CHAPTER XV.
THE ALAMEDA DE LA CANADA.
"That Fortune is not nice in her morality," says Maria Edgeworth; "that she frequently favours those who do not adhere to truth more than those who do, we have early had occasion to observe. But whether fortune may not be in this, as in all the rest, treacherous and capricious—whether she may not by her first smiles and favours, lure her victims to their cost, to their utter undoing at last, remains to be seen."
And so it remains to be seen how far the blind goddess favoured Pedro and his well-beloved brother, Zuares.
Towards the close of the next day, they drew near the great city of Santiago, and meeting a muleteer, who was travelling towards Quillota, with a train of mules, laden with jerked beef and hemp, they further improved their financial resources by selling to him the horse of Hawkshaw, with bridle and saddle, for 100 dollars, and the muleteer was too well pleased with his bargain to make any particular inquiries respecting it; but took the precaution, after he left the sellers, to halt in the first peach grove, and shear off the horse's mane, dock his tail and forelock, and otherwise disguise him.
On entering Santiago, to avoid any further mistakes, Pedro proceeded at once to get Don Salvador's cheque turned into hard cash of the Chilian Republic. Then he had the somewhat picturesque costume of Zuares changed for a handsome suit of Spanish livery; and, thirdly, he betook himself to the Alameda de la Canada, just as the streets were being lighted, in search of the house of the Morenos.
The Alameda of Santiago is, perhaps, the most magnificent promenade in any of the South American cities. It is more than 150 years old. Measuring 1,000 yards in length, it is divided into three stately walks, on each side of which runs a carriage-way. There are also three canals, which intersect it, and six rows of gigantic poplars.
Here is also the ancient convent of St. Francis, with a church built of pure white stone, having a lofty steeple, from the galleries of which may be seen the fertile vale that stretches to the base of the Andes—the land of gold and of fire.
The stone seats were all occupied by ladies. All were gay, and many of them were beautiful. Their lace mantillas were all thrown back, to float over their shoulders, for the evening was warm, and all their large feather fans were at work.
Gentlemen in sombreros hovered round their seats in hundreds, and the fine band of a Lancer regiment of the Chilian Republic played near the octagon fountain, at the foot of the centre walk, and filled the ambient air with the strains of "Il Trovatore."
The December evening was lovely, as well as warm (the thermometer rises to 85 degrees there in January), and the yellow glory of the set sun yet lingered on the giant summits of the snow-clad Andes, shaded off into saffron, purple, and dark blue in the ravines and valleys, through which roll those rivers that mingle their gold-dust with the sand on the shores of the Pacific—the Rio Monte and the Aconcagua, whose banks are bordered by groves of the orange, the fig, the peach, and the pomegranate, for in Chili the land teems with all that can minister to luxury and to wealth.