“To tell you the honest truth,” Harry interposed, “I believe there’s some hocus-pocus business about those two. She is reputed to be a witch, you know; not a bad witch, but a good sort. And I quite believe Monella to be a wizard; also of a good sort. And when those two laid their heads together, they could know a lot between them, I suspect. I should not at all wonder if he were not magician enough to lead you to the ‘golden castle,’ or ‘city,’ or whatever it is, and find its hidden stores of gold. I wish I had a chance to join him. But dad’s wanting me somewhere else. So I am out of it.”
“Yes,” observed his father. “We have to go on to Rio, where I have some law business on. But we shall not be away a great while, and then we are going back to that district.”
“Going back?” said Templemore in surprise.
“Yes, there is a lot to be done there. It is a wonderful place for my sort of work, and we really saw but very little of it after all. So we are going again when we return from Rio; but I cannot at all tell when that may be.”
The doctor was a fine-looking specimen of a hardy, bronzed traveller. He was, as has been said, over six feet in height; his hair and beard were iron-grey, his complexion was a little florid beneath its tan, and his expression good-humoured and often jovial. His son, Harry, was somewhat slight in build, but wiry, and had been used to knocking about with his father. He was a young fellow with boundless animal spirits and plenty of pluck and courage. His ready kindness to every one made him a general favourite; and the lively, captivating Stella and he were special friends.
Mr. Kingsford asked the doctor whether any time had been estimated for the length of the expedition.
“That would be difficult,” Dr. Lorien answered. “Apart from the long and tedious journey there, there is the girdle of forest that surrounds Roraima to be cut through. That may take months, I am told.”
“Months!” The exclamation came from Maud who, with Stella, had been a silent but appreciative listener.
“Yes. It is a curious thing, but this forest belt is never approached even by any of the Indian tribes. They look upon it with superstitious awe and will not even go near it. Indeed, they all regard Roraima with a sort of horror. They declare there is a lake on the top guarded by demons and large white eagles, and that it will never be gazed on by mortal eyes; that in the forest that surrounds it are monstrous serpents—‘camoodis’ they call them—larger far than any to be found elsewhere in the land; besides these, there are ‘didis’, gigantic man-apes, bigger and more ferocious and formidable than the African gorilla. Altogether, this wood has a very bad reputation, and no Indian will venture near it. Indeed, the mountain of Roraima and all its surroundings are looked upon as weird and uncanny. As a former traveller has expressed it, ‘its very name has come to be surrounded by a halo of dread and indefinable fear.’”
“How, then, is the necessary road to be made through this promising bit of woodland?” asked Templemore.