“All ready there, Lopez?” cried the leader.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Swing off the captain, then—no, not yet; let him look at the floor on which he is going to dance; that is but fair.”
I had been drawn forward until my feet projected over the edge of the precipice, and close to the root of the tree. I was now forced into a sitting posture, so that I might look below, my limbs hanging over. Strange to say, I could not resist doing exactly what my tormentor wished. Under other circumstances the sight would have been to me appalling; but my nerves were strung by the protracted agony I had been forced to endure.
The precipice on whose verge I sat formed a side of one of those yawning gulfs common in Spanish America, and known by the name barrancas. It seemed as if a mountain had been scooped out and carried away. Not two hundred yards horizontally distant was the twin jaw of the chasm, like a black burnt wall; yet the torrent that roared and foamed between them was full six hundred feet below my position! I could have flung the stump of a cigar upon the water; in fact, an object dropping vertically from where I sat—for it was a projecting point—must have fallen plumb into the stream.
It was not unlike the cañon where we had tossed over the dogs; but it was higher, and altogether more hell-like and horrible.
As I looked down, several small birds, whose species I did not stay to distinguish, were screaming below, and an eagle on his broad, bold wing came soaring over the abyss, and flapped up to my very face.
“Well, Captain,” broke in the sharp voice of Jarauta, “what do you think of it? A nice soft floor to dance upon, isn’t it, Lopez?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“All ready there? Stop! some music; we must have music: how can he dance without music? Hola, Sanchez, where’s your bugle?”