Pedro had not formed any idea of the value of his treasure—his brain was so demented he could not have counted twenty correctly. But he saw the coins were all among the highest ever sent from the mint, and nearly all gold; but he had not the slightest idea of the value of the jewels—he only knew he was immensely rich.
“Ah, my yellow, shining, pretty pets!” he exclaimed, filling the bag again. “My darlings! you have made me the richest man in the wide world. Brave, yellow, sparkling boys!”
A horse stamped close by. He listened intently.
Another stamp and a shrill neigh from a strange horse. Pedro turned sick, his brain reeled, and a deadly nausea seized him.
Suddenly recovering, he threw the bag into the entrance, and drew his jeweled dagger—his rifle was inside.
“Who’s there?” he hoarsely said, peering off into the plain. “Speak! man or ghost! who is near—who is there?”
Nothing—no one; the plain is bare. All is quiet in the Land of Silence.
“Murder! help! who’s there? Oh, heaven, my gold!”
He saw the plain was bare, and that he was alone. He drew a breath of relief—might he not have been deceived?
Perhaps. He prayed so. But stay—the hillock hid a part of the plain from view. He would ascend it and discover evil if it was at hand.