They bent closer, for his breath was coming in spasms.
“Another white rock marks—”
They sprang to his side; a strange rattle sounded in his throat.
“Lift me that I may see the setting sun.”
They did so and he looked out the window, toward Callao, where the ball of red was sinking. Then he fell back, dead.
For several days the young men said little concerning the Indian’s story. They gave his body fitting burial in the little cemetery at Bella Vista, and returned to their work at office desks. It all seemed a dream to them; either they had dreamed or they had listened to the ravings of Huayno. But after a week they commenced to discuss the narrative, first curiously, as one might talk of a fairy tale, then earnestly, as if their minds were becoming convinced that it had foundation in fact.
Why was it impossible? Were not legends heard from every tongue of the fabulous wealth of the Incas? Was it not said that they had secret mines, from which gold and silver had been taken, and which mines were closed and their bearings lost after the advent of the white man? Had there not been wonderful wealth in Cuzco?—a temple covered with sheets of gold and heaps of treasure? At Cajamaráca, did not Atahuallpa offer Pizarro, as a ransom, sufficient gold to fill the apartment in which he was confined and twice that amount of silver?
There could be no reason for the Indian to deceive them; there was every reason why he should have told them the truth. Would it not be wise to go into the interior and investigate?
Nothing stood in the way. They had youth and strength, the journey would be of advantage physically; each had a small sum of money in bank and a portion of this would furnish everything they might need on the trip, leaving sufficient for emergencies upon their return, should they prove unsuccessful.
These arguments, advanced by one, then by the other, determined them, and one evening Ferguson jumped up from his seat at table and exclaimed:—