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He had not known it long, and yet it was as though he had always known it.
“Jo–comrade–are you safe?”
“Yes, and you? Oh, David!” she spoke his name hesitatingly, “David, where did you go?”
“I was hurt a little. I lost consciousness.”
“Hurt, David?”
“Not seriously, but that is why I couldn’t come back. I was carried to a hospital.”
“David!”
Her voice was tender with sympathy.
“And you–I came back to the study for you. You were gone.”
“We were hidden. There is a secret room where we stayed until daylight.”
“Then it was–”
“The priest. Sorez was so weak and frightened.”
“He came for the image?”
“Yes, but he did not get it. Was it he who–who hurt you, David?”
“It must have been. It was just as I came into the study.”
“And he carried you out?”
“Because he thought the house empty, I guess, and feared I was hurt worse than I was.”
“And you really are not badly hurt?”
“Not badly.”
“But how much–in what way?”
“Just a blow on the head. Please not to think about it.”
“I have thought so many horrible things.”
“Where are you now?”
“Mr. Sorez did not dare to stay there. He really is much stronger, and so he came here to a friend’s. I did not dare to let him come alone.”
“But you aren’t going to stay there. What are you going to do now?”
He thought she hesitated for a moment.
“I can’t tell, David. My head is in such a whirl.”
“You ought to go back home,” he suggested.
“Home? My home is with my father, and nowhere else.”
“I want to see you.”
“And I want to see you, David, but–”
“I’m coming out there now.”
“No! no! not yet, David.”
“Why not?”
“Because–”
“Why not? I must see you.”
“Because,” she said, as though with sudden determination, “because first I wish to make up my mind to something. I must do it by myself, David.”
“I’ll not disturb you in that. I just wish to see you.”
“But you would disturb me.”
“How?”
“I can’t tell you.”
There was a moment’s pause. Then,
“David, I may go away a long distance.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you now, but I may go at once. This–this may be the last time I can talk with you for–oh, for months.”
He caught his breath.
“What do you mean by that? What has happened?”
“I have promised not to tell.”
“But you must, girl. Why–you–this man Sorez has no right to exact promises from you. He–”
“You don’t understand, David. It–it has to do with my father and with–with what I saw.”
“In that cursed image?”
“Yes, the image. But it is not cursed, David.”
“It is–it is if it takes you away.”
“You see,” she trembled, “you see, I can’t discuss it with you.”
“But I don’t see. I think you ought–you must–”
“Must, David?”
“No–not that. I suppose I haven’t the right, only–well, it sort of takes my breath away, you see, to think of your going off–out of my life again.”
“It’s odd that you should mind–I’ve been in it so short a time.”
“You’ve been in it for years,” he ran on impulsively. “You’ve been in it ever since I learned to look between the stars and found you there.”
There was silence for a moment, and then he heard her voice,
“David.”
“Yes.”
“I have a feeling that I may come back into it again.”
“You’ll never go out of it. I’ll not let you. I’ll–”
“Don’t be foolish, David. And now I must go. But, David–are you listening, David?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t try to find me. Don’t try to see me. I’m safe, but if I should need you, I’ll send for you. Will you come?”
“To the ends of the earth.”
“You must not ring me up again. But before I go away, if I do go away, I’ll write to you and tell you where. I will write you in care of the General Delivery, Boston–will that reach you?”
“Yes, but–”
“That is all, David. That must be all now, for I must go. Good-bye.”
“Jo–comrade!”
“Good-bye.”
“Just a minute, I–”
But he heard the little click of the receiver and knew that she had gone.
CHAPTER VIII
Of Gold and Jewels Long Hidden
Reluctantly Wilson placed the receiver back upon the hook. It was as though he were allowing her hand to slip out of his–as though he were closing a door upon her. The phrase, “Good-bye,” still rang in his ears, but grew fainter and fainter, receding as in a dream. He stared blankly at the telephone instrument. Some one opened the door, anxious to use the booth. This roused him. He came out into the store, and the life around him brought him to himself once more. But what did this new development mean? Where was Sorez leading her, and what inducement was he offering? Her father she had said. Doubtless the man was holding out to her promises of locating him. But why? His mind reverted to the idol. It was that. He wished to use her psychic power for some purpose connected with this image. And that? He had a parchment within his pocket which might explain it all!
This furnished him an objective which for the moment gave him rest from useless speculation. But even while walking to the library he felt a new and growing passion within him: bitterness towards the man who was responsible for taking her away from him. That Sorez’ claim of being able to find the girl’s father was merely to cover a selfish object was of course obvious. He was playing upon her fancy and sympathy. How the girl must love this father to be lured from home by the chance phantom in a crystal picture–to be willing to follow a stranger half around the globe, perhaps, because of his promise and a dream. Yet, it was so he knew that her nature must love–it was so he would have her love. It was this capacity for fanatical devotion which struck a responsive chord in his own heart. Her love would not allow her to have her father dead even though the report came. Her love admitted no barriers of land or sea. If so she was inspired by calm, filial love, what would she not do for love of her mate? If this mysterious stranger had but died–he clenched his teeth. That was scarcely a humane or decent thing to wish.
He found a chair in one corner of the reading room and borrowed the most powerful reading glass used in the library. It was only by showing his manuscript that he was able to secure it. Even then they looked at him a bit askance, and made him conscious once more that his head was still bandaged. He had forgotten all about this, and in another minute he had forgotten all about it once again.
One of the manuscripts which he spread out upon the desk before him contained but little writing. A crudely drawn map filled almost the entire space. A drawing in the upper left-hand corner represented a blazing sun, and in the lower left-hand corner another gave the points of the compass. This doubtless served to illustrate the contents of the other manuscript.
The parchment had been rolled so long and so tightly that it was almost impossible to straighten it out. He worked carefully for fear of cracking it. It was a matter requiring some patience, and consumed the best part of half an hour. He found that the writing had been preserved wonderfully well although, as he learned later, many of the words were so misspelled or poorly written as to be undecipherable. The writing itself was painfully minute and labored–as though each letter had been formed with the greatest effort and considerable uncertainty. It was as though the author were thoroughly conversant with Latin–for it was in that tongue–but as a spoken rather than a written language. It was such Latin as might be written by a man who knew his Vulgate and prayers by heart, but who had little other use for the language. In places, where evidently the author did not know a word, he had used a symbol as though the common medium of communication with him were some sign language.
With what sort of an instrument the writing had been done it was impossible to conceive, for it was as fine as could be accomplished with the finest steel engraving. It occurred to Wilson that possibly this had been done with a view towards making it illegible to any ordinary eyes which should chance to see it. With all these difficulties it was as much as Wilson could do to make anything at all out of the parchment. But he found the work absorbing, and as he began to get an inkling of what he really held in his hands, lost himself altogether in his task. At the end of three hours, which had passed like so many minutes, he took a piece of paper and wrote down the result of his work, leaving dashes for words which he had been unable to make out. He had this broken message:
“I, Manco Capac, priest of the Gilded Man leave this for my brothers, fearing – from strangers with –. When I heard Quesada was near and learned that he was about to – the lake I called twenty of the faithful and with great – we – piece by piece, using – to – the gifts from the bottom. Many pieces we – but much gold, gifts of plate, and – with – jewels we reached. In all six hundred and forty-seven pieces we carried to where they now rest. I will make a chart so that it may –. But beware for – the foot stumbles – death to all – except those who –. The Gilded Man is strong and will – blood and the power of the hills. I alone know and I am about to die. The other faithful children, leaped from – and their bodies I – where they are protected by –. Never must be taken from this – for – if –. Those who – death.
The gold I – in the farther cave where –, but the jewels are – beneath and –. The place is – upon the map which I have made. This I have truly written for those who –. The hand of the Gilded Man will crush any who –.”
Wilson, his blood running fast, sat back and thought. It was clear that the struggle over the image was a struggle for this treasure. Neither man knew of the existence of this map. The priest fought to preserve the idol because of its sacredness as guardian of what to him was doubtless a consecrated offering to the Sun God; Sorez, acquiring it with the tradition that the image held the secret, thought that with the psychic gift of the girl he had solved the riddle. This much seemed a reasonable explanation. But where was this treasure, and of what did it consist? He turned to the second parchment. At the end of an hour he had before him a half page of minute directions for approaching the treasure from the starting-point of a hut in the mountains. But where were these mountains? He had two names which might be good clues. One was “Quesada,” the old Spanish adventurer, of whom Wilson had a faint recollection. It was possible that in the history of his day some mention might be made of this expedition. The other name was “Guadiva,” which appeared on the map as the name of a lake. Many of the old Spanish names still remained. A good atlas might mention it.
He investigated the latter hint first. He was rewarded at once. “Guadiva” was a small lake located in the extinct volcanic cone of Mt. Veneza, beyond the upper Cordilleras. It was remarkable chiefly for a tradition which mentions this as one of the hiding places of a supposed vast treasure thrown away by the Chibcas that it might escape the hands of Quesada.
Starting with this, Wilson began a more detailed search through the literature bearing upon these South American tribes, Spanish conquest, and English treasure hunting. He was surprised to find a great deal of information. Almost without exception, however, this particular treasure which had sent Quesada to his grave a pauper, which had lured from quiet England Raleigh, Drake, and Leigh was thought to be a myth. The hours passed and Wilson knew nothing of their passing. It was eight o’clock before he paused once more to summarize the result of his reading. In the light of the key which lay before him, the possibilities took away his breath. His quick imagination spanned the gaps in the narrative until he had a picture before his eyes that savored of the Arabian Nights. It was a glittering quest–this which had tempted so many men, for the prize was greater than Cortez had sought among the Aztecs, or Pizarro in his bloody conquest of the Incas.
He saw many thousands of the faithful Chibcas, most powerful of all the tribes upon the Alta plain, which lies a green level between the heights of the white summits of the Andes, toiling up the barren lava sides of Mount Veneza to where, locked in its gray cone, lies the lake of Guadiva. He saw this lake smiling back at the blue sky, its waters clear as the mountain air which ripples across its surface. The lake of Guadiva! How many bronzed men had whispered this name and then dropped upon their knees in prayer. To Quesada it was just a mirror of blue with unsearchable depths, but he lived to learn how much more it meant to the lithe bronze men.
For while the great world beyond was fighting through the rumbling centuries over its Christ, its Buddha, its Mahomet, a line of other men plodded the stubborn path to this beloved spot, their shoulders bent beneath their presents, and made their prayer and offered their gifts to the Gilded Man who lived below the waters. A tenth, more often a half, of all the richness of the plains of Alta was offered there in tribute to him who was their god. He had blessed these people generously, and mighty was their offering. Upon a single feast day, tradition had it, a hundred mules with tinkling silver bells followed the high priest, in scarlet robes, to the tiny cone, their sharp feet clawing the lava road, their strong backs aching beneath the precious burden. This was then transferred to rafts and gay barges by men blindfolded by the priests and taken to the secret spot which lay above the sunken shrine. The worshipers knelt in prayer beneath the uplifted arms of their pious leaders, then raised high their golden bowls. For a moment they glinted in the sun, then flashed a mellow path beneath the waves which leaped to meet them. Jewels, rarer than any Roman conquerors found, here kissed the sun as they were tossed high, then mingled with the crystal lake like falling stars.
Here it was that Quesada, the adventurous Spaniard, had sought this treasure. He organized a horde of gold-lustful minions and descended upon the Chibcas. The latter were not by nature fighters, but they stood their ground for their god, and fought like demons. Quesada forcing his way over their bleeding bodies, killing even the women who had armed themselves with knives, pressed up the rocky trail to where the tiny lake lay as peaceful as a sleeping child. With hands upon his hips, he gazed into the waters and smiled. Then he gave his orders and for many weeks the eager soldiers dug and sweated in the sun under the direction of the shrewdest engineers of the age in the attempt to drain the lake. An outlet was finally made and the lake sunk foot by foot while the trusting folk below made their prayers and waited. The answer came. One day when Quesada saw the treasure almost within his grasp, there was a mighty rumbling, a crash of falling stone, and behold! an avalanche of granite raged down, killing many of the soldiers, routing the rest, and filled in the man-made channel. Quesada ordered with fierce oath, but not a man would return to the work. He was forced to retreat, and died in poverty and shame.
The years rolled on and still the tributes sank beneath the waves. Now and then some hardy traveler returned with a tale of the unlimited wealth that was going to waste. One such, driven over the seas, came to Raleigh and reported that he had seen, in a single procession forming to climb the hill, treasure packed upon mules to the value of one hundred thousand English pounds.
“There were diamonds,” so ran the chronicle, “larger than a man’s thumb and of a clearness surpassing anything even among the crown jewels. I saw also topaz, sapphires, garnets, turquoises, and opals–all of a beauty greater than any I ever before saw. As for gold, it seems of no value whatever, so generously did they heave it into the lake.”
Leigh sought three years and came back empty handed, but more convinced than ever that the treasure existed. Many of the Spaniards who swooped down upon the Chibcas did not return empty handed, although they failed to find the source of the El Dorado. They saw many strange customs which proved that gold in abundance was located somewhere within this small area. They saw the chiefs of the tribes cover themselves each morning with resin and then sprinkle powdered gold over their bodies until they looked as though in golden armor. This was washed off at sunset, after the evening prayer to the burning planet which they believed to be the source of all their wealth. At their death their graves were lined with jewels. The Spanish governors who later looted these tombs recovered enormous amounts; one grave yielding $18,000, another $20,000 in gold strips, and still another $65,000 in emeralds, gold chains, arrows, and other implements of beaten gold.
But the greatest incentive to the search had always been the detailed account left by Fray Pedro Simon, who for twenty years lived among these tribes as missionary, preceding Valverde, known as the Priest of the Hills.
“But the great treasure was in the lake,” he wrote in his letters.
“There was no stint of gold, jewelry, emeralds, food, and other things sacrificed here when a native was in trouble. With prescribed ceremonies, two ropes were taken and attached to the rafts which were drawn to that portion of the lake where the altar was supposed to be, below the surface. Two zipas, or priests, would accompany the person wishing to make the sacrifice on rafts which were composed of bundles of dried sticks or flotsam, tied one to another, or made from planks in the form of a punt holding three or more persons. By this means they would reach the altar and, using certain words and ceremonies, throw in their offerings, small or large, according to their means. In further reference to this lake, it was the principal and general place of worship for all this part of the country, and there are those still alive who state that they witnessed the burial of many caciques who left orders that their bodies and all their wealth be thrown in the waters. When it was rumored that the bearded men (the Spaniards) had entered the country in search of gold, many of the Indians brought their hoarded treasures and offered them as sacrifices in the lake, so that they should not fall into the hands of the Spaniards. The present cacique of the village of Simijaca alone threw into the lake forty loads of gold of one quintal each, carried by forty Indians from the village, as is proven by their own statements and those of the nephew of the cacique sent to escort the Indians.”
Forty quintals, Wilson computed, is £8820, which would make this single offering worth to-day $26,460,000!
He looked up from the dry, crisp documents in front of him and glanced about the room. The tables were lined with readers; a schoolgirl scowling over her notes, pencil to her pouting lips, an old man trying to keep his eyes open over his magazine, a young student from Technology, and a possible art student. Beyond these, there were workingmen and clerks and middle-aged bachelors. Truly they were an ordinary looking lot–prosaic enough, even mediocre, some of them. This was the twentieth century, and they sat here in this modern library reading, perhaps, tales of adventure and hidden treasure. Outside, the trolley cars clanged past. The young man attendant glanced up from his catalogue, yawned, studied the clock, and yawned again.
Wilson looked at them all; then back at his parchment.
Yes, it was still there before his eyes, and represented a treasure of probably half a billion dollars in gold and precious stones!
CHAPTER IX
A Stern Chase
Wilson came out into the night with a sense of the world having suddenly grown larger. He stood on the broad stone steps of the library, breathing deep of the June air, and tried to get some sort of a sane perspective. Below him lay Copley Square; opposite him the spires of Trinity Church stood against the purple of the sky like lances; to the right the top of Westminster was gay with its roof garden, while straight ahead Boylston street stretched a brilliant avenue to the Common. Wilson liked the world at night; he liked the rich shadows and the splendor of the golden lights, and overhead the glittering stars with the majestic calm between them. He liked the night sounds, the clear notes of trolley bell and clattering hoofs unblurred by the undertone of shuffling feet. Now he seemed to have risen to a higher level where he saw and heard it all much more distinctly. The power and, with the power, the freedom which he felt with this tremendous secret in his possession filled him with new life. He lost the sense of being limited, of being confined. A minute ago this city, at least, had imprisoned him; now his thoughts flew unrestrained around half the globe. But more than anything else it made him stand better in his own eyes before the girl. He need no longer await the whims of chance to bring her to him; he could go in search of her. Somehow he had never thought of her as a girl to be won by the process of slow toil–by industry; she must be seized and carried away at a single coup. The parchment which rustled crisply in his pocket whispered how.
The chief immediate value of the secret lay to him in the power it gave him to check Sorez in whatever influence he might have gained over the girl. As soon as he could convince Sorez that the girl’s psychic powers were of no use to him in locating the treasure, he would undoubtedly lose interest in her. Strangely enough, Wilson felt no moral scruples in retaining the map which he had found so accidentally; to him it was like treasure-trove. If it rightly belonged to anyone, it belonged to this fanatical priest and his people.
In some way, then, he must communicate with Jo before it was too late. He knew that it was impossible to locate her through the telephone; the numbers were not all recorded in the book, and Central was not allowed to divulge the location of any of them. However, he would try to reach her again over the wire in the morning. If unsuccessful at this, he must wait for her letter. In the meanwhile he would have plenty to do in pursuing further investigation into the history and topography of the country covered by his map. Of course, a great difficulty ahead of him was lack of funds. But, if worse came to worse, he thought it might be possible to interest someone in the project. There were always men readier to finance a venture of this sort than a surer and less romantic undertaking. He would feel better, however, to investigate it alone if possible, even if it cost him a great deal of time and labor. All those problems, however, were for the future–its present worth lay in the influence it gave him with Sorez.
He came down the library steps and started to cross the square with a view to walking, but he found his legs weak beneath him. The best thing he could do now, he thought, was to devote some attention to the recovery of his strength. He still had the change from his ten dollars, and with this recollection he felt a fresh wave of gratitude for the man who had helped him so opportunely. He must look him up later on. He boarded a car and, going down town, entered a restaurant on Newspaper Row. Here he ordered beefsteak, potatoes, and a cup of coffee. He enjoyed every mouthful of it and came out refreshed but sleepy. He went up town to one of the smaller hotels and secured a room with a bath. After a warm tub, he turned in and slept without moving until he awoke with the sun streaming into the room. He felt the old springiness in his body as he leaped out of bed, and a courage and joy beyond any he had ever known at thought of Jo and the treasure. These two new elements in his life came to him in the morning with all the freshness and vividness of their original discovery. In the full glare of the morning sun they seemed even more real than the night before. He drew the parchment from beneath his pillow, where he had hidden it, and looked it over once more before dressing. No, it was not a dream; it was as real a thing as the commonplace furnishings of the room.
He took a plunge in cold water and hurried through his dressing in order to reach the post-office as soon as possible. He could not believe his eyes when he came downstairs and saw the clock hands pointing at twelve. He had slept over fourteen hours. Without waiting for breakfast, he hurried up town and inquired for his mail. There was nothing. He was bitterly disappointed for he had felt sure that she would write him. It did not seem possible that he could go on waiting patiently without at least one more talk with her. Though he knew it was against her wish, he made up his mind to call her up once more. He went to the nearest telephone and, asking for the number, received at the end of five minutes the reply:
“That number doesn’t answer, sir.”
“There must be some mistake. I used it yesterday.”
“I’ll try again.”
He waited several minutes. The droning voice came once more.
“I get no answer, sir.”
“Ring ’em hard. I know there is someone there.”
But nothing Central could do roused any reply. Either the line was out of order or the occupants of the house refused to answer the call. He left the booth with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong with the girl. He should not have allowed her to leave the telephone without telling him her address. It was possible she was held a prisoner–possible that Sorez, failing to persuade her to go with him in any other way, might attempt to abduct her. Doubtless she had told him her story, and he knew that with only an indifferent housekeeper to look after the girl no great stir would be made over her disappearance. Like dozens of others, she would be accounted for as having gone to the city to work. The more he thought of it, the more troubled he became. One thing was certain; under these circumstances he could no longer remain passive and wait for her letter. The chances were that she would not be allowed to write.
He had intended to go out and see Danbury that afternoon, but he made up his mind to take a car and go to Belmont on the chance of securing, through the local office, some information which would enable him to trace the house. If worse came to worse, he might appeal to the local police for aid.
Before starting, he returned to the hospital and had his wound examined. It was in good condition and the surgeon was able this time to use a very much smaller dressing.
“Will it need any further treatment?” Wilson inquired.
“You ought to have the dressing changed once more, but on a pinch even that will not be necessary so long as the cut keeps clean. If, however, it begins to pain you, that means trouble. Don’t neglect it a day if that happens. But I don’t anticipate anything of the sort. Probably you can have the stitches out in a week.”
It was a relief to be able to go out upon the street again without attracting attention. The snapshot judgment upon every man with a bandaged head is that he has been in a street fight–probably while intoxicated. He bought a clean collar and a tie and indulged in the luxury of a shoe polish and a shave. When he stepped out upon the street after this he looked more like himself than he had for six months. Had it not been for his anxiety over the girl, he would have felt exultant, buoyant.
The Belmont car took him through green fields and strips of woods rich leaved and big with sap. The sun flecked them with gold and a cooling breeze rustled them musically. After the rain of the night before the world looked as fresh as though new made. He was keenly sensitive to it all and yet it mingled strangely with the haunting foreign landscape of his imagination–a landscape with a background of the snow-tipped summits of the Andes, a landscape with larger, cruder elements. He felt as though he stood poised between two civilizations. His eyes met the conventional details of surroundings among which he had been born and brought up; he was riding on an open trolley car, surrounded by humdrum fellow-passengers who pursued the sober routine of their lives as he had expected, until within a day, to do, passing through a country where conditions were settled–graded, as it were, so that each might lay his track and move smoothly upon it; and yet his thoughts moved among towering mountains untouched by law, among people who knew not the meaning of a straight path, among heathen gods and secret paths to hidden gold. Yes, sitting here staring at the stereotyped inscription upon the wooden seat-back before him, “Smoking on the three rear seats only”–sitting here in the midst of advertisements for breakfast foods, canned goods, and teas,–sitting here with the rounded back of the motorman and the ever moving brass brake before his eyes, he still felt in his pocket the dry parchment which had lain perhaps for centuries in the heart of a squat idol. While riding through the pretty toy suburbs in the comfort of an open car, he was still one with Raleigh and his adventurous crew sailing the open seas; while still a fellow with these settled citizens of a well-ordered Commonwealth, he was, too, comrade to the reckless Quesada–lured by the same quest. And this was not a dream–it was not a story–it was dead, sober reality. The world about him now was no vision; he saw, felt, and smelled it; the other was equally real, he had shared in a struggle to possess it, he had the testimony of his eyes to substantiate it, and the logic of his brain to prove it. If the wound upon his head was real, if this girl in search of whom he was now bent was real, if that within his pocket was real–if, in brief, he were not a lunatic in complete subjection to a delusion–then, however extravagant it might appear, all was real.
The fact which made it substantial, as nothing else did, was the girl–the girl and all she meant to him. It must be a very genuine emotion to turn the world topsy-turvy for him as it had. This afternoon for instance, it was she who filled the sunbeams with golden light, who warmed the blue sky until it seemed of hazy fairy stuff, who sang among the leaves, who urged him on with a power that placed no limit on distance or time. Within less than a day she had so obsessed him as to cause him to focus upon the passion the entire strength of his being. The fortune of gold and jewels before him was great, but if necessary he could sacrifice it without hesitancy to bring her nearer to him. That was secondary and so was everything which lay between him and that one great need.
