We hurried on our clothes. I felt more nervous and frightened than ever I had done in my life before. So were Jill and Peter.
“I hope,” said the latter, “the earth won’t open and swallow us up. Fancy being buried alive!”
“It would soon be all over, Peter,” said Jill.
Castizo, Lawlor and Ritchie were already out in the open and gazing westward. A fitful, changeful light was on their faces, such as I had never seen before. Sometimes it was a rosy glimmer, then it would change to pale yellow or blue.
The light came from the western horizon, and the appearance there was simply appalling. A great cone-shaped hill was vomiting forth columns of smoke alternating with fierce and terrible flames. In the midst of the fire we saw innumerable dark bodies which were undoubtedly rocks.
The night was very dark, so that the eruption was more fearful than it would otherwise have been.
All the Indians were out; most of them lying on their faces, and, I thought, praying.
I went to Jeeka, who sat beside his wife on the grass. Nadi was weeping and moaning.
“Jeeka,” I said, “do not pray to the Gualichu. Pray to Him who made everything, and who loves us—the Great Good Spirit.”
“Did He make that fiery hill?”