"I come to pay my debt," he said, going down on one knee, and severing the cords which bound Lawrence, who heartily showered on him all the Spanish terms for thanks and gratitude that he could recall. Of course Quashy was also set free, and was equally profuse in his grateful expressions, but Antonio cut them both short.

"Come, we must be quick," he said, and hurried away.

As they crossed the spot where the recent fight with the Indians had taken place, Quashy picked up one of the spears which lay on the ground, and Lawrence, to his great satisfaction, discovered his favourite cudgel lying where he had been knocked down. He picked it up, almost affectionately, and hurried on.

Antonio was in evident haste. Leading them through the hamlet, he went towards the corral, where, it could be seen, a party of the bandits were standing as if in wait. Suddenly they heard a noise behind them, and observed a party of men with muskets on their shoulders surrounding a prisoner. Antonio drew his companions into the shelter of a bush till they should pass.

"It is Conrad of the Mountains," he whispered, while a fierce expression lighted up his eyes. "They go to shoot him. He must not die!"

As what seemed to be the firing-party advanced, followed by a straggling group of ruffians, Lawrence looked with profound interest and pity towards one of whom he had heard so much. The prisoner's head hung down as he approached the bush, but on passing it he looked up. The sight of his face sent a shock of surprise and consternation to the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, for the doomed man was no other than their friend Pedro!

Lawrence turned quickly to Antonio. "Conrad?" he asked, pointing to Pedro.

"Si, senhor," replied the outlaw.

When the procession had passed, Lawrence stepped from behind the bush, and quietly joined it without being recognised by Pedro. He had not at that moment the most remote idea of what he intended to do; but one feeling was powerfully dominant in his breast—namely, that Pedro must be saved at all hazards. Of course Quashy and Antonio followed him.

The sudden appearance of the two strangers did not cause much surprise among the band who followed the prisoner, for, besides their being in the company of one whom they knew, the men who had been gathered together by Cruz on this occasion were not all known to each other. What they knew for certain was, that the country was up in arms because of some political convulsion, and that Cruz was a great leader, who knew how to make the most of such circumstances for the benefit of himself and his followers.

In a state of feverish anxiety, but with a calm outward appearance, Lawrence marched on, quite incapable of forming any plan of rescue, but not incapable of prayer, or of forming a resolve to do something, though he should die in the attempt. On reaching the corral, he saw Cruz, and recognised him at once. The bandit chief was obviously in haste, for he at once ordered Conrad—or, as we still prefer to call him, Pedro—to be placed with his back against the corral, and the firing-party to draw up in front of him at about twenty yards distance.

Pedro offered no resistance while being led towards the mud wall of the corral. There was neither bravado nor fear in his bearing. Evidently he had made up his mind to die like a Christian, and had given up all hope of deliverance from the foes by whom he was surrounded. But friends were near whom he little dreamed of.

Having up to that point kept his eyes on the ground, he had not observed Lawrence; and the first intimation he had of his presence was on hearing his voice as he stepped forward, placed his tall and stalwart frame in front of him, and said sternly to the firing-party—

"Villains! you will have to send your bullets through my breast before they harm Conrad!"

"Yes, an' troo dis buzzum too," cried Quashy, planting himself in front of Lawrence, and glaring defiance in his own peculiar and powerful manner.

"What! two more enemies?" exclaimed Cruz, with a look of pleased surprise and triumph; "seize them, men; but no,—stay, we can as easily kill the three birds at one shot. Ready!"

The firing-party cocked and raised their guns, but were suddenly arrested by seeing the wall of the enclosure behind Pedro lined, as if by magic, with human heads, all of which carefully levelled an equal number of muskets. At the same moment Antonio, Ignacio, Spotted Tiger, Colonel Marchbanks, and the sporting Englishman sprang to the front, and the old hunter, cutting Pedro's bonds, put a musket into his hands.

"Traitor!" exclaimed Cruz, grinding his teeth with passion, as he scowled at Antonio.

"Fool! do you not know," retorted Antonio, contemptuously, "that traitors are the offspring of tyrants? I acknowledge you as father in this respect. But I am not here to bandy words. Colonel Marchbanks will speak."

"Yes, Cruz," said the old colonel, stepping a pace to the front, "I will speak, and that to the purpose. You see those men?" (pointing to the heads looking over the corral wall)—"ten of the best shots among them have their weapons pointed at your heart. If a single musket is fired by your blackguards, you know what the result will be."

Bold as Cruz undoubtedly was, this speech of the colonel had an obviously quieting effect on him, as well as on his followers, who, however, being numerous, and not wanting in courage, stood ready to obey orders.

"Now, I will tell you in few words what I have got to say," continued the colonel, addressing Cruz. "When you locked the villagers here in their own huts, you forgot, or did not know, that, being a tyrant as well as a scoundrel, you had enemies among your own followers. These have not only set us, your prisoners, free, but have done the same good turn to the villagers, who have been persuaded to join us against you. And now, as our numbers are pretty equal, we give you the option of going away quietly wherever you please, or, if you prefer it, having a fair fight. I may add that if I were backed by my troops, instead of these villagers, I would not give you this option; but as I have no official right to command these men, I now make you the proposal either to retire quietly or fight."

"Aw—just so," said the sporting Englishman. "And let me add, as a sort of—aw—freelance that I and my friend here hope sincerely that you will choose to fight."

"You's a brick!" exclaimed Quashy, with emphasis, regarding the sportsman for the first time with favour.

Cruz hesitated. He was swayed by a burning thirst for vengeance and a prudent regard for his personal safety. By way of hastening his decision, Colonel Marchbanks added—

"It may be well to remind you that when you unfortunately succeeded in decoying me and my friends into your snares, and captured us, you did not leave my troops without officers. The gentleman now in command will not lose time in following us up, and he is aided by Gauchos who could trace you out though you were to hide your rascally head in the darkest retreats of the Andes. So, you'd better be off at once, or come on."

"Aw—yes. If I might advise—come on!" suggested the sportsman.

"Das so. Come on!" urged Quashy.

But Cruz refused their well-meant advice. Regarding discretion as the better part of valour, and resolving, no doubt, to "fight another day," he elected to "be off." Collecting his men in sulky silence, he speedily rode away.

"Sorry he's so chicken-hearted," said the sportsman, forgetting even to "aw" in his disappointment.

"You ought rather to be glad of it," remarked Lawrence; "you forget that there are women and children behind us, and that our defeat would have ensured their destruction."

"Oh no!" replied the Englishman, who had recovered his quiet nonchalance, "I did not forget the women and children—dear creatures!— but I confess that the idea of our defeat had not occurred to me."

Colonel Marchbanks did not give his opinion at the time, but his air and expression suggested that, fire-eater though he was, he by no means regretted the turn events had taken.

Holding out his hand to Lawrence, in a condescending manner, he thanked him for the service he had just rendered.

"You have quite a talent for turning up unexpectedly in the nick of time," he added, with a peculiar smile, as he turned and walked off towards the huts, around which the men who had sided with Antonio were by that time assembling. Among them Lawrence, to his ineffable joy, found Manuela and Mariquita. He was too wise, however, in the presence of the colonel to take any demonstrative notice of her. He merely shook hands with both ladies, and congratulated them on their escape from the banditti.

"You have rendered us good service, senhor," said Mariquita, with a brilliant smile—a smile that was indeed more brilliant than there seemed any occasion for.

"I—I have been very fortunate," stammered Lawrence, glancing at Manuela.

But that princess of the Incas, with an aspect of imperturbable gravity, kept her pretty eyes on the ground, though the brown of her little cheeks seemed to deepen a trifle in colour.

"Now, Antonio," cried the colonel, coming forward at the moment, "what do you intend to do? If my men were here, you know, I should be under the necessity of making you and your fellows prisoners, notwithstanding your good services to-day. As it is, those of us who stick together must be off without delay eastward. I suppose you will rather take to the mountains."

"Indeed no, Colonel Marchbanks. I am willing to give myself up and to take service under you if that may be allowed. And if you will take my advice, comrades," added Antonio, turning to his companions, "you'll do the same, for depend on it no good can come of our late style of life."

Antonio's comrades did not feel disposed to take his advice. Indeed they had only rebelled against their late captain because of his tyrannical nature, but were by no means desirous of changing their mode of life. Seeing this, the colonel accepted Antonio's offer and gave his comrades a few words of serious warning and advice, mingled with thanks for the service they had rendered him, after which the two parties separated and went on their respective ways, leaving the Gauchos to fortify their village more carefully, and get into a better state of readiness to resist the attacks alike of outlaws and Indians.

Before leaving, however, Quashy had a noteworthy interview with Susan. It occurred at the time that Antonio and his men were holding the above conversation with the colonel.

The negro lovers were affectionately seated on a horse-skull in one of the huts, regardless of all the world but themselves.

"Sooz'n, my lub," said Quashy, "I's agwine to carry you off wid me."

"Quashy, my b'lubbed, I expecs you is," replied Susan, simply, passing her black fingers through her lover's very curly locks.

"O Sooz'n, how I lubs you! I know'd I'd find you. I always said it. I always t'ought it, an' now I's dood it."

"Das so," returned Susan, with a bashfully pleased look. "I always know'd it too. I says, if it's poss'ble for me to be found in dis worl', Quashy's de man to found me."

"'Zactly so!" said the gratified negro. "Now, Sooz'n, tell me. Is you free to go 'way wid me?"

"Yes. I's kite free. I's bin kotched by rubbers an' rescued by Gauchos, an' stole by Injins, an' I's runned away an' found myself here, an' dey's bin good to me here, but dey don't seem to want me much—so I's kite free—but I's awrful heaby!"

"What's dat got to do wid it?" inquired the lover, tying a knot of perplexity on his eyebrows.

"Why, you an' me's too heaby for one hoss, you know, an' you said you hab on'y one."

"Das true," returned Quashy, entangling the knot with another.

"Well, nebber mind," said Susan, with a little nod of assurance. "I's put it all right. I'll stole one."

"Sooz'n!" exclaimed her lover, with inexpressible solemnity, "you'll do nuffin ob de sort. I b'longs to a good man now, so I knows better dan dat. You mus' nebber steal no more—nebber. But I'll get massa to buy you a hoss. Das what I'll do."

Quashy had scarcely given utterance to his intentions, when a shout from Lawrence summoned him. The party under Colonel Marchbanks was about to start on their journey eastward.

The negro soon informed his master of his difficulty. As he had anticipated, it was removed at once. Horse-flesh is cheap on the Pampas. A lady's wardrobe—especially a black lady's—does not take long to pack in those regions. In less than half an hour a passable steed was purchased from the Gauchos, and Susan mounted thereon. Her little all, in a bundle, was strapped to her true-lover's saddle, and she fell into the cavalcade, which soon afterwards left the village and rode out upon the illimitable plains.

It was not a large band, but it was composed of rare and strong materials. Our friend Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—alias the Rover of the Andes—of course took the lead. Colonel Marchbanks, Manuela, and the fair Mariquita followed. Antonio, Spotted Tiger, the sportsman and his friend came next, and Lawrence with Quashy and Sooz'n brought up the rear.

In this order they set off at full gallop over the roadless plains, diverging a little here and there as the nature of the ground required, but otherwise steering a straight line in the direction of the rising sun.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

DESCRIBES SEVERAL INTERESTING AND SOMEWHAT VIOLENT PROCEEDINGS.

Over the flowering plains! Oh, there is something soul-stirring in a free, furious, prolonged gallop, where obstructions are few, where the land is almost level, and Nature reigns unfettered by the influence of man! No fences, no ditches, no ploughed lands, no enclosed estates, nothing to check even for a moment the grand onward sweep through illimitable space save the capacity of endurance in steed and rider.

Of course it has its drawbacks, but we will not pause to meditate on these. Life has its drawbacks everywhere, and if we were to attempt an enumeration of them our tale would become unreasonably long, and also somewhat unprofitable.

Perhaps it adds to the zest of life the fact that many of its incidents are of such a nature that we find it difficult to say whether they are drawbacks or advantages. For instance, the jovial garrulity of Quashy was a drawback at times. At other times it was a decided advantage, and his friends and companions held such interchangeable opinions on the point that they could not readily have expressed them if called on to do so at a moment's notice.

A runaway tendency in a horse is considered by most people a disadvantage. Yet there are some people whose nerves and spirits are so constituted that they have a sneaking fondness for a horse of this disposition.

Strange though it may seem, Manuela belonged to this class. It is said that men whose characters form a contrast are more likely to draw towards each other than those whose characters are similar. May the same principle not operate between man and the lower animals? Was it not the gentleness, tenderness, womanliness, softness of Manuela which caused her to dote upon and delight in her steed, though it was a huge, high stepping, arch-necked, rearing, plunging animal—something between an Irish hunter and a Mexican warhorse?

The steed in question had been purchased for her by her father from the Gauchos, who assured him that the animal was a remarkably good one to go. They told the simple truth, but not the whole truth, for sometimes it would "go" with its hind-legs doing double service in the way of kicking, and, at other times, it balanced that feat by giving its fore-legs a prodigious flourish while in the act of rearing. To do the creature justice, however, it could and did go ahead of its companions on the journey, and retained that position without fatigue, as was evinced by the flashing eye, distended nostril, pawing and snorting with which it received every proposal to halt.

Being a splendid rider, Manuela managed this spanking charger with infinite grace and ease, all the more that it happened to have a tender mouth, and only succeeded in getting beyond her control when it chanced to get the bit between its teeth. At first her father and the others were alarmed, and offered to change her steed for another; but she refused to change, and when they saw how fearlessly she rode, they became reconciled—all except Lawrence.

"It is the fearlessness of innocence combined with ignorance," he muttered to himself one afternoon, as Manuela's horse, without apparent provocation, presented first its tail and then its nose to the sky. The Inca princess patted the playful creature approvingly, and induced it to adopt a bounding, indiarubber-like pace. In a few minutes this was reduced to a springy walk.

Lawrence could not resist the temptation to ride forward and offer his own horse, although Colonel Marchbanks rode alongside of his daughter like an inflexible guardian.

"You will find my horse much easier to manage, Miss Marchbanks," he said, "and quite as strong and fleet as your own."

The colonel frowned, and his daughter said, "No, t'ank you, senhor," with a little bow and a brilliant smile.

It was one of Manuela's little fancies to revert sometimes to the broken English peculiar to her colour and costume. This was not at all relished by Lawrence. It seemed to argue a want of earnestness, which was not at all in harmony with the tremendous depth of his love for her! He drew rein immediately and fell behind, but at that moment Manuela's horse put its foot in a biscacho-hole and stumbled. Evidently it had received a violent surprise, for, after having a second time presented its tail and nose alternately to the skies, it gave vent to an indignant snort, performed what seemed to be a pirouette on one leg, took the bit in its teeth, and bolted.

Of course the colonel put spurs to his steed, and gave chase. Instantly Lawrence did the same. As a consequence Quashy followed, and, not wishing to be left behind, the whole cavalcade went after them at full speed. The thunder of numerous hoofs acted as a sharp spur to the wild runaway. At once it became a fair race, in which each gradually took his place according to ability. The course was clear—from the Andes to the Atlantic, almost, and horses and riders were fresh!

In a remarkably short time the party straggled, and the line extended. Soon it became evident that the colonel, Lawrence, Pedro, and Quashy were the best mounted of the troop, for these four drew far ahead of all the others; yet the runaway kept its advantage, despite the utmost efforts of Manuela's fair little arms to check it. Gradually Pedro and the colonel were left behind. Despite the utmost application of voice and spur, Quashy also dropped to the rear, and the race lay at last between our hero and the Inca princess!

Mile after mile was passed as they flew like the wind over the rolling plains, scarcely impeded at all by the Pampas grass, which was not long at that season, but at last they came to a ridge on which there was a line of low bushes. By that time, by dint of hard spurring, Lawrence had managed to get up almost alongside of the girl, whose look of gleeful excitement was now changed to one of wild anxiety.

"Try to pull just a little harder!" cried Lawrence, "your horse won't be able to jump it."

Manuela tried, but she had already put forth all her strength, and if that had been twice what it was, the effect on the powerful creature would probably have been just the same.

As the danger drew nearer, Lawrence made desperate efforts to increase his speed. He was so far successful that when they finally came to the line of bushes, the horses were almost abreast of each other. Horses of the Pampas are not usually jumpers, but Manuela's horse must have had a touch of the hunter in him, for he rose to the leap, and went up like a rocket. Lawrence, on the other hand, went crashing through the obstruction like the shot of an eighty-ton gun! The leap evidently took more time than the crash, which was fortunate, for it enabled Lawrence to get well alongside at the moment the fore-feet of Manuela's horse touched the ground, and just as the poor girl herself, unused to leaping, fairly lost her balance as well as her presence of mind and fell backward half fainting. She would have fallen to the ground if Lawrence had not caught her round the waist, and dragged her to the pommel of his own saddle. It was one of those cases of rescue which men are apt—perhaps justifiably so—to style providential, for no planning or judgment or energy on the part of Lawrence could have arranged that Manuela should have been at the apex of her leap when her powers failed, so that she should fall from that height, as it were, almost into his arms!

A few bounds more and they were safe. As if it had understood this, and felt that further effort was needless, the runaway steed stopped abruptly, and, after looking round in unreasonable surprise, began quietly to crop the herbage at its feet.

One by one the rest of the party came up, full of congratulations.

"You dood dat well, massa," said Quashy, who was the first to arrive, grinning all over; "and dat was a bu'ster," he added, surveying the gap in the bush through which Lawrence had crashed.

"Please set me down before the others come up!" whispered Manuela, who, having, as we have said, half fainted, had allowed her head to fall on her rescuer's shoulder.

Lawrence wished that circumstances might have admitted of his continuing the journey as they were then situated, but propriety required him to say—

"Here, Quash,—lend a hand."

The negro vaulted to the ground, and received Manuela into his arms just as Pedro and the colonel galloped up.

"Thank you, Senhor Armstrong, thank you heartily," said the latter, as he dismounted, and, sitting down on a mound, drew his child to his side.

"I'm not hurt, not a bit," sighed Manuela, with a slight attempt at a smile.

"Thank God for that, but you are shaken a little," returned the old soldier with an anxious look. "Here Pedro, Quashy, fetch me the flask from my saddle."

By the time a cup of the flask's contents was administered to Manuela, Mariquita and Susan were kneeling beside her, and the rest were standing round.

"A splendid leap!—aw—couldn't have been much better done if—aw—it had been an English hunter," remarked the sportsman in an undertone to his friend. "But, I say, don't it strike you that the colonel is uncommonly—aw—sweet on that little Indian girl."

"She's no more an Indian girl than you are," replied his friend, with a laugh.

"Aw—you don't say so?" returned the sportsman, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.

"Let us go," said Manuela, rising; "I am much better, only a little shaken by such a leap. But—but I should like another—"

"Yes, to be sure, another horse," interrupted the colonel; "who will exchange?—a quiet one, of course."

"Here you is, kurnel," said Quashy, with a beaming countenance, as he led forward his horse. "Quiet as a lamb, 'cept when you aggrawates him. Nebber goes no faster dan you wants him to,—sometimes not so fast! an' wouldn't run away even if you was to ax him on your knees."

"After such recommendation," said the colonel, turning to Manuela, "I suppose you will accept of this steed."

The Inca princess accepted it with a beam of gratitude to Quashy, who thereupon mounted the runaway horse, and in a few minutes the whole cavalcade was sweeping over the plain as swiftly as ever.

Afternoon brought them to a solitary Gaucho hut. They came first upon the corral rather suddenly, for it was concealed in a hollow. It was an enclosure of strong rough posts stuck into the ground, on many of which were perched a number of gorged vultures and hawks.

The ground around it was covered with bones, bullocks' horns, wool, carcasses of horses, and other refuse, which induced the travellers to keep carefully to windward of it. On a slight rising ground, close at hand, stood the mud hut of the family to which it belonged.

Although living in a state little short of savagery, this family, being descended from one of the best old families of Spain—at least, so they believed—maintained much of the dignity, good manners, and ceremony that characterised the old Spaniards. It comprised several generations, of whom a great-great-grandfather, blind, deaf, and benignant, formed the head, and a baby, fat, wide awake, and uproarious, formed the tail. Between these there was a band of men, women, girls, and boys, whom we will not even attempt to describe, further than to say that they were all black-eyed, sunburnt, and more or less pretty and handsome.

The travellers rode up to the door of the mud mansion, and, according to Pampas etiquette, awaited permission to dismount. This was quickly given with much urbanity by a handsome middle-aged man, who was the active head of the household.

The intention of Colonel Marchbanks was to take a hasty meal here, and push on as far as possible before night. Finding that the Gauchos were engaged at that time in breaking in some young horses, he ordered his party to off-saddle, and went with Pedro, Lawrence, and some others towards the corral while food was being prepared.

Quashy—ever mindful of the welfare of others, and ever thoughtful in regard to what he esteemed the most important things of life—hung behind to advise a daughter of the house to prepare a specially tender fowl for Susan, Manuela, and Mariquita. He even remained a few minutes to receive from the damsel a lesson in cookery.

This daughter of the Pampas whispered something to a very small brother beside her, who was remarkable chiefly for the size of his gorgeous eyes and the scantiness of his costume. With ready obedience the urchin unhooked a miniature lasso from the wall, and lassoed a large hen. How the brother and sister executed that hen was not obvious.

It was, however, quickly and effectively done between them. Then the sister took the bird to a pot of water, which chanced to be boiling at the time, and put it therein, feathers and all. To civilised people this might have seemed rather a savage process, but it was not so. The object was merely to simplify the plucking. After scalding, the feathers came off with wonderful facility, and also stuck to the girl's wet hands with equally wonderful tenacity. Washing her hands, she next cut off the wings and legs of the fowl, and then separated the breast from the back. These portions she put into a small pot with some suet and water, and threw the rest away.

"Das bery good," remarked Quashy, nodding his head in approval, after which he advised the girl to treat another fowl or two in a similar manner, and then followed his master to the corral.

Here a very animated scene was being enacted. Half a dozen young horses were about to be mounted for the first time and broken in. What modern horse-trainers of the tender school would have said to the process we cannot tell. Having had no experience in such matters, one way or another, we hazard no opinion. We merely state the facts of the case.

The father of the family, mounted on a strong and steady horse, commenced the business by riding into the corral, and throwing his lasso over the head of a young horse, which he dragged forcibly to the gate. Every step of the process was forcible. There was nothing equivalent to solicitation or inducement from beginning to end. Opposition, dogged and dire, was assumed as a matter of course, and was met by compulsion more dogged and more dire!

At the gate of the corral the end of the lasso was received by the eldest son of the family, a tall, strapping, and exceedingly handsome youth, of about twenty-three, who had been named Pizarro,—no doubt after the conqueror of Peru. He certainly resembled his namesake in courage, vigour, and perseverance, if in nothing else. The young horse displayed great unwillingness at first to quit its companions,—shaking its magnificent mane, and flourishing its voluminous tail in wild disdain as it was dragged out.

But the moment it found itself outside the corral, its first idea was to gallop away. A jerk of the lasso checked him effectually. Another member of the household then deftly threw his lasso in such a manner that the prancing steed put its feet in it, and was caught just above the fetlocks. With a powerful twitch of this second lasso its legs were pulled from under it, and it fell with tremendous violence on its side. Before it could rise the young Gaucho forced its head to the ground and held it there, then drew his long knife, and therewith, in a few seconds, cut off its mane. Another Gaucho performed the same operation on the hair of its tail—both acts being done, as they explained, to indicate that the horse had been once mounted.

Meanwhile Pizarro quickly put a strong hide halter on the animal's head, and a piece of hide in his mouth to serve as a bit. He also girthed a saddle on him, and, when all was ready, ordered the men who held him to let go. At the same moment he sprang into the saddle and held on.

Holding on was the point on which Pizarro had to concentrate all his attention and power during the next few minutes, for the way in which that outraged and intensely fierce creature strove to unseat him is alike beyond the power of description and conception. Jumping, plunging, kicking, rearing, bounding, and pirouetting are all sufficiently expressive terms in their way, but they are mild words with which to describe the proceedings of that creature of the Pampas while under the influence of temporary insanity. With ears flat on its neck, nostrils distended, and eyes emitting something almost like flames, the young horse absolutely screamed in its fury; but all was in vain. As well might it have tried to shake off its own tail as Pizarro!

Suddenly it changed its plan, and stretched out its sinewy length to its longest stride. Pizarro fell in with the idea, encouraged it with his long sharp spurs and heavy lash, and away they went over the mighty plain like a streak of personified lightning.

It is useful sometimes to let wilful people not only have their way, but compel them to continue it. John Gilpin's spirit, when he said—

"'Twas for your pleasure you came here; You shall go back for mine."

is not unknown on the Pampas and the prairie:

After sailing away over the plain, like a ship going out to sea, until it was a mere speck on the horizon, Pizarro's horse thought it time to reduce its pace; but here Pizarro did not agree with it. He applied whip and spur until his steed was quite exhausted. Then he turned homewards, and galloped back to the corral, into which he turned the animal in a very broken and humble state of mind. There it found several young friends who had just been subdued in a similar manner, and it is not altogether improbable that they spent the remainder of that evening in comparing notes!

"A roughish method, but—aw—effective," remarked the sportsman to his friend.

This was true. Perhaps Quashy's remark to Lawrence was equally true:—

"Dat dood it pritty slick, massa; but I've seed it as well dood, p'r'aps better, by kindness."

There is this, at all events, to be said in regard to the rough system, that no man but an athlete could endure the fatigue of the process, while any man—or even woman—has physical strength sufficient to conquer by love, if only he, or she, possess the requisite patience and milk of human kindness.



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

TREATS OF A GAUCHO YOUTH.

From these Gauchos Colonel Marchbanks learned that his troops had been seen searching for him by the eldest son, Pizarro, and that handsome youth professed himself willing to guide the party to the place where the soldiers were likely to be found. Without delay, therefore, they resumed their journey after supper, and that night encamped on the open plain.

While the party was busy making arrangements for the night, Pedro sauntered to the top of a neighbouring knoll to have what he styled a look round.

It was a clear moonlight night, and Lawrence, recognising the figure of the guide, followed him.

"Pedro," he said, on overtaking him, "how is it possible that Pizarro can guide us to where the troops are, seeing that it is some time since he saw them, and he did not know in what direction they meant to travel? Besides, they may have changed their intentions and their route several times."

"You forget, senhor, that troops leave a broad trail, and you do not yet, I see, fully appreciate the wonderful powers of some Gauchos in tracking out men. This Pizarro, although so young, is already celebrated in that way."

"You know him, then? Why, you seem to know everybody!"

"I know every one of note," replied the guide, "for my travels have been extensive, and my memory is pretty strong. Let me give you one or two instances of Pizarro's powers. I was in this part of the country two years ago. Having occasion to pass this way, I fell in with Pizarro, and we travelled together a short time. One forenoon we were riding over the plains, when he stopped suddenly, pointed to a footprint, and said, 'That is the little grey horse that was stolen from my father three years ago!' 'Are you sure?' said I, almost laughing at him. 'Sure!' said he, 'of course I am; moreover, I'm certain that the horse passed here not more than half an hour ago.' 'Let's follow it up, then,' said I, more in jest than earnest. But we did follow it up, and recovered the little grey horse that same evening."

"A wonderful power of observation indeed, as well as memory," said Lawrence, looking with increased interest at the young Gaucho, who could be seen, by the light of the neighbouring camp-fire, moving about in a graceful, free and easy manner, assisting in the preparation of supper.

"It was pretty well in its way," returned Pedro, "but he did a sharper thing than that last year. A gold escort was attacked somewhere in the west, and the robbers, after killing most of the men, escaped with the bags of gold. The authorities being very anxious to trace out and punish the robbers, offered a high reward for any useful information as to their whereabouts. Now it chanced that Pizarro was moving about the country at that time, and, hearing of the adventure and the reward, kept his eyes open and his wits about him a little more sharply than usual— though he does that pretty well at all times by nature. One day he saw a little child leading a mule laden with raw hides along a narrow path. This is a common enough sight, in no way calculated to attract particular attention; nevertheless it did attract the attention of Pizarro. I don't pretend to understand the workings of a Gaucho's mind. Perhaps it was the extreme smallness of the child that struck him, causing him to think that as no father or mother would risk such a little thing with the charge of a loaded mule without a special reason, it would be as well to find out what that special reason might be. Perhaps it was something else. Anyhow, suspicion being awakened, he followed the mule for a short distance, and soon observed that it stepped as if it carried a much heavier weight than a mere pack of hides. At once the stolen gold flashed into Pizarro's mind. He stopped the mule, cut the bandages off the hides, and there, concealed among them, found the stolen bags!"

"After that," said Lawrence, "I have no doubt whatever that he will soon find the troops."

"Neither have I," returned Pedro; "but Pizarro, and men like him, can do much more than I have told you. By a flight of birds they can tell of an approaching band of men before they are in sight, and by the cloud of dust they make when they appear they can form a close estimate of their numbers. When the Indian hordes are about to make a raid, Gauchos are warned of it by the ostriches and llamas and other timid beasts of the Pampas all travelling in one direction, and in many other ways that seem little short of miraculous they act the part of wilderness-detectives."

While continuing their journey next day, Lawrence resolved to have a chat with the Gaucho youth. Riding up alongside, he saluted him, and received a reply and a graceful bow that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee. He discovered ere long that the young man's mind, like his body, had been cast in a noble mould, and that, although ignorant of almost everything beyond his own wild plains, he was deeply imbued with reverence for Truth and Justice in all the relations of life. Indeed, his sense of these attributes of God was so strong that the constant violation of them by those around him roused in him occasional bursts of hot indignation, as Lawrence very soon found when he touched on a recent revolution which had taken place in the province of San Juan.

"Are the troops we search for sent out to aid the government of Mendoza?" demanded Pizarro, turning an earnest and frowning glance on his companion.

"I believe not," answered Lawrence; "at least I have not heard the colonel talk of such an object; but I am not in his confidence, and know nothing of his plans."

Pizarro made no rejoinder, and Lawrence, seeing by the continued frown that the youth's spirit was somewhat stirred, sought for further information by asking about Mendoza.

"Do you not know," said the Gaucho, with increased vehemence, and a good deal of fine action, "that the people of San Juan have deposed their governor, because he is a bad man?"

"I had not heard of it," said Lawrence, "but what has that to do with Mendoza?"

"You shall hear, senhor. The governor of San Juan is dishonest. He is bad in every way, and in league with the priests to rob the people. His insolence became so great lately that, as I have said, the people arose, asserted their rights, and deposed him. Then the government of Mendoza sent troops to reinstate the governor of San Juan; but they have not yet succeeded! What right," continued the youth, with grand indignation,—"What right has the government of Mendoza to interfere? Is not the province of San Juan as free to elect its own governor as the province of Mendoza? Have its men not brains enough to work out their own affairs?—ay, and they have arms strong enough to defend their rights, as the troops shall find when they try to force on the people a governor of whom they do not approve."

Lawrence felt at once that he was in the presence of one of those strong, untameable spirits, of which the world has all too few, whose love of truth and fair-play becomes, as it were, a master-passion, and around whom cluster not only many of the world's good men, but— unfortunately for the success of the good cause—also multitudes of the lower dregs of the world's wickedness, not because these dregs sympathise with truth and justice, but simply because truth-lovers are sometimes unavoidably arrayed against "the powers that be."

"I don't know the merits of the case to which you refer," said Lawrence, "but I have the strongest sympathy with those who fight or suffer in the cause of fair-play—for those who wish to 'do to others as they would have others do to them.' Do the people of San Luis sympathise with those of San Juan?"

"I know not, senhor, I have never been to San Luis."

As the town referred to lay at a comparatively short distance from the other, Lawrence was much surprised by this reply, but his surprise was still further increased when he found that the handsome Gaucho had never seen any of the towns in regard to which his sense of justice had been so strongly stirred!

"Where were you born, Pizarro?" he asked.

"In the hut where you found me, senhor."

"And you have never been to Mendoza or San Juan?"

"No, senhor, I have never seen a town or a village—never gone beyond the plains where we now ride."

"How old are you, Pizarro?"

"I do not know, senhor."

As the youth said this with a slightly confused look, Lawrence forbore to put any more personal questions, and confined his conversation to general topics; but he could not help wondering at this specimen of grand and apparently noble manhood, who could neither read nor write, who knew next to nothing of the great world beyond his own Pampas, and who had not even seen a collection of huts sufficiently large to merit the name of village. He could, however, admirably discern the signs of the wilderness around him, as he showed by suddenly pointing to the sky and exclaiming—

"See! there is a lion!"

"Lions have not wings, Pizarro," said Lawrence, with a smile, as he looked upward; "but I see, very high in the air, a flock of vultures."

"Just so, senhor, and you observe that they do not move, but are hovering over one spot?"

"Yes, I see that; what then?"

"A lion is there, senhor, devouring the carcass from which he has driven the vultures away."

In a short time the correctness of the youth's observation was proved by the party coming upon, and driving away, a puma which had previously disturbed the vultures at their banquet on the carcass of an unfortunate ox.

The next morning Pizarro's capacity for tracking the wilderness was proved by the party coming on the broad trail of the troops. Soon afterwards they discovered the men themselves taking their midday siesta.

Not long after that the united party came within scent of the Atlantic, and on the afternoon of the same day galloped into the town of Buenos Ayres.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

DESCRIBES SEVERAL MYSTERIOUS MEETINGS AND CONVERSATIONS.

Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously painted on his imagination by description?

For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books.

Our business at present is with Quashy and "Sooz'n."

That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street in which men and women of many nations—French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other—are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.

This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement.

"Hi!" exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, "look, look dar, Sooz'n—das funny."

He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse's back, was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.

"O Quash!" exclaimed the bride, "dar's pumpkins for you. Look!"

They were indeed notable pumpkins—so large that five of them completely filled a wagon drawn by two oxen.

"But come, Sooz'n, da'ling," said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected something, "you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan' on end. It'll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an' de curls pritty tight."

"Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you," replied the bride, "an' to ax your 'pinion. But let's go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade."

"Come along, den, Sooz'n. It's all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an' suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl."

"Git along wid your rubbish!" retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.

"Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art'," said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. "To be here a-frizzlin' in de sunshine wid Sooz'n a-smilin' at me like a black angel. D'you know, Sooz'n," he added, with a serious look, "it gibs me a good deal o' trouble to beliebe it."

"Yes, it am awrful nice," responded Susan, gravely, "but we's not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol' your tongue, an' I'll tell you what I heared."

She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—

"You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder's fortin."

"Yes, I knows dat, Sooz'n," replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.

"Well, den—"

"No, Sooz'n, it's ill den."

"Quashy!" (remonstratively.)

"Yes?" (interrogatively.)

"Hol' your tongue."

"Yes, da'ling."

"Well, den," began Susan again, with serious emphasis, "don' 'trupt me agin, or I'll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn't deceive nobody—not even a skeeter."

"I knows dat, Sooz'n, not even a nigger."

"Ob course not," continued Susan; "so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an' he says, says he, 'Kurnel, you's a beggar.'"

"No, Sooz'n, he di'n't say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don' beliebe it."

"Right, Quashy. You's allers right," returned the bride, with a beaming smile. "I made a 'stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, 'Kurnel Muchbunks,' says he, 'I's a beggar.'"

"Dat was a lie, Sooz'n," said Quashy, in some surprise.

"I's afeard it was," assented Susan, gravely.

"Well, an' what says de kurnel to dat?" asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.

"Oh! he beliebed it, an' he says, says he, 'I's griebed to hear it, Mis'r Amstrung, an' ob course you cannot 'spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin' a beggar!' O Quash, w'en I hears dat—I—bu'sted a'most! I do beliebe if I'd bin 'longside o' dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face."

"De skownril!" muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. "But what happen arter dat, Sooz'n?"

"Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an' says, says he, 'Kurnel, I's come to say farewell. I would not t'ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don' know 'zactly what dat is, but dat's what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you'll not forbid me payin' my 'dresses to your darter.' What he wants to pay her dresses for, an' why he calls dem his dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an' de kurnel he says, says he, 'No, Mis'r Amstrung, I'll not hold out no sich hope. It's time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It's bery kind ob you to sabe my darter's life, but—' an' den he says a heap more, but I cou'n't make it rightly out, I was so mad."

"When dey was partin', he says, says he, 'Mis'r Amstrung, you mus' promise me not to 'tempt to meet my darter before leaving.' I know'd, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, 'Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I'll make no 'tempt to meet wid her,' an' den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t'ink ob all dat?"

"I t'ink it am a puzzler," replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. "I's puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin' he's a beggar, an' den show dat it's a lie by offerin' to pay for de kurnel's darter's dresses. It's koorious, but white folk has sitch koorious ways dat it's not easy to understan' dem. Let's be t'ankful, Sooz'n, you an' me, that we're bof black."

"So I is, Quash, bery t'ankful, but what's to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin' good-bye to Miss Manuela?"

"Cer'nly not," cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife's face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over the place—to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the couple.

Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans.

At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of coffee in a restaurant.

"I have already told you, senhor," said Pedro, "that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me."

"True," returned Lawrence, "and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?"

"Good old Ignacio little knew," continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with an air of supreme contentment, "what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita—the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to him, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at."

"But what is this good news, Pedro?" asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro's mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid.

Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people "elevated"—by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive good-humour and universal good-will—a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.

"Now then, Bill," cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence on the back, "what'll you have?" Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, "Let's have some brary-an'-warer!"

The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, "Here's luck, Jim," and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, "Luck!" and followed the other's draining example.

"Now, I'll tell you wot it is, Jim," said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, "I wouldn't go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan' pound down."

"No more would I," responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously indignant air.

"Such dis-gusting cruelty," continued Bill. "To see two strong men stand up o' their own accord an' hammer their two noses into somethin' like plum duff, an' their two daylights into one, ain't more nor a or'nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore an' rip up a lot o' poor blinded horses, with a lot o' cowardly beggars eggin' it on, an' stickin' darts all over it, an' the place reekin' wi' blood, an' the people cheerin' like mad—why—it—it made me a'most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim."

"You're right, Bill," assented Jim, passing the bottle, "an' it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin' face turn a'most green as he got up in a hurry like an' left the place, for you know, big an' well made as he is, an' able to hold his own wi' the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he's a tee-totaller."

"Ay, a g-great fault that," said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. "I wouldn't give much for him."

"You couldn't help likin' him, though, if you'd sailed with him as I've done," returned Jim. "He's a reg'lar brick, though he don't smoke neither."

"Don't smoke?" exclaimed Bill, aghast. "Then he ain't fit for this world! Why, what does he think 'baccy was made for?"

"I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he's goin' to leave us. You see, he's only a sort of half-hand—worked his passage out, you know, an' well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein' a Cornishman, who's bin lookin' arter mines o' some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he's in great luck, havin' fallen in wi' a party as is just agoin' to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o' the Mountains."

Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter.

"Listen," said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.

"It's a queer story," continued Jim. "I heard all about it this very mornin' from himself. He'd bin givin' some on us a lot o' good advice. You see, he's a sort of edicated chap, an' got a tremendjous gift o' the gab, but none of us could take offence at 'im, for he's such a quiet, modest feller—although he is big! Well, you must know that—that— what was I sayin'?"

"P-pash th' bottle," said Bill.

"No, that's not what I was—Oh yes, I was goin' to say he'd bin givin' us good advice, 'because you must know, shipmates,' says he, 'that I've bin in good luck on shore, havin' fallen in with a most interestin' man, whose right name I don't know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he's a robber. But I don't care twopence what they say, for I've seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he's a rich one, and has bin hirin' a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin' about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.'

"You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this, an' we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an' he told us that the mine was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago, and had got an old trapper an' a boy to work it, but never made much of it till a few months back, when the old man an' the boy came suddenly on some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. In course I don't rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on. It ain't in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this Conrad'll be as rich as a nabob; an' he's got a pretty darter too, as has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time wi' the silver. I don't rightly know if they dug her up in the mine, but there she is, an' she's goin' up to the mountains too, so young Ansty will be in good company."

"Jim," said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, "I d-don' b-b'lieve a single word on't. Here, give us a light, an'—an'—pash th' borle."

Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars to their elevating occupations.

"Well, senhor," said the latter as they walked away, "you have heard it all, though not just in the way I had intended!"

"But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?"

"Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid sufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he found that a very rich lode had been found—so rich, indeed, and extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call 'a fortune' out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me the lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty to give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a little more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine. Now, my friend," added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero with a decided air, and an earnest look, "will you join me in this venture? I would not give up my life's work here for all the mines in Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days. So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?"

Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.

"I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro," he said at length, "and will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be very punctual, you will excuse my leaving you now."

"Certainly—to-morrow will do," said Pedro, "I hope to take Quashy also with me. He is a queer fellow."

"He is particularly queer just now," returned Lawrence. "I think his marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro—till to-morrow."

They shook hands heartily, and parted.

That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father's residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died.

"Dear me, Quashy," said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows, "who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?"

"I can't tell you his name, miss. I's not allowed. But it's a bad case, an' it will be awrful if he should die widout seein' you. You'd better be quick, miss, an' I'll promise to guide you safe, an' take great care ob you."

"That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I'll order my horse im—"

"De hoss am at de door a'ready, miss. I order 'im afore I come here."

Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.

A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE LAST.

We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy's deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the "sick man" miscarried.

That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features.

"Sooz'n," he said, "de white folk is past my compre'nshin altogidder, an' I ha'n't got words to tell you how t'ankful I am dat you an' me was born black."

"Das true, Quash. We's got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?"

"What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt'ing went wrong. Look here, dis was de way ob it. When me an' Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure 'nuff, an' you may b'liebe he look 'stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn't half so 'stonished as me at de way dey hoed on. What d'ee t'ink dey dooed, Sooz'n?"

"Dun know. S'pose dey run into each oder's arms, an' hab a dance round—like me an' you."

"Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn't hab bin suprised at dat at all. No, arter de fust look o' suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an' Miss Manuela looked orkerder!"

"It had bin in my mind," continued Quashy, "arter I had bring 'em togidder, to turn about, an' enter into conbersation wid my hoss—what's pritty well used to my talk by dis time—but when I see how t'ings went, I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an' saw'd."

"You wasn't innercent dat time, Quashy."

"I di'n't say I was, Sooz'n, but I cou'n't help it. Well, Massa Lawrence, who's too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss Manuela wid a leetle smile, an' holds out his hand. She shakes it quite gently-like, zif dey was on'y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob course I di'n't hear rightly all dey said—"

"Ha! wantin' to keep up a leetle innercence?"

"Jest so, Sooz'n, but I couldn't help hearin' a good deal—somet'ing like dis:—

"Says Massa Lawrence, says he, 'Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.' 'Ditto to you, sir,' says Manuela—"

"No, she didn't say dat," interrupted Susan, with decision.

"Well, no, p'r'aps not 'zactly dat, Sooz'n, but suffin wid de same meanin'. You know it i'n't possible for me to speak like dem. An' dey bof seemed to hab got deir go-to-meetin' langwidge on—all stiff an' stuck up grammar, same zif dey was at school. Well, arter de speech about de wedder, dey bof blushed—I could see dat, dough I was tryin' hard not to look,—and dey was so long silent dat I begin to t'ink ob offerin' to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob a suddent, an' went in like a good un.

"'Manuela,' says he, quite bold-like, 'I promised your fadder dat I would not make any 'tempt to meet you before leabing for de mountains, an' I hab fait'fully striben to keep dat promise. It is by mere chance, I assure you, dat I hab meet you here now, and I would not, for all de wurl' break my word to your fadder. But as chance hab t'rown you in my way, it cannot be wrong to tell you—what you knows a'ready—dat I lub you, and dat, God permittin', I will return ere long to Buenos Ayres. Farewell.'

"Wid dat he wheel round, zif he was afraid to trust hisself to say more, an' went off at full gallop."

"An' what did Miss Manuela say?" asked Susan.

"She say not'ing—not one word—on'y she smile a leetle, an' kiss her hand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre'nshin, kite. An' as we rode home she says to me, says she, 'Quashy, you's a good boy!' I bery near say to her, 'Manuela, you's a bad gurl,' but I di'n't feel kite up to dat."

"Quashy, you're a fool," said Susan, abruptly.

"Das no news," returned the amiable man, "I's said dat ob myself ober an' ober again since I's growed up. De on'y time I feel kite sure I wasn't a fool was de time I falled in lub wid you, Sooz'n."

As the negro's account of this inflecting and parting was substantially correct, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that our hero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distant valley in the Andes without again meeting the Inca princess.

He was accompanied by Pedro and his daughter, Quashy and Susan, Ignacio, the old hunter, and his boy, as well as Spotted Tiger. In addition to these there was a pretty large following—some engaged in the service of Pedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were Dick Ansty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the English sportsman with—aw—his friend.

It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over the rolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining in the Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the fact that as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, he was not less faithful to his promise to the daughter.

A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in Buenos Ayres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himself before the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one of the richest silver-mines in Peru.

Colonel Marchbanks, although a prudent man, was by no means avaricious.

"The chief bar which prevented my listening to your proposal," he said to Lawrence at their first interview, "is now removed, but I have yet to learn from my daughter's own lips that she will have you. I have carefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have no faith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a young girl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being the richest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influence me so much as the weight of a feather, if Manuela does not care for you. So, you will prepare yourself to abide as well as you can by her final decision."

"I am prepared to abide by Manuela's decision," replied Lawrence, with what may be termed a modest smile.

"'Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of your position," said the colonel, somewhat sternly. "However, you have heard all I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here in the evening."

When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water, sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery.

"That young fellow Armstrong has come back," said the old man, abruptly.

"I know it," was Manuela's brief reply. She did not look up, being too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings.

"You know it, child?"

"Yes, father."

"Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked your hand in marriage?"

"Yes, father, I know it."

"Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to—to condescend to eavesdropping?"

"No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?"

"Oh—ah—well," exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. "Now Manuela, my darling," continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, "you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you—if you are in—in short, if you admire this young fellow."

Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question—

"Is he rich, father?"

A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man's tone and look as he replied—

"Why, what has that got to do with it?"

"Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven't got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?"

"Tut, child, don't talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is—Are you fond of him?"

"Well, no, father, I can't exactly say that I—"

"I knew it! I was sure of it! The presumptuous puppy!" shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door.

"Stay, father!" said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. "I don't admire him, and I'm not fond of him," continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent's hands; "these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father—I adore him—I—"

She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth—to say nothing of his ears!

"You black baboon!" shouted the colonel, when able to speak.

"Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel," said Quashy, with a deprecatory air, "'skuse me. I's on'y habin' a stroll in de gardin an' come here kite by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an' nebber mind me. I's on'y a nigger."

Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity.

"Shake hands with him, father. He's only a nigger, as he says, but he's one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that I ever had to do with."

"You's bery good, Miss—a'most as good as Sooz'n."

"Oh, well, have it all your own way," cried the colonel, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro's hand heartily; "I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you'd better see to having covers laid for three—or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy will honour us with—"

"T'ankee, kurnel, you's bery kind, but I's got a prebious engagement."

"A previous engagement, eh?" repeated the colonel, much tickled with the excuse.

"Yes, kurnel; got to 'tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you'll allow me to stan' behind his chair an' wait, I'll be much pleased to listen to all you says, an' put in a word now an' den if you chooses."

And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of the Incas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind. Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would be almost an insult to your understanding.

But we will trouble you to mount one of the fleetest steeds of the Pampas and fly with us over the mighty plains into the wildest regions of the Andes.

Though wild, we need not tell you that it is a lovely region, for you have been there already. It is the Mariquita Valley. No longer a silent wilderness, however, as when we saw it last, for, not very long after the events which we have just described, Lawrence Armstrong and his blooming bride, accompanied by the white-haired colonel and the irrepressible Quashy, and another band of miners and selected emigrants, entered that valley in a sort of triumphal procession, and were met and escorted to the head of it by another triumphal procession, which was under the command of Conrad of the Mountains, whose pretty daughter was the first to welcome Manuela to her new home.

But now dismount. Put on these wings and soar with us to the brow of yonder cliff, from which we can have a grand bird's-eye view of the vale almost from its entrance to the point where it is lost and absorbed in the majestic recesses of the higher Andes.

See you yon cottage-like edifice, close to Pedro's old home, with the rustic porch in front, and the well-stocked garden around? That is the residence of the overseer of the silver-mine, Lawrence Armstrong, Esquire. The residence as well as the garden is well-stocked; for we have ventured to gallop with you over Time as well as Space—one result being that there are at least three descendants of the Incas, (by the mother's side), romping in the garden.

On that mound a little way on the other side of Pedro's cottage stands another building. It resembles the home of Lawrence, but with enough of difference to afford the charm of variety. It is the home of the fine young Cornish youth who worked his way across the sea as a sailor, and accompanied Pedro to the mountains. That trip effectually settled his business, and resulted in the conversion of Mariquita into Mrs Ansty. The change may not strike ordinary readers as being very romantic, but it was attended with much felicity.

In the small clump of wood just behind Pedro's cottage—where you see the lakelet or tarn glittering in the sunlight, and sending its infant waters to brawl over the neighbouring precipices and scamper down the valley—stands a group of huts. These form the homes of Ignacio, the old hunter, and Spotted Tiger with his family. Ignacio, you see,—still tough and straight, as though he had made up his mind to live and hunt for ever—has a strange power of attracting men to him, and has induced his Indian friend to forsake his old home in the low grounds and dwell with him in the mountains. Of course Spotted Tiger has brought his wife with him, and Leetle Cub, (no longer little), and all the other cubs, including poor Manca, the sick girl, who—thanks to Dr Armstrong's skill, and change of scene, and God's blessing on all—is no longer sick, but, on the contrary, robust and grateful.

Strange to say, our English sportsman is living with Ignacio just now, with several sporting friends. He has been back to England and out again since we last saw him, and goes aw-ing all over the settlement with as much nonchalance and latent vigour as ever—when not better engaged with Ignacio and Spotted Tiger, and Leetle Cub, in the mountains.

In Lawrence's garden, among the romping descendants of the Incas, (by the mother's side), may be seen four whitey-brown creatures. These are the children of Quashy and Susan. Two of them are little Quashys and two are little "Sooz'ns." They are not, of course, all named so, but Quashy says if he had "fifty little bustin' gurls he'd regard 'em all as little Sooz'ns," and Susan retorts that if she had "five hundred little bad boys she'd call 'em all Quashys." They dwell in a small hut in rear of the cottage of Massa Lawrence, for Quashy is his gardener and "Sooz'n" his washerwoman, and the little Quashys and "Sooz'ns" are playmates of the little Incas, (by the mother's side).

Antonio, the ex-bandit, is assistant gardener to the Armstrongs, and it is said that that once ferocious man has become so changed under the influence of Christian treatment, that he not only serves his master faithfully, but has even made more than one attempt to rescue an old enemy named Cruz from his evil ways. He has not yet been successful, but he is strong in faith and hope. Colonel Marchbanks, who has finally retired from the army, dwells with the Armstrongs, and has organised the miners and settlers into a local force of which he is the chief.

For the place has grown much of late in importance as well as in numbers, and in such a wild region there is need for defensive arrangements. It has other arrangements, also, of a much more important kind in which the Word of God plays the chief part, and Conrad of the Mountains lends a helping hand. That earnest rover has built a church and a schoolhouse, and, when at home, does what in him lies to advance the cause of true religion and education. But he has not ceased to wander in the mountains. True to his instincts as a reformer and lover of mankind, he visits with ceaseless activity the great and widely separated centres of population in South America, never losing sight of the great object he has set before him in the amelioration of the condition of the people.

Most people think him a mysterious madman. Some, who know him well, think him an over-sanguine enthusiast, but all agree in regarding him as a calm, gentle, amiable man, with a determination of purpose that nothing can turn aside, and with an intense desire for the welfare and advancement of the country which Mariquita the elder called her native land. Indeed it is thought by some that Pedro must have made to his wife some pledge or promise with reference to that subject, but no one can ascertain the truth of that now.

There is ground for this belief, however, for, as we sit on our perch, overlooking the valley, we see this Pedro, this Conrad of the Mountains, seated in the bower on the mound behind his dwelling, resting contemplatively at the well-loved spot, after one of his periodical returns. Mariquita the younger is beside him. They are both looking earnestly at the grave, and conversing about the time when they shall once again meet the lost one by the side of Jesus in the better land.

Till that day came, Pedro continued unflinchingly to prosecute his self-imposed task, whatever it might be. Whether or what success attended his efforts we cannot tell; yet have we reason to hope that his labour was not in vain. But of this much we are certainly sure, that, to the end of his days on earth he continued to be known as the Rover of the Andes; and when Death—at last—overtook him and arrested his benignant course, it found him advancing with trembling steps towards the old place, and closed with him, finally, as he pillowed his head on Mariquita's grave.

THE END.