San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1893-02-13

the moving torches, ana up where ne
was it was light enough to easily pick his
way.
1t was Eric Gilbert, and he was seek.
ing a point of observation before it grew
light in order to ascertain what manner
of men these were who carried the lights
far beneath him. Hostile Indians he
knew might in all reason be encountered
in those wilds, and he had escaped one
danger too narrowly to fall carelessly
into another.
Events had crowded so quickly upon
him during the last few hours that he
was prepared for anything. Unaware
even in what state or territory in the
Union he had been thrown in the last
wild bound of the balloon, he did not
know what he might encounter, and
though the craving for water and food
began to assert itself he was resolved to
let his caution govern his necessity.
He had gathered the instruments,
which he had thrown in heap near the
edge of the cliff, and covered them with
a blanket. They consisted of small
electric battery and lighting apparatus
ian invention of PierCes), a lantern, a
thermometer and barometer, camera
and plate box holding hundred instan-
taneous plates, some medical instru-
ments in case, a quadrant and few
other articles.
He carried his Winchester rifle in his
left hand, blanket thrown over his
arm, and a carrier pigeon, whose broken
wing hung limp and Tapping, in his
right hand, making his descent matter
of care. The light was growing stronger
in the canyon when he reached level
shelf or terrace edged with a rough
stone wall and lined with caves and cliff
dwellings,; caves whose mouths were
built up in cyclopean masonry, leaving
a narrow entrance to be reached by a
ladder of rope or poles.
He felt the need of haste, although
even yet he could see nothing in the
abyss below, and finding a convenient
opening into a cave close at hand, yet
where he could overlook the depths, he
laid down his burden and waited for the
light to fill the canyon.
The futter Of the wounded bird
aroused his pity, and he bound its wing
to its side with strip of his handker-
chief and laid it upon his blanket, feel
ing a sort of companionship inits pres
ence-a link with the outer world.
Resting as he was from a long vigil and
long continued struggle, he stretched
himself beside the bird and fell asleep.
Long before the sun rose upon Atzlan
a figure stirred upon the top of the high.
est building in the city, whence arose a
slim, blue column of smoke. The figure
moved with slow, hesitating steps from
one side of the low walled housetop to
the other, as if from habit, although the
burden Of years had turned the exercise
into tOilsome journey.
He was Iklapel, the high priest OF
Atzlan, watching before the sacred, mex.
tinguishable fire of Kinchahan, the sun
god, which for centuries had burned
and would burn forever.
Even in the half light of the coming
dawn it could be seen that Iklapel was
OLu anu DIllII, anu Ills LIZ
bowed many an inch before his only
master, Time, fine and tall, thin and
withered, it still showed the remains Of
powerful and graceful form. Now and
then he held his wasted hands over the
languid fire to measure its burning or
cast few twigs of cedar upon it, nut.
tering, as old men do, to himself the
while. AS the sky grew brighter and
redder with the dawn he seemed to feel
it and know that the day was approach
ing, for he raped sharply several times
upon the roof, as if in summons to an
other person.
In moment a second figure appeared,
coming up through a trapdoor, and
stood before him in respectful, yet
easy and familiar attitude. Then as the
aged Iklapel tottered it sprang to his
side and lovingly passed a strong arm
about him, leading him to stone seat
beside the altar and placing him ten
derby upon it. The old man reached
out his hand, feeling for that of the
younger man, and placing it against his
breast he held it there in silence After
awhile he spoke, and his voice was
round and full, though now and then a
quaver, a grace note as it were, broke
upon its even tones:
"Kulcan, my son, the beating of my
heart grows feeble, and this day, the
greatest, most sacred in the year, may
be my last. For a hundred and two
years l have seen the sun rise over the
red cliffs, but tomorrow l may not see
it. Thus l feel that now, while my
strength remains in me, l should leave
you my last words of instruction and
advice. You will succeed me as high
priest, and there is no one more worthy,
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