This faery island--the Garden he called it--and the
Cariari who came to us from the main. One day they saw
one of us take out pen and inkhorn and write down their
answers to our many questions. Behind us lay the blue
sea, before us the deep groves of the islet; between us and
the rich shade stood gathered a score of these Indians. They
looked at the one seated on the sand, industriously making
black marks upon a white sheet. The Indian speaking
stopped short and put up an arm in an attitude of defense;
another minute and they had all backed from us into the
wood. We saw only excited, huddled eyes. Then one
started forth, advancing over the sand, and he had a small
gourd filled with some powder which he threw before him.
He scattered it ceremonially between us and himself and
his fellows, a slow, measured rite with muttered words and
now and then a sharp, rising note.
Cried Juan Sanchez the pilot, "What's he doing?"
Juan Lepe answered before he thought, "He thinks the
notary yonder is a magician and the pen his wand. Something
is being done to them! Counter-magic."
"Then they are enchanters!" cried Alonso de Zamorro.
Our great cluster gave back. "Fix an arrow and shoot
him down!" That was Diego de Porras.
The Adelantado turned sharply. "Do no such thing!
There may be spells, but the worst spell here would be a
battle!" We let fly no arrow, but the belief persisted that
here was seen veritably at work the necromancy that all
along they had guessed.
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