We had halted, and when within about fifty yards of us, at a word of

command from Kaiso, the troop suddenly drew rein, and stood like

statues, looking most delightfully picturesque.

Castizo waved a white handkerchief. That was all. But the effect was

wonderful.

Without saying a word, Kaiso pointed back towards the encampment. Round

went each horse and away went the troop thundering over the plain, and

in a few minutes had entirely disappeared.

Then, and not till then, did Kaiso advance. His greeting was most

cordial. No, there was no sham. It really was sincere. There were

actually tears in the giant's eyes.

After asking Castizo fifty questions at least, he turned to us and shook

us cordially by the hand, calling us "brothers," and bidding us welcome

to the country of the Kaisos.

Chatting and laughing pleasantly now he led us towards the toldos,

telling us all that he meant to do to entertain us, and what we should

have to eat. The _menu_, I remember, included horse, puma, guanaco,

skunk, armadillo, eggs, fish of every sort, and _yerba mate_. It was

evident he did not mean to starve us.

Kaiso was a fine bold-looking man. Although a giant, there was nothing

repulsive about him. His frame was everywhere well knit, and when he

bent his naked arm, his biceps stuck out like Donald Dinnie's--and this

is paying the king a very high compliment indeed.

Jill and I dismounted.

Peter was more cautious.

"I say, your majesty," said Peter, "how's your puma? I hope it is

lively. I'm extremely fond of pumas."

Kaiso did not reply verbally; he put two fingers of his right hand into

his mouth and the puma came in a series of bounds from the wood not far

off, and, arching his back, rubbed himself against his master's leg.

Then the beast marched up to Castizo and went through the same

performance. He evidently knew our cacique. He smelt Jill's legs and

mine, but made no sign of friendliness.

"Delightful creature!" said Peter from his saddle. "Tame, I suppose?

Looks like a huge cat. Pussy, pussy, pussy."

"Tame," said the king. "So, see what I do now."

What he did do was rather startling, and at the same time proved the

strength of this Herculean king.

"Gollie! Gollie! Gollie!" he cried, and Gollie followed him for some

distance. Then, after stroking him, he seized the huge animal by the

tail, and, turning on a pivot himself, he whirled the puma off the

ground and round and round in a circle for fully a minute. When he let

go the beast lay in a heap, dead to all appearance.

"Dead!" said Peter, dismounting. "Well, Kaiso, old chap, you needn't

have killed him. I'm so sorry I sha'n't be able to have any fun with

him. Poor Gollie!"

"Gollie not dead," cried the king, laughing. "Gollie drunk. Dat is

all. Byme-by he come sober, and den you hab fun plenty."

Peter's face fell.

"I'm sorry I spoke," he said.

"Peter," I said, "you're a humbug."

Meanwhile Kaiso's wives had made us _mate_, and we all squatted down to

drink it. It was extremely refreshing, and as the puma presently got up

and slunk away to the woods, even Peter grew happy once more.

King Kaiso was as good as his word. He was hospitality personified. He

seemed not to know how kind to be to us, and during the five days we

sojourned with him the village was _en gala_, given up to games and

festivities.

It was a strange country this, in which King Kaiso lived, close to the

borders of a region of volcanoes, the fires of which we could see every

night. But there was trace of volcanic action in the immediate

vicinity. If ever there was a true oasis in the desert, this was one,

and I could not help believing, with Castizo, that there were fires

right beneath us, and that it was the heat from these which caused the

luxuriant growth of tree and shrub and waving grass. The woods were, in

some places, quite a sight to see, for not only did lovely ferns and the

most charming of wild flowers grow everywhere, but even flowering

creepers and climbers. Some of the latter were of the wistaria

description, but in clusters of the deepest crimson, with a sweetness of

odour that permeated the air in every direction.

Kaiso lived here in tents all summer, but his warriors and people went

on frequent far-off hunting expeditions, and even visited Santa Cruz,

bringing back many of the luxuries of civilisation.

Kaiso was never attacked. The Patagonian Indians are far too

superstitious to venture anywhere near the Gualichu land. So Kaiso and

his people, who numbered in all about three hundred souls, lived in

peace. The king told us there was no Gualichu; his medicine man had

driven him away, with the assistance of his witch.

We were introduced to this medicine man. He had a string of strange

charms hanging round his neck, the fangs of wild beasts, curious

coloured stones, and other trifles; and he carried attached to his spear

a bunch of herbs. Otherwise there was nothing remarkable about him.

The witch we also saw. Instead of the old hag we imagined she would be,

we were agreeably surprised to find a young girl of very prepossessing

appearance, who smiled pleasantly on us, shook hands and made signs.

She was deaf and dumb.

The bad spirit, the medicine man told us, had stolen her ears and

tongue, but had given her much wisdom instead.

During the winter months Kaiso and his wives lived in caves.

We visited these caves, and found to our astonishment that they were

completely lined with skins; all the walls, all the roofs, and all the

floors were skin. The value of these skins must have been very great.

Thousands of pounds would not purchase them in Europe.

Some of Kaiso's customs were ridiculous enough. One was this: he

insisted upon his wives having a Banian day, as we call it at sea, once

a week. He not only insisted, but made sure of it; for the night before

he clapped them all together in one of these hairy caves, and placed

armed sentries before the door, and neither food nor drink was allowed

to cross the threshold till they had fasted four and twenty hours.

"They get too fat," Kaiso explained. "Suppose I not do that. Fat wife

too slow. No good. No."

Every day of our sojourn in the country of the Gualichu brought some new

pleasure. As far as I can remember, the programme was somewhat as

follows:--

_First day_. A grand hunt and battue in the forest, in which all hands

engaged, even to the women and children. We killed many pumas, foxes as

big as wolves, and other beasts and birds innumerable.

_Second day_. A great fishing expedition, with a feast of fish in the

evening. We were more than astonished to-day to see little boys and

girls leap from cliffs over a hundred feet high into deep pools in the

river beneath. They also allowed themselves to be carried over a

waterfall, and when we white folks thought we should never again behold

them, lo! they bobbed up like seals close to our feet, smiling, and

thinking it the best fun in the world.

_Third day_. A kind of circus. Marvellous display of horsemanship by

Kaiso's people. We tried to persuade Peter to display his prowess, but

he begged to be excused owing to the bumps. Dance in the evening.

_Fourth day_. The marriage of a subordinate chief. This marriage was

made on purpose to gratify us, for the chief had no particular desire to

enter the holy bonds. Kaiso's word was law, however. There was a grand

procession to bring the bride home, and a wild ride all round the plain,

with much clapping of hands, singing, and shouting.

_Fifth day_. This was our last, and I shall never forget it. It was to

be devoted to harmless dancing and other frolics. But unfortunately

some of Kaiso's men who had been away at Santa Cruz arrived in the

forenoon, bringing with them a large keg of rum.

"Now," said Castizo to us, "the Gualichu has come in earnest."

I am sorry to say that the rejoicing among the male portion of King

Kaiso's little community was universal, as soon as that keg of

fire-water was broached. Even old quiet men, of whom there were several

in camp, smacked their lips and grew garrulous in their glee.

To do him justice, Kaiso shared the poison liberally among his braves.

After which, dancing and the wildest revelry became the order of the

day. Everything, however, passed off pleasantly enough till near

sunset, when some disagreement between two of the warriors was to be

fought out with knives upon the spot. In this they were disappointed,

however, for the women had taken the precaution to hide all warlike

weapons. The warriors, however, were not to be entirely baulked in

their designs. They commenced therefore to fight literally with teeth

and nails, like wild beasts. The desire to tear each other spread

through the camp like wild-fire. Donnybrook Fair was never anything to

the scene we now witnessed.

We white folks stood aloof and simply looked on. It is dreadful to have

to say that several men were killed with stones in this inhuman battle.

In the midst of it all up strode the giant Kaiso, with the keg of rum in

his arms, and peace was immediately restored, and more rum distributed.

The men who fought now commenced to sing and to hug each other, and vow

eternal friendship; but in the midst of their ill-timed merriment it was

heartrending to hear the wail of the women and children over dead

husbands and fathers.

Kaiso had gradually changed during the afternoon from a fool to a raving

maniac, rushing around with a bludgeon, felling his men and smashing the

tents. He relapsed into idiocy again, but it was of a mischievous and

fiendish kind.

Castizo tried to get him to eat. He would not; but he would drink

_mate_ mixed with rum. So our good cacique humoured him, hoping he

would soon fall asleep.

Not so soon, however. He called his chiefs together, and waving an arm

wildly in our direction, said briefly and fiercely,--

"Wirriow walloo! Eemook noosh. Lasso!"

His chiefs grinned and retired. But Castizo began to sing; but we could

see it was but a ruse. Kaiso joined in with his deep bass voice, which

was more like a lion's roar than anything human. It was a song with a

chorus, and a rattling one too, and this we all sang. We certainly were

not very like men who were condemned to be strangled with the lasso

early in the morning, but such had, indeed, been Kaiso's command.

"More rum!" Kaiso would have it. But it told even on the brain of this

giant before long, and he toppled back where he sat, and fell into a

deep sleep.

What a sigh of relief Peter gave!

I was expecting that pet puma in every minute.

"D'ye think he'll waken?"

"Oh no, he won't wake to-night," said Castizo.

"We're going to be all hanged in the morning, aren't we?" said Ritchie.

"Yes, that's the order."

"Well, if I had my way, I'd--"

"What?"

"Scupper the lot. Begin with Kaiso."

"No, no, my friend; Kaiso is not a bad fellow when sober. I know a

better plan than that Come with me. Lawlor, you're a big fellow, carry

the keg."

Off we marched to the large toldo, where all who were awake of Kaiso's

warriors were still talking and shouting.

Seeing what we carried, they welcomed us with a shout and a yell.

Castizo was most liberal in his allowances. Nor did we leave the toldo

till every warrior had succumbed.

"I pity their heads in the morning," I said.

"So do I," said Castizo, "for this is not rum, but the vilest arrack,

brought to the country specially for these poor wretches."

It is needless to say that there was no sleep for us that night.

Luckily it was fine, so about one o'clock in the morning we silently

caught and saddled our horses, and rode away into the forest in the same

way as we had come.

We had great difficulty in finding our way, and had to steer by our

pocket-compasses. But we got through at last, and before the sun shone

over the hills we were far beyond pursuit.

We arrived early in the afternoon, safe and sound, at our Indian camp,

and were received with every sign of joy, no one having expected we

would ever return from the land of Gualichu.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

CASTIZO'S IDYLLIC HOME IN THE CORDILLERAS--PREPARING FOR WINTER--

CATCHING AND BREAKING WILD HORSES.

So long had we lazed on the Pampas and on the borders of the

Cordilleras, that summer had almost fled before we reached Castizo's

mountain home. It is probably doing ourselves injustice, however, to

talk of lazing on the Pampas. The time was well spent, for if there be

any happiness of a solid nature on earth, I think it had been ours

during those all-too-short summer months. If you were to ask me for an

analysis of this happiness, I think I should reply that it resulted from

that perfect freedom from all care which only a true nomad ever enjoys,

from the constant chain of adventures and incidents that surrounded us,

from the strange scenery weird and wild, from the beauty of the sky

night and morning, and, above all, from the perfect, the bounding health

we enjoyed, health that made us laugh at danger and consider troubles,

in whatever shape they came, trifles light as air.

Castizo had told us often about his _estancia_ in the hills. For many

years he had gone back and fore to it from Santa Cruz. It was simply a

craze of his, he said; a mere whim or fad. He dearly loved loneliness,

and in his own little Highlands he enjoyed it to the fullest extent. He

was never afraid of the Indians. Not that he considered them immaculate

as to virtue, and the soul of honour; but because his person, intact and

safe and sound, represented to them so much property. He never paid

them wholly until they had returned with him to the little station on

the eastern coast, and then great indeed was their reward.

But all independently of this, I am convinced that these poor Indians

dearly loved their white cacique, and that apart from any financial

consideration, any one of them would have fought for him until he fell

and died on the Pampa.

Yes, Castizo had spoken much to us of his life and adventures in the

mountains, but he had not described his little village. Therefore we

were not prepared for what we saw.

First, then, we had to cross a wide, extended, open plain or pampa, so

great in extent indeed that we began to think the wilderness had

commenced again.

In the very centre of this plain was a broad lagoon, but how fed or

dried we could not tell, for no stream ran into nor out of it. There it

was, nevertheless, and all round its borders bushes grew, and a rank,

rushy kind of vegetation with tall flowers, crimson, blue, and bright

yellow. We noticed with pleasure, too, that there were both ducks and

geese on it. On the plain, moreover, we shot several birds of the

grouse species, though quite different from any I had ever seen before.

After we had ridden about an hour longer, a purple mist that had

hitherto hidden the hills was lifted up like a veil by some slight

change of wind, and there revealed in all its beauty was one of the

loveliest little glens ever met with in a long summer's ramble. And

near the top, closely shut in and sheltered from the cold west winds by

wooded hills, was our mountain home. Primitive enough, in all

conscience, was this _estancia_, consisting of a mere collection of log

huts, well thatched and cosy enough in appearance, but only one having

any pretension to display. This last was plastered as to its walls, had

a little garden in front, and flowers growing up over it.

Before we reached this tiny village we came upon the Indian camp, and

here children and women and old men ran out to meet us, with joyful

shouts that were re-echoed from the hills and rocks on every side.

Even before the wives embraced their husbands or the children their

fathers, they all gathered round Castizo, the welcome they gave him

bringing tears to his eyes.

"Yank! Yank! Yank!" they shouted a hundred times o'er. (Father!

father! father!) Had he possessed a score of hands they would have

shaken them all, while the pretty children who could not reach high

enough must catch and kiss the border of his guanaco robe.

They took away his horse. He must walk the rest of the way. He must be

in their midst and tell them all his adventures. Their Yank must speak

to his children, and tell them too what he had brought them.

The girls had culled wild flowers, and these they hung round the necks

of all our horses, so that the welcome was a general one.

No, we had not expected this. Neither had we expected that the inside

of the principal cottage would be so well furnished. Everything was

rough and homely, to be sure, but everything was comfortable and cosy.

Viewed externally, it was difficult at first to see whence the smoke

could issue, but as soon as we entered we noticed a very ample fireplace

indeed, the smoke being conveyed away by a copper chimney issuing from

the back of the house, and thus protected from the baffling winds of

winter and spring.

We admired all we saw, and Peter at once ensconced himself in one of the

easy chairs, and confessed that he felt happier and hungrier than he had

done for many a long day.

Pedro had the toldo erected at some distance from the house, and

proceeded forthwith to cook dinner.

After this meal Castizo went down to the Indian camp, accompanied by

Lawlor, carrying a huge bundle containing the presents and pretty things

brought to the old men and women and children all the way from

Valparaiso. There were pipes and cards (Spanish) and dice-boxes of

curious shapes for the former, trinkets and dolls and toys and sweets

for the children, and for the ladies strings of beads, necklaces,

bracelets, and lockets that made them almost scream with delight and

admiration. As gewgaw after gewgaw was taken out the constant shout by

these impulsive young ladies was--

"_Heen careechi? Heen careechi_?" (Who gets that?) followed by a

grateful--

"_O nareemo nachee_!" (Many thanks!) from the lucky recipient.

Only one old man asked for rum. But Castizo shook his head and replied

in Spanish, which this Indian understood--

"Never more, Goonok, never again. When last I brought rum to the camp,

thinking you would but taste and put it away, _he aqui_! you and your

people drank all. All at once! You quarrelled and fought. There was

much bloodshed, Goonok. You know the green grave at the corner of the

wood yonder. There your brave son sleeps. He was killed that night,

Goonok, by his own cousin's hand. Never more, Goonok, never again."

"_Mate yerba_?"

"Yes, plenty of that. As much _mate_ as will last the camp all the

livelong winter."

"_He_!" cried the old man. "Is, then, our white cacique to stay with us

through the winter?"

"Yes."

"And his young men and all his followers?"

"All, Goonok, every one of us."

"Then is Goonok indeed happy, and to-night, old as he is, Goonok will

dance."

It was only natural that a ball should follow the home-coming of the

white father, as Castizo was sometimes called.

A special toldo was erected for the purpose by the Indians by making

three kaus into one, and to the music of horrid drums and still more

horrid pipes, very pretty dances were gone through indeed. It seemed to

me a pity, however, that the men daubed their faces with paint or clay,

as it gave them a grotesque appearance which bordered on the hideous.

At a sign from Castizo, and during a lull in the proceedings, Peter

brought out his clarionet. He had hardly played a note ere a silence

deep as death fell upon the assembled Indians. At first some of them

ran away, as if frightened, but all soon returned and stood or sat

listening entranced. How very deeply the music had affected them was

proved by the sighs they gave vent to immediately after Peter had

finished. There must be something genuinely good in the heart of those

wild Tehuelches, or they could not love music so much.

We all slept well and soundly that night, there being nothing to disturb

us save the occasional shrill scream of the Indian on sentry. This

startled Jill and I at first, but as the sound died away in mournful

cadence, instinct told us what it meant, and we slept all the better

after it.

Though it was yet early in autumn, we took the advice of our own cacique

and set about at once preparing for the long winter that was before us.

For storms in these regions come on suddenly, sometimes, long before

autumn is over.

Our people were divided into two parties, one to hunt, another to work

at home and in the woods.

The former brought in the flesh of the guanaco, the ostrich, the

armadillo, and even the skunk. Skunk meat certainly sounds offensive,

but it is very delicious eating, nevertheless. This meat was carefully

salted and stored in huge earthenware jars.

One way of storing meat was very strange to me, but, as I afterwards

discovered, most effectual. It was first salted with pampas salt from

the Salinas, it was then buried in a grave lined with salt-sprinkled

leaves, and well packed down. Meat was also sun-dried and partially

smoked.

Fish were caught in abundance, especially a sort of perch, and these

were smoked with a peculiar kind of wood and stored away for winter use.

Firewood was also to be had in abundance, simply for the gathering.

Much of this was dug up out of the boggy land, and was found to be "as

fat as fir," to use an expression of Ritchie's.

There were many kinds of fruit in the forests, principally of the

hardier species, and bushels of these were dried in the sun or by fire,

and during the winter they made a valuable adjunct to our diet. Nuts

too were plentiful.

But, after all, the most important item of food, not only for ourselves

but for our horses, was a kind of tuberous root, which grew in any

quantity in the glens and even on the banks out in the open plain. For

two whole weeks we had fully a score of Indians, to say nothing of their

children, digging and storing these roots. The mice were in millions

all round our _estancia_, so the only safe way of preserving our roots

and thereby preventing a famine was to dig graves and bury them. Even

these had to be watched, so numerous were the mice.

Hay we stored in large quantities in stacks; also the tender herbage of

several trees of which, when green, the horses ate with great relish.

We soon discovered that the armadillos were on the scent of our buried

flesh food. So stakes were driven in the ground, and to these dogs were

fastened every night in the immediate vicinity of our buried treasure.

We did not intend, however, that these poor animals should be on sentry

all night long exposed to the wind and rain, the sleet or the snow. We

therefore built them shelters, so that they were cosy and happy.

We had our reward, for even on the second night of his watch one dog

made an immensely large armadillo prisoner. I happened to be first

about that morning, and seeing how eagerly the faithful canine sentry

looked towards me, I went up to pat him, when he pointed to a huge

ball-looking thing.

"That's the robber," the dog seemed to say; "I can't get him to unroll

himself, or I should soon let the stuffing out of him. Will you oblige

me?"

I did not oblige the dog, as I object to take life in a cold-blooded

manner. But an Indian did, and we had the 'dillo for dinner. Though

somewhat peculiar in flavour, the flesh was as tender as that of a

stewed rabbit.

So much fodder had we collected, that we determined to add to our stock

of horses, feeling sure that some accident would befall a few of them

before the winter was over.

Jill and Ritchie joined the expedition to go over the plain in search of

wild horses. Peter preferred to stay at home. He had no desire, he

said, to raise his bumps again. I stayed with Peter to keep him

company.

Jill and Ritchie were gone for three days, and I was getting uneasy when

the whole cavalcade reappeared.

"Terribly wild work," said Ritchie as he entered the log-house. "Ain't

I tired just?"

"Oh, I'm not a bit," said Jill, coming in behind him.

Jill looked flushed and excited, and confessed to being delightfully

hungry. He proved his words, too, when we all sat down to dinner.

The Indians had brought in with them five poor, dejected-looking animals

that had been thrown with the lasso, and altogether used far more

cruelly than I care to describe.

But these horses soon took to their food; then the breaking-in process

was commenced. After being tormented until perfectly wild, and their

strength almost quite expended with kicking and plunging, they were

forcibly bitted and bridled. An Indian then waiting his chance would

spring boldly on the bare-back of a steed, and the battle 'twixt man and

beast commenced in downright earnest. The way the Indian breaker stuck

to his horse, despite his rearing, plunging, and buck-jumping, was truly

marvellous. If he was thrown, which he sometimes was, he sprang to his

feet again, those around jeering and laughing at him, and though bruised

and bleeding, vaulted once more on the horse's back.

The battle had but one ending: total exhaustion of the horse, and

victory of the Indian.

Only one poor animal escaped thorough subjection. This steed reared too

far, fell backwards, and his skull coming against a piece of rock with a

sickening thud, he never moved a leg again.

We had that horse for dinner.

Jeeka, seeing the accident, touched me on the shoulder.

"Poor horse!" he said, "good horse! He go there now. So, so?"

He pointed solemnly upwards with his whole arm as he spoke.

What could I answer? This was my convert to Christianity, the religion

of love. I had read to him of horses in both the Bible and New

Testament. Could I now say to him, "No, Jeeka, a horse has no

hereafter?" Had I done so, I would not have been speaking my mind, as I

do most sincerely believe that no creature God ever made is born to

perish. So I nodded and smiled and said--

"So, so, Jeeka; so, so."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

THE SNOW-WIND--WINTER LIFE AND AMUSEMENT--DEATH OF "DE LITTLE COQUEET."

"Listen," said Castizo, one evening about a month after this, as we all

sat round the fire in the log hut. "Listen, boys, listen all. That is

the snow-wind. Winter is coming now in earnest. Pedro," he added, "put

more logs on the fire, and brew us a cup of _yerba mate_. Thank Heaven

no one of us is out on the Pampa to-night, or belated in that dismal

forest."

The snow-wind!

Have you ever heard it, reader mine?

If you have listened to it only half as often as I have done, you will

be able to tell it by the sound, as it goes moaning round your dwelling,

although at the midnight hour. Should you even have gone to bed ere it

comes on, and are awakened by it, you will shiver a little and say to

yourself, "That is the snow-wind." A nervous shiver it would be, a

shiver born of thought and thankfulness, for there is something in the

voice of this heartless wind which seldom fails to cast a momentary

sadness over the spirits of the listener--not necessarily an unpleasant

sadness, for you have to thank Heaven you are not out on the moor or out

on the plain, and exposed to it. And if sitting by your own hearth when

you hear it, the fire seems to burn more cheerily, and the room around

you looks more pleasant and homelike.

The snow-wind does not shriek and whistle, and scream, as does an

ordinary gale; it is heard but in one low, long-drawn dreary monotone.

It never threatens to tear off roofs or uproot trees; it does not get

very high at one moment to sink into semi-silence the next; it hardly

ever alters its key-note, but keeps on--on--on in its one sad wail.

If you hear a wind like this on a winter's night, be sure that, if

flakes are not already falling, the snow is on its wings, and soon it

will be shaken off.

The snow-wind! I have been out on the icy plains of Greenland when it

has begun to blow, and made all haste to reach my ship. I have heard it

in moorland wilds when far from home, and made speedy tracks backward to

my hut, my very dogs seeming to know what was coming, and trotting on

with heads down and tails almost trailing on the ground. If it comes at

night the stars always hide themselves, and the very moon--should there

be one--appears to shelter behind the unbroken surface of dark grey

clouds.

Every wild creature knows the sough of the snow-wind. Bears creep

farther into their dens when they hear it; wolves hide under the pine

trees; the fox dreams not of leaving his burrow; rabbits cower closer

beneath the tree roots, and birds seek shelter under the thickest

boughs.

"The snow-wind," continued Castizo. "Are we all safe and secure,

Ritchie?"

"We be, I'm thinking, sir. I noticed the Indians covering the front of

their huts. I think everything is done, and, before I came in, sir, I

slewed the funnel round against the breeze; that's the way the fire

burns so cheerily."

"Thanks, Ritchie; I'm sure I don't know what we would do without so

genuine a sailor to keep us straight. Ah! here comes Pedro with

steaming bowls of _mate_. Now, boys all, I call this the acme of

comfort."

"So do we all," cried Peter, jovially. "Oh, here's to the Queen, God

bless her!"

"God bless her," said Ritchie. "I wonders now if ever she drank a basin

o' _mate_ in all her born days. Strikes me, as a sailor like, sir, it's

better nor tea and beer, and better nor all the rum in the universe."

Our talk was now of home. This soon gave place to yarns of our various

adventures, Ritchie being in excellent form to-night, and, between the

whiffs he took of his Indian pipe, he related to us some marvellous

experiences. Though his English was not of the best, he managed to make

it graphic, and every picture he drew, we seemed to see before us. I

suppose Castizo saw those pictures in the fire. He kept gazing steadily

into it, at all events, and was more silent than usual.

Perhaps his thoughts were not in Ritchie's stories at all. I felt now,

as I sat near him, that Castizo had a story to tell of his own life, if

he only would, and I felt, too, the story was a sad one.

Presently he seemed to awaken from a reverie; he pulled himself

together, as it were, lit a fresh cigar, and smiled round on us.

"I've been dreaming, boys," he said.

"Dreaming with them black eyes o' yours open, sir?" said Ritchie.

"Ay, Ritchie, ay; I often dream with my eyes open. But, Peter, where is

your pipe?"

Peter got his pipe out, and very delightful music he discoursed.

But in every lull of the conversation we could hear the wail of the

snow-wind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Many a time and oft, while wintering under the Norland lights, in the

long drear Arctic night, have I thought of the months we spent in that

wild woodland glen close by the forests of the Cordilleras.

I have thought of them, and of my pleasant companions, when my ship was

snowed up for weeks, during which never a star was visible, nor even the

Aurora itself, when the darkness was filled with ice dust, borne along

all over the snow-fields by whirlwinds that ever and anon collided,

creating a chaos in which no creature ever born could live for half a

minute. I have thought of them when wandering over the Alaskan plains,

or sharing his hut with the humble but friendly native of Kamschatka. I

have thought of them, and never without a certain degree of

retrospective pleasure not unmingled with sadness. For many of my

companions in that lonesome glen have since gone to the Land o' the

Leal. Ah! that Land o' the Leal, what a happy place it must be, if only

from the fact that we shall meet there the dear ones we lost on earth,

and--there will be no more sad "good-byes!"

When we awoke the next morning after we had listened to the moaning of

the snow-wind through the forest, through the harsh-leaved forest, there

was an unusual silence. There was no wind now, and the cold was

intense. It was dark, too, but soon the drift was dragged from our

window, and a cheerful face peeped in at us. It was Ritchie's.

"Are ye all alive and kicking, lads?"

"All alive, Ritchie, thank you. The kicking has all to come."

"Well, bear a hand, and rig up; the breakfast is ready to serve."

And such a breakfast when we did leave our room! The fish and the eggs

were enough in themselves to make a hungry man's mouth water; but then,

besides, there was a grill, the very odour of which I wonder did not

bring all the wild beasts in the forest around us.

Castizo's bed was in this room, but it had been made up long ago. And

there was Castizo waiting for us. He had been out, too, for his potro

boots lay near the door, and his feet were encased in cosy slippers.

"This is perfectly jolly," said Peter.

"It is delightful!"

"It is delightful!" from Jill and me.

"I've been sitting here reading a little book," said our cacique, "and

now and then comparing our present life with that of the poor people who

have to winter in London or New York. The cold, damp wind out of doors,

the slush and the snow, the rattle and roar of wheels, the vulgar

shouting in the streets, the questionable viands, and, worse than all,

the people one meets at breakfast and dinner. Here we have chosen our

companions--we have chosen each other; we like each other, and will help

one another."

"That we will," said Ritchie.

"A good cook, a capital sailor-man, the broad, brave shoulders of a

Lawlor, the best of Indians, and three young men of the world. Should

we not be happy and thankful? Peter, help me to a little more of

Pedro's mush. And, Pedro, bring the teapot. Thank you. Place it near

the fire again."

"Yes," I said, "independence is a truly delightful thing."

"The world is uncharitable--I mean the civilised world: in towns and

cities you hardly know how to look and live to please people. If you

seem independent, they hate you; if you are obsequious, they despise

you. Jill, here is a tit-bit--ostrich gizzard, my boy! Pedro, have you

seen to the dogs?"

"But," I said, "even in cities you find wheat among the chaff."

Castizo laughed lightly.

"Yes," he said, "an ounce of wheat to a hundredweight of chaff. My dear

boy, I know life; and I advance that if you put the souls of city folks

through a sieve, you might find a good big honest one in a thousand. No

more, I assure you."

Snow was the order of the winter in our present home. But this did not

keep us within doors. On the contrary, I think it added to our

pleasures. We had splendid riding. Even Peter enjoyed it, and although

he had many a tumble, much to the delight of Nadi, falling among soft

snow, he said, was not half so disagreeable as tumbling among the rocks.

The snow gave the bumps a chance.

Two things we might have done, but could not. Skating on the frozen

lake would have been delightful, only we had no skates. Sleighing would

have been pleasant, too, but we had not the tools to make a sledge.

We had a rude species of tobogganing, however, and in fine weather this

was a constant pleasure to us. The Indians had never seen anything of

the kind before, and entered into the fun heart and soul. Even Nadi

liked it.

Sometimes Peter condescended to descend the toboggan slide with her as

her knight. But as she always would insist on taking "that blessed

baby"--as Peter called it--with her, it was at times a little awkward,

particularly when they disappeared all three in a snow-drift, or when

they flew off the board half-way down the hill, and rolled the rest of

the way. "Baby's a brick, though," Peter said; "the little rascal never

cries, just squeezes the snow out of its eyes with its knuckles, winks

to me, and laughs."

Yes, tobogganing is great fun. It was the beavers, by the way, who

first taught the Indians of the Rocky Mountains the game. Then the

Indians taught the whites; and I think it is far from fair not to erect

a monument to the beaver in some public thoroughfare in Montreal or New

York.

Peter and I, with the assistance of others, established a kind of

circus. This was also great fun. The feats of horsemanship performed

in our circle before the log-hut doors, I have never seen surpassed at

any hippodrome at home or in Paris.

We had old men riders, bare-back, standing and sitting.

We had young boy riders.

We had girl riders. We had _infant_ riders.

We had lasso performances and bolas play. Before the winter drew to a

close, I verily believe that our company was good enough to make our

fortune in any large city of Europe.

Peter once undertook to ride a Pampas pony, or rather a dwarf horse.

"It seems simple," said Peter, "and I won't have far to fall."

Well, if Peter had studied for a month how best to amuse these Indians,

he could not have fallen upon a better plan. "Fallen" did I say? Yes;

and it seemed all falling, for Peter was no sooner on than he was off

again; and the variety of different methods that pony adopted in

spilling him proved it to be a little horse of the rarest versatility.

No wonder Nadi clapped her hands as she shouted with laughter, crying--

"O, O, Angleese! Angleese!" Had this been an intentional display of

Peter's powers, it really would have been exceedingly clever; but

tumbling off a horse came natural to Peter, so that instead of trying to

fall off in a great many different ways, as the Indians all thought he

was, he was all the while doing his very best to keep on top, as he

called it.

Peter's performance brought _down_ the house, but it brought _up_ his

bumps again.

If tobogganing, hunting in the plains and forest, and fishing in the

rivers, with circus riding, were our outdoor games, at night innocent

games of cards, story-telling, singing, and dancing, helped to pass away

the time till ten o'clock, after which all was silence in and around the

camp and huts, except the doleful chant of the sentries.

The Indians by day, however, were certainly not always playing. They

were often enough busy manufacturing various articles from silver, iron,

copper, and wood, to say nothing of pipes. All these would barter well

when spring came round and they met once more the white men of Santa

Cruz, or even of Sandy Point itself. All this was men's work; meanwhile

the women were busy sewing skins.

Peter had already been presented with his little skunk-skin poncho or

capa, and very proud he was thereof.

"Aren't you fellows jealous!" he said, as he went marching up and down

to show it off. "Just wait till _you_ get a little poncho; there will

be no holding you for pride."

So one way or another the winter wore away far more quickly than would

be imagined. Of course, Jill and I often thought of home and mother and

Mattie. Sometimes our hearts would give an uneasy thud, as we

remembered how long a time it was since we had seen them, or even heard

from them.

What if our darling mother were dead! This would indeed be the greatest

grief that could befall us. We could only hope for the best, and pray.

Every Sunday all through the winter we had reading and prayers in the

log hut. Jeeka and his wife were constant in their attendance, and if

Nadi did not understand all that was said, let us hope she learned

enough for her soul's salvation.

Grief had not yet visited our little settlement, but, alas! it was to

come.

August was nearly at a close, and we were beginning to look forward to

the coming of spring, when a more bitter snowstorm came on than any we

had yet known. The snow was not so very deep, but the wind was very

high and keen.

Early on the second morning of the second day of the storm, Nadi came

running to our log-house, and, wringing her hands as if in terrible

grief, asked for Peter.

"Nadi, what is it?" cried Peter, in great concern to see her tears.

"What has happened?"

Nadi spoke English now. That showed how great and real was her anguish.

"Oh, come, come!" she cried; "come you, quick, plenty quick. De leetle

coqueet, he die. Oh, come!"

Peter never stayed even to put his cap on, but hurried away through the

snow with Nadi towards the Indian toldos.

It was too true. The poor baby was _in extremis_. Peter bent over it

as he sat down. It knew him, and smiled in his face.

Peter gave it his forefinger, as he was wont to do, and this the poor

little thing clutched with its soft hand, and held until it died. Child

though it was, holding Peter's finger seemed to give it confidence. It

was as if some one was leading it safely through the dark valley.

I had never seen tears in Peter's eyes till that morning.

Let us hope poor baby soon saw the Light.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE DREADED RIVER-LION--ADVENTURE ON THE PLAINS--LOST IN A

SNOWSTORM--"TO SLEEP WERE DEATH."

The grief of Jeeka and his wife Nadi for the death of their infant was

positively painful to witness. Every one in the camp seemed also to

partake in it. There was a kind of wake held the night before the

funeral, and the wailing was greater than anything I have heard in

Ireland on a like occasion.

At the grave, the horse on which Nadi and baby had travelled all across

the Pampa was thrown and strangled, and all the child's trinkets and

playthings and even clothes were burned. The body was rolled in a

guanaco robe and laid to rest, the clods were heaped in, and snow put

over these. Then we all came silently back.

Next day everything was _in statu quo_ except that baby was not there.

We could trace signs of deep grief and a sleepless night in Jeeka's and

Nadi's faces but they made no reference of any kind to their dead and

gone darling.

One calm cold day, Ritchie and Jill returned from the river to say that

they had seen a most wondrous sight. A huge animal with terrible teeth

and eyes, shaped somewhat like a tiger, had rushed up out of one of the

deepest, darkest pots or pools and attacked a native dog which was

standing near.

The fight had been sharp and fierce, but before assistance could be

rendered, the beast, whatever it was, had conquered the dog and dragged

him down under water.

"_Gol de Rio. Gol de Rio_," said Jeeka, who had heard the account.

"Not go near. He all same as one Gualichu. Bad man! So, so."

"Bad man here, or bad man there," said Ritchie, "I mean to have a shot

at him."

We backed Ritchie in his wish, but as there was evidently no chance of

getting Jeeka to come with us, we determined to set out ourselves next

day.

We did, and waited four hours in ambush. But all in vain. The Gol de

Rio, or water-lion, never showed face.

"He is gorging on the poor dog," said Ritchie. "Let us give him a rest

for a day or two."

"I've a plan," said Jill. "Let us tether the guanaco lamb to the bank,

and stand by with our guns."

The lamb was a poor forsaken little beast we had found half-dead beneath

a tree, and taken home and tried to rear.

The plan was feasible. We went very early next morning and tied the wee

thing up to a bush near the bank. It seemed to know there was danger as

if by instinct, for it struggled and cried most plaintively and

pitifully.

Meanwhile we hid behind a rock, with our guns in position.

We had not long to wait. First there was a ripple on the pool, then a

monster brownish-yellow head was protruded, with paws near it paddling

lightly as if for support. The face was whiskered, and the eyes looked

extremely fierce. The beast looked cautiously round first, then it eyed

the shivering lamb, and at once made for the bank.

When near its intended victim, it stopped as if about to spring, moving

its long moustache rapidly fore and aft, as a cat does.

Three rifles rang out sharp and clear in the wintry air. Next moment

the huge beast had turned on its back, and its death struggle was a

brief one.

This was Jeeka's Gol de Rio. He certainly merited the title; a more

repulsive specimen of river otter I have never seen, before nor since.

We dragged him home with a lasso, and the Indian women and children ran

screaming to their toldos when they saw him.

I was told afterwards that this river-lion had more than once seized

children who were playing on the banks of the stream, and I can easily

believe it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Do horses, I have often wondered, possess any instinct to warn them of

coming danger? The following adventure would seem to prove that they

do.

One bright clear morning, Jill and I made up our minds to ride over to

the lake in the plains and bring home, if possible, some birds. We took

with us Ossian and Bruce. There was not a cloud in the sky when we set

out, and all the surface of the ground was covered with hard dry snow.

Unlike Patagonian Indians, white men cannot go very long without food;

so Jill and I took a good solid luncheon in our bags, quite enough for

ourselves and the dogs also. We had a snack behind our saddles also, so

that I might say no huntsmen ever started in quest of sport under

happier auspices.

"Good-bye, Peter, if you won't come," "Good-bye, Peter, if you won't

come," we cried.

"My bumps!" shouted Peter.

So we waved him a laughing "Adieu!" and went cantering off.

"As the frost is so hard and the day so fine," I said to Jill, "I think

we're sure to find some feathers on the lake, for it seldom if ever

freezes."

"We're sure to, Jack. And won't we look fine, clattering into camp

to-night with the ducks and the geese all dangling to our saddles."

"Peter will be jealous."

"Poor Peter! it's a pity he can't ride better."

So on we trotted, talking and laughing right merrily. Presently Jill

said--

"Sing, Jack; I can give you a bit of a bass."

I did sing, a rattling old saddle-song that I had learned at the Cape.

Jill joined in, the horses' feet kept excellent time, and the very dogs

barked with glee as they went galloping on in front.

"Could anything be more jolly?" said Jill.

"Nothing in the world, Jill. I feel as happy as a village maid on her

marriage morning."

"Yes, and happiness and hunger go together. I think I could pick a bit

already."

"Jill, Jill! you're just the same now as when a boy. Put anything in

your pocket, and there never was any keeping your hands from it."

At long last the black water of the lake appeared, and our happiness

came to a crisis when we noticed numerous flocks of birds on it, grey,

black, and white.

We would have a good bag.

We trotted round the water's edge and finally dismounted.

All the forenoon we walked about, and had many a good shot. Bruce duly

retrieved everything, and Ossian sat on the bank and looked on.

Then we went back to our horses, fed them and had our own luncheon;

resting a good hour afterwards on the snow. The sun was shining so

brightly that we did not feel the cold.

It was by this time pretty far on in the afternoon, but we had not yet

made up the splendid bag we had promised ourselves; so we determined to

continue the sport, although we already felt somewhat tired, the ground

being rather rough.

This time we took the precaution to tie our horses to the calipate or

barberry bushes, with lassoes.

The day drew so quickly to a close--apparently, I mean, for time does

slip fast away when one is enjoying himself.

When the sun sank at last, we found ourselves two good miles at least

from our homes. We could not do the distance on such ground, and

carrying so much game, under an hour.

"Never mind, Jill," I said; "there will be a moon, you know."

"Half a moon, but that'll be enough. I believe I shall quite enjoy the

canter home under the stars."

"What is that yonder, Jill?" As I spoke, I pointed to a long white

ridge that was slowly rising over the wooded hills and sierras.

"That is cloud!"

"I hope we are not going to have a change of weather."

"Never mind, we'll soon get home. An hour and a half will do it. Hurry

up."

We had been looking for a few minutes more at the ground beneath our

feet than at anything else. When I glanced along the lake edge again, I

could not believe my eyes, for a moment or two.

Jill gazed in the same direction.

"Our horses were gone!"

Far away on the plain we could descry two black moving spots. These

were our steeds, but miles beyond our power of recall.

Night had quite fallen before we left the lake side, for we had to go

right back to the places from which our horses had stampeded for our

guanaco mantles.

The stars were shining brightly, and high in the heavens was Jill's

half-moon; so that for a time we had light enough. We gave many an

anxious glance towards the west, however. We naturally wondered whether

our horses had gone straight home. If so, assistance would speedily

come. It was unlikely, however, for, excited with having obtained their

freedom, the animals would be more apt to make for the forest, there to

play truant for a time and crop the twiglets--already breaking into bud

and burgeon--from their favourite bushes and trees.

By the time we had walked about three miles we felt very tired indeed,

and agreed to abandon our game. We put them, therefore, in a heap on

the plain, and continued our journey. But for that ominous cloud bank

which was rising higher and higher, we should have taken the journey

more easy, and perhaps have rested a while.

On we walked, almost dragging our weary limbs now. The night still

continued fine, the moon seemed to change into molten silver, the stars

literally sparkled and shone like diamonds in their background of dark

ethereal blue.

There was something almost appalling, however, in the gradual approach

of that great sheet of cloud, rising grim and dark on the western

horizon. It came on and up more swiftly every minute, and soon covered

one whole third of the heavens.

On and up, on and upwards, swallowing star after star, constellation

after constellation, and now it has reached the moon itself, and for a

moment only its outer edge is a rim of golden light; then the moon too

disappears, is buried in the black advancing mass. Almost at the same

time the wind comes moaning over the plain, accompanied with driving

snow. It increases every minute, and soon it is nearly impossible to

walk against it.

It is almost a hurricane now; it moans no longer, it roars, shrieks,

howls around us, and the snow freezes into cakes upon our garments, into

ice on our faces, into icicles on our hair.

Sometimes we turn round and walk with our backs to the terrible blast.

Often we fall, but we help each other up, for we are hand in hand as

brothers ever should be.

Jill whispers--it seems but a whisper though he is shouting--in my ear

at last.

"I can do no more, brother. I am sinking."

I feel glad--glad of the excuse to sink down among the snow and rest a

little. Only a little. We creep close together, with our backs to the

storm, pulling up our mantles round our heads and drawing in our legs

for warmth. Oh, those good guanaco mantles, what a blessing they are

now!

I keep talking to Jill and he to me, though we each have to shout into

the other's ear.

I remember calling--

"Jill, we must not sleep. Are you drowsy?"

"No, not very."

"To sleep were death."

After a few moments, in an agony of desperation, thinking and fearing

more for my brother than myself, I spring up, and again we try to

wrestle on. The dogs keep close to our heels, though we hardly can see

them, so covered are they with snow and ice.

In vain, in vain. We can go no farther, and once more take shelter

beneath our robes of skin. Ossian and Bruce creep partly between us.

We talk no more now, but determinedly try to keep awake.

A whole hour must have passed in this way. I am not on the plain now,

it seems to me. I am wandering with my brother over the moorland at

home, where when boys we met the convict. But the moor is strangely

changed; it is all a-glimmer with radiant light. Every bush, branch,

twig, and twiglet seem formed of coloured light or flame; the scene is

gorgeous, enchanting.

Suddenly, all is dark. My brother is wrenched away from my grasp, and--

I awake shrieking. I awake to find myself lying on the log-house floor

on a couch of guanaco skins.

My brother is safe, and even the dogs.

In an hour's time we are both well enough to get up and refresh

ourselves with a cup of Pedro's _yerba mate_.

But our escape had been little short of miraculous. We had wandered a

long distance out of the track, for the wind had gone round, and were

entirely buried when found, only faithful Ossian and Bruce's voices had

been heard high above the roaring storm.

We owed our lives to them.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

THE FIGHT 'TWIXT WINTER AND SPRING--A NEVER-TO-BE-FORGOTTEN EVENING--

ATTACKED BY NORTHERN INDIANS--THE FIRE.

Would Springtime never come again?

We had expected it weeks ago. The birds and beasts in the forest had

expected it too. The former had commenced to sing, the latter had grown

unusually active; guanacos had been in search of tender herbage, pumas

had been in search of the guanacos. Hungry, lank, dismal-eyed foxes had

come down to stare at the toldos when the dogs were eating; and even the

armadillos had unrolled themselves from cosy caves and corners, and

crawled at night towards the encampment.

Then the new snowstorm had come on all so suddenly too.

The denizens of the woods had taken shelter under the trees; in some of

these the branches, snow-laden, had dropped groundward, forming quite a

series of tents in the forest. In these the Indians had found whole

colonies of great gawky-looking ostriches, and had made a harvest in

feathers.

Lawlor, wading through the snow one day, and peeping in under the trees,

came face to face with a puma. It would have gone hard with him had not

Ritchie, rifle in hand, been close alongside and shot the huge beast

while it was in the very act of springing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

But the dreary season came to an end at last, and the snow began to melt

and to fly away. Then winter and spring seemed to fight together for

the mastery. Winter riding on the wings of a fierce west wind that

roared harshly through the woods and bent the trees before it. Winter

driving before him battalions of threatening clouds, white, grey, and

black, and trying to blot out the sun. Frost, with his crystal cohorts,

struggling for every inch of ground, fighting for the lake of the

plains, which had succumbed to the last terrible storm and was hardened

over; fighting for the streams, the rapids, the cataracts.

The sun, in all his beauty and splendour, shooting out every now and

then into the rifts of blue, and sending his darts groundwards at every

unprotected spot, each ray a ray of hope for the long-enslaved earth.

Sunshine glittering on the leaves of evergreen shrubs, shining on the

needles of pines, and adorning every budding twig with radiant

dew-drops, that erst were crystals of ice.

Spring victorious on the higher grounds, and sending down torrents and

floods to assist its triumph in the lowlands and plains.

Winter at last vanquished and gone, and forced to fly even from under

the trees and every shady nook.

Now comes a warm soft breeze from the north and the east, and all the

land responds to it. Torrents still pour from the hills, but the woods

grow green in little over a week, and wild flowers carpet every knoll

and bank.

We are all active now in the _estancia_ and in the camp. We are

preparing for the long march back over the Pampa to Santa Cruz, where

Castizo says he doubts not his little yacht is already lying safely at

anchor, and his daughter anxiously waiting his appearance.

Horses are now better fed and tended, and regularly exercised day after

day. Saddles are repaired, and stirrups and bridles seen to. The women

are busier than ever with their needles. Boys and girls are twining

sinews for the strings of bolas and for lassoes. The dogs seem wild

with delight. They all appear to know we will soon be on the march once

more, and they dearly love their life on the plains.

Our stores are nearly exhausted--I mean our coffee, tea, _mate_ and

sugar. Flesh is still abundant, and always is. So no one will be sorry

to leave this lovely forest nook, albeit we have spent many a happy day

in it.

"In three days more," said Castizo one evening, as we all sat round the

blazing logs, "we will be ready to start."

"I feel a little sorry in leaving this place," said Jill.

"There is nothing but leave-takings in this world," said Castizo; "and

the happier one is the quicker the time flies, and the sooner seems to

come this leave-taking."

"Never mind," said Peter; "if our good cacique would only say he would

take me, I should be right glad to return with him another day."

"You will come back, I dare say, sir?" said Ritchie.

"If spared, yes. I may not spend another winter here though, for the

simple reason that I will not have such pleasant company. I am fond of

loneliness, still I shall ever look back to this winter as to some of

the happiest months ever I spent in all my chequered career."

"So shall we all," I made bold to say.

"Hear, hear," said Peter and Jill.

"You've been happy, Pedro?"

"Ah! senor, multo, multo."

"Peter, your pipe."

"Is that a command," said Peter.

"Certainly. Am I not still your cacique?"

Peter got his pipe and commenced to play, and presently, after a gentle

knock at the door, in came the giant Jeeka and his wife Nadi. They

stood at some little distance till invited to draw nearer the fire.

Then they squatted on a guanaco skin, Jeeka holding his wife's hand in

his lap, and both looking so pleased and happy.

I shall never forget their faces. I have but to place my hand over my

eyes at this moment, and I see them once again.

Alas! little did they know what was before them. And little did any one

there expect what happened before the sun of another day crimsoned the

peaks of the lofty mountains.

Peter, Jill, and I sat long that night in our little room before turning

in, talking of home. But Peter had something else to speak about. Need

it be said that Dulzura--as he still delighted to call her--formed his

chief subject for discourse to-night.

"Oh," he said, "I only wonder you fellows did not hear my heart going

pit-a-pat, when Castizo told us his daughter was coming round in the

yacht."

"My dear Peter," Jill said, "I do believe you are actually in love."

"Is it the first time you've discovered it, my honest Greenie? Haven't

I cause to be? Was there ever such a lovely or fascinating creature in

the world as Dulzura! And I'm a man now, remember. Twenty-one, boys,

or I will be in a month."

He stroked an incipient moustache as he spoke, and appeared savage

because Jill and I laughed at him.

"Suppose Dulzura is already engaged?" said Jill, somewhat provokingly.

"Jill, you're a Job's comforter," replied Peter. "Of course, if she is

engaged, there's an end to the matter. I'd enter a convent and turn a

father."

"A pretty father you'd make," cried Jill, laughing again.

"All right," said Peter, "Wait till you're in love, Greenie, and won't I

serve you out just!"

"Well, boys," I put in, "a happy thought has just occurred to me."

"Let's have it."

"Suppose we cease talking and all go to bed."

"Right," cried Peter, jumping up and beginning to undress.

In a few minutes more "good-nights" were said, and we were composing

ourselves to sleep. Sleep in this region is deep and heavy, and I may

surely add healthy, for one awakens in the morning feeling as fresh as

the daisies or the proverbial lark.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I did not seem to have been asleep a quarter of an hour when Peter shook

me by the shoulder.

"Jack, Jack," he was saying, "there is something up."

Peter was already dressed, and accustomed as I had been to scenes of

danger I was soon following his example, though hardly knowing where I

was or what I was doing.

"Don't you hear?" said Peter.

I listened now. In a moment I was as wide awake as ever I have been in

my life.

I remember everything that happened that morning as though 'twere but

yesterday. It _was_ morning too. Our windows faced the east, and there

was a faint glimmering of the dawn already in the sky.

From the direction of the Indian camp, came first a subdued hum of angry

voices. These were soon mingled with shouts of men and screams of women

and children, and presently there were added the clash of weapons and

the ring of revolver shots.

"They are fighting down at the toldos," said Peter. "Hurry up with your

dressing."

"Whom are they fighting with?"

"I cannot say. It may be mutiny. Either that, or the Northern Indians

are on us."

"Heaven forbid."

"Here, Greenie!" cried Peter.

"Jill, Jill!" I shouted, "Get up, brother. They are fighting."

Jill sat up and listened for a moment, then threw himself doggedly back

again on his pillow.

"Jill!" I roared, shaking him viciously, "get up, you silly sleepy boy.

The Indians are on us."

Jill appeared fairly roused now. He sprang up and began to hurry on his

dress.

We, that is Peter and I, got our revolvers and stuck them in our belts--

they were always kept loaded; then we took our swords and sallied out.

"Follow quick, Jill," were my last words to my brother. "Look out for

me and get to my side. We may have to do a bit more back to back work."

We saw at a glance that it was Northern Indians with whom we had to

deal, and quite a large party.

The fight was raging fiercely. Peter and I overtook Ritchie and Lawlor

hurrying into the fray, and joined them. Castizo was already there. We

could hear his stern words of command, and we noticed too that his

revolver emptied many a saddle. Our people were fighting on foot, but

fighting well and bravely. The women and children had already fled to

the forest.

We came up at the right time, evidently, and the volleys we poured in

created the greatest confusion in the ranks of the enemy. They seemed

staggered for a little while, and made as if to retreat, but were

rallied and came on once more to the charge.

How long we fought I could not say; it might have been ten minutes, or

it might have been half an hour.

Suddenly there was a momentary lull, and I looked about me for Jill. He

was nowhere to be seen. I shouted to Peter. He had not seen him. I

extricated myself from the _melee_ as best I could, and hurried back to

the log-house. The poor foolish fellow must have gone to sleep again.

As it happened, this is precisely what he had done. But, to my horror,

I found the log-house surrounded by smoke. _It was on fire_.

And my brother was there, in its midst.

How I reached the door I never knew. At first I seemed dazed, nor am I

certain that at any period of that dreadful night I regained the

equilibrium of my senses.

I rushed in through smoke and flames. I could just distinguish my

brother's form lying half-dressed on his couch, but was speedily obliged

to retreat.

Then I remember feeling angry with the fire, mad almost. Why should the

flames take my brother from me, the being I loved as my own soul? No,

no! Save him I must, save him I should! I looked upon the fire as a

living thing, as a cruel, remorseless, merciless wild beast. I fought

the fire. I defied it. I was calm, though; that is, I was calm as

regards the rational sequence of my actions, but in reality I was a

maniac for the time being. Do men, I wonder, who do marvellous deeds of

daring in the field or lead forlorn hopes, feel and fight as I then did?

With a strength that did not appear to be my own, I tore down the

blazing door-posts and door that barred my entrance. Then once more I

was in the room. Groping around now, stumbling too, for I could see

nothing in the smoke. Ah! here at last I have him; I have him at last

now!

Out now I struggle and stagger, and fall choking in the morning air.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

"IT IS BETTER THUS."

Yes, Jill was saved. He soon revived, and was able to follow me down to

the toldos.

My hands were badly burned, but I did not feel pain then. Such a gush

of happiness had come over my heart when Jill spoke to me again, that I

forgot everything else.

Daylight had by this time spread itself right athwart the sky; and I

remember the morning was beautiful with one crimson feathery cloud over

the eastern horizon, where the sun was soon to show.

By the time we reached the Indian camp, the battle was over and won.

The survivors of the Northern Indians had been beaten back to the woods

from which they had sallied, and there was but little fear that they

would come again. Too many of their saddles had been emptied to

encourage a renewal of the warfare.

It was a sad scene. The tents torn and flapping in the morning breeze,

some of them down; broken spears and guns and daggers lying here and

there; dead and dying horses; dead and dying men, the anguish of the

women, the wailing of the children.

I took all this in at a glance. Then my eyes were riveted on a group at

some little distance, and I hastened thither, to find Castizo kneeling

beside the tall noble form of the prostrate Prince Jeeka.

He holds out his right hand as I approach; Castizo gives place to me,

and I kneel where he had knelt. At his other side crouches Nadi. She

is bewildered and silent, grief and anguish depicted in every line of

her poor drawn, pinched face.

"Jeeka, Jeeka, are you much hurt? Who has done this?"

"Hurt? Yes. Ya shank, ya shank." (I am tired and sleepy). "So, so."

He closed his eyes for a moment. I thought he was gone, but he slowly

opened them again, and looked at me.

"Poor Nadi!" he said. "It--was--her brother. So, so."

This, then, was the key to the awful night's work. Revenge. Verily

these Patagonian Indians are men of like passions with ourselves.

"The Great Good Spirit is come. Jeeka goes--home. Tell me--the story

of the--world. So, so."

These were the last words poor Prince Jeeka ever spoke on earth. He had

gone to learn the story of the world, in a better world than ours.

We all came away and left Nadi with her dear husband. Her face had

fallen forward on his big broad chest, and she appeared convulsed with

grief.

"Leave her a little," Castizo said. "It is ever better thus."

In about half an hour, or it might have been less, Peter and I returned.

Nadi had never moved from her position.

"Nadi, my poor woman," said Peter. "Nadi, Nadi."

She was still.

Peter touched her shoulder, then turned quickly round to me.

"She does not need our consolation, Jack," he said, solemnly.

"What," I cried, "is Nadi dead?"

"Nadi is dead!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

If I have any consolation at all in looking back to the events of that

morning, it is to think that Jill and I had told to these poor heathens

the sad, sweet story of this world.

Jeeka and his wife are buried side by side on the banks of the river

that rolls through the forest, close to the spot where our old log-house

stood.

"Amidst the forests of the West,

By a dark stream they're laid;

The Indian knows their place of rest

Far in the cedar shade."

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

ON THE GOOD YACHT "MAGDALENA"--"THE VERY SEAS USED TO SING TO US"--THE

HOME-COMING--THE END.

At sea once more.

At sea in one of the smartest yachts that ever walked the waters like a

thing of life.

At sea, and homeward bound. Ah! that was what sent the joyful flush to

our cheeks and the glad glitter to our eyes, whenever we chose to think

of the fact, and try to realise it.

The _Magdalena_ in which we were sailing was no racer, but a splendid

sea craft, and one that, as Ritchie said, could have shown a pair of

clean heels to the best tea-ship in the merchant service. And that was

saying a deal. She was broad in the beam for a yacht, but consequently

safe and comfortable. Her masts were tall, but they were also strong,

and she carried such a cloud of canvas that, seen from a distance, she

must have looked a perfect albatross.

To say that her decks were as white as snow would be to talk

figuratively, but literally they were as white as cocoanut husk and

holystone could make them. The sails were really like snow in the

sunshine, and there was not a bit of polished wood about her decks,

whether in binnacle or capstan, that did not look as if varnished; nor a

morsel of brass or copper that did not shine.

There was an awning over the quarter-deck by day, for we were in the

tropics, and the sun blazed down with a heat sufficient to soften the

pitch, if it did not absolutely make it boil.

Yonder, under the awning, sits Castizo, in a light coat and straw hat,

quietly reading a book. Jill and I are walking rapidly up and down the

deck, and Dulzura is standing beside Peter. Both are gazing down at the

bubbling green water, that goes eddying along the good ship's sides.

Yet I do not think that either Dulzura or he is thinking very much about

it.

But why, it may be reasonably asked, are we homeward bound, instead of

bearing up for Castizo's place at Valparaiso? Ah! thereby hangs a tale.

And I will endeavour to tell it as it was told to us, on the very last

night we spent on the Pampa.

We were barely one day's journey from the port of Santa Cruz, and were

bivouacked in a green canon under the lee of the west barranca. Not far

off were the toldos of our faithful Indians. Alas! we sadly missed

Jeeka and poor Nadi, though. Not far off, the horses quietly grazed by

the water's edge.

We sat beside the fire of roots on our guanaco skins for the night was

not warm.

There had been silence for a brief space. We were waiting for our

_mate_. Presently it came in steaming bowls.

"Ah! thank you, Pedro. What should we do without you?" said Castizo.

"What, indeed?" "What, indeed?" said Jill and I.

"How anxious your daughter will be," said Peter. "She has had quite a

long time to wait for us."

Castizo smiled.

"My daughter," he replied, "will not be idle. She will have gone

cruising. She is like me and like her poor mother--she hates

inactivity."

"You have only once before mentioned Miss Castizo's mother in our

hearing," said Peter.

"True, Peter. But now that we are so soon to part--for you will meet a

steamer at Puentas Arenas to take you back to your own country, and we

may never meet again--I may as well give you a very brief outline of my

life."

We are all silent, and presently Castizo continued:

"It must be brief indeed; I am but a poor storyteller. Besides, I have

but little to tell, and there is a tinge of sorrow over it all.

"I was born of a noble Spanish family, and found myself fatherless and

wealthy at a very early age. I was always fond of wild sport and of a

nomadic life, and before I had reached the age of twenty-five had

visited most parts of the world in my own yacht, and been a soldier to

boot. At a ball one night in Madrid I fell deeply in love with a

beautiful young lady. She was quite of my own way of thinking as

regards a wandering life. I will not dwell upon the happiness of my

married life. Suffice it to say that Magdalena became the one bright

star in my mental firmament. I do not think any one could have loved

each other more than we did. Zenona, whom you, Peter, call Dulzura, was

the first pledge of that love. About two years after her birth I

accepted a post of great honour in Monte Video, and thither we went to

settle down. We even sold our yacht, so content were we with the

climate. Then Silvana was born.

"It was about a year after this that I noticed a marked change in my

poor wife. She began to look ill. I wish now I had thrown up my post

of honour. What did I need with honour, when I had riches and the whole

love of such a wife as Magdalena?

"She must have a change. She must go home. I would follow in the

course of a year. Ah! my dear friends, it is here the sorrow comes in.

She entreated me, she begged of me in tears and anguish, not to ask her

to leave me.

"No, no, no. I was obdurate. Oh, I must have been hard-hearted--mad,

even.

"She went away. She sailed in a ship bound for France, a Spanish

barque."

Castizo paused, and I could see the tears in his eyes by the light of

the fire.

"And the ship was wrecked?" said Peter.

I had never seen Peter look so strange before; he appeared almost wild.

"The ship," said Castizo, slowly, almost solemnly, "must have foundered

at sea, for I never saw nor heard of her more, nor of my poor dear wife

and baby. That is my story: that is the key to the seeming mystery of

my restlessness, and of my love for being alone at times. That is all."

"No," cried Peter, half rising from the recumbent position he had

resumed when Castizo began to speak. "No, my friend Castizo; that is

not all. That is not all, Jack. Is it?"

"I think not," I said, and I was almost as excited now as Peter, while

Jill, too, sat up with his eyes fixed on Castizo's face, on which was a

look of mingled curiosity and amazement.

"_I_ will finish the story," continued Peter, speaking as slowly as he

could. "I knew your daughter Zenona the moment I first saw her at

Puentas Arenas. I knew her eyes, her strangely beautiful face; I knew

her hair, her wondrous hair. We have her counterpart at home, in the

old house by the sea, where dwell Jack's mother and aunt. You have

heard them,"--he pointed to Jill and me--"you have heard them speak of

their sister Mattie. Mattie is that counterpart."

"I do not understand," said Castizo.

"Nay, but listen, and you shall. The ship in which your poor wife and

child were sent home, did not founder at sea. She was wrecked on the

coast of Cornwall, and went in pieces next day. Not a timber of her was

saved, her very name would have been unknown but that two sailors out of

all the crew were saved, and your wife and child."

"My wife and child! Say those words again!"

"Do not let me raise hopes, my friend, that must end in disappointment.

The lady died."

Castizo fell back with a moan, but sat up once more as Peter went on

talking.

"But the child lived; is living now--at least so we must hope, for we

left her well. _She is their adopted sister Mattie_."

"This is indeed a strange ending to my story. What name did the ship so

cast away sail by."

Peter was silent.

"Neither Jill nor I remember," I replied. "We are not quite sure we

ever heard it. One of the shipwrecked sailors was killed. The other,

whose name is Adriano, I have lost sight of for many a long year."

Castizo's face fell.

"There was no such man on board the _Zenobia_. I knew every man in the

barque. Ha, Peter, my dear boy, I fear it was someone else's ship,

someone else's wife and child. Can you give me the date?"

"Alas!" I said, "I cannot even do that for certain. It was a

fisherman's boat that saved those who were saved. It was the

fisherman's wife who kept the child, till by accident she became our

sister. There is no other clue."

"Was there not a large chest," said Peter.

"Yes," I said. Then I described the box most minutely to Castizo. It

was such a strange box, taller than it was broad, the length and width

the same, and painted blue.

It was Castizo's turn now to show anxiety and excitement. He made me

describe the box over and over again. I even took a pencil and sketched

it from memory on a fly-leaf of the Bible dear mother had given me when

a boy.

Then Castizo said, "That was my poor Magdalena's box. Thank God, our

child lives."

He put but one more question to me.

"Was there nothing of value in the chest? Were there no papers, money,

or rings or watches?"

"Nothing save clothes. I've often and often heard Mummy Gray, as Mattie

calls her, wonder at that."

"Then I'm more than ever convinced the chest was hers. It had a false

bottom. The box was specially prepared for the voyage. Oh, boys,

Heaven, in sending you to Puentas Arenas, condescended to answer my

prayers. Now, instead of returning to Valparaiso, my yacht shall take

you back to England."

That, then, was what occurred on our last night on the Pampa; and the

story begun by Castizo, and so opportunely finished by Peter with a

little assistance from Jill and me, was the cause of our being here

altogether, homeward bound in the good sea yacht _Magdalena_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

That was indeed an idyllic voyage. Even to Jill and me it was idyllic,

ten times more so must it have been to Peter and Dulzura.

With the exception of a week in the doldrums while crossing the line, we

had glorious weather all the way, with just the breezes a sailor loves,

enough to fill the sails and carry us merrily onwards.

The very seas used to sing to us as they went seething past and away

astern; and on sighting the dear chalky cliffs of England, the gulls

that came out in flocks to meet us seemed to shriek us a welcome, and

tell us all was well.

Perhaps we ought to have come farther up the Channel than we did, and

sailed right into the great naval seaport, where dear father used to be

stationed.

But no. We would do nothing of the sort, but--the weather being fine

and only a gentle breeze now blowing--go right into the little bay, and

anchor before our own door.

And so we did.

Yonder it was, dear old-fashioned Trafalgar Cottage. We all looked at

it through the glass. Nothing altered, nothing. Balcony, garden,

railings, and climbers all the same.

But there were no signs of life about, though smoke came from the

chimney.

Oh dear, how a sailor's heart does beat with anxiety when he reaches

once more his native land; and how he does keep worrying and wondering

whether his relations and friends are alive and well!

We are in the bay now, and the anchor is let go. What a delicious sound

is that of the chain running out! No music in the world is half so

sweet.

"Jack, Jack!" cries Jill, who was forward in the bows, the wind blowing

off the land. "Run, Jack, run!"

I rushed forward.

"What is it, Jill? What is it?"

"Robert bringing round Trots. Hurrah!"

So it was. The same old Robert. The same old Trots.

"Look again. Look, look! Yonder is Aunt Serapheema getting in. And

darling mother in the doorway."

We were near enough to shout.

And shout we did. Peter joined in with a will, and Ritchie and Lawlor

joined to help us.

Jill and I even crept out along bowsprit and jib-boom, and waved our

handkerchiefs and shouted again.

Was there ever such an home-coming in the world I wonder!

Auntie knows our voices. Mother waves back to us.

"Call away the boat!"

In a few minutes more, rowed by the sturdy arms of Lawlor and Ritchie,

the little boat is bounding over the water.

Then it is beached, and mother, half hysterical and wholly in tears,

does not know which of us to hug first.

And the fact is she does not know till we tell her which is Jack and

which is Jill.

"I'm Jack, mother;" "I'm Jill, mother," we say.

Then we go all up home together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mattie was well, but away at school. She returned next day, however,

and Jill and I were half afraid of her, so tall and beautiful had she

become. But dear Mattie was self-possessed enough, though we

semi-civilised sailors were shy.

This was a never-to-be-forgotten day. We had brought Mattie--we would

always call her Mattie--a father and a sister. For this box was _the_

box, and that is saying enough.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For many voyages after this, Jill and I sailed together in the same

ships. And very often Ritchie and Lawlor were our shipmates.

We never saw nor heard anything more of Adriano. That was a little

morsel of mystery never cleared up.

Castizo settled down in England, having bought property not far from the

little churchyard where his dear wife is sleeping. He is there now,

though he is getting old. With him live Peter and his wife Dulzura, as

he still calls her, and it is ever a pleasure to meet them, and

oftentimes, I scarcely need say, we talk of the dear old days on the

Pampas and our life in the Land of the Giants.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alas, poor Jill, though! It is sad to record how we were parted at

last. We who thought the same thoughts, dreamt the same dreams, and

were seldom separate by night or by day. We who had come through so

many wild and stormy adventures hand in hand, I might say, to be parted

so strangely.

We had come off a long voyage to the Arctic ice, and were together in

London. We left each other but for an hour, it was agreed. I was back

in time at the appointed place, but poor Jill never appeared. I never

saw my brother again. No one could find out, though all search was

made, whither he had gone, or been taken!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Long years have passed away since then. I have fallen heir to our long

lost estates. Mother and aunt live with me in our noble home.

Mattie is my wife.

They say I look a sadder man.

This may be so. Yet I live in hope that poor Jill and I are sure to

meet again _some day--somewhere_. And when lying awake at night,

thinking about the past, I sometimes seem to hear a voice which I know

to be my brother's, saying--

"Come to me, Jack; come to me, for I cannot come to you."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The End.