. For there was beauty of a rare and
thrilling quality in these majestic cliffs whose perfectly proportioned
sides gleamed in all the variegations of color belonging to certain
kinds of basalt. Displaying in structure the columnar forms peculiar to
this rock, the admirable symmetry produced easily suggested the work
of a human architect gifted in all the cunning of his art. And now the
widening space before them disclosed unmistakable signs of the human
agency they had suspected.

They stood at the verge of a precipice. Below them stretched a wide
and comparatively level plain, vaulted over by a crystalline canopy
supported by innumerable clusters of slender columns, and sheltering
low-storied houses, or huts, collected together in the close
companionship of a thriving little village. The familiar accompaniments
of such a scene, supposing that it formed a part of some straggling,
hospitable highway in the outer world, were there. At the doorways of
the houses men and women stopped to talk; children played in the vacant
spaces that served for yards and streets; even diminutive animals, that
appeared in the distance to be near of kin to the patient, ubiquitous
burro, jogged along under their burdens of merchandise. The villagers
were evidently of the same race as Anitoo and his companions, dressed
like them in white flowing togas, but lacking their indefinable charm
and lordliness of bearing. Anywhere else they would have been taken for
peasants, attired somewhat fantastically, engaged in the most primitive
occupations. Here, remote from everything that lives under the sun,
their very simplicity was cause for wonder, if not for fear.

So far the explorers had not attracted the attention of the villagers.
Where the former stood they could watch the scene below without being
observed themselves. But they knew that this security could not last.
Either they had to go on and make themselves known, or return to Anitoo,
who by this time, possibly, was at the mercy of Raoul and his party.
They hesitated. The problem was a knotty one--but it was not left
for them to decide. From an unexpected quarter came an interruption,
startling in some respects, that solved their difficulties--temporarily
at least--and seemed a promising augury that whatever dangers confronted
them they might rely on backing, of a sort. A heavily veiled figure,
bent with age and toiling down a precipitous path from the rocky height
beneath which they were sheltered, silently approached them. At sight
of this singular being, Mrs. Quayle, not yet accustomed to this land
of uncomfortable surprises, started to run away. Her frantic efforts
at speed restored the confidence of the others and, after she had been
unceremoniously brought to order by Leighton, the little party managed
to face the newcomer with some show of composure.

Leaning on a long staff, the descending figure, ignoring the others,
advanced towards Una, who stood by herself beneath a low shelf of rock.
Pausing within a few feet of the wondering girl, the veil was slowly
lifted, revealing the seamed and wrinkled face and long flowing white
hair of a woman whose great age was visible in every feature. In bygone
times she would have been proclaimed a witch, although in her aspect
there was nothing of the malevolence tradition attributes to witches.
But there was the solemnity, the dramatic gesture of the sibyl--a being
who is supposed to rank several grades higher than the witch--when,
with uplifted hand, she commanded the attention of those to whom she
deigned to speak. Drawn by something of benignity in her glance, and
undaunted by her otherwise fantastic appearance, Una came forward to
meet her--a movement that at once elicited a sign of approval.

"She is one loca, one crazy woman," growled Miranda.

"Of course she is dangerous!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle.

General Herran shrugged his shoulders and muttered vigorous profanities
in Spanish.

"Nonsense! The woman is probably slightly demented," was Leighton's
judgment in the matter. Una, apparently, was without opinion as to
the character or the intentions of the singular being whose gaze was
fastened upon her, and whose outstretched arm singled her out from the
rest.

"Oh! if she would only speak in a language we could understand," she
exclaimed. To the amazement of every one, the wish was gratified
as soon as uttered. For the old woman--whether witch, sibyl, or
lunatic--answered in plain English, an English somewhat defective in
pronunciation, it is true, but correct enough in form to give evidence
of an unusual amount of study on the part of the speaker.

"I expected you. Come with me," she commanded.

Astonishment silenced further comment. For the moment even Miranda had
nothing to say. Then, recovering his usual assurance, he expressed
himself with emphasis.

"Caramba! She is one witch," he declared.

The old woman shook her head impatiently. It was with Una alone she
wanted to speak; she resented as interference any word from the others.
Una, on her part, was strangely drawn to her. The odd dress, the air
of mystery that repelled the others, increased her interest. She was
impressed by her calm assumption of authority, convinced that she was
there to help them. And then, a novel idea flashed through her mind.

"Are you the queen?" she asked abruptly.

The stern Indian features relaxed into the ghost of a smile, accompanied
by a feeble chuckle from a lean and wrinkled throat.

"I am Narva," she announced quietly--but whether "Narva" was the queen
she did not deign to say.

"Very well, my lady," argued Miranda, "but we want the queen."

"Silence!" commanded Narva, turning for the first time from Una to the
others. "Come with me," she repeated.

"But why?" persisted the doctor; "what for we go with you, my senora,
unless you are queen?"

"Perhaps she is the queen," suggested Andrew; "only she doesn't want
to say so. She didn't deny it!" a view of the matter that met with no
response.

But, queen or not, Una was ready to pin her faith to this strange being
who had accosted them in so unexpected a manner. It was useless even
to attempt an explanation of how an aged Indian woman, answering to
the name of Narva, inhabiting a cave in the remote Andes, could talk
English, and how it happened that she appeared to know them--a party
of distressed foreigners--whom she had certainly never met before.
So long as she refused to explain--and refuse she certainly did--all
this would have to remain the puzzle that it was. But, logical or not,
dangerous or not, Narva seemed to be something very like their last
hope. Her bearing, although decidedly reserved, was not unkindly--was
even friendly--and so Una determined to follow her without further
discussion. The others scarcely shared her confidence. Mrs. Quayle stuck
to it that Narva was dangerous, probably a witch; Leighton was still in
doubt as to her sanity. Finally, Miranda put the point blank question--

"Why we go with her?"

"Simply because we have no one else to go with, no other plan," was
Una's prompt reply.

There was no gainsaying this. They were wandering, without guide or clew
of any kind, through a cave filled with mysteries and dangers. On the
trail behind them were two bands of natives, absorbed in the occupation
of cutting each other's throats. From one of these bands it was certain
they had much to fear. In front of them was a considerable body of
cavemen, not at present engaged in war, it is true, but who might, for
all they knew, prove unfriendly. Witch or queen, Narva volunteered to
guide them--somewhere.

"At least we must know where she intends to take us," declared Leighton.

"I take you from these," said Narva, pointing in the direction of the
villagers.

"Why should we go from them?" asked Leighton.

"They kill you," was the laconic reply.

"What bloodthirsty people they all are!" exclaimed Andrew.

But Narva's calm statement of what was to be expected proved decisive.
There remained the doubt as to her sincerity. The timorous Mrs. Quayle
scented a diabolical plot in the whole affair, and her fears were
shared by some of the others. Only Una would brook no delay.

"We want to get out of the cave," she said, addressing Narva. "We have
lost the way--you will guide us?"

"Something you do first," retorted Narva; "then you go free."

The suggestion that they were still, in a sense, prisoners, and that
some kind of service was expected of them before they could regain
their freedom, was not pleasant. What was it that they could do for so
singular a person as this, who gave the impression of having planned to
meet them in this very spot? Narva took a witch's privilege to speak
in riddles. No amount of questioning could get her to explain what she
meant. The answer to everything was always "follow me"--and as she
pointed to the valley whenever she said this, they gathered that the
direction they were expected to take was practically that which they
had been pursuing ever since they left the Condor Gate. As this would
inevitably bring them among the villagers--who, they had just been told,
were prepared to "kill them"--they could not understand Narva's plan at
all. There being no choice left them, however, they yielded and went
with her.

The path leading into the valley was abrupt and dangerous. Narva,
striding ahead, was unimpeded by obstacles that left the others
breathless and panic-stricken. They wanted to turn back before they had
gone very far--but this would have been quite as difficult to accomplish
as to go on.

At this point, apparently, the geological construction of the cave had
undergone some radical changes. Convulsions, undoubtedly of volcanic
origin, had rent the solid walls of granite in two, leaving irregular
chasms, of uncertain depth, to be traversed before the smooth floor of
the valley could be reached. These chasms, where their width demanded
it, were spanned by swaying bridges of rope--or liana--and wood that
proved a sore trial to the weaker members of the party, delaying their
progress to an extent that seriously strained Narva's patience. The old
Indian was especially put out by Mrs. Quayle, whom she contemptuously
called "baby," and whose pathetic helplessness astride a plank over a
yawning cavern aroused in her the nearest approach to laughter she had
shown.

Under Narva's guidance, however, the difficulties of this downward
trail were overcome without mishap. The perilous abysses, once crossed,
appeared not more than miniature dangers in retrospect; but immediately
facing them, on this plain that, at a distance, had seemed so charming
and pastoral in character, there was menace enough for the most daring.
At first sight of the invaders, for so they were deemed, the villagers
showed unmistakable hostility. Dropping their various occupations with
one accord, they confronted the explorers in so threatening a manner
that the latter had either to defend themselves as best they might, or
retreat. But the thought of those villainous chasms, spanned by flimsy
bridges of rope, was too appalling to offer the remotest hope of safety
in flight. Anything would be better than a return--if return were even
possible--over so hazardous a path.

"We fight!" announced Miranda through clenched teeth--and, regretting
his lost revolver, he threw himself into as warlike an attitude as his
rotund figure would permit.

This had anything but a quieting effect on the villagers. From every
direction volunteers hastened to strengthen their line of battle, and
it might have fared badly with the enterprising doctor, upon whom a
concentrated attack resembling a football rush was about to be launched,
had it not been for the interference of Narva. The old Indian woman,
scornful at first of the excited demonstration of the villagers, now
took an active part in what was going on. Brushing Miranda aside, she
checked the advancing mob with a torrent of angry words that sounded
like the scolding lecture of an outraged school teacher bringing her
refractory pupils to order. As she spoke in the native language of the
Indians, what she said was totally unintelligible to those whom she was
defending. But on the cavemen the effect of her words was immediate.
The shouts ceased; the hastily formed line of battle was broken.
The angry villagers acknowledged Narva's authority by every sign of
submission--sullenly given, it is true--and the way was clear and free
for the "invaders" to go on.

The singular episode impressed them deeply. They realized that they
were surrounded by people who did not want them in this underworld of
theirs, and that they were, at the same time, under the protection of a
being who, mad or inspired, was powerful enough to stand between them
and danger. Who she was, or why she befriended them remained a mystery.
On this point Narva was as uncommunicative as ever. On occasion, as they
had just witnessed, she was capable of the volubility of a fishwife;
with them her reserve was impregnable.

"Follow me!" she commanded--and there was nothing for it but obey.
Miranda, who was the immediate cause of the trouble, muttered
maledictions on the fate that left him at the mercy of an eccentric
beldame who might be leading them to some unthinkable witch's dance--and
the rest exhorted him to curb his warlike propensities in the future.

Gliding ahead at a quicker pace than before, Narva led the way along
the narrow path on each side of which stood the huts of the villagers.
These huts were not more than thirty in number, built of the rough-hewn
stone of the cave. Each, apparently, contained two, or in some cases,
three rooms on the ground floor. Roofs they had none, a deficiency in
architecture evidently without inconvenience, since the great vaulted
dome of the cave furnished them with whatever protection overhead was
necessary. The whole series of little houses composing the village
resembled one huge, hospitable communal dwelling, not unlike the ancient
pueblo ruins of Arizona, in which there was the privacy desired by
separate families, together with a close union of household interests
that is scarcely possible in settlements where each group of individuals
lives under its own rooftree. As if further to preserve this communal
manner of living, the openings into the huts were without doors,
although, in a few instances, curtains of a heavy red material served
as doors. These curtains were adorned with thin plates of gold, cut
in primitive designs depicting various forms of animal life. The huts
so marked the explorers took to be the dwellings either of village
dignitaries, or buildings devoted to public uses.

There was scant opportunity to observe more than the barest outlines
of this singular underground settlement, as the pace set by Narva left
no time for loitering. But the explorers felt little desire to prolong
their stay here, although they soon forgot their fears as they noted
the sullen deference with which their mysterious guide was everywhere
greeted. The villagers retired before them into their various dwellings,
and as the little company passed along the unobstructed street it was
welcomed with demonstrations of respect resembling the homage accorded
some eastern potentate who deigns to visit his subjects. The change
was grateful to those who a moment ago had been the objects of popular
disfavor, at the same time that it stimulated their curiosity regarding
Narva. The latter paid no heed to her surroundings, but her progress was
timed to the needs of those who followed her. An occasional backward
glance gave proof that her interest in them, whether for good or ill,
had not abated. Talk with her, however, was impossible; and thus the
straggling little village, with its groups of obsequious Indians, was
traversed in silence.

When the last hut had disappeared in the distance Narva turned abruptly.
The path was again becoming precipitous, and although the mysterious
light with which the cave was illumined revealed whatever obstacles
were in the way, there were dark chasms in the overhanging cliffs that
filled the timid with grim forebodings. Where they stood the ground was
level, making a little platform, or square, three sides of which were
unprotected by walls. On the fourth side an arched opening in the smooth
face of a lofty tower of granite, glittering with countless facets of
crystal, served as entrance to a spacious interior. Emblazoned on the
keystone of this arch was the same emblem that marked the cyclopean
gateway to the inhabited portion of the cave--the rudely carved figure
of a condor. Beneath this sculptured symbol Narva stood for a moment
regarding the others with stern composure. Then she pointed to the
shadowy depths within.

"Enter!" she commanded.




XVII

A SONG AND ITS SEQUEL


Narva's forbidding presence promised little in the way of cheer or
warmth of welcome to her wearied companions. The singular dwelling into
which the latter were ushered recalled, at first glance, the gloomy
abode of some medieval anchorite to whose theory of existence anything
approaching luxury was to be shunned, rooted out, as an obstruction to
the soul's growth. Whether or not Narva's mode of living was actually
based on these mystical considerations, her home, at least, in its
lack of visible comforts, seemed the typical hermit's cell. Here was
neither superfluous ornament nor evidence of the slightest touch of
feminine grace or care. The blackened walls of granite rose with
uncompromising abruptness, unbroken by niche or shelf, to a ceiling
whose vague outlines were lost in darkness. A truss of straw was thrown
in one corner of the apartment, and upon it was spread a rough woolen
counterpane. Three flattened blocks of stone, placed at intervals along
the walls, served as benches; in the center a rock-table, carefully
smoothed and large enough for a banquet fairly regal in its dimensions,
rose four feet from the floor. Upon this table, with its suggested
possibilities of entertainment, stood a large jug, curiously fashioned
of a single crystal, within which faintly gleamed an opalescent liquid.
There were also two stone platters, one containing heaped-up cubes
of a white substance resembling bread, and the other certain broiled
fish--they looked like fish--whose globular bodies and reddish-blue
flesh aroused misgivings, if not a more decided feeling of repugnance,
among those unfamiliar with subterranean bills of fare.

But the explorers were famished enough to attack anything. The dangers
they had escaped, the fatigue arising from prolonged exposure and
unwonted exercise, the bracing air of the cave, would have corrected
the most fastidious taste and made even boot-leather palatable. But
Narva's fish, notwithstanding their sickly hue, were not to be classed,
by any means, with boot-leather. After the first wave of disgust, even
the suspicious Miranda scented a welcome repast in the dishes spread
before him, while the others were in this only too eager to follow his
lead. Their hostess, aware of their hunger, gave a reassuring gesture of
invitation.

"Eat!" she said solemnly; "it is for you."

They needed no second bidding. Scorning the absence of chairs and
the ordinary dishes and utensils that go with a meal, they fell to
and, with the first mouthful, expressed approval by varying grunts
and exclamations. Even the fish was voted a delicacy of superlative
excellence. In flavor it recalled the sweet succulence of rare tropical
fruit, like the cirimoya, with a soupçon of spice that gave it the
fillip of a genuine culinary masterpiece. As for the bread, it was not
bread at all, but some mysterious compound of flesh and vegetable, the
nutritive qualities of which were eagerly explained and extolled by the
ravenous doctor.

Una, however, was denied participation in this unexpected and singular
feast. From the first Narva had shown a special interest in the girl;
caused, doubtless, by the latter's early expression of confidence in her
offer to protect them. This interest, it now appeared, had a distinct
purpose in view, which Narva lost no time in carrying out. Satisfied
that the others were provided with the entertainment they desired, she
took Una by the hand and led her to a distant corner of the apartment.

"Will you go with me?" she asked her in a whisper.

Una hesitated. To leave her uncle and the others, trusting herself
entirely to this mysterious being, was more than she had bargained for.
Divining the cause of her irresolution, Narva spoke reassuringly.

"They are safe," she said. "We will come back to them."

Something in the older woman's manner won Una's confidence. She felt
that a way out of their difficulties was being offered her. Hope of a
still greater result silenced her fears.

"Yes," she said.

Then, behind one of the stone benches, yielding to Narva's touch, a door
slowly opened, revealing a narrow passage upon which they entered.

Glancing hastily back, Una noticed that the door, a great block of stone
revolving with the utmost nicety in grooves made for the purpose, had
closed behind them. She was thus separated from her companions and alone
with a singular being whose purpose in all this she was at a loss to
fathom. Narva's trustworthiness had appealed to her, it is true, and she
had followed her leading when the others held back. But there was an air
about Narva, suggesting the occasional freaks of one whose wits are not
of the steadiest, that might well cause anxiety among those temporarily
in her power. Just now, however, there was no sign of trouble, and Una
repressed any outward evidence of alarm she might feel. Narva, indeed,
seemed to have lost the solemn dignity she had assumed hitherto, and
became every moment more ingratiating, reassuring. Gently stroking Una's
hand, she stopped in her hurried walk down the corridor and, throwing
back the heavy veil obscuring her features, showed a face marked by the
nobility and calm of age. Its serenity and kindliness strengthened Una's
confidence.

"We will go back to them," said Narva; "but first we must see," she
added enigmatically.

"Why have you brought me here?" asked Una.

"Something you will see. You will help us, and then I will help you. I
knew you were coming."

The explanation, if it could be called one, increased Una's
mystification.

"You could know nothing of me. How could you know?" she persisted. "How
can I help you?"

"Ah, Narva is very old," she replied, her long bony fingers passing
through the masses of snow-white hair that fell to her shoulders, "and
with the old there is knowledge. Long time I lived with your people,
far from here. All the years I keep the secret of this Kingdom of the
Condor. No one knows--if they know they do not dare to come. Only
one--he knows, he has come. And now, you have come. Why?"

The abrupt question was confusing. Una wondered how much she knew, how
much she dared tell her. The inscrutable eyes fixed upon her revealed
nothing. Was it to learn her secret Narva had lured her away from the
others? The narrow gloomy passage where they stood was remote from the
inhabited portion of the cave; the door to Narva's dwelling, now that
it was closed, was not distinguishable from the rest of the wall into
which it fitted so admirably. Had Una tried, she could not have found
her way back. She was completely at Narva's mercy--but the old Indian
had shown only friendliness hitherto, it was reasonable to suppose that
her proffer of assistance was genuine, since motive for treachery was
lacking. Impulsively reaching this conclusion, Una answered Narva's
question without reserve.

"I have come," she said, "because I am looking for one who is dear to
me. I think he is lost in this cave."

"Why?" asked Narva, showing neither surprise nor incredulity.

"Once before he disappeared, and then he was lost here."

"When?"

"Three years ago. A man who was with him told me. But--he is not his
friend. Perhaps it is not true."

"It is true."

"How do you know that?" asked Una eagerly.

"I know," she replied quietly, but with convincing emphasis.

"Then he is here! I am right. You know where he is. You will take me to
him!"

"Ah! Perhaps you will not go. You are a white woman; you will be afraid
to leave your friends and go with me."

"I am not afraid."

"Perhaps this man you look for has changed. Perhaps he will not know
you. And this other, his enemy, perhaps he is here. There will be
trouble, danger."

"Take me to him!" demanded Una passionately. "If there is danger, I
should be with him. I am not afraid. I trust you."

"That is good," said Narva. "Come!"

Una now became aware that the corridor down which they were slowly
walking widened out into a respectable thoroughfare at its further
end, whence it abruptly turned and was merged in the main trail that
had brought them to Narva's dwelling. Thus, the latter, through
some labyrinthine arrangement of passages, was entered at one place
and offered an exit in an entirely opposite direction, whence,
by devious twists and turns, it came back to the first point of
approach. To Una, at least, bewildered by the intricacies of cave
topography, this seemed the explanation of the course they were
pursuing, although the mysterious doubling of their tracks brought
little consolation--especially when she realized that her uncle and
his companions were lost in the center of a maze the clew to which
completely eluded her. Anxiety for their safety overrode, for the
moment, every other consideration; she grasped Narva's arm with a
detaining gesture, a half uttered question on her lips. Her appeal,
however, was not answered. Like some ancient oracle, from which has
proceeded the final Pythian message, no further revelation was to be
granted. In true sibylline fashion, with finger on lip and eyes set on
some object in the distance hidden from Una, Narva indicated that the
time for speech had passed and now it remained for them to carry out
as expeditiously as possible, the design upon which they were setting
forth. From her gesture and the stealthy caution with which she
advanced, Una gathered that there were urgent reasons for maintaining
a strict silence. They might be surrounded by hostile forces, their
destination might be a secret one, or at least a knowledge of it might
involve danger to the man for whose preservation she firmly believed
they were engaged. Narva, in warning her of this danger, hinted that
whatever they had to fear was in some way due to the presence of Raoul
Arthur in the cave. The enmity of the latter to David, moreover, was
full of sinister possibilities, and the conviction that they were about
to foil the evil thus threatened nerved Una to face anything.

Una would have felt a stronger confidence in their mission, a keener
enthusiasm, had Narva been more definite as to the identity of the man
to whose rescue she believed they were hastening, or had she given
some hint of the kind of danger to which he was actually exposed. But
it was all so vague, she feared that some mistake had been made, a
mistake easily growing out of the fervid imagination that, any one
could see, quite controlled Narva's mind. While there was no shaking
the old sibyl's reticence, however, the calm determination with which
she set about her task proved, in a measure, inspiring. Una might feel
an occasional doubt as to the outcome of their venture, but this doubt
finally disappeared altogether before the faith, growing stronger with
the changing aspect of the scene through which they were passing, that
in some unlooked-for way she was about to attain the main object that
had brought them into this ancient home of a vanished race.

They had now entered a portion of the cave where the dim half-light to
which Una was accustomed turned, by comparison, almost to the light of
day. This light appeared to come from a fixed point directly in front of
them. No central globe, or body of fire, to which this appearance might
be traced was visible; but, in the far distance, where the light reached
its greatest intensity, over the top of a dark ridge of rock rising
before them like the summit of a mountain, thin streamers of white
radiance shot upward, rising and falling in the unequal flashes and
subsidences generated by an electric battery. This luminous appearance,
however, was too stupendous in its effects to be attributable to a
mere electric battery. To Una's dazzled vision it rather resembled the
first onrush of the morning sun, when the presence of that luminary
just below the horizon is proclaimed by advancing rays of light. Here,
however, an effect of greater motion was produced than in the steady and
gradual illumination of the heavens heralding the coming of the sun.
The sparkles and flashes neither grew nor shrank in intensity. If they
were produced by a central body corresponding to the sun that shone upon
the outside world, it was a stationary sun, fixed in some mysterious,
invisible recess of the cave.

And now the outlines of the distant mountain top began to assume a
greater definiteness than before. Objects just below this furthest
summit loomed up spectrally out of the shadows that had enveloped them;
for the first time Una realized that they were facing, not a wall of
unbroken rock, such as had overwhelmed her at every side since leaving
her companions in Narva's dwelling, but an assemblage of majestic
forms suggesting, in their coherence and symmetrical arrangement, the
towers, arches, and ramparts of some ancient citadel. This building,
or collection of buildings, from their position and commanding aspect,
might well be taken as the center of the region it so fitly dominated.
Upon it converged all the lines, furrows and intricate masses of walls
composing, so far as they could be included in one comprehensive view,
the architecture of the cave. Immediately above it, crowning the very
summit, arose a single tower, broad at the base, and tapering until it
reached a sharp point just below the cave's jagged, overhanging roof.
Behind this tower the light flashed and glowed so brilliantly the shaft
of stone itself seemed to sparkle and transmit a radiance as if it were
composed of some crystalline substance.

Moved by this fairy-like spectacle Una again implored Narva to tell
her something of where they were going. What was this cave of wonders,
that no man had ever heard of before, and into which they had stumbled
by chance? What bygone secret of the earth was it connected with, what
people were these who lived in it as in a world apart from all other
worlds? Who was she, buried out of sight of all men, and yet talking
to Una in her native tongue, and seemingly so familiar with all that
concerned her? Why had she been waiting for them, where was she taking
them? But to all Una's questions Narva vouchsafed no word of reply.
Smiling to herself, she pointed in the direction of the light-crowned
summit before them and hastened on, descending now into a valley where
they soon lost sight of the vision that had offered so delightful a
goal to their wanderings. Narva's gesture, however, and the tendency
of the path they were taking assured Una that the distant palace--its
situation and noble architecture suggested nothing less than a palace,
the regal abode of the ruler of all this realm of marvels--was their
real destination, and it was left to her to imagine why Narva was
guiding her thither. But the physical difficulties of the path they
followed gave her scant opportunity for speculation. Chasms they had
to cross whose depths Una would have shunned had it not been for the
promise of some great achievement that would free them all from the
dangers by which they were surrounded. In other places the path narrowed
to a mere fissure between great walls of rock, and again it skirted the
edge of a precipice that, in normal times, would have filled Una with
horror. Moreover, there were moments when she fancied she heard, from
the darkness beneath them, the shouts of a hurrying throng of people--an
impression that might well be true since she had abundant evidence
already that the cave was inhabited by a race whose number she had no
means of knowing.

But this reminder of the presence of others in the cave besides her own
party was more disturbing to Una than the physical obstacles and dangers
immediately facing her. These could at least be met and overcome--but
about an invisible multitude, their attitude toward them, their purpose
in apparently following them, there was an indefiniteness that was
altogether disheartening. As a matter of fact, she had no doubt these
hidden cavemen were hostile; her previous experiences had filled her
with a vague dread in that respect. This dread, also, was sharpened
by the reflection that, in all probability, Raoul was among them;
of his active enmity, linked in some mysterious manner with David's
disappearance, she now felt certain. Una tried to gain some light on
the subject from Narva; but the latter either failed to hear the ominous
sounds to which her attention was called, or she was too intent on
her present mission to admit the consideration of other matters. This
indifference, whether real or feigned, had a reassuring effect on Una.
She perceived that if these invisible people, friendly or unfriendly,
were connected with them, they would attract Narva's attention, while,
if there was no connection--a conclusion suggested by the sibyl's
unruffled bearing--there was nothing to fear from them.

Having reached the end of the abrupt downward slope of the path they
were following, Una rejoiced to find herself on the level floor of a
valley that, in the upper world, would be admired for its charm and
restfulness. There were neither flower-decked meadows, it is true, nor
brook-fed woodland to diversify the scene. Subterranean botany, however,
has its compensations for losses due to the perpetual absence of sun
and rain. Evidently the light from the luminous mountain had in it
some life-giving, sustaining quality, for on every hand in this valley
there were luxuriant growths of delicately tinted flowers--or so they
appeared--whose scent, one imagined, filled the motionless atmosphere.
Tall, graceful forms, resembling willows, clustered along the banks
of a little stream flowing with the gentlest of murmurs through their
midst. The flinty ground was carpeted with a pale lancet-leaved herbage
that might have been taken for grass were it not for the profusion of
sparkling crystals with which it was sprinkled. These crystals glowed in
varying and sometimes iridescent colors, showing a depth and solidity of
substance decidedly out of keeping with a purely vegetable origin.

It was this gem-like appearance of what might have been taken elsewhere
for richly flowering grasses that led Una to suspect the reality--judged
by the standards of the world with which she was familiar--of this
subterranean garden. A white flower, heavily streaked with crimson,
from the heart of which long golden stamens were thrust in a drooping
cluster, hung on its stalk conveniently near. Except for its coloring,
and a square rather than spherical modeling of the calyx, it might
easily pass for one of the lily family. To make sure Una plucked it.
From the broken stem a tiny stream of water bubbled out, and the flower
in Una's hands seemed to lose at once the soft shimmer of light that
had played upon its petals only a moment before. Most extraordinary of
all was the weight of the flower. Suspended from its stalk, it seemed
the frailest, daintiest of objects; a blossom that the merest breeze
could have tossed about at will. But Una found it as heavy as so much
metal, or stone; and this, with the clinking together of its leaves
as they were moved by her touch, revealed the startling character
of subterranean botany. She was disappointed at first to find that
this was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a flower at all; but
regret was quickly followed by curiosity as to the actual nature of
the strange growth she held in her hands. Its unusual weight belied
the delicacy of its outward appearance; the fires that had clothed
its leaves with living tints, in dying seemed to have left behind the
pallor of ashes. Nevertheless, it retained a strange, subtle beauty,
odorless, undefinable. It might be a rare kind of stalactite--except
that a stalactite had not its soft brilliancy--or a sheaf of gems, one
of the many that strewed this subterranean valley. Whatever it was, it
reminded Una, however faintly, of the glories of the outer world--and
she cherished it for this more than for its own beauty. Narva, roused
for the first time from the spell of her own thoughts, shook her head in
disapproval of what Una had done. Evidently she questioned her right to
pluck the flower, for she motioned to her to throw it away.

"The Queen's garden!" she exclaimed in tones of rebuke.

As this was the first definite intimation of their whereabouts, Una was
quick to seize upon it. This mysterious queen, then, of whom Narva had
vaguely spoken before, was really mixed up in their present expedition.
She recalled Narva's hint that, in some way, Una was to be of assistance
to her, and she wondered whether this meant that they were bringing
rescue of some sort to the queen, a possibility of high adventure she
was far too young not to relish. A queen, moreover, who cultivated
jewels--or something very like them--in her garden was worthy the best
flowers of romance. At any rate, Una felt a new zest in the enterprise
she was on and began to chafe at Narva's leisurely dignity.

"It is plenty of time," said the old Indian sternly, noting her
impatience. "Have care."

As she spoke she pointed straight ahead where the first direct rays
from the mountain peaks flashed downward illuminating the massive
building, just below the tower-crowned summit that, at a distance, had
so completely won Una's admiration. Seen close at hand, this building
gained in beauty. Most of the cave dwellings, like the one inhabited
by Narva, were hollowed out of the walls composing this underground
world. The palace, however, stood alone, surrounding a spacious court
in the center of which played a fountain whose jets of water reflected,
in a sheaf of myriad diamonds, the light glancing athwart it. The
dazzling effect emphasized the architectural majesty of the building
thus illuminated. This building was, for the most part, two stories in
height, ornamented by innumerable turrets, with a square central tower
rising above an arched entrance, the iron-bound doors of which seemed
stout enough to withstand a siege. It was built throughout of stone,
of a deep yellow tint, vivid, glistening, unlike anything Una had seen
in the cave. So radiant it seemed, so full of light, adorned with such
delicate tracery wherever the design of the architect admitted the play
of ornament, it might have been a fairy palace, each stone of which had
come into place over night with the waving of a wand. Narva pointed to
a heart-shaped tablet just above the arched entrance, upon which was
carved, in dark red stone, the figure of a condor, similar in design to
the one that graced the main gateway to the inhabited portion of the
cave.

"It is very old," she said. "It is the palace of my people many hundred
years--ah! perhaps thousands--before the Spaniards drove them off the
earth. Long ago, in those days, our kingdom was not in a cave. But here,
always, was the secret palace of the zipa. Yes, we lived among the
mountains then, and this was our place of refuge when other Indians from
far off came to plunder us. It was here that our first zipa was brought
for safety. He was only a few weeks old then. Hunters, lost on a high
mountain, had found him in the nest of a condor. How he came there no
one has ever known. But his skin was perfectly white, not like ours; so
that he could not have been born from one of our race. Perhaps a god had
left him for the condors to take care of--or perhaps it was a condor,
flying far out of sight of the earth, who found him in some hidden place
in the sky, and brought him down here to be the ruler of the earth. But
here he was guarded, here he grew up. And when he became a man, and
conquered the people who used to fight with us and destroy our cities,
and rob us of our wealth, and make slaves of us, he founded this Empire
of the Chibchas. And it was after that, when he was old and had not much
longer to live, that he built this great palace, to be the secret home
of his children whenever their enemies became too strong for them. And
over the gate of the palace, where you see, he placed his birth-sign,
the Sign of the Condor--the secret sign of this under-world and of all
his kingdom. But all of this was hundreds--ah! thousands--of years ago.
And all those years this palace has stood and given protection to the
children of that first zipa, he who was carried from the skies to be
reared in the nest of a condor."

The fanciful story, the fabulous antiquity claimed for the palace before
her, increased the sense of unreality and mystery filling Una's mind
as she listened to Narva. The story itself was not unlike others of
the kind, handed down from one generation to another, explaining the
origin of some ancient South American race. In the telling of it Narva,
for the first time, forgot her reserve, and her simple eloquence, her
apparent belief in the quaint old fable she was telling, added greatly
to its impressiveness. And there stood the great palace before her,
with its flying condor guarding forever the descendants of that mythical
old zipa! Una was unable to go back in imagination to that primeval
past, especially as it had to do with a country and a people of which
she knew nothing. But the tale itself, and the grace and beauty of the
palace about which it had been woven, reminded her of much that she had
heard and read in other than Indian mythology and literature. Pageants
from medieval legend, with their phantom castles in haunted forests,
engaged her fancy as she listened. For the moment she half expected to
see a troop of Arthurian knights, intent upon some mystic quest, issue
forth from the stately portal, bringing with them a flash of vivid
light and movement that as yet the picture lacked. A zipa she had never
seen, had never heard of before--and even a condor filled a place in
her imagination that was not much more real than that occupied by the
roc, the giant bird of the Arabian tales. But neither Christian knight
nor pagan zipa was here. The silence, now that Narva had finished her
tale, was profound. The murmur of voices, distinctly heard a short
time before, was lost in the distance. The apparent isolation of a
building so rich in possibilities of usefulness, so well preserved
architecturally, was its most inexplicable feature. Una was almost
persuaded that the palace before her was uninhabited, abandoned. If it
belonged, as Narva said, to the dim past of a vanished race, it stood
now merely as a monument to forgotten greatness. Or--did it still serve
as a refuge, a protection, to the descendants of that condor-born zipa
of Narva's legend?

Then, suddenly, as Una was thinking of these ancient, far-off things,
from one of the wings of the palace there rose the clear, high notes
of a woman's voice in a melody not unlike the one Anitoo and his band
had used for a marching song. But Anitoo's song had something of
martial swing and vigor in it; this, although wild in spirit, permeated
by the chanting, wailing quality characteristic of primitive music,
thrilled with strains of passionate tenderness unlike anything Una had
heard. The words of the song were not distinguishable, nor were they
needed to convey the theme inspiring the invisible singer. The latter
seemed to pass from joy to despair, rising again to a solemn pitch of
intensity that partook of the dignity and earnestness of religious
rhapsody. A pagan priest, presiding over ancient rites from which the
faithful expect a miracle, might thus have modulated the notes of his
incantation. As in all music of the kind, the emotion portrayed was
simple, unmixed with the shadings and intellectual complexities that
play so important a part in modern song. The voice interpreting this
emotion showed no great degree of cultivation. Unskilled in the nicer
subtleties of the vocal art, it depended upon a natural, unrestrained
sincerity, enriched by a birdlike clearness and resonance, for its
effects. Its plaintiveness, from the very first strains of the ringing
melody, appealed deeply to Una.

Narva, alive to the sympathetic response aroused in her companion by the
song, laid her hand gently upon Una's arm and drew her in the direction
of the distant portion of the palace from whence, apparently, the notes
came.

"Have care, say nothing!" she repeated impressively.

Una, still absorbed by the weird beauty of the scene and the strange
legends with which it was connected, scarcely noted the reiterated
warning. Her own spirit kindled with friendly warmth for the singer
whose mingled joys and sorrows were so eloquently expressed. She
followed Narva almost unconsciously, eager, and yet half afraid to reach
the climax of their adventure; fearful, likewise, lest by some misstep
or imprudence of theirs the spell of music should be broken.

No sign of life was visible in the great rambling palace that loomed
high above them. The rows of lanceolated openings, that in the distance
appeared to be ordinary windows, upon a nearer view proved to be
unglazed--or, if they were fitted with glass it was too thick to
reveal to an outsider the interior of the palace. That some kind of
vitreous substance filled these openings was evident from the flashes
of light reflected on their surface. Considering the antiquity of the
building, however, and the unknown methods and materials employed by
its architect, it was more likely that the substance used for windows
was a crystal gathered, perhaps, from the queen's garden--the flower
from those alluring bushes that had first caught Una's attention--rather
than manufactured glass that must have been unknown to these Andean
cavemen. Even though the first zipa was the reputed offspring of stars
or condors, it was not likely that in building his palace thousands of
years ago--to quote Narva's estimate--he had been able to fit it with
modern improvements.

Owing to the thickness of these windows, therefore, it was impossible
to make out anything of the interior of the apartments of the palace
for which they were, apparently, intended to serve for light. A close
approach, right under the palace walls, revealed nothing more than
could be seen at a distance; and as Narva avoided the great central
entrance, it appeared to Una that the mystery which so fascinated her
was to remain unsolved. An abrupt angle in the building, however,
brought them suddenly within a little portico, extending between two
massive towers jutting out from the main structure, the existence of
which came as a complete surprise. On the side of this portico away from
the palace clung a vine of pale green foliage, starred with white and
crimson flowers similar to those in the Queen's Garden, forming with
its delicate festoons a cloistered way that had a subtle attractiveness
amidst the imposing lines and columns of the huge edifice rising above
it.

Here Narva and her companion paused, listening to the wild melody coming
to them in a clear rush of sound. At the other end of the portico,
leaning against the side of a long latticed window standing partly open,
they could see the singer, her face turned to the apartment within,
one arm encircling a lyre-shaped instrument the strings of which were
lightly touched by the fingers of her right hand. The long white drapery
in which she was clothed scarcely stirred with the movement from her
playing, while the upward poise of her head, with its masses of dark
hair flowing downward over her shoulders, indicated the rapt intensity
with which she voiced the passion of her song. Apparently she was alone.
The semi-obscurity of the apartment, however, at the entrance to which
she stood, might have screened effectively from an outsider any one who
was within.

For the first few moments the appearance of Una and Narva at the far
end of the portico was unnoticed. Then, as the music died away, the
singer turned and slowly approached them, her manner showing neither
surprise nor displeasure at their presence. As her glance fell upon them
Narva made a low obeisance with a gesture evincing the most profound
self-abasement. In grace and majesty of bearing the being whom she thus
saluted was worthy her homage. Tall and nobly proportioned, serene of
countenance and of a faultless beauty, the deference of those about her
seemed a natural tribute to her queenliness. That high rank belonged to
her by right was suggested by a gold coronet encircling her head. In
the center of this coronet gleamed an emerald of a size and purity rare
even to Bogota, the land of emeralds. An engaging womanliness, however,
softened the dignity of her carriage, the luster of this emblem of her
royalty. To Narva, prostrate before her, she stretched out a hand with
affectionate eagerness, speaking to her, at the same time, in a tongue
unintelligible to Una.

Saluting her again with the utmost reverence, the aged sibyl apparently
answered her questions. She then continued a voluble relation, the
main purpose of which, as Una surmised, had to do with the finding
of strangers in the cave. During this recital the being whom Narva
addressed regarded Una intently, her gaze manifesting an interest she
was at no pains to conceal. Having heard Narva to the end she slowly
approached Una and, to the latter's amazement, spoke to her in English.

"I am Sajipona," she said. "Some call me Queen of the Indians; I am a
queen; but, of my kingdom, this last home of my fathers is all that your
people have left me. Deep underground, hidden from all men, few there
are who know of its existence--and we guard the secret, if need be, with
our lives. Against our law you have ventured here. Why have you come?"

To the abrupt inquiry Una had no answer ready. She hesitated; then,
recalling her mission, she returned the gaze of her questioner with an
awakened courage that went well with her maidenly beauty.

"I seek one who is dear to me," she replied.

"Why do you think he is here?" demanded Sajipona.

"Once, years ago, he was lost. It is said he was in this cave. Now he
has disappeared again--and we look for him here. I know nothing of your
law. You are good--I am sure of it--I beg of you to help me."

The appeal was impulsively made. A smile of sympathy lighted the
features of the queen, followed by a look of pain. Her cheeks paled, the
hand, still clasping the lyre upon which she had been playing, trembled.
Averting her gaze, she turned towards the window where she had first
been standing.

"Why should I help you?" she said. "You have broken our law."

"We didn't know of your law. All we want is to find him."

"If the man you seek is here of his own will, why should I help you find
him? He may wish to remain unknown."

"You do not know," said Una eagerly. "A strange thing happened before.
It may be--how can I explain? It all sounds so improbable!--it may be he
is not himself."

Sajipona laughed ironically.

"Strange indeed! And it will be hard for you to explain. How can he be
not himself?"

"If he has forgotten--if he has lost his memory--"

"His memory? What riddles you talk! How does one lose one's memory? And
if he has lost his memory, can you bring it back to him then?" asked
Sajipona impatiently.

"I think he would remember me," said Una simply.

Sajipona's face showed her skepticism. "We shall see," she said.

"Then you know where he is? He is here?" cried Una.

But her question brought no direct response. Instead, Sajipona turned
to the old Indian who, during this brief colloquy, had shown signs of
uneasiness. She now placed her fingers to her lips and pointed with her
other hand to the apartment in the palace whence Sajipona had just made
her appearance.

"Yes," repeated the queen, "we shall see."

The three women turned to the open lattice window at the other end of
the portico. Objects in the room beyond were at first indistinct, but
as the eye became accustomed to the darkness the whole interior took on
more definite outlines. Una could see that the apartment was furnished
in barbaric luxury. Golden shields gleamed on the walls; hangings, rich
in color and material, were draped from the ceiling; massive cabinets,
ornately carved and encrusted with gold, stood in distant alcoves of the
room. But all these curious evidences of a bygone art were barely noted,
the attention being drawn to the one living occupant within. Lying on
a sort of divan, at some distance from the window, was the figure,
apparently, of a man. He was moving restlessly, as if awaking from
sleep. While Una looked, he rose and stood irresolutely in the center
of the room, one arm flung across his face to shield his eyes from the
light. Then, slowly walking to the window, as if looking for some one,
his arm dropped to his side and, leaning across the lattice, he called:

"Sajipona!"

It was David.




XVIII

SUBTERRANEAN PHOTOGRAPHY


At first he did not see Una. His glance wandered dreamily off in the
distance and then, recalled, as if by the sudden disappearance of some
idle fancy, fixed itself upon Sajipona. A smile of satisfaction passed
over his features as he came out to meet her.

"Why did you stop singing?" he asked, in a voice that was almost
inaudible. "I missed you."

"Some one is here to see you," she said, ignoring the question.

David turned to Una. One would have said that he had not seen her
before, although in her presence he betrayed a strange sort of
agitation. Their eyes met. He took the hand she eagerly stretched out to
him, then slowly relinquished it, perplexed, vaguely conscious of the
other's emotion.

"I'm certain I've seen her before," he said, half jokingly, half in
irritation, addressing Sajipona, "but I can't remember when or where.
For the life of me I can't tell who she is. As for her name, I ought to
know that----"

"Una! Una! Surely you remember, David?"

"David! But of course you told her my name, Sajipona. Did you tell her
your pretty fancy, about the El Dorado, the Gilded Man?"

"Surely, you remember my name--Una?"

"Una--Una," he repeated uneasily. "It sounds familiar--I'm sure I've
heard it--but I can't exactly place it. Strange! How perfectly familiar
it is; yet, I can't place it, I can't place it! It's a beautiful
name--I'm sure I used to think so--and you are beautiful, too, Una!"

Her name, pronounced in the accents she loved so well, brought a flood
of memories that, she felt, must thrill him too. And yet--there he stood
before her, the David she had always known, but now subtly changed,
troubled, unseeing. Amazement robbed her of words. He had forgotten
her. To Sajipona, however, more keenly observant even than Una, it was
evident that an undercurrent of recognition on the part of David was
hopelessly held in check by sheer inability to remember. His manner,
moreover, indicated a mental uneasiness, pain, that could not fail to
excite sympathy.

"When you left us at Honda," began Una, "we expected to follow right
after. Then we heard you had disappeared----"

Laughing mirthlessly, David placed both hands to his head in hopeless
bewilderment.

"It sounds like some dream I might have had years ago. I can't make it
real," he said deprecatingly. "It's no use--I can't remember. Indeed, I
almost believe you are chaffing me. But--it's really too serious a thing
to joke about. You will tell--Una," he added, addressing Sajipona, "how
long I've been here, how kind you've been to me ever since I came back,
so ill I could scarcely look out for myself."

"Ever since you came back?" repeated Una, seizing upon the clew. "Then
you have not always been here? You know the world outside of this cave?
You were here once before, and then went away? Where were you? Try to
remember."

"Why, yes," said David, mystified more than ever; "of course I've been
away. I remember moving about a great deal, visiting many countries,
seeing many people. But I don't remember who any of them were--I can't
recall a single thing plainly, not a name, not a face. Sajipona has
tried to help me. She's very patient about it. But, so far, it has been
no use--and it's painful, I can tell you, trying to remember these
things. I feel comfortable, entirely at peace, only when Sajipona
sings. There's nothing like her singing. I could listen to her forever,
forgetting even to try to remember--if you know what that means."

"But I want you to remember," interrupted Sajipona. "You must try--never
mind how painful it is. You know how much depends on that for both of
us."

"Yes, I know. That's why I try. I believe that when I am entirely well
again it will all come right. All those dark dreams and things that
bother me now will be cleared away and I will be completely myself. Then
it will be as you say. We will be perfectly happy together."

Involuntarily the two women looked at each other. David, standing
between them, calmer than before, remained silent, unconscious of the
effect of his words.

"You must explain what you mean," Sajipona said to him firmly, after a
moment of irresolution.

Aroused from his revery, he looked in perplexity from one to the other.
Then his brow cleared and he laughed softly.

"Oh, yes! You see--Una--Sajipona is very beautiful; and she is just as
good as she is beautiful. I owe her everything. When I am completely
myself again, as I said, she has promised---- You see, I have told her
that I----"

The words died away as he looked at Una. Her face showed neither
anxiety nor surprise, but a deep tenderness and melancholy. At the
sight of her he seemed to lose the thread of what he had to say. He was
mystified, pitiably torn between the struggles of a memory that remained
tongueless, and the realities of a situation that seemed, somehow,
peculiarly unreal. Wistfully he held out his hand to the girl whose
beauty thus moved him, then hastily withdrew it, turning as he did so to
Sajipona.

"Your song was very soothing, my queen," he said ruefully. "I fear I
am not quite myself as yet. Something is wrong--something new. This
lady--Una--you will forgive me?"

"Try to remember," she said earnestly; "there's nothing to forgive."

"There's nothing to remember," he said disconsolately. "I have
tried--but I begin to think it's all a mistake."

He turned abruptly, leaving them to go to the room whence he had come a
moment before. As he reached the open window he paused irresolutely.

"You will not go?" he said, his eyes meeting Una's.

"David!" was all her answer.

He shook his head mournfully, hesitated, then slowly passed into the
darkened chamber beyond.

The two women regarded each other in silence. In Sajipona's glance there
was proud defiance; with Una anxiety had changed to determination. The
wordless duel of emotions was interrupted by Narva, who, until now, had
remained in the background. Upon David's withdrawal the old sibyl shook
off her reserve and addressed herself reverently to Sajipona.

"His old enemy is here," she announced; "there is danger."

Narva's news did not bring the alarm that any one would have supposed it
would bring. Instead, Sajipona's look of anxiety vanished. A flash of
anger gleamed in her eyes. Then she smiled with an eager air of triumph,
grasping the old Indian's arm as if urging her to say more.

"You mean the American, Raoul Arthur?" she asked. "Is he here? I want
him. I have waited for him. But, I didn't see him. Are you sure that he
is here?"

Narva shrugged her shoulders. "He comes for no good," she said. "At
last he finds the way from Guatavita. He seeks treasure. With him are
traitors to the Land of the Condor. He fought Anitoo. He conquered him.
He is on his way to the palace. I heard him with his men on the iron
path. They are many. Defend yourself, Sajipona! We have very little
time."

The appeal was received exultantly. From Una, however, there came a cry
of dismay.

"If there is danger," she exclaimed, "what will become of my uncle and
the others?"

Narva chuckled to herself. "There is no danger to them," she said. "The
fat man will have trouble to run, and the old woman will die because she
is always afraid."

Her grim humor fell on unappreciative ears. At Sajipona's rebuke she
lapsed again into silence, first giving a grudging explanation of what
she had done with the party of explorers. The latter, it appeared,
were practically prisoners where Narva and Una left them. There they
must remain, unless they were discovered by the hostile band that was
believed to have invaded the cave, in which case their release would
mean capture by Raoul and his men. The possible consequences of this
increased Una's alarm, and at Sajipona's command Narva grumblingly set
forth to effect their rescue. As success depended on her speed, Una
was prevented from returning with her. She was thus left alone with
Sajipona, whose plans regarding David now absorbed her attention. Here,
however, she encountered a reserve which she could not break. Every
attempt to gain information was repelled, and in a manner intimating
that Una's interest in David was unwarranted by any previous friendship
between them.

"He does not know you," exclaimed Sajipona exultantly, but with a note
of uneasiness that was not lost on the other.

Una, concerned for David's safety, ignored the unspoken challenge.

"What is to become of him? Why is he here?" she demanded.

"What is that to you?" was the fierce retort. "He doesn't know even your
name. He is happy. He depends on me."

"That may be. But there is a mystery. Tell me what it all means. If
he is happy, if there is nothing more to be said or done, I will go.
Only--tell me."

"You will not go--not until there is no longer a mystery, as you call
it."

The announcement sounded like the sentence of a judge, from which
there is no appeal. It reminded Una that she was in the power of one
who had shown towards her an inflexible will. At the same time she was
conscious of a softening in Sajipona's attitude that was both mystifying
and reassuring. This beautiful Indian girl had at first resented Una's
presence. She had regarded the other with queenly scorn, and had not
disguised the jealous impatience kindled by the brief and futile
interview with David. Now this impatience had given place to a deeper
emotion that was less easily understood. It might be of kindlier import,
an unexpected relenting from the harsh mood that apparently weighed
Una's every word and act with suspicion. Still, it was possible that
beneath this newly awakened generosity there lurked something sinister,
a deliberate purpose to lead the other to a confession that would be her
own undoing. Of this, however, Una had little fear. By nature trustful
of those about her, she did not look for harm to herself from one so
young, so beautiful, and who now, at any rate, appeared anxious to atone
for her former enmity by a graciousness equally marked.

"There is nothing to fear," said Sajipona, as if reading her thoughts.
"Narva will protect your people. There is danger only from your friend,
this Raoul Arthur----"

"He is not my friend!" exclaimed Una.

Sajipona smiled. "We will soon see," she said. "This is the Land of the
Condor, all that is left to an ancient race that once ruled over many
nations. For centuries the poor remaining handful of my people have
managed to live unknown in this little corner of the earth. You are the
first--except one other--from the outside world to find your way into
this forgotten kingdom. When you will be free to return to the outer
world is not for me to say. But, you are here--my guest. Let us have it
that way. This is my kingdom. Enter!"

They did not pass into the palace through the entrance used by David.
Back of where they stood, at a word of command from Sajipona, a large
door swung open, revealing a spacious court within flooded with a clear
white light that left not a corner or angle in shadow. This light
radiated from a central shaft overhead, at first indistinguishable in
the dazzling intricacies of the ceiling that stretched away in tier
upon tier of crystalline columns above them. Advancing to the middle
of this court, under the queen's guidance, Una beheld, at the apex of
the vast dome curving upward to a seemingly immeasurable distance,
a large opening beyond which blazed a great ball of fire suspended,
apparently, from the topmost pinnacle of the outer cave. The rays from
this underground sun--for it is only as a sun that it can be adequately
described--shone with an intensity that was fairly blinding. These rays
flashed and sparkled in long, waving streamers of flame, disappearing
and suddenly renewing their radiance with a ceaseless energy similar to
that displayed by some gigantic dynamo whose emanations are produced by
a concentration of power as yet unattempted by man. Fascinated by this
splendor, Una realized that she was standing beneath the great luminous
body whose magical effects she had first witnessed while approaching the
palace with Narva. Shielding her eyes from a spectacle that wearied by
its vehemence, she turned to Sajipona. But Sajipona was not with her.
Una stood alone in the center of the great court.

At another time this sudden isolation would have been alarming. But
the many strange adventures experienced during the last few hours had
accustomed Una to danger, so that the disappearance of Sajipona served
merely to arouse her to a keener sense of her surroundings. Her faith
in this beautiful Indian, moreover, was not easily shaken, in spite of
the repellant attitude she had first assumed towards her. Treachery from
such a source, it seemed to her, was inconceivable.

Stepping back from the direct rays of the great ball of fire, the
manifestations of whose mysterious power had until then absorbed her
attention, Una found herself in the midst of a throng of people, all of
them, apparently, watching her. By their dress, simple and flowing as
that worn by the followers of Anitoo, she perceived these were cave men
and women, some forty or fifty in number, each one standing motionless
along the wall farthest from her. With heads bent forward and arms
outstretched towards the center of the court, where Una stood, they
appeared to be engaged in some sort of devotional exercise, the visible
object of which was a great round disk of gold set in the tessellated
pavement that flashed beneath the light pouring upon it from above.
Inlaid within this disk, at the outer rim of which she had been standing
a moment before, Una could now discern cabalistic figures wrought in
emeralds whose deep effulgence was in striking contrast with the haze
of golden light surrounding them. The intricate design formed by these
figures was difficult to trace, but that each figure, and the pattern
into which it was woven, bore a mystical meaning was suggested by the
reverence with which this whole glittering pool of light was regarded by
the silent throng.

Eagerly Una scanned the white-robed worshipers before her, hoping
that among them she might discover David. Not finding him, she sought
Sajipona, with the same disappointing result at first. Then her gaze,
wandering away from these strange faces, rested upon a slightly
elevated platform at one end of the court. There, beneath a gold and
gem-encrusted canopy, seated upon a massive throne of pure crystal, she
beheld the Indian queen.

From the first Una had felt the spell of her beauty, but its force
had been tempered by the flashes of anger, the suspicion, the disdain
that had alternately marked their intercourse. Now, although arrayed
and staged, as it were, in all the splendor belonging to her high
station--with crown and scepter and glittering robe of state--this proud
beauty had softened to an almost girlish loveliness, wistful, touched
with a melancholy as hopeless as it was appealing. That she was a queen,
aloof from those about her, seemed strangely pathetic. Nor did this
expression of sheer womanliness change as her eyes met Una's. Across the
width of the great presence chamber a mysterious wave of sympathy seemed
to bind these two together. Completing its wordless message, Sajipona
arose and stood expectantly while Una approached, the throng before her
silently falling back until she reached the foot of the throne. Then,
with hands clasped in greeting, the two women faced each other, the
enmity that first had sundered them apparently forgotten, or, at the
least, held in check by some subtler, purer feeling. Again Una wondered
if this could be genuine--if the suspicion with which she had been
regarded at first might not still lurk behind this outward graciousness.
Little versed in the arts of dissimulation, however, and apt to take
for current coin whatever offered of friendliness, she accepted this
unlooked-for warmth of welcome with undisguised gratitude. Sajipona drew
her gently forward until the two stood side by side on the platform
facing the great court, the silent groups of attendants below them. The
dazzling light, the flashing splendor of columned walls and vaulted
ceiling, the white-robed figures, the jeweled throne, furnished forth a
faery spectacle not easily forgotten.

"These are my people," said Sajipona proudly. "They will protect you as
they protect me."

As if in answer to her assurance the waiting courtiers, absorbed until
now in the contemplation of the mystical figures within the circle of
light at their feet, slowly turned and made grave obeisance before
the two women standing in front of the throne. Following this sign of
submission, they came forward as if expectant of some further command.
Sajipona smilingly watched the effect of this ceremony on her companion.

"Ah! it is not here as in Bogota," she said, "or in the world where you
come from, far from Bogota. You think all this that you see is unreal--a
dream, perhaps. My people are so different from yours--and all these
many years they live forgotten, unknown. I have lived in Bogota. There
they do not know of this great cave that belonged to the ancient rulers
of the mountains. They don't know that I am queen here, or of this
palace that is mine--and the light that burns like the sun. Ah! I wonder
what your wise uncle will say when he sees our sun!"

Sajipona laughed noiselessly, with the half-concealed delight that a
child hugs to itself when it hides some simple secret from the eyes of
its elders. Una, more bewildered than ever at this allusion to Leighton,
sought vainly for a reasonable explanation of the marvels surrounding
her.

"My uncle!" she exclaimed. "How do you know that he is wise--and he
is!--and that he is here? Yes, this sun of yours--what is it, where does
it come from?"

Again Sajipona laughed.

"Remember," she said, "this is not Bogota. Out there it is all very
wonderful, very great. You have the sky, the sun, the stars. The
mountains stretch away as far as the eye can see; there are plains,
cities; and there are buildings greater than any we have here. This is
a toy world, you will say, even when you think some things in it very
wonderful. But you do not guess the half of what is here. In this world
my people have lived in secret for centuries. They have discovered
things that even the wisest of your people know nothing of. We have eyes
that see everything that happens in our world of stone, eyes that pierce
through the stones themselves. I knew when you came into our kingdom;
I watched you when you passed through the great gate where the others
were fighting. But--you don't believe me. Come, I will show you."

Sajipona gave her hand to the astonished girl and the two stepped
down from the platform where they were standing and made their way to
the center of the court. Here the great circle of light cast by the
ball of fire overhead gleamed at their feet like an unruffled pool of
sun-kissed water. At the rim of this circle they halted, Sajipona gently
restraining her companion, who, in her eagerness, would have passed on.

"Look there on the floor," she said. "Your eyes may not be as ours;
perhaps you will have to wait before you can see. But it will come--you
will see."

Una remembered how she had heard--and laughed--of magicians who
pretended to read the future by gazing into a crystal globe. The
experiment to which she was now invited seemed like that, only here it
was apparently a huge mirror of reflected light that she was told to
watch, while no word had been said of finding therein a revelation of
things to come. Nor could she see anything in this mirror at first.
Waves of light, tongues of leaping flame, passed over the polished
surface of the metal, here darting off in long zigzag streaks, there
forming a sort of pool of molten, quivering fluorescence, as the
physicists call it, varying in size and color, then vanishing utterly.
Much the same appearance Una remembered having seen on the surface
of a copper kettle when subjected to intense heat. But in this case
there was no perceptible heat to account for the phenomenon, which
was rather electric in its fantastic weavings--a reduplication, on a
gigantic scale, of the wavering finger of light that she had watched
play, with such fatal results, on her uncle's electric psychometer. The
resemblance, recognized with a shudder, intensified her interest. The
succession of marvels through which she had been passing prepared her
for anything. In her present mood, nothing would have surprised her.

"What is it? What is it?" she asked eagerly.

Sajipona followed the twisting maze of figures before them with unwonted
anxiety. Her usual calm demeanor was gone. She appeared to be reading
something the purport of which was not at all to her liking.

"Look!" she exclaimed. "There he is. They have let him pass through the
gate. He is coming here. Anitoo's men are with him."

To Una the words were meaningless. Yet she knew that her companion was
reading, or, rather, witnessing something that was passing before her
own eyes, and that hence should have been quite as visible to her--if
only she had the clew. But this she did not have. She recognized the
hint of danger. She knew that in some way Sajipona had caught a glimpse
of some one whom she counted an enemy. She felt that this person was in
some way connected with her own party; and then the thought of Raoul
Arthur flashed across her mind, at the same time that his veritable
image--so it seemed--stood forth in wavering lines of light at her feet.

"Save David from him!" she cried involuntarily.

"You see him--you know him!"

"He came in with us. He is there--look! I don't know by what invisible
power you have conjured up this apparition, but it is real. He is the
one man I have feared--and he is coming here!"

Sajipona laughed softly to herself.

"Ah!" she cried, "now you have our secret. Here in this ancient hall,
under this sun we have worshiped for countless ages, nothing is hidden.
But the man you fear, that you see there, will bring freedom to us
both."

Whatever Sajipona meant by her enigmatical words, the fact was there,
the living, moving likeness of Raoul Arthur, in the light-woven tapestry
at Una's feet. Eagerly she watched him. It was certainly Raoul, Raoul
hurrying towards her, growing more distinct, more threatening with
every moment. Behind him streamed a shadowy line of men--swiftly,
confidently--following a trail amid the jagged rocks and precipices
of the cave that might well have daunted the boldest spirits, but
which seemed powerless to retard their progress. As Una's eyes became
accustomed to the shifting panorama before her, sundry details came into
view that at first had been unnoticed. She was familiar with the curious
phenomena wrought by the camera obscura, and this singular portrayal on
the gleaming floor of Sajipona's palace seemed at first not unlike that
simple method of reproducing objects invisible to the spectator. But as
the present picture grew and then faded away, to be followed by others
in this magic pool of light, she knew that what she now beheld was
quite beyond the power of the cunningly placed lens used in experiments
with the camera obscura to portray. The latter, she remembered, could
reproduce objects only when they came within a certain definite
distance from the lens itself. But here Raoul Arthur and his companions
moved across a constantly changing, lengthening space. Moreover, she
recognized the path they were following as the one over which she had
traveled at a point far away from the palace. They had reached, indeed,
the very spot where she and Narva had first caught sight of that topmost
pinnacle of the cave, behind and above which flamed the great ball of
fire, the sun of this subterranean world. As Sajipona's palace stood at
the base of this pinnacle, she calculated, from her own experience of
the journey, that Raoul and his followers were coming directly towards
them.

"There is nothing to fear," resumed Sajipona, as if in answer to her
thoughts. "Be glad of their coming. But--for your own people I am
afraid."

"Ah, my poor uncle! I have brought him into all this danger," exclaimed
Una. "Where is he? How can I save him?"

"Look!"

Eagerly studying the portion of the picture indicated, Una suddenly
found, to her horror, that Raoul, with that vague, shadowy rabble at his
heels, was approaching another group of people, just ahead, among whom
she recognized the gaunt figure of Narva, evidently exasperated by the
inability of the others to keep pace with her. Even in the uncertain
lines of the picture the scorn darkening the features of the old sibyl
was easily discernible. Behind her tottered Mrs. Quayle, waving her
arms in helpless protest, supported by the faithful Andrew, whose face
showed an even greater degree of woe and alarm than usual. They were
closely followed by Leighton, imperturbable as ever, and Miranda, whose
irascible rocketing from one side to the other of the narrow trail, and
whose violent gesticulations manifested all too plainly his indignation.
Had it not been for her companions Narva could easily have outstripped
her pursuers; but with so timorous a person as Mrs. Quayle this seemed
impossible. The hopelessness of it, in spite of all his scolding and
prodding, had evidently convinced Miranda of the necessity for a change
of tactics. Further flight being a mere waste of energy, there was left
the alternative of parleying with the enemy. Hence, without stopping to
consult with General Herran, who still suffered, apparently, from his
wound, and who plodded patiently along immediately behind Leighton, the
doctor suddenly came to a standstill. This unexpected halt very nearly
toppled over the others, who were pressing on as hard as they could go
and found it difficult to stop on the instant. But Miranda did not heed
the ludicrous disorder into which he had thrown them. Facing quickly
about, and with arms impressively folded, he bestrode the narrow path
as if defying any one who might be foolhardy enough to challenge him.
At a distance, and without hearing the torrent of abuse with which he
evidently greeted his pursuers, the fiery doctor resembled a small
terrier disputing the right of way with a pack of hounds hot on their
quarry. What he lacked in physical presence, however, Miranda made up in
energy. Undaunted he stood his ground, the men whom he addressed halting
with astonishment depicted on their faces. Then, most amazing of all, he
wheeled about, placed himself at their head and, waving them forward,
strutted along as if he had been their chosen leader.

Amused and impressed by his boldness, the men were apparently willing
at first to accept Miranda for their commander. He furnished them with
a new kind of entertainment, and for the moment, and just because
they did not understand him, it seemed as if they recognized in him
a superiority they were not loath to follow. But Raoul's leadership
was not to be so easily superseded. Quickly thrusting Miranda aside,
breathless and triumphant from his exertions, the wiry American angrily
harangued his troops. He threatened the foremost of them with a pike
that he held in his hand, and by their downcast looks and passive
demeanor, it was evident that his words and gestures had brought them
back to a recognition of his authority. Miranda, still shouting and
gesticulating, was ignominiously left to shift for himself, while the
cavemen, obeying Raoul's command, swept onward until they reached the
stupefied group of explorers ahead of them. Here another halt was
ordered, and Raoul pointed out Mrs. Quayle to his men. Four of the
latter promptly left the ranks of their comrades, went forward at
a round trot, seized the horrified lady, and swung her up to their
shoulders before she knew what was happening, or had time to defend
herself. Thus carried by two of the men and held in place by the other
two, she was speedily brought into line not far behind Raoul. Leighton
evidently protested against the sudden capture of Mrs. Quayle, for
whose safety he felt peculiarly responsible. But his appeal was waved
scornfully aside. The rest of the explorers, Miranda included, seeing
that further resistance was futile, and that they were virtually Raoul's
prisoners, hopelessly resigned themselves to their fate and followed
along with the others. A signal was then given, and the entire throng
marched rapidly down the trail to the palace. Narva, however, was not
among them. In the commotion that took place during the altercation with
Miranda, and the subsequent seizure of Mrs. Quayle, she had disappeared.

As the last figures in this strange picture faded from view, Sajipona
seized Una's arm. The waving streams of light reflected on the floor
had again become meaningless. It was as if a dream had suddenly passed
before them, leaving them, as sleepers awakening, uncertain of the
reality of what they had witnessed.

"Who is he?" asked Sajipona--"the stout man who so nearly captured these
traitors?"

"A friend, a doctor, who came with us."

"He is brave! But it is strange that this Raoul Arthur could free
himself so easily from Anitoo. He must have killed my poor Anitoo to
do that. But your friend was nearly too much for him! Never mind if he
failed. They will soon be here. Let us be ready!"

Then, turning to her attendants who stood in a circle at a distance from
them, she cried:

"Open the door!"

Obeying her command, two of the cavemen hurried to the farther end of
the hall. There was a muffled sound of grating stone, and then the two
leaves of the great portal swung slowly open, revealing the glittering,
silent garden of the palace beyond.




XIX

A QUEEN'S CONQUEST


Surrounded by her people, the ancient diadem of the Chibchas, with its
great, smouldering emerald, on her head, Sajipona waited at the entrance
to the court. Without, the motionless flowers and shrubbery of the
garden were steeped in a pale, quivering light outlining every object
with a weird intensity sharper, yet more indefinable than gleams from
moon-drenched skies. In this spectral scene the cavemen stood in rows,
like carven statues; even Sajipona, mobile, versatile of mood, seemed a
woman of marble.

But Una, stirred profoundly by the picture she had seen, doubtful of its
reality, not altogether sure of her own ground, aware of the dangers
that threatened, but ignorant of their exact character, could not hide
her anxiety. Seizing Sajipona's hand, her eyes were eloquent of unspoken
questioning. Her mute appeal was answered by a wistful smile, a glance
at once gracious and sorrowful.

"For you there is no danger," said the queen. "For me--yes, for me there
is, perhaps, danger."

"How can that be?"

"You fear this Raoul Arthur. It is not for you, it is for me he has
come. For three years he has plotted to do this thing. My own kinsman,
Rafael Segurra, was in league with him. Before now he has attempted to
force his way here. The two together found their opportunity in your
coming. And now--Arthur has escaped from his captors and again seems to
have found traitors among my people."

"What is it he wants?"

"You ask that--you who know David!"

For a moment the anger and suspicion with which she had first regarded
Una kindled in Sajipona's eyes. But the mood vanished as quickly as it
came.

"Surely, you remember what Narva said," she went on. "He seeks treasure.
He sought it with David three years ago, the poor treasure belonging to
what is left of my people. Segurra told him where it was, how to get
it."

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Una. "Now I know! The treasure of Guatavita, of El
Dorado, it is here."

"It is here--it is mine!" said Sajipona sternly. "It will never be
his. Always your people have fought for it, have sinned and died to
make it theirs. They have driven us off the face of the earth, to hide
for centuries in this cave and in that other land that as yet you know
nothing of. Here we have made our world--and we will keep what is ours,
unless David----"

The words died on Sajipona's lips. At the far end of the garden the
heavy branches of spectral shrubbery swayed and parted, revealing a
majestic figure hastening toward them. It was Narva. Gliding along
the pathway, she showed an agitation contrasting strangely with
her accustomed reserve. Reaching the entrance to the palace, she
pointed behind her, at the same time addressing the queen in words
unintelligible to Una.

"Yes, they are coming," said Sajipona, smiling composedly. "It is well.
There is nothing to fear."

Narva had arrived none too soon. As she spoke to the queen, shouts were
heard in the distance, and then the tramp of approaching footsteps.
Sajipona advanced to the threshold of the palace, where, signing to the
others to remain behind, she stood alone, awaiting the noisy intruders.
Her defenseless position brought bitter protest from Narva that was
supported by a movement among the others to protect their queen. This
was quickly rebuked; and when Raoul, his followers and the explorers
poured into the garden they were confronted by a group of men and women
who gave no sign of uneasiness at their arrival.

It should be noted here that, in spite of his defeat, pictured in
the pool of light, Miranda had by no means relinquished his efforts
to gain control of Raoul's men. He had followed along at their side,
irrepressible in his attempts to hold their attention--a sort of
gadfly whose persistent teasing nothing can stop. Raoul would have put
an end to him, once and for all; but in this he found that his men,
pacific by nature and training, would not uphold him. Miranda's rotund
figure, vehemence, spasmodic energy, the unmitigated scorn with which
he regarded all who differed from him, delighted them. He enjoyed the
sort of immunity from punishment granted the old-time court jester. The
cavemen liked him because they could never tell what he was going to do
next. The novelty of so dynamic a personality appealed to their sense
of humor. Thus, when they were all assembled in the garden, the little
doctor's next move was awaited with eagerness. To their astonishment,
the flourish expected of him was not forthcoming. Instead, he stood
stock still, folded his arms across his chest with all the Napoleonic
dignity he could muster, and glared at Raoul.

This extreme composure, however, was not shared by the rest of the
explorers. At the first glimpse of Una, standing immediately behind
Sajipona, Mrs. Quayle gave a shriek of joy and collapsed into the arms
of the schoolmaster, whose own emotions made him a sorry support at
the best. Leighton, on the contrary, accompanied by Herran, strode
quickly forward and would have reached the threshold of the palace,
had he not been waved imperiously aside by Raoul, who now summoned his
followers about him, formed them into a close phalanx and advanced
rapidly across the garden. When they were within a hundred yards of
the palace, they were suddenly met by two men of gigantic stature,
who calmly ordered them to halt. Raoul was less intimidated than his
followers, who recognized in this unexpected challenge an authority they
were accustomed to obey. The two men confronting them evidently belonged
to the priesthood. They were distinguished from the rest of Sajipona's
courtiers by their dress, adorned by various symbolical figures
embroidered in red and gold, and by two wands, each surmounted by an
emerald, which they carried in their hands. Although without military
backing, weaponless except for these wands, Raoul saw with dismay that
the mere presence of these men excited the respect, and even the homage,
of those about him. Many bowed before them; a few showed an unmistakable
disposition to abandon their enterprise altogether and take refuge in
flight. Before this movement could become general, however, they were
arrested by the appearance of Sajipona in their midst.

Descending the steps of the palace, the queen, attended only by Una and
Narva, came swiftly forward to meet them. Her bearing, the proud majesty
of her beauty, caused a murmur of admiration throughout the ranks of
the cavemen that was punctuated by a hearty shout from Miranda, who
watched the troubles of Raoul with unrestrained delight. It was not
often, indeed, that the rank and file of the Land of the Condor came
face to face with their queen. When they did so, the meeting aroused a
profound feeling of pride and loyalty. Raoul, seeing the effect Sajipona
had upon his men, and already disconcerted by the reception accorded the
two priests, had no mind for further encounters that might cost him his
entire following. In the outside world, faced by a similar danger, he
would have retreated. But here, in the midst of a subterranean labyrinth
of unknown extent, retreat was impossible. The alternative was a bold
rallying of his forces, a sudden rush for the prize he had ventured so
far to win. Turning upon his men, he denounced them savagely for their
apparent change of purpose, their cowardice.

"You will remain slaves!" he cried tauntingly. "We have your tyrants in
our power. All you need do for your freedom is to follow me and take
what belongs to you."

There were enough who understood his words to translate them to those
ignorant of Spanish, and the immediate effect produced on these people,
vacillating by nature, ever ready to yield to the strongest personality
that appealed to them, was not far from that intended. Spears, knives,
blowguns were brandished, a score or more men leaped forward uttering
cries of triumph--and again the attack planned by Raoul seemed fairly
under way and with a reasonable prospect of success. It was checked--but
only for an instant--by a clamorous protest from Miranda. The latter,
blazing with indignation, bounded to the front, gesticulating and
menacing all who were within his reach.

"He is one canaille, this fellow!" he shouted. "He fight with the
womens. He take from you all you have. Do not be estupid. He lie! He
lie!"

This outburst astonished more than it convinced those to whom it was
addressed. As Miranda spoke in a mixture of English and Spanish,
scarcely any one understood what he said. In another moment he would
have been swept derisively aside, had not Sajipona quietly interposed.
Pointing at Raoul, she spoke a few words to the cavemen in their native
tongue. Then she turned to the man whose armed presence at the doors of
her palace, threatened her authority, if not her life.

"So! This is the man who, a short time ago, I saved from death at the
hands of an angry mob!" she said scornfully. "You did not come to my
house then, Don Raoul, as you come now. And yet--if I order these men,
whom you think are your followers, to treat you as that other mob would
have treated you, they would obey me. Be sure of that! And now, tell me:
what have you done with Anitoo?"

Raoul hesitated a moment, then answered sullenly:

"He attacked me. I killed him in self-defense."

The reply was only half understood by the cavemen; but the attitude of
Raoul, contrasted with the majestic bearing and composure of Sajipona,
had already aroused their indignation.

"It may have been, as you say, in self-defense--I have only your word
for it. But, for the treachery, the rebellion you have brought here,"
the queen went on, "by all the laws of our kingdom you should die. But I
have something I wish you to do. If you do it, your life will be spared
and you will be taken in safety from this cave never to enter it again."

Sajipona checked the tumult that she saw rising among the cavemen, and
spoke a few words to them.

"I have told them," she explained, turning to Raoul, "that I knew of
your coming--as I did. I have told them I have something for you to do
before you are expelled from our kingdom. And I have pledged my word for
your safety--although none of the men you have led here against me seem
to care what happens to you. And now you will come with me."

There was a murmur of approval. Raoul looked fearfully at his followers.
Their submission to the commands of the woman they were accustomed
to obey was sufficiently evident to destroy his last hope for even a
divided authority. Neither--for he was ignorant of their language--could
he tell just what had passed between them and Sajipona. He was glad to
accept, however, the queen's promise of safety; and this, coupled with a
desire to get to the bottom of the mystery that had tantalized him since
he first met this strange and fascinating being, reconciled him to the
enforced abandonment of his schemes for the conquest of a subterranean
stronghold into which he had ventured too far to retreat. He therefore
bowed his head to Sajipona's commands and prepared to do as she
directed. His submission was greeted with ironical approval by Miranda,
who how waddled forward impatiently, dragging Leighton with him, to
enter the palace. But in this he was prevented by Sajipona.

"Senor, Doctor," she said, pleasing his vanity by her knowledge of his
professional title, "you must wait. There is much to be done. You are a
fine general. You have helped save this palace, my kingdom and all of
us from ruin. I am very grateful. Soon you will have everything that
you want. And you and your friends will return to your own country in
safety."

This unexpected check, although expressed in terms that were highly
pleasing to Miranda's vanity, was received with a grumbling protest.

"But, Senorita," he expostulated; "this young lady is here. I look for
her everywhere in this cave. I am her family. She must come back to us."

"Not yet," was the calm reply. "Very soon, yes. But now she will stay
with me."

There was a finality about this way of putting things that dashed
even Miranda's impetuosity. Leighton, silently watching the brief
altercation, and perceiving that Una, who still remained where Sajipona
had left her, was perfectly calm and in no need of their assistance,
exerted himself to restrain her headstrong champion. This was no easy
matter, and the struggle between the two was watched with a covert smile
by Sajipona. With the help of Herran and Andrew, however, Miranda's
opposition was finally overcome. After which, without waiting to hear
the tirade that, she could see, the doctor was ready to launch, the
queen, followed by Raoul, turned to the palace. Regaining the entrance,
she faced them once more and waved a farewell to the silent throng in
the garden. Then, giving her hand to Una, she passed within, the great
doors clanging behind her.




XX

LEGEND AND REALITY


As soon as she reëntered the palace, Sajipona dismissed her courtiers,
the cavemen who acted as guards, and even the few female attendants she
was accustomed to have near her. Of her own people, Narva alone
remained.

Facing Raoul and Una in the deserted hall, flooded with light from the
magic sun that a short while since had traced in moving characters
of fire the approach of her enemies, Sajipona told of her purpose in
bringing them there. She spoke as if she had long foreseen and even
planned this interview, and amazed them by her intimate knowledge of
various matters that seemed quite beyond the reach of her sources of
information. It was as if she had been thoroughly familiar for some
years past with Raoul's schemes, and had even shared in the hopes and
fears that brought Una to Colombia.

"I knew of your coming; I planned for it," she said to Raoul. "For
months I have known that you were using every art your cunning could
suggest--aided by the treachery of one of my own people--to find your
way here. Until now you have been unable to do anything. I was always
able to keep you out of here--and I could still have kept you out, had
it not served my purpose better to let you come. You are here now--you
are looking for what you have always looked. You guessed, long since,
of the existence of a great treasure house, built here centuries ago
by the rulers of our mountain kingdom who disappeared before the white
invaders of this country. Idle stories and legends of those far off
times, repeated to you by the peons whom you questioned, vague hints
and romances picked up from ancient books, led you to this cave and to
the belief that I was, in some way, mixed up with its secret. I will
not say that you were right or wrong in all of this. Here you look for
a mountain of treasure; as yet you have found none. But you have seen
marvels enough since you entered this unknown region to make you eager
to solve a mystery that every moment has grown deeper. I will help
you--but it must be in my own way, and just so far as it suits my own
plans.

"Once, we who live here now shut out from all the rest of the world,
were free. We overran all the plains and mountains of Bogota, our rule
extended to the warmer countries on every side of us. We practiced
arts, cultivated sciences, were familiar with secrets of nature that
our conquerors were too rude, too ignorant to understand. But these
conquerors excelled us in warfare; and so we were driven either into
slavery or hiding. It is in memory of that former age of freedom and
empire that my people have called this the Land of the Condor--that,
and a strange old legend that you may have heard of. Here we are hidden
far, as you know, from the light of the upper earth. A miracle of nature
carved this land out of the rock; the science and art of a race older
than yours have furnished it and made it what you see. It is guarded,
as you know to your cost, by many a labyrinth, strongholds that have
baffled you every time you have tried to pierce them. Its people live by
means and methods that are forgotten--if they were ever known--to the
outer world. Here we have been free to follow the customs and beliefs of
our fathers. Here we could still continue a peaceful mode of life you
know nothing of. But something has happened that has changed all this.
Because of it I have at last permitted, even aided your coming to us.
I know all you have sacrificed for this treasure you hope to win from
the depths of the earth--treasure that belongs to us. I will not say
that your search will be rewarded. Had you succeeded in your plan years
ago you would have paid dearly for it. The knowledge of this hidden
land would have been forever lost to you. Good fortune--or ill--has
brought you here at last. Your fate lies now in the hands of the man
you once tried to injure. But there is one thing you must do before his
decision can be given. You must free him from a tyranny that, with all
our knowledge of mankind's perils and weaknesses, we are powerless to
overcome."

The demand, vague though it was, did not surprise Raoul. Upon learning
of David's disappearance on the road from Honda to Bogota, he guessed
that the missing man had found his way, by some inexplicable method, to
this subterranean world, thus repeating his almost fatal adventure of
three years ago. This surmise, based on the past, and on indications
of similar abnormal mental symptoms that he believed David had again
experienced, was corroborated by the cavemen who accompanied him to the
palace. From these cavemen he learned that David had been followed by
Sajipona's emissaries ever since his arrival in Honda. These people
intended neither his capture, nor to interfere with whatever plans he
might have. Instead, they had formed a sort of secret guard, instructed
to watch him and report, so soon as they could ascertain it, his purpose
in revisiting Bogota. When he was separated from Herran by the regiment
of volunteers on the Honda road, he was found in a state of mental
bewilderment, not conscious, apparently, that he had lost his traveling
companions, but anxious to find his way to some place, which he vaguely
described. While in this condition he seemed to recognize the cavemen
with whom he was talking. Aided by their hints and suggestions, his
recollection of the cave, and especially of Sajipona, grew in vividness.
He appeared to remember nothing of Herran, nor of his immediate object
in visiting Bogota. But he spoke with increasing clearness of the Land
of the Condor. He recalled what had befallen him there three years ago
as if it had happened quite recently, and declared he was looking for
Sajipona, of whom he spoke with the greatest admiration and gratitude.
As he was uncertain of his way, he asked the cavemen to guide him.
This, of course, they were ready to do, although they were completely
mystified by the sudden oblivion into which, apparently, all his
present friends and purposes had fallen in his mind. Sajipona alone he
remembered. Three years had passed since he last saw her--but the events
crowded into those three years seemed to have left not the slightest
trace on his memory. He described his first visit to the cave; but the
time between that period and this remained a blank in his mind.

All this Raoul had gathered from the cavemen who, reverting to the
Indian belief in such matters, declared that David was bewitched. In a
sense, Raoul knew this to be true. He knew also that the spells wrought
by modern witchcraft were easily broken by any scientist holding the
clew to them. That the cavemen, who possessed secrets in physics unknown
to the outer world, should be ignorant of the simplest phenomena of
hypnotism was not extraordinary. Even Sajipona shared, to a certain
extent, the superstitions of those around her regarding David. She
expected Raoul to break the "enchantment" under which David suffered.
Una, familiar with Leighton's experiments and speculations in this
field, was quite as confident as the queen that the case was within
Raoul's power. Raoul alone realized the possible consequences following
David's return to normal consciousness.

"Even if I could do as you say," he asked, "why would you have David
changed?"

"As he is now, he is not himself."

"No, he is not himself," repeated Una eagerly.

Sajipona's cheek paled; her lips tightened as if to prevent an angry
rejoinder.

"Are you not content with him as he is?" persisted Raoul.

"What is that to you?" she asked coldly. Then, no longer disguising her
emotion, she went on:

"You don't understand what is between us. He comes from a world that
I have never seen. In the legends of our kings there is one telling
of a stranger who suddenly appears from a land of clouds--a land no
man knows--who brings with him the power to make my people, as they
once were, rulers of their own land. It is an old tale. Believe it or
not--who can be sure of these things? Certainly, the stranger has never
come--unless it is David."

"There have been many strangers since that time," said Raoul cynically.
"Your people have disappeared before the Spaniard. They live unknown,
forgotten, in a cave in the mountains. Why do you think David is the
stranger in the legend?"

She drew herself up scornfully. Her dark beauty, flashing eye, quivering
nostril, needed not the emerald diadem of the ancient Chibchas
encircling her brow to proclaim her royal lineage.

"We are not so poor, so abandoned, as you seem to think," she said.
"This is all that is left of a mighty kingdom, it is true--a cave
unknown to the rest of the world. But here we are, at least, free. We
live the life of our fathers. Our old men have taught us wisdom that
is unknown to you. We have wealth--not only the wealth that you are
seeking--but secrets of earth and air you have never dreamed of."

"This may be--I believe it is--all true. But--what is David to do here?"
murmured Una.

"If he is the Stranger of the old legend, the Gilded Man we have
awaited, this Land of the Condor is his."

"You are its queen."

"He will be its king."

"You have told him?" asked Raoul.

"Years ago. We were happy. I loved him. It was not as the women of your
world love. Life was less than his least wish. And he loved me. Plans
for the great rejoicing--the Feast of the Gilded Man--were made. Not
since the Spaniards came--perhaps never before--has there been such
preparation. Then, a change came over him. He talked of an outside
world he had seen in his dreams. He was bewitched then, as he is now.
He had forgotten you, his false friend, and all the life he had lived
before. To cure him, I sent him out with some of our people. He scarcely
understood, but he accepted anything I did as if it came from his own
will. Then he disappeared. Without a word he left me. There came long
years of uncertainty. The few months he passed with me here seemed like
some bright dream that vanishes. I began to think it was a dream--when
suddenly I heard of him again. Some of my people found him wandering
aimlessly in the forest near the Bogota road. He was looking for me, he
said--he had forgotten the rest of the world."

There was an artless simplicity in Sajipona's confession of her love
and disappointment that was more than eloquence. Narva stood apart, her
face shrouded in her mantle, motionless, as if the remembrance of these
bygone matters carried with it something of a religious experience. Upon
Una the effect was startlingly different. She listened in amazement,
indignation, at this revelation of a passion in which her lover had
shared--of which she had known nothing--and that seemed to place
him utterly apart from her. If Sajipona's tale was true--the manner
of its telling, her own engaging personality, carried irresistible
conviction--David's love for Una had been shadowed all along by an
earlier, deeper sentiment that gave it the color of something that was
not altogether real. Why had he never told her of this Indian romance?
Hypnotism indeed! What man could help kneeling in passionate adoration
before this queenly woman, whose beauty was of that glorious warmth
and fragrance belonging to the purple and scarlet flowers of one's
dreams, whose love combined the unreasoning devotion of a child with
the proud loyalty that inspires martyrdom? They had loved--David and
Sajipona--there could be no doubt of that. Before he met Una on the
shores of that far-off English lake, David had stood soul to soul in a
heaven created by this radiant being. He was with her again. The past
was completely blotted out; the tender idyl of Derwentwater, of Rysdale,
forgotten. Even the sight of Una herself stirred but the vaguest ripple
of memory. There was mystery, certainly, in these strange moods of
forgetfulness from which David was suffering. Her uncle could give them
a learned name and account for them as belonging to something quite
outside the man's will, outside his control. But what did Leighton
really know of all this? Such matters were beyond the reach of the mere
scientist. With a flash of scorn she doubted Leighton's knowledge; his
wisdom seemed curiously limited. David's malady--if it was to be called
a malady--was nothing less than the delirium caused by love itself,
and as such beyond the reach of clinic or laboratory. The spell, the
witchcraft, that had transformed him was wrought by Sajipona.

At first Una had not believed this; now the sudden conviction that the
man she loved was faithless to her, had always been faithless to her,
brought an overwhelming sense of bitterness. Her former anxiety to save
him--from peril as she thought--gave place to a feeling that was almost
vindictive. She did not view him with the anger of the jealous woman
merely; she wanted to have done with him, to forget him altogether. His
name was linked by this beautiful Indian to one of the legends of her
race; let it remain there!

"Why disturb him now?" she demanded passionately of Sajipona. "He loves
you, he is content."

The revulsion of feeling in her voice was unmistakable. Her cheeks
flushed, her eyes, eloquent hitherto of womanly tenderness, dilated in
anger. Sajipona smiled enigmatically.

"If you had not come," she said, "there would have been no question. But
you are here. He seems to have forgotten you. I am not sure, I want to
be certain, now that he has forgotten you, that he is still himself."

"Why do you doubt? Yes, he has forgotten me. And he is in your power, he
is yours! Why hazard anything further?"

Sajipona ignored the scornful meaning conveyed in the words, regarding
Una with a detachment indicating her absorption in a new train of
thought.

"A moment ago you were anxious for his safety," she murmured. "You came
here to look for him, to rescue him. Perhaps I have been unjust--perhaps
you have a claim----"

"I have no claim," retorted Una proudly. "Once you saved his life. He
has come to you again. He loves you. What man could help loving you!"
she added bitterly.

Still Sajipona smiled.

"I must be sure of all this--and so must you," she said. "If the
witchcraft is mine, its power will soon be broken. If there is something
else, you, Senor, will discover it."

She turned impatiently to Raoul, desiring him to go with her to
David. Una refused to accompany them. The conviction that she had been
mistaken, deluded, filled her with an unconquerable aversion to meeting
the man for whom she had been willing to sacrifice so much. Aware of the
unreasonableness of this feeling, she yet had no wish to conquer it. To
escape from this land of mysteries and terrors, to return to the simple
familiar environment of Rysdale--to forget, if that were possible--was
now her one desire. She did not attempt to explain or justify herself to
Sajipona. Nor was this necessary. To Sajipona, Una's anger and its cause
were alike evident.

"Stay here, if you will, with Narva," said the queen, with real or
feigned indifference. "But remember, you have refused to save the man
whom you think is in danger."

Una did not reply. For the moment the old Indian sibyl, to whose
protection she had been assigned, seemed a welcome refuge. Narva's
reserve, her silence, brought a negative sort of relief to her own moods
of anguish and indignation. Thus, without regret or misgiving, she
watched Raoul and Sajipona disappear through the portal that had first
admitted her to the great hall of the palace.




XXI

DREAMS


David welcomed Sajipona with genuine pleasure, with an eagerness
suggesting that he had been awaiting her coming impatiently. Heedless
of his greeting, however, and regarding him earnestly, she asked if he
remembered the visitor who had been with him a short time before.

"Yes! Yes!" he exclaimed. Then he went on, betraying a certain degree
of anxiety in tone and manner, explaining how this visitor's face had
haunted him as if it belonged to one he had seen in his dreams, one
upon whom he had unwittingly inflicted pain. Of course, that could not
be, he said, since there was no reality in dreams. After all, a fancied
wrong was nothing--and yet, this dim memory of the woman who had been
with them a moment before was confusing. Where was she now? he asked.
Was she offended because he failed to recognize her? He should have
known better--but dreams are troublesome things! He would like to see
her again--although it might be painful in a way--and then, perhaps, he
would recall more distinctly what now was merely a dim sort of shadow in
the back of his brain.

They talked together in the darkened chamber overlooking the portico.
The couch from which he rose to greet Sajipona screened, with its regal
hangings, Raoul from him. When the queen pointed out this new visitor to
him, the result was similar to that following his encounter with Una.

"More dream-people," muttered David, passing his hand slowly across his
eyes. "I know this man, but I can't exactly place him. It will come back
to me in a minute."

Raoul watched him with the intent, impersonal interest a scientist gives
an experiment that is nearing the climax for which everything has been
prepared beforehand.

"I think I can help you," he assured him.

Then, turning to Sajipona; "I must warn you," he said in a low voice.
"There will be a complete change. Why not leave things as they are?"

The queen held her head up proudly.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Raoul shrugged his shoulders, regarding her, and then David, with a
gleam of malice in his restless eyes.

"I mean just this: David will remember vividly what is now only a vague
dream, and he may forget everything else. Therefore, I say, if you are
satisfied with him as he is, don't disturb his present mood."

"I am not satisfied."

"Ah! you are not satisfied. You want to try one more experiment. But,
just think!" he went on, a hint of mockery in his voice; "all that
legend of your people, about a stranger who would appear from a far-off
land and restore the Chibcha Empire--why spoil so pretty a picture? And
the chances are, you will spoil it. I warn you----"

A flash of anger checked his words.

"I have pledged myself for your safety," she reminded him; "keep out of
danger! I don't care for your warnings. Help this man in the way that I
have asked, and as you say you can. You've tried often enough to injure
him. The consequences to me from what you do now--leave all that for me
to choose. Oh, never fear! I will repay your service."

David understood little of what was said, although he strove to piece
out a meaning. He perceived he was the subject of their talk. From
Sajipona's angry tone, moreover, he knew that she was offended. The
consequent resentment that he felt in her behalf was strengthened by an
instinctive feeling of suspicion and dislike toward Raoul. Checking a
movement of repulsion, he appealed to Sajipona.

"Let me throw him out of here," he demanded abruptly.

"Oh, on the contrary!" smiled the queen, not unpleased at his attitude.
"He is here because I have asked him to come--and you will help me if
you do what he tells you."

"Do what he tells me? No! Why, Sajipona, what new whim have you got in
that beautiful head of yours? Something's wrong. It must be that I've
offended you."

He took her hand, stroking it caressingly, while his eyes sought hers in
unrestrained admiration.

"This is hard," he went on, in a low tone, half laughter, half reproach.
"You are always so good, gracious as a queen should be. Now you tell me
to do what an enemy of yours commands. As your enemy means mine, that is
unreasonable. I fear," he added playfully, touching her hands with his
lips, "I will have to disobey you, just this once, even if you are a
great queen. When I am king, and we rule our jolly cave together, as you
said we would, it won't be so bad, I suppose. Men like this, certainly,
won't be around to bother us. How did he get here? I thought one law of
this kingdom--and a very good law it is, too--was to keep people out."

"But you got in."

"I suppose I did," he assented dreamily. "But I'm not sure how it
happened."

"That's just it. This man will tell you. His name is Raoul Arthur."

David looked at him blankly, repeating the name. Raoul moved out of the
shadow of the bed hangings, his eyes fixed on David's. His lips parted
as if to speak, but the words were checked by an imperative gesture from
the man before him.

"I'm not sure that I want to listen," said David. "I know this man, I'm
certain that I do--but I can't tell you when it was that I first met
him. It's all very vague, like the haze that sometimes covers the living
pictures in the great pool of light in there. This memory comes like
something evil, something that brings ruin. Surely, you don't want to
bring ruin upon us, Sajipona! Why not blot it out altogether?"

She shook her head sadly, looking wistfully into his face. They clasped
each other's hands, oblivious, for the moment, of Raoul's presence.

"If you are king there must be no forgetting, no dread of a memory that
has been lost. You must know! The Land of the Condor is a land of dreams
compared with the rest of the world. You have been out there, David, but
you have forgotten. Now you must remember."

"No, not exactly forgotten," he said uneasily. "It's all in my head, a
lot of things jumbled together--like the haze in there. I have no wish
to straighten it out, either. There is such a thing as knowing too much
sometimes. We are happier this way--don't let's run any risks changing
what we already have. Soon there will be that feast, you said--and then,
if you are queen, perhaps you will want me to be king. How proud I shall
be! You are very beautiful, Sajipona; noble and great, like the daughter
of real kings of the earth. You are my dream-queen, you know, the first
love to touch my soul with a knowledge of beauty. Such a woman men die
for! Sometimes, when you sing to me, or tease old Narva; or when I would
hold you and you kind of ripple away laughing, like the little brook at
the bottom of the garden--yes, that is the woman men die loving."

"I wonder if you will always think that!"

"You mean, I may forget?"

"No, you will remember."

"'Remember!' You mean, those other things wrapped in the haze--the
things that we wait to see come out in the pool of light. That's just
it! No, I don't want them; they spoil the first picture. To worship
beauty like yours, to live forever in the spell of your eyes, the
fragrance of your whole perfect being--that is happiness. I want nothing
else. Why lose our dream-loves; why snatch from us, even before it is
ours, the first pure flower that touches the lips of youth? Don't rob me
of mine, my queen!"

His appeal thrilled with a dreamy earnestness that would have moved
a sterner woman than Sajipona. Nor could there be doubt that the joy
he thus kindled in her revived a hope that Una's coming had almost
destroyed. Nevertheless, in spite of this response of her own deep
passion to his, her purpose remained unaltered. The very eagerness with
which she drank in David's words--feeling the temptation to let things
keep the happy course they had already taken--strengthened her resolve
to lose no time, to risk everything now. That such a change as she had
feared could be wrought in David after all this, seemed inconceivable.
The witchcraft, if witchcraft it was, that drew him to her was something
real, real as life, that exorcism could not dissolve. Sure of her
triumph, she sought to put him to the test herself.

"David, before you came to me, was there no other woman that you knew?"

"Oh, yes, I think so, surely!" he laughed. "There might have been any
number of them. But--why bother about them? Just who they were, or where
I knew them, I have forgotten. I hope you don't think it necessary to
remember every woman I have known! Anyway, I can't. Why, I don't even
remember their names."

"I mean, one woman only. Perhaps there was one you loved, you know,
among all those you have forgotten. Some one who was beautiful--is still
beautiful--and who loves you. It might be the woman you saw here a short
time ago. She is called Una. Surely, you remember."

He wrung her hands, kissed them, listened eagerly to what she was
saying, at the same time that he longed to seal his ears from hearing.
Under his breath he muttered Una's name, its iteration, apparently,
increasing his agitation. Distressed by Sajipona's questions, he tried
to parry them, without revealing too much of his own mental confusion.
He did remember Una, he said, but the memory was vague. She might be
one of those dream-women, for all he knew, who get mixed up with one's
ideas of reality. He would like to have it straightened out, to know
who she was and why the thought of her troubled him. But, after all, it
was not particularly important--not important, that is, compared with
his love for Sajipona, his certainty that in their union lay a future
happiness, not for them only, but for all this wonderful kingdom she
ruled over.

"Keep in this mind, if you will," said Sajipona, the hope that she
secretly cherished greatly strengthened by the sincerity and fervor of
his protestations; "but first be sure you know dreams from waking."

Again she expressed her desire to have Raoul brought into the matter,
promising David that, through his knowledge and experience, the puzzles
and contradictions of the past would be set right. Yielding reluctantly,
he turned to Raoul.

The latter had withdrawn to the far side of David's couch, whence he
had watched, with alternate amusement and contempt, all that took place
between these two. He now advanced, with the air of one who has the
mastery of a difficult situation, and again proffered his services.
There was mockery in his voice; before he addressed himself to his
task he repeated his warning to Sajipona, reminding her that it might
be better not to revive too suddenly a past filled, possibly, with
disagreeable surprises. His warning waved impatiently aside, Raoul
turned swiftly upon David, his restless, irritating eyes fixed in a
steady glare that, bit by bit, broke down the latter's opposition.
Forcing his victim to be seated upon the side of the couch, he stood
over him, for a short space, in silence. There was nothing in all
this of the gesture and mummery traditionally accompanying certain
spectacular manifestations of hypnotism; neither were the two men
at any time in physical contact with each other. An onlooker would
say that the younger man was unconsciously brought into a passive
condition by the exertion upon him of a stronger will, intensified by
facial peculiarities that were well calculated to hold the attention.
Eyes like Raoul's, although exciting repugnance, at the same time
arouse curiosity. Once absorbed in probing their baffling depths, the
object of their regard yields to a sort of baleful fascination hard
to shake off. In former years David had been used by Raoul in various
psychological experiments, and was thus accustomed, on such occasions,
to surrender himself to the other's compelling influence. This habit was
now unconsciously revived. The old grooves of thought and conduct were
reopened, as it were, by the resumption of a parallel outward condition.
As a result, David fell into a state of complete mental inertia.

To this influence Raoul now added the force of direct suggestion, or,
rather, verbal command. The subtle arts of apparent submission, or,
at the least, mild expostulation which he usually employed in gaining
his ends with an intractable opponent, were cast aside. His attack was
concentrated, he spoke scornfully, without compromise in utterance or
meaning, so that his hypnotized subject was forced either to resist or
to be carried along by him. Through this direct, positive method, he
took David back, step by step, over events in the immediate past that
had become obscured in his memory.

"On the road from Honda," he told him, "you were traveling with another
man. You were both going to Bogota. You stopped on the road, and at this
man's suggestion you drank several toasts. The liquor confused you.
You began to lose track of things. Suddenly, you and your companion
met a ragged army of volunteers marching, as they said, to avenge
their country on the Americans at Panama. This encounter, bringing
you into direct contact with Colombian hostility to your countrymen,
intensified your abnormal condition. In the confusion caused by meeting
the volunteers, you were separated from your companion. His name--don't
forget!--was General Herran. He also had been mixed up in the Panama
troubles. By this time--that is, after you had lost Herran--owing
to these various causes, you had fallen into one of those states of
forgetfulness that you had experienced before. In this state you forgot
what had just happened and remembered instead your experience here three
years ago, when your brain had been stunned by an explosion of dynamite.
Living again in this memory, you met two cavemen. They spoke to you.
You knew them. Immediately, it seemed to you that you were on your way
with them to meet Sajipona in this cave where you had been three years
before. All that had passed between then and now faded from your mind.
But, of course you know that is preposterous! Nothing fades from the
mind. The memory of that period that you think you have forgotten is
really in your brain, waiting for you to call it to life. And now, you
will call it to life."

The emphasis, the force in what Raoul was saying was due more to his
manner, the intensity with which he regarded David, than in the actual
words themselves. It was, in a measure, a contest of wills; but,
either through long habit of yielding to Raoul in these experiments, or
else through a desire to carry out what was evidently Sajipona's wish,
there was no doubt from the first of the result. And when this result
came, it was decisive. After the first sentence David's instinctive
opposition was weakened. The desire to allay the anxiety obscurely
felt in his own mind helped to bring him under Raoul's influence. The
unexpected sight of Una had disturbed him. Ever since their meeting
he had been aware that something in him was lacking, some clew lost
between his past and his present. Sajipona, deeply conscious though
he was of her majestic beauty, began to take on the vagueness of
outline belonging to those persons whose relationship to ourselves is
so doubtfully circumstanced that we momentarily expect to lose sight
of them altogether. She was literally becoming the dream-woman, the
intangible, lovely ideal of youth that he had playfully called her,
while Una was becoming correspondingly more real, less elusive. For
this very reason, this fear that fate was about to take from him one
so desirable as Sajipona, he had felt an excess of joy upon seeing her
now. His greeting had been more than usually demonstrative because her
coming had reassured him, silenced doubts that were disquieting. Then,
on the heels of this, he was aware of Raoul, with all that he meant of
uncertainty and restlessness. And yet, in spite of his distaste for
anything that threatened the peaceful course his life seemed to be
taking, a secret feeling of relief tempered the repulsion aroused by the
sudden appearance of his long forgotten friend. Raoul's words and manner
completely possessed him. The scene that he recalled of his meeting
with the cavemen on the Honda road was etched on his mind as vividly
as if it had just been experienced. And now, with this starting point
fixed, Raoul took him backward, step by step.

Again he saw himself with General Herran, stopping on the Honda road to
exchange those fatal civilities, and immediately after, the noise and
confusion of the marching volunteers, with their threats of vengeance
against the Yankees. Back of this came the quiet march with Herran. He
recalled their talk, something of their friendly disputes. The effort to
do this bewildered him. It seemed as if he were stepping from one world
into another. Everything was merged into one gigantic figure of Raoul, a
Raoul towering above him, concentrating himself upon him, dominating him
until all else faded away and he was lost in a dreamless sleep, filled
only with that word of command--"remember!"

How long he remained in this state of unconsciousness--for it was that
rather than sleep--he did not know. It might have been years, it might
have been a mere moment of time. When the spell was finally broken by
Raoul the scene that met his awakened senses puzzled him. He was in
Sajipona's palace, in the room where Raoul had confronted and subdued
him. But it was all unfamiliar. His mind was filled with his mission
to Bogota. His parting with Una in the sunny courtyard of the inn came
back to him, irradiating a dreamy happiness. He had been through some
strange experiences since then, he knew. The sight of the bed hangings
under which he was reclining, the great spaces of the room, the softened
light of the cave, kept alive the memory of many a novel, fantastic
adventure. Shaking off his drowsiness, he sprang to his feet. Sajipona
and Raoul advanced to meet him. Sajipona! Yes, he remembered her. She
was the beautiful Indian queen he was to marry in his dream--it must
have been a dream, because Una was not there; except that, at the very
last, he remembered, Una had stepped in for just a moment--and he had
not known her! How amazed, angry, she must have been! And then--what
else could have been expected?--she had gone away. He was anxious now
for her safety, although how she could possibly be in this cave, how she
could have found her way here, was a hopeless puzzle. The first word he
uttered was a cry to Sajipona:

"Where is Una?"

Raoul would have answered, but Sajipona checked him. She realized the
full significance of David's question, although outwardly she showed
nothing of her emotion.

"You are yourself again--I am glad," she said.

"But Una----?"

"She is safe. She reached Bogota after you left Honda."

David's relief was evident, although his eyes showed the perplexity
arising from his strange awakening.

"I thought she had found her way here," he said. Then he turned again to
Sajipona, this time with an impulsive gesture of gratitude. "I remember
everything now. You saved my life. Every moment with you has been filled
with happiness. How can I ever be grateful enough for the kindness you
have shown me?"

He knelt before her, kissing her hand. She smiled; her other hand rested
upon his shoulder.

"Grateful!" she exclaimed playfully. "Have we not a lifetime together
before us? You have forgotten the festival that awaits us on the top of
the mountain."

"No, I have not forgotten."

"Do you want it to take place?"

He arose to his feet, clasping his hands over his eyes as if to fix an
uncertain impression. When he bared his face before her again, there
was quiet determination in his glance. Again he took her hand in his,
pressing it to his lips. Then, with eyes fixed full upon hers, he
answered her question:

"Yes."




XXII

A PEOPLE'S DESTINY


Miranda and, in a lesser degree, those who were with him in the
palace garden, were indignant at their enforced separation from Una
and Sajipona. The doctor, priding himself especially on Raoul's
discomfiture, considered the queen guilty of the basest ingratitude,
and even suspected that she might be, at that moment, plotting their
destruction. Leighton and Herran scoffed at this, but it appealed to
Mrs. Quayle, and that lady, clinging nervously to Andrew, followed
Miranda's explosive talk with appreciative horror. This proving a
profitless diversion, however, Leighton proposed the adoption of a
plan for immediate action. An attack on the palace, or a retreat
that would bring them to the entrance of the cave, were alternately
considered. But as both plans seemed to leave Una out of their reach,
they were discarded as impossible, and it looked as if they would have
to settle down to an indefinite stay in the garden. In the midst of the
discussion the doors of the palace were thrown open and Narva and Una
hurried out to meet them. Still fearing ambuscades and other undefinable
treacheries, Miranda was by no means ready to throw aside his caution at
their approach. But the aged sibyl's lofty disdain was disconcerting,
nor was there any resisting the whole-hearted joy with which Una
greeted them.

To their eager inquiries she gave the briefest replies. For one thing,
she assured them that they had Sajipona's promise that their escape from
the cave would be easy and not too long delayed. Of the queen's friendly
disposition towards them, she said, there was not the slightest doubt.
They could count on the carrying out of her promise if, on their side,
the conditions she proposed were observed. These conditions were: never,
once they were out of it, to enter the cave again; to reveal as little
as possible to the outside world of their experiences during their
present adventure; and to keep an absolute silence regarding Sajipona's
relationship to this mysterious race of people.

Beyond this Una would say little. The conditions were joyfully accepted.
Nothing, certainly, could ever induce them to enter the cave again.
But then--there was David. Yes, Una admitted, David was in the palace.
She had seen him. He was free, so far as she knew, to come or go as
he chose. But he had not said he would return with them. It might be,
indeed, that he would choose to live permanently with the cavemen--an
amazing possibility that started an avalanche of questions to which only
the vaguest answers were given. Doubtless they would see David before
they left, Una assured them, and learn for themselves all they wished to
know. As for Raoul, she could tell nothing. He was, apparently, in favor
with the queen, and engaged in some undertaking for her.

Una betrayed none of her suspicions regarding David in her discussion
of these matters. She had not seen him since that first meeting in
the little portico adjoining his quarters in the palace, hence she was
ignorant of the result of Raoul's experiment. Sajipona had come to her
immediately after its conclusion and, judging by the quiet cheerfulness
of her manner, she fancied everything had gone to her satisfaction. This
was confirmed by the announcement of the festival that was shortly to
take place. This festival, Una had been told, was to be the occasion
for great rejoicing among the cave people. It was a sort of national
day, a celebration that had not been held in many a long generation. It
was intended to recall, she heard, the ancient feast of El Dorado, the
Gilded Man, about which, of course, as it existed among the Chibchas
before the period of the Spanish invasion, Una was familiar through the
traditions as told by David and Leighton. What form this revival of the
old ceremonies would take had not been explained. But it piqued her
curiosity and, in spite of resentment and wounded pride, she cherished a
secret hope that it would bring about a final understanding of David's
position in regard to Sajipona and herself. She felt sure David would
be at the festival, and she had an intuitive feeling as well that his
presence would dispel the mystery that sundered them. She did not look
for, nor did she consciously want a reconciliation. Bitterly she denied
herself the possibility of one. But she wished to know definitely, and
to its full extent, David's faithlessness to her. After she had learned
this, they could not start on their homeward journey too quickly.

Still absorbed in these reflections, Una and her companions, under
Narva's lead, entered the great court of the palace. Una, of course,
had grown familiar with the strange features to be found in this hall
of marvels; but the others, entering it for the first time, were amazed
at what they saw there. In Leighton this feeling of wonder reached its
highest pitch. The shattering of one scientific belief after another
that he had experienced ever since entering the cave left him, it is
true, somewhat callous to new impressions. But this apathy, if it can be
called that, melted away as he stood beneath the great white dome that
soared in flashing lines above them. Looking up at the huge ball of fire
suspended just beyond the apex of this dome, for a moment he remained
speechless. Then, turning to his companions, he voiced the ecstasy that
comes with some unexpected, epoch-making discovery.

"Do you know what that is?" he demanded.

No one did. Miranda shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention
ostentatiously elsewhere, as if floating balls of crackling white
flames, used to illuminate caves, were matters of ordinary experience
with him. Andrew's mouth was opened quite as wide as his eyes as he
stood staring upward at the curious illumination. It would be a splendid
saving of candle power, he thought, more than enough for the whole
village, if they could only manage to take it back with them to Rysdale.
But, even if it were small enough, it wouldn't be possible to carry in
one of their trunks, since it would be sure to set things on fire. This
objection was made by Mrs. Quayle, and seemed reasonable enough.

"That is the most remarkable thing on earth," went on Leighton,
heedless, in his excitement, of the frivolous comments of his
companions. "I have often thought that sooner or later something like
this would be discovered. It is impossible to estimate its value. Why,
all the billions of dollars that there are in the world to-day could not
pay for it at the present market prices."

The calm assurance with which this estimate was given shattered
Miranda's pose of studied indifference.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

"Radium!"

The silence that followed was eloquent of the mingled incredulity and
delight with which so staggering an announcement was received. Leighton,
fascinated with his subject, proceeded to explain things, much as if he
were at home again in his laboratory, working out a particularly novel
experiment, and expounding his various theories of physics. Of course,
he had nothing but theory to go on, since he had never seen, heard of,
or believed possible such a huge mass of radium as this that hung above
them. And because it was so unbelievably huge, the others refused at
first to take it for what he said it was. But he insisted that it could
be nothing else. Radium it was--and with this as his basis of fact, he
quickly built up an imposing theory that he used to explain more than
one matter that before had puzzled them.

This immense globe of radium, he believed, in the first place, was
the parent-body of all the infinitesimal particles of this remarkable
substance that had recently been found in different parts of the world.
The mysterious properties of radium, he said, were only dimly understood
as yet by physicists who had experimented with it. Apparently it was a
mineral; but as it revealed a constant and amazing activity, throwing
out a force that so far had baffled analysis, there were those who
held that it was a living, or, better yet, a life-giving substance.
The existence of this immense body of radium here, in the center of
the cave, explained, to the satisfaction of Leighton, much of the
strange phenomena they had seen. Here, obviously, was the source of
the soft, diffused light that had puzzled them ever since they passed
through the Condor Gate; and it was to this center of energy that
they must attribute the increase in buoyancy and physical well-being
experienced the further they penetrated into this subterranean world.
The peculiar growths, also, half vegetable, half mineral, that had given
the appearance of groves and gardens to certain portions of the cave
through which they traveled, were undoubtedly due to this marvelous
force, occupying the same relative position towards subterranean life
that the sun did to the outside world of nature. Moreover, Leighton
firmly believed that the supremacy of radium as the life-giver in this
cave, involved the existence, as they would discover, of other phenomena
having still more subtle, even psychic, qualities. Narva grunted
significantly at this observation, and Una confirmed the truth of it by
relating how the floor of the court where they were standing had, only a
short time before, reflected a series of pictures of events taking place
in the outside cave, by means of which they had been able to follow
Leighton's approach to the palace and watched the collision of his party
with that of Raoul. It was through this peculiar photographic power of
radium, indeed, that Sajipona could discover whatever was taking place
in the remotest regions of her domain. This information did not surprise
Leighton in the least. On the contrary, he appeared to take it as a
matter of course, one of many marvels that might be expected in a land
run, so to speak, by radium.

Absorbed in the discussion of these matters, no one noticed the entrance
of Sajipona. The queen, coming from the apartment where she had left
David and Raoul, was not in a hurry to make her presence known, and
lingered long enough behind the others to enjoy the curiosity and wonder
with which they were regarding the globe of light above them. She now
advanced smilingly, addressing herself particularly to Leighton, whom
she complimented for his shrewd guess as to the nature of the force
pervading and governing the cave. Indian though she was, inheritor of a
realm that, in all its customs and beliefs, was primitive, distant from
the civilizations found elsewhere in the world to-day, she had heard and
studied enough of Europe and America to be familiar with some of the
momentous discoveries of modern science. Hence, she had been quick to
grasp the fact that this subterranean sun, worshiped by her ancestors
ages ago as the Life Giver--the God that, according to Indian legend,
resided under Lake Guatavita--was nothing more nor less than an immense
body of radium, the most precious substance known to man, the scarcity
of which had led scientists to ransack the uttermost parts of the earth
in the hope of adding to their store of it. Here it had always been, the
one priceless possession of her people, enabling them to live apart,
independent of the world that threatened at one time to exterminate
them. How this radium had come there originally she could not tell. It
was the result, doubtless, of hidden forces about which philosopher and
scientist are as yet ignorant. Or, it might itself be the architect of
the subterranean world whose extent and manifold marvels had amazed the
explorers. By means of this radium force, as Una had told them, she was
able to see what was happening in any part of the cave, even throughout
that dark region lying beyond the Condor Gate--an incredible statement,
as it appeared to Leighton. For they had been in this outer cave and
discovered in it neither the light nor the warmth they had enjoyed on
this side the Condor Gate. Hence, argued the savant, this outer cave
appeared to lie entirely beyond the zone of radium influence. Sajipona
smiled at Leighton's objection and asked him if nothing had occurred in
the outer cave, while he was there, that he had been unable to explain.
They had been through so many marvels in so short a time that the
explorers looked at each other doubtfully. Mrs. Quayle answered for
them.

"Yes, the terrible stone that pulled off my jewelry, and then dragged
gold up from the lake outside--how was that done?" she asked, still
smarting, apparently, from the indignities she had suffered.

"Oh, that was merely a powerful magnet that attracts gold instead of
iron," explained Sajipona, as if such trifling matters were scarcely
worthy to be ranked with the other marvels of the cave. "This magnet
played a great part, centuries ago, in gathering together all the wealth
of my ancestors from the Sacred Lake where it had been cast during the
Feast of the Gilded Man. To-day it is never used because all the gold
has been taken out of the lake. But--was there nothing else mysterious?"

"Caramba!" ejaculated Miranda, "I know! When we come in from the
outside, all is open; we can come in and we can come out. And then, this
little old woman is frighten, and I take her out. That is, I think I
take her out. But the wall is shut, and we cannot see where it is. We
are in prison. Who did that? There is no one there."

Sajipona laughed.

"Yes, that is it! No one was there--except Radium, the influence from
the great globe hanging above us. Here, you see, it does many more
things than it does in your outside world. It is really the eye of
the cave--and sometimes the arm. Although its light does not, as you
know, extend into the outer cave, it reflects here, within this circle,
whatever is lighted up beyond there. When you came in with your torches
I was able to follow you by this means--very obscurely, of course,
because torches throw only a small circle of light. I could hardly make
you out, but I felt sure who you were. I was expecting you. And then,
because I needed you here and feared you might grow tired of so long a
journey, I shut the entrance to the cave so you could not escape. That
is where radium works like an arm. It can carry an electric force, an
irresistible current, without using wire. For our own safety we have
this force connected with the entrance to the cave. When that entrance
is open and we want to close it, this force is released and moves a
great rock that glides into place across the passageway, where it seems
to be a part of the wall on either side."

This dissertation from Sajipona on the uses to which radium had been
put in her kingdom was amazing enough to Leighton's trained, careful
mind. In his own studies of radium activity he had failed to find
any indication of the possibility even for the development of the
sensational features that were now given to him as accomplished,
familiar fact. For one thing, science was restricted in its experiments
by the small quantity of radium within its reach. Here the amount,
estimating the size of the fiery globe above him, was measured by the
hundreds of tons--a fact, of course, that must greatly increase the
field over which radium might be made to operate. Nevertheless, except
for this vague theory that an unknown power could be developed from a
great mass of this marvelous substance, suspended in a great chamber,
or series of chambers, not subject to the ordinary outside influences
of heat and light and air, it was difficult to find a reasonable
explanation for the things that Sajipona told him and that he himself
had seen. Most astounding it was, also, to a modern scientist, brought
up in the methods and limited by the views of his age, to discover
here a development in physics, beyond the dreams of the most daring
investigator, that actually belonged to a primitive race, and was first
practiced by them in a period and country without scientific culture.
The whole affair, indeed, furnished an instance where science seemed to
overstep the borderland of the miraculous. It was as marvelous, after
all, as the familiar achievements of wireless or the cinema would have
been if suddenly presented to the world of half a century ago.

Enjoying the savant's bewilderment, Sajipona described more of the
cave's wonders. Her forefathers, she said, had discovered a way to
imitate the changes from day to night by a simple process of veiling
and unveiling the ball of radium. This was found necessary in order
to create the right variations between growth and a state of rest in
vegetation. When circumstances made it desirable to use the cave as a
permanent habitation, it was found that this variation from light to
darkness was indispensable to human welfare. Without it there could
be little of the happiness that comes from the storing up and the
subsequent expenditure of human energy. Discovering this, certain wise
Indians among the cavemen of the past made further experiments in
the regulation of light and heat. Among other things, these pioneers
in a new science found that the color rays emanating from radium had
different properties--some being more life-giving than others--and
that by controlling these rays it was possible to create and develop
various kinds of subterranean plants. They firmly believed, also, that
by working along these lines it would be possible to arrive at new
animal forms. Some remarkable experiments were made in this direction,
but the results were too indefinite for practical purposes. The whole
problem was therefore abandoned years ago, its unpopularity having been
increased by the religious prejudice excited against it. This intrusion
of what he regarded as blind superstition upon the profitable labors of
science incensed Leighton, who muttered imprecations on the idolatries
of barbarians. But in this he was checked by Sajipona, who declared that
the religious beliefs of her people were in no sense more idolatrous
than many of the beliefs current in the outside world. They had their
fantastic legends, it is true--like the story of the god who, through
the ascendancy of an evil rival, had been imprisoned for ages at the
bottom of the Sacred Lake, whence he had been released by the prayers
and sacrifices of his followers. Such legends the more enlightened
regarded purely as fables, within which were conveyed certain truths
that were of lasting value to mankind. The ignorant probably failed to
recognize these truths underneath their coverings of legend. But it was
not merely the ignorant, it was those who possessed a higher religious
sense who were revolted by the effort to create animal life through
artificial means. This feeling of antagonism arose simply because in the
last of the experiments attempted by the Indian wise men, certain forms
were developed, giving feeble signs of life, and indicating unmistakably
that if they were ever endowed with a complete, independent existence,
they would become a race of malevolent beings, a menace to all existing
institutions and peoples. Hence, these wise men were counseled by the
more practical and simple-minded of their contemporaries to abandon the
rôle of creator, leaving the production of life to the rude and bungling
methods to which Nature was accustomed. They were loath to yield in
this, but public opinion became too strong for them; the religious
element conquered--and these savants of old turned their attention to a
new problem that had already been suggested by their partial experiments
in the creation of life, and that promised something really worth while.
This new problem involved the regulation of man's moral and intellectual
natures, not through the teaching of ideas, but by the employment of
physical and chemical forces.

It had been discovered long before that the Radium Sun controlled the
subterranean life coming within its influence. But as this sun was
itself capable of regulation, many novel--and safe--departures in human
development were made possible by an intelligent practice of the new
solar science. Here again, as in the experiments with plants, it was
the variation of colors, of light and darkness, that furnished the
key to what the Indian savants were after. Thus, it was learned that
certain radium colors had an affinity for certain moral attributes.
These moral attributes could, for this reason, be greatly increased by
placing the man or woman to be operated on in a properly regulated color
bath. Unfortunately, these wise men had not continued their experiments
with this Theory of Colors after reaching the first few crude results.
They lost interest in the subject when its intensely practical nature
became apparent. Hence, a complete classification of all the colors and
combinations of colors, with their moral and intellectual affinities,
was still lacking. But enough was discovered to be of real, positive
benefit in the education of the cavemen and in keeping order among
them. People who were harassed by domestic troubles, for instance,
were put through a course of color treatment; wives who were tempted
to leave their husbands, or husbands who got tired of their wives (as,
it seems, they sometimes did in the Land of the Condor) were plunged
into color-baths, varied according to the exact nature of the complaint
from which they were suffering, and kept in these baths until they were
brought back to a reasonable frame of mind. And then, in matters that
affected the well-being of the whole community--matters that in the
outside world would give rise to various political panaceas--it was a
simple application of the Color Theory that would straighten things
out. It was found, for instance, that yellow rays from the Radium
Sun stimulated generosity. Thus, in the case of a man whose intense
acquisitiveness threatened to monopolize the wealth of the community, a
steady application of yellow rays was sure to be beneficial, if not to
him, at least to those about him.

A case of this kind, indeed, had been recently operated on in this way.
The patient had accumulated such vast wealth that he had grown to be a
public inconvenience. As his business dealings, however, did not come
within reach of the criminal law, and as his wealth was thus due to
his natural bent for finance, the courts could not touch him. He was,
therefore, placed--not by way of punishment, but as a mark of public
esteem--in a bath of yellow light. The effect was extraordinary and
bore out all the claims of the originators of the Color Theory. He had
not been in this yellow bath more than a few hours before he began to
part with his wealth. On the second day he became more reckless in his
benefactions, and this frenzy for giving away what he had before so
jealously guarded from his neighbors, increased at so rapid a rate that
by the end of a week his entire fortune had passed, through his own
voluntary act, into the hands of the government and various benevolent
institutions. When he had nothing more to give, it was decided that he
had had enough of the yellow treatment. He was then released from the
honors the State had showered upon him, and passed the rest of his life
rejoicing in his penniless condition.

Then, there was the case of a man who had grown tired of his wife, and
who had outraged the sense of the community by leaving her. He was
captured and placed in a bath of green light. In a very short time
he got over his roving propensities and became so persistent in his
attentions to his wife that, in order to give her some peace, he was put
into another bath having a slightly neutralizing effect on the first, or
green, bath. Thus, the marital troubles of this couple were completely
and finally straightened out and they lived amicably together without
the tiresome intervention of mutual friends, or of the law courts.

The interesting possibilities of this Color Theory in penology and
in the regulation of domestic affairs, did not escape Leighton. He
had himself believed that in the latest discoveries in physics there
might be found a connecting link between the science of matter and the
science of mind. His natural skepticism, however, did not allow him to
accept too readily all of Sajipona's amazing statements. He doubted
her real knowledge of these abstruse subjects. She spoke of these
matters, indeed, crudely, not with the familiarity as to detail of a
trained scientist. What she said had all the simplicity, and much of
the fantastic absurdity, of a fairy tale. But beneath its extravagance
there was enough substance to her story, and the theory upon which
it was based, to make it worthy a scientist's consideration. For one
thing, it changed completely the notion Leighton had already formed
of this subterranean world. The story, for instance, of the chastened
millionaire took into account a complex social system that was utterly
unthinkable in a region so confined territorially, so limited, by
reason of its peculiar situation, as regards human activity, as this
so-called Land of the Condor. The inhabitants of the cave, from what
he had seen of them--in the straggling village they had passed through
with Narva, and among the followers of Raoul--gave no indication of a
culture superior to that shown by people just emerging from savagery.
These cavemen, certainly, had not reached that stage of enlightenment
from which is developed the millionaire capitalist of whose interesting
ventures in monopoly Sajipona had told them. In the ill-fated Anitoo,
however, and his men, and in the people surrounding Sajipona, there was
evidence of social and mental superiority. The two men who served as
the queen's ambassadors in the garden, and who were distinguished from
the rest by their red robes, belonged either to a priesthood, or to
some order that placed them intellectually above the common rank. They
were undoubtedly learned far beyond the Indian average. One of them,
indeed, was with Sajipona in the court, and prompted her more than once
during her explanation of the Radium Sun and its uses. He spoke in a
low voice, and in a language unintelligible to the Americans. From his
bearing and fluency of speech, Leighton concluded that he was one of the
commonwealth's so-called "wise men," an investigator, possibly, in those
physical and psychological phenomena that held out such tantalizing
promise of new conquests in the domain of human knowledge.

Sajipona was quick to perceive the difficulties arising in Leighton's
mind in regard to her narrative, but she referred to another occasion
a description of the science, religious beliefs, social institutions
and customs of the subterranean people. In attempting such a task, she
declared that the priest at her side, whom she addressed with befitting
reverence as Omono, Teacher of Mankind, would be far more capable than
she. For it was Omono, with his companion, Saenzias, who received and
carried out the laws and traditions of their race--always subject, of
course, to her own authority--and it was by them that these laws were
further perfected before being passed on to the two priests who would
succeed them in administering the affairs of the kingdom.

"You are puzzled, naturally," she said, "to hear of the existence of
wealth and poverty, charitable institutions and governments, science
and religion, in a kingdom whose boundaries are within the walls of a
cave. But you have seen only a small part of this Land of the Condor.
On every side it extends many miles further underground. And in the
South from here, not a great distance, there is a vast region--unknown
to the rest of the world--filled with mountains, fertile valleys,
rivers, and bodies of water strewn like jewels over plains that yield
an abundance sufficient for all mankind. This land is at the mouth of
our subterranean world. It lies in the heart of that region marked
'unexplored' by your mapmakers. We have no fear that it will ever pass
from our hands, that it will ever be more than a blank patch on your
maps, for on every side it is defended by unscalable cliffs of snow and
ice. It can be reached only through this ancient cave. Perhaps, in the
ages to come, when the people of the outside world and of this race that
has lived here in an unbroken line as far back as the memory of man can
go, have been perfected, these barriers will be thrown down. Such has
been the prophecy of some of our wise men; and to-day Omono and Saenzias
tell us that this final period of perfection is rapidly approaching. It
may be that before you go out again into your own world, you will see
more of the wonders of this Land of the Condor, and of the unknown Land
of the Sun that lies at its door. There are cities out there, built
with an art that is only rudely possible in our underground home. Here,
you are amazed at the cunning of some of our work. You wonder that a
race of moles could conjure wealth and beauty out of a cavern that is
never opened to the airs of heaven. But in our Land of the Sun there are
marvels far greater than these. In both regions you will see the work
of the same people; but here where you stand is the center of our race,
or--as you would call it--our seat of government. It is here, because of
the Radium Sun above us, that we find our strength. But it is outside,
in the Land of the Sun, that the millions who call me their queen, are
working out the destinies of future generations. Before these last
years your people and our people have kept apart. You were ignorant of
our existence, and we held aloof from you, remembering the cruelty and
injustice of which you were guilty centuries ago. But the time has come,
so Omono and Saenzias declare, when our two worlds must venture the
first step in the knowledge of each other. Through me this experiment
will take place. You are instruments in it. To-day decides the success
or failure of our plan. The wealth of our kingdom we have guarded all
these centuries, not for ourselves only. To increase it we must share
it with the outside world. But if the outside world is not ready, if it
still exists merely to plunder the wealth others have gathered, we will
wait, if need be, for another flight of centuries."

Sajipona's announcement aroused an immense curiosity among the
explorers. What did she mean? they asked each other. How was this
working out of their mutual destinies to be accomplished at this
particular time and through them? From Narva they had heard vaguely
of a festival that was to be celebrated--and now they learned that the
hour for it was at hand. Sajipona told them this, and as the information
followed immediately upon what she had let them know of her aspirations
regarding the future of her people, they concluded that in some
mysterious way, the festival and the fate of this subterranean kingdom
were bound together. They waited to hear more but, apparently, Sajipona
had finished all she had to say to them. Turning to Una, she led her
apart from the others. The two talked earnestly together, the one
protesting, the other entreating. Finally, Sajipona appeared to succeed
in her request, whatever it was, and taking Una's hand walked with her
to a distant part of the hall. Here a door was thrown open. Una entered
the apartment beyond, the door closing behind her. It was all so quickly
done, the others barely realized that Una had left them before they were
rejoined by Sajipona, who spoke to them as if nothing had happened.

"Let us go," she said. "The festival is ready. There is no time to
lose."




XXIII

THE GILDED MAN


After leaving Sajipona, Una found herself in an apartment small compared
with the spacious courts and chambers she had seen elsewhere in the
palace. This apartment differed, also, in its furnishings--a few
uncompromising stone benches along the walls and nothing more--while
the dim light gave to everything a gloomy, uninviting character. But
Una was in no mood to linger; the queen's words had filled her with
an anxiety that must be appeased at once. Hurrying down the middle of
the long room, she reached, at the further end, a sort of staircase,
or ramp, leading upward in long, sweeping spirals to a height that was
lost in intervening walls and clustered columns. Mounting this ramp,
she noted with pleasure that as the ground floor receded everything
lightened. Judging by the splendid upward curve of the walls, she
concluded that she must be ascending a gallery winding around the great
central dome of the court where, a moment before, she had listened with
the others to Sajipona's account of the mysteries of the cave. On the
inner side of the gallery, the side overhanging the court, the wall was
semi-transparent, and through it sparkled flashes of the radium light
flooding the great chamber within. Light came, also, from the opposite
side, filtering downward, apparently through another medium, from the
central luminary above. The air grew warmer; there were faint perfumes,
as if of essences distilled from tropical flowers, that thrilled with
a delightful drowsiness. Soft echoes from distant music increased this
feeling of restfulness. Sound and fragrance were so subtly united, they
seemed so completely an irradiation from the inner spirit brooding over
the place, that one accepted them as being utterly natural, utterly free
from the startling or the marvelous.

Una could not guess the source of the liquid, musical notes. They might
have come from the quaint instruments she had seen so deftly played
upon by the cavemen marching with Anitoo, or from the lyre that, at
Sajipona's touch, gave forth such plaintive melodies. But the music she
listened to now was not continuous; its lack of formal melody, unity of
theme, gave it a quality different from anything she had ever heard.
In the outer world it might have been taken for the windsong sweeping
through tossed branches of forest trees. But here there was neither
wind nor forest. The air was motionless, and had ever been so; the vast
spaces seemed filled with the unruffled sleep of centuries. Down below,
in the great court, and even in the palace garden, saturated with light
and beauty though both were, one felt something of the chill mystery
that penetrates all underground places. Here there was mystery, but it
was a kind that soothed rather than terrified. Tier by tier, as Una
passed along the slender white columns enclosing the gallery up which
she was ascending, the sense of gloom, foreboding, that had weighed
upon her until now, was weakened. She felt the magic of a new world of
romance and adventure. She was at the very heart of its secret. Flashes
of color in paneled niches along the walls piqued her curiosity. Robes
of vivid scarlet, hiding limbs of sparkling whiteness, it might be,
hung just beyond her reach. Further on these niches were filled with
glittering masses of gold, heaped high in barbaric scorn of art or
fitness. Rudely fashioned crowns, massive enough to have burdened their
wearers with more than the traditional care that goes with royalty;
armlets, breastplates, tiaras heavy with emeralds--in deep recesses, row
on row, from story to story, these witnesses of the pomp and pride of
fallen nations, were thrown together in a careless profusion possible
only in an Aladdin's palace of marvels.

As Una hurried past she realized with a thrill that she was in the
ancient treasure-house of a once mighty empire. The fruit of the earth's
richest mines, brought here by the labor and cunning of centuries, lay
at her hand. It seemed impossible that all this jeweled splendor could
have escaped the fires of war and crime that had kindled within the
breasts of millions who had sacrificed their lives merely to grasp some
small portion of it. Fascinating baubles now were these relics of past
greatness, dainty or rude, meaningless, or eloquent of forgotten faiths
and legends. Innocent of harm they seemed, a passing feast for the eye,
trophies to celebrate and adorn feminine loveliness, but no longer a
madness in the bones of men.

Thus, vaguely, did this vision of ancient riches appear to Una. Gold
and jewels, robes and ornaments wrought by an art that had been lost
long since--the rich color, the glitter of all these things delighted
her. They seemed a part--the visible part--of the music and fragrance
with which the winding gallery of marvels was filled. It appeared to
her that she was on the threshold of some great awakening experience.
She knew that it was David whom she would see; and this knowledge
started a strange conflict of emotions. The memory of his lack of faith,
the incomprehensible manner in which he had turned from her, brought
humiliation, anger. But the first bitterness that went with all this
had lost its corrosive power. The spell of the ancient Indian race
whose secrets she was exploring was upon her. Her senses were soothed
by the mysterious beauty of these enchanted corridors. Here she would
see David--and the thought was indefinitely satisfying. She did not know
whether she could forgive him, whether she could become reconciled to a
disloyalty that had so easily swerved him from the most sacred of vows.
But after all it was witchcraft--only witchcraft could work such things
as these--that had estranged him from her. This she knew because the
inner heart of her own love remained as it had ever been. He was still
David. He needed her, he was unhappy. Outwardly he might seem faithless
as the most shameless Proteus of romance. Nevertheless, there was
something else, something that even Sajipona could not know, but that
she knew and that bound him to her. It was for this she had followed him
through inconceivable adventures--for this, one danger after another had
been faced and overcome. And now all this misery had reached a happy
ending. He was here, awaiting her like some prince in a fairy palace.
Sajipona had promised it, had brought them together at last. She felt
his presence before she heard his voice. And then he spoke to her:

"Una, what new witchcraft has brought you here!"

He stood at a turn in the gallery up which she was ascending. As their
eyes met, the distant, wind-blown music, the subtle fragrance of
flowers, seemed to bring into this palace of mystery and enchantment
the fields and meadows of Rysdale. There she and David were again
together, vowing their first love. The harmonies of brooks, birds, the
ripples that sped their canoe past woodland and down shaded valleys,
the thousand intimate details of the springtide loved of lovers, were
about them once more. For the David who stood beside her in the queen's
treasure-house was the David of that far-off, peaceful countryside,
not the strange being she had met for that brief dark moment in front
of Sajipona's palace. At the first glance she could see he had passed
through some vital change since then. He was no longer as a man walking
in dreams. There was no troubled uncertainty in his face, no faltering
in his step. He came to her now, all his soul in his eyes, but with
perplexed look for all that, as if the destiny that had parted them had
not yet consented to their reunion.

"I have been dreaming," he said simply. "It was an old dream, I find.
Now that I am awake, some lights and shadows from my dream-world remain
to haunt me."

His brief explanation of the strange mental experience he had just been
through was scarcely needed. Una told him how they had searched for him,
how they had finally heard of this cave and of his first adventure in
it. And then, how, tracking him to this place, they had met Sajipona
and learned of the wonders of her underground kingdom.

"We are awaiting the festival now," she said wistfully. "She told me of
it, and sent me here to meet you. I think it must have begun already.
The music--it must be the music for the Gilded Man--has grown louder and
louder as I have climbed this wonderful gallery. Sajipona and the rest
will meet us--it must be just there, beyond."

They had clasped each other's hands, their eyes looked their fill. But
now they stood apart, their faces averted, words of passionate avowal
unuttered on David's lips.

"The festival! I know!" David exclaimed.

Then he turned again to Una, taking her hand and trying to disguise
the grief that was all too plain in words and manner. He told her of
Sajipona's kindness, of his gratitude to her. He described something
of her plans to redeem her people from the ill fortune that had shut
them out from the rest of the world. All this, he said, could not be
accomplished right away; but the first step would be taken now. David
had a part to play in the working out of the queen's plan. But just what
he was to do, what this part was, he guessed only vaguely. The bringing
together of the ancient people with the new, the Indian race with their
white conquerors--something of the kind was in her mind. The vast store
of wealth, also, that they saw about them was to be distributed among
those who needed it. Sajipona and her people had long since ceased
to care for this treasure that had brought such untold suffering and
misfortune to their race. But they would not part with it until they
were certain of their recompense. And perhaps they wouldn't part with
it at all--there seemed to be a curse attached to these blood-stained
emeralds and gold.

In all this, perhaps symbolically, the festival, the first strains
of which they could hear, would have much to do--and Sajipona and
he were to be the leading figures in that festival. He had consented
to this--freely. The declaration was made with melancholy emphasis.
It seemed to Una the death-knell to their happiness. It placed David
suddenly in a world quite outside her own, as if all along his life had
been, must be, apart from hers. There could be only one reason for this,
of course--Sajipona! Una seized upon it bitterly.

"You have always loved her!" she cried.

David did not answer. The fates that had brought them to this pass were
much too intricate to be lightly disentangled. Sajipona was to him a
being exquisitely beautiful--beautiful in every way--the most perfect
woman he had known. But there was a strength and glory in her loveliness
that placed her above the reach of mere human affection. She was a being
separate and distinct from all others--and yet necessary to the very
existence of the thousands who seemed to be dependent on her. It might
be love that he felt for her--but it was more like the adoration with
which one regards something sacred, infinitely distant and beyond our
own likings and frailties. This feeling of adoration might, indeed, have
been transformed into the passion called love. This surely would have
happened had it not been for one thing----

"Una, I love you!"

She started, looking wonderingly at him. How could he say that to her
now, after all that had passed? Could it be possible that he was
still in that strange dream-state from which, he declared, he had been
so happily awakened? Ah, but it was in that dream-state that he did
not love her, did not even know her! And now--her own exclamation was
eloquent of the doubt, the amazement with which she heard him--

"David!"

"But, it is perfectly true," he protested. "Why don't you believe
me? You always have believed me! What is before us I cannot tell for
certain. Sajipona has my word, and whatever she commands I will do.
I owe her my life. More than that--the faith that a man gives to one
whose beauty has opened to him the depths of his own soul. But this has
nothing to do with us. This is not love. Come what will, I love you,
Una. I love you--I love you!"

They looked at each other fearfully. There might be logic, of a
sort--logic born of a kind of poetic exaltation--in the distinction
that David tried to draw between the two women and his own feeling for
them. Circumstances, however, were stronger than argument. They felt
the approach of disaster. By David's own confession, if Sajipona willed
it, their love was lost. For the first time Una realized that it was
not David, not anything really tangible, but a power outside of him
that kept them apart. Against the apparent evidence of her senses, her
faith in David was restored. She knew him now, she felt, as she had
never known him before. And they loved--that was enough. It was all very
difficult to unravel, the maze they were in. There might be endless
tragedy at the next turn of the gallery. But at least there was love
here, if only for the briefest of moments. Their reawakened passion
tingled in their veins. Reason or unreason, they knew they belonged to
each other--although they might be separated forever before this day of
miracles was over. Una's jealousy, doubt, bitterness were all forgotten.
Her cheek flushed with joy, her eyes sparkled with the sweet madness
that belongs only to youth, youth at the highest pinnacle of its desire.
Neither spoke. Speech would have silenced the wordless eloquence with
which their love revealed itself. They drew closer to each other. Again
their hands met. Their lips touched. Love swept away all doubts and
denials in one passionate embrace.

Ever since the world began lovers have solved their difficulties thus,
and they will doubtless choose this dumb method long after an aging
civilization has pointed out a better one. Whether they are wise or not,
a college of philosophers would fail to convince us. In this particular
instance Love put forth his plea at the very instant when these, his
youthful votaries, were wanted of another, alien destiny. As they stood
together, oblivious of all else save their own passion, the music grew
louder, more joyous, throbbing now in statelier, more intelligible
cadence than before. At the end of the gallery a new light began to
break. The intervening wall disappeared, disclosing an inner chamber
filled with a throng of gaily dressed people, some of whom played upon
musical instruments, while others swung golden censers from which
floated forth in amber clouds the fragrance of many gardens.

A living corridor of color, formed of courtiers, musicians, priests,
extended from this inner chamber in a spreading half circle, the broad
portion of which reached the gallery where David and Una were standing.
At the center of all this light and motion and color was Sajipona, every
inch of her a queen, although the pallor of her cheek, the unwonted
tenseness of eye and lip, told of emotions that needed all a queen's
strength to restrain. Immediately about her were grouped the explorers;
Miranda, silenced for once by the splendor of the scene in which he
suddenly found himself in a leading part; Leighton, still absorbed in
the problems of science revealed at every turn in this wonderland.
Just above and behind them rose a human figure of heroic proportions,
concealed from head to foot in flowing white draperies. Against the
rounded pedestal of green stone sustaining this figure leaned Sajipona,
one arm resting along the base of the statue, the other lost in the
silken folds of her robe.

As David and Una, startled by the sudden clash of the music, raised
their heads, her eye caught theirs. Like a queen of marble she looked
at them, unrecognizing, motionless, save for the slightest tremor of
her faultlessly chiseled mouth--the one sign that she saw and knew.
With a gesture she checked the music. Silence followed, unbroken by
the faintest murmur of voices or rustle of garments from the waiting
throng of cavemen. Unabashed by this strange reception, moved only by
the steady gaze of the majestic woman standing before him, David, still
clasping Una's hand, came swiftly forward and would have thrown himself
impetuously at Sajipona's feet. The faintest hint of a smile gleamed in
her eyes as she prevented this show of homage. Her greeting came clear
and low from quivering lips:

"This is our festival, David!"

Again the music sounded, not, as before, in a joyous burst of melody,
but in a slow chant, barbaric in feeling, wailing, unearthly. The
listening throng moved uneasily, filled with vague premonitions of
what was to come. Sajipona lifted her hands to the statue, then smiled
serenely at the two lovers before her. The spell was broken.

"This is the ancient festival of my people," she said. "It should be a
time for rejoicing. The Gilded Man awaits us."

As she spoke the veils covering the statue dropped one by one to the
ground. Before them stood, dazzling, glorious, the figure of a man
carved in gold. His head was uplifted, as if intent on something
beyond the ordinary ken of mortal. Only the face was clearly and
sharply chiseled; the rest of the figure--limbs, body, and flowing
drapery--blended together in one massive pillar of flaming gold.

The effect on the beholder of this exquisitely molded shaft of
metal, upon which the radium light from above sparkled and flashed,
was indescribable. The brilliance, the lavishness of it, savored of
barbarism; but the delicacy of detail, the simple pathos and exaltation
portrayed in the face, had in it an art that was Nature's own. And the
wonder of it, the miracle that caught all men's eyes as they looked, was
the likeness that lived in every feature. For this Gilded Man, newly
wrought to preside over the last festival of this forgotten race; this
one final splendid piece of work that summed up all that was best and
noblest in an ancient art, was a deathless portrait in gold of the man
who stood before Sajipona, of the man upon whom she had built her hopes,
and for whom she would sacrifice everything. It was David--a queen's
tribute of immortal love.

Touched at heart, the living David knelt at Sajipona's feet, pressing
her robe to his lips. A moment she stooped caressingly above him,
whispering words that none--not even he--could hear. Then proudly she
stood before them, regarding those about her with an eye that did not
falter in its imperious glance.

"It is the last festival," she said. "With this the Land of the Condor
will pass away. The outside world of men has tracked us here before the
dream that we had of a golden age could be fulfilled. Not with us can
these be allied. They love not as we love; their faith, the beauty that
they prize, is not as ours. In another time it might have been--perhaps
it still will be. But, if it is to be, that dream will come true ages
after this Feast, this Sacrifice, of the Golden Man is over."

As she finished speaking, Sajipona looked again at David, unspoken
grief in her eyes. He stretched his hands to her, murmuring her name,
appealing to her, terror-stricken by the stern look that slowly
overspread her features, telling of some great and tragic purpose she
was bent on carrying out. But she was unmoved by his entreaties. Slowly
she turned away. Then, beckoning to the priests, Saenzias and Omono,
she disappeared with them behind the golden statue. Those who remained,
breathlessly awaited her return--the explorers restless and anxious,
the cavemen rapt in a sort of religious ecstasy. It was thus that their
ancestors had awaited the plunge of the Indian monarch into the dark
silent waters of the Sacred Lake.

And now high above them the thin wall of the palace roof was opened.
Without, the great sun of this underworld poured down its radiance.
Almost blinded, they could still dimly see, standing just on a level
with this sun, Sajipona arrayed as became the last descendant of the
zipas. At her side were the two priests; but these retreated as the
scorching heat pierced them. For an instant she stood where they
left her, a vision of majestic beauty that fascinated and held them
spellbound. Then, chanting an Indian song of triumph, the pæan with
which the ancient kings heralded their descent to the god beneath the
waters of the Sacred Lake, she cast herself into the globe of fire.

A wave of light flamed across the upturned face of the golden statue, a
wail of mingled exultation and despair arose from the throng below.

The Festival of the Gilded Man was ended.




Transcriber's note


Words in italics have been surrounded by _underscores_.

The following corrections have been made, on page

    6 , changed to . (had for her uncle.)
   80 "Sapniards" changed to "Spaniards" (owing to the presence of the
      Spaniards)
   95 "posssibility" changed to "possibility" (a possibility that filled
      him with dreams)
  108 "ligting" changed to "lighting" (a glint of sympathy lighting his
      eyes)
  122 "passsed" changed to "passed" (David had neither reached nor
      passed the inn)
  143 "Roaul" changed to "Raoul" (darting an accusing glance at Raoul)
  161 "betweeen" changed to "between" (the difference between his two
      impressions)
  191 "jewerly" changed to "jewelry" (handle these pieces of jewelry
      without mishap)
  296 "graden" changed to "garden" (advanced rapidly across the garden)
  313 ' changed to " (do you mean?" she asked).

Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies
in spelling, hyphenation and accentuation.