Early next morning the three adventurers were awakened by a mournful cry. A long, shrill note sounded near the shelter-tent and was followed by three others, each deepening in tone. They sat up and rubbed their eyes, then looked at one another, as if to ask, “What is that?”

Again the long, shrill note, and again the three mournful echoes, each deeper than the one preceding.

“What a ghostly noise!” said Hope-Jones.

“Oh, I know what it is!” exclaimed Harvey, rising, his face brighter. “It’s the alma perdida.”

“Alma perdida! That’s the Spanish for ‘lost soul.’”

“Exactly. That’s why the bird has such a name, because of its cry. It’s an alma perdida—a bird, that is piping so dolefully. Come, see if I am not correct.”

He pushed aside the flap of the shelter-tent, sprang without, and was followed by the young men. In the light of early day they saw a little brown bird, a tuft of red on its head, perched on a scrub bush, not a hundred yards away. Even as they looked the shrill note was repeated, and then the doleful ones of deeper sound.

“Shoo!” said Ferguson; and as the bird remained perched on the bush, he threw a stone. The red-tufted body of brown rose from the branch and disappeared.

“’Good riddance to bad rubbish,’” said Ferguson. “We don’t want any such croakers at our feast; which, by the way, reminds me of breakfast.”

“Whew!” exclaimed Harvey. “It’s cold!”

Indeed it was cold for these travellers from the warm coast-belt, the mercury standing at about thirty-five degrees Fahrenheit.

“Let’s run and get wood for a fire, then we’ll feel warmer,” said Hope-Jones. “There’s a dwarf tree over there. Surely some dry branches are beneath it. Now for a two hundred yards’ dash! One! two! three!”

Ferguson won, Hope-Jones second, and Harvey a close third. The run started their blood well in circulation, and they fell to gathering chips of bark and dried twigs with a will, returning to the tent each with an armful. They placed four stones equidistant from a centre, so that a few inches were between them, and in the spaces piled the wood.

“Be careful with the matches!” said Ferguson. “Only one for a fire. Harvey, take from your box first.”

The boy stooped over and the two young men stood to the windward of him, forming a shield. In a few seconds a crackle was heard, then a thin line of blue smoke rose from between the stones, and tongues of flame licked the pieces of granite.

“More wood!”

It was added, and in a minute a merry blaze was burning briskly.

They held their hands over the flames, and they stood on the leeward side, not minding the smoke which blew in their eyes, for the heat was carried to their bodies, dispelling the chill that had come after the run. Although the morning was somewhat warmer than had been the evening before, it was still very cold for these residents of the sandy coast-line. Here and there patches of snow still lay on the ground, but the white crystals were fast melting under the glow of coming day. The sun was not so tardy here as at Chicla, for no high peaks were in the east, and even as they stood around the fire a shaft of light was thrown across the valley in which they had rested during the night.

“What shall we have for breakfast?” asked Hope-Jones.

“Fried bacon and corn bread,” promptly answered Ferguson.

“But how shall we cook the bacon?” asked Harvey.

“I’ll show you;” and the Ohioan unstrapped his knapsack and took therefrom his tin plate, which he placed on the four stones.

“How’s that for a frying pan!”

They had taken certain provisions from Chicla, because the superintendent said it might be a couple of days before they could reach that part of the MontaÑa where game abounded, and the carrying of these edibles had devolved upon Harvey, his companions having burdened themselves with the canvas of the shelter-tent. Another minute, and a fragrant odor came from the dish that was resting over the flame.

“I wish the corn bread could be made hot,” said Harvey, as he proceeded with the further opening of his knapsack.

“It will be—in a jiffy,” was the reply. “Just clear away some of the fire on the other side.”

This was done, the sticks and embers being pushed back, and Ferguson commenced with his jack-knife, hollowing out a space in the thin soil. Taking Hope-Jones’s and Harvey’s tin plates, he placed the bread between them, then laying them in the shallow excavation, rims together, he raked over some earth and on top of this a layer of hot coals.

“By the time the bacon is cooked our bread will be ready,” he added.

While this was being done Hope-Jones had visited a little spring near by and had filled their cups with sparkling water. Ten minutes later they were seated around the fire, enjoying the breakfast, and all agreed that they had never tasted a more appetizing meal.

By half-past seven dishes were washed, the tent taken down, knapsacks and bundles packed, and they started, with a compass as a guide, toward the northeast, between two mountain peaks—for in that direction lay the MontaÑa. It was easy walking, llama trains having made a pathway, and the country soon became more regular, for they had passed the region of gorges, precipices, and chasms; although still among the mountains, the high peaks towered behind, those in front becoming lower as they progressed.

They were travelling a down grade, and as they pushed on there were continual signs of change in the vegetable world. At the point where they had encamped for the night grew only a few shrubs and dwarf trees, whose gnarled branches told of a rigorous climate. But soon cacti thrust their ungainly shapes above ground, the trees became of larger size, and a long grass commenced to appear. And as above they had walked upon a gravel, which had crumbled from the rocky mountain side, so further down appeared a soil richer in alluvium as they proceeded. By eleven o’clock all the towering mountain peaks were behind them. They were nearing the table-land country and were among the foothills of the first spurs of the eastern slope.

“O for a luncheon with potato salad!” exclaimed Harvey.

“Sighing for potatoes in Peru is like sighing for coals in Newcastle,” said Hope-Jones.

“Why so?”

“Because Peru is the home of the potato. It was first discovered here. Didn’t you know that?”

“Yes, but I had forgotten it for the moment. One is so accustomed to terming them ‘Irish potatoes.’”

“Who discovered the vegetable in Peru?” asked Ferguson.

“The Spaniards, in the seventeenth century. Large tracts of land in the MontaÑa country were covered with potato fields, and the Indians could not recall when they had not formed a staple of diet.”

“How did the term Irish potato originate?”

“Sir Walter Raleigh is responsible for that, I believe. The potato was planted on his estate near Cork and flourished better in that soil than in any other of Europe.”

The noon hour having arrived and the conversation tending to increase their hunger, the three adventurers looked about for a spring, and in the distance seeing a clump of willows and verdure of unusual brightness, they hastened to the spot and found a little mountain stream rippling over pebbles. As they approached a number of parakeets flew away, chattering, their brilliant plumage causing them to appear as rainbow darts above their heads.

“An ideal spot!” said Hope-Jones.

“And here’s shade. We didn’t want shade this morning, did we?”

“Hardly. But the day has grown warm.”

While speaking they cast knapsacks and burdens one side and threw themselves down on the grass for a brief rest before preparing the noonday meal. The murmur of the brook had as an accompaniment the hum of insects and the piping of finches—for they were nearing the table-land, which pulsated with life; far different from the drear of the early morning, which was punctuated only by the doleful notes of the alma perdida.

“I can almost think myself in an American harvest field,” said Ferguson, rolling on his back and clasping his hands over his head.

Hope-Jones placed a blade of coarse grass between his thumbs, held parallel, then blew upon the green strand with all his might.

“What on earth is that?” exclaimed Ferguson, jumping to his feet, and Harvey came running from the stream.

“You said something about a harvest field, so I stood in the kitchen door and sounded the horn for dinner,” was the laughing response.

“What shall it be?”

“The same as this morning, with the addition of hard-boiled eggs; that is, providing Harvey hasn’t broken the eggs.”

“Indeed, I haven’t,” protested the boy, and he commenced to unstrap his knapsack.

A fire was soon started and the eggs were placed over the flame in a large tin cup. After being thoroughly boiled, they were put in the stream to cool, and bacon was fried as in the morning; but the corn bread was eaten cold, “by way of a variety,” so Ferguson said.

“I hope we may find some game this afternoon,” said Harvey, as he cracked an egg-shell on his heel.

“We undoubtedly shall, for it cannot be far to the MontaÑa proper.”

An hour later they resumed their burdens, and with swinging steps continued on down the hillside. The grass became more profuse, and soon formed a velvet carpet under the feet. It was dotted with the chilca plant, which bears a bright yellow flower, of the same color as the North American dandelion; and in places could be seen the mutisia acuminata, with beautiful orange and red flowers, and bushes that bore clusters of red berries.

“The landscape is becoming gorgeous,” said Hope-Jones.

Trees were now larger, and vines of the semi-tropics clung to the trunks and to the branches. Little streams were of frequency, all running toward the east instead of to the west, as had been observed when on the other side of the cordillera; and so, late in the afternoon, the sun commenced to go down behind the hills, which seemed strange to those who were accustomed to see it sink in the ocean.

“Sh!” exclaimed Hope-Jones, suddenly, then—“Drop down, fellows!”

They sank into the grass.

“What is it?” asked Harvey.

“Look over there, in that clump of trees.”

They saw something moving under the branches, then a form stood still.

“It’s a deer. I suppose it’s the Peruvian taruco. Can you bring it down at this distance, Ferguson? If we go nearer, we shall probably see our supper bound away.”

“I’ll try, but it’s a good range; almost six hundred yards, don’t you think?”

“All of that.”

“Then I’ll adjust the sights for seven hundred.”

He threw himself flat on the grass, pushed his rifle before him, resting the barrel on a stone, took aim for a minute, then fired. The deer sprang into the open, gave a second bound, rising from all four hoofs, and, twisting convulsively, fell dead.

“Bravo! At the first shot!” yelled Hope-Jones, and jumping up, he ran forward, closely followed by the others.

“What shall we do now?” asked Harvey.

“Fortunately I hunted quite a little when a lad in the States,” said Ferguson, whipping out a long knife and cutting the animal’s throat. “In a half hour we can skin it,” he added.

“Say, fellows, I have an idea. What better place can we camp than here?” asked Hope-Jones.

They were near a grove of tall trees, the bark of which was white, and in marked contrast with the dense green foliage. These were the palo de sangre, or blood-wood of the upper MaraÑon, from which is taken timber of a red color that is fine-grained, hard, and receives a good polish. The trees were not many in number, but they arched over a little brook, and tall grass grew between the trunks.

“It’s a splendid spot,” replied Ferguson, “and I have another plan to add as an amendment to yours.”

“What’s that?”

“To remain here all to-morrow.”

“And lose a day?”

“No; I think we should gain thereby. I confess that I’m dead tired. The first day’s tramp always tells the most. Besides, we had a wearisome trip on the railroad, and for a week before leaving Callao we were continually on the jump. So a day’s rest from tramping will do us all good; but I don’t mean to idle away the time, for we can find plenty to do.”

“What, for instance?”

“Cut up that deer and smoke some strips of the flesh to carry with us. We may not always be so lucky, and smoked venison isn’t at all bad when one’s hungry.”

The amendment was accepted, and they at once went into camp.

It lacked two hours of sundown. The air was pleasant and warm, and the sweet odor from flowers was carried to their nostrils by a light breeze. Hope-Jones cleared a space for the tent and cut props for the canvas. Harvey fetched water from the brook and gathered firewood; and Ferguson, rolling up his sleeves, commenced to skin the deer, then cut a large steak from the loin. In an hour a bed of live coals was glowing, and, using a ramrod for a spit, the Ohioan commenced to broil the venison. Soon savory odors rose, and Hope-Jones and Harvey stood quite near, smacking their lips.

“This is the best dinner I ever ate in my life,” said the boy fifteen minutes later, as he sat on the log of a tree, his tin dish between his knees.

They crawled into the shelter-tent early that evening, right glad to rest, and the two young men were soon in dreamland. But Harvey tossed about uneasily and his eyes refused to close; he was too tired to sleep. For a long time he lay awake, listening to the monotonous notes of the yucahualpa, which sings only at night, and at last, the tent becoming oppressive, he took his blankets and stole quietly without. It was bright with starlight, but there was no moon. A breeze from the west moved the broad leaves of the blood-wood trees, and the sound of their rustling was like the roar of breakers on a distant beach.

The boy stepped to a fallen tree, from the trunk of which branches protruded, but the leaves were gone. Wrapping one blanket completely around him, he lay down, his head resting in a fork several inches above the ground; then he drew the other blanket over him and the next minute was asleep.