We left Cross in camp with the Indian, and his wife eagerly started with us as guide, leading us through lovely patches of forest and open glade till we were well above the falls, and where the little stream now glided slowly along.
“It looks as if we’re to find the quetzal at last,” said my uncle softly; “the woman seems so confident.”
“I hope so,” I said; “for if ever there was a beautiful home for a bird it ought to be here.”
We had hardly spoken before Mapah, who was some distance ahead, stopped, held up her hand, and stole back, signing for us to take her place and go forward.
We cocked our guns and stepped cautiously on, to find ourselves at the edge of an opening where no less than five of the lovely birds we sought were perched, each on a dead bough, with plumage absolutely glittering in the sun-rays, which shot through, just as the flashing scale of the humming-bird sends forth its gleams of broken light.
Every now and then one darted out into the full sunshine in chase of butterfly or beetle, its loose tail-feathers spreading out comet-like and waving in the clear air.
The scene was so striking that for some time we stood bending forward watching the birds and their actions, every movement showing their glorious plumage in a fresh light, and but one feeling was upon us—that it was like sacrilege to destroy creatures so exquisitely perfect. At last, though, the naturalist and collector prevailed. We had come thousands of miles to secure specimens of these birds for English museums, and have them we must.
I started as from a dream on seeing my uncle move.
“Going to fire, uncle?” I said.
“Yes, Nat,” he replied, with something like a sigh; “we must have a few to take back.”