“Are you the queen?” she asked abruptly.
The stern Indian features relaxed into the ghost of a smile, accompanied by a feeble chuckle from a lean and wrinkled throat.
“I am Narva,” she announced quietly—but whether “Narva” was the queen she did not deign to say.
“Very well, my lady,” argued Miranda, “but we want the queen.”
“Silence!” commanded Narva, turning for the first time from Una to the others. “Come with me,” she repeated.
“But why?” persisted the doctor; “what for we go with you, my senora, unless you are queen?”
“Perhaps she is the queen,” suggested Andrew; “only she doesn’t want to say so. She didn’t deny it!” a view of the matter that met with no response.
But, queen or not, Una was ready to pin her faith to this strange being who had accosted them in so unexpected a manner. It was useless even to attempt an explanation of how an aged Indian woman, answering to the name of Narva, inhabiting a cave in the remote Andes, could talk English, and how it happened that she appeared to know them—a party of distressed foreigners—whom she had certainly never met before. So long as she refused to explain—and refuse she certainly did—all this would have to remain the puzzle that it was. But, logical or not, dangerous or not, Narva seemed to be something very like their last hope. Her bearing, although decidedly reserved, was not unkindly—was even friendly—and so Una determined to follow her without further discussion. The others scarcely shared her confidence. Mrs. Quayle stuck to it that Narva was dangerous, probably a witch; Leighton was still in doubt as to her sanity. Finally, Miranda put the point blank question—
“Why we go with her?”
“Simply because we have no one else to go with, no other plan,” was Una’s prompt reply.
There was no gainsaying this. They were wandering, without guide or clew of any kind, through a cave filled with mysteries and dangers. On the trail behind them were two bands of natives, absorbed in the occupation of cutting each other’s throats. From one of these bands it was certain they had much to fear. In front of them was a considerable body of cavemen, not at present engaged in war, it is true, but who might, for all they knew, prove unfriendly. Witch or queen, Narva volunteered to guide them—somewhere.
“At least we must know where she intends to take us,” declared Leighton.
“I take you from these,” said Narva, pointing in the direction of the villagers.
“Why should we go from them?” asked Leighton.
“They kill you,” was the laconic reply.
“What bloodthirsty people they all are!” exclaimed Andrew.
But Narva’s calm statement of what was to be expected proved decisive. There remained the doubt as to her sincerity. The timorous Mrs. Quayle scented a diabolical plot in the whole affair, and her fears were shared by some of the others. Only Una would brook no delay.
“We want to get out of the cave,” she said, addressing Narva. “We have lost the way—you will guide us?”
“Something you do first,” retorted Narva; “then you go free.”
The suggestion that they were still, in a sense, prisoners, and that some kind of service was expected of them before they could regain their freedom, was not pleasant. What was it that they could do for so singular a person as this, who gave the impression of having planned to meet them in this very spot? Narva took a witch’s privilege to speak in riddles. No amount of questioning could get her to explain what she meant. The answer to everything was always “follow me”—and as she pointed to the valley whenever she said this, they gathered that the direction they were expected to take was practically that which they had been pursuing ever since they left the Condor Gate. As this would inevitably bring them among the villagers—who, they had just been told, were prepared to “kill them”—they could not understand Narva’s plan at all. There being no choice left them, however, they yielded and went with her.
The path leading into the valley was abrupt and dangerous. Narva, striding ahead, was unimpeded by obstacles that left the others breathless and panic-stricken. They wanted to turn back before they had gone very far—but this would have been quite as difficult to accomplish as to go on.
At this point, apparently, the geological construction of the cave had undergone some radical changes. Convulsions, undoubtedly of volcanic origin, had rent the solid walls of granite in two, leaving irregular chasms, of uncertain depth, to be traversed before the smooth floor of the valley could be reached. These chasms, where their width demanded it, were spanned by swaying bridges of rope—or liana—and wood that proved a sore trial to the weaker members of the party, delaying their progress to an extent that seriously strained Narva’s patience. The old Indian was especially put out by Mrs. Quayle, whom she contemptuously called “baby,” and whose pathetic helplessness astride a plank over a yawning cavern aroused in her the nearest approach to laughter she had shown.
Under Narva’s guidance, however, the difficulties of this downward trail were overcome without mishap. The perilous abysses, once crossed, appeared not more than miniature dangers in retrospect; but immediately facing them, on this plain that, at a distance, had seemed so charming and pastoral in character, there was menace enough for the most daring. At first sight of the invaders, for so they were deemed, the villagers showed unmistakable hostility. Dropping their various occupations with one accord, they confronted the explorers in so threatening a manner that the latter had either to defend themselves as best they might, or retreat. But the thought of those villainous chasms, spanned by flimsy bridges of rope, was too appalling to offer the remotest hope of safety in flight. Anything would be better than a return—if return were even possible—over so hazardous a path.
“We fight!” announced Miranda through clenched teeth—and, regretting his lost revolver, he threw himself into as warlike an attitude as his rotund figure would permit.
This had anything but a quieting effect on the villagers. From every direction volunteers hastened to strengthen their line of battle, and it might have fared badly with the enterprising doctor, upon whom a concentrated attack resembling a football rush was about to be launched, had it not been for the interference of Narva. The old Indian woman, scornful at first of the excited demonstration of the villagers, now took an active part in what was going on. Brushing Miranda aside, she checked the advancing mob with a torrent of angry words that sounded like the scolding lecture of an outraged school teacher bringing her refractory pupils to order. As she spoke in the native language of the Indians, what she said was totally unintelligible to those whom she was defending. But on the cavemen the effect of her words was immediate. The shouts ceased; the hastily formed line of battle was broken. The angry villagers acknowledged Narva’s authority by every sign of submission—sullenly given, it is true—and the way was clear and free for the “invaders” to go on.
The singular episode impressed them deeply. They realized that they were surrounded by people who did not want them in this underworld of theirs, and that they were, at the same time, under the protection of a being who, mad or inspired, was powerful enough to stand between them and danger. Who she was, or why she befriended them remained a mystery. On this point Narva was as uncommunicative as ever. On occasion, as they had just witnessed, she was capable of the volubility of a fishwife; with them her reserve was impregnable.
“Follow me!” she commanded—and there was nothing for it but obey. Miranda, who was the immediate cause of the trouble, muttered maledictions on the fate that left him at the mercy of an eccentric beldame who might be leading them to some unthinkable witch’s dance—and the rest exhorted him to curb his warlike propensities in the future.
Gliding ahead at a quicker pace than before, Narva led the way along the narrow path on each side of which stood the huts of the villagers. These huts were not more than thirty in number, built of the rough-hewn stone of the cave. Each, apparently, contained two, or in some cases, three rooms on the ground floor. Roofs they had none, a deficiency in architecture evidently without inconvenience, since the great vaulted dome of the cave furnished them with whatever protection overhead was necessary. The whole series of little houses composing the village resembled one huge, hospitable communal dwelling, not unlike the ancient pueblo ruins of Arizona, in which there was the privacy desired by separate families, together with a close union of household interests that is scarcely possible in settlements where each group of individuals lives under its own rooftree. As if further to preserve this communal manner of living, the openings into the huts were without doors, although, in a few instances, curtains of a heavy red material served as doors. These curtains were adorned with thin plates of gold, cut in primitive designs depicting various forms of animal life. The huts so marked the explorers took to be the dwellings either of village dignitaries, or buildings devoted to public uses.
There was scant opportunity to observe more than the barest outlines of this singular underground settlement, as the pace set by Narva left no time for loitering. But the explorers felt little desire to prolong their stay here, although they soon forgot their fears as they noted the sullen deference with which their mysterious guide was everywhere greeted. The villagers retired before them into their various dwellings, and as the little company passed along the unobstructed street it was welcomed with demonstrations of respect resembling the homage accorded some eastern potentate who deigns to visit his subjects. The change was grateful to those who a moment ago had been the objects of popular disfavor, at the same time that it stimulated their curiosity regarding Narva. The latter paid no heed to her surroundings, but her progress was timed to the needs of those who followed her. An occasional backward glance gave proof that her interest in them, whether for good or ill, had not abated. Talk with her, however, was impossible; and thus the straggling little village, with its groups of obsequious Indians, was traversed in silence.
When the last hut had disappeared in the distance Narva turned abruptly. The path was again becoming precipitous, and although the mysterious light with which the cave was illumined revealed whatever obstacles were in the way, there were dark chasms in the overhanging cliffs that filled the timid with grim forebodings. Where they stood the ground was level, making a little platform, or square, three sides of which were unprotected by walls. On the fourth side an arched opening in the smooth face of a lofty tower of granite, glittering with countless facets of crystal, served as entrance to a spacious interior. Emblazoned on the keystone of this arch was the same emblem that marked the cyclopean gateway to the inhabited portion of the cave—the rudely carved figure of a condor. Beneath this sculptured symbol Narva stood for a moment regarding the others with stern composure. Then she pointed to the shadowy depths within.
“Enter!” she commanded.
Narva’s forbidding presence promised little in the way of cheer or warmth of welcome to her wearied companions. The singular dwelling into which the latter were ushered recalled, at first glance, the gloomy abode of some medieval anchorite to whose theory of existence anything approaching luxury was to be shunned, rooted out, as an obstruction to the soul’s growth. Whether or not Narva’s mode of living was actually based on these mystical considerations, her home, at least, in its lack of visible comforts, seemed the typical hermit’s cell. Here was neither superfluous ornament nor evidence of the slightest touch of feminine grace or care. The blackened walls of granite rose with uncompromising abruptness, unbroken by niche or shelf, to a ceiling whose vague outlines were lost in darkness. A truss of straw was thrown in one corner of the apartment, and upon it was spread a rough woolen counterpane. Three flattened blocks of stone, placed at intervals along the walls, served as benches; in the center a rock-table, carefully smoothed and large enough for a banquet fairly regal in its dimensions, rose four feet from the floor. Upon this table, with its suggested possibilities of entertainment, stood a large jug, curiously fashioned of a single crystal, within which faintly gleamed an opalescent liquid. There were also two stone platters, one containing heaped-up cubes of a white substance resembling bread, and the other certain broiled fish—they looked like fish—whose globular bodies and reddish-blue flesh aroused misgivings, if not a more decided feeling of repugnance, among those unfamiliar with subterranean bills of fare.
But the explorers were famished enough to attack anything. The dangers they had escaped, the fatigue arising from prolonged exposure and unwonted exercise, the bracing air of the cave, would have corrected the most fastidious taste and made even boot-leather palatable. But Narva’s fish, notwithstanding their sickly hue, were not to be classed, by any means, with boot-leather. After the first wave of disgust, even the suspicious Miranda scented a welcome repast in the dishes spread before him, while the others were in this only too eager to follow his lead. Their hostess, aware of their hunger, gave a reassuring gesture of invitation.
“Eat!” she said solemnly; “it is for you.”
They needed no second bidding. Scorning the absence of chairs and the ordinary dishes and utensils that go with a meal, they fell to and, with the first mouthful, expressed approval by varying grunts and exclamations. Even the fish was voted a delicacy of superlative excellence. In flavor it recalled the sweet succulence of rare tropical fruit, like the cirimoya, with a soupçon of spice that gave it the fillip of a genuine culinary masterpiece. As for the bread, it was not bread at all, but some mysterious compound of flesh and vegetable, the nutritive qualities of which were eagerly explained and extolled by the ravenous doctor.
Una, however, was denied participation in this unexpected and singular feast. From the first Narva had shown a special interest in the girl; caused, doubtless, by the latter’s early expression of confidence in her offer to protect them. This interest, it now appeared, had a distinct purpose in view, which Narva lost no time in carrying out. Satisfied that the others were provided with the entertainment they desired, she took Una by the hand and led her to a distant corner of the apartment.
“Will you go with me?” she asked her in a whisper.
Una hesitated. To leave her uncle and the others, trusting herself entirely to this mysterious being, was more than she had bargained for. Divining the cause of her irresolution, Narva spoke reassuringly.
“They are safe,” she said. “We will come back to them.”
Something in the older woman’s manner won Una’s confidence. She felt that a way out of their difficulties was being offered her. Hope of a still greater result silenced her fears.
“Yes,” she said.
Then, behind one of the stone benches, yielding to Narva’s touch, a door slowly opened, revealing a narrow passage upon which they entered.
Glancing hastily back, Una noticed that the door, a great block of stone revolving with the utmost nicety in grooves made for the purpose, had closed behind them. She was thus separated from her companions and alone with a singular being whose purpose in all this she was at a loss to fathom. Narva’s trustworthiness had appealed to her, it is true, and she had followed her leading when the others held back. But there was an air about Narva, suggesting the occasional freaks of one whose wits are not of the steadiest, that might well cause anxiety among those temporarily in her power. Just now, however, there was no sign of trouble, and Una repressed any outward evidence of alarm she might feel. Narva, indeed, seemed to have lost the solemn dignity she had assumed hitherto, and became every moment more ingratiating, reassuring. Gently stroking Una’s hand, she stopped in her hurried walk down the corridor and, throwing back the heavy veil obscuring her features, showed a face marked by the nobility and calm of age. Its serenity and kindliness strengthened Una’s confidence.
“We will go back to them,” said Narva; “but first we must see,” she added enigmatically.
“Why have you brought me here?” asked Una.
“Something you will see. You will help us, and then I will help you. I knew you were coming.”
The explanation, if it could be called one, increased Una’s mystification.
“You could know nothing of me. How could you know?” she persisted. “How can I help you?”
“Ah, Narva is very old,” she replied, her long bony fingers passing through the masses of snow-white hair that fell to her shoulders, “and with the old there is knowledge. Long time I lived with your people, far from here. All the years I keep the secret of this Kingdom of the Condor. No one knows—if they know they do not dare to come. Only one—he knows, he has come. And now, you have come. Why?”
The abrupt question was confusing. Una wondered how much she knew, how much she dared tell her. The inscrutable eyes fixed upon her revealed nothing. Was it to learn her secret Narva had lured her away from the others? The narrow gloomy passage where they stood was remote from the inhabited portion of the cave; the door to Narva’s dwelling, now that it was closed, was not distinguishable from the rest of the wall into which it fitted so admirably. Had Una tried, she could not have found her way back. She was completely at Narva’s mercy—but the old Indian had shown only friendliness hitherto, it was reasonable to suppose that her proffer of assistance was genuine, since motive for treachery was lacking. Impulsively reaching this conclusion, Una answered Narva’s question without reserve.
“I have come,” she said, “because I am looking for one who is dear to me. I think he is lost in this cave.”
“Why?” asked Narva, showing neither surprise nor incredulity.
“Once before he disappeared, and then he was lost here.”
“When?”
“Three years ago. A man who was with him told me. But—he is not his friend. Perhaps it is not true.”
“It is true.”
“How do you know that?” asked Una eagerly.
“I know,” she replied quietly, but with convincing emphasis.
“Then he is here! I am right. You know where he is. You will take me to him!”
“Ah! Perhaps you will not go. You are a white woman; you will be afraid to leave your friends and go with me.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Perhaps this man you look for has changed. Perhaps he will not know you. And this other, his enemy, perhaps he is here. There will be trouble, danger.”
“Take me to him!” demanded Una passionately. “If there is danger, I should be with him. I am not afraid. I trust you.”
“That is good,” said Narva. “Come!”
Una now became aware that the corridor down which they were slowly walking widened out into a respectable thoroughfare at its further end, whence it abruptly turned and was merged in the main trail that had brought them to Narva’s dwelling. Thus, the latter, through some labyrinthine arrangement of passages, was entered at one place and offered an exit in an entirely opposite direction, whence, by devious twists and turns, it came back to the first point of approach. To Una, at least, bewildered by the intricacies of cave topography, this seemed the explanation of the course they were pursuing, although the mysterious doubling of their tracks brought little consolation—especially when she realized that her uncle and his companions were lost in the center of a maze the clew to which completely eluded her. Anxiety for their safety overrode, for the moment, every other consideration; she grasped Narva’s arm with a detaining gesture, a half uttered question on her lips. Her appeal, however, was not answered. Like some ancient oracle, from which has proceeded the final Pythian message, no further revelation was to be granted. In true sibylline fashion, with finger on lip and eyes set on some object in the distance hidden from Una, Narva indicated that the time for speech had passed and now it remained for them to carry out as expeditiously as possible, the design upon which they were setting forth. From her gesture and the stealthy caution with which she advanced, Una gathered that there were urgent reasons for maintaining a strict silence. They might be surrounded by hostile forces, their destination might be a secret one, or at least a knowledge of it might involve danger to the man for whose preservation she firmly believed they were engaged. Narva, in warning her of this danger, hinted that whatever they had to fear was in some way due to the presence of Raoul Arthur in the cave. The enmity of the latter to David, moreover, was full of sinister possibilities, and the conviction that they were about to foil the evil thus threatened nerved Una to face anything.
Una would have felt a stronger confidence in their mission, a keener enthusiasm, had Narva been more definite as to the identity of the man to whose rescue she believed they were hastening, or had she given some hint of the kind of danger to which he was actually exposed. But it was all so vague, she feared that some mistake had been made, a mistake easily growing out of the fervid imagination that, any one could see, quite controlled Narva’s mind. While there was no shaking the old sibyl’s reticence, however, the calm determination with which she set about her task proved, in a measure, inspiring. Una might feel an occasional doubt as to the outcome of their venture, but this doubt finally disappeared altogether before the faith, growing stronger with the changing aspect of the scene through which they were passing, that in some unlooked-for way she was about to attain the main object that had brought them into this ancient home of a vanished race.
They had now entered a portion of the cave where the dim half-light to which Una was accustomed turned, by comparison, almost to the light of day. This light appeared to come from a fixed point directly in front of them. No central globe, or body of fire, to which this appearance might be traced was visible; but, in the far distance, where the light reached its greatest intensity, over the top of a dark ridge of rock rising before them like the summit of a mountain, thin streamers of white radiance shot upward, rising and falling in the unequal flashes and subsidences generated by an electric battery. This luminous appearance, however, was too stupendous in its effects to be attributable to a mere electric battery. To Una’s dazzled vision it rather resembled the first onrush of the morning sun, when the presence of that luminary just below the horizon is proclaimed by advancing rays of light. Here, however, an effect of greater motion was produced than in the steady and gradual illumination of the heavens heralding the coming of the sun. The sparkles and flashes neither grew nor shrank in intensity. If they were produced by a central body corresponding to the sun that shone upon the outside world, it was a stationary sun, fixed in some mysterious, invisible recess of the cave.
And now the outlines of the distant mountain top began to assume a greater definiteness than before. Objects just below this furthest summit loomed up spectrally out of the shadows that had enveloped them; for the first time Una realized that they were facing, not a wall of unbroken rock, such as had overwhelmed her at every side since leaving her companions in Narva’s dwelling, but an assemblage of majestic forms suggesting, in their coherence and symmetrical arrangement, the towers, arches, and ramparts of some ancient citadel. This building, or collection of buildings, from their position and commanding aspect, might well be taken as the center of the region it so fitly dominated. Upon it converged all the lines, furrows and intricate masses of walls composing, so far as they could be included in one comprehensive view, the architecture of the cave. Immediately above it, crowning the very summit, arose a single tower, broad at the base, and tapering until it reached a sharp point just below the cave’s jagged, overhanging roof. Behind this tower the light flashed and glowed so brilliantly the shaft of stone itself seemed to sparkle and transmit a radiance as if it were composed of some crystalline substance.
Moved by this fairy-like spectacle Una again implored Narva to tell her something of where they were going. What was this cave of wonders, that no man had ever heard of before, and into which they had stumbled by chance? What bygone secret of the earth was it connected with, what people were these who lived in it as in a world apart from all other worlds? Who was she, buried out of sight of all men, and yet talking to Una in her native tongue, and seemingly so familiar with all that concerned her? Why had she been waiting for them, where was she taking them? But to all Una’s questions Narva vouchsafed no word of reply. Smiling to herself, she pointed in the direction of the light-crowned summit before them and hastened on, descending now into a valley where they soon lost sight of the vision that had offered so delightful a goal to their wanderings. Narva’s gesture, however, and the tendency of the path they were taking assured Una that the distant palace—its situation and noble architecture suggested nothing less than a palace, the regal abode of the ruler of all this realm of marvels—was their real destination, and it was left to her to imagine why Narva was guiding her thither. But the physical difficulties of the path they followed gave her scant opportunity for speculation. Chasms they had to cross whose depths Una would have shunned had it not been for the promise of some great achievement that would free them all from the dangers by which they were surrounded. In other places the path narrowed to a mere fissure between great walls of rock, and again it skirted the edge of a precipice that, in normal times, would have filled Una with horror. Moreover, there were moments when she fancied she heard, from the darkness beneath them, the shouts of a hurrying throng of people—an impression that might well be true since she had abundant evidence already that the cave was inhabited by a race whose number she had no means of knowing.
But this reminder of the presence of others in the cave besides her own party was more disturbing to Una than the physical obstacles and dangers immediately facing her. These could at least be met and overcome—but about an invisible multitude, their attitude toward them, their purpose in apparently following them, there was an indefiniteness that was altogether disheartening. As a matter of fact, she had no doubt these hidden cavemen were hostile; her previous experiences had filled her with a vague dread in that respect. This dread, also, was sharpened by the reflection that, in all probability, Raoul was among them; of his active enmity, linked in some mysterious manner with David’s disappearance, she now felt certain. Una tried to gain some light on the subject from Narva; but the latter either failed to hear the ominous sounds to which her attention was called, or she was too intent on her present mission to admit the consideration of other matters. This indifference, whether real or feigned, had a reassuring effect on Una. She perceived that if these invisible people, friendly or unfriendly, were connected with them, they would attract Narva’s attention, while, if there was no connection—a conclusion suggested by the sibyl’s unruffled bearing—there was nothing to fear from them.
Having reached the end of the abrupt downward slope of the path they were following, Una rejoiced to find herself on the level floor of a valley that, in the upper world, would be admired for its charm and restfulness. There were neither flower-decked meadows, it is true, nor brook-fed woodland to diversify the scene. Subterranean botany, however, has its compensations for losses due to the perpetual absence of sun and rain. Evidently the light from the luminous mountain had in it some life-giving, sustaining quality, for on every hand in this valley there were luxuriant growths of delicately tinted flowers—or so they appeared—whose scent, one imagined, filled the motionless atmosphere. Tall, graceful forms, resembling willows, clustered along the banks of a little stream flowing with the gentlest of murmurs through their midst. The flinty ground was carpeted with a pale lancet-leaved herbage that might have been taken for grass were it not for the profusion of sparkling crystals with which it was sprinkled. These crystals glowed in varying and sometimes iridescent colors, showing a depth and solidity of substance decidedly out of keeping with a purely vegetable origin.
It was this gem-like appearance of what might have been taken elsewhere for richly flowering grasses that led Una to suspect the reality—judged by the standards of the world with which she was familiar—of this subterranean garden. A white flower, heavily streaked with crimson, from the heart of which long golden stamens were thrust in a drooping cluster, hung on its stalk conveniently near. Except for its coloring, and a square rather than spherical modeling of the calyx, it might easily pass for one of the lily family. To make sure Una plucked it. From the broken stem a tiny stream of water bubbled out, and the flower in Una’s hands seemed to lose at once the soft shimmer of light that had played upon its petals only a moment before. Most extraordinary of all was the weight of the flower. Suspended from its stalk, it seemed the frailest, daintiest of objects; a blossom that the merest breeze could have tossed about at will. But Una found it as heavy as so much metal, or stone; and this, with the clinking together of its leaves as they were moved by her touch, revealed the startling character of subterranean botany. She was disappointed at first to find that this was not, in the ordinary sense of the word, a flower at all; but regret was quickly followed by curiosity as to the actual nature of the strange growth she held in her hands. Its unusual weight belied the delicacy of its outward appearance; the fires that had clothed its leaves with living tints, in dying seemed to have left behind the pallor of ashes. Nevertheless, it retained a strange, subtle beauty, odorless, undefinable. It might be a rare kind of stalactite—except that a stalactite had not its soft brilliancy—or a sheaf of gems, one of the many that strewed this subterranean valley. Whatever it was, it reminded Una, however faintly, of the glories of the outer world—and she cherished it for this more than for its own beauty. Narva, roused for the first time from the spell of her own thoughts, shook her head in disapproval of what Una had done. Evidently she questioned her right to pluck the flower, for she motioned to her to throw it away.
“The Queen’s garden!” she exclaimed in tones of rebuke.
As this was the first definite intimation of their whereabouts, Una was quick to seize upon it. This mysterious queen, then, of whom Narva had vaguely spoken before, was really mixed up in their present expedition. She recalled Narva’s hint that, in some way, Una was to be of assistance to her, and she wondered whether this meant that they were bringing rescue of some sort to the queen, a possibility of high adventure she was far too young not to relish. A queen, moreover, who cultivated jewels—or something very like them—in her garden was worthy the best flowers of romance. At any rate, Una felt a new zest in the enterprise she was on and began to chafe at Narva’s leisurely dignity.
“It is plenty of time,” said the old Indian sternly, noting her impatience. “Have care.”
As she spoke she pointed straight ahead where the first direct rays from the mountain peaks flashed downward illuminating the massive building, just below the tower-crowned summit that, at a distance, had so completely won Una’s admiration. Seen close at hand, this building gained in beauty. Most of the cave dwellings, like the one inhabited by Narva, were hollowed out of the walls composing this underground world. The palace, however, stood alone, surrounding a spacious court in the center of which played a fountain whose jets of water reflected, in a sheaf of myriad diamonds, the light glancing athwart it. The dazzling effect emphasized the architectural majesty of the building thus illuminated. This building was, for the most part, two stories in height, ornamented by innumerable turrets, with a square central tower rising above an arched entrance, the iron-bound doors of which seemed stout enough to withstand a siege. It was built throughout of stone, of a deep yellow tint, vivid, glistening, unlike anything Una had seen in the cave. So radiant it seemed, so full of light, adorned with such delicate tracery wherever the design of the architect admitted the play of ornament, it might have been a fairy palace, each stone of which had come into place over night with the waving of a wand. Narva pointed to a heart-shaped tablet just above the arched entrance, upon which was carved, in dark red stone, the figure of a condor, similar in design to the one that graced the main gateway to the inhabited portion of the cave.
“It is very old,” she said. “It is the palace of my people many hundred years—ah! perhaps thousands—before the Spaniards drove them off the earth. Long ago, in those days, our kingdom was not in a cave. But here, always, was the secret palace of the zipa. Yes, we lived among the mountains then, and this was our place of refuge when other Indians from far off came to plunder us. It was here that our first zipa was brought for safety. He was only a few weeks old then. Hunters, lost on a high mountain, had found him in the nest of a condor. How he came there no one has ever known. But his skin was perfectly white, not like ours; so that he could not have been born from one of our race. Perhaps a god had left him for the condors to take care of—or perhaps it was a condor, flying far out of sight of the earth, who found him in some hidden place in the sky, and brought him down here to be the ruler of the earth. But here he was guarded, here he grew up. And when he became a man, and conquered the people who used to fight with us and destroy our cities, and rob us of our wealth, and make slaves of us, he founded this Empire of the Chibchas. And it was after that, when he was old and had not much longer to live, that he built this great palace, to be the secret home of his children whenever their enemies became too strong for them. And over the gate of the palace, where you see, he placed his birth-sign, the Sign of the Condor—the secret sign of this under-world and of all his kingdom. But all of this was hundreds—ah! thousands—of years ago. And all those years this palace has stood and given protection to the children of that first zipa, he who was carried from the skies to be reared in the nest of a condor.”
The fanciful story, the fabulous antiquity claimed for the palace before her, increased the sense of unreality and mystery filling Una’s mind as she listened to Narva. The story itself was not unlike others of the kind, handed down from one generation to another, explaining the origin of some ancient South American race. In the telling of it Narva, for the first time, forgot her reserve, and her simple eloquence, her apparent belief in the quaint old fable she was telling, added greatly to its impressiveness. And there stood the great palace before her, with its flying condor guarding forever the descendants of that mythical old zipa! Una was unable to go back in imagination to that primeval past, especially as it had to do with a country and a people of which she knew nothing. But the tale itself, and the grace and beauty of the palace about which it had been woven, reminded her of much that she had heard and read in other than Indian mythology and literature. Pageants from medieval legend, with their phantom castles in haunted forests, engaged her fancy as she listened. For the moment she half expected to see a troop of Arthurian knights, intent upon some mystic quest, issue forth from the stately portal, bringing with them a flash of vivid light and movement that as yet the picture lacked. A zipa she had never seen, had never heard of before—and even a condor filled a place in her imagination that was not much more real than that occupied by the roc, the giant bird of the Arabian tales. But neither Christian knight nor pagan zipa was here. The silence, now that Narva had finished her tale, was profound. The murmur of voices, distinctly heard a short time before, was lost in the distance. The apparent isolation of a building so rich in possibilities of usefulness, so well preserved architecturally, was its most inexplicable feature. Una was almost persuaded that the palace before her was uninhabited, abandoned. If it belonged, as Narva said, to the dim past of a vanished race, it stood now merely as a monument to forgotten greatness. Or—did it still serve as a refuge, a protection, to the descendants of that condor-born zipa of Narva’s legend?
Then, suddenly, as Una was thinking of these ancient, far-off things, from one of the wings of the palace there rose the clear, high notes of a woman’s voice in a melody not unlike the one Anitoo and his band had used for a marching song. But Anitoo’s song had something of martial swing and vigor in it; this, although wild in spirit, permeated by the chanting, wailing quality characteristic of primitive music, thrilled with strains of passionate tenderness unlike anything Una had heard. The words of the song were not distinguishable, nor were they needed to convey the theme inspiring the invisible singer. The latter seemed to pass from joy to despair, rising again to a solemn pitch of intensity that partook of the dignity and earnestness of religious rhapsody. A pagan priest, presiding over ancient rites from which the faithful expect a miracle, might thus have modulated the notes of his incantation. As in all music of the kind, the emotion portrayed was simple, unmixed with the shadings and intellectual complexities that play so important a part in modern song. The voice interpreting this emotion showed no great degree of cultivation. Unskilled in the nicer subtleties of the vocal art, it depended upon a natural, unrestrained sincerity, enriched by a birdlike clearness and resonance, for its effects. Its plaintiveness, from the very first strains of the ringing melody, appealed deeply to Una.
Narva, alive to the sympathetic response aroused in her companion by the song, laid her hand gently upon Una’s arm and drew her in the direction of the distant portion of the palace from whence, apparently, the notes came.
“Have care, say nothing!” she repeated impressively.
Una, still absorbed by the weird beauty of the scene and the strange legends with which it was connected, scarcely noted the reiterated warning. Her own spirit kindled with friendly warmth for the singer whose mingled joys and sorrows were so eloquently expressed. She followed Narva almost unconsciously, eager, and yet half afraid to reach the climax of their adventure; fearful, likewise, lest by some misstep or imprudence of theirs the spell of music should be broken.
No sign of life was visible in the great rambling palace that loomed high above them. The rows of lanceolated openings, that in the distance appeared to be ordinary windows, upon a nearer view proved to be unglazed—or, if they were fitted with glass it was too thick to reveal to an outsider the interior of the palace. That some kind of vitreous substance filled these openings was evident from the flashes of light reflected on their surface. Considering the antiquity of the building, however, and the unknown methods and materials employed by its architect, it was more likely that the substance used for windows was a crystal gathered, perhaps, from the queen’s garden—the flower from those alluring bushes that had first caught Una’s attention—rather than manufactured glass that must have been unknown to these Andean cavemen. Even though the first zipa was the reputed offspring of stars or condors, it was not likely that in building his palace thousands of years ago—to quote Narva’s estimate—he had been able to fit it with modern improvements.
Owing to the thickness of these windows, therefore, it was impossible to make out anything of the interior of the apartments of the palace for which they were, apparently, intended to serve for light. A close approach, right under the palace walls, revealed nothing more than could be seen at a distance; and as Narva avoided the great central entrance, it appeared to Una that the mystery which so fascinated her was to remain unsolved. An abrupt angle in the building, however, brought them suddenly within a little portico, extending between two massive towers jutting out from the main structure, the existence of which came as a complete surprise. On the side of this portico away from the palace clung a vine of pale green foliage, starred with white and crimson flowers similar to those in the Queen’s Garden, forming with its delicate festoons a cloistered way that had a subtle attractiveness amidst the imposing lines and columns of the huge edifice rising above it.
Here Narva and her companion paused, listening to the wild melody coming to them in a clear rush of sound. At the other end of the portico, leaning against the side of a long latticed window standing partly open, they could see the singer, her face turned to the apartment within, one arm encircling a lyre-shaped instrument the strings of which were lightly touched by the fingers of her right hand. The long white drapery in which she was clothed scarcely stirred with the movement from her playing, while the upward poise of her head, with its masses of dark hair flowing downward over her shoulders, indicated the rapt intensity with which she voiced the passion of her song. Apparently she was alone. The semi-obscurity of the apartment, however, at the entrance to which she stood, might have screened effectively from an outsider any one who was within.
For the first few moments the appearance of Una and Narva at the far end of the portico was unnoticed. Then, as the music died away, the singer turned and slowly approached them, her manner showing neither surprise nor displeasure at their presence. As her glance fell upon them Narva made a low obeisance with a gesture evincing the most profound self-abasement. In grace and majesty of bearing the being whom she thus saluted was worthy her homage. Tall and nobly proportioned, serene of countenance and of a faultless beauty, the deference of those about her seemed a natural tribute to her queenliness. That high rank belonged to her by right was suggested by a gold coronet encircling her head. In the center of this coronet gleamed an emerald of a size and purity rare even to Bogota, the land of emeralds. An engaging womanliness, however, softened the dignity of her carriage, the luster of this emblem of her royalty. To Narva, prostrate before her, she stretched out a hand with affectionate eagerness, speaking to her, at the same time, in a tongue unintelligible to Una.
Saluting her again with the utmost reverence, the aged sibyl apparently answered her questions. She then continued a voluble relation, the main purpose of which, as Una surmised, had to do with the finding of strangers in the cave. During this recital the being whom Narva addressed regarded Una intently, her gaze manifesting an interest she was at no pains to conceal. Having heard Narva to the end she slowly approached Una and, to the latter’s amazement, spoke to her in English.
“I am Sajipona,” she said. “Some call me Queen of the Indians; I am a queen; but, of my kingdom, this last home of my fathers is all that your people have left me. Deep underground, hidden from all men, few there are who know of its existence—and we guard the secret, if need be, with our lives. Against our law you have ventured here. Why have you come?”
To the abrupt inquiry Una had no answer ready. She hesitated; then, recalling her mission, she returned the gaze of her questioner with an awakened courage that went well with her maidenly beauty.
“I seek one who is dear to me,” she replied.
“Why do you think he is here?” demanded Sajipona.
“Once, years ago, he was lost. It is said he was in this cave. Now he has disappeared again—and we look for him here. I know nothing of your law. You are good—I am sure of it—I beg of you to help me.”
The appeal was impulsively made. A smile of sympathy lighted the features of the queen, followed by a look of pain. Her cheeks paled, the hand, still clasping the lyre upon which she had been playing, trembled. Averting her gaze, she turned towards the window where she had first been standing.
“Why should I help you?” she said. “You have broken our law.”
“We didn’t know of your law. All we want is to find him.”
“If the man you seek is here of his own will, why should I help you find him? He may wish to remain unknown.”
“You do not know,” said Una eagerly. “A strange thing happened before. It may be—how can I explain? It all sounds so improbable!—it may be he is not himself.”
Sajipona laughed ironically.
“Strange indeed! And it will be hard for you to explain. How can he be not himself?”
“If he has forgotten—if he has lost his memory—”
“His memory? What riddles you talk! How does one lose one’s memory? And if he has lost his memory, can you bring it back to him then?” asked Sajipona impatiently.
“I think he would remember me,” said Una simply.
Sajipona’s face showed her skepticism. “We shall see,” she said.
“Then you know where he is? He is here?” cried Una.
But her question brought no direct response. Instead, Sajipona turned to the old Indian who, during this brief colloquy, had shown signs of uneasiness. She now placed her fingers to her lips and pointed with her other hand to the apartment in the palace whence Sajipona had just made her appearance.
“Yes,” repeated the queen, “we shall see.”
The three women turned to the open lattice window at the other end of the portico. Objects in the room beyond were at first indistinct, but as the eye became accustomed to the darkness the whole interior took on more definite outlines. Una could see that the apartment was furnished in barbaric luxury. Golden shields gleamed on the walls; hangings, rich in color and material, were draped from the ceiling; massive cabinets, ornately carved and encrusted with gold, stood in distant alcoves of the room. But all these curious evidences of a bygone art were barely noted, the attention being drawn to the one living occupant within. Lying on a sort of divan, at some distance from the window, was the figure, apparently, of a man. He was moving restlessly, as if awaking from sleep. While Una looked, he rose and stood irresolutely in the center of the room, one arm flung across his face to shield his eyes from the light. Then, slowly walking to the window, as if looking for some one, his arm dropped to his side and, leaning across the lattice, he called:
“Sajipona!”
It was David.
At first he did not see Una. His glance wandered dreamily off in the distance and then, recalled, as if by the sudden disappearance of some idle fancy, fixed itself upon Sajipona. A smile of satisfaction passed over his features as he came out to meet her.
“Why did you stop singing?” he asked, in a voice that was almost inaudible. “I missed you.”
“Some one is here to see you,” she said, ignoring the question.
David turned to Una. One would have said that he had not seen her before, although in her presence he betrayed a strange sort of agitation. Their eyes met. He took the hand she eagerly stretched out to him, then slowly relinquished it, perplexed, vaguely conscious of the other’s emotion.
“I’m certain I’ve seen her before,” he said, half jokingly, half in irritation, addressing Sajipona, “but I can’t remember when or where. For the life of me I can’t tell who she is. As for her name, I ought to know that——”
“Una! Una! Surely you remember, David?”
“David! But of course you told her my name, Sajipona. Did you tell her your pretty fancy, about the El Dorado, the Gilded Man?”
“Surely, you remember my name—Una?”
“Una—Una,” he repeated uneasily. “It sounds familiar—I’m sure I’ve heard it—but I can’t exactly place it. Strange! How perfectly familiar it is; yet, I can’t place it, I can’t place it! It’s a beautiful name—I’m sure I used to think so—and you are beautiful, too, Una!”
Her name, pronounced in the accents she loved so well, brought a flood of memories that, she felt, must thrill him too. And yet—there he stood before her, the David she had always known, but now subtly changed, troubled, unseeing. Amazement robbed her of words. He had forgotten her. To Sajipona, however, more keenly observant even than Una, it was evident that an undercurrent of recognition on the part of David was hopelessly held in check by sheer inability to remember. His manner, moreover, indicated a mental uneasiness, pain, that could not fail to excite sympathy.
“When you left us at Honda,” began Una, “we expected to follow right after. Then we heard you had disappeared——”
Laughing mirthlessly, David placed both hands to his head in hopeless bewilderment.
“It sounds like some dream I might have had years ago. I can’t make it real,” he said deprecatingly. “It’s no use—I can’t remember. Indeed, I almost believe you are chaffing me. But—it’s really too serious a thing to joke about. You will tell—Una,” he added, addressing Sajipona, “how long I’ve been here, how kind you’ve been to me ever since I came back, so ill I could scarcely look out for myself.”
“Ever since you came back?” repeated Una, seizing upon the clew. “Then you have not always been here? You know the world outside of this cave? You were here once before, and then went away? Where were you? Try to remember.”
“Why, yes,” said David, mystified more than ever; “of course I’ve been away. I remember moving about a great deal, visiting many countries, seeing many people. But I don’t remember who any of them were—I can’t recall a single thing plainly, not a name, not a face. Sajipona has tried to help me. She’s very patient about it. But, so far, it has been no use—and it’s painful, I can tell you, trying to remember these things. I feel comfortable, entirely at peace, only when Sajipona sings. There’s nothing like her singing. I could listen to her forever, forgetting even to try to remember—if you know what that means.”
“But I want you to remember,” interrupted Sajipona. “You must try—never mind how painful it is. You know how much depends on that for both of us.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I try. I believe that when I am entirely well again it will all come right. All those dark dreams and things that bother me now will be cleared away and I will be completely myself. Then it will be as you say. We will be perfectly happy together.”
Involuntarily the two women looked at each other. David, standing between them, calmer than before, remained silent, unconscious of the effect of his words.
“You must explain what you mean,” Sajipona said to him firmly, after a moment of irresolution.
Aroused from his revery, he looked in perplexity from one to the other. Then his brow cleared and he laughed softly.
“Oh, yes! You see—Una—Sajipona is very beautiful; and she is just as good as she is beautiful. I owe her everything. When I am completely myself again, as I said, she has promised—— You see, I have told her that I——”
The words died away as he looked at Una. Her face showed neither anxiety nor surprise, but a deep tenderness and melancholy. At the sight of her he seemed to lose the thread of what he had to say. He was mystified, pitiably torn between the struggles of a memory that remained tongueless, and the realities of a situation that seemed, somehow, peculiarly unreal. Wistfully he held out his hand to the girl whose beauty thus moved him, then hastily withdrew it, turning as he did so to Sajipona.
“Your song was very soothing, my queen,” he said ruefully. “I fear I am not quite myself as yet. Something is wrong—something new. This lady—Una—you will forgive me?”
“Try to remember,” she said earnestly; “there’s nothing to forgive.”
“There’s nothing to remember,” he said disconsolately. “I have tried—but I begin to think it’s all a mistake.”
He turned abruptly, leaving them to go to the room whence he had come a moment before. As he reached the open window he paused irresolutely.
“You will not go?” he said, his eyes meeting Una’s.
“David!” was all her answer.
He shook his head mournfully, hesitated, then slowly passed into the darkened chamber beyond.
The two women regarded each other in silence. In Sajipona’s glance there was proud defiance; with Una anxiety had changed to determination. The wordless duel of emotions was interrupted by Narva, who, until now, had remained in the background. Upon David’s withdrawal the old sibyl shook off her reserve and addressed herself reverently to Sajipona.
“His old enemy is here,” she announced; “there is danger.”
Narva’s news did not bring the alarm that any one would have supposed it would bring. Instead, Sajipona’s look of anxiety vanished. A flash of anger gleamed in her eyes. Then she smiled with an eager air of triumph, grasping the old Indian’s arm as if urging her to say more.
“You mean the American, Raoul Arthur?” she asked. “Is he here? I want him. I have waited for him. But, I didn’t see him. Are you sure that he is here?”
Narva shrugged her shoulders. “He comes for no good,” she said. “At last he finds the way from Guatavita. He seeks treasure. With him are traitors to the Land of the Condor. He fought Anitoo. He conquered him. He is on his way to the palace. I heard him with his men on the iron path. They are many. Defend yourself, Sajipona! We have very little time.”
The appeal was received exultantly. From Una, however, there came a cry of dismay.
“If there is danger,” she exclaimed, “what will become of my uncle and the others?”
Narva chuckled to herself. “There is no danger to them,” she said. “The fat man will have trouble to run, and the old woman will die because she is always afraid.”
Her grim humor fell on unappreciative ears. At Sajipona’s rebuke she lapsed again into silence, first giving a grudging explanation of what she had done with the party of explorers. The latter, it appeared, were practically prisoners where Narva and Una left them. There they must remain, unless they were discovered by the hostile band that was believed to have invaded the cave, in which case their release would mean capture by Raoul and his men. The possible consequences of this increased Una’s alarm, and at Sajipona’s command Narva grumblingly set forth to effect their rescue. As success depended on her speed, Una was prevented from returning with her. She was thus left alone with Sajipona, whose plans regarding David now absorbed her attention. Here, however, she encountered a reserve which she could not break. Every attempt to gain information was repelled, and in a manner intimating that Una’s interest in David was unwarranted by any previous friendship between them.
“He does not know you,” exclaimed Sajipona exultantly, but with a note of uneasiness that was not lost on the other.
Una, concerned for David’s safety, ignored the unspoken challenge.
“What is to become of him? Why is he here?” she demanded.
“What is that to you?” was the fierce retort. “He doesn’t know even your name. He is happy. He depends on me.”
“That may be. But there is a mystery. Tell me what it all means. If he is happy, if there is nothing more to be said or done, I will go. Only—tell me.”
“You will not go—not until there is no longer a mystery, as you call it.”
The announcement sounded like the sentence of a judge, from which there is no appeal. It reminded Una that she was in the power of one who had shown towards her an inflexible will. At the same time she was conscious of a softening in Sajipona’s attitude that was both mystifying and reassuring. This beautiful Indian girl had at first resented Una’s presence. She had regarded the other with queenly scorn, and had not disguised the jealous impatience kindled by the brief and futile interview with David. Now this impatience had given place to a deeper emotion that was less easily understood. It might be of kindlier import, an unexpected relenting from the harsh mood that apparently weighed Una’s every word and act with suspicion. Still, it was possible that beneath this newly awakened generosity there lurked something sinister, a deliberate purpose to lead the other to a confession that would be her own undoing. Of this, however, Una had little fear. By nature trustful of those about her, she did not look for harm to herself from one so young, so beautiful, and who now, at any rate, appeared anxious to atone for her former enmity by a graciousness equally marked.
“There is nothing to fear,” said Sajipona, as if reading her thoughts. “Narva will protect your people. There is danger only from your friend, this Raoul Arthur——”
“He is not my friend!” exclaimed Una.
Sajipona smiled. “We will soon see,” she said. “This is the Land of the Condor, all that is left to an ancient race that once ruled over many nations. For centuries the poor remaining handful of my people have managed to live unknown in this little corner of the earth. You are the first—except one other—from the outside world to find your way into this forgotten kingdom. When you will be free to return to the outer world is not for me to say. But, you are here—my guest. Let us have it that way. This is my kingdom. Enter!”
They did not pass into the palace through the entrance used by David. Back of where they stood, at a word of command from Sajipona, a large door swung open, revealing a spacious court within flooded with a clear white light that left not a corner or angle in shadow. This light radiated from a central shaft overhead, at first indistinguishable in the dazzling intricacies of the ceiling that stretched away in tier upon tier of crystalline columns above them. Advancing to the middle of this court, under the queen’s guidance, Una beheld, at the apex of the vast dome curving upward to a seemingly immeasurable distance, a large opening beyond which blazed a great ball of fire suspended, apparently, from the topmost pinnacle of the outer cave. The rays from this underground sun—for it is only as a sun that it can be adequately described—shone with an intensity that was fairly blinding. These rays flashed and sparkled in long, waving streamers of flame, disappearing and suddenly renewing their radiance with a ceaseless energy similar to that displayed by some gigantic dynamo whose emanations are produced by a concentration of power as yet unattempted by man. Fascinated by this splendor, Una realized that she was standing beneath the great luminous body whose magical effects she had first witnessed while approaching the palace with Narva. Shielding her eyes from a spectacle that wearied by its vehemence, she turned to Sajipona. But Sajipona was not with her. Una stood alone in the center of the great court.
At another time this sudden isolation would have been alarming. But the many strange adventures experienced during the last few hours had accustomed Una to danger, so that the disappearance of Sajipona served merely to arouse her to a keener sense of her surroundings. Her faith in this beautiful Indian, moreover, was not easily shaken, in spite of the repellant attitude she had first assumed towards her. Treachery from such a source, it seemed to her, was inconceivable.
Stepping back from the direct rays of the great ball of fire, the manifestations of whose mysterious power had until then absorbed her attention, Una found herself in the midst of a throng of people, all of them, apparently, watching her. By their dress, simple and flowing as that worn by the followers of Anitoo, she perceived these were cave men and women, some forty or fifty in number, each one standing motionless along the wall farthest from her. With heads bent forward and arms outstretched towards the center of the court, where Una stood, they appeared to be engaged in some sort of devotional exercise, the visible object of which was a great round disk of gold set in the tessellated pavement that flashed beneath the light pouring upon it from above. Inlaid within this disk, at the outer rim of which she had been standing a moment before, Una could now discern cabalistic figures wrought in emeralds whose deep effulgence was in striking contrast with the haze of golden light surrounding them. The intricate design formed by these figures was difficult to trace, but that each figure, and the pattern into which it was woven, bore a mystical meaning was suggested by the reverence with which this whole glittering pool of light was regarded by the silent throng.
Eagerly Una scanned the white-robed worshipers before her, hoping that among them she might discover David. Not finding him, she sought Sajipona, with the same disappointing result at first. Then her gaze, wandering away from these strange faces, rested upon a slightly elevated platform at one end of the court. There, beneath a gold and gem-encrusted canopy, seated upon a massive throne of pure crystal, she beheld the Indian queen.
From the first Una had felt the spell of her beauty, but its force had been tempered by the flashes of anger, the suspicion, the disdain that had alternately marked their intercourse. Now, although arrayed and staged, as it were, in all the splendor belonging to her high station—with crown and scepter and glittering robe of state—this proud beauty had softened to an almost girlish loveliness, wistful, touched with a melancholy as hopeless as it was appealing. That she was a queen, aloof from those about her, seemed strangely pathetic. Nor did this expression of sheer womanliness change as her eyes met Una’s. Across the width of the great presence chamber a mysterious wave of sympathy seemed to bind these two together. Completing its wordless message, Sajipona arose and stood expectantly while Una approached, the throng before her silently falling back until she reached the foot of the throne. Then, with hands clasped in greeting, the two women faced each other, the enmity that first had sundered them apparently forgotten, or, at the least, held in check by some subtler, purer feeling. Again Una wondered if this could be genuine—if the suspicion with which she had been regarded at first might not still lurk behind this outward graciousness. Little versed in the arts of dissimulation, however, and apt to take for current coin whatever offered of friendliness, she accepted this unlooked-for warmth of welcome with undisguised gratitude. Sajipona drew her gently forward until the two stood side by side on the platform facing the great court, the silent groups of attendants below them. The dazzling light, the flashing splendor of columned walls and vaulted ceiling, the white-robed figures, the jeweled throne, furnished forth a faery spectacle not easily forgotten.
“These are my people,” said Sajipona proudly. “They will protect you as they protect me.”
As if in answer to her assurance the waiting courtiers, absorbed until now in the contemplation of the mystical figures within the circle of light at their feet, slowly turned and made grave obeisance before the two women standing in front of the throne. Following this sign of submission, they came forward as if expectant of some further command. Sajipona smilingly watched the effect of this ceremony on her companion.
“Ah! it is not here as in Bogota,” she said, “or in the world where you come from, far from Bogota. You think all this that you see is unreal—a dream, perhaps. My people are so different from yours—and all these many years they live forgotten, unknown. I have lived in Bogota. There they do not know of this great cave that belonged to the ancient rulers of the mountains. They don’t know that I am queen here, or of this palace that is mine—and the light that burns like the sun. Ah! I wonder what your wise uncle will say when he sees our sun!”
Sajipona laughed noiselessly, with the half-concealed delight that a child hugs to itself when it hides some simple secret from the eyes of its elders. Una, more bewildered than ever at this allusion to Leighton, sought vainly for a reasonable explanation of the marvels surrounding her.
“My uncle!” she exclaimed. “How do you know that he is wise—and he is!—and that he is here? Yes, this sun of yours—what is it, where does it come from?”
Again Sajipona laughed.
“Remember,” she said, “this is not Bogota. Out there it is all very wonderful, very great. You have the sky, the sun, the stars. The mountains stretch away as far as the eye can see; there are plains, cities; and there are buildings greater than any we have here. This is a toy world, you will say, even when you think some things in it very wonderful. But you do not guess the half of what is here. In this world my people have lived in secret for centuries. They have discovered things that even the wisest of your people know nothing of. We have eyes that see everything that happens in our world of stone, eyes that pierce through the stones themselves. I knew when you came into our kingdom; I watched you when you passed through the great gate where the others were fighting. But—you don’t believe me. Come, I will show you.”
Sajipona gave her hand to the astonished girl and the two stepped down from the platform where they were standing and made their way to the center of the court. Here the great circle of light cast by the ball of fire overhead gleamed at their feet like an unruffled pool of sun-kissed water. At the rim of this circle they halted, Sajipona gently restraining her companion, who, in her eagerness, would have passed on.
“Look there on the floor,” she said. “Your eyes may not be as ours; perhaps you will have to wait before you can see. But it will come—you will see.”
Una remembered how she had heard—and laughed—of magicians who pretended to read the future by gazing into a crystal globe. The experiment to which she was now invited seemed like that, only here it was apparently a huge mirror of reflected light that she was told to watch, while no word had been said of finding therein a revelation of things to come. Nor could she see anything in this mirror at first. Waves of light, tongues of leaping flame, passed over the polished surface of the metal, here darting off in long zigzag streaks, there forming a sort of pool of molten, quivering fluorescence, as the physicists call it, varying in size and color, then vanishing utterly. Much the same appearance Una remembered having seen on the surface of a copper kettle when subjected to intense heat. But in this case there was no perceptible heat to account for the phenomenon, which was rather electric in its fantastic weavings—a reduplication, on a gigantic scale, of the wavering finger of light that she had watched play, with such fatal results, on her uncle’s electric psychometer. The resemblance, recognized with a shudder, intensified her interest. The succession of marvels through which she had been passing prepared her for anything. In her present mood, nothing would have surprised her.