"Clebber beast!" shouted Quashy, who had stood with his ten fingers expanded, his great mouth open, and his whole emotional soul glaring out of his monstrous eyes.

"Well done!" echoed Lawrence, who was scarcely less pleased than his servant.

The party now drew near, and very striking was their appearance—the variously coloured mules, following the bell-mare which went in advance as a leader, winding slowly down the crooked path, and the peons in their picturesque costumes shouting, laughing, or singing wild snatches of song as they were moved by fury, fun, or fancy.

The men, who numbered a dozen or so, and were well-armed, were apparently relieved to find that our travellers were not bandits, in regard to whom their questions showed that they felt some anxiety. They had witnessed Pedro's shot from the heights above, and looked upon him with no little surprise and much respect as they commented on his power with the rifle.

A few questions were asked, a few compliments paid, and then the two parties, passing each other, proceeded on their respective ways.

Crossing the mountain torrent at a rather dangerous ford, towards evening Pedro led his companions to a spot not far from the ramparts of what Lawrence styled the giant's castle.

It was not an inviting spot at first. There was little pasture for the wearied mules on the almost naked rocks, and the stunted trees and gnarled roots told eloquently of the severity of winter in those high regions. There was, however, a good spring of water and an over-arching rock, which promised some degree of refreshment and shelter, and when firewood was collected, a ruddy blaze sent up, the kettle put on to boil, and several fine cuts of the guanaco set up to roast, the feelings of sadness which had at first influenced Lawrence were put to flight, and he felt more satisfaction in his lodging than he could have experienced if it had been a palatial hotel with its confined air and feather beds and cloying luxuries.

There was a species of natural recess in the cliff which Pedro screened off as a chamber for Manuela, while she assisted Quashy to prepare the supper.

"There's nothing like fresh mountain air," exclaimed Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm, after the first attack on the guanaco steaks had subsided.

"Specially when the said air happens to be quiet and warm, and the night fine and the stars bright and the company pleasant," added the guide.

Quashy had a habit, when his risible faculties were only gently tickled, of shutting his eyes, throwing back his head, opening his great mouth wide, and indulging in a silent laugh. Having done so on the present occasion, he shut his mouth with a snap and opened his eyes.

"Ho yis," he said in a low tone, "bery nice when it all plisent like now, but it am anoder t'ing when de fresh mountain air goes howlerin' an' bowlerin' about like a wild beast, an' when it snowses an frozes fit to cut off your noses an' shribel up de bery marrow in your bones! Oh! you got no notion what—"

"Hold your tongue, Quashy," interrupted Lawrence, "why, your description of such things makes one shiver. Let us hope we may have no experience of them and enjoy our comforts while we may."

"Dat's true flosuffy, massa," returned the negro, helping himself to more guanaco, and offering some on the end of his fork to Manuela, who accepted the same with her usual ready smile, which, however, on this occasion, expanded into an uncontrollable little laugh.

Lawrence was perplexed, and so was Quashy, for the quiet little Indian was not given to giggling at trifles, much less to laughing at nothing. Lawrence observed, however, that the girl did not reach out her hand with her usual graceful action, but on the contrary gave her arm an awkward twist which obliged the negro to stretch needlessly far over towards her in handing the meat.

The result was that a pannikin of coffee which Quashy had placed on his plate—the plate being in his lap—began to tilt over. Before any one could warn him it overturned, causing the poor man to spring up with a yell as the hot liquid drenched his legs. Of course every one laughed. People always do at such mild mishaps. As the coffee was not too hot, and there was more in the kettle, Quashy joined in the laugh while he wiped his garments, and afterwards replenished his pannikin.

But a new light began to force itself upon Lawrence. "Can it be," he thought, "that she did that on purpose?—that she saw the pannikin was tilting, and—no, that's impossible!"

He looked earnestly at the girl. She had recovered her gravity by that time, and was quietly eating her supper with downcast eyes. "Impossible," he repeated in thought, "so unlike her, and so very unlike the Indian character." Nevertheless his perplexity remained, and when he went to sleep that night, after gazing long and earnestly up at the bright stars and at the white summits of the Andes which rose in awful grandeur above him, he dreamed that while Quashy was sitting sound asleep with his head on his knees in front of the fire, Manuela availed herself of the opportunity to pour an ocean of hot coffee down his back!

Starting up wide awake at this, he found that Quashy lay beside him, sleeping quietly on his back, that Pedro was similarly engaged, that the Indian girl had disappeared into her dormitory, that the giant's castle looked more splendidly real than ever in the rising moonlight, and that no sound was to be heard save the brawling of the escaped river, as it fled from its glacier-prison to its home in the mighty sea.



CHAPTER SIX.

A STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS—REFUGE FOUND—CONVERSE ROUND THE FIRE.

The summit of the pass was at last gained, and not a moment too soon, for the storm which they had experienced a few days before was but the prelude to a gale such as is rarely experienced save in the winter months of the year, when most of the mountain passes are closed.

It began by mutterings of distant thunder, which caused the guide to look round the horizon and up at the sky somewhat anxiously.

"Do you think we shall reach our next shelter before it breaks?" asked Lawrence.

"I hope so," said Pedro, pausing on a ridge from which an almost illimitable view was had of mountain range and valley in all directions.

"Far over in that direction," he continued, pointing with his hand, "lies the land of the Incas. You have heard of the Incas, senhor?"

"Yes, I have heard of them, but cannot say that I am intimately acquainted with their history."

"It is a strange history—a very sad one," returned Pedro. "I will tell you something about it at another time; at present it behoves us to push on."

There was no question as to that point, for just as he spoke a sudden and powerful gust of wind swept Quashy's straw hat off and sent it spinning gaily along the path. Vaulting from his mule with a wild shout, the negro gave chase on foot, with an amount of anxiety that seemed not justified by the occasion. But as the poet truly puts it, "things are not what they seem," and Quashy's head-piece, which presented much the appearance of a battered old straw hat, was in truth an article of very considerable value.

It was one of those hats made by the people of South America, with a delicate fibre so finely plaited that in texture it resembles fine canvas, though in appearance it is like straw. It is exceedingly tough, takes a very long time to manufacture, and costs many dollars—so many, indeed, that a hat of the kind is thought worthy of being preserved and left as an heirloom from father to son as long as it lasts.

No wonder then that the negro made frantic efforts to regain his property—all the more frantic that he was well aware if it should pass over one of the neighbouring precipices it would be lost to him for ever. At last a friendly gust sent it into a snowdrift, through which Quashy plunged and captured it.

Snow in considerable quantities lay here and there around them in the form of old patches or drifts, and this began to be swept up by the fierce wind in spite of its solidity. Soon new snow began to fall, and, mingling with the old drifts, rendered the air so thick that it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few yards in advance. Lawrence, being unused to such scenes, began to fear they should get lost in these awful solitudes, and felt specially anxious for Manuela, who, despite the vigour of a frame trained, as it no doubt had been, in all the hardihood incidental to Indian camp life, seemed to shrink from the fierce blast and to droop before the bitter cold.

"Here, put on my poncho," said the youth, riding suddenly up to the girl's side and unceremoniously flinging his ample garment over the slight poncho she already wore. She drew it round her at once, and silently accepted the offering with a smile and an inclination of her small head which, even in these uncomfortable circumstances, were full of grace.

"Why was she born a savage?" thought the youth, with almost petulant exasperation. "If she had only been white and civilised, I would have wooed and won—at least," he added, modestly, "I would have tried to win and wed her in spite of all the opposing world. As it is, the— the—gulf is impassable!"

"You have anticipated me, senhor," said the guide, who had reined in until the rest of the party overtook him. "I had halted with the intention of offering my poncho to Manuela. Poor girl, she is a daughter of the warm Pampas, and unused to the cold of the mountains."

He turned to her, and said something in the Indian tongue which seemed to comfort her greatly, for she replied with a look and tone of satisfaction.

"I have just told her," he said to Lawrence, as they resumed the journey, "that in half an hour we shall reach a hut of shelter. It is at the foot of a steep descent close ahead; and as the wind is fortunately on our backs, we shall be partially protected by the hill."

"Surely the place cannot be a farm," said Lawrence; "it must be too high up for that."

"No, as you say, it is too high for human habitation. The hut is one of those places of refuge which have been built at every two or three leagues to afford protection to travellers when assailed by such snow-storms as that which is about to break on us now."

He stopped, for the party came at the moment to a slope so steep that it seemed impossible for man or mule to descend. Being partly sheltered from the fitful gusts of wind, it was pretty clear of snow, and they could see that a zigzag track led to the bottom. What made the descent all the more difficult was a loose layer of small stones, on which they slipped continually. Before they had quite completed the descent the storm burst forth. Suddenly dense clouds of snow were seen rushing down from the neighbouring peaks before a hurricane of wind, compared with which previous gusts were trifles.

"Come on—fast—fast!" shouted the guide, looking back and waving his hand.

The first deafening roar of the blast drowned the shout; but before the snowdrift blinded him, Lawrence had observed the wave of the hand and the anxious look. Dashing the cruel Spanish spurs for the first time into the side of his no doubt astonished steed, he sprang alongside of Manuela's mule, seized the bridle, and dragged it forward by main force. Of course the creature objected, but the steep road and slipping gravel favoured them, so that they reached the bottom in safety.

Here they found the first of the refuge-huts, and in a few moments were all safe within its sheltering walls.

Having been erected for a special purpose, the hut was well adapted to resist the wildest storm. It was built of brick and mortar, the foundation being very solid, and about twelve feet high, with a brick staircase outside leading to the doorway. Thus the habitable part of the edifice was raised well above the snow. The room was about twelve feet square, the floor of brick, and the roof arched. It was a dungeon-like place, dimly lighted by three loop-holes about six inches square, and without furniture of any kind. A mark in the wall indicated the place where a small table had originally been fixed; but it had been torn down long before, as Pedro explained, by imprisoned and starving travellers to serve for firewood. The remains of some pieces of charred wood lay on the floor where the fire was usually kindled, and, to Pedro's great satisfaction, they found a small pile of firewood which had been left there by the last travellers.

"A dismal enough place," remarked Lawrence, looking round after shaking and stamping the snow out of his garments.

"You have reason to thank God, senhor, that we have reached it."

"True, Senhor Pedro, and I am not thankless; yet do I feel free to repeat that it is a most dismal place."

"Mos' horriboble," said Quashy, looking up at the vaulted roof.

"Ay, and it could tell many a dismal story if it had a tongue," said the guide, as he busied himself arranging the saddles and baggage, and making other preparations to spend the night as comfortably as circumstances should permit. "Luckily there's a door this time."

"Is it sometimes without a door, then?" asked Lawrence, as he assisted in the arrangements, while Quashy set about kindling a fire.

"Ay, the poor fellows who are sometimes stormstaid and starved here have a tendency to use all they can find about the place for firewood. Some one has replaced the door, however, since I was here last. You'll find two big nails in the wall, Manuela," he added in Indian; "if you tie one of the baggage cords to them, I'll give you a rug directly, which will make a good screen to cut off your sleeping berth from ours."

In a short time Quashy had a bright little fire burning, with the kettle on it stuffed full of fresh snow; the saddles and their furniture made comfortable seats and lounges around it; and soon a savoury smell of cooked meat rendered the cold air fragrant, while the cheery blaze dispelled the gloom and made a wonderful change in the spirits of all. Perhaps we should except the guide, whose calm, grave, stern yet kindly aspect rarely underwent much change, either in the way of elation or depression, whatever the surrounding circumstances might be. His prevailing character reminded one of a rock, whether in the midst of a calm or raging sea—or of a strong tower, whether surrounded by warring elements or by profound calm. Need we say that Pedro's imperturbability was by no means the result of apathy?

"Blow away till you bust your buzzum," said Quashy, apostrophising the gale as he sat down with a beaming display of teeth and spread out his hands before the blaze, after having advanced supper to a point which admitted of a pause; "I don' care a butt'n how hard you blow now."

"Ah! Quashy," said the guide, shaking his head slowly, as, seated on his saddle, he rolled up a neat cigarette, "don't be too confident. You little know what sights these four walls have witnessed. True, this is not quite the season when one runs much risk of being starved to death, but the thing is not impossible."

"Surely," said Lawrence, stretching himself on his saddle-cloths and glancing at Manuela, who was by that time seated on the opposite side of the fire arranging some hard biscuits on a plate, "surely people have not been starved to death here, have they?"

"Indeed they have—only too often, senhor. I myself came once to this hut to rescue a party, but was nearly too late, for most of them were dead."

He paused to light his cigarette. The negro, after making the door more secure, sat down again and gazed at the guide with the glaring aspect of a man who fears, but delights in, the horrible. Manuela, letting her clasped hands fall in her lap, also gazed at Pedro with the intense earnestness that was habitual to her. She seemed to listen. Perhaps, being unusually intelligent, she picked up some information from the guide's expressive face. She could hardly have learned much from his speech, as her knowledge of English seemed to be little more than "yes," "no," and "t'ank you!"

"It was during a change of government, senhor," said Pedro, "that I chanced to be crossing the mountains. There is usually a considerable row in South America when a change of government takes place. Sometimes they cause a change of government to take place in order to get up a considerable row, for they're a lively people—almost as fond of fighting as the Irish, though scarcely so sound in judgment. I had some business on hand on the western side of the Cordillera, but turned back to give a helping hand to my friends, for of course I try never to shirk duty, though I'm not fond of fighting. Well, when I got to the farm nearest to this hut where we now sit, they told me that a tremendous gale had been blowing in the mountains, that ten travellers had been snowed up, and that they feared they must all have perished, since travelling in such weather was impossible."

"'Have you made no effort to rescue them?' I asked of the farmer.

"'No,' says he, 'I couldn't get any o' my fellows to move, because they've been terrified about a ghost that's been seen up there.'

"'What was the ghost like?' I asked; so he told me that it was a fearful creature—a mulish-looking sort of man, who was in the habit of terrifying the arrieros and peons who passed that way, but he said they were going to get a priest to put a cross up there, and so lay the ghost.

"'Meanwhile,' I said, 'the ten travellers are to be left to starve?'

"'It's my belief they're starved already,' answered the farmer."

At this point Pedro paused to relight his cigarette, and Quashy breathed a little more freely. He was a firm believer in ghosts, and feared them more than he would have feared an army of Redskins or jaguars. Indeed it is a question whether Quashy could ever have been brought to realise the sensation of fear if it had not been for the existence, in his imagination, of ghosts! The mere mention of the word in present circumstances had converted him into a sort of human sensitive-plant. He gave a little start and glance over his shoulder at every gust of unusual power that rattled the door, and had become visibly paler— perhaps we should say less black.

Manuela was evidently troubled by no such fears, perhaps because she did not understand the meaning of the word ghost, yet she gazed at the speaker in apparently rapt attention.

"You may believe," continued the guide, "that I was disgusted at their cowardice; so, to shame them, as well as to do what I could for the travellers, I loaded a couple of my mules with meat, and said I would set off alone. This had the desired effect, for three men volunteered to go with me. When we reached the hut we found that six of the ten poor fellows were dead. The bodies of two who had died just before our arrival were lying in the corner over there behind Quashy. They were more like skeletons covered with skin than corpses. The four who still lived were in the corner here beside me, huddled together for warmth, and so worn out by hunger and despair that they did not seem to care at first that we had come to save them. We warmed and fed them, however, brought them gradually round, and at last took them back to the farm. They all recovered. During the time they were snowed up the poor fellows had eaten their mules and dogs. I have no doubt that if the ground were clear of snow you would find the bones of these animals scattered about still."

This was not a very pleasant anecdote, Lawrence thought, on which to retire to rest, so he changed the subject by asking Pedro if there were many of the Incas still remaining.

Before he could reply Manuela rose, and, bidding them good-night in Spanish, retired to her screened-off corner.

"A good many of the Incas are still left," replied the guide to his companion's question; "and if you were to visit their capital city you would be surprised to see the remains of temples and other evidences of a very advanced civilisation in a people who existed long before the conquest of Peru."

"Massa Pedro," said Quashy, who would have been glad to have the recollection of ghosts totally banished from his mind, "I's oftin hear ob de Incas, but I knows not'ing about dem. Who is dey? whar dey come fro?"

"It would take a long time, Quashy, to answer these two questions fully; nevertheless, I think I could give you a roughish outline of a notion in about five minutes, if you'll promise not to stare so hard, and keep your mouth shut."

The negro shut his eyes, expanded his mouth to its utmost in a silent laugh, and nodded his head acquiescently.

"Well, then, you must know," said Pedro, "that in days of old—about the time that William the Conqueror invaded England—a certain Manco Capac founded the dynasty of the Incas. According to an old legend this Manco was the son of a white man who was shipwrecked on the coast of Peru. He married the daughter of an Indian chief, and taught the people agriculture, architecture, and other arts. He must have been a man of great power, from the influence he exerted over the natives, who styled him the 'blooming stranger.' His hair was of a golden colour, and this gave rise to the story that he was a child of the sun, who had been sent to rule over the Indians and found an empire. Another tradition says that Manco Capac was accompanied by a wife named Mama Oello Huaco, who taught the Indian women the mysteries of spinning and weaving, while her husband taught the arts of civilisation to the men.

"Whatever truth there may be in these legends, certain it is that Manco Capac did become the first of a race of Incas—or kings or chiefs—and, it is said, laid the foundations of the city of Cuzco, the remains of which at the present day show the power, splendour, and wealth to which Manco Capac and his successors attained. The government of the Incas was despotic, but of a benignant and patriarchal type, which gained the affections of those over whom they ruled, and enabled them to extend their sway far and wide over the land, so that, at the time of the invasion by the Spaniards under Pizarro, the Peruvians were found to have reached a high degree of civilisation, as was seen by their public works—roads, bridges, terrace-gardens, fortifications, and magnificent buildings, and so forth. It is said by those who have studied the matter, that this civilisation existed long before the coming of the Incas. On this point I can say nothing, but no doubt or uncertainty rests on the later history of this race. Cuzco, on Lake Titicaca, became the capital city of a great and flourishing monarchy, and possessed many splendid buildings in spacious squares and streets. It also became the Holy City and great temple of the Sun, to which pilgrims came from all parts of the country. It was defended by a fortress and walls built of stone, some blocks of which were above thirty feet long by eighteen broad and six thick. Many towns sprang up in the land. Under good government the people flourished and became rich. They had plenty of gold and silver, which they used extensively in the adornment of their temples and palaces. But evil followed in the train of wealth. By degrees their simplicity departed from them. Their prosperity led to the desire for conquest. Then two sons of one of the Incas disputed with each other for supremacy, and fought. One was conquered and taken prisoner by the other, who is reported to have been guilty of excessive cruelties to his relations, and caused his brother to be put to death. Finally, in 1532, the Spaniards came and accomplished the conquest of Peru—from which date not much of peace or prosperity has fallen to the lot of this unhappy land.

"Yes," said the guide in conclusion, "the Incas were, and some of their descendants still are, a very fine race. Many of the men are what I call nature's gentlemen, having thoughts—ay, and manners too, that would grace any society. Some of their women, also, are worthy to—"

"Pedro!" interrupted Lawrence eagerly, laying his hand on the guide's arm, for a sudden idea had flashed into his mind. (He was rather subject to the flashing of sudden ideas!) "Pedro! she is a daughter of a chief of the Incas—is she not? a princess of the Incas! Have I not guessed rightly?"

He said this in a half whisper, and pointed as he spoke to the screen behind which Manuela lay.

Pedro smiled slightly and tipped the ash from the end of his cigarette, but made no answer.

"Nay, I will not pry into other people's affairs," said Lawrence, in his usual tone, "but you once told me she is the daughter of a chief, and assuredly no lady in this land could equal her in grace or dignity of carriage and manner, to say nothing of modesty, which is the invariable evidence."

"Not of high rank?" interrupted the guide, with a quick and slightly sarcastic glance.

"No, but of nobility of mind and heart," replied the youth, with much enthusiasm. In which feeling he was earnestly backed up by Quashy, who, with eyes that absolutely glowed, said—

"You's right, massa—sure an' sartin! Modesty am de grandest t'ing I knows. Once I knowed a young nigger gal what libbed near your fadder's mill—Sooz'n dey calls 'er—an' she's so modest, so—oh! I not kin 'splain rightly—but I say to 'er one day, when I'd got my courage screwed up, 'Sooz'n,' ses I. 'Well,' ses she. 'I—I lub you,' ses I, 'more nor myself, 'cause I t'ink so well ob you. Eberybody t'inks well ob you, Sooz'n. What—what—' (I was gitten out o' bref by dis time from 'citement, and not knowin' what more to say, so I ses) 'what—what you t'ink ob you'self Sooz'n?'

"'Nuffin',' ses she! Now, wasn't dat modest?"

"It certainly was, Quashy. Couldn't have been more so," said Pedro. "And after that we couldn't, I think, do better than turn in."

The fire had by that time burned low, and the gale was still raging around them, driving the snowdrift wildly against the hut, and sometimes giving the door so violent a shake as to startle poor Quashy out of sweet memories of Sooz'n into awful thoughts of the ghost that had not yet been laid.

Each man appropriated a vacant corner of the hut in which to spread his simple couch, the negro taking care to secure that furthest from the door.

Lawrence Armstrong thought much over his supposed discovery before falling asleep that night, and the more he thought the more he felt convinced that the Indian girl was indeed a princess, and owed her good looks, sweet disposition, graceful form and noble carriage to her descent from a race which had at one period been highly civilised when all around them were savage. It was a curious subject of contemplation. The colour of his waking thoughts naturally projected itself into the young man's dreams. He was engaged in an interesting anthropological study. He found himself in the ancient capital of the Incas. He beheld a princess of great beauty surrounded by courtiers, but she was brown! He thought what an overwhelming pity it was that she was not white! Then he experienced a feeling of intense disappointment that he himself had not been born brown. By degrees his thoughts became more confused and less decided in colour—whitey-brown, in fact,—and presented a series of complicated regrets and perplexing impossibilities, in a vain effort to disentangle which he dropped asleep.



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THINGS BEGIN TO LOOK BRIGHTER—THE GUIDE'S STORY.

It was bright day when our travellers awoke, but only a dim light penetrated into their dungeon-like dormitory, for, besides being very small, the three windows, or loop-holes, had been so filled up with snow as to shut out much of the light that would naturally have entered.

That the gale still raged outside was evident enough to the sense of hearing, and sometimes the gusts were so sudden and strong that the little building trembled, stout though it was. Indeed, Lawrence at first thought they must be experiencing the shocks of an earthquake, a mistake not unnatural in one who, besides having had but little experience in regard to such catastrophes, knew well that he was at the time almost in the centre of a region celebrated for earthquakes.

It was with mingled feelings of interest, anxiety, and solemnity that he surveyed the scene outside through a hole in the door. It seemed as if an Arctic winter had suddenly descended on them. Snow completely covered hill and gorge as far as the vision could range but they could not see far, for at every fresh burst of the furious wind the restless wreaths were gathered up and whirled madly to the sky, or swept wildly down the valleys, or dashed with fury against black precipices and beetling cliffs, to which they would sometimes cling for a few seconds, then, falling away, would be caught up again by the tormenting gale, and driven along in some new direction with intensified violence.

"No prospect of quitting the hut to-day," observed Lawrence, turning away from the bewildering scene.

"None," said Pedro, stretching himself, and rising sleepily on one elbow, as men are wont to do when unwilling to get up.

"Nebber mind, massa; lots o' grub!" cried Quashy, awaking at that moment, leaping up like an acrobat, and instantly setting about the kindling of the fire.

Having, as Quashy truly said, lots of grub, possessing a superabundance of animal vigour, and being gifted with untried as well as unknown depths of intellectual power, also with inexhaustible stores of youthful hope, our travellers had no difficulty in passing that day in considerable enjoyment, despite adverse circumstances; but when they awoke on the second morning and found the gale still howling, and the snow still madly whirling, all except Pedro began to express in word and countenance feelings of despondency. Manuela did not speak much, it is true, but she naturally looked somewhat anxious. Lawrence began to recall the fate of previous travellers in that very hut, and his countenance became unusually grave, whereupon Quashy—whose nature it was to conform to the lead of those whom he loved, and, in conforming, outrageously to overdo his part—looked in his young master's face and assumed such an aspect of woeful depression that his visage became distinctly oval, though naturally round.

Observing this, Lawrence could not restrain a short laugh, whereupon, true as the compass to the Pole, the facile Quashy went right round; his chin came up, his cheeks went out, his eyes opened with hopeful sheen, and his thick lips expanded into a placid grin.

"There is no cause for alarm," observed Pedro, who had risen to assist in preparing breakfast. "No doubt it is the worst storm I ever met with, or even heard of, at this season of the year, but it cannot last much longer; and whatever happens, it can't run into winter just now."

As if to justify the guide's words, the hurricane began to diminish in violence, and the pauses between blasts were more frequent and prolonged. When breakfast was over, appearances became much more hopeful, and before noon the storm had ceased to rage.

Taking advantage of the change, without delay they loaded the pack-mules, saddled, mounted, and set forth.

To many travellers it would have been death to have ventured out on such a trackless waste, but Pedro knew the road and the landmarks so thoroughly that he advanced with his wonted confidence. At first the snow was very deep, and, despite their utmost care, they once or twice strayed from the road, and were not far from destruction. As they descended, however, the intense cold abated; and when they came out upon occasional table-lands, they found that the snow-fall there had been much less than in the higher regions, also that it had drifted off the road so much that travelling became more easy.

That night they came to a second hut-of-refuge, and next day had descended into a distinctly warmer region on the eastern slopes of the great range, over which they travelled from day to day with ever increasing comfort. Sometimes they put up at outlying mountain farms, and were always hospitably received; sometimes at small hamlets or villages, where they could exchange or purchase mules, and, not unfrequently, they encamped on the wild mountain slopes, with the green trees or an overhanging cliff, or the open sky to curtain them, and the voices of the puma and the jaguar for their lullaby.

Strange to say, in crossing the higher parts of the Andes not one of the party suffered from the rarity of the air. Many travellers experience sickness, giddiness, and extreme exhaustion from this cause in those regions. Some have even died of the effects experienced at the greater heights, yet neither Manuela, nor Lawrence, nor Quashy was affected in the slightest degree. We can assign no reason for their exemption—can only state the fact. As for the guide, he was in this matter—as, indeed, he seemed to be in everything—invulnerable.

One afternoon, as they rode along a mountain track enjoying the sunshine, which at that hour was not too warm, Lawrence pushed up alongside of the guide.

"It seems to me," he said, "that we are wandering wonderfully far out of our way just now. We have been going due north for several days; at least so my pocket compass tells me, and if my geography is not greatly at fault, our backs instead of our faces are turned at present towards Buenos Ayres. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Senhor Pedro, but if it is not presuming too much I should like to know when we shall begin to move in the direction of our journey's end."

"There is neither presumption nor impropriety in your wish," returned the guide. "I told you at starting that we should pursue a devious route, for reasons which are immaterial to you, but there is no reason why I should not explain that at present I am diverging for only a few miles from our track to visit a locality—a cottage—which is sacred to me. After that we will turn eastward until we reach the head-waters of streams that will conduct us towards our journey's end."

With this explanation he was obliged to rest content, for Pedro spoke like one who did not care to be questioned. Indeed there was an unusually absent air about him, seeing which Lawrence drew rein and fell back until he found himself alongside of Quashy.

Always ready—nay, eager—for sympathetic discourse, the negro received his young master with a bland, expansive, we might almost say effusive, smile.

"Well, massa, how's you gittin' along now?"

"Pretty well, Quashy. How do you?"

"Oh! fuss-rate, massa—only consid'rable obercome wid surprise."

"What surprises you?"

"De way we's agwine, to be sure. Look dar." He pointed towards the towering mountain peaks and wild precipices that closed in the narrow glen or gorge up which they were slowly proceeding.

"In all our trabels we's nebber come to a place like dat. It looks like de fag end ob creation. You couldn't git ober de mountain-tops 'cept you had wings, an' you couldn't climb ober de pres'pisses 'cep you was a monkey or a skirl—though it am bery lubly, no doubt."

The negro's comments were strictly correct, though somewhat uncouthly expressed. The valley was apparently surrounded in all directions by inaccessible precipices, and the white peaks of the Andes towered into the skies at its head. Within rugged setting lay a fine stretch of undulating land, diversified by crag and hillock, lake and rivulet, with clustering shrubs and trees clinging to the cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur and loveliness in profound solitude which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, "Why did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?"

For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation appeared in the valley, though myriads of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground.

Perchance man over-estimates his own importance—at least underrates that of the animal kingdom below him—and is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness doomed to "blush unseen"? Is all the sweetness expended on the desert air "wasted?"

As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees.

Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing motionless, with clasped hands and drooping head.

Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed.

Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and said—

"My home. I bid you welcome."

"Your home!" echoed Lawrence, in surprise.

"Ay, a happy home it once was—but—desolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?"

Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness.

There was a rustic bower on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word "Mariquita."

Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadness—

"The body of my wife lies there. Her pure spirit, thank God, is with its Maker."

Lawrence's power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him.

"Sit beside me, senhor," he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. "You have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in return—as far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit there since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?"

Of course Lawrence assented, with a look of deep interest.

"Well, then," said Pedro, "it may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman."

To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.

"I'm not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or otherwise," returned Pedro; "however, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won't quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word 'chance' fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty. I must have been led or guided here.

"At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic of youth—content to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs.

"At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a man's throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage with the butt of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her father's blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita!

"Around her," continued Pedro, in deepening tones, "lay her mother and two brothers—all slaughtered. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmaster's wife attended to her.

"On seeing her next morning I felt that my life's happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence, simplicity, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time.

"Often before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the world—and I cannot say that the doom gave me much concern. But now—well, if you understand me, senhor, I need not explain, and if you don't understand, explanation is useless! Mariquita was left alone in the wide world. I would not, for all the gold and silver of Peru, have spoken of love to her at that time; but I made arrangements with the postmaster and his wife to take care of the poor girl till I should return. In time I did return. She accepted me. We were married, and I brought her up here, for I wanted no society but hers. I was content to live in absolute solitude with her. She was much of the same mind, dear girl, but God had touched her heart, and in her sweet talk—without intending it, or dreaming of it—she showed me how selfish I was in thinking only of our own happiness, and caring nothing for the woes or the joys of our fellow-men.

"My conscience reproached me, and I began to think how I could manage to live a less selfish life, but before I could make up my mind what course to follow an event occurred which caused delay. A little girl was sent to us. I called her Mariquita, of course, and thought no more of leaving our happy home in the mountains. For five years we remained here, and the little Mariquita grew to be an angel of light and beauty— like her mother in all respects, except that she was very fair, with curly golden hair.

"About that time war broke out—doubly accursed war! One night a band of deserters came and attacked my cottage. It had always been well prepared for anything of the sort with bolts, and bars and shutters, and even flanking loop-holes, as well as plenty of fire-arms and ammunition. But the party was too numerous. The villains forced the door in spite of me, and fired a volley before making a rush. From that moment I remembered nothing more until I recovered and found my head supported on the knee of an old man. I knew him at once to be a poor lonely old hunter who ranged about in the mountains here, and had paid us occasional visits. When he saw I was able to understand him, he told me that he had come suddenly on the villains and shot two of them, and that the others, perhaps thinking him the advance-guard of a larger party, had taken fright and made off. 'But,' he said, in a low, hesitating tone, 'Mariquita is dead!'

"I sprang up as if I had been shot, but instantly fell again, for my leg had been broken. I had seen enough, however. My beloved one lay dead on the floor, not far from me, with a bullet through her brain. And now," added Pedro, pointing in deep despondency to the little mound at their feet—"she lies there!"

"Not so, my friend," said Lawrence, in a low but earnest tone, as he grasped the man's hand, "it is only her dust that lies there, and even that is precious in the sight of her Lord."

"Thank you, senhor, for reminding me," returned Pedro; "but when the memory of that awful night is strong upon me, my faith almost fails."

"No wonder," rejoined Lawrence, "but what of the child?"

"Ah! that is what I asked the old hunter," returned Pedro. "He started up, and searched high and low, but could not find her. Then he went out, calling her by name loudly, and searched the bushes. Then he returned with a wild look and said the robbers must have taken her away—he would pursue! I knew it would be useless, for the scoundrels were mounted and the old hunter was on foot; but I let him go, and was not surprised when, two hours later, he returned quite exhausted. 'It is in vain,' he said. 'Yet if I could have come up with them, I would have died for her.'

"I was long ill after that. A good while, they say, I was out of my mind, but old Ignacio nursed me through. He also buried Mariquita where she now lies."

The guide paused.

"And the child?" asked Lawrence, anxiously.

"I have sought her far and wide, year after year, over mountain and plain. She may be dead—she may be alive—but I have never seen her nor heard of her from that day to this."

"Your story is a very, very sad one," said Lawrence, his face expressing the genuine sympathy which he felt. "May I ask—are your wanderings mere haphazard? Have you no idea who they were that stole your little one, or where they went to?"

"None whatever. The broken leg, you know, prevented my commencing the search at once, and when I was able to go about I found that all trace of the band was gone. No wonder, for the country was at war at the time, and many marauding parties had traversed the land since then."

"I—I shrink," said Lawrence, with some hesitation, "from even the appearance of unkindness, but I cannot help expressing the fear that this vague, undirected wandering will be useless."

"It would be so," returned Pedro, "if God did not direct all human affairs. If it be His will, I shall yet find my child on earth. If not, I shall find her above—with her mother. In our intercourse, senhor, I have observed in you a respect for God's Word. Is it not written, 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass?'"

"Most true," replied Lawrence, feeling the reproof, "yet God works by means. If we do not take the right means, we cannot expect to attain our end, however much we may trust."

"Right, senhor, and I have taken the only means open to me. Since I cannot give direction to my search, I search everywhere. Fortunately my business permits of this, and also of doing a little service to my fellow-men as I go on my way. Periodically I return here to rest,"—(he pointed to the little mound,)—"and when my powers begin to wane, either through disease or age, it is my purpose, if God permit, to return and die beside Mariquita's grave."



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 a la Jack-in-the-box, he leaped out, and stood before the astonished bandit.