en was dotted with downy
clouds. Behind the laboring steamer the river glittered through a
dazzling white haze. Ahead, its course was traceable for miles by the
thin vapor always rising from it. The jungle on either side was
brilliant with color and resonant with the songs of forest lyrists. In
the lofty fronds of venerable palms and cedars noisy macaws gossiped
and squabbled, and excited monkeys discussed the passing boat and
commented volubly on its character. In the shallow water at the margin
of the river blue herons and spindle-legged cranes were searching out
their morning meal. Crocodiles lay dozing on the _playas_, with mouths
opened invitingly to the stupid birds which were sure to yield to the
mesmerism. Far in the distance up-stream a young deer was drinking at
the water's edge.

The charm of the rare scene held the priest spellbound. As he gazed
upon it a king vulture--called by the natives the Vulture Papa, or
Pope Vulture--suddenly swooped down from the depths of heaven and,
lighting upon the carcass of a monster crocodile floating down the
river, began to feast upon the choicest morsels, while the buzzards
which had been circling about the carrion and feeding at will
respectfully withdrew until the royal appetite should be satiated.

"Holy graft, eh, Padre?" commented Don Jorge, coming up. "Those
brainless buzzards, if they only knew it and had sense enough to
unite, could strip every feather off that swaggering vulture and send
him packing. Fools! And we poor Colombians, if we had the courage,
could as easily throw the Church into the sea, holy candles, holy
oils, holy incense and all! _Diablo!_ But we are fleeced like sheep!"

To Jose it did not seem strange that this man should speak so frankly
to him, a priest. He felt that Don Jorge was not so much lacking in
courtesy and delicate respect for the feelings and opinions of others
as he was ruggedly honest and fearlessly sincere in his hatred of the
dissimulation and graft practiced upon the ignorant and unsuspecting.
For the rest of the day Don Jorge was busy with his maps and papers,
and Jose was left to himself.

The character of the landscape had altered with the narrowing of the
stream, and the river-plain now lay in a great volcanic basin flanked
by distant verdure-clad hills. Far to the southwest Jose could see the
faint outlines of the lofty _Cordilleras_. Somewhere in that direction
lay Simiti. And back of it lay the ancient treasure house