plain, which lies a green level between the
heights of the white summits of the Andes, toiling up the barren lava
sides of Mount Veneza to where, locked in its gray cone, lies the lake
of Guadiva. He saw this lake smiling back at the blue sky, its waters
clear as the mountain air which ripples across its surface. The lake
of Guadiva! How many bronzed men had whispered this name and then
dropped upon their knees in prayer. To Quesada it was just a mirror of
blue with unsearchable depths, but he lived to learn how much more it
meant to the lithe bronze men.

For while the great world beyond was fighting through the rumbling
centuries over its Christ, its Buddha, its Mahomet, a line of other
men plodded the stubborn path to this beloved spot, their shoulders
bent beneath their presents, and made their prayer and offered their
gifts to the Gilded Man who lived below the waters. A tenth, more
often a half, of all the richness of the plains of Alta was offered
there in tribute to him who was their god. He had blessed these people
generously, and mighty was their offering. Upon a single feast day,
tradition had it, a hundred mules with tinkling silver bells followed
the high priest, in scarlet robes, to the tiny cone, their sharp feet
clawing the lava road, their strong backs aching beneath the precious
burden. This was then transferred to rafts and gay barges by men
blindfolded by the priests and taken to the secret spot which lay
above the sunken shrine. The worshipers knelt in prayer beneath the
uplifted arms of their pious leaders, then raised high their golden
bowls. For a moment they glinted in the sun, then flashed a mellow
path beneath the waves which leaped to meet them. Jewels, rarer than
any Roman conquerors found, here kissed the sun as they were tossed
high, then mingled with the crystal lake like falling stars.

Here it was that Quesada, the adventurous Spaniard, had sought this
treasure. He organized a horde of gold-lustful minions and descended
upon the Chibcas. The latter were not by nature fighters, but they
stood their ground for their god, and fought like demons. Quesada
forcing his way over their bleeding bodies, killing even the women who
had armed themselves with knives, pressed up the rocky trail to where
the tiny lake lay as peaceful as a sleeping child. With hands upon
his hips, he gazed into the waters and smiled. Then he gave his orders
and for many weeks the eager soldiers dug and sweated in the