“That is true,” murmured Raoul. Then, addressing the departing travelers: “May you have a pleasant ride, Senorita! And you, Senor; I may see you in Bogota?”
“In the Calle de Las Flores, Senor,” called the other briskly. “Ask for Rafael Segurra; always—remember!—at your service.”
Sajipa—Sajipona! The two names persisted in Raoul’s thoughts as he rode home that evening. Over and over again he passed in review the details of his strange encounter with this mysterious girl who, in spite of the exquisite fairness of her complexion, called herself an Indian and claimed these old worshipers of the Lake God for her ancestors. Who was she? Could it be that his search for the descendant of that almost mythical line of monarchs had been so unexpectedly, completely rewarded? He could hardly wait for the morning to make the inquiries that he planned.
“Ah, yes,” he was assured; “this Rafael Segurra is quite a man in his way—a ‘politico,’ strong with the government. He lives far from here—on a hacienda—no one knows where. And his daughter—he brings her to Bogota? That is strange! The beautiful Sajipona! Who knows if she really is Don Rafael’s daughter! There is a mystery, a tradition about her. Yes, some say that she has in her veins the blood of that poor old zipa that the Spaniards roasted alive because he wouldn’t tell where he had hidden his treasure. Still, how can that be if Don Rafael is 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 they say.”
The information, picked up from various sources, strengthened Raoul’s first impression, and from that time, he became a constant visitor in the little house on the Calle de Las Flores.
[VIII]
A RIVER INTERLUDE
On the deck of the wheezy, palpitating river steamer, “Barcelona,” toiling slowly up the turbid waters of the Magdalena, sat the usual throng of passengers who are compelled to sacrifice two weeks of their lives every time they travel from the seacoast to Colombia’s mountain capital. Fortunate such travelers count themselves if their lumbering, flat-bottomed craft, its huge stern wheel lifted high above the down-rushing eddies and whirlpools, escapes the treacherous mudbanks which form and dissolve in this ever-shifting, shallow current, and which not infrequently elude the vigilance of the navigator.