"Was it he?"

"Th' same."

He gave Wilson a little food and a wisp of the coca leaves to chew and briefly told him what he had just been through. He concluded with a wave of his hand about him.

"So here we are at last, an' a crew of savages waitin' fer us at the top, which makes a fine and fittin' end fer any v'yage upon which I embarks."

"Water—give me more water."

Stubbs rested the bottle to the man's lips a moment and then had to fight with him to get it away.

"Now," said Stubbs, "if ye've gut th' breath, tell me, has ye explored at all?"

Wilson shook his head. He answered vaguely, his thoughts still upon the one thing.

"A day wasted and the Priest on his way! He said within a day, didn't he, Stubbs? Lord! we've got to get out of here; we've got to get to her. He'll kill them both——"

Wilson struggled to his feet and plunged towards the exit to the cave. Stubbs was upon him in a second and bore him down.

"Gawd, man, h'ain't yer any sense left at all?"

A second later he repented his sharp speech, and added,

"There, lay still a moment, lad. I knows how yer feel, but we might's well look aroun' an' find out how much bigger damned fools we are. Ye've gotter git yer strength before ye can move back over that course."

"The treasure is there," whispered Wilson; "but, Stubbs, I want more water—buckets of it."

"What's there?"

"Diamonds—diamonds, and not a drop of water."

Stubbs did not believe it. He took it to be the hallucination of a man weak with thirst. But one thing was settled in his mind: if the cave were empty, he wouldn't waste any more time here. Danger was increasing with every minute. He pawed his way into the rear of the cave and had not gone ten feet before he stumbled over the same pile Wilson had found. He seized a handful of the stones and made his way back to the light.

The jewels sparkled in his rough palm like chips from the stars themselves. They were of all sizes from a beechnut to a pecan. Even roughly cut and polished as they were, they still flashed back their rainbow hues with pointed brilliancy. He picked out a large yellow diamond which even in this dim light glowed like molten gold in a fog; another which imprisoned the purple of the night sky; and another tinged with the faint crimson of an afterglow. Jumbled together in his hand, they were a scintillating pile of tiny, living stars, their rays fencing in a dazzling play of light. Even to Stubbs, who knew nothing of the stones, they were so fascinating that he turned them over and over with his finger to watch their twinkling iridescence.

Just those he held there now were such as a lapidary would spend his life willingly in the getting. If not another stone were found in the cave, these alone represented a fortune worthy of the expedition. Each stone as it stood was worth probably from three to eight hundred dollars, and some of the larger would run into the thousands. It was difficult to realize their full value here where they counted for so little,—no more than the rays of the stars themselves,—here where so many others lay in a heap like broken glass. Vaguely Stubbs grasped the fact that he had in his possession the worth of many good ships and freedom for the rest of his life. Yet he thrilled less with this thought than he did with the sheer joy of discovery. A man will cherish a dime he picks up on the street more than he does a five-dollar bill in his pocket. It was this spirit of treasure-trove that got into his blood, sending a tingle of new life through his veins. He tried to rouse Wilson to it.

"Come here, man," he shouted. "Come here and see what we've got. God! there's millions in this cave!"

But Wilson lifted his head indifferently.

"I don't give a damn," he answered.

"You haven't seen 'em sparkle—you haven't gut it inter yer head! Ye're rich—richer than Danbury!"

He hurried back to where Wilson sat and thrust the jewels before his eyes.

"D' ye see 'em?" he cried excitedly. "Bigger 'n yer thumb?"

For a second his old-time suspicion and doubt returned.

"But maybe," he added sorrowfully, "maybe they're jus' glass. Jus' my luck."

Nevertheless he believed sufficiently in them to return to the quest. He struck match after match, wandering farther and farther into the darkness, hoping to find something with which he could make light enough to see around him. He gave a little cry of joy as he came upon an old-time altar light—a platter of oil containing a crude wick. He lighted this. The flame sputtered feebly, died down, then revived to a big, steady flame. With his arms at his side, his mouth wide open, he gaped at what the light revealed.

The cave was not large; this lamp disclosed its boundaries. It also disclosed other things, chief of which was a leering idol some three feet tall which squatted, cross-legged, with one hand extended. This hand held a polished diamond larger than a walnut. The eyes were of ruby which, catching the light, burned with ghoul-like ferocity, while the mouth grinned,—grinned with a smile which strangely resembled that of the Priest. The image was of gold. To the right and left, piled up as though they had been hastily thrown together, was a jumble of vases, bowls, plates, shields, all of beaten gold. They made a heap some four feet high, and from six to eight feet broad at the base. Strewn about the foot of this were many little leather bags tied at the top with dried sinews.

Minute after minute Stubbs stared at this sight in silence. There was more gold here than he thought existed in the world,—so much that it lost its value. Here was enough almost to load down a ship. If he could crowd a few hundred dollars into a bag small enough to stuff into his pocket, this must run up into the millions. He had always spoken of a man worth a million with a certain amount of awe and doubt; and here lay ten, perhaps fifty, times that amount. At the end of forty years of sailing the seas he had saved a little over three thousand dollars against the days he should be old and feeble. Three thousand dollars! Two or three of those stones he had slipped into his pocket,—four or five of these plates of which there were hundreds!



He moved forward and tried to lift one of the big vases of crudely beaten gold. With his full weight against it, he could scarcely move it. Farther on there was a bar of gold heavier than three men could carry. To the left of this there was a pile of golden shields studded with jewels, strange ornaments, and heavy plates. Back of this he caught a glimpse of still other ingots of gold in the shadows.

And always the big image held extended towards him with a cynical leer the big, polished diamond which seemed rather to give out light from within itself than to reflect the altar flames. It blazed with a brilliancy that he had never seen equalled save by the stars on faultless winter nights.

He was too dumbfounded at first to take it all in. He turned about in a circle, resting his eyes again upon one thing after another, and then raised his hand and looked at that to make sure that he was seeing correctly—was not the victim of some strange illusion. Yes, his eyes were all right; he saw his calloused, big-jointed hand—the hand which had labored so long for a millionth part of what he now saw here. The gold and the jewels were within arms' reach of him—there was no longer any doubt about that. His luck must have turned.

He moved back to where Wilson still lay sprawled out upon his back only half conscious of his surroundings. He tried to speak calmly, but he blurted out,

"Gawd, man, there's tons of it!"

Wilson did not move or speak.

"Shiploads of it. Man! Man! wake up an' see what's afore yer eyes!"

"What is it, Stubbs?"

"Gold! Gold! Gold! The stuff thet outside here yer haster fight ter git a pinch of,—the stuff I've sailed aroun' the worl' ter git a handful of; the stuff ye've come so far on the bare chance of seein'."

"It's here, then? The treasure is here?"

"More than ever ye dreamed of. Small wonder that Sorez was willin' ter take chances agin the Priest if he knew of this."

Wilson brushed his hand over his eyes. The name roused him. This meant getting back to Sorez—getting back to him with proof of the treasure and so releasing the girl. He made his feet and stood a moment with his hand upon Stubbs' shoulder.

"I'm glad, Stubbs," he answered. "Now—now let's get back to her."

"Aye, we'll get back, but first we've got ter figger out some way for gittin' of this stuff out."

As a matter of fact, they learned that they were really facing something of a problem. It was a marvel how ever these things were got down here, but it would be a still greater task to get them out again. Twenty fanatical worshipers of the Sun God gave their lives to bearing these priceless offerings from the lake to this cave with the incentive of winning everlasting happiness. It was a different problem for two tired and nerve-exhausted men to retrace their steps.

Even if it were possible to get the treasure to the surface, it would need a small army of men and burros to carry it over the mountains to civilization, and another small army to defend it while on the journey. It would be almost equally impossible, probably, for them ever again to reach this cave. If they were successful in getting out of this country alive now that the Priest was roused and the natives incensed over the death of their fellows, it certainly would be sure death ever to return. As for organizing a company either at Bogova or in America for the purpose of removing the treasure, Stubbs had the usual independent man's distrust of such means. It became clearer to him every minute that the only share of this hoard of which they ever could be sure was what they might now take out with them. This practically eliminated the vast store of golden implements, for it was impossible to carry even the smallest of them on their shoulders over so rough and dangerous a trail as this. It began to look as though they had reached this treasure at length merely to be tantalized by it. The very thought was like a nightmare.

His eyes fell upon the small leather bags. Stooping, he picked up one of them, untied it and poured its contents upon the cave floor; a flashing stream of rubies rippled out and glowed at his feet in a tiny, blood-red heap. And there were a dozen more of these bags in sight!

"Lord, man!" he exclaimed below his breath, "it's 'nuff to make yer b'lieve ye're dreamin'."

The jewels gave him fresh courage. Here, at any rate, was a fortune which was within their present reach. They could carry these things back with them even though they were forced to leave the bulk of the treasure in its heavier form. A single one of these little leather bags was sufficient to repay them for their trouble if they didn't get anything else. But one thing was sure—their single chance of escaping with even these was to start at once. The Priest would undoubtedly have the whole region up in arms before dark, and, if he didn't find them before, would have a force at the mountain pass. It went against his grain to abandon such riches as these, but life and a few million was better than death with all the gold in the world piled about your tomb.

To Wilson, who in the last few minutes had become more himself, the treasure still meant just one thing—the opportunity of freeing Jo. With this evidence he could return to Sorez and persuade him of the futility of his search in the lake itself and induce him to join his party and escape while there was time. If he didn't succeed in this, he would take the girl even if he had to do so by force.

"It's a case of grab and jump," said Stubbs. "You gather up the loose stones on the floor and I'll collect the bags. The sooner we gets to the top, th' better."

Stubbs took the altar light and made a careful search of the bottom of the cave for jewels. These were the things which embodied in the smallest weight the most value. It made him groan every time he passed an ingot of gold or some massive vase which he knew must run into the thousands, but at the end of ten minutes he felt better; the stones alone were sufficient to satisfy even the most avaricious. About the base of the grinning idol they found fourteen leather bags, each filled with gems. The loose diamonds which had been roughly thrown into a small pile would fill four bags more. Even Wilson became roused at sight of these. He began to realize their value and the power such wealth would give him. If the girl was still alive, he now had the means of moving an army to her aid. If she was still alive—but the day was waning and the Priest, now thoroughly aroused, doubtless moving towards her intent upon wiping out every stranger, man or woman, in the hills.

Stubbs was for going farther back into the cave and exploring some of the recesses into which they had not yet looked at all. But Wilson, with returning strength, became impatient again. The coca leaves which he had chewed constantly brought him new life.

"Lord! would you sell the girl for a few more bags of jewels, Stubbs?" he burst out.

The latter straightened instantly and came nearer. But before he had time to speak, Wilson apologized.

"No, I know better, comrade, but I can't wait any longer to get to her. I'm five years older than I was a day ago."

The while they were gathering the little bags full of jewels, the big image in the corner smiled his smile and offered them the big diamond in his hand; the while they buckled the bags about their waists—as precious belts as ever men wore—the image smiled and offered; as they moved towards the mouth of the cave it still insisted. Yet for some reason neither man had felt like taking the stone. Stubbs felt a bit superstitious about it, while Wilson felt enough reverence, even for heathen gods, to refrain. But still it smiled and offered. In the flickering flare of the altar light the stone burned with increasing brilliancy. It was as though it absorbed the flames and, adding new fuel, flashed them forth again.

Wilson led the way out. Before they left the cave Stubbs turned. He saw the image once again, and once again the stone. The temptation was too great, especially now that they were on the point of leaving—perhaps forever. He started back and Wilson tried to check him.

"I wouldn't, Stubbs. Those eyes look too ugly. It is only the mouth that smiles and——"

"Ye haven't turned heathen yerself, have ye?" he called back.

He stepped forward and clutched it. But the jewel was fastened in some way although it seemed a bit loose. He pulled strongly upon it and the next second leaped back, warned in time by a suspicious rumbling above his head. He looked down to see a slab of granite weighing half a ton on the spot where he had stood a moment before. It was an ingenious bit of mechanism arranged to protect the treasure; the jewel had been attached by a stout cord which, when pulled, loosed the weight above. Not only this, but it became evident in a few seconds that it loosed also other forces—whether by design or chance, the two men never determined. They had pressed back to the path outside the cave, when they heard a rumble like distant thunder, followed instantly by a grinding and crashing. Before their eyes a large section of the cliff crashed down over the cave itself and into the chasm below. They didn't wait to see what followed, but made their way along the path as fast as they dared.

Neither man spoke again until a half hour later after a journey that was like a passage through Hell, they lay exhausted in the sunlight above the chasm. The thunder of tumbling rock still pounded at their ears.



CHAPTER XXIV

Those in the Hut

In an angle formed by two cliff sides, within a stone's throw of the lake of Guadiva, a native, Flores by name, had built himself a hut. Here he lived with his mate Lotta in a little Nirvana of his own, content with his love and his task of tending a flock of sheep which furnished them both with food and clothing. Few came near this hut. The sky above, the lake before, and the mountains round about were all his, his and his alone even as was the love of the dark-eyed woman near him. Within their simple lives they had sounded the depths of despair and reached the heights of bliss.

The woman Lotta was the daughter of a chieftain of the tribe of Chibca, one whose ancestry went far back into the history of the Golden One. Some of them had been priests, some of them guards, and all of them had fought hard for their god. But the father of this girl incurred the displeasure of the Priest and finally, not yielding to discipline, his wrath. The stern autocrat of these tribes condemned him to extreme punishment—a fast of thirty days in the hut upon the mountain top—the hut of the Golden God. Cowed and frightened, the man, somewhat feeble with sickness, bade good-bye to his daughter and climbed the rugged path. Below, the girl waited day after day until the strain became unbearable. She ventured, knowing well what the penalty was, to visit him with food. She found him groaning upon the stone floor, eaten by fever and racked with pain. She nursed him until her supplies were exhausted and then came down for more, choosing a secret path which she in her rambles as a girl had discovered. It was then she heard whispered among the gossips news of a white stranger with marvelous powers who was hiding in the hut of a neighbor. It was just after the battle with the men from the sea—a battle terrible in its ferocity. This man was one of the refugees from the scattered army, sheltered at first for gold and later because of the power he possessed of stopping pain. A wounded native, member of the family which sheltered him, had been brought in suffering agonies and the stranger had healed him with the touch of a tiny needle. Lotta heard these things and that night found the stranger's hiding place and begged him to follow. He knew enough of the native language to understand and—to make his bargain. If she would guide him to the mountain pass, he would follow.

The man was Sorez.

The next few hours were burned into Sorez' mind forever. At her heels he had clawed his way up the steep hillside expecting at every step a spear thrust in his back. He tore his hands and knees, but, drawn on by a picture of the girl, moving shadow-like in the moonlight ahead of him, he followed steadily after. Pausing for breath once he saw the dark fringe of trees below the lava slopes, the twinkle of the camp fires, and over all the clear stars. But this region here was a dead region. He felt as if he were moving through some inferno, some ghastly haunt of moaning specters, with the dark-faced girl guiding him like some dead love. On they climbed in silence until his head began to swim with the exertion and the rarefied air. Suddenly the girl disappeared as though she had dropped over a precipice. To the left he saw a small path leading over a yawning chasm. She beckoned and he felt his way along. Then they came upon a tiny plateau upon which had been built a hut of rocks.

The scene within was terrible. Upon the stone floor lay a brown-skinned skeleton with bulging eyes and clawing fingers muttering incoherently. Sorez could do nothing but administer a small injection of the soothing drug, but this brought instant relief and with it a few moments of sanity. The doctor had picked up a small vocabulary and gathered from what the dying man muttered that he, Sorez, a very much bruised and weary mortal, was being mistaken for one from heaven. A smile lighted the haggard face of the invalid and the bony hands came together in prayer. The girl bent over him and then drew back in horror. She met the eyes of her father in some new-found wonder, gasping for breath. Then she bent her ear once more. The message, whatever it was, was repeated. Still, as though half doubting, she moved to the rear of the hut and pounded with a large rock against what was apparently the naked face of the cliff in which the hut was built. It swung in, revealing a sort of shrine. Within this reposed a golden image. She turned her eyes again upon her father and then without hesitation took out the idol and handed it to Sorez.

"The God of Gods," she whispered, bending low her head.

"But I don't want your god," protested the doctor.

"You must. He says it is for you to guard."

He had taken it carelessly to humor the dying man. And when the latter closed his eyes for all time, Sorez remembered that the heathen image was still in his possession. He started to return it to the shrine, but the girl threw herself before him.

"No. The trust is yours."

Well, it would be a pleasant memento of an incident that was anything but pleasant. He brought it down the mountain side and put it beneath his blanket.

It was not until several days later that bit by bit he came to a realization of that which he had so lightly taken. The old man who brought his food whispered the news through ashen lips.

"The Golden One is gone."

"Who is the Golden One?"

"The Golden God in the hut above who guards the secret of the sacred treasure. It is said that some day this image will speak and tell where the lost altar lies."

The whole tribe was in the grip of an awful terror over this disappearance. But the Priest proved master of the situation.

"It will be found," he said.

In the excitement Sorez found his opportunity to escape, with the help of the girl, the image still beneath his coat,—the image fated to light in him the same fires which drove on Raleigh and Quesada. Before he reached the home trail he had a chance to see this strange Priest of whom he had heard so much in connection with the rumored treasure in the lake. He came upon him, a tall, sallow-faced man, when within an hour of safety. Sorez had never before met eyes such as looked from beneath the skull-like forehead of this man; they bored, bored like hot iron. The Priest spoke good English.

"Leave the image," he said quietly.

Sorez, his hand upon a thirty-two caliber revolver, laughed (even as Quesada had laughed) and disappeared in the dark. The next time he met the Priest was many months later and many thousand miles from the Andes.

The girl who, at the command of her father, had given Sorez the image was made an exile in consequence of this act by a decree of the priest. But the thread of love is universal. It is the strain out of which springs all idealism—even the notion of God—and as such is bounded by neither time nor place. It is in the beating hearts of all things human—the definition perhaps of humanity. Civilization differs from savagery in many things, but both have in common, after all, whatever is eternal; and love is the thing alone which we know to be eternal. Just human love—love of man for woman and woman for man.

Flores followed her into the mountains among which they had both grown. He built a shelter for her, bought sheep and toiled for her, and with her, found the best of all that a larger life brings to many. The Priest, of course, could have easily annihilated the two, but he hesitated. There was something in the hearts of his people with which he dare not tamper. So the two had been able to live their idyl in peace, though Flores slept always with one eye open and his knife near.

It was quite by accident that Sorez and the tired girl came upon the two at the finish of his second journey into these mountains. The woman in the hut recognized him instantly and bade him welcome. The one-room structure was given up to the women while Flores built near it a leanto for himself and Sorez. This simplified things mightily for the exhausted travelers, and gave them at once the opportunity for much-needed rest. They slept the major part of two days, but Sorez again showed his remarkable recuperative powers by awaking with all his old-time strength of body and mind. He accepted the challenge of the lake and mountains with all his former fearlessness. He thought no more of the danger which lurked near him than he did of the possible failure of his expedition. It was this magnificent domination of self, this utter scorn of circumstance, which made such a situation as this in which he now found himself with the girl possible. No ordinary man would, with so weak a frame, have dared face such a venture.

To the girl he had been as thoughtful and as kind as a father. He lavished upon her a care and affection that seemed to find relief for whatever uneasiness of conscience he felt. Though Sorez realized that the Priest must know of his presence here and would spare no effort to get the image, he felt safe enough in this hut. With a few simple defenses Flores had made secret approach to the hut practically impossible. The cliff walls protected them from the rear, while approach from the front could be made only by the lake, save for short distances on either side. Across these spaces Flores had sprinkled dry twigs and so sensitive had his hearing become by his constant watchfulness that he would awake instantly upon the snapping of one of these. As a further precaution he placed his sheep at night within this enclosure, knowing that no one could approach without exciting them to a panic.

Moreover, Sorez suspected that the Priest had kept secret from the tribe his failure to recover the image after his long absence in pursuit of it. Not only was such a loss a reflection on his power, but it challenged the power of the Golden Man himself. Would the Sun God allow such a thing? Could the image be gone with no divine manifestations of its loss? Such questions were sure to be asked. The Priest had no men he could trust with a secret so important. He would work alone. The matter would end with a rifle bullet or a stab in the dark—if it ended in favor of the Priest. With the vanishing of the treasure and the return of the image—if in favor of Sorez.

During the three days they had spent at the lake Jo had grown very serious and thoughtful. This seemed such a fairy world in which they were living that things took on new values. The two were seated around the fire with Flores and his wife in the shadows, when the girl spoke of new fears which had possessed her lately. Led on as much by what she herself saw and continued to see in the crystals, by the fascination she found in venturing into these new and strange countries, but above all by the domination of this stronger and older personality, she had until now followed without much sober thinking. If she hesitated, if she paused, he had only to tell of some rumor of a strange seaman in the city of Bogova or repeat one of the dozen wild tales current of Americans who had gone into the interior in search of gold and there been lost for years to turn up later sound and rich. He had hurried her half asleep from the house at Bogova and frightened her into silent obedience by suggesting that Wilson might by force take her back home when upon the eve of finding her father. She had looked again into the crystal and as always had seen him wandering among big hills in a region much like this. What did it all mean? She did not know, but now a deeper, more insistent longing was lessening the hold of the other. Her thoughts in the last few days had gone back more often than ever they had to the younger man who had played, with such vivid, brilliant strokes, so important a part in her life. She felt, what was new to her, a growing need of him—a need based on nothing tangible and yet none the less eager. She turned to Sorez.

"I am almost getting discouraged," she said. "When shall we turn back?"

"Soon. Soon. Have you lost interest in the treasure altogether?"

"The treasure never mattered very much to me, did it? You have done your best to help me find my father, and for that I am willing to help you with this other thing. But I am beginning to think that neither of the quests is real."

She added impulsively:

"Twice I have left the most real thing in my life—once at home and once in Bogova. I shall not do it again."

"You refer to Wilson?"

"Yes. Here in the mountains—here with Flores and his wife, I am beginning to see."

"What, my girl?"

"That things of to-day are better worth than things of to-morrow."

Sorez shifted a bit uneasily. He had come to care a great deal for the girl—to find her occupying the place in his heart left empty by the death of the niece who lived in Boston. He was able less and less to consider her impersonally even in the furtherance of this project. He would have given one half the fortune he expected, really to be able to help the girl to her father. He had lied—lied, taking advantage of this passionate devotion to entice her to the shores of this lake with her extraordinary gift of crystal-seeing. He was beginning to wonder if it were worth while. At any rate, he would be foolish not to reap the reward of his deceit at this point.

"Well," he concluded brusquely, "we must not get gloomy on the eve of victory. To-morrow the moon is full—do you think you will be strong enough to come with me to-morrow night to the shrine of the Golden Man?"

"Yes," she answered indifferently.

"He chose his own and surely he will not desert the agent of his choosing."

"No," answered the girl.

Her eyes rested a moment upon the silver lake before her and then upon the cliffs beyond. She had an odd desire this evening to get nearer to those walls of granite. A dozen times she had found her eyes turning to them and each time she obeyed the impulse it was followed by a new longing for David. She wished he were here with her now. She wished he was to be with her to-morrow night when Sorez took her out upon the lake with him. She did not mind gazing into the eyes of the image, of sinking under their spell, but now—this time—she would feel better if he were near her. She had a feeling as though he were somewhere near her—as though he were up there near the cliffs which she faced.



CHAPTER XXV

What the Stars Saw

The moon shone broadly over a pool of purplish quicksilver. A ragged fringe of trees bordered it like a wreath. The waters were quiet—very, very quiet. They scarcely rippled the myriad stars which glittered back mockingly at those above. The air over and above it all was the thin air of the skies, not of the earth. It was as silent here as in the purple about the planets. Man seemed too coarse for so fine a setting. Even woman, nearest of all creatures to fairy stuff, must needs be at her best to make a fitting part of this.

From out of the shadows of this fringe of trees there stole silently another shadow. This moved slowly like a funeral barge away from the shore. As it came full into the radius of that silver light (a light matching the dead) it seemed more than ever one with sheeted things, for half prone upon this raft lay a girl whose cheeks were white against the background of her black hair and whose eyes saw nothing of the world about her. She stared more as the dead stare than the living,—stared into the shining eyes of the golden image which she held with rigid arms upon her knees, the image which had entangled so many lives. Her bosom moved rhythmically, slowly, showing that she was not dead. The golden image stared back at her. Its eyes caught the moonbeams in its brilliant surfaces, so that it looked more a living thing than she who held it.

Facing them, standing bolt upright save when he stooped a trifle to reach forward with his paddle, was Sorez, who might have passed for Charon. His thin frame, his hollow cheeks, the intense look of his burning eyes gave him a ghostly air. The raft moved without a sound, scarcely rippling the waters before it, scarcely disturbing in its wake the gaunt shadow cast by Sorez, which followed them like a pursuing spectre. He studied keenly the dumb shores which lay in a broad circumference about them. He could see every yard of the lake and saw that they themselves were the only scar upon its mirror surface.

Peak upon peak looked down upon them, and higher, star upon star. Dead, indifferent things they were, chance accessories to this drama. They awaited the touch of sterner forces than those of man for their changes.

He who drove the raft along breathed as one who is trying hard to control himself in the face of a great emotion. His eyes continually shifted from the girl to the shores, then back again to the girl. In this way he reached a position near the middle of the lake. Here he paused.

He seemed to hesitate at the next step as though a great deal depended upon it. His lips moved, but he seemed afraid to break the silence. The girl remained immovable, still staring into the glittering eyes of the image. He studied her eagerly as though he would lead her mind before he spoke, for upon the first reply to his question depended the success or failure of all he had dared, of all he had undertaken. As she answered, either he would be the laughing stock of the world, or the most famous of modern adventurers; a comparatively poor man, or the richest in jewels of all the world. Suddenly he stooped and, bending close to the ear of the girl, said very distinctly:

"We are on the lake of Guadiva. It is said that here below the waters lies the shrine of the Golden One. You can see below the waters. Is—the shrine—here?"

Her lips moved uncertainly; an indistinct muttering followed. He held his breath in his excitement.

"The shrine—it is—it is below."

His color changed from gray to the red of youth; his eyes brightened, his whole body seemed to grow young with new strength. He asked the second question with feverish impatience,

"From here is it straight ahead, to the left, or the right?"

"Ahead and—and I can't see, I——"

"Look deeper and you can see."

"To the right," she said decisively.

He dipped the paddle deep and put all his strength into the strokes. For a hundred yards the ripples broke in front of the clumsy craft. Again he stopped and asked the direction. Her lips trembled over the words, exactly like those of one talking in sleep. It was always with an effort that she was able sufficiently to concentrate herself to give voice to what she saw. This time she bade him continue straight ahead. So he proceeded for another hundred yards. In this way he crossed to within an eighth of a mile of the opposite shore. Here she bade him pause, in answer to his questioning. He was not an emotional man, but he had never been under such a tension as during this manoeuvering or felt such a variety of sensations.

"To the left," she muttered. And then almost querulously, "I can't find it. It is near here, but I do not see it."

She moved him almost in a circle, and still back and forth, back and forth without seeming able to locate the spot for which she sought. They were opposite two high cliffs which revealed a deep fissure between them. Now and again her head turned upwards to this spot and her face became troubled—the brows coming together in a puzzled scowl, which sometimes faded away into a look of fear. Once, with a startled cry, she put her hands up over her eyes and swayed back and forth with low moaning. He roused her from this by a sharp command, and she turned again to the lake with no trace of this disturbance. He began to get worried as she reached no definite spot. It was possible that she could not bring him to any smaller radius than this circle. This would leave a doubt so serious as after all to bring things to nothing. He stooped again.

"The altar—it is near here? We must find it—find it. Look deep—look in all directions—look without fear. You must find it—the altar of the Golden One with its treasure. You must find it."

But she only raised her head and fixed her staring eyes upon the dark cliffs. She looked as though she were listening very intently,—as to a cry from a distance of which she was not sure.

Her lips formed the word "David." He caught it and it startled him so that for a moment he followed her eyes, listening too. But beyond there was nothing but the sober height of barren rock standing stark against the sky. There was no movement below on the shore; there was no shadow upon the lake. Yet with eyes fixed upon this scene she still called the name, "David, David."

Sorez placed his hand upon her forehead. He concentrated the full power of his mind upon the quest.

"Below—below—you must look below, not above. You must see nothing but the altar of the Golden One. Below, deep, deep—look, search until you find it."

Her features became smooth once more and she obeyed the command. She said very distinctly this time.

"The altar is here."

"Below us?"

"Here."

He doubted—doubted even as the blood rushed through his veins with the gladness of her words. He doubted as one will to prolong the joy of the truth. But there still remained much else to be learned. It was possible that the treasure was not so great as had been reported. If only she could see it lying there; if only she could tell him of the bars of yellow gold, of the glittering heaps of precious stones, of the jumbled pile of golden plate which had lain there for so long! The thought of it was enough to start the fever of desire. He wished even that he could force her to go down there and bring up to him a bit that he himself could touch and see and weigh. As he stood beside her with the lust of this thing in his eyes, a shadow detached itself from the shore. It may have been only the reflection of a tiny cloud. But there were no clouds. It may have been just a bit of driftwood. But it moved slowly and steadily towards the raft.

Sorez bent above the girl again.

"The Golden Man will tell you. Look into his eyes very hard."

The girl grasped the image more tightly and obeyed.

"Now go below, deep—deep."

For some reason, even as she had done in the room when first she had held this thing, she drew back in fear at this.

"No! No!" she pleaded.

But Sorez had lost sight of her as a personality now; she was nothing but a means to this one end; nothing but an adjunct to this heathen idol. He repeated his command more decisively—more sternly. His words were sharp—cold.

The shadow which had left the shore still came nearer—silently, swiftly.

The girl rested her frightened eyes upon the brilliant jewels set below the ugly, squat brow. They glowed in answer. They sparkled like tiny fires. Her face grew strained—her breathing became more rapid.

"Deeper—deeper!"

The shadow had come very near. Had the girl not been looking so intently into the crystal eyes, she could have seen—could have warned. The moon now showed it to be a canoe and in the canoe a man. The man was very lean and his uncovered head was close shaven. His eyes were very like those in the image.

The girl shuddered.

"Deeper—deeper!" came the relentless command.

Her voice came back muffled—as though from a distance.

"It is dark—dark."

She began to gasp. Then suddenly she placed her hand to her head.

"I see no gold—I see no gold!"

Sorez sank to his knees before the girl. His face was chalk white.

"Gone? Is it gone?"

The shadow was now beside the raft. The shadow was now behind Sorez. The shadow placed one foot upon the raft, but it paused there a moment at the cry which brought Sorez also to attention.

"Father!" screamed the girl. "Father!"

Sorez stared straight ahead of him in a frenzy. Then the shadow sprang, throwing his arms about the tall figure. Without a cry Sorez sank under him. He made a brief struggle but he was too weak to overcome the demon strength of the man who bore him down. With remarkable dexterity, the Priest bound him hand and foot before he had recovered fully from the shock of the fall.

The girl was now murmuring to herself, murmuring the one word "Father." It was an appealing, frightened cry, full of doubt, uncertainty, and yet of hungry love. For a second it held the attention of both men, the Priest taking a step nearer the girl and looking at her almost curiously.

Sorez knew this was the end. But he was a good gambler; having lost all, he accepted his fate with stoicism. He kept his head clear—clear enough to do the thing which marked him a man. He squirmed about until he faced the girl. With every ounce of strength in him, he shouted his final command to her.

"Awake! Awake!"

The girl stirred uneasily. The Priest reached for his knife, not understanding.

"Awake!" repeated Sorez, and his voice quivered with the intensity of his earnestness. "Awake!"

The girl trembled and seemed to fight her way to consciousness as one after a deep dive struggles to the top. She gasped for breath. Her eyes fluttered open, closed, fluttered open again. She roused herself to a sitting posture and the image dropped from her lap. The Priest snatched it up as the girl shrank back from him. For a moment the two stared at each other. The Priest was held motionless. Then as Sorez hitched a bit to one side, he turned to his work.

Sorez hoped for nothing but a swift end. The cruel face of the other left nothing to question, nothing else to hope. But now that the girl had shaken off the influence of the image he was easier. There was but one thing left to try, even though the eyes looking down into his hinted at nothing of mercy; he must save the girl if possible.

As the Priest bent over him, he found his voice.

"Listen to me a moment. I have nothing to ask for myself, I took my chances and I lost. But the girl here—she is innocent of even wishing for your treasure."

"Why then is she here?"

"I brought her here."

"You could not—against her will."

Sorez moistened his lips and explained: "She came on another mission. She came in search of a father who has been long missing."

"To this lake—to this spot—with the image in her lap?"

"No—this part of it is at my prompting. She but obeyed me."

The Priest turned away impatiently. He saw the girl crouching in terror of him. He moved nearer. He saw her black eyes. They remained on his strangely immovable. He felt something of a tremor. Things about him became blurred for a moment. He shook himself free.



"I have heard too many stories," he said.

"But, good God! you believe this," burst out Sorez. "You haven't the heart to revenge yourself upon her? You——"

He checked himself. He knew the man would do as he most feared. This, then, was to be his punishment—to know that he had brought the girl to such an end as this—that he had won her trust and confidence and rewarded it with such torture as this demon might mete out to her. The Priest might even slay her before his eyes. He strained at the rope which bound him until it tore into his flesh. The waters played about the raft. The stars danced in the ripples.

Sorez brought himself to try once more.

"If you have a spark of pity in your heart, you will do her no harm. Listen! I lied to the girl. I brought her here on the hope that she might find this father who has been a long time gone from home. He was a sea captain and I told her that many captains had been lost here in the mountains and been found again. I told her that I had seen her father in Bogova. That is why she came."

"To the lake?"

Sorez had but a second in which to decide. If he told the Priest of the girl's power, the latter might slay her to bury the secret, or torture her to betray it to him. No, it would be safer to leave the Priest merely suspicious.

"As I am about to die," affirmed Sorez, solemnly, "that is God's truth."

The Priest placed the little golden idol out of danger. Then he stooped and bound the ropes more tightly about the ankles of the prostrate man. Sorez watched him with new interest—almost with a new hope. He glanced at the girl and saw her kneeling upon the raft, her white face to the moon.

The Priest bent to fasten the rope which already bit into the flesh above the arms. It was for this Sorez had prayed. As the Priest stooped, his long coat swayed within reach of the long-waiting fingers. Sorez gripped both laps and that grip was the grip of death.

Before the Priest understood the situation, Sorez had bent his bound legs double beneath him and, gripping the tightly bound straw with his heels, shoved with all his strength towards the edge of the raft. The Priest fell atop of him, but instantly tore himself back. The fingers held. Once again Sorez hitched forward and once again the Priest came with him. In a panic the crazed Priest bore his knees down upon the prostrate man and then swung off to one side. But the fingers held. Sorez was now lying with his head half over the edge. The silver waters lipped his gray hair. He raised his legs once more—just once more, and shoved.

He gained an inch. Then in a flash the Priest managed to stand up with Sorez still clinging. But only for a moment, when he fell backwards, striking the back of his head sharply upon the logs. The girl screamed in fright. The Priest saw the world swim before his eyes, and the next second looked up to find a woman—his own daughter—his Jo—looking back at him! But Sorez still clung and still shoved with his legs towards the edge of the boat.

"For God's sake—what are you about?" gasped he who a moment gone had been the Priest.

Sorez saw nothing of the change. He was busy bending up his legs, digging in his heels, and shoving.

"Father! Father!"

Sorez had heard the cry before. He felt the girl beating at him with her white hands. The raft was beginning to settle. In the heavy fall of the two men a section had been loosened so that now it might possibly hold two of them—no more. The girl realized this; the man realized this. Sorez knew nothing save his determination to drag the Priest to the bottom with him.

"Let him go!" shouted the girl. "Let him go! He is my father! Can't you hear?"

The words penetrated just as he was about to shove once more.

"Your father?"

"Quick! We are sinking!"

He let go. The Priest sprang to his feet. The canoe had gone and the loosely constructed raft was settling as timber after timber freed itself. Sorez, himself again, saw this. Without a word he shoved once more,—this time himself alone. He went down and the raft floated. He had kept his word after all; he had given the girl her father.



CHAPTER XXVI

A Lucky Bad Shot

As soon as they recovered sufficient strength to desire anything more of life than rest for their bruised and weary bodies, Wilson assumed command of the situation. He saw nothing but a straight path to the girl.

"We must get down to the lake," he said firmly. "Get down there and find Sorez. If the natives are up in arms, I want to be near the girl. I'm going to take her out of here. If the others refuse to join us, we'll take her alone and make a dash for it."

"We oughter get our provisions first," suggested Stubbs.

"No—what strength we have left is for her."

"We'll have twice as much with grub."

"And we'll have less time."

Wilson's jaw was set. To go down the mountain and back would take at least four hours and leave them even nearer dead than they were at present. Aside from that, the desire to see the girl had become an obsession. He was no longer amenable to reason. He felt the power to dominate. In the last two days he had learned that there are at least two essential things in life—two things a man has a right to take where he finds them—love and water. The two lay at his feet now and he would wait no longer. His heart burned with as hot a thirst as his throat. Neither Sorez nor gold nor all the brown men in the universe should balk him of them longer.

Leaning forward he gripped the arm of his comrade with a strength the latter had not thought within him.

"Old man," he said with a new ring in his voice, "you must follow me the rest of this journey. I've got down to one thing now—just one thing. I'm going to find this girl—I'm going to take her into these two arms—and I'm going to carry her out of here and never let her go. Do you understand? And there isn't gold enough, nor men enough, nor heathen images enough in the world to stop me now. We're going back, Stubbs—the girl and I—we're going back, and God help those who get in our way."

At first Stubbs thought this was the fever, but as he looked at the tense face, the locked jaw, the burning eyes, he saw it was only a man in earnest. Some spark within his own breast warmed to life before this passion. He put out his hand.

"An' I signs with you right here."

"I've turned aside for things all I'm going to," ran on Wilson, excitedly. "Now I'm going over them. I'm going straight—I'm going hard—and I'm not going to turn my back on her again for a second. Do you understand, Stubbs? She's mine and I'm going to take her."

"You won't have to take her, if you feel that way," answered Stubbs.

"What d' you mean?"

"She'll go, boy—she'll go through Hell with you with thet look in your eyes."

"Then come on," shouted Wilson, with quite unnecessary fierceness. "I'm going to pull out of this heathen web."

The two men rose to their tired feet, every muscle protesting, and before dark Stubbs learned how little the body counts, how little anything counts, before the will of a man who has focused the might of his soul upon a single thing. They moved down ever towards the blue lake which blinked back at the sun like a blue-eyed babe. Their rifles pressed upon their shoulders like bars of lead; their heavy feet were numb; their eyes bulged from their heads with the strain of keeping them open. Of the long, bitter struggle, it is enough to say that it was a sheer victory over the impossible. Each mile was a blank, yet they pressed forward, Wilson ever in the lead, Stubbs ever plodding behind. It was almost as though they were automatons galvanized by some higher intelligence, for their own had become numbed save to the necessity of still dragging their feet ahead. In this way they reached the shores of the lake; in this way they circled it; in this way they neared the hut of Flores. Stumbling along the trail, guided by some instinct, Wilson raised his head at the sight of two figures sitting in the sun by the door of the hut; one was the girl, he saw that clearly enough, for to his own vision it was as the sun breaking through low-hanging clouds; but the other—he motioned Stubbs to halt. The two had made no noise, coming up through the undergrowth from the lake, and were now able to conceal themselves partly behind a sort of high bush. Had those in the hut been alert, the two could not have escaped detection, but so intent they seemed upon their conversation that a dozen men might have approached. Wilson tried to control himself; he wished to make sure. Steadying himself by a grip upon the shoulder of Stubbs, he looked again. Then bending close to his comrade's ear, he asked him—waiting without drawing breath for reply,—

"Who is it?"

The answer came charged with bitterness,

"The Priest!"

Wilson lowered his rifle. The Priest was sitting some two feet from the girl, against the hut, his head thrown back as though he were trying hard to think. Wilson was a good shot; he had as a boy amused himself by the hour with his small, twenty-two caliber rifle. At this moment, however, his sight was none of the best and his hand anything but steady. Stubbs signaled him to let him try the shot, but Wilson would not trust him. He had no doubt but that the Priest had killed Sorez and was now holding the girl a prisoner, perhaps even anticipating her death. It was his duty, his privilege, to set her free. He fitted the stock of the weapon into his armpit, and raised the barrel. His hand was weak; the gun trembled so that he dared not shoot. Stubbs saw this and, stepping in front of him, motioned him to rest the barrel on his shoulder. With this support he found his aim steadier. He purposely gave a bit of a margin to the right, so that in case of any deflection the error would be away from the girl. He pulled the trigger.

When the wisp of smoke cleared away, Wilson saw that both figures were upon their feet—the girl in the arms of the priest who held her close to him as though to protect her. Their eyes were upon him. The girl stared in terror, then in surprise, and now, struggling free, stood as though looking at an apparition.

Wilson understood nothing of this. His brain was now too slow working to master fresh details. He still grasped nothing but the fact that the girl was there and by her side the man who had proved himself a mortal enemy. He raised his weapon once more.

With a scream the girl ran straight ahead towards him, in line with the astonished man by the hut. As she ran she called,

"David! David! David!"

He heard the call and, dropping the rifle, staggered towards her. He held out his arms to her and she checked her steps, studying his eyes as though to make sure he was sane. He stood motionless but there was a prayer in his silent lips, in his eyes, in his outstretched arms. She took another little step towards him, then, without further hesitation, came to his side and placed her head upon his shoulder. He folded his arms over her heaving shoulders—he rested his cheek upon her black hair—he whispered her name again and again.

So they stood, Stubbs and the Priest both staring at them as at the central figures upon the stage, until she raised her head to look once more into his eyes. He saw her lips within a few inches of his own, but he dared not kiss them yet. It was odd—he had never in his life spoken an audible word of love to her—had never written of love to her—and yet he knew that she knew all that had been unsaid, even as he did. There had never been need of words with them. Love had been developed in the consciousness of each in silence and in loneliness, but had moved to this climax as surely and as inevitably as though foreordained. He had but to look down into her eyes now and all was said; she had but to look into his, even deadened as they were by fatigue, to read all her heart craved. Her breath came in little gasps.

"David—David, you have come for me again!"

"For the last time," he answered.

"You are never going to let me go again, are you, David?"

"Never," he answered fiercely.

"Ah! hold me tight, David."

He drew her more firmly to him.

"Tighter! Tighter!" she whispered.

He crushed her against his pounding heart. He ached with the joy of it. But with the relief from the heavy burden of fear which had for so long weighed him down, nature asserted herself and forced down his leaden eyelids. She felt him sinking in her arms and freed herself. With her hands upon his shoulders she drew back and looked hungrily at him. His sandy hair was tangled and frowsy, his eyes shot with tiny threads of red, his cheeks bronzed and covered with a shaggy light beard. His clothes were tattered, and about his waist there dangled a circle of leather bags. He was an odd enough looking figure. By some strange chance she had never seen him in other than some uncouth garb; drenched with rain, draped in an Oriental lounging robe, with a cartridge belt about his waist, and covered with sweat and powder grime, and now in this.

Both were brought back to the world about them by a shot from Stubbs. He had fired at the Priest and missed. It was as though the man led a charmed life. The girl raised her hand as Stubbs was about to fire again.

"Don't! Don't! You are making a terrible mistake. This isn't the Priest—he is my father."

The phrase awoke even the sleeping sense of these men.

"Your father!" exclaimed Wilson.

But the man was coming towards them—steadily, and yet as if in a sort of daze.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

The eyes, the high cheek-bones, the thin lips, were those of the Priest, but the voice was different. It had lost something of its harshness—something, too, of its decisiveness. The girl interrupted,

"This is no time for explanations. Come into the hut. We must rest first."

She led the way, keeping a tight grip upon Wilson's arm, steadying him. Stubbs and he whom they had known as the Priest followed.

Within the hut Flores and his wife, still bewildered by the sudden conversion of the Priest from an enemy to a friend (understanding nothing of what had happened), crouched far into the rear overcome with genuine awe and reverence for the guardian of their god in his new character. Threats had driven them to rebellion while kindliness now made of them abject slaves. They stood ready to obey his slightest wish—not with cravenness, but with quick reversion to the faith of their ancestors. But he acted as though he did not see them—as though, in fact, he saw nothing of anything about him save the girl. He followed her with his eyes with almost childlike eagerness and greeted a glance from her with almost pathetic joy. He spoke little, apparently finding difficulty in expressing himself—in forming his scattered thoughts into correct sentences. His whole appearance was that of a man freed after a long imprisonment. The only thing of his present surroundings which he now grasped perfectly was his relationship with the girl. He was reviving old-time joys in his daughter.

But Jo herself, even in the freshness of her happiness over the unexpected success of her long journey, had found an even greater interest in this newer passion. She spread a blanket for Wilson in a corner of the hut and forced him to lie down here and give himself up to sleep. Stubbs sank to the ground in the sun where he stood outside and fell into a stupor.

Hour after hour the girl sat at Wilson's side as though guarding his rest, and in this gentle task she found a new conception of happiness. Near her, during the long vigil, sat her father, while in and out, softly as two shadows, moved Flores and his wife.

Wilson awoke long before Stubbs and insisted upon getting up. There were many things to be learned and many things to be done. He realized that they were still in the heart of a hostile country and that if they were to get out safely, time could not be wasted in sleep. What part this man whom he still thought of as the Priest would play, he had no idea.

The girl told him as much of the odd story as she had gathered, beginning with her own arrival in the hut. Manning's memory dated from the blow on the raft. Back of this he skipped an interval of fifteen years. Even there his memory was cloudy. He recalled vaguely having joined an expedition which had for its object prospecting in these mountains, but who the others of the party were he did not know. He remembered hazily the trip over the mountains and a battle with a party of natives. He was injured and after this was sick a long while. As far as he was concerned he had been unconscious ever since that time. Of his recovery, of the strange sequence of events which caused him to take up a life among the Chibcas, who elevated him finally into the position of high priest, of the fanatical devotion to his trust which had driven him across the continent and then across an ocean to recover the image, he recalled nothing. He did not know of the existence of an idol or of any superstition in connection with it.

Wilson, listening, marveled, but he quickly associated this with similar cases of dual identity brought about by brain trouble following an accident to the skull. The psychology of the case, however, did not at present so much interest him as the possible consequences to them all which might follow this denouement. It instantly occurred to him that it was doubtful if Manning in his present condition was anything but an added menace to the party. A half hour's questioning convinced Wilson that it was literally true that the last fifteen years were a blank to the man and that his mental condition at present was scarcely superior to that of a child. Consequently, in the event of an attack by the aroused natives either Manning would be thought to have been captured by the party, which would bring down swift vengeance, or he would be thought to have deserted them, which was equally sure to bring about the annihilation of them all. The only thing to do seemed to be to keep the man out of sight as much as possible on the journey and in the event of trouble to hide him altogether. It seemed to him wisest not to allow them to rest even that night but to push on. Flores, eager to do anything for the Priest, agreed to guide them. He aroused Stubbs, and after a good meal the party started and without incident made eight miles before they stopped.

They found a good camping place—a sort of crude cave near a brook and just off the trail. They built a fire and cooked a portion of the leg of mutton which Flores had brought for them before returning. So far they had not caught a glimpse of a native. This fact and the excitement of actually being upon the home path banished them completely from their minds. But that night both men agreed that each had better take his turn at watching.

"I'll take the first watch," insisted Wilson to Stubbs. "I wouldn't trust you to wake me up."

With a good-natured grin Stubbs submitted and threw his tired body on the turf, making a pillow of the bags of jewels. He slept as heartily as though snug in the bunk of a safe ship. But both the girl and her father refused to take Wilson's advice and do likewise. Both insisted upon sharing his watch with him. The father sat on the other side of his daughter staring, as though still wondering, into the shadows of the silent wood kingdom about him. He spoke but little and seemed to be still trying to clear his thoughts.

At their backs rose the towering summits which still stood between them and the ocean; above those the stars which from the first had seemed to watch their lives; before them the heavy, silent shadows which bade them be ever alert.

Wilson sat upright with his rifle over his knees. The girl nestled against his shoulder. All was well with the world.



CHAPTER XXVII

Dangerous Shadows

In the narration of what had befallen her while in the care of Sorez, Wilson came to have a new conception of the man. With the exception of the fact that Sorez had considered his own interest alone in bringing the girl down here, and that he had lured her on by what he knew to be a deliberate lie, Sorez had been as kind and as thoughtful of her as her own father could have been. After their imprisonment in Bogova and while in hiding from Wilson he had supplied the girl with the best of nurses and physicians. Furthermore, in order to make what recompense he could to her in case of an accident to him or in the event of the failure of their mission, he had, before leaving Bogova, made his will, bequeathing to her every cent of his real and personal property. The chief item of this was the house in Boston which he had purchased as a home for himself and niece, a few months before the latter's death. In addition to this he had in the end made the supreme sacrifice—he had given his life.

Sitting there in the starlight she told Wilson these things, with a sob in her voice.

"And so he kept his word after all—didn't he? He brought me to him."

The older man by her side looked up at her.

"My daughter," he murmured. "My daughter."

She placed her arm over his shoulder scarcely able to believe the good fortune which had at once placed her here between her father and her lover.

"The golden idol did some good after all," she whispered.

"The idol?" asked her father. "What idol?"

"You remember nothing of an image?" broke in Wilson.

"An image? An idol? I have seen them. I have seen them, but—but I can't remember where."

He spoke with a sort of childlike, apologetic whine. Wilson hesitated a moment. He had brought the idol with him after finding it in the hut where Manning had carried it from the raft—apparently unconsciously—and had taken it, fearing to leave it with Flores. He had intended to throw it away in the mountains in some inaccessible place where it could never again curse human lives. This image ought to be final proof as to whether or not Manning could recall anything of his life as a priest of the Sun God or not. If the sight of this failed to arouse his dead memory, then nothing ever could. Of all the things in this life among these mountains no one thing had ever figured so prominently or so vitally in his life as this. About this had centered all his fanatical worship—all his power.

As Wilson rose to get the image from where he had hidden it near Stubbs, the girl seized his arm and, bending far forward, gasped:

"The shadow—did you see it?"

Wilson turned with his weapon cocked.

"Where?" he demanded.

But underneath the trees where she had thought she saw a movement all was quiet again—all was silent. With a laugh at her fears, Wilson secured the image and brought it back. He thrust it towards Manning. It was clearly visible in the moonlight. The girl shrank a little away from it.

"Ugh!" she shuddered. "I don't like to look at it to-night."

In the dull silver light it appeared heavier and more somber than in the firelight. It still sat cross-legged with the same cynical smile about its cruel mouth, the same bestial expression about the brow, the same low-burning fires in the spider-like eyes. As Wilson and her father bent over it she turned away her head. Once again she seized Wilson's arm and bade him look beyond the thicket in front of them.

"I saw something move. I am sure of it."

"You are a bit nervous, I'm afraid," he said tenderly. "If only you would lie down for the rest of the night."

"No, no, David. I am sure this time."

"Only a shadow. There is a light breeze."

"I couldn't see anything but—it didn't feel like a shadow, David."

"You felt it? Has the image——" he asked a bit anxiously.

"No—oh, I can't make you understand, but I'm sure something moved in the bushes."

"Stay close to me then," he laughed quietly.

He turned back to Manning who was turning the image over and over in his hands with indifferent interest. To him it was nothing more than a curio—a metal doll. But when he caught the glint of a moonbeam on the jeweled eyes, he bent over it with keener concern. He raised it in his hands and stared steadily back into the cold eyes. This stare soon became fixed and Manning began to grow slightly rigid. Wilson snatched the object from his hands. For a moment the man remained immovable; then he rubbed his hand over his brow, muttering incoherently to himself. This nervous symptom disappeared and Manning apparently instantly forgot the idol again. He called for his daughter. She came closer to his side and he rested his head against her shoulder.

"Dear father," she murmured affectionately.

"I—I can't think," he said.

"Don't try, Daddy. Wait until we get out of here and you are all well again."

"If I could reach my ship," he muttered.

"What ship, Daddy?"

"Why, my own—the 'Jo Manning.'"

That took her back to the time she was a very little girl. She remembered now that he had named the ship after her,—the last ship which he had sailed out of Newburyport. Poor old daddy! What a different man he was this moment from him who had held her in his arms and kissed her with tears rolling down his bronzed cheeks. It wrenched her heart to watch him sitting there so listlessly—so weakly—so little himself. The fear was growing in her heart that he never would be the same again. Almost—almost it was better to remember him as he was then than to know him as he sat there now. Had it not been for the comfort, for the joy of another order, for the safety she felt in this younger man by her side, her heart would have broken at the sight. If only she could have found him during those few days he was in Boston—when the crystals had first shown him to her—when he must have passed within a few feet of her, it might not then have been so difficult to rouse him. But at that time he would not have known his own.

A bedlam of raucous, clamorous shrieks settling into a crude sort of war cry brought all four of them to their feet. Wilson thrust the girl back of him towards the cave-like formation behind them. This effectually protected them in the rear and partly from two sides. Stubbs swept the bags of jewels into his arms and carried them to one corner of this natural excavation. Then he took his position by the side of Wilson and Manning, who was unarmed. The three waited the approach of the unseen demons. Not a light, not the glint of a weapon could be seen. But before their eyes, in and out among the trees making up the dense growth, shadows flitted back and forth in a sort of ghost dance. In addition to the hoarse shouting, the air was rent from time to time by the sound of a blast as from a large horn.

The effect of this upon Manning, who had been thrust behind them by Wilson, was peculiar. At each blast he threw back his head and sniffed at the air as a war horse does at sound of the bugle. His eyes brightened, his lean frame quivered with emotion, his hands closed into tight knots. The girl, observing this, crept closer to him in alarm. She seized his arm and called to him, but he made no response.

"Father! Father!" she shouted above the din.

He started forward a pace, but she drew him back. Seeing her he came to himself again for a moment. She scarcely knew him; the old look of intensity which strained almost every feature out of the normal had transformed him. He stood now as it were between two personalities. He partially realized this, for he stepped forward behind Wilson and shouted:

"They come! They come! I—I think I can stop them—for a little. If—if I do, don't delay—don't wait for me."

Wilson thought he rambled.

"Do you hear? Quick—tell me?"

"Yes," shouted Wilson.

The din seemed to be approaching in an ever-narrowing circle. It came from all sides—a noise so deafening, so full of unusual sounds that it was in itself terrifying. Again came the blast, followed by another and another. Manning caught sight of the image upon the ground. It acted like magic. He snatched it up. But the girl, regardless of danger, ran to his side.

"Don't," she cried in a panic. "What is the matter, father?"

He looked down at her with eyes which scarcely reflected any recognition.

"Don't go, father. Don't you know me? Don't you know your daughter? See, I am Jo—Jo! Do you understand?"

Even in the midst of this other danger—the noise and imminent peril, the two men heard and turned away their heads at the sight with throats straining with emotion. Manning looked back with hardly a gleam of his true self showing in his eyes. And yet there was something left which made him pause—which in one flash brought him back for a second. He stooped and kissed her. Then he raised himself and facing the two men pointed towards the woods behind them.

"Go," he commanded.

Another blast and he clutched the idol to his breast. He raised his eyes to the East and the three stood dumbfounded—from his throat there issued a cry so wild, so weird, that it checked their breathing. Instantly following there was silence from the shadows. One, two, three, four seconds passed—still that silence which was nerve-racking in its intensity. Then a cry rang out from among the trees so piercing that the girl put her arm up over her eyes as though to ward off a blow. A hundred forms appeared from the trees. Stubbs and Wilson raised their rifles. But with a sweeping motion back with his hand, the Priest bade the two men pause. He disappeared into the shadows where he was greeted with a sort of paean of joy. Then silence. Then a few sharp-spoken words. Then silence again.

Wilson, scarcely believing this was not some evil dream, gripped Stubbs' arm.

"Come," he gasped. "Let's get out. This—this is hell."

He took the half-swooning girl in his arms.

"Get a grip on yourself, Jo—just for a little. We must go—at once."

"But Daddy—Daddy——"

Wilson closed his eyes as though to shut out the sight he had last seen when looking into the face of that man.

"It is better—as it is."

Stubbs, still with a care for the jewels, helped Wilson on with his belt and fastened his own into place. He had had a good rest and felt comparatively fresh, but the others tottered as they walked.

Into the dark among the trees they went, following the faint trail which led towards the big mountains which were still a barrier,—on—on—on until the girl dropped in her tracks from exhaustion and Wilson beside her.

For six hours Stubbs maintained a grim watch over the two, his rifle across his knees, hoping against hope for one bit of good luck more—that if so be there was another attack, he might have at least one fair shot at the Priest. Whether the man was the girl's father or not (and he privately doubted the story) he felt that this was the only thing which would ever take from his mouth the taste of rope.

But he was disappointed. The morning broke fair and peaceful with, so far as they could see, the birds and squirrels the only occupants of this forest besides themselves. In fact, the next three days save for the strain of being constantly alert were a sort of idyl for Wilson and Jo. They had little difficulty in shooting sufficient food for their needs, and water was plentiful. The trail led through a fair land gay, at this time of year, with many flowers.

The girl, to be sure, sobbed at first a good deal in the dark but the two men knew nothing of this. Soon, after the first acute pain of the personal loss, she was able to reason a little with herself. It seemed to her then, remembering how much a child he was when with her and how strong and powerful he looked as he stepped into the woods, that perhaps, after all, he would be happier with his many children than with her. Then always there was the opportunity of coming back to him,—coming under better auspices and with better opportunities for really bringing him to his own. It was this last thought that finally brought her real consolation.

"Perhaps," she said to Wilson, hesitating a trifle in fear that he might not approve of the suggestion, "perhaps some day we can come back here to him, David."

"I had thought of it, dear. He saved our lives; if he had remained, not one of us would have got out of here. That in itself is enough to make us everlastingly beholden to him. But—" he paused, "I think, dear heart, that it is kinder to let him remain even among heathen people a strong man with power, than to bring him back, a child, to die."

"He chose for himself, David."

"Yes—and was able to realize and be glad that he had been given another chance to do for his daughter."

The girl thought a moment. Then her face brightened.

"That—that alone makes the trip worth while."

"That—and this," he answered, drawing her to his side.

"Yes," she whispered, "and in a way he gave me you—he gave me you."



CHAPTER XXVIII

A Dash for Port

The Queen of Carlina, after a restless night, rose one fair morning early in October and dressed herself long before the appearance of her maids. There had been much to disturb her sleep, rumor upon rumor and arrest after arrest during the last few days, and last night a long conference with her advisers. Before she retired she had turned wearily to Otaballo, who remained a few minutes after the others departed.

"My General," she said, "I'm tired of it all. Let them do as they will."

"Not so long as there is a loyal man to carry a gun," he answered stubbornly.

"You are old, General; it is time you had peace."

"I am as young as my queen."

"She is very old to-night," she answered, with a weary smile. "I fear I am not a real queen,—just a woman. And women grow old quickly—without love."

The General bit his moustache. He had long seen that it was more this than the plotting of the Revolutionists which was undermining his power. He did not know how to answer.

"You have the love of your people."

"Not even that. The sentiment of love for their queen is dead. That is the root of the whole matter. There is but one thing, then, for me to do: to retire gracefully—to anticipate their wishes—to listen to their cry and declare a republic. Then you and I will go back to the cottage together and drink our tea in peace."

"You are wrong. That is not the wish of the people; it is the wish only of a few hundred blackguards led on by those devils brought here from over the sea."

"You mean Dick's men?"

"The devil's men. If you give me authority, I'll have every mother's son of them shot before morning."

She shook her head.

"Not even to please my bloodthirsty general. They have played us false but—still they are countrymen of his."

"You insult him. They belong to no country."

"Why," she asked thoughtfully, "why should I expect them to fight for me? Perhaps they think I played Dicky false. They have reason—he is not here where he won his right to be."

"Then for the love of God, bring him here," he answered, forgetting himself. She started at that.

"No! No!" she cried hastily, as though fearing he might make the attempt to find him; "not to save the kingdom. You should listen to me to-night, General; I am very wise. The reports which have come in are without exception bad. You arrest here, you arrest there, but still the people gather and still they state their wishes. I know how it is; at first they were amused to have their queen,—it was like a holiday. Especially when Dicky talked to them. But freedom is in the blood and it is as foolish to fight against it as against the foreign ships we once tried to keep out of our harbor. Carlina—the old Carlina, your Carlina and mine, is no more."

She paused at the look of horror which had crept over his withered face. She dropped her hand to his arm.

"Do I sound disloyal? It is only because the kingdom remains as it used to be in your dear heart and yours alone. I am your queen, General, because you are still in the past. But the others are not. They are of the present and to them I am only a tradition. If they were all like you, my heart and soul, my life and love would all be theirs. It is to save what is left of the former things—to save you and the few others of that old kingdom—to have our dear Carlina as we used to have it out there in the sunshine of the garden—that I would leave this turmoil before it is too late."

The white head drooped as she spoke,—drooped low over the wrinkled hands clasped upon the jeweled sword handle. Dreams—dreams that had seemed about to come true in these his later years now faded before his misty eyes. He had thought to see, before he died, the glory of the former times returned; and now his queen was the first to call them dead. For the moment he felt himself as solitary as one returned from the grave. But, as she had said, if there were more like Otaballo, the kingdom would still be, without all this strife. His stubborn thoughts refused to march into the present. He raised his head again, still a general of Carlina.

"Your Majesty," he said, "there is but one way in which a servant of the house of Montferaldo may save himself."

And clicking his heels together, he had turned with military precision and left her. Then she had tossed the night long, dreaming horrible things. Now she sat in her private apartments staring with troubled eyes over the sunlit grounds. So an hour passed, when without warning, the door snapped open, closed, and she looked up, startled, to see Danbury himself.

Her breath was cut off as though her heart had been stopped, as when one thrusts in a finger and halts a clock. There was the same dead silence that closes in upon the cessation of the long-continued ticking—a silence as though the whole world paused a moment to listen. He limped across the room to her side. She saw that his hair was dishevelled, his coat torn, as though he had been in a struggle. Then his arms closed about her and she felt a great sense of safety, of relief, as though everything had suddenly been settled for her. There was no kingdom, no throne, no Otaballo, no cityful of malcontents,—nothing but Dicky. She felt as much at peace as when they used to sit in the garden together. All this other confusion had been only some story which he had told her. But in a minute he drew back from her and thrust the present in again.

"Come," he whispered, "we must hurry."

"But Dicky—what is it?"

"The city is up in arms. We haven't a second to spare."

"And Otaballo—my general?"

He clenched his fists at the memory.

"Dead. They killed him and a handful of men at his side."

"Dead—my general dead?"

"Like the brave general he was."

She put her hands to her face. He drew her to his shoulder where he let her weep a moment, his own throat big.

"Oh, but they shall answer for it!" he cried. "Hush, dear. I'm coming back with a thousand men and make 'em sweat for that."

His quick senses caught a sound without.

"Come," he commanded, "we shall be cut off here." He took her arm and hurried her along. They scurried down the stairs and across the palace grounds to a small gate in the rear. Here a carriage was waiting for them. Danbury helped her in and stooped to kiss her lips before he jumped up beside the driver.

"Now drive for your life!" he commanded.

The whip fell across the quivering flanks of the nervous animals and they leaped forward. The driver kept to the deserted side streets where they raced along unchallenged, but soon it became necessary to turn into the main thoroughfare in order to reach the water front and the boat. In the four minutes it would require to go those dozen blocks their fate would be decided. If the army had not yet advanced that far, they would be safe; otherwise he must depend upon a dash for it, covering the mob with the two revolvers he had. Eight shots to ward off the attack of a thousand men!

Danbury leaned far out over the box as the horses took the turn at a speed which almost swung the rear wheels clear of the ground. The animals had become panic-stricken now and were bolting madly ahead like horses from a burning stable.

But though the road looked clear they had not advanced a block before men sprang up as though from the ground. The populace had heard of the advancing column and such as had not already joined it prepared to meet it here. In order to avoid immediate suspicion, they were forced to steady the horses down to something like a walk. To Danbury it seemed as though they had stopped stock-still. He was not a good man in such a position as this; he was all for dashing action. He could hardly sit still. They received many side glances from the excited groups, but they passed merely as a carriage full of nervous foreigners. Danbury himself was not recognized. So they crept along and Danbury gained hope, until they were within two hundred yards of the turn which would take them out of the line of march. Then with hoarse shouting, the advance line of the revolutionists swept around a corner and directly towards them.

They were a yelling horde of half-drunken maniacs,—a disordered horde eager for the noisy excitement their Southern blood craved. With half of them it was more the frenzied love of flags and noise that had brought them out than any deep-seated conviction of right. But the thing that brought Danbury to attention was the sight of Splinter with forty of his fellows from the boat leading the crowd. In an instant he was off the box and inside the carriage. He realized what it would mean to be recognized by him. He had but one thought—to guard the safety of her within.

The driver advanced at a walk, keeping as close as possible to the curbing. There was just one chance in a thousand that the crowd might be too intent upon their goal to bother with passing vehicles. They were not after the Queen herself, for they looked upon her as a mere girl influenced by Otaballo. Should they chance upon her, undoubtedly they would feel obliged to arrest her, but she was not at the moment of such supreme importance as to make them alert to prevent her escape. Danbury knew this. The danger lay in the impudent curiosity of some one of the soldiers. Each felt the license of the law breaker. It was the spirit that led them to destroy property for the sheer joy of destroying that he had to fear. He held his weapon ready, sitting far back. The girl was white and calm. They watched the first few stragglers pass in dead silence; they heard the clattering confusion yet to pass.