On the night of that same day, when the tormenta overtook them, Aguara and his party approach the Sacred town, which is about twenty miles from the edge of the salitral, where the trail parts from the latter, going westward. The plain between is no more of saline or sterile character; but, as on the other side, showing a luxuriant vegetation, with the same picturesque disposal of palm-groves and other tropical trees.
The hour is late—nigh to midnight—as the captive train passes under the shadow of the Cemetery Hill, making round to where the tolderia stands; for both lake and town are on the west side of the hill.
Well may the young cacique feel something of fear, his face showing it, as he glances up to that elevated spot where he so late laid the corpse of his father. Were that father living, he, the son, would not be passing there with the daughter of Ludwig Halberger as his captive. Even as it is, he can fancy the spirit of the deceased cacique hovering over the hill, and looking frowningly, reproachfully, down upon him!
As if to escape from such imaginary frowns, he gives the lash to his horse; and setting the animal into a gallop, rides on alone—having first placed the captive under the charge of one of his followers.
On reaching the tolderia, however, he does not go direct to his own dwelling, which is the largest of those adjacent to the malocca. Nor yet enters he among the toldos; but, instead, makes a wide circuit around them, taking care not to awake those sleeping within. The place for which he is making is a sort of half hut, half cave, close in to the base of the hill, with trees overshadowing, and a rocky background of cliff.
Arrived in front of this solitary dwelling, he dismounts, and, drawing aside the horse’s skin which serves as a swing door, calls out:—
“Shebotha!”
Presently a woman appears in the opening—if woman she could be called. For it is a hag of most repulsive appearance; her face half hidden by a tangle of long hair, black, despite old age indicated by a skin shrivelled and wrinkled as that of a chameleon. Add to this a pair of dark grey eyes, deep sunken in their sockets, for all gleaming brilliantly, and you have the countenance of Shebotha—sorceress of the Tovas tribe—one of cast as sinister as ever presented itself in a doorway.
She speaks not a word in answer to the friendly salutation of the cacique; but stands silent in bent, obeisant attitude, with her skinny arms crossed over her breast, as it waiting to hear what he would further say. His words are by way of command:
“Shebotha! I’ve brought back with me a captive—a young girl of the palefaces. You must take charge of her, and keep her here in your hut. She’s not yet come up, but will presently. So get things ready to receive her.”