Hearts of Three 40

Hearts of Three 40

CHAPTER XVIII

 

 

Convoyed by the spearmen, the party of Leoncia, the two Morgans, and

Torres, was led through the pleasant fields, all under a high state of

primitive cultivation, and on across running streams and through

woodland stretches and knee deep pastures where grazed cows of so

miniature a breed that, full-grown, they were no larger than young

calves.

 

“They’re milch cows without mistake,” Henry commented. “And they’re

perfect beauties. But did you ever see such dwarfs! A strong man could

lift up the biggest specimen and walk off with it.”

 

“Don’t fool yourself,” Francis spoke up. “Take that one over there, the

black one. I’ll wager it’s not an ounce under three hundredweight.”

 

“How much will you wager?” Henry challenged.

 

“Name the bet,” was the reply.

 

“Then a hundred even,” Henry stated, “that I can lift it up and walk

away with it.”

 

“Done.”

 

But the bet was never to be decided, for the instant Henry left the path

he was poked back by the spearmen, who scowled and made signs that they

were to proceed straight ahead.

 

Where the way came to lead past the foot of a very rugged cliff, they

saw above them many goats.

 

“Domesticated,” said Francis. “Look at the herd boys.”

 

“I was sure it was goat-meat in that stew,” Henry nodded. “I always did

like goats. If the Lady Who Dreams, whoever she may be, vetoes the

priest and lets us live, and if we have to stay with the Lost Souls for

the rest of our days, I’m going to petition to be made master goatherd

of the realm, and I’ll build you a nice little cottage, Leoncia, and you

can become the Exalted Cheese-maker to the Queen.”

 

But he did not whimsically wander farther, for, at that moment, they

emerged upon a lake so beautiful as to bring a long whistle from

Francis, a hand-clap from Leoncia, and a muttered ejaculation of

appreciation from Torres. Fully a mile in length it stretched, with more

than half the same in width, and was a perfect oval. With one exception,

no habitation broke the fringe of trees, bamboo thickets, and rushes

that circled its shore, even along the foot of the cliff where the

bamboo was exceptionally luxuriant. On the placid surface was so vividly

mirrored the surrounding mountains that the eye could scarcely discern

where reality ended and reflection began.

 

In the midst of her rapture over the perfect reflection, Leoncia broke

off to exclaim her disappointment in that the water was not crystal

clear:

 

“What a pity it is so muddy!”

 

“That’s because of the wash of the rich soil of the valley floor,” Henry

elucidated. “It’s hundreds of feet deep, that soil.”

 

“The whole valley must have been a lake at some time,” Francis

concurred. “Run your eye along the cliff and see the old water-lines. I

wonder what made it shrink.”

 

“Earthquake, most likely—opened up some subterranean exit and drained it

off to its present level—and keeps on draining it, too. Its rich

chocolate color shows the amount of water that flows in all the time,

and that it doesn’t have much chance to settle. It’s the catch-basin for

the entire circling watershed of the valley.”

 

“Well, there’s one house at least,” Leoncia was saying five minutes

later, as they rounded an angle of the cliff and saw, tucked against the

cliff and extending out over the water, a low-roofed bungalow-like

dwelling.

 

The piles were massive tree-trunks, but the walls of the house were of

bamboo, and the roof was thatched with grass-straw. So isolated was it,

that the only access, except by boat, was a twenty-foot bridge so narrow

that two could not walk on it abreast. At either end of the bridge,

evidently armed guards or sentries, stood two young men of the tribe.

They moved aside, at a gesture of command from the Sun Priest, and let

the party pass, although the two Morgans did not fail to notice that the

spearmen who had accompanied them from the Long House remained beyond

the bridge.

 

Across the bridge and entered into the bungalow-like dwelling on stilts,

they found themselves in a large room better furnished, crude as the

furnishings were, than they would have expected in the Valley of Lost

Souls. The grass mats on the floor were of fine and careful weave, and

the shades of split bamboo that covered the window-openings were of

patient workmanship. At the far end, against the wall, was a huge golden

emblem of the rising sun similar to the one before the altar by the Long

House. But by far most striking, were two living creatures who strangely

inhabited the place and who scarcely moved. Beneath the rising sun,

raised above the floor on a sort of dais, was a many-pillowed divan that

was half-throne. And on the divan, among the pillows, clad in a

softly-shimmering robe of some material no one of them had seen before,

reclined a sleeping woman. Only her breast softly rose and softly fell

to her breathing. No Lost Soul was she, of the inbred and degenerate

mixture of Carib and Spaniard. On her head was a tiara of beaten gold

and sparkling gems so large that almost it seemed a crown.

 

Before her, on the floor, were two tripods of gold——the one containing

smouldering fire, the other, vastly larger, a golden bowl fully a fathom

in diameter. Between the tripods, resting with outstretched paws like

the Sphinx, with unblinking eyes and without a quiver, a great dog,

snow-white of coat and resembling a Russian wolf-hound, stedfastly

regarded the intruders.

 

“She looks like a lady, and seems like a queen, and certainly dreams to

the queen’s taste,” Henry whispered, and earned a scowl from the Sun

Priest.

 

Leoncia was breathless, but Torres shuddered and crossed himself, and

said:

 

“This I have never heard of the Valley of Lost Souls. This woman who

sleeps is a Spanish lady. She is of the pure Spanish blood. She is

Castilian. I am as certain, as that I stand here, that her eyes are

blue. And yet that pallor!” Again he shuddered. “It is an unearthly

sleep. It is as if she tampered with drugs, and had long tampered with

drugs——”

 

“The very thing!” Francis broke in with excited whispers. “The Lady Who

Dreams drug dreams. They must keep her here doped up as a sort of

super-priestess or super-oracle.—That’s all right, old priest,” he broke

off to say in Spanish. “If we wake her up, what of it? We have been

brought here to meet her, and, I hope, awake.”

 

The Lady stirred, as if the whispering had penetrated her profound of

sleep, and, for the first time, the dog moved, turning his head toward

her so that her down-dropping hand rested on his neck caressingly. The

priest was imperative, now, in his scowls and gestured commands for

silence. And in absolute silence they stood and watched the awakening of

the oracle.

 

Slowly she drew herself half upright, paused, and re-caressed the happy

wolf hound, whose cruel fangs were exposed in a formidable, long-jawed

laugh of joy. Awesome the situation was to them, yet more awesome it

became to them when she turned her eyes full upon them for the first

time. Never had they seen such eyes, in which smouldered the world and

all the worlds. Half way did Leoncia cross herself, while Torres, swept

away by his own awe, completed his own crossing of himself and with

moving lips of silence enunciated his favorite prayer to the Virgin.

Even Francis and Henry looked, and could not take their gaze away from

the twin wells of blue that seemed almost dark in the shade of the long

black eyelashes.

 

“A blue-eyed brunette,” Francis managed to whisper.

 

But such eyes! Round they were, rather than long. And yet they were not

round. Square they might have been, had they not been more round than

square. Such shape had they that they were as if blocked off in the

artist’s swift and sketchy way of establishing circles out of the sums

of angles. The long, dark lashes veiled them and perpetuated the

illusion of their darkness. Yet was there no surprise nor startlement in

them at first sight of her visitors. Dreamily incurious were they, yet

were they languidly certain of comprehension of what they beheld. Still

further, to awe those who so beheld, her eyes betrayed a complicated

totality of paradoxical alivenesses. Pain trembled its quivering anguish

perpetually impending. Sensitiveness moistly hinted of itself like a

spring rain-shower on the distant sea-horizon or a dew-fall of a

mountain morning. Pain—ever pain—resided in the midst of languorous

slumberousness. The fire of immeasurable courage threatened to glint

into the electric spark of action and fortitude. Deep slumber, like a

palpitant, tapestried background, seemed ever ready to obliterate all in

sleep. And over all, through all, permeating all, brooded ageless

wisdom. This was accentuated by cheeks slightly hollowed, hinting of

asceticism. Upon them was a flush, either hectic or of the paint-box.

 

When she stood up, she showed herself to be slender and fragile as a

fairy. Tiny were her bones, not too-generously flesh-covered; yet the

lines of her were not thin. Had either Henry or Francis registered his

impression aloud, he would have proclaimed her the roundest thin woman

he had ever seen.

 

The Sun Priest prostrated his aged frame till he lay stretched flat out

on the floor, his old forehead burrowing into the grass mat. The rest

remained upright, although Torres evidenced by a crumpling at the knees

that he would have followed the priest’s action had his companions shown

signs of accompanying him. As it was, his knees did partly crumple, but

straightened again and stiffened under the controlled example of Leoncia

and the Morgans.

 

At first the Lady had no eyes for aught but Leoncia; and, after a