tion. For
those three days they had not seen a trace of human beings, and the spot
seemed lonely enough for them to encamp without fear of discovery, and
begin the making of their canoes. They began to spread themselves along
the stream, in search of the soft-wooded trees proper for their purpose;
but hardly had their search begun, when, in the midst of a dense
thicket, they came upon a sight which filled them with astonishment.
Beneath a honey-combed cliff, which supported one enormous cotton-tree,
was a spot of some thirty yards square sloping down to the stream,
planted in rows with magnificent banana-plants, full twelve feet high,
and bearing among their huge waxy leaves clusters of ripening fruit;
while, under their mellow shade, yams and cassava plants were
flourishing luxuriantly, the whole being surrounded by a hedge of orange
and scarlet flowers. There it lay, streaked with long shadows from the
setting sun, while a cool southern air rustled in the cotton-tree, and
flapped to and fro the great banana leaves; a tiny paradise of art and
care. But where was its inhabitant?

[Illustration: SOLEMNLY HE APPROACHED, STAFF IN HAND]

Aroused by the noise of their approach, a figure issued from a cave in
the rocks, and, after gazing at them for a moment, came down the garden
towards them. He was a tall and stately old man, whose snow-white beard
and hair covered his chest and shoulders, while his lower limbs were
wrapt in Indian-web. Slowly and solemnly he approached, a staff in one
hand, a string of beads in the other, the living likeness of some old
Hebrew prophet, or anchorite of ancient legend. He bowed courteously to
Amyas (who of course returned his salute), and was in act to speak, when
his eye fell upon the Indians, who were laying down their burdens in a
heap under the trees. His mild countenance assumed instantly an
expression of the acutest sorrow and displeasure; and, striking his
hands together, he spoke in Spanish--

"Alas! miserable me! Alas! unhappy Senors! Do my old eyes deceive me,
and is it one of those evil visions of the past which haunt my dreams by
night: or has the accursed thirst for gold, the ruin of my race,
penetrated even into this my solitude? Oh, Senors, Senors, know you not
that you bear with you your own poison, your own familiar fiend, the
root of every evil? And is it not enough for you to load yourselves with
the wedge of Achan, and partake his doom, but you must make these
hapless