“What! down there, where the tigers are roaring?”
“Oh, a fig for them! Remember, Clara, it is gold we seek; and, believe me, if fortunate in our application, the Siren will tell us where it is to be found. Gold in masses!”
“Enough!” cried Clara, overcome by the rich prospect. “I am with you,” continued he—“lead on! From this hour I am the slave of the Siren who can show us the placers of gold!”
The Indian took up his hat and carbine, both of which he had laid aside while chaunting his invocation; and, throwing the gun over his shoulder, started down stream. Clara followed close at his heels—his spirit alternately possessed with cupidity and fear.
As they advanced, the banks rose higher above the surface of the stream, and the channel became the bottom of a deep, narrow ravine, where the water rushed foaming among rocks. The great trees growing on each side stretched towards one another, until their branches interlocked, forming a dark sombre tunnel underneath. At the lower end of this, the stream, once more bursting forth into light, leaped vertically at one bound through a space of two hundred feet sheer, falling into the bottom of a deep gorge, with a noise louder than the roar of the mighty ocean.
Just where the foaming flood broke over the crest of the rocks, grew two enormous cypresses of the kind known to the Mexicans as ahuehuetes, or “lords of the water.” They stood on opposite sides of the stream, with their long arms extended towards each other. Thickly loaded with llianas, and profusely festooned with the silvery Spanish moss, which, drooping downwards, every now and then dipped into the foaming arch of the cascade, these two great trees looked like the ancient genii of the waters.
At this point the two men made a halt. Although they were now very near to the place where the jaguars were supposed to be, Clara had become more regardless of the danger. His fear, both of wild beasts and evil spirits, had yielded to his thirst for gold, which had been gradually growing stronger.
“Now, Clara!” said Costal, turning a severe look upon his comrade; “listen attentively to the instructions I am about to give you. If the Siren should appear to you, and you should exhibit, either by look or gesture, the slightest symptoms of fear, you are a lost man!”
“All right!” replied the negro. “The hope of being shown a mine of gold gives me courage to risk even my neck in a halter, if need be. Never fear, Costal. Speak on—I am ready to listen.”
As the negro pronounced these words, his countenance to all appearance expressed as much firmness as that of Costal himself. The Indian, thus assured, seated himself upon the very edge of the precipice, overlooking the gorge into which the waters were precipitated, while Clara, without invitation, sat down by his side.