We were barely one day’s journey from the port of Santa Cruz, and were bivouacked in a green cañon 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 maté. 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.”