usly capable of explanation by
perfectly natural causes; but some miraculous chance must have heaped
together at the exact spot where this volcanic eruption occurred the
treasures of several galleons sunk in times gone by. And these
treasures, now dropping like rain on the surface of the earth, must
have slipped gradually to the bottom of the huge funnel in which the
new forces, concentrated and released by the great upheaval, were
boiling over now.

Simon had an impression that the air was growing warmer and that the
temperature of this column of water must be fairly high, which fact,
even more than fear of the pebbles, explained why no one dared venture
into the central zone.

Moreover, Rolleston's troops had taken up their position on the line
of the barricades, where the firing had been, furious from the first.
The mob of marauders, massed at a hundred yards beyond, had at once
given way, though here and there a band of lunatics would break loose
from the crowd and rush across the slope. They toppled over,
ruthlessly shot down; but others came on, bellowing, maddened by those
golden coins which fell like a miraculous rain and some of which
rolled to their feet.

These men in their turn spun on their heels and dropped. It was a
murderous game, an absolute massacre. The more favoured, those who
escaped the bullets, were taken prisoners on the line of the
barricades and set aside for execution.

And suddenly all grew quiet again. Like a fountain when the water is
turned off, the precious sheaf wavered, grew smaller and smaller and
disappeared from sight. The troops remaining at the barricades
completed the rout of the assailants, while the satellites who made up
the guard of honour gathered the gold in rush baskets collected at the
fore of the wreck on which Rolleston was performing his antics. The
harvest did not take long. The baskets were brought up briskly and the
sharing began, a revolting and grotesque spectacle. Eyes burned with
greed, hands trembled. The sight, the touch, the sound of the gold
drove all these men mad. No famishing beasts of prey, disputing a
bleeding quarry, could display greater ferocity and spite. Each man
hid his booty in his pockets or in a handkerchief knotted at the
corners. Rolleston put his into a canvas bag which he held clasped in
his arms:

"Kill the prisoners, the new ones as well as the others!" he shouted,
relapsing into drunkenness. "Have them executed! After that, we'll