Chapter Eight.

A New Acquaintance and a Change of Scene.

On their way back to the cottage they heard dogs barking, and a man talking to them. Next moment these came in sight.

“The old hunter!” exclaimed Pedro, hastening forward with evident pleasure to meet his friend.

It was equally evident that the old man was as much pleased to meet Pedro, for they grasped each other’s hands with hearty good-will.

“What news?” asked the old man, eagerly, as he held up a hand to check the dogs, which were leaping round him.

Pedro shook his head sadly, and the expression of the old man became grave. The question referred to Pedro’s search for his lost child. It had long been the first inquiry when these two met after a separation. The old man seemed never to lose hope, but he had become so accustomed to the reply that his despondency was now of short duration. He had known and loved the child in days gone by—had helped the mother in cultivating her garden-plot, and had gone out hunting with the father many a time. He was a fine-looking man, above seventy years of age, with iron-grey hair, turning in some places to pure white. The hunter’s spare though still upright figure showed that he must have been a powerful man in his youth, and the deeply-marked wrinkles about his mouth and eyes told eloquently that he was a kind one. Round his shoulders were twined the cords of the heavy “bolas,” or balls, with which he sometimes felled, at other times entangled, his prey. These balls were covered with clotted blood. He carried a short gun in his hand, and a large knife was stuck in his belt.

The dogs that leaped around him were a strange pack—some being very large, some very small, and all of different breeds. A few of them had been lamed, and all were more or less marked by the wounds received from jaguars and pumas.

“You expected me, Ignacio?” said Pedro, after the first greetings were over.

“No—not quite so soon, but I chanced to be wandering about in the mountains, and came down to take a look at the old place, to see that all was right. You know I am fond of our old haunts, and never stay long away from them, but I did not expect to find you here.”

The hunter spoke in Spanish, and Lawrence found to his satisfaction that, although he by no means understood all that was said, he had already improved so much in that tongue through his frequent efforts to converse with Manuela, that he could follow the drift at least of the hunter’s remarks.

“I have come back sooner than I intended,” returned Pedro, “for war is a wonderful hastener, as well as dictator, of events; but I have to thank war for having given me a new friend. Let me introduce Senhor Lawrence Armstrong to you; Senhor, my old comrade Ignacio, who, as I have told you, nursed me back to life many years ago.”

The old man held out a hard bony hand, and gave Lawrence a hearty squeeze of friendship that had something vice-like in its vigour. He then turned to Pedro, and began to make anxious inquiries about the war. As the two men spoke in undertones, Lawrence drew back a few paces, and followed them towards the cottage. He observed that Ignacio shook his head very often, and also that he laughed once or twice silently, but with apparent heartiness. As he overheard the name of Manuela just before one of these laughs, he experienced some disagreeable feelings, which it was not easy to understand or get rid of, so he took to fondling the hunter’s dogs by way of diversion to his mind.

The animals testified indirectly to the character of their master by receiving his advances with effusive demonstrations of joy.

At the cottage they found Ignacio’s horse—a very fine one—with a lasso hanging from the saddle. Beside it stood a loose horse with the carcass of a guanaco flung over it, and a Gaucho lad who was the hunter’s only attendant. Quashy was engaged in animated conversation with this youth, and Manuela stood beside him listening.

“I cannot understand,” said Lawrence to Pedro, as they approached, “how men ever acquire dexterity in the use of these bolas.”

“Practice makes perfect, you know,” said the guide, “and it doesn’t matter much what sort of weapons you use, if you only learn to use them well. Of course it’s not easy to a beginner. When Ignacio’s dogs turn out a jaguar or a puma, they follow him hotly till he stops to defend himself. If the dogs fly upon the brute, the hunter usually jumps off his horse, whirls the three balls about till they get up tremendous momentum, and then brings them down on the jaguar’s skull with a whack that generally drops him. But if the dogs are afraid to go at him, Ignacio throws the lasso over him, gallops away, and drags him over the ground, while the dogs rush in and tear him. What between bumping and hounds, the jaguar’s career is soon finished.”

“I’m glad I’ve met you,” said Pedro to Ignacio, as they turned aside into the bushes together, “for I’ve got news to tell, and I’ll want your help. There’s mischief brewing in the air, and I am commissioned—”

Thus much did Lawrence and Quashy overhear before the voice died away in the distance. It was a tantalising point to stop at! Lawrence looked at Quashy and at Manuela, who stood near.

“Does Manuela know anything of the mischief that is brewing?” asked Lawrence in amazing Spanish.

“Not’ing,” replied the girl in English, “but she trust Pedro.”

“So do I, with all my heart,” returned Lawrence; “my question was prompted by curiosity, not by doubt.”

“I’s not so sure,” said Quashy, with a frown, and a tone of self-assertion which was rare in him. “Nice-lookin’ men like him’s not allers as nice as dey looks.”

“Fie, Quashy! I thought you were of a more trustful spirit.”

“So I is, massa—awrful trus’ful! Kin trus’ you wid a’most anyt’ing. Trus’ dis yer Injin gal wid untol’ gol’. Trus’ Sooz’n wid de whole world, an’ eberyt’ing else besides, but I’s not quite so sure about dis yer Pedro. Di’n’t he say dar’s noos to tell, an’ he wants help, an’ der’s mischif a-brewin’? An’ ain’t I sure ’nuff dat he’s got suffin to do wid de mischif, or he wouldn’t be so secret?”

“Well, Quashy, you’d better not tell Pedro your doubts of him,” said Lawrence; “for if he knocks you down, I won’t feel bound to stand up for you—seeing that I have perfect confidence in him.”

Further conversation on this point was cut abruptly short by a tremendous hissing inside the cottage, followed by clouds of steam. It was caused by one of Quashy’s pots having boiled over. The negro sprang to the rescue. Soon afterwards, the host and the old hunter returning, they all entered the place together, and sat down to supper.

It was but a simple cottage, suitable to the simple tastes of a mountaineer in such a region, with only two rooms and a kitchen, besides a small attic divided into two chambers, which could be reached only by a ladder through a trap-door. Little furniture graced it, yet what little there was bore evidence of having felt the touch of a tasteful female hand. Numerous nails and pegs were stuck in the walls for the purpose of supporting fire-arms, etcetera, but the weapons had been secreted in a place of safety, for, during the owner’s frequent and long absences from home, the cottage was locked up and left pretty much to take care of itself, being deemed safe enough, owing to its remote and lonely position.

The key was always left in charge of old Ignacio who was understood to have his eye on the place, and privileged to inhabit it whenever he chose.

All this, and a great deal more, Pedro told to Lawrence as they sat round the table at supper in what used to be the parlour of the establishment. “But I’m going to lock it up, and hide the key this time,” he continued; “because I have to send Ignacio on urgent matters into the eastern parts of Bolivia, to—”

“To git help, an’ tell de noos about de mischif what’s a-brewin’,” said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork.

“You’ve learnt your lesson well, Quashy,” returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; “these are the very words—to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that’s brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You’re forgetting your manners, boy.”

The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid.

Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings—at least all outward manifestation of them—for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared.

“We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela,” said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. “I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again.”

To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care!

“Indeed!” he rejoined; “I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men.”

“No, I am not tired. I delight in this wild, free life.”

“Surely not because it is new to you,” said Pedro, with a glance of amusement; “when you dwell with your kindred, your life must be wild enough—unless indeed the great chief, your father, deems it beneath the dignity of his daughter to join in the sports of her fellows.”

Manuela made no reply, but for a moment or two gave vent to that clear, short, merry laugh in which she sometimes indulged. Lawrence Armstrong, irresistibly charmed by the sound, rode up alongside.

“Manuela is merry,” he said to the guide; “will you not translate, that I may enjoy the joke?”

“It is not easy to translate,” replied Pedro. “In fact, I doubt if you will see the joke at all. It requires a little knowledge of Manuela’s past career to make understanding possible. She only said that she delighted in this wild, free life.”

“Not much jest in that, truly,” returned Lawrence, “being, I fear, dull of comprehension; nevertheless, I see an unintentional compliment to us in the remark, for it implies that we have not made Manuela’s journey tedious to her.”

“It may be so,” said Pedro, simply. “I was just telling her that we shall soon get to more inhabited parts of the land, where she will have a little female society now and then, and I was about to add that afterwards we shall descend into the lower grounds of Bolivia, where she will have wild life enough to her heart’s content—perchance too much of it.”

Soon afterwards the guide’s prophecy came true, for they passed from the rugged mountains into a wide and richly clothed table-land, where there were a few scattered farms, at which they were made heartily welcome whenever they chose to stop for the night or for a meal.

Passing thence into another range of comparatively low hills, they reached the town of San Ambrosio, where they found comfortable quarters in a new and commodious inn—at least it seemed commodious, after the recent experiences of our travellers.

Here Pedro said he would have to spend a day or two, as he had business to transact in the town, and that he would search out an old acquaintance with whose family he would place Manuela till their departure.

While Pedro was gone in quest of his friend, the Indian girl, probably feeling shy in the midst of such unwonted crowds, retired to the room provided for her, and Lawrence and Quashy found themselves left in the unusual condition of having nothing to do. Of course, in these circumstances, they resolved to go out and see the town.

While Lawrence was questioning the landlord, an American, as to how he should proceed, a very decided tremor passed through his frame. Quashy seemed to experience a similar sensation, for he said abruptly—

“Eart’quak’!”

“That’s nothing new here, sir,” said the landlord to Lawrence, as he lighted a cigarette; “we’re used to it, though some of the natives ain’t quite easy in their minds, for the shocks have been both frequent as well as violent lately.”

“Have they done any damage?” asked Lawrence.

“Nothin’ to speak of. Only shook down a house or two that was built to sell, I suppose, not to stand. You’ll find the market-place second turn to your left.”

Somewhat impressed by the landlord’s free-and-easy manner, as well as by his apparent contempt for earthquakes, the master and man went out together. With characteristic modesty the negro attempted to walk behind, but Lawrence would by no means permit this. He insisted on his walking beside him.

“Bery good, massa,” said Quashy, at last giving in, “if you will walk ’longside ob a nigger, ’s’not my fault. Don’t blame me.”

With this protest, solemnly uttered, the faithful negro accompanied our hero in his inspection of the town.

Chapter Nine.

Tells of a Tremendous Catastrophe.

San Ambrosio was, at the period of which we write, a small and thriving place—though what may be styled a mushroom town, which owed its prosperity to recently discovered silver-mines. All things considered, it was a town of unusual magnificence on a small scale.

Being built with straight streets, cutting each other at right angles, Lawrence and his man had no difficulty in finding the principal square, or market-place, which was crowded with people selling and buying vegetables, milk, eggs, fruit, etcetera, brought in from the surrounding districts. The people presented all the picturesque characteristics of the land in profusion—peons, with huge Spanish spurs, mounted on gaily caparisoned mules; Gauchos, on active horses of the Pampas; market-women, in varied costumes more or less becoming, and dark-eyed senhoras on balconies and verandas sporting the graceful mantilla and the indispensable fan.

The carts and donkeys, and dogs and fowls, and boys had the curious effect of reducing the babel of voices and discordant sounds to something like a grand harmony.

Besides these, there was a sprinkling of men of free-and-easy swagger, in long boots, with more or less of villainy in their faces—adventurers these, attracted by the hope of “something turning up” to their advantage, though afflicted, most of them, with an intense objection to take the trouble of turning up anything for themselves. Dangerous fellows, too, who would not scruple to appropriate the turnings up of other people when safe opportunity offered.

A clear fountain played in the centre of the square—its cool, refreshing splash sounding very sweet in the ears of Lawrence, whose recent sojourn in the cold regions of the higher Andes had rendered him sensitive to the oppressive heat of the town. Besides this, a clear rivulet ran along one side of the square, near to which was the governor’s house. A line of trees threw a grateful shade over the footpath here. On the opposite side stood the barracks, where a few ill-clad unsoldierly men lounged about with muskets in their hands. All the houses and church walls and spires, not only in the square, but in the town, bore evidence, in the form of cracked walls and twisted windows and doorways, of the prevalence of earthquakes; and there was a general appearance of dilapidation and dirt around, which was anything but agreeable to men who had just come from the free, grand, sweet-scented scenery of the mountains.

“They seem to have had some severe shakings here,” said Lawrence, pointing with his stick to a crack in the side of one of the houses which extended from the roof to the ground.

We may remark here that, on entering the town, our travellers had laid aside their arms as being useless encumbrances, though Lawrence still carried his oaken cudgel, not as a weapon but a walking-stick.

“Yes, massa,” replied Quashy, “got lots ob eart’ quaks in dem diggins. Ebery day, more or less, dey hab a few. Jest afore you come down dis mornin’ I hab some conv’sashin’ wid de landlord, an’ he say he don’ like de look ob t’ings.”

“Indeed, Quashy. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s gittin’ too hot, he say, for de time ob year—sulfry, he called it.”

“Sultry, you mean?”

“Well, I’s not ’zactly sure what I means, but he said sulfry. An’ dey’ve bin shook more dan ornar ob late. An’ dere’s a scienskrific gen’leman in our inn what’s bin a-profisyin’ as there’ll be a grand bust-up afore long.”

“I hope he’ll turn out to be a false prophet,” said Lawrence. “What is his name?”

“Dun’ know, massa. Look dar!” exclaimed Quashy, with a grin, pointing to a fat priest with a broad-brimmed white hat on a sleek mule, “he do look comf’rable.”

“More comfortable than the poor beast behind him,” returned Lawrence, with a laugh, as he observed three little children cantering along on one horse.

There was no lack of entertainment and variety in that town, for people generally seemed to a great extent to have cast off the trammels of social etiquette, both in habits and costume. Many of the horses that passed were made to carry double. Here would ride past a man with a woman behind him; there a couple of girls, or two elderly females. Elsewhere appeared a priest of tremendous length and thinness, with feet much too near the ground, and further on a boy, so small as to resemble a monkey, with behind him a woman so old as to suggest the idea he had taken his great-grandmother out for a ride, or—vice versa!

For some hours master and man wandered about enjoying themselves thoroughly in spite of the heat, commenting freely on all they saw and heard, until hunger reminded them of the flight of time. Returning to their hotel, Lawrence, to his surprise, found a note awaiting him. It was from Pedro, saying that he had found his friend in a village about three miles from San Ambrosio, describing the route to the place, and asking him to send Quashy out immediately, as he wanted his assistance that night for a few hours.

“I wonder what he wants with you?” said Lawrence.

“To help him wid de mischif!” replied the negro, in a half-sulky tone.

“Well, you’ll have to go, but you’d better eat something first.”

“No, massa; wid you’s leave I’ll go off at once. A hunk ob bread in de pocket an’ lots o’ fruit by de way—das ’nuff for dis nigger.”

“Off with you, then, and tell Pedro that you left Manuela and me quite comfortable.”

“O Massa Lawrie!—’scuse me usin’ de ole name—it am so nice to hear you speak jolly like dat. ’Minds me ob de ole times!”

“Get along with you,” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as the warm-hearted black left the hotel.

Thus these two parted. Little did they imagine what singular experiences they should encounter before meeting again.

Soon after Quashy’s departure Lawrence went to the door of Manuela’s room, and, tapping gently, said—

“Dinner is ready, Manuela.”

“I kom queek,” replied the girl, with a hearty laugh.

It had by that time become an established little touch of pleasantry between these two that Lawrence should teach the Indian girl English—at least to the extent of familiar phrases—while she should do the same for him with Spanish. There was one thing that the youth liked much in this, and it also surprised him a little, namely, that it seemed to draw the girl out of her Indian reticence and gravity, for she laughed with childlike delight at the amazing blunders she made in attempting English. Indeed, she laughed far more at herself than at him, although his attempts at Spanish were even more ridiculous.

A few minutes later Manuela entered the room, and, with a modest yet gracious smile, took a seat opposite her pupil-teacher.

“Dignity,” thought the latter—“native dignity and grace! Being the daughter of a great chief of the Incas—a princess, I suppose—she cannot help it. An ordinary Indian female, now, would have come into the room clumsily, looked sheepish, and sat down on the edge of her chair—perhaps on the floor!”

But as he gazed at her short, black, curly hair, her splendid black eyebrows, her pretty little high-bred mouth, beautiful white teeth, and horribly brown skin, he sighed, and only said—

“Ay, ay! Well, well! What a pity!”

“What ees dat?” inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity.

“Did I speak?” returned Lawrence, a little confused.

“Yes—you say, ‘Ay, ay. Well, well. What a pittie!’”

“Oh!—ah!—yes—I was only thinking, Manuela. What will you have?”

“Som muttin,” replied the girl, with a pursing of the little mouth that indicated a tendency to laugh.

“It is not mutton. It’s beef, I think.”

“Well, bee-eef very naice—an’ som’ gravvie too, plee-ese.”

She went off at this point into a rippling laugh, which, being infectious in its nature, also set her companion off, but the entrance of the landlord checked them both. He sat down at a small table near to them, and, being joined by a friend, called for a bottle of wine.

“Hotter than ever,” he remarked to Lawrence.

“Yes, very sultry indeed.”

“Shouldn’t wonder if we was to have a sharpish touch or two to-night.”

To which his friend, who was also an American if not an Englishman, and appeared to be sceptical in his nature, replied, “Gammon!”

This led to a conversation between the two which is not worthy of record, as it was chiefly speculative in regard to earthquakes in general, and tailed off into guesses as to social convulsions present, past or pending. One remark they made, however, which attracted the attention of our hero, and made him wish to hear more. It had reference to some desperate character whose name he failed to catch, but who was said to be in the neighbourhood again, “trying to raise men to join his band of robbers,” the landlord supposed, to which the landlord’s friend replied with emphasis that he had come to the right place, for, as far as his experience went, San Ambrosio was swarming with men that seemed fit for anything—from “pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.”

Not wishing, apparently, to hear anything more about such disagreeable characters and subjects, Manuela rose at the conclusion of the meal and retired to her apartment, while Lawrence continued to sip his coffee in a balcony which overlooked the vineyard behind the hotel.

It was evening, and, although unusually warm, the weather was very enjoyable, for a profound calm reigned around, and the hum of the multitudes in the distant square seemed hushed as the church bells rang the hour for evening prayers. As the twilight deepened, and the stars came faintly into sight in the dark-blue vault above, the thoughts of Lawrence became strangely saddened, and, gradually quitting the scene of peaceful beauty on which he gazed, sped over the Cordillera of the Andes to that home of his boyhood which now lay in ashes. The frame of mind thus induced naturally led him to dwell on past scenes in which his mother had taken a part, and he was still meditating, more than half asleep, on the joys which were never to return, when he was roused into sudden and thorough consciousness by something—he could not tell what—a sort of sensation—which caused him to leap from his chair.

At the same moment there arose from the streets a cry, or wail. Suddenly a rumbling noise was heard. Lawrence bounded towards the nearest door. Full well he knew what it meant. Before he could escape there was a tremendous upheaval of the solid earth, and in one instant, without further warning, the entire town fell with one mighty crash! Lawrence just saw the walls and roof collapsing—then all was dark, and consciousness forsook him.

Chapter Ten.

Recounts some Terrible and some Vigorous Deeds.

How long our hero lay in this state he could not tell, but on recovering his faculties he became conscious of the fact that he was in total darkness, lying on his back, with a tremendous weight pressing on his chest. For a few moments he remained still, quite unable to recollect what had occurred, or where he was.

Suddenly memory resumed its office—the earthquake! the fall of the hotel!—and, with a gush of horror, he realised the terrible truth that he was buried alive.

The reader must have been in the position we describe to understand fully the feelings of the poor youth at that moment. His first impulse was to make a violent effort to shake off the intolerable weight that almost suffocated him; but his efforts, strong though he was, proved in vain. It felt as if a mountain held him down. Then the thought of Manuela rushed in upon him, and he uttered a loud cry. The sound of his voice in the confined space was terrible. It seemed to rush in upon his brain with awful din. In his agony, a feeling of frantic despair came over him, and, with the strength of a giant, he struggled to be free, but still without success. Exhausted as much by his horror as by his efforts, he lay for some minutes quite still, his brain keenly alive and thirsting, as it were, for some sound that might convey hope. No sound was to be heard, save the intense beating of his own pulsations which seemed to throb into his ears, and down into his very extremities.

As he lay listening, it came strangely into his thoughts, with something like a feeling of regret, that it would be very hard for him to die! So much strong life as he possessed must, he thought, take long to destroy! But again, the memory of poor Manuela, perhaps in a similar condition, and certainly not far from him, banished the thoughts of self, and he listened once more intently.

All was still as the grave. The effort at self-control, however, calmed him a little, and, in a gentler mood, he tried to move his arms. The left arm was fixed as in a vice, and gave him so much pain, that he feared it had been broken. The right arm was also fast, but he felt that he could move his hand.

It was a feeble straw for the buried man to clutch at, yet it was strong enough to buoy up Hope in a stout heart. His courage returned, and with calm, resolute patience he set to work, uttering the fervent prayer, “Help me, O God!”

Where there was space for a hand to move freely, he knew there must be space to remove rubbish, though it might be ever so little. In a few minutes some handful of earth were thrust aside. Then, by drawing his arm upwards and pushing it downwards, he loosened the rubbish around it, and by slow degrees set it partially free. If he had been entombed in solid earth, this, he was well aware, could not have been possible; but, rightly judging that in a mass of mingled bricks, mortar, and beams there must be spaces more or less open, he worked away, with patience and in hope. The result was that he was able at last to touch with his right hand the object which lay so crushingly on his chest. It was an enormous beam. The utter impossibility of even moving it filled him for a moment with despair, but again he cried to God for help. The cry was answered, truly and effectively, yet without a miracle, for the very act of trust in the Almighty calmed his mind and set it free to consider intelligently.

He could not hope to lift the beam. It was far too heavy. Being so heavy, he knew it would have killed him outright if it had not been checked in its descent, and partially supported somehow. Might he not, then, scrape away the rubbish on which he lay until he should, as it were, sink away from the beam? He tried at once, and managed to get his right hand slightly under him. He could reach his haunch. It was a terribly slow process, but by degrees the busy hand reached the waist, drawing the rubbish out by small portions at a time. It seemed to him as if hours were spent in these painful efforts. Still no appreciable difference was made in his position, and he had by that time pushed his hand as far up under his back towards his neck as it was possible to turn it. Finding that he could scrape away no more in that direction, he now sought to deepen the hollows already made. In doing so he got hold of a brick, which he wrenched out with a desperate effort. The result was instantaneous relief, for he seemed to subside, not much, indeed, but sufficiently to permit of his breathing freely.

With a fervent exclamation of thankfulness he turned slightly round, and drew his left arm out from the rubbish. He felt it anxiously. It was bruised a good deal, but not broken.

Although so greatly relieved that he felt for a few moments almost as if he had been delivered from death, the poor youth was still in a terrible case. The space in which he was confined did not admit of his sitting up, much less standing. What seemed to be a solid mass of the fallen wall was above him, prevented from crushing him by the beam before mentioned, while around him were masses of brick and mortar densely packed.

Again exerting his lungs, the youth shouted with all his might, and then paused to listen; but there was no reply. Then he shouted the name of Manuela, in the hope that she might hear, and answer, if still alive. But no answering voice replied.

Believing now that nothing could save him but a fixed purpose and a prolonged desperate effort on an intelligent plan, he prayed again for help, and then proceeded to enlarge his tomb by scraping the rubbish back under the beam, from beneath which he had drawn himself, and packing it tightly down. This enlarged the space, enabling him to get upon his knees. To work upward through the fallen wall would, he knew, be an impossibility. He therefore worked horizontally for some time, throwing the rubbish between his legs behind him, as, we presume, the moles are accustomed to do. Then he passed his hand along over his head, and found that the solid wall was no longer above him,—only disjointed bricks and beams.

With renewed hope and redoubled effort he now worked his way upwards, although well-nigh suffocated by dust, as well as by smoke arising from fires which had broken out in many places all over the ruined town. Suddenly, while thus engaged, he heard voices faintly. He shouted with all his might, and listened. Yes, he was not mistaken; he heard voices distinctly, and they appeared to be speaking in Spanish. With something like a bounding of the heart he repeated his shout, and renewed his labours.

If he had known the character of the persons who had thus encouraged him, his hopes would not have been so strong.

We have said that the entire town had been levelled by one tremendous convulsion, and that in many places fires had broken out among the ruins. These fires sent up dense volumes of smoke, which naturally attracted people from all quarters of the surrounding country. Among them came bands of desperate and lawless characters, who fastened on the ruins as vultures seize on carrion. They resembled the unclean birds in more respects than one, for they went about as long as there was anything of value to be seized, long after other people had been forced to quit the place owing to the horrible stench of the hundreds of corpses decaying, and in many cases burning, among the ruins. (See note 1.)

It was the voices of some of these lawless ruffians that Lawrence had heard. He soon became aware of their character by the terrible oaths which they used, and the fiendish laughter in which they indulged whenever he called for help. Knowing that he had nothing to hope from such miscreants, he ceased to call out, but toiled none the less vigorously to effect his deliverance. At last he managed to scrape through to the upper world; and a feeling of inexpressible relief filled his breast as a bright ray of sunshine shot into his prison.

That it was daylight did not surprise him, for the many hours which he had spent under ground seemed to him like weeks. But he soon found that he was not yet free. The hole which he had scraped was much too small to admit of the passage of even a little boy. In trying to enlarge it, he found, to his dismay, that on one side of it was an enormous beam, on the other a mass of solid masonry, which could not be moved without aid. Looking out, he saw nothing but confused heaps of smoking ruins, save in one direction, where, in the far distance, (for the hotel had stood on a mound), he could see a group of men engaged as if searching for something.

To these he shouted again, but did not attract their attention. Either they did not hear him, or did not care. Turning then to the beam, he tried with all his might to raise it, but failed, though it moved slightly. Encouraged by hope, and afterwards influenced by despair, he tried again and again, until his strength broke down.

At this juncture he heard footsteps, and saw a man passing near.

“Senhor! senhor!” he cried, in the best Spanish he could muster, “aid me to get out, for the love of God!”

A coarse insult was the only reply as the man passed on. A group of other men who passed soon after behaved as badly, for they only laughed at his entreaties.

It is difficult to say whether rage or indignation was more powerful in Lawrence’s heart, but both passions were equally unavailing in the circumstances. He felt this, and soon calmed down; so that when, half an hour later, another man passed that way, he addressed him in tones of respect and earnest entreaty.

The bandit, for such he was, seemed to be utterly unaffected; for although he must certainly have heard the appeal, he, like the others, passed on without taking the slightest notice.

“Senhor! senhor!” cried Lawrence, “I have a gold watch and chain, to which you—”

The man stopped, for the bait took at once. Turning, and walking towards the place from which the sound came, he soon found the hole through which our hero looked.

“Hand out the watch, senhor,” he said.

“No, no,” answered Lawrence; “aid me first to lift the beam.”

Whether the man understood the bad Spanish or not we cannot say, but instead of helping to lift the beam, he drew a pistol from his belt, and said—

“Hand out the watch, or I shoot!”

“Shoot away, then,” cried Lawrence, savagely, as he drew quickly back into his hole.

The report of the pistol followed the words, and the ball caused a cloud of dust and rubbish to mingle with the smoke.

A wild laugh of defiance from within told that our Englishman was not hurt.

“Ha—ha! Shoot again,” he cried, fiercely.

“No, senhor, no. You are brave. I will help you,” replied the miscreant.

Lawrence doubted the honesty of the man’s assurance, but of course thanked him, and expressed readiness to avail himself of his assistance. He kept carefully at the extreme end of the hole, however, while his murderous deliverer removed some of the rubbish from the beam, and so made it possible to raise it. Remaining quite still, Lawrence waited till he saw that the beam had been so far moved as to enlarge the space sufficiently for him to get through. Then, with a sudden spring À la Jack-in-the-box, he leaped out, and stood before the astonished bandit.

Lawrence, whose sense of honour taught him to hold his promise as sacred to a thief as to an honest man, had fully intended to give up his watch and chain to the man if he should remain peaceably disposed; but the bandit was not so disposed. Recovering from his surprise, he drew a second pistol from his belt and levelled it at Lawrence.

Thought is quick; quicker even than triggers. His length of limb happily flashed into the youth’s mind. Up went his foot with a sudden kick, and away went the pistol into the air, where it exploded after the manner of a sky-rocket! The bandit did not wait for more. He turned and fled, much to the satisfaction of the victor, who, overcome by prolonged exhaustive toil and excitement, sank down on a heap of rubbish, and lay there in a semi-conscious state. It seemed as if both mind and body had resolved to find rest at all hazards, for he lay perfectly motionless for nearly an hour,—not exactly asleep, but without being fully conscious of connected thought.

From this state of repose, if it may be so called, he was partially aroused by the voices of men near him, talking in coarse, violent language. Raising his head languidly, he observed a band of about eight or ten villainous-looking fellows busy round a hole, out of which they appeared to be drawing some sort of booty.

“A prize!” exclaimed one of the men; “be gentle; she’s worth taking alive.”

A loud laugh from the others roused Lawrence again, but a feeling of unwonted exhaustion oppressed him, so that he scarce knew what it was he heard.

Suddenly there arose a female voice, in a cry of pain. Lawrence started up on one elbow, and beheld Manuela struggling in the grasp of one of the band.

If electric fire had taken the place of blood in his veins, he could not have bounded up more quickly. The shock seemed to renew and double his wonted strength. Like the English bull-dog, with terrible purpose, but in absolute silence, he rushed over the rubbish towards the man who held the struggling girl. The man seemed to be a leader, being the only one of the band who carried a cavalry sabre. The others were armed, some with short swords, some with carbines and pistols.

Swift though Lawrence was, the chief saw him coming. He let go the girl, and made a wild cut at him with the sabre.

Lawrence received the cut on his left arm. At the same moment he struck the villain such a blow with his clenched fist, that it seemed to crush in his skull, and sent him headlong into the hole out of which they had just dragged the Indian girl. Fortunately he dropped his sabre as he fell. With a shout of defiance our hero caught it up, just in time to arrest the descent of a carbine butt on his head. Next moment the man who aimed the blow was cleft to the chin, and a united rush of the robbers was for the moment arrested.

Manuela, helpless and horror-struck, had stood motionless on the spot where the chief had released her. Lawrence caught her in his left arm, swung her into an angle of the broken wall, placed himself in front, and faced his foes.

The villains, though taken by surprise, were no cravens. Apparently they had already discharged their fire-arms, for only one fired at our hero with a pistol, and missed his aim. Flinging the weapon at his adversary with a yell of disappointment, he missed his aim a second time. At the same moment another of the band—one of the tallest and most ferocious-looking—sprang upon the youth with terrible fury. He knew well, apparently, how to use his weapon; and Lawrence felt that his experience at school now stood him in good stead. As the weapons of these giants flew around with rapid whirl and clash, the others stood aside to see the end. Doubtless they would have taken unfair advantage of their foe if they could, but Lawrence, turning his back to the wall, where Manuela crouched, prevented that. At last one dastardly wretch, seeing that his comrade was getting the worst of it, bethought him of his carbine, and began hurriedly to load. Our hero noted the act, and understood its fatal significance. With a bound like that of a tiger he sprang at the man, and cut him down with a back-handed blow, turning, even in the act, just in time to guard a sweeping cut dealt at his head. With a straight point he thrust his sword through teeth, gullet, and skull of his tall adversary, until it stood six inches out behind his head. Then, without a moment’s pause, he leaped upon the nearest of the other bandits.

Awe-stricken, they all gave back, and it seemed as if the youth would yet win the day single-handed against them all, when a shout was heard, and half a dozen men of the same stamp, if not the same band, came running to the rescue.

Lawrence drew hastily back to his protecting wall.

“Pray, Manuela, pray,” he gasped; “we are in God’s hands.”

At that moment two shots were heard away on their right, and two of the advancing bandits fell. An instant later, and Quashy bounded upon the scene with a high trumpet-shriek like a wild elephant. Pedro followed, brandishing the rifle which he had just discharged with such fatal effect. Lawrence joined them with a genuine British cheer, but their adversaries did not await the onset. They turned, fled, and speedily scattered themselves among the ruins.

“T’ank God, massa, we’s in time,” said Quashy, wiping with his sleeve the perspiration that streamed from his face, as they returned quickly to Manuela.

“We must not wait a moment here,” said Pedro, hurriedly. “There may be more of the villains about. But you are wounded, Senhor Armstrong.”

“Not badly,” said Lawrence. “It might have been worse, but the fellow was in such a hurry that the edge of his sabre turned, and I got only a blow with the side of it. If I had only had my good cudgel—by the way, it must be in the hole. It was in my hand when— Stay, I’ll return in a few seconds.”

He ran back to his late tomb, and quickly returned in triumph with his favourite weapon.

“Come, we must get away from this at once,” said Pedro, turning to Manuela. “No time for explanations. Are you hurt?”

“No; thank God. Let us go,” replied the girl, who was pale and haggard, as she staggered towards them.

“Take my arm,” said Lawrence, presenting his wounded limb.

The girl pointed with trembling hand to the blood.

“It is nothing—a mere scratch,” said Lawrence.

In his anxiety he forgot to speak in Spanish. Manuela appeared as if about to sink with fear. He caught her, lifted her in his arms as if she had been a little child, and, following Pedro’s lead, left the place which had been the scene of so many terrible events.

In the outskirts of the town there was a large low building of mud or sun-dried bricks, which had not been overthrown by the earthquake. To this Pedro conducted his companions. They found room in the place, though it was nearly full of survivors in all conditions of injury,—from those who had got mere scratches and bruises, to those who had been so crushed and mangled that life was gradually ebbing away. There seemed to be about fifty people in the room, and every minute more were being brought in.

Here Lawrence set down his burden, who had by that time quite recovered, and turned quickly to the guide.

“Come, Pedro,” he said, “I can be of use here; but we must have my own wound dressed first. You can do it, I doubt not.”

Pedro professed to be not only able but willing. Before he did it, however, he whispered in a low tone, yet with much emphasis, to Manuela—

“Don’t forget yourself! Remember!”

As he whispered pretty loud, and in Spanish, Lawrence overheard and understood him, and puzzled himself, not only that day, but for many days and nights after, as to how it was possible that Manuela could forget herself, and what it was she had to remember. But the more and the longer he puzzled over it, the less did he clear up his mind on the subject.

When it became known that Lawrence was a doctor, there was a visible increase of hope in the expression and bearing of the poor wounded people. And the youth soon justified their trustful feelings, for, with Pedro and Quashy as assistant-surgeons, and Manuela as head-nurse, he went about setting broken bones, bandaging limbs, sewing up wounds, and otherwise relieving the sufferers around him.

While this was going on the poor people were recounting many marvellous tales of terrible risks run, escapes made, and dangers evaded. During all this time, too, frequent shocks of earthquake were felt, of greater or less violence, and these afterwards continued daily for a month, so that the few buildings which had partially survived the first awful shock were finally levelled like the rest.

When Lawrence with his assistants had gone the rounds of the extemporised hospital, he was so completely worn out that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Swallowing a cup of hot coffee hastily, he flung himself on a heap of straw beside one of his patients, and almost instantly fell into a profound lethargic slumber.

There was an unoccupied arm-chair in the room. Placing this beside the youth’s couch, the Indian girl sat down with a fan, purposing, in her gratitude, to protect her preserver from the mosquitoes, which were having an unusual bout of revelry over the sufferers that night.

Quashy, observing this as he lay down in a corner, shook his head sadly, and whispered to himself:

“Ah! you brown gal, you’s in lub wid massa. But it’s useless. De ole story ob unrekited affection; for you know, pretty though you is, massa kin nebber marry a squaw!”

Thus thinking, Quashy went sweetly to sleep.

So did most of the others in that crowded place. But Manuela stuck to her colours nobly. She kept awake until her pretty black eyes became lustreless, until her pretty brown face became expressionless, until the effort to continue awake became hopeless. Then her little head fell back on the cushion of the chair, the little mouth opened, and the large eyes closed. The little hand which held the fan dropped by her side. The fan itself dropped on the floor, and, like the others, poor Manuela at length found rest and solace in slumber.

Note 1. A similar disaster, accompanied by dreadful scenes of lawlessness and horror, occurred in 1861, when the city of Mendoza was totally destroyed by an earthquake, and nine-tenths of the inhabitants perished.

Chapter Twelve.

Thick Woods, Heat, Change of Scene, and Savages.

We must change the scene now, and transport our reader to one of those numerous streams which convey the surplus waters of the Andes to the warmer regions of Bolivia, and thence, through many a wild, luxuriant wilderness and jungle, to the Parana river, by which they ultimately find their way to the sea.

It was approaching the afternoon of a very sultry day when Lawrence awoke from his midday siesta under an algaroba-tree, and slowly opened his eyes. The first object they rested upon was the brown little face of Manuela, reposing on a pillow formed of leopard skin. In those regions it was the practice, when convenient, to sling a network hammock between two trees, and enjoy one’s siesta in that. The Indian girl lay in her hammock, with her eyes shut, and her little mouth open,—not undignifiedly open, but just sufficiently so to permit of one seeing something of the teeth and tongue inside.

Fascinated apparently by the sight, a mite of a blue-bird with a golden head sat on the edge of the hammock close to the little mouth, and looked in. Evidently it was a bird of an inquiring disposition, for, having gazed for a considerable time with one eye, it turned its head, and gazed a longer time with the other. Quashy lay close to Lawrence, with his back towards him. The latter, observing that the cheek of the former was more lumpy and prominent than usual, raised himself on one elbow to look at him, and found that the lump was the result of an expansion of the mouth from ear to ear. He was wide awake, gloating over the proceedings of that little blue-bird, but he heard Lawrence move, and turning his head slightly round, whispered—

“Dat am berry funny—i’n’t it?”

The whisper slightly roused Manuela. She drew a long breath, vented a deep sigh, and effectually blew the blue-bird away.

At the same moment the whole party was roused by a wild and indescribable scream, followed by a magnificent flash of what seemed to be coloured fire.

In his half-sleeping condition, Lawrence, believing it to be the war-whoop of wild Indians, leaped up and grasped his cudgel, but nothing was to be seen save the grinning face of Quashy and the amused looks of Manuela and Pedro.

“Purrits,” remarked the negro, by way of explanation.

“What do you mean by purrits?” demanded Lawrence, half ashamed of his alarm.

“I mean what I says, massa,—purrits.”

“He means parrots,” said Pedro, with a grave smile, as he rose, and proceeded to fold up the poncho on which he had lain. “We’ve had many a song from these screamers, but I don’t remember ever seeing such a big flock come so near us, or scream so loud, before. They must have been attracted by your pretty face, Manuela, and could not help shouting with surprise at finding you asleep.”

Manuela laughed lightly as she stepped out of her hammock.

“They’ve just roused us in good time,” continued Pedro, looking up between the tree-tops at the sky, “for the hut of the tiger-hunter is a long way off, and I’m anxious to reach it before dark.”

In a few minutes the hammock and other camp equipage was conveyed to one of the native canoes, which lay close to the river’s bank, our travellers embarked, and ere long were far from the spot where the siesta had been taken.

In the afternoon they stopped for a little to refresh themselves with roasted parrot, chocolate, and biscuit.

Parrots are found everywhere and in great numbers in those regions between the Atlantic and Pacific. They live and travel in large flocks, and, as every one knows, they are remarkably fond of using their discordant voices, much to the annoyance of sensitive travellers. Fortunately such travellers do not often go to the wild regions of South America,—when they do, they soon become un-sensitive. When parrots assemble in a flock on the trees, they keep fluttering their wings with a tremulous motion, bending down their heads and chattering, young and old, without regard to each other or to harmony. Each seems bent on giving his own opinion in the loudest key, and pays no regard whatever to the opinions of others. There is something almost human in this!

It is a curious fact that, while the plumage of the parrots’ breasts is always gaudy and brilliant in the extreme, that of their backs is usually the colour of the general tone of the region they inhabit. In woods, where the bark of trees is chiefly bright yellow and green, their backs are of these colours. In the plains they are a mixture of green and brown, so that when skimming over a country they are not easily distinguished, but if they chance to come unexpectedly on travellers, they sheer off with a shriek, and expose their gaudy breasts to view.

The large flock that had so suddenly come on our friends while taking their siesta had turned off thus with a horrible scream, and revealed their gay breasts, on which the sun chanced to shine at the moment with great power, thus producing, as we have said, a splendid flash of colour.

“Massa,” inquired Quashy, as they sat in the canoe enjoying the cold meal and floating slowly with the stream, “which you likes best,—ros’ purrit or ros’ monkey?”

“Really, I’m not quite sure,” replied Lawrence; “it depends very much on appetite. If I’m very hungry, I prefer the one that comes first to hand. Which do you like best?”

“Well, I’s not kite sure needer. I t’ink sometimes dat monkey is best, but I can’t easy git ober de face.”

“How so, Quashy?”

“’Cause it am so like eatin’ a bit o’ my great-gran’moder.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You’s no notion how like dey all is to dat ole lady. You see, she was uncommon old. She come ob a long-lib race. Das whar’ it is. My moder was eighty-two, an’ my gran’moder was ninety-siven, an’ my great-gran’moder was a hun’r’d an’ sixteen, an’ dey was all alive togidder, an’ at fuss you couldn’ tell which was de oldest. Dey run neck an’ neck for a long time, but arter de great-gran’ one pass de hunr’ milestone—oh! she hoed ahead like a rattlesnake. De wrinkles an’ de crows’ foots, an’ de—de colour—jes’ like bu’nt leather! She lef’ de oders far behind, an’ looked like nuffin so much as dat poor little blear-eyed monkey you shot de oder day, what Senhorina Manuela say was so nice to eat. What! you un’erstan’ Ingliss?” added the negro, looking at the Indian girl, who had given vent to a half-suppressed giggle.

“Yes—leetil,” replied Manuela, without attempting further to restrain her mirth.

Quite pleased that his remarks should afford amusement, Quashy was about to launch out extensively on the “great-gran’moder” theme, when an exclamation from the guide checked him.

“Look, Senhor Armstrong,” he said, arresting the progress of the canoe by a slight turn of his paddle. “Yonder is a mode of fishing which no doubt is new to you.”

Pedro pointed as he spoke to a canoe which a sharp bend of the stream had just revealed to them. Its occupants were Indians. They were almost naked, and so intent on their occupation that the arrival of our travellers had not been observed. One of the Indians, a splendid specimen of muscular strength, stood up in the canoe with a bow and arrow in his hands and one foot on the gunwale, quite motionless. Suddenly he drew the bow, the arrow pierced the water without causing a ripple, and next moment a transfixed fish was struggling on the surface.

The fish was barely secured when the presence of strangers was discovered. An exclamation followed. Instantly the dark savage bent his bow, with the arrow pointed this time full at the breast of Pedro.

That worthy did not, however, seem much alarmed. He at once pushed out into the stream, and gave a shout which induced the savage not only to lower his bow, but to fling it into his canoe and throw up his arms with exclamations of surprise and joy.

“He knows you?” said Lawrence, looking back at Pedro, who sat in the stern of their canoe.

“Yes, he knows me. I am pretty well-known to most people in these regions. This is the tiger-hunter of whom I have spoken. His dwelling is not far-off.”

The meeting of the two friends was remarkably cordial, and it was evident to both Lawrence and Quashy that the white man and the brown were not only old friends, but more than usually fond of each other.

After the first salutations, both canoes were run to the bank of the stream, and when they had all landed, Pedro presented his friend to Lawrence, who shook hands with him in the English fashion.

“You have not mentioned your friend’s name,” said Lawrence.

“His name!” replied Pedro, with a laugh, “well, it is almost unpronounceable. Perhaps you had better call him by the name he goes by among his friends—Spotted Tiger, or, more briefly—Tiger.”

“Tell Spotted Tiger, then,” said Lawrence, “that I am happy to make his acquaintance.”

When the guide had translated this, and the Indian had returned a complimentary rejoinder, they continued to converse in the Indian tongue with much animation, and, on the part of Spotted Tiger, with some excitement. Of course Lawrence understood nothing, but he continued to watch the expressive features of the savage with interest, and observed, when their glances showed they were talking of Manuela, that Tiger first raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then smiled peculiarly.

“Strange,” thought Lawrence, “what can he mean by that? Perhaps he knows the chief, her father, but why look surprised and smile on that account? I wish Pedro was not so secretive. However, it’s his business, not mine!”

Consoling himself with this philosophic thought, Lawrence re-embarked with his friends, and, accompanied by Tiger, proceeded down stream till they came to a beautiful spot where the banks widened out into a small lake or pond. On its shores, under the cool shade of many trees, stood the hut of the savage.

The scenery here was more than usually beautiful, being diversified not only in form, but in its wealth and variety of trees, and twining parasites and graceful ferns, with, in one place, groves of tall trees covered with balls of wild cotton, as large as an orange, and, elsewhere, inextricable entanglements of gorgeously flowering creepers, such as the most vivid imagination would fail to invent or conceive. Behind one part of the scene the setting sun shone with intense light, turning all into dark forms, while in other parts the slanting rays fell upon masses of rich foliage, and intensified its colour.

In front of the hut a handsome Indian woman stood awaiting the arrival of her husband. She held in her arms a naked little ball of whitey-brown fat, which represented the youngest Tiger-cub of the family. Other cubs, less whitey, and more brown, romped around, while up in the trees several remembrancers of Quashy’s great-great-grandmother sat grinning with delight, if not indignation, at the human beings below.

After being hospitably entertained by the Indian with fish, alligator soup, roast parrot, and young monkey, the party assembled round a fire, kindled outside the hut more for the purpose of scaring away wild beasts than cooking, though the little Tiger-cubs used it for the latter purpose.

Then Pedro said to Lawrence—

“Now, Senhor Armstrong, I am going to ask you to exercise a little patience at this point in our journey. The business I have in hand requires that I should leave you for two or three days. I fully expect to be back by the end of that time, and meanwhile I leave you and Quashy and Manuela in good company, for my friend Spotted Tiger is true as steel, though he is an Indian, and will perhaps show you a little sport to prevent your wearying.”

“Very good, Pedro. I am quite willing to wait,” said Lawrence. “You know I am not pressed for time at present. I shall be very glad to remain and see what is to be seen here, and learn Spanish from Manuela.”

“Or teach her Angleesh,” suggested the girl, bashfully.

“Certainly. Whichever pleases you best, Manuela,” returned Lawrence.

“But s’pose,” said Quashy, with a look of awful solemnity at Pedro—“s’pose you nebber comes back at all! S’pose you gits drownded, or killed by a tiger, or shot by a Injin. What den?”

“Suppose,” retorted the guide, “that an earthquake should swallow up South America, or that the world should catch fire—what then?”

“Why den, we no care a buttin for not’ing arter dat,” replied the negro, promptly, “but if you don’ return, we nebber reach Buenos Ayres.”

“Never fear, Quashy. If I don’t return, Spotted Tiger will guide you safely there.”

That night Pedro and his friend left the hut in a canoe, lighted by a brilliant moon. Before morning the latter returned alone.

Meanwhile Lawrence had slung Manuela’s hammock between two trees, with a fire on either side, yet screened from the chief camp-fire by a thick bush, so that though close at hand, and under his protection, she occupied, as it were, a separate chamber of her own. His own hammock and that of Quashy—for they all used hammocks—were hung side by side a little nearer to the large fire.

Mr and Mrs Tiger, with all the little Tigers, finding their hut rather warm, came outside, and also made their beds beside their visitors.

Chapter Thirteen.

Deals with Spotted Tiger’s Home, and a Hunting Expedition.

In spite of howling jaguars, and snarling pumas, and buzzing mosquitoes, and the whole host of nocturnal abominations peculiar to those regions, our weary travellers lay peacefully in their hammocks, and slept like humming-tops. In regard to Quashy, we might more appropriately say like a buzzing-top.

Once or twice during the night Quashy rose to replenish the fires, for the jaguars kept up a concert that rendered attention to this protection advisable; but he did it with half-closed eyes, and a sort of semi-wakefulness which changed into profound repose the instant he tumbled back into his hammock. Lawrence, not being so well accustomed to the situation, lay awake a short time at first, having his loaded pistols under his pillow; but, as we have said, he soon slumbered, and it is probable that all the jaguars, pumas, peccaries, tapirs, alligators, and wild cats in that district might have walked in procession under his hammock without disturbing him in the least, had they been so minded. As for Manuela, with that quiet indifference to mere prospective danger that usually characterises her race, she laid her head on her tiger-skin pillow, and slept the sleep of innocence—having absolute faith, no doubt, in the vigilance and care of her protectors.

It might have been observed, however, that before lying down the Indian maiden knelt beside her hammock and hid her face in her hands. Indeed from the first it had been seen by her fellow-travellers that Manuela thus communed with her God, and on one occasion Lawrence, remarking on the fact, had asked Pedro if she were a Christian.

“She is a Christian,” was Pedro’s reply, but as he manifested an evident intention not to be communicative on the subject, Lawrence forbore to put further questions, although he felt his interest in the girl as well as his curiosity increasing, and he longed to know how and when she had been turned from heathen worship to the knowledge of Christ.

When daylight began to glimmer in the east, the bird, beast, and insect worlds began to stir. And a wonderful stir do these worlds make at that hour in the grand regions of Central South America; for although nocturnal birds and beasts retire and, at least partially, hide their diminished heads at daylight, the myriad denizens of the forests bound forth with renewed life and vigour to sing a morning hymn of praise to their Maker—involuntarily or voluntarily, who can tell which, and what right has man to say dogmatically that it cannot be the latter? Thousands of cooing doves, legions of chattering parrots, made the air vocal; millions of little birds of every size and hue twittered an accompaniment, and myriads of mosquitoes and other insects filled up the orchestra with a high pitched drone, while alligators and other aquatic monsters beat time with flipper, fin, and tail.

Breakfast, consisting of excellent fish, eggs, maize, jaguar-steak, roast duck, alligator-ragout, and chocolate, was prepared outside the Indian hut. The hut itself was unusually clean, Tiger being a peculiar and eccentric savage, who seemed to have been born, as the saying is, in advance of his generation. He was a noted man among his brethren, not only for strength and prowess, but for strange ideas and practices, especially for his total disregard of public opinion.

In respect of cleanliness, his hut differed from the huts of all other men of his tribe. It was built of sun-dried mud. The furniture consisted of two beds, or heaps of leaves and skins, and several rude vessels of clay. The walls were decorated with bows, arrows, blow-pipes, lances, game-bags, fishing-lines, and other articles of the chase, as well as with miniature weapons and appliances of a similar kind, varying its size according to the ages of the little Tigers. Besides these, there hung from the rafters—if we may so name the sticks that stretched overhead—several network hammocks and unfinished garments, the handiwork of Mrs Tiger.

That lady herself was a fat and by no means uncomely young woman, simply clothed in a white tunic, fastened at the waist with a belt—the arms and neck being bare. Her black hair was cut straight across the forehead, an extremely ugly but simple mode of freeing the face from interference, which we might say is peculiar to all savage nations had not the highly civilised English of the present day adopted it, thus proving the truth of the proverb that “extremes meet”! The rest of her hair was gathered into one long heavy plait, which hung down behind. Altogether, Madame Tiger was clean and pleasant looking—for a savage. This is more than could be said of her progeny, which swarmed about the place in undisguised contempt of cleanliness or propriety.

Stepping into the hut after kindling the fire outside, Quashy proceeded to make himself at home by sitting down on a bundle.

The bundle spurted out a yell, wriggled violently, and proved itself to be a boy!

Jumping up in haste, Quashy discommoded a tame parrot on the rafters, which, with a horrible shriek in the Indian tongue, descended on his head and grasped his hair, while a tame monkey made faces at him and a tame turtle waddled out of his way.

Having thus as it were established his footing in the family, the negro removed the parrot to his perch, receiving a powerful bite of gratitude in the act, and invited the wife of Spotted Tiger to join the breakfast-party. This he did by the express order of Lawrence, for he would not himself have originated such a piece of condescension. Not knowing the dialect of that region, however, he failed to convey his meaning by words and resorted to pantomime. Rubbing his stomach gently with one hand, he opened his mouth wide, pointed down his throat with the forefinger of the other hand, and made a jerky reference with his thumb to the scene of preparations outside.

Madame Tiger declined, however, and pointed to a dark corner, where a sick child claimed her attention.

“O poor t’ing! what’s de matter wid it?” asked Quashy, going forward and taking one of the child’s thin hands in his enormous paw.

The little girl must have been rather pretty when in health, but there was not much of good looks left at that time, save the splendid black eyes, the lustre of which seemed rather to have improved with sickness. The poor thing appeared to know that she had found in the negro a sympathetic soul, for she not only suffered her hand to remain in his, but gave vent to a little squeak of contentment.

“Stop! You hold on a bit, Poppity,” said Quashy, whose inventive capacity in the way of endearing terms was great, “I’ll fetch de doctor.”

He ran out and presently returned with Lawrence, who shook his head the moment he set eyes on the child.

“No hope?” inquired Quashy, with solemnity unspeakable on his countenance.

“Well, I won’t say that. While there is life there is hope, but it would have been more hopeful if I had seen the child a week or two sooner.”

After a careful examination, during which the father, who had come in, and the mother looked on with quiet patience, and Manuela with some anxiety, he found that there was still room for hope, but, he said, turning to Quashy, “she will require the most careful and constant nursing, and as neither Tiger nor his wife understands what we say, and Pedro may not be back for some days, it will be difficult to explain to them what should be done. Can you not speak their dialect even a little?” he added in Spanish to Manuela.

She shook her head, but said quietly—

“Me will nurse.”

“That’s very kind of you, and it will really be a charity, for the child is seriously ill. She is a strangely attractive little thing,” he continued, bending over her couch and stroking her hair gently. “I feel quite as if I had known her a long time. Now, I will give you instructions as well as I can as to what you have to do. Shall I give them in Spanish or English?”

Quite gravely the Indian girl replied, “Angleesh.”

“Very well,” said he, and proceeded to tell Manuela how to act as sick-nurse. When he had finished, the girl at once stepped up to Tiger’s wife with a winning smile, patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and then, pointing to the little invalid with a look of profound intelligence, went out of the hut. Presently she returned with some of the gravy of the alligator-ragout, sat down beside the little one, and began to administer it in small quantities. Evidently the child was pleased both with the food and the angel of mercy who had found her, for she nestled in a comfortable way close to Manuela’s side. Lawrence observed, when the latter looked round for something she wanted, that her eyes were full of tears.

“I knew I was right,” he muttered to himself as he returned to the fire, where Quashy had already spread out the breakfast, “she certainly must be a princess of the Incas. They were notoriously celebrated for their gentle and amiable qualities, even at the time of Pizarro’s conquest.”

What more passed in his mind we cannot tell, for he ceased to mutter, and never revealed his subsequent thoughts to any one.

“Now, Quashy,” said Lawrence, when breakfast was over, “we are left here in what we may style difficulties. The Indians don’t understand Spanish or English, so until Pedro returns we shall have to get along as best we can by signs.”

“Bery well, massa, I hope you knows how to talk by signs, for its more dan dis nigger do.”

As he spoke he threw an ear of maize at a monkey which sat on a branch overhead gazing at the party with an expression of the most woebegone resignation. He missed his aim, but none the less did that monkey change its look into a glare of intense indignation, after which it fled shrieking, with hurt feelings, into the woods.

“I’m not much up in the language of signs,” said Lawrence, “but we must try our best.”

Saying which he arose, and, touching Tiger on the shoulder, beckoned him to follow.

With the lithe, easy motions of the animal after which he was named, the Indian rose. Lawrence led him a few paces from the fire, and then, putting himself in the attitude of a man discharging an arrow from a bow, suddenly let the imaginary arrow fly, looked at the savage, touched his own breast, and smiled.

So did Quashy, with compound interest. Spotted Tiger looked puzzled, shook his head, and also smiled.

“He t’ink you wants him to shoot you,” said Quashy.

“No, no, that’s not it,” said Lawrence, with a somewhat abashed look at the Indian. “I want you to take us out shooting—hunting, you know—hunting.”

As Tiger did not know the word “hunting” he continued to shake his head with a puzzled air.

Every one who has tried it knows what a silly, almost imbecile, feeling comes over one when one attempts the communication of ideas in dumb show. Feelings of this sort affected our hero very keenly. He therefore, while continuing the pantomime, kept up a running or interjectional accompaniment in the English language.

“Look here, Tiger,” he said, impressively, taking up two sticks which he made to represent a bow and arrow, and placing them in position, “I want to go hunting with you—hunting—shooting the jaguar.”

“Yes, de jaguar—tiger, you know,” said Quashy, who, in his anxiety to get the savage to understand, imitated his master’s actions, and could not refrain from occasionally supplementing his speech.

As a tiger-skin chanced to be hanging on a bush near to the fire, Lawrence completed his pantomime by throwing his mimic arrow against that.

A gleam of intelligence suffused the face of the savage. Stalking into his hut, he returned with a bow considerably longer than himself, and an arrow, also of great length. Retiring to a distance from the jaguar-skin above referred to, he bent his bow quickly, and sent an arrow straight through the middle of it, thereafter raising himself with a look of pride.

“Why, the fellow thinks I want him to show off his powers of shooting,” said Lawrence.

“So he do—de idjit!” said Quashy.

With much anxiety of expression, great demonstration of vigorous action, and many painful efforts of inventive genius, the two men tried to convey their wishes to that son of the soil, but all in vain. At last in desperation Quashy suddenly seized the jaguar-skin, threw it over his own shoulders, placed a long pole in Lawrence’s hands, and said—

“Now, massa, you look out, I’s agwine to spring at you, and you stick me.”

He uttered a mighty roar as he spoke, and bounded towards his master, who, entering at once into the spirit of the play, received him on the point of his spear, whereupon the human jaguar instantly fell and revelled for a few seconds in the agonies of death. Then he calmly rose.

“Now,” said he, with a look of contempt, “if he no understan’ dat, it’s ’cause he hain’t got no brains.”

At first the Indian had gazed at this little scene with a look of intense astonishment. When it was finished he burst into a fit of hearty laughter. Evidently it was the best piece of acting he had seen since he was born, and if he had been other than a savage, he must certainly have shouted “bravo!” perhaps “encore!” and clapped his hands.

“Boh! he’s a born idjit!” cried Quashy, turning away in disgust, but a new idea seemed to flash into his fertile brain.

“Stop a bit!” he suddenly exclaimed, seizing a piece of flat bark that lay at his feet. On this, with the point of a charred stick, he drew a triangular form, with three dots in it for two eyes and a nose. An oval attached to this represented a body; at the other end a long waving line served for a tail; four short lines below indicated legs. This creature he covered all over with spots.

“There,” he cried, sticking it into a bush, and glaring at the Indian, “jaguar!—jaguar!”

Catching up the pole which Lawrence had thrown down, he rushed at this jaguar, and pierced it through the heart. Thereafter, in hot haste, he picked up Tiger’s bow and arrows, ran down to the river, put them into a small canoe, and thrust it into the water. Holding on with one hand, he waved with the other.

“Ho! hi! come along, you stuppid idjit!”

The “stuppid idjit” was enlightened at last. With a dignified smile, which would probably have been a frown if he had understood Quashy’s words, he went up to his hut, and selected a lance and a bow, with which, and a quiver of arrows, he returned to the little hunting canoe.

Seeing that they were now understood, Lawrence took his shot-gun and pistols; the negro also armed himself, and in a few minutes more they found themselves paddling gently down the sluggish current of the river.

The scenery through which those curiously assorted hunters passed that day in their light canoe was singularly beautiful; and when, turning up one of the narrow streams that fed the main river, they came into a region of sweet, mellow twilight, caused by the over-arching trees, where the very aspect of nature suggested, though it could not create, coolness, Lawrence felt as if he had been at last transported into those famous regions of fairyland which, if they really existed, and we were in very deed to get into them, would, perchance, not equal, and certainly could not excel, our own actual world!

Gigantic trees towered upwards till their heads were lost in the umbrageous canopy, while their stems were clasped by powerful snake-like creepers, or adorned with flowering parasites. The bushes grew so thick and tangled that it seemed as if neither man nor beast could penetrate them—which indeed was the case, as regards man, in many places; yet here and there unexpected openings permitted the charmed eyes to rest upon romantic vistas where creepers, convolvuli, and other flowers, of every shape, hue, and size, hung in festoons and clusters, or carpeted the ground. Fruit, too, was there in abundance. Everything seemed to bear fruit. The refreshing and not too luscious prickly pear; the oukli, an enormous cactus, not unlike the prickly pear but with larger fruit, whose delightful pulp was of a blood-red colour; the ancoche, with sweet-tasted pearl-like drops, and many others.

There was plenty of animal life, also, in and around this stream, to interest the hunters, who were now obliged to exert themselves a little to make head against the sluggish current. Water-hens were innumerable, and other wild-fowl flew or paddled about, enjoying, apparently, a most luxuriant existence, while brown ant-hills were suggestive of exceedingly busy life below as well as above ground. There are many kinds of ants out there, some of them very large, others not quite so large, which, however, make up in vicious wickedness what they lack in size.

At one bend in the stream they came suddenly on a boa-constrictor which was swimming across; at another turn they discovered a sight which caused Lawrence to exclaim—

“There’s a breakfast for you, Quashy. What would you say to that?”

“I’d like to hab ’im cooked, massa.”

The reference was to an alligator which was crossing the stream a few yards ahead of them, with a live boa in his jaws. The huge serpent was about twelve feet long, and wriggled horribly to escape, but the monster had it fast by the middle. Evidently its doom was fixed.

Several tapirs and a band of grunting peccaries were also seen, but all these were passed without molestation, for the ambitions of our hunters that day soared to nothing less than the tiger of the American jungles—the sneaking, lithe, strong, and much-dreaded jaguar.

Spotted Tiger seemed to have at last become fully aware of the spirit of his companions, for he took no apparent note of the various animals seen as they passed along, and evidently was on the outlook for the monarch of the jungle. Having been told by Pedro that he was a celebrated hunter, Lawrence felt sure that he would lead them to success.

“Why you no shoot de deer an’ pepper de alligators, massa?” asked Quashy at last, after several of the creatures mentioned had been seen and passed.

“Because I don’t want them,” returned Lawrence, “and I have no pleasure in useless destruction of life. Besides, I am anxious to shoot a jaguar, having a strong wish to take home the claws and skull of one—the first for my friends, the last for a museum. When we want food I will shoot deer, or anything else that’s eatable.”

Quashy remained silent. He seemed to be revolving his master’s reply in a philosophical way, when something between a snarl and a growl turned his thoughts sharply into another channel.

Tiger quietly prepared his bow and arrows and laid his spears so that they should be handy. Lawrence and the negro also got ready their weapons, and then they advanced with caution, dipping their paddles lightly, and gazing earnestly into the jungle on the right bank of the stream.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Hunt continued; one of the Hunters almost concluded. Explorations indulged in, and a Capture effected.

“Dar, massa, dar he is,” exclaimed Quashy, in a hoarse whisper, pointing into the bushes.

“Nonsense, man,” replied Lawrence, in a low voice, “it’s only an ant-hill.”

Even in that moment of excitement, Lawrence could scarce refrain from laughter at the face of his humble follower, for Quashy’s business in life had not accustomed him to much sport at any time; and the prospect of actually assisting at the slaughter of a jaguar or a puma had stirred every nerve and fibre of his black being into intense excitation, so that his eyes and nostrils were dilated to the utmost, and he panted vehemently—with hope, of course, not fear!

Tiger, on the contrary, was cool and calm, though watchful. He paid no attention whatever to his companions, being too well acquainted with his work to stand in need of either advice or assistance from them.

As guide, the savage occupied the bow of the canoe; Lawrence sat in the middle, and Quashy in the stern, for he understood how to steer. Having been admonished to hold his tongue, he crouched so as, if possible, to diminish his size. He also pursed his lips,—and what a tight rounding and projecting of superfluous flesh that pursing was no tongue can adequately tell. He also glared, and this “talking with the eyes” was a mute sermon in itself.

Yet no jaguar could be seen. Silently, with dip of paddle that made no sound, and glide of craft through the water that produced only an oily ripple, they slowly ascended the stream.

At first Lawrence had seized his fowling-piece, which was charged with ball for the occasion; but as time passed, and the Indian showed no intention of landing, he laid the gun down, and again took up his paddle.

After a time, through some inadvertence of Quashy, the canoe was sent rather close in among the reeds and giant leaves of the bank.

“That was stupid of you, Quash,” said Lawrence, as he stood up to assist Tiger in backing out.

“Das true, massa,” said the negro, in profoundest humility of self-condemnation, “I’s a black idjit.”

As the fore part of the canoe had touched on a mudbank, Lawrence seized one of the Indian’s lances, and used the butt end as a pole with which to push off. Under this impulse the canoe was gradually sliding into deep water, when a rustling of the leaves was heard, and next instant a full-sized jaguar sprang upon the Indian with cat-like agility. Whether the brute had slipped on the muddy bank we cannot say, but it missed its aim, and, instead of alighting on the shoulders of the man, it merely struck him on the head with one of its paws in passing, and went with a tremendous splash into the water.

Tiger fell forward insensible from the severe scalp-wound inflicted. Next instant the jaguar rose, grasped the edge of the canoe, and almost overturned it as it strove to climb in; and there is no doubt that in another moment it would have succeeded, for the attack was so sudden that Quashy sat paralysed, while Lawrence forgot his pistols, and his gun lay in the bottom of the canoe! Happily, however, he recovered enough of presence of mind to use the lance in his hands. Turning the point of the weapon to the jaguar’s mouth, he thrust it in with such tremendous force that it passed right down its throat and into its very vitals. With a gasping snarl the monster fell back into the stream, and was quickly drowned as well as impaled.

“Help me to haul him on board,” cried Lawrence.

Thus awakened, the negro, relieving his feelings by giving vent to a roar which partook somewhat of a cheer, seized the jaguar’s tail. His master grasped its ears, and in another moment it lay in the bottom of the canoe.

“Now, help to lay the poor fellow beside it,” said Lawrence.

“O massa!—he not dead, eh?” groaned the negro, as he assisted in the work.

“No; nor likely to die yet a while,” replied Lawrence, with much satisfaction, as he examined and bound up the scalp-wound. “It is not deep; he’ll soon come round; but we must get him home without delay. Out with your paddle, Quashy, and use it well. I’ll take the bow.”

The canoe, which, during these proceedings, had been floating slowly down stream, was now turned in the right direction, and in a short time was out upon the larger river.

Here, however, they had to labour with energy against the stream, and it was far on in the afternoon before they came in sight of the Indian’s hut. By that time Spotted Tiger had partially recovered, as Lawrence observed during a pause made for rest. On reaching an eddy, which carried the canoe in the right direction, they rested again. The cessation of paddling appeared to rouse the wounded man, for he sat up, and, with a half-dazed look, stared at the head of the dead jaguar, on the haunch of which his elbow leaned. Then he cast an inquiring look at Lawrence, who replied to him with a nod and a smile, and went on to indicate, by means of pantomime, what had occurred.

He pointed to the animal’s claws, and to Tiger’s head; then to the bloody spear which lay at his side, and to the jaguar’s blood-stained throat, after which he pointed to his own breast and nodded again.

The Indian evidently understood him, for an expression of gratitude overspread his countenance as he extended his right hand—English fashion—for a shake. Our hero was not slow to grasp it, and the two exchanged a squeeze which told of lasting friendship and good-will.

A few minutes later, and the canoe was run upon the bank in front of the hut, where all the children were assembled to receive them.

It did not seem as if any of the family were deeply affected by the shaky appearance of the father as he stepped on shore, but the younger members evinced feelings of intense delight when the jaguar was lifted out; and two of them, seizing the tail as a tow-rope, passed it over their shoulders, and dragged the carcass up to the hut to show it to their mother.

O mothers! loving repositories of childhood’s joys and woes, ye are unquestionably the same in substance and in spirit all the world over!

Tiger’s wife was more affected than Lawrence expected she would have been by her husband’s accident, and tended him with anxious care. By taking hold of him, and laying him gently down in a corner opposite to that of his sick child, Lawrence gave him to understand that it was his duty to take rest. To say truth, he did not require much persuasion, but at once laid his head on his pillow, and quietly went to sleep.

“The hospital is filling rather quickly, Manuela,” said Lawrence, when he had finished tending his new patient, “and your duties are increasing, I fear.”

“No fear. Me likes to nuss,” replied the girl, with a look that puzzled the young doctor.

It was Manuela’s fascinating smile that came hardest on our poor hero. When she looked grave or sad, he could regard her as a mere statue, an unusually classical-looking bronze savage; but when she smiled, there was something so bewitchingly sweet in the lines of her little face that he felt constrained to shut his eyes, turn away, and groan in spirit, to think that she was brown, and a savage!

“Was there ever a case,” he thought, “so mysteriously miserable, so singularly sad, as mine! If she were only white, I would marry her at once, (if she would have me), for the sake of her gentle spirit alone,—ay, even though she were the child of a costermonger; but I cannot, I do not, love a savage, the daughter of a savage chief, with a skin the colour of shoe leather! No, it is impossible! and yet, I am in love with her spirit. I know it. I feel it. I never heard of such a strange thing before,—a man in love with a portion of a woman, and that the immaterial portion!”

The last word changed the current of his thoughts, for it suggested the idea of another “portion” belonging to some girls with which men are too apt to fall in love!

“Massa, de grub’s ready,” said Quashy, entering the hut at that moment.

“Go to work then, Quash. Don’t wait. I’ll be with you directly.”

But Quashy did wait. He was much too unselfish a son of ebony to think of beginning before his master.

When they had seated themselves on the grass outside the hut, along with Manuela, who left her post of duty in order to dine, and had made a considerable impression on the alligator-ragout and tiger-steaks and other delicacies, Quashy heaved a deep sigh of partial satisfaction, and asked if Tiger would be well enough to go out hunting next day.

“I think not,” said Lawrence; “no doubt he may feel able for it, but if he shows any disposition to do so, I shall forbid him.”

“How you forbid him, when you not can speak hims tongue?” asked Manuela, in a mild little voice, but with an arch look to which her arched black eyebrows gave intense expression.

“Well,” replied Lawrence, laughing, “I must try signs, I suppose, as usual.”

“No use, massa,” said Quashy; “nebber make him understan’. I gib you a plan. See here. You tie him up hand an’ foot; den we go off huntin’ by our lone, an’ let him lie till we comes back.”

Lawrence shook his head. “I fear he would kill us on our return. No, we must just go off early in the morning before he wakes, and get Manuela to try her hand at sign-language. She can prevail on him, no doubt, to remain at home.”

“I vill try,” said Manuela, with a laugh.

In pursuance of this plan, Lawrence and Quashy rose before broad daylight the following morning, launched the little canoe they had used the day before, put gun, spears, etcetera, on board, and were about to push off, when one of the boys of the family ran down, and seemed to wish to accompany them.

“We’d better take him,” said Lawrence; “he’s not very big or old, but he seems intelligent enough, and no doubt knows something of his father’s haunts and sporting customs.”

“You’s right, massa,” assented the negro.

Lawrence made a sign to the lad to embark, and Quashy backed the invitation with—

“Jump aboord, Leetle Cub.”

Instead of obeying, Leetle Cub ran up into the bush, but presently returned with a long stick like a headless lance, a bow and arrows, and an instrument resembling a large grappling anchor, made of wood. Placing these softly in the canoe, the little fellow, who seemed to be about ten years of age, stepped in, and they all pushed off into the river—getting out of sight of the hut without having roused any one. Turning into the same stream which they had visited the day before, they pushed past the place where the jaguar had been killed, and entered on an exploration, as Lawrence called it.

“I’m very fond of an exploration, Quashy,” he said, dipping his paddle softly, and working gently, for there was so little current that it seemed more like the narrows of a lake than a stream.

“Yes, I’s bery fond ob ’sploration too, massa,” replied the negro, with a self-satisfied nod. “It am so nice not to know whar you’s gwine to, or whar you’s comin’ to, or who’s dar, or who’s not dar, or what fish’ll turn up, or what beast’ll turn down, or what nixt—oh! it am so jolly! what you sniggerin’ at, you dirty leetle cub?”

The question was put to the Indian boy, who seemed much amused by something he saw up among the trees.

Looking up they saw at least a dozen red monkeys grinning at them, and one of these—a small one—was hanging on by its father’s tail.

“Oh! shoot! shoot!” cried Quashy to Lawrence, opening his great eyes eagerly. “Dey’s so good to eat!”

“No, Quash, I won’t shoot. We have shot enough of fat ducks to feed us all for one or two days at least. Besides, I can’t bear to kill monkeys. It feels so like committing murder.”

While he was yet speaking, Leetle Cub had taken up the long lance-like stick before mentioned and pointed it at the monkeys. It was a blow-pipe. Before Lawrence could interfere, the short arrow with which it was charged had sped on its mission with deadly aim, and the smallest monkey, relaxing its hold of the paternal tail, fell without even a cry into the water—shot through the heart.

Lawrence said nothing, but, resolving that if the boy should attempt such another shot, he would disturb his aim, he dipped his paddle vigorously, and pushed up the river.

Coming at last to an open space where the stream widened into something like a little pond, they observed an erection of timber on the bank which aroused their curiosity. It also seemed to arouse the Cub’s interest, for he made somewhat excited signs that he wished to land there. Willing to humour him, they ran the canoe on the beach. Leetle Cub jumped out at once, and, taking up the anchor-like piece of wood before mentioned, went with it towards the timber erection.

“I do believe it is an alligator-hook,” said Lawrence.

“Das a fact,” said Quashy, “we’ll washum,” (by which he meant, “we’ll watch him!”)

It was indeed interesting to watch that little fellow—who was evidently in all respects a thorough chip of the old block—as he went about his work, quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement which he was not entirely able to conceal. He took his bow and arrows, as well as the blow-pipe, on shore, and laid them at his side, so as to be ready at hand in case of emergency, while he baited the alligator-hook with the dead monkey.

The hook was simple. It consisted of four pieces of tough hard wood, about a foot long, and the thickness of a man’s thumb. These were tied to the end of a stout rope made of raw hide, and so arranged that their points were directed backwards, and curved somewhat outwards—thus forming as it were four huge barbs. The dead monkey was placed on and around this horrible hook—if we may so term it. The delicate morsel was then attached to the end of a pole which stretched over the stream, so that the bait, when fixed, remained suspended just above the water. The slack of the rope was then made fast to a tree. Thus the arrangement was such as to compel the alligator to raise himself well out of the water to obtain his mouthful.

While Leetle Cub was engaged in erecting this cumbrous machine, a young alligator, about a foot long, crawled out from under some leaves on the bank close to him. The urchin saw it instantly, seized his bow, and in a moment transfixed it with an arrow. The fury of the little creature, infant though it was, seemed tremendous. It turned round, snapping viciously at the arrow, and would probably have escaped with it into the water if another shot from the same unerring hand had not terminated its career.

After setting his line, the Cub carried the little alligator to the canoe, and put it carefully therein.

“Das what dey make de soup ob,” said Quashy.

“The ragout, you mean.”

“Dun’ know what’s a ragoo, massa. We calls it soup. Anyhow, it’s bery good.”

“Yes, Quash, it’s not bad. But look there, our daring and expert young hunter evidently wants us to land, for he is pointing to the bush. Shall we go?”

“P’r’aps it’s as well, massa. Ob course no alligator’s sitch a fool as swaller dat little mout’ful when we’s a-lookin’ at it. I s’pose Leetle Cub wants us to go away, an’ gib ’em a chance.”

Having made up their minds to gratify the little fellow, they landed and accompanied him into the woods. He seemed quite to expect that they would do so and follow his lead. He set off at a smart pace in advance of them, carrying his bow on his shoulder. Lawrence was well repaid by this walk, because it led him into and through scenery of a more striking and beautiful character than he had yet seen of its kind. In many places the trees formed long aisles and vaulted colonnades and arches so regular that it seemed as though they had been planted by the hand of man. Elsewhere the chaos of tree and shrub, flower and fern and twining root was so indescribable, that it seemed as if chance and haphazard had originated it all; but the mind of our hero was cast, if we may say so, in too logical a mould to accept such an absurd origin for anything.

“My Father made it all,” he said, mentally, with a glow of enthusiasm; “and although, like a little child gazing at an intricate machine, I see not the order or arrangement, certain am I that both must be there.”

Between the tree-stems they saw ant-hills fully five or six feet high. From the trees hung thousands of orchids of various colours, and so attractive was the aspect of things overhead, that Lawrence was more than once tripped up by the long tangled grasses through which, in some parts, they had to push their way. Of course, there were plenty of parrots and monkeys and other creatures to make the forest lively. Indeed, in some parts there seemed a prospect of its becoming still more lively, for their little guide pointed out in soft places the footprints of tapirs and jaguars, which seemed to be quite fresh. Lizards innumerable crossed their path at every point; snakes were seen gliding out of their way—a fortunate tendency on the part of most snakes!—and the woods resounded with the singing of the yapu, a bird something like a blackbird, with yellow tips to its wings, and somewhat like the mocking-bird in that it imitated every other bird in the forest. Whether there is jealousy between the yapu and the parrot we have not been able to ascertain, but if birds are like men in their sentiments, we fear it is more than probable. Unlike man, however, the yapu prefers to sing upside-down, swinging the while from the branch of a tree, and ruffling its plumage.

“Hallo! massa. Look dar!” said Quashy, pointing with intense surprise at a neighbouring tree-stem. “Did you ebber see a crab climbin’ up a tree?”

“I certainly never did,” replied Lawrence, as he looked in the direction indicated, where he saw, not a crab indeed, but a monstrous hairy spider as large as a goodly-sized crab. Stepping forward to examine the creature, he was surprised to have his hat twitched off his head, and found that it was the web of the said spider which had done it! Afterwards he learned that the spider in question subsists by catching little birds, and that its bite is not so venomous as that of a smaller kind which abounds in the woods there. Not being desirous of testing the creature’s power in that way at the time, he contented himself with inspecting it, and listening to a learned dissertation on spiders in general from Quashy, as he afterwards walked on.

Good fortune seemed to smile on them that day, for they had not advanced a hundred yards further when two large jaguars crossed their path. It is probable that they did not see the hunters, for they did not look up, but, gliding cat-like into the jungle, quickly disappeared.

Perhaps it was fortunate that Lawrence and his man recovered their presence of mind when too late, for if they had fired hastily and only wounded the creatures, it might have brought to an abrupt end their terrestrial career. As it was. Quashy recovered with a gasp, drew his two double-barrelled pistols, which in his eagerness he neglected to cock, and, with one in each hand, rushed yelling after the jaguars. Lawrence cocked his gun and followed at a smart, though more sedate, pace. Leetle Cub, who probably thought them both fools, ran after them with a broad grin on his dingy countenance.

We need scarcely say that the pursuit was useless. Quashy returned in a few minutes with labouring breath, and streaming at every pore. Lawrence, scarcely less blown, sat down on a fallen tree and laughed when his lungs permitted. Of course he was joined by the sympathetic black, echoed by the small boy, and imitated—not badly—by a number of parrots which wisely availed themselves of the rare opportunity to learn a lesson from man!

As they advanced the path became more encumbered and difficult to traverse, so they determined to return. Their little guide, however, seemed to object very strongly, and made wonderful gesticulations in his efforts to induce them to go on. Lawrence, however, remained firm. Seeing at last that his followers had determined to rebel, the Cub gave up trying to influence them, scooped a quantity of wild honey out of a hole in a tree, and, sitting down in a half-sulky mood, sought to console himself by eating the same.

“Come, we’ll follow you in that, at all events,” said Lawrence, seating himself beside the child and regaling himself with the sweet food. Quashy followed his example with right good-will.

When their modest meal was over they returned to the river. The little boy, on nearing it, ran anxiously forward in advance, and soon they perceived by his frantic gesticulations and shouts that something of interest awaited them there.

“He’s cotched!” cried Quashy, and darted off as if shot from a catapult.

Lawrence followed, using his long legs to such advantage that he was not far behind his man; for although gifted with greater powers of self-restraint than Quashy, our hero was not a whit behind him in strong enthusiasm.

They found that an alligator—not, indeed, of the largest size, but nevertheless about six or seven feet long—had swallowed the monkey, and was tugging at the rope like a mad thing—turning round and round in its rage, and smacking the water with its resounding tail.

Instantly they all laid hold of the rope, and began to drag it towards the bank.

“How shall we manage to kill it?” said Lawrence, as the monster came close in.

“Stick ’im! shot ’im! hang ’im. Nebber mind dat. Git ’im fust,—kill ’im arter,” gasped the negro, as he strained at the rope, ably seconded by his comrades.

It was a hard tussle, and might have been unsuccessful if Lawrence and Quashy had not possessed more than average physical strength. As it was, they pulled the monstrous animal just near enough to get his head clear of the water, and then, putting several balls into him, killed him outright.

“Plenty ragoo now, massa!” exclaimed the negro, with a broad grin, after they had stowed the carcass in the canoe.

“Yes, Quash, more than enough.”

Leetle Cub seemed to have his mind running in the same direction, for he eyed the alligator with longing looks, and licked his lips expressively as they re-entered the canoe, shoved off, and directed the bow homeward.

Chapter Sixteen.

Tells of Absurd, as well as Evil, Doings, and winds up with a Horrid Surprise.

Whether Pedro’s pursuers continued the chase as far as the Indian hunter’s hut we cannot tell, for long before noon of the following day our travellers were far from the hunting-grounds of the gallant savage.

Soon after the usual midday siesta, the canoe, which contained the whole of the hunter’s worldly wealth, was run on the beach near to the spot where dwelt his father-in-law with many members of his tribe.

That worthy old man, in a light evening costume consisting of a cotton shirt and straw hat, came down to receive his children, who landed amid much noise with their boys and girls and household gods, including the red monkey, the parrot, the flamingo, the fat guinea-pig, the turtle, and the infant tapir. The old chief was quite willing to take care of the family during the absence of his son-in-law, and was very pressing in his offers of hospitality to the white travellers, but Pedro refused to delay more than an hour at the village.

The old man also evinced a considerable amount of curiosity in regard to Manuela, and made one or two attempts to engage her in conversation, but on being informed by Pedro that she belonged to a tribe living half-way between his hunting-grounds and the regions of Patagonia, and that she did not understand his dialect at all, he forbore to question her, and satisfied himself with simply gazing.

After a farewell which was wonderfully affectionate for savages, Spotted Tiger embarked in Pedro’s canoe, and, pushing off into the river, bade the Indians adieu.

The canoe in which the party now travelled belonged to Tiger, and was larger as well as more commodious than that in which they had hitherto journeyed, having a gondola-like cabin constructed of grasses and palm-leaves, underneath which Manuela found shelter from the sun. In the evenings Pedro could lie at full length on the top of it and smoke his cigarette. They were floating with the current, you see, and did not require to labour much at the paddles at that time.

It would weary the reader were we to continue our description of the daily proceedings of our adventurers in journalistic form. To get on with our tale requires that we should advance by bounds, and even flights—not exactly of fancy, but over stretches of space and time, though now and then we may find it desirable to creep or even to stand still.

We request the reader to creep with us at present, and quietly listen while Pedro and Tiger talk.

Pedro lies extended on his back on the roof of the gondola-like cabin, his hands under his head, his knees elevated, and a cigarette in his mouth. Lawrence and Quashy are leaning in more or less lazy attitudes on the gunwale of the canoe, indulging now and then in a few remarks, which do not merit attention. Manuela, also in a reclining attitude, rests under the shade of the erection on which Pedro lies, listening to their discourse. Tiger is the only one on duty, but his labour is light: it consists merely of holding the steering oar, and guiding the light craft along the smooth current of the river. Pedro lies with his head to the stern, so that his talk with the Indian is conducted, so to speak, upside-down. But that does not seem to incommode them, for the ideas probably turn right end foremost in passing to and fro.

Of course their language is in the Indian tongue. We translate.

“Tiger,” said Pedro, sending a long whiff of smoke straight up towards the bright blue sky, where the sun was beginning to descend towards his western couch, “we shan’t make much, I fear, of the men of this part of the country.”

“I did not expect that you would,” replied the Indian, giving a gentle turn to his oar in order to clear a mudbank, on which a number of alligators were basking comfortably.

“Why so, Tiger? Surely peace and good government are as desirable to them as to others.”

“No doubt, but many of them do not love peace. They are young. Their blood is hot, and they have nothing to do. When that is so, war is pleasant to them. It is natural. Man must work, or play, or fight. He cannot lie still. Those who are killed cannot return to tell their comrades what fools they have been, so those that remain are greater fools than ever.”

“I agree with you, Tiger; but you see it is not the young men who have the making of war, though they generally get all the doing of it, and the poor women and children take the consequences; it is the governors, whom one would expect to show some sort of wisdom, and recognise the fact that union is strength, and that respect for Law is the only hope of the land.”

“Governors,” returned Tiger, in a deep voice, “are not only fools, but villains—tyrants!”

The Indian spoke with such evidence of suppressed indignation that Pedro tried to look at him.

The aspect of his frowning countenance upside-down was not conducive to gravity.

“Come, Tiger,” said Pedro, with a tendency to laugh, “they are not all tyrants; I know one or two who are not bad fellows.”

“I know one who is a fool and a robber.”

“Indeed. What has he done to make you so bitter?” asked Pedro.

“Made us wear spectacles!” replied the Indian, sternly.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you not heard about it?”

“No; you know I have been away in Chili for some time, and am ignorant of much that has been going on in these parts.”

“There is in Spain a white man, I know not who,” said Tiger, with an expression of ineffable contempt, “but he must be the chief of the fools among the white men, who seem to me to be all fools together.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Pedro, with a laugh.

“This white fool,” continued Tiger, paying no regard to his friend’s interruption, “thought that he would send out here for sale some spectacles—glass things, you know, that old white men look through when they cannot see. We Indians, as you know, never need such things. We can see well as long as we live. It is supposed that a mistake was made by some one, for something like a canoe-load of spectacles was sent out—so many that in a hundred years the white men could not have used them up. The trader knew not what to do. There was no sale for them. He applied to the governor—that robber of whom I have spoken. He said to the trader, with a wink of his eye—that sort of wink which the white fool gives when he means to pass from folly to knavery—‘Wait,’ he said, ‘and you shall see.’ Then he issued an order that no Indian should dare to appear in his district, or in church during festival-days, without spectacles! The consequence was that the spectacles were all sold. I know not the price of these foolish things, but some white men told me they were sold at an enormous profit.”

Although Pedro sympathised heartily with his brown friend in his indignation, he could not quite repress a smile at the ridiculous ideas called up. Fortunately the Indian failed to interpret an upside-down smile, particularly with the moustache, as it were, below instead of above the mouth, and a cigarette in the lips. It was too complicated.

“And were you obliged to buy and wear a pair of these spectacles, Tiger?” asked Pedro, after a few silent puffs.

“Yes—look! here they are,” he replied, with inconceivable bitterness, drawing forth the implements of vision from his pouch and fixing them on his nose with intense disgust. Then, suddenly plucking them off; he hurled them into the river, and said savagely—“I was a Christian once, but I am not a Christian now.”

“How? what do you mean?” asked Pedro, raising himself on his elbow at this, so as to look straightly as well as gravely at his friend.

“I mean that the religion of such men must be false,” growled the Indian, somewhat defiantly.

“Now, Tiger,” returned his friend in a remonstrative tone, “that is not spoken with your usual wisdom. The religion which a man professes may be true, though his profession of it may be false. However, I am not unwilling to admit that the view of our religion which is presented in this land is false—very false. Nevertheless, Christianity is true. I will have some talk with you at another time on this subject, my friend. Meanwhile, let us return to the point from which we broke off—the disturbed state of this unhappy country.”

Let us pause here, reader, to assure you that this incident of the spectacles is no fiction. Well would it be for the South American Republics at this day, as well as for the good name of Spain, if the poor aborigines of South America had nothing more serious to complain of than the arbitrary act of the dishonest governor referred to; but it is a melancholy fact that, ever since the conquest of Peru by Pizarro, the Spaniards have treated the Indians with brutal severity, and it is no wonder that revenge of the fiercest nature still lingers in the breasts of the descendants of those unfortunate savages.

Probably our reader knows that the Peruvian region of the Andes is rich in gold and silver-mines. These the Spanish conquerors worked by means of Indian slave labour. Not long after the conquest a compulsory system of personal toil was established, whereby a certain proportion of the natives of each district were appointed by lot to work in the mines. Every individual who obtained a grant of a mine became entitled to a certain number of Indians to work it, and every mine which remained unwrought for a year and a day became the property of any one who chose to claim and work it. As there were many hundreds of mines registered in Peru alone, it may be imagined what a host of Indians were consequently condemned to a degraded state of slavery.

The labour of the mines was so dreadful that each unfortunate on whom the lot fell considered it equivalent to his death-warrant. And that there was ground for this belief is proved by the fact that not more than one in six of the Indians condemned to the mines survived the treatment there inflicted. Each mitayo, or conscript, received nominally two shillings a day. But he never actually received it. On his fate being fixed by lot, the poor fellow carried his wife and children to the mines with him, and made arrangements for never again returning home. His food and lodging, being supplied by his employers, (owners?) were furnished at such an extravagant rate that he always found himself in debt at the end of his first year—if he outlived it. In that case he was not allowed to leave until his debt was paid, which, of course, it never was.

Usually, however, the bad air and heavy labour of the mines, coupled with grief, told so much on men accustomed to the fresh air and free life of the wilderness, that death closed the scene before the first year of servitude was out. It is said that above eight millions of natives have perished thus in the mines of Peru.

We have shown briefly one of the many phases of tyrannical cruelty practised by the conquerors of the land. Here is another specimen. At first there were few merchants in Peru, therefore privilege was granted to the Spanish corregidors, or governors of districts, to import goods suitable for Indians, and barter them at a fair price. Of course this permission was abused, and trade became a compulsory and disgraceful traffic. Useless and worthless articles and damaged goods—razors, for instance, silk stockings, velvets, etcetera—were forced on Indians who preferred naked feet and had no beards.

The deeds of the soldiers, miners, and governors were but too readily copied by the priests, many of whom were rapacious villains who had chosen the crucifix as their weapon instead of the sword. One priest, for instance, besides his regular dues and fees, received during the year as presents, which he exacted at certain festivals, 200 sheep, 6000 head of poultry, 4000 guinea-pigs, and 50,000 eggs, and he would not say mass on those festival-days until a due proportion of the presents was delivered. And this case of extortion is not told of one of the priests of old. It occurred in the second quarter of the present century. Another priest summoned a widow to make declaration of the property left her by her husband, so that he might fix the scale of his burial fees! He made a high demand. She implored his mercy, reminding him of her large family. He was inexorable, but offered to give up his claim if she would give him her eldest son—a boy of eight—to be sold as a slave or given away as a present. (It seems that the senhoras of those lands want such boys to carry their kneeling carpets.) The civil authorities could not be appealed to in this case. There was no redress, so the widow had to agree to give up her son! Doubtless both in camp and in church there may have been good men, but if so, they form an almost invisible minority on the page of Peruvian history.

In short, tyranny in every form was, and for centuries has been, practised by the white men on the savages; and it is not a matter of wonder that the memory of these things rankles in the Indian’s bosom even at the present time, and that in recent books of travel we read of deeds of diabolical cruelty and revenge which we, in peaceful England, are too apt to think of as belonging exclusively to the days of old.

But let us return to our friends in the little canoe.

“To tell you the truth,” said Pedro to the Indian, “I am deeply disappointed with the result of my mission. It is not so much that men do not see the advantages and necessity for union, as that they are heartless and indifferent—caring nothing, apparently, for the welfare of the land, so long as the wants and pleasures of the present hour are supplied.”

“Has it ever been otherwise?” asked Tiger, with grave severity of expression.

“Well, I confess that my reading of history does not warrant me to say that it has; but my reading of the good Creator’s Word entitles me to hope for and strive after better times.”

“I know not,” returned the Indian, with a far-off, pensive look, “what your histories say. I cannot read. There are no books in my tongue, but my memory is strong. The stories, true stories, of my fathers reach very far back—to the time before the white man came to curse the land,—and I remember no time in which men did not desire each other’s property, and slay each other for revenge. It is man’s nature, as it is the river’s nature to flow down hill.”

“It is man’s fallen, not his first, nature,” said Pedro. “Things were as bad in England once. They are not quite so bad now. God’s law has made the difference. However, we must take things here as we find them, and I’m sorry to think that up to this point my mission has been a failure. Indeed, the last effort, as you know, nearly cost me my life.”

“And what will you now do?” asked Tiger.

“I will visit a few more places in the hope that some of the people may support us. After that, I’ll mount and away over the Pampas to Buenos Ayres; see the colonel, and deliver Manuela to her father.”

“The white-haired chief?” asked Tiger.

“Even so,” replied Pedro.

During the foregoing conversation Quashy had thrust his fat nose down on a plank and gone to sleep, while Lawrence and Manuela, having nothing better to do, taught each other Spanish and English respectively! And, strange though it may appear, it is a fact that Manuela, with all her quick-witted intelligence, was wonderfully slow at learning English. To Lawrence’s intense astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his no small disappointment, the Indian maiden not only made the same blunders over and over again, and seemed to be incapable of making progress, but even laughed at her own stupidity. This somewhat cooled his admiration of her character, which coolness afforded him satisfaction rather than the reverse, as going far to prove that he was not really, (as how could he be?) in love with the brown-skinned, uneducated, half-savage girl, but only much impressed with her amiable qualities. Poor fellow, he was much comforted by these thoughts, because, had it been otherwise, how terrible would have been his fate!—either, on the one hand, to marry her and go and dwell with her savage relations—perhaps be compelled to paint his visage scarlet with arabesque devices in charcoal, and go on the war-path against the white man; or, on the other hand, to introduce his Indian bride into the salons of civilisation, with the certainty of beholding the sneer of contempt on the face of outraged society; with the probability of innumerable violations of the rules of etiquette, and the possibility of Manuela exhibiting the squaw’s preference for the floor to a chair, fingers to knives and forks, and—pooh! the thing was absurd, utterly out of the question!

Towards sunset they came to a part of the river where there were a good many sandbanks, as well as extensive reaches of sand along shore.

On one of these low-lying spits they drew up the canoe, and encamped for that night in the bushes, close enough to the edge to be able to see the river, where a wide-spreading tree canopied them from the dews of night.

Solemn and inexpressibly sad were the views of life taken by Lawrence that night as he stood by the river’s brink in the moonlight, while his companions were preparing the evening meal, and gave himself up to the contemplation of things past, present, and to come,—which is very much like saying that he thought about nothing in particular. What he felt quite sure of was that he was horribly depressed—dissatisfied with himself, his companions and his surroundings, and ashamed in no small degree of his dissatisfaction. As well he might be; for were not his companions particularly agreeable, and were not his surroundings exquisitely beautiful and intensely romantic? The moon in a cloudless sky glittered in the broad stream, and threw its rippling silver treasures at his very feet. A gentle balmy air fanned his cheek, on which mantled the hue of redundant health, and the tremendous puffs and long-drawn sighs of the alligators, with the growl of jaguars, croak and whistle of frogs, and the voice of the howling monkey, combined to fill his ear with the music of thrilling romance, if not of sweetness.

“What more could I wish?” he murmured, self-reproachfully.

A tremendous slap on the face—dealt by his own hand, as a giant mosquito found and probed some tenderer spot than usual—reminded him that some few things, which he did not wish for, were left to mingle in his cup of too great felicity, and reduce it, like water in overproof whisky, to the level of human capacity.

Still dissatisfied, despite his reflections, he returned to the fire under the spreading tree, and sat down to enjoy a splendid basin of turtle soup,—soup prepared by Tiger the day before from the flesh of a turtle slain by his own hand, and warmed up for the supper of that evening. A large tin dish or tureen full of the same was placed at his elbow to tempt his appetite, which, to say truth, required no tempting.

Manuela, having already supped, sat with her little hands clasped in her lap, and her lustrous eyes gazing pensively into the fire. Perhaps she was attempting to read her fortune in the blazing embers. Perchance engaged in thinking of that very common subject—nothing! If Pedro had smoked the same thing, it would have been better for his health and pocket; but Pedro, thinking otherwise, fumigated his fine moustache, and disconcerted the mosquitoes in the region of his nose.

Quashy, having just replenished the fire until the logs rose two feet or more from the ground, turned his back on the same, warmed his hands behind him, and gazed up through the over-arching boughs at the starry sky with that wistfully philosophical expression which negroes are apt to assume when their thoughts are “too deep,” or too complex, “for utterance.”

Spotted Tiger continued to dally with the turtle soup, and seemed loath to give in as he slowly, with many a pause between, raised the huge iron spoon to his lips.

No one seemed inclined to break the silence into which they had sunk, for all were more or less fatigued; and it seemed as if the very brutes around sympathised with them, for there was a perceptible lull in the whistling of the frogs, the howling monkeys appeared to have gone to rest, and the sighing alligators to have subsided and sunk, so that the breaking of a twig or the falling of a leaf was perceptible to the listening ear.

Things were in this state of profound and peaceful calm when a slight rustling was heard among the branches of the tree above them.

The instant glare of Quashy’s eyes; the gaze of Manuela’s; the cock of Pedro’s ear, and the sudden pause of our hero’s spoon on its way to his lips, were sights to behold! The Indian alone seemed comparatively indifferent to the sound, though he looked up inquiringly.

At that moment there burst forth an ear-splitting, marrow-shrivelling blood-curdling yell, that seemed to rouse the entire universe into a state of wild insanity. There could be no mistaking it—the peculiar, horrid, shrieking, only too familiar war-whoop of the painted savage!

Quashy staggered back. He could not recover himself, for a log had caught his heel. To sit down on the fire he knew would be death, therefore he bounded over it backwards and fell into Lawrence’s lap, crushing that youth’s plate almost into the region where the soup had already gone, and dashing his feet into the tureen!

Lawrence roared; Manuela shrieked; Pedro sprang up and seized his weapons. So did Lawrence and his man, regardless of the soup.

Tiger alone sat still, conveying the iron spoon slowly to his lips, but with a peculiar motion of his broad shoulders which suggested that the usually grave savage was convulsed with internal laughter.

“Ghosts and crokidiles!—what’s dat?” gasped Quashy, staring up into the tree, and ready to fire at the first visible object.

Tiger also looked up, made a peculiar sound with his mouth, and held out his hand.

Immediately a huge bird, responding to the call, descended from the tree and settled on his wrist.

Quashy’s brief commentary explained it all.

“Purrit!”

It was indeed the Indian’s faithful pet-parrot, which he had taught thus to raise the war-cry of his tribe, and which, having bestowed its entire affections on its master, was in the habit of taking occasional flights after him when he went away from home.

Chapter Seventeen.

In which Ingenuity, Comicality, Ferocity, Eccentricity, Fecundity, and some other “Ities” in Man and Beast are mentioned.

Plain sailing, fair weather, perpetual calm and sunshine are not the lot of any man or woman here.

The weather, that fertile source of human intercourse, is occasionally boisterous as well as serene in the regions of Peru and Bolivia. A day or two after the events recounted in the last chapter our travellers experienced a sudden change.

We have said that they had come to a part of the river where there were occasional stretches of sand, and here they had evidence of the improvident nature of Indians, in the number of turtle-shells found lying on the sands with parts of the animals still adhering to them.

On one particular spot they found a space, of about seventy yards in diameter completely covered with the upper and under shells of turtles. These had evidently been cut asunder violently with hatchets, and reddish-brown furrows in the sands told where streams of blood had flowed during the massacre.

“What wanton slaughter!” exclaimed Lawrence, as he and his friends stood looking at the scene.

“And it is not long since it was done,” said Pedro, “for the flesh—at least what’s left of it—is still fresh.”

“Ugh, you brutes!” exclaimed Quashy, referring to a number of urubu vultures which stood on the shells, all more or less gorged, some still tearing sleepily at the meat, others standing in apoplectic apathy, quite unable to fly.

They counted upwards of three hundred dead turtles, and this carnage, it was afterwards ascertained, had been the work of only a dozen or so of Indians—not for food, but for the sake of the fine yellow fat covering the intestines, which formed an article of commerce at the time between the red men and the white.

That night after supper time the party busied themselves in making mosquito-curtains out of a small quantity of green muslin obtained from Spotted Tiger’s father-in-law, who had received it from the missionaries. The supply being quite insufficient to make curtains for them all, Quashy had set his fertile brain to work and devised a species of net which, having never been seen in that country before, deserves special notice. It may serve as a hint to other mortals similarly situated and tormented.

“You mus’ know,” remarked Quashy to his friends, who watched him while he fabricated the first of these curtains, “dat my gran’fadder was a injineer, an’ some ob his geenus comed down to me. Dat’s why I’s so clebber wid my hands. Has you got dem hoops tied, massa?”

“All right, Quashy, I’m just finishing the last one. There—are these the right sizes?”

“Das right, massa. Biggest two one futt six in dameter; oder two leetle ones, one futt. Now, you looks here, ladies an’ gen’lemen. See, I’s made a bag ob dis muzzlin ’bout two futt six long an’ ’bout two futt wide. Well, one end ob de bag is close up—as you see. ’Tother end am open—as you b’hold. Vwalla! as de Frenchman says. Now, I puts into de closed end one small hoop—so. Den de two large hoops—so—’bout six inches apart. Den de leetle hoop—so. Which makes my bag into what you may call a gauze-barrel, wid de hoops inside ’stead ob outside. Nixt, I puts it ober my head, lets de bottom hoop rest on my shoulders, shoves de slack ob de veil—I calls it a veil, not a curtin,—down my neck under my poncho, so’s nuffin can git inside, an’ dere you are. No skeeters git at me now!”

“But, Quash,” said Lawrence, who had watched the making of this ingenious device, as well as lent assistance, “there are mosquitoes inside it even now; and with such swarms as are about us, how will you keep them out while putting the thing on.”

“Don’ call it a ‘t’ing,’ massa,” said Quashy, with a dignified look, “call it a ‘veil.’ Dere’s nuflin easier. See here.”

He rose, took off the veil, and flattened the hoops down on each other, so as to drive out all that might be inside. Then he stepped to leeward of the fire, held his breath for a few seconds while in the smoke, quickly adjusted his novel head-piece, and stood up fully armed against the “skeeters.”

“But,” still objected Lawrence, “how can you lay your head on your pillow with such a thing—beg pardon, such a veil on?”

“Nuffin easier, massa.”

He illustrated his point by rolling over into one of the nearest hammocks—which had already been hung—and laying his head down, when, of course, the machine bulged away from his black face, and the discomfited millions kept thrusting their probosces—and, doubtless, making faces at him—ineffectually.

“But how if you should want to roll about in your sleep?” asked Pedro.

“Don’t want to roll about in your sleep!” replied the negro, curtly.

It is right to say that, in spite of the advice thus firmly given, Quashy did roll in his sleep that night, with the result that his nose at last got close to the veil and pressed against it. No malignant foe ever took advantage of an enemy’s weak point more promptly than did the “skeeters” of Quashy’s nocturnal trumpet. They settled on its point with a species of triumphant hum. They warred with each other in their bloodthirsty desire to seize on the delicate but limited morsel. It was “cut and come again”—at least it was “cut away and let others come on”—as long as the chance lasted. And the consequence was that Quashy rose next morning with two noses! His natural nose being a mere lump of fat and the lump raised on it being much the same in form and size with the original, we feel justified in saying that he had two noses—nearly.

Notwithstanding, it is but fair to add that the veils were afterwards pronounced a great success.

But to return.

That night, after the veils in question had been made and put on by all except Tiger, who was skeeto-proof, and the happy wearers were steeped in blissful repose, a tremendous hurricane burst upon them, with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind came in furious gusts which tore away some of the veils, overturned the hammocks, scattered the bedding, extinguished the fire, drenched them to the skin, and otherwise rendered them supremely miserable.

Retiring to a thicker part of the jungle, they cut down branches and made a temporary erection which they covered with ponchos and blankets; but as everything had to be done in the dark, it was a wretched affair, and, at the best, only a partial protection. Into the furthest extremity of this hut poor Manuela crept. The others followed, and there they all sat or reclined, shivering, till morning.

About daybreak Lawrence heard Pedro and the Indian girl conversing in the Indian language and in unusually earnest tones, which were interrupted once or twice by slight laughter. He wondered much what they found to laugh at, but having become by that time accustomed to the guide’s little touches of mystery, and being very sleepy, he did not trouble himself about it long.

The storm happily was short-lived, and when the sun appeared, enabling them to dry their garments, and a good breakfast had been eaten, the discomforts of the past night were forgotten, and Quashy even ceased to growl at the “skeeters” and lament his double nose.

Hitherto they had met with few Indians, and these few were friendly, being acquainted either personally or by report with Spotted Tiger, for the man’s reputation as a jaguar and puma slayer had extended far beyond his own tribe. That day, however, several native canoes were passed, and in the evening they found that the place on which Tiger had made up his mind to encamp was in possession of Indians.

“Friendly?” asked Pedro, as they approached the shore.

“Yes, friendly,” replied Tiger.

“Would it not be better to go a little further and encamp away from them?” asked Lawrence, who retained unpleasant memories of the dirtiness of Indian encampments.

“Tiger wishes to speak to them,” said Pedro, as the canoe was run on shore.

It was found that the party consisted of several families of Indians who were out on a turtle-hunting expedition, for the season had arrived when turtles lay their eggs.

This laying season of the turtle sets the whole population of those regions, civilised and savage, in motion, searching in the sands for eggs, and capturing or killing the animals. The Indians now met with were on the latter business. Upon the weather depends the commencement of this season of unwonted activity among the turtles and wild excitement among the river-side Indians, for the snows must cease to fall on the summits of the Andes, and the rivers must decrease in volume so as to lay bare vast spaces of sand, before the eggs can be laid.

No alderman in London city ever equalled—much less excelled—a South American savage of that region in his love of turtle, or in his capacity for devouring it. But the savage goes immeasurably further than the alderman! He occupies altogether a higher and more noble position in regard to the turtle, for he not only studies, with prolonged care and deep interest, its habits and manners, but follows it, watches it, catches it, kills it, and, finally, cooks it with his own hands, before arriving at the alderman’s comparatively simple and undignified act of eating it.

So exact are these Indians in their observations and knowledge of the turtle question, that they can tell almost to a day when and where their unsuspecting victims will land and lay. There was an extensive stretch of flat sand close to the spot where our voyageurs put ashore, on which the Indians had observed numerous claw-marked furrows, which had been traced by the turtles. Here, therefore, they had called a halt, built a number of ajoupas, or leafy sheds, about two hundred yards from the edge of the river, under the shelter of which to sit at night and watch for their prey.

The turtles, it was found, were expected to land that night. Meanwhile, the savages were regaling themselves with a splendid dish, or rather jar, containing hundreds of turtles’ eggs, mixed with bananas.

These they hospitably shared with their visitors. The mess was very palatable, though “heavy,” and our travellers did justice to it—especially the negro, whose gastronomic powers were equal to all emergencies.

“How do they know,” asked Lawrence, as he and Pedro busied themselves in tying up the hammocks in a suitable part of the jungle, “when to expect the turtles?”

“Who can tell?” said Pedro. “Instinct, I suppose.”

“But dey not stink at all,” objected Quashy, “anyhow, not till arter dey’s dead, so’t can’t be dat.”

“It’s not that kind of stink I mean, Quashy; quite another sort,” said Pedro, who felt unequal to the task of explanation. “But look sharp; we must lend the Indians a helping hand to-night.”

“But I don’t know nuffin about it,” said Quashy, “an’ a man what don’t know what to do is on’y in de way ob oder peepil.”

“You take a just view of things, boy,” returned Pedro, “but you won’t find it difficult to learn. Five minutes looking at what the Indians do will suffice, for they only turn the turtles.”

“How you mean? Turn ’im upside-down, or outside in—w’ich?”

“You’d find it hard to do the last, Quashy. No, you’ve only to turn them over on their backs, and let them lie; that’s all.”

While the negro was thus gathering useful knowledge, the Indians amused themselves in various ways until darkness should call them forth to the business of the hour. Some, with that amazing tendency to improve their personal appearance, which is common alike to civilised and savage, plucked out the little beard with which nature had endowed them by means of tweezers, deeming it no doubt wiser on the whole to pluck up the beard by the roots than to cut it off close thereto, as indeed it was, seeing that the former process did not need regular repetition. Others were still busy with the turtle-egg ragout, unable, apparently to decide whether or not appetite was satisfied. Two somewhat elderly but deeply interested savages whiled away the time with a game of cup-and-ball, turn and turn about, with imperturbable gravity.

This game was different from that of Europe to the extent of being played on precisely opposite principles. It was not he who caught the ball on the point of the sharp stick that won, but he who failed to catch it, for failure was more difficult to achieve than success! The explanation is simple. The handle was a piece of pointed wood, about the thickness of a ramrod, and a yard or so in length. To this, by a piece of string made from fibres of the palm, was attached the ball, which was formed of the skull of a turtle, carefully scraped. There was no “cup” in the game. It was all point, and the great point was to touch the ball a certain number of times without catching it, a somewhat difficult feat to accomplish owing to the dozen or more natural cavities with which the skull-ball was pierced, and into one of which the point was almost always pretty sure to enter.

At last the shades of night descended on the scene, and the Indians, laying aside ragout, tweezers, cup-and-ball, etcetera, went down to the sand-flats, and crouched, kneeled, or squatted under the leafy ajoupas. Of course their visitors accompanied them.

It was a profoundly dark night, for during the first part of it there was no moon, and the stars, although they lent beauty and lustre to the heavens, did not shed much light upon the sands. There is a weird solemnity about such a scene which induces contemplative thought even in the most frivolous, while it moves the religious mind to think more definitely, somehow, of the near presence of the Creator. For some time Lawrence, who crouched in profound silence beside Pedro, almost forgot the object for which he was waiting there. The guide seemed to be in a similarly absent mood, for he remarked at last in a low voice—

“How striking would be the contrasts presented to us constantly by nature, if we were not so thoroughly accustomed to them! Storm, and noise, and war of elements last night,—to-night, silence, calm, and peace! At present, darkness profound,—in half an hour or so the moon will rise, and the sands will be like a sheet of silver. This moment, quiet repose,—a few moments hence, it may be, all will be turmoil and wildest action—that is, if the turtles come.”

“True,” assented Lawrence, “and we may add yet another illustration: at one moment, subjects of contemplation most sublime,—next moment, objects the most ridiculous.”

He pointed as he spoke to Quashy, whose grinning teeth and glaring eyes alone were distinctly visible in the background of ebony. He was creeping on his hands and knees, by way of rendering himself, if possible, less obtrusive.

“Massa,” he said, in a hoarse yet apologetic whisper, “I’s come to ax if you t’ink de turtles am comin’ at all dis night.”

“How can I tell, Quash, you stupid fellow? Get away to your own ajoupa, and keep quiet. I wonder the Indians haven’t let fly a poisoned arrow at you. Go,—and have patience.”

Poor Quashy shut his mouth and his eyes—it was as if three little lights had gone out—while his dusky frame melted into its native gloom.

No sound was to be heard on the sand-flats after that until about midnight, when the moon appeared on the horizon. Just then a sound was heard on the river.

“Here they come,” whispered Pedro.

The sound increased. It was like a swirling, hissing noise. Soon they could see by the increasing light that the water of the river seemed actually to boil. Immediately afterwards, thousands of turtles came tumbling clumsily out of the water, and spread themselves over the flats.

Evidently egg-laying was no joke with them. The well-known sluggishness of the creatures was laid aside for this great occasion, and wonderful activity marked their every movement from first to last. You see, they had to manage the business in a wholesale sort of fashion, each turtle having from thirty to forty eggs, or more, to deposit in the sand,—on which sand, in conjunction with the sun, devolved the duty of subsequent maternal care.

That the creatures acted on pre-arranged principles was evident from the fact that they worked in separate detachments, each working-party devoting its energies to the digging of a trench two feet deep, four feet broad, and sometimes 200 yards long. Their zeal was amazing; as well it might be, for they allowed themselves less than an hour in which to do it all. Each animal dug like a hero with its fore-feet, and sent the sand flying about it to such an extent that the whole flat appeared to be enveloped in a thick fog!

When satisfied that their trench was deep enough they stopped work, deposited their soft-shelled eggs, and, with their hind feet, soon filled up the trench. So great was their eagerness and hurry, that during the operation more than one turtle, tumbling over her companions, rolled into the trench and was buried alive. No sooner was the stupendous work accomplished than they made a disorderly rush for the river, as if aware of the fate which threatened them.

And now at last came the opportunity of the savage. The Iron Duke’s “Up, guards, and at ’em!” could not have been more promptly or gladly obeyed than was the signal of the red-skinned chief. Like statues they had awaited it. Like catapults they responded to it, with yells of mingled madness and joy.

But there was method in their madness. To have run between the shelly host and the river, so as to cut off its retreat, would have been sheer lunacy, at which Luna herself—by that time shining superbly—would have paled with horror, for the men would have certainly been overthrown and trampled under foot by the charging squadrons. What the Indians did was to rush upon the flanks of the host, seize the animals’ tail, and hurl them over on their backs, in which position they lay flapping helplessly. Before the retreating “miserables” reached the river, hundreds of captives were thus obtained.

You may be sure that Lawrence and Pedro and Spotted Tiger acted their part well that night, and that Quashy was not long in learning his lesson!

The first tail the negro grasped slipped through his hands, so mighty was his effort, and, as a consequence, he sat down with that sudden involuntary flop which one associates irresistibly with nurseries. Jumping up, and rendered wise, he took a better grip next time, turned the turtle over, and fell on the top of it, receiving a tremendous whack on the cheek from its right flipper as a reward for his clumsiness. But practice makes perfect. Even in the brief space of time at his disposal, Quashy managed to turn ten turtles with his own hands, besides turning himself over six times, if not more.

Rendered wild by success, and desperate with anxiety, as the fugitives neared the river, the negro fixed his glittering eyes on a particularly huge turtle, which was scuttling along in almost drunken haste. With an impromptu war-howl, Quashy charged down on it, and caught it by the tail. With a heave worthy of Hercules he lifted his foe some inches off the sand, but failed to turn it. Making a second effort, he grasped the edge of the creature’s shell with his left hand, and the tail more firmly with the right.

“Huyp!” he shouted, and made a Herculean heave. A second time he would have failed, if it had not been that he was on the edge of a part of the trench which the turtles had not had time to fill up. The weight of the creature caused a fore-leg to break off part of the edge, and over it went, slowly, on its side,—almost balancing thus, and flapping as it went. To expedite the process Quashy seized it by the neck and gave another heave and howl. Unfortunately, the edge of the trench again gave way under one of his own feet, and he fell into it with a cry of distress, for the turtle fell on the top of him, crushing him down into the soft watery sand!

Well was it for Quashy that night that Lawrence Armstrong had good ears, and was prompt to respond to the cry of distress, else had he come to an untimely and inglorious end! Hearing the cry, Lawrence looked quickly round, guessed the cause, shouted to Pedro, who was not far-off, and was soon on the spot,—yet not a moment too soon, for poor Quashy was almost squashy by that time. They dragged the turtle off, dug the negro out, and found that he had become insensible.

Raising him gently in their arms, they bore him up to the camp, where they found Manuela ready to minister to him.

“Dead!” exclaimed the horrified girl when she saw the negro laid down, and beheld the awful dirty-green colour of his countenance.

“I hope not,” replied Lawrence, earnestly.

“I’s sh–—squeesh!—sure not!” exclaimed Quashy himself, with a sneeze, as he opened his eyes.

And Quashy, we need scarcely add, was right. He was not dead. He did not die for many years afterwards. For aught that we know, indeed, he may be living still, for he came of a very long-lived race.

His accident, however, had the useful effect of preventing his giving way to too exuberant felicity, and rendered him a little more careful as to the quantity of turtle-egg ragout which he consumed that night for supper.

It would be pleasant to end our chapter here, but a regard for facts compels us to refer to the slaughter of the unfortunate turtles next morning.

There is in the interior of the turtle a quantity of yellow fat, which is said to be superior in delicacy to the fat of the goose, and from which is obtained a fine oil, highly prized as an article of commerce. To secure this fat, the animals which had been “turned” were killed at daylight the following morning. The axes of the Indians caused the shells to fly in splinters; the intestines were then torn out and handed to the Indian women, whose duty it was to remove from them the precious fat, after which the carcasses were left to the vultures and fisher-eagles, which flocked from afar to the scene of carnage with that unerring instinct which has so often been commented on by travellers, but which no one can understand.

Chapter Nineteen.

In which, among other things, Lawrence refuses an Invitation, and bids a Final Farewell to Manuela.

A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable.

We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America.

You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will—from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego—without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent.

We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans.

It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads—if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fÊte or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town.

There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela’s elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention—admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few—a very few—of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God’s creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments!

You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word “some” in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt—fit subjects only for pity.

As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish.

He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said—

“Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong.”

“Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished.”

“Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey.”

“Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?” asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him.

“No, it won’t do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?” said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face.

“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”

He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part with that thus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he was not in love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.

“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.

“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”

“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”

“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.

“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”

“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.

“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”

“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”

“That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela.”

“Indeed,” said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, “and shall we find her there on our return?”

“I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!” said Pedro, with a look of surprise.

Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him.

“Of course I mean, will you find her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father’s property lies on the western side of the Andes.”

“Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return,” said Pedro, “unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!” he added, with a quick glance at his companion.

“And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?”

“No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there.”

The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class.

Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there.

“Well—aw—I’m not quite sure, but there is—aw—I believe, a military man of—aw—some sort staying in the place.”

Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with “aw” to an extent that is absolutely awful.

The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment.

“Well, then,” said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, “you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa.”

For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master’s horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables.

“So,” thought Lawrence, bitterly, “I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye—without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw—a black girl! But no matter. It’s all over! It was only her spirit I admired, and I don’t care even for that now.”

It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest.

“Will you sup, senhor?” asked a waiter, coming up just then.

“Eh! no—that is—yes,” replied Lawrence, savagely.

“How many, senhor?”

“How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here.”

He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do.

“Aw—quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of—aw—long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk.”

These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said—

“No more mad or drunk dan you’self—you whitefaced racoon!”

Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will.

That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy—though his temper had quite recovered—he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.

Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.

At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence.

Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.

“You no want me, massa?”

“No, Quash, I don’t.”

“P’r’aps,” suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,—“P’r’aps you’d like me to go wid you for—for—company?”

“You’re very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I’m very much out of sorts, and—”

“O massa!” interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, “it’s not in de stummik, am it?” He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.

“No, Quash,” Lawrence replied, with a laugh, “it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind.”

“Oh! is dat all?” said the negro, quite relieved. “Den you not need to boder you’self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t’ing for dat is a little cheerful s’iety. I t’ink you’ll be de better ob me.”

He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy’s light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.

“Splendid place dis, massa,” observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.

“Yes, Quash,—very beautiful.”

“Lots ob nice shady trees an’ bushes, and flowers, an’ fruits, an’ sweet smells ob oranges, an’—”

He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.

“Quite true, Quash,” replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.

“Is you gwine,” inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, “to de gubner’s ball to-night?”

“No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball.”

The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.

“You not know ob it!” he exclaimed; “why eberybody knows ob it, an’ a’most eberybody’s agwine—all de ’spectable peepil, I mean, an’ some ob dem what’s not zactly as ’spectable as dey should be. But dey’s all agwine. He’s a liberal gubner, you see, an’ he’s gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan’lord’s expense.”

“Indeed; that’s a curiously liberal arrangement.”

“Yes, an’ a bery clebber ’rangement for de lan’lord. He’s a cute man de lan’lord. I s’pose you’s agwine?”

“No, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress.”

“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”

“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”

“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.

Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!

“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”

It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”

The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.

“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”

A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.

“This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I’m glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish.”

“Yes—I understan’. I very sorry we part. Very, very sorry. Good-bye.”

She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever—no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple “I’m very sorry. Good-bye?”

He felt cured now, completely. Such a spirit, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind—almost desperately easy—and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.

“Well, Manuela,” he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, “you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished—oh! how I—well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!”

“I will fink,” she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, “t’ink of you as a fadder.”

“Good-bye,” he said again.

“Good-bye,” she replied.

He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final “Farewell—God bless you,” quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.

Chapter Twenty.

Is cumulatively Astonishing.

There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods—testing-points, as it were—when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, “Who will show us any good?”

Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply “believe” and “trust.”

When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl’s goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.

“But it’s all over now,” he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. “All over,” he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, “and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black—well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration—strong admiration I admit—of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav— an Indian; and I’ve been mistaken; that’s all. That’s all. But,” (after a pause), “have I been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her—who never can be anything to her—argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, or bad qualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. What are the good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?”

Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter—

“Earnest simplicity—that’s the first—no, that’s two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that’s the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke—well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy’s leg! But after all I must have been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world—the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains—yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes.”

He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself!

“However, she had nothing to do with that,” he muttered, apologetically, “and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course, that does not constitute a Christian, but—well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced—very clearly.”

He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl’s life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!

“But, after all,” he muttered, indignantly, “would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting from me? I wouldn’t care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that’s an end o’ the matter. She’ll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I’ll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy.”

“Dat’s just de bery best t’ing what you can do, massa.”

Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.

“Why, you’re always laughing, Quash,” said the youth, a little sharply.

“O massa!” exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. “I’s nebber laugh no more if you don’ like it.”

“Like it, my good fellow!” exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, “of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am—”

“Still out ob sorts, massa?”

“Yes, that’s it—exactly.”

“Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar—one time slow, noder time so quick. I was ’bleeged to run to obertake you.”

Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor’s ball, about to take place that evening.

They met Pedro at the door.

“You’ll go, I suppose?” he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.

“Indeed I will not. I’ve had no invitation, and have no evening dress.”

“Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England,” said Pedro. “We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o’-the-way place like this. You’ll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off.”

“No matter, I’ll not go. Nothing will induce me to go,” returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.

“Don’t say that,” rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. “You may perhaps meet friends there.”

“You know that I have no friends here,” returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.

But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro’s reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and—and—Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He would not go!

But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on.

He met Pedro in the corridor.

“Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?”

“Yes, I have.”

Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether “out of sorts” and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.

“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”

“A surprise, Pedro?”

“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”

At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—

“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”

The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.

And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.

He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—

“Aw! indeed?”

“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”

“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.

It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.

At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.

“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.

Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.

People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.

“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”

There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Lawrence followed in some surprise.

Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel’s arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest.

“Mariquita!” he murmured, holding out both hands.

“Yes,” said the delighted colonel, “I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about—”

“Father!” burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro’s arms.

“Just so,” continued the colonel, “I didn’t like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn’t it so, Manuela?”

Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel’s other arm. He now turned and beheld—not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers—the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white!

He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend—

“Aw—don’t you think it would be as well to—aw—kick the fellow out of the room?”

“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown.

It was quite evident that he, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English—

“He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong.”

But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction.

“It is Manuela!” he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes.

She held out her little white hand!

He grasped it. The same hand certainly! There could be no doubt about that.

“’Pon my honour—aw—the most interesting tableau vivant I ever—aw—saw!”

“Come, come,” cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. “You—you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I—I’m obliged to you, senhor, of course, for—for saving my daughter; but—come, follow me!”

He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace—neat, active, and what is sometimes called “tripping,”—which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war.

Lawrence followed mechanically.

Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita’s waist, brought up the rear.

As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing.

The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, “aw!” But presently he recovered so far as to say, “Let’s go an’ have a ciga’,” and he also melted from the scene.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Colonel Marchbanks proves to be not so Good a General as he gets Credit for, and Lawrence stands self-convicted.

It has been stated that our hero had agreed to join Colonel Marchbanks in the pursuit of the Indians, not because the troops sought to avenge the murders which had been committed, but because several women and children had been carried off, and the rescue of these formed the main object of the expedition.

There can be no doubt, however, that the desire of Lawrence to join in such a praiseworthy adventure was not a little stimulated by the fact that Manuela was to accompany her father, at least a part of the way, and he naturally hoped to have some opportunities of speaking to her—perhaps of riding beside her, as he had so often done when he imagined her to be a daughter of the Incas.

But alas! the course of his love being true and deep—remarkably deep—was doomed to run in its proverbially rugged course.

Colonel Marchbanks, when leading his men to “glory”—or otherwise—like a true soldier, as he was, invariably moved with an advance and rear-guard. Like a cautious father, he placed Lawrence in the rear-guard, and arranged that there should be a considerable distance between it and the main body.

We may remark in passing that when the first burst of the old gentleman’s anger with Lawrence was over he had generously resolved, in consideration of what the young man had done for his daughter, to make no further allusion to the ballroom scene, but merely to hold the presumptuous youth politely at arm’s-length, and take especial care that the two young people should not again have an opportunity of meeting alone. He laid no command on either of them, but simply trusted to his own wisdom and watchfulness.

Being as it were a freelance, Lawrence, he knew, would naturally ride in the force very much where he pleased. He had therefore cleverly provided against the evil consequences that might flow from such freedom by making a little arrangement at a brief and final interview the evening before they set out.

“Now, young senhor,” he said, in his usual abrupt way, “although a volunteer in this expedition, and not versed in military matters, you must of course put yourself under my orders, and consider yourself one of my troopers.”

Oh! of course, of course, Lawrence had not the slightest objection to do so. He was quite ready to do whatever was required of him, if only he might assist in the rescue of hapless captives; and although he knew nothing of military matters, still, in the event of an engagement, he might prove himself useful as a surgeon.

“Humph! We don’t deal much in surgeons in this country. It is usually do or die with us,” replied the colonel, with a grim smile. “However, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have appointed you to the charge of some of the baggage-mules. Your late experience must have made you somewhat expert in such matters, and your duty will be with the rear-guard. One of my officers will show you your position in the morning. Good-night.”

Lawrence left with a quiet “Good-night, colonel,” and with a very unquiet feeling that somehow things might not turn out precisely as he had hoped.

Later that night Manuela appeared before her stern father dressed in the old familiar costume of an Indian girl, and with her fair skin stained dark brown. Usually the old soldier met his child with a beaming smile, that lit up his rugged visage with tenderness, as a gleam of sunshine sometimes illumines the rugged peaks of the Andes, but on this occasion he received her with a frown compounded of love and annoyance.

“How now, child? This is an unseasonable time for such foolery.”

“I want to travel in my old dress, father,” she replied, with a winning smile that almost tore the old man’s heart in twain;—and there are such smiles, reader, let us assure you, though you may not have had the good fortune to see them yet!

“You certainly shall do nothing of the sort, my dear,” returned the stern old man, as if he were laying down one of the Medo-Persic laws—for he was very tough, you know, and had great power of control over his feelings, especially the softer ones.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t like it!” said the Inca princess, with a little look of humble disappointment which was infinitely more heartrending than the smile; “but do you know, father, I have ridden so long in this costume, and in the gentleman fashion, that I feel quite sure—at least, I think—I should be utterly knocked up the first day if I were to begin a long hard journey in the ladies’ position. Then, you know, I could not dare to ride so in ordinary female dress and with a white face; the thing would look ridiculous—wouldn’t it? And, of course, everybody knows that Pedro arrived here with an Indian girl in his band, so the thing will seem quite natural, and nobody will notice me, especially if I keep near to Pedro; and the soldiers will just think—if they think at all—that you have left your daughter behind.”

“Ah, well, that alters the case, Manuela,” said the colonel, with most un-Medo-Persic hesitancy, and still frowning a little at his ink-bottle—not at his daughter. “Of course, if it had been merely one of your whims, nothing would have induced me to let you go in such guise, but there is truth in what you say, and—yes—a good thought, you shall travel near Pedro. Good-night. Go to bed, love. You will need all the rest you can obtain between now and morning.”

“Good-night, darling father. I would kiss you if I had not just put on the stain.”

She retired, and soon after laid her pretty brown cheek on her pillow in placid contentment, while her grim father arranged his war plans so that Pedro should travel with the advance-guard.

There was a soft, fresh, exhilarating breeze blowing from the Pampas as the troop issued from the little town at a gallop, when the first streak of dawn became visible.

There was order, doubtless, in all the arrangements, but all seemed utter confusion to Lawrence as he assisted the young officer under whose special command he was placed to look after the mules. Some faint evidence of order, however, began to reveal itself to his uneducated mind when he observed that the confusion abated on the main body moving off and leaving him with a small band behind. His perception of order might have been still further though unpleasantly increased had he known that the advance-guard, with Manuela in its train, had started a considerable time previously. But he had not much time to think, for the command was almost immediately given to mount and ride.

Quashy was beside him, for, being his servant, Colonel Marchbanks had said he might do with him as he pleased. But Quashy was silent, for his spirit was chafed. His master observed the fact after the first half-hour’s gallop.

“What ails you, Quash?”

“I can’t abide peepil,” growled the negro, “what says ‘aw!’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Aw’s agwine wid us.”

“What—the sportsman—eh?”

“Yes, massa. On’y I don’t b’lieve he ever sported nuffin but a swagger, and—and—‘aw!’ W’en I git up dis mornin’ I heerd ’im say to his friend: ‘I say, Jack, wouldn’t it—aw—be dooced good fun to go and—aw—hab a slap at de Injins?’ If de Injins send a spear troo his libber—aw—he’ll not t’ink it sitch fun!”

“That’s true, Quash, but the same may be said of ourselves.”

“Not so, massa, ’cause we nebber said it would be ‘dooced good fun.’”

“There’s something in that, Quash, but you shouldn’t let feelings of ill-will to any one get the mastery of you. Men of his stamp are often very good fellows at bottom, though they do ‘aw’ in a most ridiculous and unaccountable manner. Besides, he has done you no harm.”

“Done me no harm!” repeated the negro, indignantly, “didn’t he say you was mad or drunk?”

“Well, well,” said Lawrence, laughing, “that was a very innocent remark. It did no harm to either of us.”

“You’s wrong, massa,” returned Quashy in a magnificently hurt tone. “It dood no harm to you, but it hurt my feelin’s, an’ dat’s wuss dan hurtin’ my body.”

At this point in the conversation the troop passed over the brow of an eminence, and beheld the wide rolling sea of the illimitable South American Pampas, or plains, stretching away on all sides to the horizon. During the whole morning they had been galloping through the region of the Monte, or bush, that border-land which connects the treeless plains with the tropical forests of the north, where thorny shrubs covered the ground in more or less dense patches, where groves of the algaroba—a noble tree of the mimosa species,—and trees laden with a peach-like but poisonous fruit, as well as other trees and shrubs, diversified the landscape, and where the ground was carpeted with beautiful flowering plants, among which were the variegated blossoms of verbena, polyanthus, and others.

But now, all was changed. It seemed as if the party had reached the shores of a great, level, grassy sea, with only here and there a seeming islet, where a thicket grew, to break the sky-line of the horizon. For a few minutes the rear-guard drew up to collect the straggling baggage-mules, and then away they went with a wild shout, as if they were moved by the same glad feeling of freedom that affects the petrel when it swoops over the billows of the mighty ocean.

The scene and the sensations were absolutely new to Lawrence and Quashy. Both were mounted on very good horses, which seemed to sympathise with their riders, for they required no spur to urge them over the grassy plain. The sun was bright, and Lawrence had been too long accustomed to the leaden skies of old England to quarrel with the sunshine, however hot it might be; besides, he rather enjoyed heat, and as for Quashy, heat was his native element. A pleasant air was blowing, too. In short, everything looked beautiful, especially to our hero, who knew—at least supposed—that a certain princess of the Incas was in the band immediately in front of him. He was not aware, you see, that she was with the advance-guard!

“Das am mug-nifercent!” exclaimed Quashy, as his horse put his foot into a biscacho-hole, and only escaped a fall by making a splendid bound, where by its haunch, striking the negro’s back, sent him plunging on to its neck.

“Oh! I does like to be shook like dat, massa.”

“If you get shook much worse than that,” cried Lawrence, “I’ll have to stop to pick you up.”

“No fear, massa. Howebber much I wobbles I nebber comes off.”

An islet of bushes at this point necessitated a slight dÉtour. On the other side of it they found that the main body of the troop had halted for rest and food.

Right glad was Lawrence to find that Colonel Marchbanks’s humour was entirely changed, that the asperity of the previous night had passed away, and that the natural urbanity of his nature had returned.

“A pleasant gallop, was it not, Senhor Armstrong?” he said, as our hero joined the group of officers around him.

“Delightful, and quite new to me,” said Lawrence. “I have often read of but never seen the Pampas till now.”

He looked furtively about as he spoke. The colonel marked the look, and with a somewhat grim smile observed that they should see more than enough of the Pampas for some days to come.

“The sea of long yellow-brown grass and thistles,” he added, “gets to be rather monotonous at last; but I never weary of the feeling of immensity and freedom which it inspires. Come, dine with us, senhor.”

Lawrence gladly accepted the invitation.

“We make but a brief halt,” said the colonel, “for time presses and distances are great. Our next shall be at the Estancia Algaroba, where we shall spend the night. Your friend Pedro will make arrangements for us. He is with the advance-guard.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Lawrence; then, feeling that he ought to say something more, “I suppose his newly-found daughter is with him?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, curtly, as he shot a suspicious glance at the youth from under his shaggy brows.

After dining, Lawrence returned to the baggage-mules with an unaccountable depression of spirits upon him, and deeply absorbed with the question whether rear-guards ever overtook advance-guards, and what, if they did, usually became of intervening main bodies. With such puzzling military questions on his mind, the remainder of that day’s journey was not equal to the first part, and even Quashy, the sympathetic, failed to interest him!

The estancia, previously referred to by the colonel, stood on a slight eminence surrounded by the grove of algaroba-trees from which it derived its name. The fruit of this tree forms excellent food for cattle, and Lawrence found himself busily engaged during the first hour after arrival in procuring it for his mules, and otherwise looking after his charge. When this duty was done, feeling no disposition to join his comrades at supper, he sauntered into a garden in rear of the estancia, where he found a rustic seat under an algaroba-tree, and sat down to meditate.

It was a calm, peaceful, moonlight night, with an air, so he felt, of sadness about it which harmonised with his melancholy thoughts. He now believed he saw through Colonel Marchbanks’s plan, and had given up all hope of seeing Manuela again. In these circumstances, being a man of submissive spirit yet powerful will, he set himself resolutely to think of the important object in which he was engaged. Somewhat thus his meditations ran—

“I am no soldier, but I am a man, and I should be less than a man—unworthy to live—if I were not ready to help in the rescue of women and children. Some of the girls, poor things, may be like Manu— that is—. Now, although I hate war, and do not approve of settling disputes by the sword, I feel that self-defence, or the defence of the helpless, justifies war,—ay, to the knife. Of course it does. Was I not thoroughly justified in fighting the robbers when Manu—. Well, then, let me think it out. A thing is not properly thought at all until it is thought out, and found out. Talking of that, how fortunate that Pedro’s little daughter was found out. It is most interesting! I delight to think of her. And she’s so pretty, too—quite beautiful, though, of course, not so beautiful as Man—”

“Bother Manuela!” he exclaimed aloud, starting up.

As he spoke, Manuela herself—the princess of the Incas—stood before him!

In order to account for this sudden miscarriage of the colonel’s plans, we must turn aside to state that the princess, being of an active disposition, and not easily tired, had said to Pedro that evening, when his detachment was encamping under a group of trees not far from the estancia, that she would ride back to the main body to see her father.

“But my strict orders are,” said Pedro, “that I am to keep you with the advance-guard, and you know that your father is not a man to be disobeyed.”

“Quite true,” returned the princess, looking with a solemn expression down at Pedro—for she was still on horseback, while he and his men were dismounted, preparing the camp. “You must on no account disobey my father, Pedro.”

“Well then, you see,” returned the guide, with an amused look, “I cannot give you permission to leave us.”

“Of course not. That would be insubordination, Pedro, would it not? which, in time of war, is punishable, I think, with death. I would never think of asking permission, or tempting you to disobey. I will be sure to tell my father that you positively refused to let me go. Adieu, Senhor Pedro. A good appetite and sweet repose!”

She touched her splendid horse with a switch, and next moment was flying over the Pampas at a pace that rendered pursuit useless.

Dismounting and fastening her steed to a tree, she passed through the garden towards the house, and naturally, as we have seen, came upon Lawrence.

“Manuela!” he exclaimed.

“Si, senhor,” she replied.

He advanced a step with outstretched arms, and then, checking himself, clasped his hands.

“Is it—can it be—a dream?”

“What doos you dream, senhor?” asked the girl, in the old familiar broken English.

“Manuela, dear girl, do not trifle with me. It seems like magic. Did I not see you—in the ballroom—white—the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks?”

“Well, Senhor Armstrong,” said Manuela, earnestly, and in good English, “I admit that I am the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks, but I did not—indeed I did not wish to deceive—”

“Deceive!” interrupted Lawrence, quickly, “as well might you tell me that one of the unfallen angels did not mean to deceive. O dear one, forgive me! I know not how to tell it—but—but—can you believe that a great stupid fellow like myself loves you so that—that—I—well—it’s of no use. I’ll never act wisely if I try to—to—”

He seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. He drew her to him. She did not resist; and there followed a sound—a very slight sound; yet it was not so slight but that it sent a shock of alarm and anger to the soul of Colonel Marchbanks, who came up at that awkward moment.

“Sir! sirrah! senhor,—rascal!” spluttered the old man, as Manuela ran away from the scene, “what—why—what do you mean?”

Drawing himself up, Lawrence said, with a look of dignity—

“Colonel Marchbanks, I can look you honestly in the face, and say that neither in word nor deed have I done you or your daughter wrong.”

“No—have you not?” shouted the colonel. “Sir! rascal!—there is a looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the estancia. Go there, look yourself in the face, and say, if you dare, that you have done me no wrong!”

He wheeled about violently and strode away, fuming.

Lawrence went to his chamber, wondering at such a display of wrath in one so genial.

He glanced at the looking-glass in passing through the chief room of the estancia. The glance revealed to him the fact that there was a large rich brown patch in the region of his mouth and nose!

Chapter Twenty Three.

Treats of Savages, Captives, Chases, Accidents, Incidents, and Perplexities.

Not unfrequently, in human affairs, evil consequences are happily averted by unforeseen circumstances. It was so on the present occasion.

What Colonel Marchbanks’s wrath might have led to no one can tell, for, a little before dawn on the following morning, there came a messenger in hot haste from Pedro stating that one of the scouts had come in with the news that the Indians were encamped with their captives and booty not half a day’s ride in advance of them.

The result was an immediate order to advance and to close up.

It is interesting to consider how small a matter will cheer the spirits of some men. The order to mount and ride naturally produced some excitement in the breast of Lawrence Armstrong, being unaccustomed to the dash and whirl of troops eager to meet the foe; but the succeeding order to “close up” did more, it filled his heart with joy, for did it not imply that the advance and rear-guards must come nearer to each other? At least to his unmilitary mind it seemed so.

In a brief space of time, and with marvellously little noise, the troops were in motion, and at dawn, sure enough, he saw the figures of the ladies galloping with the advance party, with Pedro leading the way—for he had been appointed to the responsible duty of guide.

Venturing to push a little ahead of his special charge, Lawrence soon found himself with the main body, and heard the colonel order one of his officers to ride forward and tell the ladies to fall to the rear of the force.

Hearing this, Lawrence, almost imperceptibly to himself, tightened his reins, but, before he had dropped many strides behind, the colonel turned his head slightly and summoned him by name.

With something like a guilty feeling Lawrence rode forward.

“We have heard of the whereabouts of the savages, Senhor Armstrong. You are a civilian, and as surgeon to the force it is your duty, of course, to keep as much out of danger as possible, but as brave men usually prefer the front, I absolve you from this duty. You are at liberty to go there if you choose.”

The blood rushed to our hero’s face. He knew well what the old soldier meant. With a simple “Thank you, colonel,” he put spurs to his steed, and was in a few seconds galloping alongside of Pedro.

“You ride furiously, senhor,” said the guide, with a twinkle in his eye which was characteristic of him when amused.

Lawrence made no reply.

Just then they overtopped a slight ridge or rising ground, and beheld a few mounted men on the horizon. These were evidently the scouts of the Indian band, for on seeing the soldiers they drew hastily together and stood in a group as if to consult for a few seconds. Then, turning, they galloped over the next rising ground and disappeared.

The soldiers of course increased their speed. On gaining the top of the ridge, they beheld a large band of Indians mounting and galloping off in hot haste. Evidently they did not intend to give battle—at least at that time.

With a mighty shout the soldiers bore down on them at their utmost speed—Lawrence, Pedro, the colonel, and Quashy leading, for they were the best mounted of the party. It was soon perceived that captives were with the Indians, for women in civilised dress were seen on horseback, and some of the savages had children in front of them.

At this sight every thought of self fled from the warm heart of Lawrence Armstrong, and he was impressed with but one idea—“Rescue the helpless!” Urging his steed to its utmost, he was soon far ahead of the troop, closely followed by Quashy, whose eyes and teeth seemed to blaze with excitement.

There was a savage straight ahead of them who carried something in his arms. It seemed to be a child. Fixing his eye on this man, Lawrence spurred on, and grasped his sword with deadly intent. Quashy, ever observant, did the same.

The man, perceiving their intentions, diverged a little to the right of his comrades, probably thinking that his pursuers would be unwilling to quit the main band, and might thus be thrown off. He was mistaken, for Lawrence possessed, with immense power of will, a strong spice of recklessness. The more, therefore, that the savage diverged, the more did his pursuers diverge in their determination to have him. Finding himself hard pressed, he dropped his load. It proved to be only a sack, which, bursting, revealed, not a child, but a quantity of miscellaneous property!

Enraged as well as disappointed by the discovery, our hero, being fallible, permitted evil feelings to enter his bosom, and spurred on with a tighter grasp of the sword under the influence of revenge, but the savage being now lightened held on with still greater speed, diverging more and more until, in a short time, he raced almost at right angles from his companions towards a part of the plain which was somewhat elevated above the surrounding level.

It was a wise move on his part, for the place, he knew, was riddled with biscacho-holes. Among these he steered his course with consummate skill. Of course Lawrence’s steed ere long put its foot into a hole and rolled over, sending its rider headlong to the ground, where he lay on his back insensible, alike to pity for captives and impulses of revenge.

After lying thus for a considerable time he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, met the solemn gaze of Quashy. His head rested on the knee of his sable follower.

“What’s wrong, Quash?” was his first inquiry.

“Nuffin’s wrong, massa, now you talk. I was begin to t’ink your mout’ was shut up for ebber.”

“Have they caught the rascals?” asked Lawrence, suddenly recollecting what had passed, and raising himself on one elbow.

“I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell.”

“How—what—where are the troops?”

“Dun know, massa; gone arter de Injins, I s’pose, an’ de Injins gone arter deir own business, an’ bof gone off de face ob de art’ altogidder—so far as I can see.”

Lawrence started up in great anxiety, and although still giddy from the effects of his fall, could see plainly enough that neither troops nor Indians were to be seen—only a mighty sea of waving grass with a clear horizon all round, and nothing to break the monotony of the vast solitude save their two horses browsing quietly a few yards off.

“Quashy, it strikes me that we shall be lost,” said Lawrence, with anxious look.

“’Smy opinion, massa, dat we’s lost a’ready.”

“Come,” returned Lawrence, rising with some difficulty, “let’s mount and be off after them. Which way did they go—that is, at what point of the compass did they disappear?”

Quashy’s face assumed the countless wrinkles of perplexity. He turned north, south, east, and west, with inquiring glances at the blank horizon, and of course gave a blank reply.

“You see, massa,” he said, apologetically, “you hoed a-rollin’ ober an’ ober in sitch a way, dat it rader confused me, an’ I forgits to look whar we was, an’ den I was so awrful cut up for fear you’s gone dead, dat I t’ink ob nuffin else—an’ now, it’s too late!”

“Too late indeed,” rejoined Lawrence, with a feeling of bitterness, “nevertheless, we must ride somewhere. Catch our horses, Quashy, and I will wait for you and think.”

Having applied himself to that most difficult process—thinking out a plan with insufficient material for thought—our hero resolved to ride in what he supposed—judging by the position of the sun—was an easterly direction, hoping to strike the trail of the pursuers and fugitives before night.

“You see, Quashy,” he remarked, as they galloped swiftly over the flowering plains, “we are almost sure to find the trail in a short time; for although neither you nor I have had much experience in following trails in the wilderness, we have got some sort of idea—at least I have, from books—of how the thing should be done, and even the most stupid white man could scarcely ride across the track of several hundred horsemen without observing it.”

“Das true, massa. Eben the stoopidist black man am equal to dat. But what if you’s mistook de d’rection, an’ we’s ridin’ west instead ob east?”

“Why then, Quashy, we’d discover our mistake sooner or later by arriving at the Andes,” returned Lawrence, with a bland smile.

“Hi! I don’ mean west,” returned the negro, with a reciprocal grin; “you couldn’t be so mistook as dat—but s’pose you’se go souf by mistake?”

“Why, then the straits of Magellan would bring us up.”

“Ah—well, massa, I dun know whar de straits ob Majillum is, but it would be a comfort to be brought up anywhar, for den you couldn’t go no farder. An’ if we’s on de right track, we’re sure to come to de Atlantic at last, eben if we miss de Injins an’ de sodjers altogidder. Das pleasant to t’ink on—i’n’t it?”

Apparently Lawrence did not think it remarkably pleasant, for he paid no further attention to the remarks of his companion, but proceeded along with a profound, almost stern, gravity, and with his eyes glancing keenly right and left after the most approved manner of the Indian brave or the backwoods scout.

No track or trail, however, of any kind was to be seen. For more than an hour they sped along, down in the flowering hollows, over the grassy waves steering carefully past the riddled townships of the biscachos, now and then diverging a little to avoid some larger shrubs or tangled masses of herbage, sometimes uttering a word of comment on passing objects, and occasionally craning their necks on observing some buzzard or other bird on the horizon, but never drawing rein until they came to a rising ground, from the highest point of which they could have a commanding view of the region all round. Here they pulled up.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, in a deep, solemn tone, “we are indeed lost.”

“It ’pears to me you’s right, massa.”

“And yet we must be on the right track,” continued Lawrence, as if communing with himself, “unless, indeed, the Indians may have changed their direction and turned off to the south.”

“Or de nort’,” suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone.

“Come, there’s nothing for it but to push on,” cried Lawrence, galloping away.

“Das so. Nuffin else,” said Quashy, following.

And so they continued on for another hour or more in grim silence, after which they rode, as it were, in grim despair—at least Lawrence did so, for he felt bitterly that he was now separated, perhaps for ever, from Manuela, and that he could render no further aid in rescuing the captives from the savages. As for the negro, despair was not compatible with his free and easy, not to say reckless, happy-go-lucky temperament. He felt deeply indeed for his young master, and sympathised profoundly; but for himself he cared little, and thought of nothing beyond the interests of the passing hour. Possibly if both horses had broken their legs and Lawrence had broken his neck, Quashy might have given way to despair, but it is probable that nothing less severe could have overcome his buoyant spirit.

At last the sun began to descend behind the Andes, which were by that time turned into a misty range of tender blue in the far, far distance. The steeds also showed signs of declining power, for, in his anxiety to overtake the troops, Lawrence had pressed them rather harder than he would otherwise have done.

Opportunely at that time they came in sight of a small clump of bushes, like a low islet in the sea of grass.

“We will camp here,” said Lawrence, brusquely, as he pulled up and dismounted. “The game is up. We are fairly lost, that’s quite clear, and it is equally clear that we and our horses must rest.”

He spoke in a tone of cynical joviality, as if defying his misfortunes. The simple-minded Quashy, accepting it as genuine, said, “All right, massa,” in a tone of cheerful satisfaction, as he slid off his steed and set about preparing the encampment.

If our hero’s mind had been more at ease, it is probable that he would have enjoyed his surroundings greatly, for, although lost on the wide Pampas, they had not begun yet to suffer physically from that misfortune. Their wallets were still supplied with food sufficient for at least three full meals, the weather was serene, and the situation, viewed in one aspect, was exceedingly romantic. From the top of the rising ground where the fire was burning and the steaks of mare’s flesh roasting, the complete circle of the horizon could be seen, and the yellow-brown grass of the Pampas, at that time about a foot high, rolled with a motion that strangely resembled the waves of the liquid ocean itself.

But poor Lawrence was incapable of enjoying the beauties of nature just then. After one long, anxious look round to see if any object should present itself which might raise the faintest echo of hope, he returned to the camp, and sat down on a mound with a profound sigh.

“Chee’ up, massa,” said Quashy, raising his face, which glittered with his efforts to blow the fire into a glow. “You’s git her in de long run.”

“Get who?” demanded Lawrence, in surprise, not unmingled with a touch of severity, for this was the first time that his humble follower had dared to touch on the theme that was uppermost in his mind.

With a strange compound of what is well named “cheek” and humility, Quashy replied, “Her, you know, de Inca princess—Manuela. It’s all right!”

“And pray, Quashy, how do you know that it’s all right, or that I want anything to be all right. In short, what business have you to presume to—to—”

“Oh, it’s all right, massa,” replied the negro, with a wink—and what a wink that was!—“I knows all about it, bein’ zactly in de same state wid Sooz’n.”

Lawrence sought refuge from conflicting feelings in a loud laugh, and asked what hope Quashy could by any possibility entertain of ever seeing Susan again—she having, as it were, vanished from off the earth.

“Oh, nebber fear,” was Quashy’s comfortable reply. “I’s sure to find Sooz’n, for she no can git along widout me, no more nor I can git along widout her. We’s sure to find one anoder in de long run.”

Envying his man’s unwavering faith, Lawrence sat for some time silently contemplating the gorgeous sunset, when an exclamation drew his attention to the opposite side of the landscape.

“Look, massa. Suffin movin’ dar.”

There was indeed a moving speck—or rather two specks—on the horizon. As they drew nearer it was soon seen to be a Gaucho of the Pampas in full chase of an ostrich. They did not come straight towards our wanderers, but passed within half a mile of them. The picturesque hunter, bending over his steed’s neck, with his scarlet poncho streaming behind him, and the bolas whirling round his head, was so eager in the pursuit that he either did not observe, or did not mind, the thin smoke of the camp-fire. The giant bird, stretching its long legs to the utmost and using its wings as additional propellers, seemed quite able to hold its own and test the powers of the horse. Gradually pursuer and pursued passed out of the range of vision, and were seen no more.

“Just as well,” remarked Lawrence, as he afterwards sat eating his mare-steak by the star-and-fire light, “that fellow might be one of the many robbers who are said to infest the plains; and although we could no doubt have protected ourselves from him, he might have brought a swarm of his comrades about our ears.”

“Yes, massa,” was Quashy’s brief reply, for he was engaged at that moment with a large and tough mouthful.

A long ride, and a hearty though frugal supper, disposed both master and man for rest that night. When the last gleam of sunset had faded from the western sky, and the last scraps of mare’s flesh had vanished from their respective bones; when the stars were twinkling with nocturnal splendour, and all nature was sinking to repose, Lawrence and Quashy lay down on the grass, spread their ponchos above them, pillowed their weary heads upon their saddles, and slept profoundly.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Begins with Gaucho Homes and Domestic Concerns; continues with two Fights, and ends with a Friend and a “Puzzler.”

That a hard ride and a thorough soaking do not interfere much with the comfort of the young and healthy was proved that night in the Gaucho camp by the intense devotion paid by Lawrence and Quashy to the ample supper set before them, and by the profundity of their slumbers thereafter.

True, the supper was not luxurious. It consisted of only one dish,—roasted mare’s flesh—and one beverage,—water; but, happily, the tastes of our adventurers were simple.

The Gaucho hut in which they had found shelter was a very humble dwelling built of mud. It contained only one room, in which the whole family resided. Like other Gaucho huts—which are nearly all alike—it was covered with long yellow grass, and bore so strong a resemblance to the surrounding country, that, at a little distance, it might easily have been mistaken for a hillock. The kitchen of the establishment was a detached shed a few yards off. After sunset the hut was lighted by a feeble lamp, made of bullock’s tallow, which brought into strong relief the bridles, spurs, bolas, and lassos which hung from bone pegs on the walls. Other objects of interest were revealed by the primitive lamp. In one corner a large dog lay sleeping. A naked negro child—a sort of ebony cupid—lay asleep beside it, with its little head pillowed on the dog’s haunch. In another corner a hen was sitting on eggs, while its companions, guarded by a noble cock, roosted on one of the rafters, and several children, of ages ranging from four to sixteen, were seated or standing about awaiting supper. Last, but not least in importance, a Gaucho infant hung suspended from the rafters in a primitive cradle of bullock’s skin, the corners of which were drawn together by four strips of hide. The place would have been insufferably close but for the fortunate circumstance that a number of holes in the dilapidated roof allowed free ventilation. They also allowed free entrance of rain in bad weather, but—Gauchos are not particular!

Although indifferent as to appearances, those Gauchos of the Pampas—many of whom are descendants of the “best” old families in Spain—retain much of the manners of their forefathers, being hospitable and polite not only to strangers but to each other.

When supper was ready the great iron spit on which the beef had been roasted was brought in, and the point of it stuck into the dried mud floor. The master of the hut then stepped forward with the air of a hidalgo and offered Lawrence the skeleton of a horse’s head to sit upon. Quashy having been provided with a similar seat, the whole household drew in their horse-heads, circled round the spit, and, drawing their long knives, began supper. They meant business. Hunger was the sauce. Water washed the viands down. There was little conversation, for large mouthfuls were the order of the evening. Lawrence and his man acquitted themselves creditably, and supper did not terminate till the roast was gone. Then they all spread their beds on the floor and retired for the night. Each covered his or her head with a poncho, or other garment—nothing of the sleepers being left visible save their bare feet—after which silence reigned around.

In summer, abodes of this kind are so animated with insect life that the inhabitants usually prefer to sleep on the ground in front of their dwellings, but in the present case the recent storm had rendered this luxury for the time impossible.

Little cared Lawrence and his man for that. Where they lay down to repose, there they remained without motion till daylight. Then the magnificent cock overhead raised his voice, and proclaimed the advent of a new day. Quashy sat up, split his face across, displayed his internal throat, and rubbed his eyes. Immediately the cock descended on his woolly head, flapped its wings, and crowed again. The people began to stir, and Lawrence went out with Quashy to saddle their horses, being anxious to follow in the trail of the troops without delay. A prolonged search convinced them that their horses had either strayed or been stolen, for they were nowhere to be found.

Returning to the hut, they observed that the Gauchos were exceedingly busy round their corral, or enclosure for cattle.

“What can they be about?” said Lawrence, as they drew near.

“Killin’ pigs, I t’ink.”

“I think not; there seems too much excitement for that.”

There certainly was a considerable noise of piggish voices, and the Gauchos were galloping about in an unaccountable manner, but, as is usually the case, a little investigation explained the seemingly unaccountable. The men were engaged in driving some cattle into the enclosure, and as these were more than half wild and self-willed, the process entailed much energy of limb and noise. As to the porcine yells, the whole of the almost superhuman skirling arose from one little pig, which the ebony cupid before mentioned had lassoed by the hind leg.

Gaucho children—after being delivered from the cradle before described, and after passing through the crawling period of infancy and attaining to the dignity of the stagger—begin to copy their seniors. With lassos and bolas made of twine, they practise on little birds, or on the dogs and fowls of home. Our ebony cupid, though not indeed a Gaucho, but a negro infant, partook of the Gaucho spirit, and, although little more than four years of age, had succeeded in catching his first pig. Violence seemed to have reached a white heat in the heart of that little pig! Besides giving vent to intensified shrieking, it dragged its captor along, in a state of blazing triumph, until it overturned him, snapped the twine, and got away.

But cupid was not to be balked of his prey. With a staggering rush to where several horses were standing ready bridled, he caught hold of the tail of a meek-looking animal, and scrambled by means of that appendage on to its back. Seizing the bridle, he uttered a wild though tiny shout, and dashed away after the fugitive.

Whether he recaptured it or not Lawrence never found out, for at that moment a subject of greater interest claimed his attention.

Besides the hut in which they had spent the night, there were several other huts near the corral, and Lawrence now perceived that the place was a sort of hamlet, surrounded by a small ditch by way of defence. While our hero was glancing round him he observed that Quashy stopped suddenly, and gazed at something in front of him as if transfixed with a surprise which threw quite into the shade all his previous expressions of astonishment, and convinced his master that he had not yet fathomed half the depth of meaning that could be thrown into that sable countenance. Quashy bent slightly forward, extended his arms, spread out his ten fingers, opened his mouth, and tried to speak.

“S–S–Soo—!” he began, and gasped.

“S–Soo—Sooz’n!” he shouted.

Yes, there she stood, in the doorway of a hut, as black as life, and with a glare of joyful surprise that was only surpassed by that of her admirer.

A moment later they recovered. They rushed into each other’s arms, and their lips met.

Pistols and carbines! what a smack it was!

In his joy Quashy lifted Susan fairly off her feet and danced with her until he was exhausted, then he set her down and danced round her.

Susan had recovered her composure by that time. Whether Quashy’s mode of treatment is characteristic of negroes of the Pampas we do not pretend to say, but the girl stood there with a modestly pleased expression of face, while Quashy continued to dance round her.

Susan’s modesty and blackness were alike set off by her costume, which consisted of a short white frock, while her simple adornments were a pair of gold ear-rings and a necklace of red coral.

Alas for the fleeting nature of human joys! While Quashy was thus evincing his delight at the unexpected recovery of his betrothed, a wild shouting was heard, and several horsemen were seen flying over the plains towards the huts at a speed and with an action that betokened them the bearers of important news. They proved to be men of the village who had encountered a large band of Indians on their way to attack the place.

Instantly all the men of the hamlet, amounting perhaps to about fifty, prepared for defence, placing the women and children in the huts for safety. Of course Lawrence and his man would have volunteered their services even if self-defence had not required that line of conduct.

We have said that the hamlet was surrounded by a shallow ditch. This was backed by a hedge of prickly pears. Behind the hedge the men dispersed themselves, armed with several rusty flint-lock guns, some old swords, a few Indian spears, and other less warlike weapons.

Lawrence and Quashy took up a position at the entrance to the little fortress, the opening of which was blocked by cactus-bushes. Their host of the previous night stood beside them. Light though such defences seemed, they were more effective than might have been supposed, for Indian horses as a rule will not leap even a shallow ditch, and cannot be made to burst through prickly pears, though, doubtless, there may be some exceptions.

The defenders had not long to wait. Their preparations were barely completed when horsemen were descried on the horizon, and in a very brief space of time a band of above a hundred naked savages came thundering down on them, uttering terrific screams or yells, and brandishing long spears. They rode straight towards the opening in the defences.

The chief Gaucho was evidently a man of courage, for although he knew well that capture meant death—perhaps with torture—he stood firm without blanching, his eyes fixed sternly on the approaching foe, and his strong hands grasping the stock of a rusty old musket, the very look of which might have caused anxiety to its handler.

“Now Quash,” whispered Lawrence, “don’t fire till I do—and keep cool.”

“Yes, massa. I’s cool as a lump o’ hice.”

The savage who led the assailants was a tall, powerful fellow on a splendid horse. When within about sixty yards of the defences he levelled his spear and made a tremendous rush as if resolved to bear down all obstacles. The Gaucho chief—if we may so style him—presented his musket and pulled the trigger. It missed fire!

“I’ll try him with shot first,” remarked Lawrence to Quashy, presenting his double-barrelled gun.

At the distance of fifty yards or so the shot, when it entered the savage leader, was well scattered, so that horse and man were peppered all over. The latter dropped his lance and almost fell off, while the former, getting on its hind-legs, executed a pirouette which brought its tail to the rear and sent it charging wildly back upon its friends. The second in command, receiving the other barrel, at even shorter range, went through the same performance with greater impetuosity. At the same moment the old musket was prevailed on to go off, and Quashy delivered four pistol-shots in quick succession, with the result that several men and horses were wounded, and the entire body of Indians turned and fled in a state of frenzied surprise.

They soon pulled up, however, and held a momentary consultation out of range. Then, being bold fellows, they charged again, but this time in two bands, one of which attacked the place in rear.

As before, the band which attacked the front was vigorously repelled, but in rear the defenders were less successful. How it was managed Lawrence never found out, but he had barely succeeded in driving off the foe in front, and was congratulating Quashy on his coolness, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by yelling savages.

The Gaucho chief made a desperate fight towards his own hut, which he gained and entered in safety. Lawrence and Quashy tried to follow, but were too much pressed by numbers. Back to back they fought, and Quashy used his sword with such agility and vigour that in a few seconds he sent several Indians bleeding to the rear. Lawrence, despising the weapons of civilised warfare, held his now empty gun in his left hand, using it as a sort of shield, and brandished his favourite cudgel with such effect that he quickly strewed the ground around him with crown-cracked men. Unfortunately a stone struck him on the temple, and he fell. Thus left unsupported, Quashy, after slicing the nose half off a too ardent savage, was struck from behind, and also fell.

When our hero recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground, afflicted with a strange inability to move hand or foot, and conscious, chiefly, of a splitting headache. Presently a voice beside him whispered—

“Is you bery bad, massa?”

Lawrence turned his head with great difficulty and beheld his faithful follower lying like himself on the ground, firmly bound to a stout spar or pole. His own inability to move was at once explained, for he soon perceived that he was in the same bound condition.

“D’you know what has happened, Quashy?”

“Ho yes, massa. De reptiles has took de place, an’ tied you an’ me to sticks. What for I don’ know, but I s’pose dey means to skin us alive, or roast us, p’r’aps, to ’muse deir women an’ child’n.”

“More likely that they hope to have us ransomed,” returned Lawrence, with a shudder.

“What’s ramsumd, massa?”

“Try to get our friends to give them money for us. Have they killed many of the men—or got hold of the women and children?” asked Lawrence, anxiously.

“Yes, dey’s kill a few ob de men, but not many, for some hab got into de huts, an’ some into de corral, an’ dey’ll fight to de last. De savages am holdin’ a palaver jist now—see, dey’s agwine to begin again. Screw your head roun’ to de right an’ you see.”

Lawrence obeyed, and saw the savages assembled on a knoll. After driving the defenders into the huts, they had held a brief consultation, and seemed on the eve of renewing the attack. Filled with deep anxiety for the fate of the poor women and children, our hero made a desperate struggle to snap his bonds.

“No use, massa,” remarked Quashy. “I’s tried dat till I nearly bu’sted. Better lie still. P’r’aps dey forgit us.”

Lawrence groaned. He felt so helpless, and consequently hopeless, that he almost gave way to despair.

The spot where they had been flung down after their capture was so covered with rank grass that they could not see far in any direction. What they did see, however, aroused curiosity, if it did not inspire hope, for the savages seemed suddenly to have changed their plans. They were talking excitedly together on the knoll, and pointing eagerly towards the horizon.

“Das funny, massa,” remarked the negro.

“It is indeed. Perhaps they see some of their friends coming.”

“Or inimies,” suggested Quashy.

The latter was right. In a few minutes the Indians were seen to run down to the defences of the place. Our unfortunates lost sight of them in a few seconds, but they could hear the sound of horsemen approaching at full gallop. In a few minutes they heard shouting; then the yells, fearful cries, and imprecations of men in mortal combat. Soon after that a savage passed the place where they lay, at full speed. Then another and another. It became quickly evident that the defenders of the place were getting the worst of it. At last there was a general flight, and as the savages passed by, the new assailants appeared. It was easy to see that they were composed of all classes, a band of runaway soldiers and escaped convicts.

“Banditti!” exclaimed Lawrence, bitterly.

“Dey’ve got pris’ners. Look, massa.”

Our poor hero looked, and his hearts nearly stood still with horror, for he saw a horseman pass whose figure was strangely like to that of Colonel Marchbanks. His arms were bound, and a villainous-looking man led his horse. Immediately after another bandit-like fellow rode past with a female form seated in front of him. Of course it could be no other than Manuela, and in the agony of the moment Lawrence was about to renew his frantic effort to burst his bonds, when a man on foot ran close past him. Recognising him at once, Lawrence shouted—

“Ignacio!”

The old hunter, for it was he, stopped abruptly, and listened.

Another shout brought him to the side of our hero.

“Good luck!” exclaimed Ignacio, heartily.

“We have been bound by the scoundrels you are chasing,” cried Lawrence, quickly; “cut us free, good Ignacio.”

The hunter drew his long knife and knelt with the apparent intention of releasing them, but suddenly paused.

“No—better as you are,” he muttered, hurriedly, “your friends are in danger—”

“I know it,” interrupted Lawrence, almost wild with anxiety and surprise; “why not, then, release us?”

“There is no time to explain,” said Ignacio, quickly, almost fiercely. “Listen. I and others are secret enemies in this band of outlaws. When you are free be silent, be wise. You will need all your manhood. You must not know me—be silent—wise, but—”

The old hunter leaped up hastily, sheathed his knife and ran on, for at the moment he saw a group of the bandits running towards him. Diverging a little and hailing them, he drew them away from the spot where Lawrence and his man still lay bound.

“Das a puzzler, massa,” gasped Quashy, who had been rendered almost speechless by surprise, “if de bu’stin’-power what’s in my heart just now would on’y go into my muscles, I’d snap dem ropes like Samson.”

As the bursting-power referred to declined to go into the muscles of either master or man, they were fain to lie still with as much patience as they could assume, and await the course of events.

Chapter Twenty Six.

In which Old Friends and Enemies turn up in quite a Surprising Manner, and Quashy’s Joy overflows.

They had not to wait long. A few minutes later and old Ignacio returned with several men, one of whom, from his manner and bearing, appeared to be a chief among the outlaws.

“Who are you, and who bound you?” asked this chief, with a stern look.

Answering in his best Spanish, Lawrence explained how he fell into the hands of the savages.

The chief did not speak for a few seconds, but looked inquiringly at Ignacio.

“It won’t do to make more prisoners, you know,” said the old hunter, replying to the look; “we have too many on our hands as it is. The troops are already on our track, and you may be sure they won’t lose time. Besides, these men are unknown, and won’t fetch a ransom.”

“What would you advise, then?”

“Cut their throats,” suggested Ignacio, coolly.

“You old fool!” returned the outlaw, “what good would that do? Isn’t it clear that these men are the enemies of the savages, and we want such to join us.”

“Ay,” returned Ignacio, “but they may be friends of the troops, and you don’t want such to join us.”

“There’s truth in that, old man. Well, we’ll just let them lie. They’re safe enough, as they are, not to do either good or evil. As you say, it is of no use burdening ourselves with prisoners who won’t fetch a ransom. The colonel and his women will fetch a good price, but these—nothing. I suppose that is why Cruz has ordered Conrad to be shot before we leave the place.”

“Why, I thought,” said Ignacio, with a look of surprise, “that Conrad of the Mountains was an outlaw like yourselves.”

“Not he. He’s a spy, and he’ll meet a spy’s doom, if he has not met it already.”

“Come—I’ll go and see this Conrad,” said Ignacio, “I should like to see a spy get his deserts.”

He turned quickly and hurried away, followed by the outlaw.

“Most awrful!” groaned Quashy, when they were gone.

“Awful indeed, to think that Manuela and her father are in the hands of such villains!” returned Lawrence.

“An’ Sooz’n,” said Quashy, with a deeper groan.

“But, massa, what’s come ober de ole hunter? He not in arnest, ob course.”

“Of course not,” replied Lawrence, “that is our one ray of hope now. He is only acting a part. He will assuredly help us, and means us to help him, but he takes a strange way to do it.”

He ceased to speak, for at that moment a man was seen approaching. He moved about like one who was searching for something. At last he caught sight of the bound men, and ran towards them, drawing his knife as he did so. For one instant a feeling of horror shot through the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, but next moment they were relieved, for they recognised in the approaching man the features of their old acquaintance of the Andes, the robber Antonio.

“I come to pay my debt,” he said, going down on one knee, and severing the cords which bound Lawrence, who heartily showered on him all the Spanish terms for thanks and gratitude that he could recall. Of course Quashy was also set free, and was equally profuse in his grateful expressions, but Antonio cut them both short.

“Come, we must be quick,” he said, and hurried away.

As they crossed the spot where the recent fight with the Indians had taken place, Quashy picked up one of the spears which lay on the ground, and Lawrence, to his great satisfaction, discovered his favourite cudgel lying where he had been knocked down. He picked it up, almost affectionately, and hurried on.

Antonio was in evident haste. Leading them through the hamlet, he went towards the corral, where, it could be seen, a party of the bandits were standing as if in wait. Suddenly they heard a noise behind them, and observed a party of men with muskets on their shoulders surrounding a prisoner. Antonio drew his companions into the shelter of a bush till they should pass.

“It is Conrad of the Mountains,” he whispered, while a fierce expression lighted up his eyes. “They go to shoot him. He must not die!”

As what seemed to be the firing-party advanced, followed by a straggling group of ruffians, Lawrence looked with profound interest and pity towards one of whom he had heard so much. The prisoner’s head hung down as he approached the bush, but on passing it he looked up. The sight of his face sent a shock of surprise and consternation to the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, for the doomed man was no other than their friend Pedro!

Lawrence turned quickly to Antonio. “Conrad?” he asked, pointing to Pedro.

“Si, senhor,” replied the outlaw.

When the procession had passed, Lawrence stepped from behind the bush, and quietly joined it without being recognised by Pedro. He had not at that moment the most remote idea of what he intended to do; but one feeling was powerfully dominant in his breast—namely, that Pedro must be saved at all hazards. Of course Quashy and Antonio followed him.

The sudden appearance of the two strangers did not cause much surprise among the band who followed the prisoner, for, besides their being in the company of one whom they knew, the men who had been gathered together by Cruz on this occasion were not all known to each other. What they knew for certain was, that the country was up in arms because of some political convulsion, and that Cruz was a great leader, who knew how to make the most of such circumstances for the benefit of himself and his followers.

In a state of feverish anxiety, but with a calm outward appearance, Lawrence marched on, quite incapable of forming any plan of rescue, but not incapable of prayer, or of forming a resolve to do something, though he should die in the attempt. On reaching the corral, he saw Cruz, and recognised him at once. The bandit chief was obviously in haste, for he at once ordered Conrad—or, as we still prefer to call him, Pedro—to be placed with his back against the corral, and the firing-party to draw up in front of him at about twenty yards distance.

Pedro offered no resistance while being led towards the mud wall of the corral. There was neither bravado nor fear in his bearing. Evidently he had made up his mind to die like a Christian, and had given up all hope of deliverance from the foes by whom he was surrounded. But friends were near whom he little dreamed of.

Having up to that point kept his eyes on the ground, he had not observed Lawrence; and the first intimation he had of his presence was on hearing his voice as he stepped forward, placed his tall and stalwart frame in front of him, and said sternly to the firing-party—

“Villains! you will have to send your bullets through my breast before they harm Conrad!”

“Yes, an’ troo dis buzzum too,” cried Quashy, planting himself in front of Lawrence, and glaring defiance in his own peculiar and powerful manner.

“What! two more enemies?” exclaimed Cruz, with a look of pleased surprise and triumph; “seize them, men; but no,—stay, we can as easily kill the three birds at one shot. Ready!”

The firing-party cocked and raised their guns, but were suddenly arrested by seeing the wall of the enclosure behind Pedro lined, as if by magic, with human heads, all of which carefully levelled an equal number of muskets. At the same moment Antonio, Ignacio, Spotted Tiger, Colonel Marchbanks, and the sporting Englishman sprang to the front, and the old hunter, cutting Pedro’s bonds, put a musket into his hands.

“Traitor!” exclaimed Cruz, grinding his teeth with passion, as he scowled at Antonio.

“Fool! do you not know,” retorted Antonio, contemptuously, “that traitors are the offspring of tyrants? I acknowledge you as father in this respect. But I am not here to bandy words. Colonel Marchbanks will speak.”

“Yes, Cruz,” said the old colonel, stepping a pace to the front, “I will speak, and that to the purpose. You see those men?” (pointing to the heads looking over the corral wall)—“ten of the best shots among them have their weapons pointed at your heart. If a single musket is fired by your blackguards, you know what the result will be.”

Bold as Cruz undoubtedly was, this speech of the colonel had an obviously quieting effect on him, as well as on his followers, who, however, being numerous, and not wanting in courage, stood ready to obey orders.

“Now, I will tell you in few words what I have got to say,” continued the colonel, addressing Cruz. “When you locked the villagers here in their own huts, you forgot, or did not know, that, being a tyrant as well as a scoundrel, you had enemies among your own followers. These have not only set us, your prisoners, free, but have done the same good turn to the villagers, who have been persuaded to join us against you. And now, as our numbers are pretty equal, we give you the option of going away quietly wherever you please, or, if you prefer it, having a fair fight. I may add that if I were backed by my troops, instead of these villagers, I would not give you this option; but as I have no official right to command these men, I now make you the proposal either to retire quietly or fight.”

“Aw—just so,” said the sporting Englishman. “And let me add, as a sort of—aw—freelance that I and my friend here hope sincerely that you will choose to fight.”

“You’s a brick!” exclaimed Quashy, with emphasis, regarding the sportsman for the first time with favour.

Cruz hesitated. He was swayed by a burning thirst for vengeance and a prudent regard for his personal safety. By way of hastening his decision, Colonel Marchbanks added—

“It may be well to remind you that when you unfortunately succeeded in decoying me and my friends into your snares, and captured us, you did not leave my troops without officers. The gentleman now in command will not lose time in following us up, and he is aided by Gauchos who could trace you out though you were to hide your rascally head in the darkest retreats of the Andes. So, you’d better be off at once, or come on.”

“Aw—yes. If I might advise—come on!” suggested the sportsman.

“Das so. Come on!” urged Quashy.

But Cruz refused their well-meant advice. Regarding discretion as the better part of valour, and resolving, no doubt, to “fight another day,” he elected to “be off.” Collecting his men in sulky silence, he speedily rode away.

“Sorry he’s so chicken-hearted,” said the sportsman, forgetting even to “aw” in his disappointment.

“You ought rather to be glad of it,” remarked Lawrence; “you forget that there are women and children behind us, and that our defeat would have ensured their destruction.”

“Oh no!” replied the Englishman, who had recovered his quiet nonchalance, “I did not forget the women and children—dear creatures!—but I confess that the idea of our defeat had not occurred to me.”

Colonel Marchbanks did not give his opinion at the time, but his air and expression suggested that, fire-eater though he was, he by no means regretted the turn events had taken.

Holding out his hand to Lawrence, in a condescending manner, he thanked him for the service he had just rendered.

“You have quite a talent for turning up unexpectedly in the nick of time,” he added, with a peculiar smile, as he turned and walked off towards the huts, around which the men who had sided with Antonio were by that time assembling. Among them Lawrence, to his ineffable joy, found Manuela and Mariquita. He was too wise, however, in the presence of the colonel to take any demonstrative notice of her. He merely shook hands with both ladies, and congratulated them on their escape from the banditti.

“You have rendered us good service, senhor,” said Mariquita, with a brilliant smile—a smile that was indeed more brilliant than there seemed any occasion for.

“I—I have been very fortunate,” stammered Lawrence, glancing at Manuela.

But that princess of the Incas, with an aspect of imperturbable gravity, kept her pretty eyes on the ground, though the brown of her little cheeks seemed to deepen a trifle in colour.

“Now, Antonio,” cried the colonel, coming forward at the moment, “what do you intend to do? If my men were here, you know, I should be under the necessity of making you and your fellows prisoners, notwithstanding your good services to-day. As it is, those of us who stick together must be off without delay eastward. I suppose you will rather take to the mountains.”

“Indeed no, Colonel Marchbanks. I am willing to give myself up and to take service under you if that may be allowed. And if you will take my advice, comrades,” added Antonio, turning to his companions, “you’ll do the same, for depend on it no good can come of our late style of life.”

Antonio’s comrades did not feel disposed to take his advice. Indeed they had only rebelled against their late captain because of his tyrannical nature, but were by no means desirous of changing their mode of life. Seeing this, the colonel accepted Antonio’s offer and gave his comrades a few words of serious warning and advice, mingled with thanks for the service they had rendered him, after which the two parties separated and went on their respective ways, leaving the Gauchos to fortify their village more carefully, and get into a better state of readiness to resist the attacks alike of outlaws and Indians.

Before leaving, however, Quashy had a noteworthy interview with Susan. It occurred at the time that Antonio and his men were holding the above conversation with the colonel.

The negro lovers were affectionately seated on a horse-skull in one of the huts, regardless of all the world but themselves.

“Sooz’n, my lub,” said Quashy, “I’s agwine to carry you off wid me.”

“Quashy, my b’lubbed, I expecs you is,” replied Susan, simply, passing her black fingers through her lover’s very curly locks.

“O Sooz’n, how I lubs you! I know’d I’d find you. I always said it. I always t’ought it, an’ now I’s dood it.”

“Das so,” returned Susan, with a bashfully pleased look. “I always know’d it too. I says, if it’s poss’ble for me to be found in dis worl’, Quashy’s de man to found me.”

“’Zactly so!” said the gratified negro. “Now, Sooz’n, tell me. Is you free to go ’way wid me?”

“Yes. I’s kite free. I’s bin kotched by rubbers an’ rescued by Gauchos, an’ stole by Injins, an’ I’s runned away an’ found myself here, an’ dey’s bin good to me here, but dey don’t seem to want me much—so I’s kite free—but I’s awrful heaby!”

“What’s dat got to do wid it?” inquired the lover, tying a knot of perplexity on his eyebrows.

“Why, you an’ me’s too heaby for one hoss, you know, an’ you said you hab on’y one.”

“Das true,” returned Quashy, entangling the knot with another.

“Well, nebber mind,” said Susan, with a little nod of assurance. “I’s put it all right. I’ll stole one.”

“Sooz’n!” exclaimed her lover, with inexpressible solemnity, “you’ll do nuffin ob de sort. I b’longs to a good man now, so I knows better dan dat. You mus’ nebber steal no more—nebber. But I’ll get massa to buy you a hoss. Das what I’ll do.”

Quashy had scarcely given utterance to his intentions, when a shout from Lawrence summoned him. The party under Colonel Marchbanks was about to start on their journey eastward.

The negro soon informed his master of his difficulty. As he had anticipated, it was removed at once. Horse-flesh is cheap on the Pampas. A lady’s wardrobe—especially a black lady’s—does not take long to pack in those regions. In less than half an hour a passable steed was purchased from the Gauchos, and Susan mounted thereon. Her little all, in a bundle, was strapped to her true-lover’s saddle, and she fell into the cavalcade, which soon afterwards left the village and rode out upon the illimitable plains.

It was not a large band, but it was composed of rare and strong materials. Our friend Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—alias the Rover of the Andes—of course took the lead. Colonel Marchbanks, Manuela, and the fair Mariquita followed. Antonio, Spotted Tiger, the sportsman and his friend came next, and Lawrence with Quashy and Sooz’n brought up the rear.

In this order they set off at full gallop over the roadless plains, diverging a little here and there as the nature of the ground required, but otherwise steering a straight line in the direction of the rising sun.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Treats of a Gaucho Youth.

From these Gauchos Colonel Marchbanks learned that his troops had been seen searching for him by the eldest son, Pizarro, and that handsome youth professed himself willing to guide the party to the place where the soldiers were likely to be found. Without delay, therefore, they resumed their journey after supper, and that night encamped on the open plain.

While the party was busy making arrangements for the night, Pedro sauntered to the top of a neighbouring knoll to have what he styled a look round.

It was a clear moonlight night, and Lawrence, recognising the figure of the guide, followed him.

“Pedro,” he said, on overtaking him, “how is it possible that Pizarro can guide us to where the troops are, seeing that it is some time since he saw them, and he did not know in what direction they meant to travel? Besides, they may have changed their intentions and their route several times.”

“You forget, senhor, that troops leave a broad trail, and you do not yet, I see, fully appreciate the wonderful powers of some Gauchos in tracking out men. This Pizarro, although so young, is already celebrated in that way.”

“You know him, then? Why, you seem to know everybody!”

“I know every one of note,” replied the guide, “for my travels have been extensive, and my memory is pretty strong. Let me give you one or two instances of Pizarro’s powers. I was in this part of the country two years ago. Having occasion to pass this way, I fell in with Pizarro, and we travelled together a short time. One forenoon we were riding over the plains, when he stopped suddenly, pointed to a footprint, and said, ‘That is the little grey horse that was stolen from my father three years ago!’ ‘Are you sure?’ said I, almost laughing at him. ‘Sure!’ said he, ‘of course I am; moreover, I’m certain that the horse passed here not more than half an hour ago.’ ‘Let’s follow it up, then,’ said I, more in jest than earnest. But we did follow it up, and recovered the little grey horse that same evening.”

“A wonderful power of observation indeed, as well as memory,” said Lawrence, looking with increased interest at the young Gaucho, who could be seen, by the light of the neighbouring camp-fire, moving about in a graceful, free and easy manner, assisting in the preparation of supper.

“It was pretty well in its way,” returned Pedro, “but he did a sharper thing than that last year. A gold escort was attacked somewhere in the west, and the robbers, after killing most of the men, escaped with the bags of gold. The authorities being very anxious to trace out and punish the robbers, offered a high reward for any useful information as to their whereabouts. Now it chanced that Pizarro was moving about the country at that time, and, hearing of the adventure and the reward, kept his eyes open and his wits about him a little more sharply than usual—though he does that pretty well at all times by nature. One day he saw a little child leading a mule laden with raw hides along a narrow path. This is a common enough sight, in no way calculated to attract particular attention; nevertheless it did attract the attention of Pizarro. I don’t pretend to understand the workings of a Gaucho’s mind. Perhaps it was the extreme smallness of the child that struck him, causing him to think that as no father or mother would risk such a little thing with the charge of a loaded mule without a special reason, it would be as well to find out what that special reason might be. Perhaps it was something else. Anyhow, suspicion being awakened, he followed the mule for a short distance, and soon observed that it stepped as if it carried a much heavier weight than a mere pack of hides. At once the stolen gold flashed into Pizarro’s mind. He stopped the mule, cut the bandages off the hides, and there, concealed among them, found the stolen bags!”

“After that,” said Lawrence, “I have no doubt whatever that he will soon find the troops.”

“Neither have I,” returned Pedro; “but Pizarro, and men like him, can do much more than I have told you. By a flight of birds they can tell of an approaching band of men before they are in sight, and by the cloud of dust they make when they appear they can form a close estimate of their numbers. When the Indian hordes are about to make a raid, Gauchos are warned of it by the ostriches and llamas and other timid beasts of the Pampas all travelling in one direction, and in many other ways that seem little short of miraculous they act the part of wilderness-detectives.”

While continuing their journey next day, Lawrence resolved to have a chat with the Gaucho youth. Riding up alongside, he saluted him, and received a reply and a graceful bow that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee. He discovered ere long that the young man’s mind, like his body, had been cast in a noble mould, and that, although ignorant of almost everything beyond his own wild plains, he was deeply imbued with reverence for Truth and Justice in all the relations of life. Indeed, his sense of these attributes of God was so strong that the constant violation of them by those around him roused in him occasional bursts of hot indignation, as Lawrence very soon found when he touched on a recent revolution which had taken place in the province of San Juan.

“Are the troops we search for sent out to aid the government of Mendoza?” demanded Pizarro, turning an earnest and frowning glance on his companion.

“I believe not,” answered Lawrence; “at least I have not heard the colonel talk of such an object; but I am not in his confidence, and know nothing of his plans.”

Pizarro made no rejoinder, and Lawrence, seeing by the continued frown that the youth’s spirit was somewhat stirred, sought for further information by asking about Mendoza.

“Do you not know,” said the Gaucho, with increased vehemence, and a good deal of fine action, “that the people of San Juan have deposed their governor, because he is a bad man?”

“I had not heard of it,” said Lawrence, “but what has that to do with Mendoza?”

“You shall hear, senhor. The governor of San Juan is dishonest. He is bad in every way, and in league with the priests to rob the people. His insolence became so great lately that, as I have said, the people arose, asserted their rights, and deposed him. Then the government of Mendoza sent troops to reinstate the governor of San Juan; but they have not yet succeeded! What right,” continued the youth, with grand indignation,—“What right has the government of Mendoza to interfere? Is not the province of San Juan as free to elect its own governor as the province of Mendoza? Have its men not brains enough to work out their own affairs?—ay, and they have arms strong enough to defend their rights, as the troops shall find when they try to force on the people a governor of whom they do not approve.”

Lawrence felt at once that he was in the presence of one of those strong, untameable spirits, of which the world has all too few, whose love of truth and fair-play becomes, as it were, a master-passion, and around whom cluster not only many of the world’s good men, but—unfortunately for the success of the good cause—also multitudes of the lower dregs of the world’s wickedness, not because these dregs sympathise with truth and justice, but simply because truth-lovers are sometimes unavoidably arrayed against “the powers that be.”

“I don’t know the merits of the case to which you refer,” said Lawrence, “but I have the strongest sympathy with those who fight or suffer in the cause of fair-play—for those who wish to ‘do to others as they would have others do to them.’ Do the people of San Luis sympathise with those of San Juan?”

“I know not, senhor, I have never been to San Luis.”

As the town referred to lay at a comparatively short distance from the other, Lawrence was much surprised by this reply, but his surprise was still further increased when he found that the handsome Gaucho had never seen any of the towns in regard to which his sense of justice had been so strongly stirred!

“Where were you born, Pizarro?” he asked.

“In the hut where you found me, senhor.”

“And you have never been to Mendoza or San Juan?”

“No, senhor, I have never seen a town or a village—never gone beyond the plains where we now ride.”

“How old are you, Pizarro?”

“I do not know, senhor.”

As the youth said this with a slightly confused look, Lawrence forbore to put any more personal questions, and confined his conversation to general topics; but he could not help wondering at this specimen of grand and apparently noble manhood, who could neither read nor write, who knew next to nothing of the great world beyond his own Pampas, and who had not even seen a collection of huts sufficiently large to merit the name of village. He could, however, admirably discern the signs of the wilderness around him, as he showed by suddenly pointing to the sky and exclaiming—

“See! there is a lion!”

“Lions have not wings, Pizarro,” said Lawrence, with a smile, as he looked upward; “but I see, very high in the air, a flock of vultures.”

“Just so, senhor, and you observe that they do not move, but are hovering over one spot?”

“Yes, I see that; what then?”

“A lion is there, senhor, devouring the carcass from which he has driven the vultures away.”

In a short time the correctness of the youth’s observation was proved by the party coming upon, and driving away, a puma which had previously disturbed the vultures at their banquet on the carcass of an unfortunate ox.

The next morning Pizarro’s capacity for tracking the wilderness was proved by the party coming on the broad trail of the troops. Soon afterwards they discovered the men themselves taking their midday siesta.

Not long after that the united party came within scent of the Atlantic, and on the afternoon of the same day galloped into the town of Buenos Ayres.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Describes several Mysterious Meetings and Conversations.

Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously painted on his imagination by description?

For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books.

Our business at present is with Quashy and “Sooz’n.”

That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street in which men and women of many nations—French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other—are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.

This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement.

“Hi!” exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, “look, look dar, Sooz’n—das funny.”

He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse’s back, was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.

“O Quash!” exclaimed the bride, “dar’s pumpkins for you. Look!”

They were indeed notable pumpkins—so large that five of them completely filled a wagon drawn by two oxen.

“But come, Sooz’n, da’ling,” said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected something, “you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan’ on end. It’ll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an’ de curls pritty tight.”

“Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you,” replied the bride, “an’ to ax your ’pinion. But let’s go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade.”

“Come along, den, Sooz’n. It’s all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an’ suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl.”

“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.

“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”

“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”

She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—

“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”

“Yes, I knows dat, Sooz’n,” replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.

“Well, den—”

“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”

“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)

“Yes?” (interrogatively.)

“Hol’ your tongue.”

“Yes, da’ling.”

“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”

“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”

“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”

“No, Sooz’n, he di’n’t say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don’ beliebe it.”

“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”

“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.

“I’s afeard it was,” assented Susan, gravely.

“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.

“Oh! he beliebed it, an’ he says, says he, ‘I’s griebed to hear it, Mis’r Amstrung, an’ ob course you cannot ’spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin’ a beggar!’ O Quash, w’en I hears dat—I—bu’sted a’most! I do beliebe if I’d bin ’longside o’ dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face.”

“De skownril!” muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. “But what happen arter dat, Sooz’n?”

“Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an’ says, says he, ‘Kurnel, I’s come to say farewell. I would not t’ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don’ know ’zactly what dat is, but dat’s what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you’ll not forbid me payin’ my ’dresses to your darter.’ What he wants to pay her dresses for, an’ why he calls dem his dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an’ de kurnel he says, says he, ‘No, Mis’r Amstrung, I’ll not hold out no sich hope. It’s time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It’s bery kind ob you to sabe my darter’s life, but—’ an’ den he says a heap more, but I cou’n’t make it rightly out, I was so mad.”

“When dey was partin’, he says, says he, ‘Mis’r Amstrung, you mus’ promise me not to ’tempt to meet my darter before leaving.’ I know’d, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, ‘Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I’ll make no ’tempt to meet wid her,’ an’ den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t’ink ob all dat?”

“I t’ink it am a puzzler,” replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. “I’s puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin’ he’s a beggar, an’ den show dat it’s a lie by offerin’ to pay for de kurnel’s darter’s dresses. It’s koorious, but white folk has sitch koorious ways dat it’s not easy to understan’ dem. Let’s be t’ankful, Sooz’n, you an’ me, that we’re bof black.”

“So I is, Quash, bery t’ankful, but what’s to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin’ good-bye to Miss Manuela?”

“Cer’nly not,” cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife’s face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over the place—to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the couple.

Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans.

At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of coffee in a restaurant.

“I have already told you, senhor,” said Pedro, “that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me.”

“True,” returned Lawrence, “and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?”

“Good old Ignacio little knew,” continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with an air of supreme contentment, “what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita—the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to him, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at.”

“But what is this good news, Pedro?” asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro’s mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid.

Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people “elevated”—by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive good-humour and universal good-will—a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.

“Now then, Bill,” cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence on the back, “what’ll you have?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, “Let’s have some brary-an’-warer!”

The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, “Here’s luck, Jim,” and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, “Luck!” and followed the other’s draining example.

“Now, I’ll tell you wot it is, Jim,” said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, “I wouldn’t go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan’ pound down.”

“No more would I,” responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously indignant air.

“Such dis-gusting cruelty,” continued Bill. “To see two strong men stand up o’ their own accord an’ hammer their two noses into somethin’ like plum duff, an’ their two daylights into one, ain’t more nor a or’nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore an’ rip up a lot o’ poor blinded horses, with a lot o’ cowardly beggars eggin’ it on, an’ stickin’ darts all over it, an’ the place reekin’ wi’ blood, an’ the people cheerin’ like mad—why—it—it made me a’most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim.”

“You’re right, Bill,” assented Jim, passing the bottle, “an’ it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin’ face turn a’most green as he got up in a hurry like an’ left the place, for you know, big an’ well made as he is, an’ able to hold his own wi’ the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he’s a tee-totaller.”

“Ay, a g–great fault that,” said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. “I wouldn’t give much for him.”

“You couldn’t help likin’ him, though, if you’d sailed with him as I’ve done,” returned Jim. “He’s a reg’lar brick, though he don’t smoke neither.”

“Don’t smoke?” exclaimed Bill, aghast. “Then he ain’t fit for this world! Why, what does he think ’baccy was made for?”

“I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he’s goin’ to leave us. You see, he’s only a sort of half-hand—worked his passage out, you know, an’ well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein’ a Cornishman, who’s bin lookin’ arter mines o’ some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he’s in great luck, havin’ fallen in wi’ a party as is just agoin’ to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o’ the Mountains.”

Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter.

“Listen,” said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.

“It’s a queer story,” continued Jim. “I heard all about it this very mornin’ from himself. He’d bin givin’ some on us a lot o’ good advice. You see, he’s a sort of edicated chap, an’ got a tremendjous gift o’ the gab, but none of us could take offence at ’im, for he’s such a quiet, modest feller—although he is big! Well, you must know that—that—what was I sayin’?”

“P–pash th’ bottle,” said Bill.

“No, that’s not what I was— Oh yes, I was goin’ to say he’d bin givin’ us good advice, ‘because you must know, shipmates,’ says he, ‘that I’ve bin in good luck on shore, havin’ fallen in with a most interestin’ man, whose right name I don’t know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he’s a robber. But I don’t care twopence what they say, for I’ve seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he’s a rich one, and has bin hirin’ a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin’ about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.’

“You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this, an’ we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an’ he told us that the mine was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago, and had got an old trapper an’ a boy to work it, but never made much of it till a few months back, when the old man an’ the boy came suddenly on some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. In course I don’t rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on. It ain’t in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this Conrad’ll be as rich as a nabob; an’ he’s got a pretty darter too, as has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time wi’ the silver. I don’t rightly know if they dug her up in the mine, but there she is, an’ she’s goin’ up to the mountains too, so young Ansty will be in good company.”

“Jim,” said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, “I d–don’ b–b’lieve a single word on’t. Here, give us a light, an’—an’—pash th’ borle.”

Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars to their elevating occupations.

“Well, senhor,” said the latter as they walked away, “you have heard it all, though not just in the way I had intended!”

“But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?”

“Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid sufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he found that a very rich lode had been found—so rich, indeed, and extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call ‘a fortune’ out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me the lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty to give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a little more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine. Now, my friend,” added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero with a decided air, and an earnest look, “will you join me in this venture? I would not give up my life’s work here for all the mines in Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days. So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?”

Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.

“I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro,” he said at length, “and will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be very punctual, you will excuse my leaving you now.”

“Certainly—to-morrow will do,” said Pedro, “I hope to take Quashy also with me. He is a queer fellow.”

“He is particularly queer just now,” returned Lawrence. “I think his marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro—till to-morrow.”

They shook hands heartily, and parted.

That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father’s residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died.

“Dear me, Quashy,” said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows, “who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?”

“I can’t tell you his name, miss. I’s not allowed. But it’s a bad case, an’ it will be awrful if he should die widout seein’ you. You’d better be quick, miss, an’ I’ll promise to guide you safe, an’ take great care ob you.”

“That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I’ll order my horse im—”

“De hoss am at de door a’ready, miss. I order ’im afore I come here.”

Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.

A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town.

Chapter Thirty.

The Last.

We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy’s deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the “sick man” miscarried.

That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features.

“Sooz’n,” he said, “de white folk is past my compre’nshin altogidder, an’ I ha’n’t got words to tell you how t’ankful I am dat you an’ me was born black.”

“Das true, Quash. We’s got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?”

“What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt’ing went wrong. Look here, dis was de way ob it. When me an’ Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure ’nuff, an’ you may b’liebe he look ’stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn’t half so ’stonished as me at de way dey hoed on. What d’ee t’ink dey dooed, Sooz’n?”

“Dun know. S’pose dey run into each oder’s arms, an’ hab a dance round—like me an’ you.”

“Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn’t hab bin suprised at dat at all. No, arter de fust look o’ suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an’ Miss Manuela looked orkerder!”

“It had bin in my mind,” continued Quashy, “arter I had bring ’em togidder, to turn about, an’ enter into conbersation wid my hoss—what’s pritty well used to my talk by dis time—but when I see how t’ings went, I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an’ saw’d.”

“You wasn’t innercent dat time, Quashy.”

“I di’n’t say I was, Sooz’n, but I cou’n’t help it. Well, Massa Lawrence, who’s too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss Manuela wid a leetle smile, an’ holds out his hand. She shakes it quite gently-like, zif dey was on’y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob course I di’n’t hear rightly all dey said—”

“Ha! wantin’ to keep up a leetle innercence?”

“Jest so, Sooz’n, but I couldn’t help hearin’ a good deal—somet’ing like dis:—

“Says Massa Lawrence, says he, ‘Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.’ ‘Ditto to you, sir,’ says Manuela—”

“No, she didn’t say dat,” interrupted Susan, with decision.

“Well, no, p’r’aps not ’zactly dat, Sooz’n, but suffin wid de same meanin’. You know it i’n’t possible for me to speak like dem. An’ dey bof seemed to hab got deir go-to-meetin’ langwidge on—all stiff an’ stuck up grammar, same zif dey was at school. Well, arter de speech about de wedder, dey bof blushed—I could see dat, dough I was tryin’ hard not to look,—and dey was so long silent dat I begin to t’ink ob offerin’ to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob a suddent, an’ went in like a good un.

“‘Manuela,’ says he, quite bold-like, ‘I promised your fadder dat I would not make any ’tempt to meet you before leabing for de mountains, an’ I hab fait’fully striben to keep dat promise. It is by mere chance, I assure you, dat I hab meet you here now, and I would not, for all de wurl’ break my word to your fadder. But as chance hab t’rown you in my way, it cannot be wrong to tell you—what you knows a’ready—dat I lub you, and dat, God permittin’, I will return ere long to Buenos Ayres. Farewell.’

“Wid dat he wheel round, zif he was afraid to trust hisself to say more, an’ went off at full gallop.”

“An’ what did Miss Manuela say?” asked Susan.

“She say not’ing—not one word—on’y she smile a leetle, an’ kiss her hand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre’nshin, kite. An’ as we rode home she says to me, says she, ‘Quashy, you’s a good boy!’ I bery near say to her, ‘Manuela, you’s a bad gurl,’ but I di’n’t feel kite up to dat.”

“Quashy, you’re a fool,” said Susan, abruptly.

“Das no news,” returned the amiable man, “I’s said dat ob myself ober an’ ober again since I’s growed up. De on’y time I feel kite sure I wasn’t a fool was de time I falled in lub wid you, Sooz’n.”

As the negro’s account of this inflecting and parting was substantially correct, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that our hero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distant valley in the Andes without again meeting the Inca princess.

He was accompanied by Pedro and his daughter, Quashy and Susan, Ignacio, the old hunter, and his boy, as well as Spotted Tiger. In addition to these there was a pretty large following—some engaged in the service of Pedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were Dick Ansty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the English sportsman with—aw—his friend.

It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over the rolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining in the Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the fact that as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, he was not less faithful to his promise to the daughter.

A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in Buenos Ayres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himself before the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one of the richest silver-mines in Peru.

Colonel Marchbanks, although a prudent man, was by no means avaricious.

“The chief bar which prevented my listening to your proposal,” he said to Lawrence at their first interview, “is now removed, but I have yet to learn from my daughter’s own lips that she will have you. I have carefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have no faith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a young girl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being the richest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influence me so much as the weight of a feather, if Manuela does not care for you. So, you will prepare yourself to abide as well as you can by her final decision.”

“I am prepared to abide by Manuela’s decision,” replied Lawrence, with what may be termed a modest smile.

“’Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of your position,” said the colonel, somewhat sternly. “However, you have heard all I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here in the evening.”

When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water, sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery.

“That young fellow Armstrong has come back,” said the old man, abruptly.

“I know it,” was Manuela’s brief reply. She did not look up, being too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings.

“You know it, child?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked your hand in marriage?”

“Yes, father, I know it.”

“Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to—to condescend to eavesdropping?”

“No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?”

“Oh—ah—well,” exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. “Now Manuela, my darling,” continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, “you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you—if you are in—in short, if you admire this young fellow.”

Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question—

“Is he rich, father?”

A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man’s tone and look as he replied—

“Why, what has that got to do with it?”

“Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven’t got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?”

“Tut, child, don’t talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is—Are you fond of him?”

“Well, no, father, I can’t exactly say that I—”

“I knew it! I was sure of it! The presumptuous puppy!” shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door.

“Stay, father!” said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. “I don’t admire him, and I’m not fond of him,” continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent’s hands; “these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father—I adore him—I—”

She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth—to say nothing of his ears!

“You black baboon!” shouted the colonel, when able to speak.

“Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel,” said Quashy, with a deprecatory air, “’skuse me. I’s on’y habin’ a stroll in de gardin an’ come here kite by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an’ nebber mind me. I’s on’y a nigger.”

Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity.

“Shake hands with him, father. He’s only a nigger, as he says, but he’s one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that I ever had to do with.”

“You’s bery good, Miss—a’most as good as Sooz’n.”

“Oh, well, have it all your own way,” cried the colonel, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro’s hand heartily; “I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you’d better see to having covers laid for three—or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy will honour us with—”

“T’ankee, kurnel, you’s bery kind, but I’s got a prebious engagement.”

“A previous engagement, eh?” repeated the colonel, much tickled with the excuse.

“Yes, kurnel; got to ’tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you’ll allow me to stan’ behind his chair an’ wait, I’ll be much pleased to listen to all you says, an’ put in a word now an’ den if you chooses.”

And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of the Incas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind. Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would be almost an insult to your understanding.

But we will trouble you to mount one of the fleetest steeds of the Pampas and fly with us over the mighty plains into the wildest regions of the Andes.

Though wild, we need not tell you that it is a lovely region, for you have been there already. It is the Mariquita Valley. No longer a silent wilderness, however, as when we saw it last, for, not very long after the events which we have just described, Lawrence Armstrong and his blooming bride, accompanied by the white-haired colonel and the irrepressible Quashy, and another band of miners and selected emigrants, entered that valley in a sort of triumphal procession, and were met and escorted to the head of it by another triumphal procession, which was under the command of Conrad of the Mountains, whose pretty daughter was the first to welcome Manuela to her new home.

But now dismount. Put on these wings and soar with us to the brow of yonder cliff, from which we can have a grand bird’s-eye view of the vale almost from its entrance to the point where it is lost and absorbed in the majestic recesses of the higher Andes.

See you yon cottage-like edifice, close to Pedro’s old home, with the rustic porch in front, and the well-stocked garden around? That is the residence of the overseer of the silver-mine, Lawrence Armstrong, Esquire. The residence as well as the garden is well-stocked; for we have ventured to gallop with you over Time as well as Space—one result being that there are at least three descendants of the Incas, (by the mother’s side), romping in the garden.

On that mound a little way on the other side of Pedro’s cottage stands another building. It resembles the home of Lawrence, but with enough of difference to afford the charm of variety. It is the home of the fine young Cornish youth who worked his way across the sea as a sailor, and accompanied Pedro to the mountains. That trip effectually settled his business, and resulted in the conversion of Mariquita into Mrs Ansty. The change may not strike ordinary readers as being very romantic, but it was attended with much felicity.

In the small clump of wood just behind Pedro’s cottage—where you see the lakelet or tarn glittering in the sunlight, and sending its infant waters to brawl over the neighbouring precipices and scamper down the valley—stands a group of huts. These form the homes of Ignacio, the old hunter, and Spotted Tiger with his family. Ignacio, you see,—still tough and straight, as though he had made up his mind to live and hunt for ever—has a strange power of attracting men to him, and has induced his Indian friend to forsake his old home in the low grounds and dwell with him in the mountains. Of course Spotted Tiger has brought his wife with him, and Leetle Cub, (no longer little), and all the other cubs, including poor Manca, the sick girl, who—thanks to Dr Armstrong’s skill, and change of scene, and God’s blessing on all—is no longer sick, but, on the contrary, robust and grateful.

Strange to say, our English sportsman is living with Ignacio just now, with several sporting friends. He has been back to England and out again since we last saw him, and goes aw-ing all over the settlement with as much nonchalance and latent vigour as ever—when not better engaged with Ignacio and Spotted Tiger, and Leetle Cub, in the mountains.

In Lawrence’s garden, among the romping descendants of the Incas, (by the mother’s side), may be seen four whitey-brown creatures. These are the children of Quashy and Susan. Two of them are little Quashys and two are little “Sooz’ns.” They are not, of course, all named so, but Quashy says if he had “fifty little bustin’ gurls he’d regard ’em all as little Sooz’ns,” and Susan retorts that if she had “five hundred little bad boys she’d call ’em all Quashys.” They dwell in a small hut in rear of the cottage of Massa Lawrence, for Quashy is his gardener and “Sooz’n” his washerwoman, and the little Quashys and “Sooz’ns” are playmates of the little Incas, (by the mother’s side).

Antonio, the ex-bandit, is assistant gardener to the Armstrongs, and it is said that that once ferocious man has become so changed under the influence of Christian treatment, that he not only serves his master faithfully, but has even made more than one attempt to rescue an old enemy named Cruz from his evil ways. He has not yet been successful, but he is strong in faith and hope. Colonel Marchbanks, who has finally retired from the army, dwells with the Armstrongs, and has organised the miners and settlers into a local force of which he is the chief.

For the place has grown much of late in importance as well as in numbers, and in such a wild region there is need for defensive arrangements. It has other arrangements, also, of a much more important kind in which the Word of God plays the chief part, and Conrad of the Mountains lends a helping hand. That earnest rover has built a church and a schoolhouse, and, when at home, does what in him lies to advance the cause of true religion and education. But he has not ceased to wander in the mountains. True to his instincts as a reformer and lover of mankind, he visits with ceaseless activity the great and widely separated centres of population in South America, never losing sight of the great object he has set before him in the amelioration of the condition of the people.

Most people think him a mysterious madman. Some, who know him well, think him an over-sanguine enthusiast, but all agree in regarding him as a calm, gentle, amiable man, with a determination of purpose that nothing can turn aside, and with an intense desire for the welfare and advancement of the country which Mariquita the elder called her native land. Indeed it is thought by some that Pedro must have made to his wife some pledge or promise with reference to that subject, but no one can ascertain the truth of that now.

There is ground for this belief, however, for, as we sit on our perch, overlooking the valley, we see this Pedro, this Conrad of the Mountains, seated in the bower on the mound behind his dwelling, resting contemplatively at the well-loved spot, after one of his periodical returns. Mariquita the younger is beside him. They are both looking earnestly at the grave, and conversing about the time when they shall once again meet the lost one by the side of Jesus in the better land.

Till that day came, Pedro continued unflinchingly to prosecute his self-imposed task, whatever it might be. Whether or what success attended his efforts we cannot tell; yet have we reason to hope that his labour was not in vain. But of this much we are certainly sure, that, to the end of his days on earth he continued to be known as the Rover of the Andes; and when Death—at last—overtook him and arrested his benignant course, it found him advancing with trembling steps towards the old place, and closed with him, finally, as he pillowed his head on Mariquita’s grave.

The End.