“It is strange,” he said, “that we should have seen nothing yet of the Marquis, little Christobal, or your nephew.”
“Why worry? We’ll find them all, sooner or later.”
“What?”
“Sooner or later—some day.... Hello, what’s the matter? This beast of mine won’t move. Gee up.”
Calm and collected, quite different from the frightened Mr. Montgomery of the flight from Cajamarca, he urged on his mount, but the mule refused to answer to his heel. Then Natividad, pressing forward to see what was the matter, saw the body of a llama stretched across the narrow path. Dismounting, he lifted its head, examined the nostrils, and then pushed the body over the edge of the ravine.
“Little Christobal’s llama,” he pronounced. “The animal has been ridden to death.... Poor child! I wonder where he is.”
Uncle Francis, busy with his note-book, refused to get excited.
“With my nephew, probably. Even if Dick had left him behind, his father must have come upon him.”
“That is possible, of course,” said Natividad, doubtfully.
“Is this llama-riding common over here?” questioned the scientist, intent on acquiring knowledge.