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Whirligigs-Part10_O.Henry(1862-1910)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Half a day's journey from here, Se锟給r," said he,

"is the village of Tacuzama, which we have never visited.



I think many ounces of gold may be procured there. It

is worth the trial."



Armstrong concurred, and they turned again upward

toward Tacuzama. The trail was abrupt and precipi-



tous mounting through a dense forest. As night fell,

dark and gloomy, Luis once more halted. Before them



was a black chasm, bisecting the path as far as they could

see.



Luis dismounted. "There should be a bridge," he

called, and ran along the cleft a distance. "It is here,"



he cried, and remounting, led the way. In a few moments

Armstrong, heard a sound as though a thunderous drum



were beating somewhere in the dark. It was the falling

of the mules' hoofs upon the bridge made of strong hides



lashed to poles and stretched across the chasm. Half a

mile further was Tacuzama. The village was a congre-



gation of rock and mud huts set in the profundity of an

obscure wood. As they rode in a sound inconsistent



with that brooding solitude met their ears. From a

long, low mud hut that they were nearing rose the glorious



voice of a woman in song. The words were English,

the air familiar to Armstrong's memory, but not to his



musical knowledge.

He slipped from his mule and stole to a narrow window



in one end of the house. Peering cautiously inside, he

saw, within three feet of him, a woman of marvellous,



imposing beauty, clothed in a splendid loose robe of

leopard skins. The hut was packed close to the small



space in which she stood with the squatting figures of

Indians.



The woman finished her song and seated herself close

to the little window, as if grateful for the unpolluted air



that entered it. When she had ceased several of the

audience rose and cast little softly-falling bags at her feet.



A harsh murmur -- no doubt a barbarous kind of applause

and comment -- went through the grim assembly.



Armstrong, was used to seizing opportunities promptly.

Taking advantage of the noise he called to the woman in



a low but distinct voice: "Do not turn your head this way,

but listen. I am an American. If you need assistance



tell me how I can render it. Answer as briefly as you can."

The woman was worthy of his boldness. Only by a



sudden flush of her pale cheek did she acknowledge

understanding of his words. Then she spoke, scarcely



moving her lips.

"I am held a prisoner by these Indians. God knows



I need help. In two hours come to the little hut twenty

yards toward the Mountainside. There will be a light



and a red curtain in the window. There is always a

guard at the door, whom you will have to overcome. For



the love of heaven, do not fail to come."

The story seems to shrink from adventure and rescue



and mystery. The theme is one too gentle for those

brave and quickening tones. And yet it reaches as far



back as time itself. It has been named "environment,"

which is as weak a word as any to express the unnameable



kinship of man to nature, that queer fraternity that causes

stones and trees and salt water and clouds to play upon



our emotions. Why are we made serious and solemn

and sublime by mountain heights, grave and contempla-



tive by an abundance of overhanging trees, reduced to

inconstancy and monkey capers by the ripples on a sandy



beach? Did the protoplasm -- but enough. The chem-

ists are looking into the matter, and before long they will



have all life in the table of the symbols.

Briefly, then, in order to confine the story within



scientific bounds, John Armstrong, went to the hut, choked

the Indian guard and carried away Mlle. Giraud. With



her was also conveyed a number of pounds of gold dust

she had collected during her six months' forced engage-



ment in Tacuzama. The Carabobo Indians are easily




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