At last a strange chilliness came into the air. Dick imagined that he heard a growl, as of some savage animal. Then there came a stop, and he caught some whispered words--a woman's voice he could have sworn, speaking in some strange tongue. After a few minutes his pony started again.
But they had not gone more than a hundred yards further when his guide called out.
"Here we are, sir. I will help you to descend. Zen I take ze bandage away. You see again."
The voice had a quaint foreign accent. For a little time Willoughby remained blind. Then he began to see things, and involuntarily rubbed his eyes in amazement.
He was in a vast vaulted cavern with no visible entrance revealed by the dim light of several lanterns suspended from the roof. In the far distance a log fire was burning, and silhouetted against its ruddy glow was the figure of the aged Indian squaw, Guadalupe, with a great dog-like creature standing by her side.
"Guadalupe!" exclaimed Dick in profound surprise, turning to his guide.
This man he now saw was old, with short gray hair and a short gray beard. His face was pale, but there was a pleasant gleam in his eyes.
"Yes, Guadalupe," the guide replied. "Guadalupe, she guard ze entrance to our cave--she and ze white wolf. No one can get past ze white wolf unless Guadalupe speaks ze word."
"Oh, call me Pierre. I am Mr. Willoughby's servant. Here are fine beefsteaks ready for breakfast. Come."
|WHEN Dick proceeded to follow Pierre Luzon he found that the ponies had already trotted away through the semidarkness, evidently quite capable on their own account of finding their accustomed stable. Leading the way across the cavern, Pierre entered a corridor at the far end of which bright lights were burning. Soon, Dick, to his great wonderment, found himself in a comfortably, almost luxuriously furnished apartment.
There were big thick rugs on the floor, and the rock walls were completely hidden by tapestries. The dining table in the centre was set with napery, china, glass, cutlery and silverware that would have done credit to a first-class hotel. Above swung a bronze lamp of antique pattern. Another table was laden with books, newspapers and magazines. In one corner gleamed the snow-white counterpane of a massive bedstead built of oak in Old Mission style. Here and there portable oil stoves were burning, diffusing a genial warmth throughout the grotto.