“I suppose it’s all right, Master Cyril,” whispered John Manning; “but I should have thought we’d ha’ done better by fortifying our own camp, and not running our heads right into the lion’s mouth; but the colonel knows best, and we’ve only got to obey orders.”
Certainly that seemed to be the safest course to pursue—a bold one; so in this spirit, and as if the colonel felt that there was nothing whatever to be feared from the people, the mules and packages were brought up. A snugly-sheltered spot was selected, close to a spring which came gushing from the rock, and a fresh camp made; the party going and coming among the cinchona gatherers as if they were invited visitors; while the Indians themselves looked puzzled, and watched every action from a distance.
That night, beside the fire, surrounded by the dense growth of the life-preserving trees he had sought, the colonel became more communicative.
“You boys have, I daresay, canvassed why I undertook this expedition,” he said, “and, I suppose, took it for granted that I came in search of the gold supposed to be hidden by the Peruvians, to save it from the rapacity of the Spaniards.”
“Yes, sir; that’s what I thought,” said Cyril.
“Or else to find one of the di’mond walleys,” growled John Manning.
“This is not the right direction for them, my man,” said the colonel, smiling. “You have to seek for them between the leaves of books. No, boys; I came to seek something of far greater value to my fellow-creatures than a buried store of yellow metal, which may or may not exist. It is possible that a number of the sacred vessels from some of the old temples may have been hidden by the priests, who, at their death, handed down the secret to their successors; but I think it is far more likely to be a fable. Still, the Indians believe in it, and if they knew that a discovery had been made, they would destroy the lives of the finders, sooner than that the gold should be taken out of the country.”
“Then you have not come to find the gold, sir?” said Cyril; while Perry lay there upon his chest, resting his chin upon his hands, and elbows on the earth, gazing up in his father’s face.
“No, boy; I have come, and I am running some risks, I know, to drag out into the light of day the wondrous medicine which has saved the lives of hundreds of thousands, and made it possible for men to exist in the fever-haunted countries spread around the globe.”
“You mean quinine,” said Cyril. “Father always keeps a bottle in his desk.”