of all is a large feather-embroidered manta, covering the corpse from head to foot, even concealing the face.
Still there is nothing in all this to astonish Gaspar Mendez, or in any way give him a surprise. He has seen the like before, and often among the Auracanian Indians, who are kindred with the tribes of the Chaco. He but makes the reflection, how silly it is in these savages thus to expose such fine commodities to the weather, and let them go to loss and decay—all to satisfy a heathen instinct of superstition! And thus reflecting, he would in all probability have lowered himself back to the ground, but for that presentiment still upon him. It influences him to remain a moment longer balancing himself upon the notched upright, and gazing over the platform. Just then the moon getting clear of some cirrhus clouds, and shining brighter than ever, lights up an object hitherto unnoticed by him, but one he recognises as an old acquaintance. He starts on beholding a felt hat of the Tyrolese pattern, which he well remembers to have seen worn by his master, the hunter-naturalist, and by him given to the aged cacique of the Tovas as a token of friendship. And now he feels the presentiment which has been upon him all explained and fulfilled. Springing up on the platform, and uncovering the face of the corpse, he beholds—Naraguana!
Chapter Forty Seven.
Gaspar Despondent.
“Naraguana dead!” exclaims the gaucho, as standing upon the scaffold he gazes upon the form at his feet. “Santissima! this is strange!”
“But is it certainly the old cacique?” he adds, again stooping down and raising the selvedge of feather cloth, which had fallen back over the face. Once more exposed to view, the features deeply-furrowed with age—for Naraguana was a very old man—and now further shrivelled by the dry winds of the Chaco, with the skin drawn tight over high-cheek bones, and hollow, sightless sockets, where once shone pair of eyes coal-black and keen—all this under the pale moonlight, presents a spectacle at once weird-like and ghastly, as if of a death’s head itself!
Still it is the face of Naraguana, as at a glance the gaucho perceives, muttering, “Yes; it’s the old chief, sure enough. Dead, and dried up like a mummy! Died of old age, no doubt. Well,” he continues, in graver tone, “by whatever way he may have come to his end, no greater misfortune could have befallen us. Carrai! it’s Satan’s own luck!”