"Tamanoas is displeased," he muttered as I stooped beside him. "Otetiani was right! We die."
His bronze face was ghastly pale, and for a moment I feared he would faint; but he rallied when I shook him by the arm. I was worried more for him than for Peter, in which respect I erred.
"'Tis not Tamanoas," I urged. "At least, brother, 'tis no more than ordinary mountain sickness I have often heard men tell of. Up here, above the world, the air is lighter than we are wont to breathe. We have gone too fast. Let us rest, and grow used to it."
He accepted the explanation with the illogical combination of civilization and barbarism which was the key to his extraordinary character.
"Peter," he grunted, pointing weakly.
I looked around to find the Dutchman in a dead faint, the blood trickling from mouth and nose, to all appearances dying. But after I had bathed his temples with snow for a short while he struggled to a sitting position.
"Who shoots us?" he quavered.
I explained the phenomenon to him as simply as I could—he was actually more ignorant of physics than the Seneca—and once he had comprehended its significance he was for continuing the ascent immediately; but upon my insistence agreed to allow his body an opportunity to readjust itself to the new strains upon it. We occupied the enforced rest by examining the country disclosed to us at this height, a panorama of dense forests and snowy peaks, and westward, in the distance, a winding body of water, too broad for a river, too irregular for a lake.* But nowhere a sign of habitation, of beings, human or otherwise, who might have enjoyed this land of natural happiness and plenty. Indeed, 'twas avoided by the surrounding savages as the abode of that divinity they visualized in the snowy majesty of the mountain, Tamanoas.
* Apparently, Puget Sound.—A.D.H.S.
Tawannears rose first, a look of grim determination in his eyes.