The Gilded Man: A Romance of the Andes

by Clifford Smyth

  VII

  LA REINA DE LOS INDIOS

  "Felicita, where is this Senor?"

  "Ah, Dios mio! safe enough, in the sala. But for thee--nina Sa'pona, howscared I've been! And they called thee queen, thou who art our queenindeed, beautiful, brave one! But thou shouldst not do this--not for sougly a senor--my beautiful nina!"

  With the great door closed, and the noise from the peons growing fainterin the distance, the stern dignity of the Indian girl vanished beforethe simple talk of her old nurse. Queen of the Indians, as the peonscalled her, this girl might be--although why they called her so theywould find it difficult to tell--but for the faithful creature, withher eager caresses and affectionate words, royalty, real or imaginary,scarcely counted.

  "There you are, foolish Felicita, always scared at something! Danger?What danger? Only a greeting from those who are as fond of me as thouart. Now, to thy work. I must speak with this troublesome Yankee. Many aday it is since I have seen him here. And then--Felicita, I am dying ofhunger."

  Shaking her head at her mistress's lack of caution, the old nursehobbled down the gloomy corridor and into the sunny patio, fragrant withjasmine and sweet rose, where two Indian girls, seated upon the flagssurrounding the opening of a central cistern, were crushing corn in theprimitive stone hand mills of their race.

  Resuming something of her stateliness of mien, the youthful "Reina delos Indios" turned to the right along a passage-way leading off fromthe main corridor into the sala, or principal living room of the house.This was more scantily furnished than such apartments usually are inBogota. All that it had was of the plainest--half a dozen cheap rockingchairs, a straight-backed cane settee, a tall pier-glass, ornamented atthe top and sides with meaningless gilt stucco work, and a dark walnutcabinet, carved in elaborate hunting design, with massive spiral pillarssupporting the heavily panelled sides and front--the only object in theroom giving evidence either of taste or wealth. Even the tiled floorswere bare, save for a few well worn petates (Indian mats) which failedto supply that feeling of comfort provided in this chilly climate by thethick woollen rugs and carpets generally in use.

  Awaiting her entrance stood the Yankee whom she had rescued from theemboladores. Confronted by his ragged assailants he had shown anadmirable coolness; in the presence of this young girl his manner lackedthat air of confidence he had so readily assumed in the face of danger.He was ill at ease; his glance shifted from one object to another inthe room, his sombrero was tightly clenched in his hand, he avoided thesteady gaze of his rescuer. Yet there was in his attitude toward heran indefinable homage, due, perhaps, to the queenly rank that othersaccorded her, or else to the rare feminine loveliness, the subtle powerof which few could escape.

  "Senorita, you have done me a great service," he said. "I was on my wayto see you when I had that brush with the peons. That is my excuse fortaking refuge in your house and exposing you to danger. Will you forgiveme? Will you----"

  "Ah, my good Don Raoul!" she interrupted. "What questions! And from you!Of course, if I was of service to you just now, I am glad."

  "It is good to hear you say that, Senorita," he replied with evidentrelief. "I was afraid things might be different between us. You see, youdisappeared so completely. You have not been in Bogota for months, foryears, Senorita. And then, to-day--at last--I heard of your arrival. Iwanted to see you. I have not forgotten you in all this long time, youmay be sure, Sajipona!"

  A faint flush overspread the girl's delicate features; a strange lookkindled within her dark eyes.

  "It is well, Don Raoul," she said in a low voice.

  "And here you are, still the Queen--beautiful, mysterious!" heexclaimed.

  "You know I am not a queen," she murmured.

  "Why, even now they called you so. Those jackals felt your power--justas I do, beautiful Sajipona!"

  "Enough, Senor! Titles and flatteries I neither care for nor deserve area mockery in my own house."

  "The title is yours by tradition, if not by right. As forflatteries----"

  "We do not live by traditions," she interrupted.

  "To me, at least, you are La Reina de los Indios."

  "Ah, well, Senor," she said with a low laugh; "every queen, I fancy,should have at least one subject. And now--supposing that I am thisqueen you talk of--what is it you want of me?"

  "We always used to be friends, Sajipona. Can we not be friends still?"

  "There's another strange question! But--surely you did not come here toask me that? There is something else, Don Raoul," she added, regardinghim intently.

  "It is that, first of all. And then--I had it in mind to tell you thatmy friend is returning to Bogota--David Meudon."

  "David Meudon," she repeated, as if pondering the name, looking steadilyat Raoul the while.

  "But then--what is that to me, Senor?" she asked.

  "You remember him?"

  "Yes, of course I remember him. He has been away a long time, hasn'the?" Then, after a pause: "Why does he come back?"

  "To solve a mystery--so he writes me."

  "A mystery?"

  "He calls it a mystery," laughed the other. "You see, when we wereliving here together he disappeared for three months. We thought hehad been killed by a dynamite explosion. Surely, you have heard of it,Senorita?"

  "Yes--I think everyone has heard of it. And then, at the time, therewere rumors. For instance, I heard--I heard who exploded the dynamite."

  "Sure enough, there were all kinds of rumors. But, of course, the wholething was an accident, a horrible accident, that nearly cost David hislife. He didn't heed the signal in time--or something went wrong--thesignal or the dynamite. Anyway, he wasn't seen or heard of again forthree months. We all thought he must have been blown to bits. Then, acurious thing happened. One morning I found him in my house, in a sortof trance."

  "Well?"

  "When he came out of the trance, he declared he could remember nothingof what he had been through. Those three months were a blank in hismemory."

  "And then----?"

  "He left Bogota, declaring he would never come back. That was just threeyears ago."

  "But----"

  "Yes, now he is coming back--with some friends--to solve this mystery,so he says."

  "What mystery, Senor?"

  "Why," replied Raoul slowly, looking at her intently; "the mystery ofthose three months when he was supposed to have been in a trance."

  "What is a trance, Don Raoul?" asked the girl innocently.

  Raoul laughed.

  "Ah, that would be hard to explain to a queen of the Indians," he said."A trance is not exactly a sleep, for a man may talk and travel anddo things, just like other men, when he's in a trance. But when he ishimself again, he remembers nothing of all that happened when he was inthe trance."

  "Then you think he was in a trance during those three months when hedisappeared from Bogota?"

  "Yes."

  "And that he has forgotten all that happened to him in that time?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Could he ever remember?"

  "There is only one way in which he could."

  "How is that?"

  "If he could return to the same scenes and conditions through which hepassed during those three months."

  "But for that you would have to know, of course, what those scenes andconditions were?"

  "Exactly, Senorita."

  "Really, it is all very interesting," she said dreamily. "I have heardsomething like it in fairy tales, I think; but not in real life. Andnow--why do you tell all this to me, Senor?" she asked, as if struck bya novel idea.

  "Ah, Sajipona," he replied with a smile; "I have told you merely inanswer to your own questions. You have shown that--for some reason orother--you are interested."

  "Interested? Why, of course I am interested--if for no other reason,simply because you are. This David Meudon, you say, left Bogota threeyears ago? Strange that he should leave so suddenly--and with his workin this country unfinished!"

  "I c
an't tell how much you know of David," he said musingly. "But thereis every reason why you, more than anyone else, should be interested inthe man who attempts to solve the secret of Guatavita--Sajipona."

  There was no mistaking the emphasis placed on the girl's name; nor wasthere any disguising the effect its peculiar pronunciation had upon her.Sajipona looked at Raoul in alarm, then turned from him in manifestconfusion. Presently, she gave a low laugh and her eyes sought hisagain.

  "Ah, you Yankees are strange people," she said. "Some say, you are onlymoney makers. But, it appears, you are more than that; for you listen tofoolish legends, like the rest of us--and you believe them."

  "Yes, I believe this one, Sajipona."

  "Does the man who so strangely lost his memory by your dynamiteexplosion believe this one?" she asked laughing.

  "I don't know. Perhaps he never heard it."

  "Well, it's very interesting, anyway--I mean, about the trance and thedynamite. I want to hear the end of it. You will surely come again,won't you? And tell me when your friend arrives in Bogota," she added,giving him her hand.

  "You are ever the queen; you dismiss me from your presence," hecomplained, taking her hand, nevertheless, and kissing it.

  "The streets are safe for you now, Senor," she said.

  "Thanks to you, La Reina!"

  "Ah, I would do much more for you than that, as you know, Don Raoul!"she exclaimed, an arch smile giving to her beautiful features a rareflash of piquancy. "And now--Adios, Senor!"

  "Surely, not 'Adios,' but--until the next time, Sajipona," he replied,as he bowed himself from the sala.

  Raoul's belief in the legend involved in Sajipona's name marked aradical change which he had undergone since he arrived in Bogota. Tohis keen, logical mind the proposal to enlist in a quest for the longlost El Dorado seemed, at first, far too quixotic to be taken seriously.But he humored the idea, originating in David's fondness for studiestouching the borderlands of romance, in the hope that he would diverta purely fanciful project into more profitable channels. Later on,however, he was himself caught by the practical possibilities lurkingin the old Chibcha legend. Hence, it followed that while David wasenjoying the picturesque life of the little mountain capital, Raoul wasdelving in musty records, running down old traditions, and studyingthe topography of the Bogota tableland with a degree of patienceas to details that the subject had rarely received. For days at atime he burrowed in the crumbling archives of the Museo Nacional, anunpretentious little edifice, not far from the palace of San Carlos, inwhich were stored, pell-mell, practically every evidence that remainedof Colombia's prehistoric civilization. Here, with only the grey,shrivelled mummies of two ancient kings of the Chibchas to watch him,he had reconstructed, as best he could, the past of this vanished raceof people, had convinced himself of their wealth, scarcely any of whichhad fallen into the hands of the Spanish, and had laid his plans fordiscovering a treasure which had balked every explorer before him.

  Combined with these studies in the National Museum and in thevicinity of Lake Guatavita, Raoul had busied himself with the peonsof the neighborhood. From these primitive people he learned enoughto corroborate the main features in the Chibcha tradition as handeddown by Castellanos, Pedro Simon, Piedrahita, and other chroniclersof the Spanish Conquest. In addition, he unearthed the curious legendthat the Sacred Lake would never yield up its treasure except to onein whose veins flowed the blood of the Chibcha kings. This bit ofprophetic romance had come, it was said, from father to son throughthe four centuries following the martyrdom of the last of the zipas.He was told, also--and it added to the fantastic character of theprophecy--that a secret, known only to the zipas and their directdescendants, attached to Lake Guatavita, and that by means of thissecret the treasure hidden beneath its waters would be discovered.

  Raoul at first paid little heed to this part of the legend. It had toostrong a flavor of latter-day romance to go for more than a recentaddition to the main story of the wealth of the Chibcha kings and theirpeculiar religious customs. The persistence of the idea, however, thebelief in its truth on the part of those repeating it, gradually excitedhis interest and led him into all kinds of theories as to the existenceand recovery of the Guatavita treasure.

  That so fanciful a legend could have won even the partial belief of soingrained a skeptic as Raoul seems at first absurd on the face of it.But most of us can recall instances enough of similar lapses from thehypercritical to the over-superstitious to make this one not altogetherincredible. As often happens, also, in such cases--as with thoseotherwise reasonable persons who believe in fortune-telling, omens,apparitions, etc.,--this bit of superstition, having once lodged itselfin Raoul's mind, increased in importance, opening up an absorbing fieldfor his love of psychological novelties, until it finally became amonomania, an obsession, as the scientists call it.

  These ancient zipas, he argued, were the chieftains of a superiorrace of people. In the annual tribute from the royal treasury to thenational god, who was supposed to live at the bottom of Lake Guatavita,they catered to the credulity of their subjects while, in reality,laughing in their sleeves at them, so to speak, all the time. Men oftheir intelligence were not apt literally to throw away wealth they hadthemselves amassed, and which they must consider as belonging to themand to their descendants. But as they--apparently--did throw it away,it was more than likely that they used some kind of hocus-pocus, knownonly to themselves, by means of which the God Chibchacum--in whoseexistence they did not believe--was cheated of his annual tribute. Howthey practiced this deception they must surely have told their children.The coming of the Spaniards, however, and the overthrow of the ancientdynasty, had made of the whole affair a greater secret than ever. Itwould be handed down from one generation to another so long as therewere descendants of the zipas; but these survivors of the royal linewould find it increasingly difficult, owing to the presence of theSpaniards, to take the steps needed to recover their ancestral treasure.

  There was some plausibility in Raoul's reasoning, enough, perhaps, toexcite the romancer's interest, but scarcely that of the practicalman of affairs to whom are broached the details of a mining venture.Conviction grew, however, with Raoul, whose investigations were confinedthenceforward less to the archaeological aspects of the problem and moreto the task of discovering the whereabouts of the living descendants ofthe zipas.

  These speculations and the singular inquiry into which they had drawnhis companion excited only a mild interest in David. The latter,strangely enough, enchanted with the picturesque novelty of thecloud-city in which he found himself, felt less of the antiquarian'szeal than when Bogota was a remote geographical possibility. Perhapsit was the stimulus of mountain air, a bracing climate, that got himout of his habitual bookishness. Here, at any rate, there was neitherthe warmth nor the color of the tropics to entice him to the indolentdreaming that one of his temperament might easily yield to in thelowlands of Colombia. The peculiar lustre of the grey-green Bogotatableland, the cool crystalline atmosphere, invited him to continualphysical exercise. For days at a time he went on long horseback rides.Then, tiring of this, and feeling something of the restraint experiencedby the stranger who exerts himself abnormally in the rarefied air ofthe higher Andes, he fell into the easy habits of the pleasure-lovingBogotano. Muffled warmly in a ruana, he strolled comfortably about thestreets of the city, amused by the chaffering of peons in the marketplace, enchanted by the quaint and varied architecture of the housesand public buildings, the grotesque paintings and bas-reliefs in thechurches; or else he would sit by the hour in the open window of somecafe on the Cathedral Esplanade, watching the gay throng of idlers andpoliticians for whom this is a favorite rendezvous. The dust and cobwebsof the Museo did not attract this former dabbler in antiquities, whoabandoned himself eagerly to the fleeting impressions gathered from analtogether pleasing environment. And Raoul, naturally secretive, gavehim the vaguest outline only of the course and the result of hisstudies.

  The discovery that made the deepest im
pression on Raoul took place undercircumstances which intensified his superstitious feeling in regard toeverything connected with the buried treasure. He was on one of numeroustrips to Lake Guatavita. Riding alone, he reached the gloomy bodyof water toward nightfall. Tethering his horse near the trail at theedge of the plain over which he had ridden, he approached the lake onfoot, his mind penetrated by the absolute silence of the place. He hadcome for no specific purpose except to examine further the old Spanishcutting that gashes the great hill which originally rose, a solid wallof rock, above the unknown depths of the waters. Through this narrowcleft, on the instant that it was completed three centuries ago, amighty torrent had hurled itself into the valley beyond. As this torrentsubsided and the lake shrank to its present compass, a wide margin ofprecipitous shore was left bare to the scrutiny of treasure seekers.Even after the lapse of centuries this portion of the lake's basinstill shows the ravages wrought by the Spaniards. It remains a gaunt,jagged surface of rock and flinty gravel, unclothed by tree or shrub--anancient sanctuary whose violation defies the repairs of time.

  Raoul smiled contemptuously at these evidences of the rude labors of theearly Spaniards. With modern science to back him he would not attack theproblem in this way. He would pierce this ancient secret to its heartby subtlety, not brute force. For the hundredth time he went over thesystem of lines and levels by which he and David planned to tunnel theirway to the coveted prize, indicating to himself the various points fromwhich they proposed to start their work, and noting and comparing theobstacles they would encounter by each route.

  Thus occupied, Raoul slowly circled the lake, following the precariouspath that still remained along the edge of the old high-water mark--thepath upon which had marched the gaily vestured Chibcha devotees in thepomp of their semi-annual festival, when the dancing waves radiatingfrom the heavily laden rafts of the Gilded Man and his court, washedover their sandalled feet, and all was sunshine and joyous laughter,glitter of gold and emerald offerings ready poised to be hurled, withshouts of triumph, to the insatiable God in his crystalline cavernsbelow.

  Scenes from the old legend flashed across the prosaic details of Raoul'smining schemes, as he stood in the shadow of the majestic hill thatlifted its huge shoulders behind him. Not a ripple scarred the surfaceof the sombre waters. The ancient God, it would seem, waiting in vainthe tribute that once was his, had grown angry and made of his SacredLake a shrunken circle of dark and sinister meaning.

  Into its silent depths, fascinated by the desolation surrounding him,Raoul gazed intently. He would revive the old ceremony. He would bringan offering to this hidden God--an offering bearing a menace, a demandfor the treasure that he felt already in his grasp. He seized a stonefrom the many that were strewn at his feet. It was smooth, worn by thestreams through which it had chafed its way hither; he paused as heweighed it thoughtfully in his outstretched hand. Then he threw it highin air, over the center of the pool. The sound of the falling missileplunging through the waters echoed sullenly along the towering walls ofgranite. The weird effect delighted him, and again and again he caststones into the water, dislodging some of the more unwieldy rocks fromtheir resting-places and watching them bound and ricochet, with athunderous noise, down the precipice after the others.

  In the midst of this fantastic play he was arrested by the cry of ahuman voice. High, clear and sibilant it came; a word of command, as itseemed, out of the empty space above:

  "Silence!"

  He thought it might be the rustle of the wind that had just sprung upand was stirring the gnarled branches of the trees fringing the browof the hill upon whose precipitous slope he was standing. Carefully hescanned the rocky pinnacles rising on either side of him. If it was notthe wind, the invisible being whose voice he had heard might be hiddenin one of the many clefts that furrowed the face of the hill behind him.

  Again he heard the command. Silvery, unmistakably human; the peremptoryvoice came from some one near at hand, a few hundred yards, it might be,from where he stood:

  "Silence!"

  The tall, slim figure of a woman, clad in flowing white robe, withdazzling arm stretched downward, flashed in sharp outline against thedark hillside. She stood just above him, on a projecting shelf of rock.Her eyes, calm and stern, were not turned toward Raoul, but fixedintently on the lake, as if beholding--or expecting to behold--somethingthere that was hidden from all others.

  Involuntarily Raoul bent his head to this singular apparition, scarcelyknowing whether it was a creature of his imagination, conjured out ofthe strange fancies awakened by the lonely scene, or a real woman,statuesque, beautiful.

  Why was she here? Whence had she come? How address her? Vague questionscrowded upon him, giving place finally to the conviction that he wasan intruder and had unwittingly offended one whose rights here weresupreme. And then he yielded to a feeling of shame at being caught insenseless boy's play.

  "Pardon, Senorita," he murmured lamely.

  "Ah," she sighed, a trace of irony in her voice; "it is I, a strangerhere, who must ask pardon for daring to interrupt you."

  "Again--pardon," he said, moved by the seriousness, the bitterness inher tone. "Surely, you are not a stranger to Guatavita, to Bogota?" headded, not concealing his astonishment.

  "My home is far from here," she said simply. "Four days ago I left itfor the first time to go to Bogota."

  "And you visit the Sacred Lake on your way to the city!"

  "My fathers sacrificed here," she said proudly. "I am an Indian, thedaughter of those who once poured their treasure into the lake which youhave defiled with stones."

  "Sajipona!" called a harsh guttural voice from the trail that followedthe cutting made by the Spaniards in the mountain's side.

  "Si, padre mio," she answered, slowly descending to the path upon whichRaoul was standing.

  In the gathering darkness Raoul saw, just emerging from the cleft inthe rocks, the huge figure of a man, dressed, as all travelers are inthe mountains, in wide sombrero, capacious ruana, great hair-coveredleggings reaching to the waist, his spurred heels clattering on thestones as he walked towards them. Two mules followed closely, the bridleof the foremost held in his hand; behind these came a burro, loaded withmountainous baggage which swayed from side to side as the patient littleanimal picked his way along the treacherous path.

  "Good evening, senor," said the man suavely, as if Raoul were some oldacquaintance whom he expected to meet. "It grows dark quickly. Moreover,it is far to the city and the beasts are tired. We stop for the night atLa Granja. And you, Senor?"

  "My horse is fresh, I will ride to Bogota."

  "A stranger?" queried the man.

  "An American."

  "Ah!" Then, as if to atone for his surprise: "Bueno, in Bogota my houseis yours."

  Only the sure-footed mules of the Andes could have threaded thishandsbreadth of a path in safety, and only a horsewoman of the lithegrace and dexterity of this daughter of the mountains could have swungherself with such slight assistance into the high, clumsy saddle as didthis girl addressed as Sajipona.

  "Watch your burro, Senor," warned Raoul, viewing with some anxiety thatmuch encumbered animal wavering disconsolately on the brink of theprecipice. "He will slip into the lake."

  "Eh, Senor!" grunted the man, vaulting heavily to the back of his mule,at the same time spurring and then checking him with the reins. "Heknows his business, the canaille! Besides," he added, chuckling tohimself, "we carry no treasure for Guatavita. Since the days of Sajipa,men pay no tribute here--they look for it instead."

  "That is true," murmured Raoul. Then, addressing the departingtravelers: "May you have a pleasant ride, Senorita! And you, Senor; Imay see you in Bogota?"

  "In the Calle de Las Flores, Senor," called the other briskly. "Ask forRafael Segurra; always--remember!--at your service."

  Sajipa--Sajipona! The two names persisted in Raoul's thoughts as he rodehome that evening. Over and over again he passed in review the detailsof his strange encounter with this mysteri
ous girl who, in spite ofthe exquisite fairness of her complexion, called herself an Indian andclaimed these old worshipers of the Lake God for her ancestors. Whowas she? Could it be that his search for the descendant of that almostmythical line of monarchs had been so unexpectedly, completely rewarded?He could hardly wait for the morning to make the inquiries that heplanned.

  "Ah, yes," he was assured; "this Rafael Segurra is quite a man inhis way--a 'politico,' strong with the government. He lives far fromhere--on a hacienda--no one knows where. And his daughter--he bringsher to Bogota? That is strange! The beautiful Sajipona! Who knows ifshe really is Don Rafael's daughter! There is a mystery, a traditionabout her. Yes, some say that she has in her veins the blood of thatpoor old zipa that the Spaniards roasted alive because he wouldn't tellwhere he had hidden his treasure. Still, how can that be if Don Rafaelis her father? Ah, no one can be sure, Senor--their home is so far away.But--she is very beautiful. And there are many, many lovers--so theysay."

  The information, picked up from various sources, strengthened Raoul'sfirst impression, and from that time, he became a constant visitor inthe little house on the Calle de Las Flores.