CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.
THE ENCHANTED LAKE.
It is ten o'clock at night, and a starry heaven is extended over a largeexpanse of level country--here clothed with virgin forests--there withbroad, almost treeless savannas, now and then partaking of the characterof marshes and covered with tall reeds. In the midst of this landscapea large lake opens to the view. Its aspect is sombre and sad--its dark,turbid waters scarce reflecting the stars that shine so brilliantly overit; while the waves beating against its sedge-encircled shores, utteronly the most lugubrious sounds.
Near the centre of this lake rises a mountain of dark, greenish colour,resembling an immense cairn constructed by the hands of Titans. Uponits summit rests a cloud of white fog collected by evaporation from thesurrounding water, which has been condensed by the freshness of thenight. The numerous dark fissures distinguishable along the sides ofthis gigantic hill give it the appearance of being a mass of lava--thedebris vomited forth by some extinct volcano--and at night, when themoon's rays fall obliquely upon its flanks, it presents a vagueresemblance to the scales of an alligator. At the same time that thisfancy is suggested, the huge saurian itself may be heard, plunging amongthe reeds at its foot, and causing their culms to rattle against therhomboid protuberances of his hideous carapace.
The mournful and desolate aspect of this lake, as well as of the shoresthat surround it--the eternal silence that reigns over it--the bleak,lonely appearance of its island mountain--all combine to produce uponthe spectator an irresistible impression of melancholy; and a spirit ofsuperstitious inclinings cannot help giving way to thoughts of thesupernatural. No wonder that in such a place the ancient Aztec priestsshould have erected an altar for their sanguinary sacrifices; and sostrong is tradition, that even in modern times the lake of Ostuta andthe mountain of Monopostiac, are invested with supernatural attributes,and regarded by the vulgar with feelings of awe.
It was to the shores of this lake that the domestic of Don Mariano deSilva had conducted his master, certain of finding there a secureresting-place for the night. He knew that the country surrounding thelake was entirely uninhabited; and the brigands of Arroyo would scarceextend their excursions to such an unprofitable foraging ground. Thesouthern end of the lake was bordered by a strip of forest; and it wasin this forest that Don Mariano had determined to make halt for thenight.
A small glade surrounded by trees of many species was chosen by thetravellers as a place of their bivouac. The ground was covered with acarpet of soft grass, and many flowering shrubs and blossoming llianas,supported by the trees that grew around, yielded to the night an odorousincense that was wafted over the glade. It was, in fact, a bower madeby the hand of nature, over which was extended the dark blue canopy ofthe sky, studded with its millions of scintillating stars.
Don Mariano had selected this lovely spot with a design--that ofdistracting his daughter's spirit from the sad reflections which themore gloomy portions of the forest might otherwise have called up.
Shortly after halting, Dona Gertrudis had fallen asleep in her_litera_--through the curtains of which, only half closed, might be seenher soft cheek, white almost as the pillow upon which it lay.
Nature had almost repaired the outrage she had voluntarily committed onher long dark tresses; but the life within her seemed fast hastening toan end, and her breathing told how feeble was the spirit that nowanimated her bosom. She appeared like one of the white passion-flowersgrowing near, but more like one that had been plucked from the stemwhich had been the source of its life and sweetness.
Don Mariano stood near the _litera_--gazing upon the pale face of hischild with feelings of sad tenderness. He could not help calling upthis very comparison--although it was torture to his soul; for he knewthat the flower once plucked must irrevocably wither and die.
At some distance from the _litera_, and nearer the edge of the lake,three of the attendants were seated together upon the grass. They wereconversing, in low tones, for the purpose of passing the time. Thefourth, who was the guide already mentioned, had gone forward throughthe woods--partly to search for the crossing, but also to reconnoitrethe path, and find out whether the road to San Carlos was clear of theguerilleros.
Through a break in the forest that surrounded the glade, the enchantedmountain was visible--its sombre silhouette outlined against the bluebackground of the sky.
In all countries, every object that appears to vary from the ordinarylaws of nature, possesses, for the vulgar imagination, a powerfulinterest; and the servants of Don Mariano were no exception to the rule.
"I have heard it said," whispered one of them, "that the waters of thislake now so muddy, were once as clear as crystal; and that it was onlyafter they were consecrated to the devil, that they became as they arenow."
"Bah!" rejoined another, "I don't believe what they say about the devilliving up there upon the _Cerro encantado_. He would choose a morepleasant place for his residence, I should fancy."
"Well," said the first speaker, who was named Zefirino, and who wasbetter acquainted with the locality than either of his companions,"whether the devil dwells there or not, some terrible things have takenplace on that mountain; and it is said, still happen there. I haveheard that the fog which you see upon its summit, and which always reststhere at night, is extended over it by the god of the Indians--who isonly 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 upyonder--upon which they used to sacrifice scores of human beings--sothat the blood ran down the fissures of the rock like water after ashower 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 youwith 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 downthere 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 ofthe unfortunate victims was about to be sacrificed in this manner asusual. The cruel priest had opened his breast and taken out the heart;when, to the astonishment of all around, the Indian seized hold of hisown heart, and endeavoured to put it back in its place. His hand,however, trembled, and the heart slipping from his grasp, rolled downthe mountain side and into the lake. The Indian, uttering a terriblehowl, plunged in after for the purpose of recovering his heart from thewater, and was never seen again. Of course, a man like that could notpossibly die; and for five hundred years the Indian has been wanderinground the shores of the lake searching for his heart, and with hisbreast cut open, just as the priest had left it. It's not more than ayear ago that some one saw this Indian, and just about here, too, on thesouthern shore of the lake."
As Zefirino finished his narration, his two companions involuntarilycast glances of terror towards the gloomy waters of the lake, as if indread that the legendary Indian might suddenly show himself. Just atthat moment, a rustling among the leaves caused all three of them tostart to their feet, and stand trembling with fear.
Their alarm did not last long; for almost immediately after theyperceived that the noise had been caused by Castrillo, the guide--who,in the next moment, stepped forward into the glade.
"Well, Castrillo! what have you seen?" demanded his fellow-servants.
"Enough to make it necessary that I should at once communicate with ourmaster," and Castrillo passed on towards the _litera_, leaving hiscompanions to form their conjectures about what he had seen as best theymight.