MOON. Take my advice, and put on a pair of wings and then have a care. I remember hearing a Friar reading about some ancient philosopher who made wings, and thought he could fly; but the sun melted the wax with which they were stuck together, and he fell into the sea, and was drowned. (_Laughter_). The open sea and an oak plank for Thomas Moon. (_Laughter_). SEVERAL VOICES. Aye! Aye! Moon! That’s your element. You’re at home there. (_Laughter_). CHIRUCA (_Not heading the observations_). I must first settle with that tiger, who is preparing to seize the first who crosses, and that will show you the power of a poisoned arrow. _The Indian bends his bow and shoots_. _The tiger tumbles over the cliff into the roaring torrent below_. _They all look surprised at one another_, _conferring on the marvellous effect_. _The Indian ascends the rock a few paces_, _enters into the car or chair and as by magic appears to fly across the ravine_, _upon the rope_. _He immediately returns_, _and whilst he is dispatching them over_, _one by one_, _the scene changes_. SCENE XI.—THE PLATEAU AND THE GREAT COTTON TREE. _Before them the high bold peak or summit of Panama_, _on either side the two oceans_. _On the South_, _the pacific with the city of Panama_, _and the Isle of Pearls in its bay_. _On the other side the Atlantic_, _with Nombre de Dios on the Coast_, _and the Caribean sea_, _with its islands_. _The Isthmus_, _with a Reco or transport of treasure winding through defiles_. CHIRUCA. We stand upon the Plateau, noble Drake. The ocean you desire is spread before you—an endless waste of waters, dark, fathomless, unknown! How say you—is it enough? If not, there’s the bold peak (_he points to the summit_). We can ascend like Vasco Nunez. But the labour would be vain—the danger something, and time inexorable flies. The sun has half performed his course. Here is the Atlantic. (_He turns to the North_, _pointing_). You see the islands where the Carib dwelt—now desolate—the race extinct! or slaves! (_with bitterness and passion_). Spain plants her foot upon a land, and sows the soil with death. (_He turns with aversion to the South_). On the South, behold the ocean, which they say is boundless, save for the islands far away, from which Tradition tells our fathers came—and where our spirits go. Spain’s proud ships pollute its waters now, and carry gold in safety. There! (_he points_). Just below, is Panama, where they collect the treasure, and out in its beauteous bay, the Isle of Pearls, famous for these gems, which even our Indian women prize so highly. DRAKE (_much interested_). I noted their magnificence and profusion on the family of the Cacique.