Waltey

Prevod

Visoko na vzhodnem pobočju gore Mount Monroe je sijal Veliki karbunkul; podnevi se je njegov lesk iskril milje daleč, ponoči pa je med skalnimi policami žarel v temni škrlatni barvi. Rdečekožci so pravili, da lebdi v zraku in da duša Indijanca — ubitega zato, da bi stražil ta kraj — vsakomur, ne glede na barvo kože ali namen, naredi približevanje nevarno. Še v času Ethana Crawforda je neka skupina iskalcev vzela s seboj »pobožnega moža«, da bi pregnal stražarja, ko so se skušali povzpeti na višavo, vendar so se vrnili »hudo obtolčeni, brez zaklada in ne da bi sploh uzrli tisti čudoviti prizor«. Vrednost kamna je premamila mnoge, toda tisti, ki so ga iskali, so se morali prebijati skozi gost gozd, in ko so prispeli do gore, so ugotovili, da jim vmesni skalni oporniki zastirajo njegov sijaj, približati pa se mu tudi niso mogli. Skale, prekrite s kristali, ki so jih sprva imeli za diamante, so zlahka oropali njihovega zaklada, toda Veliki karbunkul je še naprej žarel dva tisoč čevljev nad njimi, na zgornjem robu strašnega prepada Oakes Gulf, in iskalci, ki jim je kljuboval, so ga primerjali s sršečim pogledom zlega očesa.

Bil je mož, ki se je postaral v iskanju tega dragulja, se pogosto vzpenjal po gorovju v vetru, snegu in oblakih, nazadnje pa je dosegel prepadno mesto, do katerega se dotlej še nikoli ni prebil. Veliko je bilo njegovo veselje, kajti karbunkul je bil na dosegu njegove roke in mu je v opoldanskem soncu plamtel v oči, kakor da v svojih globinah hrani kristalizirani sijaj vsega vina, ki je kdaj razveselilo utrujena človeška srca. V iskanju je imel tekmece in ko so ti dosegli planoto, so pogledali navzgor ter ga zagledali klečati na ozki skalni polici, z razprostrtimi rokami, kakor v zamaknjenosti. Zaklicali so mu. Ni odgovoril. Bil je mrtev — umrl je od veselja in zmagoslavja. Medtem ko so ga gledali, se je del pečine nad njim odlomil in se skotalil s skale na skalo, svojo pot zaznamoval z bliski krvavega ognja, dokler ni dosegel jezera Lake of the Clouds, in vode tega gorskega jezerca so utopile njegov sijaj. Vendar te vode niso vselej črne in včasih se kljukasti greben gore Mount Monroe na nočnem nebu izriše v rdečkastem žaru.

Izvirnik

High on the eastern face of Mount Monroe shone the Great Carbuncle, its flash scintillating for miles by day, its dusky crimson glowing among the ledges at night. The red men said that it hung in the air, and that the soul of an Indian--killed, that he might guard the spot--made approach perilous to men of all complexions and purposes. As late as Ethan Crawford's time one search band took a “good man” to lay the watcher, when they strove to scale the height, but they returned “sorely bruised, treasureless, and not even saw that wonderful sight.” The value of the stone tempted many, but those who sought it had to toil through a dense forest, and on arriving at the mountain found its glories eclipsed by intervening abutments, nor could they get near it. Rocks covered with crystals, at first thought to be diamonds, were readily despoiled of their treasure, but the Great Carbuncle burned on, two thousand feet above them, at the head of the awful chasm of Oakes Gulf, and baffled seekers likened it to the glare of an evil eye.

There was one who had grown old in searching for this gem, often scrambling over the range in wind and snow and cloud, and at last he reached a precipitous spot he had never attained before. Great was his joy, for the Carbuncle was within his reach, blazing into his eyes in the noon sunlight as if it held, crystallized in its depths, the brightness of all the wine that had ever gladdened the tired hearts of men. There were rivals in the search, and on reaching the plateau they looked up and saw him kneeling on a narrow ledge with arms extended as in rapture. They called to him. He answered not. He was dead--dead of joy and triumph. While they looked a portion of the crag above him fell away and rolled from rock to rock, marking its course with flashes of bloody fire, until it reached the Lake of the Clouds, and the waters of that tarn drowned its glory. Yet those waters are not always black, and sometimes the hooked crest of Mount Monroe is outlined against the night sky in a ruddy glow.

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