hopelessly flustered by the uproar of battle that resounded through
the cave. "Queens always behead people. Why did we ever come into this
frightful place? We can never escape."
"Do be quiet, woman!" commanded Leighton, who did not care to hear his
own thoughts voiced in this manner.
"Hold the tongue!" growled Miranda savagely.
"We have escaped already," said Una soothingly. "I believe this path
will take us out of the cave."
"Caramba! that is so," agreed Miranda delightedly. "It is change--and
there is some light."
"Yes, there actually is some light," said Leighton. "But--where does it
come from?"
Having passed through the great portal that separated them from Anitoo
and his men, they were soon following a narrow path that ran between two
high walls of rock. This path was at first scarcely discernible. As they
turned a sharp corner, however, the darkness gradually lifted and they
found it possible, for the first time, to distinguish certain objects
a considerable distance ahead of them--and judging by the direction
in which the shadows from these objects were thrown, it was evident
that the light was not a reflection cast by torches carried by warring
cavemen.
This discovery was hailed as a momentous one, open to two
interpretations. Since, as every one knows, caves are never lighted from
sources contained in themselves, they must now be nearing another party
of cavemen, who were carrying lanterns, or else, through some twist in
subterranean topography, they had stumbled upon an unexpected passageway
to the outer world. No sooner was the latter possibility suggested,
however, than its improbability was recognized. No rays from sun or
moon were ever like these--blue, flickering, ghostly--illuminating the
grotesque forms around them. This light had a tingling quality, as of
sparks that snap and glitter when they are thrown off from an electric
battery. It was certainly not sunlight, or moonlight either, as the
explorers quickly realized. There remained the idea that it came from
lights carried by an approaching band of cavemen.
"It is like the torches of Anitoo's musicians!" exclaimed Una; "it's not
from the sun."
"It begins to be too bright, and at the same time too far off, for
that," objected Leighton.
"It is one big fire----" said Miranda.
"A bonfire," interjected Andrew.
"----and when we come there we will see."
Pressing on along this path, the light steadily increased, although
revealing to the explorers nothing of its origin. They could walk now
at a fairly round pace, and as their range of vision extended their
attention was completely taken up in a study of the strange objects to
be seen in the unknown world about them.
Great walls of white basalt, veined with broad bands of glistening
emerald, towered on either side, reaching up to a crystalline roof
that spread forth, far as eye could reach, at an altitude scorning the
limitations of human architecture. The irregularities of the outer cave,
with its rough bowlders and piles of fallen débris, its dark masses of
shapeless sandstone, was exchanged here for forms of marvelous symmetry,
fashioned, one could but imagine, for the enjoyment of a race of beings
to whom the majesty of beauty must be an ever-living reality. Seen by
the explorers, in the wavering half light that filled the cave, the
bold outlines of cliff and battlement were softened and blended in a
vague witchery of design suggesting meanings and distances varying with
the fancy of the beholder. It was a vale of enchantments, an Aladdin's
cave, from which anything might be expected with the mere rubbing of a
ring--or a lamp.
As the path broadened the walls became less precipitous; on their sides
objects could be distinguished that, anywhere else, would have been
taken for man's handiwork. Tiny dwellings appeared to be carved out
of solid rock that jutted forth from dizzying heights, while feathery
forms of dwarf trees and plants, whose leaves were of a spectral
transparency, whose branches were twisted in thread-like traceries of
lines and figures, found sustenance where not a foothold of earth was
discernible. That such evidences of botanical life should appear in a
cavern remote from the sun's heat and light was surprising enough to all
the explorers; to Leighton it savored of the miraculous. Ever since the
adventure with the Black Magnet the savant, indeed, had drifted into
such a state of bewilderment that he was more helpless in grasping and
overcoming the difficulties confronting them than those of the party who
had little of his learning or experience. Ordinarily he was accustomed
to treat with contempt phenomena that to others appeared inexplicable.
But here he was as a mariner adrift in midocean, in a rudderless ship,
without sails or compass. Everything seemed at odds with the settled
beliefs and theories of science as he knew them. Nothing was as it
should be. He was thus less capable as a leader than the volatile
Miranda who, although fairly well trained in the modern way of looking
at things, did not trouble himself to explain the marvels that met them
at every turn in their wanderings.
"They live in the walls, these people!" exclaimed the doctor, "and they
have trees and plants without the sun and rain."
That was all that need be said. The fact was a fact, delightful
beyond most facts just because it was so outlandish, so opposed to
all experience, and it gained nothing in interest or anything else by
trying to explain it--although Miranda did, on occasion, take a hand at
explaining these puzzling matters.
Entertaining as these discoveries and discussions might be, however,
the feeling that they had stumbled into a region inhabited by a race
of men who lived in a manner unknown to them--and who, moreover, had
already given evidence of unfriendliness towards strangers--was not
reassuring to Miranda or any of the rest of them. The end of their
adventure grew every moment more puzzling. Since their escape from
Anitoo they had not actually met any one. Perhaps this part of the cave
was not inhabited after all. Perhaps Anitoo's talk of a queen was not to
be taken too seriously. The curious objects projecting from the walls
far above them might not be the human dwellings that at first sight
they appeared. Even the signs of an unearthly vegetation might prove a
sort of mirage, or they might turn out to be mere specimens of basaltic
formation--fantastic enough, certainly--wrought by the subterranean
convulsions that had given birth to this cave measureless ages ago.
But the air had become so strangely invigorating, the mysterious light
so pervasive and even brilliant, that anything seemed possible. This
atmospheric vitality, a certain bracing quality in the air, had been
noted, indeed, among their first experiences in the outer cave. But,
compared with this that now tingled and coursed in their veins like some
conquering elixir, the air of the outer cave was chill, dead. Here life
might germinate and be sustained--although there lacked, as Miranda had
pointed out, "the sun and rain" to aid in these daily miracles of
nature.
But it was idle to theorize, useless to harbor doubts that led nowhere.
So, they wandered on, marveling at the strangeness and the magnitude of
this underground world, and yielding themselves, as familiarity disarmed
their fears, to the charm of it all. For there was beauty of a rare and
thrilling quality in these majestic cliffs whose perfectly proportioned
sides gleamed in all the variegations of color belonging to certain
kinds of basalt. Displaying in structure the columnar forms peculiar to
this rock, the admirable symmetry produced easily suggested the work
of a human architect gifted in all the cunning of his art. And now the
widening space before them disclosed unmistakable signs of the human
agency they had suspected.
They stood at the verge of a precipice. Below them stretched a wide
and comparatively level plain, vaulted over by a crystalline canopy
supported by innumerable clusters of slender columns, and sheltering
low-storied houses, or huts, collected together in the close
companionship of a thriving little village. The familiar accompaniments
of such a scene, supposing that it formed a part of some straggling,
hospitable highway in the outer world, were there. At the doorways of
the houses men and women stopped to talk; children played in the vacant
spaces that served for yards and streets; even diminutive animals, that
appeared in the distance to be near of kin to the patient, ubiquitous
burro, jogged along under their burdens of merchandise. The villagers
were evidently of the same race as Anitoo and his companions, dressed
like them in white flowing togas, but lacking their indefinable charm
and lordliness of bearing. Anywhere else they would have been taken for
peasants, attired somewhat fantastically, engaged in the most primitive
occupations. Here, remote from everything that lives under the sun,
their very simplicity was cause for wonder, if not for fear.
So far the explorers had not attracted the attention of the villagers.
Where the former stood they could watch the scene below without being
observed themselves. But they knew that this security could not last.
Either they had to go on and make themselves known, or return to Anitoo,
who by this time, possibly, was at the mercy of Raoul and his party.
They hesitated. The problem was a knotty one--but it was not left
for them to decide. From an unexpected quarter came an interruption,
startling in some respects, that solved their difficulties--temporarily
at least--and seemed a promising augury that whatever dangers confronted
them they might rely on backing, of a sort. A heavily veiled figure,
bent with age and toiling down a precipitous path from the rocky height
beneath which they were sheltered, silently approached them. At sight
of this singular being, Mrs. Quayle, not yet accustomed to this land
of uncomfortable surprises, started to run away. Her frantic efforts
at speed restored the confidence of the others and, after she had been
unceremoniously brought to order by Leighton, the little party managed
to face the newcomer with some show of composure.
Leaning on a long staff, the descending figure, ignoring the others,
advanced towards Una, who stood by herself beneath a low shelf of rock.
Pausing within a few feet of the wondering girl, the veil was slowly
lifted, revealing the seamed and wrinkled face and long flowing white
hair of a woman whose great age was visible in every feature. In bygone
times she would have been proclaimed a witch, although in her aspect
there was nothing of the malevolence tradition attributes to witches.
But there was the solemnity, the dramatic gesture of the sibyl--a being
who is supposed to rank several grades higher than the witch--when,
with uplifted hand, she commanded the attention of those to whom she
deigned to speak. Drawn by something of benignity in her glance, and
undaunted by her otherwise fantastic appearance, Una came forward to
meet her--a movement that at once elicited a sign of approval.
"She is one loca, one crazy woman," growled Miranda.
"Of course she is dangerous!" exclaimed Mrs. Quayle.
General Herran shrugged his shoulders and muttered vigorous profanities
in Spanish.
"Nonsense! The woman is probably slightly demented," was Leighton's
judgment in the matter. Una, apparently, was without opinion as to
the character or the intentions of the singular being whose gaze was
fastened upon her, and whose outstretched arm singled her out from the
rest.
"Oh! if she would only speak in a language we could understand," she
exclaimed. To the amazement of every one, the wish was gratified
as soon as uttered. For the old woman--whether witch, sibyl, or
lunatic--answered in plain English, an English somewhat defective in
pronunciation, it is true, but correct enough in form to give evidence
of an unusual amount of study on the part of the speaker.
"I expected you. Come with me," she commanded.
Astonishment silenced further comment. For the moment even Miranda had
nothing to say. Then, recovering his usual assurance, he expressed
himself with emphasis.
"Caramba! She is one witch," he declared.
The old woman shook her head impatiently. It was with Una alone she
wanted to speak; she resented as interference any word from the others.
Una, on her part, was strangely drawn to her. The odd dress, the air
of mystery that repelled the others, increased her interest. She was
impressed by her calm assumption of authority, convinced that she was
there to help them. And then, a novel idea flashed through her mind.
"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.
XVII
A SONG AND ITS SEQUEL