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

"A surprise, Pedro?"

"Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin."

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

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

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

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

He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—

"Aw! indeed?"

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

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

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

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

"It's the colonel," exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.

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

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

"Come," said Pedro, suddenly, "I will introduce you."

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

Lawrence followed in some surprise.

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

"Mariquita!" he murmured, holding out both hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She held out her little white hand!

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

"'Pon my honour—aw—the most interesting tableau vivant I ever—aw— saw!"

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

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

Lawrence followed mechanically.

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HOPES, FEARS, PERPLEXITIES, JOYS, AND EXPLANATIONS.

Two conversations took place shortly after the scene in the ballroom, and to these we now draw attention. The first was in the hotel—in the private apartment of Colonel Marchbanks.

Having got rid of the ladies, the fiery man of war led his victim—if we may so style him—into the apartment referred to, and shut the door. Without asking Lawrence to be seated, he stalked into the middle of the room.

"Now, senhor," he said, wheeling round suddenly, and confronting Lawrence with a tremendous frown, "what do you mean by this?"

The look and the tone were such as the youth would in ordinary circumstances have resented, but he was far removed from ordinary circumstances just then. He was a victim! As such he looked at his questioner with perplexity in his countenance, and said—

"I beg pardon?"

"What do you mean by your conduct, I say?" repeated the colonel, fiercely; for he mistook and was rendered more irritable by the youth's apparent stupidity. "You have insulted my daughter in the ballroom—"

"Your daughter?" said Lawrence, with the air of a man whose eyes are dazzled by some sudden burst of strong light which he does not quite understand.

"Yes, sir. You know quite well what I mean," cried the colonel, waxing angrier. "It may be true, for all I know or care, that you have saved her life more than once, as Pedro tells me, but—"

"I saved the life of an Indian girl," interrupted Lawrence, gently, and gazing wistfully in the colonel's angry face, as if he saw a distant landscape of marvellous beauty through it, "the daughter of a great chief, and a descendant of the Incas."

"A descendant of the Hottentots, sir!" exclaimed the colonel, becoming furious, for he now thought the young man was attempting to jest; "the fact that my daughter—my daughter, sir, was persuaded to assume that useless and ridiculous disguise, and the fact that you rendered her assistance when so disguised, gives you no right to—to insult her in public, and—and—I have heard, sir, from Manuela herself, that—"

"Manuela!" interrupted the victim, in a soft, unbelieving voice, and with an eager, wistful look at the exquisite landscape again,—"is it possible?"

"Sir, you're a fool!" shouted the old soldier, unable to contain himself. "Pedro told me much about you, but he did not say you were a fool!"

"Impossible! I knew it must be a dream," murmured Lawrence, as if to himself, "I was never called a fool before. No gentleman would have done it—least of all an English gentleman."

This shot, although not aimed, hit the mark fairly.

"Forgive me, senhor," said the colonel, modifying his tone, though evidently still much annoyed, "but your manners and language are so strange that, really—"

He stopped, as a new light broke upon him.

"Surely," he said, "you cannot have been in ignorance all this time that Manuela is my daughter?"

"Tell me," cried Lawrence, suddenly shaking off the dream of unbelief, advancing a step, and gazing so intensely into the colonel's eyes that the man of war made a quick, involuntary, motion with his right hand towards his sword,—"Tell me, Colonel Marchbanks—is Manuela, who, I thought, was an Inca princess, really your daughter!"

"I know nothing about the Inca princesses, senhor," replied the old man, sternly, but with a perplexed air; "all I know is that the disguised girl with whom you have been unfortunately travelling of late is my daughter, and, although your ignorance of the fact accounts in some degree—"

He got no further, for Lawrence gave a full, free, shout of joy, such as he had not vented since he was a schoolboy, raised himself to his full height, and threw up his arms, clearing off a very constellation of crystal gimcracks from a chandelier in the mighty stretch, and exclaimed—

"I'll have her: I'll have her! Yes, in spite of all—"

The door opened at that moment and he stood transfixed, for there was Spotted Tiger—glaring horribly, and obviously charged with important tidings.

"Come in," cried the colonel in Spanish.

"Come out," cried the savage in some other language, which Lawrence did not understand, but which the colonel evidently did, for he clapped on his hat, and, without a word of explanation, hurried with Tiger out of the room, leaving Lawrence to solitary meditation.

The other conversation that we have referred to was held in the garden of the hotel, under a thick overhanging tree, between Pedro and the lovely lady who had been the cause of Lawrence's little affair with the colonel.

"What have you done with her, Pedro?" asked the lovely lady.

"Taken her to the villa, where she will be well cared for."

"But why so quickly? Why not wait for me?" The voice was in very truth that of Manuela, though the countenance was that of a Spanish senhorina!

"Because time is precious. We have received news which calls for speedy action, and I must be in close attendance on your father, Manuela. As I am likely to have quarter of an hour to spare while he holds a palaver with Tiger, I have sought you out to ask an explanation, for I'm eager to know how and where my darling was found. I can wait as well as most men, but—"

"Yes, yes, I know," said Manuela, drawing her mantilla a little more closely over her now fair face. "You shall hear. Listen. You know that my father loves you?"

Pedro smiled assent, and nodded.

"His is a loving and loveable nature," resumed our heroine.

("So is his daughter's," thought Pedro, but he did not say so.)

"And he never forgets a friend," continued Manuela. "He has often, often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was stolen so long ago—ten years now, is it not?"

"Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I beheld her angel face—no, not last, thank God."

"Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita, we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk.

"As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly cried out. I looked up in surprise, and never before saw such an expression of eager inquiry on his face.

"'Manuela!' he said, in a low, tremulous voice, 'if Mariquita is alive I see her now. I see our friend Pedro in every line of her pretty face.'

"I looked, but could not see the likeness. You know how differently people seem to be affected by the same face. I failed to see in the sweet countenance framed in curling fair hair, and in the slight girlish figure of surpassing grace, my swarthy friend Pedro. She seemed startled at first by my father's abrupt manner. He questioned her. What was her name—'Mariquita,' she said. 'I was sure of it,' rejoined my father. 'Your surname, my girl?'

"'Arnold, senhor,' she replied, with surprise.

"My dear father is very impulsive. His hopes sank as fast as they had risen. 'Of course,' he said afterwards, 'Mariquita is a common name, and should not have raised my expectations so quickly, but the likeness, you see, staggered me.'

"Dear father!" continued Manuela, casting down her eyes, and speaking in a pensive tone, "I do love him so, because of his little imperfections. They set off his good points to so much greater advantage. I should not like to have a perfect father. Would you, Pedro?"

She raised her eyes to the guide's face with an arch look—and those eyes had become wonderfully lustrous since the skin had lost its brown hue.

"Really, Manuela," returned the impatient guide, "I have not yet considered what degree of perfection I should like in my father—but how about—"

"Forgive me, yes—Mariquita. Well, finding that we were going to the house where she dwelt, Mariquita walked with us, and told us that she had lived with our English friends, Mr and Mrs Daulton, since she was a little child. Did she remember her parents? we asked. Yes, she remembered them perfectly, and tried to describe them, but we could make nothing of that for evidently she thought them handsomer, grander, and more beautiful than any other people in the world. She did not remember where they dwelt—except that it was in the woods and among mountains.

"'That corresponds exactly,' cried my father, becoming excited. 'Forgive me, child; I am an eccentric old fellow, but—did you quit your home amid fire and smoke and yells—'

"My father was stopped at this point by our arrival at the house, and the appearance of our friends. But he was too much roused by that time to let the matter drop, so he carried Mrs Daulton off to the library, and learned from her that the child had been lent to her by a priest!

"'Lent, my dear madam?' said my father.

"'Yes, lent. The priest laughed when he presented her, but said the child was the orphan daughter of a distant relation of his who had left her to his care. He did not want her, or know what to do with her, and offered to give her to us. My husband said he could not accept such a gift, but he would gladly accept her as a loan! We both disbelieved the priest, for he was a bad man; but, as we were much in want of a companion for our own little girl at the time, we accepted her, and brought her here. The priest died suddenly, and as there was no one else to claim her, we have kept her ever since, and right glad we are to have her.'

"'You won't have her long,' said my sweet father, in his usual blunt and pleasant way. 'I am convinced that I know her father. Of course Arnold is a name you gave her?' 'No; when she came to us she said her name was Mariquita, but she knew of no other name. It was the priest who told, us her surname was Arnold.'

"Well, Pedro, to bring my story to an end, my father told the Daultons all about you, and got them to lend Mariquita to us. That was two years ago. Since then she has dwelt with us as my very dear sister. My father knew you were in Peru at the time, and his purpose was to wait till you should return, and present Mariquita unexpectedly to you to see if you would recognise each other. Therefore he did not mention her when he wrote asking you so urgently to return here. Neither did he mention his suspicions to Mariquita herself. We just led her to understand that we found her company so pleasant that we wished her to remain with us for a long visit. Then came news of the illness of a dear relation of mine in Chili. I was sent by my father to see and nurse her. At parting he told me if I should by any chance meet with you, I was on no account to speak or even hint at this matter. Little did either of us think at the time that I was destined to make so long a journey under your care. And you know, Senhor Pedro, that I am not bad at keeping secrets. I not only obeyed my father in this matter, but I faithfully obeyed yourself when you imposed on me the necessity of keeping my disguise secret from Senhor Armstrong."

"You did, Manuela, faithfully."

"And it was very hard to do, let me assure you, as well as needless," returned Manuela, in a slightly hurt tone. "Over and over again I have been on the point of betraying myself. Why did you require me to maintain such secrecy, and afflict myself with such constant care and watchfulness?"

"Because I knew full well," replied Pedro, with a twinkle in his eye, "that if poor Senhor Armstrong knew your true character, he would infallibly fall in love with you in spite of your brown skin."

"And pray, senhor, why should you object to Senhor Armstrong, or any one else, falling in love with me in spite of my brown skin?"

"You know very well, Manuela, that, your father being my friend, it is my duty in all circumstances to be faithful to him. You are also aware that your father entertains a strong objection to very young men, who have no money or prospects, presuming to think of marriage with his daughter, and that he would never consent to your being engaged to Senhor Armstrong in present circumstances. It was my simple duty, therefore, when I saw the danger, to warn and protect you. Indeed I saw, almost the first day after we met the youth, that I had made a great mistake in asking him to join us; but it was too late then to change, so I imposed secrecy on you, and admit that you have acted your part well; but my well-meant efforts have been utterly in vain."

"How so!"

"Why, because the poor wretch has fallen hopelessly in love with you in spite of your disguise—ay, and in spite of his own efforts to the contrary, for I have watched him carefully, and regard him as an uncommonly fine specimen of an amiable, self-denying, and honourable man. And now, as I had feared, your father is furious at his presuming even to think of you, though I have done my best to show him that he has acted nobly all through our journey; that, after all, he may not really care for you at all, and that at all events you have given him no encouragement whatever, and do not care a straw for him."

Manuela flushed deeply at the last words, and there was the slightest possible contraction of her fine eyebrows as she replied, somewhat loftily—

"Senhor Pedro, you are a kind friend and a faithful guide, but you pretend to a greater knowledge of these matters than you possess. You do not understand my beloved father as well as I do, and you are totally ignorant of the state of my feelings. However, I believe you have done all for the best, and my earnest request now is that, having discharged what you conceive to be your duty on this point, you will say and do nothing more."

"Your will would be law in this matter, even if I were not under such a deep debt of gratitude to you," returned Pedro, "and it is all the more easy to obey you now that I have handed you over to your father and am no longer responsible. Are you aware that we start immediately in pursuit of the Indians who have attacked and murdered the poor people of Rolland's Ranch?"

"Yes, my father has told me all about it."

"Has he told you that you and Mariquita are to accompany the force so far on the road, and that when we get beyond the disturbed district I am to carry you on with a small party to Buenos Ayres, while the main body pursues the savages?"

"Yes, he told me that too," replied Manuela; "but," she added, with a little hesitation, "he did not say who was to go with our small detachment."

The slightest possible twinkle in Pedro's eye indicated suppressed feeling as he replied that he also was ignorant on that point—the only things which he was quite sure of being, that Senhor Armstrong and Quashy were to go with the main body.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the maiden in surprise. "I had thought Senhor Armstrong objected to fighting."

Pedro laughed. "So he does, senhorina; but when the rescue of captive women and children is in the case, he holds fighting to be a duty, as you are aware. But I must go now," continued Pedro, becoming grave and earnest as he took the girl's hand. "Words can never express my feelings towards you and your father, dear Manuela. Indeed I have never been in the habit of saying much—least of all when I have felt much. Mariquita and I will bless you both to the latest hour of our lives. Adieu. We meet in the morning at the house in which you are staying— Lawrence has named it the house with the rustic porch—and we start from there. You are all ready, I suppose?"

"Yes. You know I have little luggage to look after," said Manuela, with a laugh, "and I shall continue to travel as an Indian girl—as an Inca princess!"

"Indeed. Why so?"

"That, Senhor Pedro, is a matter with which you have nothing whatever to do!"



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

COLONEL MARCHBANKS PROVES TO BE NOT SO GOOD A GENERAL AS HE GETS CREDIT FOR, AND LAWRENCE STANDS SELF-CONVICTED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What ails you, Quash?"

"I can't abide peepil," growled the negro, "what says 'aw!'"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Aw's agwine wid us."

"What—the sportsman—eh?"

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

"That's true, Quash, but the same may be said of ourselves."

"Not so, massa, 'cause we nebber said it would be 'dooced good fun.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If you get shook much worse than that," cried Lawrence, "I'll have to stop to pick you up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lawrence gladly accepted the invitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bother Manuela!" he exclaimed aloud, starting up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Manuela!" he exclaimed.

"Si, senhor," she replied.

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

"Is it—can it be—a dream?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wheeled about violently and strode away, fuming.

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

TREATS OF SAVAGES, CAPTIVES, CHASES, ACCIDENTS, INCIDENTS, AND PERPLEXITIES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With something like a guilty feeling Lawrence rode forward.

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

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

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

Lawrence made no reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's wrong, Quash?" was his first inquiry.

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

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

"I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell."

"How—what—where are the troops?"

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

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

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

"'Smy opinion, massa, dat we's lost a'ready."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It 'pears to me you's right, massa."

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

"Or de nort'," suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone.

"Come, there's nothing for it but to push on," cried Lawrence, galloping away.

"Das so. Nuffin else," said Quashy, following.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Look, massa. Suffin movin' dar."

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

LAWRENCE AND HIS MAN FALL IN WITH STRANGERS, HEAR GOOD NEWS, AND EXPERIENCE ROUGH USAGE.

"Lost on the Pampas!" thought Lawrence, on awaking next morning. It was romantic, no doubt, but—well, he did not follow up the "but" with very definite conceptions.

As he lifted his eyes towards the horizon, where the rays of the rising sun were suffusing the sky with a tinge of rosy light, his first feelings partook of gratitude for a night of unbroken rest, which had restored a bounding sensation of physical life and strength and energy. Awaking in such a condition of mind and body leads one, contradictory though it may seem, to spend the first few minutes of reviving consciousness in restful contemplation and enjoyment of one's surroundings. Raising himself on one elbow, our hero let his eyes wander dreamily over the vast plain. There was much monotony about it, no doubt, but the majesty of illimitable space neutralised that impression. On the horizon the intensifying tone of the rapidly increasing light harmonised with the varying greens and yellows of the herbage. Here and there one or two uplands in the far distance caught the sheen of day and relieved the prospect with streaks of varied hue. Still nearer a few clumps of low shrubbery increased this diversity a little. In the middle-distance the varied colours and forms of the grasses became distinct enough to invest the scene with character, while in the immediate foreground additional force and interest were given to the landscape by the person of Quashy lying flat on his back, with his great eyes closed and his huge mouth open.

The state of dreamy contemplation did not last long. The stern realities of the situation seemed to rush in upon his mind with sudden power. Lost! lost! The captives perhaps still unrescued from the savages! Manuela in danger! It was a dreadful state of things.

"Come, Quashy!" cried Lawrence, leaping up and giving the negro a rough shake that brought him instantly to a sitting and blinking condition. "Get up. We must be off. Saddle the horses—the hor—why, where are the horses?"

He finished the sentence in tones of anxiety, for no horses were visible.

Bounding into the patch of bushes, on the edge of which they had passed the night, Lawrence ran through it hastily, followed by his man, who had shaken off lethargy in a moment.

The patch was small. Moreover, the shrubs were barely tall enough to conceal a horse. In five minutes it became quite certain that the horses were not there.

From the highest point of the rising ground they had a clear view of the plains all round, but after the keenest scrutiny not a speck resembling a horse was to be seen. The searchers looked at each other in dismay.

"Lost! and our horses gone!" said Lawrence, in a voice which excess of alarm had reduced to a sort of low, hoarse whisper.

"Most awrful!" murmured Quashy.

Lawrence cleared his throat and paused, while his sympathetic servant gazed.

"Now, Quashy," he said, "it seems to me quite impossible that our animals could have strayed in a few hours quite out of such an enormous circle of vision. They must be somewhere about, though we can't see them."

"Yes, massa, dey must be somewhar, as you say."

"Well, then, it follows that they must be concealed in one of the few clumps of bushes that lie around us. So we must search these instantly, for our only hope lies in finding the horses."

"Das so, massa."

Even our negro's elastic spirit seemed to be subdued to some extent by the prospect before them; for, apart from the fact that the bushy islets in the grassy sea were scarcely high enough to entirely conceal so large an object as a horse, they were scattered about at such immense distances from each other that a complete search of them implied toilsome labour for at least the whole of that day. Lawrence felt, however, that it had to be done, and arranged that his man should search towards the east, while he should take the west. To prevent the risk of their losing the mound on which they stood, one of their ponchos was thrown over the top of the highest bush and fixed there as a signal. So eager were they to begin, that both started off without a thought of breakfast.

It is not necessary to follow the steps of each. In regard to Lawrence, it may suffice to say that he wandered during the whole of that sultry day over the boundless plain, wearily but persistently examining the few bush-islets that lay to the west of their bivouac without finding a trace of the lost steeds. As the sun began to decline towards the east he gave up in despair, and, with weary limbs and something like wolfish hunger, returned towards the rendezvous.

Very different had been the experience of his sable servant.

Starting off, as we have said, at the same time with his master, Quashy found the two horses, after a two hours' search, quietly grazing in a grassy hollow. A low shrub-covered mound lying close to this hollow intervened between it and the spot where our adventurers had spent the night, thus effectually concealing the lost steeds from view.

The instant Quashy made the discovery he ran to the nearest elevation on the plain with the intention of shouting the news to his master, but by that time Lawrence was two or three miles away on the other side of the bivouac, quite beyond the range of sight and hearing.

Quashy, therefore, ran back to the hollow with the intention of catching the horses, mounting his own, and driving the other before him to the camp.

And now began that interesting but somewhat exhausting and heart-breaking process which may be styled coquetting with a free horse.

Full of glad enthusiasm, the negro ran towards his own steed, holding out his right hand, and exclaiming, "Come along, Ole Scrubby."

He had named the horse Ole Scrubby owing to some sort of facetious perversity of his own temperament, for the horse, instead of being "ole," was quite young, and, far from being scrubby, it was a remarkably fine animal.

"Come now, Ole Scrubby," repeated the man, "we's got no time to waste. D'ee hear?"

Evidently it heard, for, after allowing its master to advance within three feet of it, and even putting out its nose to smell his black hand, it gave a snort, turned round, tossed up its heels, and trotted away. Stopping short suddenly it turned again and looked at its master with a high head, as if to say, "There! what think you of that?"

"You ole scoundril," growled the negro, with an injured look, "di'n't I say we's got no time to waste? eh! Come, now. Das enuff o' your fun."

He had again approached to within three feet or so, and again the playful steed had protruded its nose and even touched his hand, but before that hand could grasp the halter, tail and heels were in the air, and away it went a second time.

Indignation, intensified to the uttermost, sat on Quashy's countenance. "Scrubs," he said, solemnly—modifying the name a little, as he became more serious—"you nebber doo'd dat before! Come, sar, you 'bey orders, an' stan' still."

But the horse refused to obey orders, and declined to stand still. His master began to lose temper—if we may so speak of one who only became a little less amiable than usual. Under the influence of the condition, however, whatever it was, he became unjust, and began to call his horse names.

"What! you not 'bey orders? you ole screw—you unnat'ral villin—you obs'nit lump o' hoss-flesh! Stan' still, I say!"

Need we say that the horse refused to stand still?

Again, and again, and over again, the negro tried to lay hands on the animal, and as often did he fail. Quashy, however, was not to be easily beaten. His was a resolute and persevering nature; but the misfortune on that occasion was that he had to do with a creature possessed of greater resolution and perseverance than himself. He spent hours over the effort. He coaxed the horse. He wheedled it. He remonstrated with and reproved it. He tried the effect of the most endearing entreaties, and assurances of personal esteem. Losing—no, becoming less amiable, he flew round to the other extreme, and accused it of ingratitude, indefensible even in an ass. Then he sought to bribe it with offers of free forgiveness. After that he tried to frighten it with threats of the most painful and every way horrible consequences; but whatever effect all these varied influences might have had upon the horse's mind, the one unvarying effect on its body was to send its tail and heels towards the sky, while it neighed joyously and trotted around. Poor Quashy went up to it smilingly—after that, frowningly; he cringed towards it; he advanced straightforwardly; he sidled slily; he ran at it; he rushed at it; he bounced at it; he yelled at it; he groaned at it; he perspired after it; he went nearly mad over it, and, finally, he sat down before it, and glared in deadly silence in its innocent face!

Then the unfortunate man, having spent a very considerable part of the day thus, bethought him of trying to catch the other horse, but with it he was also unsuccessful—indeed, the failure was even more emphatic, for Lawrence's steed refused to let him come within even hopeful distance of it.

At last, in the profoundest state of despair to which he was ever known to have sunk, he returned to camp. Lawrence had got there before him, saw him coming, and advanced to meet him.

"Well, Quashy, I have failed," he said, with a sigh.

"So's I," returned Quashy, with a growl.

"This losing of our horses," remarked Lawrence, "is the worst that could have befallen us."

"No, massa," said the negro, with more of sulkiness—or less of amiability—than he had exhibited since they first met on the western side of the Andes, "breakin' our legs would be wuss—smashin' our necks would be wusser still. But de hosses is not lost. Dey's on'y spunkerblued."

"How? What d'you mean?"

"Dey's down dar," returned the negro, pointing with his finger, "down in dat holler—spunkerblued."

"Not killed, I hope," asked Lawrence, anxiously.

"Oh no, massa, on'y spunkerblued—stuffed to de muzzle wid deir own self-will."

Lawrence received this explanation with a light laugh. "Come," he said, quickly, "lead the way, Quash, and I'll show you how to get them out of the spunkerblues."

Comforted and reassured by his master's hearty tone and manner, the negro led the way to the spot where he had spent such a busy day.

Now, we do not know whether we have made it obvious to the reader that Lawrence Armstrong's kindliness of nature embraced not only the human race but the whole animal kingdom. At all events it is true that wherever he came in contact with the lower animals he managed by some species of fascination to gain their affections. The mode of fascination began, no doubt, with their stomachs, but this does not alter the fact. Among other creatures Lawrence had gained the affections of Quashy's steed, and also of Manuela's and Pedro's horses, as well as his own, by means of sugar. With this simple appliance he went into the hollow, and held out his hand.

"Come, Ole Scrubby," he cried, using Quashy's words.

With a cheerful neigh the rebellious one trotted up, received the sugar, and suffered himself to be led once more into servitude.

"Even among the brutes, Quash," he remarked, as he patted the nose of his own steed, "we are meant to 'overcome evil with good.' Come, we must spend another night here, for it is too late to start off now; besides, I am tired out, and starving."

"Massa," returned Quashy, as they mounted, "I's done up to dat extent, an' so hungry, I could sleep on prickly pears, an' heat my wittles raw."

In this condition of body and mind they galloped back to camp, and took particular care that the horses should not again stray.

Next morning, after breakfasting on the remains of their food, they mounted, and, taking the sun as their guide, headed away eastward at full gallop.

Silently and steadily for two hours or more they swept along over the Pampas waves, turning aside only a little once or twice to avoid ground that had been riddled and rendered unsafe by the biscachos.

As noon approached Quashy gave a shout, and pointed to the horizon ahead of them, where living objects of some kind were seen moving along.

"Ostriches," said Lawrence.

"Dey's a noo kind ob ostriches wid four legs," returned the negro, "an' wid peepil on deir backs."

"I believe you are right. A party of mounted men, apparently. Come, this is well. Whoever they are we shall at least be able to gather some information from them, and, at the worst, we can follow them to some inhabited spot."

"True, massa, an' if dey's rubbers we kin fight dem."

On drawing near they found that the riders belonged to a family of Gauchos. There were six of them—all fine-looking fellows, clad in the graceful, though ragged costume of the Pampas. One of their number was a little boy of about five years of age, who rode his horse with all the elegance and ease of a Spanish grandee, though only about the size of a large monkey.

They turned out to be honest and friendly men, who said that they were returning home after assisting in a successful chase after Indians.

Had they been assisted by troops in the chase, Lawrence asked, eagerly.

Yes, they had—troops under a tall, white-haired colonel, and the captives had been rescued, the savages scattered, and the soldiers had gone off in the direction of Buenos Ayres.

"So, Quashy, they've managed the job without our assistance," said Lawrence, on hearing this. "Now we must spur after the troops as hard as our steeds can go."

On this being stated to the leading Gaucho he shook his head, and advised the senhor to go to their hut for the night. It was only a little way out of the line of march; there the travellers could feed and rest well, and start refreshed in the morning. Besides, a storm was coming on which would prevent all travelling for some hours.

As he spoke he pointed to a part of the sky which had become dark with clouds, and, without further remark, galloped away, followed by his companions. Lawrence deemed it wise in the circumstances to accept the invitation.

The day had been very sultry, and if our travellers had not been ignorant of the signs of the Pampas they might have known that the day was heavy with the presage of storm.

Before the Gaucho home, to which they were hastening, appeared on the horizon, the whole sky had become overclouded and vivid forked lightning began to play. From the way in which the Gauchos spurred and the horses trembled it was clear that they feared being caught in the storm; and little wonder, for both men and beasts are filled with alarm when overtaken on the unsheltered Pampas by one of these terrific tempests. The blast, sweeping unchecked over hundreds of miles of wilderness, often acquires a force that drives all before it. Sometimes great herds of cattle have been driven bellowing before the gale, tumbling over each other in wild confusion till some swollen river has checked their flight and ended their career.

Race, and spur, and shout as they might, however, the storm was too quick for them on this occasion. The wind seemed to rush down upon them with evil intent and fury, changing the temperature from sultry heat to sudden and bitter cold. Dust, too, was stirred up, and swept along so thickly that the day became as dark as night. Then the rain burst upon them like a waterspout, and, mingling with the flying dust overhead, came down in the form of mud, mixed with flying sticks and stones, and grass, and prickly thistle-heads.

So fierce was the hurly-burly that it seemed as if man and horse must perish under it. Thunder also cracked and roared in terrific peals, while ever and anon the lightning flashed like gleaming steel through the darkness.

In the midst of this elemental war the party reached the Gaucho huts. What they were like Lawrence could not tell. He had galloped like the rest wildly along, with his face buried in his poncho, and saw nothing— save once or twice, when, raising his head slightly and opening one eye, he saw, or fancied he saw, the Gauchos, like dark phantoms, flying before him, and Quashy at his side, bending flat on his horse's neck. The stout negro seemed to care nothing for his body so long as his face was safe, for he had let his poncho go, and as it was fastened only at the neck, it flapped wildly above his head.

Presently they passed through an opening in what seemed a mud wall. Then they stopped so suddenly that Lawrence almost went over his steed's head, while his man effectually did so, and, throwing a complete somersault, alighted by good fortune on his feet.

They all tumbled promiscuously into a mud hut, and then, clearing their eyes, found that the Gaucho-leader and a woman, apparently his wife, were smiling welcome beside them; that the short-lived storm was already passing away, after having done its worst, and that they were drenched to the skin as well as covered with mud and thistle-heads from top to toe.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

BEGINS WITH GAUCHO HOMES AND DOMESTIC CONCERNS; CONTINUES WITH TWO FIGHTS, AND ENDS WITH A FRIEND AND A "PUZZLER."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Returning to the hut, they observed that the Gauchos were exceedingly busy round their corral, or enclosure for cattle.

"What can they be about?" said Lawrence, as they drew near.

"Killin' pigs, I t'ink."

"I think not; there seems too much excitement for that."

There certainly was a considerable noise of piggish voices, and the Gauchos were galloping about in an unaccountable manner, but, as is usually the case, a little investigation explained the seemingly unaccountable. The men were engaged in driving some cattle into the enclosure, and as these were more than half wild and self-willed, the process entailed much energy of limb and noise. As to the porcine yells, the whole of the almost superhuman skirling arose from one little pig, which the ebony cupid before mentioned had lassoed by the hind leg.

Gaucho children—after being delivered from the cradle before described, and after passing through the crawling period of infancy and attaining to the dignity of the stagger—begin to copy their seniors. With lassos and bolas made of twine, they practise on little birds, or on the dogs and fowls of home. Our ebony cupid, though not indeed a Gaucho, but a negro infant, partook of the Gaucho spirit, and, although little more than four years of age, had succeeded in catching his first pig. Violence seemed to have reached a white heat in the heart of that little pig! Besides giving vent to intensified shrieking, it dragged its captor along, in a state of blazing triumph, until it overturned him, snapped the twine, and got away.

But cupid was not to be balked of his prey. With a staggering rush to where several horses were standing ready bridled, he caught hold of the tail of a meek-looking animal, and scrambled by means of that appendage on to its back. Seizing the bridle, he uttered a wild though tiny shout, and dashed away after the fugitive.

Whether he recaptured it or not Lawrence never found out, for at that moment a subject of greater interest claimed his attention.

Besides the hut in which they had spent the night, there were several other huts near the corral, and Lawrence now perceived that the place was a sort of hamlet, surrounded by a small ditch by way of defence. While our hero was glancing round him he observed that Quashy stopped suddenly, and gazed at something in front of him as if transfixed with a surprise which threw quite into the shade all his previous expressions of astonishment, and convinced his master that he had not yet fathomed half the depth of meaning that could be thrown into that sable countenance. Quashy bent slightly forward, extended his arms, spread out his ten fingers, opened his mouth, and tried to speak.

"S-S-Soo—!" he began, and gasped.

"S-Soo—Sooz'n!" he shouted.

Yes, there she stood, in the doorway of a hut, as black as life, and with a glare of joyful surprise that was only surpassed by that of her admirer.

A moment later they recovered. They rushed into each other's arms, and their lips met.

Pistols and carbines! what a smack it was!

In his joy Quashy lifted Susan fairly off her feet and danced with her until he was exhausted, then he set her down and danced round her.

Susan had recovered her composure by that time. Whether Quashy's mode of treatment is characteristic of negroes of the Pampas we do not pretend to say, but the girl stood there with a modestly pleased expression of face, while Quashy continued to dance round her.

Susan's modesty and blackness were alike set off by her costume, which consisted of a short white frock, while her simple adornments were a pair of gold ear-rings and a necklace of red coral.

Alas for the fleeting nature of human joys! While Quashy was thus evincing his delight at the unexpected recovery of his betrothed, a wild shouting was heard, and several horsemen were seen flying over the plains towards the huts at a speed and with an action that betokened them the bearers of important news. They proved to be men of the village who had encountered a large band of Indians on their way to attack the place.

Instantly all the men of the hamlet, amounting perhaps to about fifty, prepared for defence, placing the women and children in the huts for safety. Of course Lawrence and his man would have volunteered their services even if self-defence had not required that line of conduct.

We have said that the hamlet was surrounded by a shallow ditch. This was backed by a hedge of prickly pears. Behind the hedge the men dispersed themselves, armed with several rusty flint-lock guns, some old swords, a few Indian spears, and other less warlike weapons.

Lawrence and Quashy took up a position at the entrance to the little fortress, the opening of which was blocked by cactus-bushes. Their host of the previous night stood beside them. Light though such defences seemed, they were more effective than might have been supposed, for Indian horses as a rule will not leap even a shallow ditch, and cannot be made to burst through prickly pears, though, doubtless, there may be some exceptions.

The defenders had not long to wait. Their preparations were barely completed when horsemen were descried on the horizon, and in a very brief space of time a band of above a hundred naked savages came thundering down on them, uttering terrific screams or yells, and brandishing long spears. They rode straight towards the opening in the defences.

The chief Gaucho was evidently a man of courage, for although he knew well that capture meant death—perhaps with torture—he stood firm without blanching, his eyes fixed sternly on the approaching foe, and his strong hands grasping the stock of a rusty old musket, the very look of which might have caused anxiety to its handler.

"Now Quash," whispered Lawrence, "don't fire till I do—and keep cool."

"Yes, massa. I's cool as a lump o' hice."

The savage who led the assailants was a tall, powerful fellow on a splendid horse. When within about sixty yards of the defences he levelled his spear and made a tremendous rush as if resolved to bear down all obstacles. The Gaucho chief—if we may so style him—presented his musket and pulled the trigger. It missed fire!

"I'll try him with shot first," remarked Lawrence to Quashy, presenting his double-barrelled gun.

At the distance of fifty yards or so the shot, when it entered the savage leader, was well scattered, so that horse and man were peppered all over. The latter dropped his lance and almost fell off, while the former, getting on its hind-legs, executed a pirouette which brought its tail to the rear and sent it charging wildly back upon its friends. The second in command, receiving the other barrel, at even shorter range, went through the same performance with greater impetuosity. At the same moment the old musket was prevailed on to go off, and Quashy delivered four pistol-shots in quick succession, with the result that several men and horses were wounded, and the entire body of Indians turned and fled in a state of frenzied surprise.

They soon pulled up, however, and held a momentary consultation out of range. Then, being bold fellows, they charged again, but this time in two bands, one of which attacked the place in rear.

As before, the band which attacked the front was vigorously repelled, but in rear the defenders were less successful. How it was managed Lawrence never found out, but he had barely succeeded in driving off the foe in front, and was congratulating Quashy on his coolness, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by yelling savages.

The Gaucho chief made a desperate fight towards his own hut, which he gained and entered in safety. Lawrence and Quashy tried to follow, but were too much pressed by numbers. Back to back they fought, and Quashy used his sword with such agility and vigour that in a few seconds he sent several Indians bleeding to the rear. Lawrence, despising the weapons of civilised warfare, held his now empty gun in his left hand, using it as a sort of shield, and brandished his favourite cudgel with such effect that he quickly strewed the ground around him with crown-cracked men. Unfortunately a stone struck him on the temple, and he fell. Thus left unsupported, Quashy, after slicing the nose half off a too ardent savage, was struck from behind, and also fell.

When our hero recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground, afflicted with a strange inability to move hand or foot, and conscious, chiefly, of a splitting headache. Presently a voice beside him whispered—

"Is you bery bad, massa?"

Lawrence turned his head with great difficulty and beheld his faithful follower lying like himself on the ground, firmly bound to a stout spar or pole. His own inability to move was at once explained, for he soon perceived that he was in the same bound condition.

"D'you know what has happened, Quashy?"

"Ho yes, massa. De reptiles has took de place, an' tied you an' me to sticks. What for I don' know, but I s'pose dey means to skin us alive, or roast us, p'r'aps, to 'muse deir women an' child'n."

"More likely that they hope to have us ransomed," returned Lawrence, with a shudder.

"What's ramsumd, massa?"

"Try to get our friends to give them money for us. Have they killed many of the men—or got hold of the women and children?" asked Lawrence, anxiously.

"Yes, dey's kill a few ob de men, but not many, for some hab got into de huts, an' some into de corral, an' dey'll fight to de last. De savages am holdin' a palaver jist now—see, dey's agwine to begin again. Screw your head roun' to de right an' you see."

Lawrence obeyed, and saw the savages assembled on a knoll. After driving the defenders into the huts, they had held a brief consultation, and seemed on the eve of renewing the attack. Filled with deep anxiety for the fate of the poor women and children, our hero made a desperate struggle to snap his bonds.

"No use, massa," remarked Quashy. "I's tried dat till I nearly bu'sted. Better lie still. P'r'aps dey forgit us."

Lawrence groaned. He felt so helpless, and consequently hopeless, that he almost gave way to despair.

The spot where they had been flung down after their capture was so covered with rank grass that they could not see far in any direction. What they did see, however, aroused curiosity, if it did not inspire hope, for the savages seemed suddenly to have changed their plans. They were talking excitedly together on the knoll, and pointing eagerly towards the horizon.

"Das funny, massa," remarked the negro.

"It is indeed. Perhaps they see some of their friends coming."

"Or inimies," suggested Quashy.

The latter was right. In a few minutes the Indians were seen to run down to the defences of the place. Our unfortunates lost sight of them in a few seconds, but they could hear the sound of horsemen approaching at full gallop. In a few minutes they heard shouting; then the yells, fearful cries, and imprecations of men in mortal combat. Soon after that a savage passed the place where they lay, at full speed. Then another and another. It became quickly evident that the defenders of the place were getting the worst of it. At last there was a general flight, and as the savages passed by, the new assailants appeared. It was easy to see that they were composed of all classes, a band of runaway soldiers and escaped convicts.

"Banditti!" exclaimed Lawrence, bitterly.

"Dey've got pris'ners. Look, massa."

Our poor hero looked, and his hearts nearly stood still with horror, for he saw a horseman pass whose figure was strangely like to that of Colonel Marchbanks. His arms were bound, and a villainous-looking man led his horse. Immediately after another bandit-like fellow rode past with a female form seated in front of him. Of course it could be no other than Manuela, and in the agony of the moment Lawrence was about to renew his frantic effort to burst his bonds, when a man on foot ran close past him. Recognising him at once, Lawrence shouted—

"Ignacio!"

The old hunter, for it was he, stopped abruptly, and listened.

Another shout brought him to the side of our hero.

"Good luck!" exclaimed Ignacio, heartily.

"We have been bound by the scoundrels you are chasing," cried Lawrence, quickly; "cut us free, good Ignacio."

The hunter drew his long knife and knelt with the apparent intention of releasing them, but suddenly paused.

"No—better as you are," he muttered, hurriedly, "your friends are in danger—"

"I know it," interrupted Lawrence, almost wild with anxiety and surprise; "why not, then, release us?"

"There is no time to explain," said Ignacio, quickly, almost fiercely. "Listen. I and others are secret enemies in this band of outlaws. When you are free be silent, be wise. You will need all your manhood. You must not know me—be silent—wise, but—"

The old hunter leaped up hastily, sheathed his knife and ran on, for at the moment he saw a group of the bandits running towards him. Diverging a little and hailing them, he drew them away from the spot where Lawrence and his man still lay bound.

"Das a puzzler, massa," gasped Quashy, who had been rendered almost speechless by surprise, "if de bu'stin'-power what's in my heart just now would on'y go into my muscles, I'd snap dem ropes like Samson."

As the bursting-power referred to declined to go into the muscles of either master or man, they were fain to lie still with as much patience as they could assume, and await the course of events.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

IN WHICH OLD FRIENDS AND ENEMIES TURN UP IN QUITE A SURPRISING MANNER, AND QUASHY'S JOY OVERFLOWS.

They had not to wait long. A few minutes later and old Ignacio returned with several men, one of whom, from his manner and bearing, appeared to be a chief among the outlaws.

"Who are you, and who bound you?" asked this chief, with a stern look.

Answering in his best Spanish, Lawrence explained how he fell into the hands of the savages.

The chief did not speak for a few seconds, but looked inquiringly at Ignacio.

"It won't do to make more prisoners, you know," said the old hunter, replying to the look; "we have too many on our hands as it is. The troops are already on our track, and you may be sure they won't lose time. Besides, these men are unknown, and won't fetch a ransom."

"What would you advise, then?"

"Cut their throats," suggested Ignacio, coolly.

"You old fool!" returned the outlaw, "what good would that do? Isn't it clear that these men are the enemies of the savages, and we want such to join us."

"Ay," returned Ignacio, "but they may be friends of the troops, and you don't want such to join us."

"There's truth in that, old man. Well, we'll just let them lie. They're safe enough, as they are, not to do either good or evil. As you say, it is of no use burdening ourselves with prisoners who won't fetch a ransom. The colonel and his women will fetch a good price, but these—nothing. I suppose that is why Cruz has ordered Conrad to be shot before we leave the place."

"Why, I thought," said Ignacio, with a look of surprise, "that Conrad of the Mountains was an outlaw like yourselves."

"Not he. He's a spy, and he'll meet a spy's doom, if he has not met it already."

"Come—I'll go and see this Conrad," said Ignacio, "I should like to see a spy get his deserts."

He turned quickly and hurried away, followed by the outlaw.

"Most awrful!" groaned Quashy, when they were gone.

"Awful indeed, to think that Manuela and her father are in the hands of such villains!" returned Lawrence.

"An' Sooz'n," said Quashy, with a deeper groan.

"But, massa, what's come ober de ole hunter? He not in arnest, ob course."

"Of course not," replied Lawrence, "that is our one ray of hope now. He is only acting a part. He will assuredly help us, and means us to help him, but he takes a strange way to do it."

He ceased to speak, for at that moment a man was seen approaching. He moved about like one who was searching for something. At last he caught sight of the bound men, and ran towards them, drawing his knife as he did so. For one instant a feeling of horror shot through the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, but next moment they were relieved, for they recognised in the approaching man the features of their old acquaintance of the Andes, the robber Antonio.