The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Flying Horseman, by Gustave Aimard, Edited by Percy B. St. John, Translated by Lascelles Wraxall

THE FLYING HORSEMAN

By

GUSTAVE AIMARD,

AUTHOR OF "GUIDE OF THE DESERT," "INSURGENT CHIEF," ETC., ETC.

REVISED AND EDITED BY PERCY B. ST. JOHN

LONDON: J. and R. MAXWELL

MILTON HOUSE, 4, SHOE LANE, E.C.

GEORGE VICKERS, ANGEL COURT, STRAND

AND ALL BOOKSELLERS

(From the Collected Works 1863-1885)

[NOTICE.]

Gustave Aimard was the adopted son of one of the most powerful Indian tribes, with whom he lived for more than fifteen years in the heart of the Prairies, sharing their dangers and their combats, and accompanying them everywhere, rifle in one hand and tomahawk in the other. In turn squatter, hunter, trapper, warrior, and miner, Gustave Aimard has traversed America from the highest peaks of the Cordilleras to the ocean shores, living from hand to mouth, happy for the day, careless of the morrow. Hence it is that Gustave Aimard only describes his own life. The Indians of whom he speaks he has known—the manners he depicts are his own.

[CONTENTS]

THE FLYING HORSEMAN

ZENO CABRAL

[CHAPTER I.]

THE STORM.

We left the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter Eva prisoners of the Pincheyra.[1]

Thanks to the presence of the strangers in the camp, no one came to trouble the solitude of the captives.

Towards the evening they were warned by a somewhat brief message to make all their preparations, so as to be ready to commence a journey at the first signal.

The baggage of the two ladies had been, strange to say, scrupulously respected by the partisans; it was therefore somewhat considerable, and required four mules to carry it. They were promised that beasts of burden should be placed at their disposal.

The night was dark; the moon, hidden by thick clouds, fringed with greyish tints, gave no light; the sky was black; dull sounds were carried on the wind, and, repeated by the echoes, awakened the wild beasts in the depth of their secret lairs.

A funereal silence reigned over the camp, where all the fires were extinguished; the sentinels were mute, and their long motionless shadows stood out in relief from the darker tints of the surrounding hills. Towards four o'clock in the morning, when the horizon began to be tinged by greyish streaks of light, the noise of horses was heard.

The captives understood that the moment of their departure had come.

They had passed the night in prayer, without sleep having come for a single minute to close their eyelids.

At the first knock at their door they opened it.

A man entered; it was Don Pablo. A thick cloak enveloped him, and a broad-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"We are," laconically answered the marchioness.

"Here are your horses, ladies," said the Pincheyra; "will you mount?"

"Are we to leave immediately?" ventured the marchioness.

"It must be so, Madame," answered Don Pablo, respectfully; "we are threatened with a storm, and any delay might cause us serious injury."

"Would it not be better to defer our journey for some hours?" pursued the marchioness.

"You do not know our Cordilleras, my lady," answered the Pincheyra, smiling. "A storm of two hours generally occasions such disasters that the means of communication are stopped for weeks; but for that matter I am completely at your orders."

The marchioness did not reply, and was at once escorted to the horses which awaited them.

The two ladies were placed about the centre of a troop formed by some twenty horsemen. By a remarkable refinement of courtesy on the part of uncultivated soldiers, Don Pablo had placed two horsemen to the right of the ladies, in order to preserve them from a fall during the darkness.

A group of a dozen horsemen, separated from the body of the troop, proceeded in advance as pioneers.

Notwithstanding the precarious situation in which she found herself, and the apprehensions by which her mind was harassed, the marchioness experienced a certain satisfaction, and an indefinable feeling of joy, to find herself at last out of the camp of the bandits.

Don Pablo, in order no doubt to avoid annoying the ladies, kept with the advanced guard, and, as soon as the day had become light enough to direct his course with safety, the two horsemen placed near the ladies were removed, so that the latter enjoyed a degree of liberty, and could talk to each other without fear of their words being heard.

"Mother," said Doña Eva, "does it not seem strange to you, that since our departure from Casa-Frama, Señor Sebastiao Vianna has not come near us."

"Yes; this conduct on the part of an intimate friend does appear to me singular; however, we must not be in a hurry. Perhaps Don Sebastiao has reasons for keeping aloof."

"Don Sebastiao ought to know how anxious we are to receive news of my father. I confess I am more concerned about it than I can explain."

"My dear, our parts are changed," said the marchioness; "it is you who fear, and I who hope."

"That's true, mother. I have misgivings about this journey. The warnings of Don Emile; his precipitate departure; what Don José told you yesterday, and even the courteous manner of Don Pablo, and the attentions which he heaps upon us, increase my suspicions. The more we advance in this direction, the more I am disquieted. Is it presentiment, or low spirits? I cannot tell you, mother."

"You are mad, Eva," answered the marchioness; "your presentiments arise from low spirits. What can we have further to fear. The men in whose hands we now are are completely masters of our fate."

At this moment the gallop of a horse was heard; the ladies turned, and a horseman passed rapidly, slightly jolting against them, doubtless on account of the narrowness of the path.

But quickly as this man had passed, he had time to skilfully throw on the knees of the marchioness a Book of Hours, bound in red morocco, and closed by clasps in chased gold.

The marchioness uttered a cry of astonishment, as she placed her hand on the book.

This prayer book was the one she had given some days before to the young painter. How was it that he returned it to her in such a singular way?

His pace had been so rapid, and the brim of his hat had so thoroughly concealed his face, that the marchioness did not recognise him.

We have said that the two ladies were almost alone; in fact, the soldiers walked at some distance before and behind. The marchioness assured herself that no one observed them, and opened the book.

A note, folded in two, was placed at the first page; this note, written in pencil, was in French, and signed Emile Gagnepain.

The two ladies at once recognised the writing of the painter; both spoke French a little, and they did not experience any trouble in reading the letter. Its contents were as follows:—

"They are deceiving you, while they deceive themselves; the bandit is of good faith in the treason of which he is an accomplice, without knowing it. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, manifest no surprise. Do not offer any resistance, do not ask any explanation; I am watching over you; all that is possible to do I will attempt: I have to take revenge on the man to whom you are about to be given up, in a few hours. I shall be more than a match for the deceiver. We shall see who is the more cunning, he or I."

"Do not keep this paper, which might compromise you. Have confidence in God, and trust to the devotion of the man who has already delivered you once. Especially, I urge you not to be astonished at anything."

"EMILE GAGNEPAIN."

When Doña Eva had ascertained the purport of the note, on a sign from her mother, she tore it into minute fragments, and scattered them by degrees on the road.

For some time the prisoners remained pale, motionless, and speechless, weighed down by this horrible disillusion.

"You were right, my daughter," at last said the marchioness; "your presentiments were true; it was I who was mad to suppose that fate was weary of persecuting us."

"Mother," answered Doña Eva, "it is better for us to have the certainty of misfortune than to continue to buoy ourselves up with chimeras. In warning us, Don Emile has rendered us an immense service. When the blow with which we are threatened shall fall, thanks to him, we shall be prepared to receive it; besides, does he not assure us that all is not yet lost? He has a brave heart; he will save us, mother. And then the fashion in which this book has come to us—does not even that prove that we have one friend?"

"Alas! Dear child, what can I do? Nothing, if not strictly follow the counsel our friend gives us. Unhappily, he is struggling single-handed; he will be lost, without saving us."

"No, mother; Don Emile has doubtless taken his precautions. You have already seen how he works; you know how prudent he is."

"Prudence and courage are not sufficient. Power alone can give success, and, unhappily, it is power that fails us. He is isolated, without a friend; in a country, the language of which he can hardly speak. Oh," she cried, with feverish energy, "if I alone were in the power of these wretches! If I did not tremble for you, my child, I should long since have finished with these tigers—these cowardly and heartless monsters who are not ashamed to torture women."

"Calm yourself, mother."

"You are right, my daughter," she said.

Doña Eva leaned towards her mother, threw her arms around her, and kissed her several times.

"You are brave and courageous, mother," she said; "I am proud and happy to be your daughter."

Meanwhile, for some little time the sky had taken a threatening appearance; the sun had lost its brilliancy, and only appeared drowned in copper-coloured clouds, which drifted rapidly, and concealed its disc. The heat was suffocating, the atmosphere heavy; without a breath of air, the trees trembled from root to summit. A yellowish vapour rose from the chasms of the rocks, by degrees condensed, and enveloped the landscape as with an ominous winding sheet. The birds wheeled in long flights, above the chasms, uttering discordant cries, and at intervals were heard rumblings of bad omen. All appeared to presage the approach of a storm.

Suddenly—a horseman approached; they recognised Don Pablo Pincheyra; the soldier made signs as he galloped, and uttered cries that the great distance prevented them from understanding, although it was evident that he gave them warning.

"Are you good horsewomen?" he asked, as he reached them; "Do you feel yourselves capable of keeping your seats with the horses galloping at their utmost speed?"

"If it must absolutely be so, yes, señor," answered the marchioness.

"Listen! the moment is critical. Before an hour the storm will have burst upon us; if it overtakes us here, we are lost; it will envelope us in its whirlwind, and twist us like wisps of straw. I do not guarantee to save you, but I will do all that I can towards success. Will you have faith in me?"

"Command, señor!"

"Well, spur your horses, and give them the rein. Ahead, then, and God help us!"

"God help us!" repeated the two ladies, crossing themselves.

"Santiago! ah! Santiago!" cried Don Pablo, putting the spurs to the flanks of his horse.

We have said that the travellers followed the meanderings of a path on the flanks of an abrupt mountain. But unless a person has himself traversed the new world, it is impossible to make sure of what, in these wild countries, is honoured by the name of a road. One of our village paths, separating fields, is certainly more safe and practicable than some American roads. The path of which we speak, and which served at this time as a track for travellers, had originally been marked out by wild beasts. The men had adopted it from the beginning of the war of independence, as it formed the only means of reaching the plain of Casa-Frama, the headquarters of the Pincheyras; the latter had naturally taken good care to make it, we will not say convenient, but at all events practicable for others than themselves. It was six feet wide in its widest parts, and often it narrowed to about two feet; from time to time it was interrupted by ravines, hollowed by the torrents formed from the melting of the snow—ravines which it was often necessary to leap at a single bound, at the risk of personal injury, or to cross on stones rendered slippery by the green waters. The ground was rugged, and obstructed nearly everywhere by pieces of rock or shrubbery. To the right it was bounded by a precipice of immense depth, and to the left by a wall of granite, which rose nearly perpendicularly, it was by such a road as this that the two ladies and their escort were obliged to gallop at full speed.

Ravines, ditches, and bogs were passed with giddy rapidity in this, desperate flight; the sun was without heat and without rays, like a ball of yellowish copper; the clouds lowered more and more, and ominous sounds rose mournfully from the depths of the chasms.

The travellers galloped without exchanging a word, desperately urging forward their horses whose efforts appeared almost supernatural.

Suddenly the voice of Don Pablo was heard.

"Halt!" he cried; "Alight, and throw yourselves on your faces. If you value your lives, make haste."

There was in the sound of his voice such an accent of anguish, that the bravest felt themselves tremble.

But all knew that the accomplishment of the order which they had just received was a matter of life and death. By a desperate effort they reined up their horses short; two or three cries of agony, followed by the harsh sounds of several falls, were heard.

They came from the horsemen, whose horses had, becoming restive, stumbled over the edge of the path.

These horrible yells passed unperceived; the instinct of self-preservation was too powerful for anyone to care for others than himself.

In an instant all the horsemen had alighted, and were lying on the ground near their horses, which, instinctively understanding the danger had also crouched themselves on the path, burying their nostrils, and presenting their croup to the tempest.

"The hurricane! The hurricane!" cried the Pincheyra, in a loud clear voice; "Hold on to anything that you can seize!"

All of a sudden, a horrible rumbling was heard, and the wind was let loose with such extraordinary fury, that the mountain seemed to tremble as if it had been shaken by an earthquake. A horrible squall swept the valley with a roaring sound, and for some minutes separating the veil of fog.

Don Pablo half raised himself up at the risk of being carried away like a dry leaf, by the whirlwind which was raging, twisting, and tearing up the trees as though they were wisps of straw, and carrying them away in wild disorder, with a rapid but certain glance, the soldier explored the scene; then he assured himself that but a few steps farther, after a rather gentle descent, the path suddenly widened, and formed a platform of about three or four yards.

It was this spot towards which all the efforts of the soldiers had been directed. Once arrived in the valley, the situation would not be so critical.

It was necessary, then, that come what might, they should reach the valley.

Only, at the first terrible shock of the tempest, which in these wild regions assumes such formidable proportions, an avalanche bad been detached from the summit of the mountain, and had been precipitated from rock to rock with a frightful crash, dragging with it the earth, the underwood, and the trees which were in its way, and blocking up the path.

The case was so much the more desperate as the storm redoubled its violence, and the darkness had fallen thicker.

But the Pincheyra was one of those iron-hearted men who took no account of apparently impossible things. Born in the mountains, he had often struggled face to face with the tempest, and always he had come forth a conqueror from this gigantic struggle.

To attempt to rise and walk would have been madness; the soldier did not dream of it for a moment. Taking in his hand the knife from his right pocket, in order to give himself a hold, and planting it in the ground, the hardy mountaineer began to crawl gently, and with precaution, on his knees and elbows by the side of the ruins massed across the path.

At every step he stopped, and lowered his head to allow the squall around him to pass.

It required nearly an hour for him to traverse a distance of less than sixty yards. During this time his companions remained motionless, holding on to the ground.

At last Don Pablo reached the spot on which the avalanche had fallen. He looked around.

Brave as the soldier was, he could not repress a cry of anguish at the terrible spectacle.

The rocks over which the path was traced, torn away by the fall of the avalanche, had in some places given way for a space of more, than six yards, and had rolled over the precipice, opening a frightful chasm.

The ruins left by the avalanche were composed in a great measure of trees, and fragments of rock, which, entangled together, and massed, so to speak, by the branches and the underwood, formed a thick wall on the very edge of the gulf.

It was of no use thinking of forcing the passage with horses and mules.

The soldier with rage struck with his fist the obstacle that he could not destroy, and proceeded to rejoin his companions. After having cast a last look on the chasm, he prepared himself to retreat, when suddenly he thought he heard a sharp and prolonged cry, like that used by the mountaineers of all countries to communicate between themselves, often at considerable distances.

Don Pablo stopped suddenly and listened, but a considerable lapse of time passed, during which he could hear nothing but the horrible sounds of the storm. The soldier supposed that he had been the sport of an illusion, but suddenly the same cry, stronger and nearer, reached his ear, "Good God!" he cried, "Are other Christians lost in the mountains, amidst this horrible tempest?"

He stood for some moments, and cast a searching glance around.

[1] See "The Insurgent Chief," same publishers.

[CHAPTER II.]

BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

"I am deceived," he murmured, after a few seconds of reflection; "these mountains are deserted, no one would dare to venture so near the Casa-Frama."

At this moment he felt that someone touched him slightly on the shoulder. He turned round trembling; a man had joined him, and was crouching behind him.

It was Don Zeno Cabral.

Since the departure from the camp, the soldier had continually remained in the advanced guard with the three Spaniards, in order to escape the looks of the two ladies, by whom he did not wish to be recognised till the last moment.

"Ah, 'tis you, Don Sebastiao," said Don Pablo; "what do you think of our situation?"

"It is bad—very bad indeed; however, I do not think it desperate," coldly answered the soldier.

"I am persuaded, on the contrary, that it is desperate."

"It may be so; but we are not yet dead."

"No; but pretty near to it."

"Have you thought of a means to escape from the bad position in which we are?"

"I have thought of a thousand; but I have not thought of one which is practicable."

"That is because you have not thought in the right direction, my dear sir. In this world, you know as well as I do, that as long as the heart beats in the breast, there is some resource left, however critical may be the position in which we are placed. The remedy exists. Shall I aid you in doing so?"

"Well! I do not stand on my self-love," answered Don Pablo slightly smiling; "but I believe we shall have difficulty in finding the remedy."

"I am a bold man, as you are yourself. My pride revolts at the thought of dying a ridiculous death in this mousetrap, and I wish to escape—that's all."

"By Jove! You please me by speaking like that; you are really a charming companion."

"You flatter me, señor."

"No. I tell you what I think; rely on me as I rely on you, and we shall do wonders, I am sure."

"Keep your mind easy; we shall do our best, and if we fail, it will only be after having disputed our life inch by inch in a desperate struggle. But first, where are we?"

"We are at a few steps from the Valle del Tambo, where we should already have been in safety a long time ago, had it not been for this cursed avalanche."

"Very well—but," stopping himself suddenly; "did you not hear something?" asked he.

"Yes," answered the Pincheyra; "several times I have heard that noise strike on my ear."

"By Jove! And you have told me nothing of it."

"I feared that I was deceived; besides, you know that the country we are traversing is a desert, and that no one can be here."

"We are here, though, eh?"

"That is not a reason; we are at home, or nearly so."

Don Zeno smiled with irony.

"That is possible; however, till we find to the contrary, let us act as if we were certain of meeting someone."

"If there were other travellers in the neighbourhood, would they not find themselves in the same situation as us, if not worse; and what you take for cries to help us may probably be, on the contrary, cries of distress."

"That is why we ought to assure ourselves of the truth."

"You are right; answer, then, if you think proper."

"Let us wait for a new cry, in order to assure ourselves as much a possible of the direction we ought to turn to in answering."

"Be it so, let us wait," answered the Pincheyra.

They stretched themselves again on the ground, their ears to the earth, listening with the greatest anxiety.

The situation momentarily became more critical; already several horses had been precipitated into the gulf, and it was with extreme difficulty that men and horses could resist the efforts of the tempest, which every moment threatened to carry them away.

However, after some minutes, which appeared to be an age, the two men again heard the cry.

This time it appeared nearer; it was sharp and perfectly distinct.

"It is a cry to help us," said Don Zeno, with joy.

And placing his two hands at the corners of his mouth, so as to carry his voice, he immediately answered by a cry not less shrill, which swept on the wind, echoed and re-echoed, to die away at a great distance.

"You are sure that is a cry to help us that we have just heard?" said the Pincheyra.

"Yes, thank God, it is," answered Zeno Cabral; "and now let us to work, for if we escape from here, master, we shall escape safe and sound; you may take my word for it."

Don Pablo shook his head sadly.

"You still doubt," pursued the hardy partisan in a tone of disdain. "Perhaps you are afraid?"

"Yes, I am afraid," candidly said the Pincheyra; "and I do not think there is anything humiliating in that avowal. I am but a man after all—very weak, and very humble before the anger of God; I cannot prevent my nerves from trembling, nor my heart from sinking."

Zeno Cabral held out his hand to him with a sympathising smile.

"Excuse me, Don Pablo," said he, in a gentle voice, "for having spoken to you as I have. A man must be really brave to avow so candidly that he is afraid."

"Thank you, Don Sebastiao," answered the Pincheyra, affected more than he wished to show. "Act, order, I will be the first to obey you."

"Above all, let us rejoin our companions; we want their aid and their counsel; let us make haste."

The two men then rejoined their companions, crawling on elbows and knees, with the same difficulty they had previously experienced; for although the weather began to brighten, the wind had not ceased to howl with fury, and to sweep the path.

In a few words, Don Pablo Pincheyra put his adherents in possession of the facts of the situation, and imparted to them the feeble hope he himself possessed. All energy had been crushed within them, and they awaited death with stolid apathy.

"There is nothing to expect from these brutes," said Zeno Cabral, with disdain: "fear has neutralised all human sentiments."

"What is to be done, then?" murmured the partisan.

"If it only depended on you and me," pursued Don Zeno—"strong, determined, and active as we are, we should soon know how to escape this peril; but I do not wish to abandon these unhappy Women."

"I completely share your opinion on that matter."

"So I can depend upon you?"

"Most thoroughly; but what can we do?"

"Bethink yourself; you know these mountains well, do you not?"

"They do not possess a gorge—a hidden retreat—that I have not twenty times explored."

"Good! You are sure, then, of the place where we are?"

"Oh, perfectly."

"The path we follow, is it the only one that leads to the place where you wish us to go?"

"There is another, but to take that, it would be necessary we retrace our steps for at least four leagues."

"We could never accomplish that. What direction does this path take?"

"Upon my word, I cannot positively tell you."

"We have only one recourse left," pursued Don Zeno; "it is to join the man whose cry to help us has been several times heard."

"I should think nothing better; but how shall we descend the precipice?"

"This is my project. We will take all the lassos of those poltroons, and tie them end to end; one of us will tie the end of these round his body, and will attempt the descent, whilst his companions will hold the rope in his hand, letting it out only in such a way as, precarious as the support may be, it may serve to maintain the equilibrium of the one who descends. Do you agree with it?"

"Yes," decisively answered the Pincheyra, "but on one condition."

"What is it?"

"It is that it shall be I who descends."

"No, I cannot admit that condition; but I propose another."

"Let us hear it."

"Time presses; we must make an end of this. Every minute that we lose brings us nearer death. Let chance decide it."

The partisan drew from the pockets of his trousers a purse full of gold, and placed it between himself and the Pincheyra.

"I do not know what this purse contains," said he, "I swear it. Odd or even! If you guess, you descend; if not, you give up the place to me."

Notwithstanding the prostration in which they were, some of the adventurers, excited by the irresistible attraction of this strange game, played in the midst of a horrible tempest, and of which death was the stake, half rose up, and fixed their ardent gaze on the two.

Don Pablo cried Even, and then the purse was opened.

"Forty-seven!" cried Don Zeno, in a joyful accent; "I have gained."

"True," answered Don Pablo; "do as you wished to do!"

Without losing a moment the partisan seized the lassos from the Pincheyras, tied them firmly together, and after having fixed one of the ends round his girdle, he gave the other to Don Pablo, and prepared to commence his hazardous descent.

The countenance of Don Zeno was grave and sad.

"I confide these two poor ladies to you," said he in a low voice; "if, as is probable, I shall not be able to resist the strength of the tempest, promise me to watch over them till your last breath."

"Go boldly; I swear to you to do it."

"Thank you," merely answered Don Zeno.

He knelt down, addressed to Heaven a mental prayer; then, seizing his knife in one hand, and his dagger in the other:

"God help me," said he firmly, and in a crawling attitude he approached the edge of the precipice.

Don Zeno commenced his descent with the courage of a man who, while he has resolutely risked the sacrifice of his life, nevertheless applies all the energy of his will to the success of his perilous enterprise.

The edge of the precipice was less steep than it appeared from above. Although with great difficulty, the partisan succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium pretty well, by holding on to the grass and shrubbery which were within his reach.

Don Zeno continued to descend, as upon a narrow ledge, which seemed insensibly to retreat, and upon which he could only maintain himself by a desperate effort. Then, having reached a tree which had thrown out its branches horizontally, he disappeared in the midst of the foliage, and after a moment the adventurers felt that the tension of the lasso, which they had given out inch by inch, had suddenly ceased, Don Pablo drew towards him the cord; it came without resistance, floating backwards and forwards to the sport of the wind.

Don Zeno had let go his hold. It was in vain that the adventurers tried to discover the young man. A considerable lapse of time passed; they could not discover him; then all of a sudden, the tree, in the branches of which he had disappeared, oscillated slowly, and fell with a noise down the precipice.

"Oh," cried Don Pablo in despair, throwing himself back, "the unhappy man; he is lost!"

Meanwhile the partisan, cool and calm, looking at danger in its full extent, but regarding it, thanks to his habits of desert life, in a common-sense light, had continued his terrible journey, step by step, only advancing slowly, and with precaution.

He thus attained the tree of which we have spoken, and which formed nearly a right angle with the precipice, just below the spot where the avalanche had blocked up the path, although between the tree and the other edge of the precipice, the distance was pretty considerable. However, Zeno Cabral, after mature reflection, did not despair of getting past it.

To do this, he relieved himself of the lasso, which had only become useless to him.

Encircling the trunk of the tree, he raised himself as far as the principal branch, and making use of it as a bridge, at the same time holding on to the upper branches, he advanced towards its extremity.

But scarcely had he reached halfway the length of the branch, than he perceived with horror that the tree, broken by the fall of the avalanche, oscillated under him. A shudder of terror ran through his veins; his hair stood on end; a cold sweat broke upon his temples; his look was riveted, spite of himself, upon the yawning gulf which opened beneath, ready to bury him; giddiness seized him; he felt that he was lost, and closed his eyes, murmuring a last prayer. But at the moment when he was about to abandon himself and fall into the gulf, the instinct of life suddenly awoke. By a last effort of will he subdued the giddiness, ordered, so to speak, his arteries to cease to beat, and resolving to try a last effort, he darted along the branch which bent more and more under him, sprang ahead and reached the opposite edge of the precipice, at the very moment when the tree, suddenly losing its balance, rolled into the gulf with a horrible sound.

Weakened by the terrible effort he had been obliged to make, and not yet knowing whether he was lost or saved, the young man remained for some minutes stretched on the ground, pale, panting, his eyes starting; not caring to think of the miraculous way in which he had escaped from a nearly inevitable death, or to stir—so much did he still seem to feel the ground stealing from under him.

However, by degrees he became calmer and more rational.

The place where he was was a kind of platform, situated a few yards below the path, which at that place declined gradually as far as the valley.

Although the position of the partisan was much improved, it was still very dangerous. In fact, the side of the precipice, above which he was literally suspended, rose perpendicularly, and it was impossible to scale it. Zeno Cabral had only succeeded in changing his mode of death. If he no longer feared to be precipitated to the bottom of the abyss, he ascertained by a look the certainty that, unless by some extraordinary help, he could not quit the place where he was, and that, consequently, if he could not blow his brains out, or plunge his poignard into his heart, he was condemned to die miserably of hunger—a prisoner on the pedestal that he had succeeded in reaching.

The partisan supported himself against the granite wall, to shelter himself against the violence of the wind, which whirled about the chasm with ominous sounds; and although he had a conviction of his powerlessness, he nevertheless thought over in his mind a means of escaping from the frightful death which threatened him.

For some minutes he thus remained, his head drooping, his eyes fixed on the rock; then he mechanically raised his head and made a gesture of terror. An enormous bald vulture had swept down from the extremity of the platform, and looked at him with a sinister expression.

Brave as the young man was, he could not support the cold and sea-green eye of the hideous bird, which appeared to fascinate him. By an instinctive movement he seized from his girdle one of his pistols, and discharged it at the vulture, which immediately flew away with a harsh and discordant cry.

The noise of the explosion, re-echoed from chasm to chasm like so many thunderclaps, only gave place to silence, when it had reached the regions of eternal snow, where it died amidst their majestic solitudes.

But scarcely had the sound ceased, than the cry to help him, which had already struck the ear of the partisan, resounded again.

The young man regained hope. Gathering all his powers in order to give greater effect to his voice, he answered by a similar cry. Then immediately the cry was repeated, but this time above him.

Convinced that men were near him, and not knowing what means to use to inform them of his whereabouts, Zeno Cabral discharged his second pistol; nearly at the same time a formidable explosion burst over his head; then, when silence had been re-established, a sonorous and clear voice twice cried out to him:

"Courage! Courage!"

Zeno Cabral was compelled to support himself against a rock to prevent himself from falling; a convulsive trembling agitated his limbs; a harsh cry escaped from his panting breast; his body lost that agitation that fear had given it, and he hid his head in his hands, and melted into tears.

If he had not wept he would have gone mad, or he would have succumbed to the repeated attacks of the poignant emotions which for some hours had continually assailed him, and had at last crushed his energy, and almost annihilated his will.

Ten minutes—ten ages—thus passed without the partisan perceiving anything to induce him to believe that anyone was watching to save him. Anxiety began again to weigh heavily on his heart, when suddenly he saw above the crest of the precipice, the copper-coloured head of an Indian.

"Here I am!" cried he, immediately advancing.

"We see you," answered someone. "Are you wounded; can you help yourself?"

"I am not wounded, thank God," said he; "and I have all my energies."

"So much the better, for the ascent will be difficult. We will throw you a lasso; you must tie it to your body, and we will draw you up, as you do not appear to be in a position to climb, with a cord."

"Throw me down cord. I will keep it away from the edge, and fix it firmly at a certain distance, so as not to be swayed about."

"Well! Wait; we will pay you out the cord."

The Indian disappeared, but almost immediately a pretty thick cord, with knots a little apart from each other, descended slowly. They had attached a stone of a good weight to the end, to prevent it from drifting about However, the wind was still so high that notwithstanding this precaution it was so driven about as to seriously disquiet the young man.

However, when the stone touched the platform, either from its weight, or because the storm had lost its intensity, it was easy enough for the young man to take it. He immediately occupied himself in fixing it firmly in the fissure of the rock.

Then the young man, for whom this ascent, perilous as it would have been for anyone else, was but child's play, thanks to his strength and skill, seized the cord and mounted.

Four men received him, when he put his foot on the path.

"Welcome to terra firma!" said the one who appeared to be the master, laughing and holding out his hand.

"Thank you," answered Zeno Cabral, and at last, overcome by so many emotions; he sank, half fainting, into the arms of his unknown friends.

They, with the gentlest solicitude, used every means in their power to restore his failing energies, with what success we shall see later on.

[CHAPTER III.]

THE VALLE DEL TAMBO.

The Valle del Tambo is a narrow valley shaded by beautiful trees, and almost wholly sheltered from the storms which rage on the mounts. It is a favourite halt for travellers, and is provided with a kind of little house of solid stones; where people shelter themselves from the rain, wind, or snow.

These lodges, or tambos, are met with frequently in the high regions of the Cordilleras. When the Spanish government was powerful in these countries, it ordered the construction of them on a large scale.

At the present day, thanks to the carelessness of the governments which have succeeded to that of Spain, the majority of these tambos are in ruins.

When Don Santiago Pincheyra, after the conversation with Emile Gagnepain, which we have previously recorded, had set out with his partisan, to return to Casa-Frama, the painter and his servant had sat down before their watch fire.

The news that Pincheyra, urged by a feeling of gratitude, had given to the young Frenchman, was of the highest importance. Unhappily, this information arrived too late to enable him to warn the ladies, and to place them on their guard against the dangers which threatened them.

In vain he racked his brain to find a means of honourably escaping from the difficult position in which he found himself, when Tyro rudely interrupted his reflections.

"Well, master," said he, "we are worrying our brains to little purpose. I will take the responsibility of acquainting these ladies."

"You, Tyro? How will you do it?"

"Oh, leave that to me. I will answer for everything. Just write a letter to the marchioness, place it in something that she will immediately recognise, and you may depend upon it I will convey it to her."

"You promise it?"

"On the word of Tyro."

"Good: I will write the letter. I have got a Book of Hours, which the marchioness gave me a few days ago. She will not fail to recognise it."

"That is right, master. Write immediately, that I may the sooner depart."

While they were thus speaking, the Guarani had lighted a torch, by the light of which the young man traced a few lines on a leaf of his memorandum book. Then he folded the paper, placed it in the prayer book, and closed the clasp.

While his master was writing, Tyro had saddled his horse, so that he was ready as soon as his master.

"Now," said he, "do not be uneasy, master. Remain quietly here, and you will soon see me again."

"Go then, but be prudent."

The Guarani spurred his horse, and broke into a gallop. He now disappeared in the darkness, and the sound of his horse's feet ceased to be heard.

The young man gave a sigh, and went sadly to lie down in the tambo, where, notwithstanding the anxiety to which his mind was a prey, it was not long before he soundly slept.

Meanwhile Tyro had set out. The brave Indian, without troubling himself about the night, the thick darkness of which enveloped him, galloped at full speed in the direction of Casa-Frama. The plan which he had conceived was extremely simple.

At about four or five leagues from the entrance of the camp, the road passed through a tolerably large defile, the sides of which were covered with thick shrubbery. It was in this place the Indian made a halt. He entered the thicket, hid himself behind the trees and the shrubs, alighted, and having covered with his girdle the nostrils of his horse, he watched.

His body leaning forward, his eye and ear on the watch, he heard the sounds which the night wind brought him; and prepared to act as soon as the moment should arrive.

At last, a little before sunrise, at the moment when the darkness, struggled with a last effort against the daybreak, which paled the stars and tinged the heavens with greyish reflections, Tyro, whose eye had not been dosed for an instant, thought he heard a slight noise in the direction of Casa-Frama.

There was no room for mistake; it was the caravan which had set out from the camp, and in the middle of which were the two ladies.

The Guarani advanced cautiously, and scarcely had the last horseman been descried in the darkness, than he left the wood, and proceeded in the same direction as the travellers, and imperceptibly approached the rearguard.

The first part of the Indian's plan had succeeded with greater ease than he could have dared to hope for; the second part alone remained—that is to say, the conveying the book of hours to the marchioness.

Tyro, affecting the sleepy pace of his companions, patted gently the horse which he held firmly by the bridle; and, without exciting any suspicion, drew nearer to the body of the troop.

His design was to reach the two ladies, and to slip the book in their hands, without being perceived, but he soon saw that this project was impracticable. The two ladies formed the centre of a group.

Tyro, however, was not discouraged.

There was not a moment to be lost. Any hesitation would have been perilous. The day began to advance.

The decision of the Guarani was immediately taken.

Placed at about ten paces behind the two ladies, regardless of what might happen to him, and determined at all hazards to accomplish his mission, he took advantage of a moment when the horsemen to the right and left of the prisoners had removed to some little distance; and giving his horse the rein, he darted off at full gallop.

We have seen that, he succeeded in throwing the book to the marchioness.

Don Pablo Pincheyra, astonished at the unexpected appearance of this horseman, whom he had only seen as he passed, but who appeared to hint not to be part of his troop, prepared to follow him, to find out who he was, when suddenly another care came to change the current of his ideas, by constraining him to look after the safety of his companions. The tempest which had so long threatened them at last burst with extreme violence.

At the first breeze of the hurricane, Tyro understood that a danger, a hundred times more terrible than that from which he had just escaped, hung over his head. Exciting his horse, whose efforts were already prodigious; leaping ravines and bogs, at the risk of dashing himself to the bottom of precipices which he passed in his mad flight, he appeared to fly over this narrow and scarcely practicable path, and which the darkness, which suddenly spread over the mountains, rendered more perilous still.

Suddenly a terrible noise burst at a few paces from him, a cloud of dust enveloped him, his horse started and reared up on his hind legs balancing itself for some minutes on the very edge of the gulf. The Indian thought he was lost. By a prodigy of horsemanship, he gave him the bridle, plunged his spurs into the palpitating sides of the horse, and leant all his weight on the neck of the animal. The horse hesitated an instant, suddenly he bounded forward, and made a few stumbling steps. Then his four legs gave way, he fell, and threw the Indian over his head.

Tyro raised himself, shattered and bruised by his fall, and looked anxiously around him. A frightful spectacle met hit eyes. An enormous avalanche had detached itself from the summit of the mountain.

But by a providential circumstance, Tyro, thanks to the rapidity of his journey, had reached the valley. He was saved, but was separated from the travellers who followed him by a nearly impregnable barrier.

The young man hastened to run towards his horse, which had already got up.

Tyro patted him, and spoke to him to give him courage; but knowing the impossibility of mounting in the state of prostration in which he found the horse, he took him by the bridle and continued his route, dragging him after him.

Emile was a prey to the greatest anxiety. It was with joy that he received Tyro, and congratulated him warmly upon having returned safe and sound.

The young man trembled at the thought of the perils with which the two ladies were threatened.

"They must be saved," cried he with spirit.

"They are lost," said Tyro.

"Lost!" cried Emile with energy. "Nonsense! You cannot believe it; it is not possible."

"I do not doubt, master; I am sure."

"But no, you are deceived. I do not believe you. That would be too frightful. Doña Eva, so young, so beautiful, to perish thus—no, that cannot be."

"Alas! Master," said the Indian, with a sigh, "how often have I seen perish thus other young ladies as beautiful, and, without doubt, as much loved!" added he, in a low voice.

Several minutes passed, during which the two men remained mute and pensive; no other sound was heard than that of the hurricane which raged in the valley.

Then the Frenchman raised his head. His face was radiant; an expression of determined bravery was spread over his features; his eyes appeared to flash.

"If I am to be crushed against the rocks," he said in a firm voice, "I will not leave these unhappy ladies to die. Our fate is in the hands of God; whatever happens, I will try to succour them."

While speaking thus, the young man had risen, and walked resolutely towards the door of the tambo.

"Master, what would you do?" cried Tyro, throwing himself quickly before him; "You do not know what a storm is in the mountains; you expose yourself to a horrible death!"

"Be it so!" coolly responded the young man, trying to disengage himself; "But I shall do my duty."

"Your duty, master," cried the Indian with grief—"you will go to your death, that is all!"

"It is possible; but my resolution is irrevocably taken. Release me then, my brave Tyro, your efforts and your words to detain me are useless."

"Do as you think proper, master," said the Indian; "let us try, then, since you wish it."

"I require nothing of you, my friend," replied he; "this regards me alone, you will remain here."

"Oh, master," replied the Indian in a tone of reproach, "what have I done that you should speak to me thus?"

"You have done nothing to me," my friend; "I am not angry with you. Only, I have no right to expose you, to satisfy one of my caprices, to a terrible death."

"Master," said the Indian in an earnest tone, "I am with you body and soul; where you go, I shall go; what you do, I shall do. You wish to try to save these travellers? Be it so; let us attempt it."

"You have misunderstood me, my friend. You have told me yourself, that I shall go to a certain death in attempting to aid these unhappy travellers; I have not wished that you, who are not concerned in it, should share these perils."

"Pardon, master," quickly interrupted the young man, "let us resume the question. I do not condemn or approve your project. You wish to put it into execution—very well. This is your desire, and I shall not discuss the point with you."

"Come then, since this is the case; but I leave to you to prove that I used no constraint with you."

"Certainly, my master, and whatever happens, be convinced that no reproach shall come from my lips."

A longer conversation became useless between the two men. They understood each other. Notwithstanding the hurricane, they quitted the tambo, followed by the gauchos.

Thanks to the incline of the path, and to its width at the spot where it debouched into the valley, the injury caused by the avalanche, although very great, was not irreparable. That which the travellers could not attempt, because of the precarious situation in which they found themselves placed, the four men, by uniting their forces, had hopes of being able to accomplish; that is to say, that after three or four hours' very painful work, they were certain of re-establishing a provisionary passage—solid enough, however, for the horses and beasts of burden to venture on.

They set themselves immediately to work, notwithstanding the efforts of the tempest, then in all its force, but of which the squalls, broken by the mountains, had not that intensity as on the road.

"While you work here to re-establish the passage," said Tyro, "I will go and occupy myself in taking care to warn the travellers whom we would save."

Without waiting for an answer, the Indian left.

We have shown how his appeals had been heard, and had moved Zeno Cabral to attempt a last effort.

When the partisan found himself at last upon firm earth, his first movement was to thank God for his marvellous deliverance; then tendering his hand to Emile, who, at the first glance, he perceived to be the master of those who had brought succour to him:

"Thank you, señor," he said; "thanks to you, I am saved; but there are other unhappy ones."

"I know it, caballero," interrupted the young man. "A numerous troop of travellers are at this moment still exposed to terrible danger; with the aid of God, we shall save them."

"You believe so?" joyously cried the partisan.

"I hope so, at all events, señor: for several hours already my companions and myself have been working. Come; your aid will not be useless."

Zeno Cabral followed him with readiness.

He gave utterance to a cry of joy, on perceiving the bridge which the painter bad succeeded in throwing from one side to the other of the gulf.

The work was nearly finished; the plank alone remained to establish. This was the affair of half an hour.

"Do you think, now," asked the young man, "that your companions will risk themselves on this bridge?"

"Oh, that will be only play to them," responded the partisan.

"Cross the bridge, then; clear a passage through the ruins left by the avalanche. Then, arrived on the other side, you will only have to open in the earth heaped up on the rock a trench enough for a passage of a horse."

"Will you not come with me?"

"What's the good? Better that you should go alone. Our sudden presence would cause great surprise among your friends."

"That's reasonable; in the fainting state in which they are, perhaps that would cause serious consequences. Au revoir, then, and to our speedy meeting."

The young man took the hand of the Frenchman a last time, and set out on the bridge, which he traversed in a minute.

Meanwhile the Pincheyras, who had had a moment's hope when they had seen Don Zeno Cabral, with such skill and such cool bravery, launch himself into the precipice to attempt to find a passage, suddenly felt that hope extinguished in their hearts, when all of a sudden the tree on which the adventurous young man was holding rolled into the abyss.

In vain Don Pablo, whose indomitable courage had not been cast down by this terrible blow, attempted at several times, now in chiding, then in exciting them, to galvanise his companions, and to awaken in them a spark of bravery. All was useless; the instinct of self-preservation, the last sentiment which stands in the human heart, and which supports it in the most horrible crises, was extinct in their hearts.

Don Pablo, disheartened by this torpor into which the soldiers had fallen, and acknowledging the impossibility of raising them from it, crouched at the foot of the barricade, and there, his arms crossed over his chest, awaited death.

The tempest had sensibly diminished; the sky had cleared up; the wind only blew in gusts, and the fog, as it dissipated, permitted them to descry the landscape, which presented so many features injured by the storm, and the desolate aspect of which, if it were possible, added more to the horror of the situation in which the travellers were.

"We must have done with this," murmured Don Pablo; "since these brutes are incapable of helping us, and as terror paralyses them, I will leave them, if it must be so, to their fate; but, as I hope for heaven. I swear I will save these two unfortunate ladies."

Whilst speaking thus, the partisan raised himself, and, throwing around him a last look, he prepared to go to the ladies, who were lying in a fainting state.

On a sudden the branches of the barricade, pushed back by a vigorous hand, separated rudely behind him, and Don Zeno leaped into the path. At sight of him a total change took place in the troop. At the sight of Zeno Cabral, whom they believed to be dead, the partisans leaped up as though stricken by an electric shock, and hope, re-entering their breasts, gave them back all their courage.

Don Pablo had no occasion to order them to set themselves to work; they rushed on the barricade with a desperate ardour, and in less than a half-hour every obstacle had disappeared. The earth, the rocks, the very trees were thrown into the gulf, with the partisans' cries of joy exciting one another to see who should do the most work.

The horses and the mules, held by the bridle by their masters, crossed the bridge without much difficulty, and soon found themselves in safety in the valley.

A litter had been made to transport the two ladies, still fainting; they were placed in the tambo, on a bed of dry leaves, covered with skins and cloaks, and then confided to the intelligent care of Tyro.

Don Pablo, perceiving his old prisoner, uttered a cry of surprise.

"What!" cried he, "you here, Don Emile?"

"As you see," answered the young man.

"Then it is to you that we owe our safety?"

"After God, it is to me that you owe it, señor."

The partisan looked at the Frenchman with admiration.

"Is it possible," murmured he, "that such great and noble natures exist? Don Emile," said he, "I have done you serious injury; I persecuted you during all the time that you were at Casa-Frama, without any real reason. My conduct has been despicable; you ought to hate me, and you save me!"

"Because, Don Pablo," answered the young man, "you are a man in the true sense of the word; because your faults are those necessitated by the life you lead; because every good feeling is not dead within you, and your heart is generous. I do not claim the right of being more severe than God, and of condemning you to perish, when a hope of saving you existed."

"This obligation that you impose on me, Don Emile, I accept with joy. You have a better opinion of me than I dared to have of myself. I will try to show myself, for the future, worthy of what you have done for me today."

"You were acquainted with one another?" said Don Zeno.

"A little," answered Don Pablo.

The conversation ceased here for the time. The partisans proceeded to arrange their camp, and to prepare their breakfast, of which, now that they were saved, they began to feel the want. Emotions, in the desert, for a time overcome hunger; the danger passed, hunger returns.

[CHAPTER IV.]

DIPLOMACY.

Meanwhile the storm had abated, the sky became cloudless, and the sun burst out with a warm glow that was very welcome.

Emile, after having confided the two ladies to the care of the Guarani, had left the tambo, oppressed by a sad apprehension.

At first, carried away by the vivacity of his disposition, he had, at the peril of his life, tried to save men threatened with a frightful death; but, the danger passed, all the difficulty of his position suddenly appeared to him.

The young man's position was critical; an event impossible to foresee had destroyed all his plans. The storm, in thus coming to the aid of the Pincheyras, obliged the Frenchman to adopt a system of dissimulation incompatible with his loyal character.

However, there was no other means than that; he must adopt it. The young man resigned himself to it—against his will, it is true—hoping that perhaps fate might weary of persecuting the two weak creatures whom he wished to serve.

A prey to by no means pleasurable thoughts, Emile, with his arms crossed behind his back, and his head leaning on his breast, paced with an agitated step the open space before the tambo, when he heard himself called several times in a loud voice.

He raised his head. Don Zeno and Don Pablo Pincheyra, seated side by side on the banks of a ditch, made a sign to him to join them.

"What do these demons want with me?" murmured he, in his manner of speaking to himself in a low tone. "They are certainly two good specimens of scoundrels. Ah!" said he, with a sigh, "How happy was Salvator Rosa—he who could at his ease paint all the brigands that he met! What a splendid picture I could make here! What a magnificent landscape!"

Speaking thus, the young man directed his steps towards the two partisans, before whom he found himself just at the last word of his "aside." He bowed to them, with a smile on his face.

"You wish to speak to me, gentlemen?" said he. "Can I be of any service to you?"

"You can," answered Zeno Cabral, smiling, "render me a service for which I should be ever grateful."

"Although I am ignorant as to what you expect of me, and what is the service you are about to ask of me, I do not wish to abuse your confidence, and to deceive you. It is well that we should thoroughly understand our position."

"What do you mean, señor?" asked Don Zeno, with a start of surprise.

"I will explain. You doubtless do not recognise me, señor. I confess that at first, when I came to your help, I did not know who was the man whose life I had saved; but now I recognise you as Don—"

"Sebastiao Vianna, a Portuguese officer, a friend and aide-de-camp of General the Marquis de Castelmelhor," quickly interrupted Don Zeno.

"Parbleu! Why hesitate? I by no means conceal my name; I have no reason for making a mystery of it. Don Pablo knows that—a devoted friend of the marchioness and her daughter—my mission has no other design than the conducting them safely to the general."

"There is nothing but what is very honourable in this mission," chimed in the Pincheyra, "and with God's help the colonel will accomplish it."

"I hope so," answered Don Zeno.

"Just so," answered the young man, taken aback by what he heard.

"Ah!" murmured he, "Whom do they think they are deceiving?"

"Is that all you wished to say?" continued Don Zeno.

"Yes, that is all," answered the painter, bowing.

"Very well," pursued the partisan with an agreeable smile, "I did not expect less from your courtesy; but what you do not wish to state, it is for me to make known, and to avow boldly."

"Your conduct towards me, Don Emile," he continued—"you see I remember your name—is so much the handsomer and more generous, inasmuch as mine, in appearance at least, is not in your estimation free from blame. At our first meeting, I wished, I believe, if my memory is faithful, to arrest you as a spy."

"I thank you for this frankness, señor," answered the young man, smiling.

"You misunderstand me, caballero," pursued the partisan with animation, "and that does not surprise me. You cannot understand the strange and abnormal position that we Southern Americans occupy at this time. I speak decisively, because I expect a last service, or, if you prefer to call it so, a last proof of your generosity."

Emile Gagnepain was a thoroughly clear-sighted man. The deliberate manner of the partisan who, while passing lightly over the details, yet confessed his errors, pleased him by its very eccentricity.

"Speak, Don Sebastiao," he answered; "I shall be happy to render you the service that you expect, if it is in my power."

"I know it, and I thank you for it, señor. I will state what it is in a few words."

"Speak, señor," answered the young man, his curiosity excited by such long preambles.

Don Zeno appeared for some time a prey to uncertainty and indecision; but, overcoming his feelings, whatever they were, he cast a look to where Don Pablo Pincheyra was apathetically smoking a cigarette, without appearing in any way to concern himself with the conversation.

"Here is the fact in a few words," he said; "Don Pablo Pincheyra, my friend, has informed me that you accompanied the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter, when his brother conducted them to Casa-Frama."

"That is true," gravely answered the painter; "these ladies did me the honour to accept me as guide."

"Then you are devoted to them?" decisively asked the partisan.

The painter did not wince; he suspected a snare.

"Pardon," he said, in a tone of kindliness, impossible to describe. "Before going any further, let us understand each other thoroughly, caballero. You say, do you not, that I am devoted to these unfortunate ladies?"

"Is it not true?" added the Pincheyra.

"To a certain extent it is, señor. These ladies required aid; I was near them, and they claimed mine. To refuse them would neither have been gallant nor in good taste. I, therefore, acceded to their wishes; but you know as well as anyone, Don Pablo, that yesterday, having learnt that they had no further need of me, I took leave of them."

"Hum I that is awkward," murmured Zeno Cabral. "Had you, then, serious reasons for acting thus?"

"Not precisely, señor; I have always acted in good faith with these ladies."

There was a long silence between the three speakers. The tone of the young painter was so artless and decidedly frank, that Don Zeno, notwithstanding all his skill, could not ascertain whether he gave expression to his real thoughts, or was deceiving him.

"I am disheartened by what you tell me, as I intended to ask you to do me a service."

"With regard to these ladies?" said the young man, with astonishment.

"A service for which, by the by, I should be extremely grateful."

"I do not see in what I can serve you, señor."

"But I do. Look here, my dear sir; we are playing with our cards under the table."

"I do not know why you speak thus, señor; my policy towards you should, I think, be sufficient to place me above suspicion of treachery," answered he.

"These ladies," Don Zeno continued, "whether rightly or wrongly, I will not discuss with you, imagine that they are surrounded by enemies determined on their destruction. Perhaps, if I presented myself to them, their mind, embittered by misfortunes, would see in me, whom they know but imperfectly, instead of a sure friend and a devoted servant, one of their enemies."

"Oh," cried the painter, haughtily, "what is that you are saying, señor? Are you not the aide-de-camp of General the Marquis de Castelmelhor?"

"That is true," answered the partisan, with embarrassment.

"Well, it seems to me, caballero, that that position ought to serve as a safeguard."

"Well, it probably would do so—at least I hope so. Unfortunately, reasons of the highest importance necessitate my trusting to someone else. That other—"

"Is to be me, is it not?" quickly interrupted the young man. "That is what you wanted to propose, caballero?"

"Whom could I choose if not you, señor?—you who know these ladies, and they have full confidence in you."

"Unhappily, caballero, my consent is necessary in this matter, and I have already had the honour to say, if not to you, at least to Don Pablo, that I do not feel at all disposed to continue, in respect to these ladies, the part that I have played for nearly a month. I am much concerned for them, but I must withdraw my support from them."

This tirade was uttered by the young man with such comic desperation, that the two partisans could not prevent themselves from laughing.

"Come, come," answered Don Zeno; "you are an excellent companion, and I see with pleasure that I was not deceived in you. Reassure yourself; the mission that I wish to confide to you is by no means perilous."

"Hum! Who knows?" murmured the young man.

"I give you my word, as a gentleman," resumed Don Zeno, "that when you arrive you will be free, and nobody will molest you."

"Hum! Hum!" again murmured the young man.

"Ah!" suddenly exclaimed Don Pablo Pincheyra, rising. "Why, then, my dear Don Sebastiao, do you not continue the escort of these ladies?"

"Have I not acquainted you," responded Don Zeno, "with the message which was given to me by the cavalier who met us on our first departure from the camp?"

"That is true," said Don Pablo, "I did not think of that. The message is important, then?"

"It could not be more so."

"Diable! Let us see, Don Emile," pursued the Pincheyra, in a conciliatory tone. "If I could, I would not hesitate to escort these two unfortunate ladies."

"You refuse me this service, then, caballero?" added Don Zeno.

"Well," said the young man, as if it had cost him a great deal to make this determination, "as you wish it, for this time I again consent to take upon myself an embarrassment of which I thought I was rid. I will escort these ladies."

Don Zeno made a gesture of joy which he immediately repressed.

"Thank you, caballero," said he. "Perhaps God will permit me, someday, to acquit myself of all that I owe you. Now that this affair is settled to our mutual satisfaction, allow me to take leave of you."

"Do you intend to depart so quickly then?"

"It must be. I cannot make too great haste. So, now that I have rested myself sufficiently for the various fatigues that I have for some time endured, I leave you, confiding in your loyal word, and convinced that you will act up to it."

"I shall fulfil my promise, señor."

"Thank you, caballero. I entirely reckon on you."

And after having amicably taken the hand of the young Frenchman, and having courteously bowed to Don Pablo, the partisan proceeded to rejoin his companions.

Don Zeno mounted his horse, made a last salute, and giving his horse the bridle, departed at full speed.

The painter followed him with his eyes as long as he could perceive him. Then, when at last the Montonero had disappeared behind the point of a rock, he gave a sigh of relief.

"That is one; now for the other? As to the latter, I think it will not be very difficult."

Don Pablo, still seated on the hillock of which he had made a seat, continued to smoke his cigarette.

The young man seated himself at his side, considered a moment, and placing his hand on the other's shoulder:

"Vive Dieu! Don Pablo," cried he with vigour; "For A month past I have lived in your camp; I have seen you accomplish marvellous things; but this far surpasses all the others."

"Eh!" said the partisan. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. I render you homage, that is all."

"Homage!" repeated Don Pablo; "Why?"

"What makes you say why? Parbleu! I did not expect such an excess of modesty."

"Are we speaking in enigmas?"

"Do I not Know that you have played your part to perfection—I who, without being in the secret of the motives which have induced you to act thus, know the man as well as you."

"What secret? What motives? And of what man do you speak, companion?" cried Don Pablo impatiently.

"Pardieu! Of the man who has just left us."

"Don Sebastiao Vianna, the aide-de-camp of General de Castelmelhor."

"Well, it is capitally played," said Emile. "But now all dissimulation is useless. For the rest, if you persist in not uttering his name, that is your own affair. All this, in fact, does not much disturb me. You are free to give to Don Zeno Cabral the name of Dom Sebastiao."

"Eh!" cried the partisan, jumping up, "What name did you say?"

Don Pablo knit his eyebrows. A livid pallor covered his face.

"So this man," cried he, in a voice stifled by anger, "this man is Don Zeno Cabral?"

"Did you really not know that?" asked the young man.

"Yes, I was ignorant of it," cried the Pincheyra. "Do you swear it?"

"Pardieu! I have known him so long that I cannot be deceived."

The partisan darted a fierce look at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but changing his mind, he turned suddenly, and proceeded hastily towards his men, encamped around the tambo.

"To horse! To horse!" cried he to them.

"I believe," murmured the Frenchman, following him with a searching glance, "that the first one will free me from this one, unless it should be that this man should deliver me from the first."

[CHAPTER V.]

FREE—PERHAPS.

After his Machiavellian soliloquy, the Frenchman, rubbing his hands, advanced cautiously towards the tambo, following with a gloomy countenance the preparations for departure being made by the Pincheyras.

Don Pablo was ready the first.

"Don Emile," said he to the young man, "I do not seek to fathom the motives which have induced you to conceal from me till this moment the name of a man whom—you have known for a long time as my enemy."

The Frenchman wished to interrupt him.

"Do not say anything to me," cried he with violence; "the service that you have rendered me is still too recent for me to demand an account of this ambiguous conduct; but remember this, I consider myself as now freed from all gratitude towards you."

"Be it so," answered the young man. "You know me well enough, I suppose, to be convinced that I do not fear; any more than I love you."

"I know that you are a brave man, señor, and that if the moment were to come for you to face me, you would bear yourself valiantly; but I did not wish to leave you without telling you my intentions, and to warn you to place yourself on your guard."

"I thank you for that act of courtesy, señor; and I will take advantage of your warning."

"Now, adieu! Do not try again to cross my path."

Then striking the pommel of his saddle angrily with his fist, he placed himself at the head of his troop; and after having cried "Forward! Forward!" in a voice of thunder, darted off at a gallop.

"Aha!" said Emile, "All goes well; the vultures have rushed after the prey. It is a good game to win, to withdraw these two doves from the outstretched talons of these two birds of prey. God helping me, I will try."

And completely restored to good humour by this soliloquy, the painter entered the tambo.

The two ladies were half reclining on the skins before a fire lit by the Guarani. Scarcely recovered from the perils and the terrors they had undergone, they remained motionless and silent, their countenances pale, and their eyes half-closed absorbed in their own thoughts, not knowing whether they ought to be glad or sorry at being at last sheltered from danger, and at having escaped the fury of the tempest.

At the entry of the young painter, a faint smile appeared upon their faces.

"So," said the marchioness, after a stealthy glance at her daughter, "it is, thanks to your courage, and to your presence of mind, that we have escaped from a frightful death?"

"I have only been an instrument in the hand of God."

"This Indian has told me all," said the marchioness, designating Tyro by a gesture. "I know that now Don Pablo Pincheyra, bound by the gratitude which he owes you, would not dare to refuse you anything."

"Don Pablo was not alone, Madame."

"In fact, Don Sebastiao Vianna accompanies him, they say."

The painter smiled slyly.

"You laugh, Don Emile," she cried.

"Pardon me, Madame, this overflow of spirits. I will explain myself. Don Sebastiao Vianna was not the name of the man who came to the camp to demand your liberty."

"Ah!" murmured she; "Is he a man I know?"

"You know him, certainly; his name is Zeno Cabral."

"Don Zeno Cabral?" cried she, in a fright; "That man! Oh, then, I am lost!"

"Reassure yourself, Madame; you are in safety."

"What do you mean?"

"Don Pablo has departed, Madame. I have started him off in pursuit of Don Zeno, by revealing to him the name of the latter. Thus, apparently, we are completely delivered from all our enemies."

The marchioness tendered him her hand.

"I thank you," said she. "Your devotedness never fails."

"And never shall fail, Madame. We have not long to remain here. It is necessary for us to make a last effort, and to compete in strategy with our enemies."

"Have you any plan?"

"Unhappily, no, Madame; but perhaps with the aid of our brave and faithful Tyro, we may concert a plan."

"Let us try, then," responded she, "and lose no time, which is so precious to us."

Tyro re-entered at this moment.

"Well," asked Emile of him. "Has anything fresh happened?"

"No, my friend; Sacatripas, whom I have charged to watch the departure of the Pincheyras, has seen them go at full speed towards the plain. There is no fear of a surprise on the part of Don Zeno; for a considerable distance from here there is only one practicable road, and that is the one on which we are."

"That is to be regretted, indeed; our flight is impossible."

"Mon Dieu!" murmured Doña Eva, clasping her hands with anguish.

"So we are lost," said the marchioness.

"I did not say so, Madame. I am compelled, however, to confess that the situation is extremely critical."

"Let us see, Tyro, my friend; you who know so well these mountains, in the midst of which you have been brought up—seek, invent! As for me, what do I know? Find an expedient which gives us a chance of safety," cried the painter.

"God is my witness, my friend, that my best desire is to see you out of danger," replied he.

"We have no hope but in you, my brave Indian," said Emile.

"Listen, then, since you insist on it; and first, I must tell you, that at a league from here, more or less, there is an almost impracticable path, which is, in fact, only the dry bed of a torrent. This path few persons know, and no one, I am convinced, would venture to follow it, so difficult is it. Scarcely traced on the side of the mountains, it winds through rocks and precipices, and must at the present time be inundated, by reason of the frightful storm which has raged in these parts. This path, however, has this advantage over the other; it very much shortens the passage from here to the plain."

"Up to the present time," interrupted the painter, "I do not see anything but what is very advantageous to us in what you say."

"Patience, my friend, I have not yet finished."

"Finish, then, in mercy's name," cried the Frenchman, with impatience.

"If it were only you and me, my friend," pursued the Guarani, "I should not hesitate."

"Why do you stop short?" asked the young man.

"I understand you," said the marchioness. "What two men can undertake, with a chance of success, would be madness for women to attempt."

The Indian bowed respectfully to the two ladies.

"That is just my idea, señora," said he. "But there are other objections."

"Of what objections do you speak?"

"This path, very little known by the whites, is nevertheless much frequented by Puelche and Pampas Indians, fierce and untamed tribes, into whose hands we should be pretty nearly certain to fall. We should only escape one danger, to fall into another. At all events, it is necessary that these ladies should consent to resume the men's clothing."

"Do not trouble yourself about that," cried the marchioness.

"It would be necessary to march with the greatest prudence, watching, for fear of a surprise."

"And should a surprise happen," quickly interrupted the marchioness, "rather to allow ourselves to be killed, than to become the prey of these men."

"You admirably understand my thoughts, señora," answered the Guarani, respectfully bowing. "I have nothing more to add."

"This project is hazardous, and fraught with difficulties, I am convinced," said the painter; "but, for my part, I see nothing which renders its execution impossible. Let us set out at once, unless," added he, considering, "you think differently from me, Madame la Marquise, and that the dangers which, without doubt, await us on the road appear to you too great; in which case, Madame, I will conform to your wishes."

"As that is the case," nobly replied the marchioness, "a longer discussion becomes useless. Let us set out immediately. Go, then; in a few moments we shall be quite ready to follow you."

"Be it so, Madame," said the painter; "we will obey."

He made a sign to the Guarani to follow him, and both quitted the tambo.

A quarter of an hour, indeed, had not passed, when the ladies came out of the tambo, ready to start.

It was about half past three in the afternoon—an hour rather late to commence a journey, especially in the midst of the mountains, in these wild regions, where storms are so frequent, and changes of weather so rapid. But the fugitives, surrounded by enemies, from whom they had escaped as if by a miracle, had the gravest reasons to take themselves quickly from the spot.

The sky was of a dull blue; the sun, near the horizon, spread profusely its oblique rays on the earth, which it warmed; a light breeze tempered the heat, and agitated the leaves of the trees; black swans rose from the depths of the valleys, and flew rapidly in the direction of the plains, followed by great bald vultures. The evening was magnificent, and seemed to presage the continuance of fine weather.

Notwithstanding the rather perplexed state of mind in which the travellers were, the journey was commenced gaily. They talked, and even joked, forcing themselves to look hopefully to the future. As Tyro had stated, at about a league from the valley, hidden in the midst of a thick wood, they found the commencement of the path.

For any but those long habituated to life in the desert, the aspect of the path would have appeared very encouraging. In fact, the underwood almost wholly obstructed it; a high and tufted grass covered it as with a green carpet.

However, notwithstanding these encouraging signs of complete solitude, the Guarani knew too well the astuteness of his race to be so easily deceived. The deserted appearance of the locality, instead of inspiring him with confidence, led him to redouble his precautions.

"Well, Tyro," the painter asked him, "you have nothing to complain of, I hope? Upon my word, this path is wild."

"Too wild, my friend," answered the Indian, shaking his head. "This disorder is too well managed to be real."

"Oh, oh! And what makes you suppose that, my friend? I see, absolutely, nothing to suspect."

"That is because you do not look above you, my friend. In the desert, and especially in the mountain, a track is marked in the trees, and not on the ground."

"But as to ourselves, It appears to me we simply follow the path."

"And we are wrong, my friend. On our entrance into the wood, we ought only to have advanced from branch to branch on the trees; our horses will betray us. Unhappily, what you and I could do, with some chance of success, the ladies who accompany us could not attempt."

"If what you say is very true, our efforts will only end in retarding our capture."

"Perhaps so, perhaps not, my friend; if God only gives us till tomorrow at noon, we shall probably be saved."

"How is that?"

"Look here; this path goes towards the desert of the Frentones. The Frentones are, especially, enemies of the whites, to whatever country they belong; but they are good and hospitable to travellers. If we succeed in reaching their territory, we shall be comparatively in safety."

"Very good; and you expect to reach this territory tomorrow?"

"No; but we shall find ourselves nearly on the banks of the river Primero, and might set ourselves adrift on a raft."

"Pardieu!" joyously cried the young man, "That is a happy idea? It would be very unfortunate if, with so many chances of success, we do not escape."

"You know the people against whom we have to fight. Believe me, we are not saved yet."

"That is true; but, on the other hand, you see everything on the bright side."

"What a life would ours be if we could not brighten it up now and then!" pursued the young man.

[CHAPTER VI.]

COMPLICATIONS.

The same day, and nearly at the same hour, when Emile Gagnepain quitted the Valle del Tambo, a little troop, composed of seven or eight horsemen, followed a path a little distant from the encampment of the Guaycurus.

These travellers, well mounted and well armed, appeared to be Indians. A woman, or rather a young girl, accompanied them.

This young girl appeared to be of the age of fifteen years at the most. Graceful and sprightly, she allowed to float in disorder the silken ringlets, of her long blue-black hair upon her fair shoulders, slightly browned by the sun, which had given her complexion, a golden tint. Her fine skin, under which could be seen the course of the veins, preserved still the velvet down of youth; her features were beautiful, her eyes sparkling with humour; and her laughing mouth was formed with rare perfection.

She wore the costume of the women of the Guaycurus, that is to say, a long robe of striped cotton cloth fastened at the hips by the ayulate, that symbolical girdle that these women wear before marriage. A large mantle of the same stuff as the robe, which could, in case of need, cover her whole body, rested at this moment on the croup of her horse; little silver rings, strung together, formed a kind of necklace which she wore on her neck; metal plates; bearing different figures covered her breast, and golden half-hoops were suspended from her ears.

Her delicate little feet, aristocratically arched, were, imprisoned in elegant buskins or half-boots, made with the fibres of the palm tree.

The cavalier, who travelled side by side with the young girl, bore a striking resemblance to her. His features were fine and intelligent, his forehead and his eyes black and well opened.—Although he wore the complete costume of the Guaycurus warrior, he was not tattooed, nor had paint in any way soiled the whiteness his skin.

Although his height was scarcely above the average, his limbs slight, and his manners rather effeminate, it was easy to perceive that this elegant exterior was united to an ardent soul and a brave heart.

The other warriors composing the little troop were hard-featured men, with bronzed complexions, and of ferocious aspect, forming a perfect contrast with the two persons whom we have tried to describe.

"Shall we arrive soon, brother?" asked the young girl, at the moment when we enter on the scene.

"Soon, I hope," distractedly replied the warrior. "The indications we have bad appear to me to be favourable."

"Do you know, brother for what reason the Cougar has sent for us?"

"I do not know," answered the young man, with some hesitation; "the Cougar is a prudent chief, who does nothing without having maturely reflected on it."

"And we shall see Gueyma again?" asked she with animation.

"Is it not he, with the Cougar, who commands the warriors of our tribe?"

"You are right. I am foolish to ask you this question, brother. Oh, how happy I am!" she added.

"Dove's Eye," answered the warrior with severity, "do you not remember my advice?"

"Oh yes, brother," said she, blushing slightly, lowering her eyes; "but what harm is there in saying that, since you alone hear me?"

"Sister, a young girl ought to keep her feelings to her own heart."

"But you know how much I love Gueyma; you have yourself seemed to encourage our mutual liking."

"You mistake, sister; I feel always the same towards you; it is you, on the contrary, who—"

"Oh, do not blame me, brother," interrupted Dove's Eye, quickly; "do not mar by your remonstrances the joy that I feel. I promise you I will constrain myself."

The young man shook his head with an air of doubt.

"You do not believe me," pursued she; "you are wrong, Arnal; I will keep my promise."

"For your own sake, I fear the time when we shall again see our friends."

"Do not disquiet yourself about that, brother. I will be as cold and as impenetrable as a rock."

"You must not go from one extreme to the other. Without manifesting too much joy, you must assume an expression of frank and cordial satisfaction, in again meeting with the friends and brethren of our tribe."

"Well, I understand you, brother; you will have no occasion to be dissatisfied with me."

At this moment a warrior approached.

"Has Arnal remarked that the track becomes more decided?" asked he.

"What thinks my brother, the Agonti?"

"I think that we are on the track of a numerous troop of horsemen."

"Are they whites or native warriors?"

"They are whites, and those who call themselves soldiers."

"Yes, this track is very distinct. These men, whoever they are, march boldly forward. They feel themselves sufficiently strong, no doubt, to have no need of concealing themselves, but fortunately for us these travellers are proceeding in a direction contrary to that which we follow. We have nothing, then, to fear from them."

"Look, moreover, at the path by which they have entered on their route."

"We can, then, continue to push on ahead; but we cannot be too much on our guard."

"My brother, Arnal, may be tranquil."

"Good; my brother is a wise warrior. I have confidence in him," answered Arnal.

The Agonti bowed, and resumed his position in the advanced guard of the little troop.

Dove's Eye proceeded pensively by the side of her companion; the young girl seemed to have lost all her gaiety, and her charming carelessness. Her head falling on her breast, without noticing anything, with her little hand she gently whipped the horse, without knowing what she was doing—so absorbed was she by her thoughts. Arnal sometimes darted a side glance at her, and a smile of singular expression was perceptible on his lips; but for some reason or other, the young warrior did not manifest any desire to renew the conversation, and appeared satisfied with the obstinate silence of his companion.

Meanwhile the sun began to set, the black shadows of the trees lengthened more and more; night approached.

The Agonti appeared for some minutes a prey to anxious concern. Suddenly he stopped, alighted, stretched himself flat on the ground, and appeared for two or three minutes to listen eagerly.

The travellers had reined up their horses, and stopped.

A curtain of foliage enveloped them as completely as if it had been a thick wall; but it was transparent, and they could see through it, without being perceived, the path which they had so abruptly quitted, and which was only about ten yards distant.

"What is the matter?" asked Arnal.

"A numerous troop of horsemen is advancing," said the Agonti; "we must be prudent."

"Very good; you have acted wisely. Listen; they approach."

"Yes, in a minute they will pass before us."

"We shall reconnoitre them at our ease, without fear of being discovered by them."

"Do you think so?" cried a harsh and guttural voice, from the midst, of the foliage.

"Ah!" cried Arnal, with a gesture of joy; "The Cougar."

"It is I," answered the chief; "you did not expect, I suppose, to meet, me so soon."

"Just so," answered Arnal, "but I am glad of the good fortune that, has brought you to us. Have you, then, abandoned your encampment?"

"Since sunrise my warriors have resumed their march. They are following me."

"Is Gueyma with them, brother?" asked the young girl.

"Dove's Eye forgets," severely answered the old chief, "that a woman has no right to interrogate a warrior."

"I am wrong, I confess," said she, dropping her head humbly; "but my father loves me; he will pardon me."

"I forgive you, my child; but a young girl has no right to speak but when she is spoken to."

This sharp reprimand was tempered with a look so gentle, and a smile so sweet, that the young girl, blushing all the while, could not maintain any anger towards the old chief.

"You guessed, then, that we were here," asked Arnal.

"Did I not expect you?" laconically said the Cougar. "And now give your warriors orders to retire for the night."

The Cougar then made the young warrior follow him, and both again reached the path, while the Agonti arranged the camp, and had the wood cut, and the fires lighted.

As soon as he was in the path, he cast an inquiring look around him, to as to assure himself that he was quite alone with his companion; then he turned towards him, and appeared to wait till the latter should speak.

Arnal hesitated a minute. His eyebrows lowered as under the influence of some oppressive thought. The old chief smiled gently, as if to encourage him.

At last the warrior decided to speak; but, instead of the language of the Guaycurus, it was in Spanish that he spoke.

"How is he, since I saw him?" asked he. "Has he seen him?"

"Reassure yourself: he is well. All has passed in that interview better than you and I could have dared to hope," quickly resumed the chief.

"You swear it, Diogo?"

"On my honour, señor—" But immediately bethinking himself, he added: "Caballero, they have sworn friendship; they have exchanged arms."

"Oh, I thank heaven," cried Arnal. "But he?"

"He is always the same."

"What have you said to him?"

"Simply what it is necessary he should know—nothing more."

"Oh! I tremble, Diogo! I fear that he will not pardon me."

The old chief knitted his eyebrows.

"Not pardon you! No, no; hold up your head proudly; you have nothing of that kind to fear."

"I dare not hope," murmured Arnal.

"Silence!" answered the Cougar; "compose your countenance; reassume your self-command. Let us continue, for a few days, to act our parts, and especially let us carefully keep our secret."

"Oh, you are strong, Diogo," feebly said the young warrior; "but I, alas!—"

"You—you are Arnal, the bravest, and, despite his youth, the most renowned warrior of the Guaycurus; do not forget that."

The young man smiled through his tears.

"Oh! you are good and devoted, my friend," answered he.

The sound of the precipitate gallop of a numerous troop of horsemen was heard rapidly approaching, although, on account of the numerous windings of the path, it was impossible to perceive them.

"Rejoin your companions," hastily said the old chief, "and leave it to me to prepare your meeting."

"That will be the best," answered the young man.

And, after making a gesture of the hand to the Cougar, he re-entered the wood.

The old chief remained alone; his head fell upon his breast, and, for a few minutes, he appeared absorbed in thought; but he soon collected himself, casting around him a look of singular boldness and energy.

"It is not now that I ought to give way to weakness," murmured he, in a low and almost inarticulate voice. "The nearer the moment approaches, the more my will should become firm and immovable."

He soon found himself surrounded by Guaycurus warriors.

"Well," said the Gueyma; "why have you halted?"

"Because in this place we stay for the night."

"To camp already, when there are yet nearly two hours more daylight!" said the young chief.

"It if true," pursued the chief; "your observation is very just but it does not depend upon me."

"How is that?"

"Because the fires are lighted in the wood, and the encampments are prepared."

"The encampment prepared! By whom?"

"By friends—probably," answered the Cougar, with a strange smile.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gueyma, with an inquiring look.

"Yes, friends!" resumed the old chief, significantly "Did we not expect some? Dove's Eye, eh?"

"Let us be off, then!" cried the impetuous young man, putting his horse in train to dart forward.

But the Cougar suddenly stopped him, and, coldly laying his hand on the bridle:

"Do you remember the word that you have given me, Gueyma?" said he.

"But she is there."

"Yes, she is there; but what matters a few minutes?"

"A minute is an age for me."

"Is it thus that you answer me, Gueyma? Is it in this way that you keep your oath? Shall a woman's love make you forget your honourable engagements? Go, allow yourself to be overcome by a foolish passion; I do not count on you any longer."

The young man grew very pale at these severe words. For a moment he fixed an angry look on the bold old man, who looked at him with an expression of sorrow and disdain.

"Pardon me," he said, at last; "I was wrong. I thank you for having recalled me to myself. You shall not have to complain of me, Cougar."

"Come then," answered the old chief, joyfully pressing the hand which was held out to him; "now I am certain that you will not trespass over the bounds."

The two chiefs entered the wood, followed by their warriors, and they soon reached the camp, where Arnal waited for them.

[CHAPTER VII.]

HOSPITALITY.

Gueyma's and the Cougar's horses walked side by side, the riders modulating the pace, and stealthily looking around them.

Behind them pressed a crowd of Indians. Arnal and Dove's Eye, standing up near the principal watch fire, motionless, and hand in each other's band, directed their eyes towards the advancing troop. Dove's Eye was pale and trembling, but cool and calm in appearance.

Arnal smiled pleasingly at Gueyma, whose look, at times, was fixed upon him with unspeakable tenderness.

The Cougar alone seemed anxious.

When the two chiefs had come at about three or four paces from the bright burning fire, they alighted, and throwing the bridles on the necks of their horses, they bowed courteously to the young warrior, the latter immediately returning their salute.

"I am happy to see you, chief," said he, in a gentle voice. "Having set out several suns ago to meet you, I thank the Great Spirit, who has thus suddenly brought me to you."

Gueyma again bowed, affecting not to see Dove's Eye.

"I thank you, brother," answered he, addressing Arnal; "no camp could suit me better than yours."

"Will you take your place before this fire, brother?" resumed Arnal; "The air is cold in these mountains; warm yourself, while Dove's Eye prepares the repast."

Gueyma sat silently before the fire, without appearing to have noticed that the name of Dove's Eye had been mentioned.

These forms of politeness, strictly demanded by Indian etiquette, having been satisfied, the ice between the chiefs was broken, and the conversation became friendly and intimate.

Separated for a long time, as they had been, they had many things to say.

Meanwhile Dove's Eye had not lost time; the repast was soon ready to be served.

Among the Indians, the women are exclusively charged with all the cares of the household, and all the hard and often repugnant labour which in other countries fall to the lot of men. The warriors consider them rather as slaves, made to obey their least caprice, than as companions.

Dove's Eye, after having served the warriors with the dishes she had prepared, and having offered them a cimarron maté, seated herself discreetly, a little in arrear of the group, near Arnal.

It was then only that Gueyma appeared to observe her presence. He fixed his eagle eye on the young girl, and, holding out his hand in a friendly way:

"Eaah!" said he, with a smile, "Dove's Eye has consented to leave the valleys of her tribe to follow Arnal?"

At these kind words, the young girl became red as a cherry, and answered in a slightly trembling voice:

"Arnal is the brother of Dove's Eye; he has served her for father; wherever Arnal goes, Dove's Eye ought to follow him: it is her duty."

"Good, I thank Dove's Eye," said the chief.

"The place of a woman is where there are friends to love and serve."

"Dove's Eye remembers that she was, when an infant, received by the Guaycurus," said the Cougar.

"She remembers also," answered the young girl, with animation in her voice, "that she has been brought up by Arnal, the brother of Gueyma."

We must here make a short digression.

Tarou Niom, the principal captain of the Guaycurus, after a rather long absence, had one day arrived at the village of the warriors of his tribe, accompanied by Arnal and the Cougar. Arnal, although he was a man, and although he wore the costume and the arms of a warrior, carried, strange to say, an infant in his arms. This infant was his brother Gueyma, or, at least, this was what Tarou Niom said to those who made inquiries.

Things went on as usual for some years, when one day, on a return from an excursion which had been prolonged more than usual, the Cougar returned to the village, leading with him, or rather carrying in his arms, a charming little girl, two or three years old, whom he said he had found abandoned and dying from hunger, in a village which had been set on fire.

The little girl, so miraculously saved by the Cougar, had been adopted by Arnal, who had given her, on account of the mildness of her look, the characteristic name of Dove's Eye.

The two children had thus lived together, growing up in each other's company, so that their friendship had changed into love.

Arnal and the Cougar equally shared their tenderness between the two children.

But after a time, the friendship of the two children, which formerly he encouraged all in his power, seemed to irritate Arnal; his eyebrows knitted, he scolded Dove's Eye, and blamed her brother under the most frivolous pretexts; but, with an effort over himself, his countenance soon became serene, the smile returned to his lips, and he caressed the two children, pressed them in his arms with a feverish energy, and begged them always to love each other. Gueyma had become, thanks to his courage, one of the most famed warriors of the tribe; and, notwithstanding his youth, Tarou Niom, who loved him so much, had caused him to be chosen its chief.

The separation which ensued between Gueyma and Dove's Eye had been painful. It was then that, for the first time, the young people understood the power of the ties which bound them to each other; but they had to part.

The Cougar had great influence over the mind of the young chief, who professed for him a profound respect. Gueyma obeyed, despite his feelings, and left behind him his first love.

The joy of Gueyma was great in at last seeing Dove's Eye again, whom he did not expect to see so soon; but the first moment of wild joy having passed, remembering the recommendations of the old chief, he repressed, though with great difficulty, his delight, and succeeded in wearing a complete mask of indifference on his noble and beautiful countenance.

The young girl, wounded by this coolness, felt her pride revolt. As she concealed from him the feelings which agitated her, and studied the counsels of Arnal more, perhaps, than he expected, she sustained the conversation commenced between her and Gueyma with that power of coquetry which, while it is the despair of men, renders women so powerful, and she soon so piqued the young man with her incessant shafts, that he was constrained to confess himself vanquished.

On a sign from Arnal, Dove's Eye went to an enramada, or cabin of boughs, constructed for her, where she remained free to give herself up to her thoughts. The two warriors remained alone by the fire.

After having assured themselves that no one was watching them, and that all the Indians, enveloped in their blankets, were sleeping round the fires, the Cougar and Arnal began to converse in a low voice in the Spanish language.

Their conversation was long; the stars began to pale when they at last sought repose, which they did not do, however, without having visited the sentinels to see if they were watching over the common safety.

At sunrise the camp was raised, and the Guaycurus resumed their march.

Arnal, with joy, found that the direction followed by the young chief was that of the plains of Tucumán. Each step thus brought the Guaycurus nearer their hunting grounds.

The warriors appeared also to know that they were retracing their steps, and that they were at last leaving that Spanish territory, in which, during their struggle, they had so much suffered. Notwithstanding the impassibility which the Indians believe it a duty never to abandon, their features, unknown to themselves, had an expression of ill-concealed joy.

However, the Indians were too prudent to forget that they were in an enemy's country, and to neglect the precautions necessary to avoid a surprise.

Gueyma proceeded at the head of his warriors, in company with the Cougar, with whom he conversed, while Arnal and Dove's Eye remained in the rearguard.

On the evening or the second day, at the moment when Gueyma and the Cougar prepared to give the order to camp for the night, a horseman, galloping at full speed, turned an angle of the path followed by the Indians, and came towards them, waving above his head, as a sign of peace, a poncho that he held in his hand.

Soon another horseman appeared in the rear of his companion; then another, and another—amounting to six.

The unknown travellers appeared to be in a pacific humour, their carbines being slung over their shoulders.

With a gesture, Gueyma ordered his people to stop; then, after having exchanged a few words in a low voice with the Cougar, he gave his arms to the Agonti, who was standing aside, and advanced at a trot towards the horseman.

When the two men met, they examined each other, and discovered at a glance that both were Indians.

The two warriors bowed, each bending his head till it nearly touched the neck of the horse; then, after a short pause, Gueyma, seeing that the stranger wished that he should commence the conversation, said—

"My brother travels amidst the mountains in a bad season; the further he proceeds, the worse will the roads be."

"I do not wish to penetrate further into the mountains," answered the stranger; "I wish to get away."

"Then," said Gueyma, "my brother has lost his way."

"I know it," said the stranger, laconically.

"I do not understand my brother," said Gueyma.

"My companions and I have since the morning taken cognisance of the troop of my brother that we precede on the same path. On perceiving that my brothers made preparations for encamping, we held counsel, and I have been charged to retrace my steps, in order to consult with the chief of the cavaliers by whom we have been followed."

"Epoï!" (good!), resumed Gueyma, smiling; "The eye of my brother is straightforward, his tongue is not double, his heart must be loyal. I am the chief of the Guaycurus warriors, who are behind me. Let my brother explain: the ears of Gueyma are open. My brother may speak freely and without restraint."

As the two Indians perceived they were of different tribes, they had begun the conversation in Spanish—a mixed language that both could understand.

"Those who follow me," said the stranger, "are not sons of our territory, they are palefaces whose hunting grounds are very far from here, in the country where the sun hides himself, down there, behind the great Salt Lake.

"I am their guide in these regions which they explore and which they do not know. They come openly to ask aid and protection of my brother, claiming the rights of Indian hospitality, till they consider all danger past."

"Whoever may be the men who accompany my brother, to whatever tribe they may belong—even if they should be the most implacable enemies of my tribe—they have a right to my protection and my kindness. The rights of hospitality are sacred. Let my brother tell his companions that I do not wish to know anything about them; they are travellers—that is all—follow on. Here is my haak," said he, drawing a knife from his girdle, and handing it to the stranger; "if I betray my promise, my brother will bury it in my heart before all my assembled people. My brother and his companions will sleep this evening with the Guaycurus warriors."

The two warriors bowed, and then, reining back their horses, each returned at a gallop towards his people.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

THE GUIDE.

Meanwhile, as we have seen in a preceding chapter, after the council held in the Valle del Tambo, Tyro had charged himself with the guidance of the little caravan, composed of two ladies, the French painter, the two gauchos, and himself.

As Tyro had foreseen, the travellers did not meet on this route any other obstacles than the material difficulties of the road—obstacles that by courage and perseverance they succeeded in overcoming.

The Guarani, as a warrior, thoroughly habituated to traverse an enemy's country, watched with extreme solicitude over the safety of those who had so frankly trusted to him, roaming continually round the caravan—in advance, in the rear, and on either side.

Every evening he camped in a position studied with care—a position which placed them, during their sleep, out of the range of a surprise.

The high peaks of the Cordilleras began by degrees to lower before the travellers. They had left the cold regions, and now found themselves in a temperate climate; the air became milder, the sun warmer, the atmosphere less sharp to breathe; the trees assumed less harsh tints, their branches were more leafy, and the birds appeared more numerous, and in brighter colours.

And the two ladies felt hope by degrees returning to their hearts, broken by suffering; and dimly saw, through a not distant future, the end of their misfortunes.

Some days had passed since their departure from the Valle del Tambo, when they found themselves almost in a civilised country, and although they had to redouble their prudence to escape the numerous bands of patriots which traversed the country in every direction, nevertheless, the prospect of soon getting away from these desolate mountains, in the midst of which they had so long wandered, rendered them joyous, and made them not only forget all they had suffered, but induced them to look at everything in a favourable light. For once, they were pursuing their journey gaily.

Tyro alone, who had taken on himself the responsibility of the general safety, did not give himself up to any foolish hope.

He knew, subtle Indian that he was, that the Montoneros, and other rovers on the highway or great plains, had the habit of hiding in the gorges of the mountains, to watch for the passing of travellers or caravans, and to dart on their prey, and carry it away, at the very moment when all danger seemed to have passed.

Tyro, deeply pondering on this circumstance—quite the reverse of his companions, whose features brightened more and more—became more and more gloomy, for he felt that each step that he made brought him nearer to a danger so much the more terrible, that it was, unless by a miracle from the Almighty, nearly inevitable.

On the day of which we speak, when, the camp was raised, and everyone ready to start, the Indian took the painter aside, and gave him all the information necessary to follow the path which opened into the defile, and turned round these abrupt flanks.

"Why so many details?" asked Emile; "Since you are with us, you will know how to guide us, I suppose."

"No, my friend, I shall not be with you," answered Tyro; "that is why I give you this information."

"What! You will not be with us!" cried the young man in surprise; "Where are you going then?"

"I shall be in the advance guard, my friend, in order to reconnoitre the country we must pass through."

"You are mad, my good Tyro; you know very well, and you have frequently told me so, that we have now nothing to fear. We are far from the Valle del Tambo, and the haunts of the Pincheyras. What is the use, then, of this superfluity of precaution?"

"My friend, although I, like yourself," coldly answered the Guarani, "am convinced that we are not threatened with any of the catastrophes which so long have been suspended over us, nevertheless, it would be terrible for us to fail at the very moment when we think we are safe; and as, in this matter, it is my honour which is at stake, let me, I beg, act in my own way."

"Be it so," said the young man; "do as you like, run, look, watch; I give you full liberty of action. We have with us two ladies whom I have sworn to save, and I have no right to be imprudent. Go, but do not be too long."

"As short a time as possible," answered he, bowing.

And putting his horse into a gallop, he darted forward, leaving the travellers to continue their journey.

"What has Tyro been doing to you, and why does he leave us thus?" asked the marchioness.

"He has been telling me, Madame," he answered, bowing to her, "the route we ought to take, and he has set off in advance as our trusty pioneer."

"Always devoted," replied the marchioness, smiling, "always faithful."

"Like his master," added, in a low voice, Doña Eva.

Several hours passed, and about eleven in the morning the travellers stopped under the shade of a clump of trees, so as to let the hottest part of the day pass.

Tyro had not reappeared; never since the commencement of the expedition had he made so long an absence. The painter felt uneasy, and several times had risen, and, with an anxious look, had examined the desolate route which stretched before him, till it was lost to sight. At last, about three in the afternoon, the young man gave the signal for starting.

They resumed their journey; only this time, instead of keeping near the ladies, Emile spurred his horse and dashed ahead.

The clump of trees under which the travellers had found a protecting shade had long disappeared in the distant bluish horizon, and the sun had begun sensibly to decline, when the painter perceived a horseman galloping towards him.

In this horseman the young man immediately recognised his guide.

Giving way, immediately, to the impatience which had so long tormented him, the painter put his horse into a gallop and soon rejoined him.

"Well," he asked, "what news?"

"Many things, my friend," resumed the Indian.

"I understand, pardieu!" cried he; "Only I wish to know whether these things are good or bad."

"That depends on how you judge them, my friend; for my part, I think them good."

"Let us have them, then."

"With all my heart; but perhaps it would be better, instead of remaining stationary in the middle of the route, if we continued our journey. I should like that at first you alone should hear what I have to tell you."

"You are right, my friend; let us push on then, and as we proceed you shall tell me what you have done," said the young man. "Now, speak," added he.

Tyro, by habit rather than from prudence, looked carefully round him.

"What I have to report is not much," he said, "but I think it very important for you."

"Go on!" answered the young man with impatience.

"Briefly, it is this. We are approaching the plains. The more we advance in this direction, the greater is the risk of finding enemies before us. We must, therefore, be continually on our guard against the traps that may be set for us. I do not know Why, but this morning, I felt myself seized with secret anxiety, without apparent cause."

"It is the same with me," interrupted the young man, who became suddenly sad; "I do not know what is passing within me, but I have the presentiment of a misfortune, or at least of an important event. Is it for good? Is it for evil? That is what I cannot say."

"I incline to the former opinion, my friend, and for this reason: this morning, after having for some minutes talked with you, I left you to go in search of news, as you know."

The painter nodded, and the Guarani continued:

"I followed the path for a long time without seeing anything suspicious; I was even preparing to retrace my steps to rejoin and reassure you; but I did not like to do so without taking a last precaution. I alighted, and with my ear to the ground, I listened. I then heard a distant sound, indistinct, but resembling that produced by a numerous troop of horsemen. I remounted and started ahead. A quarter of an hour afterwards all my doubts were removed; I was right; at about two gun shots before me I saw, coming at a moderate pace, the advance guard of this troop."

"The advance guard!" cried Emile; "They are soldiers then." "Partisans; but listen attentively, my friend; for now the question becomes more interesting."

"Speak! Speak!"

"You have heard, have you not," he resumed, "that the Portuguese have taken as auxiliaries several Indian tribes."

"Just so; but what has this to do with the matter?"

"Wait, wait, my friend. The troop that I have met is composed of warriors of these tribes—the most warlike of all, perhaps, the Guaycurus."

"What do you infer from this?"

"A very simple thing; according to the route that they travel, these warriors are proceeding towards Brazil."

"Brazil!" cried the young man.

"Yes, Brazil, the country that we wish to reach."

"What can we do in the matter, my poor friend?"

"It only depends on yourself, my friend; here is what is to be done!"

"Let us have it then," answered the young man.

The Indian did not remark, or feigned not to remark, the tone in which this was said, and continued coldly:

"These Guaycurus warriors form a troop of at least two hundred men, enemies of the Spaniards. Either they will try to glide unperceived in the midst of the Montoneros who skirt the plains, or, if they cannot escape thus, they will open a passage at the point of their lances."

"Well!" said the young man, becoming attentive.

"Well, my friend, in joining them we shall follow their fortunes."

"But you forget one thing, my poor friend, and a very important thing."

"What is it, mi amo?"

"This; we cannot thus join ourselves to this troop; if we are sufficiently foolish to discover ourselves to it we shall be immediately taken prisoners."

"Is it that only which embarrasses you, my friend?"

"My faith, yes," laughingly replied the young man.

"Then, my friend, be easy; I charge myself with causing you to be received by this troop in a manner not only flattering, but also advantageous to you. I know Indian customs."

"Very good, my friend; continue."

"I will claim the rights of Indian hospitality. You need have no dread of treachery; they would die themselves to defend you."

"Hum! Do you know, that this is very tempting that you thus propose to me, my friend?"

"Accept it, then!"

"I do not demand anything better; but I ought to consult the ladies."

"Well, my friend, consult them, then; but quickly, if possible, for time presses."

"It shall not be long," responded the young man, and, turning bridle with that promptness which formed the basis of his character, he rejoined at a gallop the ladies, who were not a great distance in arrear.

They listened with serious attention to the communication of the young man; the project of Tyro appeared to them simple, and sure of success. Consequently, they agreed to it promptly.

The Guarani prepared himself speedily to put it into execution.

We have reported in full his interview with Gueyma, at the conclusion of which he returned to his companions, who awaited his return with impatience, not unmixed with anxiety; but all inquietude ceased when they learned the noble and frank response of the chief.

Emile, followed by the two ladies, then advanced towards the Guaycurus, who had halted to receive their visitors, and warmly thanked Gueyma for the protection which he had consented to accord to him and his companions.

The Indian chief replied with majestic dignity, that, in acting as he had done, he fulfilled a duty prescribed by honour; that thanks were superfluous; and that while the strangers remained with the warriors they would be considered as cherished brothers, and as children of the nation.

The Cougar remained a passive spectator of this scene, with which he had not interfered in any way; when the strangers had retired, he leaned towards the ear of Gueyma:

"Have you well considered these gentlemen?" he demanded.

"Yes," responded the chief; "why do you ask me the question?"

"Because two of them are women."

"Well, what of that?"

"More than you suppose," he said, and strode away, ending brusquely the interview, to escape the questions to which he did not care to: reply.

[CHAPTER IX.]

THE CAMP.

Zeno Cabral, after his interview with the young painter, departed at gallop from the Valle del Tambo, followed naturally by the Spanish officers, who had no plausible motives for remaining with Don Pablo Pincheyra.

The Montonero galloped thus during about four hours, incessantly exciting his horse, the speed of which seemed almost a miracle, until arrived at a crossroad, where the route branched into two paths. Here he stopped, and leaning towards his two companions, who had followed him at almost as great a pace:

"Caballeros," said he, ceremoniously saluting them, "I beg you to accept all my thanks for the loyal manner in which you have kept the word you have given me; but here is your road," said he, pointing to the path on the left, "and this is mine," added he, indicating that to the right. "Let us separate now; I wish you a good journey."

"I thank you, monsieur," responded the count courteously; "only, Will you permit me to ask you a question?"

"Speak."

"It is not a question that I would ask you; it is a prayer that I desire to make."

"Prayer or question, speak, monsieur; I will answer you."

"Sir, my companion and I are Spaniards, from Europe—that is to say, strangers to this country. If you leave us here, we shall inevitably be lost, ignorant as we are of the route that we ought to follow."

"When do you wish to go?"

"Mon Dieu, señor! That is just what troubles us," said the captain, joining in the conversation.

"Just so; then you desire—"

"Mon Dieu! We desire to reach its advanced posts, and that as soon as possible."

The Montonero reflected for some time.

"Gentlemen," he at last answered, "what you wish is very difficult; it is evident that you will have great trouble in passing through our troops. I only see one way of getting you out of the difficulty, but I fear that you would not accept it."

"What way is this?" cried the two Spaniards.

"This is it—to follow me where I go; only I exact your word of honour, as soldiers and gentlemen, that you will be dumb as to what you may see and hear. On this condition I engage to enable you to reach, with very little delay, the advanced posts of your army. Do you accept?"

"Yes, we accept heartily, caballero," cried the two officers.

"Enough, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral; "we make a new contract which, I am convinced, will be as loyally kept as the first. Come, then, gentlemen; we have already been here a long time."

"Proceed, sir," answered the count; "we follow."

They set out.

They proceeded thus till the evening, without exchanging a single word. Why should they speak? They had nothing to say.

At the moment when the sun disappeared behind the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras, on a sign from the partisan, the horsemen stopped.

Night was coming on, but the darkness was yet only so deep that the landscape, half veiled by the shadows of evening, appeared all the grander.

The path had by degrees become broader; it now formed a route bordered right and left by high forests of cork trees, through which it passed under magnificent arches of foliage; a thick, coarse grass reached nearly to the chests of the horses; and a waterfall, bounding in disordered masses from the top of a chaos of rocks, formed to the right of the travellers a large silvery sheet, in which the pale moon was reflected.

"We have arrived, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral; "you can quit your saddles."

"Arrived!" said the count, looking round him.

"For the evening, at all events, count," answered the partisan; "for the few paces we have to go we can take on foot."

Speaking thus the Montonero had attached the bridle of his horse to the pommel of his saddle, and removed the stirrups.

"But our horses?" asked the captain.

"Do not disturb yourself about them."

"But they cannot remain thus."

"They will not remain here; be easy, care will be taken of them."

The count and the captain alighted.

"Well," resumed Zeno, "now wait a bit."

He then took a whistle which was hanging at his neck by a gold chain, concealed under his clothes, and gave a long and shrill whistle.

In a moment a man appeared.

"Ah! Ah! It is you, Don Sylvio," said the partisan, in a good-humoured tone.

"Yes, general, it is me," said the old soldier.

"Very good; let your men take care of the horses, and let us be conducted to the camp."

The officer turned towards the shrubbery from which he had so unexpectedly emerged.

"Hola!" cried he in a loud voice, "Come here, you fellows!"

The six soldiers, who were doubtless in ambuscade not far off, darted suddenly from the underwood, and, having respectfully bowed to Zeno Cabral, ranged themselves behind the old officer, ready to obey blindly the orders which they might receive.

"Is the camp far?" asked the Montonero, addressing Don Sylvio.

"At a gunshot at the most, general."

"You will guide us; as to you," he added, turning to the soldiers, "you know where you have to put the horses."

The soldiers bowed without answering, and quickly approached the horses.

Don Zeno looked round him as if he wished to fathom the darkness, and assure himself that no enemy was watching him; then, motioning Don Sylvio to go on before him:

"Come, gentlemen," he said; "let us go on."

The three then entered the wood, following the captain. Notwithstanding the increasing darkness, the latter found his way with a certainty which showed either that, like certain animals, he had the faculty of seeing in the dark, or that he had a thorough knowledge of the locality through which he was passing.

A quarter of an hour thus passed, during which the four men marched in Indian file—that is to say, following each other one by one—without exchanging a word. At the end of this time they began to perceive the reddish tints of several fires shining through the trees, which now became thicker.

"Halt! Who goes there?" suddenly cried a man.

"Zeno and liberty!" answered the captain, coldly.

"Pass!" said the sentinel, lowering his gun.

The travellers continued their journey. At about ten paces further on, a second sentinel stopped them, and then a third barred their passage at the moment when they reached the skirt of a large glade, in the midst of which was established a camp, which, by the number of fires lighted, appeared to be considerable. This sentinel, when he had exchanged the password with the captain, did not raise his gun as the others had done; he contented himself with turning half round.

"Officer of the guard!" he said; "Reconnoitre!"

There was a movement in the glade, the clatter of arms was heard, followed immediately by the hasty step of several men, and ten soldiers, commanded by an officer, came towards the sentinel.

"¡Vive Dios!" said in a low voice the captain Don Lucio Ortega, to the partisan, "Receive my felicitations, señor; you maintain a rare discipline in your camp."

"What would you have, captain?" asked Don Zeno, smiling; "It ought to be so. Would it not be very stupid for us some day, for a want of a little vigilance, to be surprised by the enemy?"

The officer who had been called by the sentinel arrived at this moment, followed by several soldiers, apparently ready to aid him, if necessary.

But this time it was Zeno Cabral who took on himself to reply. On perceiving the officer, he motioned away Don Sylvio, and taking his place:

"Each one in his turn," said he in a low voice, placing his hand in a friendly way on the old officer's shoulder.

"That is right," answered the latter, bowing respectfully, and moving off.

"Who goes there?" cried the chief of the patrol, who had come to the call of the sentinel.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Montonero, apostrophising the officer, "Are you there, then, Captain Don Estevan Albino?"

"Cuerpo de Cristo!" cried the officer; "It is the general's voice."

"There! I knew you would recognise me."

"Ah! This is a fortunate arrival!" said the captain.

"You know," said Don Zeno, "that I expect that you will permit me to pass."

"¡Vive Dios! General, are you not chief among us? We will escort you."

"Come, gentlemen," said he, addressing the two Spaniards, "I believe we shall be well received."

"I should like to see it otherwise," grumbled Don Sylvio, through his moustache.

The news of the arrival of the general had now been spread through the camp; those who had been watching had risen; the sleepers, rudely awakened, had imitated them, rubbing their eyes; and all hastened, with torches and cries of joy, into the presence of the chief whom they adored.

Zeno Cabral then entered his camp, amidst the bright reflection of the torches, agitated by the night breeze.

As soon as the chief found himself in the midst of his staff, who hastened round him to congratulate him, he, by a gesture, ordered silence.

"Gentlemen," said he, pointing to the two men who accompanied him, and who stood modestly behind him, "these two caballeros are my friends, and not my prisoners. Although devoted to another cause than our own, and not sharing our political convictions, they are, for a time at least, placed under the security of our honour. I commend them to your honourable care; see that they want for nothing, and are treated with the respect due to them."

"Thank you, general," said the two men; "we did not expect less from your courtesy."

The introduction over, the soldiers occupied themselves with the newcomers.

Probably the arrival of the general, as the Montoneros called him, was expected, for a vast tent in the middle of the camp had been raised for him; but, notwithstanding the weariness and hunger that he felt, he did not consent to retire then, till he had seen the Spaniards installed as comfortably as circumstances would permit.

By degrees, quiet was re-established in the camp; the Montoneros resumed their places round their bivouac fires, and were soon asleep under their mantles.

The sentinels alone kept watch.

We are wrong; there was another that kept watch—Zeno Cabral.

Leaning on a table, his head between his hands, he was examining attentively, by the uncertain light of a smoky lamp, a map unrolled before him.

The map was one of the viceroyalty of Buenos Aires.

Now and then, on certain places on the map which he was so carefully studying, the Montonero stuck pins, the heads of which had been dipped in black or red wax.

Don Zeno had, for about an hour, given himself up to this work, which so much absorbed him that he had forgotten fatigue and sleep, when the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and a man appeared.. At the sound of his steps the general raised his head.

"Ah! It is you, Don Juan Armero?" said he, saluting the person in a friendly way; "What news? You return from a reconnoitering trip, do you not?"

"Just so, general," answered Don Juan, after having given a military salute to his chief; "I have just arrived, and I bring news."

"Speak without fear. Everyone is asleep."

"That may be, but if you will allow me, I will tell you the news in the open air—not here."

"How is that?" said Don Zeno; "We are, I think, in a very good position to talk here."

"Excuse me, general," said Don Juan Armero, "but these walls of canvas, which intercept the view, without preventing words from being heard, cause me a fear which I cannot surmount. I am afraid, though I may be deceived, that there may be a spy on the watch."

"Is what you have to say to me important, then?" asked Don Zeno.

"I think it is of some importance."

"Hum!" said Zeno, in a reverie; "Come then."

The night was calm; millions of stars glittered in the dark blue sky; the breeze gently agitated the leafy tops of the trees; the moon, on the wane, spread an uncertain light on the landscape.

The two men proceeded a few steps silently side by side. Zeno Cabral was reflecting, and Don Juan Armero respectfully waited till his chief should address him.

"Well," the partisan asked, "what is this news, Don Juan? You can without fear tell me here."

"Just so, general," he answered. "I have been, as you know, on a journey of discovery. The Brazilian army has left its cantonments in the Banda Oriental; a division of this army is advancing by forced marches in this direction to take possession of the fords of the rivers, and the mouths of the defiles, so as to permit a second division, which follows it at a day's march behind, to invade Tucumán."

"Oh! Oh!" murmured the partisan, "That is, indeed, serious. Is this news reliable?"

"Yes, general."

"Well, go on; but just a word—have you learned by what general this Brazilian division is commanded?"

"Yes, general."

"And his name is?" he asked.

"It is the Marquis Don Roque de Castelmelhor."

Something like a smile crossed the austere face of the Montonero, and gave him an inexpressible look of hope and hatred.

"What direction do these troops follow?" he said.

"They are preparing to cross the desert plains of the Abipones."

"Good!" he murmured; "However quick they will march, we will rejoin them; and," slightly raising his voice, "what news of the Guaycurus?"

"None, general."

"That is strange; have you nothing else to communicate to me?"

"Pardon, general; I have indeed some more important news for you."

"Come, speak! I am listening."

"Don Pablo Pincheyra, the Bear of Casa-Frama, has suddenly abandoned his inaccessible repair."

"I know it," said the general.

"But what you doubtless do not know is, that, furious at having been so completely deceived by you, he is pursuing you—with only a few men, it is true."

"Good!" said Zeno Cabral, smiling; "Let them come, Don Juan, let them come. Anything else?"

"Nothing, general, unless it is to ask you if your expedition has succeeded, and if you are satisfied."

"Enchanted, Don Juan, enchanted! I hope that, in a few days, we shall have attained the end that I have for so long contemplated."

"God grant it, general."

"Thank you, Don Juan," said he. "I hope God will not destroy my hopes. Good night."

The officer bowed and immediately retired, and Zeno Cabral regained his tent with slow steps.

"Ah!" murmured he, falling on a seat; "Would that fortune may at last favour me, and that I may be allowed to capture them all by a throw of the net!"

He remained a short time pensive; then, having trimmed his lamp, he again bent over his map.

The most profound silence reigned without; except the sentinels, everyone in the camp was asleep.

Till the morning, the general's lamp burned in his tent.

He alone, of the partisans, kept unquiet vigil.

[CHAPTER X.]

THE FORAGERS.

About ten days had passed between the events that we have just related and the day on which we resume our narrative. The scene is no longer in the Cordilleras, but in the midst of the vast deserts which separate Brazil from the Spanish possessions—a kind of neutral territory, which the two nations had for a long time desperately disputed, and which was held by warlike and independent Indians.

The spot to which we have transported our scene was an immense plain enclosed by high mountains, whose peaks were covered in snow. A large river divided the plain into two nearly equal parts, though with a thousand capricious windings; its silvery waters, slightly rippled by the morning breeze and glittering in the first rays of the sun, reflected changing colours as if thousands of diamonds had been scattered on its bosom.

The calm of this majestic desert was only disturbed at this moment by a numerous troop of horsemen, who skirted at a gallop the left bank of the river.

These horsemen, whose nationality it was impossible to discover so far off, appeared to be warriors.

Whoever they might be, they appeared to be in great haste, and dashed forward with such rapidity that, if they continued thus for a few hours, some of them would be inclined to fall back and lag behind.

The more this troop advanced into the plain the easier it was, through the cloud of dust that enveloped them, which was at times driven away by the wind, to discover the circumstances under which they were travelling. The troop was composed of more than four thousand men. Each horseman of the principal corps had a foot soldier riding on the same horse behind him.

This circumstance was not at all extraordinary.

Arrived at a point of land jutting into the river, the advanced guard stopped.

Two hours later the tents were ready, intrenchments made, sentinels posted, and the corps d'armée was firmly established in an excellent position out of the reach of a surprise.

It was ten o'clock in the morning.

Except the corps d'armée, the immense plain appeared quite deserted.

Nevertheless, several measures of precaution had been taken. Sentinels, placed at certain distances, watched over the common safety, and their horses, which are generally left to browse at liberty during a halt, were attached to pickets fixed in the earth. The bivouac fires were lighted in hollows and fed by an extremely dry wood, which only emitted light and scarcely perceptible smoke.

A remarkable circumstance was that several whites, or rather several persons clothed in the costume of the Spanish-Americans of the Banda Oriental, were among the Indians, and were treated as guests and friends.

Then, on the other side of the river, at the opposite angle of the triangle, of which the corps formed, so to say, the summit, was a third troop of horsemen, also very numerous; but the latter had simply halted among the high grass.

These horsemen were Montoneros, that is to say, partisans.

As to the former, they had not neglected any precaution to escape observation. Concealed behind a thick curtain of shrubbery, they were ambuscaded like hunters on the watch.

The horses, saddled and ready to be mounted, had their nostrils covered with girdles, to prevent them from neighing. Near each horse a lance was struck in the ground, the point downwards.

This last troop evidently knew the precarious situation in which they were, and the disagreeable neighbours that chance or fatality had given them.

Meanwhile the Montoneros, far from showing the least inquietude or the slightest fear of the enemies camped so near them, appeared gay and very unconcerned.

But in all other respects the plain preserved its calmness; no suspicious undulation agitated the grass; the woods preserved their mysterious silence.

Hours passed; it was about two o'clock in the afternoon. A heavy heat oppressed the earth; a heated atmosphere which no breeze refreshed bent towards the ground the half-burnt grass. At this moment some thirty horsemen, amongst whom glittered the golden embroidery of the uniforms of several officers, left the camp of which we have previously spoken, and proceeding in a slanting direction, gained the river.

These horsemen wore the Brazilian uniform. Whether they were persuaded that the plain was really solitary, whether they reckoned on the proximity of their camp to be defended against any dangers which might threaten them, or whether there was any other motive, they marched with very little order, the officers, amongst whom was a general, keeping in advance, and the horsemen forming the escort going on haphazard.

Nearly at the same time, when these foragers or scouts left their camp to make, at so unusual an hour, a trip into the plain, at some distance before them, on the bank of the river, a troop of horsemen, equal in number—that is to say, composed of about thirty men, in the picturesque costume of the Buenos Aireans, appeared marching to meet them.

This second troop marched as rapidly as their horses, harassed by a long journey, could proceed.

The two troops soon found themselves in sight.

"Eh! Eh!" said the Brazilian general, addressing a captain who was riding by his side, "I think those are our people; what do you think of it?"

"I think so too, general," answered the officer; "come, that will set me right with them."

"Yes, they are men of their word; I think it augurs well for the result of our conference. Remember that we are very far from Tucumán, and that they must have made great haste to arrive here on the day."

"Just so, general; we are, if I am not deceived, on the territory of the Indian bravos, on neutral ground."

"Yes, you are right," answered the other, suddenly becoming pensive. "I think I have even a confused remembrance of these parts."

"You, general!"

"Yes, yes, but a long time ago; I was young then; I did not think Of taking service. Impelled by I know not what furious ardour, I traversed these desert regions in search of adventures—for my pleasure," he added.

The captain looked at him for a moment with an expression of gentle pity.

Some minutes thus passed. At last the general raised his head, and again addressing his aide-de-camp—that was the position that the captain occupied towards him:

"These gauchos are rude men, are they not, Don Sebastiao?" he asked.

"It is said, general," answered the officer, "that these men are remarkable for power, skill, and courage. I cannot vouch for it, only having heard so much."

"I know them; I have seen them at work; they are demons."

"It is possible," said the captain smiling; "but I think that, without going very far, it would be easy to find in Brazil men who for bravery, power, and cunning are equal to them, if they are not superior."

"Oh! Oh! You are of course joking, Don Sebastiao?"

"I am not at all joking; I express my conviction."

"A conviction! And of whom do you speak then?"

"Why, the Paulistas, general—the Paulistas whom you know as well as I do—those extraordinary men who have accomplished so many extraordinary things since the discovery of America, and to whom Brazil owes her incalculable riches."

The aide-de-camp would have continued speaking in the same manner, but the general did not listen to him; his countenance had become of a livid paleness; a convulsive trembling had, like an electric shock, run through his body, and he had sunk upon his horse as if he were on the point of losing consciousness.

"Good Heaven! What is the matter with you, general?" cried the officer.

"I do not know," answered the latter, in a choking voice: "I do not feel well."

"The heat, no doubt, general?"

"Yes, that is it, I think; but never mind, I am better—much better; it will be nothing, I hope."

"God grant it, general! You really frightened me."

"Thank you, Don Sebastiao, I know your kindness. For some time I have been subject to sudden faintness, that I do not know how to account for; but as you have seen, the fit is always very short."

The captain bowed without answering, and the conversation ceased.

Meanwhile the horsemen whom Don Sebastiao had perceived, advanced rapidly, and they were soon within fifty paces of the Portuguese.

Then they made a halt, and for a short time they appeared to consult together. Then a horseman separated from the group and set off direct towards the Brazilians.

The general had attentively followed with his eye the movements of the newcomers. On a sign from him Don Sebastiao left his troop, which remained motionless, and spurring his horse, boldly approached the gaucho, after having attached a white handkerchief to the point of his sword.

The two envoys, who were recognised as such, met at an equal distance from the two troops still remaining in the rear, but ready for attack as for defence.

After having attentively examined the man in face of whom he was, Don Sebastiao at last resolved, seeing that the other remained silent, to speak first.