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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 manœuvering 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.