“I have heard it said,” whispered one of them, “that the waters of this lake now so muddy, were once as clear as crystal; and that it was only after they were consecrated to the devil, that they became as they are now.”
“Bah!” rejoined another, “I don’t believe what they say about the devil living up there upon the Cerro encantado. He would choose a more pleasant place for his residence, I should fancy.”
“Well,” said the first speaker, who was named Zefirino, and who was better acquainted with the locality than either of his companions, “whether the devil dwells there or not, some terrible things have taken place on that mountain; and it is said, still happen there. I have heard that the fog which you see upon its summit, and which always rests there at night, is extended over it by the god of the Indians—who is only the devil himself. He does that to hide what goes on up there. There’s one strange story the Indians themselves tell.”
“What is it? Let us hear it, Zefirino.”
“Well, you’ve heard how in old times the Indian priests had an altar up yonder—upon which they used to sacrifice scores of human beings—so that the blood ran down the fissures of the rock like water after a shower of rain. Their plan was to cut open the breast of the victim, and tear out his heart while still alive. But why need I frighten you with a story that, by my faith, is fearful enough?”
“No—no—never mind! Go on, Zefirino.”
“Stay!” cried the other domestic. “Did you not hear a noise—just down there by the edge of the lake?”
“Bah! it’s only an alligator snapping his jaws together. Go on, Zefirino!”
“Well, comrades—the story is, that about five hundred years ago, one of the unfortunate victims was about to be sacrificed in this manner as usual. The cruel priest had opened his breast and taken out the heart; when, to the astonishment of all around, the Indian seized hold of his own heart, and endeavoured to put it back in its place. His hand, however, trembled, and the heart slipping from his grasp, rolled down the mountain side and into the lake. The Indian, uttering a terrible howl, plunged in after for the purpose of recovering his heart from the water, and was never seen again. Of course, a man like that could not possibly die; and for five hundred years the Indian has been wandering round the shores of the lake searching for his heart, and with his breast cut open, just as the priest had left it. It’s not more than a year ago that some one saw this Indian, and just about here, too, on the southern shore of the lake.”
As Zefirino finished his narration, his two companions involuntarily cast glances of terror towards the gloomy waters of the lake, as if in dread that the legendary Indian might suddenly show himself. Just at that moment, a rustling among the leaves caused all three of them to start to their feet, and stand trembling with fear.