"You must act as you think best, Mr. Power," he said amicably; "but I certainly cannot promise to retreat merely because a few wretched Indians bar the path." "I will convince you, never fear," came the prompt assurance. "But I am not the only skeptic. There are others to consult. I have two partners in this enterprise, and one of them is a mining expert." "Leave everything to me, and make no forward move till I come back. You can expect me in a couple of hours." He could say no more. He was choking. It was a mere pretense that he must conciliate the Indians, who, he knew, were watching every move in the camp with the eyes of eagles. What he really feared, in that moment of revulsion and self-enlightenment, was that he might break down and cry like a child. He strode away, aflame with the fire of longing for communion with his fellow-men. The tumult of emotion evoked by contact with the expedition startled and dismayed him; but he had not gone two hundred yards up the valley before a sibilant hiss restored his scattered wits. He was passing an Indian outpost, and the faithful creatures were warning him of their presence. He signed that he was going to the village, and passed on. He had seen no one. Not a leaf moved among the trees; but the watchers were there, and would remain. Much against the grain, though there was no help for it, he pacified the head men of the tribe by the statement that he must remain in the encampment that night; indeed, he did not purpose leaving the invaders until they had turned on their tracks. He dared not risk telling his "subjects" that he meant to abandon his empire. Their fierce passions were easily aroused, and a prompt massacre of Sinclair and his followers would be the certain result of a fanatical outbreak. Entering his hut, he picked up the "Horæ." As he did so, a wave of sentiment shook him, because he thought of the poor Spanish priest who had brought that precious volume from Cádiz or Barcelona, and, perchance, gazed at it with eyes glazing in death while he lurked, wounded and starving, in the cave where he had sought shelter from the pitiless savages. Now, if God willed, it might cross the Atlantic again. He opened the book haphazard, and read: "_In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum!_" Then he sank on his knees, and prayed; for, if ever man had placed soul and body in the keeping of the Almighty, he had. That evening, master of himself, and ever recovering facility of speech, he reasoned with Sinclair and the two Spaniards who had joined in the adventure. One, a Señor Felice Gomez, though posing as an authority on mines, had to admit that his knowledge was that of the company director and well-informed amateur. They were inclined to scoff at Power's predictions of disaster; but he wound up with an argument which proved irresistible. "How much has this enterprise cost you?" he asked. Sinclair answered readily.