“Now, young senhor,” he said, in his usual abrupt way, “although a volunteer in this expedition, and not versed in military matters, you must of course put yourself under my orders, and consider yourself one of my troopers.”
Oh! of course, of course, Lawrence had not the slightest objection to do so. He was quite ready to do whatever was required of him, if only he might assist in the rescue of hapless captives; and although he knew nothing of military matters, still, in the event of an engagement, he might prove himself useful as a surgeon.
“Humph! We don’t deal much in surgeons in this country. It is usually do or die with us,” replied the colonel, with a grim smile. “However, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have appointed you to the charge of some of the baggage-mules. Your late experience must have made you somewhat expert in such matters, and your duty will be with the rear-guard. One of my officers will show you your position in the morning. Good-night.”
Lawrence left with a quiet “Good-night, colonel,” and with a very unquiet feeling that somehow things might not turn out precisely as he had hoped.
Later that night Manuela appeared before her stern father dressed in the old familiar costume of an Indian girl, and with her fair skin stained dark brown. Usually the old soldier met his child with a beaming smile, that lit up his rugged visage with tenderness, as a gleam of sunshine sometimes illumines the rugged peaks of the Andes, but on this occasion he received her with a frown compounded of love and annoyance.
“How now, child? This is an unseasonable time for such foolery.”
“I want to travel in my old dress, father,” she replied, with a winning smile that almost tore the old man’s heart in twain;—and there are such smiles, reader, let us assure you, though you may not have had the good fortune to see them yet!
“You certainly shall do nothing of the sort, my dear,” returned the stern old man, as if he were laying down one of the Medo-Persic laws—for he was very tough, you know, and had great power of control over his feelings, especially the softer ones.
“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t like it!” said the Inca princess, with a little look of humble disappointment which was infinitely more heartrending than the smile; “but do you know, father, I have ridden so long in this costume, and in the gentleman fashion, that I feel quite sure—at least, I think—I should be utterly knocked up the first day if I were to begin a long hard journey in the ladies’ position. Then, you know, I could not dare to ride so in ordinary female dress and with a white face; the thing would look ridiculous—wouldn’t it? And, of course, everybody knows that Pedro arrived here with an Indian girl in his band, so the thing will seem quite natural, and nobody will notice me, especially if I keep near to Pedro; and the soldiers will just think—if they think at all—that you have left your daughter behind.”
“Ah, well, that alters the case, Manuela,” said the colonel, with most un-Medo-Persic hesitancy, and still frowning a little at his ink-bottle—not at his daughter. “Of course, if it had been merely one of your whims, nothing would have induced me to let you go in such guise, but there is truth in what you say, and—yes—a good thought, you shall travel near Pedro. Good-night. Go to bed, love. You will need all the rest you can obtain between now and morning.”