THE LAST OF THE INCAS:

A ROMANCE OF THE PAMPAS.

BY

GUSTAVE AIMARD

"AUTHOR OF ADVENTURERS," "INDIAN CHIEF," "TRAIL HUNTER,"

"PIRATES OF THE PRAIRIES," "TRAPPER'S DAUGHTER," "TIGER

SLAYER," "GOLD SEEKERS," "RED TRACK," ETC.

LONDON:

CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW.

1875

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I.]

THE BOMBEROS.

Patagonia is as little known at the present day as it was when Juan Diaz de Solis and Vicente Yanez Pinzon landed there in 1508, sixteen years after the discovery of the New World.

The earliest navigators, whether involuntarily or not, threw over this country a mysterious veil, which science and frequent relations have not yet entirely removed. The celebrated Magalaës (Magellan) and his historian, the Chevalier Pigafetta, who touched at these coasts in 1520, were the first to invent these Patagonian giants so tall that Europeans scarce reached their girdle, who were upwards of nine feet high, and resembled Cyclops. These fables, like all fables, have been accepted as truths, and in the last century became the theme of a very lively dispute among learned men. Hence the name of Patagonians (great feet) was given to the inhabitants of this country, which extends from the western watershed of the Andes to the Atlantic Ocean.

Patagonia is watered, through its entire length, by the Rio Colorado in the north, and the Rio Negro in the east-south-east. These two rivers, through the windings of their course, agreeably break the uniformity of an arid, dry, sandy soil, on which prickly shrubs alone grow, or dispense life to the uninterrupted vegetation of their banks. They wind round a fertile valley overshadowed by willow trees, and trace two deep furrows through the midst of an almost level country.

The Rio Negro runs through a valley surrounded by precipitous cliffs, which the waters still wash at places; wherever they have retired, they have left alluvial soil covered with an eternal vegetation, and formed numerous islets covered with willows, and contrasting with the mournful aspect of the naked cliffs.

Monkeys, wild asses, foxes, and red wolves constantly traverse the desert in every direction, together with the cougar, or American lion, and the imbaracayas—those ferocious and formidable wild cats. The coasts are thronged with amphibious carnivora, such as sea lions and elephant seals. The guya, concealed in the marshes, utters its melancholy cry; the guacuti, or stag of the Pampas, runs lightly over the sand; while the guanaco, or American camel, sits pensively on the summit of the cliffs. The majestic condor soars amid the clouds, in the company of the disgusting cathartes. Urubús and auras which, like it, hover round the cliffs on the seaboard to dispute the remains of corpses with the voracious caracaras. Such are the plains of Patagonia, a monotonous solitude empty, horrible, and desolate!

One evening in the month of November, which the Aucas Indians call the "moon of the pruning," a traveller, mounted on a powerful horse of the Pampas of Buenos Aires, was following at a sharp trot one of the thousand paths traced by the Indians, in that inextricable labyrinth found on the banks of all American rivers. This traveller was a man of thirty years of age at the most, clothed in a semi-Indian, semi-European garb peculiar to the Gauchos. A poncho of Indian manufacture hung from his shoulders to his horse's flanks, and only left visible the long Chilian polenas that came above his knees. A lasso and bolas hung from either side of his saddle, and he carried a rifle in front of him.

His face, half concealed by the broad brim of his straw hat, had an expression of brute courage and spitefulness; his features were, so to say, modelled by hatred. His long hooked nose, surmounted by two quick threatening eyes, rather close together, gave him a distant resemblance to a bird of prey; his thin lips were contracted with an ironical air, and his prominent cheekbones suggested cunning. The Spaniard could be recognized by his olive tint. The effect of this face, surrounded as it was by long tangled black hair and a large beard, was to inspire fear and repulsion. His wide shoulders and well-knit limbs denoted far from common strength and agility in this man, who seemed above the average height.

On reaching a spot where several tracks crossed each other to form an inextricable network, the stranger stopped to look about him, and, after a moment's hesitation, turned to the right and struck a trail. Going further and further away from the banks of the Rio Colorado, which he had hitherto been following, he entered a plain, the soil of which, burned by the sun and covered with small pebbles or gravel, only offered a few stunted shrubs to the eye. The further the stranger advanced in this desert, the further solitude extended in its gloomy majesty, and the footfall of his horse alone disturbed the silence of the desert. The horseman, but slightly affected by this savage beauty of Nature, contented himself with carefully reconnoitering and counting the pozos, for in these countries utterly void of water, travellers have dug reservoirs in which the water collects during the rainy season.

After passing two of these pozos, the traveller saw in the distance horses hobbled in front of a wretched toldo. At once a shout was raised, and in less than a minute the horses were unfastened; three men leapt into the saddle, and dashed forward at full gallop to reconnoitre this man, who, careless of their movements, continued his journey without making the slightest attempt to put himself on his defence.

"Eh, compadre, whither are you bound?" one of them asked, as he barred the way for the stranger.

"Canario, Pepe," the latter answered; "have you been emptying a skin of aguardiente this evening? Do you not recognize me?"

"Why, 'tis the voice of Pedrito, if I am not mistaken."

"Unless someone has stolen my voice, my good fellow, it is I, the real Pedrito."

"Caray! You are welcome," the three men shouted.

"Deuce take me if I did not fancy you killed by one of those dogs of Aucas; ten minutes ago I was talking about it to Lopez."

"Yes," Lopez added in confirmation, "for you have disappeared for eight days."

"Eight days—yes; but I have not lost my time."

"You will tell us your exploits?"

"I should think so; but I and my horse are hungry after a two days' fast."

"That will be soon remedied," said Pepe, "for here we are."

The four friends, while conversing, had ridden on, and at this moment dismounted in front of the toldo, which they entered, after hobbling their horses and placing food before that of the newcomer. This toldo, as they are called in the country, was a cabin thirty feet long and the same in depth, covered with reeds, and formed of stakes driven into the ground, and fastened together with thongs. In one corner, four wooden and leather benches served as beds for the dwellers in this house, where it was difficult to shelter themselves against the wind and rain.

In the centre of the toldo each sat down on a large stone, in front of a fire whose dense smoke almost concealed objects. Lopez took up a piece of guanaco that was roasting, and planted the spit in the ground. The four comrades drew their long knives from their polenas, and began eating with good appetites.

These men were bomberos.

Ever since the foundation of the Spanish colonial fort of Carmen, it had been found necessary, in consequence of the vicinity of the Indians, to have scouts to watch over their movements, and give the alarm at the slightest danger. These scouts form a species of corps of the bravest men, thoroughly habituated to the privations of the Pampas. Although their services are voluntary and their profession perilous, bomberos are never wanting, for they are handsomely paid. They often go twenty or five and twenty leagues from the fort, as extreme outposts, ambushing on spots where the enemy—that is to say, the Indians—must necessarily pass. Day and night they ride across the plains, watching, listening, and hiding. Scattered during the day, they reassemble at sunset, though they rarely venture to light a fire, which would betray their presence; and they never all sleep together. Their bivouac is a flying camp, and they live on the produce of the chase. They have long been accustomed to this strange and nomadic life, and hence they acquire a fineness of perception almost equal to that of the Indians, and their practised eyes recognize the slightest trace on the lightly trodden grass or sand. Solitude has developed in them a marvellous sagacity, and a rare talent for observation.

The four bomberos collected in the toldo were the most renowned in Patagonia. These poor fellows were supping gaily while warming themselves at a good fire, a rare pleasure for men surrounded by dangers, and who hate a surprise to fear at any hour. But the bomberos did not appear to trouble themselves about anything, although aware that the Indians never give them any quarter.

The character of these men is singular: courageous to cruelty, they care not for the life of other persons or their own. If one of their comrades die, victim of an Indian or a wild beast, they content themselves with saying he has a mala suerte (ill luck). True savages, living without any affection or faith, they are a peculiar type in humanity.

These scouts were brothers, and their names were Lopez, Pepe, Juan, and Pedrito. Their home, twice plundered by the Aucas Indians, had been utterly destroyed by fire in the last invasion. Their father and mother had succumbed under atrocious torture; two of their sisters had been outraged and killed by the chiefs, and the youngest, Mercedes, a child scarce seven years of age, was carried off into slavery, and since then they had received no news of her, and were ignorant were she dead or alive.

The four brothers from this moment became bomberos, through hatred of the Indians and desire of vengeance, and had only one head and one heart. Their prodigies of courage, intelligence, and craft during the last seven years would take us too long to record, and, moreover, we shall find specimens in the course of this narrative.

So soon as Pedrito, who was the eldest, had finished his meal, Lopez put out the fire, and Juan mounted his horse to go the rounds; then the two brothers, curious about the news Pedrito brought them, drew closer to him.

"What news, brother?" Pepe asked.

"Before anything else," the eldest asked, "what have you been doing during the last week?"

"That will not take long," Lopez answered; "nothing."

"Nonsense."

"On my word it is true. The Aucas and Pehuenches are becoming absurdly timid; if this goes on, we shall have to send them petticoats like squaws."

"Oh! Set your minds at rest," Pedrito said, "they have not come to that yet."

"What do you know?" Lopez asked.

"What next?" Pedrito asked, instead of answering.

"That is all; we have seen nothing, heard nothing suspicious."

"Are you sure?"

"Hang it! Do you take us for asses?"

"No, but you are mistaken."

"What?"

"Search your memory carefully."

"No one has passed, I tell you," Pepe remarked confidently.

"No one."

"Unless you count as somebody the old Pehuenche squaw who crossed the plain this evening on a sorry horse, and asked us the road to El Carmen."

"That old squaw," Pedrito said, with a smile, "knows the road as well as I do. Canarios, your innocence amuses me."

"Our innocence!" Lopez exclaimed with a frown; "We are asses, then."

"You look very like it to me."

"Explain yourself."

"You shall understand."

"We shall be only too glad."

"May be so. The old Pehuenche squaw who crossed the plain this evening on a sorry horse, and asked you the road to El Carmen," Pedrito said, repeating Pepe's words, maliciously, "Do you know who she was?"

"Hang it all! A frightful old witch, whose face would terrify the fiend."

"Ah, you think so. Well, you are altogether wrong."

"Speak out, and do not play with us like a congonas with a mouse."

"My boy, this Pehuenche witch was—"

"Who?"

"Nocobotha!"

Nocobotha (the Hurricane) was the principal Ulmen of the Aucas. Pedrito might have gone on talking for a long time without his brothers noticing it, so greatly had the news startled them.

"Malediction!" Pepe at length shouted.

"But how do you know it?" Lopez asked.

"Do you suppose I have been amusing myself with sleeping away the last eight days, brothers? The Indians, to whom you want to send petticoats, are preparing, with the greatest secrecy, to deal you a furious blow. We must distrust silent waters and the calm that conceals a tempest. All the nations of Upper and Lower Patagonia, and even Araucania, have leagued together to attempt an invasion—massacre the whites, and destroy El Carmen. Two men have done it all—two men with whom you and I have been long acquainted—Nocobotha, and Pincheira, the chief of the Araucanos. This evening there will be a grand meeting of the delegates of the free nations, at which the day and hour for the attack will be definitely settled, and the final measures taken to insure the success of the expedition."

"¡Caray!" Pepe exclaimed, "There is not a moment to lose. One of us must go at full gallop to El Carmen to inform the governor of the danger menacing the colony."

"No, not yet; we must not be in such a hurry, but try to discover the intentions of the chiefs. The quipu has been sent round, and the chiefs who will be present at the meeting are twenty in number. You see that I am well informed."

"Where will they meet?"

"At the tree of Gualichu."

"¡Demonio! it will not be an easy thing to surprise them at such a place."

"Hang it, it is impossible," Lopez said.

"Where force fails, try cunning. Here is Juan returned. Well, have you any news?"

"All is quiet," he said, as he dismounted.

"All the better. In that case we can act," Pedrito continued. "Listen to me, brothers. I believe that you have confidence in me—"

"Oh!" the three men exclaimed.

"In that case you will follow me?"

"Anywhere."

"Quick to horse, for I too wish to be present at this Indian gathering."

"And you are going to take us—"

"To the tree of Gualichu."

The four bold comrades mounted their horses, and started at a gallop. Pedrito possessed a superiority over his brothers, which the latter recognized; nothing he did astonished them, so accustomed were they to see him perform marvels.

"Do you intend to mingle with the chiefs also?" Pepe asked.

"Yes, Pepe; instead of twenty there will be twenty-one, that is all," Pedrito added, with a careless smile.

The bomberos spurred their horses, and disappeared in the darkness.

[CHAPTER II.]

EL CARMEN.

In 1780, long after the discovery of the New World, the Spaniards founded in Patagonia a factory, situated on the left bank of the Rio Negro, about seven leagues from its mouth, and called Nuestra Señora del Carmen, and also Patagonia.

The Ulmen Negro, chief of the Puelches, encamped in the vicinity of the Rio Negro, favourably greeted the Spaniards, and in consideration of a distribution made to the Indians of a large quantity of clothing and other useful articles, sold them the course of that river from its mouth up to San Xavier. In addition to this, by the wish of the Ulmen, the natives aided the Spaniards in building the citadel, which was to serve them as a shelter, and thus assisted with their arms in producing their own serfdom.

At the period of the foundation of El Carmen the post merely consisted of a fort, built on the northern bank, at the summit of a scarped cliff, which commands the river, the southern plains and the surrounding country. It is of a square shape; it is built with strong walls of dressed stone, and flanked by three bastions, two on the river to the east and west, and the third on the plain. The interior contains the chapel, the priest's house, and the powder magazine; on the other side run spacious quarters for the commandant, treasurer, officers, garrison, and a small hospital. All these buildings, only one storey in height, are covered with tiles. The Government also possesses outside vast granaries, a baking house, a mill, two blacksmiths' and carpenters' shops, and two estancias, or farms, stocked with horses and cattle.

At the present day, the fort is nearly in ruins; the walls, for want of repairs, are everywhere decaying, but the dwelling houses are still in good condition.

El Carmen is divided into three groups, two on the north, and one on the south side of the river. Of the two former, one, the old Carmen, is situated between the fort and the Rio Negro, on the slope of the cliff, and consists of some forty houses of varying height and style, and forming an irregular line which follows the course of the river. Around them are scattered wretched huts, and this is the staple of the trade with the Indians.

The other group on the same bank, called Población, is a few hundred paces to the east of the fort, and is separated from it by shifting sand dunes, which entirely stop the range of the guns. Población forms a vast quadrilateral, round which are about one hundred houses, mostly new, only one storey high, tile-covered, and serving as a residence for farmers, agriculturists, and pulqueros, or dealers in spirits and grocery. Between the two groups there are several houses scattered along the river bank.

The village on the south bank, which is called Población del Sur, is composed of twenty houses, standing in a line on a low soil, subject to inundations. These houses, which are poorer than those of the north side, serve as a shelter for gauchos and estancieros. A few pulqueros, attracted by the vicinity of the Indians, have also opened their stores there.

The general aspect is sad; only a few isolated trees grow on the river bank, and the streets are full of a pulverized sand, which obeys the direction of the wind. This description of a country hitherto perfectly unknown, was indispensable for a due comprehension of the incidents that are about to follow.

The day on which this story begins, at about two in the afternoon, five or six gauchos, seated in a pulquero's shop, were holding a sharp discussion while swallowing long draughts of chicha from the half-gourds which went the round. The scene is laid in Población del Sur.

"Canario," said a tall, thin fellow, who had all the appearance of a desperate ruffian, "are we not free men? If our governor, the Señor Don Antonio Valverde, insists in plundering us in this way, Pincheira is not so far off but that we may manage to come to an understanding with him. Although an Indian chief now, he is of the white race, without any mixture, and a caballero to the end of his fingers."

"Hold your tongue, Panchito," another said, "you would do better if you swallowed your words with your chicha, instead of talking such nonsense."

"I have a right to speak," said Panchito, who was moistening his throat more than the rest.

"Don't you know that invisible eyes are prowling about us, and that ears are open to pick up our words and profit by them?"

"Nonsense," said the first speaker, with a shrug of the shoulders, "you are always frightened, Corrocho. I care as much for spies as I do for an old bridle."

"Panchito!"

"What, am I not right? Why does Don Antonio wish us so much harm?"

"You are mistaken," a third gaucho interrupted with a laugh, "the governor, on the contrary, desires your comfort, and the proof is that he takes as much as he possibly can from you."

"That confounded Patito has the cleverness of the scamp he is," Panchito exclaimed, bursting into a noisy laugh. "Well, after us the end of the world!"

"In the meanwhile let us drink," said Patito.

"Yes," Panchito replied, "let us drink and drown our cares. Besides, have we not Don Torribio Carvajal to help us if necessary?"

"That's another name that ought to stick in your throat, especially here," Corrocho exclaimed, striking the table angrily with his fist, "can't you hold your tongue, accursed dog?"

Panchito frowned, and looked askant at his comrade.

"Are you trying to bully me? Canario, you are beginning to stir my blood."

"Bully you? Why not, if you deserved it?" the other answered without the slightest excitement. "Caray, for the last two hours you have been drinking like a sponge; you are as full as a butt, and you chatter like a foolish old woman. Hold your tongue, do you hear, or go to sleep."

"¡Sangre de Cristo!" Panchito yelled, as he dug his knife vigorously into the bar, "You will give me satisfaction."

"On my word, bloodletting will do you good, and my hand itches to give you a navajada on your ugly chops."

"Ugly chops, did you say?"

And Panchito rushed upon Corrocho, who waited for him with a firm foot. The other gauchos rushed between to prevent them striking.

"Peace, peace, caballeros, in Heaven's name or the fiend's," the pulquero said, "no quarrelling in my house; if you wish to have it out, the street is free."

"The pulquero is right," said Panchito; "come on, then, if you are a man."

"Willingly."

The two gauchos, followed by their comrades, dashed out into the street. As for the pulquero, standing in his doorway with his hands in his pockets, he whistled a dance tune while awaiting the combat.

Panchito and Corrocho, who had already taken off their hats, and bowed with affected politeness to each other, after rolling their poncho round the left arm, in guise of a buckler, drew their long knives from their polenas, and without exchanging a syllable, stood on guard with remarkable coolness.

In this species of duel the honour consists in touching the adversary in the face; a blow dealt below the waist passes for an act of treachery unworthy a true caballero.

The two adversaries, solidly planted on their straddled legs, with bodies bent, and head thrown back, looked at each other attentively to divine movements, parry strokes, and scar each other. The other gauchos, with husk cigarettes in their mouths, followed the duel with unconcerned eye, and applauded the more skilful. The fight continued on both sides with equal success for some minutes, when Panchito, whose sight was doubtless obstructed by copious libations, parried a second too late, and felt the point of Corrocho's knife cut the skin of his face its whole length.

"Bravo, bravo!" all the gauchos exclaimed simultaneously, "Well hit."

The combatants fell back a step, bowed to the spectators, sheathed their knives again, bowed to each other, with a species of courtesy, and, after shaking hands, re-entered the pulquería arm in arm.

The gauchos form a species of men apart, whose manners are completely unknown in Europe. Those of El Carmen, the great majority exiled for crimes, have retained their sanguinary habits and their contempt of life. Indefatigable gamblers, they have cards incessantly in their hands; and gambling is a fertile source of quarrelling, in which the knife plays the greatest part. Careless of the future and of present suffering, hardened to physical pain, they disdain death as much as life, and recoil before no danger. Well, these men, who frequently abandon their families to go and live in greater liberty amid savage hordes; who gladly and without emotion shed the blood of their fellow men; who are implacable in their hatred; are yet capable of ardent friendship, and extraordinary self-denial and devotion. Their character offers a strange medley of good and evil, of unbridled vices and of real qualities. They are, in turn, and simultaneously, quarrelsome, indolent, drunken, cruel, proud, brave to rashness, and devoted to a friend, or patron of their choice. From childhood blood flows beneath their hands in the estancias at the period of mantaza del ganado (cattle slaughtering), and they thus habituate themselves to the colour of the human purple. Lastly, their jests are as coarse as their manners; and the most delicate and frequent of them is to threaten with a knife under the most frivolous pretexts.

While the gauchos, on returning to the pulquería after the quarrel, were bedewing their reconciliation, and drowning in floods of chicha the remembrance of this little incident, a man, wrapped in a large cloak, and with his hat pulled over his eyes, entered the shop, without saying a word, went up to the bar, took an apparently indifferent glance around him, lit a cigarette at the brasero, and with a piastre he held in his hand, hit the table three sharp blows.

At this unexpected sound, which resembled a signal, the gauchos, who were talking eagerly together, were silent as if they had received an electric shock. Panchito and Corrocho started, and tried to see through the cloak that covered the stranger, while Patito turned his head away slightly to conceal a crafty smile.

The stranger threw away his half-consumed cigarette, and went out of the door as silently as he had entered it. A moment after, Panchito, who was wiping his cheek, and Corrocho, both pretending to remember some important business, quitted the pulquería. Patito glided along the wall to the door, and followed close at their heels.

"Hum!" the pulquero growled, "there are three scamps, who seem to be arranging some dog's trick, in which every man's head will not remain on his shoulders. Well, it is their business after all."

The other gauchos, completely absorbed in their game of monte, and bent over the cards, had not, so to speak, noticed the departure of their comrades. The stranger, when at some distance from the pulquería, turned round. The two gauchos were walking almost close behind him, and carelessly talking, like two loungers who were taking a walk.

Where was Patito? He had disappeared.

After making an almost imperceptible sign to the two gauchos, the stranger set out again, and followed a road which, by an insensible curve, left the waterside and gradually entered the plain. This road, after leaving Población, took a rather sharp turn, and suddenly contracted into a path, which, like the rest, appeared to be lost in the plain.

At the corner of the path a horseman, proceeding to the village, at a smart trot, passed the three men; but neither the gauchos nor the stranger, being, doubtless, busy with serious thought, remarked him. As for the rider, he gave them a rapid and piercing glance, and checked the pace of his horse, which stopped a few yards further on.

"Heaven pardon me!" he said to himself "'tis Don Torribio, or the Fiend, in flesh and bone. What can he be doing there in the company of those two bandits, who look to me exactly like imps of Satan? May I lose my name of Blas Salazar, if I won't find out, and set myself at their heels."

And he quickly dismounted. Señor Blas Salazar was a man of five-and-thirty at the most, rather above the average height, and somewhat corpulent; but, on the other hand, the squareness of his wide shoulders and his sturdy limbs indicated his muscular strength. A small gray eye, quick and sparkling with intelligence and boldness, lit up his open and frank countenance. His dress, with the exception of being a little more elegant, was that of the gauchos.

So soon as he dismounted he looked round, but there was no one to whom he could give his horse to hold; for at Carmen, especially in the Población del Sur, it is almost a miracle for two persons to meet. He stamped his foot angrily, passed the bridle over his arm, led his horse to the pulquería the gauchos had just left, and entrusted it to the landlord.

This duty performed, for the best friend of an Hispano-American is his horse, Blas retraced his footsteps with the most minute precautions, like a man who wishes to surprise and himself remain unseen. The gauchos were ahead of him, and disappeared behind a shifting sand ridge, at the moment he turned the corner in the road. Still he soon saw them again, climbing up a steep path, that led to a thick clump of trees. A few trees had grown in these dry sands by accident, or a caprice of Nature.

Sure now of finding them, Blas walked on more slowly, and in order to remove any suspicion about his object, he lit a cigarette. The gauchos, fortunately for him, did not look round once, but entered the wood after the man whom Blas had recognized as Don Torribio Carvajal. When Blas, in his turn, reached the skirt of the wood, instead of entering the wood immediately, he took a slight bend to his right, and then stooping down, began crawling on his hands and knees with the greatest caution, in order not to arouse the attention of the gauchos by any noise.

In a few minutes voices reached his ear. He then raised his head softly, and saw the three men standing together and talking eagerly in a clearing about ten paces from him. He rose, concealed himself behind a maple tree and began listening.

Don Torribio had let his cloak fall, and with his shoulder leant against a tree and with his legs crossed, he was listening with visible impatience to what Panchito was saying at this moment. Don Torribio was a man of eight-and-twenty, handsome, tall, and well-built, possessing elegance and nobility in his every movement, and the haughty attitude which is produced by a habit of commanding. Two large quick eyes lit up the oval of his face; two eyes charged, apparently, with lightning, and whose strange fascination it was almost impossible to endure. His flexible nostrils seem to expand through quick passions; a cold mockery was imbedded in the corners of his mouth, which was filled with splendid teeth and surmounted by a black moustache. His forehead was spacious, his skin bronzed by the heat of the sun, and his hair long and silky. Still, in spite of all this prodigality of Nature, his haughty and disdainful expression produced, in the end, a sort of repulsion.

Don Torribio's hands were small and encased in splendid-fitting gloves, and his high-ankled feet were covered by patent leather boots. As for his dress, which was extremely costly, it was in appearance much like that of the gauchos. His shirt collar was fastened with a diamond of enormous value, and his fine-tissued poncho was worth more than five hundred piastres.

Two years before this story, Don Torribio Carvajal arrived at Carmen a stranger to everybody, and all asked themselves, where does he come from? Whence does he get his princely fortune? Where are his estates? Don Torribio had purchased an estancia in the colony, situated some two or three leagues from Carmen, and under pretext of defending it against the Indians, had fortified it, surrounded it with moats and palisades, and mounted six guns. He had thus walled in his existence and routed curiosity. Though the gates of his estancia were never opened to any guest, he was welcomed by the first families at Carmen, whom he visited assiduously, and then to the great surprise of all, he disappeared for several months. The ladies had wasted their smiles and glances, the men their adroit questions to make Don Torribio speak. Don Antonio Valverde, to whom his post of being governor gave the right of being curious, had not failed to feel some alarm about the handsome stranger, but weary of losing his leisure in inquiries, he left the matter to time, which sooner or later rends asunder the densest veils.

Such was the man who was listening to Panchito in the brake, and all that was known about him.

"Enough!" he said passionately, interrupting the gaucho; "you are a dog, and the son of a dog."

"Señor!" said Panchito, drawing himself up.

"I am inclined to crush you, like the wretch you are."

"Threats to me!" the gaucho shouted, pale with rage, and drawing his knife.

Don Torribio clutched the fellow's wrist with his gloved hand, and twisted it so rudely, that he let the weapon fall with a cry of pain.

"On your knees, and ask pardon," the gentleman said, as he twisted Panchito to the ground.

"No; kill me sooner."

"Begone, villain; you are only a brute beast."

The gaucho rose tottering, his eyes were filled with blood, his lips were livid, and his whole body trembled. He picked up his knife, and approached Don Torribio, who waited for him with folded arms.

"Well, yes," he said; "I am a brute beast, but I love you, after all. Forgive me or kill me, but do not send me away."

"Begone!"

"Is that your last word?"

"Yes."

"To the demon, then."

And the gaucho, with a movement rapid as thought, raised his knife to stab himself.

"I forgive you," Don Torribio said, after checking Panchito's arm; "but if you wish to serve me, be dumb as a corpse."

The gaucho fell at his feet, and covered his hand with kisses, like a dog licking his master, who has chastised it. Corrocho had remained a motionless observer of the scene.

"What power does this strange man possess to be thus beloved?" muttered Blas Salazar, who was still concealed behind his tree.

[CHAPTER III.]

DON TORRIBIO CARVAJAL.

After a short silence, Don Torribio continued—

"I know that you are devoted to me, and I have perfect confidence in you; but you are a drunkard, Panchito, and drink is a bad counsellor."

"I will drink no more," the gaucho answered.

Don Torribio smiled.

"Drink, but without destroying reason. In drunkenness people utter words, as you did just now, which cannot be recalled, and are more deadly than a dagger. It is not your master who is now speaking, but the friend. Can I count on both of you?"

"Yes," the gaucho said.

"I am going away; but you must not leave the colony, but be ready for anything. Before all, carefully watch the house of Don Valentine Cardoso, both inside and out. If anything extraordinary happens to him or his daughter Doña Concha, you will immediately light two fires, one on the cliff of the Urubús, the other on that of San Xavier, and within a few hours you will hear from me. Do you promise to execute promptly and devotedly any order of mine, however extraordinary it may appear to you?"

"We swear it."

"That is well. One word in conclusion. Connect yourselves with as many gauchos as you can; try, without exciting suspicion, which always sleeps with one eye open, to collect a band of determined fellows. By the by, distrust Patito: he is a traitor."

"Must he be killed?" Corrocho asked.

"Perhaps it would be prudent, but you would have to get rid of him cleverly."

The two gauchos exchanged a side glance, but Don Torribio pretended not to see it.

"Do you want money?"

"No, master."

"No matter; take this."

He threw to Corrocho a long silk purse, through the meshes of which a great number of gold ounces glittered.

"My horse, Panchito."

The gaucho entered the wood, and almost immediately re-appeared, holding the bridle of a magnificent charger, upon whose back Don Torribio leaped.

"Farewell," he said to them; "prudence and fidelity; any indiscretion would cost your life."

And, after giving the gauchos a friendly nod, he dug his spurs into the horse's sides, and went off in the direction of Carmen, while Corrocho and Panchito went back toward Población del Sur. As soon as they had gone some distance, the bushes in a corner of the brake were shaken, and a face pale with fear peeped out. This head belonged to Patito, who, with a pistol in one hand, and a knife in the other, drew himself up, and looked around with great agitation, while muttering in a low voice—

"¡Canario! kill me cleverly. We shall see, we shall see. ¡Santa Virgen del Pilar! What demons! Well, listening is a good thing."

"It is the only way to hear," someone replied a mocking voice.

"Who's there?" Patito shouted, as he leaped on one side.

"A friend!" Blas Salazar answered, as he came from behind the maple and joined the gaucho, whose hand he shook.

"Ah, ah, capataz, you are welcome. You were listening too, then?"

"I should think so. I took advantage of the opportunity to instruct myself about Don Torribio."

"Well?"

"This caballero appears to me a precious scoundrel, but, with the aid of Heaven, we will ruin his dark schemes."

"So be it!"

"And, in the first place, what do you intend to do?"

"On my word I do not know. There's a buzzing in my ears, 'kill me cleverly.' Corrocho and Panchito are certainly the most hideous villains of the Pampa."

"¡Caramba! I have known them a long time, and at present they alarm me but slightly."

"But me?"

"Nonsense; you are not dead yet."

"I am not much better."

"What, are you afraid? You, the boldest panther hunter of my acquaintance?"

"A panther is, after all, only a panther, and you can get the better of it with a bullet; but the two fellows Don Torribio has let loose on me are demons."

"That is true; so let us proceed to the most important point. Don Valentine Cardoso, whose capataz I am, is my foster brother, that is to say, I am devoted to him body and soul. Don Torribio is forming some infernal plot against my master's family, which I wish to foil. Are you decided to lend me a hand? Two men who have only one will between them can do a great deal."

"Frankness for frankness, Don Blas," Patito answered, after a moment's reflection. "This morning I should have refused, this evening I accept, because I no longer run a risk of betraying the gauchos, my comrades. The position is changed. Kill me cleverly! By Heaven I will avenge myself. I belong to you, capataz, as my knife blade does to its hilt—yours, body and soul, on the word of a gaucho."

"Excellent," said Don Blas, "we shall be able to understand each other. Get on your horse and go and wait for me at the estancia. I shall return there after sunset, and we will draw up the plan of the countermine."

"Agreed. Where are you going?"

"To Don Valentine Cardoso."

"This evening, then?"

"This evening."

They then separated. Patito, whose horse was hidden a short distance off, galloped toward the Estancia of San Julian, of which Don Blas was the capataz, while the latter proceeded in great haste toward the Población.

Don Valentine Cardoso was one of the richest landed proprietors in Carmen, where his family had been established since the foundation of the colony. He was a man of about five and forty. As his family originally came from old Castile, he had retained the handsome type of that race, a type which was recognized in his face by the vigorously marked lines, with which was combined a certain air of proud majesty, to which the rather sad eyes imparted an expression of gentleness and kindness.

Left a widower after two too short years of marriage, Don Valentine had kept the memory of his wife locked up in his heart like a sacred relic, and he believed that it was still loving her to devote himself entirely to the education of their daughter Concepción, called more familiarly Concha or Conchita.

Don Valentine lived in the Población of old Carmen, near the fort, in one of the handsomest and largest houses of the colony.

A few hours after the events we have recorded, two persons were seated near a brasero in a drawing room of this mansion.

In this drawing room, elegantly furnished in the French style, a stranger on opening the door might have believed himself transported to the Faubourg St. Germain; there was the same luxury in the paper hangings, the same taste in the choice and arrangement of the furniture. Nothing was wanting; not even an Erard pianoforte, covered with the scores of operas sung at Paris, and, as if better to prove that glory travels a great distance, that genius has wings, the fashionable romance writers and poets filled a buhl cheffonier. Here everything recalled France and Paris, excepting the silver brasero in which the smouldering olive stones indicated Spain. Chandeliers holding pink wax candles lit up this magnificent withdrawing room.

Don Valentine Cardoso and his daughter Conchita were seated near the brasero.

Doña Concha, who was scarcely fifteen years of age, was exquisitely beautiful. The raven arch of eyebrows, traced as with a pencil, heightened the grace of her rather low and pale forehead; her large blue and thoughtful eyes, fringed with long brown lashes, contrasted harmoniously with her ebony black hair which curled round her delicate neck, and in which odoriferous jessamine flowers were expiring in delight. Short, like all true-blooded Spanish women, her waist was exquisitely small. Never had smaller feet trodden in the dance the Castilian grass plots, and never had a more dainty hand nestled in that of a lover. Her movements, careless as those of all the creoles, were undulating and full of salero as the Spaniards say.

Her dress, which was charmingly simple, consisted of a dressing gown of white cashmere, embroidered with large silk flowers in bright colours, and fastened round the hips by a cord and tassels. A Mechlin lace veil was carelessly thrown over her shoulders, while her feet were thrust into pink slippers, lined with swan's-down.

Doña Conchita was smoking a tiny husk cigarette, while talking to her father.

"Yes, father," she said, "a ship has arrived to day from Buenos Aires, with the prettiest birds in the world."

"Well, little one?"

"I fancy that my dear little father," she remarked, with an adorable pout, "is not at all gallant this evening."

"What do you know about it, young lady?" Don Valentine replied with a smile.

"No, have you really," she said, bounding with delight in her chair, and clapping her hands, "thought of—"

"Buying you some birds? You will tomorrow see your aviary stocked with parrots, Bengalis, macaws, hummingbirds, in short, about four hundred specimens, you ungrateful little chit."

"Oh, how good you are, father, and how I love you," the girl replied, throwing her arms round Don Valentine's neck, and embracing him several times.

"Enough, enough, madcap. Do you want to stifle me with your caresses?"

"What can I do to requite your kindness?"

"Poor dear, I have only you to love now."

"Say adore, my darling father; for it is adoration you feel for me. Hence, I love you with all the strength God has placed in my heart."

"And yet," Don Valentine said, with a gentle accent of reproach, "you do not fear, naughty girl, to cause me anxiety."

"I?" Concha asked, with an internal tremor.

"Yes, you, you," he said, threatening her tenderly with his finger, "you hide something from me."

"Father!"

"Come, child, a father's eyes can read the heart of a girl of fifteen, and for some days past, if I am not mistaken, I have not been the sole object of your thoughts."

"That is true," the girl replied, with a certain amount of resolution.

"And whom are you dreaming of, little maid?" Don Valentine asked, hiding his anxiety behind a smile.

"Of Don Torribio Carvajal."

"Ah," the father cried, in a choking voice "and do you love him?"

"No," she answered; "listen, father, I will conceal nothing from you. No," she continued, laying her hand on her heart, "I do not love Don Torribio, still he occupies my thoughts; why, I cannot say, but his look troubles and fascinates me, his voice causes me a feeling of undefinable pain; he is handsome, his manners are elegant and noble, he has everything belonging to a gentleman of high caste, and yet something in him, something fatal, checks me, and inspires me with invincible repugnance."

"You romantic girl."

"Laugh at me, ridicule me," she said with a tremor in her voice. "Shall I confess all to you, father?"

"Speak with confidence."

"Well, I have a presentiment that this man will be dangerous to me."

"Child," Don Valentine replied, as he kissed her forehead, "what can he do to you?"

"I do not know; but I am afraid."

"Do you wish not to remain here any longer?"

"Heaven forbid! That would be hastening on the misfortune that threatens me."

"You are losing your head, and taking pleasure in creating chimeras."

At the same moment a man servant announced Don Torribio Carvajal, who entered the room.

The young man was dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, and the candles lit up his splendid face.

Father and daughter started.

Don Torribio walked up to Doña Concha, bowed to her gracefully, and offered her a superb bouquet of exotic flowers. She thanked him with a smile, took the bouquet, and almost without looking at it, laid it on a table.

In succession were announced the governor, Don Antonio Valverde, accompanied by his whole staff, and two or three other families, or altogether some fifteen persons. By degrees the conversation grew animated.

"Well, colonel," Don Valentine asked the governor, "What news from Buenos Aires?"

"Our great Rosas," the colonel answered, who was stifling in his uniform, "has again defeated Oribe's Unitarian savages."

"Heaven be praised! Perhaps that victory will procure us a little of that tranquillity which commerce requires."

"Yes," a colonist remarked, "the communications are becoming so difficult that nothing can be sent by land."

"Can the Indians be stirring?" a merchant asked anxiously, on hearing the observation.

"Oh!" the stout commandant interrupted, "There is no danger; the last lesson they received was rude, they will remember it a long time, and not dream of invading our frontiers for many a day to come."

An almost invisible smile played round Don Torribio's lips.

"In case of an invasion, do you consider them capable of seriously troubling the colony?"

"Hum!" Don Antonio answered, "Take them altogether they are poor scrubs."

The young man smiled again in a bitter and sinister manner.

"Excellency," he said, "I am of your opinion; I believe the Indians will do well in remaining at home."

"I should think so," the commandant exclaimed.

"Señorita," Don Torribio said, turning to Doña Concha, "would it be too great a favour to ask you to sing that delicious air from the Black Domino which you sang so exquisitely the other evening?"

The young lady, without farther pressing, sat down to the pianoforte, and sang the romance from the third act in a pure voice.

"I heard that sung in Paris by Madame Damoreau, a nightingale who has flown away, and I cannot say which of you displays more grace or simplicity."

"Don Torribio," Doña Concha answered, "you lived too long in France."

"Why so, señorita."

"Because you have come back a detestable flatterer."

"Bravo!" the governor said with a hearty laugh. "You see, Don Torribio, that our creoles are equal to the Parisian ladies in quickness of repartee."

"Incontestably, colonel," the young man replied; "but leave me alone," he added with an undefinable accent, "I shall soon take my revenge."

And he gave Doña Concha a look that made her shudder.

"I trust, Don Torribio," the governor said, "that you will be present tomorrow at the Te Deum chanted in honour of our glorious Rosas?"

"Impossible, colonel; this very evening I start on a compulsory journey."

"What, another of your mysterious excursions?"

"Yes, but this one will not be long, and I shall be back soon?"

"All the better."

"¿Quién sabe?" the young man murmured in a sinister voice.

Doña Concha, who had heard the last words, was not mistress of her terror.

The visitors took leave one after the other, and Don Torribio Carvajal was at length left alone with his hosts.

"Señorita," he said on taking leave, "I am setting out on a journey in which I shall doubtless incur great dangers. May I hope that you will deign to remember the traveller in your prayers."

Concha looked at him for a moment in the face, and replied with a frankness which was natural to her:—

"Señor Caballero, I cannot pray for the success of an expedition whose object I do not know."

"Thanks for your frankness, mademoiselle," Don Torribio answered without the slightest emotion, "I shall not forget your words."

And after the customary compliments he retired.

"The capataz of San Julian, Don Blas Salazar wishes to speak with Señor Don Valentine Cardoso on important business."

"Let him come in," Don Valentine said to the servant who had announced the capataz in so lengthy a fashion. "Conchita, come and sit by my side on this sofa."

Don Torribio was extremely agitated when he left the house; he turned round and darted a viper glance at the windows of the drawing room, across which Doña Concha's light shadow flitted.

"Proud girl," he said in a hollow and terrible voice, "I shall punish you for your disdain."

Then, wrapping himself in his cloak, he went at a rapid pace to a house situated a short distance off, where he generally lived when at Carmen. He knocked twice; the gate opened and closed after him.

Twenty minutes later the gate opened again to let two horsemen pass out.

"Master, where are we going?" one asked.

"To the tree of Gualichu," the other replied; and added in a whisper, "to seek vengeance."

The two horsemen entered the darkness, and the furious gallop of their horses was soon lost in the silence of night.

[CHAPTER IV.]

THE TREE OF GUALICHU.

As a general rule, the Southern natives have a divinity, or to speak more correctly, a genius, sometimes benevolent, but more frequently maleficent, and their worship is less veneration than fear. This genius is called Achellenat Kanet by the Patagonians, Quecuba by the Aucas, and Gualichu by the Puelches. And, as the latter have more especially traversed the country in which the sacred, tree stands, they have perpetuated the name of their evil genius by giving it to the tree, to which they attribute the same power.

The belief in Gualichu dates back to the most remote antiquity on the Pampas.

This wicked god is simply a stunted tree, which, if mingled with other trees, would not have attracted attention; but which alone, and as it were lost in the immensity of the plains, serves as a beacon to the traveller wearied by a long journey across these oceans of sand. It rises to a height of thirty-five or forty feet, all twisted and prickly, and its withered trunk is rounded into a large cavity, in which men and women lay their presents in tobacco, beads, and corn. It is several centuries old, and belongs to that species of the acacia family which the Hispano-Americans designate by the name of Algarobo.

The wandering hordes of Indians, doubtless struck by the solitude of this tree in the midst of the deserts, constituted it the object of their worship. In fact, its branches are covered with various offerings, many of some value: here a poncho, there a manta; farther on woollen or cotton ribbons; while on all sides garments, more or less injured and torn by the wind, are affixed to the thorns, which gives this sacred tree the appearance of an old clothes' shop. No Indian, whether Aucas, Patagonian, Puelche, or Tehuetche, would venture to pass it without leaving something; and the man who has nothing else cuts off his horse's mane and fastens it to the tree. The most precious offering in the sight of the Indians is that of their horse; and hence the great number of slaughtered horses round the tree attests the vitality of their faith.

The religion of the Southern natives, thoroughly primitive and spared by the conquest, does not take the moral being into account, and is only arrested by accidents of Nature, of which it makes gods. These people strive to make the deserts, where fatigue and thirst produce death, and the rivers that may swallow them up, favourable to them.

At the foot of the tree of Gualichu, a few hours after the events already narrated, a strange scene was taking place, rendered still more striking by the density of the darkness, and by the storm which was approaching. Heavy black clouds rolled athwart the sky; the wind blew in gusts with a shrill whistle, and large drops of rain fell on the sand.

Around the sacred tree the Indians had improvised a village composed of some forty toldos raised hastily and without regularity. Before each toldo crackled a bright fire, round which two or three Indian squaws were crouching to warm themselves, without taking their eye off the hobbled horses which were devouring their stock of alfalfa.

An immense fire, resembling a funereal pyre, flamed a few paces from the tree of Gualichu, and was surrounded by twenty Indians, who stood apathetic and contemplative, and whose grand war paint led to the supposition that they were preparing for an important ceremony of their worship.

Suddenly a shrill whistle cleft the air, and announced the arrival of two horsemen; one of them dismounted, and threw his horse's bridle to his comrade, and walked into the circle formed by the warriors. This man wore the uniform of an officer of the Chilian army.

"I salute my brothers," he said, looking round him, "may Gualichu protect them."

"Salutation to Pincheira," the Indians responded; "are all the chiefs assembled?" he continued.

"All," a voice replied, "with the exception of Nocobotha, the grand Toqui of the Aucas."

"He will not be long; let us wait."

The silence had been scarce established, ere a second whistle was heard, and two fresh horsemen entered the circle of light projected by the fires.

Only one man dismounted. He was tall and fierce-looking, and dressed in the costume of the Aucas warriors, the most civilized and intelligent Indian nation in the whole of South America. These were the men who, almost unarmed, repulsed Almagro and his cuirassed soldiers in 1555, who triumphed over the unhappy Valdivia, and who, though constantly fought by the Spaniards, were never vanquished. The Aucas offered an asylum to the Incas whom Pizarro hunted like wild beasts, and who, as a reward for their hospitality, introduced among these Indians their own advanced civilization. By degrees the two nations became fused, and their hatred of the Spaniards has been perpetuated up to our day.

The warrior who had first entered the circle of Indian chiefs, was one of the most perfect types of this indomitable race; all his features bore the distinctive character of the haughty Incas, who were so long masters of Peru. His costume, differing from that of the Patagonians, who employ the skins of beasts, was composed of woollen cloth striped with silver. A blue chaman covered his body from the waist, where it was fastened with a woollen girdle down to the knee; in this way exactly resembling the chilipa of the gauchos, who borrowed from the Indians this garment and the short blue and red striped poncho; his boots armed with silver spurs, and cleverly sewn with the tendons of animals, were made of the tanned hide of the guemul, a species of llama; his hair was divided at the back of the head into three tails, fastened together at the end with a tuft of wool, while in front the rest of his hair was raised and fastened with a blue ribbon, which, after three turns, fell on one side, and terminated in small pieces of rolled up silver. His brow was girt by a circle of massive gold, a species of diadem, three inches in width, and in the centre of which sparkled a sun composed of precious stones; a diamond of enormous value hung from each of his ears; his cloak of guanaco skins which fell down to the ground, was held on his shoulders by a silk cord, and was fastened with a diamond. Two six-chambered revolvers glistened in his waist belt; on his right hip hung a machete, or short sabre with a very wide blade, and he held in his hand a double-barrelled rifle.

This warrior, on his arrival, created a lively sensation among the chiefs; all bowed before him respectfully, while murmuring with delight—

"Nocobotha! Nocobotha!"

The warrior smiled proudly, and took his place in the first rank of the chiefs.

"The nacurulu (Bubo Magellanicus) has sung twice," he said; "the osprey of the Rio Negro has raised its melancholy cry; the night is drawing to a close; what have the chiefs of the great nations resolved?"

"It would be useful, I think," one of the Indians answered, "to implore the protection of Gualichu for the council."

"The advice of my brother, Metipan, is wise. Let the matchi be warned."

While a chief went off to fetch the matchi, or sorcerer, another chief quitted the circle, went up to Nocobotha, whispered something to him, and then returned to his place. The Toqui of the Aucas laid his hand on his machete, and shouted in a loud and menacing voice—

"A traitor is among us! Attention, brothers."

A shudder of passion ran through the ranks, and each Indian looked at his neighbour.

"He must die!" they shouted unanimously.

"It is well," Nocobotha answered.

These words, spoken in Indian, must reach the traitor's ear as a vain sound, for the Aucas dialect is not generally understood by the Spaniards.

Still, a man, clothed like the other chiefs, and protected by the darkness, suddenly bounded far out of the circle, and uttered three different times the hoarse croak of the urubús. He leant against the trunk of the tree of Gualichu, and with his legs far apart, and a pistol in each hand, waited. This man was Pedrito, the bombero.

A living wall, formed of hundreds of Indians, rose in arms before him, and menaced him from all sides. Pedrito, to whom flight was impossible, frowned, gnashed his teeth, and foamed with rage.

"I am waiting for you, dogs," he yelled.

"Forward! Forward!" the Indians shouted.

"Silence!" Nocobotha ordered in a rough voice. "I wish to question him."

"What good is it?" Pincheira remarked, with a hateful expression. "He is one of those rats of the Pampa, whom the Spaniards call bomberos. I recognize him. Let us kill him at once."

"A bombero," the Indians yelled anew. "Death to him, death."

"Silence," said Nocobotha, "who dares to interrupt?"

At the command of the master silence was reestablished.

"Who are you?" the Toqui asked the bombero; "Who are you?" Pedrito replied with a grin, and crossing his arms, though he did not let go his pistols.

"Answer, if you would not die; you are in my power."

"A brave man only belongs to himself. He has always the resource of letting himself be killed."

"Perhaps so."

"Try to take me."

"Surrender, and no harm will be done you."

"A bombero never surrenders."

"Why did you introduce yourself among us."

"¡Canario! I came to witness your Indian jugglery, and learn the object of this nocturnal meeting."

"You are frank, at any rate, and I will take that into consideration. Come! Resistance would be useless, so surrender."

"Are you mad, my master?"

"Forward!" Nocobotha, who was boiling with rage, shouted to the Indians.

The latter rushed on. Two pistol shots were fired, and two Indians writhed on the sand. While the others hesitated, Pedrito returned his pistols to his belt, and drew his machete.

"Make way," he shouted.

"Death!" the warriors repeated.

"Way, way!"

And Pedrito dashed at the Indians, hitting right and left, cutting and pointing. Nocobotha threw himself in his path, with the roar of a wounded lion.

"Ah, ah," said the bombero, "my worthy chief, with the diamond sun, it is our turn."

All at once three shots were fired behind the Indians, and three horsemen dashed upon them, scattering terror and death around. The Indians, not knowing how many enemies they had to contend with, believed, owing to the darkness and the number of dead, that a considerable reinforcement had arrived, and began dispersing in all directions, with the exception of the more resolute, who held their ground and continued to resist the assailants. Among these were Nocobotha, Pincheira, and a few renowned chiefs.

The three bomberos, summoned by the hoarse croaking of Pedrito, had hastened up to their brother; they helped him to get onto the saddle of the horse they had brought up for him.

"Ah!" they shouted, "Down with the Indian dogs!"

Nocobotha dealt the Spaniard a blow with the machete, to which he responded by a cut that scarred his adversary's face. The Toqui uttered a cry, not of pain but of rage.

"Eh," the bombero said to him, "I shall recognize you, if ever we meet again, for you bear my marks."

"Villain!" the chief said, as he fired a pistol at him.

"Ah!" Pedrito muttered in his turn, as he sank in his saddle.

He would have fallen had not his sword prevented him.

"He has killed me," the wounded man said, in a faint voice. "Courage, brothers, do not leave my corpse to them."

The three bomberos, supporting their brother, redoubled their ardour to get him away from inevitable destruction; but how were they to fly? The Indians, when the first moment of panic had passed, being able to count their enemies, returned to the charge and threatened to overwhelm them by their numbers. The position was horrible, and Pedrito, who had retained his coolness, understood that his brothers were about to ruin themselves for him, so, sacrificing his life to save them, he shouted—

"Fly! Leave me alone here; in a few minutes I shall be dead."

"No!" they replied, making their horses prance to ward off the blows, "We will all get away or perish together."

Pedrito, who knew his brothers, was not ignorant that their resolution was unbending.

The fight was going on at this moment, two yards at the most from the tree of Gualichu, Pedrito, while his brothers were defending themselves on all sides at once, slipped down to the ground, and when the bomberos turned round, they found his horse without its rider. Pedrito had disappeared.

"He is dead, what is to be done?"

"Obey him, as we were unable to save him," Juan answered.

"Forward, then!"

And all three, tearing up their horses' sides with their spurs, bounded into the thick of the Indians. The collision was terrible; still, a few seconds later, the bomberos, saved from danger by their incredible audacity, were flying, like the wind, in three different directions, while uttering cries of triumph.

The Indians recognized the inutility of a pursuit across the sand; so they contented themselves with picking up their dead and counting the wounded, altogether some thirty victims.

"These Spaniards are perfect demons, when they are obstinate," Pincheira said, remembering his own origin.

"Yes," Nocobotha answered him, mad with fury, "if ever I place my foot on their chest, they will expiate the wrongs they have done my race for centuries."

"I am entirely devoted to you," Pincheira continued.

"Thanks, my friend. When the hour arrives, I shall remind you of your promise."

"I shall be ready; but at present what are your designs?"

"The scar that madman has made on my head compels me to fire the train as soon as possible."

"Do so, I pray; and let us finish with these accursed Spaniards so soon as we can."

"Then you really hate your countrymen?"

"I have an Indian heart, and that is saying enough."

"I will soon procure you the opportunity to slake your vengeance."

"May heaven hear you!"

"But the chiefs have again assembled round the council fire; come, brother."

Nocobotha and Pincheira approached the tree of Gualichu, where the Indians were grouped, motionless, silent, and calm, as if nothing had disturbed their gathering.

[CHAPTER V.]

THE COUNCIL OF THE ULMENS.

The Indians, while collecting their dead, sought in vain the corpse of the white man, and persuaded themselves that his comrades had carried it off. The latter, on the other hand, reproached themselves bitterly for having left their brother's body in the hands of the Pagans.

Now, what had become of Pedrito?

The bombero was one of those iron men, whom a powerful will leads to their object, and whom death alone can conquer. He wished, therefore, to be present at the council of the chiefs, the high import of which he suspected; and instead of throwing his life away in an unequal struggle, he found in Nocobotha's shot the pretext he was seeking. As time pressed, he pretended, to be mortally wounded, and both friends and enemies had been duped by his stratagem.

So soon as he had slipped down off his horse, by favour of the darkness and combat, he was able, either by crawling like a lizard, or leaping like a cougar, to hide himself in the hollow trunk of the tree of Gualichu. There he buried himself beneath a pile of objects offered by the devotion of the Indians, and was as safe as in the fortress of Carmen. However, like a bold hunter, who has always time to be killed, he had not thrown his weapons away. His first care was, without respect for Gualichu, to wrap up his arm in a piece of cloth, in order to prevent the flow of blood from his wound; then he arranged himself as well as he could, with his head thrust slightly forward, to see the scene that was about to take place.

All the chiefs were already assembled, and Lucaney, Ulmen of the Puelches, was the first to speak.

"The Spaniard who dared to introduce himself among us, in order to violate the secret of our deliberations, is dead; we are alone; let us begin the ceremony."

"It shall be done, according to the desire of my brother, the Ulmen of the Puelches," Nocobotha answered; "where is the wise matchi?"

"Here," said a tall, thin man, whose face was striped in different colours, and who was dressed like a woman.

"Let the wise matchi approach and accomplish the rites."

"A matchitun is necessary," the sorcerer said, in a solemn voice.

The usual preparations for this conjuration were immediately made. Two lances were planted, one on the right, one on the left of the sacred tree; on the left hand one were hung a drum, and a vessel filled with fermented liquor; twelve other vessels, containing the same liquor, were ranged in a circle from one lance to the other. A sheep and a colt were brought in, and deposited near the vessels, and two old squaws placed themselves by the side of the drum. The preparations terminated, the matchi turned to Nocobotha.

"Why does the Ulmen of the Aucas ask for the matchitun?" he asked.

Metipan stepped out of the circle.

"An hereditary hatred has for a long time separated the Aucas and the Pehuenches," he said; "the interest of all the great nations desires the end of this hatred. Kelzulepan, my ancestor, Ulmen of the Pehuenches, carried off a white slave belonging to Medzeliputzi, Toqui of the Aucas, and great grandfather of Nocobotha."

"Before the assembled chiefs, in the face of heaven, I have come to tell Nocobotha, the descendant of Yupanqui, the son of the sun, that my ancestor behaved badly to his, and I am ready, in order to extinguish all discord, past, present, and future, to give him here a white, young, lovely, and virgin slave."

"I give up, before Gualichu," Nocobotha answered, "the hatred which my nation and I had sworn against you and yours."

"Does Gualichu approve our conduct?" Metipan asked.

The matchi seemed to reflect profoundly.

"Yes," he replied, "you have gained the protection of Gualichu; let the white slave be brought up; perhaps he will demand that she should be surrendered to him, instead of belonging to a man."

"His will be done," both Ulmens said.

Two warriors led up a girl of about seventeen, and placed her between the lances, with her face turned to the tree of Gualichu. On seeing her, Pedrito felt a cold perspiration break out all over him, and a mist covered his eyes.

"Whence comes this strange emotion?" the bombero muttered to himself.

The girl's large black eyes had an expression of gentle melancholy. She was dressed after the fashion of the Pehuenche women; the woollen quedito was rolled round her body, fastened on the shoulders by two silver pins, and on her limbs by a kepike, or silken girdle, six inches in width, and secured by a buckle. The two ends of a square pilken, like a cloak, was fastened on her chest by a topu, adorned with a magnificent head in gold. She had on her neck two collars of beads, and on each of her arms four bracelets of glass, pearls, and silver balls. Her long black hair was parted down the centre into two tresses, tied up with blue ribbons, which floated on her shoulders, and terminated in bells; on her head was a conical cap of blue and red beads.

At this graceful apparition the Indians, who are very fond of white women, could not, despite their natural stoicism, restrain a murmur of admiration.

At a signal from the matchi the ceremony began. The two old squaws beat the drum, while the spectators, guided by the sorcerer, struck up a symbolical song while dancing round the captive.

The drum ceased with the song; then the matchi lit a cigar, inhaled the smoke, and thrice perfumed the tree, the animals, and the maiden, whose bosom he at the same time laid bare. He put his mouth to it and began sucking till he drew blood, and the poor child made superhuman efforts not to shriek. The dancing, accompanied by song, began again, and the old women beat the drum with all the strength of their arms. Pedrito, full of compassion for the innocent victim of Indian superstition, longed to fly to her help.

In the meanwhile, the matchi, with his swollen cheeks, gradually became more excited; his eyes grew bloodshot, he seemed possessed by the demon, and all at once became furious; he writhed and behaved like an epileptic. Then the dance ceased, and Metipan, with a stroke of his machete, cut open the flank of the colt, tore out its still palpitating heart, and gave it to the sorcerer, who sucked the blood, and employed it to make a cross on the maiden's brow. The latter, suffering from inexpressible terror, began to tremble violently.

The storm, which had been gathering in the clouds, at length broke out. A blue flash shot athwart the sky, the thunder rolled with a terrible din, and a blast of wind dashed over the plain, sweeping away the toldos, the fragments of which it dispersed far and wide.

The Indians stopped, terrified by the storm. All at once a formidable voice, that appeared to issue from the tree of Gualichu, uttered the ill-omened words.

"Retire, Indians! My wrath is let loose upon you. Leave here this miserable white slave as an expiation of your crimes! Fly, and woe to those who look back. Woe! Woe!"

A livid flash and a violent peal of thunder served as peroration to this harangue.

"Let us fly!" said the matchi, who in his terror was ready to believe in his god.

But, profiting by this unexpected intervention to enforce his own power, he continued—

"Fly, brothers! Gualichu has spoken to his servant. Woe to those who resist his orders."

The Indians had no need of this recommendation from their sorcerer; a superstitious terror lent them wings. They rushed tumultuously toward the horses, and soon the desert echoed again with their wild flight. The tree of Gualichu was deserted, and the maiden alone lay fainting on the ground, with her bosom still bare.

When all was quiet on the Pampa, and the sound of the horses' gallop was lost in the distance, Pedrito gently thrust his head out of the tree, examined the black depths of the night, and reassured by the silence, ran up to the girl. Pale as a beauteous lily laid low by the storm, the poor girl had her eyes closed, and did not breathe. The bombero raised her in his muscular arms, and transported her close to the tree, laying her on a pile of skins belonging to a destroyed toldo. He placed her cautiously on this softer couch, and her head hung insensibly on his chest.

It was a strange group, in the midst of this devastated plain, only illumined by the lightning flashes. This young and lovely girl, and this rude wood ranger, offered a touching picture.

Pain and sorrow were delineated on Pedrito's face. He, whose whole life had been but one long drama, who had no faith in his heart, who was ignorant of gentle feelings and sweet sympathies, he, the bombero, the slayer of Indians, was moved and felt something new stir within him. Two heavy tears ran down his bronzed cheeks.

"Can she be dead? Oh Heaven!"

This name, which he had hitherto only used in blasphemy, he uttered almost with respect. It was a sort of prayer and cry from his heart. This man believed.

"How to help her?" he asked himself.

The rain that fell in torrents eventually restored the maiden, who, half opening her eyes, murmured in a faint voice;

"Where am I? What has happened?"

"She speaks, she lives, she is saved," Pedrito exclaimed.

"Who is there?" she asked, raising herself with difficulty.

At the sight of the bombero's gloomy face, she had a fresh outburst of terror, closed her eyes again, and fell back exhausted.

"Reassure yourself, my girl. I am your friend."

"My friend! What means that word? Have slaves any friends? Ah, yes," she continued, speaking as if in a dream, "I have suffered terribly. Still I can remember long, long ago, being happy, but alas! The worst misfortune is the recollection of past happiness in misery."

She was silent. The bombero gazed at her, and listened to her as if suspended on her lips. That voice, those features! A vague suspicion entered Pedrito's head.

"Oh, speak, speak again," he said, softening down the harshness of his voice, "what do you remember of your youthful years?"

"Why think of past joys in misfortune? What does it avail?" she added, shaking her head with discouragement. "My history is that of all unfortunate persons. There was a time when, like other children, I had the song of birds to lull me to sleep, flowers that smiled on me when I awoke, and a mother who loved and embraced me—all that has fled forever."

Pedrito had raised two poles covered with skins to shelter her from the storm, which was gradually subsiding.

"You are kind, for you have saved me; still, your kindness was cruel, for why did you not let me die? People who are dead no longer suffer. The Pehuenches will return, and then—"

She did not conclude, and buried her face in her hands, with choking sobs.

"Fear nothing, señorita; I will defend you."

"Poor man; alone against all! But before my last hour arrives, listen to me, for I wish to relieve my heart. One day I was playing in my mother's arms, my father was near us, with my two sisters and my four brothers, resolute men who would not have feared twenty. Well! the Pehuenches came up, they burned our estancia, for my father was a farmer, they killed my mother, and—"

"Mercedes, Mercedes!" the bombero exclaimed, "Is it really you? Do I find you again?"

"That was the name my mother gave me."

"It is I, Pedro, Pedrito, your brother," the bombero said, almost shouting with joy, and clasping her to his bosom.

"Pedrito! My brother! Yes, yes, I remember. Pedrito, I am—"

She fell senseless into her brother's arms.

"Wretch that I am, I have killed her! Mercedes, my beloved sister, come to yourself again, or I shall die."

The maiden opened her eyes again, and threw herself on the bombero's neck, weeping with joy.

"Pedrito! My kind brother, do not leave me, defend me; they would kill me."

"Poor girl, they will pass over my body before reaching you."

"They will do so," a sarcastic voice exclaimed behind the tent.

Two men appeared, Nocobotha and Pincheira. Pedrito, holding his sister, who was half-dead with terror, with his left hand, leant against one of the posts, drew his machete, and prepared for a vigorous defence.

Nocobotha and Pincheira, too enlightened to be the dupes of the mysterious voice of Gualichu, and yield to the general panic, had, however, fled with their comrades; but they had turned back unnoticed. Curious to know the meaning of this enigma, and the author of the mystification, they had listened to the entire conversation between brother and sister.

"Well," Pincheira said, with a laugh, "you seem tolerably lively for a dead man. It seems, Canario, that you must be killed twice, in order to make sure that you will not recover. But, be easy, if my friend missed you, I shall not do so."

"What do you want with me?" Pedrito said. "Let us pass."

"Not at all," Pincheira replied, "that would be rather too dangerous an example. And stay," he added, after listening, "do you hear that galloping? your affair is as good as settled, there are our mosotones coming back."

In fact, the sound of a cavalcade momentarily drew nearer, and in the pale gleam of dawn the dim outlines of numerous horsemen could be distinguished in the distance. Pedrito saw that he was lost; he kissed for the last time the pale brow of his unconscious sister, laid her behind him, crossed himself, and prepared to die as a brave man should.

"Come," said Nocobotha, "let us have an end of this; it looks as if this scoundrel were afraid of death."

"Make haste," Pincheira answered, "I hear our men, and if we do not make haste, our prey will be torn from us."

"You did not fancy you were speaking so truly, Señor Pincheira," Pepe exclaimed, suddenly appearing with his two brothers; "now, let us see who is to be killed."

"Thanks, my brave brothers," Pedrito said joyously.

"Malediction!" Pincheira said with an oath, "Are these scoundrels everywhere?"

"I will not have him escape me," Nocobotha muttered, as he bit his lips till the blood came.

"Fie on you, caballeros," Pepe exclaimed ironically. "On guard, defend yourselves like men, or I shall kill you like dogs."

The blades crossed, and the fight began with equal fury on both sides.

[CHAPTER VI.]

NOCOBOTHA.

A struggle to the death was preparing between these irreconcilable enemies, the bomberos and the Indians; and on this occasion it seemed as if the advantage would be on the side of the brothers.

Mercedes, who had recovered from her fainting fit, felt so terrified that she regretted that she had awoken again.

After the first collision, Nocobotha fell back a step, lowered his weapon, made Pincheira a sign to imitate him, and with folded arms walked towards the brothers.

"Stay," he cried, "this fight will not take place; it is not proper for men to risk their lives in disputing for the possession of a woman."

An ironical smile contracted the bronzed faces Of Pedrito's brothers, while Pincheira stamped his foot impatiently. The Indian chief continued, without heeding these marks of disapproval—

"A man's blood is precious. Take away your sister, my good fellow. I give her to you; may she be happy with you."

"Our sister!" the three young men exclaimed with amazement.

"Yes," Pedrito said; "but what conditions do you exact?"

"None," the chief answered nobly.

Nocobotha's generosity was the more disinterested because the bomberos perceived by the first rays of the rising sun a band of nearly one thousand Indians, well equipped, and painted and armed for war, who had silently advanced and formed a a circle round them.

"Can we," Pedrito asked, "trust to your word, and have we no cause to fear a trap?"

"My word," the Ulmen answered haughtily, "is more sacred than that of a white man. We have, like you, noble feelings, more so, perhaps, than others," he added, pointing to a red line that traversed his face; "we know how to forgive. You are free, and no one will disturb your retreat."

Nocobotha followed the thoughts of the bomberos on their faces. The latter felt themselves conquered by the magnanimity of the chief, who smiled triumphantly on divining their astonishment and confusion.

"My friend," he said to Pincheira, "let fresh horses be given to these men."

Pincheira hesitated.

"At once," he said, with a gesture full of supreme grace.

The Chilian, who was a semi-savage, yielding involuntarily to Nocobotha's superiority, obeyed, and five horses of great value, and ready saddled and bridled, were led up by two Indians.

"Chief," Pedrito said, in a slightly shaking voice, "I am not grateful for my life, as I do not fear death; but, in my brothers' names and my own, I thank you for our sister. We never forget an insult or a kindness. Farewell! Perhaps I shall someday have the opportunity to prove to you that we are not ungrateful."

The chief bowed without answering. The bomberos grouped round Mercedes, returned his salute, and went off slowly.

"Well, it was your wish," Pincheira said, shrugging his shoulders in vexation.

"Patience!" Nocobotha answered, in a deep voice.

During this time an immense fire had been kindled at the foot of the tree of Gualichu, where the Indians, whose superstitious fears had been dissipated with the darkness, had again assembled in council. A few paces behind the chiefs, the Aucas and Puelche horsemen formed a formidable cordon round the council fire, while Patagonian scouts dashed about the desert to scare away intruders, and insure the secrecy of the deliberations.

In the east the sun was darting forth its flames, the dry and naked desert was blended with the illimitable horizon; in the distance the Cordilleras displayed the eternal snow of their peaks. Such was the landscape, if we may call it so, in which these barbarous warriors stood, dressed in strange costumes near the symbolic tree. This majestic scene involuntarily recalled other times and other climates, when, by the light of burning towns, the ferocious companions of Attila rushed to the conquest, and rejuvenescence of the Roman world.

Nocobotha took up his speech at the point where it had been interrupted by the unexpected interference of the bombero.

"I thank my brother Metipan," he said, "for the gift of the white slave. From this day our disagreement ceases; his nation and mine will form one and the same family, whose herds will peacefully graze on the same pasturage, and whose warriors will sleep side by side on the war track."

The matchi then lit a pipe, drew a few puffs, and handed it to the two chiefs, who smoked in turn, passing the pipe to each other till the tobacco was entirely consumed. Then the pipe was thrown on the fire by the matchi.

"Gualichu," he said, solemnly, "has heard your words. Swear that your alliance will not be broken until you can again smoke this pipe which is already reduced to ashes."

"We swear it."

The two Ulmens laid the left hand on the other's right shoulder, stretched out the right hand to the sacred tree, and kissed each other on the lips, saying—

"Brother, receive this kiss. May my lips wither and my tongue be torn out if I betray my oath."

All the Indians came, one after the other, to give the kiss of peace to the two Ulmens with marks of joy that were the more lively because they knew what great misfortunes this feud had already cost them, and how many times it had compromised the independence of the Indian tribes.

When the chiefs had returned to their places at the council fire, Lucaney bowed to Nocobotha.

"What communications did my brother wish to make to the Ulmens? We are ready to hear him."

Nocobotha seemed to reflect for a moment, and then looked confidently round the assembly.

"Ulmens of the Puelches, Araucanos, Pehuenches, Huileches, and Patagonians," he said, "for many moons past my mind has been sad. I see with grief our hunting grounds invaded by the white men, and daily growing more and more contracted. We whose countless tribes only a few centuries ago covered the vast tract of land contained between the two seas, are now reduced to a small band of warriors, who, timid as llamas, fly before our despoilers. Our sacred cities, the last refuges of the civilization of our fathers the Incas, are about to become the prey of these human-faced monsters who have no other God but gold. Our dispersed race will soon disappear from this world which it so long possessed and governed alone."

"Tracked like wild animals, brutalized by the firewater, and decimated by the sword and Spanish disease, our wandering hordes are but the shadow of a people. Our conquerors despise our religion, and they wish to bow us beneath the tree of the crucified man. They outrage our wives, kill our children, and burn our villages. Has the blood of your fathers become impoverished in the veins of all you Indians who are listening to me? Answer, will you die slaves, or live as free men?"

At these words, uttered in a masculine and penetrating voice, and whose effect was heightened by the most majestic gestures, a quiver ran along the assembly; they raised their heads haughtily and every eye flashed.

"Speak, speak again!" the electrified Ulmens shouted simultaneously.

The great Ulmen smiled proudly, and continued—

"The hour has at length arrived, after so much humiliation and wretchedness, to shake off the disgraceful yoke that presses on us. Within a few days, if you are willing, we will drive the whites far from our borders, and requite them all the evil they have done us. I have long been watching the Spaniards, and I know their tactics and resources; and in order to annihilate them we only need skill and courage."

The Indians interrupted him, with shouts of joy.

"You shall be free," Nocobotha continued. "I will restore you the rich valleys of your ancestors. This project has, ever since I have become a man, been fermenting in my head, and it has grown the life of my life. Far from you and me be the thought that I have any intention to force myself on you as chief and grand Toqui of the army! No; you must choose your leader freely, and after having elected him, obey him blindly, follow him everywhere, and pass through the most formidable perils. Do not deceive yourselves, warriors; our enemy is strong, numerous, and well disciplined, and, before all, is habituated to conquer us. Appoint a supreme chief—select the most worthy, and I will joyfully march under his orders. I have spoken: have I spoken well, powerful men?"

And, after bowing to the assembly, Nocobotha mingled with the crowd of chiefs, with a serene brow, but with his heart devoured by anxiety and hatred.

This eloquence, which was novel to the Indians, seduced, carried them away, and cast them into a species of frenzy. They almost regarded Nocobotha as a genius of a superior essence to their own, and bowed the knee to worship him, so straight had he gone to their hearts. For a long time the council was affected by a species of delirium, all speaking at once. When tranquillity was restored, the wisest among the Ulmens discussed the opportunity of taking up arms and the chances of success, and in the end the opinion was unanimous in favour of a general insurrection. The ranks, momentarily broken, were restored, and Lucaney, who was invited by the chiefs to make known the decision of the council, spoke as follows;—

"Ulmens, listen, listen, listen! This seventeenth day of the moon of Kekil-kiven it has been resolved by all the chiefs, each representing a nation or a tribe, assembled round the council fire in front of the sacred tree of Gualichu, and after the performance of the sacred rites to render the spirit favourable to us, that war is declared against the Spaniards, our despoilers. As the war is holy, and has liberty for its object, all will be expected to take part in it—men, women, and children; all to the extent of their strength. This very day the quipus will be sent to all the Indian nations."

A long cry of enthusiasm cheered Lucaney, but he continued after a while—

"The chiefs, after careful consideration, have chosen as supreme Toqui of all the nations, with uncontrolled and unlimited power, the wisest, the most prudent, and the man most worthy to command us. This warrior is the chief of the Aucas whose race is so ancient, Nocobotha is the descendant of the Incas, the son of the sun."

A thunder of applause greeted these last words Nocobotha walked into the centre of the circle, bowed to the Ulmens, and said, in a proud accent, "I accept. Ulmens, my brothers, in a year you shall be free, or myself dead."

"Long live the great Toqui!" the crowd shouted.

"War to the Spaniards!" Nocobotha continued; "A war without respite or mercy—a true wild beast hunt, such as they are accustomed to make on us. Remember the law of the Pampas: 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.' Each chief will send the quipus to his nation, for at the end of this moon we will arouse our enemies by a thunderclap. Go, and lose no time. This night at the fourth hour we will meet again at the pass of the Guanaco, to elect the secondary chiefs, count our warriors, and fix the day and hour of attack."

The Ulmens bowed without replying, rejoined the escort, and soon disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Nocobotha and Pincheira remained alone, a detachment guarding them a little distance away. Nocobotha, with his arms folded, drooping head, and frowning brow, seemed plunged in profound thoughts.

"Well," Pincheira said, "we have succeeded."

"Yes," he answered; "war is declared, and I am the supreme chief; but I tremble at such a heavy task. Do those primitive men thoroughly understand? Are they ripe for liberty? Perhaps they have not as yet suffered enough. Oh! if I succeed!"

"You startle me, friend. What, then, are your plans?"

"It is true, you know nothing, but you are worthy of such an enterprise. I wish, understand me thoroughly; I wish—"

At this moment an Indian, whose horse, reeking with perspiration, seemed to breathe fire through its nostrils, came up to the two Ulmens, before whom he shopped dead, by a prodigy of horsemanship, as if converted into a granite statue. He bent down to Nocobotha's ear.

"Already!" the latter exclaimed; "Oh, there is not a moment to lose. Quick, my horse."

"What is the matter?" Pincheira asked him.

"Nothing that can interest you. Tonight at the pass of the Guanaco you shall know all."

"Are you going alone?"

"I must. Tonight we meet again."

Nocobotha's horse snorted, and dashed off like an arrow from a bow.

Ten minutes later all the Indians had disappeared, and solitude and silence reigned round the tree of Gualichu.

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE COUGARS.

Don Valentine Cardoso's conversation with Don Blas Salazar was prolonged far into the night. Doña Concha had retired to her apartments.

"Thanks, Blas, my friend," Don Valentine said in conclusion; "that Don Torribio Carvajal never pleased either my daughter or myself. His mysterious ways and his look repulse affection and inspire distrust."

"What do you intend doing?" the capataz asked.

"I am greatly embarrassed; how can I close my doors against him; what pretext should I have?"

"Good gracious!" Blas said; "Perhaps we are alarming ourselves too soon. This gentleman is doubtless no more or less than a lover. Doña Concha is of the age to be beloved, and her beauty attracts Don Torribio. You do not like him as son-in-law, so all right; but love, they say, is a strange thing, and some day or other—"

"I have designs for my daughter."

"That is different. By the way, may not this mysterious caballero be a secret agent of General Oribe, who is watching Carmen?"

"That is the truth, I believe. His hints to the gauchos, his unexpected absences, whose purpose is unknown, are simply of a political nature, and Don Torribio is a conspirator."

"Nothing else. Be on your guard against him."

"In the expectation of General Oribe making an attack, let us make ourselves secure. The Estancia of San Julian is close to Port San José and the sea; we will await the issue of these machinations there in greater security, because a vessel, anchored opposite the estancia, will be at my disposal, and on the slightest alarm convey us to Buenos Aires."

"That arrangement removes all difficulties; in the country you will not be annoyed by Don Torribio's visits."

"¡Caramba! you are right; and I will proceed to give orders for departure. Do not go away, for I want your assistance, and you will accompany us."

Don Valentine hastened to wake the servants and peons who were fast asleep; and the valuables were at once packed up.

At the first gleam of dawn Doña Concha was greatly surprised, when her lady's maid, a young mulatto girl, informed her of her father's sudden resolution. Doña Concha, without making the slightest remark, dressed herself, and began packing.

At about eight in the morning, Blas Salazar, whom his foster brother had sent with a letter to the captain of his schooner moored off Carmen, and loaded with Brazilian merchandise, returned to the house, and stated that the captain would sail at once, and be anchored by nightfall before San Julian.

The courtyard of the house resembled a hostelry. Fifteen mules, bending beneath their bales, stamped in their impatience to be off, while the travelling litter was being prepared for Doña Concha. Forty saddle horses, intended for the servants, were fastened to iron rings in the wall; four or five mules were prepared to carry the young lady's female attendants, while two Negro slaves held two splendid chargers, which stamped and champed their silver bits, while awaiting their riders, Don Valentine and his capataz. There was a deafening confusion of shouts, laughter, and kicking. In the street, a crowd, among whom were Corrocho and Panchito, curiously watched their departure, while making their comments on the strange fact of Don Cardoso choosing so late a season for a residence in the country.

Panchito and Corrocho slipped away.

At last, at about half past eight o'clock, the arrieros placed themselves at the head of their mules; the servants, armed to the teeth, mounted, and Doña Concha, dressed in a charming travelling costume, walked down the steps, and with a merry laugh, bounded into the litter, where she nestled like a hummingbird among rose leaves.

At a sign from the capataz, the mules, already fastened to each other in a file, started. Don Valentine then turned to an old Negro, who was standing respectfully near him, hat in hand.

"Good-bye, tío Peralta," he said to him; "I give you charge of the house, and leave you Cyrillo and Nanez."

"Your Excellency can reckon on my vigilance," the old man answered; "may God bless your Excellency, and the Niña too. I will take great care of her birds."

"Thank you, tío Peralta," the young lady said, leaning out of the litter.

The courtyard was already empty, when the Negro bowed, delighted at the thanks.

The night storm had completely swept the sky, which was of a pale blue; the sun, already high on the horizon, spread profusely its warm beams, which were filtered through the fragrant vapours that rose from the ground. The atmosphere was wondrously transparent, a slight breeze refreshed the air, and swarms of birds, glistening with a thousand hues, dashed about. The mules, which followed the bell of the yegua madrina, trotted to the songs of the arrieros. The caravan marched gaily across the sandy desert, raising the dust around it, and undulating like a long serpent, in the endless windings of the road. Don Blas, with ten servants, who explored the country, and examined the bushes, formed the vanguard. Don Valentine, with a cigar in his mouth, was conversing with his daughter, while twenty resolute men closed the march, and protected the travellers.

In the plains of Patagonia, a journey of four hours, like that to the estancia of San Julian, requires as many precautions as one of two hundred among us; enemies are ambuscaded everywhere, and ready for pillage and murder; and travellers are compelled to be on their guard against gauchos, Indians, and wild beasts.

The white houses of Carmen had disappeared long ago, when the capataz, leaving the head of the party, galloped up to the side of the litter.

"What is the matter?" Don Valentine asked.

"Nothing," Blas replied; "still, Excellency, look," he added, stretching out his arm in a southwesterly direction.

"It is a fire."

"Now turn your eyes to the east-south-east."

"That is another fire. Who the deuce has lighted fires on those scarped points, and for what object?"

"I will tell you. That point is the cliff of Urubús."

"It is."

"That is the cliff of San Xavier."

"Well?"

"As a fire does not light itself, as we have some 120° of heat, and as—"

"You conclude—"

"I conclude that these fires Have been lit by Don Torribio's gauchos; and that they are signals."

"Stay, stay, that is logical, my friend, and you may be right perhaps; but what do we care?"

"Those signals tell that Don Valentine Cardoso and his daughter have left Carmen."

"You spoke to me about that, I think? Well, I do not care about Don Torribio knowing of my departure."

A sudden cry was heard, and the mules stopped with trembling limbs.

"What is going on down there?" Blas asked.

"A cougar, a cougar!" the arrieros shouted in horror.

"Canario, it is true," the capataz said, "but instead of one there are two."

About two hundred yards ahead of the caravan two cougars (the Felis discolor or Linnaeus, or American lion), were drawn up ready for a spring, with their eyes fixed on the mules. These animals, still young, were about the size of a calf; the head bore a great likeness to that of a cat, and their skins, smooth and soft, of a silvery tawny, were spotted with black.

"Come on," Don Valentine exclaimed, "uncouple the dogs, and let us have a hunt."

"A hunt!" the capataz repeated.

A dozen mastiffs were unloosed which, on approaching the lions, barked simultaneously. The mules were collected and formed into a large circle, in the centre of which the litter was placed. Ten servants were told off to guard Doña Concha, and Don Valentine remained by her side to keep up her courage.

Horses, riders, and dogs rushed in rivalry on the ferocious animals with yells, shouts, and barking sufficient to start lions that were novices. The noble beasts, lashed their flanks with their powerful tails, and after a deep inspiration they fled away with lengthened bounds. A part of the hunters rode off in a straight line to cut off their retreat, while, others bending over the saddle and guiding their horses with their knees, brandished their terrible bolas, and hunted them with all their strength, though without checking the cougars which turned furiously on the dogs, and hurled them a dozen yards off yelling with pain. The mastiffs, however, long accustomed to this style of hunting, watched for a favourable opportunity, threw themselves on the lions' backs and dug their teeth into their flesh, but the cougars, with one blow of their murderous paw, swept them off like flies, and resumed their hurried course.

One of them, hobbled by the bolas, and surrounded by dogs, rolled on the ground, digging up the sand with its contracted claws, and uttering a fearful yell. Don Valentine finished it by putting a bullet in its eye.

The second cougar remained, which was still unwounded, and by its bounds, foiled the attack and skill of the hunters. The dogs, worn out, did not dare approach it. Its flight had brought it within a few paces of the caravan; all at once it turned to the right, bounded over the mules, and crouched right in front of the litter. Doña Concha, pale as death, with closed eyes, instinctively clasped her hands, recommended her soul to Heaven, and fainted.

At the moment when the lion was about to dart on the girl, two shots struck it right in the middle of the chest. It turned round on its new adversary, no other than the worthy capataz, who, with extended legs, and eye fixed on the lion, awaited the monster. The cougar hesitated, took a parting glance at its prey still lying in the litter, and rushed with a roar on Blas, who pulled the trigger again. The animal writhed on the ground, and the capataz ran up to it, machete in hand. The man and the lion rolled together, but only one of them rose again—it was the man.

Doña Concha was saved. Her father pressed her joyously to his breast; she opened her eyes again at last, and aware to whose devotion she owed her life, held out her hand to Don Blas.

"I can no longer count the number of times you have saved the lives of my father and myself."

"Oh, señorita!" the worthy man said, as he kissed the tips of her fingers.

"You are my foster brother, and I can only discharge my debt to you by eternal gratitude," Don Valentine said. "Strip the lions of their skins, my men," he said, turning to the servants. "I suppose they will not frighten you, when they are converted into carpets, Conchita."

No one equals the Hispano-Americans in the art of flaying animals; in a minute, the two lions, above which the urubús and vultures of the Andes were already hovering, were stripped of their skins.

Order was restored in the caravan, which started again, and within an hour arrived at the Estancia of San Julian, where it was received by Patito and all the farm peons.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

THE ESTANCIA OF SAN JULIAN.

The bomberos, accompanied by Mercedes, buried themselves in the desert. Their journey lasted four hours, and brought them to the banks of the Rio Negro, to one of the charming oases created by the river mud, and covered with clumps of willows, nopals, palms, chirimoyas, lemon trees, and flowering jessamines, in whose branches thousands of birds of the most varying colour and note gaily warbled.

Pedrito seized Mercedes in his robust arms, lifted her from the front of his saddle and laid her gently on the turf. The horses began quietly nibbling the young tree shoots.

"Tell us, how did you find our sister?" Juan said.

The elder brother, as if he had not heard, made no reply, and with his eyes fixed on the girl, he listened to a voice that spoke within him; he fancied he saw again the living portrait of his mother, and said to himself, "The same look, at once gentle and tender! The smile full of kindness! Poor mother, poor sister! Mercedes," he added in a louder voice, "do you remember your grown-up brothers, who loved you so dearly?"

"Come, come," Pepe exclaimed, stamping his foot angrily, "that is not fair, brother! You keep our bills in the water like a lot of ducks, and confiscate the girl's kind looks. If she is really our deeply-regretted Mercedes, speak; ¡caray! we have as much right to embrace her as you have, and are all longing to do so."

"You are right," Pedrito answered; "forgive me, brothers, but joy rendered me egotistic. Yes, it is our dear little sister, so embrace her."

The bomberos did not wait for the invitation to be repeated, and without asking the slightest explanation from Pedrito, disputed with each other as to who should devour her with caresses. The maiden, who was deeply affected, and whom the Indians had not accustomed to such happiness, yielded to the intoxication of joy. While they were indulging in these transports, Pedrito had lit a fire and prepared a substantial meal, composed of fruit and a leg of guanaco. They sat down and ate with good appetites. Pedrito recounted his adventures at the tree of Gualichu, without omitting a single detail. His story occupied a long time, for it was at times interrupted by the young men, who laughed most heartily at the tragi-comical incidents of the scene between the matchi and Gualichu.

"Do you know," Lopez said to him, "that you have been a god?"

"A god who ran a greater risk of becoming immortal than he cared for," Pedrito replied; "for I feel that I love life since I have found the child again. Well, here she is, and he will be a clever fellow who takes her from us again. Still, we cannot keep her with us and let her share our precarious existence."

"That is true," the other brothers said.

"What is to be done?" Pepe muttered sadly.

"Our poor sister would die," said Pedrito; "we cannot make a female bombero of her, drag her after us into danger, or leave her alone."

"I shall never be alone when with you, my kind brothers."

"Our life is at the mercy of an Indian bullet. The fear that you may fall again into the hands of the Aucas or the Puelches troubles me; and if you remained with us and shared our dangers, I should turn a coward, and not have the courage to perform my duties as bombero."

"During the ten years we have been prowling about the Pampas," Pepe remarked, "we have broken with all our old acquaintances."

"Suppose, though," Lopez observed, "we find her a safe shelter? I have an idea."

"Out with it."

"You remember the capataz of the Estancia de San Julian, what is his name?"

"Don Blas Salazar."

"The very man," Lopez continued; "I fancy we have saved his life and his master's ere now, and that both owe us a candle as thick as my arm in gratitude."

"Don Valentine and his capataz," Juan said, "would have yielded their skins to that demon of a Pincheira, who wished to flay them alive, had it not been for our rifles."

"That is our affair. Lopez is right."

"Don Valentino passes for a good-hearted man."

"He has, I think, a daughter whom he tenderly loves, and will understand the difficulty we are in."

"Yes," said Pepe, "but we cannot go to Carmen."

"Let us ride to the Estancia, then; it will only take us a couple of hours."

"We will be off," said Pedrito; "Juan and Lopez will remain here, while Pepe and I escort the chica. Kiss your brothers, Mercedes. Now then, Pepe; you two keep good watch and expect us at sunset."

Mercedes waved a parting farewell to her brothers, and, escorted by Pepe and Pedro, started at a gallop for San Julian.

At about three o'clock they perceived, fifty yards from them, the estancia, which Don Valentine and his daughter had reached hardly two hours before.

The Estancia of San Julian, undoubtedly the richest and strongest position on the entire Patagonian coast, stood on a peninsula six miles in circumference, covered with wood and pastures, on which upwards of two thousand head of cattle grazed at liberty. Surrounded by the sea, which forms a natural fortification, the strip of land, twenty feet in width at the most, was guarded by a battery of five heavy guns. The house, which was surrounded by lofty parapeted and bastioned walls, was a species of fortress, capable of sustaining a regular siege, thanks to eight guns, which, planted on the four bastions, defended the approaches. It was composed of a large main building with a terraced roof, having ten windows on the frontage, and with two wings. A large flight of steps, protected by a double curiously-worked balustrade, protected by a verandah, gave access to the rooms, which were furnished with the simple and picturesque luxury peculiar to the Spanish farms of America.

Between the house and the wall, in which there was, opposite the steps, a cedar gate five inches thick, and lined with strong iron plates, extended a large English garden, well wooded and beautifully laid out. The space left free behind the farm was occupied by the corrals in which the cattle were shut up at night, and an immense courtyard in which the annual slaughtering took place.

This white house was gay and pleasant, and could be seen for some distance off, half-hidden by the branches which crowned it with foliage. From the first floor windows there was a view on one side of the sea, on the other of the Rio Negro, which ran capriciously through the plain like a silver thread, and was lost in the azure distance of the horizon.

Ever since the last war with the Indians, ten years back, and during which the estancia was all but surprised by the Aucas, a mirador had been built on the roof of the main building, where a sentry stood day and night, ordered to watch and announce the approach of strangers upon a buffalo horn. In addition, the isthmus battery was guarded by six men, ready to discharge the guns at the slightest alarm. Hence, when the bomberos were still some distance from the Estancia, their coming had been signalled, and Don Blas Salazar, accompanied by Patito, was standing behind the battery in order to challenge them when they came within hail.

The bomberos were aware of the orders, which are common to all the Spanish establishments, especially on the borders, where people are exposed to the continual depredations of the Indians. On coming within twenty paces of the battery, the two men stopped and waited.

"Who goes there?" a voice shouted.

"Friends?" Pedrito answered.

"Who are you?"

"Bomberos."

"Good; what do you want?"

"To speak to the Señor Capataz, Don Blas Salazar."

"Why," Blas himself exclaimed, "it is Pedrito."

"Yes, yes, Don Blas," Pedrito said, "and I recognized you at once, but duty is duty. This is my brother Pepe, at your service."

"As he has been before, Don Blas, by your leave," Pepe said, insinuatingly.

"That is true, lower the drawbridge."

The bomberos entered, and the bridge was immediately pulled up after them.

"¡Caray! What a pleasant surprise, my friends," the capataz said, "we see you most remarkably seldom. Come to my house, and while we drain a cup, you will tell me what brings you here, and it must be a serious matter, if I know you."

"Very serious indeed," Pedrito answered.

"Patito," said Blas, "you stay here; I am going to the estancia."

The capataz mounted his horse, and drew up alongside Pedrito.

"May I ask, caballero, without indiscretion, who that girl dressed in the Indian fashion is? She is white, is she not?"

"She is our sister, capataz."

"Your sister, Don Pedro! Are you joking?"

"Heaven forbid?"

"I was not aware you had a sister, so forgive me, for I am not a sorcerer."

The horsemen had arrived at their destination. The capataz dismounted, the bomberos followed his example, and followed him into a spacious ground floor room, where an elderly, healthy-looking woman was busy peeling Indian corn. It was Don Blas's mother, and Don Valentine's nurse. She greeted the newcomers with a good-humoured smile, offered them seats, and went to fetch a jug of chicha, which she placed before them.

"To your health, señores," said the capataz, after filling the pewter cups to the brim. "The sun is confoundedly hot, and travellers will find this refreshing."

"Thanks," said Pedrito, who had emptied his glass.

"Come, what have you to tell me? Speak freely; unless," Blas added, "my mother is in your way. If so, the worthy woman would go into the next room."

"No," Pedro said, eagerly; "no! The señora, on the contrary, must remain, for what we have to say everybody may hear, and especially your mother; we have come here on the subject of our sister."

"I do not wish to offend you, Don Pedro," the capataz interrupted him, "but you did wrong in keeping the young lady with you, for she cannot share all the perils of your diabolical life, can she, mother?"

The old lady gave a nod of assent, and the brothers exchanged a hopeful glance.

"You can do what you please, of course," Don Blas continued; "everybody is at liberty to arrange his life as he pleases, provided that it be honestly. But now to business."

"Your remark, Don Blas," Pedrito said, "overwhelms us with joy. You are a man of good counsel and good heart."

And without farther delay, he told Mercedes' singular story. Toward its close Doña Salazar left the room, unnoticed by her son or the bomberos.

"You are a worthy man, Don Pedro," Don Blas exclaimed. "Yes, deuce take me if you are not, though the bomberos generally are considered sorry fellows. You have judged me rightly, and I thank you for thinking of me."

"Then you consent?" Pepe asked.

"One moment, sapristi! Let me conclude," the capataz said, as he filled the glasses again, "here's to your health, and that of the señorita. I am only a poor fellow, and a bachelor in the bargain, hence my protection would compromise a young lady's reputation, for tongues are wicked here as elsewhere, and though I live with my mother, an excellent woman, a wicked word is soon uttered. Señores, a girl's reputation is like an egg; once cracked it cannot be mended. You understand?"

"What is to be done?" Pedrito muttered with discouragement.

"Patience, compadre! I am nothing myself, but, canario, Don Valentine Cardoso, my master, is kind, he is fond of me, and has a charming daughter; I will plead your sister's cause to him."

"The cause is already gained, my friend," said Don Valentine, whom Doña Salazar had informed of the bomberos' wishes.

Doña Concha, who accompanied her father, had been greatly affected by the story of Mercedes' misfortunes; a good action had tempted her heart, and she begged her father to take charge of the bomberos' sister, who would be a companion for her. Pepe and Pedrito knew not how to express their gratitude to Señor Cardoso.

"My friends," the latter said, "I am only too happy to discharge my debt to you. We have an old account outstanding between us. Eh, Blas! And if my daughter still has a father, she owes it to you."

"Oh, señor!" the two young men protested.

"My daughter, Conchita, will have a sister, and I two daughters instead of one. Do you wish it so, Conchita?"

"I thank you, father," as she repeatedly kissed Mercedes. "My dear girl," she added, "kiss your brothers and follow me to my apartments; I will myself give you the articles of clothing you most require, and enable you to get rid of this heathen costume at once."

Mercedes threw herself into her brother's arms with tears.

"Come, come, little maid," Doña Concha said, as she drew her away, "do not cry thus, you will see them again, wipe your eyes, for I mean you to be happy, do you understand? Come, smile at once, my darling, and follow me."

The sentinel's horn at this moment announced that a stranger was asking admission to the estancia.

"Thanks, once again, Don Valentine," Pedrito said, "we go away with minds at rest."

"Good-bye, till we meet again, my friends."

Pedrito and Pepe, light both in body and mind, left the estancia, and crossed on their passage a horseman, who was coming up to the steps at a sharp trot.

"That is strange," said Pedrito, "where have I seen that man? I do not know, but I feel certain I have met him before."

"Do you know Don Torribio Carvajal?" the capataz asked.

"I am not aware if that is the Caballero's name, who he is, or where I have seen him; still, I am certain that we met a very little while ago."

"Ah!"

"Good-bye, Don Blas, and thank you," the bomberos said, as they shook his hand.

[CHAPTER IX.]

DON SYLVIO D'ARENAL.

An hour before the bomberos' arrival at the estancia, a visitor had presented himself, who was eagerly greeted by Don Valentine and his daughter. This visitor, about eight-and-twenty years of age, and elegantly built, possessed the manners of a man of distinction, and a clever, noble face. His name was Don Sylvio d'Arenal, and he belonged to one of the richest and most respected families in Buenos Aires. The death of a relative had endowed him with a fortune of 500,000 piastres a year; that is to say, about one hundred thousand a year—a fortune large even for this country, where gold is so common.

The family of Don Sylvio and of Don Valentine, both originally from Spain, and connected by ancient ties, had ever lived on a footing of the greatest intimacy. The young man and the young lady were educated together, and hence, when her handsome cousin came to say good-bye to her, and told her of his departure for Europe, where he was to travel for some years to complete his education, and assume elegant manners, Doña Concha, who was at that time twelve years of age, felt a great vexation. Since their childhood, unconsciously, they loved each other with the simple gentle affection of youth, which only thinks of happiness.

Don Sylvio went away, bearing his love with him, and Conchita retained him in her heart.

Only a few days previously the young man had returned to Buenos Aires, and after making a tour through the most renowned cities of the civilized world, hastened to arrange his affairs. Then he freighted a schooner, and set sail for Carmen, burning with desire to see again the woman he loved, and whom he had not seen for three years—his Conchita, the pretty child who, he thought, had, doubtless, become a lovely and accomplished maiden.

At Carmen he found Don Valentine's house empty, and from the information he received from Tío Peralta, the old Negro, he rode at a gallop to the estancia of San Julian. The surprise and joy of Don Valentine and his daughter were extreme. Conchita was especially happy, for she thought daily of Sylvio, and saw him through her recollections, but at the same time she felt in her heart an emotion of mingled pleasure and sorrow. Sylvio perceived it, understood that he was still loved, and his happiness equalled that of Doña Concha.

"Come, come, children," the father said with a smile, "kiss each other; I permit it."

Doña Concha offered Don Sylvia her blushing forehead, which he respectfully touched with his lips.

"What sort of kiss do you call that?" Don Valentine continued, "come, come, no hypocrisy! kiss one another openly; hang it all! Do not play the coquette, Conchita, because you are a pretty girl, and he is a handsome fellow; and you, Sylvio, who fall here like a bombshell without notice, do you suppose, if you please, that I had not guessed for what reason you made a sea voyage of several hundred leagues? Is it for my sake you have hastened here from Buenos Aires? You love each other, so kiss like lovers and betrothed people, and if you behave yourselves you will be married in a few days."

The young folks, affected by these kind words and this merry humour, fell into the arms of the worthy man, in order to conceal their emotion.

"Children," he said, "the Rubicon is past; indulge your joy at meeting after so lengthened a separation. It is the last, for you have met again forever."

"Oh, forever," the young people repeated.

"Let us kill the fatted calf, as the prodigal child has come back. Don Sylvio, you will remain here, and not return to Carmen, except to be married. Does that suit you?"

"Yes," said Sylvio, looking amorously at Conchita, "on condition that it is soon, father."

"That's the way with lovers; they are always eager and impatient. Everyone in his turn; I was like that and as happy, then our children take our places, and the happiness of old men is produced by their happiness."

One of those sweet and intimate conversations then began, in which the recollections of the past and the certainty of speedy happiness were blended. They were interrupted by Doña Salazar entering the room. Don Sylvio proceeded to his apartment, while Concha and her father followed the old lady to the bomberos.

Don Valentine, surprised and irritated by the unexpected arrival of Don Torribio Carvajal, resolved to get rid of him, and come to an end with this mysterious man.

"You did not expect me so soon?" Don Torribio said, as he leapt from his horse, and bowed to the master of the house.

"I did not expect you at all; the less so because you spoke only yesterday, if I have a good memory, of a journey."

"That is true," he said with a smile, "but who knows yesterday what will take place tomorrow? Then you, too," Don Torribio continued, as he followed Don Valentine to the drawing room, "did not even dream yesterday of leaving El Carmen."

"Well, as you know, we estancieros are often compelled to go to our estates suddenly, from one moment to another."

"The same thing happens to me. I am, like you, compelled to live as a country gentleman for some time."

"Then you are living at your estancia?"

"Yes, we are neighbours, and you will be condemned to my presence, unless—"

"You will always be welcome."

"You are most polite," said Don Torribio, seating himself in an easy chair.

"I am afraid, though, that I shall not long enjoy the pleasure of being your neighbour."

"Why so?"

"It is possible that I may return to Carmen within a week."

"Then you have only paid a passing visit here?"

"Not exactly. I had intended to remain here some months, but, as you said just now, who knows what the morrow will bring forth?"

The two speakers, like practised duellists, before crossing weapons and dealing a decisive blow, were feeling each other's strength by quickly parried feints.

"May I be allowed to pay my respects to Doña Concha?" Don Torribio asked.

"She will soon be here. Just imagine, my dear neighbour, that through a concourse of extraordinary circumstances we have just taken charge of a girl of rare beauty, who has been two years a slave of the Indians, and whom her brothers brought to me scarce an hour ago, after having miraculously saved her from the hands of the pagans."

"Ah!" Torribio said, in a choking voice.

"Yes," Don Valentine continued, without noticing the young man's emotion; "her name is Mercedes, I believe; she appears very gentle; you know my daughter, she is wild about her already, and at this moment she is taking off her Indian clothes, and clothing her in a decent fashion."

"Very good; but are you sure that this woman is what she seems to be? The Indians are villains, as you are aware, and this—"

"Mercedes."

"Mercedes is perhaps an Indian spy."

"For what object?"

"What do I know? Can we trust anybody?"

"You are mistaken, Don Torribio. I can trust the men who brought her to me."

"Watch her; take my advice."

"But she is a Spaniard."

"That proves nothing. Look at Pincheira; is he not an ex-officer of the Chilian army? He is now a chief of one of the principal Patagonian nations, and the most cruel adversary of the Spaniards."

"Pincheira, that is different."

"As you please," said Don Torribio, "I trust that you may be right."

As Don Torribio uttered these words, Doña Concha appeared, accompanied by Don Sylvio.

"Don Torribio," said the estanciero, "I have the honour to present to you Don Sylvio d'Arenal."

"I believe," said Torribio, "that I have already had the honour of meeting this gentleman."

"Nonsense! It cannot have been in America, most certainly, for Don Sylvio has been away for three years."

"No, Don Valentine; it was in Paris."

"Your memory is faithful, sir," Don Sylvio replied, "we met at the house of the Marchioness de Lucenay."

"I was not aware of your return to America."

"I only reached Buenos Aires a few days ago; this morning I was at Carmen, and now I am here."

"Already here!" Don Torribio could not refrain from saying.

"Oh!" Concha's father said, with a marked accent, "This rather hasty visit was so natural, that my daughter and I heartily pardoned Don Sylvio."

"Ah!" Don Torribio muttered, to say something, for he understood that he had a rival before him.

Doña Concha, carelessly reclining on a sofa, anxiously followed the conversation, while playing with a fan that trembled in her hand.

"I hope, sir," Don Torribio said courteously, "that we shall renew here the imperfect friendship commenced in Madame de Lucenay's salons."

"Unluckily," Don Valentine interrupted, in order to prevent Don Sylvio answering, "Señor d'Arenal will be unable to accept your kind invitation, for immediately after his marriage he intends to travel with his wife, since that is the fashion nowadays."

"His marriage!" Don Torribio said, with perfectly well-played astonishment.

"Were you ignorant of it?"

"Yes."

"What a careless fellow I am! My happiness makes me lose my head. I am like these two children, but pray excuse me."

"Sir!"

"Certainly; for are you not one of our best friends? we have no secrets from you. Don Sylvio d'Arenal is about to marry my daughter; the match has been arranged for a very long time."

Don Torribio turned pale; a mist passed before his eyes, he felt a deadly agony in his heart, and thought he was going to die. Doña Concha curiously followed his secret thoughts upon his face; but, feeling that all eyes were fixed upon him, the young man made a superhuman effort, and said to the young lady in a soft voice, and without any apparent emotion—

"May you be as happy, señorita, as I wish you. The first wish, people say, is efficacious, so accept mine."

"I thank you, sir," Doña Concha answered, deceived by Don Torribio's accent.

"As for you, Señor d'Arenal, your happiness will make many men jealous; for you are taking away the most precious pearl in the rich casket of the Argentine republic."

"I will strive, señor, to be worthy of her; for I love her so dearly."

"They love one another so dearly," the father said with cruel simplicity.

The young lovers exchanged a glance full of hope and happiness. Neither Don Valentine's last remark, nor the look of the betrothed couple, was left unnoticed by Don Torribio, who though not letting anything be seen, received this double dagger thrust, and concealed his grief beneath a smile.

"By Jove, neighbour," the father continued, "you will be present at the festival of betrothal, and give up your evening to us."

"Impossible, señor; important business calls me to my estancia, and, to my great regret, I must leave you."

"Still, if my daughter joined with me—"

"If I," Don Sylvio said, "dared—"

"You quite confound me; but, on my honour, I must be gone. The sacrifice I make at this moment is the more painful to me," he added, with a sardonic smile, "because happiness generally flies so fast that it is impossible to catch it up, and it is folly to neglect the opportunity."

"I fear no misfortune now," said Doña Concha, looking at Don Sylvio.

Carvajal gave her a look full of indefinable meaning, and replied with a shake of the head.

"I trust you are saying the truth, señorita, but there is a French proverb."

"What is it?"

"'Twixt cup and the lip there's many a slip.'"

"Oh, the ugly proverb!" Conchita exclaimed, in some embarrassment, "but I am not a French woman, and hence have nothing to fear."

"That is true."

And Don Torribio, without adding a word, bowed, and left the room.

"Well, my friend," the estanciero said, "what do you think of that man?"

"He has a look deep as an abyss, and his words are bitter; I know not why, but I feel sure he hates me."

"I hate him too," said Concha, with a shudder.

"Perhaps he loved you, Conchita, for is it possible to see and not love you?"

"Who assures you that he is not meditating a crime?"

"This time, señorita, you are going too far; he is a gentleman."

"¿Quién sabe?" she replied, remembering Don Torribio's words, which had already caused her a shudder.

[CHAPTER X.]

THE VIRGIN FOREST.

On leaving the estancia of San Julian, Don Torribio Carvajal was a prey to one of those cold, concentrated passions, which slowly collect in the mind, and at length burst out with terrible force. His spurs lacerated the sides of his horse, which snorted with pain, and doubled its furious speed.

Where was Don Torribio Carvajal going in this way? He did not know himself. He saw nothing, heard nothing. He revolved sinister plans in his brain, and leaped torrents and ravines without troubling himself about his horse. The feeling of hatred was alone at work within him. Nothing refreshed his burning forehead, his temples beat as if about to burst, and a nervous tremor agitated his whole body. This state of over-excitement lasted some hours, during which his horse devoured space. At length the noble steed, utterly exhausted, stopped on its trembling knees, and fell on the sand.

Don Torribio rose and looked wildly around him. He had required this rude shock to restore a little order to his ideas, and recall him to reality. An hour more of such agony and he would have become a raving lunatic, or have died of an apoplectic fit.

Night had set in, thick darkness covered the landscape, and a mournful silence prevailed in the desert where chance had carried him.

"Where am I?" he said, as he tried to discover his whereabouts.

But the moon, concealed by clouds, shed no light; the wind blew violently; the branches of the trees clashed together, and in the depths of the desert the howling of the wild beasts began to mingle the deep notes of their voices with the hoarse mewlings of the wild cats.

Don Torribio's eyes sought in vain to pierce the obscurity. He went up to his horse, which was lying on the ground and panting heavily; moved with pity for the companion of his adventurous journeys, he bent over it, placed in his waist belt the pistols that were in the holsters, and unfastening a gourd of rum hanging from his saddlebow, began washing the eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth of the poor beast, whose sides quivered, and which this seemed to restore to life. Half an hour passed in this way; the horse, somewhat refreshed, had got on its legs, and with the instinct that distinguishes the race had discovered a spring close by where it quenched its thirst.

"All is not lost yet," Don Torribio muttered, "and perhaps I shall soon succeed in getting out of this place, for my friends are waiting for me, and I must join them."

But a deep roar broke forth a short distance away, repeated almost immediately from four different quarters. The horse's hair stood on end with terror. Even Don Torribio trembled.

"Malediction!" he exclaimed, "I am at a watering place of the cougars."

At this moment he saw, about ten paces from him, two eyes that shone like live coals, and looked at him with strange fixedness.

Don Torribio was a man of tried courage, audacious, and even rash on occasions; but alone in the gloomy solitude in the midst of the black night, surrounded by ferocious beasts, he felt fear assail himself against his will; he breathed with difficulty; his teeth were clenched, an icy perspiration poured down his whole person, and he was on the point of abandoning himself to his fate. This sudden discouragement disappeared before a powerful will, and Don Torribio, sustained by the instinct of self-preservation, and that hope which springs eternal in the human breast, prepared for an unequal struggle.

The horse burst into a snort of terror, and ran off.

"All the better," its rider thought, "perhaps it will escape."

A frightful concert of howls and roars broke out on all sides at the sound of the horse's flight and huge shadows bounded along past Don Torribio. A violent blast swept the sky, and the moon lit up the desert with its mournful, sickly rays.

Not far off the Rio Negro ran between two scarped banks, and Don Torribio saw all round him the compact masses of a virgin forest, an inextricable chaos of rocks piled up pell-mell, and of fissures out of which clumps of trees grew. Here and there creepers were intertwined describing the wildest curves, and only stopped their ramifications at the river. The soil, composed of sand and that detritus which abounds in American forests, gave way beneath the foot.

Don Torribio now discovered where he was He was more than fifteen leagues from any habitation, on the outskirts of an immense forest, the only one in Patagonia which no ranger had as yet been bold enough to explore, such horror and mystery did its gloomy depths appear to reveal. Near the forest a limpid stream burst through the rocks, whose banks were trampled by numerous traces of the claws of wild beasts. This stream served them, in fact, as a watering place, when they left their dens after sunset, and went in search of food and drink. As a living testimony of this supposition, two magnificent cougars, male and female, were standing on the bank, and watching with anxious eyes the sporting of their cubs.

"Hum," said Don Torribio, "these are dangerous neighbours."

And he mechanically turned his eyes away. A panther, stretched out on a rock in the position of a watchful cat, fixed its inflamed eyes upon him. Torribio, who was well armed according to the American fashion, had a rifle of wondrous accuracy, which he had leant against a rock close to him.

"Good," he said, "it will be a tough fight at any rate."

He raised his gun, but at the moment when he was about to fire, a plaintive mewling made him raise his head. A dozen pajiros and subaracayas (wild cats of great size), perched on branches of trees, were looking down at him, while several red wolves were crouching in front of him.

A number of vultures, urubús, and caracaras, with half-closed eyes, were seated on the surrounding rocks, and apparently awaiting the hour for their meal.

Don Torribio jumped up on a rock, and then, by the help of his hands and knees, gained, after extraordinary difficulties, a sort of natural terrace situated about twenty feet above the ground. The frightful concert formed by the denizens of the forest, whom the subtlety of their scent attracted one after the other, increased more and more, and overpowered the very sound of the wind which raged in the ravines and forest clearings. The moon was once more hidden behind clouds, and Don Torribio found himself again in darkness; but if he could not distinguish the wild beasts near him, he guessed and almost smelt their presence; he saw their eyeballs flashing in the gloom, and heard their roars constantly coming nearer.

He set his feet firmly on the ground, and cocked his revolver. Four shots were followed by four howls of pain, and the noise produced by branch after branch in the fall of the wounded wild cats. This attack aroused a sinister uproar. The red wolves rushed with yells on the victims, for which they contended with the urubús and vultures. A rustling in the leaves reached the ear of the brave hunter, and a mass it was impossible clearly to distinguish cleft the space, and lodged with a roar on the platform. With the butt of his rifle he struck out in the darkness, and the panther, with a broken skull, rolled to the base of the rock. He heard a monstrous battle, which the cougars and wild cats waged with the wounded panther, and intoxicated by his triumph, and even by his danger, he fired two shots into the crowd of obstinate enemies snarling below him. Suddenly all these animals, ceasing their contest as if by common consent, united against the man, their common foe, and their rage was turned against the rock, from the top of which Don Torribio appeared to defy them all. They climbed up the projections. The wild cats were the first to arrive, and fast as Torribio felled them others leaped upon him. He felt his strength and energy gradually diminishing.

This struggle of a single man against a multitude of ferocious brutes had something grand and poignant about it. Don Torribio, as if suffering from a nightmare, struggled in vain against the swarms of assailants that were constantly reinforced. He felt on his face the warm, fetid breath of the wild cats and red wolves, while the roars of the cougars and the mocking miauling of the panthers filled his ears with a frightful melody that gave him a vertigo. Hundreds of eyes sparkled in the shade, and at times the heavy wings of the vultures and urubús lashed his forehead, which was bathed in a cold perspiration.

In him every feeling of self had died out: he no longer thought; his life, so to speak, had become entirely physical; his movements were mechanical, and his arms rose and fell to strike with the rigid regularity of a pendulum.

Already several claws had been buried deep in his flesh. Wild cats had seized him by the throat, and he had been compelled to struggle with them to make them loose their hold; his blood was flowing from twenty wounds, not mortal it is true, but the hour was approaching beyond which human strength cannot go; Don Torribio would have fallen from his rock and perished under the teeth of the wild beasts.

At this solemn moment, when all seemed to desert him, a loud cry burst from his bosom—a cry of agony and despair of undefinable expression, which was echoed far and wide by the rocks. It was the last protest of the strong man who confesses himself vanquished, and who, before falling, calls his fellow man to his aid, or implores the help of Heaven.

He cried, and a cry responded to his!

Don Torribio amazed, and not daring to count on a miracle in a desert which no human being had ever yet penetrated, believed himself under the impression of a dream or an hallucination; still, collecting all his strength, and feeling hope rekindled in his soul, he uttered a second cry, louder and more ear-piercing than the first.

"Courage!"

This time it was not echo that answered him. Courage! That one word reached him on the wings of the wind, though faint as a sigh. Like the giant Antaeus, Don Torribio, drawing himself up, seemed to regain his strength and recover that life which was already slipping from him. He redoubled his blows at his innumerable enemies.

Several horses were galloping in the distance; shots lit up the darkness with their transient gleams, and men, or rather demons, dashed suddenly into the thick of the wild beasts, and produced a fearful carnage.

Suddenly Don Torribio, attacked by two tiger cats, rolled on the platform, struggling with them.

The wild beasts had fled before the newcomers, who hastened to light fires to keep them at bay during the rest of the night. Two of these men, holding lighted torches, began seeking the hunter, whose cries of distress had besought their help. He was lying senseless on the platform, surrounded by ten or a dozen dead wild cats, and holding in his stiffened fingers the neck of a strangled pajiro.

"Well, Pepe," a voice said, "have you found him?"

"Yes," was the reply; "but he appears to be dead."

"Caray! That would be a pity," Pedrito continued, "for he is a fine fellow. Where is he?

"On this rock."

"Can you bring him down with the help of Lopez?"

"Nothing easier."

"Make haste, in Heaven's name!" Pedrito said. "Each minute's delay is, perhaps, a year's life slipping from him."

Lopez and Pepe raised Don Torribio by the head and feet, and with infinite precautions transported him from the improvised fortress where he had so long fought, and laid him on a bed of leaves Juan had got ready near one of the fires.

"Canario!" Pedrito exclaimed, on seeing the gory man's miserable appearance; "Poor devil! How they have served him out! It was high time to help him."

"Do you think he will recover?" Lopez asked eagerly.

"There is always hope," Pedrito answered sententiously, "where life is not extinct. Let us have a look at him."

He bent over Don Torribio's body, drew his glistening knife, and placed the blade between his lips.

"Not the slightest breath," Pedrito said, shaking his head.

"Are his wounds serious?" Lopez asked.

"I do not think so. He has been worn out by fatigue and emotion, but he will soon open his eyes again, and in a quarter of an hour, if he think proper, he can get into the saddle again. It is surely he," Pedrito added, in a low voice.

"Whence comes your thoughtful air, brother?"

"It is because this man, in spite of his European dress and thorough appearance of a white, resembles—"

"Whom?"

"The Indian chief, with whom we fought at the tree of Gualichu, and to whom we owe Mercedes' safety."

"You must be mistaken."

"Not the least in the world, brothers," the eldest replied authoritatively. "When hidden in the trunk of the sacred tree, I had leisure to study his features, which have remained graven on my mind. Besides, I recognize him by this gash which I made on his face with my sabre."

"That is true," the others said in surprise.

"What is to be done?"

"What is the meaning of this disguise?"

"Heaven alone knows," Pedrito answered, "but he must be saved."

The bomberos, like all wood rangers living far from the colony, are obliged to cure their own wounds, and hence acquire a certain practical knowledge of medicine through employing the remedies and simples in use among the Indians.

Pedrito, assisted by Pepe and Juan, washed Don Torribio's wounds with rum and water, moistened his temples, and puffed tobacco smoke up his nostrils. The young man gave an almost insensible sigh, stirred slightly, and opened his eyes, which wandered round vacantly.

"He is saved!" said Pedrito; "Now leave Nature to act, for she is the best physician I know."

Don Torribio raised himself on an elbow, passed his hand over his forehead, as if to regain his memory and thought, and said, in a weak voice—

"Who are you?"

"Friends, sir—fear nothing."

"I feel as if every bone in my body were broken."

"There is no danger, sir; with the exception of the fatigue, you are well as we are."

"I hope so, my worthy friends; but by what miracle did you arrive in time to save me?"

"Your horse performed this miracle; had it not, you were lost."

"How so?" Torribio asked, his voice growing gradually stronger, and already able to rise.

"This is how it was—we are bomberos—" The young man gave a sort of nervous start, which he suddenly checked.

"We are bomberos, and watch the Indians, especially at night. Accident brought us to these parts. Your horse was flying with a pack of red wolves at its heels; we freed it from these brutes; then, as it seemed to us probable that a ready saddled horse could not be without an owner in this forest, where no one ventures, we set out in search of the rider. Your cry guided us."

"How can I pay my debt to you?" Torribio asked, offering his hand to Pedrito.

"You owe us nothing, sir."

"Why?"

"Here is your horse, caballero."

"But I should like to see you again," he said, before starting.

"It is unnecessary; you owe us nothing, I tell you," said Pedrito, who held the horse by the bridle.

"What do you mean?" Don Torribio insisted.

"The bombero," Pedrito replied, "has paid today the debt contracted yesterday with Nocobotha the Ulmen of the Aucas."

Don Torribio's face was covered with a deadly pallor.

"We are quits, chief," Pedrito continued, as he let go the bridle.

When the rider had disappeared in the darkness, Pedrito turned to his brothers—

"I know not why it is," he said, with a sigh of relief, "but I feel happy at owing nothing to that man."

[CHAPTER XI.]

THE CHASE OF THE ÑANDUS.

At the Estancia of San Julian, the hours passed away pleasantly, in talking and dreams of happiness, and Don Valentine shared the joy of his two children. Don Torribio, since the official announcement of Doña Concha's marriage, had not been seen again either at San Julian or Carmen, to the great amazement of everybody. Mercedes, gentle and simple, had become the friend, almost the sister of Concha. The frank and pealing laugh of the girls cheered the echoes of the house, and caused the capataz to grow pensive, for, at the sight of the bomberos' sister, he had felt his heart turn towards her, like the heliotrope to the sun. Don Blas, resembling a soul in purgatory, prowled round Mercedes at a distance, to look at her unperceived. Everybody at the estancia had observed the worthy man's distress, and he alone, in spite of his heavy sighs, did not know what it all meant. They ventured to ridicule him, though without wounding his feelings, and laugh at his singular ways.

One fresh November morning, shortly after sunrise, there was a great commotion at the estancia of San Julian. Several horses, held by black slaves, were stamping impatiently at the foot of the steps; servants were running backwards and forwards; and Don Blas, dressed in his best clothes, was awaiting his master's arrival.

At length Don Valentine and Don Sylvio appeared, accompanied by the two ladies. At the sight of Mercedes, the capataz felt fire rise from his heart to his face; he drew himself up, curled his moustache cordially, and gave his well-beloved a tender and respectful glance.

"Good day, Blas, my friend," Don Valentine said to him cordially. "I fancy we shall have a fine day's sport."

"I think so too, Excellency; the weather is superb."

"Have you chosen quiet horses for my daughter and her companion?"

"Oh, Excellency," the capataz answered; "I lassoed them myself on the corral. I answer for them, or my head. They are real ladies' horses—lambs."

"We are easy in mind," said Doña Concha, "for we know that Don Blas spoils us."

"Come, to horse, and let us start."

"Yes, it is a long ride from here to the plain of the Ñandus (a species of the ostrich)," said Blas, with an affectionate glance at Mercedes.

The little party, composed of twenty well-armed men, proceeded to the battery, where Patito lowered the drawbridge.

"You must double your vigilance," the capataz said to the gaucho.

"Don't be alarmed, Señor Blas. Good luck to you and the honourable company," Patito added, waving his hat in the air.

"Raise the drawbridge, Patito."

"Anyone who gets into the estancia, capataz, will be sharper than you and I."

In Patagonia, at a short distance from the rivers, all the plains are alike; sand, ever sand, and here and there some stunted bushes. Such was the road to the plain of the Ñandus.

Don Valentine had invited his future son-in-law to an ostrich hunt, and, as may be supposed, Conchita wished to be of the party.

Ostrich hunting is one of the great amusements of the Spaniards in Patagonia and the Argentine Republic, where those birds are found in great numbers.

The ostriches usually live in small families of eight or ten, scattered along the edges of marches, pools, and lakes; and they feed on fresh grass. Faithful to the native nook, they never leave the vicinity of the water, and, in the month of November, they lay their eggs, which are frequently fifty to sixty in number, in the wildest part of the desert, and only sit on them at night. When incubation is over, the bird breaks with its beak the addled eggs, which are at once covered with flies and insects, that serve as food for the young.

A characteristic feature of the manners of the ostriches is their extreme curiosity. At the estancias, where they live in a domestic state, it is not uncommon to see them stalking about among the groups and looking at people who are conversing together. On the plains their curiosity is often fatal to them, for they come up without hesitation to investigate everything that appears to them strange. Here is a rather good Indian story referring to this. The cougars lie down on the ground, raise their tail in the air, and wave it in all directions. The ostriches, attracted by the sight of this strange object, come up in their simplicity; the rest can be guessed—they become victims to the tricks of the cougars.

The hunters, after a rather quick ride for nearly two hours, reached the plain of the Ñandus. The ladies dismounted on the bank of a stream and four men, with their rifles on their hips, remained with them. The hunters exchanged their horses for others black slaves had led by the bridle for them, and then divided into two equal bands. The first, commanded by Don Valentine, entered the plain, forming a semicircle, so as to drive the game into a ravine, situated between two sand ridges. The second band, having at its head the hero of the day, Don Sylvio, formed a long line, which constituted the other moiety of the circle. This circle was gradually contracted by the advance of the horsemen, when a dozen ostriches showed themselves; but the male bird, that stood as sentry, warned the family of its danger, by a cry sharp as a boatswain's whistle. The ostriches fled rapidly, in a straight line, and without looking back.

All the hunters started after them at a gallop, and the hitherto silent plain became very animated.

The horsemen pursued the luckless birds at the full speed of their steeds, and raised clouds of fine dust as they passed. About fifteen yards behind the game, still galloping and digging their spurs into their horses' flanks, they bent forward, whirling round their heads the terrible bolas and hurling them with all their strength at the animals. If they missed their throw they stooped down on one side, without stopping, and picked up the bolas, which they threw again.

Several families of ostriches had got up, and the chase soon grew most exciting. Yells and shouts were heard all around; the bolas whistled through the air, and twined round the necks, wings, and legs of the ostriches, which, wild with terror, made a thousand feints and turns to escape their enemies, and tried, by flapping their wings, to wound the horses with the species of nail with which the extremity of their wings is armed.

Several startled horses reared, and embarrassed by three or four ostriches that got between their legs, fell, bearing their riders to the ground with them. The birds, taking advantage of the confusion, escaped to the side where other hunters were waiting for them, where they fell under a shower of bolas. Each hunter dismounted, killed his victim, cut off its wings as a trophy, and then resumed the chase with fresh ardour. Ostriches and hunters fled and galloped rapidly as the pampero.

Some fifteen ostriches strewed the plain, and Don Valentine gave the signal to retreat. The birds which had not fallen hurried with wings and feet to a place of safety. The dead were carefully picked up, for the ostrich is excellent eating, and the Americans prepare from the meat off the breast, a dish renowned for its delicacy and exquisite flavour, which they call picanilla.

The slaves went to look for the eggs, which are also highly esteemed, and obtained a large quantity of them.

Although the hunt had only lasted an hour the horses were panting; hence the return to the estancia took place but slowly. The hunters did not return till a little before sunset.

"Well, Don Valentine," asked Patito, "has anything of importance happened during my absence?"

"Nothing, Excellency!" Patito replied, "A gaucho, who said he had come from Carmen on important business, insisted on being let in to speak with Don Sylvio d'Arenal."

This gaucho, for whom Patito had been very careful not to lower the drawbridge, was his dear and honest friend Corrocho, who, it may be remembered, wanted to kill him cleverly. Corrocho had gone off in a very bad temper, without leaving any message.

"What do you think about this gaucho's arrival, Don Sylvio?" Don Valentine asked, when they were comfortably seated in the drawing room.

"It does not surprise me," Sylvio answered.

"My own house is being got ready at Carmen, and, no doubt, my orders are wanted."

"That is possible."

"I am hurrying on the workmen, father. I am so eager to be married that I fear lest my happiness should slip from my grasp," said Don Sylvio.

"And I too," said Doña Concha, her face becoming purple.

"There is a little article for you," said Don Valentine. "The hearts of girls are at work when you least expect it. Patience, miss, for three days longer."

"My good father!" Conchita cried, as she hid her face in Don Valentine's bosom, that the tears of joy might not be seen.

"Oh! In that case I will start tomorrow for Carmen, especially as I am awaiting from Buenos Aires papers indispensable for our marriage—our happiness," Don Sylvio added, looking at his well beloved.

"I hope," she said, "you will start very early, so as to return in the morning of the next day."

"I shall be here tomorrow evening. Can I remain long away from you, my dear Conchita?"

"No, Don Sylvio, no. I implore you. I do not wish you to return at night."

"Why not?" the young man asked, slightly piqued at this remark.

"I really cannot tell you; but I feel frightened at the thought of your crossing the Pampa alone and by night."

"Oh!" she continued, seeing Don Sylvio about to speak, "I know that you are brave, almost too brave; but gaucho bandits abound in the plain. Do not expose a life which is so dear to me, which is no longer your own, Sylvio; and listen to the warnings of a heart which is no longer mine."

"Thanks, Conchita. Still I have no one to fear in this country, where I am a stranger. Moreover, I never leave the estancia without looking like a theatrical bandit, so covered am I with weapons."

"No matter," Doña Concha continued; "if you love me—"

"If I love you!" he interrupted passionately.

"If you love me, you must take pity on my anxiety, and—obey me."

"Come, come!" said Don Valentine, with a laugh. "On my soul you are mad, Conchita, and your romances have turned your head. You only dream of brigands, ambuscades, and treachery."

"What would you have, father? Is it my fault? The foreboding of a coming misfortune agitates me, and I wish to leave nothing to chance."

"Do not cry, my darling child," the father said to Concha, as she burst into tears. "Kiss me. I was wrong. Your betrothed and myself will do all you please. Does that satisfy you?"

"Do you really mean it?" Doña Concha asked, smiling through her tears.

"Oh, señorita!" Sylvio exclaimed in a tone of tender reproach.

"You render me perfectly happy. I only ask one thing. Let Blas Salazar accompany you."

"As you please."

"Do you promise it?"

"On my honour."

"Then," Don Valentine said, gaily, "all is for the best, little maid. I suspect, Conchita, that you are somewhat jealous, and afraid of losing Sylvio."

"Perhaps so," she said, maliciously.

"Such things have happened," her father said, teasingly. "So, Don Sylvio, you intend starting tomorrow morning?"

"At sunrise, in order to avoid the great heat; and, as I do not hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again before I go, I will take leave of you at once."

"Kiss one another, children! When persons part, especially if they love, they ought to embrace as if they were never going to meet again in this world."

"Really, father," said Conchita, "you have such ideas—"

"I was only in fun, my dear child."

"Pleasant journey, Don Sylvio; and we shall see you again the day after tomorrow."

"You may be sure of that."

The next morning at sunrise, Don Sylvio d'Arenal left the estancia. At the bottom of the steps the capataz and two slaves were waiting for him. Involuntarily the young man, before starting, turned his head towards the window of his beloved which suddenly opened.

"Farewell," said Doña Concha, with some emotion in her voice.

"Farewell," Sylvio replied, wafting her a kiss, "till we meet again."

"That is true," she said. "We shall soon meet again."

The capataz gave a heavy sigh; he was, doubtless thinking of Mercedes, and saying to himself that Don Sylvio was a very lucky man.

Don Sylvio, whose heart was contracted, though he knew not the cause, gave a last signal to his betrothed, and soon disappeared among the trees. Doña Concha followed him for a long time with her eyes, for a longer time with her heart; and soon as she was alone, she felt sadness assail her, and she wept and sobbed bitterly.

"O Heaven!" she exclaimed, "Protect him."

[CHAPTER XII.]

THE TOLDERÍA.

On the banks of the Rio Negro, about five and twenty leagues from Carmen, stood the toldería, or village of the Pass of the Guanacos.

This toldería, a simple temporary encampment, like all the Indian villages, whose nomadic manners do not agree with fixed settlements, was composed of about one hundred chozas, or cabins irregularly grouped one after the other.

Each choza was formed of ten stakes fixed in the ground, four or five feet high at the sides, and six to seven in the centre, with an opening to the east, so that the owner of the choza might in the morning throw water in the face of the rising sun, a ceremony by which the Indians implore Gualichu not to injure their families during the course of the day. These chozas were covered with horses' hides sewn together, and always open at the top to leave a free escape for the smoke of the fires in the interior, which fires equal in number the wives of the occupant, as each squaw must have a fire of her own. The leather that served as the exterior wall was carefully dressed and painted of different colours, and these paintings—rendered the general appearance of the toldería more cheerful.

In front of the entrance of the chozas, the lances of the warriors were fixed in the ground. These lances, light and made of flexible bamboos, sixteen to eighteen feet in length, and armed at their extremity with a spear a foot long forged by the Indians themselves, grow in the mountains of Chili, near Valdivia.

The liveliest joy appeared to prevail in the toldería. In some chozas Indian women, provided with spindles handed down from the Incas, were winding the wool of their flocks; in others, women were weaving their ponchos, so renowned for their delicacy and perfection of work, at looms of primitive simplicity which are another inheritance from the Incas.

The young men of the tribe, assembled at the centre of the toldería in a large square, were playing at pilma, a singular game of which the Aucas are very fond. The players trace a large circle on the ground, which they enter and range themselves in two rows facing each other. The champions of each party holding a ball full of air in their hands, one side on the right, the other on the left hand, throw these balls before them. They raise the left leg, catch the projectile in their hand and throw it at the adversary, whom they must hit on the body under penalty of losing one point. This produces a thousand strange contortions on the part of the opponent, who stoops down or gives a spring to avoid being hit. If the ball leaves the circle, the first player loses two points, and runs after it. If, on the contrary, the second player is hit, he must catch the ball and throw it at his adversary, whom he is bound to hit or lose a point. The next player on the opposite side begins the game again, and so on to the end. We can understand what bursts of laughter greet the grotesque postures of the players.

Other Indians of a riper age were gravely playing a sort of game at cards, with squares of leather clumsily illumined with figures of different animals.

In a choza, larger and better painted than the rest, which was the abode of the carasken or first chief, whose lances, covered at the end with red stained leather, were the distinctive mark of power, three men were sitting over a decaying fire, and talking regardless of the noises outside. These men were Nocobotha, Pincheira, and Churlakin, one of the principal Ulmens of the hills, whose squaw had given birth that same morning to a son, which was the cause of the great rejoicings among the Indians.

Churlakin received the orders of the great chief for the ceremonies usual on such occasions, bowed respectfully and left the choza, which he soon re-entered, followed by his wives and all his friends, one of whom held the infant in his arms.

Nocobotha placed himself between Pincheira and Churlakin, at the head of the party, and proceeded toward the Rio Negro. The newborn babe, wrapped in woollen swaddling clothes, was plunged into the water, and then they returned in the same order to Churlakin's choza, in front of which lay a plump filly, thrown down and with its four feet secured.

A poncho was spread under the animal's belly, and the relations and friends deposited on it, one after the other, the presents intended for the child, consisting of spurs, weapons, and clothes. Nocobotha, who had consented to act as godfather, placed the infant in the midst of the presents; and Churlakin laid open the filly's flanks, tore out its heart and handed it while still warm to Nocobotha, who employed it to make a cross on the infant's forehead, while saying, "Your name will be Churlakinkco." The father took the child back, and the chief, raising the bleeding heart, said thrice in a loud voice, "Let him live! Let him live! Let him live!" Then he recommended the child to Gualichu, the genius of evil, praying him to render him brave and eloquent, and terminated the enunciation of his vows with the words, "Above all, let him never become a slave."

When the ceremony was ended, the filly was cut into pieces, large fires were kindled, and all the relations and friends began a feast which would last until the immolated filly had entirely disappeared.

Churlakin prepared to sit down and eat like his guests, but at a sign from Nocobotha, he followed the great chief into his choza, where they resumed their seats at the fire, Pincheira joining them. Upon a signal from Nocobotha the squaws went out, and after a short reflection he began to say—

"Brothers, you are my confidants, and my heart is laid open before you like chirimoya, to enable you to see my most secret thoughts. You were perhaps surprised tonight at finding that I did not count you among the chiefs selected to act under my orders."

The two chiefs gave a nod of denial.

"You neither doubted my friendship nor supposed that I had withdrawn my confidence from you? Far from it. I reserve you two for more important enterprises, which require sure and well-tried men. You, Churlakin, will mount without delay, here is the quipu."

And he handed the Ulmen a small piece of willow wood, ten inches long and four wide, split down the centre and holding a human finger. This piece of wood, covered with thread, was fringed with red, blue, black, and white wool. Churlakin received the quipu respectfully.

"Churlakin," Nocobotha continued, "you will serve me as casqui (herald), not to the Patagonian natives of the Pampas, whose caraskens, Ulmens and Apo-Ulmens were present at the solemn meeting at the tree of Gualichu, although you may communicate with them on your road; but I send you specially to the nations and tribes scattered far away, and living in the woods, such as the Ranqueles, the Guerandis, the Moluches, and the Pecunches, to whom you will present the quipu. Turning back thence to the desert, you will visit the Charruas, Bocobis, Tebas, and Guaramis, who can place about twenty-five thousand warriors under arms. The task is difficult and delicate, and that is why I entrust it to you, whom I regard as my second self."

"My brother's mind can be at rest," Churlakin said, "I shall succeed."

"Good," Nocobotha continued, "I have made nineteen knots on the black wool to indicate that my brother left my side on the nineteenth day of the moon; on the white wool twenty-seven knots, to signify that in twenty-seven days the warriors will assemble under arms on the Island of Ghole-Isechel, at the fork of the Rio Negro. The chiefs who consent to join us will make a knot on the blood red wool, and those who refuse will knot the red and blue wool together. Has my brother understood?"

"Yes," Churlakin answered. "When must I start?"

"At once, for time presses."

"In ten minutes I shall be far from the village," said Churlakin, as he bowed to the two chiefs and left the choza.

"And now it is our turn," Nocobotha said with a friendly accent, when he found himself alone with Pincheira.

"I am listening."

The superior chief, then putting off the composed manner and language of an Ulmen, employed the European style with surprising readiness, and laying aside the Indian dialect, addressed the Chilian officer in the purest Castilian, spoken from Cape Horn to Magellan.

"My dear Pincheira," he said to him, "during the two years since my return from Europe, I have attached to myself most of the Carmen gauchos—utter scoundrels, I allow—and bandits exiled from Buenos Aires; but I can count on them, and they are devoted to me. These men only know me by the name of Don Torribio Carvajal."

"I was aware of the fact," Pincheira said.

"Ah!" Nocobotha remarked, darting a glance of suspicion at the Chilian.

"Everything is known on the Pampa."

"In a word," Nocobotha continued, "the hour has arrived when I must reap what I have sown among these bandits, who will be useful to us against their countrymen, through their knowledge of the Spanish tactics, and their skill in the use of firearms. Reasons, which would take me too long to explain, prevent me from turning my attention to these gauchos, so you will introduce yourself to them in my name. This diamond," he added, drawing a ring from his finger, "will be your passport; they are warned, and if you show it to them they will obey you as myself. They assemble at a low pulquería in the Población del Sur, at Carmen."

"I know it well. What am I to do with the fellows?"

"A very simple matter. Every day, a devoted man, Panchito by name, will transmit you my orders, and inform you of what is going on among us. Your duty will be to hold these bandits in readiness, and on a day I shall indicate to you, you will stir up a revolt in Carmen. This revolt will give us time to act outside, while a part of your people are scouring the Pampas, and freeing us, if possible, from those infernal bomberos, who watch our manoeuvres, and are almost as crafty as our Indians."

"Confound it," said Pincheira, "that is a tough job!"