“It is a strange history—a very sad one,” returned Pedro. “I will tell you something about it at another time; at present it behoves us to push on.”
There was no question as to that point, for just as he spoke a sudden and powerful gust of wind swept Quashy’s straw hat off and sent it spinning gaily along the path. Vaulting from his mule with a wild shout, the negro gave chase on foot, with an amount of anxiety that seemed not justified by the occasion. But as the poet truly puts it, “things are not what they seem,” and Quashy’s head-piece, which presented much the appearance of a battered old straw hat, was in truth an article of very considerable value.
It was one of those hats made by the people of South America, with a delicate fibre so finely plaited that in texture it resembles fine canvas, though in appearance it is like straw. It is exceedingly tough, takes a very long time to manufacture, and costs many dollars—so many, indeed, that a hat of the kind is thought worthy of being preserved and left as an heirloom from father to son as long as it lasts.
No wonder then that the negro made frantic efforts to regain his property—all the more frantic that he was well aware if it should pass over one of the neighbouring precipices it would be lost to him for ever. At last a friendly gust sent it into a snowdrift, through which Quashy plunged and captured it.
Snow in considerable quantities lay here and there around them in the form of old patches or drifts, and this began to be swept up by the fierce wind in spite of its solidity. Soon new snow began to fall, and, mingling with the old drifts, rendered the air so thick that it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few yards in advance. Lawrence, being unused to such scenes, began to fear they should get lost in these awful solitudes, and felt specially anxious for Manuela, who, despite the vigour of a frame trained, as it no doubt had been, in all the hardihood incidental to Indian camp life, seemed to shrink from the fierce blast and to droop before the bitter cold.
“Here, put on my poncho,” said the youth, riding suddenly up to the girl’s side and unceremoniously flinging his ample garment over the slight poncho she already wore. She drew it round her at once, and silently accepted the offering with a smile and an inclination of her small head which, even in these uncomfortable circumstances, were full of grace.
“Why was she born a savage?” thought the youth, with almost petulant exasperation. “If she had only been white and civilised, I would have wooed and won—at least,” he added, modestly, “I would have tried to win and wed her in spite of all the opposing world. As it is, the—the—gulf is impassable!”
“You have anticipated me, senhor,” said the guide, who had reined in until the rest of the party overtook him. “I had halted with the intention of offering my poncho to Manuela. Poor girl, she is a daughter of the warm Pampas, and unused to the cold of the mountains.”
He turned to her, and said something in the Indian tongue which seemed to comfort her greatly, for she replied with a look and tone of satisfaction.
“I have just told her,” he said to Lawrence, as they resumed the journey, “that in half an hour we shall reach a hut of shelter. It is at the foot of a steep descent close ahead; and as the wind is fortunately on our backs, we shall be partially protected by the hill.”