As they approached the
blazing mass, the figure seemed to leap more wildly still among the
flames, the cries to grow hoarser and more grotesque. All about was
heavy blackness. The slender branches of the burning pine writhed and
hissed; they might have been a pyramid of rattlesnakes caught in
spouting flame. Overhead the stars had disappeared beyond a heavy cloud
of smoke. It was a sight to strike terror to the heart of civilised man;
small wonder that the superstitious children of the mountain and desert
had fled in panic.
They had advanced a few yards farther when suddenly Hill flung himself
on the ground and gave vent to a series of hysterical yells, at the same
time rolling over and over, clutching at the grass. Roldan, seriously
alarmed, and wondering if any other boys in the history of the
Californias had ever had so much to try their nerves, ran to his
assistance; he caught him by his lean shoulders, and shook him soundly.
"Don Jim! Don Jim!" he exclaimed. "Are you ill, my friend? You have some
whisky in your flask, no?"
At this Hill burst into a loud guffaw. Roldan and Adan looked at each
other helplessly. The Spanish do not laugh often, and although the boys
dimly realised that Hill's explosion resembled--remotely--the dignified
concession of their race to the ridiculous, yet they feared that this
was a diseased and possibly fatal variety.
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