gone generations of carrion, white, rigid, sinister.  Detached skulls lay in heaps, grinning derisively.  Stark digits pointed threateningly, as if the old warriors still guarded their domain.  Other frames lay face downward, as though the broken teeth had bitten the dust in battle.  Slender forms lay prone, their arms encircling cooking utensils, beautiful in form and colour.  Great bowls and urns, toy canoes, mortars and pestles, of serpentine, sandstone, and steatite, wrought with a lost art,—­if, indeed, the art had ever been known beyond this island,—­and baked to richest dyes, were placed at the head and feet of skeletons more lofty in stature than their fellows.

Father Carillo sprinkled holy water right and left, bidding his Indians chant a rosary for the souls which once had inhabited these appalling tenements.  The Indians obeyed with clattering teeth, keeping their eyes fixed stonily upon the ground lest they stumble and fall amid yawning ribs.

The ghastly tramp lasted two hours.  The sun spurned the hill-top and cast a flood of light upon the ugly scene.  The white bones grew whiter, dazzling the eyes of the living.  They reached the foot of a mountain and began a toilsome ascent through a dark forest.  Here new terrors awaited them.  Skeletons sat propped against trees, grinning out of the dusk, gleaming in horrid relief against the mass of shadow.  Father Carillo, with one eye over his shoulder, managed by dint of command, threats, and soothing words to get his little band to the top of the hill.  Once, when revolt seemed imminent, he asked them scathingly if they wished to retrace their steps over the plain unprotected by the cross, and they clung to his skirts thereafter.  When they reached the summit, they lay down to rest and eat their luncheon, Father Carillo reclining carefully on a large mat:  his fine raiment was a source of no little anxiety.  No skeletons kept them company here.  They had left the last many yards below.

“Anacleto,” commanded the priest, at the end of an hour, “crawl forward on thy hands and knees and peer over the brow of the mountain.  Then come back and tell me if men like thyself are below.”

Anacleto obeyed, and returned in a few moments with bulging eyes and a broad smile of satisfaction.  People were in the valley—­a small band.  They wore feathers like birds, and came and went from the base of the hill.  There were no wigwams, no huts.

Father Carillo rose at once.  Bidding his Indians keep in the background, he walked to the jutting brow of the hill, and throwing a rapid glance downward came to a sudden halt.  With one hand he held the cross well away from him and high above his head.  The sun blazed down on the burnished cross; on the white shining robes of the priest; on his calm benignant face thrown into fine relief by the white of the falling sleeve.

In a moment a low murmur arose from the valley, then a sudden silence.  Father Carillo, glancing downward, saw that the people had prostrated themselves.