Early next morning Pedro went round and quietly roused his friends.
"We must start at once," he said in a low voice to Lawrence, when the
wearied youth was sufficiently awake to understand. "Your wounded arm
is better, I hope?"
"It is only stiff and painful; happily, no bones are injured. But why
such haste? I don't like to leave my poor patients in this fashion."
"Will any of them die if you don't stay to nurse them?" asked the guide,
with a grave, almost stern, expression.
"Why, no; not exactly," returned Lawrence; "but many of them will want
their wounds dressed, and all of them will be the better for a little
more skilled attendance."
"Will they not survive under ordinary attendance?" asked Pedro, with
increasing severity of expression.
"Doubtless they will, but--"
"Would you like," interrupted the inflexible guide, "to have them all
roused up at this early hour to hear a little farewell speech from you,
explaining the absolute necessity for your going away, and your extreme
regret at leaving them?"
"Not if there is such necessity," returned Lawrence, yawning, and
raising himself on one elbow.
"There _is_ such necessity, senhor. I have been down to the village
where my friend lives, and have got fresh horses. Manuela and Quashy
are already mounted. I let you sleep to the last moment, seeing you
were so tired. Don't forget your pistols; you may need them."
Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room. The young
doctor hesitated no longer. Regret at quitting the poor people around
him was overborne by the fear of being left behind, for he had by that
time begun to entertain a vague suspicion that the stern and peculiar
man by whom he was led would not permit any object whatever to stand in
the way of what he believed to be his duty.
In a few seconds he issued from the hut, armed with his pair of
double-barrelled pistols and the faithful cudgel. The cavalry sabre,
however, had been lost, not much to his regret.
The grey light of dawn was just sufficient to give a ghostly appearance
to what may be truly termed the ghastly ruins around them, and to reveal
in undefined solemnity the neighbouring mountains. Smoke still issued
from the half-smothered fires, and here and there a spectral figure
might be seen flitting silently to and fro. But all was profoundly
still and quiet, even the occasional tremors of the earth had ceased for
a time, when they issued from the enclosure of the hut.
Without speaking, Lawrence mounted the horse which stood ready for him,
and they all rode silently away, picking their steps with great care
through the upheaved and obstructed streets. It was a scene of absolute
and utter ruin, which Lawrence felt could never be effaced from his
memory, but must remain there burned in deeply, in its minutest details,
to the end of time.
When they had passed the suburbs, however, and reached the country
beyond, the depressing influences passed away, and, a certain degree of
cheerfulness returning with the sun, they began to chat and to explain
to each other their various experiences.
"Of course, when I felt the earthquake," said Pedro to Lawrence, "I knew
that, although little damage was done to the village to which I had gone
in search of my friends, it must have been very severe on the town with
its spires and public buildings; so I saddled up at once, and set off on
my return. I met Quashy just as I left the village, and we both spurred
back as fast as we could. When we came in sight of it, we saw at once
that the place was destroyed, but, until we reached it, had no idea of
the completeness of the destruction. We could not even find the road
that led to the inn where we had left you and Manuela; and it was not
till the following morning that we found the inn itself, and came up, as
you know, just in time to help you, though we had sought diligently all
night."
"Das so, massa," broke in Quashy, who had listened with glittering eyes
to Pedro's narrative, which of course was much more extended and full,
"an' you's got no notion how we's banged about our poor shins among dese
ruins afore we founded you. S'my b'lief but for de fires we'd nebber
hab founded you at all. And dem scoundrils--oh! dem scoundrils--"
Quashy's feelings at this point failed to find vent in words
sufficiently expressive, so he relieved them to some extent by shaking
his fist at scoundreldom in general, and grinding his teeth. No words
could have expressed his feelings half so well. By way of changing a
subject that appeared to be almost too much for him, he turned abruptly
to the Indian girl; and said, in Spanish quite as bad as that of
Lawrence--
"But where were _you_, senhorina, all the time?"
"Ay, Manuela, let's hear how it was that you escaped," said Pedro
quickly, in Indian.
"I escaped through the mercy of God," replied the girl, in a low voice.
"True, Manuela, true," replied the guide, "you never said a truer word
than that; but by what means was His mercy displayed?"
"I can scarcely tell," returned the girl; "when the earthquake came I
was sitting on my bed. Then the wall of the room seemed to fall on me,
and my senses were gone. How long I lay so, I cannot tell. When I
recovered my mind I felt as if buried alive, but I could breathe, and
although unable to rise, I could move. Then I heard cries, and I
replied; but my strength was gone, and I think no one heard me. Then I
prayed, and then, I think, I slept, but am not sure. At last I heard a
spade striking the earth above me. Soon an opening was made, and I was
dragged rudely out. The rest you know."
On this being interpreted to her companions, Quashy gave it as his
decided opinion that a miracle had been performed for her special
deliverance; but Lawrence thought that, without miraculous interference,
God had caused a mass of wall to fall over and protect her in much the
same way that he himself had been protected.
While they were talking thus, and slowly descending one of the numerous
richly-wooded, though rugged, paths which traverse the lower slopes of
the Andes, they encountered a party of horsemen from the Pampas. They
were well-armed, and from their looks might have been another troop of
banditti, coming like human vultures from afar to swoop down on the
carcass of the unfortunate town.
To have shown the slightest hesitancy or fear--supposing them to have
been what they looked--would have been to invite attack, but, as the
reader knows, our travellers were not the men to betray themselves thus.
Before starting, they had carefully examined their weapons, and had
bestowed them about their persons somewhat ostentatiously. Pedro had
even caused Manuela to stick a brace of small pistols and a large knife
in her belt; and, as Indian women are sometimes known to be capable of
defending themselves as vigorously as men, she was by no means a cipher
in the effective strength of the party.
With a dignified yet free-and-easy air that would have done credit to a
Spanish Don of the olden time, Pedro saluted the party as he rode past.
His aspect, and the quiet, self-possessed air of the huge Englishman,
with the singularity of his cudgel, coupled with the look of graceful
decision about the Indian maiden, and the blunt bull-doggedness of the
square negro, were sufficient to ensure a polite response, not only from
that party, but from several other bands of the same stamp that were met
with during the day.
Diverging from the main road in order to avoid these bands, they
followed a track well-known to the guide. Towards the afternoon, from
the top of a rising ground, they descried a solitary foot traveller
wending his way wearily up the hill.
He was a man of middle age, and powerfully-built, but walked with such
evident difficulty that it seemed as if he were either ill or exhausted.
Pedro eyed him with considerable suspicion as he approached. In
passing, he begged for assistance. As he spoke in French, Lawrence,
whose sympathies, like those of Quashy, were easily roused, asked in
that tongue what was the matter with him.
He had been robbed, he said, by that villainous bandit, Conrad of the
Mountains, or some one extremely like him, and had been nearly killed by
him. He was on his way to San Ambrosio, where his wife and family
dwelt, having heard that it had been greatly damaged, if not destroyed,
by an earthquake.
"It has been utterly destroyed, my poor fellow," said Lawrence, in a
tone of pity; "but it may be that your family has escaped. A good
number of people have escaped. Here are a few dollars for you. You
will need them, I fear. You can owe them to me, and pay them when next
we meet."
The gift was accompanied with a look of pleasantry, for Lawrence well
knew there was little chance of their ever meeting again.
Pedro sat regarding them with a grim smile. "You are a stout fellow,"
he said, in a tone that was not conciliatory, after the beggar had
accepted the dollars with many expressions of gratitude; "from all I
have heard of Conrad of the Mountains, you are quite a match for him, if
he were alone."
"He was not alone, senhor," replied the beggar, with a look that told of
a temper easily disturbed.
To this Pedro replied contemptuously, "Oh, indeed!" and, turning
abruptly away, rode on.
"You doubt that man?" said Lawrence, following him.
"I do."
"He looked honest."
"Men are not always to be judged by their looks."
"Das a fact!" interposed Quashy; "what would peepil judge ob _me_, now,
if dey hoed by looks?"
"They'd say you were a fine, genial, hearty, good-natured blockhead,"
said Lawrence, laughing.
"True, massa, you's right. I'm all dat an' wuss, but not _always_ dat.
Sometimes I'm roused; an' I'm _awrful_ w'en I'm roused! You should see
me w'en my back's riz. Oh _my_!"
The negro opened his eyes and mouth so awfully at the mere idea of such
a rising that his companions were fain to seek relief in laughter. Even
the grave Manuela gave way to unrestrained merriment, for if she failed
to thoroughly understand Quashy's meaning, she quite understood his
face.
That night they found welcome shelter in a small farm.
"Did you fall in with the notorious bandit, Conrad of the Mountains?"
asked their host, after the ceremonious reception of his guests was
over.
"No, senhor," answered Pedro. "Is that fellow in this neighbourhood
just now?"
"So it is said, senhor. I have not seen him myself, and should not know
him if I saw him, but from descriptions I should think it must be he. I
have a poor fellow--a peon--lying here just now, who has been robbed and
nearly murdered by him. Come, he is in the next room; you can speak to
him."
Saying this, the host introduced Pedro and Lawrence into an inner
chamber, where the wounded man lay, groaning horribly. He was very
ready, indeed eager, to give all the information in his power. Fear had
evidently given the poor fellow an exaggerated idea of the appearance of
the man who had waylaid him; nevertheless, from his description our
travellers had no difficulty in recognising the poor bereaved beggar
whom they had met and assisted.
"Was he a large man?" asked Pedro.
"Yes, yes, senhor; tremendous!--seven feet or more, and _so_"--
indicating about three feet--"across the shoulders. Rough black head,
huge black beard and moustache, hawk nose, with such awful eyes, and the
strength of a tiger! I could never have been so easily overcome by one
man if he had not been a giant."
"You see," said Pedro in English, turning to Lawrence with a smile, "the
description tallies exactly, making due allowance for this poor fellow's
alarm. He must be a clever fellow this Conrad of the Mountains, for he
has not only frightened a peon out of his wits, but roused the pity of
an Englishman by asserting that he had been robbed by _himself_! Your
charity, you see, was ill bestowed."
"So, it seems we might have made this noted bandit prisoner if we had
only known!" exclaimed Lawrence, who seemed more distressed at missing
the chance of becoming an amateur thief-catcher than at misdirected
charity. "But do you really think the fellow was Conrad of the
Mountains?"
"I am certain he was not," said Pedro.
"How do you know?"
"I have several grounds for my belief, but, even if I had not, I might
easily judge from appearances. Conrad is said to be kind to women and
children. The scoundrel we met with could not be kind to any one.
Moreover, there is no clear proof that Conrad _is_ a bandit, while this
man certainly is one."
"I'm sorry you seem so sure, because I should like much to be able to
say I had seen this notorious fellow about whom every one appears to
hear so much and to know so little."
Although the bandit of whom we have just made mention was not Conrad of
the Mountains, it may interest the reader to know that he was in truth a
sufficiently notorious villain, named Fan, the captain of a band of
twenty assassins, most of whom were escaped criminals from the prisons
of Chili and Peru. Among other exploits, Fan once attacked the armed
escort of a troop of mules conveying silver in bars from the mines to
Chili. Fan and his men attacked them in a ravine so suddenly, and with
such a deadly fire of musketry, that the few who survived laid down
their arms at once, on the promise being made that their lives should be
spared.
Banditti do not usually regard promises as binding. It would be
surprising if they did. Fan made the survivors lie down on their faces,
and was about to plunder the mules, when he changed his mind, and shot
all the rest of the convoy in cold blood, except the last, who, seeing
the fate that awaited him, leaped over a precipice, rolled down a steep
slope many hundred feet deep, and, strange to say, escaped with his
life. He then procured a dozen or two well-armed men, and returned to
the scene of the robbery, but found that the robbers had flown with as
much silver as they could carry, the remainder being scattered about on
the road.
These miscreants were afterwards captured, but, owing to disputes
between the Peruvian and the Chilian Governments, the former of whom had
hold of, while the latter claimed, the robbers, they all escaped their
merited punishment, and were set at large.