Drake. I can see farther, John. I mean to ascend the heights and behold the other ocean—what Spain is doing. The source of all her wealth lies there.
Indians, loaded with provisions, proceed up the precipitous rock at the side; others armed with lances and bows mingle with the English, and prepare to accompany them. Chiruca approaches Drake.
Chiruca. Friend Drake! We wait for you; the sun is above the mountains, and warns us that time passes (Drake takes him by the arm and points forward).
Drake. On then, Chiruca. Looking at these precipitous rocks—those tangled forests—those foaming cataracts—the stern outline of that high Sierra—the task would seem hopeless.
Chiruca. Gold and silver, in loads, traverse these heights on mules and llamas. We will show you the Recoes and their Spanish escort. With your men of iron, we shall make short work of the guard, and carry off the treasure. We will ambuscade them for you, and mow them down with poisoned arrows. You shall see them fly, as from a pestilence, or the scourge of the evil one.
Drake. Lead on.
Chiruca. This is the way. Follow me.
The Indians bound up the face of the rock and disappear under the hanging shrubs.
Moon. That’s what I call a flying leap. Body o’ me! They’re birds or antilopes—not men.
Drake (he calls up to Chiruca). Call you this a path? To get up there would require the wings of one of those Condors that have scented death from the Sierra, and are sailing over our heads, ready to pick our bones, should we break our necks.