plantation was cultivated, the old man told us, by the faithful followers of his tribe. He had no children; he was the last of his race.
Uncle Richard had an object in paying the visit. The old Indian had considerable influence over the inhabitants of the surrounding hills, and he wished to stir them up, when the time should come, to join the Patriot ranks.
“I am too old myself to strike a blow for liberty,” said the old man; “but often, as I gaze over yonder wide valley, and remember that once it belonged to my ancestors, that by the cruelty and oppression of the Godos my people are now reduced to a handful, and that the sufferings and death of thousands of my people rest on the heads of our oppressors, my heart swells with indignation. Si, Señor Ricardo, si. You may depend on me that I will use all the influence I possess to arouse my people, but I fear that we shall be able to send scarce fifty warriors into the field—many of them mere youths, although they have the hearts of men.”
After some further conversation, Uncle Richard left a present with the old cacique, and we bade him farewell.
On reaching the foot of the cliff we met several Indians, who, having observed us from neighbouring heights, had come down to ascertain the object of our visit. Uncle Richard spoke to them, although not so openly as he had done to the chief. The men had a peculiarly serious cast of countenance; not one of them smiled while with us, but they appeared good-tempered, and were perfectly civil. Their eyes were large, fine, and full of expression; and two or three girls who were of the party were decidedly good-looking, which is more than can be said of Indian maidens in general. Each man was accompanied by a dog, of which he seemed very fond. Round their huts we saw abundance of fruit, and several fat pigs, so that they were evidently well off for provisions.
It is wonderful how long these Indians will go without food by chewing coca leaf, which is far more sustaining and refreshing than tobacco.
“Those men would make sturdy soldiers, and fight bravely,” observed Uncle Richard, as we rode away.
Our destination was a small valley, through which the Rio Vinaigre makes its way towards the Cauca. We left our animals at the top of the hill, as the descent was so steep and slippery that it would have been impossible to ride down it. As it was, we could scarcely keep our legs, and the dominie more than once nearly fell head over heels.
Uncle Richard, by-the-by, had not told our worthy friend the character of the river-water. He had brought a cup, formed from a gourd, which answered the purpose of a “quaich,” as it is called in Scotland; and we made our way down to the edge of the stream, where he could dip out a cupful. The water appeared bright and sparkling, and the dominie, who was thirsty after his walk, put it to his lips and took a huge gulp. Directly afterwards he spat it out, with a ridiculous grimace, exclaiming—
