_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 L8820, 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!