“You will see—you will see,” persisted Miranda. “It is the Lake Guatavita.”
“How can that be?” argued Leighton. “No opening of the lake into this cave has ever been discovered.”
“You will see.”
One might almost imagine that the intricacies of the cave were as familiar to the doctor as the formula for his celebrated pills. But his confident attitude was only one part genuine to three parts bravado. He enjoyed opposing a scientist showing such supreme self-possession as Leighton, and he delighted in startling statements of fact that merely bewildered his hearers. But he was by no means sure in his own mind of the truth, or even the probability of the theory he was advancing. General Herran, however, who had heard as far back as he could remember the strange tales of mystery regarding Lake Guatavita, and had often speculated with other Bogotanos on the disappearance beneath its waters of the fabulous wealth of the ancient Chibchas, was keenly alive to the possibilities lying before them now that they were on the very spot haunted by so many fascinating traditions of his race. Like most natives of Bogota the Spanish blood in his veins was mixed with the blood of the Chibchas—and it was an infusion he was proud to own. Hence, he readily believed that at any moment they would stumble upon a perfect mountain of treasure, all the lost gold and emeralds that Spanish romancers had dreamed about and travelers of the old heroic times had risked their lives for.
They had now reached the end of the precipitous incline down which the path had led them, thankful to exchange the slipping and sliding, to which the tilted rocks had treated them, for the firm footing offered by a comparatively level floor. Here the roof hung only a few feet above their heads, whence it curved downward, glistening with the delicate fretwork that the subterranean torrents of bygone ages had carved upon it, until it became a part of the rock-strewn ground beneath. The chamber thus formed became a long, spacious corridor, one side of which was open to the vast amphitheater they had just left, the other side stoutly hemmed in by a maze of stalactites and stalagmites looming up as sentinels in front of a wall that could be dimly seen behind them. Down the middle of this corridor lay the path they had been following, wider now and showing the imprint of many sandaled feet. Before them, at the end of the corridor, they could distinguish the outlines of another wall, apparently marking the limit of this portion of the cave.
“There is your lake,” said Leighton ironically to Miranda, who shrugged his shoulders in reply.
“At any rate, Uncle Harold,” said Una reproachfully, “there must be an opening here. And the air is just heavenly! Instead of walking, one could dance.”
The others appeared to feel the truth of Una’s observation, for they moved along with a briskness, a snap, they had not shown before. This was particularly noticeable in Mrs. Quayle, who seemed to be propelled by some inner gayety of spirit that quite changed her usually sedate manner and appearance. The transformation was not lost on Una, who was both amused and puzzled by it.
“Look at Mrs. Quayle’s jewelry!” she exclaimed. “It is dancing about as if it were moved by a breeze from somewhere.”