CHAPTER XXI.

THE MYSTIC CAVERN.

Percy Vere listened to all this amazedly.

“What makes you think Smoholler is your father?” he asked.

“He has told me so,” she replied, simply.

“He may have had a motive in doing so,” he urged. “What _proof_ have you of it besides his word?”

“A strong one. His face is of the same hue as mine—a hue that neither a Yakima or a Nez Perce possesses.”

These words made a powerful impression upon Percy’s mind.

“Ha!” he cried, thoughtfully. “I remember Multuomah called you the ‘White Lily’—then your face is white?”

“Yes.”

“And Smoholler’s also?”

“Yes.”

Percy became excited.

“Why, then, he is a white man!” he cried.

“I do not know—but he is whiter than any Indian I ever saw.”

“He _is_ a white man!” affirmed Percy, with conviction. “Good heavens! his evident interest in me—can it be? Your father, girl? No, no—we believe that you are _Glyndon’s_ daughter; and for the Prophet, he is—”

It was now Oneotah’s turn to become amazed.

“What?” she asked, as he paused abruptly.

“No matter; this Mystic Cavern will satisfy my doubts, I fancy. I look forward with interest to the revelations that I shall witness there.”

“We have reached its entrance.”

“Through this brook?”

“Yes; the spring that feeds it bubbles up within the Mystic Cavern. Take my hand, and give your other hand to your comrade. The entrance is low and narrow.”

Cute came up to them as they paused in the rocky bed of the brook. The water was only a few inches deep, and went gurgling along with a pleasant sound.

“Where’s the cave?”

“That hole in the rock, where the brook comes through—that is the entrance to it.”

“Why, that don’t look big enough for a cat to squeeze through.”

“It is larger than it appears to be. The water is deeper there, forming a little pool. Come, you must go down upon your hands and knees to enter.”

Oneotah set them the example, crawling through the aperture, and they followed her. After proceeding a short distance on their hands and knees, beside the brook (they were not obliged to go in the water, as the stream had worn quite a passage in its long work of ages), they emerged into a spacious and lofty apartment, and found the Prophet awaiting them, holding a flaming torch in his hand.

Its light dimly illuminated the spacious cavern. It was impossible to form any estimate of its size by the light afforded by a single torch. They were in a realm of shadows. Jagged rocks projected upon every side, and an impenetrable gloom was above their heads. The murky air was oppressive to the lungs, and strange murmurs, like the moaning of prisoned spirits, fell upon the ear.

The boys shivered. It appeared to them as if they had entered a huge tomb. Cute’s teeth rattled in his head.

“Oh! of all the dismal places!” he muttered.

“Keep up your courage!” urged Percy.

“I’m tryin’ to—but I never felt so flunky in all my life. I don’t want to play hide-and-seek with red goblins. Ough! it’s awful chilly here.”

The torchlight made fantastical shadows in the gloom, and it required no great stretch of imagination to fancy that a host of grim goblins surrounded them.

The Prophet stuck his torch in a fissure of the rocky wall.

“Fear nothing,” he said. “No harm will befall you. Oneotah and I must not be present when the spirits appear. The White Spirit will obey your bidding. Stand firm—be not appalled at any thing you see. If your father is dead, his spirit will be shown to you.”

The Prophet glided away in the gloom, followed by Oneotah. Cute clung convulsively to Percy’s arm.

“Let’s get out of this,” he stammered. “Never mind your father.”

“No, I will remain,” answered Percy, resolutely. “Don’t be frightened—shadows can not harm us.”

“Ough! I know it—but who wants to shake hands with a lot of hobgoblins? Oh, Lor’! what’s that?”

The torch had dropped from the fissure to the rocky floor. This was the cause of Cute’s alarm. It sputtered for a few moments and then expired. Cute dropped upon his knees, as an utter darkness closed about them, clutching Percy around the legs.

“‘Now I lay me down to sleep,’” he muttered, his teeth chattering as he did so. “Say your prayers, Percy—we are a couple of lost innocents. Oh! if I ever get out of this—catch me coming here again!”

“Don’t be a fool! Where’s your courage?”

“I don’t know—I think I must have left it outside, for I haven’t got it with me.”

“Hush! the Spirit is coming!”

“Oh! I wish I was going!”

A light began to appear in a distant part of the cavern, some hundred paces from where they were standing. It increased in volume until it grew vivid, lighting up the cavern with an unearthly luster. Then came a cloud of fleecy smoke, which rolled slowly upward and disclosed the White Spirit, standing upon a rocky platform, about three feet from the ground. The light fell strongly upon her face, revealing every feature, and the snowy raiment, the golden bands, the glittering gem upon her forehead, and the faultless contour of the bare limbs. It was a vision of wondrous, supernal loveliness, and Cute’s courage revived as he beheld it. He scrambled to his feet, crying out:

“It is the Angel!”

“Angelic, indeed,” returned Percy; “and if it is Oneotah, as I shrewdly suspect, I do not wonder that Multuomah loves her.”

Cute listened to him surprisedly.

“Oneotah!” he exclaimed. “By Jingo! I think you are right. Now for the Fiend!”

“No; let her show me the spirit of my father, and I will be satisfied.”

“_Behold!_” came in a musical whisper, that floated gently toward them.

Again a cloud of smoke arose which hid the White Spirit from view, and when it faded, a different form stood in her place—the form of a tall man, with a pallid visage, and long, flowing black hair. His only dress consisted of a pair of black pants and a white shirt, upon the breast of which was a red gash, from which the blood appeared to be slowly oozing. A look of anguish overspread his features, and with his right hand he pointed to his gory breast, as if intimating that this was the wound that had caused his death.

“My Father!” exclaimed Percy, and he made an involuntary bound toward the figure.

“_Dead!_” came a hoarse whisper.

Percy still pressed forward, dragging Cute, who clung to him in terror, after him, exclaiming, frantically—“Father! father!”

But his feet came in contact with a ridge in the floor, and he and Cute were precipitated to the ground, the latter uttering a despairing yell as he fell. He fell over Percy, and lay a dead weight upon him, and it was only by a strong effort that Percy rolled him off, and struggled to his feet again. But when he did so, light and figure both had disappeared, and the blackness of a starless night encompassed them.

“Gone!” he cried, disappointedly.

“Oh! hocus-pocus conjurocus!” groaned Cute, upon the ground. “Phew! what a smell of brimstone!”