Hour succeeded hour. The sun had risen, as the blindfolded rider could tell from the warmth of the atmosphere. The canter had long since changed to a walk, and Dick knew that they had been climbing steadily, with many a turn and sometimes up precipitous slopes.
At last a strange chilliness came into the air. Dick imagined that he heard a growl, as of some savage animal. Then there came a stop, and he caught some whispered words—a woman’s voice he could have sworn, speaking in some strange tongue. After a few minutes his pony started again.
But they had not gone more than a hundred yards further when his guide called out.
“Here we are, sir. I will help you to descend. Zen I take ze bandage away. You see again.”
The voice had a quaint foreign accent. For a little time Willoughby remained blind. Then he began to see things, and involuntarily rubbed his eyes in amazement.
He was in a vast vaulted cavern with no visible entrance revealed by the dim light of several lanterns suspended from the roof. In the far distance a log fire was burning, and silhouetted against its ruddy glow was the figure of the aged Indian squaw, Guadalupe, with a great dog-like creature standing by her side.
“Guadalupe!” exclaimed Dick in profound surprise, turning to his guide.
This man he now saw was old, with short gray hair and a short gray beard. His face was pale, but there was a pleasant gleam in his eyes.
“Yes, Guadalupe,” the guide replied. “Guadalupe, she guard ze entrance to our cave—she and ze white wolf. No one can get past ze white wolf unless Guadalupe speaks ze word.”