Prisoners of Chance

The village reposed in loneliness and silence, nor did I see even child or dog playing before the square huts as we passed them. As we mounted higher along the slope and began climbing the strangely rounded hill on the summit of which perched the altar-house, I glanced back curiously over the plain outspread below. Little clusters of dark figures were scattered here and there throughout the pleasant valley, many of them congregated along the greener banks of the circling water-course, others scattered more widely afield, yet all earnestly engaged in cultivation of the ground. This quiet, pastoral scene was so foreign to all my previous conception of Indian nature that for the moment I paused amazed, gazing upon this picture of peaceful agriculture in the heart of the wilderness. Surely, cruel, revengeful savages though they were, yet here was a people retaining traditions of a higher life than that of the wild chase and desert war. I could perceive no guards stationed anywhere, yet felt no doubt that every entrance leading into this hidden paradise, this rock-barricaded basin amid the hills, would be amply protected by armed and vigilant warriors, confining us as securely within its narrow limits as if a dozen savages followed our every footfall. My silent guide, after one glance across his naked shoulder, to assure himself that I followed, led straight forward up the hill on a dog-trot, soon placing him far in advance. At the entrance of the altar-house he paused, showing disinclination to enter. In obedience to a gesture I passed within, leaving him standing there, as if awaiting my return, a silent statue in light bronze, the glow of the sunshine upon him.

Wondering what my mission might be, I remained a moment motionless slightly within the entrance, my eyes almost totally blinded by the sudden transition from the garish day to that dull interior. Slowly the scene within resolved itself into clearer detail. I began to perceive the crawling red flames licking with hungry tongues along the sides of the huge log resting upon the altar block, and later distinguished the black figure of a priest moving silently from point to point amid the shadows, engaged upon the grewsome functions of his office, his presence ever manifested by the dismal crooning with which he worked his magic spells. Beyond these vague suggestions of life--for they seemed scarcely more--it was like endeavoring to sound the depths of a cavern, so black, still, and void was all within and about. Yet, even as I stood thus, peering uneasily into the gloom, I was thoroughly startled at the sudden booming forth of a voice, apparently issuing from the darkest corner.