It was but a simple cottage, suitable to the simple tastes of a mountaineer in such a region, with only two rooms and a kitchen, besides a small attic divided into two chambers, which could be reached only by a ladder through a trap-door. Little furniture graced it, yet what little there was bore evidence of having felt the touch of a tasteful female hand. Numerous nails and pegs were stuck in the walls for the purpose of supporting fire-arms, etcetera, but the weapons had been secreted in a place of safety, for, during the owner’s frequent and long absences from home, the cottage was locked up and left pretty much to take care of itself, being deemed safe enough, owing to its remote and lonely position.
The key was always left in charge of old Ignacio who was understood to have his eye on the place, and privileged to inhabit it whenever he chose.
All this, and a great deal more, Pedro told to Lawrence as they sat round the table at supper in what used to be the parlour of the establishment. “But I’m going to lock it up, and hide the key this time,” he continued; “because I have to send Ignacio on urgent matters into the eastern parts of Bolivia, to—”
“To git help, an’ tell de noos about de mischif what’s a-brewin’,” said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork.
“You’ve learnt your lesson well, Quashy,” returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; “these are the very words—to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that’s brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You’re forgetting your manners, boy.”
The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid.
Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings—at least all outward manifestation of them—for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared.
“We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela,” said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. “I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again.”
To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care!
“Indeed!” he rejoined; “I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men.”