"There are huge white eagles, that fly so high we cannot see them; but they have very fine eyesight, and many a poor brave has been seized by them, and carried to the didis on the mountain."
"They must mean the big white birds we call condors, found in the highest peaks of the Andes," said the Spaniards, "but our good weapons are proof against any bird, and we need have no fear."
"As soon as it is dark in those terrible woods, blood-sucking vampires swoop down from the trees and fasten their long red bills in your throat," said the Indians, with a shudder, but no attention was paid to anything they told of the hardships to be endured.
"It is better for us to start at the beginning of the dry season," said Carino, the Indian guide, and in a short time the entire party was voyaging on one of the splendid rivers that span that country. In canoes they passed through untracked forests and grassy savannahs following the course of the river. Some places they were in great danger from cataracts and rapids, but finally landed in a place where there was a flock of red flamingos half hidden by tall pampas grass, and where there were hundreds of little wild ducks with tiny horns on their wings. In the trees were some rare and beautiful orchids, and when some of the party climbed up to pick the big perfumed blossoms, they were much surprised to find that what they thought was a flower was a perfumed butterfly.
"We must be near the enchanted wood," said the Spaniards, but just then they heard a sort of combination of whistle, snort and hiss that frightened them dreadfully:
"Carino! what is that?" they all said, huddling up close together, and listening intently.
"It is the cry of the Lost Souls, who have been slain by the camoodi," said Carino. "We have already seen their strange shapes flitting through the deep shadows. They are in league with the didi to guard this spot." As he spoke the Indian porters and slaves began a curious chant in a singsong tone:
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry as of the pained heart of the wood,
The long despairing moan of solitude