To attempt a detailed description of Max's wanderings for the next few months would, even with the help of his diary, prove, I fear, a task altogether beyond my abilities. On the morning following the interview I have just described as taking place at Moreas' house, they embarked upon the train at a wayside station, a few miles out of Rio, and remained in it until they had proceeded as far as it was possible for the line to take them. Having reached the end of the construction, they alighted at a miserable village consisting of some twenty or thirty houses of the typical Brazilian type, and collected their impedimenta. Such stores and equipments as they intended carrying with them had already arrived, as also had the mules which had been purchased for the journey. Moreas, by virtue of being the only person who knew the secret, was duly installed as leader of the expedition; and, seeing that the day was too far advanced for them to make a start, he decided on remaining in the village that night, and proceeding as soon as it was light next morning. Being anxious to obtain as much information as possible concerning the track they were to follow for the next hundred miles, Moreas invited certain of the leading inhabitants to sup with them that night. This gave rise to a regular orgie. By midnight Moreas was decidedly intoxicated, while the two Spaniards were incapable of even sitting upright, so were stretched at full length upon the floor. Disgusted beyond measure with what he saw, Max left the room and passed into the verandah. There he found the Englishman, Bertram, smoking a cigar. He had taken a liking to the man, and cherished a belief that the feeling was reciprocated. "So you have had enough of it, too," said the latter as Max approached. "I couldn't stand any more of it, so I came out here."

"My case is very similar," answered Max. "It's a good thing this sort of thing is not likely to occur very often."

"I agree with you," returned the other. "Moreas and the Spaniards are very well when they are sober, but when they are drunk they are altogether impossible. Forgive me asking the question, but have you known Moreas very long?"

"A matter of two years," Max replied. "I met him first on the steamer that brought me out from England."

"Ah! I was right then," said Bertram, in a somewhat kindlier tone than he had yet spoken. "I felt certain that you were an Englishman when I saw you yesterday; and yet, do you know, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't altogether look like one."

"I'm not," said Max. "By birth I am a Pannonian, but I have lived in England since I was quite a youngster. You, of course, are English. There can be no sort of doubt about that."

"Am I so dreadfully insular, then?" the other inquired with a laugh. "I thought the knocking about the world I have had would have rubbed the edges off. Yes, I am an Englishman, I suppose, if ever there was one. I hail from Gainsthorpe, in Yorkshire. Do you happen to know the place?"

"I should think so," said Max, with sudden animation. "I've stayed there often."

After that they were both silent. The simple fact that they both happened to be acquainted with the same obscure village struck them as a marvellous coincidence; after a time, however, it became a bond that bound them very closely together. Later on, for some reason not altogether explainable, they left England, and talked of Brazil and life in South America generally. Of the subject upon which they were for the time being engaged they said nothing. They did not know each other particularly well yet, and both felt it would be safer to let it alone. Presently Moreas staggered into the verandah, stared wildly about him for a few seconds, as if he were looking for some one, and then reeled towards them.

"Come, come, SeÑors," he said with a hiccup, "I don't call this sociable at all. Here we are enjoying ourselves in the room yonder, and you keep away from us as if you don't desire our company. It isn't the sort of thing to make us friendly."

He seized Max by the arm, and attempted to lead him in the direction of the door, but the other shook him off.

"You must excuse me," he said. "I don't feel up to it to-night. Besides, if the noise you are making is any criterion, you are getting along well enough without us."

The other's mood had changed by this time. He turned and faced them, supporting himself by the verandah rails.

"I suppose you don't want to offend me on the first evening of this mem—mem—(hic) memorable journey?" he said.

"I have not the least desire to offend you," Max retorted. "Nevertheless, I am not coming in. It is useless for you to ask me."

Moreas thereupon transferred his attentions to Bertram, who proved equally intractable.

"Very well," he said at last, when he had tried to arrive at a proper understanding of the position; "if you won't come I suppose you won't, so I'll go myself, and leave you to conspire against me in peace."

With that he took himself off, and the two men were left to construe his last speech according to their inclinations.

"That is a cur who will require some watching," said Bertram, when they were alone once more together. "Thank goodness, however, I'm up to most of his tricks."

Max offered no reply to this remark. Angry as he was with Moreas, he felt that he himself was in an invidious position. To all intents and purpose he was the other's servant, and an innate feeling of loyalty, to however unworthy a master, kept him silent.

"If we are to be up as early to-morrow morning as we arranged had we not better begin to think about bed?" said Max at last.

"Perhaps we had. But I am rather afraid the others will not be in a condition after their carouse to-night to travel as soon as we imagine. However, if you are tired, by all means let us turn in."

They walked towards the door. Suddenly Bertram stopped, and, with a little hesitation, addressed his companion once more.

"I want to ask you," he said, "whether you have any objection to telling me the name of your friend; I mean the man who you visited at Gainsthorpe. It's just possible I might know him."

"His name was Beverley," Max replied, without thinking of the trouble to which his answer might possibly give rise.

"Do you mean Dick Beverley, the cross-country man?" said Bertram, after a momentary pause.

"The same," said Max. "Do you know him?"

"I ought to," the other replied, and then, after another display of hesitation, added, "Dick Beverley is my brother. Bertram is only my assumed name."

Max uttered an exclamation, that was partly one of surprise and partly one of pain. "Good heavens! can it be possible that you are Beverley's brother?" he cried. "I can scarcely credit it."

"It's more than possible, however, it's a certainty," returned his companion. "And now, d'you know, I fancy I can tell who you are. Your face has been haunting me ever since I first saw it. I knew I had seen it somewhere. You don't remember me, because I never saw you at the old place, but, the year after I cleared out of England, Dick sent me a photograph of himself, taken with a group of his brother officers. You and he were standing side by side, I remember. If you don't mind my saying so, you are the man who has been missing for so long, and about whom there has been so much talk—the Crown Prince of Pannonia."

"Hush, hush!" cried Max, as if he were afraid some one might overhear the other's words. "For heaven's sake don't talk so loud. You see, I don't deny the truth of your words. I suppose it would be no use. What a strange world it is, to be sure! My only reason for coming on this journey was because I was afraid of being recognised in Rio. Now it appears that it is destined for one of the men I am travelling with to find me out. What a fool I was ever to talk to you about Yorkshire!"

"It was I who started it," said the other apologetically, as if he were anxious to bear his proper share of the blame. "I'm sorry I asked you such questions, since it has caused you pain. I'm not much of a fellow, and I suppose there are a good many people who wouldn't trust me as far as they can see me; all the same, if you like, I will give you my word that your secret shall never pass my lips. I'll do that for the sake of poor old Dick, whose friend and comrade you once were."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Max. "Since my reasons were of sufficient importance to induce me to leave home, and give up everything that a man ought to hold dear, it may be supposed I am not anxious that other people should recognise me and drive me further afield again. If you will keep my secret, you will lay me under an everlasting obligation."

"Your secret is safe with me," answered Bertram solemnly. "I will pledge you my word on it, if you like."

"I'll believe you without that," said Max. "Let us shake hands upon it."

They accordingly did so. Though they could not, of course, realise it then, that hand-shake was significant in a variety of ways. Among other things, it laid the foundation of a friendship that was as sincere as it was mutual.

A few minutes later they retired into the house, and, when they had found a corner in which the night might be spent in comparative peace, if not in any degree of comfort, they wrapped themselves in their blankets and were soon asleep. Max and Bertram were early astir next morning. Not so the revellers of the previous evening. Like warriors on a battlefield, they lay just where they had fallen. Moreas was in the verandah, Rodriguez and his compatriot rested under the table, while the others were scattered in various picturesque, but undignified, attitudes about the different rooms.

"My prophecy of last night is likely to prove a true one," said Bertram, as they stood side by side surveying the prostrate figures. "They will not open their eyes till mid-day, and it will be some hours afterwards before we shall be able to get upon the road."

It turned out as he had said. Mid-day had arrived and passed before the remainder of the party seemed capable of getting upon their feet, much less of exerting themselves. Even then, the two Spaniards, Rodriguez, and Pereira, would have needed but little persuasion to make them continue the orgie for another night. Of this, however, Max and the Englishman would not hear, and even Moreas, who was by this time comparatively himself once more, joined in the chorus of disapproval. Accordingly, the horses and mules were caught and saddled, and, half an hour later, the party bade the village farewell and embarked upon their journey proper. For three days they traversed through well-vegetated forests, and over long rolling plains, with never a bush or a tree, until they entered a forbidding mountain range, and some stiff climbing became the order of the day. By the time they had had twenty-four hours of this, the strength and temper of both mules and men were well-nigh exhausted. It was in one of these gloomy passes, or caÑons, as perhaps it should be properly termed, that an incident occurred that might very well have ended disastrously for the whole company concerned. It happened in this way. Ever since they had left the forest and set foot upon the sterile plateau, the commissariat, once so plentifully supplied, had been impoverished to a degree that bordered upon starvation. As a result, they were compelled to fall back upon the preserved food they had brought with them, and which was only to be used in case of emergency. This had given rise to a considerable amount of grumbling, and from grumbling certain members of the party found it a very short step to open quarrelling. Antonio Rodriguez and Moreas were the principal offenders in this respect. Indeed, it was noticeable to more than one that, in the last few days, the latter's character had changed completely. He was silent, morose, rarely smiled, and equally seldom allowed an opportunity to pass him of saying something that was likely to give offence. What was perhaps worse, he had become exceedingly jealous of the attention paid to him. Because he took it into his head that Max preferred Bertram's company to his own, he held aloof from him and conversed only with the Spaniards. But, in thus describing the change that had come over his character, I have wandered away from the incident I was about to put on record.

As I have said, the commissariat stood in great need of replenishment. Being anxious to give the animals a rest, it was agreed that the party should remain in camp for another day. This being so, Bertram took his rifle and started off into the mountains in search of game. When he had been gone about half an hour, Moreas, who had been in one of his tantrums all day, also decided to set out upon the same errand. Climbing the side of the mountain, he, in his turn, disappeared from view, and Max, who had been watching him, returned to the tailoring operations upon which he had hitherto been busily engaged. As he worked, the recollection of a quarrel that had taken place in the morning between Moreas and Bertram returned to his mind. It had been brewing for a long time, and, had it not been for Max's own repeated interventions, it would long since have taken a serious turn. Both men were equally ready to fight, but Max was aware that Bertram, good shot as he was, when pitted against such a man as Moreas, would stand but a small chance of success. He was still pondering over this, when another thought occurred to him. It placed a more serious aspect upon the case. He liked Bertram, and he had no intention of allowing the Spaniard to do him a mischief, if he could help it. He accordingly rose, stowed away his work in his saddle-bag, and, having explained to the two other men, that he felt inclined for a walk, and was going after Moreas, he also climbed the side of the hill. On reaching the summit he looked anxiously about him for the man he was seeking, both on the neighbouring hills and also in the valley below. For a long time, however, he was unsuccessful. Then a mile or so distant, along the hillside to the right, his quick eye detected a small black object, creeping slowly but steadily towards the west. He was evidently stalking something, and Max, remembering Moreas' skill with the rifle, resolved to follow him, in the hope that he might be of some service in helping to carry home the game.

Seeing the slow pace at which the other was travelling, it was not very long before he was close behind him. Moreas was now crouching behind a rock, as if he were anxious that the game he was pursuing, and which Max could not see, should not become aware of his presence. A moment later he rose and peeped over the boulder, at the same time lifting his gun into position. Being some distance above him, it was possible for Max to see over his head into the valley in the direction in which the rifle was pointing. Then, to his horrified amazement, he beheld Bertram leave a little coppice, and walk out into a piece of open ground, a couple of hundred yards or so distant from where the other man was waiting. In a flash the whole truth dawned upon him. It was Bertram whom Moreas was stalking so carefully, and it was Bertram he intended to shoot. He was about to call out in the hope of diverting the Spaniard's attention, or of warning the Englishman; but, before he could do so, the other had pulled the trigger. There was a report, and when Max, who had closed his eyes, as if he were afraid of what he might be called upon to witness, opened them again, Moreas was once more crouching down behind the rock, while Bertram was examining something, evidently, the splash of a bullet, on the face of a boulder behind him. Moreas had failed in his attempt; but the man he had aimed at had been standing directly before the rock, and it could only have been by a few inches that he had missed him.

"This is a terrible state of things," said Max to himself, when he had recovered a little from the shock Moreas' treachery had caused him. "What on earth am I to do?"

At first he felt inclined to descend hastily upon Moreas, and accuse him, there and then, of attempting to murder the Englishman. A moment later, however, the folly of this proceeding became apparent to him. Had he done so, it would have been necessary for the others to know of it, and, in that case, it was very probable that Moreas' life would have paid forfeit. This, for a variety of reasons, was undesirable. At the same time, he felt that he must protect his friend against any similar attacks. Bearing this in mind he watched Moreas' movements with the greatest anxiety. He was not at all certain that the latter, finding that his first shot had proved unsuccessful, might not attempt a second. Moreas, however, did not do so; he knew that Bertram, once placed upon his guard, would be on the look out, and he had no intention of allowing himself to be captured red-handed, which would certainly have been his fate had he missed. He accordingly remained in hiding until the Englishman had passed round the bend of the hill and was safely on his way back to the camp. Then he emerged, and, in his turn, retraced his steps by the way he had come, in so doing passing within fifty yards of the spot where Max lay concealed. When the latter reached the camp he found the evening meal prepared, and the two men amicably seated, side by side, near the fire, to all appearances better friends than they had been for some time past. Max fancied that Moreas looked rather apprehensively at him as he came into the firelight; but whatever he may have thought, he said nothing to him, either then or on a subsequent occasion, concerning that mysterious shot upon the hill. Bertram also followed his example, and, though he had plenty of opportunity, he did not once refer, either directly or indirectly, to the attempt that had been made upon his life that afternoon.

Next day they resumed their march, and twenty-four hours later left the mountains behind them, and once more entered a zone of fertile country. This continued for upwards of three hundred miles, until Moreas informed them that he felt sure they must be approaching the second range, that it would be necessary for them to cross before they could reach the country in which the old woman had declared that the diamonds existed. This proved to be the case, for the next day a faint blue haze on the northern horizon showed them that they were nearing what they might consider the half-way house to their destination. It was true that they had been warned that the road over these mountains would be likely to prove a serious obstacle in their path, and also that the long stretches of desert on the further side were good for neither man nor beast. They did not give that much consideration, however. Great though the present difficulties might be, the reward at the end would be much larger, if all they had been told were true. When, however, they reached the foot of the mountains they were able to realise something of what lay before them. Unlike the other range through which they had passed a fortnight before, this one consisted of high, rocky peaks, where even a goat could scarcely retain his footing, and dark, gloomy caÑons, both almost grassless and entirely destitute of water. What was worse, their animals by this time were sadly out of condition, and often it was as much as the poor beasts could do to drag one foot after the other. Still they persevered. The Spaniards grumbled incessantly, it is true. Moreas, on the other hand, scarcely spoke at all, while Max thought he could even detect on the Englishman's handsome face a growing belief that they had attempted something that was beyond the power of human beings to accomplish. Whatever his feelings may have been, however, he never once permitted a word of complaint to pass his lips. The outlook was by no means a cheerful one. After the privations the party had been through so far, it seemed hard, indeed, that they should not be able to reach the goal for which they had been aiming. With such overwhelming odds against them, however, it seemed impossible that they could hope to succeed. But they were slow to own themselves beaten. Indeed, it was not until they stood face to face with almost certain death, that they realised how futile it was to continue the fight. Then, in one of the loneliest caÑons of all that lonely range, they called a halt and took counsel with each other. The two Spaniards, as on a previous occasion, were openly mutinous, and showered black looks on everyone, each other included. Remembering what he had seen a fortnight before, Max never once permitted Moreas to leave the camp unaccompanied. The man's temper was by this time in such a condition that it was within the bounds of possibility that he would have chosen a vantage on the hill side above, and have shot them down without either a second thought, or a feeling of compunction.

"It seems to me we're in a pretty sort of a fix," said Bertram after some little discussion had taken place on their position. "The animals are giving way, and if we go on like this, it won't be long before we all follow suit. Now the question for us to decide is, what are we going to do. If the remainder of you are desirous of pushing ahead, then I'm willing to do the same. If not, let us turn back without further parleying. The matter, however, must be decided once and for all. There has been too much grumbling lately, and it seems to me the best thing we can do is to hold a meeting now, and settle everything. What do you say, Mortimer?"

"I quite agree with you," Max answered, "and so I feel sure does Moreas. Let us talk the question over like sensible men, and come to some definite decision."

Popular feeling being in favour of a discussion, they sat down by the camp fire and talked it over, as quietly and rationally as the racial tendencies of the various members of the party would permit. The result was as follows.

It was decided that, while it was out of the question that the entire party could succeed in reaching the spot for which they were making, it was still possible that two men, taking with them the best of the animals, might be able to do so. But who those two men should be was rather more difficult to determine. It was certain that Moreas must go, since he was the only man who was acquainted with the secret, and he was scarcely likely to impart it to anyone else. On his side, however, he flatly declined even to think of taking either of the two Spaniards with him. They might fume and curse as much as they pleased, he said, but their bluster would not alter his decision. The man who went with him must be either Bertram or Max. For his own part he professed not to care very much which of them it was.

A solemn silence descended upon the group.

"Perhaps we had better draw lots for it," began Bertram. "I may say that, if I am chosen, I am perfectly willing to go; if it falls upon you, Mortimer, I have no doubt you will not raise any objection. What do you say?"

"Let us draw lots for it by all means," Max answered. "But how shall we decide?"

One of the Spaniards, true son of a gambling race, immediately produced a dice box, which he still carried with him, long after he had parted with other apparently more valuable possessions. By the flickering light of the camp fire, the two men threw, to decide which should have the honour of courting what, each must have felt in his own heart, was almost certain death. As a result Max was declared to be the winner.

"It is settled then," said Moreas, with what Max could not help feeling was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You are perfectly satisfied? Well, to-morrow, SeÑor Mortimer, if you are prepared, we will push on together, and see what fate has in store for us."

"I shall be quite ready," Max replied. "And, as I understand it, the remainder of the party will retrace their steps to the fertile country at the entrance to the Ranges, and await our coming there."

"That is how I understand it also," replied Bertram, looking steadily at Max. "We shall give you three months' grace, and if you have not returned by the end of that time, we shall conclude that you are dead, and will either attempt to reach you, or return to civilisation, as circumstances may dictate."

"That is the arrangement," said Moreas.

After that the party lapsed into silence once more.

As nobody seemed inclined for conversation when these details had been settled, they rolled themselves up in their blankets and said good-night to the world. Silence had not taken possession of the camp more than half an hour before Max felt the pressure of a hand upon his arm. He rolled over to find Bertram making signals to him. He accordingly arose and followed him to a spot at some little distance from the camp. When they had assured themselves that they were not being followed, the Englishman spoke.

"Your Royal Highness," he said; then, seeing that the other was about to interrupt him, held up his hand. "Pardon me, but for a few minutes it is necessary that I should forget our supposed equality, and remember that you are a royal personage, and I only the son of a Yorkshire gentleman. I'm not as a rule a man who thinks very much of titles, but there is no getting away from the fact that a man who is, or should be, going to rule a country, is called upon to take more care of his life than other people. When we drew lots to-night as to who should accompany Moreas, I hoped and believed that chance would favour myself. Fate, however, willed otherwise. Now, sir, what I am going to say to you is this; if you will consent to allow me to go forward in your place, it will be conferring an honour upon me for which I shall be grateful to you to my dying day. I can easily make an excuse to Moreas, and convince him that we have come to the arrangement together. Nobody will suspect, and so you will be saved from doing, what I really and truly believe to be, a wrong act."

Max was more touched by the other's words than he could say.

"I thank you," he said, holding out his hand. "I know that you speak out of kindness to me, but what you ask is impossible—quite impossible! Really it is! The lot has fallen upon me, and, indeed, I can only ask you to believe that I would not have it otherwise. I am quite willing to go forward, and, when all is said and done, I believe I am the best person for the work. You and Moreas are not particularly friendly, as you must be aware, and there is no saying what might happen if you were thrown so much into each other's society, without any one to see fair play."

"You are thinking of the day when he fired that rifle at me in the mountains, I suppose," Bertram replied. "I suppose you did not think I was aware of it. I was, however, and I knew also that you were behind him. If it hadn't been for that fact, I should have taxed him with his treachery on my return to the camp. But we are wasting time. Is it quite impossible for me to make you change your mind?"

"Quite," said Max. "Though I am none the less grateful to you for your kindness in offering to go, I cannot accept it."

"Are you quite sure that no argument on my part will make you alter your decision?"

"I am quite sure," Max replied. "My mind is irrevocably made up."

"So be it," returned Bertram quietly. "In that case, I suppose, we may as well return to the camp. Should Moreas have seen us leave it, he may have got the idea into his head that you are scheming against him. That would be a bad beginning as far as you are concerned."

They accordingly retraced their steps, and, so far as they knew, reached the camp without anyone being the wiser that they had absented themselves from it.

Next morning, as soon as it was light, the camp was roused by Moreas. The best mules had been set apart for the onward journey, and, as soon as the morning meal had been eaten, and the beasts were saddled, the two adventurers prepared to set off. When all the final arrangements had been made, and the place of meeting, should the pair return, settled, it was time for them to bid the rest of the party farewell. It was a solemn moment in their lives, and every one seemed aware of the fact. Moreas shook hands with the two Spaniards first, and then approached Bertram.

"Farewell, SeÑor," he said, with a bow. "I trust I shall have good news for you when next I see you."

Max observed that they did not shake hands. The hatred that existed between them was so mutual and so strong, that even the fact that, in all human probability, they would never see each other again, was not sufficient to make them part friends. Then came Max's turn. He shook hands with Antonio and Diego, and, having done so, approached the man for whom he entertained such a genuine liking.

"Good-bye," he said. Then looking him straight in the face, he added, "If by any chance I should not return, you know whom to make acquainted with my fate. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," answered the other, his voice shaking as he said it. Then, seeing that Moreas was out of earshot, he added, "For heaven's sake, your Highness, run no undue risks. If you will not think of yourself, think of those in England who love you."

"You may be sure I shall do that," Max replied. Then, uttering another hearty good-bye, and shaking Bertram once more by the hand, he set off in pursuit of his partner.

As they turned the corner of the caÑon, he looked back and waved his hand. Bertram was standing where he had left him, still looking after him.