Yes, Lawrence knew well; at least, if he did not know exactly, he had a powerful imagination!

"Well, then, long before daylight I was up and off, feeling my way as best I could in the first grey glimpses of dawn, so that I got a good start—at least I thought so; but soon I found my pursuers had also started early and were overhauling me; and no wonder, seeing that their canoes were large and well manned. I now felt that I had no chance of escaping by water, but I had by that time got into a part of the country with which I was well acquainted, and knew that if I could only reach a certain point before being caught, I might take to the bush and cross overland to my friend's hut here. That was early this morning. The only trouble I had was that my wound was beginning to give me considerable pain, and I felt losing strength for want of food. I had scarce time to cat, much less to search for food, they pressed me so hard. However, a man makes a hard struggle for life, so I tightened my belt, and set to work with such good will, that I was soon a long way ahead of them, and got out of sight at a place where the river takes a number of bends and is full of small islands. At last, about noon, I reached the desired point, paddled carefully in among the reeds, so as to prevent the savages seeing where I had landed, jumped ashore, hid the canoe, stepped out as hard as I could, and—here I am."

"But," exclaimed Lawrence, with some excitement, "if you left the Indians so recently, won't they be close on your heels?"

"No fear. I came here in a straight line overland. By the windings of the river they cannot be here, even at the soonest, before the afternoon of to-morrow. But they will probably give up the chase long before getting this length. Besides, if they did arrive, they would find a warm reception from four well-armed men, instead of catching one poor unarmed fugitive. But we won't give them the chance. We will be up and away by daybreak. Tiger here has agreed to join us in our trip to Buenos Ayres. He will take his wife and family down stream to his father-in-law's tribe, where they will be safe till his return. Are you all well, and ready for a start?"

"Yes, all well—and shall be ready as soon as you please."

"That's right. Where's Quashy?"

"Close alongside. Don't you hear him?"

Lawrence referred to a sound like the drone of a giant mosquito, which proceeded from the negro's nose, for that worthy was a heavy sleeper— when not in danger—and had not been disturbed by the arrival of the guide.

Giving vent to a prolonged yawn, Pedro rose and stretched himself. Then he went up to the sleeping Quashy and took him by the nose, at the same time putting his hand on his mouth to smother the inevitable yell in its birth. When sufficiently awake to be released with safety, the amiable negro was permitted to raise himself, and when aware of who had grasped him, he beamed with good-will, and gleamed with surprise.

"Get up, Quashy, and help them to pack," said Pedro, curtly, "we start at daybreak."

Quashy was on his feet in a moment. "Don't rouse me till it's time to start," added Pedro, who thereupon rolled into the vacant hammock, and was asleep—perchance in the land of dreams—almost as soon as his wearied head reposed on the negro's pillow.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

TELLS OF ABSURD, AS WELL AS EVIL, DOINGS, AND WINDS UP WITH A HORRID SURPRISE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know one who is a fool and a robber."

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

"Made us wear spectacles!" replied the Indian, sternly.

"What do you mean?"

"Have you not heard about it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what will you now do?" asked Tiger.

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

"The white-haired chief?" asked Tiger.

"Even so," replied Pedro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quashy's brief commentary explained it all.

"Purrit!"

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



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

IN WHICH INGENUITY, COMICALITY, FEROCITY, ECCENTRICITY, FECUNDITY, AND SOME OTHER "ITIES" IN MAN AND BEAST ARE MENTIONED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"All right, Quashy, I'm just finishing the last one. There—are these the right sizes?"

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

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

"Don' call it a 't'ing,' massa," said Quashy, with a dignified look, "call it a 'veil.' Dere's nuflin easier. See here."

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

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

"Nuffin easier, massa."

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

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

"Don't want to roll about in your sleep!" replied the negro, curtly.

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

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

But to return.

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

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

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

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

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

"Friendly?" asked Pedro, as they approached the shore.

"Yes, friendly," replied Tiger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who can tell?" said Pedro. "Instinct, I suppose."

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

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

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

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

"How you mean? Turn 'im upside-down, or outside in—w'ich?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Here they come," whispered Pedro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope not," replied Lawrence, earnestly.

"I's sh—-squeesh!—sure not!" exclaimed Quashy himself, with a sneeze, as he opened his eyes.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

PEDRO BECOMES COMMUNICATIVE; MANUELA VOCAL; LAWRENCE PREPOSTEROUS; QUASHY AND TIGER VIOLENT—THE WHOLE ENDING IN A GRAND CATASTROPHE.

"Senhor Armstrong," said Pedro, the evening after that on which the capture of turtles took place, "I have received some bad news—at least unsatisfactory news—which will necessitate a change in our style of travelling, and a more rapid progress towards our journey's end."

"I'm sorry for that," Lawrence answered, "for, to my mind, our style of travelling is very agreeable, and the rate quite fast enough, especially for one who has no definite purpose in view."

"That may be so, senhor," returned Pedro, with a grim smile, "but as I have something of a definite purpose in view, the case is different."

"True, Pedro,—true. I do not object to any change in your plans; I merely comment on the very pleasant time we are having, and shall be ready to act as you desire; so, you see, I am as I promised to be—an obedient follower. But where got you this news from? I have seen no one arrive in the camp since we came. What may the nature of the news be, if I may venture to ask of one who is so—so very reticent?"

The guide pondered some time before replying to these questions. Then, with the air of one who has made up his mind on an uncertain point, said—

"I had no intention of rousing your curiosity by needless secrecy. I have not very many or very profound secrets. Only, in a disturbed country it behoves a man to hold his tongue in regard to his affairs. But I feel that you are a friend, Senhor Armstrong, who may be trusted; not that I have much to trust to you,—and yet, my doings are so mixed up with the affairs of other people that to some extent I am tongue-tied. I may tell you, however, that I am a secret agent of the government, to which I have volunteered my services solely because I love peace and hate war, and am desirous of doing all I can to promote the first and abate the last. The idea may appear to you Quixotic, but—"

"Pardon me, Senhor Pedro," interrupted Lawrence, promptly. "I think you the reverse of Quixotic. I honour you for your sentiments, and sympathise with you most heartily. Do I not remember that it is written, 'Blessed are the peacemakers,' and also, 'Scatter thou the people that delight in war?'"

"Yes, I have gathered from your conversation that such are your sentiments, but do not misunderstand me. I am not of those who would have peace at any price. I believe in the right of self-defence. I recognise the right of oppressed nations to rise up and draw the sword in order to free themselves from tyrants; in short, I believe that there are some things that are worse even than war; but while I concede so much, I hold that most of the wars recorded in history have been undertaken without just cause, many of them without any real or obvious cause at all, too many of them with a distinctly bad cause. Even in the present day, and among Christian nations, there is far too little tendency to appeal to arbitration, which is the only legitimate way for reasonable men to settle any dispute or quarrel. Does your sympathy go with me thus far?"

Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm on his face, extended his hand, and, grasping that of his companion, shook it warmly.

"I go with you in every word, Pedro. You are a man after my own heart; and I say, God prosper you in your good work wherever you go!"

Manuela, who was standing near at the time, looked up at the enthusiastic youth quickly. Her knowledge of English must have been improving, despite the badness of her pronunciation, for she seemed to understand the conversation, and to regard Lawrence with profound interest.

The youth was so carried away with his feelings, however, that he did not observe the girl's look or expression.

"That is well," Pedro said, with a pleased look, as he returned his friend's grasp; "but I fear you won't find many of our way of thinking in this unhappy country. You are aware, no doubt, that it is frequently—I might almost say every three or four years—disturbed by factious quarrels which too often end in riot and bloodshed, though these are not often on so large a scale as to be styled civil war. Well, there is a party of peace-lovers even here, who do their best to bring about a better state of things, and a more settled and powerful government. Some of the men of influence at Buenos Ayres, and some even of the military men, are of this party. I am, as I have said, their secret agent—secret, because if I were to attempt the thing openly, or as a government agent, I should be treated with ridicule by some, or be murdered perhaps by others, in either of which cases my influence would be gone. Of course, as you have seen, I run considerable risk in travelling through the land on my mission, for I have been several times taken for a spy, but I don't object to run risk, the cause being a good one.

"As to the news, which I have received by mere chance from a passing Indian, it is another outbreak in the San Juan district which makes a change in the disposition of troops necessary; and as I have particular business with one of the officers, I must change my route and make for Buenos Ayres as straight as possible. That is all the mystery about it; so you see, as I said, it is not very profound."

"It is very interesting, however," returned Lawrence, "and you may depend on my falling in with your plans, whatever they are."

"Well, then," returned the guide, "the first part of my plan is simple enough—merely to start off to-morrow by the first peep of day. Will you go, therefore, and tell Quashy to get ready, while I have a talk with Manuela?"

We do not intend to inflict on the reader the whole of the conversation that took place in the Indian tongue between the little brown maiden and the guide. A small portion of it will suffice.

"I repeat, Manuela," said the latter, in a remonstrative tone, "that you are not wise."

"My kind protector forgets," replied the girl, with a modest look, "that I have never set up any claim to wisdom."

"But what will your father say?"

"I really cannot guess what he will say," she answered, with one of her prettiest little smiles.

"But you may be quite sure that the thing is impossible. Consider the immense difference between you, and, forgive me, Manuela, but I think it is not fair."

"Now my protector forgets himself," returned the maiden, drawing herself up and bestowing a look on the guide which was quite worthy of an Inca princess—supposing Lawrence to have been right in his conjecture on that point!

"Well, well, please yourself, Manuela," returned Pedro, with a laugh, in which exasperation slightly mingled, "but do me the justice to tell your father when you meet that I fairly remonstrated with and warned you. After all, nothing would please me better,—if it should ever come about."

He turned on his heel and went off, with a mingling of expressions on his handsome face, to look after the canoe and make preparations for an early start in the morning.

Canoe travelling appears to be rather slow work while it is going on, even when descending the current of a river. Each point of land seems to be reached and passed so gradually; every vista of the river seems so extensive, and the trees on shore drop so leisurely astern, that when you think of the hundreds of miles which lie in advance, you are apt to feel as if the journey or voyage would never come to an end. But when you forget the present and reflect on the past, when you think how many hundreds of miles now lie behind, although it seems but yesterday that you set out on the journey, then you realise the fact that the "power of littles," of steady, daily unremitting perseverance, has had too little weight with you in your estimates, and that, just as fast as your starting-point recedes from you, exactly so fast does your goal approach, although those misleading factors, your feelings, may have induced you to think otherwise.

Five days after the occurrence of the events on what we may style Turtle-beach, Lawrence found himself wondering at what appeared to be the far-off-ness of the spot, considering the slowness of the hourly progress, yet at the same time wondering if they should ever traverse the nine hundred or a thousand miles that yet intervened between him and Buenos Ayres.

To do Lawrence Armstrong justice, however, he was by no means impatient. He was quite satisfied that things should go as slowly as they pleased, for was he not travelling through the most interesting of countries, in which the flora and the fauna and the geological features furnished abundant—ay, superabundant—food for the satisfaction of his scientific appetite, while his companions were of the pleasantest character? Pedro, since the opening up of his heart to him, had laid aside much— though not all—of his reserve, and shown himself to be a man of extensive information and profound thought.

Spotted Tiger was a splendid specimen, physically and mentally, of the sons of the soil, in the contemplation of whom he could expend whatever smattering he possessed of ethnological science. Then Quashy—was not that negro the very soul and embodiment of courage, fidelity, and good-humour, the changes of whose April face alone might have furnished rich material for the study of a physiognomist or a Rembrandt.

And as for Manuela—we cannot analyse his thoughts about her. It is probable that he could not have expounded them himself. Take the following sample of them, as overheard by us one day when he had strayed into the wild woods alone, and was seated on the roots of a mighty tree, pencil in hand, attempting unsuccessfully to make a sketch.

"I do believe," he murmured, with a gesture of impatience—for he had drawn a small convolvulus, hanging from a tree, with such disregard for the rules of linear perspective that it was the proportionate size of an omnibus—"I do believe that that girl has come between me and my wits. Of course it is not love. That is quite out of the question. A white man could not fall in love with a black woman."

Yes, he did the poor girl the injustice, in his perplexed indignation with himself, to call her black, although it must have been obvious to the most careless observer that she was only reddish-brown, or, to speak more correctly, brownish-red.

"I can't understand it," he continued to murmur in that low, slow, absent far-away tone and manner characteristic of artists when at work. "No doubt her nose is Grecian, and her mouth small, as well as exquisitely formed, her chin full and rounded, her teeth faultless, her eyes gorgeous, and her whole contour perfect, but—but—she's black—at least," (correcting himself with a touch of compunction), "she's brown. No; I see what it is—it's—(well that's more like a balloon than a water-lily)—yes, it must be that I am in love with her spirit. That's it! I've said so before, and—and—I say it again."

He drew back his head at this point, and looked critically—even sternly—at the sketch. There was room both for criticism and indignation, for the display, in so small a compass, of bad drawing, vile composition, ridiculous chiaro-oscuro, and impossible perspective, could only have been justified by the supposition that his intellect had been warped through the heart, in consequence of an unheard of perplexity connected therewith.

"Yes," he continued, resuming his work with the air of an invincible man, "there is something distinctly and exasperatingly wrong here. I am in love with her spirit, and not with her person! Is it possible that the human race, descending from Adam and Eve, should have reached the nineteenth century without such a case ever having been heard of before, and that I—I should be the first wretched example—or—or victim! It is like loving the jewel without caring for the cas—no, that's a bad simile, for one could throw away a casket and keep the jewel, which could not conveniently be done in this case. I wonder what it is that makes the rules of perspective so difficult, and the practice so im—"

His meditations were checked at this point by a sound so sweet that his heart almost stood still, his pencil remained suspended over the sketch, and the half-formed word remained in the half-opened mouth. It was as if an angel had come to earth, and were warbling the airs of paradise.

Peeping through the bushes, Lawrence saw that it was Manuela! She was sauntering along pensively, humming as she went. He sat still, amazed and silent. From what cause we know not, but the Indian girl had not until that day opened her mouth in song. The youth's surprise was increased when she came near enough to let him hear that the words were Spanish; but suddenly remembering that English girls sometimes learned Italian songs by rote, like parrots, his surprise partly abated—why should not an Indian girl learn Spanish songs by rote?

Manuela passed close to the tree behind which our hero sat. On observing him she stopped, and blushed intensely red. Evidently she had thought herself quite alone, and experienced the usual dislike of humanity to being caught in the act of singing to itself!

In a burst of great enthusiasm Lawrence sprang up, overturned his drawing materials, seized the girl's hand, and dropped it again as if it had burnt him, as he exclaimed—

"I wish—oh! I wish, Manuela, that I were your brother!"

The lightning flash is said to be quick, and we suppose, relatively speaking, it is so, but we are quite sure that lightning cannot hold a candle to thought in this respect. Lawrence, as the reader has doubtless observed, was not a man of much more than average intelligence, or action of mind, yet between the first "wish" and the word "brother," he had perceived and condemned the impropriety of exhibiting strong feeling in thus grasping Manuela's hand; the unmanliness of doing or saying anything to her that had the remotest approach to love-making while in circumstances where the poor girl could not get out of his way, however much she might wish to do so, and the meanness, not to say absurdity, of showing anything like a lover's affection for a spirit which could only make itself known through the medium of a brown visage. Hence Lawrence, who was the soul of honour and gallantry, got out of the dilemma by suddenly conceiving and expressing the above intense wish to be Manuela's brother!

It did not occur to him that the gratification of his wish might have involved war-paint and feathers, a semi-nude body, a wild unlettered life, and a predilection for raw meat and murder. No, rapid though thought is, it did not convey these ideas to his mind. His one desire— after the first unguarded "exclamation" and impulsive grasp of the hand, was to escape from his false position without committing himself, and without giving pain or annoyance to the unprotected girl. And his success was in proportion to his boldness, for Manuela burst into a hearty laugh, and said—

"Why you wants be my brudder?"

"Brother, Manuela, not brudder," replied Lawrence, joining in the laugh, and much relieved in mind. "The word is spelt with t-h, not with two d's. The reason is that I should then have the right to order you to sit at my feet and sing me these pretty songs whenever I liked. And I fear I should be a very tyrannical brother to you, for I would make you sing all day."

"What—is—t'rannical?" asked the girl, whose tendency to laugh was evidently not yet quite subdued.

"Hallo! hi! Quashy!" came the guide's strong voice at that moment, ringing through the arches of the forest, and preventing the explanation, that might have been, of "t'rannical."

But Quashy replied not. It was the end of the noontide siesta. While Lawrence, as we have seen, had taken to sketching and Manuela to singing, the negro had gone off on his own account, and Pedro was now anxious to have his assistance in getting ready to start.

As Lawrence hurriedly collected his pencils the Indian girl stood admiring his work—poor ignorant thing! Just then there arose in the forest a sound which filled them both with mingled surprise and alarm.

It was a peculiar, dull sound, almost indescribable, but something like what one might expect to hear from a hundred spades or pickaxes working together in the depths of the forest. After a minute or two it ceased, and profound silence reigned. Dead silence in critical circumstances is even more alarming than definite noise, for then the imagination is allowed full play, and only those who have got the imagination powerfully developed know of what wild and terrifying vagaries it is capable!

Lawrence and Manuela looked at each other. The former had often before admired the gorgeous black orbs of the latter, but he had not till then thought them to be so very large.

Suddenly the earth trembled under their feet; it seemed as if a volcano were heaving underground. The memory of San Ambrosio rushed upon them, and they too trembled—at least the girl did. At the same time a shout arose which seemed to them not unfamiliar. The noise increased to something like the galloping of a distant squadron of cavalry.

"Let me lift you into this tree," said Lawrence, quickly.

Manuela did not object. He lifted her by the waist with his two large hands as if she had been a little child, and placed her on a branch that happened to be just within his reach. Scarcely had he done so when a host, a very army, of American wild-hogs, or peccaries, burst from the bushes like a tornado and bore down on them. They were so near that there was no time for Lawrence to climb up beside Manuela. He could only seize the branch with both hands and draw up his long legs. The living torrent passed under him in a few seconds, and thus—thanks to his gymnastic training at school—he escaped being ripped up in all directions by the creatures' tusks.

It was these same tusks digging round trees for the purpose of grubbing up roots that had produced the strange sounds, and it was the shouts of Quashy and Tiger in pursuit that had awakened the echoes of the forest.

On the heels of the large animals came galloping and squealing a herd of little ones, and close upon these followed the two hunters just named— panting, war-whooping, and cheering. Several of the little pigs were speared; some were even caught by the tail, and a goodly supply of meat was obtained for at least that day and the next. But before noon of that next day an event of a very different and much more serious nature occurred.

It was early morning at the time. They were traversing a wide sheet of water, both banks of which were high, richly-wooded, and all aglow with convolvuli and other flowers, and innumerable rope-like creepers, the graceful festoons and hanging tendrils of which gave inexpressible softness to the scene. In the middle of the lake-like expanse were numerous mud-flats, partly covered with tropical reeds and rushes of gigantic size.

The course our voyagers had to pursue made it necessary to keep close under the right bank, which was unusually steep and high. They were all silent, for the hour and the slumbering elements induced quiescence. A severe thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rains had broken over that district two days before, and Lawrence observed that deep watercourses had been ploughed among the trees and bushes in several places, but every other trace of the elemental war had vanished, and the quiet of early morning seemed to him sweet beyond expression, inducing his earnest spirit to wish that the mystery of sin had never been permitted, and that it were still possible for man to walk humbly with his God in a world of peacefulness as real as that of inanimate nature around him.

When the sun arose, a legion of living creatures came out from wood and swamp and reedy isle to welcome him. Flamingoes, otters, herons white and grey, and even jaguars, then began to set about their daily work of fishing for breakfast. Rugged alligators, like animated trunks of fallen trees, crawled in slimy beds or ploughed up the sands of the shore in deep furrows, while birds of gorgeous plumage and graceful— sometimes clumsy—form audibly, if not always visibly, united to chant their morning hymn.

Such were the sights on which our travellers' eyes rested, with a sort of quiet delight, when Pedro broke the silence in a low voice.

"You'd better keep a little farther out into the stream," he said to Tiger.

The Indian silently obeyed.

It was well that he did so promptly, for, in less than a minute, and without the slightest premonition, the immense bank above them slid with a terrific rumbling noise into the river. The enormous mass of sand and vegetable detritus thus detached could not have been much, if at all, less than half a mile in extent. It came surging and hurling down— trees and roots and rocks and mud intermingling in a chaos of grand confusion, the great cable-like creepers twining like snakes in agony, and snapping as if they were mere strands of packthread; timber crashing; rock grinding, sometimes bursting like cannon shots, and the whole plunging into the water and raising a great wave that swept the alligators from the mud-flats, and swallowed up the reeds and rushes, sending herons, kingfishers, and flamingoes screaming into the air, and dashing high into the jungle on the opposite shore.

As we have said, the canoe got out of reach of the terrible avalanche just in time, but it could not escape the wave. The Indian, however, was prepared for that. It was not the first time he had seen such a catastrophe. Turning the bow of the canoe instantly towards the falling bank, he thus met the wave, as it were, in the teeth, and rode safely over it.

If he had been less alive to the danger, or less prompt to meet it, or if he had under-estimated it, and allowed the wave to catch them on the side of the canoe, the adventures of our five friends had that day come to an abrupt close, and, what is probably of greater consequence to the reader, this faithful record would never have been written!



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

IN WHICH, AMONG OTHER THINGS, LAWRENCE REFUSES AN INVITATION, AND BIDS A FINAL FAREWELL TO MANUELA.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How many, senhor?"

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

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

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

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

"No more mad or drunk dan you'self—you whitefaced racoon!"

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

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

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

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

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

"You no want me, massa?"

"No, Quash, I don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Quash,—very beautiful."

"Lots ob nice shady trees an' bushes, and flowers, an' fruits, an' sweet smells ob oranges, an'—"

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

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

"Is you gwine," inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, "to de gubner's ball to-night?"

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

The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.

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

"Indeed; that's a curiously liberal arrangement."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—I understan'. I very sorry we part. Very, very sorry. Good-bye."

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

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

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

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

"Good-bye," he said again.

"Good-bye," she replied.

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



CHAPTER TWENTY.

IS CUMULATIVELY ASTONISHING.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dat's just de bery best t'ing what you can do, massa."

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

"Why, you're always laughing, Quash," said the youth, a little sharply.

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

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

"Still out ob sorts, massa?"

"Yes, that's it—exactly."

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

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

They met Pedro at the door.

"You'll go, I suppose?" he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.

"Indeed I will not. I've had no invitation, and have no evening dress."

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

"No matter, I'll not go. Nothing will induce me to go," returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.

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

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

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

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

He met Pedro in the corridor.

"Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?"

"Yes, I have."

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