Chapter One.

At Sea—An Alarming Cry and a Rescue.

“At sea once more!” said Will Osten in a meditative mood.

Our hero made this remark one night to himself, which was overheard and replied to by his friend, Captain Dall, in a manner that surprised him.

“It’s my opinion, doctor,” said the captain in a low voice, “that this is the last time you or I will ever be at sea, or anywhere else, if our skipper don’t look better after his men, for a more rascally crew I never set eyes on, and, from a word or two I have heard dropped now and then, I feel sure some mischief is in the wind. Come aft with me to a place where we ain’t so likely to be overheard by eavesdroppers, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Will Osten was so much astonished at his friend’s remark, that he followed him to the after part of the ship without uttering a word, and there sat down on the taffrail to listen to what he had to communicate.

There was no moon in the clear sky, and the hosts of stars that studded the dark vault overhead did not shed any appreciable light on the waters of the Pacific, on which the Rover floated almost motionless. That beautiful and mysterious phosphorescence which sometimes illumines the sea was gleaming in vivid flashes in the vessel’s wake, and a glowing trail of it appeared to follow the rudder like a serpent of lambent fire.

It was one of those calm, peaceful nights in which God seems to draw nearer than usual to the souls of His creatures. The only sounds that broke the profound stillness were the pattering of reef-points on the sails as the vessel rose and sank gently on the oily swell; the measured tread of the officer of the watch, and the humming of the man at the wheel, as he stood idly at his post, for the vessel had scarcely steering-way.

“Doctor,” said Captain Dall in a low whisper, taking Will Osten by the button-hole and bending forward until his eyes were close to those of his young friend, “I little thought when I set sail from England that, in a few weeks after, my good ship the Foam would come a wreck an’ sink to the bottom of the Pacific before my eyes. Still less did I think that I should be cast on a coral island, have to fight like a naked savage, and be saved at last by missionaries from being roasted and eaten. Yet all this has happened within a few months.”

At any other time Will Osten would have smiled at the solemn manner in which this was said, but there was something in the hour, and also in the tone of his friend’s voice, which tended to repress levity and raise a feeling of anxiety in his mind.

“Well, captain,” he said, “what has this to do with the present evil that you seem to apprehend?”

“To do with it, lad? nothing—’xcept that it reminds me that we little know what is in store for us. Here are we becalmed—three day’s sail from the coral island, where the niggers were so near converting us into cooked victuals, and I wouldn’t at this minute give twopence in security for the life of any one on board the Rover.”

“Why, what mean you?” asked Will, with increasing perplexity. “Some of the crew are bad enough, no doubt, but many of them are evidently good men—what is it that you fear?”

“Fear! why, there’s everything to fear,” said the captain in a suppressed but excited whisper, drawing still closer to his friend. “I’ve often sailed in these seas, and I know that while some of the traders sailing between these islands and South America and other parts are decentish enough, others are as great cut-throats as ever deserved to swing at the yard-arm. But that’s not the point. I have overheard, of late, some of the rascals plotting to murder the officers and take this ship. But I cannot point ’em out, for though I heard their voices I couldn’t see their faces. I think I know who they are, but could not swear to ’em, and it would be worse than useless to denounce them till we have some evidence to go on. I therefore want you to help me with your advice and assistance, so that we may get up a counterplot to spoil their fun—for I’m quite certain that if we fail to—hark! what’s that?”

Will did not answer, but both listened intently to the sound which had interrupted Captain Dall’s discourse. It was evident that the officer and men of the watch had also heard it, for they, too, had ceased to walk to and fro, and their figures could be dimly seen in a listening attitude at the gangway.

For several minutes they listened without hearing anything—then a hoarse, guttural shout broke the stillness of the night for a few seconds and died away. The men looked at each other, and some of the more superstitious among them grew pale. Again the cry was repeated, somewhat nearer, and again all was still. Some of the oldest hands in the watch stood transfixed and powerless with terror. They would have faced death in any form manfully, but this mysterious sound unnerved them!

The officer of the watch went down to report it to Captain Blathers, who immediately came on deck. Just as he appeared, the cry was repeated and a slight splash was heard.

“Some one in distress,” cried Captain Blathers promptly; “a crew for the starboard quarter-boat to pick him up. Stand by to lower. Be smart, lads!”

These words, heartily uttered, put superstitious fears to flight at once. The men threw off their jackets; the boat was lowered, and in a few minutes was pulling about and searching in all directions. Our hero was one of the first to leap into her, and he pulled the bow oar. For some time they rowed about in vain. The night was intensely dark, and the cry was not repeated, so that they had nothing to guide them in their movements. A lantern was fixed in the ship half way up the mizzen rigging, but the lantern in the boat was concealed until the moment when it should be required, because it is easier for men to distinguish surrounding objects in comparative darkness than when a light is glaring near them. Presently Will Osten saw a dark object like a small canoe right ahead of the boat.

“Back water—all!” he shouted.

The men obeyed, but it was too late; the boat struck the object and overturned it. Will saw something like a human form roll into the water and heard a gurgling cry. Without a moment’s hesitation he leaped overboard, head foremost, and catching hold of the object, brought it to the surface. He remembered at that moment having heard of a fact which is worth stating here. The best way to save a drowning man is to approach him from behind, seize him under the armpits, and, then, getting on your back, draw him partly on to your breast and swim on your back to the shore, or to a place of safety. Thought is quicker than the lightning flash. Will could not, of course, carry out this plan fully, nevertheless the memory of it served him in good stead, for, the instant he caught the drowning man by the hair, he kept him at arm’s length, and thus avoided his death-clutch until he could grasp him under the armpits from behind, and thus render him powerless. He then rose and drew him gently upon his breast, at the same time striking out with his feet and shouting—

“Bear a hand, lads—I’ve got him!”

A loud “hurrah!” burst from the men in the boat, and was re-echoed vehemently from the ship. They had overshot the spot only by a few yards. Instantly they pulled round: two strokes brought them to the spot where Will was swimming, and in another moment our hero and the rescued man were hauled into the boat. The men gave vent to another loud and prolonged cheer, which was again replied to from the ship.

The boat was soon alongside, and the rescued man, who proved to be a man of colour in a very emaciated and exhausted condition, was hoisted on board. His story was soon told. He was not a native of the islands, but had been living on one of them, and had gone off to fish in a canoe, when a gale sprang up and blew him out to sea. Four days and nights had he been exposed to the storm in his frail bark, without food or water, and was on the point of perishing when the ship chanced to pass near him. The utterance of the cry which had attracted attention was almost the last effort of which he was capable. He spoke a little broken English, having learnt it while serving on board of an English trading vessel. His name, he said, was Bunco, and a fine powerful-looking fellow he was, despite the sad condition to which he had been reduced. His shoulders, and indeed most parts of his body, were blistered by the continual washing of the sea over him, and when he was lifted on board his skin was icy cold. Had he not been a man of iron mould, he must certainly have perished. The poor fellow was at once taken into the cabin and carefully attended to. He was first bathed in fresh water, then rolled in blankets, and a tumbler of hot wine and water administered, which greatly revived him, and soon caused him to fall into a sound sleep.

Whether it was that this incident softened the hearts of the seamen for a time, or that their plans were not yet ripe for execution, we cannot tell, but certain it is that nothing whatever occurred to justify Captain Dall’s suspicions for several weeks after that.

Chapter Two.

Describes a Mutiny, and shows that the Best of Friends may part sooner than they expect.

“A wilful man will have his way.” That this is a true proverb is almost universally admitted; indeed, there is reason to believe that it is equally true of women as of men; nevertheless, Captain Blathers did not believe it although he was himself a living illustration of its truth. He laughed at Captain Dall when that worthy warned him of the mutinous intentions of his crew, and when several weeks had passed away without any signs of disaffection appearing, he rallied him a good deal about what he styled his suspicious disposition, and refused to take any steps to guard against surprise. The consequence was, that when the storm did break, he was utterly unprepared to meet it.

Griffin, the second mate, was the leader of the conspiracy, but so ably did he act his villainous part, that no one suspected him. He was a tall, powerful, swarthy man, with a handsome but forbidding countenance.

One evening a little before sunset, while the captain was sitting at tea with those who usually messed in the cabin, Griffin looked down the skylight and reported “a sail on the weather bow.” The captain immediately rose and went on deck. The moment he appeared he was seized by Griffin. Captain Blathers was an active and powerful man, and very passionate. He clenched his fist and struck the second mate a blow on the chest, which caused him to stagger back, but, before he could repeat it, two sailors seized him from behind and held him fast. The noise of the scuffle at once brought up the first mate, who was followed by Will Osten, Captain Dall, and others, all of whom were seized by the crew and secured as they successively made their appearance.

Resistance was of course offered by each, but in vain, for the thing was promptly and thoroughly carried out. Four strong men stood at the head of the companion with ropes ready to secure their prisoners, while the greater part of the crew stood close by armed with pistols and cutlasses.

“It is of no use resisting, Captain Blathers,” said Griffin, when the former was pinioned; “you see we are quite prepared, and thoroughly in earnest.”

The captain looked round, and a glance sufficed to convince him that this was true. Not a friendly eye met his, because those of the crew who were suspected of being favourable to him, or who could not be safely relied on, had been seized by another party of mutineers at the same time that those in the cabin were captured, and among them were three friends of our hero—Mr Cupples the mate, Muggins, and Larry O’Hale, seamen belonging to the lost Foam to which Captain Dall had referred while conversing with Will.

For a few seconds Captain Blathers’ face blazed with wrath, and he seemed about to make a desperate attempt to break his bonds, but by a strong effort he restrained himself.

“What do you intend to do?” he asked at length, in a deep, husky voice.

“To take possession of this ship,” replied the second mate, with a slightly sarcastic smile. “These men have taken a fancy to lead a free, roving life, and to make me their captain, and I am inclined to fall in with their fancy, and to relieve you of the command.”

“Scoundrel!” exclaimed the captain, “say rather that you have misled the men, and that—”

He checked himself, and then said sternly, “And pray what do you intend to do with me?”

“I shall allow you a boat and provisions, Captain Blathers, for the use of yourself and your friends, and then bid you farewell. You see we are mercifully inclined, and have no desire to shed your blood. Ho! there—lower one of the quarter boats.”

This order was obeyed with promptitude. Some provisions were thrown into the boat, and the captain was cast loose and ordered to get into it. He turned to make a last appeal to the crew, but Griffin presented a pistol at his head and ordered him peremptorily to get into the boat. It is probable that he would have made another effort, had not two of the men forced him over the side. Seeing this, Will Osten was so indignant and so anxious to quit the ship, that he stepped forward with alacrity to follow him.

“No, no, my fine young fellow,” said Griffin, thrusting him back, “we want your help as a doctor a little longer. It may be that you are not inclined to serve us, but we can find a way of compelling you if you’re not. Come, Mr Dall, be good enough to go next.”

When Captain Dall’s hands were loosed, he shook his fist in the second mate’s face, and said, “Rascal, you’ll swing for this yet; mark my words, you’ll swing for it.” Having relieved his feelings thus, he went over the side.

While this was going on, Larry O’Hale, Muggins, and Mr Cupples, with several others, were brought to the gangway. Griffin addressed these before ordering them into the boat.

“My lads,” he said, “I have no objection to your remaining aboard, if you choose to take part with us.”

“I, for one, will have nothing to do with ’e,” said Mr Cupples sternly.

“Then you may go,” said Griffin, with a sneer. Muggins, who, to use one of his own phrases, looked “as sulky as a bear with a broken head,” made no reply, but Larry O’Hale exclaimed, “Sure, then, what better can I do than take part with yees? It’s a heavenly raigin o’ the arth this, an good company. Put me down on the books, Capting Griffin, dear. I’d niver desart ye in your troubles,—be no mains.”

There was a slight laugh at this, and Larry was graciously cast loose, and permitted to remain. Both Will Osten and Muggins gazed at him, however, in amazement, for they had supposed that their comrade would rather have taken his chance in the captain’s boat. Suddenly an intelligent gleam shot athwart the rough visage of Muggins, and he said—

“Of coorse I’ll remain too. It would be madness for an old salt like me to go paddlin’ about the ocean in a cockleshell of a boat when he has the chance of sailin’ in a good ship. Put me down too, capting. I’m game for anything a’most, from pitch an’ toss to manslaughter.”

So Muggins was added to the ship’s company, and poor Mr Cupples went over the side with a face almost as long as his thin body, because of what he deemed the depravity and desertion of his old shipmates. Several of the ship’s crew, who refused to join, also went into the boat, which was then cast loose, and dropped rapidly astern.

The whole of this exciting scene passed so quickly, that it was only when the boat was far away, like a speck on the sea, that Will Osten realised the fact that he had actually said farewell, perhaps for over, to his late comrades. But he had not much time given him for reflection, for the new captain, after changing the course of the ship, and making a few arrangements to suit the altered state of affairs, ordered him to go forward and do duty as a common seaman, telling him that he did not intend to have any land-lubbers or idlers aboard, and that he would be called to do doctor’s work when his services should be required.

That night our hero contrived to hold a whispering interview, in a dark corner of the forecastle, with his friends Larry O’Hale and Muggins. He found that the former had resolved to join the crew in order to be near himself; that Muggins had joined, because of his desire to share the fortunes of Larry; and that both had made up their minds to effect their escape on the first favourable opportunity.

“Now, ye see, boys,” said Larry, “this is how it is—”

“Don’t open your bread-basket hatch so wide,” growled Muggins, “else you’ll be overheerd—that’s wot it is.”

“This is how it is,” repeated Larry, “not bein’ fish, nor gulls, nor say sarpints, we haven’t the ghost of a chance of gettin’ away from this ship till we’re close to land, an’ even then we wont have much chance if it’s suspected that we want to escape. What then?—why, let us from this hour agree to give each other the cowld shoulder, and go at our work as if we liked it.”

“You’re right, Larry,” said Will. “If they see us much together, they’ll naturally suspect that we are plotting, so—”

At this point a voice growled from an adjacent hammock—

“Avast spinnin’ yarns there, will ’e!”

“Ay, it’s that sea-cook, Larry O’Hale,” cried Muggins aloud; “he was always over fond o’ talking.”

Larry, who at the first sound had slipped away to his hammock, shouted from under the blankets, “Ye spalpeen, it’s no more me than yersilf; sure I’d have been draimin’ of ould Ireland if ye—hadn’t—(snore) me grandmother—(yawn) or the pig—”

A prolonged snore terminated this sentence, and Muggins turned into his hammock, while Will Osten rose, with a quiet laugh, and went on deck.

One morning, some weeks after the conversation just related, our hero was leaning over the bulwarks near the fore-chains, watching the play of the clear waves as the ship glided quietly but swiftly through them before a light breeze. Will was in a meditative frame of mind, and had stood there gazing dreamily down for nearly half an hour, when his elbow was touched by the man named Bunco, who had long before recovered from his exposure in the canoe.

Will was a little surprised, for he had not had much intercourse with the man, and could not comprehend the confidential and peculiar look and tone with which he now addressed him.

“Mister Os’en,” he said, in a low voice, after a few preliminary words, “you be tink of escape?”

Will was startled: “Why do you think so?” he asked, in some alarm.

“Ha!” said the man, with a broad grin, “me keep eyes in head—me doos—not in pocket. Ho! ho! Yis, me see an’ hear berry well Muggins go too if hims can—and Larry O’Hale, ho yis. Now, me go too!”

“You too?”

“Yis. You save me life; me know dis here part ob the univarse,—bin bornded an’ riz here. Not far off from de land to-day. You let me go too, an’ me show you how you kin do—”

At this point Bunco was interrupted by a shout of “Land ho!” from the look-out at the masthead.

“Where away?” cried Griffin.

“On the lee-bow, sir.”

Instantly all eyes and glasses were turned in the direction indicated, where, in a short time, a blue line, like a low cloud, was faintly seen on the far-off horizon.

Chapter Three.

Describes a Tremendous but Bloodless Fight.

Proverbial philosophy tells us—and every one must have learned from personal experience—that “there is many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip.” Heroes in every rank of life are peculiarly liable to such slips, and our hero was no exception to the rule.

Finding that the vessel in which he sailed was now little, if at all, better than a pirate, he had fondly hoped that he should make his escape on the first point of South America at which they touched. Land was at last in sight. Hope was high in the breast of Will Osten, and expressive glances passed between him and his friends in captivity, when, alas! the land turned out to be a small island, so low that they could see right across it, and so scantily covered with vegetation that human beings evidently deemed it unworthy of being possessed.

“There’s niver a sowl upon it,” remarked Larry O’Hale, in a tone of chagrin.

“Maybe not,” said Griffin, who overheard the observation; “but there’s plenty of bodies on it if not souls, and, as we are short of provisions, I intend to lay-to, and give you a chance of seeing them. Get ready to go ashore; I’m not afraid of you wandering too far!”

Griffin wound up this speech with a low chuckle and a leer, which sent a chill to the heart not only of Will Osten but of Larry and Muggins also, for it convinced them that their new master had guessed their intention, and that he would, of course, take every precaution to prevent its being carried out. After the first depression of spirits, consequent on this discovery, the three friends became more than ever determined to outwit their enemy, and resolved to act, in the meantime, with perfect submission and prompt obedience—as they had hitherto done. Of course, each reserved in his own mind the right of rebellion if Griffin should require them to do any criminal act, and they hoped fervently that they should not fall in with any vessel that might prove a temptation to their new captain.

A few minutes after this, the order was given to lower one of the boats, and a crew jumped into her, among whom were Larry and Muggins. Will Osten asked permission to go, and Griffin granted his request with a grin that was the reverse of amiable.

“Musha! what sort o’ bodies did the capting main?” said Larry, when they had pulled beyond earshot of the ship.

“Ha, paddy,” replied one of the men, “they’re pleasant fat bodies—amusin’ to catch and much thought of by aldermen;—turtles no less.”

“Ah! then, it’s jokin’ ye are.”

“Not I. I never joke.”

“Turthles is it—green fat an’ all?”

“Ay, an’ shells too.”

“Sure it’s for the coppers they’re wanted.”

“Just so, Larry, an’ if you’ll ship your oar an jump out wi’ the painter, we’ll haul the boat up an’ show you how to catch ’em.”

As the sailor spoke, the boat’s keel grated on the sand, and the Irishman sprang over the side, followed by his comrades, who regarded the expedition in the light of a “good spree.”

The party had to wait some time, however, for the anticipated sport. It was near sunset when they landed, but turtles are not always ready to deliver themselves up, even though the honour of being eaten by London aldermen sometimes awaits them! It is usually night before the creatures come out of the sea to enjoy a snooze on the beach. The men did not remain idle, however. They dragged the boat a considerable distance from the water, and then turned it keel up, supporting one gunwale on several forked sticks, so that a convenient shelter was provided. This look-out house was still further improved by having a soft carpet of leaves and grass spread beneath it.

When these preparations had been made, those men, who had never seen turtle-turning performed, were instructed in their duties by an experienced hand. The process being simple, the explanation was short and easy.

“You see, lads,” said the instructor, leaning against the boat and stuffing down the glowing tobacco in his pipe with the point of his (apparently) fireproof little finger—“You see, lads, this is ’ow it is. All that you’ve got for to do is to keep parfitly still till the turtles comes out o’ the sea, d’ye see?—then, as the Dook o’ Wellin’ton said at Waterloo—Up boys an’ at ’em! W’en, ov coorse, each man fixes his eyes on the turtle nearest him, runs out, ketches him by the rim of his shell an’ turns him slap over on his back—d’ye understand?”

“Clear as ditch wather,” said Larry.

“Humph!” said Muggins.

“Well, then, boys,” continued the old salt with the fireproof little finger, “ye’d better go an’ count the sand or the stars (when they comes out), for there won’t be nothin’ to do for an hour to come.”

Having delivered himself thus, he refilled his pipe and lay down to enjoy it under the boat, while the others followed his example, or sauntered along the shore, or wandered among the bushes, until the time for action should arrive.

Will Osten and his two friends availed themselves of the opportunity to retire and hold an earnest consultation as to their future prospects and plans. As this was the first time they had enjoyed a chance of conversing without the fear of being overheard, they made the most of it, and numerous were the projects which were proposed and rejected in eager earnest tones—at least on the part of Larry and Will. As for Muggins, although always earnest he was never eager. Tremendous indeed must have been the influence which could rouse him into a state of visible excitement! During the discussion the other two grew so warm that they forgot all about time and turtles, and would certainly have prolonged their talk for another hour had not one of the men appeared, telling them to clap a stopper on their potato-traps and return to the boat, as the sport was going to begin.

The moon had risen and commenced her course through a sky which was so clear that the planets shone like resplendent jewels, and the distant stars like diamond dust. Not a breath of air ruffled the surface of the sea; nevertheless, its slumbering energies were indicated by the waves on the outlying coral reef, which, approaching one by one, slowly and solemnly, fell with what can only be called a quiet roar, hissed gently for a moment on the sand, and then passed with a sigh into absolute silence.

“Don’t it seem as if the sea wor sleepin’,” whispered one of the men, while they all lay watching under the boat.

“Ay, an’ snorin’ too,” answered another.

“Whisht!” exclaimed a third, “if old Neptune hears ye, he’ll wake up an’ change his tune.”

“Och, sure he’s woke up already,” whispered Larry, pointing with great excitement to a dark object which at that moment appeared to emerge from the sea.

“Mum’s the word, boys,” whispered the old salt who had charge of the party; “the critters are comin’, an’ England expec’s every man for to do his dooty, as old Nelson said.”

In the course of a few minutes several more dark objects emerged from the sea, and waddled with a kind of sigh or low grunt slowly up the beach, where they lay, evidently intending to have a nap! With breathless but eager interest, the sailors lay perfectly still, until fifteen of the dark objects were on the sands, and sufficient time was allowed them to fall into their first nap. Then the word “Turn” was given, and, leaping up, each man rushed swiftly but silently upon his prey! The turtles were pounced upon so suddenly that almost before they were wide awake they were caught; a bursting cheer followed, and instantly ten splendid animals were turned over on their backs, in which position, being unable to turn again, they lay flapping their flippers violently.

“That’s the way to go it,” shouted one of the men who, after turning his turtle, dashed after one of the other five which were now hastening back to the sea, with laborious but slow haste. His comrades followed suit instantly with a wild cheer. Now, to the uninitiated, this was the only moment of danger in that bloodless fight.

Being aware of his incapacity for swift flight, the turtle, when in the act of running away from danger, makes use of each flipper alternately in dashing the sand to an incredible height behind and around him, to the endangering of the pursuer’s eyes, if he be not particularly careful. Sometimes incautious men have their eyes so filled with sand in this way that it almost blinds them for a time, and severe inflammation is occasionally the result.

The old salt—Peter Grant by name, but better known among his shipmates as Old Peter—was well aware of this habit of the turtle; but, having a spice of mischief in him, he said nothing about it. The consequences were severe on some of the men, particularly on Muggins. Our sedate friend was the only one who failed to turn a turtle at the first rush. He had tripped over a stone at starting, and when he gathered himself up and ran to the scene of action, the turtles were in full retreat. Burning with indignation at his bad fortune, he resolved to redeem his character; and, with this end in view, made a desperate rush at a particularly large turtle, which appeared almost too fat for its own shell. It chanced that Larry O’Hale, having already turned two, also set his affections on this turtle, and made a rush at it; seeing which Muggins slyly ran behind him, tripped up his heels, and passed on.

“Have a care,” cried Will Osten, laughing, “he’ll bite!”

“Bad luck to yez!” shouted Larry, leaping up, and following hard on Muggins’ heels.

Just then the turtle began to use his flippers in desperation. Sand flew in all directions. The pursuers, nothing daunted though surprised, partially closed their eyes, bent down their heads, and advanced. Larry opened his mouth to shout—a shower of sand filled it. He opened his eyes in astonishment—another shower shut them both up, causing him to howl while he coughed and spluttered. But Muggins pressed on valorously.

One often reads, in the history of war, of brave and reckless heroes who go through “storms of shot and shell” almost scathless, while others are falling like autumn leaves around them. Something similar happened on the present occasion. While Larry and several of the other men were left behind, pitifully and tenderly picking the sand out of their eyes, the bold Muggins—covered with sand from head to foot, but still not mortally wounded—advanced singlehanded against the foe—rushed at the turtle; tripped over it; rose again; quailed for a second before the tremendous fire; burst through it, and, finally, catching the big creature by the rim, turned him on his back, and uttered a roar rather than a cheer of triumph.

This was the last capture made that night. Immediately after their victory the men returned to the boat, where they kindled an immense bonfire and prepared to spend the night, leaving the turtles to kick helplessly on their backs till the morning light should enable them to load the boat and return with their prizes to the ship. Meanwhile pipes were loaded and lit, and Doctor Will, as Old Peter called him, looked after the wounded.

Chapter Four.

In which Another Fight is recorded and an Escape is made, but whether Fortunate or the Reverse Remains to be seen.

The supply of fresh meat thus secured was very acceptable to the crew of the Rover, and their circumstances were further improved by the addition of a number of fresh cocoa-nuts which were collected on the island by Bunco, that individual being the only one on board who could perform, with ease, the difficult feat of climbing the cocoa-nut palms. After a couple of days spent at this island, the Rover weighed anchor and stood away for the coast of South America, which she sighted about two weeks afterwards.

Here, one evening, they were becalmed not far from land, and Griffin ordered a boat to be lowered, with a crew to go ashore. The captain had been in low spirits that day, from what cause was not known, and no one ever found out the reason, but certain it is that he was unusually morose and gruff. He was also rather absent, and did not observe the fact that Larry O’Hale, Muggins, and Will Osten were among the crew of the boat. The mate observed it, however, and having a shrewd suspicion of their intentions, ordered them to leave it.

“What said you?” asked Griffin of the mate, as he was about to go over the side.

“I was about to change some of the crew,” he replied confidentially. “It would be as well to keep O’Hale and—”

“Oh, never mind,” said Griffin roughly, “let ’em go.”

The mate, of course, stepped back, and Griffin got into the boat, which was soon on its way to the land. On nearing the shore, it was found that a tremendous surf broke upon the beach—owing to its exposure to the long rolling swell of the Pacific. When the boat, which was a small one, entered this surf, it became apparent that the attempt to land was full of danger. Each wave that bore them on its crest for a second and then left them behind was so gigantic that nothing but careful steering could save them from turning broadside on and being rolled over like a cask. Griffin was a skilful steersman, but he evidently was not at that time equal to the occasion. He steered wildly. When they were close to the beach the boat upset. Every man swam towards a place where a small point of land caused a sort of eddy and checked the force of the undertow. They all reached it in a few minutes, with the exception of Griffin, who had found bottom on a sand-bank, and stood, waist deep, laughing, apparently, at the struggles of his comrades.

“You’d better come ashore,” shouted one of the men.

Griffin replied by another laugh, in the midst of which he sank suddenly and disappeared. It might have been a quicksand—it might have been a shark—no one ever could tell, but the unhappy man had gone to his account—he was never more seen!

The accident had been observed from the ship, and the mate at once lowered a boat and hastened to the rescue. Those on shore observed this, and awaited its approach. Before it was half way from the beach, however, Peter Grant said to his comrades—

“I’ll tell ’e wot it is, boys; seems to me that Providence has given us a chance of gittin’ away from that ship. I never was a pirate, an’ I don’t mean for to become one, so, all who are of my way of thinkin’ come over here.”

Will Osten and his friends were so glad to find that a shipmate had, unknown to them, harboured thoughts of escaping, that they at once leaped to his side, but none of the others followed. They were all determined, reckless men, and had no intention of giving up their wild course. Moreover, they were not prepared to allow their comrades to go off quietly. One of them, in particular, a very savage by nature, as well as a giant, stoutly declared that he not only meant to stick by the ship himself, but would compel the others to do so too, and for this purpose placed himself between them and the woods, which, at that part of the coast, approached close to the sea. Those who took his part joined him, and for a few moments the two parties stood gazing at each other in silence. There was good ground for hesitation on both sides, for, on the one hand, Will Osten and his three friends were resolute and powerful fellows, while, on the other, the giant and his comrades, besides being stout men, were eight in number. Now, it chanced that our hero had, in early boyhood, learned an art which, we humbly submit, has been unfairly brought into disrepute—we refer to the art of boxing. Good reader, allow us to state that we do not advocate pugilism. We never saw a prize-fight, and have an utter abhorrence of the “ring.” We not only dislike the idea of seeing two men pommel each other’s faces into a jelly, but we think the looking at such a sight tends to demoralise. There is a vast difference, however, between this and the use of “the gloves,” by means of which a man may learn the useful art of “self-defence,” and may, perhaps, in the course of his life, have the happiness of applying his knowledge to the defence of a mother, a sister, or a wife, as well as “self.” If it be objectionable to use the gloves because they represent the fist, then is it equally objectionable to use the foil because it represents the sword? But, pray, forgive this digression. Ten to one, in your case, reader, it is unnecessary, because sensible people are more numerous than foolish! Howbeit, whether right or wrong, Will Osten had, as we have said, acquired the by no means unimportant knowledge of where to hit and how to hit. He had also the good sense to discern when to hit, and he invariably acted on the principal that—“whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well.”

On the present occasion Will walked suddenly up to the giant, and, without uttering a word, planted upon his body two blows, which are, we believe, briefly termed by the “fancy” one—two! We do not pretend to much knowledge on this point, but we are quite certain that number one lit upon the giant’s chest and took away his breath, while number two fell upon his forehead and removed his senses. Before he had time to recover either breath or senses, number three ended the affair by flattening his nose and stretching his body on the sand.

At this sudden and quite unexpected proceeding Larry O’Hale burst into a mingled laugh and cheer, which he appropriately concluded by springing on and flooring the man who stood opposite to him. Muggins and the old salt were about to follow his example, but their opponents turned and fled, doubling on their tracks and making for the boat. Larry, Muggins, and Old Peter, being thoroughly roused, would have followed them regardless of consequences, and undoubtedly would have been overpowered by numbers (for the boat had just reached the shore), had not Will Osten bounded ahead of them, and, turning round, shouted energetically—

“Follow me, lads, if you would be free. Now or never!”

Luckily the tone in which Will said this impressed them so much that they stopped in their wild career; and when they looked back and saw their young friend running away towards the woods as fast as his legs could carry him, and heard the shout of the reinforced seamen as they started from the water’s edge to give chase, they hesitated no longer. Turning round, they also fled. It is, however, due to Larry O’Hale to say that he shook his fist at the enemy, and uttered a complex howl of defiance before turning tail!

Well was it for all of them that day that the woods were near, and that they were dense and intricate. Old Peter, although a sturdy man, and active for his years, was not accustomed to running, and had no wind for a race with young men.

His comrades would never have deserted him, so that all would have certainly been captured but for a fortunate accident. They had not run more than half a mile, and their pursuers were gaining on them at every stride—as they could tell by the sound of their voices—when Will Osten, who led, fell headlong into a deep hole that had been concealed by rank undergrowth. Old Peter, who was close at his heels, fell after him, and Larry, who followed Peter to encourage and spur him on, also tumbled in. Muggins alone was able to stop short in time.

“Hallo, boys!” he cried in a hoarse whisper, “are yer timbers damaged?”

“Broke to smithereens,” groaned Larry from the abyss.

Will Osten, who had scrambled out in a moment, cried hastily, “Jump in, Muggins. I’ll lead ’em off the scent. Stop till I return, boys, d’ye hear?”

“Ay, ay,” said Larry.

Away went Will at right angles to their former course, uttering a shout of defiance, only just in time, for the mate of the Rover, who led the chase, was close on him. Soon the sounds told those in hiding that the ruse had been successful. The sounds died away in the distance and the deep silence of the forest succeeded—broken only now and then by the cry of some wild animal.

Meanwhile, our hero used his legs so well that he not only left his pursuers out of sight and hearing behind, but circled gradually around until he returned to the hole where his comrades lay. Here they all remained for nearly an hour, and then, deeming themselves safe, issued forth none the worse of their tumble. They commenced to return to the coast, having settled that this was their wisest course, and that they could easily avoid their late comrades by keeping well to the northward. This deviation, however, was unfortunate. Those who have tried it know well how difficult it is to find one’s way in a dense forest. The more they attempted to get out of the wood the deeper they got into it, and at length, when night began to close in, they were forced to come to the conclusion that they were utterly lost—lost in the forest—“a livin’ example,” as Larry O’Hale expressed it, “of the babes in the wood!”

Chapter Five.

Shows what the Lost Ones did, and how they were Found.

The condition of being “lost” is a sad one in any circumstances, but being lost in a forest—a virgin forest—a forest of unknown extent, in a vast continent such as that of South America, must be admitted to be a peculiarly severe misfortune. Nevertheless, we are bound to say that our hero and his friends did not appear to regard their lost condition in this light. Perhaps their indifference arose partly from their ignorance of what was entailed in being lost in the forest. The proverb says, that “where ignorance is bliss ’tis folly to be wise.” Whether that be true or not, there can be no question that it is sometimes an advantage to be ignorant. Had our lost friends known the extent of the forest in which they were lost, the number of its wild four-footed inhabitants, and the difficulties and dangers that lay before them, it is certain that they could not have walked along as light-heartedly as they did, and it is probable that they would have been less able to meet those difficulties and dangers when they appeared.

Be this as it may, Will Osten and Larry O’Hale, Muggins, and Old Peter, continued to wander through the forest, after discovering that they were lost, until the increasing darkness rendered further progress impossible; then they stopped and sat down on the stump of a fallen tree.

“It is clear,” said our hero, “that we shall have to pass the night here, for there is no sign of human habitation, and the light is failing fast.”

“That’s so,” said Muggins curtly.

“I’m a’feard on it,” observed Old Peter with a sigh.

“Faix, I wouldn’t mind spindin’ the night,” said Larry, “av it worn’t that we’ve got no grub. It would be some comfort to know the name o’ the country we’re lost in.”

“I can tell you that, Larry,” said Will Osten; “we are in Peru; though what part of it I confess I do not know.”

“Peroo, is it? Well, that’s a comfort—anyhow.”

“I don’t ’xacly see where the comfort o’ that lies,” said Muggins.

“That’s cause yer intellects is obtoose, boy!” retorted Larry; “don’t ye know that it’s a blissin’ to know where ye are, wotiver else ye don’t know? Supposin’, now, a stranger shud ax me, ‘Where are ye, Paddy?’—ov course I cud say at wance, ‘In Peroo, yer honour;’ an’ if he shud go for to penetrate deeper into my knowledge o’ geography, sure I cud tell him that Peroo is in South Ameriky, wan o’ the five quarters o’ the globe, d’ye see?”

“But suppose, for the sake of argyment as Shikspur says, that the stranger wos to ax ye wot ye know’d about Peroo, what ’ud ye say to that, lad?” asked Old Peter.

“Wot would I say! Why, I’d ax him with a look of offended dignity if he took me for a schoolmaster, an’ then may be I’d ax him wot he know’d about it himself—an’ krekt him av he wos wrong.”

“I can tell you this much about it, at all events,” said Will, with a laugh, “that it is a Republic, and a celebrated country for gold mines.”

“And I can add to yer information,” said Old Peter, “that there’s an oncommon lot o’ tigers an’ other wild beasts in it, and that if we would avoid bein’ eat up alive we must kindle a fire an’ go to sleep in a tree. By good luck I’ve got my flint and steel with me.”

“By equal good luck I have two biscuits in my pocket,” said Will; “come, before we do anything else, let us inquire into our resources.”

Each man at once turned his pockets inside out with the following result:—

Our hero, besides two large coarse sea-biscuits, produced one of those useful knives which contain innumerable blades, with pickers, tweezers, corkscrews, and other indescribable implements; also a note-book, a pencil, a small pocket-case of surgical instruments (without which he never moved during his wanderings), and a Testament—the one that had been given to him on his last birthday by his mother. Old Peter contributed to the general fund his flint, steel, and tinder—most essential and fortunate contributions—and a huge clasp-knife. Indeed we may omit the mention of knives in this record, for each man possessed one as a matter of course. It was by no means a matter of course, however, but a subject of intense gratification to at least three of the party, that Muggins had two pipes and an unusually large supply of tobacco. Larry also had a short black pipe and a picker, besides a crooked sixpence, which he always kept about him “for luck,” a long piece of stout twine, and a lump of cheese. The sum total was not great, but was extremely useful in the circumstances.

All this wealth having been collected together, it was agreed that the biscuits, cheese, tobacco, and pipes should be common property. They were accordingly divided with the utmost care by Will, who, by the way, did not require a pipe as he was not a smoker. We do not record this as an evidence of his superior purity! By no means. Will Osten, we regret to say, was not a man of strong principle. All the principle he had, and the good feelings which actuated him, were the result of his mother’s teaching—not of his own seeking. He did not smoke because his mother had discouraged smoking, therefore—not having acquired the habit—he disliked it. Thousands of men might (and would) have been free from this habit to-day had they been affectionately dissuaded from it in early youth. So, too, in reference to his Testament—Will always carried it about with him, not because he valued it much for its own sake, or read it often, but because it was the last gift he received from his mother. It reminded him of her; besides, it was small and did not take up much room in his pocket. Blessed influence of mothers! If they only knew the greatness of their power, and were more impressed with the importance of using it for the glory of God, this would be a happier world!

The costume of these wanderers, like their small possessions, was varied. All wore white duck trousers and blue Guernsey or cotton shirts with sou’-westers or straw hats, but the coats and cravats differed. Larry wore a rough pilot-cloth coat, and, being eccentric on the point, a scarlet cotton neckerchief. Old Peter wore a blue jacket with a black tie, loosely fastened, sailor fashion, round his exposed throat. Muggins wore the dirty canvas jacket in which he had been engaged in scraping down the masts of the Rover when he left her. Will Osten happened to have on a dark blue cloth shooting-coat and a white straw hat, which was fortunate, for, being in reality the leader of the party, it was well that his costume should accord with that responsible and dignified position. They had no weapons of any kind, so their first care was to supply themselves with stout cudgels, which each cut in proportion to his notions of the uses and capacities of such implements—that of Larry O’Hale being, of course, a genuine shillelah, while the weapon cut by Muggins was a close imitation of the club of Hercules, or of that used by the giant who was acquainted with the celebrated giant-killer named Jack!

“Now, boys, if we’re goin’ to ait and slaip, the sooner we set about it the better,” observed Larry, rising and commencing to collect sticks for a fire. The others immediately followed his example, and in a few minutes a bright blaze illuminated the dark recesses of the tangled forest, while myriads of sparks rose into and hung upon the leafy canopy overhead. There was something cheering as well as romantic in this. It caused the wanderers to continue their work with redoubled vigour. Soon a fire that would have roasted an ox whole roared and sent its forked tongues upwards. In the warm blaze of it they sat down to their uncommonly meagre supper of half a biscuit and a small bit of cheese each—which was washed down by a draught from a neighbouring stream.

They had finished this, and were in the act of lighting their pipes, when a roar echoed through the woods which caused them to pause in their operations and glance uneasily at each other.

“Sure, it’s a tiger!” exclaimed Larry.

“There’s no tigers in them parts,” said Muggins.

“I don’t know that, lad,” observed Old Peter.

“I’ve hear’d that there are jaguars an’ critters o’ that sort, which is as big and as bad as tigers, an’ goes by the name, but p’raps—”

Old Peter’s observations were here cut short by the loud report of a gun close at hand. As if by instinct every man leaped away from the light of the fire and sheltered himself behind a tree. For some time they stood listening eagerly to every sound, but no foe appeared, nor was there a repetition of the shot. The longer they listened the more inclined were they to believe that their senses had deceived them, and Larry O’Hale’s heart was beginning to make a troublesome attack on his ribs, as he thought of ghosts—especially foreign ghosts—when all eyes were attracted to a human form which appeared to flit to and fro among the tree stems in the distance, as if to avoid the strong light of the fire.

Knowing that one man with a gun could make certain of shooting the whole party if he chose, and that he would not be more likely to attempt violence if trust in his generosity were displayed, Will Osten, with characteristic impetuosity, suddenly walked into the full blaze of the firelight and made signals to the stranger to approach. Larry and the others, although they disapproved of the rashness of their young leader, were not the men to let him face danger alone. They at once joined him, and awaited the approach of the apparition.

It advanced slowly, taking advantage of every bush and tree, and keeping its piece always pointed towards the fire. They observed that it was black and partially naked.

Suddenly Muggins exclaimed— “I do b’lieve it’s—” He paused.

“Sure, it’s the nigger—och! av it isn’t Bunco!” cried Larry.

Bunco it was, sure enough, and the moment he perceived that he was recognised, he discarded all precaution, walked boldly into the encampment, and shook them all heartily by the hand.

Chapter Six.

Bunco becomes a Friend in Need and indeed, and Larry “comes to Grief” in a Small Way.

“Sure yer face is a sight for sore eyes, though it is black and ugly,” exclaimed Larry, as he wrung the hand of the good-humoured native, who grinned from ear to ear with delight at having found his friends.

“Wot ever brought ye here?” inquired Muggins.

“Mine legses,” replied Bunco, with a twinkle in his coal-black eyes.

“Yer legses, eh?” repeated Muggins in a tone of sarcasm—“so I supposes, for it’s on them that a man usually goeses; but what caused you for to desart the ship?”

“’Cause I no want for be pyrit more nor yourself, Mister Muggles—”

“Muggins, you lump of ebony—don’t miscall me.”

“Well, dat be all same—only a litil bit more ogly,” retorted Bunco, with a grin, “an’ me no want to lose sight ob Doctor Os’n here: me come for to show him how to go troo de forest.”

“That’s right, my good fellow,” cried Will, with a laugh, slapping the native on the shoulder; “you have just come in the nick of time to take care of us all, for, besides having utterly lost ourselves, we are quite ignorant of forest ways in this region—no better than children, in fact.”

“True for ye, boy, riglar babes in the wood, as I said before,” added Larry O’Hale.

“Well, that being the case,” continued Will, “you had better take command at once, Bunco, and show us how to encamp, for we have finished our pipes and a very light supper, and would fain go to sleep. It’s a pity you did not arrive sooner, my poor fellow, for we have not a scrap of food left for you, and your gun will be of no use till daylight.”

To this Bunco replied by displaying his teeth and giving vent to a low chuckle, while he lifted the flap of his pea-jacket and exhibited three fat birds hanging at the belt with which he supported his nether garments.

“Hooray!” shouted Larry, seizing one of the birds and beginning to pluck it; “good luck to your black mug, we’ll ait it right off.”

“That’s your sort,” cried Muggins, whose mouth watered at the thought of such a delightful addition to his poor supper. “Hand me one of ’em, Larry, and I’ll pluck it.”

Larry obeyed; Old Peter seized and operated on the last bird, and Bunco raked the embers of the fire together, while Will Osten looked on and laughed. In a very few minutes the three birds were plucked and cleaned, and Larry, in virtue of his office, was going to cook them, when Will suggested that he had better resign in favour of Bunco, who was doubtless better acquainted than himself with the best modes of forest cookery. To this Larry objected a little at first, but he was finally prevailed on to give in, and Bunco went to work in his own fashion. It was simple enough. First he cut three short sticks and pointed them at each end, then he split each bird open, and laying it flat, thrust a stick through it, and stuck it up before the glowing fire to roast. When one side was pretty well done he turned the other, and, while that was cooking, cut off a few scraps from the half-roasted side and tried them.

We need scarcely add that none of the party were particular. The birds were disposed of in an incredibly short time, and then the pipes were refilled for a second smoke.

“How comes it,” inquired Will, when this process was going on, “that you managed to escape and to bring a gun away with you? We would not have left the ship without you, but our own escape was a sudden affair; we scarcely expected to accomplish it at the time we did. I suppose you had a sharp run for it?”

“Run! ductor, no, me no run—me walk away quite comfrabil an’ tooked what me please; see here.”

As he spoke, Bunco opened a small canvas bag which no one had taken notice of up to that moment, and took from it a large quantity of broken biscuit, a lump of salt beef, several cocoa-nuts, a horn of gunpowder, and a bag of shot and ball—all of which he spread out in front of the fire with much ostentation. The satisfaction caused by this was very great, and even Muggins, in the fulness of his heart, declared that after all there were worse things than being lost in a forest.

“Well, and how did you manage to get away?” said Will, returning to the original question.

“Git away? why, dis here wos de way. When me did see the rincumcoshindy goin’ on ashore, me say, ‘Now, Bunco, you time come; look alive;’ so, w’en de raskil called de fuss mate orders out de boat in great hurry, me slip into it like one fish. Then dey all land an’ go off like mad into de woods arter you—as you do knows. Ob coorse me stop to look arter de boat; you knows it would be very bad to go an’ leave de boat all by its lone, so w’en deys gone into de woods, me take the mate’s gun and poodair an’ shot an’ ebbery ting could carry off—all de grub, too, but der worn’t too moche of dat—and walk away in anoder d’rection. Me is used to de woods, you sees, so kep’ clear o’ de stoopid seamans, who soon tires der legses, as me knows bery well; den come round in dis d’rection; find you tracks; foller im up; shoots tree birds; sees a tiger; puts a ball in him skin, an’ sends him to bed wid a sore head—too dark for kill him—arter which me find you out, an’ here me is. Dere. Dat’s all about it.”

“A most satisfactory account of yourself,” said Will Osten.

“An’ purtily towld,” observed Larry; “where did ye larn English, boy, for ye have the brogue parfict, as me gran’mother used to say to the pig when she got in her dotage (me gran’mother, not the pig), ‘only,’ says she, ‘the words isn’t quite distinc’.’ Couldn’t ye give us a skitch o’ yer life, Bunco?”

Thus appealed to, the gratified native began without hesitation, and gave the following account of himself:—

“Me dun know when me was born—”

“Faix, it wasn’t yesterday,” said Larry, interrupting.

“No, nor de day before to-morrow nother,” retorted Bunco; “but it was in Callyforny, anyhow. Me fadder him wos a Injin—”

“Oh! come!” interrupted Muggins in a remonstrative tone.

“Yis, him wos a Injin,” repeated Bunco stoutly.

“Wos he a steam-ingine?” inquired Muggins with a slight touch of sarcasm.

“He means an Indian, Muggins,” explained Will.

“Then why don’t he say wot he means? However, go ahead, Ebony.”

“Hims wos a Injin,” resumed Bunco, “ant me moder him wos a Spanish half-breed from dis yer country—Peru. Me live for years in de forests an’ plains an’ mountains ob Callyforny huntin’ an fightin’. Oh, dem were de happy days! After dat me find a wife what I lub berry moche, den me leave her for short time an’ go wid tradin’ party to de coast. Here meet wid a cap’n of ship, wot wos a big raskil. Him ’tice me aboord an’ sail away. Short ob hands him wos, so him took me, an’ me never see me wife no more!”

There was something quite touching in the tone in which the poor fellow said this, insomuch that Larry became sympathetic and abused the captain who had kidnapped him in no measured terms. Had Larry known that acts similar to this wicked and heartless one were perpetrated by traders in the South Seas very frequently, he would have made his terms of abuse more general!

“How long ago was that?” inquired Old Peter.

“Tree year,” sighed Bunco. “Since dat day I hab bin in two tree ships, but nebber run away, cause why? wot’s de use ob run away on island? Only now me got on Sout ’Meriky, which me know is not far from Nord ’Meriky, an’ me bin here before wid me moder, so kin show you how to go—and speak Spanish too—me moder speak dat, you sees; but mesilf larn English aboord two tree ships, an’, so, speak him fust rate now.”

“So ye do, boy,” said Larry, whose sympathetic heart was drawn towards the unfortunate and ill-used native; “an’, faix, we’ll go on travellin’ through this forest till we comes to Callyforny an’ finds your missus—so cheer up, Bunco, and let us see how we’re to go to roost, for it seems that we must slaip on a tree this night.”

During the course of the conversation which we have just detailed, the wild denizens of the forest had been increasing their dismal cries, and the seamen, unused to such sounds, had been kept in a state of nervous anxiety which each did his utmost to conceal. They were all brave men; but it requires a very peculiar kind of bravery to enable a man to sit and listen with cool indifference to sounds which he does not understand, issuing from gloomy recesses at his back, where there are acknowledged, though unknown, dangers close at hand. Bunco, therefore, grinning good-humouredly as usual, rose and selected a gigantic tree as their dormitory.

The trunk of this tree spread out, a few feet above its base, into several branches, any one of which would have been deemed a large tree in England, and these branches were again subdivided into smaller stems with a network of foliage, which rendered it quite possible for a man to move about upon them with facility, and to find a convenient couch. Here,—the fire at the foot of the tree having been replenished,—each man sought and found repose.

It was observed that Larry O’Hale made a large soft couch below the tree on the ground.

“You’re not going to sleep there, Larry?” said Will Osten, on observing what he was about. “Why, the tigers will be picking your bones before morning if you do.”

“Och! I’m not afraid of ’em,” replied Larry; “howsever, I do main to slaip up the tree if I can.”

That night, some time after all the party had been buried in profound repose, they were awakened by a crash and a tremendous howl just below them. Each started up, and, pushing aside the leaves, gazed anxiously down. A dark object was seen moving below, and Bunco was just going to point his gun at it, when a gruff voice was heard to say—

“Arrah! didn’t I know it? It’s famous I’ve bin, since I was a mere boy, for rowlin’ about in me slaip, an’, sure, the branch of a tree is only fit for a bird after all. But, good luck to yer wisdom an’ foresight, Larry O’Hale, for ye’ve come down soft, anyhow, an’ if there’s anything’ll cure ye o’ this bad habit—slaipin’ on trees’ll do it in the coorse o’ time, I make no doubt wotiver!”

Chapter Seven.

Wherein are recounted Dangers, Difficulties, and Perplexities faced and Overcome.

Next morning the travellers rose with the sun and descended from the tree in which they had spent the night—much refreshed and “ready for anything.”

It was well that they were thus prepared for whatever might befall them, for there were several incidents in store for them that day which tried them somewhat, and would have perplexed them sadly had they been without a guide. Perhaps we are scarcely entitled to bestow that title on Bunco, for he was as thoroughly lost in the forest as were any of his companions, in the sense, at least, of being ignorant as to where he was, or how far from the nearest human habitation: but he was acquainted with forest-life, knew the signs and symptoms of the wilderness, and could track his way through pathless wastes in a manner that was utterly incomprehensible to his companions, and could not be explained by himself. Moreover, he was a shrewd fellow, as well as bold, and possessed a strong sense of humour, which he did not fail at times to gratify at the expense of his friends.

This tendency was exhibited by him in the first morning’s march, during which he proved his superiority in woodcraft, and firmly established himself in the confidence of the party. The incident occurred thus:—

After a hearty and hasty breakfast—for, being lost, they were all anxious to get found as soon as possible—they set forth in single file; Bunco leading, Old Peter, Muggins, and Larry following, and Will Osten bringing up the rear. During the first hour they walked easily and pleasantly enough through level and rather open woodland, where they met few obstacles worth mentioning, so that Larry and Muggins, whose minds were filled with the idea of wild beasts, and who were much excited by the romance of their novel position, kept a sharp lookout on the bushes right and left, the one shouldering his gigantic cudgel, the other flourishing his shillelah in a humorous free-and-easy way, and both feeling convinced that with such weapons they were more than a match for any tiger alive! When several hours had elapsed, however, without producing any sign or sound of game, they began to feel disappointment, and to regard their guide as an exaggerator if not worse; and when, in course of time, the underwood became more dense and their passage through the forest more difficult, they began to make slighting remarks about their dark-skinned friend, and to question his fitness for the duties of guide. In particular, Muggins—who was becoming fatigued, owing partly to the weight of his club as well as to the weight of his body and the shortness of his legs—at last broke out on him and declared that he would follow no further.

“Why,” said he gruffly, “it’s as plain as the nose on yer nutmeg face, that ye’re steerin’ a wrong coorse. You’ll never make the coast on this tack.”

“Oh yis, wees will,” replied Bunco, with a quiet smile.

“No, wees won’t, ye lump o’ mahogany,” retorted Muggins. “Don’t the coast run nor’ and by west here away?”

“Troo,” assented Bunco with a nod.

“Well, and ain’t we goin’ due north just now, so that the coast lies away on our left, an’ for the last three hours you’ve bin bearin’ away to the right, something like nor’ and by east, if it’s not nor’ east an’ by east, the coast being all the while on yer port beam, you grampus—that’s so, ain’t it?”

“Yis, dat’s so,” replied Bunco with a grin.

“Then, shiver my timbers, why don’t ye shove yer helm hard a starboard an’ lay yer right coorse? Come, lads, I’ll go to the wheel now for a spell.”

Will Osten was about to object to this, but Bunco gave him a peculiar glance which induced him to agree to the proposal; so Muggins went ahead and the rest followed.

At the place where this dispute occurred there chanced to be a stretch of comparatively open ground leading away to the left. Into this glade the hardy seamen turned with an air of triumph.

His triumph, however, was short-lived, for at a turn in the glade he came to a place where the underwood was so dense and so interlaced with vines and creeping plants that further advance was absolutely impossible. After “yawing about” for some minutes “in search of a channel,” as Larry expressed it, Muggins suddenly gave in and exclaimed,—“I’m a Dutchman, boys, if we ha’n’t got embayed!”

“It’s let go the anchor an’ take soundin’s ’ll be the nixt order, I s’pose, Captain Muggins?” said Larry, touching his cap.

“Or let the tother pilot take the helm,” said Old Peter, “‘he’s all my fancy painted him,’ as Milton says in Paraphrases Lost.”

“Right, Peter,” cried Will Osten, “we must dethrone Muggins and reinstate Bunco.”

“Ha! you’s willin’ for to do second fiddil now?” said the native, turning with a grin to Muggins, as he was about to resume his place at the head of the party.

“No, never, ye leather-jawed kangaroo, but I’ve no objections to do the drum on yer skull, with this for a drumstick!” He flourished his club as he spoke, and Bunco, bounding away with a laugh, led the party back on their track for a few paces, then, turning sharp to the right, he conducted them into a narrow opening in the thicket, and proceeded in a zig-zag manner that utterly confused poor Muggins, inducing him from that hour to resign himself with blind faith to the guidance of his conqueror. Well would it be for humanity in general, and for rulers in particular, if there were more of Muggins’s spirit abroad inducing men to give in and resign cheerfully when beaten fairly!

If the sailors were disappointed at not meeting with any wild creatures during the first part of their walk, they were more than compensated by the experiences of the afternoon. While they were walking quietly along, several snakes—some of considerable length—wriggled out of their path, and Larry trod on one which twirled round his foot, causing him to leap off the ground like a grasshopper and utter a yell, compared to which all his previous shoutings were like soft music. Bunco calmed his fears, however, and comforted the party by saying that these snakes were harmless. Nevertheless, they felt a strong sensation of aversion to the reptiles, which it was not easy to overcome, and Muggins began to think seriously that being lost in the forest was, after all, a pleasure mingled considerably with alloy! Not long after the incident of the snake, strange sounds were heard from time to time in the bushes, and all the party, except Bunco, began to glance uneasily from side to side, and grasped their weapons firmly. Suddenly a frightful-looking face was observed by Larry peeping through the bushes right over Muggins’s unconscious head. The horrified Irishman, who thought it was no other than a visitant from the world of fiends, was going to utter a shout of warning, when a long hairy arm was stretched out from the bushes and Muggins’s hat was snatched from his head.

“Och! ye spalpeen,” cried Larry, hurling his cudgel at the ugly creature.

The weapon was truly aimed; it hit the monkey on the back, causing it to drop the hat and vanish from the spot—shrieking.

“Well done, Larry!” cried Will Osten; “why didn’t you warn us to expect visits from such brutes, Bunco?”

“Why, cause me tink you know all ’bout ’im. Hab larn ’im from Jo Gruffy.”

“From who?”

“From Jo Gruffy. Him as you was say, last night, do tell all ’bout de countries ob de world, and wot sort of treeses an’ hanimals in ’im. Der be plenty ob dem hanimals—(how you call ’im, mongkees?) in Peroo, big an leetil.”

“Well!” exclaimed our hero with a laugh, “possibly geography may refer to the fact; if so, I had forgotten it, but I’m sorry to hear that they are numerous, for they are much too bold to be pleasant companions.”

“Dey do us no harm,” said Bunco, grinning, “only chok full ob fun!”

“Git along wid ye,” cried Larry. “It’s my belaif they’re yer own relations, or ye wouldn’t stick up for them.”

Thus admonished, the native resumed the march, and led them through the jungle into deeper and darker shades. Here the forest was quite free from underwood, and the leafy canopy overhead was so dense that the sky could seldom be seen. Everything appeared to be steeped in a soft mellow shade of yellowish green, which was delightfully cool and refreshing in a land lying so very near to the equator. The howling and hoarse barking of wild beasts was now heard to an extent that fully satisfied Larry O’Hale and his friend Muggins. There were patches of dense jungle here and there, in which it was supposed the animals lay concealed, and each of these were carefully examined by our travellers. That there was need for caution became apparent from the fact that Bunco carried his gun at full cock in the hollow of his left arm, and had a stern, earnest expression of visage which was quite new to his nautical companions, and made a deep impression on them. Curious and interesting change of sentiment:— the man whom, while at sea, they had treated with good-humoured contempt, was ere long clung to and regarded almost with reverence!

“Be quiet, boys, here,” he said, “an’ no make noise. Keep de eyes open.”

After this he did not speak, but gave his directions by signs.

Chapter Eight.

In which Bunco displays Uncommon Valour, and Tigers come to Grief.

Advancing cautiously, the travellers arrived at the brink of a dark ravine, in the bottom of which there was a good deal of brushwood, with here and there several pools of water. They had remained a short time here on the top of the bank, listening to the various barks and cries of the wild animals around them, when their attention was arrested by several loud yelps, which sounded as if some creature were approaching them fast. Bunco signed to them to stoop and follow him. They did so, and had not advanced a hundred yards when the loud clatter of hoofs was heard. Bunco crouched instantly and held his gun in readiness, while his black eyes glittered and his expressive features seemed to blaze with eagerness. His followers also crouched among the bushes, and each grasped his club with a feeling that it was but a poor weapon of defence after all—though better than nothing!

They had not to wait long, for, in a few minutes, a beautiful black wild horse came racing like the wind along the clear part of the ravine in the direction of the place where they were concealed. The magnificent creature was going at his utmost speed, being pursued by a large tiger, and the steam burst from his distended nostrils, while his voluminous mane and tail waved wildly in the air. The tiger gained on him rapidly. Its bounds were tremendous; at each leap it rose several feet from the ground. The poor horse was all but exhausted, for he slipped and came down on his knees, when abreast of, and not thirty yards distant from, the place where the travellers lay. The tiger did not miss his opportunity. He crouched and ran along with the twisting motion of a huge cat; then he sprang a clear distance of twenty feet and alighted on the horse’s back, seizing him by the neck with a fearful growl. Now came Bunco’s opportunity. While the noble horse reared and plunged violently in a vain attempt to get rid of his enemy, the cautious native took a steady aim, and was so long about it that some of the party nearly lost patience with him. At last he fired, and the tiger fell off the horse, rolling and kicking about in all directions—evidently badly wounded. The horse meanwhile galloped away and was soon lost to view.

Instead of loading and firing again, Bunco threw down his gun, and, drawing a long knife, rushed in upon his victim. His comrades, who thought him mad, sprang after him, but he had closed with the tiger and plunged his knife into it before they came up. The creature uttered a tremendous roar and writhed rapidly about, throwing up clouds of dust from the dry ground, while Bunco made another dash at him and a plunge with his long knife, but he missed the blow and fell. His comrades closed in and brandished their clubs, but the rapid motions of man and beast rendered it impossible for them to strike an effective blow without running the risk of hitting the man instead of the tiger. In the midst of a whirlwind of dust and leaves, and a tempest of roars and yells, the bold native managed to drive his knife three times into the animal’s side, when it rolled over with a savage growl and expired.

“Are ye hurt, Bunco?” inquired Will Osten with much anxiety, when the man rose, covered with dust and blood, and stood before them.

“No moche hurt, only scrash a bit.”

“Scratched a bit!” exclaimed Larry, “it’s torn to tatters ye ought to be for bein’ so venturesome.”

“That’s so,” said Muggins; “ye shouldn’t ha’ done it, Bunco; what would have comed of us if ye’d bin killed, eh?”

“Oh, dat am noting,” said Bunco, drawing himself up proudly; “me hab kill lots of dem before; but dis one hims die hard.”

Will Osten, who was anxious to ascertain whether the man had really escaped serious injury, put a stop to the conversation by hurrying him off to the nearest pool and washing his wounds. They proved, as he had said, to be trifling—only a slight bite on the shoulder and a few tears, by the animal’s claws, on the arms and thighs. When these were dressed, Bunco went to work actively to skin the tiger,—an operation which he performed with great expedition, and then, having rolled it into a convenient bundle and slung it on his back, he re-loaded his gun and again resumed his duties as guide. They had not gone far when a fierce growling behind them told that other wild animals, probably tigers, had scented out the carcass of the slain animal, and were already quarrelling over their meal.

Shortly after this they came suddenly and quite unexpectedly on a house or hut, which turned out to be the residence of a man who was half Spaniard half Indian. The man received them kindly, and, finding that Bunco could speak Spanish, offered them hospitality with great politeness and evident satisfaction.

“Good luck to ’e, boy,” said Larry, when their host invited them to partake of a substantial meal to which he had been about to sit down when they arrived, “it’s myself’ll be proud to welcome ye to ould Ireland if iver ye come that way.”

“Ask him, Bunco,” said Will Osten, “where we are, how far we are from the coast, and what is the name and distance of the nearest town.”

To these questions the Spaniard replied that they were in the northern part of the Republic of Ecuador, and not, as they had supposed, in Peru, which lay some hundreds of miles to the southward; that a couple of days’ walking would bring them to the coast, and that in two days more they could reach the town of Tacames. This, being one of the few ports on the western coast of South America where vessels touched, was a place from which they might probably be able to make their way to California. He added that there was a rumour of gold having been discovered of late in that region, but, for his part, he didn’t believe it, for he had heard the same rumour several times before, and nothing had ever come of it, at least as far as he knew.

“Ye’re wrong there, intirely, mister what’s-yer-name,” said Larry O’Hale, pausing for a moment in the midst of his devotion to the good things spread before him. “Sure it’s my own brother Ted as wos out there a year gone by, an’ he swore he picked up goold like stones an’ putt them in his pocket, but the capting o’ the ship he sailed in towld him it wos brass, an’ his mates laughed at him to that extint that he flung it all overboord in a passion. Faix, I’ve made up my mind that there is goold in Callyforny and that wan Larry O’Hale is distined for to make his fortin’ there—so I’ll throuble ye for another hunk o’ that pottimus, or wotiver ye call it. Prime prog it is, anyhow.”

An earnest discussion here followed as to the probability of gold having been found in California and whether it was worth their while to try their fortune in that direction. During the course of the meal, the Spaniard incidentally mentioned that on the previous night a tiger had broken into his enclosure, and injured a bullock so badly that he had been obliged to kill it, and he had little doubt the same beast would pay him another visit that night.

This was good news to the travellers, all of whom were keen—though not all expert—sportsmen.

As evening had already set in, they begged to be allowed to rest for a little so as to be ready for the tiger when he came. Their host at once conducted them into a small room, where several hammocks were suspended from the walls. Into these they quickly jumped, and, in a few minutes, the concert played by their noses told a tale of sweet repose after a day of unusual toil.

For several hours they slept, and then the Spaniard awoke them with the information that the tiger was coming! Up they sprang, as a matter of course, and with considerable noise too, but Bunco soon impressed them with the necessity of being quiet. The Spaniard had only two guns, one of which he handed to Will Osten. The seamen were of necessity left to be spectators.

It is necessary here to describe the Spaniard’s hut, which was peculiar as to its architecture. It was a mere shed made of bamboo canes closely placed together, and roofed with large cocoa and other leaves. The floor was of rough boards covered with matting. The whole structure stood on the top of a number of strong posts about twelve or fourteen feet from the ground, and the entrance was gained by a ladder which could be drawn up at night. The object of this great elevation and the ladder, was protection from the nocturnal visit of wild beasts such as tigers or jaguars, as well as monkeys of a large size. In the door of this hut there was a hole of about two feet square, at which the host stationed himself with the muzzle of his gun thrust through it. Two smaller holes in the walls, which served for windows, were used on the present occasion as loopholes by Will Osten and Bunco.

Perfect silence was maintained for about half an hour. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. Not a breath of wind stirred a leaf of the forest that encircled the small clearing. The buzz of mosquitoes, or the flapping about of a huge bat alone disturbed the silence of the night, and the watchers were beginning to fear it would turn out to be a false alarm, when the cattle in the yard began to low in a quick yet mournful tone. They knew full well that their enemy was at hand! A few minutes, that appeared an age, of anxiety followed. Then some bullocks that had been purposely fastened near the hut began to bellow furiously. Another instant, and the tiger cleared the fence with a magnificent bound, alighted in the yard, and crouched for a spring. The moon shone full in his glaring eyeballs, making his head a splendid target. Three shots crashed out in one report, and with a roar that would have done credit to the monarch of the African wilderness, this king of the western forest fell down and died.

He was a full-grown tiger with a beautifully marked skin, which Bunco was not long in stripping from the carcass, while the Spaniard, who was highly delighted by this success, set about preparing breakfast. They were all too much excited to think of going to bed again; and, besides, it was within an hour of daybreak.

During the morning Will Osten persuaded his host to give him one of his old guns in exchange for a beautiful silver-mounted hunting knife, which was the only article of value that he happened to possess. With this useful addition to their arms, the travellers resumed their journey shortly after dawn, being convoyed several miles on their way by their amiable host. They parted from him, finally, with much regret and many professions of gratitude and esteem, especially from Larry, who, in the fulness of his impulsive nature, reiterated his pressing invitation to pay him a visit in his “swait little cabin in the bog of Clonave, County Westmeath, ould Ireland!”

We will not drag the reader through every step of the rough and adventurous journey which was accomplished by our travellers in the succeeding week, during which they became so familiar with tigers, that Muggins thought no more of their roaring than he did of the mewing of cats, while Larry actually got the length of kicking the “sarpints” out of his way, although he did express his conviction, now and then, that the “counthry wos mightily in want of a visit from Saint Patrick.” They travelled steadily and surely under the guidance of the faithful Bunco, through tangled brake, and wild morass, and dense forest, and many a mile of sandy plain, until at length they reached the small town and port of Tacames, into which they entered one sultry afternoon, footsore and weary, with their clothes torn almost to tatters, and without a single coin—of any realm whatever—in their pockets.

“Well, here we are at last,” said Will Osten, with a sigh.

“True for ye,” responded Larry.

“That’s so,” said Muggins.

“It’s all well as ends well, which wos Billy Cowper’s opinion,” observed Old Peter.

Bunco made no remark, but he gave a quiet grunt, which might have meant anything—or nothing—as they entered the town.

Chapter Nine.

Describes a Surgical Operation, and records the Deliberations of a Council.

The town of Tacames, in the republic of Ecuador, is not large, neither is it important to the world, but it appeared both large and important in the eyes of our hero and his comrades. In their circumstances any town would have been regarded as a city of refuge, and their joy on arriving was not much, if at all, marred by the smallness and the poor appearance of the town, which, at that time, consisted of about twenty houses. They were built on the top of posts about twelve or fourteen feet from the ground—like the hut of the Spaniard already described—because, being closely walled in by a dense jungle, tigers and huge monkeys were bold enough to pay the inhabitants nocturnal and unwelcome visits very frequently.

“A curious-looking place,” observed Will Osten, as they drew near.

“So would the natives obsarve of London or Liverpool,” said Old Peter.

“With less cause, however,” replied Will.

“That depends on taste,” retorted Old Peter.

“Be no manes,” put in Larry; “it neither depinds on taste, nor smell, but feelin’—see now, here’s how it is. We being in Tickamis, feels it coorious; well av the natives here wos in London they would feel it coorious. It’s all a matter o’ feelin’ d’ye see—wan o’ the five senses.”

“Wot a muddlehead you are, Larry,” growled Muggins; “ye don’t even know that there’s six senses.”

“Only five,” said the Irishman firmly—“seein’, hearin’, tastin’, smellin’, and feelin’; wot’s the sixth sense?”

“One that you are chock full of—it’s non-sense,” replied Muggins.

“Think o’ that, now!” exclaimed Larry, with a broad grin; “sure I wint an’ forgot it, an’ the sevinth wan, too, called common sense, of which, Muggins, you haven’t got no more in yer skull than a blue-faced baboon. Hallo! wot’s that? Is it a wild baist on its hind-legs or only a mad man?”

He pointed as he spoke to a man who approached them from the town, and whose appearance as well as his actions were well calculated to surprise them. He was a fine-looking man of gigantic size, with a poncho over his shoulders and a Spanish-looking sombrero on his head, but the most curious thing about him was his gait. At one moment he sauntered, holding his face between both hands, next moment he bent double and appeared to stamp with his feet. Then he hurried forward a few paces but paused abruptly, bent down and stamped again. Presently he caught sight of the travellers. At once his antics ceased. He raised himself erect, and advancing quickly, lifted his sombrero and saluted them with the air of a prince.

Will Osten addressed him in English, and, to his surprise as well as gratification, the Spaniard replied in the same tongue, which he spoke, however, in a most remarkable way, having learned it chiefly from the skippers of those vessels that touched at the port.

“I sall be happy to offer you hospitabilities, gentelmans,” said Don Diego—(for so he styled himself). “If you vill come to meen house you vill grub there.”

The grin of unnatural ferocity which Don Diego put on while he spoke, surprised and perplexed the travellers not a little, but he suddenly explained the mystery by clutching his hair, setting his teeth and muttering wildly while he gave a quick stamp with his foot—

“Skuse me, gentelmans, I got most desperable ’tack of toothick!”

Will Osten attempted to console Don Diego by telling him that he was a surgeon, and that if he could only obtain a pair of pincers he would soon remedy that evil; but the Spaniard shook his head and assured him that there was a miserable man in the town calling himself a vendor of physic, who had already nearly driven him mad by attempting several times to pull the tooth, but in vain.

“Indeed,” said the Don, “the last time he have try, I ’fraid I shut up won of his days light—it was so sore!”

Will Osten ultimately persuaded the Spaniard, however, to consent to an operation, and the whole party accompanied him to his house, which was the most substantial in the town. Leaving his comrades there, Will went with Bunco in search of the apothecary, whom he soon found, and who readily lent him a pair of forceps, with which he returned to the residence of Don Diego. Considering his size, Will deemed it advisable to have Larry and Muggins standing by ready to hold him if he should prove obstreperous. This was a wise precaution, for, the moment Will began to pull at the obstinate grinder, the gigantic Don began to roar and then to struggle. The tooth was terribly firm. Will did not wonder that the native dentist had failed. The first wrench had no effect on it. The second—a very powerful one—was equally futile, but it caused Don Diego to roar hideously and to kick, so Will gave a nod to his assistants, who unceremoniously seized the big man in their iron gripe and held him fast. Then our hero threw all his strength into a final effort, and the tooth came out with a crash, and, along with it, a terrible yell from Don Diego, who sent Larry and Muggins staggering against the wall! The relief experienced by the poor man was almost instantaneous; as soon as he could speak he thanked Will in fervid Spanish, and with genuine gratitude.

It is interesting to observe how often matters of apparently slight moment in human affairs form turning-points which lead to important results. The incident which we have just related caused Don Diego to entertain such kindly feelings towards Will Osten, that he not only invited him to stay at his house with his companions during their residence in Tacames, but insisted on his accepting a very large fee for the service he had rendered him. Of course this was not objected to in the circumstances, but a still better piece of good fortune than this befell the wanderers. Will found that a number of the inhabitants had been attacked with dysentery, and that the ignorance of the vendor of physic was so great, that he could do nothing for them, except make a few daring experiments, which were eminently unsuccessful. To these poor invalids our embryo doctor was so useful, that after a few days dosing with proper medicine, their health and spirits began to improve rapidly, and their gratitude was such that they heaped upon him every delicacy that the place afforded, such as bananas, plantains, oranges, lemons, pumpkins, melons, sweet potatoes, beef, goat’s flesh, venison, and pork, besides filling his pockets with doubloons! Thus it came to pass, that from absolute destitution Will and his comrades suddenly leaped into a condition of comparative affluence.

At the end of a week a council was called, to discuss future proceedings. The council chamber was, as usual, the forest, and Spanish cigarettes assisted the deliberations. Will being called to the chair, which was a tree stump, opened the proceedings by propounding the question, “What shall we do now, for of course we must not trespass too long on the hospitality of Don Diego?”

“I don’t see why we shudn’t,” said Larry, “p’raps he’ll have another touch o’ toothache, an’ ’ll want another grinder tuck out.”

“That may be, nevertheless it behoves us to fix our future plans without delay. As there are no vessels in port just now, and we cannot tell when any will arrive, it is worth while considering whether we cannot travel by land; also, we must decide whether California or England is to be our destination.”

“I vote for Callyforny,” said Larry O’Hale with much energy. “‘Goold for ever,’ is my motto! Make our fortunes right off, go home, take villas in ould Ireland, an’ kape our carriages, wid flunkeys an’ maid-servants an’ such like. Sure av we can’t get by say, we can walk.”

“If I had wings, which is wot I haven’t,” said Muggins, with slow precision of utterance, “I might fly over the Andes, likewise the Atlantic, to England, or if I had legs ten fathoms long I might walk to Callyforny; but, havin’ only short legs, more used to the sea than to the land, I votes for stoppin’ where we are for some time, an’, p’raps, a sail will heave in sight an’ take us off, d’ye see?”

“Ho!” exclaimed Bunco, with a nod of approval, “and wees kin go huntin’ for amoosement in de meaninwhiles.”

“It’s my opinion, sir,” observed Old Peter, “that as we’re all dependent on the money earned by yourself, the least we can do is to leave you to settle the matter of when we start and where we go. What say you, mates?”

A general assent being given to this, Will Osten decided that they should remain where they were for a week or a fortnight longer, in the hope of a vessel arriving, and that, in the meantime, as suggested by Bunco, they should amuse themselves by going on a hunting expedition.

In accordance with this plan they immediately set about making preparation for a start by borrowing from their host two small canoes, each made of the trunk of a large tree hollowed out. Bunco acted as steersman in one of these. Will Osten, after a few hours’ practice, deemed himself sufficiently expert to take the post of honour in the other, and then, bidding adieu to Don Diego, and embarking with their guns and a large supply of ammunition and provisions, they commenced the ascent of the river Tacames, little thinking that some of the party would never descend that river or see Don Diego again!

Chapter Ten.

Hunting in the Wilds of Ecuador.

There is something very delightful and exhilarating in the first start on a hunting expedition into a wild and almost unknown region. After one gets into the thick of it the thoughts are usually too busy and too much in earnest with the actual realities in hand to permit of much rambling into the regions of romance—we say much because there is always some rambling of this sort—but, during the first day, before the actual work has well begun, while the adventures are as yet only anticipated, and the mind is free to revel in imaginings of what is possible and probable, there is a wild exultation which swells the heart and induces an irresistible tendency to shout. Indeed, on the present occasion, some of the party did shout lustily in order to vent their feelings; and Larry O’Hale, in particular, caused the jungle to echo so loudly with the sounds of his enthusiasm that the affrighted apes and jaguars must have trembled in their skins if they were possessed of ordinary feelings.

The scenery, with its accompaniments, was most beautiful and interesting. The river, a narrow one, flowed through a dense and continuous forest; rich and lofty trees over-arched it, affording agreeable shade, and on the branches were to be seen great numbers of kingfishers, parrots, and other birds of rich plumage, which filled the air at least with sound, if not with melody. The concert was further swelled by the constant cries of wild beasts—such as the howl of a tiger or the scream of a monkey. But there is no pleasure without some alloy. On this river mosquitoes were the alloy! These tormenting creatures persecuted the hunters by night as well as by day, for they are amongst the few insects which indulge in the pernicious habit of never going to bed. We cannot indeed say, authoritatively, that mosquitoes never sleep, but we can and do say that they torment human beings, and rob them of their sleep, if possible, without intermission. Larry O’Hale being of a fiery nature, was at first driven nearly to distraction, and, as he said himself, he did little else than slap his own face day and night in trying to kill “the little varmints.” Muggins bore up stoically, and all of them became callous in course of time. Fish of many kinds were seen in the clear water, and their first success in the sporting way was the spearing of two fine mullet. Soon after this incident, a herd of brown deer were seen to rush out of the jungle and dash down an open glade, with noses up and antlers resting back on their necks. A shot from Bunco’s gun alarmed but did not hit them, for Bunco had been taken by surprise, and was in an unstable canoe. Before the deer had disappeared, two or three loud roars were heard.

“Quick! go ashore,” whispered Bunco, running his canoe in among the overhanging bushes, and jumping out.

Three tigers bounded at that moment from the jungle in pursuit of the deer. Bunco took rapid aim, but his old flint gun missed fire. Luckily, Will Osten, having followed his example, was ready. He fired, and one of the tigers fell, mortally wounded. Before he could wriggle into the jungle Bunco ran up and put a bullet into his brain.

This was a splendid beginning, and the hunters were loud in their congratulations of each other, while Bunco skinned the tiger. But the reader must not suppose that we intend to chronicle every incident of this kind. We record this as a specimen of their work during the following three weeks. They did not indeed shoot a tiger daily, but they bagged several within that period, besides a number of deer and other game. We must hasten, however, to tell of an event which put a sudden stop to our hero’s hunting at that time, and resulted in the breaking-up of that hitherto united and harmonious party.

One evening, a little before sunset, they came upon a small clearing, in the midst of which was a little house erected, in the usual way, upon wooden legs. The hunters found, to their surprise, that it was inhabited by an Englishman named Gordon, who received them with great hospitality and evident pleasure. He lived almost alone, having only one negro man-servant, whose old mother performed the duties of housekeeper. Here they passed the night in pleasant intercourse with a man, who, besides being a countryman—and therefore full of interest about England, from which he heard regularly but at long intervals—was remarkably intelligent, and had travelled in almost every quarter of the globe. As to his motive for secluding himself in such a wild spot, they did not presume to inquire, and never found it out.

Next day they bade their host adieu, promising to make a point of spending another night in his house on their return. Our hunters had not gone far when a growl in one of the bushes induced them to land and search for the growler. They found him in the person of a large tiger, which Will Osten caught a glimpse of sneaking away with the lithe motions of a gigantic cat. A hurried shot wounded the beast, which, instead of flying, turned round suddenly, and, with a bound, alighted on our hero’s shoulders. The shock hurled him violently to the ground. During the momentary but terrific struggle for life that followed, Will had presence of mind to draw his hunting-knife, and plunge it, twice, deep into the tiger’s side, but the active claws of the creature tore his thighs and arms; several large blood-vessels were injured; the light faded from the eyes of Wandering Will; his strong arm lost its cunning, and, in the midst of a loud report, mingled with a roar like thunder in his ears, he fainted away.

When Will recovered his senses he found himself stretched on his back on a low couch in a hut, with a man kneeling over him, and his comrades gazing into his face with expressions of deep anxiety. Will attempted to speak, but could not; then he tried to move, and, in doing so, fainted. On recovering consciousness, he observed that no one was near him except Larry O’Hale, who lay extended at his side, looking through the open doorway of the hut, while a series of the most seraphic smiles played on his expressive countenance!

It would have been an interesting study to have watched the Irishman on that occasion. Just before Will Osten opened his eyes, he was looking into his pale face with an expression that was ludicrously woe-begone. The instant he observed the slightest motion in his patient, however, he became suddenly abstracted, and gazed, as we have said, with a seraphic expression through the doorway. Poor Larry acted thus, in order to avoid alarming his patient by his looks, but, in spite of his utmost caution, Will caught him in the transition state, which so tickled his risible faculties that he burst into a laugh, which only got the length of a sigh, however, and nearly produced another fainting fit.

“Ah, then, darlin’!” whispered Larry, with the tenderness of a woman, “don’t do it now. Sure ye’ll go off again av ye do. Kape quiet, dear. ’Tis all right ye’ll be in a day or two. Bad luck to the baist that did it!”

This latter remark brought the scene of the tiger-hunt suddenly to Will’s remembrance, and he whispered, for he had not strength to speak aloud—

“Was he killed? Who saved me?”

“Kilt!” cried Larry, forgetting his caution in his excitement; “faix he was, an’ Bunco did it, too—blissin’s on his dirty face—putt the ball betune his two eyes an’ took the laist bit of skin off yer own nose, but the blood was spoutin’ from ye like wather, an’ if it hadn’t bin that the cliver feller knowed all about tyin’ up an’—there, honey, I wint an’ forgot—don’t mind me—och! sure, he’s off again!”

This was true. Our hero had lost almost the last drop of blood that he could spare with the slightest chance of recovery, and the mere exertion of listening was too much for him.

For many weeks he lay in the hut of that hospitable Englishman, slowly but gradually returning from the brink of the grave, and during this period he found his host to be a friend in need, not only to his torn and weak body, but also to his soul.

Day after day Gordon sat beside his couch with unwearied kindness, chatting to him about the “old country,” telling him anecdotes of his former life, and gradually leading him to raise his thoughts from the consideration of time to eternity.

Will Osten, like every unconverted man, rebelled at this at first; but Gordon was not a man to be easily repulsed. He did not force religious thoughts on Will, but his own thoughts were so saturated, if we may say so, with religion, that he could not avoid the subject, and his spirit and manner were so winning that our hero was at last pleased to listen. Will’s recovery was slow and tedious. Before he was able to leave Gordon’s cottage his “independent” spirit was subdued by the Spirit of God, and he was enabled to exchange slavery to Self for freedom in the service of Jesus Christ. For many a day after that did Will Osten lie helpless on his couch, perusing with deep interest the Testament given to him by his mother when he left home.

During this period his companions did not forsake him, but spent their time in hunting and conveying the proceeds to Tacames, where they disposed of them profitably. On one of these occasions they found that an English ship had touched at the port in passing, and, among other things, Larry brought a number of old newspapers to the invalid. Among the first that he opened Will read the announcement of the sudden death of his own father! No information was given beyond the usual and formal statement, with the simple addition of the words “deeply regretted.”

We need not say that this was a terrible shock to the poor wanderer—a shock which was rendered all the more severe when he reflected that he had parted from his father in anger. In his weak condition, Will could not bear up under the blow, and, for some days, he lay in such a depressed state of mind and body that his comrades began to fear for his life. But after that he rallied, and a sudden improvement took place in his health.

One day he called his companions round him, and said:—

“Friends, I have resolved to leave you and return to Europe. You know my reasons. I am not a companion, but only a drag upon you; besides, my mother is left unprotected. You will excuse me if I decline to enter into a discussion on this point. I have not strength for it, and my resolve is fixed.”

Will paused, and Larry O’Hale, with a leer on his countenance, asked by what road he meant to travel.

“Across the Andes to the northern coast of South America,” answered Will, smiling.

“An’ you as waik as wather, with legs like the pins of a wather-wagtail!”

“That will soon mend,” said Will, jumping up and pulling on his clothes; “get ready to go out hunting with me, Larry, if you have a mind to!”

Despite the remonstrances of his friend, Will Osten went out with his gun, trembling with weakness at every step. He was soon induced to return to the cottage, but his resolve was fixed. Next day he went out again, and, finally, in the course of a week or two, had recovered so much of his old vigour that he felt able to set out on his journey. Of course there were many disputings and arguings as to who should go with him, but it was finally agree that Larry and Bunco should be his companions. Indeed these two would take no denial, and vowed that if he declined to accept of them as comrades they would follow him as a rear-guard! Muggins and Old Peter decided that they would return to Tacames, and make their way thence to California.

Just before parting, Larry took Muggins aside and said, in as dismal a tone as his jovial spirit was capable of, “It’s little I thought, mate, that you an’ me would come for to part in this way, but ov coorse, I couldn’t leave Mr Osten in such a fix, so, d’ye see, I must say farewell; but kape yer weather eye open, ould boy, for as sure as Larry O’Hale has got two legs, which makes a pair, you’ll see him in Callyforny yit, diggin’ for his fortin’. In the main time, as I know ye’ll want money, an’ as I’ve made a lot more than you by huntin’—becase of being a better shot, d’ye see—here’s a small sum which I axes you to accept of as a testimoniyall of my ondyin’ friendship.”

Muggins bluntly refused the leathern bag which Larry thrust into his hand, but he ultimately allowed him to force it into his pocket—and turned away with a sigh.

It was a lovely morning when Wandering Will sorrowfully bade his friends farewell, and, with his faithful followers, turned his face towards the snow-capped range of the mighty Andes.

Chapter Eleven.

Wandering Will travels, finds his Profession Profitable, and sees a Good Deal of Life in New Forms.

The first part of the journey was performed in a canoe on the Tacames river, up which they ascended with considerable speed. The scenery was delightfully varied. In some places the stream was wide, in others very narrow, fringed along the banks with the most luxuriant timber and brushwood, in which the concert kept up by birds and beasts was constant but not disagreeable to the ears of such enthusiastic sportsmen as Will Osten, Larry O’Hale, and Bunco. The only disagreeable objects in the landscape were the alligators, which hideously ugly creatures were seen, covered with mud, crawling along the banks and over slimy places, with a sluggish motion of their bodies and an antediluvian sort of glare in their eyes that was peculiarly disgusting. They were found to be comparatively harmless, however. If they had chanced to catch a man asleep they would have seized him no doubt, and dragged him into the water, but being arrant cowards, they had not the pluck to face even a little boy when he was in motion.

Towards the afternoon of the first day, the hunters came to a long bend in the river. Here Will Osten resolved to leave Bunco to proceed alone with the canoe, while he and Larry crossed the country in search of game. Their friend Gordon had given them an elaborate chart of the route up to the mountains, so that they knew there was a narrow neck of jungle over which they might pass and meet the canoe after it had traversed the bend in the river.

“Have you got the tinder-box, Larry?” inquired Will, as they were about to start.

“Ay, an’ the powder an’ shot too, not to mintion the bowie-knife. Bad luck to the wild baists as comes to close quarters wid me, anyhow.”

He displayed an enormous and glittering knife as he spoke, with which he made two or three savage cuts and thrusts at imaginary tigers before returning it to its sheath.

Cautioning Bunco to keep a good look-out for them on the other side of the neck of land, the hunters entered the forest. For several hours they trudged through bush and brake, over hill and dale, in jungle and morass, meadow and ravine, without seeing anything worth powder and shot, although they heard the cries of many wild creatures.

“Och! there’s wan at long last,” whispered Larry, on coming to the edge of a precipice that overlooked a gorge or hollow, at the bottom of which a tiger was seen tearing to pieces the carcase of a poor goat that it had captured. It was a long shot, but Larry was impatient. He raised his gun, fired, and missed. Will Osten fired immediately and wounded the brute, which limped away, howling, and escaped. The carcass of the goat, however, remained, so the hunters cut off the best parts of the flesh for supper, and then hastened to rejoin the canoe, for the shades of night were beginning to fall. For an hour longer they walked, and then suddenly they both stopped and looked at each other.

“I do belaive we’ve gone an’ lost ourselves again,” said Larry.

“I am afraid you are right,” replied Will, with a half smile; “come, try to climb to the top of yonder tree on the eminence; perhaps you may be able to see from it how the land lies.”

Larry went off at once, but on coming down said it was so dark that he could see nothing but dense forest everywhere. There was nothing for it now but to encamp in the woods. Selecting, therefore, a large spreading tree, Larry kindled a fire under it, and his companion in trouble discharged several shots in succession to let Bunco know their position if he should be within hearing.

Neither Will nor Larry took troubles of this kind much to heart. As soon as a roaring fire was blazing, with the sparks flying in clouds into the trees overhead, and the savoury smell of roasting goat’s flesh perfuming the air, they threw care to the dogs and gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour, feeling assured that Bunco would never desert them, and that all should be well on the morrow. After supper they ascended the tree, for the howling of wild beasts increased as the night advanced, warning them that it would be dangerous to sleep on the ground. Here they made a sort of stage or platform among the branches, which was converted into a comfortable couch by being strewn six inches deep with leaves. Only one at a time dared venture to sleep, however, for creatures that could climb had to be guarded against. At first this was a light duty, but as time passed by it became extremely irksome, and when Larry was awakened by Will to take his second spell of watching, he vented his regrets in innumerable grunts, growls, coughs, and gasps, while he endeavoured to rub his eyes open with his knuckles.

“Have a care, lad,” said Will, with a sleepy laugh as he lay down; “the tigers will mistake your noise for an invitation to—”

A snore terminated the speech.

“Bad luck to them,” yawned Larry, endeavouring to gaze round him. In less than a minute his chin fell forward on his breast, and he began to tumble backwards. Awaking with a start under the impression that he was falling off the tree, he threw out both his arms violently and recovered himself.

“Come, Larry,” he muttered to himself, with a facetious smile of the most idiotical description, “don’t give way like that, boy. Ain’t ye standin’ sintry? an’ it’s death by law to slaip at yer post. Och! but the eyes o’ me won’t kape open. Lean yer back agin that branch to kape ye from fallin’. There—now howld up like a man—like a—man—ould—b–o–oy.” His words came slower and slower, until, at the last, his head dropped forward on his chest, and he fell into a profound sleep, to the immense delight of a very small monkey which had been watching his motions for some time, and which now ventured to approach and touch the various articles that lay beside the sleepers, with intense alarm, yet with fiendish glee, depicted on its small visage.

Thus some hours of the night were passed, but before morning the rest of the sleepers was rudely broken by one of the most appalling roars they had yet heard. They were up and wide awake instantly, with their guns ready and fingers on the triggers!

“It’s draimin’ we must have—”

A rustling in the branches overhead checked him, and next moment the roar was repeated. Larry, with an irresistible feeling of alarm, echoed it and fired right above his head—doing nothing more serious, however, than accelerating the flight of the already horrified monkey. The shot was followed by another roar, which ended in something like a hideous laugh.

“Sure ’tis a hieena!” exclaimed Larry, reloading in violent haste.

“A hyena!” exclaimed Will—“ay, and a black one, too! Come down, Bunco, you scoundrel, else I’ll put a bullet in your thick skull.”

At this invocation the rustling overhead increased, and Bunco dropped upon the platform, grinning from ear to ear at the success of his practical joke.

“Och, ye blackymoor!” cried Larry, seizing the native by the throat and shaking him; “what d’ye mean be such doin’s, eh?”

“Me mean noting,” said Bunco, still chuckling prodigiously; “but it am most glorus fun for fright de bowld Irishesman.”

“Sit down, ye kangaroo, an’ tell us how ye found us out,” cried Larry.

“You heard our shots, I suppose?” said Will. To this Bunco replied that he had not only heard their shots, but had seen them light their fire, and eat their supper, and prepare their couch, and go to sleep, all of which he enjoyed so intensely, in prospect of the joke he meant to perpetrate, that he was obliged to retire several times during the evening to a convenient distance and roar in imitation of a tiger, merely to relieve his feelings without betraying his presence. He added, that the canoe was about five minutes’ walk from where they sat, and somewhat mollified the indignation of his comrades by saying that he would watch during the remainder of the night while they slept.

Next morning at daybreak the party re-embarked in the canoe and continued their journey. Soon the character of the country changed. After a few days the thick forests had disappeared, and richly cultivated small farms took their place. Everywhere they were most hospitably entertained by the inhabitants, who styled Will “Physico,” because Bunco made a point of introducing him as a doctor. One evening they arrived at a little town with a small and rapid stream of water passing through it. There was a square in the centre of the town, surrounded by orange, lemon, and other trees, which formed an agreeable shade and filled the air with fragrance. Not only was there no doctor here, but one was seldom or never seen. Immediately, therefore, our Physico was besieged for advice, and his lancet, in particular, was in great request, for the community appeared to imagine that bloodletting was a cure for all the ills that flesh is heir to! Will of course did his best for them, and was surprised as well as pleased by the number of doubloons with which the grateful people fed him. After passing some days very pleasantly here, Will made preparations to continue his journey, when an express arrived bringing intelligence from several of the surrounding towns to the effect that a sort of revolution had broken out. It was fomented by a certain colonel in the employment of the State, who, finding that his services and those of his followers were not paid with sufficient regularity, took the simple method of recruiting his finances by a levy on the various towns in his neighbourhood. He was, in fact, a bandit. Some towns submitted, others remonstrated, and a few resisted. When it was ascertained that the colonel and his men were on their way to the town in which our travellers sojourned, preparations were at once made for defence, and of course Will Osten and his comrades could do no less than volunteer their services.

Chapter Twelve.

In which Terrible Things are treated of—The Andes are crossed, the Orinoco descended and the Book ended.

At the time of which we write it was not an uncommon thing, in the provinces on the western coast of South America, for dissatisfied military officers, with a number of malcontents, to get up miniature revolutions, which were generally put down after much plundering and bloodshed. These bands of armed men went about like regular banditti, disturbing the peace of the whole country. They were not much heard of in Europe, because intercommunication and telegraphy did not exist then as they do now, and insignificant affairs of the kind were not taken much notice of.

One effect of the threatened attack on the town about which we write was, that the people became desperately excited and tremendously vigorous in their preparations. Arms were sought out and distributed; chests were opened, and gold and silver—in quantities that amazed Will and his friends—taken out and buried in the woods. Pistols, guns, and swords were produced in abundance, with plenty of ammunition, and the manner in which the men handled these proved that they meant to make a determined stand. Trees were felled, and the roads leading to the town barricaded. As the express came along he spread the news around, and farmers came in from all quarters driving their cattle before them. All the arrangements for defence were made under the direction of Don Pedro, a retired officer, who proved to be quite equal to the occasion, posted his men judiciously, and sent out scouts on horseback. Will Osten, Larry, and Bunco were left to do as they pleased, so they armed themselves, procured horses, kept close together, and rode about the town observing the arrangements. The night passed without alarm, but early in the morning a horseman arrived with the news that the rebels were advancing. A few hours afterwards they appeared in full view. Some were mounted, but the majority were on foot, and a more villainous set of rascals could not well be imagined. They advanced irregularly, evidently not expecting opposition from so insignificant a town, but those who first approached the barricades were received with such a galling fire that several were killed, many wounded, and the rest driven back.

Their leader, a tall dark man on a powerful charger, rode to the front in a towering passion, and endeavoured to rally the men. At that moment a bold idea flashed upon Will Osten. He suddenly put spurs to his horse, galloped round to the lowest part of the barricade, leaped over it, and, drawing his sword, charged the leader of the rebels like a thunderbolt. The man faced him, and raised his sword, to defend himself, but Will’s first cut was so powerful that it broke down his guard, cleft his helmet, and tumbled him out of the saddle.

The contending parties had scarce time to realise what was being done when the deed was completed, and a wild cheer burst from the townspeople, high above which there sounded a terrific “hooroo!” and next instant, Larry O’Hale, followed by Bunco, shot from the barricades, and charged the foe! The consternation caused by the suddenness and the unexpected nature of this onset made the banditti waver, and, when they beheld the townsmen pouring out from their defences and rushing at them with an evident determination to conquer or die, they turned and fled! The rout was complete, and for some time the people of the town continued to chase and slay the enemy, until the pursuit was suddenly stopped by an event as terrible as it was unexpected.

For some weeks previous to the day when the town was assaulted, the neighbourhood, and, indeed, the whole of the surrounding provinces, had been visited by a series of slight earthquakes. So common are these tremblings and heavings of the earth in South America, that unless very severe, not much notice is taken of them. At the time of which we write, the slight shocks had been so frequent that the people were comparatively indifferent to them. On the very day of the assault there had been several smarter shocks than usual, and some of the more thoughtful among the inhabitants remembered that it was on an unusually dry summer, similar to the one that was then passing, that a terrible earthquake had visited the province of Venezuela and entirely demolished the city of Caraccas. But the sudden attack of the rebels had for the time banished all thought of earthquakes.

It was while the people of the town were pursuing their enemies that another shock of the earthquake occurred, and it was so violent that many of the pursuers paused, while others turned at once and ran back to the town. Here they found the women and children in a state of consternation, for they had more thoroughly realised the force of the shock; and the dreadful scenes that had taken place in Caraccas, when upwards of ten thousand of the inhabitants perished, were still fresh in their memory. Another shock occurred just as Don Pedro, Will Osten, and his friends galloped into the principal square of the town. Here there were hundreds of cattle which had been driven there for safety, and crowds of people hurrying to and fro. The horsemen rode towards the principal church of the town, which had been made a place of temporary retreat for the women and children. They had got within a few hundred yards of it when there came a shock so terrible that it seemed as if the binding forces of nature were being dissolved. Hollow thunderings were heard deep in the bowels of the earth, which heaved and undulated almost as if it had been in a semi-liquid state, while great rents and fissures occurred here and there. Will Osten’s horse stumbled into one of these and threw him, but he leaped up unhurt. Don Pedro and the others pulled up and dismounted hastily. Before they could make up their minds which way to turn or what to do, another shock occurred; the houses on either side of them began to sway to and fro, and one not far distant fell. Just then a terrible crash was heard, and Will Osten turned round in time to see the large church in the act of falling. Women and children were rushing out of it frantically, but those within were doomed. One wild and awful shriek mingled with the roar of the tumbling edifice, and five hundred souls were instantaneously buried in a common grave.

Terrible though this event was, much of the impression it was fitted to make on those who witnessed it was lost because of the danger that surrounded themselves. The shock or series of shocks continued for several minutes, during which time the houses were falling into ruins in all directions, and there was so much danger in remaining in any of the streets that most of the inhabitants who had escaped flocked, as with one consent, into the great square—many of them, however, being killed by falling masonry on their way thither. Others nearer the outskirts of the town fled into the woods.

When this shock ceased, the earthquake appeared to have terminated for that time, but even if it had continued, further damage could scarcely have been done, for the little town was reduced to a heap of ruins. The desolation was complete. Scarcely a house was left uninjured, and the greater part of the buildings were completely demolished. But the sights that met the eye were not more terrible than the sounds which filled the ear. Death and destruction reigned on every side. Groans of agony and frantic cries for deliverance were heard issuing from beneath the ruins, while men, women, and children were seen rushing about with dishevelled hair and bloodshot eyes, wildly searching for, and shouting the names of, their lost relatives and friends, or crying to God for mercy. It was a sickening and terrible sight—a sight in regard to which those who dwell in the more favoured parts of our sin-smitten world can form but a very faint conception.

At first all was disorder, but by degrees the spirits of the survivors began to calm down a little, and then systematic efforts were made to rescue those who had not been killed outright. It need scarcely be said that in this work our hero and his companions were conspicuously energetic. Will and Don Pedro organised the men into gangs and wherever cries or groans were heard, they tore up and removed the ruins so vigorously that the poor sufferers were speedily released; but in performing this work they uncovered the torn, crushed, and mangled bodies of hundreds of the dead.

“Come here, Larry,” said Will, in a low, sad tone, as he stood on a pile of rubbish digging towards a spot where he had heard a faint cry as if from a female. The Irishman leaped to his side and saw a small hand sticking out of the rubbish. It quivered convulsively, showing that life still remained. With desperate eagerness, yet tender care, the two men disentombed the poor creature, who proved to be a women with a child clasped tightly in her broken and lacerated right arm. The woman was alive, but the poor child was dead, the skull having been completely smashed and its brains scattered on its mother’s bosom. As they carried them away, the woman also expired.

In the course of a few hours great numbers of wounded persons, young and old, were laid under the lemon-trees by the banks of the little stream that traversed the town. Some were slightly hurt, but by far the greater number were terribly crushed and lacerated—many of them past all hope of recovery. To these sufferers Will Osten now gave his undivided attention, washing and bandaging wounds, amputating limbs, and endeavouring by every means to relieve them and save their lives, while to the dying he tried, in the little Spanish he knew, to convey words of spiritual comfort, sometimes finding it impossible to do more than whisper the name of Jesus in a dying ear, while hurriedly passing from one to another. If earnest heart-expressive glances from eyes that were slowly fading conveyed any evidence of good having been done, Will’s labour of love was not spent in vain.

Reader, a volume would not suffice to detail a tithe of the sights and scenes of thrilling and dreadful interest that occurred in that small South American town on the occasion of the earthquake. Yet, awful though these were, they were as nothing compared with the more stupendous calamities that have been caused by earthquakes in that land of instability, not only in times long past, but in times so very recent that the moss cannot yet have begun to cover, nor the weather to stain, the tombstones and monuments of those who perished.

For many weeks Will Osten remained there tending the sick and dying. Then he bade his kind unfortunate friends farewell, and, once more turning his face towards the Cordillera of the Andes, resumed his homeward journey with his faithful attendants.

There are times in the career of a man—especially of one who leads a wandering and adventurous life—when it seems as though the events of a lifetime were compressed into the period of a few months, or weeks, or even days. Such, at least, was the experience of our hero while he travelled in the equatorial regions of South America. Events succeeded each other with such rapidity, and accumulated on each other to such an extent, that when he looked back it appeared utterly incredible that he and his companions had landed on the coast of Peru only a few months before. It was natural, indeed, that in such a region, where the phenomena and the forces of nature are so wild and vast, one incident or adventure should follow quickly on the heels of another, but it did not seem to be altogether natural that each incident should be more singular or tremendous than its predecessor. In short, there seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason, as Larry said, in the fact that they should be continually getting out of the frying-pan into the fire. Yet so it was, and, now that they had left the low country and plunged into the magnificent recesses of the great Andes, the metaphor was still applicable, though not, perhaps, equally appropriate, for, whereas the valleys they had quitted were sweltering in tropical heat, the mountains they had now ascended were clothed in wintry snow.

Far down in the valleys Will Osten and his friends had left their canoe, and hired mules with an arriero or mule-driver to guide them over the difficult and somewhat dangerous passes of the Andes. They had reached the higher altitudes of the mountains when we again introduce them to the reader, and were urging their mules forward, in order to reach a somewhat noted pass, before the breaking out of a storm which the arriero knew, from certain indications in the sky, was rapidly approaching. The party consisted of four—Will, Larry, Bunco, and the arriero—with three baggage-mules.

On reaching an elevated position at a turn in the road whence they could see far in advance, they halted.

“Why, I had supposed this was the pass,” said Will Osten, turning to Bunco; “ask the arriero how far off it is now.”

“Troth, it’s my belaif that there’s no pass at all,” said Larry, somewhat doggedly, as he shifted about uneasily in the saddle; “haven’t we bin comin’ up to places all day that we thought was the pass,—but they wasn’t; I don’t think Mister Arryhairo knows it hisself, and this baist of a mule has blistered my hands an’ a’most broke my arms with baitin’ of it—not to mintion other parts o’ me body. Och, but it’s a grand place, afther all—very nigh as purty as the Lakes of Killarney, only a bit bigger.”

The country was indeed a little bigger! From the dizzy ledge on which they stood a scene of the wildest sublimity met their gaze, and, for a few minutes, the travellers regarded it in profound silence. Mountains, crags, gorges, snowy peaks, dark ravines, surrounded them, spread out below them, rose up above them everywhere in the utmost confusion. It was the perfection of desolation—the realisation of chaos. At their feet, far down in the gorge below, lay a lake so dark that it might have been ink; but it was clear and so very still that every rock in the cliffs around it was faithfully portrayed. High overhead rose one of the more elevated peaks of the Andes, which, being clothed in pure snow, looked airy—almost unreal—against the blue sky. The highest peak of the Andes (Chimborazo) is more than 21,000 feet above the sea. The one before them was probably a few hundred feet lower. Of living creatures, besides themselves, only one species was to be seen—the gigantic “condor”—the royal eagle of the Andes, which soars higher, it is said, than any other bird of its kind. Hundreds of condors were seen hovering above them, watching for their prey,—the worn-out and forsaken mules or cattle, which, while being driven over the pass, perished from exhaustion.

“The ugly brutes! Is it a goat they’ve got howld of there?” said Larry, pointing to a place where several of these monstrous eagles were apparently disputing about some prize.

On reaching the place, the object in question was found to be the skeleton of a mule, from which every morsel of flesh had been carefully picked.

“Hold my mule, Larry,” whispered Will, throwing the reins to his comrade, and grasping a rifle with which one of his grateful patients who survived the earthquake had presented him. A condor had seated himself, in fancied security, on a cliff about two hundred yards off, but a well-aimed bullet brought him tumbling down. He was only winged, and when Will came up and saw his tremendous talons and beak, he paused to consider how he should lay hold of him.

“Och, what claws!” exclaimed Larry.

“Ah!” said Bunco, smiling, “more teribuble for scratch than yoos grandmoder, eh?”

Before they could decide how to proceed, the arriero came up, threw the noose of his lasso over the head of the magnificent bird, and secured it easily. He measured eight feet seven inches from tip to tip of the expanded wings.

Will Osten was anxious to skin this bird, and carry it away with him as a trophy, but the guide protested. He said that the pass was now really within a short distance of them, but that the thunder-storm would soon come on, and if it caught them in the pass they ran a chance of all being lost. Will, therefore, contented himself with cutting off the head and talons of the condor, and then resumed his toilsome upward journey.

According to the arriero’s prophecy, the storm burst upon them in less than two hours, while they were still some distance from the top of the pass.

Although they had now reached the region of snow, the zig-zag track by which they ascended was tolerably visible, but as they proceeded dark clouds overspread the sky, and snow fell heavily, while peals of muttering thunder came from afar, echoing among the mountain peaks and betokening the rapid approach of the storm. The arriero looked anxious, and urged the mules on with whip and voice, turning his eyes furtively, now and then, in the direction of the dark clouds. Presently, on turning one of the bends in the track, they came upon a singular party travelling in the opposite direction. Their singularity consisted chiefly in this, that instead of mules they had a train of bullock-waggons, which were laden with ponderous mill-machinery. At their head rode a fine-looking man of middle age, who addressed Will in Spanish. Bunco’s services as interpreter being called into requisition, the traveller told them that the pass was pretty clear, but advised them to make haste, as the storm would soon break, and might render it impassable. On the same ground he excused himself for not staying to exchange news with them.

“Your cargo is a strange one,” said Will, as they were about to part.

The traveller admitted that it was, and explained that he meant to erect a flour-mill in his native town, towards which he was hastening.

At these words the arriero seemed peculiarly affected. He advanced to the traveller and said a few words. The latter started, turned pale, and asked a few hurried questions. While the arriero was replying, the pallor of the traveller’s countenance increased; a wild fire seemed to shoot from his eyes, and his hands clutched convulsively the poncho which covered his breast. Suddenly he returned to his followers and gave them a few hurried orders, then, without noticing any one, he put spurs to his mule, and galloping down the track like a madman, was out of sight in a moment. His men at once unharnessed the cattle and followed him, leaving the waggons and the ponderous machinery in the snow.

The first gust of the storm burst upon the travellers at this moment, and Will with his friends had to ride to a neighbouring cliff for shelter before he could ask the meaning of the peculiar conduct of the stranger. The guide soon cleared up the mystery by telling him, through Bunco, that the traveller was an inhabitant of the town which had been so recently destroyed by the earthquake. “I happened to know him by name,” continued the guide, “and am aware that his wife with every member of his family was buried in the ruins. You saw how deeply he took it to heart, poor fellow.”

“Poor fellow indeed; God help him,” said Will sadly, as he left the shelter of the cliff, and continued the ascent.

They never saw the unfortunate man again, but it is worthy of remark that, years after, Will Osten heard of him through a friend who happened to cross the Andes at the same point. The blow had been so severe that he never returned to claim his property; and there it lay for many a day on the wild mountain pass—perchance there it lies still—far from the abodes of men, and utterly useless, save as a ponderous monument and memorial of the terrible catastrophe which had robbed its owner of home, kindred, wealth, and earthly hope.

The storm had at last burst upon our travellers in all its fury—and very different is the storm in these weird altitudes, where earth and heaven seem to meet, than in the plains below. The wind came whistling down the gorges as if through funnels, driving before it not only snow, but sand and pebbles, so that for a time our travellers being unable to face it, were compelled to seek shelter under a ledge of rock. After the first burst there was a short lull, of which they availed themselves to push on. Will, being mounted on the best mule, went considerably ahead of his companions; but at last the falling snow became so thick as to render objects almost invisible. The track, too, which ran unpleasantly near the edge of a precipice, was almost obliterated, so he thought it best to wait for the others. Just then another squall came howling down the gorge at his right. His mule became restive and frightened, and, slipping on the snow, came down on its knees. The violence of the wind rendered it almost impossible to keep the saddle, so this decided Will. He slid off. Scarcely had he done so when there came a gust which fortunately threw him flat down; at the same time his mule staggered over the edge of the precipice. One moment Will saw the poor animal struggling to regain its footing—the next it was rolling down into the abyss, bounding from rock to rock, and he knew, although the swirling snow prevented him seeing it, that his steed was, in a few minutes, dashed to pieces in the gorge a thousand feet below. For some time Will did not dare to rise. The gale grew fiercer every moment, and the darkness—not of night, but of thick clouds—increased. As the snow accumulated over him he feared being buried alive, so he struggled out of the drift and looked around him. It was utter chaos—not a landmark was visible. Having turned round once or twice, he did not know how to direct his steps. While hesitating as to what he should do, another gust swept by, carried away his hat and poncho, tore his over-coat right up the back and compelled him to lie down again, in which position he remained until he felt benumbed with cold. Knowing that to remain much longer in that position would insure his death, our hero rose and staggered forward a few paces—he scarce knew whither. There was a lull in the gale at this time, and he continued to advance, when a voice behind arrested him.

“Hooroo! doctor, whereabouts are ye?”

“Hallo! Larry, here I am, all right.”

“Faix, it’s well ye are that same,” said Larry, looming through the drifting snow like a white spectre, “for it’s all wrong with us. Wan o’ the poor baists wi’ the packs has gone clane over the cliffs an’ bin smashed to smithereens—more be token it’s the wan that carried the kittle an’ the salt beef, but the wan wi’ the biscuit an’ the fryin’-pan is safe, an’ that’s a comfort, anyhow.”

Will expressed his regret at this, and was beginning to tell how his own mule had been killed, when Bunco suddenly made his appearance, and, seizing him by the collar, dragged him with extreme violence a few paces forward. For one brief instant a flush of anger mingled with Will’s surprise at this unceremonious treatment; but all other feelings gave way to one of gratitude to God when, observing his faithful attendant point to the spot from which he had been dragged, he turned round and saw that he had been standing on the extreme verge of the precipice. Had he advanced one step after being arrested by the voice of his comrade, his mangled body would, in a few seconds, have been lying beside that of his poor mule!

There was no time to speak of these things, however, just then, for the storm, or rather the squall, burst forth again with increased violence, and the pass was still before them—so like the men of a forlorn hope who press up to the breach, they braced themselves to renew the conflict, and pushed on. The truth of the proverb, that “fortune favours the brave,” was verified on this occasion. The storm passed over almost as quickly as it had begun, the sky cleared up, and, before night set in, they had crossed the pass, and were rapidly descending the eastern side of the mountains towards the fertile plains and valleys of Columbia.

The transition from the wintry cold of the high regions of the Andes to the intense tropical heat of the plains and forests was rapidly made. In a few days the travellers were obliged to throw off their ponchos and warm garments, and at the end of a few weeks we find them stretched out lazily in the stern of a canoe, under the guidance of four Creoles, floating quietly down one of the numerous tributaries of the Orinoco. The change was not only sudden but also agreeable. In truth, our adventurers had been so long subjected by that time to excitement and exhausting toil—especially while crossing the mountains—that the most robust among them began to long for a little rest, both bodily and mental, and, now that they lay idly on their backs gazing at the passing scenery, listening to the ripple of the water and smoking cigarettes, it seemed as if the troubles of life had all passed away and nothing but peace lay around and before them.

“’Tis paradise intirely,” observed Larry, removing his cigarette for a moment, and winking facetiously at a small monkey which happened to peep at him just then through the foliage overhead.

“Him won’t be long like dat,” said Bunco.

“Come, now, ye ill-omened spalpeen, don’t be causin’ yer dirty clouds to come over this purty vision. Wot’s the use o’ cryin’ before ye’re hurt, or pretendin’ to know the futur’ whin ye knows nothin’ about it? Ye’re no better than a baboon, Bunco, as I’ve fraiquintly had occasion to tell ye before now.”

Bunco made no reply to this, but smiled slightly as he changed his position to one of greater comfort, and lit a fresh cigarette.

“Larry,” said Will Osten, “did you remember to put the fresh meat in the canoe this morning?”

“Och! morther,” cried the Irishman, starting up with a look of desperate annoyance on his expressive face; “sure I’ve wint an’ forgot it! It’s hangin’ at this minit on the branch where I putt it last night for fear o’ the tigers—bad luck to them!”

“Ho, ho!” ejaculated Bunco, “paradise am gone a’ready!”

Larry turned upon his friend with a look that betokened no good, and appeared to meditate an assault, when Will Osten said quietly,—“Never mind, Larry; I luckily observed your omission, and put it into the canoe myself.”

“Ah, then, doctor, it’s not right of ’e to trifle wid a poor man’s feelin’s in that way, especially in regard to his stummick, which, wid me, is a tinder point. Howsever, it’s all right, so I’ll light another o’ thim cigarettes. They’re not bad things after all, though small an’ waik at the best for a man as was used to twist an’ a black pipe since he was two foot high.”

The Irishman lay down and once more sought to recover his lost paradise, but was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the canoe-men, who pointed to a part of the river’s bank where no fewer than eight crocodiles were lying basking in the sun. They were of various sizes, from eight to twenty feet in length, and slept with their jaws wide open, and their formidable rows of teeth exposed to view.

“Well, wot’s to do?” asked Larry, half rising.

“Oh! hums only want you to look to de brutes—’tink you hab never seed him ’fore to-day,” said Bunco.

“Tell him he’s mistaken, then,” replied Larry testily; “we’ve often seed ’em before, an’ don’t want to be roused up by such trifles.”

Saying this, the Irishman once more sank into a recumbent state of felicity; but his peaceful tendency was doomed to frequent interruptions, not only on that day, but on many other occasions during the voyage down the Orinoco.

In the evening of that same day he had an adventure which induced him to suspect, more strongly even than Bunco, that terrestrial paradise was indeed still a long way off. The party landed at a small clearing, where they were hospitably received by a professional tiger-hunter, who, although nearly half-naked and almost black, was a very dignified personage, and called himself Don Emanuel. This Don invited them up to smoke and eat at his residence, which turned out to be a very large one—no less than the wild forest itself, for he disdained houses, and was wont to sling his hammock, nightly, between two trees. At his encampment they were introduced to his wife and two daughters, who were as wild and as lightly clad as himself, and the only evidence (if evidence it was) that the ladies belonged to the gentler sex was, that Donna Isabella—the elder sister—fondled a large cat, for which she appeared to entertain a strong affection. Having supped and smoked, the travellers slung their hammocks to the trees and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, several times, they were awakened by the cries of the denizens of the thickets. It was supposed that when any two of these took to fighting the others were stirred up to roar in sympathy! Be this as it may, the mingled cries, roars, and shrieks, of sapajous, alouates, jaguars, cougars, pacaris, sloths, curassows, parraquas, etcetera, broke forth from time to time with such fury, that sleep was almost unattainable; then a thunderstorm came on which wet them to the skin; after that a large vampire-bat bit Bunco on the nose, causing that worthy to add his noise to the general concert; and, finally, a soft hairy animal dropt from a branch into Larry O’Hale’s hammock. The Irishman received it with open arms and a yell of terror. He crushed it to his chest, which drew forth a responsive yell of agony from the animal, whose claws and teeth were instantly fixed in Larry’s chin and cheeks. He caught it by the tail—the teeth and claws were at once transferred to his hands; then he seized it by the throat, from which there issued a gasping shriek as he hurled it high into the air, whence it descended into the embers of the expiring fire, and, bolting violently from that too-warm spot, sent up a shower of sparks which revealed the fact that the unfortunate man had all but annihilated Donna Isabella’s favourite cat!

Thus they proceeded down the Orinoco, and, finally, reached the sea-coast, where they opportunely found a vessel ready to sail for Old England. It was not long, therefore, before they were once more out upon the wide sea, with the happy consciousness that they were actually “homeward bound.”

There are times in a man’s career when realities appear to memory like the dim shadows of a dream, just as there are periods when dreams rise up with all the bold and startling vividness of reality. Our adventurers felt something of this when they had been a few days at sea, and began to think of and talk about their recent career in South America. It seemed to them as though their romantic life in the woods, their encounters with wild beasts, their adventures and misadventures in Ecuador, their dangers and difficulties in crossing the Andes, and their tranquil descent of the Orinoco, were a confused yet vivid vision; and often, while pacing the deck together, or sitting on the bulwarks of the ship in the dreamy idleness of passenger-life at sea, did they comment upon the difficulty they had in regarding as indubitable facts the events of the last few months.

Nevertheless, as Larry expressed it, there could be no doubt whatever that it was all true, and after all, according to his carefully formed estimate, worse luck might have befallen them than being “cast away on the shores of Peroo an’ lost in the forest!”

Chapter One.

The Hero and his Only Relative.

Martin Rattler was a very bad boy. At least his aunt, Mrs Dorothy Grumbit, said so; and certainly she ought to have known, if anybody should, for Martin lived with her, and was, as she herself expressed it, “the bane of her existence; the very torment of her life.” No doubt of it whatever, according to Aunt Dorothy Grumbit’s showing, Martin Rattler was “a remarkably bad boy.”

It is a curious fact, however, that, although most of the people in the village of Ashford seemed to agree with Mrs Grumbit in her opinion of Martin, there were very few of them who did not smile cheerfully on the child when they met him, and say, “Good day, lad!” as heartily as if they thought him the best boy in the place. No one seemed to bear Martin Rattler ill-will, notwithstanding his alleged badness. Men laughed when they said he was a bad boy, as if they did not quite believe their own assertion. The vicar, an old whiteheaded man, with a kind, hearty countenance, said that the child was full of mischief, full of mischief; but he would improve as he grew older, he was quite certain of that. And the vicar was a good judge; for he had five boys of his own, besides three other boys, the sons of a distant relative, who boarded with him; and he had lived forty years in a parish overflowing with boys, and he was particularly fond of boys in general. Not so the doctor, a pursy little man with a terrific frown, who hated boys, especially little ones, with a very powerful hatred. The doctor said that Martin was a scamp.

And yet Martin had not the appearance of a scamp. He had fat rosy cheeks, a round rosy mouth, a straight delicately-formed nose, a firm massive chin, and a broad forehead. But the latter was seldom visible, owing to the thickly-clustering fair curls that overhung it. When asleep Martin’s face was the perfection of gentle innocence. But the instant he opened his dark-brown eyes, a thousand dimples and wrinkles played over his visage, chiefly at the corners of his mouth and round his eyes; as if the spirit of fun and the spirit of mischief had got entire possession of the boy, and were determined to make the most of him. When deeply interested in anything, Martin was as grave and serious as a philosopher.

Aunt Dorothy Grumbit had a turned-up nose,—a very much turned-up nose; so much so, indeed, that it presented a front view of the nostrils! It was an aggravating nose, too, for the old lady’s spectacles refused to rest on any part of it except the extreme point. Mrs Grumbit invariably placed them on the right part of her nose, and they as invariably slid down the curved slope until they were brought up by the little hillock at the end. There they condescended to repose in peace.

Mrs Grumbit was mild, and gentle, and little, and thin, and old,—perhaps seventy-five; but no one knew her age for certain, not even herself. She wore an old-fashioned, high-crowned cap, and a gown of bed-curtain chintz, with flowers on it the size of a saucer. It was a curious gown, and very cheap, for Mrs Grumbit was poor. No one knew the extent of her poverty, any more than they did her age; but she herself knew it, and felt it deeply,—never so deeply, perhaps, as when her orphan nephew Martin grew old enough to be put to school, and she had not wherewithal to send him. But love is quick-witted and resolute. A residence of six years in Germany had taught her to knit stockings at a rate that cannot be described, neither conceived unless seen. She knitted two dozen pairs. The vicar took one dozen, the doctor took the other. The fact soon became known. Shops were not numerous in the village in those days; and the wares they supplied were only second rate. Orders came pouring in, Mrs Grumbit’s knitting wires clicked, and her little old hands wagged with incomprehensible rapidity and unflagging regularity,—and Martin Rattler was sent to school.

While occupied with her knitting, she sat in a high-backed chair in a very small deep window, through which the sun streamed nearly the whole day; and out of which there was the most charming imaginable view of the gardens and orchards of the villagers, with a little dancing brook in the midst, and the green fields of the farmers beyond, studded with sheep and cattle and knolls of woodland, and bounded in the far distance by the bright blue sea. It was a lovely scene, such an one as causes the eye to brighten and the heart to melt as we gaze upon it, and think, perchance, of its Creator.

Yes, it was a scene worth looking at; but Mrs Grumbit never looked at it, for the simple reason that she could not have seen it if she had. Half way across her own little parlour was the extent of her natural vision. By the aid of spectacles and a steady concentrated effort, she could see the fire-place at the other end of the room; and the portrait of her deceased husband, who had been a sea-captain; and the white kitten that usually sat on the rug before the fire. To be sure, she saw them very indistinctly. The picture was a hazy blue patch, which was the captain’s coat; with a white patch down the middle of it, which was his waistcoat; and a yellow ball on the top of it, which was his head. It was rather an indistinct and generalised view, no doubt; but she saw it, and that was a great comfort.

Chapter Two.

In Disgrace.

Fire was the cause of Martin’s getting into disgrace at school for the first time; and this is how it happened.

“Go and poke the fire, Martin Rattler,” said the schoolmaster, “and put on a bit of coal, and see that you don’t send the sparks flying about the floor.”

Martin sprang with alacrity to obey; for he was standing up with the class at the time, and was glad of the temporary relaxation. He stirred the fire with great care, and put on several pieces of coal very slowly, and rearranged them two or three times; after which he stirred the fire a little more, and examined it carefully to see that it was all right; but he did not seem quite satisfied, and was proceeding to re-adjust the coals when Bob Croaker, one of the big boys, who was a bullying, ill-tempered fellow, and had a spite against Martin, called out—

“Please, sir, Rattler’s playin’ at the fire.”

“Come back to your place, sir!” cried the master, sternly.

Martin returned in haste, and resumed his position in the class. As he did so he observed that his fore-finger was covered with soot. Immediately a smile of glee overspread his features; and, while the master was busy with one of the boys, he drew his black finger gently down the forehead and nose of the boy next to him.

“What part of the earth was peopled by the descendants of Adam?” cried the master, pointing to the dux.

“Shem!” shrieked a small boy near the foot of the class.

“Silence!” thundered the master, with a frown that caused the small boy to quake down to the points of his toes.

“Asia!” answered dux.

“Next?”

“Turkey!”

“Next, next, next? Hallo! John Ward,” cried the master, starting up in anger from his seat, “what do you mean by that, sir?”

“What, sir?” said John Ward, tremulously, while a suppressed titter ran round the class.

“Your face, sir! Who blacked your face, eh?”

“I—I—don’t know,” said the boy, drawing his sleeve across his face, which had the effect of covering it with sooty streaks.

An uncontrollable shout of laughter burst from the whole school, which was instantly followed by a silence so awful and profound that a pin might have been heard to fall.

“Martin Rattler, you did that! I know you did,—I see the marks on your fingers. Come here, sir! Now tell me; did you do it?”

Martin Rattler never told falsehoods. His old aunt had laboured to impress upon him from infancy that to lie was to commit a sin which is abhorred by God and scorned by man; and her teaching had not been in vain. The child would have suffered any punishment rather than have told a deliberate lie. He looked straight in the master’s face and said, “Yes, sir, I did it.”

“Very well, go to your seat, and remain in school during the play-hour.”

With a heavy heart Martin obeyed; and soon after the school was dismissed.

“I say, Rattler,” whispered Bob Croaker as he passed, “I’m going to teach your white kitten to swim just now. Won’t you come and see it?”

The malicious laugh with which the boy accompanied this remark convinced Martin that he intended to put his threat in execution. For a moment he thought of rushing out after him to protect his pet kitten; but a glance at the stern brow of the master, as he sat at his desk reading, restrained him; so, crushing down his feelings of mingled fear and anger, he endeavoured to while away the time by watching the boys as they played in the fields before the windows of the school.

Chapter Three.

The Great Fight.

“Martin!” said the schoolmaster, in a severe tone, looking up from the book with which he was engaged, “don’t look out at the window, sir; turn your back to it.”

“Please, sir, I can’t help it,” replied the boy, trembling with eagerness as he stared across the fields.

“Turn your back on it, I say!” reiterated the master in a loud tone, at the same time striking the desk violently with his cane.

“Oh, sir, let me out! There’s Bob Croaker with my kitten. He’s going to drown it. I know he is; he said he would; and if he does aunty will die, for she loves it next to me; and I must save it, and—and, if you don’t let me out—you’ll be a murderer!”

At this concluding burst, Martin sprang forward and stood before his master with clenched fists and a face blazing with excitement. The schoolmaster’s gaze of astonishment gradually gave place to a dark frown strangely mingled with a smile, and, when the boy concluded, he said quietly—

“You may go.”

No second bidding was needed. The door flew open with a bang; and the gravel of the play-ground, spurned right and left, dashed against the window panes as Martin flew across it. The paling that fenced it off from the fields beyond was low, but too high for a jump. Never a boy in all the school had crossed that paling at a spring, without laying his hands upon it; but Martin did. We do not mean to say that he did anything superhuman; but he rushed at it like a charge of cavalry, sprang from the ground like a deer, kicked away the top bar, tumbled completely over, landed on his head, and rolled down the slope on the other side as fast as he could have run down,—perhaps faster.

It would have required sharper eyes than yours or mine to have observed how Martin got on his legs again, but he did it in a twinkling, and was half across the field almost before you could wink, and panting on the heels of Bob Croaker. Bob saw him coming and instantly started off at a hard run, followed by the whole school. A few minutes brought them to the banks of the stream, where Bob Croaker halted, and, turning round, held the white kitten up by the nape of the neck.

“O spare it! spare it, Bob!—don’t do it—please don’t, don’t do it!” gasped Martin, as he strove in vain to run faster.

“There you go!” shouted Bob, with a coarse laugh, sending the kitten high into the air, whence it fell with a loud splash into the water.

It was a dreadful shock to feline nerves, no doubt, but that white kitten was no ordinary animal. Its little heart beat bravely when it rose to the surface, and, before its young master came up, it had regained the bank. But, alas! what a change! It went into the stream a fat, round, comfortable ball of eider-down. It came out a scraggy blotch of white paint, with its black eyes glaring like two great glass beads! No sooner did it crawl out of the water than Bob Croaker seized it, and whirled it round his head, amid suppressed cries of “Shame!” intending to throw it in again; but at that instant Martin Rattler seized Bob by the collar of his coat with both hands, and, letting himself drop suddenly, dragged the cruel boy to the ground, while the kitten crept humbly away and hid itself in a thick tuft of grass.

A moment sufficed to enable Bob Croaker, who was nearly twice Martin’s weight, to free himself from the grasp of his panting antagonist, whom he threw on his back, and doubled his fist, intending to strike Martin on the face; but a general rush of the boys prevented this.

“Shame, shame, fair-play!” cried several; “don’t hit him when he’s down!”

“Then let him rise up and come on!” cried Bob, fiercely, as he sprang up and released Martin.

“Ay, that’s fair. Now then, Martin, remember the kitten!”

“Strike men of your own size!” cried several of the bigger boys, as they interposed to prevent Martin from rushing into the unequal contest.

“So I will,” cried Bob Croaker, glaring round with passion. “Come on any of you that likes. I don’t care a button for the biggest of you.”

No one accepted this challenge, for Bob was the oldest and the strongest boy in the school, although, as is usually the case with bullies, by no means the bravest.

Seeing that no one intended to fight with him, and that a crowd of boys strove to hold Martin Rattler back, while they assured him that he had not the smallest chance in the world, Bob turned towards the kitten, which was quietly and busily employed in licking itself dry and said, “Now Martin, you coward, I’ll give it another swim for your impudence.”

“Stop, stop!” cried Martin, earnestly. “Bob Croaker, I would rather do anything than fight. I would give you everything I have to save my kitten; but if you won’t spare it unless I fight, I’ll do it. If you throw it in before you fight me, you’re the greatest coward that ever walked. Just give me five minutes to breathe and a drink of water, and I’ll fight you as long as I can stand.”

Bob looked at his little foe in surprise. “Well, that’s fair. I’m you’re man; but if you don’t lick me I’ll drown the kitten, that’s all.” Having said this, he quietly divested himself of his jacket and neckcloth, while several boys assisted Martin to do the same, and brought him a draught of water in the crown of one of their caps. In five minutes all was ready, and the two boys stood face to face and foot to foot, with their fists doubled and revolving, and a ring of boys around them.

Just at this critical moment the kitten, having found the process of licking itself dry more fatiguing than it had expected, gave vent to a faint mew of distress. It was all that was wanting to set Martin’s indignant heart into a blaze of inexpressible fury. Bob Croaker’s visage instantly received a shower of sharp, stinging blows, that had the double effect of taking that youth by surprise and throwing him down upon the green sward. But Martin could not hope to do this a second time. Bob now knew the vigour of his assailant, and braced himself warily to the combat, commencing operations by giving Martin a tremendous blow on the point of his nose, and another on the chest. These had the effect of tempering Martin’s rage with a salutary degree of caution, and of eliciting from the spectators sundry cries of warning on the one hand, and admiration on the other, while the young champions revolved warily round each other, and panted vehemently.

The battle that was fought that day was one of a thousand. It created as great a sensation in the village school as did the battle of Waterloo in England. It was a notable fight; such as had not taken place within the memory of the oldest boy in the village, and from which, in after years, events of juvenile history were dated,—especially pugilistic events, of which, when a good one came off it used to be said that, “such a battle had not taken place since the year of the Great Fight.” Bob Croaker was a noted fighter, Martin Rattler was, up to this date, an untried hero. Although fond of rough play and boisterous mischief, he had an unconquerable aversion to earnest fighting, and very rarely indeed returned home with a black eye,—much to the satisfaction of Aunt Dorothy Grumbit, who objected to all fighting from principle, and frequently asserted, in gentle tones, that there should be no soldiers or sailors (fighting sailors, she meant) at all, but that people ought all to settle everything the best way they could without fighting, and live peaceably with one another, as the Bible told them to do. They would be far happier and better off, she was sure of that; and if everybody was of her way of thinking, there would be neither swords, nor guns, nor pistols, nor squibs, nor anything else at all! Dear old lady. It would indeed be a blessing if her principles could be carried out in this warring and jarring world. But as this is rather difficult, what we ought to be careful about is, that we never fight except in a good cause and with a clear conscience.

It was well for Martin Rattler, on that great day, that the formation of the ground favoured him. The spot on which the fight took place was uneven, and covered with little hillocks and hollows, over which Bob Croaker stumbled, and into which he fell,—being a clumsy boy on his legs—and did himself considerable damage; while Martin, who was firmly knit and active as a kitten, scarcely ever fell, or, if he did, sprang up again like an India-rubber ball. Fair-play was embedded deep in the centre of Martin’s heart, so that he scorned to hit his adversary when he was down or in the act of rising; but the thought of the fate that awaited the white kitten if he were conquered, acted like lightning in his veins, and scarcely had Bob time to double his fists after a fall, when he was knocked back again into the hollow, out of which he had risen. There were no rounds in this fight; no pausing to recover breath. Martin’s anger rose with every blow, whether given or received; and although he was knocked down flat four or five times, he rose again, and without a second’s delay rushed headlong at his enemy. Feeling that he was too little and light to make much impression on Bob Croaker by means of mere blows, he endeavoured as much as possible to throw his weight against him at each assault; but Bob stood his ground well, and after a time seemed even to be recovering strength a little.

Suddenly he made a rush at Martin, and, dealing him a successful blow on the forehead, knocked him down; at the same time he himself tripped over a molehill and fell upon his face. Both were on their legs in an instant. Martin grew desperate. The white, kitten swimming for its life seemed to rise before him, and new energy was infused into his frame. He retreated a step or two, and then darted forward like an arrow from a bow. Uttering a loud cry, he sprang completely in the air and plunged—head and fists together, as if he were taking a dive—into Bob Croaker’s bosom! The effect was tremendous. Bob went down like a shock of grain before the sickle; and having, in their prolonged movements, approached close to the brink of the stream, both he and Martin went with a sounding splash into the deep pool and disappeared. It was but for a moment, however. Martin’s head emerged first, with eyes and mouth distended to the utmost. Instantly, on finding bottom, he turned to deal his opponent another blow; but it was not needed. When Bob Croaker’s head rose to the surface there was no motion in the features, and the eyes were closed. The intended blow was changed into a friendly grasp; and, exerting himself to the utmost, Martin dragged his insensible school fellow to the bank, where, in a few minutes, he recovered sufficiently to declare in a sulky tone that he would fight no more!

“Bob Croaker,” said Martin, holding out his hand, “I’m sorry we’ve had to fight. I wouldn’t have done it, but to save my kitten. You compelled me to do it, you know that. Come, let’s be friends again.”

Bob made no reply, but slowly and with some difficulty put on his vest and jacket.

“I’m sure,” continued Martin, “there’s no reason in bearing me ill-will. I’ve done nothing unfair, and I’m very sorry we’ve had to fight. Won’t you shake hands?”

Bob was silent.

“Come, some, Bob!” cried several of the bigger boys, “don’t be sulky, man; shake hands and be friends. Martin has licked you this time, and you’ll lick him next time, no doubt, and that’s all about it.”

“Arrah, then, ye’re out there, intirely. Bob Croaker’ll niver lick Martin Rattler though he wos to live to the age of the great M’Thuselah!” said a deep-toned voice close to the spot where the fight had taken place.

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction whence it proceeded, and the boys now became aware, for the first time, that the combat had been witnessed by a sailor, who, with a smile of approval beaming on his good-humoured countenance, sat under the shade of a neighbouring tree smoking a pipe of that excessive shortness and blackness that seems to be peculiarly beloved by Irishmen in the humbler ranks of life. The man was very, tall and broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a free-and-easy swagger, as he rose and approached the group of boys.

“He’ll niver bate ye, Martin, avic, as long as there’s two timbers of ye houldin’ togither.” The seaman patted Martin on the head as he spoke; and, turning to Bob Croaker, continued:

“Ye ought to be proud, ye spalpeen, o’ bein’ wopped by sich a young hero as this. Come here and shake hands with him: d’ye hear? Troth an’ it’s besmearin’ ye with too much honour that same. There, that’ll do. Don’t say ye’re sorry now, for it’s lies ye’d be tellin’ if ye did. Come along, Martin, an I’ll convarse with ye as ye go home. Ye’ll be a man yet, as sure as my name is Barney O’Flannagan.”

Martin took the white kitten in his arms and thrust its wet little body into his equally wet bosom, where the warmth began soon to exercise a soothing influence on the kitten’s depressed spirits, so that, ere long, it began to purr. He then walked with the sailor towards the village, with his face black and blue, and swelled, and covered with blood, while Bob Croaker and his companions returned to the school.

The distance to Martin’s residence was not great, but it was sufficient to enable the voluble Irishman to recount a series of the most wonderful adventures and stories of foreign lands; that set Martin’s heart on fire with desire to go to sea; a desire which was by no means new to him, and which recurred violently every time he paid a visit to the small sea-port of Bilton, which lay about five miles to the southward of his native village. Moreover, Barney suggested that it was time Martin should be doing for himself (he was now ten years old), and said that if he would join his ship, he could get him a berth, for he was much in want of an active lad to help him with the coppers. But Martin Rattler sighed deeply, and said that, although his heart was set upon going to sea, he did not see how it was to be managed, for his aunt would not let him go.

Before they separated, however, it was arranged that Martin should pay the sailor’s ship a visit, when he would hear a good deal more about foreign lands; and that, in the meantime, he should make another attempt to induce Aunt Dorothy Grumbit to give her consent to his going to sea.

Chapter Four.

A Lesson to all Stocking-Knitters—Martin’s Prospects begin to open up.

In the small sea-port of Bilton, before mentioned, there dwelt an old and wealthy merchant and ship-owner, who devoted a small portion of his time to business, and a very large portion of it to what is usually termed “doing good.” This old gentleman was short, and stout, and rosy, and bald, and active, and sharp as a needle.

In the short time that Mr Arthur Jollyboy devoted to business, he accomplished as much as most men do in the course of a long day. There was not a benevolent society in the town, of which Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk (as he styled his cottage), was not a member, director, secretary, and treasurer, all in one, and all at once! If it had been possible for man be ubiquitous, Mr Jollyboy would have been so naturally; or, if not naturally, he would have made himself so by force of will. Yet he made no talk about it. His step was quiet, though quick; and his voice was gentle, though rapid; and he was chiefly famous for talking little and doing much.

Some time after the opening of our tale, Mr Jollyboy had received information of Mrs Grumbit’s stocking movement. That same afternoon he put on his broad-brimmed white hat and, walking out to the village in which she lived, called upon the vicar, who was a particular and intimate friend of his. Having ascertained from the vicar that Mrs Grumbit would not accept of charity, he said abruptly,—“And why not—is she too proud?”

“By no means,” replied the vicar. “She says that she would think shame to take money from friends as long as she can work, because every penny that she would thus get would be so much less to go to the helpless poor; of whom, she says, with much truth, there are enough and to spare. And I quite agree with her as regards her principle; but it does not apply fully to her, for she cannot work so as to procure a sufficient livelihood without injury to her health.”

“Is she clever?” inquired Mr Jollyboy.

“Why, no, not particularly. In fact, she does not often exert her reasoning faculties, except in the common-place matters of ordinary and every-day routine.”

“Then she’s cleverer than most people,” said Mr Jollyboy, shortly. “Is she obstinate?”

“No, not in the least,” returned the vicar with a puzzled smile.

“Ah, well, good-bye, good-bye; that’s all I want to know.”

Mr Jollyboy rose, and, hurrying through the village, tapped at the cottage door, and was soon closeted with Mrs Dorothy Grumbit. In the course of half an hour, Mr Jollyboy drew from Mrs Grumbit as much about her private affairs as he could, without appearing rude. But he found the old lady very close and sensitive on that point. Not so, however, when he got her upon the subject of her nephew. She had enough, and more than enough, to say about him. It is true she began by remarking, sadly, that he was a very bad boy; but, as she continued to talk about him, she somehow or other gave her visitor the impression that he was a very good boy! They had a wonderfully long and confidential talk about Martin, during which Mr Jollyboy struck Mrs Grumbit nearly dumb with horror by stating positively that he would do for the boy,—he would send him to sea! Then, seeing that he had hit the wrongest possible nail on the head, he said that he would make the lad a clerk in his office, where he would be sure to rise to a place of trust; whereat Mrs Grumbit danced, if we may so speak, into herself for joy.

“And now, ma’am, about these stockings. I want two thousand pairs as soon as I can get them!”

“Sir?” said Mrs Grumbit.

“Of course, not for my own use, ma’am; nor for the use of my family, for I have no family; and if I had, that would be an unnecessarily large supply. The fact is, Mrs Grumbit, I am a merchant and I send very large supplies of home-made articles to foreign lands, and two thousand pairs of socks are a mere driblet. Of course I do not expect you to make them all for me, but I wish you to make as many pairs as you can.”

“I shall be very happy—” began Mrs Grumbit.

“But, Mrs Grumbit, there is a peculiar formation which I require in my socks that will give you extra trouble, I fear; but I must have it, whatever the additional expense may be. What is your charge for the pair you are now making?”

“Three shillings,” said Mrs Grumbit.

“Ah! very good. Now, take up the wires if you please, ma’am, and do what I tell you. Now, drop that stitch,—good; and take up this one,—capital; and pull this one across that way,—so; and that one across this way,—exactly. Now, what is the result?”

The result was a complicated knot; and Mrs Grumbit, after staring a few seconds at the old gentleman in surprise, said so, and begged to know what use it was of.

“Oh, never mind, never mind. We merchants have strange fancies, and foreigners have curious tastes now and then. Please to make all my socks with a hitch like that in them all round, just above the ankle. It will form an ornamental ring. I’m sorry to put you to the trouble, but of course I pay extra for fancy-work. Will six shillings a-pair do for these?”

“My dear sir,” said Mrs Grumbit, “it is no additional—”

“Well, well, never mind,” said Mr Jollyboy. “Two thousand pairs, remember, as soon as possible,—close knitted, plain stitch, rather coarse worsted; and don’t forget the hitch, Mrs Grumbit, don’t forget the hitch.”

Ah! reader, there are many Mrs Grumbits in this world, requiring hitches to be made in their stockings!

At this moment the door burst open. Mrs Dorothy Grumbit uttered a piercing scream, Mr Jollyboy dropped his spectacles and sat down on his hat and Martin Rattler stood before them with the white kitten in his arms.

For a few seconds there was a dead silence, while an expression of puzzled disappointment passed over Mr Jollyboy’s ruddy countenance. At last he said—

“Is this, madam, the nephew who, you told me a little ago, is not addicted to fighting?”

“Yes,” answered the old lady faintly, and covering her eyes with her hands, “that is Martin.”

“If my aunt told you that, sir, she told you the truth,” said Martin, setting down the blood-stained white kitten, which forthwith began to stretch its limbs and lick itself dry. “I don’t ever fight if I can help it but I couldn’t help it to-day.”

With a great deal of energy, and a revival of much of his former indignation, when he spoke of the kitten’s sufferings, Martin recounted all the circumstances of the fight; during the recital of which Mrs Dorothy Grumbit took his hand in hers and patted it, gazing the while into his swelled visage, and weeping plentifully, but very silently. When he had finished, Mr Jollyboy shook hands with him, and said he was a trump, at the same time recommending him to go and wash his face. Then he whispered a few words in Mrs Grumbit’s ear, which seemed to give that excellent lady much pleasure; after which he endeavoured to straighten his crushed hat; in which attempt he failed, took his leave, promised to call again very soon, and went back to the Old Hulk—chuckling.

Chapter Five.

Martin, being Willing to go to Sea, goes to Sea against his Will.

Four years rolled away, casting chequered light and shadow over the little village of Ashford in their silent passage,—whitening the forelocks of the aged, and strengthening the muscles of the young. Death, too, touched a hearth here and there, and carried desolation to a home; for four years cannot wing their flight without enforcing on us the lesson—which we are so often taught and yet take so long to learn—that this is not our rest,—that here we have no abiding city. Did we but ponder this lesson more frequently and earnestly, instead of making us sad, it would nerve our hearts and hands to fight and work more diligently,—to work in the cause of our Redeemer,—the only cause that is worth the life-long energy of immortal beings,—the great cause that includes all others; and it would teach us to remember that our little day of opportunity will soon be spent and that the night is at hand in which no man can work.

Four years rolled away, and during this time Martin, having failed to obtain his aunt’s consent to his going to sea, continued at school, doing his best to curb the roving spirit that strove within him. Martin was not particularly bright at the dead languages; to the rules of grammar he entertained a rooted aversion; and at history he was inclined to yawn, except when it happened to touch upon the names and deeds of such men as Vasco di Gama and Columbus. But in geography he was perfect; and in arithmetic and book-keeping he was quite a proficient, to the delight of Mrs Dorothy Grumbit whose household books he summed up; and to the satisfaction of his fast friend, Mr Arthur Jollyboy, whose ledgers he was—in that old gentleman’s secret resolves—destined to keep.

Martin was now fourteen, broad and strong, and tall for his age. He was the idol of the school,—dashing, daring, reckless, and good-natured. There was almost nothing that he would not attempt and there were very few things that he could not do. He never fought however—from principle; and his strength and size often saved him from the necessity. But he often prevented other boys from fighting, except when he thought there was good reason for it; then he stood by and saw fair-play. There was a strange mixture of philosophical gravity, too, in Martin. As he grew older he became more enthusiastic and less boisterous.

Bob Croaker was still at the school, and was, from prudential motives, a fast friend of Martin. But he bore him a secret grudge, for he could not forget the great fight.

One day Bob took Martin by the arm, and said, “I say, Rattler, come with me to Bilton, and have some fun among the shipping.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said Martin. “I’m just in the mood for a ramble, and I’m not expected home till bed-time.”

In little more than an hour the two boys were wandering about the dock-yards of the sea-port town, and deeply engaged in examining the complicated rigging of the ships. While thus occupied, the clanking of a windlass and the merry, “Yo heave O! and away she goes,” of the sailors, attracted their attention.

“Hallo! there goes the Firefly, bound for the South Seas,” cried Bob Croaker; “come, let’s see her start. I say, Martin, isn’t your friend, Barney O’Flannagan, on board?”

“Yes, he is. He tries to get me to go out every voyage, and I wish I could. Come quickly; I want to say good-bye to him before he starts.”

“Why don’t you run away, Rattler?” inquired Bob, as they hurried round the docks to where the vessel was warping out.

“Because I don’t need to. My aunt has given me leave to go if I like; but she says it would break her heart if I do; and I would rather be screwed down to a desk for ever than do that, Bob Croaker.”

The vessel, upon the deck of which the two boys now leaped, was a large, heavy-built barque. Her sails were hanging loose, and the captain was giving orders to the men, who had their attention divided between their duties on board and their mothers, wives, and sisters, who still lingered to take a last farewell.

“Now, then, those who don’t want to go to sea had better go ashore,” roared the captain.

There was an immediate rush to the side.

“I say, Martin,” whispered Barney, as he hurried past, “jump down below for’ard; you can go out o’ the harbour mouth with us and get ashore in one o’ the shore-boats alongside. They’ll not cast off till we’re well out. I want to speak to you—”

“Man the fore-top-sail halyards,” shouted the first mate.

“Ay ay, sir-r–r,” and the men sprang to obey. Just then the ship touched on the bar at the mouth of the harbour, and in another moment she was aground.

“There, now, she’s hard and fast!” roared the captain, as he stormed about the deck in a paroxysm of rage. But man’s rage could avail nothing. They had missed the passage by a few feet, and now they had to wait the fall and rise again of the tide ere they could hope to get off.

In the confusion that followed, Bob Croaker suggested that Martin and he should take one of the punts, or small boats which hovered round the vessel, and put out to sea, where they might spend the day pleasantly in rowing and fishing.

“Capital!” exclaimed Martin. “Let’s go at once. Yonder’s a little fellow who will let us have his punt for a few pence. I know him. Hallo, Tom!”

“Ay, ay,” squeaked a boy who was so small that he could scarcely lift the oar, light though it was, with which he sculled his punt cleverly along.

“Shove alongside, like a good fellow; we want your boat for a little to row out a bit.”

“It’s a-blowin’ too hard,” squeaked the small boy, as he ranged alongside. “I’m afeared you’ll be blowed out.”

“Nonsense!” cried Bob Croaker, grasping the rope which the boy threw to him. “Jump on board, younker; we don’t want you to help us, and you’re too heavy for ballast. Slip down the side, Martin, and get in while I hold on to the rope. All right? now I’ll follow. Here, shrimp, hold the rope till I’m in, and then cast off. Look alive!”

As Bob spoke, he handed the rope to the little boy; but, in doing so, let it accidentally slip out of his hand.

“Catch hold o’ the main chains, Martin,—quick!”

But Martin was too late. The current that swept out of the harbour whirled the light punt away from the ship’s side, and carried it out seaward. Martin instantly sprang to the oar, and turned the boat’s head round. He was a stout and expert rower, and would soon have regained the ship; but the wind increased at the moment, and blew in a squall off shore, which carried him further out despite his utmost efforts. Seeing that all further attempts were useless, Martin stood up and waved his hand to Bob Croaker, shouting as he did so, “Never mind, Bob, I’ll make for the South Point. Run round and meet me, and we’ll row back together.”

The South Point was a low cape of land which stretched a considerable distance out to sea, about three miles to the southward of Bilton harbour. It formed a large bay, across which, in ordinary weather, a small boat might be rowed in safety. Martin Rattler was well-known at the sea-port as a strong and fearless boy, so that no apprehension was entertained for his safety by those who saw him blown away. Bob Croaker immediately started for the Point on foot a distance of about four miles by land; and the crew of the Firefly were so busied with their stranded vessel that they took no notice of the doings of the boys.

But the weather now became more and more stormy. Thick clouds gathered on the horizon. The wind began to blow with steady violence, and shifted a couple of points to the southward; so that Martin found it impossible to keep straight for the Point. Still he worked perseveringly at his single oar, and sculled rapidly over the sea; but, as he approached the Point he soon perceived that no effort of which he was capable could enable him to gain it. But Martin’s heart was stout. He strove with all the energy of hope, until the Point was passed; and then, turning the head of his little boat towards it, he strove with all the energy of despair, until he fell down exhausted. The wind and tide swept him rapidly out to sea; and when his terrified comrade reached the Point the little boat was but a speck on the seaward horizon.

Well was it then for Martin Rattler that a friendly heart beat for him on board the Firefly. Bob Croaker carried the news to the town; but no one was found daring enough to risk his life out in a boat on that stormy evening. The little punt had been long out of sight ere the news reached them, and the wind had increased to a gale. But Barney O’Flannagan questioned Bob Croaker closely, and took particular note of the point of the compass at which Martin had disappeared; and when the Firefly at length got under weigh, he climbed to the fore-top cross-trees, and stood there scanning the horizon with an anxious eye.

It was getting dark, and a feeling of despair began to creep over the seaman’s heart as he gazed round the wide expanse of water, on which nothing was to be seen except the white foam that crested the rising billows.

“Starboard, hard!” he shouted suddenly.

“Starboard it is!” replied the man at the wheel, with prompt obedience.

In another moment Barney slid down the back-stay and stood on the deck, while the ship rounded to and narrowly missed striking a small boat that floated keel up on the water. There was no cry from the boat; and it might have been passed as a mere wreck, had not the lynx eye of Barney noticed a dark object clinging to it.

“Lower away a boat, lads,” cried the Irishman, springing overboard; and the words had scarcely passed his lips when the water closed over his head.

The Firefly was hove to, a boat was lowered and rowed towards Barney, whose strong voice guided his shipmates towards him. In less than a quarter of an hour the bold sailor and his young friend Martin Rattler were safe on board, and the ship’s head was again turned out to sea.

It was full half an hour before Martin was restored to consciousness in the forecastle, to which his deliverer had conveyed him.

“Musha, lad, but ye’re booked for the blue wather now, an’ no mistake!” said Barney, looking with an expression of deep sympathy at the poor boy, who sat staring before him quite speechless. “The capting ’ll not let ye out o’ this ship till ye git to the gould coast, or some sich place. He couldn’t turn back av he wanted iver so much; but he doesn’t want to, for he needs a smart lad like you, an’ he’ll keep you now, for sartin.”

Barney sat down by Martin’s side and stroked his fair curls, as he sought in his own quaint fashion to console him. But in vain.

Martin grew quite desperate as he thought of the misery into which poor Aunt Dorothy Grumbit would be plunged, on learning that he had been swept out to sea in a little boat, and drowned, as she would naturally suppose. In his frenzy he entreated and implored the captain to send him back in the boat and even threatened to knock out his brains with a handspike if he did not; but the captain smiled and told him that it was his own fault. He had no business to be putting to sea in a small boat in rough weather, and he might be thankful he wasn’t drowned. He wouldn’t turn back now for fifty pounds twice told.

At length Martin became convinced that all hope of returning home was gone. He went quietly below, threw himself into one of the sailor’s berths, turned his face to the wall, and wept long and bitterly.

Chapter Six.

The Voyage, a Pirate, Chase, Wreck, and Escape.

Time reconciles a man to almost anything. In the course of time Martin Rattler became reconciled to his fate, and went about the ordinary duties of a cabin-boy on board the Firefly just as if he had been appointed to that office in the ordinary way,—with the consent of the owners and by the advice of his friends. The captain, Skinflint by name, and as surly an old fellow as ever walked a quarter-deck, agreed to pay him wages, “if he behaved well.” The steward, under whose immediate authority he was placed, turned out to be a hearty, good-natured young fellow, and was very kind to him. But Martin’s great friend was Barney O’Flannagan, the cook, with whom he spent many an hour in the night watches, talking over plans, and prospects, and retrospects, and foreign lands.

As Martin had no clothes except those on his back, which fortunately happened to be new and good, Barney gave him a couple of blue-striped shirts, and made him a jacket, pantaloons, and slippers of canvass; and, what was of much greater importance, taught him how to make and mend the same for himself.

“Ye see, Martin, lad,” he said, while thus employed one day, many weeks after leaving port, “it’s a great thing, intirely, to be able to help yerself. For my part I niver travel without my work-box in my pocket.”

“Your work-box!” said Martin, laughing.

“Jist so. An’ it consists of wan sailmaker’s needle, a ball o’ twine, and a clasp-knife. Set me down with these before a roll o’ canvass and I’ll make ye a’most anything.”

“You seem to have a turn for everything, Barney,” said Martin. “How came you to be a cook?”

“That’s more nor I can tell ye, lad. As far as I remimber, I began with murphies, when I was two foot high, in my father’s cabin in ould Ireland. But that was on my own account intirely, and not as a purfession; and a sorrowful time I had of it too, for I was for iver burnin’ my fingers promiskiously, and fallin’ into the fire ivery day more or less—”

“Stand by to hoist top-gallant-sails,” shouted the captain. “How’s her head?”

“South and by east sir,” answered the man at the wheel.

“Keep her away two points. Look alive lads. Hand me the glass, Martin.”

The ship was close hauled when these abrupt orders were given, battling in the teeth of a stiff breeze, off the coast of South America. About this time, several piratical vessels had succeeded in cutting off a number of merchantmen near the coast of Brazil. They had not only taken the valuable parts of their cargoes, but had murdered the crews under circumstances of great cruelty; and ships trading to these regions were, consequently, exceedingly careful to avoid all suspicious craft as much as possible. It was, therefore, with some anxiety that the men watched the captain’s face as he examined the strange sail through the telescope.

“A Spanish schooner,” muttered the captain, as he shut up the glass with a bang. “I won’t trust her. Up with the royals and rig out stun’-sails, Mr Wilson, (to the mate). Let her fall away, keep her head nor’-west, d’you hear?”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Let go the lee braces and square the yards. Look sharp, now, lads. If that blackguard gets hold of us ye’ll have to walk the plank, every man of ye.”

In a few minutes the ship’s course was completely altered; a cloud of canvass spread out from the yards, and the Firefly bounded on her course like a fresh race-horse. But it soon became evident that the heavy barque was no match for the schooner, which crowded sail and bore down at a rate that bade fair to overhaul them in a few hours. The chase continued till evening, when suddenly the look-out at the mast-head shouted, “Land, ho!”

“Where away?” cried the captain.

“Right ahead,” sang out the man.

“I’ll run her ashore sooner than be taken,” muttered the captain, with an angry scowl at the schooner, which was now almost within range on the weather quarter, with the dreaded black flag flying at her peak. In a few minutes breakers were descried ahead.

“D’ye see anything like a passage?” shouted the captain.

“Yes, sir; two points on the weather bow.”

At this moment a white cloud burst from the schooner’s bow, and a shot, evidently from a heavy gun, came ricochetting over the sea. It was well aimed, for it cut right through the barque’s main-mast, just below the yard, and brought the main-top-mast, with all the yards, sails, and gearing above it, down upon the deck. The weight of the wreck, also, carried away the fore-top-mast and, in a single instant, the Firefly was completely disabled.

“Lower away the boats,” cried the captain; “look alive, now; we’ll give them the slip yet. It’ll be dark in two minutes.”

The captain was right. In tropical regions there is little or no twilight. Night succeeds day almost instantaneously. Before the boats were lowered, and the men embarked, it was becoming quite dark. The schooner observed the movement however, and, as she did not dare to venture through the reef in the dark, her boats were also lowered and the chase was recommenced.

The reef was passed in safety, and now a hard struggle took place, for the shore was still far-distant. As it chanced to be cloudy weather the darkness became intense, and progress could only be guessed at by the sound of the oars; but these soon told too plainly that the boats of the schooner were overtaking those of the barque.

“Pull with a will, lads,” cried the captain; “we can’t be more than half a mile from shore; give way, my hearties.”

“Surely, captain, we can fight them, we’ve most of us got pistols and cutlasses,” said one of the men in a sulky tone.

“Fight them!” cried the captain, “they’re four times our number, and every man armed to the teeth. If ye don’t fancy walking the plank or dancing on nothing at the yardarm, ye’d better pull away and hold your jaw.”

By this time they could just see the schooner’s boats in the dim light, about half-musket range astern.

“Back you’ oars,” shouted a stern voice in broken English, “or I blow you out de watter in one oder moment—black-yards!”

This order was enforced by a musket shot which whizzed over the boat within an inch of the captain’s head. The men ceased rowing and the boats of the pirate ranged close up.

“Now then, Martin,” whispered Barney O’Flannagan, who sat at the bow oar, “I’m goin’ to swim ashore; jist you slip arter me as quiet as ye can.”

“But the sharks!” suggested Martin.

“Bad luck to them,” said Barney as he slipped over the side, “they’re welcome to me. I’ll take my chance. They’ll find me mortial tough, anyhow. Come along, lad, look sharp!”

Without a moment’s hesitation Martin slid over the gunwale into the sea, and, just as the pirate boats grappled with those of the barque, he and Barney found themselves gliding as silently as otters towards the shore. So quietly had the manoeuvre been accomplished, that the men in their own boat were ignorant of their absence. In a few minutes they were beyond the chance of detection.

“Keep close to me, lad,” whispered the Irishman. “If we separate in the darkness we’ll niver foregather again. Catch hould o’ my shoulder if ye get blowed, and splutter as much as ye like. They can’t hear us now, and it’ll help to frighten the sharks.”

“All right,” replied Martin; “I can swim like a cork in such warm water as this. Just go a little slower and I’ll do famously.”

Thus encouraging each other, and keeping close together, lest they should get separated in the thick darkness of the night, the two friends struck out bravely for the shore.

Chapter Seven.

Martin and Barney get lost in a Great Forest, where they see Strange and Terrible Things.

On gaining the beach, the first thing that Barney did, after shaking himself like a huge Newfoundland dog, was to ascertain that his pistol and cutlass were safe; for, although the former could be of no use in its present condition, still, as he sagaciously remarked, “it was a good thing to have, for they might chance to git powder wan day or other, and the flint would make fire, anyhow.” Fortunately the weather was extremely warm; so they were enabled to take off and wring their clothes without much inconvenience, except that in a short time a few adventurous mosquitoes—probably sea-faring ones—came down out of the woods and attacked their bare bodies so vigorously that they were fain to hurry on their clothes again before they were quite dry.

The clouds began to clear away soon after they landed, and the brilliant light of the southern constellations revealed to them dimly the appearance of the coast. It was a low sandy beach skirting the sea and extending back for about a quarter of a mile in the form of a grassy plain, dotted here and there with scrubby under-wood. Beyond this was a dark line of forest. The light was not sufficient to enable them to ascertain the appearance of the interior. Barney and Martin now cast about in their minds how they were to spend the night.

“Ye see,” said the Irishman, “it’s of no use goin’ to look for houses, because there’s maybe none at all on this coast; an’ there’s no sayin’ but we may fall in with savages—for them parts swarms with them; so we’d better go into the woods an’—”

Barney was interrupted here by a low howl, which proceeded from the woods referred to, and was most unlike any cry they had ever heard before.

“Och but I’ll think better of it. P’raps it’ll be as well not to go into the woods, but to camp where we are.”

“I think so too,” said Martin, searching about for small twigs and drift-wood with which to make a fire. “There is no saying what sort of wild beasts may be in the forest, so we had better wait till daylight.”

A fire was quickly lighted by means of the pistol-flint and a little dry grass, which, when well bruised and put into the pan, caught a spark after one or two attempts, and was soon blown into a flame. But no wood large enough to keep the fire burning for any length of time could be found; so Barney said he would go up to the forest and fetch some. “I’ll lave my shoes and socks, Martin, to dry at the fire. See ye don’t let them burn.”

Traversing the meadow with hasty strides, the bold sailor quickly reached the edge of the forest where he began to lop off several dead branches from the trees with his cutlass. While thus engaged, the howl which had formerly startled him was repeated. “Av I only knowed what ye was,” muttered Barney in a serious tone, “it would be some sort o’ comfort.”

A loud cry of a different kind here interrupted his soliloquy, and soon after the first cry was repeated louder than before.

Clenching his teeth and knitting his brows the perplexed Irishman resumed his work with a desperate resolve not to be again interrupted. But he had miscalculated the strength of his nerves. Albeit as brave a man as ever stepped, when his enemy was before him, Barney was, nevertheless, strongly imbued with superstitious feelings; and the conflict between his physical courage and his mental cowardice produced a species of wild exasperation, which, he often asserted, was very hard to bear. Scarcely had he resumed his work when a bat of enormous size brushed past his nose so noiselessly that it seemed more like a phantom than a reality. Barney had never seen anything of the sort before, and a cold perspiration broke out upon him, when he fancied it might be a ghost. Again the bat swept past close to his eyes.

“Musha, but I’ll kill ye, ghost or no ghost,” he ejaculated, gazing all round into the gloomy depths of the woods with his cutlass uplifted. Instead of flying again in front of him, as he had expected, the bat flew with a whirring noise past his ear. Down came the cutlass with a sudden thwack, cutting deep into the trunk of a small tree, which trembled under the shock and sent a shower of nuts of a large size down upon the sailor’s head. Startled as he was, he sprang backward with a wild cry; then, half ashamed of his groundless fears, he collected the wood he had cut, threw it hastily on his shoulder and went with a quick step out of the woods. In doing so he put his foot upon the head of a small snake, which wriggled up round his ankle and leg. If there was anything on earth that Barney abhorred and dreaded it was a snake. No sooner did he feel its cold form writhing under his foot, than he uttered a tremendous yell of terror, dropped his bundle of sticks, and fled precipitately to the beach, where he did not halt till he found himself knee-deep in the sea.

“Och, Martin, boy,” gasped the affrighted sailor, “it’s my belafe that all the evil spirits on arth live in yonder wood; indeed I do.”

“Nonsense, Barney,” said Martin, laughing; “there are no such things as ghosts; at any rate, I’m resolved to face them, for if we don’t get some sticks the fire will go out and leave us very comfortless. Come, I’ll go up with you.”

“Put on yer shoes then, avic, for the sarpints are no ghosts, anyhow, and I’m tould they’re pisonous sometimes.”

They soon found the bundle of dry sticks that Barney had thrown down, and returning with it to the beach, they speedily kindled a roaring fire, which made them feel quite cheerful. True, they had nothing to eat; but having had a good dinner on board the barque late that afternoon, they were not much in want of food. While they sat thus on the sand of the sea-shore, spreading their hands before the blaze and talking over their strange position, a low rumbling of distant thunder was heard. Barney’s countenance instantly fell.

“What’s the matter, Barney?” inquired Martin, as he observed his companion gaze anxiously up at the sky.

“Och, it’s comin’, sure enough.”

“And what though it does come?” returned Martin; “we can creep under one of these thick bushes till the shower is past.”

“Did ye iver see a thunder-storm in the tropics?” inquired Barney.

“No, never,” replied Martin.

“Then if ye don’t want to feel and see it both at wance, come with me as quick as iver ye can.”

Barney started up as he spoke, stuck his cutlass and pistol into his belt and set off towards the woods at a sharp run, followed closely by his wondering companion.

Their haste was by no means unnecessary. Great black clouds rushed up towards the zenith from all points of the compass, and, just as they reached the woods, darkness so thick that it might almost be felt overspread the scene. Then there was a flash of lightning so vivid that it seemed as if a bright day had been created and extinguished in a moment leaving the darkness ten times more oppressive. It was followed instantaneously by a crash and a prolonged rattle, that sounded as if a universe of solid worlds were rushing into contact overhead and bursting into atoms.

The flash was so far useful to the fugitives, that it enabled them to observe a many-stemmed tree with dense and heavy foliage, under which they darted. They were just in time, and had scarcely seated themselves among its branches when the rain came down in a way, not only that Martin had never seen, but that he had never conceived of before. It fell, as it were, in broad heavy sheets, and its sound was a loud, continuous roar.

The wind soon after burst upon the forest and added to the hideous shriek of elements. The trees bent before it; the rain was whirled and dashed about in water-spouts; and huge limbs were rent from some of the larger trees with a crash like thunder, and swept far away into the forest. The very earth trembled and seemed terrified at the dreadful conflict going on above. It seemed to the two friends as if the end of the world were come; and they could do nothing but cower among the branches of the tree and watch the storm in silence; while they felt, in a way they had never before experienced, how utterly helpless they were, and unable to foresee, or avert, the many dangers by which they were surrounded, and how absolutely dependent they were on God for protection.

For several hours the storm continued. Then it ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and the bright stars again shone down upon a peaceful scene.

When it was over, Martin and his comrade descended the tree and endeavoured to find their way back to the beach. But this was no easy matter. The haste with which they had run into the woods, and the confusion of the storm, had made them uncertain in which direction it lay; and the more they tried to get out, the deeper they penetrated into the forest. At length, wearied with fruitless wandering and stumbling about in the dark, they resolved to spend the night where they were. Coming to a place which was more open than usual, and where they could see a portion of the starry sky overhead, they sat down on a dry spot under the shelter of a spreading tree, and, leaning their backs against the trunk, very soon fell sound asleep.

Chapter Eight.

An Enchanting Land—An Uncomfortable Bed and a Queer Breakfast—Many Surprises and a Few Frights, together with a Notable Discovery.

“I’ve woked in paradise!”

Such was the exclamation that aroused Martin Rattler on the morning after his landing on the coast of South America. It was uttered by Barney O’Flannagan, who lay at full length on his back, his head propped up by a root of the tree, under which they had slept, and his eyes staring right before him with an expression of concentrated amazement. When Martin opened his eyes, he too was struck dumb with surprise. And well might they gaze with astonishment; for the last ray of departing daylight on the night before had flickered over the open sea, and now the first gleam of returning sunshine revealed to them the magnificent forests of Brazil.

Yes, well might they gaze and gaze again in boundless admiration; for the tropical sun shone down on a scene of dazzling and luxuriant vegetation, so resplendent that it seemed to them the realisation of a fairy tale. Plants and shrubs and flowers were there, of the most curious and brilliant description, and of which they neither knew the uses nor the names. Majestic trees were there, with foliage of every shape and size and hue; some with stems twenty feet in circumference; others more slender in form, straight and tall; and some twisted in a bunch together and rising upwards like fluted pillars: a few had buttresses, or natural planks, several feet broad, ranged all round their trunks, as if to support them; while many bent gracefully beneath the load of their clustering fruit and heavy foliage. Orange-trees with their ripe fruit shone in the sunbeams like gold. Stately palms rose above the surrounding trees and waved their feathery plumes in the air, and bananas with broad enormous leaves rustled in the breeze and cast a cool shadow on the ground.

Well might they gaze in great surprise; for all these curious and beautiful trees were surrounded by, and entwined in, the embrace of luxuriant and remarkable climbing-plants. The parasitic vanilla with its star-like blossoms crept up their trunks and along their branches, where it hung in graceful festoons, or drooped back again almost to the ground. So rich and numerous were these creepers, that in many cases they killed the strong giants whom they embraced so lovingly. Some of them hung from the tree-tops like stays from the masts of a ship, and many of them mingled their brilliant flowers so closely with the leaves, that the climbing-plants and their supporters could not be distinguished from each other, and it seemed as though the trees themselves had become gigantic flowering shrubs.

Birds, too, were there in myriads,—and such birds! Their feathers were green and gold and scarlet and yellow and blue—fresh and bright and brilliant as the sky beneath which they were nurtured. The great toucan, with a beak nearly as big as his body, flew clumsily from stem to stem. The tiny, delicate humming-birds, scarce larger than bees, fluttered from flower to flower and spray to spray, like points of brilliant green. But they were irritable, passionate little creatures, these lovely things, and quarrelled with each other and fought like very wasps! Enormous butterflies, with wings of deep metallic blue, shot past or hovered in the air like gleams of light; and green paroquets swooped from tree to tree and chattered joyfully over their morning meal.

Well might they gaze with wonder, and smile too with extreme merriment, for monkeys stared at them from between the leaves with expressions of undisguised amazement, and bounded away shrieking and chattering in consternation, swinging from branch to branch with incredible speed, and not scrupling to use each other’s tails to swing by when occasion offered. Some were big and red and ugly,—as ugly as you can possibly imagine, with blue faces and fiercely grinning teeth; others were delicately-formed and sad of countenance, as if they were for ever bewailing the loss of near and dear relations, and could by no means come at consolation; and some were small and pretty, with faces no bigger than a halfpenny. As a general rule, it seemed to Barney, the smaller the monkey the longer the tail.

Yes, well might they gaze and gaze again in surprise and in excessive admiration; and well might Barney O’Flannagan—under the circumstances, with such sights and sounds around him, and the delightful odours of myrtle trees and orange blossoms and the Cape jessamine stealing up his nostrils—deem himself the tenant of another world, and evince his conviction of the fact in that memorable expression—“I’ve woked in paradise!”

But Barney began to find “paradise” not quite so comfortable as it ought to be; for when he tried to get up he found his bones pained and stiff from sleeping in damp clothes; and moreover, his face was very much swelled, owing to the myriads of mosquitoes which had supped of it during the night.

“Arrah, then, won’t ye be done!” he cried, angrily, giving his face a slap that killed at least two or three hundred of his tormentors. But thousands more attacked him instantly, and he soon found out,—what every one finds out sooner or later in hot climates,—that patience is one of the best remedies for mosquito bites. He also discovered shortly afterwards that smoke is not a bad remedy, in connection with patience.

“What are we to have for breakfast, Barney!” inquired Martin as he rose and yawned and stretched his limbs.

“Help yersilf to what ye plase,” said Barney, with a polite bow, waving his hand round him, as if the forest were his private property and Martin Rattler his honoured guest.

“Well, I vote for oranges,” said Martin, going towards a tree which was laden with ripe fruit.

“An’ I’ll try plums, by way of variety,” added his companion.

In a few minutes several kinds of fruit and nuts were gathered and spread at the foot of the tree under which they had reposed. Then Barney proceeded to kindle a fire,—not that he had anything to cook, but he said it looked sociable-like, and the smoke would keep off the flies. The operation, however, was by no means easy. Everything had been soaked by the rain of the previous night, and a bit of dry grass could scarcely be found. At length he procured a little; and by rubbing it in the damp gunpowder which he had extracted from his pistol, and drying it in the sun, he formed a sort of tinder that caught fire after much persevering effort.

Some of the fruits they found to be good,—others bad. The good they ate,—the bad they threw away. After their frugal fare they felt much refreshed, and then began to talk of what they should do.

“We can’t live here with parrots and monkeys, you know,” said Martin; “we must try to find a village or town of some sort; or get to the coast and then we shall perhaps meet with a ship.”

“True, lad,” replied Barney, knitting his brows and looking extremely sagacious; “the fact is, since neither of us knows nothing about anything, or the way to any place, my advice is to walk straight for’ard till we come to something.”

“So think I,” replied Martin; “therefore the sooner we set off the better.”

Having no luggage to pack and no arrangements of any kind to make, the two friends rose from their primitive breakfast-table, and walked away straight before them into the forest.

All that day they travelled patiently forward, conversing pleasantly about the various and wonderful trees, and flowers, and animals they met with by the way; but no signs were discovered that indicated the presence of man. Towards evening, however, they fell upon a track or foot-path,—which discovery rejoiced them much; and here, before proceeding further, they sat down to eat a little more fruit which, indeed, they had done several times during the day. They walked nearly thirty miles that day without seeing a human being; but they met with many strange and beautiful birds and beasts,—some of which were of so fierce an aspect that they would have been very glad to have had guns to defend themselves with. Fortunately, however, all the animals seemed to be much more afraid of them than they were of the animals; so they travelled in safety. Several times during the course of the day they saw snakes and serpents, which glided away into the jungle on their approach, and could not be overtaken, although Barney made repeated darts at them, intending to attack them with his cutlass; which assaults always proved fruitless.

Once they were charged by a herd of peccaries,—a species of pig or wild hog,—from which they escaped by jumping actively to one side; but the peccaries turned and rushed at them again, and it was only by springing up the branches of a neighbouring tree that they escaped their fury. These peccaries are the fiercest and most dauntless animals in the forests of Brazil. They do of know what fear is,—they will rush in the face of anything; and, unlike all other animals, are quite indifferent to the report of fire-arms. Their bodies are covered with long bristles, resembling very much the quills of the porcupine.

As the evening drew on, the birds and beasts and the innumerable insects, that had kept up a perpetual noise during the day, retired to rest; and then the nocturnal animals began to creep out of their holes and go about. Huge vampire-bats, one of which had given Barney such a fright the night before, flew silently past them; and the wild howlings commenced again. They now discovered that one of the most dismal of the howls proceeded from a species of monkey: at which discovery Martin laughed very much, and rallied his companion on being so easily frightened; but Barney gladly joined in the laugh against himself, for, to say truth, he felt quite relieved and light-hearted at discovering that his ghosts were converted into bats and monkeys!

There was one roar, however, which, when they heard it ever and anon, gave them considerable uneasiness.

“D’ye think there’s lions in them parts?” inquired Barney, glancing with an expression of regret at his empty pistol, and laying his hand on the hilt of his cutlass.

“I think not,” replied Martin, in a low tone of voice. “I have read in my school geography that there are tigers of some sort—jaguars, or ounces, I think they are called,—but there are no—”

Martin’s speech was cut short by a terrific roar, which rang through the woods, and the next instant a magnificent jaguar, or South American tiger, bounded on to the track a few yards in advance, and, wheeling round, glared fiercely at the travellers. It seemed, in the uncertain light as if his eyes were two balls of living fire. Though not so large as the royal Bengal tiger of India, this animal was nevertheless of immense size, and had a very ferocious aspect. His roar was so sudden and awful, and his appearance so unexpected, that the blood was sent thrilling back into the hearts of the travellers, who stood rooted to the spot, absolutely unable to move. This was the first large animal of the cat kind that either of them had seen in all the terrible majesty of its wild condition; and, for the first time, Martin and his friend felt that awful sensation of dread that will assail even the bravest heart when a new species of imminent danger is suddenly presented. It is said that no animal can withstand the steady gaze of a human eye; and many travellers in wild countries have proved this to be a fact. On the present occasion our adventurers stared long and steadily at the wild creature before them, from a mingled feeling of surprise and horror. In a few seconds the jaguar showed signs of being disconcerted. It turned its head from side to side slightly, and dropped its eyes, as if to avoid their gaze. Then turning slowly and stealthily round, it sprang with a magnificent bound into the jungle, and disappeared.

Both Martin and Barney heaved a deep sigh of relief.

“What a mercy it did not attack us!” said the former, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead. “We should have had no chance against such a terrible beast with a cutlass, I fear.”

“True, boy, true,” replied his friend, gravely; “it would have been little better than a penknife in the ribs o’ sich a cratur. I niver thought that it was in the power o’ man or baste to put me in sich a fright; but the longer we live we learn, boy.”

Barney’s disposition to make light of everything was thoroughly subdued by this incident, and he felt none of his usual inclination to regard all that he saw in the Brazilian forests with a comical eye. The danger they had escaped was too real and terrible, and their almost unarmed condition too serious, to be lightly esteemed. For the next hour or two he continued to walk by Martin’s side either in total silence, or in earnest, grave conversation; but by degrees these feelings wore off, and his buoyant spirits gradually returned.

The country over which they had passed during the day was of a mingled character. At one time they traversed a portion of dark forest heavy and choked up with the dense and gigantic foliage peculiar to those countries that lie near to the equator; then they emerged from this upon what to their eyes seemed most beautiful scenery,—mingled plain and woodland,—where the excessive brilliancy and beauty of the tropical vegetation was brought to perfection by exposure to the light of the blue sky and the warm rays of the sun. In such lovely spots they travelled more slowly and rested more frequently, enjoying to the full the sight of the gaily-coloured birds and insects that fluttered busily around them, and the delicious perfume of the flowers that decked the ground and clambered up the trees. At other times they came to plains, or campos, as they are termed, where there were no trees at all, and few shrubs, and where the grass was burned brown and dry by the sun. Over such they hurried as quickly as they could; and fortunately, where they chanced to travel, such places were neither numerous nor extensive, although in some districts of Brazil there are campos hundreds of miles in extent.

A small stream meandered through the forest and enabled them to refresh themselves frequently; which was very fortunate, for the heat, especially towards noon, became extremely intense, and they could not have existed without water. So great, indeed, was the heat about mid-day, that, by mutual consent, they resolved to seek the cool shade of a spreading tree, and try to sleep if possible. At this time they learned, to their surprise, that all animated nature did likewise, and sought repose at noon. God had implanted in the breast of every bird and insect in that mighty forest an instinct which taught it to rest and find refreshment during the excessive heat of mid-day; so that during the space of two or three hours, not a thing with life was seen, and not a sound was heard. Even the troublesome mosquitoes, so active at all other times, day and night were silent now. The change was very great and striking, and difficult for those who have not observed it to comprehend. All the forenoon, screams, and cries, and croaks, and grunts, and whistles, ring out through the woods incessantly; while, if you listen attentively, you hear the low, deep, and never-ending buzz and hum of millions upon millions of insects, that dance in the air and creep on every leaf and blade upon the ground. About noon all this is hushed. The hot rays of the sun beat perpendicularly down upon what seems a vast untenanted solitude, and not a single chirp breaks the death-like stillness of the great forest, with the solitary exception of the metallic note of the uruponga, or bell-bird, which seems to mount guard when all the rest of the world has gone to sleep. As the afternoon approaches they all wake up, refreshed by their siesta, active and lively as fairies, and ready for another spell of work and another deep-toned noisy chorus.

The country through which our adventurers travelled, as evening approached, became gradually more hilly, and their march consequently more toilsome. They were just about to give up all thought of proceeding farther that night, when, on reaching the summit of a little hill, they beheld a bright red light shining at a considerable distance in the valley beyond. With light steps and hearts full of hope they descended the hill and hastened towards it.

Chapter Nine.

The Hermit.

It was now quite dark, and the whole country seemed alive with fire-flies. These beautiful little insects sat upon the trees and bushes, spangling them as with living diamonds, and flew about in the air like little wandering stars. Barney had seen them before, in the West Indies, but Martin had only heard of them; and his delight and amazement at their extreme brilliancy were very great. Although he was naturally anxious to reach the light in the valley, in the hope that it might prove to proceed from some cottage, he could not refrain from stopping once or twice to catch these lovely creatures; and when he succeeded in doing so, and placed one on the palm of his hand, the light emitted from it was more brilliant than that of a small taper, and much more beautiful, for it was of a bluish colour, and very intense,—more like the light reflected from a jewel than a flame of fire. He could have read a book by means of it quite easily.

In half an hour they drew near to the light, which they found proceeded from the window of a small cottage or hut.

“Whist, Martin,” whispered Barney, as they approached the hut on tiptoe; “there may be savages into it, an’ there’s no sayin’ what sort o’ craturs they are in them parts.”

When about fifty yards distant, they could see through the open window into the room where the light burned; and what they beheld there was well calculated to fill them with surprise. On a rude wooden chair, at a rough unpainted table, a man was seated, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed intently on a book. Owing to the distance, and the few leaves and branches that intervened between them and the hut, they could not observe him very distinctly. But it was evident that he was a large and strong man, a little past the prime of life. The hair of his head and beard was black and bushy, and streaked with silver-grey. His face was massive, and of a dark olive complexion, with an expression of sadness on it strangely mingled with stern gravity. His broad shoulders—and, indeed, his whole person—were enveloped in the coarse folds of a long gown or robe, gathered in at the waist with a broad band of leather.

The room in which he sat—or rather the hut, for there was but one room in it—was destitute of all furniture, except that already mentioned, besides one or two roughly-formed stools; but the walls were completely covered with strange-looking implements and trophies of the chase; and in a corner lay a confused pile of books, some of which were, from their appearance, extremely ancient. All this the benighted wanderers observed as they continued to approach cautiously on tiptoe. So cautious did they become as they drew near, and came within the light of the lamp, that Barney at length attempted to step over his own shadow for fear of making a noise; and, in doing so, tripped and fell with considerable noise through a hedge of prickly shrubs that encircled the strange man’s dwelling.

The hermit—for such he appeared to be—betrayed no symptom of surprise or fear at the sudden sound; but rising quietly, though quickly, from his seat took down a musket that hung on the wall, and, stepping to the open door, demanded sternly, in the Portuguese language, “Who goes there?”

“Arrah, then, if ye’d help a fellow-cratur to rise, instead o’ talkin’ gibberish like that, it would be more to your credit!” exclaimed the Irishman, as he scrambled to his feet and presented himself, along with Martin, at the hermit’s door.

A peculiar smile lighted up the man’s features as he retreated into the hut and invited the strangers to enter.

“Come in,” said he, in good English, although with a slightly foreign accent. “I am most happy to see you. You are English. I know the voice and the language very well. Lived among them once, but long time past now—very long. Have not seen one of you for many years.”

With many such speeches, and much expression of good-will, the hospitable hermit invited Martin and his companion to sit down at his rude table, on which he quickly spread several plates of ripe and dried fruits, a few cakes, and a jar of excellent honey, with a stone bottle of cool water. When they were busily engaged with these viands, he began to make inquiries as to where his visitors had come from.

“We’ve comed from the sae,” replied Barney, as he devoted himself to a magnificent pine-apple. “Och but yer victuals is mighty good, Mister—what’s yer name?—’ticklerly to them that’s a’most starvin’.”

“The fact is,” said Martin, “our ship has been taken by pirates, and we two swam ashore, and lost ourselves in the woods; and now we have stumbled upon your dwelling, friend, which is a great comfort.”

“Hoigh, an’ that’s true,” sighed Barney, as he finished the last slice of the pine-apple.

They now explained to their entertainer all the circumstances attending the capture of the Firefly, and their subsequent adventures and vicissitudes in the forest; all of which Barney detailed in a most graphic manner, and to all of which their new friend listened with grave attention and unbroken silence. When they had concluded he said,—“Very good. You have seen much in very short time. Perhaps you shall see more by-and-by. For the present you will go to rest, for you must be fatigued. I will think to-night,—to-morrow I will speak.”

“An’, if I may make so bould,” said Barney, glancing with a somewhat rueful expression round the hard earthen floor of the hut, “whereabouts may I take the liberty o’ sleepin’?”

The hermit replied by going to a corner, whence, from beneath a heap of rubbish, he dragged two hammocks, curiously wrought in a sort of light net-work. These he slung across the hut at one end, from wall to wall, and, throwing a sheet or coverlet into each, he turned with a smile to his visitors,—“Behold your beds! I wish you a very good sleep,—adios!”

So saying, this strange individual sat down at the table, and was soon as deeply engaged with his large book as if he had suffered no interruption; while Martin and Barney, having gazed gravely and abstractedly at him for five minutes, turned and smiled to each other, jumped into their hammocks, and were soon buried in deep slumber.

Chapter Ten.

An Enemy in the Night—The Vampire Bat—The Hermit discourses on Strange, and Curious, and Interesting Things.

Next morning Martin Rattler awoke with a feeling of lightness in his head, and a sensation of extreme weakness pervading his entire frame. Turning his head round to the right he observed that a third hammock was slung across the further end of the hut; which was, no doubt, that in which the hermit had passed the night. But it was empty now. Martin did not require to turn his head to the other side to see if Barney O’Flannagan was there, for that worthy individual made his presence known, for a distance of at least sixty yards all round the outside of the hut, by means of his nose, which he was in the habit of using as a trumpet when asleep. It was as well that Martin did not require to look round; for he found, to his surprise, that he had scarcely strength to do so. While he was wondering in a dreamy sort of manner what could be the matter with him, the hermit entered the hut bearing a small deer upon his shoulders. Resting his gun in a corner of the room, he advanced to Martin’s hammock.

“My boy,” he exclaimed, in surprise, “what is wrong with you?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Martin, faintly; “I think there is something wet about my feet.”

Turning up the sheet, he found that Martin’s feet were covered with blood! For a few seconds the hermit growled forth a number of apparently very pithy sentences in Portuguese, in a deep guttural voice, which awakened Barney with a start. Springing from his hammock with a bound like a tiger, he exclaimed, “Och! ye blackguard, would ye murther the boy before me very nose?” and seizing the hermit in his powerful grasp, he would infallibly have hurled him, big though he was, through his own doorway, had not Martin cried out, “Stop, stop, Barney. It’s all right; he’s done nothing:” on hearing which the Irishman loosened his hold, and turned towards his friend.

“What’s the matter, honey?” said Barney, in a soothing tone of voice, as a mother might address her infant son. The hermit whose composure had not been in the slightest degree disturbed, here said—“The poor child has been sucked by a vampire bat.”

“Ochone!” groaned Barney, sitting down on the table, and looking at his host with a face of horror.

“Yes, these are the worst animals in Brazil for sucking the blood of men and cattle. I find it quite impossible to keep my mules alive, they are so bad.”

Barney groaned.

“They have killed two cows which I tried to keep here, and one young horse—a foal you call him, I think; and now I have no cattle remaining, they are so bad.”

Barney groaned again, and the hermit went on to enumerate the wicked deeds of the vampire-bats, while he applied poultices of certain herbs to Martin’s toe, in order to check the bleeding, and then bandaged it up; after which he sat down to relate to his visitors, the manner in which the bat carries on its bloody operations. He explained, first of all, that the vampire-bats are so large and ferocious that they often kill horses and cattle by sucking their blood out. Of course they cannot do this at one meal, but they attack the poor animals again and again, and the blood continues to flow from the wounds they make long afterwards, so that the creatures attacked soon grow weak and die. They attack men, too,—as Martin knew to his cost; and they usually fix upon the toes and other extremities. So gentle are they in their operations, that sleepers frequently do not feel the puncture, which they make, it is supposed, with the sharp hooked nail of their thumb; and the unconscious victim knows nothing of the enemy who has been draining his blood until he awakens, faint and exhausted, in the morning.

Moreover, the hermit told them that these vampire-bats have very sharp, carnivorous teeth, besides a tongue, which is furnished with the curious organs, by which they suck the lifeblood of their fellow-creatures; that they have a peculiar, leaf-like, overhanging lip; and that he had a stuffed specimen of a bat that measured no less than two feet across the expanded wings, from tip to tip.

“Och, the blood-thirsty spalpeen!” exclaimed Barney, as he rose and crossed the room to examine the bat in question, which was nailed against the wall. “Bad luck to them, they’ve ruined Martin intirely.”

“O no,” remarked the hermit with a smile. “It will do the boy much good, the loss of the blood; much good, and he will not be sick at all to-morrow.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Martin, “for it would be a great bore to be obliged to lie here when I’ve so many things to see. In fact I feel better already, and if you will be so kind as to give me a little breakfast I shall be quite well.”

While Martin was speaking, the obliging hermit—who, by the way, was now habited in a loose short hunting-coat of brown cotton,—spread a plentiful repast upon his table; to which, having assisted Martin to get out of his hammock, they all proceeded to do ample justice: for the travellers were very hungry after the fatigue of the previous day; and as for the hermit, he looked like a man whose appetite was always sharp set, and whose food agreed with him.

They had cold meat of several kinds, and a hot steak of venison just killed that morning, which the hermit cooked while his guests were engaged with the other viands. There was also excellent coffee, and superb cream, besides cakes made of a species of coarse flour or meal, fruits of various kinds, and very fine honey.

“Arrah! ye’ve the hoith o’ livin’ here!” cried Barney, smacking his lips as he held out his plate for another supply of a species of meat which resembled chicken in tenderness and flavour. “What sort o’ bird or baste may that be, now, av’ I may ask ye, Mister—what’s yer name?”

“My name is Carlos,” replied the hermit, gravely; “and this is the flesh of the armadillo.”

“Arms-what-o?” inquired Barney.

“Armadillo,” repeated the hermit. “He is very good to eat but very difficult to catch. He digs down so fast we cannot catch him, and must smoke him out of his hole.”

“Have you many cows?” inquired Martin, as he replenished his cup with coffee.

“Cows?” echoed the hermit, “I have got no cows.”

“Where do you get such capital cream, then?” asked Martin in surprise.

The hermit smiled. “Ah! my friends, that cream has come from a very curious cow. It is from a cow that grows in the ground.”

“Grows!” ejaculated his guests.

“Yes, he grows. I will show him to you one day.”

The hermit’s broad shoulders shook with a quiet internal laugh. “I will explain a little of that you behold on my table.”

“The coffee I get from the trees. There are plenty of them here. Much money is made in Brazil by the export of coffee,—very much. The cakes are made from the mandioca-root which I grow near my house. The root is dried and ground into flour, which, under the general name farina, is used all over the country. It is almost the only food used by the Indians and Negroes.”

“Then there are Injins and Niggers here, are there?” inquired Barney.

“Yes, a great many. Most of the Negroes are slaves; some of the Indians too; and the people who are descended from the Portuguese who came and took the country long ago, they are the masters.—Well, the honey I get in holes in the trees. There are different kinds of honey here; some of it is sour honey. And the fruits and roots, the plantains, and bananas, and yams, and cocoa-nuts, and oranges, and plums, all grow in the forest and much more besides, which you will see for yourselves if you stay long here.”

“It’s a quare country, intirely,” remarked Barney, as he wiped his mouth and heaved a sigh of contentment. Then, drawing his hand over his chin, he looked earnestly in the hermit’s face, and, with a peculiar twinkle in his eye, said,—“I s’pose ye couldn’t favour me with the lind of a raazor, could ye?”

“No, my friend; I never use that foolish weapon.”

“Ah, well, as there’s only monkeys and jaguars, and sich like to see me, it don’t much signify; but my moustaches is gittin’ mighty long, for I’ve been two weeks already without a shave.”

Martin laughed heartily at the grave, anxious expression of his comrade’s face. “Never mind, Barney,” he said, “a beard and moustache will improve you vastly. Besides, they will be a great protection against mosquitoes; for you are such a hairy monster, that when they grow nothing of your face will be exposed except your eyes and cheek-bones. And now,” continued Martin, climbing into his hammock again and addressing the hermit, “since you won’t allow me to go out a-hunting to-day, I would like very much if you would tell me something more about this strange country.”

“An’ may be,” suggested Barney, modestly, “ye won’t object to tell us something about yersilf—how you came for to live in this quare, solitary kind of a way.”

The hermit looked gravely from one to the other, and stroked his beard. Drawing his rude chair towards the door of the hut he folded his arms, and crossed his legs, and gazed dreamily forth upon the rich landscape. Then, glancing again at his guests, he said, slowly; “Yes, I will do what you ask,—I will tell you my story.”

“An’, if I might make so bould as to inquire,” said Barney, with a deprecatory smile, while he drew a short black pipe from his pocket, “have ye got such a thing as ’baccy in them parts?”

The hermit rose, and going to a small box which stood in a corner, returned with a quantity of cut tobacco in one hand, and a cigar not far short of a foot long in the other! In a few seconds the cigar was going in full force, like a factory chimney; and the short black pipe glowed like a miniature furnace, while its owner seated himself on a low stool, crossed his arms on his breast, leaned his back against the door-post and smiled,—as only an Irishman can smile under such circumstances. The smoke soon formed a thick cloud, which effectually drove the mosquitoes out of the hut, and though which Martin, lying in his hammock, gazed out upon the sunlit orange and coffee-trees, and tall palms with their rich festoons of creeping-plants, and sweet-scented flowers, that clambered over and round the hut and peeped in at the open door and windows, while he listened to the hermit who continued for at least ten minutes to murmur slowly, between the puffs of his cigar, “Yes, I will do it; I will tell you my story.”

Chapter Eleven.

The Hermit’s Story.

“My ancestors,” began the hermit, “were among the first to land upon Brazil, after the country was taken possession of in the name of the King of Portugal, in the year 1500. In the first year of the century, Vincent Vanez Pinçon, a companion of the famed Columbus, discovered Brazil; and in the next year, Pedro Alvarez Cabral, a Portuguese commander, took possession of it in the name of the King of Portugal. In 1503, Americus Vespucius discovered the Bay of All Saints, and took home a cargo of Brazil-wood, monkeys and parrots; but no permanent settlement was effected upon the shores of the new continent and the rich treasures of this great country remained for some years longer buried and unknown to many—for the wild Indians who lived here knew not their value.

“It was on a dark and stormy night in the year 1510. A group of swarthy and naked savages encircled a small fire on the edge of the forest on the east coast of Brazil. The spot where their watch-fire was kindled is now covered by the flourishing city of Bahia. At that time it was a wilderness. Before them stretched the noble bay which is now termed Bahia de Todos Santos,—All Saints’ Bay.

“The savages talked earnestly and with excited looks as they stood upon the shore, for the memory of the wondrous ships of the white men that had visited them a few years before was deeply engraven on their minds; and now, in the midst of the howling storm, another ship was seen approaching their land. It was a small vessel, shattered and tempest-tossed, that drove into the Bahia de Todos Santos on that stormy night. Long had it battled with the waves of the Atlantic, and the brave hearts that manned it had remained stanch to duty and strong in hope, remembering the recent glorious example of Columbus. But the storm was fierce and the bark was frail. The top-masts were broken and the sails rent; and worst of all, just as land hove in sight and cheered the drooping spirits of the crew, a tremendous wave dashed upon the ship’s stern and carried away the rudder.

“As they drove helplessly before the gale towards the shore, the naked savages crowded down upon the beach and gazed in awe and astonishment at the mysterious ship. A few of them had seen the vessels of Americus Vespucius and Cabral. The rumour of the white men and their floating castle had been wafted far and wide along the coast and into the interior of Brazil, and with breathless wonder the natives had listened to the strange account. But now the vision was before them in reality. On came the floating castle, the white foam dashing from her bows, and the torn sails and ropes flying from her masts as she surged over the billows and loomed through the driving spray.

“It was a grand sight to see that ship dashing straight towards the shore at fearful speed; and those who looked on seemed to be impressed with a vague feeling that she had power to spring upon the strand and continue her swift career through the forest, as she had hitherto cleft her passage through the sea. As she approached, the savages shrank back in fear. Suddenly her frame trembled with a mighty shock. A terrible cry was borne to land by the gale, and all her masts went overboard. A huge wave lifted the vessel on its crest and flung her further on the shore, where she remained firmly fixed, while the waves dashed in foam around her and soon began to break her up. Ere this happened, however, a rope was thrown ashore and fastened to a rock by the natives. By means of this the crew were saved. But it would have been well for these bold navigators of Portugal if they had perished in the stormy sea, for they were spared by the ocean, only to be murdered by the wild savages, on whose shore they had been cast.

“All were slain save one,—Diego Alvarez Carreo, the captain of the ship. Before grasping the rope by which he reached the shore, he thrust several cartridges into his bosom and caught up a loaded musket. Wrapping the lock in several folds of cloth to keep it dry, he slid along the rope and gained the beach in safety. Here he was seized by the natives, and would no doubt have been barbarously slain with his unfortunate companions; but, being a very powerful man, he dashed aside the foremost, and, breaking through their ranks, rushed towards the wood. The fleet savages, however, overtook him in an instant, and were about to seize him when a young Indian woman interposed between them and their victim. This girl was the chief’s daughter, and respect for her rank induced them to hesitate for a moment; but in another instant the Portuguese captain was surrounded. In the scuffle that ensued, his musket exploded, but fortunately wounded no one. Instantly the horrified savages fled in all directions leaving Carreo alone!

“The captain was quick-witted. He knew that among hundreds of savages it was madness to attempt either to fight or fly, and the happy effect of the musket explosion induced him to adopt another course of action. He drew himself up proudly to his full height, and beckoned the savages to return. This they did, casting many glances of fear at the dreaded musket. Going up to one who, from his bearing and ornaments, seemed to be a chief, Carreo laid his musket on the sand, and, stepping over it so that he left it behind him, held out his hand frankly to the chief. The savage looked at him in surprise, and suffered the captain to take his hand and pat it; after which he began to examine the stranger’s dress with much curiosity. Seeing that their chief was friendly to the white man, the other savages hurried him to the camp-fire, where he soon stripped off his wet clothes and ate the food which they put before him. Thus Diego Carreo was spared.

“Next day, the Indians lined the beach and collected the stores of the wrecked vessel. While thus employed, Carreo shot a gull with his musket; which so astonished the natives that they regarded him with fear and respect, amounting almost to veneration. A considerable quantity of powder and shot was saved from the wreck, so that the captain was enabled to keep his ascendency over the ignorant natives; and at length he became a man of great importance in the tribe, and married the daughter of the chief. He went by the name of Caramuru,—‘The man of fire.’ This man founded the city of Bahia.

“The coasts of Brazil began soon after this to be settled in various places by the Portuguese; who, however, were much annoyed by the Spaniards, who claimed a share in the rich prize. The Dutch and English also formed settlements; but the Portuguese still retained possession of the country, and continued to prosper. Meanwhile Diego Caramuru, ‘the man of fire,’ had a son who in course of time became a prosperous settler; and as his sons grew up he trained them to become cultivators of the soil and traders in the valuable products of the New World. He took a piece of ground, far removed from the spot where his father had been cast ashore, and a short distance in the interior of the country. Here the eldest sons of the family dwelt laboured, and died, for many generations.

“In the year 1808 Portugal was invaded by Napoleon Buonaparte, and the sovereign of that kingdom, John the Sixth, fled to Brazil, accompanied by his court and a large body of emigrants. The king was warmly received by the Brazilians, and immediately set about improving the condition of the country. He threw open its ports to all nations; freed the land from all marks of colonial dependence; established newspapers; made the press free, and did everything to promote education and industry. But although much was done, the good was greatly hindered, especially in the inland districts, by the vice, ignorance, and stupidity of many of the Roman Catholic priests, who totally neglected their duties,—which, indeed, they were incompetent to perform,—and in many instances, were no better than miscreants in disguise, teaching the people vice instead of virtue.

“Foremost among the priests who opposed advancement, was a descendant of the ‘man of fire.’ Padre Caramuru dwelt for some years with an English merchant in the capital of Brazil, Rio de Janeiro. The padre was not an immoral man, but he was a fiery bigot and fiercely opposed everything that tended to advance the education of the people. This he did, firmly believing that education was dangerous to the lower orders. His church taught him, too, that the Bible was a dangerous book; and whenever a copy fell into his hands he immediately destroyed it. During the disturbances that took place after the time of King John’s departure for Portugal, and just before Brazil became an independent state under his son, the Emperor Don Pedro the First, Padre Caramuru lost a beloved and only brother. He was quite a youth, and had joined the army only a few months previously, at the desire of his elder brother the padre, who was so overwhelmed by the blow that he ceased to take an active part in church or political affairs and buried himself in a retired part of his native valley. Here he sought relief and comfort in the study of the beauties of Nature, by which he was surrounded, but found none.

“Then he turned his mind to the doctrines of his church, and took pleasure in verifying them from the Bible. But, as he proceeded, he found, to his great surprise, that these doctrines were, many of them, not to be found there; nay, further, that some of them were absolutely contradicted by the word of God.

“Padre Caramuru had been in the habit of commanding his people not to listen to the Bible when any one offered to read it; but in the Bible itself he found these words, ‘Search the Scriptures.’ He had been in the habit of praying to the Virgin Mary, and begging her to intercede with God for him; but in the Bible he found these words: ‘There is one mediator between God and man, the man Christ Jesus.’ These things perplexed him much. But while he was thus searching, as it were, for silver, the ignorant padre found gold! He found that he did not require to work for salvation, but to ask for it. He discovered that the atonement had been made once for all by Jesus Christ the Lamb of God; and he read with a thrilling heart these words: ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’

“Long and earnestly did the padre ponder these words and pray over them; and gradually the Holy Spirit enlightened his mind, and he saw how hateful that system was which could forbid or discourage the reading of the blessed word of God. He soon resolved to forsake the priesthood. But when he had done so, he knew not what to turn his hand to. He had no one like-minded to consult with, and he felt that it was wrong to eat the bread of idleness. Being thus uncertain what to do, he resolved in the meantime to carry goods into the interior of the country, and offer them for sale. The land round his dwelling and his own gun would supply him with food; and for the rest, he would spend his time in the study of the Bible, and seek for more light and direction from God.

“Such,” continued the hermit, “is a slight sketch of the history of my country and of myself.”

“Yourself?” exclaimed Martin.

“Yes. I am the Padre Caramuru, or rather I was. I am Padre no longer, but Senhor Carlos Caramuru, a merchant. Yet I know not what to do. When I look round upon my country, and see how they know not the precious word of God, my heart burns in me, and I sometimes think that it is my duty to go forth and preach.”

“No doubt ye are right,” said Barney. “I’ve always bin of opinion that when a man feels very strong in his heart on any partic’lar subject it’s a sure sign that the Almighty intends him to have something more to do with that subject than other men who don’t feel about it at all.”

The hermit remained silent for a few minutes. “I think you are right, friend,” he said; “but I am very ignorant yet. I have no one to explain difficulties to me; and I fear to go about preaching, lest I should preach what is not true. I will study yet for a time, and pray. After that perhaps, I may go forth.”

“But you have told us nothing yet about the trade of the country,” said Martin, “or its size, or anything of that sort.”

“I will soon tell you of that, when I have lighted another cigar. This one does not draw well. Have you got a full pipe still, my friend?”

“All right, Mr Carrymooroo,” replied Barney, knocking out the ashes. “I’ll jist load wance more, and then,—fire away.”

In a few minutes the big cigar and short pipe were in full play, and the hermit continued:—

“This country is very large and very rich, but it is not well worked. The people are lazy, many of them, and have not much enterprise. Much is done, no doubt; but very much more might be done.

“The empire of Brazil occupies nearly one half of the whole continent of South America. It is 2600 miles long, and 2500 miles broad; which, as you know perhaps, is a little larger than all Europe. The surface of the country is beautiful and varied. The hilly regions are very wild, although none of the mountains are very high, and the woods are magnificent; but a great part of the land consists of vast grassy plains, which are called llanos, or campos, or silvas. The campos along the banks of the River Amazon are equal to six times the size of France; and there is one great plain which lies between the Sierra Ibiapaba and the River Tocantins which is 600 miles long by 400 miles broad. There are very few lakes in Brazil, and only one worth speaking of—the Lagoa dos Platos—which is 150 miles long. But our rivers are the finest in the whole world, being so long, and wide, and deep, and free from falls, that they afford splendid communication with the interior of the land. But alas! there are few ships on these rivers yet, very few. The rivers in the north part of Brazil are so numerous and interlaced that they are much like the veins in the human body; and the great River Amazon and a few of its chief tributaries resemble the arteries.

“Then as to our produce,” continued the hermit, “who can tell it all? We export sugar, and coffee, and cotton, and gold, silver, lead, zinc, quicksilver, and amethysts, and we have diamond mines—”

“Di’mond mines!” echoed Barney; “och, but I would like for to see them. Sure they would sparkle most beautiful. Are they far off, Mr Carrymooroo?”

“Yes, very far off. Then we export dye-woods, and cabinet-woods, and drugs, and gums, and hides,—a great many hides, for the campos are full of wild cattle, and men hunt them on horseback, and catch them with a long rope called the lasso.”

“How I should like to have a gallop over these great plains,” murmured Martin.

“Then we have,” continued the hermit, “rice, tapioca, cocoa, maize, wheat, mandioca, beans, bananas, pepper, cinnamon, oranges, figs, ginger, pine-apples, yams, lemons, mangoes, and many other fruits and vegetables. The mandioca you have eaten in the shape of farina. It is very good food; one acre gives as much nutriment as six acres of wheat.

“Of the trees you have seen something. There are thousands of kinds, and most magnificent. Some of them are more than thirty feet round about. There are two hundred different kinds of palms, and so thick stand the giant trees in many places, with creeping-plants growing between, that it is not possible for man to cut his way through the forests in some parts. Language cannot describe the grandeur and glory of the Brazilian forests.

“We have numbers of wild horses, and hogs, and goats; and in the woods are tiger-cats, jaguars, tapirs, hyenas, sloths, porcupines, and—but you have seen many things already. If you live you will see more. I need not tell you of these things; very soon I will show you some.

“The population of my country consists of the descendants of Portuguese settlers, native Indians, and Negroes. Of the latter, some are free, some slaves. The Indians go about nearly naked. Most of them are in a savage state: they paint their skins, and wear gaudy ornaments. The religion of the country is Roman Catholic, but all religions are tolerated; and I have much hope for the future of Brazil, in spite of the priests.”

“And do ye git much out o’ the di’mond mines?” inquired Barney, whose mind was running on this subject.

“O yes, a great deal. Every year many are got, and Government gets one-fifth of the value of all the gold and diamonds found in the country. One diamond was found a short time ago which was worth 40,000 pounds.”

“Ye don’t say so!” exclaimed Barney in great surprise, as he blew an immense cloud of smoke from his lips. “Now, that’s extror’nary. Why don’t everybody go to the mines and dig up their fortin at wance?”

“Because men cannot eat diamonds,” replied the hermit gravely.

“Troth, I niver thought o’ that; ye’re right.”

Martin laughed heartily as he lay in his hammock and watched his friend’s expression while pondering this weighty subject.

“Moreover,” resumed the hermit, “you will be surprised to hear that diamond and gold finding is not the most profitable employment in the country.

“The man who cultivates the ground is better off than anybody. It, is a fact a very great fact, a fact that you should get firmly fixed in your memory—that in less than two years the exports of sugar and coffee amounted to more than the value of all the diamonds found in eighty years. Yes, that is true. But the people of Brazil are not well off. They have everything that is necessary to make a great nation; but we are not a great nation, far from it.” The hermit sighed deeply as he ceased speaking, and fell into an abstracted frame of mind.

“It’s a great country intirely,” said Barney, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and placing that much-loved implement carefully in his pocket; “a great country, but there’s a tremendous big screw loose somewhere.”

“It seems curious to me,” said Martin, in a ruminating tone of voice, “that people should not get on better in a country, in which there is everything that man can desire, to make him rich and happy. I wonder what it wants; perhaps it’s too hot and the people want energy of character.”

“Want energy!” shouted the hermit leaping from his seat, and regarding his guests for a few moments with a stern expression of countenance; then, stretching forth his hand, he continued, in an excited tone: “Brazil does not want energy; it has only one want,—it wants the Bible! When a country is sunk down in superstition and ignorance and moral depravity, so that the people know not right from wrong, there is only one cure for her,—the Bible. Religion here is a mockery and a shame; such as, if it were better known, would make the heathen laugh in scorn. The priests are a curse to the land, not a blessing. Perhaps they are better in other lands,—I know not; but well I know they are, many of them, false and wicked here. No truth is taught to the people,—no Bible is read in their ears; religion is not taught,—even morality is not taught; men follow the devices and desires of their own hearts, and there is no voice raised to say, ‘You are doing wrong.’ My country is sunk very low; and she cannot hope to rise, for the word of her Maker is not in her hand. True, there are a few, a very few Bibles in the great cities; but that is all: that cannot save her hundreds of towns and villages. Thousands of her people are slaves in body,—all, all are slaves in soul; and yet you ask me what she wants. Ha! she wants truth, she wants to be purged of falsehood. She has bones and muscles, and arteries and veins,—everything to make a strong and healthy nation; but she wants blood,—she has no vital stream; yes, Brazil, my country, wants the Bible!”

Chapter Twelve.

A Hunting Expedition, in which are seen Stones that can run, and Cows that require no Food—besides a Desperate Encounter with a Jaguar, and other Strange Things.

For many weeks Martin Rattler and his friend Barney O’Flannagan continued to dwell with the hermit in his forest-home, enjoying his entertaining and instructive discourse, and joining with him in the bunting expeditions which he undertook for the purpose of procuring fresh food for his table. In these rambles they made constant discoveries of something new and surprising, both in reference to the vegetables and animals of that extraordinary region of the earth. They also had many adventures,—some amusing and some terrible,—which we cannot enlarge on here, for they would fill ten volumes such as this, were they to be all recorded in detail.

One day the hermit roused them earlier than usual, and told them to get ready, as he intended to go a considerable distance that day, and he wished to reach a particular spot before the heat of noon. So Martin and Barney despatched breakfast in as short a time as possible, and the hermit read them a chapter out of his large and well-thumbed Bible, after which they equipped themselves for the chase.

When Martin and his friend escaped from the pirates, and landed on the coast of Brazil, they were clothed in sailor-like costume, namely, white duck trousers, coloured flannel shirts, blue jackets, round straw-hats, and strong shoes. This costume was not very suitable for the warm climate, in which they now found themselves, so their hospitable friend the hermit gave them two loose light cotton coats or jackets, of a blue colour, and broad-brimmed straw-hats similar to his own. He also gave them two curious garments called ponchos. The poncho serves the purpose of cloak and blanket. It is simply a square dark-coloured blanket with a hole in the middle of it, through which the head is thrust in rainy weather, and the garment hangs down all round. At night the poncho is useful as a covering. The hermit wore a loose open hunting-coat and underneath it a girdle, in which was a long sharp knife and a brace of pistols. His trousers were of blue-striped cotton. He usually carried a double-barrelled gun over his shoulder, and a powder-horn and bullet-bag were slung round his neck. Barney now procured from this hospitable man a supply of powder and shot for his large brass-mounted cavalry pistol. The hermit also made him a present of a long hunting-knife; and he gave one of a smaller size to Martin. As Martin had no weapon, the hermit manufactured for him a stout bow and quiver full of arrows; with which, after some practice, he became reasonably expert.

Thus armed they sallied forth, and, following the foot-path that conducted from the door of the hut to the brow of the hill opposite, they were soon buried in the shades of the great forest. On this particular morning Barney observed that the hermit carried with him a stout spear, which he was not usually in the habit of doing. Being of an inquisitive disposition, he inquired the reason of his taking it.

“I expect to find a jaguar to-day,” answered the hermit. “I saw him yesterday go down into the small valley, in which my cows grow. I will show you my cows soon, Martin.”

The hermit stopped short suddenly as he spoke, and pointed to a large bird, about fifty yards in advance of them. It seemed to bear a particular ill-will to a round rough stone which it pecked most energetically. After a few minutes the bird ceased its attacks and flew off; whereupon the rough stone opened itself out, and, running quickly away, burrowed into a little hole and disappeared!

“That is an armadillo,” remarked the hermit, continuing to lead the way through the woods; “it is covered with a coat of mail, as you see; and when enemies come it rolls itself up like a ball and lies like a hard stone till they go away. But it has four little legs, and with them it burrows so quickly that we cannot dig it up, and must smoke it out of its hole,—which I do often, because it is very good to eat, as you very well know.”

While they continued thus to walk through the woods conversing, Martin and Barney were again interested and amused by the immense number of brilliant parrots and toucans which swooped about, chattering from tree to tree, in large flocks. Sometimes thirty or forty of the latter would come screaming through the woods and settle upon the dark-green foliage of a coffee-tree; the effect of which was to give the tree the appearance of having been suddenly loaded with ripe golden fruit. Then the birds would catch sight of the travellers, and fly screaming away, leaving the tree dark-green and fruitless as before. The little green parrots were the most outrageously noisy things that ever lived. Not content with screaming when they flew, they continued to shriek, apparently with delight while they devoured the seeds of the gorgeous sun-flowers: and, more than once, Martin was prompted to scatter a handful of stones among them, as a hint to be less noisy; but this only made them worse,—like a bad baby, which, the more you tell it to be quiet, sets to work the more earnestly to increase and add to the vigour of its roaring. So Martin wisely let the parrots alone. They also startled, in passing through swampy places, several large blue herons, and long-legged cranes: and on many of the trees they observed the curious hanging nests of a bird, which the hermit told them was the large oriole. These nests hung in long strings from the tops of the palm-trees, and the birds were very actively employed moving about and chattering round their swinging villages: on seeing which Martin could not help remarking that it would astonish the colony not a little, if the top house were to give way and let all the mansions below come tumbling to the ground!

They were disappointed, however, in not seeing monkeys gambolling among the trees, as they had expected.

“Ah! my friends,” said the hermit, “travellers in my country are very often disappointed. They come here expecting to see everything all at once; but although there are jaguars, and serpents, and bears, and monkeys, plenty of them, as your ears can tell you, these creatures keep out of the sight of man as much as possible. They won’t come out of the woods and show themselves to please travellers! You have been very lucky since you arrived. Many travellers go about for months together and do not see half so much as you.”

“That’s thrue,” observed Barney, with his head a little on one side, and his eyes cast up in a sort of meditative frown, as if he were engaged in subjecting the hermit’s remarks to a process of severe philosophical contemplation; “but I would be very well plazed av’ the wild bastes would show themselves now and then, for—”

Martin Rattler burst into a loud laugh, for Barney’s upward glance of contemplation was suddenly transformed into a gaze of intense astonishment, as he beheld the blue countenance of a large red monkey staring down upon him from amid the branches of an overhanging tree. The monkey’s face expressed, if possible, greater surprise than that of the Irishman, and its mouth was partially open and thrust forward in a sort of threatening and inquiring manner. There seemed to be some bond of sympathy between the monkey and the man, for while its mouth opened his mouth opened too.

“A–a–a–a–a–ah!” exclaimed the monkey. A facetious smile overspread Barney’s face—

“Och! be all manes; the same to you, kindly,” said he, taking off his hat and making a low bow.

The civility did not seem to be appreciated, however; for the monkey put on a most indignant frown and displayed a terrific double-row of long brilliant teeth and red gums, while it uttered a shriek of passion, twisted its long tail round a branch, and hurled itself, with a motion more like that of a bird than a beast, into the midst of the tree and disappeared, leaving Martin and Barney and the hermit, each with a very broad grin on his countenance.

The hunters now arrived at an open space where there were several large umbrageous trees, and as it was approaching mid-day they resolved to rest here for a couple of hours. Birds and insects were gradually becoming more and more silent and soon afterwards the only sounds that broke upon their ears were the curious metallic notes of the urupongas, or bell-birds; which were so like to the rapid beating of a smith’s hammer on an anvil, that it was with the greatest difficulty Barney was restrained from going off by himself in search of the “smiddy.” Indeed he began to suspect that the worthy hermit was deceiving him, and was only fully convinced at last when he saw one of the birds. It was pure white, about the size of a thrush, and had a curious horn or fleshy tubercle upon its head.

Having rested and refreshed themselves, they resumed their journey a short time before the noisy inhabitants of the woods recommenced their active afternoon operations.

“Hallo! what’s that?” cried Barney, starting back and drawing his pistol, while Martin hastily fitted an arrow to his bow.

Not ten paces in front of them a frightful monster ran across their path, which seemed so hideous to Martin, that his mind instantly reverted to the fable of Saint George and the Dragon, and he almost expected to see fire issuing from its mouth. It was a huge lizard, with a body about three feet long, covered with bright scales. It had a long, thick tail. Its head was clumsy and misshapen, and altogether its aspect was very horrible. Before either Martin or Barney could fire, the hermit dropped his gun and spear, sprang quickly forward, caught the animal by the tail, and, putting forth his great strength to the utmost, swung it round his head and dashed its brains out against a tree.

Barney and Martin could only stare with amazement.

“This we call an iguana,” said the hermit as he piled a number of heavy stones on the carcase to preserve it from other animals. “It is very good to eat—as good as chicken. This is not a very big one; they are sometimes five feet long, but almost quite harmless,—not venomous at all; and the only means he has to defend himself is the tail, which is very powerful, and gives a tremendously hard blow; but, as you see, if you catch him quick, he can do nothing.”

“It’s all very well for you, or even Barney here, to talk of catching him by the tail,” said Martin, smiling; “but it would have puzzled me to swing that fellow round my head.”

“Arrah! ye’re right, boy; I doubt if I could have done it mesilf,” said Barney.

“No fear,” said the hermit patting Martin’s broad shoulders as he passed him and led the way; “you will be strong enough for that very soon,—as strong as me in a year or two.”

They now proceeded down into a somewhat dark and closely wooded valley, through which meandered a small rivulet. Here they had some difficulty in forcing their way through the dense under-wood and broad leaves, most of which seemed very strange to Martin and his comrade, being so gigantic. There were also many kinds of ferns, which sometimes arched over their heads and completely shut out the view, while some of them crept up the trees like climbing-plants. Emerging from this, they came upon a more open space, in the midst of which grew a number of majestic trees.

“There are my cows!” said the hermit, pausing as he spoke, and pointing towards a group of tall straight-stemmed trees that were the noblest in appearance they had yet seen. “Good cows they are,” he continued, going up to one and making a notch in the bark with his axe: “they need no feeding or looking after, yet, as you see, they are always ready to give me cream.”

While he spoke, a thick white liquid flowed from the notch in the bark into a cocoa-nut drinking-cup, which the hermit always carried at his girdle. In a few minutes he presented his visitors with a draught, of what they declared was most excellent cream.

The masseranduba, or milk-tree, as it is called, is indeed one of the most wonderful of all the extraordinary trees in the forests of Brazil, and is one among many instances of the bountiful manner, in which God provides for the wants of his creatures. No doubt this might with equal truth be said of all the gifts that a beneficent Creator bestows upon mankind; but when, as in the case of this milk-tree, the provision for our wants comes in a singular and striking manner, it seems fitting and appropriate that we should specially acknowledge the gift as coming from the hand of Him who giveth us all things liberally to enjoy.

The milk-tree rises with a straight stem to an enormous height, and the fruit, about the size of a small apple, is full of rich and juicy pulp, and is very good. The timber, also, is hard, fine-grained, and durable,—particularly adapted for such works as are exposed to the weather. But its most remarkable peculiarity is the rich vegetable milk which flows in abundance from it when the bark is cut. This milk is so like to that of the cow in taste, that it can scarcely be distinguished from it, having only a very slight peculiarity of flavour, which is rather agreeable than otherwise. In tea and coffee it has the same effect as rich cream, and, indeed, is so thick that it requires to be diluted with water before being used. This milk is also employed as glue. It hardens when exposed to the air, and becomes very tough and slightly elastic, and is said to be quite as good and useful as ordinary glue.

Having partaken of as much milk as they desired, they continued their journey a little further, when they came to a spur of the sierra, or mountain range, that cuts through that part of the country. Here the ground became more rugged, but still densely covered with wood, and rocks lay piled about in many places, forming several dark and gloomy caverns. The hermit now unslung his gun and advanced to the foot of a cliff, near the further end of which there were several caves, the mouths of which were partially closed with long ferns and masses of luxuriant vegetation.

“Now we must be prepared,” said the hermit feeling the point of his spear. “I think there is a jaguar here. I saw him yesterday, and I am quite sure he will not go away till he tries to do some mischief. He little knows that there is nothing here to hurt but me.” The hermit chuckled as he said this, and resting his gun against the cliff near the entrance to the first cave, which was a small one, he passed on to the next. Holding the spear in his left band, he threw a stone violently into the cavern. Barney and Martin listened and gazed in silent expectation; but they only heard the hollow sound of the falling stone as it dashed against the sides of the cave; then all was still.

“Och, then, he’s off,” cried Barney.

“Hush,” said Martin; “don’t speak till he has tried the other cave.”

Without taking notice of their remarks, the hermit repeated the experiment at the mouths of two caverns further on, with the like result.

“Maybe the spalpeen’s hidin’ in the little cave where ye laid down yer gun,” suggested Barney, going towards the place as he spoke.

“Och, then, come here, friend; sure it must be the mouth of a mine, for there’s two o’ the beautifulest di’monds I iver—”

Barney’s speech was cut short by a low peculiar sound, that seemed like the muttering of far-distant thunder. At the same moment the hermit pulled him violently back, and, placing himself in a firm attitude full in front of the cavern, held the point of the spear advanced before him.

“Martin,” he whispered, “shoot an arrow straight into that hole,—quick!”

Martin obeyed, and the arrow whizzed through the aperture. Instantly there issued from it a savage and tremendous roar, so awful that it seemed as if the very mountain were bellowing and that the cavern were its mouth. But not a muscle of the hermit’s figure moved. He stood like a bronze statue,—his head thrown back and his chest advanced, with one foot planted firmly before him and the spear pointing towards the cave. It seemed strange to Martin that a man should face what appeared to him unknown danger, so boldly and calmly; but he did not consider that the hermit knew exactly the amount of danger before him. He knew precisely the manner in which it would assail him, and he knew just what was necessary to be done in order to avert it; and in the strength of that knowledge he stood unmoved, with a slight smile upon his tightly compressed lips.

Scarcely had the roar ceased when it was repeated with tenfold fierceness; the bushes and fern leaves shook violently, and an enormous and beautifully spotted jaguar shot through the air as if it had been discharged from a cannon’s mouth. The hermit’s eye wavered not; he bent forward a hair’s-breadth; the glittering spear-point touched the animal’s breast, pierced through it, and came out at its side below the ribs. But the force of the bound was too great for the strength of the weapon: the handle snapped in twain, and the transfixed jaguar struck down the hermit and fell writhing upon him!

In the excitement of the moment Barney drew his pistol from his belt and snapped it at the animal. It was well for the hermit at that moment that Barney had forgotten to prime his weapon; for, although he aimed at the jaguar’s skull, there is no doubt whatever that he would have blown out the hermit’s brains. Before he could make a second attempt, Martin sprang towards the gun which leaned against the cliff, and, running quickly up, he placed the muzzle close to the jaguar’s ear and lodged a bullet in its brain. All this was done in a few seconds, and the hermit regained his legs just as the animal fell dead. Fortunately he was not hurt, having adroitly avoided the sharp claws of his enemy.

“Arrah! Mister Hermit,” said Barney, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “it’s yersilf that was well-nigh done for this time, an’ no mistake. Did iver I see sich a spring! an’ ye stud the charge jist like a stone wall,—niver moved a fut!”

“Are you not hurt?” inquired Martin, somewhat anxiously; “your face is all covered with blood.”

“Yes, boy, but it is the blood of the jaguar; thanks to you for your quick hand, I am not hurt at all.”

The hermit washed his face in the neighbouring brook, and then proceeded to skin the jaguar, the carcase being worthless. After which they retraced their steps through the woods as quickly as possible, for the day was now far spent, and the twilight as we have before remarked, is so short in tropical latitudes that travellers require to make sure of reaching the end of the day’s journey towards evening, unless they choose to risk losing their way, and spending the night in the forest.

They picked up the iguana in passing; and, on reaching the spot where the armadillo had burrowed, the hermit paused and kindled a small fire over the hole, by means of his flint, steel, and tinder-box. He thus contrived to render the creature’s habitation so uncomfortable that it rushed hurriedly out; then, observing that its enemies were waiting, it doubled its head and tail together, and became the image of a rough stone.

“Poor thing,” said Martin, as the hermit killed it; “that reminds me of the ostrich of the desert, which, I’m told, when it is chased over the plains by men on horseback, and finds that it cannot escape, thrusts its head into a bush, and fancies, no doubt, that it cannot be seen, although its great body is visible a mile off!”

“Martin,” said Barney, “this arth is full o’ quare craturs intirely.”

“That’s true, Barney; and not the least ‘quare’ among them is an Irishman, a particular friend of mine!”

“Hould yer tongue, ye spalpeen, or I’ll put yer head in the wather!”

“I wish ye would, Barney, for it is terribly hot and mosquito-bitten, and you couldn’t have suggested anything more delightful. But here we are once more at our forest-home; and now for a magnificent cup of coffee and a mandioca-cake.”

“Not to mintion,” added Barney, “a juicy steak of Igu Anny, an’ a tender chop o’ Army Dillo.”

Chapter Thirteen.

Martin and Barney continue their Travels, and see Strange Things—Among others, they see Living Jewels—They go to see a Festa—They fight and run away.

Martin Rattler and Barney O’Flannagan soon after this began to entertain a desire to travel further into the interior of Brazil, and behold with their own eyes the wonders of which they had heard so much from their kind and hospitable friend, the hermit. Martin was especially anxious to see the great river Amazon, about which he entertained the most romantic ideas,—as well he might, for there is not such another river in the world for size, and for the many curious things connected with its waters and its banks. Barney, too, was smitten with an intense desire to visit the diamond mines, which he fancied must be the most brilliant and beautiful sight in the whole world; and when Martin asked him what sort of place he expected to see, he used to say that he “pictur’d in his mind a great many deep and lofty caverns, windin’ in an’ out an’ round about, with the sides and the floors and the ceilin’s all of a blaze with glittering di’monds, an’ top’zes, an’ purls, an’ what not; with Naiggurs be the dozen picking them up in handfuls. An’ sure,” he would add, “if we was wance there, we could fill our pockets in no time, an’ then, hooray for ould Ireland! an’ live like Imperors for ivermore.”

“But you forget Barney, the account the hermit has given us of the mines. He evidently does not think that much is to be made of them.”

“Och! niver mind the hermit. There’s always good luck attends Barney O’Flannagan; an’ sure if nobody wint for fear they would git nothing, all the di’monds that iver came out o’ the mines would be lyin’ there still; an’ didn’t he tell us there was wan got only a short time since, worth I don’t know how many thousand pounds? Arrah! if I don’t go to the Mines an’ git one the size o’ me head, I’ll let ye rig me out with a long tail, an’ set me adrift in the woods for a blue-faced monkey.”

It so happened that this was the time when the hermit was in the habit of setting out on one of his trading trips; and when Martin told him of the desire that he and Barney entertained to visit the interior, he told them that he would be happy to take them along with him, provided they would act the part of muleteers. To this they readily agreed, being only too glad of an opportunity of making some return to their friend, who refused to accept any payment for his hospitality, although Barney earnestly begged of him to accept of his watch, which was the only object of value he was possessed of,—and that wasn’t worth much, being made of pinchbeck, and utterly incapable of going! Moreover, he relieved their minds, by telling them that they would easily obtain employment as canoe-men on the Amazon, for men were very difficult to be got on that river to man the boats; and if they could stand the heat, and were willing to work like Indians, they might travel as far as they pleased. To which Martin replied, in his ignorance, that he thought he could stand anything; and Barney roundly asserted that, having been burnt to a cinder long ago in the “East Injies,” it was impossible to overdo him any more.

Under these circumstances, therefore, they started three weeks later to visit a populous town about twenty miles off, from which they set out on their travels, with a string of heavily laden mules, crossed the low countries or campos lying near to the sea, and began to ascend the sierras that divide this portion of Brazil from the country which is watered by the innumerable rivers that flow into the mighty Amazon.

The cavalcade consisted of ten mules, each with two goodly sized bales of merchandise on its back. They were driven and attended to by Negroes, whose costume consisted of a light cotton shirt with short sleeves, and a pair of loose cotton drawers reaching down to the knee. With the exception of a straw-hat this was all they wore. Martin, and Barney, and the hermit each bestrode a mule, with a small bale slung on either side; over the front of which their legs dangled comfortably. They had ponchos with them, strapped to the mules’ backs, and each carried a clumsy umbrella to shield him from the fierce rays of the sun; but our two adventurers soon became so hardened and used to the climate, that they dispensed with the umbrellas altogether.

The sierra, or mountain range, over which they passed was about thirty miles in extent, being in some places quite level and open, but in others somewhat rugged and covered with large but thinly scattered trees, the most common of which had fine dark-green glossy leaves, with spikes of bright-yellow flowers terminating the branchlets. There were also many peculiar shrubs and flowering plants, of a sort that the travellers had never seen the like of in their native land.

“How I wish,” said Martin with a sigh, as he rode along beside his friend Barney, “that I knew something of botany.”

Barney opened his eyes in surprise. “Arrah! it’s too much of a philosopher ye are already, lad. What good would it do ye to know all the hard names that men have given to the flowers? Sure I wance wint after the doctor o’ a ship, to carry his box for him when he wint on what he called botanical excursions; and the poor cratur used to be pokin’ his nose for iver down at the ground, an’ peerin’ through his green spectacles at miserable bits o’ plants, an’ niver seemin’ to enjoy anything; when all the time I was lookin’ far fornint me, an all around me, an’ up at the sky, seein’ ivery beautiful thing, and snifterin’ up the sweet smells, an’ in fact enjoyin’ the whole univarse—an my pipe to boot—like an intelligent cratur.” Barney looked round as he spoke, with a bland, self-satisfied expression of countenance, as if he felt that he had given a lucid definition of the very highest style of philosophy, and proved that he, Barney O’Flannagan, was possessed of the same in no common degree.

“Well, Barney,” rejoined Martin, “since you give me credit for being a philosopher, I must continue to talk philosophically. Your botanical friend took a microscopic view of nature, while you took a telescopic view of it. Each view is good, but both views are better; and I can’t help wishing that I were more of a philosopher than I am, especially in reference to botany.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Barney, who seemed not quite to understand his young friend, “yer observations are remarkably thrue, and do ye great credit, for yer years. Ah! Mr Hermit, good luck to ye! I’m glad to see that ye’ve got some consideration for man and baste. I’m quite ready for my victuals, and so’s my mule; aren’t you, avic?”

Barney’s latter remark was addressed to his patient charger, from whose back he sprang as he spoke, and slackened its girths.

It was now approaching mid-day, and the hermit had pitched upon a large tree as a fitting spot for rest and refreshment. Water had been brought up the mountain in a huge calabash; but they did not require to use it, as they found a quantity in the hollow stump of a tree. There were several frogs swimming about in this miniature lake; but it was found to be fresh and clear and good, notwithstanding.

Towards evening they passed a string of mules going towards the town which they had just left. They were driven by Negroes, most of whom were slaves, and nearly quite naked. A Brazilian merchant, wearing a picturesque broad-brimmed, high-crowned straw-hat, a poncho, and brown leather boots armed at the heels with large sharp spurs, rode at the head, and gave the strangers a surly nod of his head as they passed. Soon after, they descended into the plain, and came to a halt at a sort of roadside public-house, where there was no sleeping accommodation, but where they found an open shed in which travellers placed their goods, and slung their hammocks, and attended to themselves. At the venda, close beside it, they purchased a large bag of farina, being short of that necessary article of food, and then set to work to prepare supper in the open air; while the merry Negroes, who seemed to enjoy life most thoroughly, laughed and sang as they removed the bales from the mules’ backs and cooked their simple fare.

Barney’s cooking propensities now came into full play; and, with the variety of fruits and vegetables which the country afforded, he exercised his ingenuity, and produced several dishes of so savoury a nature that the hermit was compelled to open his eyes in amazement, and smack his lips with satisfaction, being quite unable to express his sentiments in words. While thus busily and agreeably employed, they were told by the owner of the venda that a festa was being celebrated at a village about a league distant from where they stood.

“I should like to see it above all things,” said Martin eagerly; “could we not go?”

The hermit frowned. “Yes, we can go, but it will be to behold folly. Perhaps it will be a good lesson, from which much may be learned. We will go.”

“It’s not a step that I’ll budge till I’ve finished me pipe,” said Barney, pulling away at that bosom friend with unexampled energy. “To smoke,” he continued, winking gently with one eye, “is the first law of nature; jist give me ten minutes more, an’ I’m your man for anything.”

Being a fine evening, they proceeded on foot. In about an hour after setting out, they approached the village, which lay in a beautiful valley below them. Sounds of mirth and music rose like a distant murmur on the air, and mingled with the songs of birds and insects. Then the sun went down, and in a few minutes it grew dark, while the brilliant fire-flies began their nocturnal gambols. Suddenly a bright flame burst over the village, and a flight of magnificent rockets shot up into the sky, and burst in a hundred bright and variously-coloured stars, which paled for a few seconds the lights of nature. But they vanished in a moment, and the clear stars shed abroad their undying lustre,—seeming, in their quiet unfading beauty, a gentle satire on the short-lived and garish productions of man.

“Mighty purty, no doubt,” exclaimed Barney. “Is this the Imperor’s birth-day?”

“No,” replied the hermit shaking his head; “that is the way in which the false priests amuse the people. The poor Indian and the Negro, and, indeed, the ignorant Brazilian, thinks it very grand; and the priests let them think it is pleasing to the God of heaven. Ah! here comes an old Negro; we will ask him.”

Several country people, in varied and picturesque costumes, hurried past the travellers towards the village; and as they came to a foot-path that joined the road, an old Negro approached them. Saluting him in the Portuguese language, the hermit said, “Friend, why do they let off rockets to-night?”

“Por Dios,” (for God), answered the old man, looking and pointing upwards with grave solemnity. Without vouchsafing another word, he hurried away.

“So they think,” said the hermit, “and so they are taught by the priests. Music, noise, and fire-works please these ignorant people; and so the priests, who are mostly as ignorant as the people, tell them it is a good part of religious ceremony.”

Presently a band of young girls came laughing and singing along the road. They were dressed in pure white, their rich black tresses being uncovered and ornamented with flowers, and what appeared to be bright jewels.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Martin, gazing after them; “what splendid jewels! surely these must be the daughters of very rich people.”

“Och, but they’ve been at the di’mond mines for certain! Did iver ye sae the like?”

The girls did indeed seem to blaze with jewels, which not only sparkled in their hair, but fringed their white robes, and were worked round the edges of their slippers; so that a positive light shone around their persons, and fell upon the path like a halo, giving them more the appearance of lovely supernatural beings than the daughters of earth.

“These jewels,” said the hermit, “were never polished by the hands of men. They are fire-flies.”

“Fire-flies!” exclaimed Martin and Barney simultaneously.

“Yes, they are living fire-flies. The girls very often catch them and tie them up in little bits of gauze, and put them, as you see, on their dresses and in their hair. To my mind they seem more beautiful far than diamonds. Sometimes the Indians, when they travel at night, fix fire-flies to their feet and so have good lamps to their path.”

While Barney was expressing his surprise at this information, in very racy language, they entered the village; and, mingling with the throng of holiday-keepers, followed the stream towards the grand square.

The church, which seemed to be a centre of attraction, and was brilliantly illuminated, was a neat wooden building with two towers. The streets of the village were broad and straggling; and so luxuriant was the vegetation, and so lazy the nature of the inhabitants, that it seemed as if the whole place were overgrown with gigantic weeds. Shrubs and creeping-plants grew in the neglected gardens, climbed over the palings, and straggled about the streets. Plants grew on the tops of the houses, ferns peeped out under the eaves; and, in short, on looking at it, one had the feeling that ere long the whole place, people and all, must be smothered in superabundant vegetation!

The houses were all painted white or yellow, with the doors and windows bright green,—just like grown-up toys; and sounds of revelry, with now and then the noise of disputation, issued from many of them.

It is impossible to describe minutely the appearance of the motley crowd, through which our adventurers elbowed their way, gazing curiously on the strange scene, which seemed to them more like a dream than reality, after their long sojourn in the solitudes of the forest. Processions headed by long-robed priests with flambeaux and crucifixes; young girls in light costumes and long white cotton shawls, selling sweet cakes of mandioca flour, and bonbons; swarthy Brazilians, some in white jackets, loose cotton drawers, and straw-hats, others in brown leather boots and ponchos; Negroes in short white drawers and shifts, besides many without any clothing above their waists; Indians from the interior, copper-coloured, and some of them, fine-looking men, having only a strip of cloth about their loins;—such were the strange crew whose loud voices added to the whiz of rockets, squibs, crackers, guns, and musical instruments, created a deafening noise.

In the midst of the village there was a tree of such enormous size that it quite took our travellers by surprise. It was a wild fig-tree, capable of sheltering a thousand persons under its shadow! Here a spirited fandango was going on, and they stood for some time watching the movements of the performers. Growing tired of this, they wandered about until they came to a less crowded part of the village, and entered a pleasant grove of trees, skirting the road by which they had arrived. While sauntering here, enjoying the cool night breeze and delicious perfume of flowers, a woman uttered a piercing shriek near to them. It was instantly followed by loud voices in altercation. Ever ready to fly to the help of womankind, and, generally, to assist in a “row,” Barney darted through the bushes, and came upon the scene of action just in time to see the white skirt of a female’s dress disappear down an avenue, and to behold two Brazilians savagely writhing in mortal strife. At the moment he came up, one of the combatants had overcome the other, and a fierce smile of triumph crossed his swarthy countenance as he raised his gleaming knife.

“Och, ye murtherer! would ye attimpt that same?” cried Barney, catching the man by the wrist and hurling him on his back. The other sprang up on being thus unexpectedly freed, and darted away, while the thwarted man uttered a yell of disappointment and sprang like a tiger at Barney’s throat. A blow, however, from the Irishman’s fist, quietly delivered, and straight between the eyes, stretched the Brazilian on the ground. At the same moment a party of men, attracted by the cries, burst through the bushes and surrounded the successful champion. Seeing their countryman apparently dead upon the ground, they rushed upon Barney in a body; but the first who came within reach was floored in an instant, and the others were checked in their career by the sudden appearance of the hermit and Martin Rattler. The noise of many voices, as of people hastening towards them, was heard at the same time.

“We have no time to lose, do as I bid you,” whispered the hermit. Whirling a heavy stick round his head the hermit shouted the single word “Charge!” and dashed forward.

Barney and Martin obeyed. Three Brazilians went down like ninepins; the rest turned and fled precipitately.

“Now, run for life!” cried the hermit, setting the example. Barney hesitated to follow what he deemed a cowardly flight, but the yells of the natives returning in strong force decided the question. He and Martin took to their heels with right good will, and in a few minutes the three friends were far on the road which led to their night bivouac; while the villagers, finding pursuit hopeless, returned to the village, and continued the wild orgies of their festa.

Chapter Fourteen.

Cogitations and Canoeing on the Amazon—Barney’s Exploit with an Alligator—Stubborn Facts—Remarkable Mode of Sleeping.

It is pleasant, when the sun is bright, and the trees are green, and when flowering shrubs and sweet-smelling tropical trees scent the balmy atmosphere at eventide, to lie extended at full length in a canoe, and drop easily, silently, yet quickly, down the current of a noble river, under the grateful shadow of overhanging foliage; and to look lazily up at the bright blue sky which appears in broken patches among the verdant leaves; or down at the river in which that bright sky and those green leaves are reflected; or aside at the mud-banks where greedy vultures are searching for prey, and lazy alligators are basking in the sun; and to listen, the while, to the innumerable cries and notes of monkeys, toucans, parrots, orioles, bemtevi or fly-catchers, white-winged and blue chatterers, and all the myriads of birds and beasts that cause the forests of Brazil, above all other forests in the world probably, to resound with the gleeful songs of animated nature!

It is pleasant to be thus situated, especially when a cool breeze blows the mosquitoes and other insects off the water, and relieves you for a time from their incessant attacks. Martin Rattler found it pleasant as he thus lay on his back with his diminutive pet marmoset monkey seated on his breast quietly picking the kernel out of a nut. And Barney O’Flannagan found it pleasant, as he lay extended in the bow of the canoe with his head leaning over the edge gazing abstractedly at his own reflected visage, while his hands trailed through the cool water, and his young dog—a shaggy indescribable beast with a bluff nose and a bushy tail—watched him intently, as a mother might watch an only child in a dangerous situation. And the old sun-dried, and storm-battered, and time-shrivelled mulatto trader, in whose canoe they were embarked and whose servants they had become, found it pleasant, as he sat there perched in his little montaria, like an exceedingly ancient and overgrown monkey, guiding it safely down the waters of the great river of the Tocantins.

Some months have passed since we last parted from our daring adventurers. During that period they had crossed an immense tract of country, and reached the head-waters of one of the many streams that carry the surplus moisture of central Brazil into the Amazon. Here they found an old trader, a free mulatto, whose crew of Indians had deserted him,—a common thing in that country,—and who gladly accepted their services, agreeing to pay them a small wage. And here they sorrowfully, and with many expressions of good-will, parted from their kind friend and entertainer the hermit. His last gift to Martin was the wonderfully small marmoset monkey before mentioned; and his parting souvenir to Barney was the bluff-nosed dog that watched over him with maternal care, and loved him next to itself;—as well it might; for if everybody had been of the same spirit as Barney O’Flannagan, the Act for the prevention of cruelty to animals would never have been passed in Britain.

It was a peculiar and remarkable and altogether extraordinary monkey, that tiny marmoset. There was a sort of romance connected with it, too; for it had been the mother of an indescribably small infant-monkey, which was killed at the time of its mother’s capture. It drank coffee, too, like—like a Frenchman; and would by no means retire to rest at night until it had had its usual allowance. Then it would fold its delicate little hands on its bosom, and close its eyes with an expression of solemn grief, as if, having had its last earthly wish gratified, it now resigned itself to sleep. Martin loved it deeply, but his love was unrequited; for, strange to say, that small monkey lavished all its affection on Barney’s shaggy dog. And the dog knew it, and was evidently proud of it, and made no objection whatever to the monkey sitting on his back, or his head, or his nose, or doing in fact whatever it chose whenever it pleased. When in the canoe, the marmoset played with Grampus, as the dog was named; and when on shore it invariably travelled on his back.

Martin used to lie in the canoe half asleep and watch the little face of the marmoset, until, by some unaccountable mental process, he came to think of Aunt Dorothy Grumbit. Often did poor Martin dream of his dear old aunt, while sleeping under the shelter of these strange-leaved tropical trees and surrounded by the wild sounds of that distant land, until he dreamed himself back again in the old village. Then he would rush to the well-known school, and find all the boys there except Bob Croaker, who he felt certain must be away drowning the white kitten; and off he would go and catch him, sure enough, in the very act, and would give him the old thrashing over again, with all the additional vigour acquired during his rambles abroad thrown into it. Then he would run home in eager haste, and find old Mrs Grumbit hard at the one thousand nine hundred and ninety-ninth pair of worsted socks; and fat Mr Arthur Jollyboy sitting opposite to her, dressed in the old lady’s bed-curtain chintz and high-crowned cap, with the white kitten in his arms and his spectacles on his chin, watching the process with intense interest and cautioning her not to forget the “hitch” by any means; whereupon the kitten would fly up in his face, and Mr Jollyboy would dash through the window with a loud howl, and Mrs Grumbit’s face would turn blue; and, uncoiling an enormous tail, she would bound shrieking after him in among the trees and disappear! Martin usually wakened at this point and found the marmoset gazing in his face with an expression of sorrowful solemnity, and the old sun-dried trader staring vacantly before him as he steered his light craft down the broad stream of the Tocantins.

The trader could speak little more English than sufficed to enable him to say “yes” and “no;” Barney could speak about as much Portuguese as enabled him to say “no” and “yes;” while Martin, by means of a slight smattering of that language, which he had picked up by ear during the last few months, mixed now and then with a word or two of Latin, and helped out by a clever use of the language of signs, succeeded in becoming the link of communication between the two.

For many weeks they continued to descend the river; paddling energetically when the stream was sluggish, and resting comfortably when the stream was strong, and sometimes dragging their canoe over rocks and sand-banks to avoid rapids—passing many villages and plantations of the natives by the way—till at last they swept out upon the bosom of the great Amazon River.

The very first thing they saw upon entering it was an enormous alligator, fully eighteen feet long, sound asleep on a mud-bank.

“Och! put ashore, ye Naygur,” cried Barney, seizing his pistol and rising up in the bow of the canoe. The old man complied quickly, for his spirit was high and easily roused.

“Look out now, Martin, an’ hould back the dog for fear he wakes him up,” said Barney, in a hoarse whisper, as he stepped ashore and hastened stealthily towards the sleeping monster; catching up a handful of gravel as he went, and ramming it down the barrel of his pistol. It was a wonderful pistol that—an Irish one by birth, and absolutely incapable of bursting, else assuredly it would have gone, as its owner said, to “smithereens” long ago.

Barney was not a good stalker. The alligator awoke and made for the water as fast as it could waddle. The Irishman rushed forward close up, as it plunged into the river, and discharged the compound of lead and stones right against the back of its head. He might as well have fired at the boiler of a steam-engine. The entire body of an alligator—back and belly, head and tail—is so completely covered with thick hard scales, that shot has no effect on it; and even a bullet cannot pierce its coat of mail, except in one or two vulnerable places. Nevertheless the shot had been fired so close to it that the animal was stunned, and rolled over on its back in the water. Seeing this, the old trader rushed in up to his chin, and caught it by the tail; but at the same moment the monster recovered, and, turning round, displayed its terrific rows of teeth. The old man uttered a dreadful roar, and struggled to the land as fast as he could; while the alligator, equally frightened, no doubt, gave a magnificent flourish and splash with its tail, and dived to the bottom of the river.

The travellers returned disgusted to their canoe, and resumed their journey up the Amazon in silence.

The vulnerable places about an alligator are the soft parts under the throat and the joints of the legs. This is well-known to the jaguar, its mortal foe, which attacks it on land, and fastening on these soft parts, soon succeeds in killing it; but should the alligator get the jaguar into its powerful jaws or catch it in the water, it is certain to come off the conqueror.

The Amazon, at its mouth, is more like a wide lake or arm of the sea than a river. Mention has been already made of this noble stream in the Hermit’s Story; but it is worthy of more particular notice, for truly the Amazon is in many respects a wonderful river. It is the largest, though not quite the longest, in the world. Taking its rise among the rocky solitudes of the great mountain range of the Andes, it flows through nearly four thousand miles of the continent in an easterly direction, trending northward towards its mouth, and entering the Atlantic Ocean on the northern coast of South America, directly under the Equator. In its course it receives the waters of nearly all the great rivers of central South America, and thousands of smaller tributaries; so that when it reaches the ocean its volume of water is enormous. Some idea may be formed of its majestic size, from the fact that one of its tributaries—the Rio Negro—is fifteen hundred miles long, and varying in breadth; being a mile wide not far from its mouth, while higher up it spreads out in some places into sheets of ten miles in width. The Madeira, another tributary, is also a river of the largest size. The Amazon is divided into two branches at its mouth by the island of Marajo, the larger branch being ninety-six miles in width. About two thousand miles from its mouth it is upwards of a mile wide. So great is the force of this flood of water, that it flows into the sea unmixed for nearly two hundred miles. The tide affects the river to a distance of about four hundred miles inland; and it is navigable from the sea for a distance of three thousand miles inland.

On the north bank of the Amazon there are ranges of low hills, partly bare and partly covered with thickets. These hills vary from three hundred to a thousand feet high, and extend about two hundred miles inland. Beyond them the shores of the river are low and flat, for more than two thousand miles, till the spurs of the Andes are reached.

During the rainy season the Amazon overflows all its banks, like the Nile, for many hundreds of miles; during which season, as Martin Rattler truly remarked, the natives may be appropriately called aquatic animals. Towns and villages, and plantations belonging to Brazilians, foreign settlers, and half-civilised Indians, occur at intervals throughout the whole course of the river; and a little trade in dye-woods, India-rubber, medicinal drugs, Brazil nuts, coffee, etcetera, is done; but nothing to what might and ought to be, and perhaps would be, were this splendid country in the hands of an enterprising people. But the Amazonians are lazy, and the greater part of the resources of one of the richest countries in the world is totally neglected.

“Arrah!” said Barney, scratching his head and wrinkling his forehead intensely, as all that we have just written, and a great deal more, was told to him by a Scotch settler whom he found superintending a cattle estate and a saw-mill on the banks of the Amazon—

“Faix, then, I’m jist as wise now as before ye begun to spake. I’ve no head for fagures whatsumdiver; an’ to tell me that the strame is ninety-six miles long and three thousand miles broad at the mouth, and sich like calcerlations, is o’ no manner o’ use, and jist goes in at wan ear an’ out at the tother.”

Whereupon the Scotch settler smiled and said, “Well, then, if ye can remember that the Amazon is longer than all Europe is broad; that it opens up to the ocean not less than ten thousand miles of the interior of Brazil; and that, comparatively speaking, no use is made of it whatever, ye’ll remember enough to think about with profit for some time to come.”

And Barney did think about it, and ponder it, and revolve it in his mind, for many days after, while he worked with Martin and the old trader at the paddles of their montaria. They found the work of canoeing easier than had been anticipated; for during the summer months the wind blows steadily up the river, and they were enabled to hoist their mat-sail, and bowl along before it against the stream.

Hotels and inns there were none; for Brazil does not boast of many such conveniences, except in the chief towns; so they were obliged, in travelling, to make use of an empty hut or shed, when they chanced to stop at a village, and to cook their own victuals. More frequently, however, they preferred to encamp in the woods—slinging their hammocks between the stems of the trees, and making a fire sometimes, to frighten away the jaguars, which, although seldom seen, were often heard at night. They met large canoes and montarias occasionally coming down the stream, and saw them hauled up on shore, while their owners were cooking their breakfast in the woods; and once they came upon a solitary old Indian in a very curious position. They had entered a small stream in order to procure a few turtles’ eggs, of which there were many in that place buried in the sand-banks. On turning a point where the stream was narrow and overhung with bushes and trees, they beheld a canoe tied to the stem of a tree, and a hammock slung between two branches overhanging the water. In this an old Indian lay extended, quite naked and fast asleep! The old fellow had grown weary with paddling his little canoe; and, finding the thicket along the river’s banks so impenetrable that he could not land, he slung his hammock over the water, and thus quietly took his siesta. A flock of paroquets were screaming like little green demons just above him, and several alligators gave him a passing glance as they floundered heavily in the water below; but the red man cared not for such trifles. Almost involuntarily Martin began to hum the popular nursery rhyme—

“Hushy ba, baby, on the tree top;

When the wind blows the cradle will rock.”

“Arrah, if he was only two foot lower, its thirty pair o’ long teeth would be stuck into his flank in wan minute, or I’m no prophet,” said Barney, with a broad grin.

“Suppose we give him a touch with the paddle in passing,” suggested Martin.

At this moment Barney started up, shaded his eyes with his hand, and, after gazing for a few seconds at some object ahead of the canoe, he gave utterance to an exclamation of mingled surprise and consternation.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Great Anaconda’s Dinner—Barney gets a Fright—Turtles’ Eggs, Omelets and Alligators’ Tails—Senhor Antonio’s Plantation—Preparations for a Great Hunt.

The object which called forth the cry from our Irish friend, as related in the last chapter, was neither more nor less than a serpent of dimensions more enormous than Barney had ever before conceived of. It was upwards of sixteen feet long, and nearly as thick as a man’s body; but about the neck it was three times that size. This serpent was not, indeed, of the largest size. In South America they grow to nearly forty feet in length. But it was fabulously gigantic in the eyes of our adventurers, who had never seen a serpent of any kind before.

“Oh!” cried Martin, eagerly, “that must be an anaconda. Is it not?” he inquired, turning to the old trader.

“Yees; it dead,” was the short reply.

“So it is!” cried Martin, who, on a nearer approach, observed that the brute’s body was cut in two just below the swelling at the neck.

“Now, did ye iver,” cried Barney with increased surprise, “see a sarpint with a cow’s horns growin’ out at its mouth? Put ashore, old boy; we must have a ’vestigation o’ this remarkable cratur.”

The canoe was soon aground, and in another minute the three travellers busily engaged in turning over the carcass of the huge reptile, which they found, to the amazement of Martin and Barney, had actually swallowed an ox whole, with the exception of the horns, which protruded from its mouth!

After much questioning, in bad Portuguese, broken English, and remarkable signs, Martin succeeded in drawing from the old trader the information that anacondas of a large size are often in the habit of thus bolting horses and oxen at a mouthful.

There is not the slightest exaggeration in this fact. Readers who are inclined to disbelieve it may refer to the works of Wallace and Gardner on Brazil,—authorities which cannot be doubted.

The reptile commences by patiently watching, until an unfortunate animal strays near to where it is lying, when it darts upon it, encircles it in its massive coils, and crushes it to death in an instant. Then it squeezes the body and broken bones into a shapeless mass; after which it licks the carcass all over, and covers it with a thick coating of saliva. Having thus prepared its mouthful, the anaconda begins at the tail and gradually engulfs its victim, while its elastic jaws, and throat, and stomach are distended sufficiently to let it in; after which it lies in a torpid state for many weeks, till the morsel is digested, when it is ready for another meal. A horse goes down entire, but a cow sticks at the horns, which the anaconda cannot swallow. They are allowed to protrude from its mouth until they decay and drop off.

They were at a loss at first to account for the creature being killed; but the old trader suggested that it had been found in a torpid state, and slain by the Indian whom they had seen a short time ago enjoying his siesta among the trees.

Having cut it open, in order to convince themselves beyond a doubt that it had swallowed an entire ox, Martin and the old trader re-embarked in the canoe, and Barney was on the point of joining them when the bushes close beside him were slightly stirred. Looking quickly round, he beheld the head and the glittering eyes of another anaconda, apparently as large as the dead one, ready to dart upon him,—at least so he fancied; but he did not wait to give it a chance. He fled instantly, and sprang towards the boat which he nearly upset as he leaped into it, and pushed out into the stream. On reaching the middle of the river they looked back, but the anaconda was gone.

Soon after this they came to a long sandbank, where the old trader said they should find as many turtles’ eggs as they wished for, although to Barney and Martin there seemed to be nothing on the bank at all. The freshwater turtle of the Amazon, of which there are various species, is one of the most useful of reptiles. Its flesh supplies abundance of good food; and the eggs, besides being eaten, afford an excellent oil. The largest species grow to the length of three feet, and have a flattish oval shell of a dark colour, and quite smooth. Turtles lay their eggs about the beginning of September, when the sand-banks begin to be uncovered. They scrape deep holes for them, and cover them carefully over, beating down the sand quite flat, and walking across the place several times, for the purpose of concealment. The eggs are then left to be hatched by the heat of the sun. But alas for the poor turtles, men are too clever for them. The eggs are collected by the natives in thousands, and, when oil is to be made of them, they are thrown into a canoe, smashed and mixed up together, and left to stand, when the oil rises to the top, and is skimmed off and boiled. It keeps well, and is used both for lamps and cooking. Very few of the millions of eggs that are annually laid arrive at maturity.

When the young turtles issue forth and run to the water, there are many enemies watching for them. Great alligators open their jaws and swallow them by hundreds; jaguars come out of the forests and feed upon them; eagles and buzzards and wood-ibises are there, too, to claim their share of the feast; and, if they are fortunate enough to escape all these, there are many large and ravenous fishes ready to seize them in the stream. It seems a marvel that any escape at all.

In a few minutes the old trader scraped up about a hundred eggs, to the immense satisfaction of Martin and Barney. Then he took a bow and arrow from the bottom of the montaria, and shot a large turtle in the water, while his companions kindled a fire, intending to dine.

Only the nose of the turtle was visible above water; but the old man was so expert in the use of the bow, that he succeeded in transfixing the soft part of the animal’s neck with an arrow, although that part was under water. It was a large turtle, and very fat and heavy, so that it was with difficulty the trader lifted it upon his old shoulders and bore it in triumph to the spot where his companions were busily engaged with their cooking operations. Turtles are frequently shot with the arrow by the natives; they are also taken in great numbers with the hook and the net.

Dinner was soon ready. Barney concocted an immense and savoury omelet, and the old trader cooked an excellent turtle-steak, while Martin prepared a junk of jaguar meat, which he roasted, being curious to taste it, as he had been told that the Indians like it very much. It was pretty good, but not equal to the turtle-eggs. The shell of the egg is leathery, and the yolk only is eaten. The Indians sometimes eat them raw, mixed with farina. Cakes of farina, and excellent coffee, concluded their repast; and Barney declared he had never had such a satisfactory “blow out” in his life; a sentiment with which Martin entirely agreed, and the old trader—if one might judge from the expression of his black countenance—sympathised.

For many weeks our adventurers continued to ascend the Amazon, sometimes sailing before the wind; at other times, when it fell calm, pushing the montaria up the current by means of long poles, or advancing more easily with the paddles. Occasionally they halted for a day at the residence of a wealthy cacao planter, in order to sell him some merchandise; for which purpose the canoe was unloaded, and the bales were opened out for his inspection. Most of these planters were Brazilians, a few were Yankee adventurers, and one or two were Scotch and English; but nearly all had married Brazilian ladies, who, with their daughters, proved good customers to the old trader. Some of these ladies were extremely “purty craturs,” as Barney expressed it; but most of them were totally uneducated and very ignorant,—not knowing half so much as a child of seven or eight years old in more favoured lands. They were very fond of fine dresses and ornaments, of which considerable supplies were sent to them from Europe and the United States, in exchange for the valuable produce of their country. But although their dresses were fine and themselves elegant, their houses were generally very poor affairs—made of wood and thatched with broad leaves; and it was no uncommon thing to see a lady, who seemed from her gay dress to be fitted for a drawing-room, seated on an earthen floor. But there were all sorts of extremes in this strange land; for at the next place they came to, perhaps, they found a population of Negroes and Indians, and most of the grown-up people were half naked, while all the children were entirely so.

At one plantation, where they resolved to spend a few days, the owner had a pond which was much frequented by alligators. These he was in the habit of hunting periodically, for the sake of their fat, which he converted into oil. At the time of their arrival, he was on the eve of starting on a hunting expedition to the lake, which was about eight miles distant; so Barney and Martin determined to go and “see the fun,” as the latter said.

“Martin, lad,” remarked Barney, as they followed the Negro slave who had been sent by Senhor Antonio, the planter, to conduct them to the lake, while he remained behind for an hour or two to examine the bales of the old trader; “this is the quarest country, I believe, that iver was made; what with bastes, and varmints, and riptiles, and traes, and bushes, and rivers, it bates all creation.”

“Certainly it does, Barney; and it is a pity there are so few people in it who know how to make use of the things that are scattered all around them. I’m inclined to think the hermit was right when he said that they wanted the Bible. They are too far sunk in laziness and idleness to be raised up by anything else. Just look,” continued Martin, glancing round, “what a wonderful place this is! It seems as if all the birds and curious trees in Brazil had congregated here to meet us.”

“So’t does,” said Barney, stopping to gaze on the scene through which they were passing, with an expression of perplexity on his face, as if he found the sight rather too much even for his comprehension. Besides the parrots and scarlet and yellow macaws, and other strange-looking birds which we have elsewhere mentioned, there were long-tailed light-coloured cuckoos flying about from tree to tree, not calling like the cuckoo of Europe at all, but giving forth a sound like the creaking of a rusty hinge; there were hawks and buzzards of many different kinds, and red-breasted orioles in the bushes, and black vultures flying overhead, and Muscovy ducks sweeping past with whizzing wings, and flocks of the great wood-ibis sailing in the air on noiseless pinions, and hundreds of other birds that it would require an ornithologist to name; and myriads of insects,—especially ants and spiders, great and small,—that no entomologist could chronicle in a life-time: all these were heard and seen at once; while of the animals that were heard, but not so often seen, there were black and spotted jaguars, and pacas, and cotias, and armadillos, and deer, and many others, that would take pages to enumerate and whole books to describe.

But the noise was the great point. That was the thing that took Martin and Barney quite aback, although it was by no means new to them; but they could not get used to it. And no wonder! Ten thousand paroquets shrieking passionately, like a hundred knife-grinders at work, is no joke; especially when their melodies are mingled with the discordant cries of herons, and bitterns, and cranes, and the ceaseless buzz and hum of insects, like the bagpipe’s drone, and the dismal croaking of boat-bills and frogs,—one kind of which latter, by the way, doesn’t croak at all, but whistles, ay, better than many a bird! The universal hubbub is tremendous! I tell you, reader, that you don’t understand it and you can’t understand it; and if, after I had used the utmost excess of exaggerated language to convey a correct impression of the reality, you were to imagine that you really did understand it, you would be very lamentably mistaken—that’s all!

Nevertheless, you must not run away with the idea that the whole empire of Brazil is like this. There are dark thick solitudes in these vast forests, which are solemn and silent enough at times; and there are wide grassy campos, and great sandy plains, where such sounds are absent. Yet there are also thousands of such spots as I have just described, where all nature, in earth, air, and water, is instinct with noisy animal life.

After two hours’ walk, Martin and his companion reached the lake, and here active preparations were making for the alligator hunt.

“Is that the only place ye have to spind the night in, Sambo?” said Barney to their conductor, as he pointed to a wooden shed near which some fifteen or twenty Negro slaves were overhauling the fishing tackle.

“Yis, massa,” answered the black, showing his white teeth; “dat is de hottle of dis great city.” Sambo could speak a little English, having wrought for several years on the coffee plantation of a Yankee settler. He was a bit of a wag, too, much to the indignation of his grave master, the Senhor Antonio, who abhorred jesting.

“Ye’re too cliver, avic,” said Barney, with a patronising smile; “take care ye don’t use up yer intellect too fast. It hurts the constitution in the long-run.”

“I say, Barney,” cried Martin, who had gone ahead of his companions, “come here, man, and just look at this pond. It’s literally crammed full of alligators.”

“Musha, but there’s more alligators than wather, I belave!” exclaimed Barney.

The pond was indeed swarming with these ferocious reptiles, which were constantly thrusting their ugly snouts above the surface and then disappearing with a flourish of their powerful tails. During the rainy season this lake was much larger, and afforded ample room for its inhabitants; but at the height of the dry season, which it was at this time, there was little water, and it was much overstocked. When alligators are thus put upon short allowance of water, they frequently bury themselves in the wet mud, and lie dormant for a long time, while the water continues to retire and leaves them buried. But when the first shower of the rainy season falls, they burst open their tomb, and drag their dry bodies to the lake or river, on whose margin they went to sleep.

An hour or two later the Senhor Antonio arrived; but as it was getting dark, nothing could be done until the following morning; so they slung their hammocks under the wooden shed on the margin of the lake, and, in order to save themselves as much as possible from the bites of the tormenting mosquitoes, went to sleep with their heads tied up in their handkerchiefs, and their hands thrust into their breeches pockets! The occasional splash and snort of contending alligators, about twenty yards off, varied the monotony of the hours of darkness, while the frogs and cranes and jaguars sang their lullaby.

Chapter Sixteen.

An Alligator Hunt—Remarkable Explosions—The Rainy Season Ushered in by an Awful Resurrection.

At sunrise an expressive shout in Portuguese set the black slaves on their feet; and, after a hasty breakfast of alligator-tail and farina, they commenced operations. Alligator-tail is by no means bad food, and after the first mouthful—taken with hesitation and swallowed with difficulty,—Martin and Barney both pronounced it “capital.” Sambo, who had cooked the delicate morsel, and stood watching them, smacked his lips and added, “Fuss rate.”

All being now ready for the hunt, a number of Negroes entered the water, which was nowhere very deep, with long poles in their hands. This appeared to Martin and Barney a very reckless and dangerous thing to do, as no doubt it was. Nevertheless accidents, they were told, very rarely happened.

Sambo, who was the overseer of the party, was the first to dash up to the middle in the water. “Hi,” exclaimed that dingy individual, making a torrent of remarks in Portuguese, while he darted his long pole hither and thither; then, observing that Martin and Barney were gazing at him open mouthed, he shouted, “Look out, boys! here ’im comes! Take care, ole feller, or he jump right down you throat! hi–i–i!”

As he spoke, a large alligator, having been rudely stirred up from his muddy bed, floundered on the surface of the lake, and Sambo instantly gave it a thump over the back and a blow under the ribs; which had the effect of driving it in the direction of the shore. Here a number of Negroes were ready for him; and the moment he came within reach, a coil of rope with a noose on the end of it, called a lasso, was adroitly thrown over the reptile’s head: ten or twelve men then hauled the lasso and dragged it ashore amid shouts of triumph. This alligator was twenty feet long, with an enormous misshapen head and fearful rows of teeth that were terrible to behold. The monster did not submit to be captured, however, without a struggle; and the Negroes grew wild with excitement as they yelled and leaped madly about seeking to avoid its dangerous jaws and the blows of its powerful tail. After some trouble, a second lasso was thrown over the tail, which was thus somewhat restrained in its movements; and Sambo, approaching cautiously with an axe, cut a deep gash just at the root of that formidable appendage, which rendered it harmless. “Hi–i,” shouted Sambo in triumph, as he sprang towards the animal’s head, and inflicted a similar gash in the neck; “dare, you quite finish, ole feller.”

“Musha but that’s thrue!” ejaculated Barney, who stood staring at the whole proceeding like one in a trance. “Did ye iver git a bite, Sambo?”

Barney received no answer, for his sable friend was already up to his waist in the water with five or six of his brethren, who were flourishing their long poles and driving the snorting alligators towards the shore, where their comrades, with lassos and harpoons, awaited them. Sometimes they harpooned the alligators, and then, fastening lassos to their heads and tails, or to a hind leg, dragged them ashore; at other times they threw the lasso over their heads at once, without taking the trouble to harpoon them. It was a terrible and a wonderful sight to witness the Negroes in the very midst of a shoal of these creatures, any one of which could have taken a man into his jaws quite easily,—whence, once between these long saw-like rows of teeth, no man could have escaped to tell how sharp they were. The creatures were so numerous that it was impossible to thrust a pole into the mud without stirring up one of them; but they were so terrified at the sudden attack and the shouts of the Negroes, that they thought only of escape.

Suddenly there arose a great cry. One of the lassos had snapt and the alligator was floundering back into the water, when Sambo rushed in up to the arm-pits, and caught the end of the rope. At the same moment two alligators made at the Negro with open jaws. It is probable that the animals went in his direction by mere accident, and would have brushed past him in blind haste; but to Martin and Barney it seemed as if the poor man’s fate were sealed, and they uttered a loud shout of horror as they bounded simultaneously into the water, not knowing what to do, but being unable to restrain the impulse to spring to Sambo’s aid. Fortunately, however, one of the other Negroes was near Sambo. He sprang forward, and dealt the alligators two tremendous blows with his pole on their snouts, right and left, which turned them off. Then other Negroes came up, laid hold of Sambo, who would not let go his hold and was being dragged into deep water, caught the end of the rope, and in ten minutes hauled their victim to the shore, when it was quickly despatched in the usual manner.

By this time about a dozen alligators, varying from ten to twenty feet in length, had been captured; and Barney at length became so bold that he requested to be allowed to try his hand at throwing the lasso, the dexterous use of which by the Negroes had filled him with admiration. A loud burst of laughter greeted this proposal, and Sambo showed a set of teeth that might have made even the alligators envious, as he handed the Irishman a coil of line.

“Now don’t miss, Barney,” cried Martin laughing heartily, as his comrade advanced to the edge of the lake and watched his opportunity. “Mind, your credit as an expert hunter is at stake.”

The Senhor Antonio stood close behind the Irishman, with his arms folded and a sarcastic smile on his countenance.

“Don’t send it down him’s throat,” yelled Sambo. “Hi–i, dat’s de vay to swing um round. Stir um up, boys!—poke um up, villains, hi!”

The Negroes in the water obeyed with frantic glee, and the terrified monsters surged about in all directions, so that Barney found it almost impossible to fix his attention on any particular individual. At length he made up his mind, whirled the coil round his head, discharged the noose, caught the Senhor Antonio round the neck, and jerked him violently to the ground!

There was a simultaneous pause of horror among the slaves; but it was too much for their risible faculties to withstand; with one accord they rushed howling into the water to conceal their laughter, and began to stir up and belabour the alligators with their poles, until the surface of the lake was a sheet of foam.

Meanwhile the Senhor Antonio sprang to his feet and began to bluster considerably in Portuguese; but poor Barney seemed awfully crestfallen, and the deep concern which wrinkled his face, and the genuine regret that sounded in the tones of his voice, at length soothed the indignant Brazilian, who frowned gravely, and waving his hand, as if to signify that Barney had his forgiveness, he stalked up to the shed, lighted a cigarito, and lay down in his hammock.

“Well,” said Martin, in an undertone, “you did it that time, Barney. I verily thought the old fellow was hanged. He became quite livid in the face.”

“Och! bad luck to the lasso, say I. May I niver more see the swate groves o’ Killarney if iver I meddle with wan again.”

“Hi–i; you is fuss rate,” said Sambo, as he and his comrades returned and busied themselves in cutting up the dead alligators. “You beat de Niggers all to not’ing. Not any of dis yere chiles eber lasso Sen’or Antonio yet; no, neber!”

It was some time before the Negroes could effectually subdue their merriment, but at length they succeeded, and applied themselves vigorously to the work of cutting out the fat. The alligators were all cut open,—a work of no small difficulty, owing to the hard scales which covered them, as with coats of mail; then the fat, which accumulates in large quantities about the intestines, was cut out and made up into packets in the skins of the smaller ones, which were taken off for this purpose.

These packets were afterwards carried to the Senhor’s dwelling, and the fat melted down into oil, which served for burning in lamps quite as well as train oil. The flesh of a smaller species of alligator, some of which were also taken, is considered excellent food; and, while the Negroes were engaged in their work, Barney made himself useful by kindling a large fire and preparing a savoury dish for “all hands,” plentifully seasoned with salt and pepper, with which condiments the country is well supplied, and of which the people are exceedingly fond.

There was also caught in this lake a large species of fish called pirarucu, which, strangely enough, found it possible to exist in spite of alligators. They were splendid creatures, from five to six feet long, and covered with large scales more than an inch in diameter, which were beautifully marked and spotted with red. These fish were most delicately flavoured, and Barney exerted his talents to the utmost in order to do them justice. Martin also did his best to prove himself a willing and efficient assistant, and cleaned and washed the pirarucu steaks and the junks of alligator-tail to admiration. In short, the exertions of the two strangers in this way quite won the hearts of the Negroes, and after dinner the Senhor Antonio had quite recovered his good humour.

While staying at this place Martin had an opportunity of seeing a great variety of the curious fish, with which the Amazon is stocked. These are so numerous that sometimes, when sailing up stream with a fair wind, they were seen leaping all round the canoe in shoals, so that it was only necessary to strike the water with the paddles in order to kill a few.

The peixe boi, or cow-fish, is one of the most curious of the inhabitants of the Amazon. It is about six feet long, and no less than five feet in circumference at its thickest part. It is a perfectly smooth, and what we may call dumpy fish, of a leaden colour, with a semicircular flat tail, and a large mouth with thick fleshy lips, resembling those of a cow. There are stiff bristles on the lips, and a few scattered hairs over the body. It has two fins just behind the head; and below these, in the females, there are two breasts, from which good white milk flows when pressure is applied. The cow-fish feeds on grass at the borders of rivers and lakes; and, when suckling its young, it carries it in its fins or flippers, and clasps the little one to its breast, just as a mother clasps her baby! It is harpooned and taken for the sake of its fat, from which oil is made. The flesh is also very good, resembling beef in quality, and it was much relished by Martin and Barney, who frequently dined on beefsteaks cut from this remarkable cow-fish.

There was also another fish which surprised our adventurers not a little, the first time they met with it. One evening Senhor Antonio had ordered a net to be thrown into the river, being desirous of procuring a few fresh fish for the use of his establishment. The Indians and Negroes soon after commenced dragging, and in a few minutes afterwards the sandy bank of the river was strewn with an immense variety of small fish, among which were a few of a larger kind. Martin and Barney became excited as they saw them leaping and spluttering about, and ran in amongst them to assist in gathering them into baskets. But scarcely had the latter advanced a few steps when there was a loud report, as if a pistol had gone off under his feet.

“Hallo!” exclaimed the Irishman, leaping two feet into the air. On his reaching the ground again, a similar explosion occurred, and Barney dashed aside, overturning Martin in his haste. Martin’s heel caught on a stone, and he fell flat on the ground, when instantly there was a report as if he had fallen upon and burst an inflated paper bag. The natives laughed loud and long, while the unfortunate couple sprang up the bank, half inclined to think that an earthquake was about to take place. The cause of their fright was then pointed out. It was a species of small fish which has the power of inflating the fore part of its body into a complete ball, and which, when stamped upon, explodes with a loud noise. There were great numbers of these scattered among the other fish, and also large quantities of a little fish armed with long spines, which inflict a serious wound when trodden upon.

At this place adventures on a small scale crowded upon our travellers so thickly that Martin began to look upon sudden surprises as a necessary of life, and Barney said that, “if it wint on any longer he feared his eyebrows would get fixed near the top of his head, and niver more come down.”

One evening, soon after their departure from the residence of Senhor Antonio, the old trader was sitting steering in the stern of his canoe, which was running up before a pretty stiff breeze. Martin was lying on his back, as was his wont in such easy circumstances, amusing himself with Marmoset; and Barney was reclining in the bow talking solemnly to Grampus; when suddenly the wind ceased, and it became a dead calm. The current was so strong that they could scarcely paddle against it so they resolved to go no further that night, and ran the canoe ashore on a low point of mud, intending to encamp under the trees, no human habitation being near them. The mud-bank was hard and dry, and cracked with the heat; for it was now the end of the dry season, and the river had long since retired from it.

“Not a very comfortable place, Barney,” said Martin, looking round, as he threw down one of the bales which he had just carried up from the canoe. “Hallo! there’s a hut, I declare. Come, that’s a comfort anyhow.”

As he spoke, Martin pointed to one of the solitary and rudely constructed huts or sheds, which the natives of the banks of the Amazon sometimes erect during the dry season, and forsake when the river overflows its banks. The hut was a very old one, and had evidently been inundated, for the floor was a mass of dry, solid mud, and the palm-leaf roof was much damaged. However, it was better than nothing, so they slung their hammocks under it, kindled a fire, and prepared supper. While they were busy discussing this meal, a few dark and ominous clouds gathered in the sky, and the old trader, glancing uneasily about him, gave them to understand that he feared the rainy season was going to begin.

“Well, then,” said Barney, lighting his pipe and stretching himself at full length in his hammock, with a leg swinging to and fro over one side and his head leaning over the other, as was his wont when he felt particularly comfortable in mind and body; “Well then, avic, let it begin. If we’re sure to have it anyhow, the sooner it begins the better, to my thinkin’.”

“I don’t know that,” said Martin, who was seated on a large stone beside the fire sipping a can of coffee, which he shared equally with Marmoset. The monkey sat on his shoulder gazing anxiously into his face, with an expression that seemed as if the creature were mentally exclaiming, “Now me, now you; now me, now you,” during the whole process. “It would be better, I think, if we were in a more sheltered position before it begins. Ha! there it comes though, in earnest.”

A smart shower began to fall as he spoke, and, percolating through the old root descended rather copiously on the mud floor. In a few minutes there was a heaving of the ground under their feet!

“Ochone!” cried Barney, taking his pipe out of his mouth and looking down with a disturbed expression, “there’s an arthquake, I do belave.”

For a few seconds there was a dead silence.

“Nonsense,” whispered Martin uneasily.

“It’s dramin’ I must have been,” sighed Barney, resuming his pipe.

Again the ground heaved and cracked, and Martin and the old trader had just time to spring to their feet when the mud floor of the hut burst upwards and a huge dried-up looking alligator crawled forth, as if from the bowels of the earth! It glanced up at Barney; opened its tremendous jaws, and made as if it would run at the terrified old trader; then, observing the doorway, it waddled out, and, trundling down the bank, plunged into the river and disappeared.

Barney could find no words to express his feelings, but continued to gaze, with an unbelieving expression, down into the hole, out of which the monster had come, and in which it had buried itself many weeks before, when the whole country was covered with soft mud. At that time it had probably regarded the shelter of the inundated hut as of some advantage, and had lain down to repose. The water retiring had left it there buried, and—as we have already mentioned in reference to alligators—when the first shower of the rainy season fell, it was led by instinct to burst its earthy prison, and seek its native element.

Before Barney or his companions could recover from their surprise, they had other and more urgent matters to think about. The dark clouds burst overhead, and the rain descended like a continued water-spout—not in drops but in heavy sheets and masses; the roof of the hut gave way in several places, driving them into a corner for shelter; the river began to rise rapidly, soon flooding the hut; and, when darkness overspread the land, they found themselves drenched to the skin and suspended in their hammocks over a running stream of water!

This event brought about an entire change in the aspect of nature, and was the cause of a sad and momentous era in the adventures of Martin Rattler and his companion.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Gapo—Interruptions—Grampus and Marmoset—Canoeing in the Woods—A Night on a Floating Island.

There is a peculiar and very striking feature in the character of the great Amazon, which affects the distinctive appearance of that river, and materially alters the manners and customs of those who dwell beside it. This peculiarity is the periodical overflow of its low banks; and the part thus overflowed is called the Gapo. It extends from a little above the town of Santarem up to the confines of Peru, a distance of about seventeen hundred miles; and varies in width from one to twenty miles: so that the country when inundated, assumes in many places the appearance of an extensive lake, with forest trees growing out of the water; and travellers may proceed many hundreds of miles in their canoes without once entering the main stream of the river. At this time the natives become almost aquatic animals. Several tribes of Indians inhabit the Gapo; such as the Purupurus, Muras, and others. They build small movable huts on the sandy shores during the dry season, and on rafts in the wet. They subsist on turtle, cow-fish, and the other fish with which the river abounds, and live almost entirely in their canoes; while at night they frequently sling their hammocks between the branches of trees, and sleep suspended over the deep water.

Some of the animals found in the Gapo are peculiar to it, being attracted by the fruit-trees which are found growing only there. The Indians assert that every tree that grows in the Gapo is distinct from all those that grow in other districts; and when we consider that these trees are submerged for six months every year, till they are tall enough to rise above the highest water-level, we may well believe their constitution is somewhat different from those that are reared on ordinary ground. The Indians are wonderfully expert in finding their way among the trackless mazes of the Gapo, being guided by the broken twigs and scraped bark that indicate the route followed by previous travellers.

Owing to this sudden commencement of the rainy season, the old trader resolved to return to a small village, and there spend several months. Martin and Barney were much annoyed at this; for the former was impatient to penetrate further into the interior, and the latter had firmly made up his mind to visit the diamond mines, about which he entertained the most extravagant notions. He did not, indeed, know in the least how to get to these mines, nor even in which direction they lay; but he had a strong impression that as long as he continued travelling he was approaching gradually nearer to them, and he had no doubt whatever that he would get to them at last. It was, therefore, with no small degree of impatience that they awaited the pleasure of their sable master, who explained to them that when the waters reached their height he would proceed.

Everything comes to an end, even a long story. After many weeks had passed slowly by, their sojourn in this village came to an end too. It was a dull place, very dull, and they had nothing to do; and the few poor people who lived there seemed to have very little or nothing to do. We will, therefore, pass it over, and resume our narrative at the point when the old trader announced to Barney that the flood was at its height and they would now continue their journey. They embarked once more in their old canoe with their goods and chattels, not forgetting Marmoset and Grampus, whose friendship during their inactive life had become more close than ever. This friendship was evidenced, chiefly, by the matter-of-course way in which Grampus permitted the monkey to mount his back, and ride about the village and through the woods, where dry places could be found, as long as she pleased. Marmoset was fonder of riding than walking, so that Grampus had enough to do; but he did not put himself much about. He trotted, walked, galloped, and lay down, when, and where, and as often as he chose, without any reference to the small monkey; and Marmoset held on through thick and thin, and nibbled nuts or whatever else it picked up, utterly regardless of where it was going to, or the pace at which it went. It was sharp, though, that small monkey, sharp as a needle, and had its little black eyes glancing on all sides; so that when Grampus dashed through under-wood, and the branches threatened to sweep it off, it ducked its head; or, lying flat down, shut its eyes and held on with all its teeth and four hands like a limpet to a rock. Marmoset was not careful as to her attitude on dog-back. She sat with her face to the front or rear, just as her fancy or convenience dictated.

After leaving the village they travelled for many days and nights through the Gapo. Although afloat on the waters of the Amazon, they never entered the main river after the first few days, but wound their way, in a creeping, serpentine sort of fashion, through small streams and lakes and swamps, from which the light was partially excluded by the thick foliage of the forest. It was a strange scene, that illimitable watery waste, and aroused new sensations in the breasts of our travellers. As Barney said, it made him “feel quite solemn-like and eerie to travel through the woods by wather.”

The canoe was forced under branches and among dense bushes, till they got into a part where the trees were loftier and a deep gloom prevailed. Here the lowest branches were on a level with the surface of the water, and many of them were putting forth beautiful flowers. On one occasion they came to a grove of small palms, which were so deep in the water that the leaves were only a few feet above the surface. Indeed they were so low that one of them caught Martin’s straw-hat and swept it overboard.

“Hallo! stop!” cried Martin, interrupting the silence so suddenly that Grampus sprang up with a growl, under the impression that game was in view; and Marmoset scampered off behind a packing-box with an angry shriek.

“What’s wrong, lad?” inquired Barney.

“Back water, quick! my hat’s overboard, and there’s an alligator going to snap it up. Look alive, man!”

In a few seconds the canoe was backed and the straw-hat rescued from its perilous position.

“It’s an ill wind that blows nae guid, as the Scotch say,” remarked Barney, rising in the canoe and reaching towards something among the overhanging branches. “Here’s wan o’ them trees that old black-face calls a maraja, with some splendid bunches o’ fruit on it. Hould yer hat Martin; there’s more nor enough for supper anyhow.”

As he spoke a rustling in the leaves told that monkeys were watching them, and Marmoset kept peeping up as if she half expected they might be relations. But the moment the travellers caught sight of them they bounded away screaming.

Having gathered as much fruit as they required, they continued their voyage, and presently emerged into the pleasant sunshine in a large grassy lake, which was filled with lilies and beautiful water-plants, little yellow bladder-worts, with several other plants of which they knew not the names; especially one with a thick swollen stalk, curious leaves, and bright blue flowers. This lake was soon passed, and they again entered into the gloomy forest and paddled among the lofty trunks of the trees, which rose like massive columns out of the deep water. There was enough of animal life there, however, to amuse and interest them. The constant plash of falling fruit showed that birds were feeding overhead. Sometimes a flock of parrots or bright blue chatterers swept from tree to tree, or a trogon swooped at a falling bunch of fruit and caught it ere it reached the water; while ungainly toucans plumped clumsily down upon the branches, and sat, in striking contrast, beside the lovely pompadours, with their claret-coloured plumage and delicate white wings.

Vieing with these birds in splendour were several large bright-yellow flowers of the creeping-plants, which twined round the trees. Some of these plants had white, spotted, and purple blossoms; and there was one splendid species, called by the natives the flor de Santa Anna—the flower of Saint Ann—which emitted a delightful odour and was four inches in diameter.

Having traversed this part of the wood, they once more emerged upon the main stream of the Amazon. It was covered with waterfowl. Large logs of trees and numerous floating islands of grass were sailing down; and on these sat hundreds of white gulls, demurely and comfortably voyaging to the ocean; for the sea would be their final resting-place if they sat on these logs and islands until they descended several hundreds of miles of the great river.

“I wish,” said Martin, after a long silence, during which the travellers had been gazing on the watery waste as they paddled up stream—“I wish that we could fall in with solid land, where we might have something cooked. I’m desperately hungry now; but I don’t see a spot of earth large enough for a mosquito to rest his foot on.”

“We’ll jist have to take to farhina and wather,” remarked Barney, laying down his paddle and proceeding leisurely to light his pipe. “It’s a blissin’ we’ve got baccy, any how. ’Tis mesilf that could niver git on without it.”

“I wish you joy of it, Barney. It may fill your mouth, but it can’t stop your hunger.”

“Och, boy, it’s little ye know! Sure it stops the cravin’s o’ hunger, and kapes yer stumick from callin’ out for iver, till ye fall in with somethin’ to ate.”

“It does not seem to stop the mouth then, Barney, for you call out for grub oftener than I do; and then you say that you couldn’t get on without it; so you’re a slave to it old boy. I wouldn’t be a slave to anything if I could help it.”

“Martin, lad, ye’re gittin’ deep. Take care now, or ye’ll be in mettlefeesics soon. I say, ould black-face,”—Barney was not on ceremony with the old trader,—“is there no land in thim parts at all?”

“No, not dis night.”

“Och, then, we’ll have to git up a tree and try to cook somethin’ there; for I’m not goin’ to work on flour and wather. Hallo! hould on! There’s an island, or the portrait o’ wan! Port your helm, Naygur! hard sport! D’ye hear?”

The old man heard, but, as usual, paid no attention to the Irishman’s remarks; and the canoe would have passed straight on, had not Barney used his bow-paddle so energetically that he managed to steer her, as he expressed it, by the nose, and ran her against a mass of floating logs which had caught firmly in a thicket and were so covered with grass and broken twigs as to have very much the appearance of a real island. Here they landed, so to speak, kindled a small fire, made some coffee, roasted a few fish, baked several cakes, and were soon as happy and comfortable as hungry and wearied men usually are when they obtain rest and food.

“This is what I call jolly,” remarked Barney.

“What’s jolly?” inquired Martin.

“Why this, to be sure,—grub to begin with, and a smoke and a convanient snooze in prospect.”

The hopes which Barney cherished, however, were destined to be blighted, at least in part. To the victuals he did ample justice; the pipe was delightful, and in good working order; but when they lay down to repose, they were attacked by swarms of stinging ants, which the heat of the fire had driven out of the old logs. These and mosquitoes effectually banished sleep from their eye-lids, and caused them to reflect very seriously, and to state to each other more than once very impressively, that with all their beauties and wonders, tropical lands had their disadvantages, and there was no place like the “ould country,” after all.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Sad and Momentous Era referred to at the Close of the Chapter Preceding the Last.

One sultry evening, many weeks after our travellers had passed the uncomfortable night on the floating island in the Gapo, they came to a place where the banks of the river rose boldly up in rugged rocks and hemmed in the waters of the Amazon, which were by this time somewhat abated. Here they put ashore, intending to kindle their fire and encamp for the night, having been up and hard at work since day-break.

The evening was calm and beautiful, and the troublesome insects not so numerous as usual,—probably owing to the nature of the ground. One or two monkeys showed themselves for a moment, as if to inquire who was there, and then ran away screaming; a porcupine also crossed their path, and several small bright snakes, of a harmless species, glided over the rocks, and sought refuge among the small bushes; but beyond these there were few of the sights and sounds that were wont to greet them in the forest.

“I think things look well to-night,” remarked Martin as he threw down a bundle of sticks which he had gathered for the fire; “we shall have a comfortable snooze for certain, if the mosquitoes don’t wake up.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” replied Barney, striking a light with flint and steel and stooping to puff the smouldering spark into a flame. “I’ve larned by exparience that ye niver can be—puff—sure o’ nothin’ in this—puff—remarkable country. Jist look at Darkey now,” continued the Irishman, sitting down on a stone before the fire, which now began to kindle up, and stuffing the tobacco into his pipe with his little finger. “There he is, a livin’ Naygur, a-liftin’ of the provision-bag out o’ the canoe. Well, if he was all of a suddent to turn into Marmoset, an’ swaller himself, an’ then jump down the throat of Grampus, and the whole consarn, canoe and all, to disappear, I don’t think that I would be much surprised.”

“Would you not, Barney? I suspect that I should be, a little, under the circumstances; perhaps the old Nigger would be more so.”

“Niver a taste,” continued Barney. “Ye see, if that was to happen, I would then know that it was all a drame. I’ve more than wance expected to wake up since I comed into furrin parts; the only thing that kapes me in doubt about it is the baccy.”

“How so, Barney?”

“Why, bekase it tastes so rael, good luck to it! that I can’t git myself to think it’s only a drame. Jist look, now,” he continued, in the same tone of voice; “if it wasn’t a drame, how could I see sich a thing as that standin’ on the rock over there?”

Martin glanced towards the spot pointed out by his friend, and immediately started up with surprise.—“Hallo! Barney, that’s no dream, I’ll vouch for it. He’s an Indian, and a very ugly one too, I declare. I say, old fellow, do you know what sort of savage that is?”

“Not know,” answered the trader, glancing uneasily at the stranger.

“He might have the dacency to put on more close, anyhow,” muttered Barney, as he gazed inquiringly at the savage.

The being who had thus appeared so suddenly before the travellers belonged to one of the numerous tribes of Indians inhabiting the country near the head-waters of some of the chief tributaries of the Amazon. He was almost entirely naked, having merely a scanty covering on his loins; and carried a small quiver full of arrows at his back, and what appeared to be a long spear in his hand. His figure was strongly but not well formed; and his face, which was of a dark copper hue, was disfigured in a most remarkable manner. A mass of coarse black hair formed the only covering to his head. His cheeks were painted with curious marks of jet black. But the most remarkable points about him were the huge pieces of wood which formed ornaments in his ears and under lip. They were round and flat like the wooden wheel of a toy-cart, about half an inch thick, and larger than an old-fashioned watch. These were fitted into enormous slits made in the ears and under lip, and the latter projected more than two inches from his mouth! Indeed, the cut that had been made to receive this ornament was so large that the lip had been almost cut off altogether, and merely hung by each corner of his mouth! The aspect of the man was very hideous, and it was by no means improved when, having recovered from his surprise at unexpectedly encountering strangers, he opened his mouth to the full extent and uttered a savage yell.

The cry was answered immediately. In a few minutes a troop of upwards of thirty savages sprang from the woods, and, ascending the rock on which their comrade stood, gazed down on the travellers in surprise, and, by their movements, seemed to be making hasty preparations for an attack.

By this time Barney had recovered his self-possession, and became thoroughly convinced of the reality of the apparition before him. Drawing his pistol hastily from his belt, he caught up a handful of gravel, wherewith he loaded it to the muzzle, ramming down the charge with a bit of mandioca-cake in lieu of a wad; then drawing his cutlass he handed it to Martin, exclaiming, “Come, lad, we’re in for it now. Take you the cutlass and I’ll try their skulls with the butt o’ my pistol: it has done good work before now in that way. If there’s no more o’ the blackguards in the background we’ll bate them aisy.”

Martin instinctively grasped the cutlass, and there is no doubt that, under the impulse of that remarkable quality, British valour, which utterly despises odds, they would have hurled themselves recklessly upon the savages, when the horrified old trader threw himself on Barney’s neck and implored him not to fight; for if he did they would all be killed, and if he only kept quiet the savages would perhaps do them no harm. At the same moment about fifty additional Indians arrived upon the scene of action. This, and the old man’s earnest entreaties, induced them to hesitate for an instant, and, before they could determine what to do, they were surprised by some of the savages, who rushed upon them from behind and took them prisoners. Barney struggled long and fiercely, but he was at length overpowered by numbers. The pistol, which missed fire, was wrenched from his grasp, and his hands were speedily bound behind his back. Martin was likewise disarmed and secured; not, however, before he made a desperate slash at one of the savages, which narrowly missed his skull, and cut away his lip ornament.

As for the old trader, he made no resistance at all, but submitted quietly to his fate. The savages did not seem to think it worth their while to bind him. Grampus bounced and barked round the party savagely, but did not attack; and Marmoset slept in the canoe in blissful ignorance of the whole transaction.

The hands of the two prisoners being firmly bound, they were allowed to do as they pleased; so they sat down on a rock in gloomy silence, and watched the naked savages as they rifled the canoe and danced joyfully round the treasures which their active knives and fingers soon exposed to view. The old trader took things philosophically. Knowing that it was absolutely impossible to escape, he sat quietly down on a stone, rested his chin on his hands, heaved one or two deep sighs, and thereafter seemed to be nothing more than an ebony statue.

The ransacking of the canoe and appropriating of its contents occupied the savages but a short time, after which they packed everything up in small bundles, which they strapped upon their backs. Then, making signs to their prisoners to rise, they all marched away into the forest. Just as they were departing, Marmoset observing that she was about to be left behind, uttered a frantic cry, which brought Grampus gambolling to her side. With an active bound the monkey mounted its charger, and away they went into the forest in the track of the band of savages.

During the first part of their march Martin and Barney were permitted to walk beside each other, and they conversed in low, anxious tones.

“Surely,” said Barney, as they marched along surrounded by Indians, “thim long poles the savages have got are not spears; I don’t see no point to them.”

“And what’s more remarkable,” added Martin, “is that they all carry quivers full of arrows, but none of them have bows.”

“There’s a raison for iverything,” said Barney, pointing to one of the Indians in advance; “that fellow explains the mystery.”

As he spoke, the savage referred to lowered the pole, which seemed to be about thirteen feet long, and pushing an arrow into a hole in the end of it, applied it to his mouth. In another moment the arrow flew through the air and grazed a bird that was sitting on a branch hard by.

“’Tis a blow-pipe, and no mistake!” cried Barney.

“And a poisoned arrow, I’m quite sure,” added Martin; “for it only ruffled the bird’s feathers, and see, it has fallen to the ground.”

“Och, then, but we’d have stood a bad chance in a fight if thim’s the wipons they use. Och, the dirty spalpeens! Martin, dear, we’re done for. There’s no chance for us at all.”

This impression seemed to take such deep hold of Barney’s mind, that his usually reckless and half jesting disposition was completely subdued, and he walked along in gloomy silence, while a feeling of deep dejection filled the heart of his young companion.

The blow-pipe which these Indians use is an ingeniously contrived weapon. It is made from a species of palm-tree. When an Indian wants one, he goes into the woods and selects a tree with a long slender stem of less than an inch in diameter; he extracts the pith out of this, and then cuts another stem, so much larger than the first that he can push the small tube into the bore of the large one,—thus the slight bend in one is counteracted by the other, and a perfectly straight pipe is formed. The mouth-piece is afterwards neatly finished off. The arrows used are very short, having a little ball of cotton at the end to fill the tube of the blow-pipe. The points are dipped in a peculiar poison, which has the effect of producing death when introduced into the blood by a mere scratch of the skin. The Indians can send these arrows an immense distance, and with unerring aim, as Martin and Barney had many an opportunity of witnessing during their long and weary journey on foot to the forest-home of the savages.

Chapter Nineteen.

Worse and Worse—Everything seems to go Wrong together.

Although the Indians did not maltreat the unfortunate strangers who had thus fallen into their hands, they made them proceed by forced marches through the wilderness; and as neither Barney nor Martin had been of late much used to long walks, they felt the journey very severely. The old trader had been accustomed to everything wretched and unfortunate and uncomfortable from his childhood, so he plodded onward in silent indifference.

The country through which they passed became every day more and more rugged, until at length it assumed the character of a wild mountainous district. Sometimes they wound their way in a zig-zag manner up the mountain sides, by paths so narrow that they could scarcely find a foot-hold. At other times they descended into narrow valleys where they saw great numbers of wild animals of various kinds, some of which the Indians killed for food. After they reached the mountain district they loosed the hands of their prisoners, in order to enable them to climb more easily. Indeed in many places they had to scramble so carefully that it would have been impossible for any one to climb with his hands tied behind his back. But the Indians knew full well that they ran no risk of losing their prisoners; for if they had attempted to escape, dozens of their number were on the watch, before, behind, and on either side, ready to dart away in pursuit. Moreover, Barney had a feeling of horror at the bare idea of the poisoned arrows, that effectually prevented him from making the smallest attempt at escape. With a cutlass or a heavy stick he would have attacked the whole tribe single-handed, and have fought till his brains were knocked out; but when he thought of the small arrows that would pour upon him in hundreds if he made a dash for the woods, and the certain death that would follow the slightest scratch, he discarded all idea of rebellion.

One of the animals killed by the Indians at this time was a black jaguar,—a magnificent animal, and very fierce. He was discovered crouching in a thicket backed by a precipice, from which he could only escape by charging through the ranks of his enemies. He did it nobly. With a roar that rebounded from the face of the high cliff and echoed through the valley like a peal of thunder, he sprang out and rushed at the savages in front, who scattered like chaff right and left. But at the same instant fifty blow-pipes sent their poisoned shafts into his body, and, after a few convulsive bounds, the splendid monarch of the American forests fell dead on the ground. The black jaguar is a somewhat rare animal, and is very seldom seen. This one was therefore hailed as a great prize, and the skin and claws were carefully preserved.

On the afternoon of the same day the party came to a broad stream, over which they, or some other of the numerous tribes in the country, had constructed a very simple and curious bridge. It was a single rope attached to an immense mass of rock on one side and to the stem of a large tree on the other. On this tight-rope was fastened a simple loop of cord, so constructed that it could encircle the waist of a man and at the same time traverse from one end of the tight-rope to the other. Barney put on a comical frown when he came to this and saw the leader of the party rest his weight in the loop, and, clinging with hands and legs to the long rope, work himself slowly across.

“Arrah! it’s well for us, Martin, that we’re used to goin’ aloft,” said he, “or that same bridge would try our narves a little.”

“So it would, Barney. I’ve seldom seen a more uncomfortable-looking contrivance. If we lost our hold we should first be dashed to pieces on the rocks, and then be drowned in the river.”

Difficult though the passage seemed, however, it was soon accomplished by the active savages in safety. The only one of the party likely to be left behind was Grampus; whom his master, after much entreaty in dumb-show, was permitted to carry over by tying him firmly to his shoulders. Marmoset crossed over walking, like a tight-rope dancer, being quite au fait at such work. Soon after they came to another curious bridge over a ravine. It had been constructed by simply felling two tall trees on the edge of it in such a manner that they fell across. They were bound together with the supple vines that grew there in profusion. Nature had soon covered the whole over with climbing-plants and luxuriant verdure; and the bridge had become a broad and solid structure, over which the whole party marched with perfect ease. Several such bridges were crossed, and also a few of the rope kind, during the journey.

After many weeks’ constant travelling, the Indians came to a beautiful valley one evening just about sunset—and began to make the usual preparations for encamping. The spot they selected was a singular one. It was the foot of a rocky gorge, up which might be seen trees and bushes mingled with jagged rocks and dark caverns, with a lofty sierra or mountain range in the background. In front was the beautiful valley which they had just crossed. On a huge rock there grew a tree of considerable size, the roots of which projected beyond the rock several yards, and then, bending downwards, struck into the ground. Creeping-plants had twined thickly among the roots, and thus formed a sort of lattice-work which enclosed a large space of ground. In this natural arbour the chiefs of the Indians took up their quarters and kindled their fire in the centre of it, while the main body of the party pitched their camp outside. The three prisoners were allotted a corner in the arbour; and, after having supped, they spread their ponchos on a pile of ferns, and found themselves very snug indeed.

“Martin,” said Barney, gravely, as he smoked his pipe and patted the head of his dog, “d’ye know, I’m beginning to feel tired o’ the company o’ thim naked rascals, and I’ve been revolvin’ in my mind what we should do to escape. Moreover, I’ve comed to a conclusion.”

“And what’s that?” inquired Martin.

“That it’s unposs’ble to escape at all, and I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s not a satisfactory conclusion Barney. I, too, have been cogitating a good deal about these Indians, and it is my opinion that they have been on a war expedition, for I’ve noticed that several of them have been wounded; and, besides, I cannot fancy what else could take them so far from home.”

“True, Martin, true. I wonder what they intind to do with us. They don’t mean to kill us, anyhow; for if they did they would niver take the trouble to bring us here. Ochone! me heart’s beginnin’ to go down altogether; for we are miles and miles away from anywhere now, and I don’t know the direction o’ no place whatsumdiver.”

“Never mind, Barney, cheer up,” said Martin with a smile; “if they don’t kill us that’s all we need care about. I’m sure we shall manage to escape somehow or other in the long-run.”

While they thus conversed the old trader spread his poncho over himself and was soon sound asleep; while the Indians, after finishing supper, held an animated conversation. At times they seemed to be disputing, and spoke angrily and with violent gesticulations, glancing now and then at the corner where their prisoners lay.

“It’s my belafe,” whispered Barney, “that they’re spakin’ about us. I’m afeard they don’t mean us any good. Och but if I wance had my pistol and the ould cutlass. Well, well, it’s of no manner o’ use frettin’. Good night Martin, good night!”

The Irishman knocked the ashes out of his pipe, turned his face to the wall, and, heaving a deep sigh, speedily forgot his cares in sleep. The Indians also lay down, the camp-fires died slowly out; and the deep breathing of the savages alone betokened the presence of man in that lone wilderness.

Barney’s forebodings proved to be only too well founded; for next morning, instead of pursuing their way together, as usual, the savages divided their forces into two separate bands, placing the Irishman and the old trader in the midst of one, and Martin Rattler with the other.

“Surely they’re niver goin’ to part us, Martin,” said Barney with a careworn expression on his honest countenance that indicated the anxious suspicions in his heart.

“I fear it much,” replied Martin with a startled look, as he watched the proceedings of the Indians. “We must fight now, Barney, if we should die for it. We must not be separated.”

Martin spoke with intense fervour and gazed anxiously in the face of his friend. A dark frown had gathered there. The sudden prospect of being forcibly torn from his young companion, whom he regarded with almost a mother’s tenderness, stirred his enthusiastic and fiery temperament to its centre, and he gazed wildly about, as if for some weapon. But the savages anticipated his intention; ere he could grasp any offensive weapon two of their number leaped upon him, and at the same moment Martin’s arms were pinioned in a powerful grasp.

“Och, ye murderin’ blackguards!” cried Barney, hitting out right and left, and knocking down a savage at each blow. “Now or niver! come on, ye kangaroos!”

A general rush was made upon the Irishman, who was fairly overturned by the mass of men. Martin struggled fiercely to free himself, and would have succeeded had not two powerful Indians hastened to the help of the one who had first seized him. Despite his frantic efforts, he was dragged forcibly up the mountain gorge, the echoes of which rang with his cries as he shouted despairingly the name of his friend. Barney fought like a tiger; but he could make no impression on such numbers. Although at least a dozen Indians lay around him bleeding and stunned by the savage blows of his fists,—a species of warfare which was entirely new to them,—fresh savages crowded round. But they did not wish to kill him, and numerous though they were, they found it no easy matter to secure so powerful a man; and when Martin turned a last despairing glance towards the camp, ere a turn in the path shut it out from view, the hammer-like fists of his comrade were still smashing down the naked creatures who danced like monkeys round him, and the warlike shouts of his stentorian voice reverberated among the cliffs and caverns of the mountain pass long after he was hid from view.

Thus Martin and Barney were separated in the wild regions near the Sierra dos Parecis of Brazil.

Chapter Twenty.

Martin reflects much, and forms a Firm Resolve—The Indian Village.

When the mind has been overwhelmed by some sudden and terrible calamity, it is long ere it again recovers its wonted elasticity. An aching void seems to exist in the heart, and a dead weight appears to press upon the brain, so that ordinary objects make but little impression, and the soul seems to turn inwards and brood drearily upon itself. The spirit of fun and frolic, that had filled Martin Rattler’s heart ever since he landed in Brazil, was now so thoroughly and rudely crushed, that he felt as if it were utterly impossible that he should ever smile again.

He had no conception of the strength of his affection for the rough, hearty sailor, who had until now been the faithful and good-humoured companion of his wanderings. As Barney had himself said on a former occasion, his life up till this period had been a pleasant and exciting dream. But he was now awakened rudely to the terrible reality of his forlorn position; and the more he thought of it the more hopeless and terrible it appeared to be.

He knew not in what part of Brazil he was; he was being hurried apparently deeper into these vast solitudes by savages who were certainly not friendly, and of whose language he knew not a word; and worst of all, he was separated perhaps for ever from the friend, on whom, all unconsciously to himself, he had so long leaned for support in all their difficulties and dangers. Even though he and Barney should succeed in escaping from the Indians, he felt—and his heart was overwhelmed at the thought—that in such a vast country there was not the shadow of a chance that they should find each other. Under the deep depression produced by these thoughts Martin wandered on wearily, as if in a dream—taking no interest in anything that occurred by the way. At length, after several days fatiguing journey over mountains and plains, they arrived at the Indian village.

Here the warriors were received with the utmost joy by the wives and children whom they had left behind, and for a long time Martin was left almost entirely to do as he pleased. A few days before, his bonds had been removed, and once or twice he thought of attempting to escape; but whenever he wandered a little further than usual into the woods, he found that he was watched and followed by a tall and powerful savage, whose duty it evidently was to see that the prisoner did not escape. The fearful idea now entered Martin’s mind that he was reserved for torture, and perhaps a lingering death; for he had read that many savage nations treated their prisoners in this cruel manner, for the gratification of the women who had lost relations in the war. But as no violence was offered to him in the meantime, and he had as much farina and fruit to eat as he could use, his mind gradually became relieved, and he endeavoured as much as possible to dismiss the terrible thought altogether.

The Indian village occupied a lovely situation at the base of a gentle hill or rising ground, the summit of which was clothed with luxuriant trees and shrubs. The huts were of various shapes and sizes, and very simple in construction. They were built upon the bare ground; some were supported by four corner posts, twelve or fifteen feet high, and from thirty to forty feet long, the walls being made of thin laths connected with wicker-work, and plastered with clay. The doors were made of palm-leaves, and the roofs were covered with the same material, or with maize straw. Other huts were made almost entirely of palm-leaves and tent-shaped in form; and, while a few were enclosed by walls, the most of the square ones had one or more sides entirely open. In the large huts several families dwelt together, and each family had a hearth and a portion of the floor allotted to it. The smoke from their fires was allowed to find its way out by the doors and chinks in the roofs, as no chimneys were constructed for its egress.

The furniture of each hut was very simple. It consisted of a few earthen pots; baskets made of palm-leaves, which were filled with Spanish potatoes, maize, mandioca-roots, and various kinds of wild fruits; one or two drinking vessels; the hollow trunk of a tree, used for pounding maize in; and several dishes which contained the colours used by the Indians in painting their naked bodies,—a custom which was very prevalent amongst them. Besides these things, there were bows, arrows, spears, and blow-pipes in abundance; and hammocks hung from various posts, elevated about a foot from the ground. These hammocks were made of cotton cords, and served the purpose of tables, chairs, and beds.

The ground in the immediate neighbourhood of the village was laid out in patches, in which were cultivated mandioca-roots, maize, and other plants useful for domestic purposes. In front of the village there was an extensive valley, through which a small river gurgled with a pleasant sound. It was hemmed in on all sides by wooded mountains, and was so beautifully diversified by scattered clusters of palms, and irregular patches of undulating grassy plains, all covered with a rich profusion of tropical flowers and climbing-plants, that it seemed to Martin more like a magnificent garden than the uncultivated forest—only far more rich and lovely and picturesque than any artificial garden could possibly be. When the sun shone in full splendour on this valley—as it almost always did!—it seemed as if the whole landscape were on the point of bursting into flames of red and blue, and green and gold; and when Martin sat under the shade of a tamarind-tree and gazed long upon the enchanting scene, his memory often reverted to the Eden of which he used to read in the Bible at home, and he used to wonder if it were possible that the sun and flowers and trees could be more lovely in the time when Adam walked with God in Paradise.

Martin was young then, and he did not consider, although he afterwards came to know, that it was not the beauty of natural objects, but the presence and favour of God and the absence of sin, that rendered the Garden of Eden a paradise. But these thoughts always carried him back to dear old Aunt Dorothy and the sweet village of Ashford; and the Brazilian paradise was not unfrequently obliterated in tears while he gazed, and turned into a vale of weeping. Ay, he would have given that magnificent valley,—had it been his own, ten times over, in exchange for one more glance at the loved faces and the green fields of home.

Soon after his arrival at the Indian village Martin was given to understand, by signs, that he was to reside with a particular family, and work every day in the maize and mandioca fields, besides doing a great deal of the drudgery of the hut; so that he now knew he was regarded as a slave by the tribe into whose hands he had fallen. It is impossible to express the bitterness of his feelings at this discovery, and for many weeks he went about his work scarcely knowing what he did, and caring little, when the hot sun beat on him so fiercely that he could hardly stand, whether he lived or died. At length, however, he made up his mind firmly to attempt his escape. He was sitting beneath the shade of his favourite resort, the tamarind-tree, when he made this resolve. Longing thoughts of home had been strong upon him all that day, and desire for the companionship of Barney had filled his heart to bursting; so that the sweet evening sunshine and the beautiful vale over which his eyes wandered, instead of affording him pleasure, seemed but to mock his misery. It was a lesson that all must learn sooner or later, and one we would do well to think upon before we learn it, that sunshine in the soul is not dependent on the sunshine of this world, and when once the clouds descend, the brightest beams of all that earth contains cannot pierce them,—God alone can touch these dark clouds with the finger of love and mercy, and say again, as He said of old, “Let there be light.”

A firm purpose, formed with heart and will, is cheering and invigorating to a depressed mind. No sooner did the firm determination to escape or die enter into Martin’s heart, than he sprang from his seat, and, falling on his knees, prayed to God, in the name of our Redeemer, for help and guidance. He had not the least idea of how he was to effect his escape, or of what he intended to do. All he knew was that he had made up his mind to do so, if God would help him. And under the strength of that resolve he soon recovered much of his former cheerfulness of disposition, and did his work among the savages with a degree of energy that filled them with surprise and respect. From that day forth he never ceased to revolve in his mind every imaginable and unimaginable plan of escape, and to watch every event or circumstance, no matter how trifling, that seemed likely to aid him in his purpose.

Seeing that he was a very strong and active fellow, and that he had become remarkably expert in the use of the bow and the blow-pipe, the Indians now permitted Martin to accompany them frequently on their short hunting expeditions, so that he had many opportunities of seeing more of the wonderful animals and plants of the Brazilian forests, in the studying of which he experienced great delight. Moreover, in the course of a few months he began to acquire a smattering of the Indian language, and was not compelled to live in constant silence, as had been the case at first. But he carefully avoided the formation of any friendships with the youths of the tribe, although many of them seemed to desire it, considering that his doing so might in some way or other interfere with the execution of his great purpose. He was civil and kind to them all, however, though reserved; and, as time wore away, he enjoyed much more liberty than was the case at first. Still, however, he was watched by the tall savage, who was a surly, silent fellow, and would not be drawn into conversation. Indeed he did not walk with Martin, but followed him wherever he went during his hours of leisure, at a distance of a few hundred yards, moving when his prisoner moved, and stopping when he halted, so that Martin at last began to regard him more as a shadow than a man.

Chapter Twenty One.

Savage Feasts and Ornaments—Martin grows Desperate, and makes a Bold Attempt to escape.

Hunting and feasting were the chief occupations of the men of the tribe, with whom Martin sojourned. One day Martin was told that a great feast was to take place, and he was permitted to attend. Accordingly, a little before the appointed time he hastened to the large hut, in and around which the festivities were to take place, in order to witness the preparations.

The first thing that struck him was that there seemed to be no preparations making for eating; and on inquiry he was told that they did not meet to eat, they met to drink and dance,—those who were hungry might eat at home. The preparations for drinking were made on an extensive scale by the women, a number of whom stood round a large caldron, preparing its contents for use. These women wore very little clothing, and their bodies, besides being painted in a fantastic style, were also decorated with flowers and feathers. Martin could not help feeling that, however absurd the idea of painting the body was, it had at least the good effect of doing away to some extent with the idea of nakedness; for the curious patterns and devices gave to the Indians the appearance of being clothed in tights,—and, at any rate, he argued mentally, paint was better than nothing. Some of the flowers were artificially constructed out of beetles’ wings, shells, fish-scales, and feathers, and were exquisitely beautiful, as well as gorgeous.

One of the younger women struck Martin as being ultra-fashionable in her paint. Her black shining hair hung like a cloak over her reddish-brown shoulders, and various strange drawings and figures ornamented her face and breast. On each cheek she had a circle, and over that two strokes; under the nose were four red spots; from the corners of her mouth to the middle of each cheek were two parallel lines, and below these several upright stripes; on various parts of her back and shoulders were curiously entwined circles, and the form of a snake was depicted in vermilion down each arm. Unlike the others, she wore no ornament except a simple necklace of monkeys’ teeth. This beauty was particularly active in manufacturing the intoxicating drink, which is prepared thus:—

A quantity of maize was pounded in the hollow trunk of a tree, and put into an earthen pot, where it was boiled in a large quantity of water. Then the women took the coarsely ground and boiled flour out of the water, chewed it in their mouths for a little, and put it into the pot again! By this means the decoction began to ferment and became intoxicating. It was a very disgusting method, yet it is practised by many Indian tribes in America; and, strange to say, also by some of the South Sea islanders, who, of course, could not have learned it from these Indians.

When this beverage was ready, the chief, a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose painted costume and ornaments were most elaborate, stepped up to the pot and began a strange series of incantations, which he accompanied by rattling a small wooden instrument in his hand; staring all the time at the earthen pot, as if he half expected it to run away; and dancing slowly round it as if to prevent such a catastrophe from taking place. The oftener the song was repeated the more solemn and earnest became the expression of his face and the tones of his voice. The rest of the Indians, who were assembled to the number of several hundreds, stood motionless round the pot, staring at him intently without speaking, and only now and then, when the voice and actions of the chief became much excited, they gave vent to a sympathetic howl.

After this had gone on for some time, the chief seized a drinking-cup, or cuja, which he gravely dipped into the pot and took a sip. Then the shaking of the rattle and the monotonous song began again. The chief next took a good pull at the cup and emptied it; after which he presented it to his companions, who helped themselves at pleasure; and the dance and monotonous music became more furious and noisy the longer the cup went round.

When the cup had circulated pretty freely among them, their dances and music became more lively; but they were by no means attractive. After he had watched them a short time, Martin left the festive scene with a feeling of pity for the poor savages; and as he thought upon their low and debased condition he recalled to mind the remark of his old friend the hermit,—“They want the Bible in Brazil.”

During his frequent rambles in the neighbourhood of the Indian village, Martin discovered many beautiful and retired spots, to which he was in the habit of going in the evenings after his daily labours were accomplished, accompanied, as usual, at a respectful distance, by his vigilant friend the tall savage. One of his favourite resting-places was at the foot of a banana-tree, which grew on the brow of a stupendous cliff, about a mile distant from the hut, in which he dwelt. From this spot he had a commanding view of the noble valley and the distant mountains. These mountains now seemed to the poor boy to be the ponderous gates of his beautiful prison; for he had been told by one of his Indian friends that on the other side of them were great campos and forests, beyond which dwelt many Portuguese, while still further on was a great lake without shores, which was the end of the world. This, Martin was convinced, must be the Atlantic Ocean; for, upon inquiry, he found that many months of travel must be undergone ere it could be reached. Moreover, he knew that it could not be the Pacific, because the sun rose in that direction.

Sauntering away to his favourite cliff, one fine evening towards sunset he seated himself beneath the banana-tree and gazed longingly at the distant mountains, whose sharp summits glittered in the ruddy glow. He had long racked his brain in order to devise some method of escape, but hitherto without success. Wherever he went the “shadow” followed him, armed with the deadly blow-pipe; and he knew that even if he did succeed in eluding his vigilance and escaping into the woods, hundreds of savages would turn out and track him, with unerring certainty, to any hiding place. Still the strength of his stern determination sustained him; and, at each failure in his efforts to devise some means of effecting his purpose, he threw off regret with a deep sigh, and returned to his labour with a firmer step, assured that he should eventually succeed.

As he sat there on the edge of the precipice, he said, half aloud, “What prevents me from darting suddenly on that fellow and knocking him down?”

This was a question that might have been easily answered. No doubt he was physically capable of coping with the man, for he had now been upwards of a year in the wilderness, and was in his sixteenth year, besides being unusually tall and robust for his age. Indeed he looked more like a full-grown man than a stripling; for hard, incessant toil, had developed his muscles and enlarged his frame, and his stirring life, combined latterly with anxiety, had stamped a few of the lines of manhood on his sunburnt countenance. But, although he could have easily overcome the Indian, he knew that he would be instantly missed; and, from what he had seen of the powers of the savages in tracking wild animals to their dens in the mountains, he felt that he could not possibly elude them except by stratagem.

Perplexed and wearied with unavailing thought and anxiety, Martin pressed his hands to his forehead and gazed down the perpendicular cliff, which was elevated fully a hundred feet above the plain below. Suddenly he started and clasped his hands upon his eyes, as if to shut out some terrible object from his sight. Then, creeping cautiously towards the edge of the cliff, he gazed down, while an expression of stern resolution settled upon his pale face.

And well might Martin’s cheek blanch, for he had hit upon a plan of escape which, to be successful, required that he should twice turn a bold, unflinching face on death. The precipice, as before mentioned, was fully a hundred feet high, and quite perpendicular. At the foot of it there flowed a deep and pretty wide stream, which, just under the spot where Martin stood, collected in a deep black pool, where it rested for a moment ere it rushed on its rapid course down the valley. Over the cliff and into that pool Martin made up his mind to plunge, and so give the impression that he had fallen over and been drowned. The risk he ran in taking such a tremendous leap was very great indeed, but that was only half the danger he must encounter.

The river was one of a remarkable kind, of which there are one or two instances in South America. It flowed down the valley between high rocks, and, a few hundred yards below the pool, it ran straight against the face of a precipice and there terminated to all appearance; but a gurgling vortex in the deep water at the base of the cliff, and the disappearance of everything that entered it, showed that the stream found a subterranean passage. There was no sign of its re-appearance, however, in all the country round. In short the river was lost in the bowels of the earth.

From the pool to the cliff where the river was engulfed the water ran like a mill-race, and there was no spot on either bank where any one could land, or even grasp with his hand, except one. It was a narrow, sharp rock, that jutted out about two feet from the bank, quite close to the vortex of the whirlpool. This rock was Martin’s only hope. To miss it would be certain destruction. But if he should gain a footing on it he knew that he could climb by a narrow fissure into a wild, cavernous spot, which it was exceedingly difficult to reach from any other point. A bend in the river concealed this rock and the vortex from the place whereon he stood, so that he hoped to be able to reach the point of escape before the savage could descend the slope and gain the summit of the cliff from whence it could be seen.

Of all this Martin was well aware, for he had been often at the place before, and knew every inch of the ground. His chief difficulty would be to leap over the precipice in such a manner as to cause the Indian to believe he had fallen over accidentally. If he could accomplish this, then he felt assured the savages would suppose he had been drowned, and so make no search for him at all. Fortunately the ground favoured this. About five feet below the edge of the precipice there was a projecting ledge of rock nearly four feet broad and covered with shrubs. Upon this it was necessary to allow himself to fall. The expedient was a desperate one, and he grew sick at heart as he glanced down the awful cliff, which seemed to him three times higher than it really was, as all heights do when seen from above.

Glancing round, he observed his savage guardian gazing contemplatively at the distant prospect. Martin’s heart beat audibly as he rose and walked with an affectation of carelessness to the edge of the cliff. As he gazed down, a feeling of horror seized him; he gasped for breath, and almost fainted. Then the idea of perpetual slavery flashed across his mind, and the thought of freedom and home nerved him. He clenched his hands, staggered convulsively forward and fell, with a loud and genuine shriek of terror, upon the shrubs that covered the rocky ledge. Instantly he arose, ground his teeth together, raised his eyes for one moment to heaven, and sprang into the air. For one instant he swept through empty space; the next he was deep down in the waters of the dark pool, and when the horrified Indian reached the edge of the precipice, he beheld his prisoner struggling on the surface for a moment, ere he was swept by the rapid stream round the point and out of view.

Bounding down the slope, the savage sped like a hunted antelope across the intervening space between the two cliffs, and quickly gained the brow of the lower precipice, which he reached just in time to see Martin Rattler’s straw-hat dance for a moment on the troubled waters of the vortex and disappear in the awful abyss. But Martin saw it too, from the cleft in the frowning rock.

On reaching the surface after his leap he dashed the water from his eyes, and looked with intense earnestness in the direction of the projecting rock towards which he was hurried. Down he came upon it with such speed that he felt no power of man could resist. But there was a small eddy just below it, into which he was whirled as he stretched forth his hands and clutched the rock with the energy of despair. He was instantly torn away. But another small point projected two feet below it. This he seized. The water swung his feet to and fro as it gushed into the vortex, but the eddy saved him. In a moment his breast was on the rock, then his foot, and he sprang into the sheltering cleft just a moment before the Indian came in view of the scene of his supposed death.

Martin flung himself with his face to the ground, and thought rather than uttered a heartfelt thanksgiving for his deliverance. The savage carried the news of his death to his friends in the Indian village, and recounted with deep solemnity the particulars of his awful fate to crowds of wondering,—in many cases sorrowing,—listeners; and for many a day after that the poor savages were wont to visit the terrible cliff and gaze with awe on the mysterious vortex that had swallowed up, as they believed, the fair-haired boy.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Escape—Alone in the Wilderness—Fight between a Jaguar and an Alligator—Martin encounters Strange and Terrible Creatures.

Freedom can be fully appreciated only by those who have been for a long period deprived of liberty. It is impossible to comprehend the feelings of joy that welled up in Martin’s bosom as he clambered up the rugged cliffs among which he had found shelter, and looked round upon the beautiful valley, now lying in the shadow of the mountain range behind which the sun had just set. He sat down on a rock, regardless of the wet condition of his clothes, and pondered long and earnestly over his position, which was still one of some danger; but a sensation of light-hearted recklessness made the prospect before him seem very bright. He soon made up his mind what to do. The weather was extremely warm, so that, after wringing the water out of his linen clothes, he experienced little discomfort; but he felt that there would not only be discomfort but no little danger in travelling in such a country without arms, covering, or provisions. He therefore determined on the bold expedient of revisiting the Indian village during the darkness of the night in order to procure what he required. He ran great risk of being retaken, but his necessity was urgent and he was aware that several families were absent on a hunting expedition at that time, whose huts were pretty certain to be unoccupied.

Accordingly, when two or three hours of the night had passed, he clambered with much difficulty down the precipitous rocks, and reached the level plain, over which he quickly ran, and soon reached the outskirts of the village. The Indians were all asleep, and no sound disturbed the solemn stillness of the night. Going stealthily towards a hut he peeped in at the open window, but could see and hear nothing. Just as he was about to enter, however, a long-drawn breath proved that it was occupied. He shrank hastily back into the deep shade of the bushes. In a few minutes he recovered from the agitation into which he had been thrown and advanced cautiously towards another hut. This one seemed to be untenanted, so he opened the palm-leaf door gently and entered. No time was to be lost now. He found an empty sack or bag, into which he hastily threw as much farina as he could carry without inconvenience. Besides this, he appropriated a long knife; a small hatchet; a flint and steel, to enable him to make a fire; and a stout bow with a quiver full of arrows. It was so dark that it was with difficulty he found these things. But as he was on the point of leaving he observed a white object in a corner. This turned out to be a light hammock, which he seized eagerly, and, rolling it up into a small bundle, placed it in the sack. He also sought for, and fortunately found, an old straw-hat which he put on.

Martin had now obtained all that he required, and was about to quit the hut when he became suddenly rooted to the spot with horror on observing the dark countenance of an Indian gazing at him with distended eyeballs over the edge of a hammock. His eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness of the room, had not at first observed that an Indian was sleeping there. He now felt that he was lost. The savage evidently knew him. Dreadful thoughts flashed through his brain. He thought of the knife in his belt, and how easily he could despatch the Indian in a moment as he lay; but then the idea of imbruing his hands in human blood seemed so awful that he could not bring himself to do it.

As he looked steadily at the savage he observed that his gaze was one of intense horror, and it suddenly occurred to him that the Indian supposed he was a ghost! Acting upon this supposition, Martin advanced his face slowly towards that of the Indian, put on a dark frown, and stood for a few seconds without uttering a word. The savage shrank back and shuddered from head to foot. Then, with a noiseless step, Martin retreated slowly backward towards the door and passed out like a spectre—never for a moment taking his eyes off those of the savage until he was lost in darkness. On gaining the forest he fled with a beating heart to his former retreat; but his fears were groundless, for the Indian firmly believed that Martin’s spirit had visited his hut and carried away provisions for his journey to the land of spirits.

Without waiting to rest Martin no sooner reached the scene of his adventurous leap than he fastened his bag firmly on his shoulders and struck across the valley in the direction of the blue mountains that hemmed it in. Four or five hours hard walking brought him to their base, and long before the rising sun shone down upon his recent home he was over the hills and far away, trudging onward with a weary foot, but with a light heart, in what he believed to be the direction of the east coast of Brazil. He did not dare to rest until the rugged peaks of the mountain range were between him and the savages; but, when he had left these far behind him, he halted about mid-day to breakfast and repose by the margin of a delightfully cool mountain stream.

“I’m safe now!” said Martin aloud, as he threw down his bundle beneath a spreading tree and commenced to prepare breakfast.

“O! my friend Barney, I wish that you were here to keep me company.” The solitary youth looked round as if he half expected to see the rough visage and hear the gladsome voice of his friend; but no voice replied to his, and the only living creature he saw was a large monkey, which peered inquisitively down at him from among the branches of a neighbouring bush. This reminded him that he had left his pet Marmoset in the Indian village, and a feeling of deep self-reproach filled his heart. In the baste and anxiety of his flight he had totally forgotten his little friend. But regret was now unavailing. Marmoset was lost to him for ever.

Having kindled a small fire, Martin kneaded a large quantity of farina in the hollow of a smooth stone, and baked a number of flat cakes, which were soon fired and spread out upon the ground. While thus engaged, a snake of about six feet long and as thick as a man’s arm glided past him. Martin started convulsively, for he had never seen one of the kind before, and he knew that the bite of some of the snakes is deadly. Fortunately his axe was at hand. Grasping it quickly, he killed the reptile with a single blow. Two or three mandioca-cakes, a few wild fruits, and a draught of water from the stream, formed the wanderer’s simple breakfast. After it was finished, he slung his hammock between two trees, and jumping in, fell into a deep, untroubled slumber, in which he continued all that day and until day-break the following morning.

After partaking of a hearty breakfast, Martin took up his bundle and resumed his travels. That day he descended into the level and wooded country that succeeded the mountain range; and that night he was obliged to encamp in a swampy place, near a stagnant lake, in which several alligators were swimming, and where the mosquitoes were so numerous that he found it absolutely impossible to sleep. At last, in despair, he sprang into the branches of the tree to which his hammock was slung and ascended to the top. Here, to his satisfaction, he found that there were scarcely any mosquitoes, while a cool breeze fanned his fevered brow; so he determined to spend the night in the tree.

By binding several branches together he formed a rude sort of couch, on which he lay down comfortably, placing his knife and bow beside him, and using the hammock rolled up as a pillow. As the sun was setting, and while he leaned on his elbow looking down through the leaves with much interest at the alligators that gambolled in the reedy lake, his attention was attracted to a slight rustling in the bushes near the foot of the tree. Looking down, he perceived a large jaguar gliding through the under-wood with cat-like stealth. Martin now observed that a huge alligator had crawled out of the lake, and was lying on the bank asleep a few yards from the margin. When the jaguar reached the edge of the bushes it paused, and then, with one tremendous spring, seized the alligator by the soft part beneath its tail. The huge monster struggled for a few seconds, endeavouring to reach the water, and then lay still, while the jaguar worried and tore at its tough hide with savage fury. Martin was much surprised at the passive conduct of the alligator. That it could not turn its stiff body, so as to catch the jaguar in its jaws, did not, indeed, surprise him; but he wondered very much to see the great reptile suffer pain so quietly. It seemed to be quite paralysed. In a few minutes the jaguar retired a short distance. Then the alligator made a rush for the water; but the jaguar darted back and caught it again; and Martin now saw that the jaguar was actually playing with the alligator as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it! During one of the cessations of the combat, if we may call it by that name, the alligator almost gained the water, and in the short struggle that ensued both animals rolled down the bank and fell into the lake. The tables were now turned. The jaguar made for the shore; but before it could reach it the alligator wheeled round, opened its tremendous jaws and caught its enemy by the middle. There was one loud splash in the water, as the alligator’s powerful tail dashed it into foam; and one awful roar of agony, which was cut suddenly short and stifled as the monster dived to the bottom with its prey; then all was silent as the grave, and a few ripples on the surface were all that remained to tell of the battle that had been fought there.

Martin remained motionless on the tree top, brooding over the fight which he had just witnessed, until the deepening shadows warned him that it was time to seek repose. Turning on his side he laid his head on his pillow, while a soft breeze swayed the tree gently to and fro and rocked him sound asleep.

Thus, day after day, and week after week, did Martin Rattler wander alone through the great forests, sometimes pleasantly, and at other times with more or less discomfort; subsisting on game which he shot with his arrows, and on wild fruits. He met with many strange adventures by the way, which would fill numerous volumes were they to be written every one; but we must pass over many of these in silence, that we may recount those that were most interesting.

One evening, as he was walking through a very beautiful country, in which were numerous small lakes and streams, he was suddenly arrested by a crashing sound in the under-wood, as if some large animal were coming towards him; and he had barely time to fit an arrow to his bow when the bushes in front of him were thrust aside, and the most hideous monster that he had ever seen appeared before his eyes. It was a tapir; but Martin had never heard of or seen such creatures before, although there are a good many in some parts of Brazil.

The tapir is a very large animal,—about five or six feet long and three or four feet high. It is in appearance something between an elephant and a hog. Its nose is very long, and extends into a short proboscis; but there is no finger at the end of it like that of the elephant. Its colour is a deep brownish black, its tough hide is covered with a thin sprinkling of strong hairs, and its mane is thick and bristly. So thick is its hide that a bullet can scarcely penetrate it; and it can crush its way through thickets and bushes, however dense, without receiving a scratch. Although a very terrific animal to look at, it is fortunately of a very peaceable and timid disposition, so that it flees from danger, and is very quick in discovering the presence of an enemy. Sometimes it is attacked by the jaguar, which springs suddenly upon it and fastens its claws in its back; but the tapir’s tough hide is not easily torn, and he gets rid of his enemy by bouncing into the tangled bushes and bursting through them, so that the jaguar is very soon scraped off his back! The tapir lives as much in the water as on the land, and delights to wallow like a pig in muddy pools. It is, in fact, very similar in many of its habits to the great hippopotamus of Africa, but is not quite so large. It feeds entirely on vegetables, buds, fruits, and the tender shoots of trees, and always at night. During the day time it sleeps. The Indians of Brazil are fond of its flesh, and they hunt it with spears and poisoned arrows.

But Martin knew nothing of all this, and fully expected that the dreadful creature before him would attack and kill him; for, when he observed its coarse, tough-looking hide, and thought of the slender arrows with which he was armed, he felt that he had no chance, and there did not happen to be a tree near him at the time up which he could climb.

With the energy of despair he let fly an arrow with all his force; but the weak shaft glanced from the tapir’s side without doing it the slightest damage. Then Martin turned to fly, but at the same moment the tapir did the same, to his great delight and surprise. It wheeled round with a snort, and went off crashing through the stout under-wood as if it had been grass, leaving a broad track behind it.

On another occasion he met with a formidable-looking but comparatively harmless animal, called the great ant-eater. This remarkable creature is about six feet in length, with very short legs and very long strong claws; a short curly tail, and a sharp snout, out of which it thrusts a long narrow tongue. It can roll itself up like a hedgehog, and when in this position might be easily mistaken for a bundle of coarse hay. It lives chiefly, if not entirely, upon ants.

When Martin discovered the great ant-eater, it was about to begin its supper; so he watched it. The plain was covered with ant-hills, somewhat pillar-like in shape. At the foot of one of these the animal made an attack, tearing up earth and sticks with its enormously strong claws, until it made a large hole in the hard materials, of which the hill was composed. Into this hole it thrust its long tongue, and immediately the ants swarmed upon it. The creature let its tongue rest till it was completely covered over with thousands of ants, then it drew it into its mouth and engulfed them all!

As Martin had no reason in the world for attempting to shoot the great ant-eater, and as he was, moreover, by no means sure that he could kill it if he were to try, he passed on quietly and left this curious animal to finish its supper in peace.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Martin meets with Friends and visits the Diamond Mines.

One day, after Martin had spent many weeks in wandering alone through the forest, during the course of which he was sometimes tempted to despair of seeing the face of man again, he discovered a beaten track; at the sight of which his heart bounded with delight. It was a Saturday afternoon when he made this discovery, and he spent the Sabbath-day in rest beside it. For Martin had more than once called to remembrance the words which good Aunt Dorothy used to hear him repeat out of the Bible, “Remember the Sabbath-day, to keep it holy.” He had many long, earnest, and serious meditations in that silent forest, such as a youth would be very unlikely to have in almost any other circumstances, except, perhaps, on a sick-bed; and among other things he had been led to consider that if he made no difference between Saturday and Sunday, he must certainly be breaking that commandment; so he resolved thenceforth to rest on the Sabbath-day; and he found much benefit, both to mind and body, from this arrangement. During this particular Sabbath he rested beside the beaten track, and often did he walk up and down it a short way, wondering where it would lead him to; and several times he prayed that he might be led by it to the habitations of civilised men.

Next day after breakfast he prepared to set out; but now he was much perplexed as to which way he ought to go, for the track did not run in the direction in which he had been travelling, but at right angles to that way. While he still hesitated the sound of voices struck on his ear, and he almost fainted with excitement; for, besides the hope that he might now meet with friends, there was also the fear that those approaching might be enemies; and the sudden sound of the human voice, which he had not heard for so long, tended to create conflicting and almost overwhelming feelings in his breast. Hiding quickly behind a tree, he awaited the passing of the cavalcade; for the sounds of horses hoofs were now audible.

In a few minutes a string of laden mules approached, and then six horsemen appeared, whose bronzed olive complexions, straw-hats and ponchos, betokened them Brazilians. As they passed, Martin hailed them in an unsteady voice. They pulled up suddenly and drew pistols from their holsters; but on seeing only a fair youth armed with a bow, they replaced their weapons, and with a look of surprise rode up and assailed him with a volley of unintelligible Portuguese.

“Do any of you speak English?” inquired Martin, advancing.

One of the horsemen replied, “Yees, I spok one leet. Ver’ smoll. Where you be com?”

“I have escaped from the Indians who live in the mountains far away over yonder. I have been wandering now for many weeks in the forest and I wish to get to the sea-coast or to some town where I may get something to do, that I may be enabled to return home.”

“Ho!” said the horseman, gravely. “You com vid us. Ve go vid goods to de Diamond Mines. Git work dere, yees. Put you body on dat hoss.”

As the Brazilian spoke he pointed to a spare horse, which was led, along with several others, by a Negro. Thanking him for his politeness Martin seized the horse by the mane and vaulted into the saddle, if the rude contrivance on its back might be so designated.

The string of mules then moved on, and Martin rode with a light heart beside this obliging stranger, conversing with much animation.

In a very short time he learned, through the medium of his own bad Portuguese and the Brazilian’s worse English, that he was not more than a day’s ride from one of the diamond mines of that province of Brazil which is named Minas Geraes; that he was still many leagues distant from the sea; and that he would be sure to get work at the mines if he wished it for the chief overseer, the Baron Fagoni, was an amiable man and very fond of the English,—but he could not speak their language at all, and required an interpreter. “And,” said the Brazilian, with a look of great dignity, “I hab de honour for be de ’terpreter.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Martin, “then I am in good fortune, for I shall have a friend at court.”

The interpreter smiled slightly and bowed, after which they proceeded for some time in silence.

Next evening they arrived at the mines; and, after seeing to the comfort of his horse, and inquiring rather hastily as to the welfare of his family, the interpreter conducted Martin to the overseer’s house in order to introduce him.

The Baron Fagoni stood smoking in the doorway of his dwelling as they approached; and the first impression that Martin received of him was anything but agreeable.

He was a large, powerful man, with an enormous red beard and moustache, and a sombrero-like hat that concealed nearly the whole of his face. He seemed an irritable man, too; for he jerked his arms about and stamped in a violent manner as they drew near, and instead of waiting to receive them, he entered the house hastily and shut the door in their faces.

“The Baron would do well to take lessons in civility,” said Martin, colouring, as he turned to the interpreter.

“Ah, he be a leet pecoolair, sometime! Nev’r mind. Ve vill go to him.”

So saying, the interpreter opened the door and entered the hall where the overseer was seated at a desk, writing as if in violent haste.

Seeing that he did not mean to take notice of them, the interpreter spoke to him in Portuguese; but he was soon interrupted by a sharp reply, uttered in a harsh, grating voice, by the overseer, who did not look up or cease from his work.

Again the interpreter spoke as if in some surprise; but he was cut short by the overseer uttering, in a deep, stern voice, the single word.

“Obey.”

With a low bow the interpreter turned away, and taking Martin by the arm led him into an inner apartment, where, having securely fastened the window, he said to him, “De Baron say you be von blackguard tief; go bout contrie for steal diamonds. He make pris’ner ov you. Adios.”

So saying, the interpreter made his bow and retired, locking the door behind him and leaving Martin standing in the middle of the room staring before him in speechless amazement.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Diamond Mines—More and more Astonishing!

If Martin Rattler was amazed at the treatment he experienced at the hands of his new acquaintances on arriving, he had occasion to be very much more surprised at what occurred three hours after his incarceration.

It was getting dark when he was locked up, and for upwards of two hours he was left in total darkness. Moreover, he began to feel very hungry, having eaten nothing since mid-day. He was deeply engaged in devising plans for his escape when he was interrupted by the door being unlocked, and a Negro slave entering with four magnificent candles, made of bees-wax, which he placed upon the table. Then he returned to the door, where another slave handed him a tray containing dishes, knives and forks, and, in short, all the requisites for laying out a supper-table. Having spread a clean linen cloth on the board, he arranged covers for two, and going to the door placed his head to one side and regarded his arrangements with much complacency, and without paying the slightest attention to Martin, who pinched himself in order to make sure he was not dreaming.

In a few minutes the second Negro returned with an enormous tray, on which were dishes of all sizes, from under whose covers came the most savoury odours imaginable. Having placed these symmetrically on the board, both slaves retired and relocked the door without saying a word.

At last it began to dawn on Martin’s imagination that the overseer must be an eccentric individual, who found pleasure in taking his visitors by surprise. But although this seemed a possible solution of the difficulty, he did not feel satisfied with it. He could with difficulty resist the temptation to attack the viands, however, and was beginning to think of doing this, regardless of all consequences, when the door again opened and the Baron Fagoni entered, relocked the door, put the key in his pocket and, standing before his prisoner with folded arms, gazed at him intently from beneath his sombrero.

Martin could not stand this. “Sir,” said he, starting up, “if this is a joke, you have carried it far enough; and if you really detain me here a prisoner, every feeling of honour ought to deter you from adding insult to injury.”

To this sternly delivered speech the Baron made no reply, but springing suddenly upon Martin, he grasped him in his powerful arms and crushed him to his broad chest till he almost broke every bone in his body!

“Och! cushla, bliss yer young face! sure it’s yersilf, an’ no mistake! Kape still, Martin, dear. Let me look at ye, darlint! Ah! then, isn’t it my heart that’s been broken for months an’ months past about ye?”

Reader, it would be utterly in vain for me to attempt to describe either the words that flowed from the lips of Martin Rattler and Barney O’Flannagan on this happy occasion, or the feelings that filled their swelling hearts. The speechless amazement of Martin, the ejaculatory exclamations of the Baron Fagoni, the rapid questions and brief replies, are all totally indescribable. Suffice it to say that for full quarter of an hour they exclaimed, shouted, and danced round each other, without coming to any satisfactory knowledge of how each had got to the same place, except that Barney at last discovered that Martin had travelled there by chance, and he had reached the mines by “intuition.” Having settled this point, they sobered down a little.

“Now Martin, darlint,” cried the Irishman, throwing aside his hat for the first time, and displaying his well-known jolly visage, of which the forehead, eyes, and nose alone survived the general inundation of red hair, “ye’ll be hungry, I’ve small doubt, so sit ye down, lad, to supper, and you’ll tell me yer story as ye go along, and afther that I’ll tell ye mine, while I smoke my pipe,—the ould cutty, boy, that has comed through fire and wather, sound as a bell and blacker than iver!”

The Baron held up the well-known instrument of fumigation, as he spoke, in triumph.

Supper was superb. There were venison steaks, armadillo cutlets, tapir hash, iguana pie, and an immense variety of fruits and vegetables, that would have served a dozen men, besides cakes and splendid coffee.

“You live well here, Barney—I beg pardon—Baron Fagoni,” said Martin, during a pause in their meal; “how in the world did you come by that name?”

Barney winked expressively. “Ah, boy, I wish I may niver have a worse. Ye see, when I first comed here, about four months ago, I found that the mine was owned by an Irish gintleman; an’, like all the race, he’s a trump. He took to me at wance when he hear’d my voice, and then he took more to me when he comed to know me character; and says he to me wan day, ‘Barney,’ says he, ‘I’m gittin’ tired o’ this kind o’ life now, and if ye’ll agree to stop here as overseer, and sind me the proceeds o’ the mine to Rio Janeiro, a great city on the sea-coast an’ the capital o’ Brazil, I’ll give ye a good share o’ the profits. But,’ says he, ‘ye’ll need to pretind ye’re a Roosian, or a Pole, or somethin’ o’ that kind; for the fellows in thim parts are great rascals, and there’s a few Englishmen among them who would soon find out that ye’re only a jack-tar before the mast and would chate ye at no allowance; but if ye could spake no language under the sun but the gibberish pecooliar to the unbeknown provinces o’ Siberia, ye could escape detection as far as yer voice is consarned; and by lettin’ yer beard grow as long as possible, and dressin’ yersilf properly, ye might pass, and be as dignified as the great Mogul.’

“‘Musha!’ said I, ‘but if I don’t spake me own tongue I’ll have to be dumb altogither.’

“‘No fear,’ says he; ‘I’ll tache ye enough Portuguese in a month or two to begin with, an’ ye’ll pick it up aisy after that.’ And sure enough I began, tooth and nail, and, by hard workin’, got on faster than I expected; for I can spake as much o’ the lingo now as tides me over needcessities, and I understand most o’ what’s said to me. Anyhow, I ginerally see what they’re drivin’ at.”

“So, then, you’re actually in charge of the mine?” said Martin, in surprise.

“Jist so, boy; but I’m tired of it already; it’s by no means so pleasant as I expected it would be; so I’m thinkin’ o’ lavin’ it, and takin’ to the say again. I’m longin’ dreadful to see the salt wather wance more.”

“But what will the owner say, Barney: won’t he have cause to complain of your breaking your engagement?”

“Niver a bit, boy. He tould me, before we parted, that if I wanted to quit I was to hand over the consarn to the interpreter, who is an honest fellow, I belave; so I’m jist goin’ to pocket a di’mond or two, and ask lave to take them home wid me. I’ll be off in a week, if all goes well. An’ now, Martin, fill yer glass; ye’ll find the wine is not bad, after wan or two glasses; an’ I’ll tell ye about my adventures since I saw ye last.”

“But you have not explained about your name,” said Martin.

“Och! the fact is, that when I comed here I fortunately fell in with the owner first, and we spoke almost intirely in Irish, so nobody understood where I comed from; and the interpreter hear’d the master call me by my name; so he wint off and said to the people that a great Barono Flanagoni had come, and was up at the house wid the master. But we corrected him afterward, and gave him to understand that I was the Baron Fagoni. I had some trouble with the people at first after the owner left; but I pounded wan or two o’ the biggest o’ them, to such a extint that their own friends hardly knew them; an iver since they’ve been mighty civil.”

Having carefully filled the black pipe, and involved himself in his own favourite atmosphere, the Baron Fagoni then proceeded to relate his adventures, and dilated upon them to such an extent that five or six pipes were filled and finished ere the story came to a close. Martin also related his adventures; to which his companion listened with such breathless attention and earnestness that his pipe was constantly going out; and the two friends did not retire to rest till near day-break.

The substance of the Baron’s narrative was as follows:—

At the time that he had been so suddenly separated from his friend, Barney had overcome many of his opponents, but at length he was overpowered by numbers, and his arms were firmly bound; after which he was roughly driven before them through the woods for several days, and was at length taken to their village among the mountains. Here he remained a close prisoner for three weeks, shut up in a small hut and bound by a strong rope to a post. Food was taken to him by an old Indian woman, who paid no attention at first to what he said to her, for the good reason that she did not understand a word of English. The persuasive eloquence of her prisoner’s tones, however, or perhaps his brogue, seemed in the course of a few days to have made an impression on her; for she condescended to smile at the unintelligible compliments which Barney lavished upon her in the hope of securing her good-will.

During all this time the Irishman’s heart was torn with conflicting feelings, and although, from the mere force of habit, he could jest with the old woman when she paid her daily visits, there was no feeling of fun in his bosom, but, on the contrary, a deep and overwhelming sorrow, which showed itself very evidently on his expressive face. He groaned aloud when he thought of Martin, whom he never expected again to see; and he dreaded every hour the approach of his savage captors, who, he fully expected, retained him in order to put him to death.

One day, while he was sitting in a very disconsolate mood, the Indian woman entered with his usual dinner,—a plate of thick soup and a coarse cake. Barney smiled upon her as usual, and then letting his eyes fall on the ground, sighed deeply,—for his heart was heavier than usual that day. As the woman was about to go, he looked earnestly and gravely in her face, and putting his large hand gently on her head, patted her grey hairs. This tender action seemed to affect the old woman more than usual. She laid her hand on Barney’s arm, and looked as if she wished to speak. Then turning suddenly from him, she drew a small knife from her girdle and dropped it on the ground, as if accidentally, while she left the hut and re-fastened the door. Barney’s heart leaped. He seized the knife and concealed it hastily in his bosom, and then ate his dinner with more than ordinary zest; for now he possessed the means of cutting the strong rope that bound him.

He waited with much impatience until night closed over the Indian village, and, then cutting his bonds, he tore down the rude and rather feeble fastenings of the door. In another instant he was dashing along at full speed through the forest, without hat or coat, and with the knife clutched in his right hand. Presently he heard cries behind him, and redoubled his speed; for now he knew that the savages had discovered his escape, and were in pursuit. But, although a good runner, Barney was no match for the lithe and naked Indians. They rapidly gained on him, and he was about to turn at bay and fight for his life, when he observed water gleaming through the foliage on his left. Dashing down a glade he came to the edge of a broad river with a rapid current. Into this he sprang recklessly, intending to swim with the stream; but ere he lost his footing he heard the low deep thunder of a cataract a short distance below! Drawing back in terror, he regained the bank, and waded up a considerable distance in the shallow water, so as to leave no trace of his footsteps. Then he leaped upon a rock, and, catching hold of the lower branches of a large tree, drew himself up among the dense foliage, just as the yelling savages rushed with wild tumult to the water’s edge. Here they paused, as if baffled. They spoke in rapid, vehement tones for a few seconds, and then one party hastened down the banks of the stream towards the fall, while another band searched the banks above.

Barney’s heart fell as he sat panting in the tree, for he knew that they would soon discover him. But he soon resolved on a bold expedient. Slipping down from the tree, he ran deliberately back towards the village; and, as he drew near, he followed the regular beaten track that led towards it. On the way he encountered one or two savages hastening after the pursuing party; but he leaped lightly into the bushes, and lay still till they were past. Then he ran on, skirted round the village, and pushed into the woods in an entirely opposite direction, from the one in which he had first set out. Keeping by one of the numerous tracks that radiated from the village into the forest he held on at top speed, until his progress was suddenly arrested by a stream about twenty yards broad. It was very deep, and he was about to plunge in, in order to swim across, when he observed a small montaria, or canoe, lying on the bank. This he launched quickly, and observing that the river took a bend a little further down, and appeared to proceed in the direction he wished to pursue,—namely, away from the Indian village,—he paddled down the rapid stream as fast as he could. The current was very strong, so that his little bark flew down it like an arrow, and on more than one occasion narrowly missed being dashed to pieces on the rocks which here and there rose above the stream.

In about two hours Barney came to a place where the stream took another bend to the left, and soon after, the canoe swept out upon the broad river into which he had at first so nearly plunged. He was a long way below the fall now, for its sound was inaudible; but it was no time to abate his exertions. The Indians might be still in pursuit; so he continued to paddle all that night and did not take rest until day-break. Then he slept for two hours, ate a few wild fruits, and continued his journey.

In the course of the next day, to his great joy, he overtook a trading canoe, which had been up another tributary of this river, and was descending with part of a cargo of India-rubber shoes. None of the men, of whom there were four, could speak English; but they easily saw from the Irishman’s condition that he had escaped from enemies and was in distress; so they took him on board, and were glad to avail themselves of his services: for, as we have before mentioned, men are not easily procured for voyaging in those parts of Brazil. Three weeks after this they arrived at a small town, where the natives were busily engaged in the manufacture of shoes, bottles, and other articles of India-rubber; and here Barney found employment for a short time.

The seringa, or India-rubber-tree, grows plentifully in some parts of Brazil, and many hundreds of the inhabitants are employed in the manufacture of shoes. The India-rubber is the juice of the tree, and flows from it when an incision is made. This juice is poured into moulds and left to harden. It is of a yellowish colour naturally, and is blackened in the course of preparation. Barney did not stay long here. Shoe-making, he declared, was not his calling by any means; so he seized the first opportunity he had of joining a party of traders going into the interior, in the direction of the diamond districts. The journey was long and varied. Sometimes by canoe and sometimes on the backs of mules and horses, and many extraordinary adventures did he go through ere he reached the diamond mines. And when at length he did so, great was his disappointment. Instead of the glittering caves which his vivid imagination had pictured, he found that there were no caves at all; that the diamonds were found by washing in the muddy soil; and, worst of all, that when found they were dim and unpolished, so that they seemed no better than any other stone. However, he resolved to continue there for a short time, in order to make a little money; but now that Martin had arrived he thought that they could not do better than make their way to the coast as fast as possible, and go to sea.

“The only thing I have to regret,” he said, at the conclusion of his narrative, “is that I left Grampus behind me. But arrah! I came off from the savages in such a hurry that I had no time at all to tell him I was goin’!”

Having sat till day-break, the two friends went to bed to dream of each other and of home.

Next morning Barney took Martin to visit the diamond mines. On the way they passed a band of Negro slaves who encircled a large fire, the weather being very cold. It was at that time about the end of July, which is one of the coldest months in the year. In this part of Brazil summer and winter are reversed,—the coldest months being May, June, and July; the hottest, November, December, January, and February.

Minas Geraes, the diamond district, is one of the richest provinces of Brazil. The inhabitants are almost entirely occupied in mining or in supplying the miners with the necessaries of life. Diggers and shopkeepers are the two principal classes, and of these the latter are best off; for their trade is steady and lucrative, while the success of the miners is very uncertain. Frequently a large sum of money and much time are expended in mining without any adequate result; but the merchants always find a ready sale for their merchandise, and, as they take diamonds and gold-dust in exchange, they generally realise large profits and soon become rich. The poor miner is like the gambler. He digs on in hope; sometimes finding barely enough to supply his wants,—at other times making a fortune suddenly; but never giving up in despair, because he knows that at every handful of earth he turns up he may perhaps find a diamond worth hundreds, or, it may be, thousands of pounds.

Cidade Diamantina,—the City of Diamonds,—is the capital of the province. It is a large city, with many fine churches and buildings; and the whole population, consisting of more than 6000 souls, are engaged, directly or indirectly, in mining. Every one who owns a few slaves employs them in washing the earth for gold and diamonds.

The mine of which Barney had so unexpectedly become overseer, was a small one, in a remote part of the district, situated among the mountains, and far-distant from the City of Diamonds. There were only a few huts, rudely built and roofed with palm-leaves, besides a larger building, or cottage, in which the Baron Fagoni resided.

“’Tis a strange life they lead here,” said Barney, as he led Martin down a gorge of the mountains, towards a small spot of level ground, on which the slaves were at work; “a strange life, and by no means a pleasant wan; for the feedin’ is none o’ the best and the work very sevare.”

“Why, Barney, if I may judge from last night’s supper, the feeding seems to be excellent.”

“Thrue, boy, the Baron Fagoni feeds well, bekase he’s the cock o’ the roost; but the poor Naygurs are not overly well fed, and the critters are up to their knees in wather all day, washing di’monds; so they suffer much from rheumatiz and colds. Och, but it’s murther entirely; an’ I’ve more than wance felt inclined to fill their pockets with di’monds and set them all free! Jist look, now, there they are, hard at it.”

As he spoke they arrived at the mine. The ground in the vicinity was all cut up and dug out to a considerable depth, and a dozen Negroes were standing under a shed washing the earth, while others were engaged in the holes excavating the material. While Martin watched them his friend explained the process.

The different kinds of soil through which it is necessary to cut before reaching the diamond deposit are, first about twenty feet of reddish sandy soil; then about eight feet of a tough yellowish clay; beneath this lies a layer of coarse reddish sand, below which is the peculiar soil in which diamonds are found. It is called by the miners the cascalho, and consists of loose gravel, the pebbles of which are rounded and polished, having at some previous era been subject to the action of running water. The bed varies in thickness from one to four feet and the pebbles are of various kinds; but when there are many of a species called Esmerilo preto, the cascalho is considered to be rich in diamonds.

Taking Martin round to the back of the shed, Barney showed him a row of troughs, about three feet square, close to the edge of a pond of water. These troughs are called bacos. In front of each stood a Negro slave up to his knees in water. Each had a wooden plate, with which he dashed water upon the rough cascalho as it was thrown into the trough by another slave. By this means, and by stirring it with a small hoe, the earth and sand are washed away. Two overseers were closely watching the process; for it is during this part of the operation that the largest diamonds are found. These overseers were seated on elevated seats, each being armed with a long leathern whip, to keep a sharp look-out, for the slaves are expert thieves.

After the cascalho had been thus purified, it was carefully removed to the shed to be finally washed.

Here seven slaves were seated on the side of a small canal, about four feet broad, with their legs in the water nearly up to their knees. This canal is called the lavadeira. Each man had a small wooden platter, into which another slave, who stood behind him, put a shovelful of purified cascalho. The bateia, or platter, was then filled with water and washed with the utmost care several times, being closely examined after each washing, and the diamonds picked out. Sometimes many platefuls were examined but nothing found; at other times several diamonds were found in one plate. While Martin was looking on with much curiosity and interest, one of the slaves uttered an exclamation and held up a minute stone between his finger and thumb.

“Ah! good luck to ye, lad!” said Barney, advancing and taking the diamond which had been discovered. “See here, Martin; there’s the thing, lad, that sparkles on the brow o’ beauty, and gives the Naygurs rheumatiz—”

“Not to mention their usefulness in providing the great Baron Fagoni with a livelihood,” added Martin, with a smile.

Barney laughed, and going up to the place where the two overseers were seated, dropped the precious gem into a plate of water placed between them for the purpose of receiving the diamonds as they were found.

“They git fifteen or twinty a day sometimes,” said Barney, as they retraced their steps to the cottage; “and I’ve hear’d o’ them getting stones worth many thousands o’ pounds; but the biggest they iver found since I comed here was not worth more than four hundred.”

“And what do you do with them, Barney, when they are found?” inquired Martin.

“Sind them to Rio Janeiro, lad, where my employer sells them. I don’t know how much he makes a year by it; but the thing must pay, for he’s very liberal with his cash, and niver forgits to pay wages. There’s always a lot o’ gould-dust found in the bottom o’ the bateia after each washing, and that is carefully collected and sold. But, arrah! I wouldn’t give wan snifter o’ the say-breezes for all the di’monds in Brazil!”

As Barney said this he entered his cottage and flung down his hat with the air of a man who was resolved to stand it no longer.

“But why don’t you wash on your own account?” cried Martin. “What say you; shall we begin together? We may make our fortune the first week, perhaps!”

Barney shook his head. “No, no, boy; I’ve no faith in my luck with the di’monds or gould. Nevertheless I have hear’d o’ men makin’ an awful heap o’ money that way; partiklarly wan man that made his fortin with wan stone.”

“Who was that lucky dog?” asked Martin.

“Well, ye see, it happened this way: There’s a custom hereaway that slaves are allowed to work on Sundays and holidays on their own account; but when the mines was a government consarn this was not allowed, and the slaves were the most awful thieves livin’, and often made off with some o’ the largest di’monds. Well, there was a man named Juiz de Paz, who owned a small shop, and used to go down now and then to Rio de Janeiro to buy goods. Wan evenin’ he returned from wan o’ his long journeys, and, bein’ rather tired, wint to bed. He was jist goin’ off into a comfortable doze when there came a terrible bumpin’ at the door.

“‘Hallo!’ cried Juiz, growlin’ angrily in the Portugee tongue; ‘what d’ye want?’

“There was no answer but another bumpin’ at the door. So up he jumps, and, takin’ down a big blunderbuss that hung over his bed, opened the door, an’ seized a Naygur be the hair o’ the head!

“‘Oh, massa! oh, massa! let him go! Got di’mond for to sell!’

“On hearin’ this, Juiz let go, and found that the slave had come to offer for sale a large di’mond, which weighed about two penny-weights and a third.

“‘What d’ye ask for it?’ said Juiz, with sparklin’ eyes.

“‘Six hundred mil-reis,’ answered the Naygur.

“This was about equal to 180 pounds sterling. Without more words about it he paid down the money; and the slave went away. Juiz lost his sleep that night. He went and tould the neighbours he had forgot a piece of important business in Rio and must go back at wance. So back he went and stayed some time in the city, tryin’ to git his di’mond safely sold; for it was sich a big wan that he feared the government fellows might hear o’t; in which case he would have got ten years transportation to Angola on the coast of Africa. At last however, he got rid of it for 20,000 mil-reis, which is about 6000 pounds. It was all paid to him in hard dollars; and he nearly went out o’ his wits for joy. But he was brought down a peg nixt day, when he found that the same di’mond was sold for nearly twice as much as he had got for it. Howiver, he had made a pretty considerable fortin; an’ he’s now the richest di’mond and gould merchant in the district.”

“A lucky fellow certainly,” said Martin. “But I must say I have no taste for such chance work; so I’m quite ready to start for the sea-coast whenever it suits the Baron Fagoni’s convenience.”

While they were speaking they were attracted by voices outside the cottage, which sounded as if in altercation. In another minute the door burst open, and a man entered hurriedly, followed by the interpreter.

“Your overseer is impertinent!” exclaimed the man, who was a tall swarthy Brazilian. “I wish to buy a horse or a good mule, and he won’t let me have one. I am not a beggar; I offer to pay.”

The man spoke in Portuguese, and Barney replied in the same language.

“You can have a horse if you pay for it.”

The Brazilian replied by throwing a heavy bag of dollars on the table.

“All right,” said Barney, turning to his interpreter and conversing with him in an undertone. “Give him what he requires.” So saying he bowed the Brazilian out of the room, and returned to the enjoyment of his black pipe, which had been interrupted by the incident.

“That man seems in a hurry,” said Martin.

“So he is. My interpreter tells me that he is quite like one o’ the blackguards that sometimes go about the mines doin’ mischief, and he’s in hot haste to be away. I should not wonder if the spalpeen has been stealin’ gould or di’monds and wants to escape. But of course I’ve nothin’ to do with that, unless I was sure of it; and I’ve a horse or two to sell, and he has money to pay for it; so he’s welcome. He says he is makin’ straight for the say-coast; and with your lave, Martin, my boy, you and I will be doin’ that same in a week after this, and say good-bye to the di’mond mines.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

New Scenes and Pleasant Travelling.

A new and agreeable sensation is a pleasant thing. It was on as bright an evening as ever shone upon Brazil, and in as fair a scene as one could wish to behold, that Martin Rattler and his friend Barney experienced a new sensation. On the wide campos, on the flower-bedecked and grassy plains, they each bestrode a fiery charger; and, in the exultation of health, and strength, and liberty, they swept over the green sward of the undulating campos, as light as the soft wind that fanned their bronzed cheeks, as gay in heart as the buzzing insects that hovered above the brilliant flowers.

“Oh, this is best of all!” shouted Martin, turning his sparkling eyes to Barney, as he reined up his steed after a gallop that caused its nostril to expand and its eye to dilate.

“There’s nothing like it! A fiery charger that can’t and won’t tire, and a glorious sweep of plain like that! Huzza! whoop!” And loosening the rein of his willing horse, away he went again in a wild headlong career.

“Och, boy, pull up, or ye’ll kill the baste!” cried Barney, who thundered along at Martin’s side enjoying to the full the spring of his powerful horse; for Barney had spent the last farthing of his salary on the two best steeds the country could produce, being determined, as he said, to make the last overland voyage on clipper-built animals, which, he wisely concluded, would fetch a good price at the end of the journey. “Pull up! d’ye hear? They can’t stand goin’ at that pace. Back yer topsails, ye young rascal, or I’ll board ye in a jiffy.”

“How can I pull up with that before me!” cried Martin, pointing to a wide ditch or gully that lay in front of them. “I must go over that first.”

“Go over that!” cried Barney, endeavouring to rein in his horse, and looking with an anxious expression at the chasm. “It’s all very well for you to talk o’ goin’ over, ye feather; but fifteen stun—Ah, then, won’t ye stop? Bad luck to him, he’s got the bit in his teeth! Oh then, ye ugly baste, go, and my blissin’ go with ye!”

The leap was inevitable. Martin went over like a deer. Barney shut his eyes, seized the pommel of the saddle, and went at it like a thunder-bolt. In the excitement of the moment he shouted, in a stentorian voice, “Clap on all sail! d’ye hear? Stu’n sails and skyscrapers! Kape her steady! Hooray!”

It was well for Barney that he had seized the saddle. Even as it was, he received a tremendous blow from the horse’s head as it took the leap, and was thrown back on its haunches when it cleared the ditch, which it did nobly.

“Hallo! old boy, not hurt, I hope,” said Martin, suppressing his laughter as his comrade scrambled on to the saddle. “You travel about on the back of your horse at full gallop like a circus rider.”

“Whist, darlint, I do belave he has damaged my faygur-head. What a nose I’ve got! Sure I can see it mesilf without squintin’.”

“So you have, Barney. It’s a little swelled, but never mind. We must all learn by experience, you know. So come alone.”

“Hould on, ye spalpeen, till I git my wind!”

But Martin was off again at full speed; and Barney’s horse, scorning to be left behind, took the bit again in its teeth and went—as he himself expressed it,—“screamin’ before the wind.”

A new sensation is not always and necessarily an agreeable thing. Martin and Barney found it so on the evening of that same day, as they reclined (they could not sit) by the side of their fire on the campo under the shelter of one of the small trees which grew here and there at wide intervals on the plain. They had left the diamond mine early that morning, and their first day on horseback proved to them that there are shadows, as well as lights, in equestrian life. Their only baggage was a single change of apparel and a small bag of diamonds,—the latter being the product of the mine during the Baron Fagoni’s reign, and which that worthy was conveying faithfully to his employer. During the first part of the day they had ridden though a hilly and woody country, and towards evening they emerged upon one of the smaller campos, which occur here and there in the district.

“Martin,” said Barney, as he lay smoking his pipe, “’tis a pity that there’s no pleasure in this world without something crossgrained into it. My own feelin’s is as if I had been lately passed through a stamping machine.”

“Wrong, Barney, as usual,” said Martin, who was busily engaged concluding supper with an orange. “If we had pleasures without discomforts, we wouldn’t half enjoy them. We need lights and shadows in life—what are you grinning at Barney?”

“Oh! nothin’, only ye’re a remarkable philosopher, when ye’re in the vein.”

“’Tis always in vain to talk philosophy to you, Barney, so good night t’ye. Oh, dear me, I wish I could sit down! but there’s no alternative,—either bolt upright or quite flat.”

In quarter of an hour they both forgot pleasures and sorrows alike in sleep. Next day the sun rose on the edge of the campo as it does out of the ocean, streaming across its grassy billows, and tipping the ridges as with ruddy gold. At first Martin and Barney did not enjoy the lovely scene, for they felt stiff and sore; but, after half an hour’s ride, they began to recover; and when the sun rose in all its glory on the wide plain, the feelings of joyous bounding freedom that such scenes always engender obtained the mastery, and they coursed along in silent delight.

The campo was hard, composed chiefly of a stiff red clay soil, and covered with short grass in most places; but here and there were rank bushes of long hairy grasses, around and amongst which grew a multitude of the most exquisitely beautiful flowerets and plants of elegant forms. Wherever these flowers flourished very luxuriantly there were single trees of stunted growth and thick bark, which seldom rose above fifteen or twenty feet. Besides these there were rich flowering myrtles, and here and there a grotesque cactus or two.

Under one of these trees they reined up after a ride of two hours, and picketing their horses, prepared breakfast. It was soon despatched, and then remounting, away they went once more over the beautiful plains.

About mid-day, as they were hasting towards the shelter of a grove which appeared opportunely on the horizon, Barney said suddenly—

“Martin, lad, we’re lost! We’re out of our course, for sartin.”

“I’ve been thinking that for some time, Barney,” replied Martin; “but you have your compass, and we can surely make the coast by dead reckoning—eh?”

“True, lad, we can; but it’ll cost us a dale o’ tackin’ to make up for lee-way. Ah, good luck to ye! here’s a friend’ll help us.”

As he spoke a herd of wild cattle dashed out of the grove and scampered over the plain, followed by a herdsman on horseback. Seeing that he was in eager pursuit of an animal which he wished to lasso, they followed him quietly and watched his movements. Whirling the noose round his head, he threw it adroitly in such a manner that the bull put one of its legs within the coil. Then he reined up suddenly, and the animal was thrown on its back. At the same moment the lasso broke, and the bull recovered its feet and continued its wild flight.

“Good day, friend,” said Barney, galloping towards the disappointed herdsman and addressing him in Portuguese, “could you show us the road to Rio? We’ve lost it intirely.”

The man pointed sulkily in the direction in which they were going, and, having mended his lasso, he wheeled about and galloped after the herd of cattle.

“Bad luck to yer manners!” said Barney, as he gazed after him. “But what can ye expect from the poor critter? He niver larned better. Come along, Martin, we’ll rest here a while.”

They were soon under the shelter of the trees, and having fastened their horses to one of them, they proceeded to search for water. While thus employed, Barney shouted to his companion, “Come here, lad; look here.”

There was something in the tone of the Irishman’s voice that startled Martin, and he sprang hastily towards him. Barney was standing with his arms crossed upon his chest and his head bowed forward, as he gazed with a solemn expression on the figure of a man at his feet.

“Is he ill?” inquired Martin, stooping and lifting his hand. Starting back as he dropped it, he exclaimed, “Dead!”

“Ay, boy, he has gone to his last account. Look at him again, Martin. It was he who came to the mine a week ago to buy a horse, and now—.” Barney sighed as he stooped and turned the body over in order to ascertain whether he had been murdered; but there were no marks of violence to be seen. There was bread too in his wallet; so they could come to no other conclusion than that the unhappy man had been seized with fatal illness in the lonesome wood and died there.

As they searched his clothes they found a small leathern bag, which, to their amazement was filled with gold-dust; and in the midst of the gold was another smaller bag containing several small diamonds.

“Ha!” exclaimed Martin, “that explains his hurry. No doubt he had made off with these, and was anxious to avoid pursuit.”

“No doubt of it,” said Barney. “Well, thief or no thief, we must give the poor cratur’ dacent burial. There’s not a scrap o’ paper to tell who he is or where he came from,—a sure sign that he wasn’t what he should ha’ been. Ah! Martin, what will we not do for the sake o’ money! and, after all, we can’t keep it long. May the Almighty niver let you or me set our hearts on it.”

They dug a shallow grave with their hands in a sandy spot where the soil was loose, in which they deposited the body of the unfortunate man; and then remounting their horses, rode away and left him in his lonely resting-place.

For many days did Martin and Barney travel through the land on horseback, now galloping over open campos, anon threading their way through the forest, and sometimes toiling slowly up the mountain sides. The aspect of the country varied continually as they advanced, and the feelings of excessive hilarity with which they commenced the journey began to subside as they became accustomed to it.

One evening they were toiling slowly up a steep range of hills, which had been the prospect in front of them the whole of that day. As they neared the summit of the range Martin halted at a stream to drink, and Barney advanced alone. Suddenly Martin was startled by a loud cry, and looking up he saw Barney on his knees with his hands clasped before him! Rushing up the hill, Martin found his comrade with his face flushed and the tears coursing down his cheeks as he stared before him.

“Look at it Martin, dear!” he cried, starting up and flinging his cap in the air, and shouting like a madman. “The say! my own native illiment! the beautiful ocean! Och, darlint my blessing on ye! Little did I think to see you more,—hooray!”

Barney sang and danced till he sank down on the grass exhausted; and, to say truth, Martin felt much difficulty in restraining himself from doing likewise, for before him was spread out the bright ocean, gleaming in the light of the sinking sun, and calm and placid as a mirror. It was indeed a glorious sight to these two sailors, who had not seen the sea for nearly two years. It was like coming suddenly face to face—after a long absence—with an old and much-loved friend.

Although visible, the sea, however, was still a long way off from the Serra dos Orgos, on which they stood. But their steeds were good, and it was not long ere they were both rolling like dolphins in the beautiful bay of Rio de Janeiro.

Here Barney delivered up the gold and diamonds to his employer, who paid him liberally for his services and entertained them both hospitably while they remained in the city. The bag of gold and diamonds, which had been found on the body of the dead man, they appropriated, as it was absolutely impossible to discover the rightful owner. Barney’s friend bought it of them at full price; and when they embarked, soon after, on board a homeward bound ship, each had four hundred pounds in his pocket!

As they sailed out of the noble harbour Martin sat on the poop gazing at the receding shore while thick-coming memories crowded on his brain.

His imagination flew back to the day when he first landed on the coast, and escaped with his friend Barney from the pirates,—to the hermit’s cottage in the lonely valley, where he first made acquaintance with monkeys, iguanas, jaguars, armadillos, and all the wonderful, beautiful, and curious birds, beasts, and reptiles, plants, trees, and flowers, that live and flourish in that romantic country. Once more, in fancy, he was sailing up the mighty Amazon, shooting alligators on its banks, spearing fish in its waters, paddling through its curious gapo, and swinging in his hammock under its luxuriant forests. Once again he was a prisoner among the wild Indians, and he started convulsively as he thought of the terrible leap over the precipice into the stream that flowed into the heart of the earth. Then he wandered in the lonely forest. Suddenly the diamond mines were before him, and Barney’s jovial voice rang in his ears; and he replied to it with energy, for now he was bounding on a fiery steed over the grassy campos. With a deep sigh he awoke from his reverie to find himself surrounded by the great wide sea.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Return.

Arthur Jollyboy, Esquire, of the Old Hulk, sat on the top of a tall three-legged stool in his own snug little office in the sea-port town of Bilton, with his legs swinging to and fro; his socks displayed a considerable way above the tops of his gaiters; his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets; his spectacles high on his bald forehead, and his eyes looking through the open letter that lay before him; through the desk underneath it; through the plank floor, cellars and foundations of the edifice; and through the entire world into the distant future beyond.

“Four thousand pair of socks,” he murmured, pulling down his spectacles and consulting the open letter for the tenth time: “four thousand pair of socks, with the hitch, same as last bale, but a very little coarser in material.”

“Four thousand pair! and who’s to make them, I wonder. If poor Mrs Dorothy Grumbit were here—ah! well, she’s gone, so it can’t be helped. Four thousand!—dear me who will make them. Do you know?”

This question was addressed to his youngest clerk, who sat on the opposite side of the desk staring at Mr Jollyboy with that open impudence of expression peculiar to young puppy-dogs whose masters are unusually indulgent.

“No, sir, I don’t,” said the clerk with a broad grin.

Before the perplexed merchant could come at any conclusion on this knotty subject the door opened and Martin Rattler entered the room, followed by his friend Barney O’Flannagan.

“You’ve come to the wrong room, friends,” said Mr Jollyboy with a benignant smile. “My principal clerk engages men and pays wages. His office is just opposite; first door in the passage.”

“We don’t want to engage,” said Martin; “we wish to speak with you, sir.”

“Oh, beg pardon!” cried Mr Jollyboy, leaping off the stool with surprising agility for a man of his years. “Come in this way. Pray be seated—Eh! ah, surely I’ve seen you before, my good fellow?”

“Yis, sir, that ye have. I’ve sailed aboard your ships many a time. My name’s Barney O’Flannagan, at yer sarvice.”

“Ah! I recollect; and a good man you are, I’ve been told, Barney; but I have lost sight of you for some years. Been on a long voyage, I suppose?”

“Well, not ’xactly; but I’ve been on a long cruise, an’ no mistake, in the woods o’ Brazil I wos wrecked on the coast there, in the Firefly.”

“Ah, to be sure. I remember. And your young messmate here, was he with you?”

“Yes, sir, I was,” said Martin, answering for himself; “and I had once the pleasure of your acquaintance. Perhaps if you look steadily in my face you may—”

“Ah, then! don’t try to bamboozle him. He might as well look at a bit o’ mahogany as at your faygur-head. Tell him at wance, Martin, dear.”

“Martin?” exclaimed the puzzled old gentleman, seizing the young sailor by the shoulders and gazing intently into his face. “Martin! Martin! Surely not—yes! eh! Martin Rattler?”

“Ay that am I, dear Mr Jollyboy, safe and sound, and—”

Martin’s speech was cut short in consequence of his being violently throttled by Mr Jollyboy, who flung his arms round his neck and staggered recklessly about the office with him! This was the great point which Barney had expected; it was the climax to which he had been looking forward all the morning: and it did not come short of his anticipations; for Mr Jollyboy danced round Martin and embraced him for at least ten minutes, asking him at the same time a shower of questions which he gave him no time to answer. In the excess of his delight Barney smote his thigh with his broad hand so forcibly that it burst upon the startled clerk like a pistol-shot, and caused him to spring off his stool!

“Don’t be afeared, young un,” said Barney, winking and poking the small clerk jocosely in the ribs with his thumb. “Isn’t it beautiful to see them? Arrah, now! isn’t it purty?”

“Keep your thumbs to yourself, you sea monster,” said the small clerk, angrily, and laying his hand on the ruler. But Barney minded him not, and continued to smite his thigh and rub his hands, while he performed a sort of gigantic war-dance round Mr Jollyboy and Martin.

In a few minutes the old gentleman subsided sufficiently to understand questions.

“But, my aunt,” said Martin, anxiously; “you have said nothing about Aunt Dorothy. How is she? where is she? is she well?”

To these questions Mr Jollyboy returned no answer, but sitting suddenly down on a chair, he covered his face with his hands.

“She is not ill?” inquired Martin in a husky voice, while his heart beat violently. “Speak, Mr Jollyboy, is she—is she—”

“No, she’s not ill,” returned the old gentleman; “but she’s—”

“She is dead!” said Martin, in a tone so deep and sorrowful that the old gentleman started up.

“No, no, not dead, my dear boy; I did not mean that. Forgive my stupidity, Martin. Aunt Dorothy is gone,—left the village a year ago; and I have never seen or heard of her since.”

Terrible though this news was, Martin felt a slight degree of relief to know that she was not dead;—at least there was reason to hope that she might be still alive.

“But when did she go? and why? and where?”

“She went about twelve months ago,” replied Mr Jollyboy. “You see, Martin, after she lost you she seemed to lose all hope and all spirit; and at last she gave up making socks for me, and did little but moan in her seat in the window and look out towards the sea. So I got a pleasant young girl to take care of her; and she did not want for any of the comforts of life. One day the little girl came to me here, having run all the way from the village, to say that Mrs Grumbit had packed up a bundle of clothes and gone off to Liverpool by the coach. She took the opportunity of the girl’s absence on some errand to escape; and we should never have known it, had not some boys of the village seen her get into the coach and tell the guard that she was going to make inquiries after Martin. I instantly set out for Liverpool; but long before I arrived the coach had discharged its passengers, and the coachman, not suspecting that anything was wrong, had taken no notice of her after arriving. From that day to this I have not ceased to advertise and make all possible inquiries, but without success.”

Martin heard the narrative in silence, and when it was finished he sat a few minutes gazing vacantly before him, like one in a dream. Then starting up suddenly, he wrung Mr Jollyboy’s hand, “Good-bye, my dear friend; good-bye. I shall go to Liverpool. We shall meet again.”

“Stay, Martin, stay—”

But Martin had rushed from the room, followed by his faithful friend, and in less than half an hour they were in the village of Ashford. The coach was to pass in twenty minutes, so, bidding Barney engage two outside seats, he hastened round by the road towards the cottage. There it stood, quaint time-worn, and old-fashioned, as when he had last seen it—the little garden in which he had so often played, the bower in which, on fine weather, Aunt Dorothy used to sit, and the door-step on which the white kitten used to gambol. But the shutters were closed, and the door was locked, and there was an air of desolation and a deep silence brooding over the place, that sank more poignantly into Martin’s heart than if he had come and found every vestige of the home of his childhood swept away. It was like the body without the soul. The flowers, and stones, and well-known forms were there; but she who had given animation to the whole was gone. Sitting down on the door-step, Martin buried his face in his hands and wept.

He was quickly aroused by the bugle of the approaching coach. Springing up, he dashed the tears away and hurried towards the highroad. In a few minutes Barney and he were seated on the top of the coach, and dashing, at the rate of ten miles an hour, along the road to Liverpool.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Old Garret.

Days, and weeks, and months, passed away, and Martin had searched every nook and corner of the great sea-port without discovering his old aunt, or obtaining the slightest information regarding her. At first he and Barney went about the search together, but after a time he sent his old companion forcibly away to visit his own relatives, who dwelt not far from Bilton, at the same time promising that if he had any good news to tell he would immediately write and let him know.

One morning, as Martin was sitting beside the little fire in his lodging, a tap came to the door, and the servant girl told him that a policeman wished to see him.

“Show him in,” said Martin, who was not in the least surprised, for he had had much intercourse with these guardians of the public peace during the course of his unavailing search.

“I think, sir,” said the man on entering, “that we’ve got scent of an old woman wich is as like the one that you’re arter as hanythink.”

Martin rose in haste, “have you, my man? Are you sure?”

“’Bout as sure as a man can be who never seed her. But it won’t take you long to walk. You’d better come and see for yourself.”

Without uttering another word, Martin put on his hat, and followed the policeman. They passed through several streets and lanes, and at length came to one of the poorest districts of the city, not far-distant from the shipping. Turning down a narrow alley, and crossing a low dirty-looking court, Martin’s guide stopped before a door, which he pushed open and mounted by a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a garret. He opened the door and entered.

“There she is,” said the man in a tone of pity, as he pointed to a corner of the apartment, “an’ I’m afeer’d she’s goin’ fast.”

Martin stepped towards a low truckle-bed on which lay the emaciated form of a woman covered with a scanty and ragged quilt. The corner of it was drawn across her face, and so gentle was her breathing that it seemed as if she were already dead. Martin removed the covering, and one glance at that gentle, careworn countenance sufficed to convince him that his old aunt lay before him! His first impulse was to seize her in his strong arms, but another look at the frail and attenuated form caused him to shrink back in fear.

“Leave me,” he said, rising hastily and slipping half a sovereign into the policeman’s hand; “this is she. I wish to be alone with her.”

The man touched his hat and retired, closing the door behind him; while Martin, sitting down on the bed, took one of his aunt’s thin hands in his. The action was tenderly performed, but it awoke her. For the first time it flashed across Martin’s mind that the sudden joy at seeing him might be too much for one so feeble as Aunt Dorothy seemed to be. He turned his back hastily to the light and with a violent effort suppressed his feelings while he asked how she did.

“Well, very well,” said Aunt Dorothy, in a faint voice. “Are you the missionary that was here long ago? Oh! I’ve been longing for you. Why did you not come to read to me oftener about Jesus? But I have had him here although you did not come. He has been saying ‘Come unto me, ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’ Yes, I have found rest in Him.” She ceased and seemed to fall asleep again; but in a few seconds she opened her eyes and said, “Martin, too, has been to see me; but he does not come so often now. The darling boy used always to come to me in my dreams. But he never brings me food. Why does no one ever bring me food? I am hungry.”

“Should you like food now, if I brought it to you?” said Martin in a low voice.

“Yes, yes; bring me food,—I am dying.”

Martin released her hand and glided gently out of the room. In a few minutes he returned with a can of warm soup and a roll; of which Aunt Dorothy partook with an avidity that showed she had been in urgent need. Immediately after, she went to sleep; and Martin sat upon the bed holding her hand in both of his till she awoke, which she did in an hour after, and again ate a little food.

While she was thus engaged the door opened and a young man entered, who stated that he was a doctor, and had been sent there by a policeman.

“There is no hope,” he said in a whisper, after feeling her pulse; “the system is quite exhausted.”

“Doctor,” whispered Martin, seizing the young man by the arm, “can nothing save her? I have money, and can command anything that may do her good.”

The doctor shook his head. “You may give her a little wine. It will strengthen her for a time, but I fear there is no hope. I will send in a bottle if you wish it.”

Martin gave him the requisite sum, and in a few minutes the wine was brought up by a boy.

The effect of the wine was wonderful. Aunt Dorothy’s eyes sparkled as they used to do in days of old, and she spoke with unwonted energy.

“You are kind to me, young man,” she said, looking earnestly into Martin’s face, which, however, he kept carefully in shadow. “May our Lord reward you.”

“Would you like me to talk to you of your nephew?” said Martin; “I have seen him abroad.”

“Seen my boy! Is he not dead?”

“No; he is alive, and in this country, too.”

Aunt Dorothy turned pale, but did not reply for a few minutes, during which she grasped his hand convulsively.

“Turn your face to the light,” she said faintly.

Martin obeyed, and bending over her whispered, “He is here; I am Martin, my dear, dear aunt—”

No expression of surprise escaped from Aunt Dorothy as she folded her arms round his neck, and pressed his head upon her bosom. His hot tears fell upon her neck while she held him, but she spoke not. It was evident that, as the strength infused by the wine abated, her faculties became confused. At length she whispered,—“It is good of you to come to see me, darling boy. You have often come to me in my dreams. But do not leave me so soon; stay a very little longer.”

“This is no dream, dearest aunt,” whispered Martin, while his tears flowed faster; “I am really here.”

“So you always say, my darling child; but you always go away and leave me. This is a dream, no doubt like all the rest; but oh, it seems very very real! You never wept before, although you often smiled. Surely this is the best and brightest dream I ever had!”

Continuing to murmur his name while she clasped him tightly to her bosom, Aunt Dorothy gently fell asleep.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Conclusion.

Aunt Dorothy Grumbit did not die! Her gentle spirit had nearly fled; but Martin’s return and Martin’s tender nursing brought her round, and she gradually regained all her former strength and vigour. Yes, to the unutterable joy of Martin, to the inexpressible delight of Mr Arthur Jollyboy and Barney, and to the surprise and complete discomfiture of the young doctor who shook his head and said, “There is no hope,” Aunt Dorothy Grumbit recovered, and was brought back in health and in triumph to her old cottage at Ashford.

Moreover, she was arrayed again in the old bed-curtain chintz with the flowers as big as saucers, and the old high-crowned cap. A white kitten was got, too, so like the one that used to be Martin’s playmate, that no one could discover a hair of difference. So remarkable was this, that Martin made inquiry, and found that it was actually the grand-daughter of the old kitten, which was still alive and well; so he brought it back too, and formally installed it in the cottage along with its grandchild.

There was a great house-warming, on the night of the day, in which Aunt Dorothy Grumbit was brought back. Mr Arthur Jollyboy was there—of course; and the vicar was there; and the pursy doctor who used to call Martin “a scamp;” and the schoolmaster; and last—though not least Barney O’Flannagan was there. And they all had tea, during which dear Aunt Dorothy smiled sweetly on everybody and said nothing—and, indeed, did nothing, except that once or twice she put additional sugar and cream into Martin’s cup when he was not looking, and stroked one of his hands continually. After tea Martin related his adventures in Brazil, and Barney helped him; and these two talked more that night than any one could have believed it possible for human beings to do, without the aid of steam lungs! And the doctor listened, and the vicar and schoolmaster questioned, and old Mr Jollyboy roared and laughed till he became purple in the face—particularly at the sallies of Barney. As for old Aunt Dorothy Grumbit, she listened when Martin spoke. When Martin was silent she became stone deaf!

In the course of time Mr Jollyboy made Martin his head clerk; and then, becoming impatient, he made him his partner off-hand. Then he made Barney O’Flannagan an overseer in the warehouses; and when the duties of the day were over, the versatile Irishman became his confidential servant and went to sup and sleep at the Old Hulk; which, he used to remark, was quite a natural and proper and decidedly comfortable place to come to an anchor in.

Martin became the stay and comfort of his aunt in her old age; and the joy which he was the means of giving to her heart was like a deep and placid river which never ceases to flow. Ah! there is a rich blessing in store for those who tenderly nurse and comfort the aged, when called upon to do so; and assuredly there is a sharp thorn prepared for those who neglect this sacred duty. Martin read the Bible to her night and morning; and she did nothing but watch for him at the window while he was out. As Martin afterwards became an active member of the benevolent societies, with which his partner was connected, he learned from sweet experience that, “it is more blessed to give than to receive,” and that, “it is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting.” Dear young reader, do not imagine that we plead in favour of moroseness or gloom. Laugh if you will, and feast if you will, and remember, too, that, “a merry heart is a continual feast;” but we pray you not to forget that God himself has said that a visit to the house of mourning is better than a visit to the house of feasting: and, strange to say, it is productive of greater joy; for to do good is better than to get good, as surely as sympathy is better than selfishness.

Martin visited the poor and read the Bible to them; and in watering others he was himself watered, for he found the “Pearl of Great Price,” even Jesus Christ the Saviour of the world.

Business prospered in the hands of Martin Rattler, too, and he became a man of substance. Naturally, too, he became a man of great importance in the town of Bilton. The quantity of work that Martin and Mr Jollyboy and Barney used to get through was quite marvellous; and the number of engagements they had during the course of a day was quite bewildering.

In the existence of all men, who are not born to unmitigated misery, there are times and seasons of peculiar enjoyment. The happiest hour of all the twenty-four to Martin Rattler was the hour of seven in the evening; for then it was that he found himself seated before the blazing fire in the parlour of the Old Hulk, to which Aunt Dorothy Grumbit had consented to be removed, and in which she was now a fixture. Then it was that old Mr Jollyboy beamed with benevolence, until the old lady sometimes thought the fire was going to melt him; then it was that the tea-kettle sang on the hob like a canary; and then it was that Barney bustled about the room preparing the evening meal, and talking all the time with the most perfect freedom to any one who chose to listen to him. Yes, seven p.m. was Martin’s great hour, and Aunt Dorothy’s great hour, and old Mr Jollyboy’s great hour, and Barney’s too; for each knew that the labours of the day were done, and that the front door was locked for the night, and that a great talk was brewing. They had a tremendous talk every night, sometimes on one subject, sometimes on another; but the subject of all others that they talked oftenest about was their travels. And many a time and oft, when the winter storms howled round the Old Hulk, Barney was invited to draw in his chair, and Martin and he plunged again vigorously into the great old forests of South America, and spoke so feelingly about them that Aunt Dorothy and Mr Jollyboy almost fancied themselves transported into the midst of tropical scenes, and felt as if they were surrounded by parrots, and monkeys, and jaguars, and alligators, and anacondas, and all the wonderful birds, beasts, reptiles, and fishes, that inhabit the woods and waters of Brazil.

The End.

Chapter One.

The Rover’s Return.

On a certain summer morning, about the middle of the present century, a big bluff man, of seafaring aspect, found himself sauntering in a certain street near London Bridge. He was a man of above fifty, but looked under forty in consequence of the healthful vigour of his frame, the freshness of his saltwater face, and the blackness of his shaggy hair.

Although his gait, pilot-cloth coat, and pocketed hands proclaimed him a sailor, there were one or two contradictory points about him. A huge beard and moustache savoured more of the diggings than the deep, and a brown wide-awake with a prodigiously broad brim suggested the backwoods.

Pausing at the head of one of those narrow lanes which—running down between warehouses, filthy little rag and bone shops, and low poverty-stricken dwellings—appear to terminate their career, not unwillingly, in the Thames, the sailor gazed before him with nautical earnestness for a few seconds, then glanced at the corner house for a name; found no name; cast his eyes up to the strip of blue sky overhead, as if for inspiration; obtained none; planted his legs wide apart as if he had observed a squall coming, and expected the lane to lurch heavily—wrinkled his eyebrows, and pursed his lips.

“Lost yer bearin’s, capp’n?” exclaimed a shrill pert voice at his side.

The seaman looked down, and beheld a small boy with a head like a disorderly door-mat, and garments to match. He stood in what may be styled an imitative attitude, with his hands thrust into his ragged pockets, his little legs planted wide apart, his cap thrust well back on his head, and his eyebrows wrinkled. He also pursed his lips to such an extent that they resembled a rosebud in a dirty bush.

“Yes, imp,” replied the seaman—he meant to have said “impudence,” but stopped at the first syllable as being sufficiently appropriate—“yes, imp, I have lost my bearings, and I’ll give you a copper if you’ll help me to find ’em.”

“Wot sort o’ copper?” demanded the urchin, “there’s three sorts of ’em, you know, in this ’ere kingdom—which appears to be a queendom at present—there’s a farding and a ha’penny and a penny. I mention it, capp’n,” he added apologetically, “in case you don’t know, for you look as if you’d come from furrin parts.”

The seaman’s look of surprise melted into a broad grin of amusement while this speech was being fluently delivered. At its conclusion he pulled out a penny and held it up.

“Well, it ain’t much,” said the small boy, “and I ain’t used to hire myself out so cheap. However, as you seem to be raither poorly off, I don’t mind if I lend you a hand for that. Only, please, don’t mention it among your friends, as it would p’raps lower their opinion of you, d’you see? Now then w’ot d’you want to know?”

To this the “capp’n,” still smiling at the small boy’s precocious insolence, replied that he was in search of an old woman who dwelt in a small court styled Grubb’s Court, so he was told, which lay somewhere in that salubrious neighbourhood, and asked if he, the imp, knew of such a place.

“Know’s of it? I should think I does. W’y, I lives there. It’s right down at the foot o’ this ’ere lane, an’ a wery sweet ’ristocratik spot it is—quite a perninsular, bein’ land, leastwise mud, a’most surrounded by water, the air bein’ ’ighly condoosive to the ’ealth of rats, likewise cats. As to old women, there’s raither a broad sprinklin’ of ’em in the court, rangin’ from the ages of seventy to a hundred an twenty, more or less, an’ you’ll take some time to go over ’em all, capp’n, if you don’t know your old woman’s name.”

“Her name is Roby—,” said the seaman.

“O, Roby? ah,” returned the small boy, looking sedately at the ground, “let me see—yes, that’s the name of the old ’ooman, I think, wot ’angs out in the cabin, right-’and stair, top floor, end of the passage, w’ere most wisiters flattens their noses, by consekince of there bein’ no light, and a step close to the door which inwariably trips ’em up. Most wisiters to that old ’ooman begins their acquaintance with her by knocking at her door with their noses instead of their knuckles. We calls her place the cabin, ’cause the windows is raither small, and over’angs the river.”

“Well then, my lad,” said the seaman, “clap a stopper on your tongue, if you can, and heave ahead.”

“All right, capp’n,” returned the small boy, “foller me, an’ don’t be frightened. Port your helm a bit here, there’s a quicksand in the middle o’ the track—so, steady!”

Avoiding a large pool of mud with which the head of the lane was garnished, and which might have been styled the bathing, not to say wallowing, quarters of the Grubb’s Court juveniles, the small boy led the bluff seaman towards the river without further remark, diverging only once from the straight road for a few seconds, for the purpose of making a furious rush at a sleeping cat with a yell worthy of a Cherokee savage, or a locomotive whistle; a slight pleasantry which had the double effect of shooting the cat through space in glaring convulsions, and filling the small boy’s mind with the placidity which naturally follows a great success.

The lane presented this peculiarity, that the warehouses on its left side became more and more solid and vast and tall as they neared the river, while the shops and dwellings on its right became poorer, meaner, and more diminutive in the same direction, as if there were some mysterious connection between them, which involved the adversity of the one in exact proportion to the prosperity of the other. Children and cats appeared to be the chief day-population of the place, and these disported themselves among the wheels of enormous waggons, and the legs of elephantine horses with an impunity which could only have been the result of life-long experience.

The seaman was evidently unaccustomed to such scenes, for more than once during the short period of his progress down the lane, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and sprang to the rescue of those large babies which are supposed to have grown sufficiently old to become nursing mothers to smaller babies—acts which were viewed with a look of pity by the small boy, and called from him the encouraging observations, “Keep your mind easy, capp’n; they’re all right, bless you; the hosses knows ’em, and wouldn’t ’urt ’em on no account.”

“This is Grubb’s Court,” said the boy, turning sharply to the right and passing through a low archway.

“Thank ’ee, lad,” said the seaman, giving him a sixpence.

The small boy opened his eyes very wide indeed, exclaiming, “Hallo! I say, capp’n, wot’s this?” at the same time, however, putting the coin in his pocket with an air which plainly said, “Whether you’ve made a mistake or not, you needn’t expect to get it back again.”

Evidently the seaman entertained no such expectations, for he turned away and became absorbed in the scene around him.

It was not cheering. Though the summer sun was high and powerful, it failed to touch the broken pavement of Grubb’s Court, or to dry up the moisture which oozed from it and crept up the walls of the surrounding houses. Everything was very old, very rotten, very crooked, and very dirty. The doorways round the court were wide open—always open—in some cases, because of there being no doors; in other cases, because the tenements to which they led belonged to a variety of families, largely composed of children who could not, even on tiptoe, reach or manipulate door-handles. Nursing mothers of two feet high were numerous, staggering about with nurslings of a foot and a half long. A few of the nurslings, temporarily abandoned by the premature mothers, lay sprawling—in some cases squalling—on the moist pavement, getting over the ground like large snails, and leaving slimy tracks behind them. Little boys, of the “City Arab” type, were sprinkled here and there, and one or two old women sat on door-steps contemplating the scene, or conversing with one or two younger women. Some of the latter were busy washing garments so dirty, that the dirty water of old Father Thames seemed quite a suitable purifier.

“Gillie,” cried one of the younger women referred to, wiping the soap-suds from her red arms, “come here, you bad, naughty boy. W’ere ’ave you bin? I want you to mind baby.”

“W’y, mother,” cried the small boy—who answered to the name of Gillie—“don’t you see I’m engaged? I’m a-showin’ this ’ere sea-capp’n the course he’s got to steer for port. He wants to make the cabin of old mother Roby.”

“W’y don’t you do it quickly, then?” demanded Gillie’s mother, “you bad, naughty, wicked boy. Beg your parding, sir,” she added, to the seaman, “the boy ’an’t got no sense, besides bein’ wicked and naughty—’e ain’t ’ad no train’, sir, that’s w’ere it is, all along of my ’avin’ too much to do, an’ a large family, sir, with no ’usband to speak of; right up the stair, sir, to the top, and along the passage-door straight before you at the hend of it. Mind the step, sir, w’en you gits up. Go up with the gentleman, you bad, wicked, naughty boy, and show—”

The remainder of the sentence became confused in distance, as the boy and the seaman climbed the stair; but a continuous murmuring sound, as of a vocal torrent, conveyed the assurance that the mother of Gillie was still holding forth.

“’Ere it is,” said the young pilot, pausing at the top of the staircase, near the entrance to a very dark passage. “Keep ’er ’ead as she goes, but I’d recommend you to shorten sail, mind your ’elm, an ’ave the anchor ready to let go.”

Having thus accommodated his language to the supposed intelligence of the seaman, the elfin youth stood listening with intense eagerness and expectation as the other went into the passage, and, by sundry kicks and bumps against wooden walls, gave evidence that he found the channel intricate. Presently a terrible kick occurred. This was the seaman’s toe against the step, of which he had been warned, but which he had totally forgotten; then a softer, but much heavier blow, was heard, accompanied by a savage growl—that was the seaman’s nose and forehead against old Mrs Roby’s portal.

At this, Gillie’s expectations were realised, and his joy consummated. With mischievous glee sparkling in his eyes, he hastened down to the Court to exhibit his sixpence to his mother, and to announce to all whom it might concern, that “the sea-capp’n had run his jib-boom slap through the old ’ooman’s cabin-door.”

Chapter Two.

The Seaman Takes the “Cabin” by Surprise and Storm.

Without having done precisely what Gillie had asserted of him, our seaman had in truth made his way into the presence of the little old woman who inhabited “the cabin,” and stood there gazing round him as if lost in wonder; and well he might be, for the woman and cabin, besides being extremely old, were exceedingly curious, quaint, and small.

The former was wrinkled to such an extent, that you could not have found a patch of smooth skin large enough for a pea to rest on. Her teeth were all gone, back and front, and her nose, which was straight and well-formed, made almost successful attempts to meet a chin which had once been dimpled, but was now turned up. The mouth between them wore a benignant and a slightly humorous expression; the eyes, which were bright, black, and twinkling, seemed to have defied the ravages of time. Her body was much bent as she sat in her chair, and a pair of crutches leaning against the chimney-piece suggested the idea that it would not be much straighter if she stood up. She was wrapped in a large, warm shawl, and wore a high cap, which fitted so close round her little visage, that hair, if any, was undistinguishable.

The room in which she sat resembled the cabin of a ship in more respects than one. It was particularly low in the root so low that the seaman’s hair touched it as he stood there looking round him; and across this roof ran a great beam, from which hung a variety of curious ornaments, such as a Chinese lantern, a Turkish scimitar, a New Zealand club, an Eastern shield, and the model of a full-rigged ship. Elsewhere on the walls were, an ornamented dagger, a worsted-work sampler, a framed sheet of the flags of all nations, a sou’-wester cap and oiled coat, a telescope, and a small staring portrait of a sea-captain in his “go-to-meeting” clothes, which looked very much out of keeping with his staring sunburnt face, and were a bad fit. It might have been a good likeness, and was certainly the work of one who might have raised himself to the rank of a Royal Academician if he had possessed sufficient talent and who might have painted well if he had understood the principles of drawing and colour.

The windows of the apartment, of which there were two very small square ones, looked out upon the river, and, to some extent overhung it, so that a man of sanguine temperament might have enjoyed fishing from them, if he could have been content to catch live rats and dead cats. The prospect from these windows was, however, the best of them, being a wide reach of the noble river, crowded with its stately craft, and cut up by its ever-bustling steamers. But the most noteworthy part of this room, or “cabin,” was the space between the two windows immediately over the chimney-piece, which the eccentric old woman had covered with a large, and, in some cases, inappropriate assortment of objects, by way of ornament, each article being cleaned and polished to the highest possible condition of which it was susceptible. A group of five photographs of children—three girls and two boys, looking amazed—formed the centrepiece of the design; around these were five other photographs of three young ladies and two young gentlemen, looking conscious, but pleased. The spaces between these, and every available space around them, were occupied by pot-lids of various sizes, old and battered, but shining like little suns; small looking-glasses, also of various sizes, some square and others round; little strings of beads; heads of meerschaums that had been much used in former days; pin-cushions, shell-baskets, one or two horse-shoes, and iron-heels of boots; several flat irons belonging to doll’s houses, with a couple of dolls, much the worse for wear, mounting guard over them; besides a host of other nick-nacks, for which it were impossible to find names or imagine uses. Everything—from the old woman’s cap to the uncarpeted floor, and the little grate in which a little fire was making feeble efforts to warm a little tea-kettle with a defiant spout—was scrupulously neat, and fresh, and clean, very much the reverse of what one might have expected to find in connection with a poverty-stricken population, a dirty lane, a filthy court, a rickety stair, and a dark passage. Possibly the cause might have been found in a large and much-worn family Bible, which lay on a small table in company with a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, at the old woman’s elbow.

On this scene the nautical man stood gazing, as we have said, with much interest; but he was too polite to gaze long.

“Your servant, missis,” he said with a somewhat clumsy bow.

“Good morning, sir,” said the little old woman, returning the bow with the air of one who had once seen better society than that of Grubb’s Court.

“Your name is Roby, I believe,” continued the seaman, advancing, and looking so large in comparison with the little room that he seemed almost to fill it.

The little old woman admitted that that was her name.

“My name,” said the seaman, “is Wopper, tho’ I’m oftener called Skipper, also Capp’n, by those who know me.”

Mrs Roby pointed to a chair and begged Captain Wopper to sit down, which he did after bestowing a somewhat pointed glance at the chair, as if to make sure that it could bear him.

“You was a nuss once, I’m told,” continued the seaman, looking steadily at Mrs Roby as he sat down.

“I was,” answered the old woman, glancing at the photographs over the chimney-piece, “in the same family for many years.”

“You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” continued the seaman, “if I appear something inquisitive, I want to make sure that I’ve boarded the right craft d’ee see—I mean, that you are the right ’ooman.”

A look of surprise, not unmingled with humour, beamed from Mrs Roby’s twinkling black eyes as she gazed steadily in the seaman’s face, but she made no other acknowledgment of his speech than a slight inclination of her head, which caused her tall cap to quiver. Captain Wopper, regarding this as a favourable sign, went on.

“You was once, ma’am, I’m told, before bein’ a nuss in the family of which you’ve made mention, a matron, or somethin’ o’ that sort, in a foundlin’ hospital—in your young days, ma’am?”

Again Mrs Roby admitted the charge, and demanded to know, “what then?”

“Ah, jus’ so—that’s what I’m comin’ to,” said Captain Wopper, drawing his large hand over his beard. “You was present in that hospital, ma’am, was you not, one dark November morning, when a porter-cask was left at the door by some person unknown, who cut his cable and cleared off before the door was opened,—which cask, havin’ on its head two X’s, and bein’ labelled, ‘This side up, with care,’ contained two healthy little babby boys?”

Mrs Roby, becoming suddenly grave and interested, again said, “I was.”

“Jus’ so,” continued the captain, “you seem to be the right craft—’ooman, I mean—that I’m in search of. These two boys, who were supposed to be brothers, because of their each havin’ a brown mole of exactly the same size and shape on their left arms, just below their elbows, were named ‘Stout,’ after the thing in which they was headed up, the one bein’ christened James, the other Willum?”

“Yes, yes,” replied the little old woman eagerly, “and a sweet lovely pair they was when the head of that barrel was took off, lookin’ out of the straw in which they was packed like two little cheruphims, though they did smell strong of the double X, and was a little elevated because of the fumes that ’ung about the wood. But how do you come to know all this, sir, and why do you ask?”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” replied the sailor with a smile, which curled up his huge moustache expressively,—“you shall know presently, but I must make quite sure that I’m aboard of—that is to say, that you are the right ’ooman. May I ask, ma’am, what became of these two cheruphims, as you’ve very properly named ’em?”

“Certainly,” answered Mrs Roby, “the elder boy—we considered him the elder, because he was the first took out of the barrel—was a stoodious lad, and clever. He got into a railway company, I believe, and became a rich man—married a lady, I’m told,—and changed his name to Stoutley, so ’tis said, not thinkin’ his right name suitable to his circumstances, which, to say truth, it wasn’t, because he was very thin. I’ve heard it said that his family was extravagant, and that he went to California to seek his brother, and look after some property, and died there, but I’m not rightly sure, for he was a close boy, and latterly I lost all knowledge of him and his family.”

“And the other cheruphim, Willum,” said the sailor, “what of him?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mrs Roby, a flush suffusing her wrinkled countenance, while her black eyes twinkled more than usual, “he was a jewel, he was. They said in the hospital that he was a wild good-for-nothing boy, but I never thought him so. He was always fond of me—very fond of me, and I of him. It is true he could never settle to anythink, and at last ran away to sea, when about twelve year old; but he didn’t remain long at that either, for when he got to California, he left his ship, and was not heard of for a long time after that. I thought he was dead or drowned, but at last I got a letter from him, enclosing money, an’ saying he had been up at the noo gold-diggings, an’ had been lucky, dear boy, and he wanted to share his luck with me, an would never, never, forget me; but he didn’t need to send me money to prove that. He has continued to send me a little every year since then;—ah! it’s many, many years now,—ay, ay, many years.”

She sighed, and looked wistfully at the spark of fire in the grate that was making ineffectual attempts to boil the little tea-kettle with the defiant spout; “but why,” she continued, looking up suddenly, “why do you ask about him?”

“Because I knew him,” replied Captain Wopper, searching for something which appeared to be lost in the depths of one of his capacious pockets. “Willum Stout was a chum of mine. We worked together at the Californy gold-mines for many a year as partners, and, when at last we’d made what we thought enough, we gave it up an’ came down to San Francisco together, an’ set up a hotel, under the name of the ‘Jolly Tars,’ by Stout and Company. I was the Company, ma’am; an’, for the matter o’ that I may say I was the Stout too, for both of us answered to the Stout or the Company, accordin’ as we was addressed, d’ee see? When Company thought he’d made enough money to entitle him to a holiday, he came home, as you see; but before leavin’, Willum said to him, ‘Company, my lad, w’en you get home, you’ll go and see that old ’oom of the name of Roby, whom I’ve often told you about. She lives in Lunun, somewheres down by the river in a place called Grubb’s Court. She was very good to me, that old ’oom was, when she was young, as I’ve told you before. You go an’ give her my blessin’—Willum’s blessin’—and this here bag and that there letter.’ ‘Yes,’ says I, ‘Willum, I’ll do it, my boy, as soon as ever I set futt on British soil.’ I did set futt on British soil this morning, and there’s the letter; also the bag; so, you see, old lady, I’ve kep’ my promise.”

Captain Wopper concluded by placing a small but heavy canvas bag, and a much-soiled letter, in Mrs Roby’s lap.

To say that the little old woman seized the letter with eager delight, would convey but a faint idea of her feelings as she opened it with trembling hands, and read it with her bright black eyes.

She read it half aloud, mingled with commentary, as she proceeded, and once or twice came to a pause over an illegible word, on which occasions her visitor helped her to the word without looking at the letter. This circumstance struck her at last as somewhat singular, for she looked up suddenly, and said, “You appear, sir, to be familiar with the contents of my letter.”

“That’s true, ma’am,” replied Captain Wopper, who had been regarding the old woman with a benignant smile; “Willum read it to me before I left, a-purpose to enable me to translate the ill-made pot-hooks and hangers, because, d’ee see, we were more used to handlin’ the pick and shovel out there than the pen, an’ Willum used to say he never was much of a dab at a letter. He never wrote you very long ones, ma’am, I believe?”

Mrs Roby looked at the fire pensively, and said, in a low voice, as if to herself rather than her visitor, “No, they were not long—never very long—but always kind and sweet to me—very sweet—ay, ay, it’s a long, long time now, a long time, since he came to me here and asked for a night’s lodging.”

“Did you give it him, ma’am?” asked the captain. “Give it him!” exclaimed Mrs Roby, with sudden energy, “of course I did. The poor boy was nigh starving. How could I refuse him? It is true I had not much to give, for the family I was with as nuss had failed and left me in great distress, through my savings bein’ in their hands; and that’s what brought me to this little room long, long ago—ay, ay. But no blame to the family, sir, no blame at all. They couldn’t help failin’, an’ the young ones, when they grew up, did not forget their old nuss, though they ain’t rich, far from it; and it’s what they give me that enables me to pay my rent and stay on here—God bless ’em.”

She looked affectionately at the daguerreotypes which hung, in the midst of the sheen and glory of pot-lids, beads, and looking-glasses, above the chimney-piece.

“You gave him, meanin’ Willum, nothing else, I suppose?” asked the captain, with a knowing look; “such, for instance, as a noo suit of clothes, because of his bein’ so uncommon ragged that he looked as if he had bin captured in a clumsy sort of net that it would not have been difficult to break through and escape from naked; also a few shillin’s, bein’ your last, to pay his way down to Gravesend, where the ship was lyin’, that you had, through interest with the owners, got him a berth aboard?”

“Ah!” returned Mrs Roby, shaking her head and smiling gently, “I see that William has told you all about it.”

“He has, ma’am,” replied Captain Wopper, with a decisive nod. “You see, out in the gold-fields of Californy, we had long nights together in our tent, with nothin’ to do but smoke our pipes, eat our grub, and spin yarns, for we had no books nor papers, nothin’ to read except a noo Testament, and we wouldn’t have had even that, ma’am, but for yourself. It was the Testament you gave to Willum at partin’, an’ very fond of it he was, bein’ your gift. You see, at the time we went to Californy, there warn’t many of us as cared for the Word of God. Most of us was idolaters that had run away from home, our chief gods—for we had many of ’em—bein’ named Adventure, Excitement and Gold; though there was some noble exceptions, too. But, as I was saying, we had so much time on our hands that we recalled all our past adventures together over and over again, and, you may be sure, ma’am, that your name and kindness was not forgotten. There was another name,” continued Captain Wopper, drawing his chair nearer the fire, crossing his legs and stroking his beard as he looked up at the dingy ceiling, “that Willum often thought about and spoke of. It was the name of a gentleman, a clerk in the Customs, I believe, who saved his life one day when he fell into the river just below the bridge.”

“Mr Lawrence,” said the old woman, promptly.

“Ah! Mr Lawrence; yes, that’s the name,” continued the Captain. “Willum was very grateful to him, and bid me try to find him out and tell him so. Is he alive?”

“Dead,” said Mrs Roby, shaking her head sadly.

The seaman appeared much concerned on hearing this. For some time he did not speak, and then said that he had been greatly interested in that gentleman through Willum’s account of him.

“Had he left any children?”

“Yes,” Mrs Roby told him; “one son, who had been educated as a doctor, and had become a sort of a city missionary, and was as pleasant a young gentleman as she ever knew.”

“So, then, you know him?” said the Captain.

“Know him! I should think so. Why, this is the district where he visits, and a kind friend he is to the poor, though he is bashful a bit, an’ seems to shrink from pushin’ himself where he’s not wanted.”

“Not the less a friend to the poor on that account,” thought Captain Wopper; but he said nothing, and Mrs Roby went on:—

“You see, his father before him did a great deal for the poor in a quiet way here, as I have reason to know, this district lying near his office, and handy, as it were. Long after the time when he saved Willum’s life, he married a sweet young creeter, who helped him in visitin’ the poor, but she caught fever among ’em and died, when their only son George was about ten year old. George had been goin’ about with his mother on her visits, and seemed very fond of her and of the people, dear child; and after she died, he used to continue coming with his father. Then he went to school and college and became a young doctor, and only last year he came back to us, so changed for the better that none of us would have known him but for his kindly voice and fine manly-looking manner. His shyness, too, has stuck to him a little, but it does not seem to hinder him now as it once did. Ah!” continued Mrs Roby, in a sympathetic tone, “it’s a great misfortune to be shy.”

She looked pensively at the little fire and shook her tall cap at it, as if it or the defiant tea-kettle were answerable for something in reference to shyness.

“Yes, it’s a great misfortune to be shy,” she repeated. “Were you ever troubled with that complaint, Captain Wopper?”

The Captain’s moustache curled at the corners as he stroked his beard, and said that really, on consideration, he was free to confess that he never had been convicted of that sin.

Mrs Roby bestowed on him a look of admiration, and continued, “Well, as I have said—”

She was interrupted at this point by the entrance of an active little girl, with the dirtiest face and sweetest expression imaginable, with garments excessively ragged, blue eyes that sparkled as they looked at you, a mouth that seemed made for kissing, if only it had been clean, and golden hair that would have fallen in clustering curls on her neck, if it had not been allowed to twist itself into something like a yellow door-mat which rendered a bonnet unnecessary.

Bestowing a glance of surprise on the seaman, but without uttering a word, she went smartly to a corner and drew into the middle of the room a round table with one leg and three feet, whose accommodating top having been previously flat against the wall, fell down horizontal and fixed itself with a snap. On this the earnest little woman, quickly and neatly, spread a fairish linen cloth, and proceeded to arrange thereon a small tea-pot and cup and saucer, with other materials, for an early tea.

“Two cups, Netta, my dear,” said Mrs Roby.

“Yes, grannie,” replied Netta, in a soft quick, little voice.

“Your grandchild?” asked the Captain.

“No; a neighbour’s child, who is very kind to me. She calls me grannie, because I like it. But, as I was saying,” continued Mrs Roby, “young Dr Lawrence came back last year and began to visit us in the old way, intending to continue, he said, until he got a situation of some sort in the colonies, I believe; but I do hope he’ll not be obliged to leave us, for he has bin a great blessin’ to this neighbourhood, only he gets little pay for his work, I fear, and appears to have little of his own to live on, poor young man.—Now, Captain Wopper, you’ll stop and have a cup of tea with me. I take it early, you see,—in truth, I make a sort of dinner of it,—and we can have a talk about William over it. I’m proud to have a friend of his at my table, sir, I do assure you, though it is a poor one.”

Captain Wopper accepted the invitation heartily, and thought, though he said nothing, that it was indeed a poor table, seeing that the only food on it besides the very weak tea in the wonderfully small pot, consisted of one small loaf of bread.

“Netta,” exclaimed Mrs Roby, with a look of surprise, “there’s no butter! Go, fetch it, dear.”

Mrs Roby was, or thought herself, a remarkably deep character. She spoke to Netta openly, but, in secret, bestowed a meaning glance on her, and slipped a small coin into her hand. The dirty, sweet-faced damsel replied by a remarkably knowing wink—all of which by-play, with the reason for it, was as clear to Captain Wopper as if it had been elaborately explained to him. But the Captain was a discreet man. He became deeply absorbed in daguerreotypes and sauce-pan lids above the fireplace, to the exclusion of all else.

“You’ve forgotten the bag, ma’am,” said the Captain, drawing his chair nearer the table.

“So I have; dear me, what is it?” cried Mrs Roby, taking it up. “It’s heavy.”

“Gold!” said the Captain.

“Gold?” exclaimed the old nurse.

“Ay, nuggets,” said the seaman, opening it and emptying its contents on the table.

As the old nurse gazed on the yellow heap her black eyes glittered with pleasure, as though they had derived additional lustre from the precious metal, and she drew them towards her with a trembling, almost greedy, motion, at sight of which Captain Wopper’s countenance became troubled.

“And did Willie send this to me, dear boy?”

“He did, ma’am, hoping that it would be of use in the way of making your home more comfortable, and enabling you to keep a better table.”

He glanced uneasily round the poor room and at the small loaf as he spoke, and the old woman observed the glance.

“It is very kind of him, very kind,” continued Mrs Roby. “What may it be worth, now?”

“Forty pounds, more or less,” answered the Captain.

Again the old woman’s eyes sparkled greedily, and again the seaman’s countenance fell.

“Surely, ma’am,” said the Captain, gravely, “things must be uncommon dear in London, for you tell me that Willum has sent you a deal of money in time past, but you don’t seem to be much the better for it.”

“Captain Wopper,” said Mrs Roby, putting her hand lightly on the Captain’s arm as it lay on the table, and looking earnestly into his face, “if you had not been an old and valued friend of my dear Willie—which I learn that you are from his letter—I would have said your remark was a rude one; but, being what you are, I don’t mind telling you that I save up every penny I can scrape together for little Netta White, the girl that has just gone out to fetch the butter. Although she’s not well cared for,—owing to her mother, who’s a washerwoman, bein’ overburdened with work and a drunken husband,—she’s one of the dearest creeters I ever did see. Bless you, sir, you’d be amazed if you knew all the kind and thoughtful things that untrained and uncared for child does, and never thinks she’s doing anything more than other people. It’s all along of her mother’s spirit, which is as good as gold. Some months ago Little Netta happened to be up here when I was at tea, and, seeing the difficulty I had to move about with my old rheumatic limbs, she said she’d come and set out my tea and breakfast for me; and she’s done it, sir, from that time to this, expecting nothing fur it, and thinking I’m too poor to give her anything. But she’s mistaken,” continued Mrs Roby, with a triumphant twinkle in her black eyes, “she doesn’t know that I’ve made a confidant of her brother Gillie, and give him a sixpence now and then to give to his mother without telling where he got it, and she doesn’t know that I’m saving up to be able to leave something to her when I’m called home—it can’t be long, now; it can’t be long.”

“Old ’ooman,” cried Captain Wopper, whose face had brightened wonderfully during this explanation, “give us your flip—your hand. I honour your heart, ma’am, and I’ve no respect whatever for your brain!”

“I’m not sure that that’s a compliment,” said Mrs Roby, with a smile.

Captain Wopper assured her with much solemnity that it might or might not be a compliment, but it was a fact. “Why, look here,” said he, “you go and starve yourself, and deny yourself all sorts of little comforts—what then? Why, you’ll die long before your time, which is very like taking the law into your own hands, ma’am, and then you won’t leave to Netta nearly as much as you might if you had taken care of yourself and lived longer, and saved up after a reasonable fashion. It’s sheer madness. Why, ma’am, you’re starving now, but I’ll put a stop to that. Don’t you mind, now, whether I’m rude or not. You can’t expect anything else from an old gold-digger, who has lived for years where there were no women except such as appeared to be made of mahogany, with nothing to cover ’em but a coating of dirt and a blue skirt. Besides, Willum told me at parting to look after you and see that you wanted for nothing, which I promised faithfully to do. You’ve some regard for Willum’s wishes, ma’am?—you wouldn’t have me break my promises to Willum, would you?”

The Captain said this with immense rapidity and vigour, and finished it with such a blow of his heavy fist on the little table that the cups and plates danced, and the lid of the little tea-pot leaped up as if its heart were about to come out of its mouth. Mrs Roby was so taken by surprise that she could not speak for a few seconds, and before she had recovered sufficiently to do so, Little Netta came in with the butter.

“Now, ma’am,” resumed the Captain, when the girl had retired, “here’s where it is. With your leave I’ll reveal my plans to you, and ask your advice. When I was about to leave Californy, Willum told me first of all to go and find you out, and give you that letter and bag of nuggets, which I’ve done. ‘Then,’ says he, ‘Wopper, you go and find out my brother Jim’s widow, and give ’em my love an’ dooty, and this letter, and this bag of nuggets,’—said letter and bag, ma’am, bein’ now in my chest aboard ship. ‘So,’ says I, ‘Willum, I will—trust me.’ ‘I do,’ says he; ‘and, Wopper,’ says he, ‘keep your weather eye open, my boy, w’en you go to see ’em, because I’ve my suspicions, from what my poor brother said on his deathbed, when he was wandering in his mind, that his widow is extravagant. I don’t know,’ Willum goes on to say, ‘what the son may be, but there’s that cousin, Emma Gray, that lives in the house with ’em, she’s all right. She’s corresponded with me, off an’ on, since ever she could write, and my brother bein’ something lazy, poor fellar, through havin’ too much to do I fancy, got to throw all the letter-writin’ on her shoulders. You take special note of her, Wopper, and if it should seem to you that they don’t treat her well, you let me know.’ ‘Willum,’ says I, ‘I will—trust me.’ ‘Well, then,’ says Willum, ‘there’s one other individooal I want you to ferret out, that’s the gentleman—he must be an old gentleman now—that saved my life when I was a lad, Mr Lawrence by name. You try to find him out and if you can do him a good turn, do it.’ ‘Willum,’ says I, ‘I’ll do it—trust me.’ ‘I do,’ says he, ‘and when may I expect you back in Californy, Wopper?’ ‘Willum,’ says I, ‘that depends.’ ‘True,’ says he, ‘it does. Give us you’re flipper, old boy, we may never meet again in these terrestrial diggings. Good luck to you. Don’t forget my last will an’ testimony as now expressed.’ ‘Willum,’ says I, ‘I won’t.’ So, ma’am, I left Californy with a sacred trust, so to speak, crossed the sea, and here I am.”

At this point Captain Wopper, having warmed in his subject, took in at one bite as much of the small loaf as would have been rather a heavy dinner for Mrs Roby, and emptied at one gulp a full cup of her tea, after which he stroked his beard, smiled benignantly at his hostess, became suddenly earnest again, and went on—chewing as he spoke.

“Now, ma’am, I’ve three questions to ask: in the first place, as it’s not possible now to do a good turn to old Mr Lawrence, I must do it to his son. Can you tell me where he lives?”

Mrs Roby told him that it was in a street not far from where they sat, in a rather poor lodging.

“Secondly, ma’am, can you tell me where Willum’s sister-in-law lives,—Mrs Stout, alias Stoutley?”

“No, Captain Wopper, but I daresay Mr Lawrence can. He knows ’most everythink, and has a London Directory.”

“Good. Now, in the third place, where am I to find a lodging?”

Mrs Roby replied that there were plenty to be found in London of all kinds.

“You haven’t a spare room here, have you?” said the Captain, looking round.

Mrs Roby shook her head and said that she had not; and, besides, that if she had, it would be impossible for her to keep a lodger, as she had no servant, and could not attend on him herself.

“Mrs Roby,” said the Captain, “a gold-digging seaman don’t want no servant, nor no attendance. What’s up aloft?”

By pointing to a small trap-door in the ceiling, he rendered the question intelligible.

“It’s a garret, I believe,” replied Mrs Roby, smiling; “but having no ladder, I’ve never been up.”

“You’ve no objection to my taking a look, have you?” asked the Captain.

“None in the world,” replied the old woman. Without more ado the seaman rose, mounted on a chair, pushed open the trap-door, thrust his head and shoulders through, and looked round. Apparently the inspection was not deemed sufficiently close, for, to the old woman’s alarm and inexpressible surprise, he seized the edges of the hole with his strong hands, raised himself up, and finally disappeared in the regions above! The alarm of the old woman was somewhat increased by the sound of her visitor’s heavy tread on the boards overhead as he stumbled about. Presently his head appeared looking down through the trap. In any aspect, Captain Wopper’s shaggy head was an impressive one; but viewed in an upside-down position, with the blood running into it, it was peculiarly striking.

“I say, old lady,” he shouted, as if his position recalled the action and induced the tones of a boatswain, “it’ll do. A capital berth, with two portholes and a bunk.”

The Captain’s head disappeared, and immediately his legs took its place, suggesting the outrageous idea that he had thrown a somersault. Next moment his huge body slid down, and he stood on the floor much flushed and covered with dust.

“Now, old girl, is it to be?” he said, sitting down at the table. “Will you take me as a lodger, for better and for worse? I’ll fit up the berth on the main-deck, and be my own servant as well as your’s. Say the word.”

“I can refuse nothing to Willie’s friend,” said old Mrs Roby, “but really I—”

“Done, it’s a bargain,” interrupted the Captain, rising abruptly. “Now, I’ll go visit young Mr Lawrence and Mrs Stoutley, and to-morrow I’ll bring my kit, take possession of my berth, and you and I shall sail in company, I hope, and be messmates for some time to come.”

Chapter Three.

Difficulties among the Social Summits.

In one of the many mansions of the “west end” of London, a lady reclined one morning on a sofa wishing that it were afternoon. She was a middle-aged, handsome, sickly lady. If it had been afternoon she would have wished that it were evening, and if it had been evening she would have wished for the morning; for Mrs Stoutley was one of those languid invalids whose enjoyment appears to be altogether in the future or the past, and who seem to have no particular duties connected with the present except sighing and wishing. It may be that this unfortunate condition of mind had something to do with Mrs Stoutley’s feeble state of health. If she had been a little more thoughtful about others, and less mindful of herself, she might, perhaps, have sighed and wished less, and enjoyed herself more. At all events her doctor seemed to entertain some such opinion, for, sitting in an easy chair beside her, and looking earnestly at her handsome, worn-out countenance, he said, somewhat abruptly, being a blunt doctor.

“You must go abroad, madam, and try to get your mind, as well as your body, well shaken up.”

“Why, doctor,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a faint smile; “you talk of me as if I were a bottle of physic or flat ginger-beer.”

“You are little better, silly woman,” thought the doctor, but his innate sense of propriety induced him only to say, with a smile, “Well, there is at least this much resemblance between you and a bottle of flat ginger-beer, namely, that both require to be made to effervesce a little. It will never do to let your spirits down as you have been doing. We must brighten up, my dear madam—not Brighton up, by the way, we’ve had enough of Brighton and Bath, and such places. We must get away to the Continent this summer—to the Pyrenees, or Switzerland, where we can breathe the fresh mountain air, and ramble on glaciers, and have a thorough change.”

Mrs Stoutley looked gently, almost pitifully at the doctor while he spoke, as if she thought him a well-meaning and impulsive, but rather stupid maniac.

“Impossible, my dear doctor,” she said; “you know I could not stand the fatigues of such a journey.”

“Well, then,” replied the doctor, abruptly, “you must stop at home and die.”

“Oh! what a shocking naughty man you are to talk so.”

Mrs Stoutley said this, however, with an easy good-natured air, which showed plainly that she did not believe her illness likely to have such a serious termination.

“I will be still more naughty and shocking,” continued the doctor, resolutely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, “for I shall prescribe not only a dose of mountain air, but a dose of mountain exercise, to be taken—and the patient to be well shaken while taken—every morning throughout the summer and autumn. Moreover, after you return to England, you must continue the exercise during the winter; and, in addition to that, must have an object at the end of your walks and drives—not shopping, observe, that is not a sufficiently out-of-door object; nor visiting your friends, which is open to the same objection.”

Mrs Stoutley smiled again at this, and said that really, if visiting and shopping were forbidden, there seemed to be nothing left but museums and picture-galleries.

To this the doctor retorted that although she might do worse than visit museums and picture-galleries, he would prefer that she should visit the diamond and gold fields of the city.

“Did you ever hear of the diamond and gold fields of London, Miss Gray?” he said, turning to a plain yet pretty girl, who had been listening in silence to the foregoing conversation.

“Never,” answered Miss Gray, with a look of surprise.

Now, Miss Gray’s look of surprise induces us to state in passing that this young lady—niece, also poor relation and companion, to Mrs Stoutley—possessed three distinct aspects. When grave, she was plain,—not ugly, observe; a girl of nineteen, with a clear healthy complexion and nut-brown hair, cannot in any circumstances be ugly; no, she was merely plain when grave. When she smiled she was decidedly pretty, and when she laughed she was captivating—absolutely irresistible! She seldom laughed, occasionally smiled, and was generally grave. There was something quite incomprehensible about her, for she was not an unusually good girl, and by no means a dashing girl, neither was she an intensely modest girl—and yet, plain Emma Gray had perhaps driven more young men into a condition of drivelling imbecility than any acknowledged beauty of the metropolis.

Observe, we say “perhaps,” because we lay claim to no superhuman knowledge in regard to such matters.

“They are rather extensive fields,” continued the doctor, “scattered here and there about the metropolis, but lying chiefly in the city and on the banks of the Thames. They comprise many picture-galleries, too, and museums; the latter containing wonderful specimens of old bones and fossil remains, filth, and miscellaneous abominations, in which the gold and diamonds are imbedded—sometimes buried,—and the former being hung with subjects—chiefly interiors—incomparably superior, in respect of graphic power, to the works of Hogarth.”

“Oh! I know what you mean,” said Miss Gray, with a little smile.

“Your wits are sharper than mine, Emma,” said Mrs Stoutley, with a sigh and a placid look. “What do you refer to, Doctor Tough?”

“I refer to those districts, madam, chiefly inhabited by the poor, where there are innumerable diamonds and gold nuggets, some of which are being polished, and a good many are glittering brightly, though not yet fixed in their proper setting, while by far the greater number of them are down in the earth, and useless in the meantime, and apt to be lost for want of adventurous diggers. They are splendid fields those of London, and digging is healthful occupation—though it might not seem so at first sight. Did you ever visit the poor, Mrs Stoutley?”

With a slight elevation of her eyebrows, and the application of a scent-bottle to her delicate nose, as if the question had suggested bad smells, the lady said that—Well, yes, she had once visited a poor old gardener who had been a faithful creature in the family of a former friend, but that her recollection of that visit did not tend to induce a wish for its repetition.

“H’m!” coughed the doctor, “well, the taste of physic is usually bad at first, but one soon gets used to it, and the after effects, as you know, are exceedingly beneficial. I hope that when you visit the London diggings you may find the truth of this; but it will be time enough to speak of that subject when you return from rambling on the glaciers of Switzerland, where, by the way, the dirt, rubbish, and wrack, called moraines, which lie at the foot of the glaciers, will serve to remind you of the gold-fields to which I have referred, for much of what composes those moraines was once solid rock in a fixed position on the heights, or glittering ice which reflected the sun’s dazzling rays on surrounding high life, though it lies low in the earth now. To a lady of your intelligence, madam, I need not expound my parable. There are many avalanches, great and small, in English society as well as among the Swiss mountains; and, whether by gradual subsidence or a tremendous rush, we must all find our places in the moraine at last.”

“Really, doctor,” said Mrs Stoutley, with a light laugh, “you seem to have already wandered much among these moral moraines, and to have acquired some of their ruggedness. How can you talk of such dismal things to a patient? But are you really in earnest about my going abroad?”

“Indeed I am,” replied the doctor, firmly, “and I advise you to begin your preparations at once, for you must set out on your travels in less than a month. I lay the responsibility of seeing my orders carried into effect on your shoulders, Miss Gray.”

So saying, the doctor rose and took his leave. Mrs Stoutley and her niece immediately began to discuss the subject of Switzerland—the one languidly, the other with animation. It was plain enough that, although the invalid protested to the doctor her inability to travel, she really had no objection, perhaps felt some desire, to go abroad, for when Miss Gray mentioned the fact that there was a difficulty in the shape of insufficient funds, she replied with more warmth than usual—

“Now, Emma, what is the use of always bringing up that ridiculous idea?”

“No doubt, auntie,” the maiden replied, “it is a little ridiculous to run short of ready money, considering the style in which we live; but it would be still more ridiculous, you know, to go to Switzerland without the means of paying our expenses while there.”

“What’s that you say about expenses, cousin?” exclaimed a tall handsome stripling who entered at the moment, and seated himself on the sofa at his mother’s feet.

“Oh, bother the expense!” he exclaimed, when the difficulty had been explained to him, “it can’t cost so much to spend a few months in Switzerland,—besides, we can do it cheap, you know. Didn’t Mr What’s-his-name, our man of business, say that there was a considerable balance at the banker’s, and that if the What-d’ee-call-’em mines paid a reasonable dividend, we should easily get over our difficulties?”

“He said something of that sort, I believe,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a sigh.

“I rather think, cousin Lewis,” said Emma, endeavouring to repress a smile, “that he said there was an inconsiderable balance at the bankers, and that unless the Gorong mine paid a reasonable dividend, we shouldn’t easily get over our difficulties.”

Both Lewis and his mother laughed at the quiet way in which this was said, but, while both admitted that Emma’s view of the matter might perhaps be correct, Lewis held that there was no good reason for supposing there would be any difficulty in the meantime in obtaining from their “man-of-business” the paltry sum that was required for a short tour on the Continent. Indeed Mrs Stoutley regarded this man-of-business as a mere sponge, who required only to be squeezed in order to the production of what was desired, and the man-of-business himself found it no easy matter to convince her that she held erroneous views on this subject, and that at her present rate of progress, she would, to use the doctor’s glacial simile, very soon topple from the pinnacle of fashion, on which she sat, and fall with the crash of a social avalanche into the moraine of ruin.

“What a wise little woman you are, cousin Emma,” said Lewis, gaily. “You ought to have been bred to the law, or trained an accountant. However, we won’t be guided by your advice just now, first, because the doctor has ordered mother abroad for her health, which is our chief consideration; and, second, because I wish of all things to see Switzerland, and climb Mont Blanc. Besides, we are not so poor as you think, and I hope to add a little to our general funds in a day or two. By the way, can you lend me ten pounds just now, mother?”

“Why do you want it?” asked Mrs Stoutley, sternly, as if she meant to refuse, but at the same time opening her purse.

“Don’t ask me just now. I will repay you tomorrow, with interest and shall then explain.”

With an easy, languid smile, the carelessly amiable invalid handed her last ten-pound note to her hopeful son, who had just transferred it to his pocketbook, when a footman entered and presented a scrap of dirty paper, informing his lady that the person who sent up the “card” desired to see her.

“What is this?” said Mrs Stoutley, holding the paper gingerly with the tips of her fingers, “Wip—Wap—Wopper! What is Wopper? Is the person a man or a woman?”

The footman, who, although well-bred, found it difficult to restrain a smile, intimated that the person was a man, and added, that he said he had come from California, and wanted to see Mrs Stoutley very particularly.

On hearing this, the lady’s manner changed at once, and, with more animation than she had yet exhibited, she desired that he should be shown in.

With his large wide-awake in one hand, and a canvas bag in the other, Captain Wopper entered the drawing-room, and looked around him with a beaming and rather bashful smile.

“Mrs Stoutley, I believe,” he said, advancing, “and Miss Emma Gray, I suppose,” he added, turning with a beaming glance towards the young lady.

Mrs Stoutley admitted that he was right, and expressed some surprise that he, a perfect stranger, should be so well acquainted with their names.

“I am indeed a stranger personally, ma’am,” said Captain Wopper, smoothing the hair down on his rugged brow, “but I may be said to know you pretty well, seeing that I have for many years been the friend and messmate of your late husband’s brother in Californy.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Stoutley, with increasing animation, as she rose and held out her hand; “any friend of my brother-in-law is heartily welcome. Be seated, Mr Wopper, and let me hear about him. He was very kind to my dear husband during his last illness—very kind. I shall never forget him.”

“No doubt he was,” said the Captain, accepting the chair which Emma Gray handed to him, with looks of great interest. “Thank ’ee, Miss. Willum Stout—excuse my familiarity, ma’am, I always called him Willum, because we was like brothers—more than brothers, I may say, an’ very friendly. Yes, Willum Stout was kind to his brother in his last days. It would have bin shame to him if he hadn’t for your husband, ma’am, was kind to Willum, an’ he often said to me, over the camp-fires in the bush, that he’d never forget his kindness. But it’s over now,” continued the seaman in a sad tone, “an’ poor Willum is left alone.”

“Is my uncle very poor?” asked Lewis, who had been paying more attention to the appearance of their rugged visitor than to what he had said.

“Ay, very poor,” replied the seaman, “as regards near relations, leastwise such as he has seen and known in former days, but he an’t poor as regards gold. He’s got lots of that. He and I worked not far from each other for years, an’ he used to hit upon good claims somehow, and shovelled up the nuggets like stones.”

“Indeed! I wish he’d send a few of them this way,” exclaimed Lewis, with a careless laugh.

“No doubt he might do so, young man, if he knew you were in need of ’em, but your father gave him to understand that his family was rich.”

“Rich!” exclaimed Lewis, with a smile, in which there was a touch of contempt. “Well, yes, we were rich enough once, but when my father was away these wretched mines became—”

“Lewie!” exclaimed his mother, hastily, “what nonsense you do talk! Really, one would think from your account that we were paupers.”

“Well, mother, so we are—paupers to this extent at least, that we can’t afford to take a run to Switzerland, though ordered to do so for your health, because we lack funds.”

Lewis said this half petulantly, for he had been a “spoilt child,” and might probably have been by that time a ruined young man, but for the mercy of his Creator, who had blessed him with an amiable disposition. He was one of those youths, in short, of whom people say that they can’t be spoiled, though fond and foolish parents do their best to spoil them.

“You mis-state the case, naughty boy,” said Mrs Stoutley, annoyed at being thus forced to touch on her private affairs before a stranger. “No doubt our ready cash is what our man-of-business calls ‘locked up,’ but that, you know, is only a matter of temporary inconvenience, and cannot last long.”

As Mrs Stoutley paused and hesitated, their visitor placed on the table a canvas bag, which, up to this point he had rested on one knee.

“This bag,” he said, “of nuggets, is a gift from Willum. He desired me to deliver it to you, Miss Gray, as a small acknowledgment of your kindness in writin’ so often to him. He’d have bought you a silk gown, or a noo bonnet, so he said, but wasn’t sure as to your taste in such matters, and thought you’d accept the nuggets and buy it for yourself. Leastwise, that’s somethin’ like the speech Willum tried to tell me to deliver, but he warn’t good at speech-makin’ no more than I at remembrin’, and hoped you’d take the will for the deed.”

With a flush of surprise and pleasure, Emma Gray accepted both the will and the deed, with many expressions of gratitude, and said, that as she did not require either a silk dress or a bonnet just then, she would invest her little fortune; she would lend it at high interest, to a lady under temporary inconvenience, who was ordered by her doctor to Switzerland for the benefit of her health. To this Mrs Stoutley protested very earnestly that the lady in question would not accept the loan on any consideration; that it must not be diverted from its destined use, but be honestly expended on silk-dresses and new bonnets. To which Emma replied, that the destiny of the gift, with interest (she was very particular on that head), should be fulfilled in good time, but that meanwhile it must be lent out.

In the midst of a cross-fire of this kind the bag was opened, and its contents poured on the table, to the immense admiration of all the company, none of whom had, until that day, beheld gold in its native condition.

“How much may it be worth, Mr Wopper?” asked Lewis, weighing one of the largest lumps.

“About two hundred pound, I should say, more or less,” replied the seaman.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the youth in surprise—an exclamation which was echoed by his mother and cousin in modified tones.

While they sat thus toying with the lumps of gold, the conversation reverted to the sender of it, and the Captain told such entertaining anecdotes of bush life, in all of which “Uncle Willum” had been an actor, that the afternoon arrived before Mrs Stoutley had time to wish for it. They also talked of the last illness of the deceased father of the family; and when it came out that Captain (they had found out by that time that their visitor had been a skipper, and, by courtesy, a captain), had assisted “Willum” in nursing Mr Stoutley, and had followed him to the grave, Mrs Stoutley’s gratitude was such that she insisted on her visitor staying to dinner.

“Thank ’ee, ma’am,” he said, “I’ve dined. I always dines at one o’clock if I can manage it.”

“But we don’t dine till eight,” said the lady, “so it will just suit for your supper.”

“Do come,” said Emma Gray, “we shall be quite alone, and shall have a great spinning of yarns over Uncle William and the gold-fields.”

“Well, I don’t mind if I do,” said the Captain, “but before supper I must go to the docks for my kit and settle my lodgings.”

“I am going to the Strand, and shall be happy to give you a lift,” said Lewis.

The Captain accepted the offer, and as they drove along, he and his young friend became very intimate, insomuch that Lewis, who was lighthearted, open, and reckless, let him into his confidence, and spoke quite freely about his mother’s difficulties. It is only justice to add that the Captain did not encourage him in this. When, however, the youth spoke of himself, he not only encouraged him, but drew him out. Among other things, he drew out of him the fact that he was in the habit of gambling, and that he fully expected—if his usual luck attended him—to assist in adding to the fund which was to take the family abroad.

The Captain looked at the handsome stripling for a few seconds in silent surprise.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that you gamble?”

“Indeed I do,” replied Lewis, with a bland smile, and something of a twinkle in his eye.

“For money?” asked the Captain.

“For money,” assented the youth; “what have you to say against it?”

“Why, I’ve to say that it’s mean.”

“That’s strong language,” said Lewis, flushing.

“It an’t strong enough by a long way,” returned the Captain, with indignation, “it’s more than mean, it’s contemptible; it’s despicable.”

The flush on Lewis’s face deepened, and he looked at his companion with the air of one who meditates knocking another down. Perhaps the massive size and strength of the Captain induced him to change his mind. It may be that there occurred to him the difficulty—if not impossibility—of knocking down a man who was down already, and the want of space in a cab for such violent play of muscle. At all events he did nothing, but looked “daggers.”

“Look ’ee here, my lad,” continued the Captain, laying his huge hand on his companion’s knee, and gazing earnestly into his face, “I don’t mean for to hurt your feelin’s by sayin’ that you are mean, or contemptible, or despicable, for I don’t suppose you’ve thought much about the matter at all, and are just following in the wake of older men who ought to know better; but I say that the thing—gambling for money—is the meanest thing a man can do, short of stealing. What does it amount to? Simply this—I want another man’s money, and the other man wants mine. We daren’t try open robbery, we would be ashamed of that; we’re both too lazy to labour for money, and labour doesn’t bring it in fast enough, therefore we’ll go play for it. I’ll ask him to submit to be robbed by me on condition that I submit to be robbed by him; and which is to be the robbed, and which the robber, shall depend on the accidental turn of a dice, or something equally trifling—”

“But I don’t gamble by means of dice,” interrupted Lewis, “I play, and bet, on billiards, which is a game of skill, requiring much practice, judgment, and thought.”

“That makes no odds, my lad,” continued the Captain. “There is no connection whatever between the rolling of a ball and the taking away of a man’s money, any more than there is between the turning of a dice and the taking of a man’s money. Both are dishonourable subterfuges. They are mere blinds put up to cover the great and mean fact, which is, that I want to get possession of my neighbour’s cash.”

“But, Captain,” retorted Lewis, with a smile—for he had now entered into the spirit of the argument—“you ignore the fact that while I try to win from my friend, I am quite willing that my friend should try to win from me.”

“Ignore it? no!” cried Captain Wopper. “Putt it in this way. Isn’t it wrong for me to have a longing desire and itching fingers to lay hold of your cash?”

“Well, put in that simple form,” said Lewis, with a laugh, “it certainly is.”

“And isn’t it equally wrong for you to have a hungering and thirsting after my cash?”

“Of course that follows,” assented Lewis.

“Well, then,” pursued the Captain, “can any agreement between you and me, as to the guessing of black or white or the turning of dice or anything else, make a right out of two wrongs?”

“Still,” said Lewis, a little puzzled, “there is fallacy somewhere in your argument. I cannot see that gambling is wrong.”

“Mark me, my lad,” returned the Captain, impressively, “it is no sufficient reason for the doing of a thing that you cannot see it to be wrong. You are not entitled to do anything unless you see it to be right. But there are other questions connected with gambling which renders it doubly mean—the question, for instance, whether a man is entitled to risk the loss of money which he calls his own, but which belongs to his wife and children as much as to himself. The mean positions, too, in which a gambler places himself, are numerous. One of these is, when a rich man wins the hard-earned and much-needed gains of a poor one.”

“But one is not supposed to know anything about the affairs of those from whom one wins,” objected Lewis.

“All the more reason,” replied Captain Wopper, “why a man should never gamble, lest, unwittingly, he should become the cause of great suffering—it might be, of death.”

Still Lewis “could not see” the wrong of gambling, and the discussion was cut short by the sudden stopping of the cab at a door in the Strand, over which hung a lamp, on which the Captain observed the word “Billiards.”

“Well, ta-ta, old fellow,” said Lewis, gaily, as he parted from his new friend, “we’ll finish the argument another day. Meanwhile, don’t forget the hour—eight, sharp.”

Chapter Four.

Shows how the Captain came to an Anchor, and conceived a Deep Design.

When Captain Wopper parted from his young friend, he proceeded along the Strand in an unusually grave mood, shaking his head to such a degree, as he reflected on the precocious wickedness of the rising generation, that a very ragged and pert specimen of that generation, observing his condition, gravely informed him that there was an hospital for incurables in London, which took in patients with palsy and St. Wituses’ dance werry cheap.

This recalled him from the depths of sorrowful meditation, and induced him to hail a cab, in which he drove to the docks, claimed his chest—a solid, seamanlike structure, reminding one of the wooden walls of Old England—and returned with it to the head of the lane leading to Grubb’s Court. Dismissing the cab, he looked round for a porter, but as no porter appeared, the Captain, having been accustomed through life to help himself, and being, as we have said, remarkably strong, shouldered the nautical chest, and bore it to the top of Mrs Roby’s staircase.

Here he encountered, and almost tumbled over, Gillie White, who saluted him with—

“Hallo! ship aho–o–oy! starboard hard! breakers ahead! Why, Capp’n, you’ve all but run into me!”

“Why don’t you show a light then,” retorted the Captain, “or blow your steam-whistle, in such a dark hole? What’s that you’ve got in your arms?”

“The baby,” replied Gillie.

“What baby?” demanded the Captain.

“Our baby, of course,” returned the imp, in a tone that implied the non-existence of any other baby worth mentioning. “I brought it up to show it to the sick ’ooman next door but one to Mrs Roby’s cabin. She’s very sick, she is, an’ took a great longing to see our baby, cos she thinks it’s like what her son was w’en he was a baby. If he ever was, he don’t look much like one now, for he’s six-feet nothin’ in his socks, an’ drinks like a fish, if he don’t do nothin’ wuss. Good-night Capp’n. Baby’ll ketch cold if I keep on jawin’ here. Mind your weather eye, and port your helm when you reach the landin’. If you’ll take the advice of a young salt, you’ll clew up your mainsail an’ dowse some of your top-hamper—ah! I thought so!”

This last remark, delivered with a broad grin of delight, had reference to the fact that the Captain had run the corner of his chest against the low roof of the passage with a degree of violence that shook the whole tenement.

Holding his breath in hopeful anticipation, and reckless of the baby’s “ketching cold,” the small boy listened for more. Nor was he disappointed. In his progress along the passage Captain Wopper, despite careful steering, ran violently foul of several angles and beams, each of which mishaps sent a quiver through the old house, and a thrill to the heart of Gillie White. In his earnest desire to steer clear of the sick woman’s door, the luckless Captain came into collision with the opposite wall, and anxiety on this point causing him to forget the step on which he had “struck” once before, he struck it again, and was precipitated, chest and all, against Mrs Roby’s door, which, fortunately for itself, burst open, and let the avalanche of chest and man descend upon Mrs Roby’s floor.

Knowing that the climax was now reached, the imp descended the stair filled with a sort of serene ecstasy, while Captain Wopper gathered himself up and sat down on his nautical portmanteau.

“I tell ’ee what it is, old ’ooman,” said he, stroking his beard, “the channel into this port is about the wust I ever had the ill-luck to navigate. I hope I didn’t frighten ’ee?”

“Oh, dear no!” replied Mrs Roby, with a smile.

To say truth, the old woman seemed less alarmed than might have been expected. Probably the noise of the Captain’s approach, and previous experience, had prepared her for some startling visitation, for she was quite calm, and a humorous twinkle in her eyes seemed to indicate the presence of a spirit somewhat resembling that which actuated Gillie White.

“Well, that’s all right,” said the Captain, rising and pushing up the trap-door that led to his private berth in the new lodging; “and now, old lady, havin’ come to an anchor, I must get this chest sent aloft as fast as I can, seein’ that I’ve to clean myself an’ rig out for a dinner at eight o’clock at the west end.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Roby, in surprise, “you must have got among people of quality.”

“It won’t be easy to hoist it up,” said the Captain, ignoring the remark, and eyeing the chest and trap-door in the roof alternately.

Just then a heavy step was heard in the passage; and a young man of large and powerful frame, with a gentle as well as gentlemanly demeanour, appeared at the door.

“Come in—come in,” said Mrs Roby, with a bright look, “this is only my new lodger, a friend of dear Wil—”

“Why, bless you, old ’ooman,” interrupted Captain Wopper, “he knows me well enough. I went to him this morning and got Mrs Stoutley’s address. Come in, Dr Lawrence. I may claim to act the host here now in a small way, perhaps, and bid visitors welcome—eh! Mrs Roby?”

“Surely, surely,” replied the old woman.

“Thank you both for the welcome,” said the visitor with a pleasant smile, as he shook hands with Mrs Roby. “I thought I recognised your voice, Captain Wopper, as you passed Mrs Leven’s door, and came out to see how you and my old friend here get on together.”

“Is she any better to-night, sir?” asked Mrs Roby, anxiously.

Lawrence shook his head sadly and said she was no better, and that he feared she had little chance of getting better while her dissipated son dwelt under the same roof with her. “It is breaking her heart,” he added, “and, besides that, the nature of her disease is such that recovery is impossible unless she is fed on the most generous diet. This of course she cannot have, because she has no means of her own. Her son gambles away nearly all his small salary, and she refuses to go to an hospital lest her absence should be the removal of the last restraining link between him and destruction. It is a very sad case—very.”

Captain Wopper was struck with this reference to gambling coming so soon after his recent conversation on that subject, and asked if there were no charitable societies or charitable people in London who would help in a case so miserable.

Yes, there were plenty of charitable institutions, Lawrence told him, but he feared that this woman had no special claim on any of them, and her refusal to go to an hospital would tell against her. There were also, he said, plenty of charitable people, but all of those he happened to be acquainted with had been appealed to by him so often that he felt ashamed to try them again. He had already given away as much of his own slender means as he could well spare, so that he saw no way out of the difficulty; but he had faith in Providential supervision of human affairs, and he believed that a way would yet be opened up.

“You’re right, sir—right,” said Captain Wopper, with emphasis, while he looked earnestly into the face of the young doctor. “This world wasn’t made to be kicked about like a foot-ball by chance, or circumstances, or anything of the sort. Look ’ee here, sir; it has bin putt into my heart to feel charitable leanings, and a good bit o’ cash has bin putt into my pocket, so that, bein’ a lone sort o’ man, I don’t have much use for it. That’s on the one hand. On the other hand, here are you, sir, the son of a friend o’ my chum Willum Stout, with great need of aid from charitable people, an’ here we two are met together—both ready for action. Now, I call that a Providential arrangement, so please putt me down as one of your charitable friends. It’s little I can boast of in that way as yet but it’s not too late to begin. I’ve long arrears to pull up, so I’ll give you that to begin with. It’ll help to relieve Mrs Leven in the meantime.”

As he spoke, the Captain drew a black pocketbook from his breast pocket and, taking a piece of paper therefrom, placed it in the doctor’s hands.

“This is a fifty-pound note!” said Lawrence, in surprise.

“Well, what then?” returned the Captain. “You didn’t expect a thousand-pound note, did you?”

“Not quite that,” replied Lawrence, laughing, “but I thought that perhaps you had made a mistake.”

“Ah! you judged from appearances, young man. Don’t you git into the way of doin’ that, else you’ll be for ever sailin’ on the wrong tack. Take my advice, an’ never look as if you thought a man gave you more than he could afford. Nobody never does that.”

“Far be it from me,” returned Lawrence, “to throw cold water on generous impulses. I accept your gift with thanks, and will gladly put you on my list. If you should find hereafter that I pump you rather hard, please to remember that you gave me encouragement to do so.”

“Pump away, sir. When you’ve pumped dry, I’ll tell you!”

“Well,” said Lawrence, rising, “I’ll go at once and bring your liberality into play; and, since you have done me so good a turn, remember that you may command my services, if they can ever be of any use to you.”

The Captain cast a glance at the trap-door and the chest.

“Well,” said he, “I can scarcely ask you to do it professionally, but if you’d lend a hand to get this Noah’s ark o’ mine on to the upper deck, I’d—”

“Come along,” cried Lawrence, jumping up with a laugh, and seizing one end of the “ark.”

Captain Wopper grasped the other end, and, between them, with much puffing, pushing, and squeezing, they thrust the box through the trap to the upper regions, whither the Captain followed it by means of the same gymnastic feat that he performed on his first ascent. Thrusting his head down, he invited the doctor to “come aloft,” which the doctor did in the same undignified fashion, for his gentle manner and spirit had not debarred him from the practice and enjoyment of manly exercises.

“It’s a snug berth, you see,” said the Captain, stumbling among the dusty lumber, and knocking his head against the beams, “wants cleaning up, tho’, and puttin’ to rights a bit, but I’ll soon manage that; and when I git the dirt and cobwebs cleared away, glass putt in the port-holes, and a whitewash on the roof and walls, it’ll be a cabin fit for an admiral. See what a splendid view of the river! Just suited to a seafarin’ man.”

“Capital!” cried Lawrence, going down on his knees to obtain the view referred to. “Rather low in the roof, however, don’t you think?”

“Low? not at all!” exclaimed the Captain. “It’s nothin’ to what I’ve been used to on the coastin’ trade off Californy. Why, I’ve had to live in cabins so small that a tall man couldn’t keep his back straight when he was sittin’ on the lockers; but we didn’t sit much in ’em; we was chiefly used to go into ’em to lie down. This is a palace to such cabins.”

The doctor expressed satisfaction at finding that his new “charitable contributor” took such enlarged views of a pigeon-hole, and, promising to pay him another visit when the “cabin” should have been put to rights, said good-bye, and went to relieve the wants of the sick woman.

As the captain accompanied him along the passage, they heard the voice and step of poor Mrs Leven’s dissipated son, as he came stumbling and singing up the stair.

He was a stout good-looking youth, and cast a half impudent half supercilious look at Captain Wopper on approaching. He also bestowed a nod of careless recognition on Dr Lawrence.

Thinking it better to be out of the way, the Captain said good-bye again to his friend, and returned to the cabin, where he expressed to Mrs Roby the opinion that, “that young feller Leven was goin’ to the dogs at railway speed.”

Thereafter he went “aloft,” and, as he expressed it, “rigged himself out,” in a spruce blue coat with brass buttons; blue vest and trousers to match; a white dicky with a collar attached and imitation carbuncle studs down the front. To these he added a black silk neckerchief tied in a true sailor’s knot but with the ends separated and carefully tucked away under his vest to prevent their interfering with the effulgence of the carbuncle studs; a pair of light shoes with a superabundance of new tie; a green silk handkerchief, to be carried in his hat, for the purpose of mopping his forehead when warm, and a red silk ditto to be carried in his pocket for the benefit of his nose. In addition to the studs, Captain Wopper wore, as ornaments, a solid gold ring, the rude workmanship of which induced the belief that he must have made it himself, and a large gold watch, with a gold chain in the form of a cable, and a rough gold nugget attached to it in place of a seal or key. We class the watch among simple ornaments because, although it went—very demonstratively too, with a loud self-asserting tick—its going was irregular and uncertain. Sometimes it went too slow without apparent cause. At other times it went too fast without provocation. Frequently it struck altogether, and only consented to resume work after a good deal of gentle and persuasive threatening to wind it the wrong way. It had chronic internal complaints, too, which produced sundry ominous clicks and sounds at certain periods of the day. These passed off, however, towards evening. Occasionally such sounds rushed as it were into a sudden whirr and series of convulsions, ending in a dead stop, which was an unmistakeable intimation to the Captain that something vital had given way; that the watch had gone into open mutiny, and nothing short of a visit to the watchmaker could restore it to life and duty.

“I’m off now,” said the Captain, descending when he was fully “rigged.” “What about the door-key, mother?—you’ve no objection to my calling you mother, have you?”

“None whatever, Captain,” replied Mrs Roby, with a pleasant smile, “an old friend of William may call me whatever he pleases—short,” she added after momentary pause, “of swearin’.”

“Trust me, I’ll stop short of that. You see, old lady, I never know’d a mother, and I should like to try to feel what it’s like to have one. It’s true I’m not just a lad, but you are old enough to be my mother for all that, so I’ll make the experiment. But what about the key of the door, mother? I can’t expect you to let me in, you know.”

“Just lock it, and take the key away with you,” said Mrs Roby.

But what if a fire should break out?” said the Captain, with a look of indecision.

“I’m not afraid of fire. We’ve got a splendid brigade and plenty of fire-escapes, and a good kick from a fireman would open my door without a key.”

“Mother, you’re a trump! I’ll lock you in and leave you with an easy mind—”

He stopped abruptly, and Mrs Roby asked what was the matter.

“Well, it’s what I said about an easy mind that threw me all aback,” replied the Captain, “for to tell ’ee the truth, I haven’t got an easy mind.”

“Not done anything wicked, I hope?” said Mrs Roby, anxiously.

“No, no; nothin’ o’ that sort; but there is somethin’ lyin’ heavy on my mind, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t make a confidant o’ you, bein’ my mother, d’ee see; and, besides, it consarns Willum.”

The old woman looked eagerly at her lodger as he knitted his brows in perplexity and smoothed down his forelock.

“Here’s where it is,” he continued, drawing his chair closer to that of Mrs Roby; “when Willum made me his exikooter, so to speak, he said to me, ‘Wopper,’ says he, ‘I’m not one o’ them fellers that holds on to his cash till he dies with it in his pocket. I’ve got neither wife nor chick, as you know, an’ so, wot I means to do is to give the bulk of it to them that I love while I’m alive—d’ee see?’ ‘I do, Willum,’ says I. ‘Well then,’ says he, ‘besides them little matters that I axed you to do for me, I want you to take partikler notice of two people. One is the man as saved my life w’en I was a youngster, or, if he’s dead, take notice of his child’n. The other is that sweet young creeter, Emma Gray, who has done the correspondence with me so long for my poor brother. You keep a sharp look-out an’ find out how these two are off for money. If Emma’s rich, of course it’s no use to give her what she don’t need, and I’ll give the most of what I’ve had the good fortune to dig up here to old Mr Lawrence, or his family, for my brother’s widow, bein’ rich, don’t need it. If both Emma and Lawrence are rich, why then, just let me know, and I’ll try to hit on some other plan to make away with it, for you know well enough I couldn’t use it all upon myself without going into wicked extravagance, and my dear old Mrs Roby wouldn’t know what to do with so much cash if I sent it to her. Now, you promise to do this for me?’ says he. ‘Willum,’ says I, ‘I do.’”

“Now, mother,” continued the Captain, “what troubles me is this, that instead o’ findin’ Miss Emma rich, and Mr Lawrence poor, or wice wersa, or findin’ ’em both rich, I finds ’em both poor. That’s where my difficulty lies.”

Mrs Roby offered a prompt solution of this difficulty by suggesting that William should divide the money between them.

“That would do all well enough,” returned the Captain, “if there were no under-currents drivin’ the ship out of her true course. But you see, mother, I find that the late Mr Stoutley’s family is also poor—at least in difficulties—although they live in great style, and seem to be rich; and from what I heard the other day, I know that the son is given to gamblin’, and the mother seems to be extravagant, and both of ’em are ready enough to sponge on Miss Emma, who is quite willin’—far too willin’—to be sponged upon, so that whatever Willum gave to her would be just thrown away. Now the question is,” continued the Captain, looking seriously at the kettle with the defiant spout, “what am I to advise Willum to do?”

“Advise him,” replied Mrs Roby, promptly, “to give all the money to Dr Lawrence, and get Dr Lawrence to marry Miss Gray, and so they’ll both get the whole of it.”

A beaming smile crossed the Captain’s visage.

“Not a bad notion, mother; but what if Dr Lawrence, after gettin’ the money, didn’t want to marry Miss Gray?”

“Get him to marry her first and give the money afterwards,” returned Mrs Roby.

“Ay, that might do,” replied the Captain, nodding slowly, “only it may be that a man without means may hesitate about marryin’ a girl without means, especially if he didn’t want her, and she didn’t want him. I don’t quite see how to get over all these difficulties.”

“There’s only one way of getting over them,” said Mrs Roby, “and that is, by bringin’ the young people together, and givin’ ’em a chance to fall in love.”

“True, true, mother, but, so far as I know, Dr Lawrence don’t know the family. We couldn’t,” said the Captain, looking round the room, dubiously, “ask ’em to take a quiet cup of tea here with us—eh? You might ask Dr Lawrence, as your medical man, and I might ask Miss Emma, as an old friend of her uncle, quite in an off-hand way, you know, as if by chance. They’d never see through the dodge, and would fall in love at once, perhaps—eh?”

Captain Wopper said all this in a dubious tone, looking at the defiant kettle the while, as if propitiating its favourable reception of the idea, but it continued defiant, and hissed uncompromisingly, while its mistress laughed outright.

“You’re not much of a match-maker, I see,” she said, on recovering composure. “No, Captain, it wouldn’t do to ask ’em here to tea.”

“Well, well,” said the Captain, rising, “we’ll let match-makin’ alone for the present. It’s like tryin’ to beat to wind’ard against a cyclone. The best way is to square the yards, furl the sails, and scud under bare poles till it’s over. It’s blowin’ too hard just now for me to make headway, so I’ll wear ship and scud.”

In pursuance of this resolve, Captain Wopper put on his wide-awake, locked up his mother, and went off to dine at the “west end.”

Chapter Five.

In which Several Important Matters are arranged, and Gillie White undergoes some Remarkable and hitherto Unknown Experiences.

It is not necessary to inflict on the reader Mrs Stoutley’s dinner in detail; suffice it to say, that Captain Wopper conducted himself, on the whole, much more creditably than his hostess had anticipated, and made himself so entertaining, especially to Lewis, that that young gentleman invited him to accompany the family to Switzerland, much to the amusement of his cousin Emma and the horror of his mother, who, although she enjoyed a private visit of the Captain, did not relish the thought of his becoming a travelling companion of the family. She pretended not to hear the invitation given, but when Lewis, knowing full well the state of her mind, pressed the invitation, she shook her head at him covertly and frowned. This by-play her son pretended not to see, and continued his entreaties, the Captain not having replied.

“Now, do come with us, Captain Wopper,” he said; “it will be such fun, and we should all enjoy you so much—wouldn’t we, Emma?” (“Yes, indeed,” from Emma); “and it would just be suited to your tastes and habits, for the fine, fresh air of the mountains bears a wonderful resemblance to that of the sea. You’ve been accustomed no doubt to climb up the shrouds to the crosstrees; well, in Switzerland, you may climb up the hills to any sort of trees you like, and get shrouded in mist, or tumble over a precipice and get put into your shroud altogether; and—”

“Really, Lewie, you ought to be ashamed of making such bad puns,” interrupted his mother. “Doubtless it would be very agreeable to have Captain Wopper with us, but I am quite sure it would be anything but pleasant for him to travel through such a wild country with such a wild goose as you for a companion.”

“You have modestly forgotten yourself and Emma,” said Lewis; “but come, let the Captain answer for himself. You know, mother, it has been your wish, if not your intention, to get a companion for me on this trip—a fellow older than myself—a sort of travelling tutor, who could teach me something of the geology and botany of the country as we went along. Well, the Captain is older than me, I think, which is one of the requisites, and he could teach me astronomy, no doubt, and show me how to box the compass; in return for which, I could show him how to box an adversary’s nose, as practised by the best authorities of the ring. As to geology and botany, I know a little of these sciences already, and could impart my knowledge to the Captain, which would have the effect of fixing it more firmly in my own memory; and every one knows that it is of far greater importance to lay a good, solid groundwork of education, than to build a showy, superficial structure, on a bad foundation. Come, then, Captain, you see your advantages. This is the last time of asking. If you don’t speak now, henceforth and for ever hold your tongue.”

“Well, my lad,” said the Captain, with much gravity, “I’ve turned the thing over in my mind, and since Mrs Stoutley is so good as to say it would be agreeable to her, I think I’ll accept your invitation!”

“Bravo! Captain, you’re a true blue; come, have another glass of wine on the strength of it.”

“No wine, thank ’ee,” said the Captain, placing his hand over his glass, “I’ve had my beer; and I make it a rule never to mix my liquor. Excuse me, ma’am,” he continued, addressing his hostess, “your son made mention of a tooter—a travellin’ tooter; may I ask if you’ve provided yourself with one yet!”

“Not yet,” answered Mrs Stoutley, feeling, but not looking, a little surprised at the question, “I have no young friend at present quite suited for the position, and at short notice it is not easy to find a youth of talent willing to go, and on whom one can depend. Can you recommend one?”

Mrs Stoutley accompanied the question with a smile, for she put it in jest. She was, therefore, not a little surprised when the Captain said promptly that he could—that he knew a young man—a doctor—who was just the very ticket (these were his exact words), a regular clipper, with everything about him trim, taut, and ship-shape, who would suit every member of the family to a tee!

A hearty laugh from every member of the family greeted the Captain’s enthusiastic recommendation, and Emma exclaimed that he must be a most charming youth, while Lewis pulled out pencil and note-book to take down his name and address.

“You are a most valuable friend at this crisis in our affairs,” said Lewis, “I’ll make mother write to him immediately.”

“But have a care,” said the Captain, “that you never mention who it was that recommended him. I’m not sure that he would regard it as a compliment. You must promise me that.”

“I promise,” said Lewis, “and whatever I promise mother will fulfil, so make your mind easy on that head. Now, mother, I shouldn’t wonder if Captain Wopper could provide you with that other little inexpensive luxury you mentioned this morning. D’you think you could recommend a page?”

“What’s a page, lad?”

“What! have you never heard of a page—a page in buttons?” asked Lewis in surprise.

“Never,” replied the Captain, shaking his head.

“Why, a page is a small boy, usually clad in blue tights, to make him look as like a spider as possible, with three rows of brass buttons up the front of his jacket—two of the rows being merely ornamental, and going over his shoulders. He usually wears a man’s hat for the sake of congruity, and is invariably as full of mischief as an egg is of meat. Can you find such an article?”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Captain. “What is he used for?”

“Chiefly for ornament, doing messages, being in the way when not wanted, and out of the way when required.”

“Yes,” said the Captain, meditatively, “I’ve got my eye—”

“Your weather eye?” asked Lewis.

“Yes, my weather eye, on a lad who’ll fit you.”

“To a tee?” inquired Emma, archly.

“To a tee, miss,” assented the Captain, with a bland smile.

Lewis again pulled out his note-book to enter the name and address, but the Captain assured him that he would manage this case himself; and it was finally settled—for Lewis carried everything his own way, as a matter of course—that Dr George Lawrence was to be written to next day, and Captain Wopper was to provide a page.

“And you’ll have to get him and yourself ready as fast as possible,” said the youth in conclusion, “for we shall set off as soon as my mother’s trunks are packed.”

Next morning, while Captain Wopper was seated conversing with his old landlady at the breakfast-table—the morning meal having been just concluded—he heard the voice of Gillie White in the court. Going to the end of the passage, he ordered that imp to “come aloft.”

Gillie appeared in a few seconds, nodded patronisingly to old Mrs Roby, hoped she was salubrious, and demanded to know what was up.

“My lad,” said the Captain—and as he spoke, the urchin assumed an awful look of mock solemnity.

“I want to know if you think you could behave yourself if you was to try?”

“Ah!” said Gillie, with the air of a cross-examining advocate, “the keewestion is not w’ether I could behave myself if I wos to try, but, w’ether I think I could. Well, ahem! that depends. I think I could, now, if there was offered a very strong indoocement.”

“Just so, my lad,” returned the Captain, nodding, “that’s exactly what I mean to offer. What d’ee say to a noo suit of blue tights, with three rows brass buttons; a situation in a respectable family; a fair wage; as much as you can eat and drink; and a trip to Switzerland to begin with?”

While the Captain spoke, the small boy’s eyes opened wider and wider, and his month followed suit, until he stood the very picture of astonishment.

“You don’t mean it?” he exclaimed.

“Indeed I do, my lad.”

“Then I’m your man,” returned the small boy emphatically, “putt me down for that sitooation; send for a lawyer, draw up the articles, I’ll sign ’em right off, and—”

“Gillie, my boy,” interrupted the Captain, “one o’ the very first things you have to do in larnin’ to behave yourself is to clap a stopper on your tongue—it’s far too long.”

“All right, Capp’n,” answered the imp, “I’ll go to Guy’s Hospital d’rectly and ’ave three-fourths of it ampitated.”

“Do,” said the Captain, somewhat sternly, “an’ ask ’em to attach a brake to the bit that’s left.

“Now, lad,” he continued, “you’ve got a very dirty face.”

Gillie nodded, with his lips tightly compressed to check utterance.

“And a very ragged head of hair,” he added.

Again Gillie nodded.

The Captain pointed to a basin of water which stood on a chair in a corner of the room, beside which lay a lump of yellow soap, a comb, and a rough jack-towel.

“There,” said he, “go to work.”

Gillie went to work with a will, and scrubbed himself to such an extent, that his skin must undoubtedly have been thinner after the operation. The washing, however, was easy compared with the combing. The boy’s mop was such a tangled web, that the comb at first refused to pass through it; and when, encouraged by the Captain, the urchin did at last succeed in rending its masses apart various inextricable bunches came away bodily, and sundry teeth of the comb were left behind. At last, however, it was reduced to something like order, to the immense satisfaction of Mrs Roby and the Captain.

“Now,” said the latter, “did you ever have a Turkish bath?”

“No—never.”

“Well, then, come with me and have one. Have you got a cap?”

“Hm—never mind, come along; you’re not cleaned up yet by a long way; but we’ll manage it in course of time.”

As the Captain and his small protégé passed along the streets, the former took occasion to explain that a Turkish bath was a species of mild torture, in which a man was stewed alive, and baked in an oven, and par-boiled, and scrubbed, and pinched, and thumped (sometimes black and blue), and lathered with soap till he couldn’t see, and heated up to seven thousand and ten, Fahrenheit and soused with half-boiling water, and shot at with cold water—or shot into it, as the case might be—and rolled in a sheet like a mummy, and stretched out a like corpse to cool. “Most men,” he said, “felt gaspy in Turkish baths, and weak ones were alarmed lest they should get suffocated beyond recovery; but strong men rather enjoy themselves in ’em than otherwise.”

“Hah!” exclaimed the imp, “may I wentur’ to ax, Capp’n, wot’s the effect on boys?”

To this the Captain replied that he didn’t exactly know, never having heard of boys taking Turkish baths. Whereupon Gillie suggested, that if possible he might have himself cleaned in an ordinary bath.

“Impossible, my lad,” said the Captain, decidedly. “No or’nary bath would clean you under a week, unless black soap and scrubbin’ brushes was used.

“But don’t be alarmed, Gillie,” he added, looking down with a twinkle in his eyes, “I’ll go into the bath along with you. We’ll sink or swim together, my boy, and I’ll see that you’re not overdone. I’m rather fond of them myself, d’ee see, so I can recommend ’em from experience.”

Somewhat reassured by this, though still a little uneasy in his mind, the imp followed his patron to the baths.

It would have been a sight worth seeing, the entrance of these two into the temple of soap-and-water. To see Gillie’s well-made, but very meagre and dirty little limbs unrobed; to see him decked out with the scrimpest possible little kilt, such as would, perhaps, have suited the fancy of a Fiji islander; to see his gaze of undisguised admiration on beholding his companion’s towering and massive frame in the same unwonted costume, if we may so style it; to see the intensifying of his astonishment when ushered into the first room, at beholding six or seven naked, and apparently dead men, laid round the walls, as if ready for dissection; to see the monkey-like leap, accompanied by a squeal, with which he sprang from a hot stone-bench, having sat down thereon before it had been covered with a cloth for his reception; to see the rapid return of his self-possession in these unusual circumstances, and the ready manner in which he submitted himself to the various operations, as if he had been accustomed to Turkish baths from a period long prior to infancy; to see his horror on being introduced to the hottest room, and his furtive glance at the door, as though he meditated a rush into the open air, but was restrained by a sense of personal dignity; to see the ruling passion strong as ever in this (he firmly believed) his nearest approach to death, when, observing that the man next to him (who, as it were, turned the corner from him) had raised himself for a moment to arrange his pillow, he (Gillie) tipped up the corner of the man’s sheet, which hung close to his face in such a manner that he (the man), on lying down again, placed his bare shoulder on the hot stone, and sprang up with a yell that startled into life the whole of the half-sleeping establishment with the exception of the youth on the opposite bench, who, having noticed the act, was thrown into convulsions of laughter, much to the alarm of Gillie, who had thought he was asleep and feared that he might “tell;”—to see him laid down like a little pink-roll to be kneaded, and to hear him remark, in a calm voice, to the stalwart attendant that he might go in and win and needn’t be afraid of hurting him; to observe his delight when put under the warm “douche,” his gasping shriek when unexpectedly assailed with the “cold-shower,” and his placid air of supreme felicity when wrapped up like a ghost in a white sheet, and left to dry in the cooling-room—to see and hear all this, we say, would have amply repaid a special journey to London from any reasonable distance. The event, however, being a thing of the past and language being unequal to the description, we are compelled to leave it all to the reader’s imagination.

Chapter Six.

A Lesson Taught and Learned.

Two days after the events narrated in the last chapter, rather late in the evening, Dr George Lawrence called at “the cabin” in Grubb’s Court, and found the Captain taking what he called a quiet pipe.

“I have been visiting poor Mrs Leven,” he said to Mrs Roby, sitting down beside her, “and I fear she is a good deal worse to-night. That kind little woman, Netta White, has agreed to sit by her. I’m sorry that I shall be obliged to leave her at such a critical stage of her illness, but I am obliged to go abroad for some time.”

“Goin’ abroad, sir!” exclaimed Mrs Roby in surprise, for the Captain had not yet told her that Lawrence was to be of the party, although he had mentioned about himself and Gillie White.

“Yes, I’m going with Mrs Stoutley’s family for some weeks to Switzerland.”

Captain Wopper felt that his share in the arrangements was in danger of being found out. He therefore boldly took the lead.

“Ah! I know all about that, sir.”

“Indeed?” said Lawrence.

“Yes, I dined the other day with Mrs Stoutley; she asked me also to be of the party, and I’m going.”

Lawrence again exclaimed, “Indeed!” with increasing surprise, and added, “Well, now, that is a strange coincidence.”

“Well, d’ee know,” said the Captain, in an argumentative tone, “it don’t seem to me much of a coincidence. You know she had to git some one to go with her son, and why not you, sir, as well as any of the other young sawbones in London? If she hadn’t got you she’d have got another, and that would have been a coincidence to him, d’ee see? Then, as to me, it wasn’t unnatural that she should take a fancy to the man that nussed her dyin’ husband, an’ was chum to her brother-in-law; so, you see, that’s how it came about and I’m very glad to find, sir, that we are to sail in company for a short time.”

Lawrence returned this compliment heartily, and was about to make some further remark, when little Netta White rushed into the room with a frightened look and pale cheeks, exclaiming, “Oh, Dr Lawrence, sir, she’s very ill. I think she’s dying.”

Without waiting for a reply, the child ran out of the room followed by Lawrence and Mrs Roby, who was assisted by the Captain—for she walked with great difficulty even when aided by her crutches. In a few seconds they stood beside Mrs Leven’s bed. It was a lowly bed, with scant and threadbare coverings, and she who lay on it was of a lowly spirit—one who for many years had laid her head on the bosom of Jesus, and had found Him, through a long course of poverty and mental distress, “a very present help in trouble.”

“I fear that I’m very ill,” she said, faintly.

“No doubt you feel rather low just now,” said the doctor, “but that is very much owing to your having lived so long on insufficient diet. I will give you something, however, which will soon pull you up a bit. Come, cheer up. Don’t let your spirits get so low.”

“Yes,” she murmured, “I am brought very low, but the Lord will lift me up. He is my strength and my Redeemer.”

She clasped her hands with difficulty, and shut her eyes.

A silence followed, during which Captain Wopper drew Lawrence into the passage.

“D’you think she is near her end, doctor?”

“She looks very like it,” replied the doctor. “There is a possibility that she might recover if the right medicine could be found, namely, ease of mind; but her dissipated son has robbed her of that, and is the only one who can give it back to her—if indeed he has the power left now. She is dying of what is unprofessionally styled a broken heart. It is unfortunate that her son is not with her at present.”

“Does no one know where to find him?” asked the Captain.

“I fear not,” replied the doctor.

“Please, sir, I think I know,” said a subdued voice behind them.

It was that of Gillie White, who had drawn near very silently, being overawed by the sad scene in the sick-room.

“Do you, my lad? then get along as fast as you can and show me the way,” said the Captain, buttoning up his pilot-coat. “I’ll bring him here before long, doctor, if he’s to be found.”

In a few minutes the Captain and Gillie were at the head of the lane, where the former hailed a passing cab, bade the boy jump in, and followed him.

“Now, my lad, give the address,” said the Captain.

“The Strand,” said the boy, promptly.

“What number, sir?” asked the cabman, looking at the Captain.

“Right on till I stop you,” said Gillie, with the air of a commander-in-chief—whom in some faint manner he now resembled, for he was in livery, being clothed in blue tights and brass buttons.

In a short time Gillie gave the order to pull up, and they got out in front of a brilliantly-lighted and open door with a lamp above it, on which was written the word Billiards. The Captain observed that it was the same door as that at which he had parted from Lewis Stoutley some days before.

Dismissing the cab and entering, they quickly found themselves in a large and well-lighted billiard-room, which was crowded with men of all ages and aspects, some of whom played, others looked on and betted, a good many drank brandy and water, and nearly all smoked. It was a bright scene of dissipation, where many young men, deceiving themselves with the idea that they went merely to practise or to enjoy a noble game of skill, were taking their first steps on the road to ruin.

The Captain, closely attended by Gillie, moved slowly through the room, looking anxiously for Fred Leven. For some time they failed to find him. At last a loud curse, uttered in the midst of a knot of on-lookers, attracted their attention. It was followed by a general laugh, as a young man, whose dishevelled hair and flushed face showed that he had been drinking hard, burst from among them and staggered towards the door.

“Never mind, Fred,” shouted a voice that seemed familiar to the Captain, “you’ll win it back from me next time.”

Ere the youth had passed, the Captain stepped forward and laid his hand on his arm.

Fred uttered a savage growl, and drew back his clenched hand as if to strike, but Captain Wopper’s size and calm look of decision induced him to hold his hand.

“What d’you mean by interrupting me?” he demanded, sternly.

“My lad,” said the Captain, in a low, solemn voice, “your mother is dying, come with me. You’ve no time to lose.”

The youth’s face turned ashy pale, and he passed his hand hastily across his brow.

“What’s wrong?” exclaimed Lewis Stoutley, who had recognised the Captain, and come forward at the moment.

“Did he lose his money to you?” asked the Captain, abruptly.

“Well, yes, he did,” retorted Lewis, with a look of offended dignity.

“Come along, then, my lad. I want you too. It’s a case of life an’ death. Ask no questions, but come along.”

The Captain said this with such an air of authority, that Lewis felt constrained to obey. Fred Leven seemed to follow like one in a dream. They all got into a cab, and were driven back to Grubb’s Court.

As they ascended the stair, the Captain whispered to Lewis, “Keep in the background, my lad. Do nothing but look and listen.”

Another moment and they were in the passage, where Lawrence stopped them.

“You’re almost too late, sir,” he said to Fred, sternly. “If you had fed and clothed your mother better in time past, she might have got over this. Fortunately for her, poor soul, some people, who don’t gamble away their own and their parents’ means, have given her the help that you have refused. Go in, sir, and try to speak words of comfort to her now.”

He went in, and fell on his knees beside the bed.

“Mother!” he said.

Fain would he have said more, but no word could he utter. His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. Mrs Leven opened her eyes on hearing the single word, and her cheek flushed slightly as she seized one of his hands, kissed it and held it to her breast. Then she looked earnestly, and oh! so anxiously, into his face, and said in a low tone:—

“Fred, dear, are you so—”

She stopped abruptly.

“Yes, yes,” cried her son, passionately; “yes, mother, I’m sober now! Oh mother, dearest, darling mother, I am guilty, guilty; I have sinned. Oh forgive, forgive me! Listen, listen! I am in earnest now, my mother. Think of me as I used to be long ago. Don’t shut your eyes. Look at me, mother, look at Fred.”

The poor woman looked at him with tears of gladness in her eyes.

“God bless you, Fred!” she murmured. “It is long, long, since you spoke like that. But I knew you would. I have always expected that you would. Praise the Lord!”

Fred tried to speak, and again found that he could not, but the fountain of his soul was opened. He laid his face on his mother’s hand and sobbed bitterly.

Those who witnessed this scene stood as if spellbound. As far as sound or motion went these two might have been in the room alone. Presently the sound of sobbing ceased, and Fred, raising his head, began gently to stroke the hand he held in his. Sometime in his wild career, he knew not when or where, he had heard it said that this slight action had often a wonderful power to soothe the sick. He continued it for some time. Then the doctor advanced and gazed into the invalid’s countenance.

“She sleeps,” he said, in a low tone.

“May I stay beside her?” whispered Fred.

Lawrence nodded assent, and then motioning to the others to withdraw, followed them into Mrs Roby’s room, where he told them that her sleeping was a good sign, and that they must do their best to prevent her being disturbed.

“It won’t be necessary for any one to watch. Her son will prove her best attendant just now; but it may be as well that some one should sit up in this room, and look in now and then to see that the candle doesn’t burn out, and that all is right. I will go now, and will make this my first visit in the morning.”

“Captain Wopper,” said Lewis Stoutley, in a subdued voice, when Lawrence had left, “I won this ten-pound note to-night from Fred. I—I robbed him of it. Will you give it to him in the morning?”

“Yes, my lad, I will,” said the Captain.

“And will you let me sit up and watch here tonight?”

“No, my lad, I won’t. I mean to do that myself.”

“But do let me stay an hour or so with you, in case anything is wanted,” pleaded Lewis.

“Well, you may.”

They sat down together by the fireside, Mrs Roby having lain down on her bed with her clothes on, but they spoke never a word; and as they sat there, the young man’s busy brain arrayed before him many and many a scene of death, and sickness, and suffering, and sorrow, and madness, and despair, which, he knew well from hearsay (and he now believed it), had been the terrible result of gambling and drink.

When the hour was past, the Captain rose and said, “Now, Lewis, you’ll go, and I’ll take a look at the next room.”

He put off his shoes and went on tiptoe. Lewis followed, and took a peep before parting.

Fred had drawn three chairs to the bedside and lain down on them, with his shoulders resting on the edge of the bed, so that he could continue to stroke his mother’s hand without disturbing her. He had continued doing so until his head had slowly drooped upon the pillow; and there they now lay, the dissipated son and the humble Christian mother, sleeping quietly together.

Chapter Seven.

The Great White Mountain.

We are in Switzerland now; in the “land of the mountain and the flood”—the land also of perennial ice and snow. The solemn presence of the Great White Mountain is beginning to be felt. Its pure summit was first seen from Geneva; its shadow is now beginning to steal over us.

We are on the road to Chamouni, not yet over the frontier, in a carriage and four. Mrs Stoutley, being a lady of unbounded wealth, always travels post in a carriage and four when she can manage to do so, having an unconquerable antipathy to railroads and steamers. She could not well travel in any other fashion here, railways not having yet penetrated the mountain regions in this direction, and a mode of ascending roaring mountain torrents in steamboats not having yet been discovered. She might, however, travel with two horses, but she prefers four. Captain Wopper, who sits opposite Emma Gray, wonders in a quiet speculative way whether “the Mines” will produce a dividend sufficient to pay the expenses of this journey. He is quite disinterested in the thought, it being understood that the Captain pays his own expenses.

But we wander from our text, which is—the Great White Mountain. We are driving now under its shadow with Mrs Stoutley’s party, which, in addition to the Captain and Miss Gray, already mentioned, includes young Dr George Lawrence and Lewis, who are on horseback; also Mrs Stoutley’s maid (Mrs Stoutley never travels without a maid), Susan Quick, who sits beside the Captain; and Gillie White, alias the Spider and the Imp, who sits beside the driver, making earnest but futile efforts to draw him into a conversation in English, of which language the driver knows next to nothing.

But to return: Mrs Stoutley and party are now in the very heart of scenery the most magnificent; they have penetrated to a great fountain-head of European waters; they are surrounded by the cliffs, the gorges, the moraines, and are not far from the snow-slopes and ice-fields, the couloirs, the seracs, the crevasses, and the ice-precipices and pinnacles of a great glacial world; but not one of the party betrays the smallest amount of interest, or expresses the faintest emotion of surprise, owing to the melancholy fact that all is shrouded in an impenetrable veil of mist through which a thick fine rain percolates as if the mountain monarch himself were bewailing their misfortunes.

“Isn’t it provoking?” murmured Mrs Stoutley drawing her shawl closer.

“Very,” replied Emma.

“Disgusting!” exclaimed Lewis, who rode at the side of the carriage next his cousin.

“It might be worse,” said Lawrence, with a grim smile.

“Impossible,” retorted Lewis.

“Come, Captain, have you no remark to make by way of inspiring a little hope?” asked Mrs Stoutley.

“Why, never havin’ cruised in this region before,” answered the Captain, “my remarks can’t be of much value. Hows’ever, there is one idea that may be said to afford consolation, namely, that this sort o’ thing can’t last. I’ve sailed pretty nigh in all parts of the globe, an’ I’ve invariably found that bad weather has its limits—that after rain we may look for sunshine, and after storm, calm.”

“How cheering!” said Lewis, as the rain trickled from the point of his prominent nose.

At that moment Gillie White, happening to cast his eyes upward, beheld a vision which drew from him an exclamation of wild surprise.

They all looked quickly in the same direction, and there, through a rent in the watery veil, they beheld a little spot of blue sky, rising into which was a mountain-top so pure, so faint so high and inexpressibly far off, yet so brilliant in a glow of sunshine, that it seemed as if heaven had been opened, and one of the hills of Paradise revealed. It was the first near view that the travellers had obtained of these mountains of everlasting ice. With the exception of the exclamations “Wonderful!” “Most glorious!” they found no words for a time to express their feelings, and seemed glad to escape the necessity of doing so by listening to the remarks of their driver, as he went into an elaborate explanation of the name and locality of the particular part of Mont Blanc that had been thus disclosed.

The rent in the mist closed almost as quickly as it had opened, utterly concealing the beautiful vision; but the impression it had made, being a first and a very deep one, could never more be removed. The travellers lived now in the faith of what they had seen. Scepticism was no longer possible, and in this improved frame of mind they dashed into the village of Chamouni—one of the haunts of those whose war-cry is “Excelsior!”—and drove to the best hotel.

Their arrival in the village was an unexpected point of interest to many would-be mountaineers, who lounged about the place with macintoshes and umbrellas, growling at the weather. Any event out of the common forms a subject of interest to men who wait and have nothing to do. As the party passed them, growlers gazed and speculated as to who the new-comers might be. Some thought Miss Gray pretty; some thought otherwise—to agree on any point on such a day being, of course, impossible. Others “guessed” that the young fellows must be uncommonly fond of riding to “get on the outside of a horse” in such weather; some remarked that the “elderly female” seemed “used up,” or “blasée,” and all agreed—yes, they did agree on this point—that the thing in blue tights and buttons beside the driver was the most impudent-looking monkey the world had ever produced!

The natives of the place also had their opinions, and expressed them to each other; especially the bronzed, stalwart sedate-looking men who hung about in knots near the centre of the village, and seemed to estimate the probability of the stout young Englishmen on horseback being likely to require their services often—for these, said the driver, were the celebrated guides of Chamouni; men of bone and muscle, and endurance and courage; the leaders of those daring spirits who consider—and justly so—the ascent to the summit of Mont Blanc, or Monte Rosa, or the Matterhorn, a feat; the men who perform this feat it may be, two or three times a week—as often as you choose to call them to it, in fact—and think nothing of it; the men whose profession it is to risk their lives every summer from day to day for a few francs; who have become so inured to danger that they have grown quite familiar with it, insomuch that some of the reckless blades among them treat it now and then with contempt, and pay the penalty of such conduct with their lives.

Sinking into a couch in her private sitting-room, Mrs Stoutley resigned herself to Susan’s care, and, while she was having her boots taken off, said with a sigh:—

“Well, here we are at last. What do you think of Chamouni, Susan?”

“Rather a wet place, ma’am; ain’t it?”

With a languid smile, Mrs Stoutley admitted that it was, but added, by way of encouragement that it was not always so. To which Susan replied that she was glad to hear it, so she was, as nothink depressed her spirits so much as wet and clouds, and gloom.

Susan was a pretty girl of sixteen, tall, as well as very sedate and womanly, for her age. Having been born in one of the midland counties, of poor, though remarkably honest, parents, who had received no education themselves, and therefore held it to be quite unnecessary to bestow anything so useless on their daughter, she was, until very recently, as ignorant of all beyond the circle of her father’s homestead as the daughter of the man in the moon—supposing no compulsory education-act to be in operation in the orb of night. Having passed through them, she now knew of the existence of France and Switzerland, but she was quite in the dark as to the position of these two countries with respect to the rest of the world, and would probably have regarded them as one and the same if their boundary-line had not been somewhat deeply impressed upon her by the ungallant manner in which the Customs officials examined the contents of her modest little portmanteau in search, as Gillie gave her to understand, of tobacco.

Mrs Stoutley had particularly small feet, a circumstance which might have induced her, more than other ladies, to wear easy boots; but owing to some unaccountable perversity of mental constitution, she deemed this a good reason for having her boots made unusually tight. The removal of these, therefore, afforded great relief, and the administration of a cup of tea produced a cheering reaction of spirits, under the influence of which she partially forgot herself, and resolved to devote a few minutes to the instruction of her interestingly ignorant maid.

“Yes,” she said, arranging herself comfortably, and sipping her tea, while Susan busied herself putting away her lady’s “things,” and otherwise tidying the room, “it does not always rain here; there is a little sunshine sometimes. By the way, where is Miss Gray?”

“In the bedroom, ma’am, unpacking the trunks.”

“Ah, well, as I was saying, they have a little sunshine sometimes, for you know, Susan, people must live, and grass or grain cannot grow without sunshine, so it has been arranged that there should be enough here for these purposes, but no more than enough, because Switzerland has to maintain its character as one of the great refrigerators of Europe.”

“One of the what, ma’am?”

“Refrigerators,” explained Mrs Stoutley; “a refrigerator, Susan, is a freezer; and it is the special mission of Switzerland to freeze nearly all the water that falls on its mountains, and retain it there in the form of ice and snow until it is wanted for the use of man. Isn’t that a grand idea?”

The lecturer’s explanation had conveyed to Susan’s mind the idea of the Switzers going with long strings of carts to the top of Mont Blanc for supplies of ice to meet the European demand, and she admitted that it was a grand idea, and asked if the ice and snow lasted long into the summer.

“Long into it!” exclaimed her teacher. “Why, you foolish thing, its lasts all through it.”

“Oh indeed, ma’am!” said Susan, who entertained strong doubts in her heart as to the correctness of Mrs Stoutley’s information on this point.

“Yes,” continued that lady, with more animation than she had experienced for many months past, so invigorating was the change of moral atmosphere induced by this little breeze of instruction; “yes, the ice and snow cover the hills and higher valleys for dozens and dozens of miles round here in all directions, not a few inches deep, such as we sometimes see in England, but with thousands and millions of tons of it, so that the ice in the valleys is hundreds of feet thick, and never melts away altogether, but remains there from year to year—has been there, I suppose, since the world began, and will continue, I fancy, until the world comes to an end.”

Mrs Stoutley warmed up here, to such an extent that she absolutely flushed, and Susan, who had heretofore regarded her mistress merely as a weakish woman, now set her down, mentally, as a barefaced story-teller.

“Surely, ma’am,” she said, with diffidence, “ice and snow like that doesn’t fill all the valleys, else we should see it, and find it difficult to travel through ’em; shouldn’t we, ma’am?”

“Silly girl!” exclaimed her preceptress, “I did not say it filled all the valleys, but the higher valleys—valleys such as, in England and Scotland, would be clothed with pasturage and waving grain, and dotted with cattle and sheep and smiling cottages.”

Mrs Stoutley had by this time risen to a heroic frame, and spoke poetically, which accounts for her ascribing risible powers to cottages.

“And thus you see, Susan,” she continued, “Switzerland is, as it were, a great ice-tank, or a series of ice-tanks, in which the ice of ages is accumulated and saved up, so that the melting of a little of it—the mere dribbling of it, so to speak—is sufficient to cause the continuous flow of innumerable streams and of great rivers, such as the Rhone, and the Rhine, and the Var.”

The lecture received unexpected and appropriate illustration here by the sudden lifting of the mists, which had hitherto blotted out the landscape.

“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Emma, running in at the moment, “just look at the hills. How exquisite! How much grander than if we had seen them quite clear from the first!”

Emma was strictly correct, for it is well known that the grandeur of Alpine scenery is greatly enhanced by the wild and weird movements of the gauze-like drapery with which it is almost always partially enshrouded.

As the trio stood gazing in silent wonder and admiration from their window, which, they had been informed, commanded a view of the summit of Mont Blanc, the mist had risen like a curtain partially rolled up. All above the curtain-foot presented the dismal grey, to which they had been too long accustomed, but below, and, as it were, far behind this curtain, the mountain-world was seen rising upwards.

So close were they to the foot of the Great White Monarch, that it seemed to tower like a giant-wall before them; but this wall was varied and beautiful as well as grand. Already the curtain had risen high enough to disclose hoary cliffs and precipices, with steep grassy slopes between, and crowned with fringes of dark pines; which latter, although goodly trees, looked like mere shrubs in their vast setting. Rills were seen running like snowy veins among the slopes, and losing themselves in the masses of débris at the mountain-foot. As they gazed, the curtain rose higher, disclosing new and more rugged features, on which shone a strange, unearthly light—the result of shadow from the mist and sunshine behind it—while a gleam of stronger light tipped the curtain’s under-edge in one direction. Still higher it rose! Susan exclaimed that the mountain was rising into heaven; and Emma and Mrs Stoutley, whose reading had evidently failed to impress them with a just conception of mountain-scenery, stood with clasped hands in silent expectancy and admiration. The gleam of stronger light above referred to, widened, and Susan almost shrieked with ecstasy when the curtain seemed to rend, and the gleam resolved itself into the great Glacier des Bossons, which, rolling over the mountain-brow like a very world of ice, thrust its mighty tongue down into the valley.

From that moment Susan’s disbelief in her lady’s knowledge changed into faith, and deepened into profound veneration.

It was, however, only a slight glimpse that had been thus afforded of the ice-world by which they were surrounded. The great ice-fountain of those regions, commencing at the summit of Mont Blanc, flings its ample waves over mountain and vale in all directions, forming a throne on which perpetual winter reigns, and this glacier des Bossons, which filled the breasts of our travellers with such feelings of awe, was but one of the numerous rivers which flow from the fountain down the gorges and higher valleys of the Alps, until they reach those regions where summer heat asserts itself, and checks their further progress in the form of ice by melting them.

“Is it possible,” said Emma, as she gazed at the rugged and riven mass of solid ice before her, “that a glacier really flows?”

“So learned men tell us, and so we must believe,” said Mrs Stoutley.

“Flows, ma’am?” exclaimed Susan, in surprise.

“Yes, so it is said,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile.

“But we can see, ma’am, by lookin’ at it, that it don’t flow; can’t we, ma’am?” said Susan.

“True, Susan, it does not seem to move; nevertheless scientific men tell us that it does, and sometimes we are bound to believe against the evidence of our senses.”

Susan looked steadily at the glacier for some time; and then, although she modestly held her tongue, scientific men fell considerably in her esteem.

While the ladies were thus discussing the glacier and enlightening their maid, Lewis, Lawrence, and the Captain, taking advantage of the improved state of the weather, had gone out for a stroll, partly with a view, as Lewis said, to freshen up their appetites for dinner—although, to say truth, the appetites of all three were of such a nature as to require no freshening up. They walked smartly along the road which leads up the valley, pausing, ever and anon, to look back in admiration at the wonderful glimpses of scenery disclosed by the lifting mists. Gradually these cleared away altogether, and the mountain summits stood out well defined against the clear sky. And then, for the first time, came a feeling of disappointment.

“Why, Lawrence,” said Lewis, “didn’t they tell us that we could see the top of Mont Blanc from Chamouni?”

“They certainly did,” replied Lawrence, “but I can’t see it.”

“There are two or three splendid-looking peaks,” said Lewis, pointing up the valley, “but surely that’s not the direction of the top we look for.”

“No, my lad, it ain’t the right point o’ the compass by a long way,” said the Captain; “but yonder goes a strange sail a-head, let’s overhaul her.”

“Heave a-head then, Captain,” said Lewis, “and clap on stun’s’ls and sky-scrapers, for the strange sail is making for that cottage on the hill, and will get into port before we overhaul her if we don’t look sharp.”

The “strange sail” was a woman. She soon turned into the cottage referred to, but our travellers followed her up, arranging, as they drew near, that Lawrence, being the best French scholar of the three (the Captain knowing nothing whatever of the language), should address her.

She turned out to be a very comely young woman, the wife, as she explained, of one of the Chamouni guides, named Antoine Grennon. Her daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of six or so, was busy arranging a casket of flowers, and the grandmother of the family was engaged in that mysterious mallet-stone-scrubbing-brush-and-cold-water system, whereby the washerwomen of the Alps convert the linen of tourists into shreds and patches in the shortest possible space of time.

After some complimentary remarks, Lawrence asked if it were possible to see the summit of Mont Blanc from where they stood.

Certainly it was; the guide’s pretty wife could point it out and attempted to do so, but was for a long time unsuccessful, owing to the interference of preconceived notions—each of our travellers having set his heart upon beholding a majestic peak of rugged rock, mingled, perhaps, with ice-blocks and snow.

“Most extraordinary,” exclaimed the puzzled Captain, “I’ve squinted often enough at well-known peaks when on the look-out for landmarks from the sea, an’ never failed to make ’em out. Let me see,” he added, getting behind the woman so as to look straight along her outstretched arm, “no, I can’t see it. My eyes must be giving way.”

“Surely,” said Lawrence, “you don’t mean that little piece of smooth snow rising just behind the crest of yonder mountain like a bit of rounded sugar?”

“Oui, monsieur”—that was precisely what she meant; that was the summit of Mont Blanc.

And so, our three travellers—like many hundreds of travellers who had gone before them, and like many, doubtless, who shall follow—were grievously disappointed with their first view of Mont Blanc! They lived, however to change their minds, to discover that the village of Chamouni lies too close to the toe of the Great White Mountain to permit of his being seen to advantage. One may truly see a small scrap of the veritable top from Chamouni, but one cannot obtain an idea of what it is that he sees. As well might a beetle walk close up to the heel of a man, and attempt from that position to form a correct estimate of his size; as well might one plant himself two inches distant from a large painting and expect to do it justice! No, in order to understand Mont Blanc, to “realise” it, to appreciate it adequately, it requires that we should stand well back, and get up on one of the surrounding heights, and make the discovery that as we rise he rises, and looks vaster and more tremendous the further off we go and the higher up we rise, until, with foot planted on the crest of one of the neighbouring giants, we still look up, as well as down, and learn—with a feeling of deeper reverence, it may be, for the Maker of the “everlasting hills”—that the grand monarch with the hoary head does in reality tower supreme above them all.

Chapter Eight.

Introduces the Reader to Various Personages, and touches on Glaciers.

At this time our travellers, having only just been introduced to the mountain, had a great deal to hear and see before they understood him. They returned to the hotel with the feeling of disappointment still upon them, but with excellent appetites for dinner.

In the Salle à manger they met with a miscellaneous assortment of tourists. These, of whom there were above thirty, varied not only as to size and feature, but as to country and experience. There were veteran Alpine men—steady, quiet, bronzed-looking fellows, some of them—who looked as if they had often “attacked” and conquered the most dangerous summits, and meant to do so again. There were men, and women too, from England, America, Germany, France, and Russia. Some had been at Chamouni before, and wore the self-possessed air of knowledge; others had obviously never been there before, and were excited. Many were full of interest and expectation, a few, chiefly very young men, wore a blasé, half-pitiful, half-patronising air, as though to say, “that’s right, good people, amuse yourselves with your day-dreams while you may. We have tried a few weeks of this sort of thing, and have done a summit or two; in imagination we have also been up Mont Blanc and Monte Rosa, and the Matterhorn, and a few of the Hymalaya peaks, and most of the mountains in the moon, and several of the fixed stars, and—haw—are now rather boa–ord with it all than otherwise!” There were men who had done much and who said little, and men who had done little and who spoke much. There were “ice-men” who had a desire to impart their knowledge, and would-be ice-men who were glad to listen. Easy-going men and women there were, who flung the cares of life behind them, and “went in,” as they said, for enjoyment; and who, with abounding animal spirits, a dash of religious sentiment, much irrepressible humour and fun, were really pleasant objects to look at, and entertaining companions to travel with. Earnest men and women there were, too, who gathered plants and insects, and made pencil-sketches and water-colour drawings during their rambles among mountains and valleys, and not a few of whom chronicled faithfully their experiences from day to day. There was a Polish Count, a tall, handsome, middle-aged, care-worn, anxious-looking man, who came there, apparently in search of health, and who was cared for and taken care of by a dark-eyed little daughter. This daughter was so beautiful, that it ought to have made the Count well—so thought most of the young men—simply to look at her! There was a youthful British Lord, who had come to “do” Mont Blanc and a few other peaks. He was under charge of a young man of considerable experience in mountaineering, whose chief delight seemed to be the leading of his charge to well-known summits by any other and more difficult tracks than the obvious and right ones, insomuch that Lewis Stoutley, who had a tendency to imprudent remark, said in his hearing that he had heard of men who, in order to gain the roof of a house, preferred to go up by the waterspout rather than the staircase. There was an artist, whom Lewis—being, as already observed, given to insolence—styled the mad artist because he was enthusiastic in his art, galvanic in his actions, and had large, wild eyes, with long hair, and a broad-brimmed conical hat. Besides these, there was a Russian Professor, who had come there for purposes of scientific investigation, and a couple of German students, and a Scotch man of letters, whose aim was general observation, and several others, whose end was simply seeing the world.

In the arrangements of the table, Captain Wopper found himself between Emma Gray and the Polish Count, whose name was Horetzki. Directly opposite to him sat Mrs Stoutley, having her son Lewis on her right, and Dr Lawrence on her left. Beside the Count sat his lovely little daughter Nita, and just opposite to her was the mad artist. This arrangement was maintained throughout the sojourn of the various parties during their stay at Chamouni. They did, indeed, shift their position as regarded the table, according to the arrival or departure of travellers, but not in regard to each other.

Now it is an interesting, but by no means surprising fact, that Cupid planted himself in the midst of this party, and, with his fat little legs, in imminent danger of capsizing the dishes, began to draw his bow and let fly his arrows right and left. Being an airy sprite, though fat, and not at any time particularly visible, a careless observer might have missed seeing him; but to any one with moderate powers of observation, he was there, straddling across a dish of salad as plain as the salt-cellar before Captain Wopper’s nose. His deadly shafts, too, were visibly quivering in the breasts of Lewis Stoutley, George Lawrence, and the mad artist. Particularly obvious were these shafts in the case of the last, who was addicted to gazing somewhat presumptuously on “lovely woman” in general, from what he styled an artistic point of view—never from any other point of view; of course not.

Whether or not Cupid had discharged his artillery at the young ladies, we cannot say, for they betrayed no evidence of having been wounded. In their case, he must either have missed his aim, or driven his shafts home with such vigour, that they were buried out of sight altogether in their tender hearts. It is probable that not one member of that miscellaneous company gave a thought at that time to the wounded men, except the wounded men themselves, so absorbing is the love of food! The wounded were, however, sharp-set in all respects. They at once descried each other’s condition, and, instead of manifesting sympathy with each other, were, strange to say, filled with intense jealousy. This at least is true of the younger men. Lawrence, being somewhat older, was more secretive and self-possessed.

At first Captain Wopper, having declined a dish of cauliflower because it was presented alone, and having afterwards accepted a mutton chop alone, with feelings of poignant regret that he had let the cauliflower go by, was too busy to observe what the heathen-mythological youngster was doing. Indeed, at most times, the said youngster might have discharged a whole quiver of arrows into the Captain’s eyes without his being aware of the attack; but, at the present time, the Captain, as the reader is aware, was up to the eyes in a plot in which Cupid’s aid was necessary; he had, as it were, invoked the fat child’s presence. When, therefore, he had got over the regrets about the cauliflower, and had swallowed the mutton-chop, he began to look about him—to note the converse that passed between the young men, and the frequent glances they cast at the young women.

It was not the first time that the Captain had, so to speak, kept his weather-eye open in regard to the affection which he had made up his mind must now have been awakened in the breasts of George Lawrence and Emma Gray; but hitherto his hopes, although sanguine, had not received encouragement. Though polite and respectful to each other, they were by no means tender; altogether, they acted quite differently from what the Captain felt that he would have done in similar circumstances. A suspicion had even crossed the poor seaman’s mind that Emma was in love with her handsome and rattling cousin Lewis; but anxiety on this head was somewhat allayed by other and conflicting circumstances, such as occasional remarks by Lewis, to the effect that Emma was a goose, or a pert little monkey, or that she knew nothing beyond house-keeping and crochet, and similar compliments. Now, however, in a certain animated conversation between Lawrence and Emma, the designing seaman thought he saw the budding of his deep-laid plans, and fondly hoped ere long to behold the bud developed into the flower of matrimony. Under this conviction he secretly hugged himself, but in the salon, that evening, he opened his arms and released himself on beholding the apparently fickle Lawrence deeply engaged in converse with the Count Horetzki, to whose pretty daughter, however, he addressed the most of his remarks.

The Captain, being a blunt honest, straightforward man, could not understand this state of matters, and fell into a fit of abstracted perplexity on the sofa beside Mrs Stoutley, who listened listlessly to the Russian Professor as he attempted to explain to her and Emma the nature of a glacier.

“Well, I don’t understand it at all,” said Mrs Stoutley, at the end of one of the Professor’s most lucid expositions.

We may remark, in passing, that the Professor, like many of his countrymen, was a good linguist and spoke English well.

“Not understand it!” he exclaimed, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. “My dear madam, it is most plain, but I fear my want of good English does render me not quite intelligible.”

“Your English is excellent,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a smile, “but I fear that my brain is not a sufficiently clear one on such matters, for I confess that I cannot understand it. Can you, Captain Wopper?”

“Certainly not, ma’am,” answered the Captain, thinking of the fickle Lawrence; “it takes the wind out of my sails entirely.”

“Indeed!” said the Professor. “Well, do permit me to try again. You understand that all the mountain-tops and elevated plateaus, for many miles around here, are covered with ice and snow.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Captain, awaking to the fact that his answer was not relevant; “may I ax what is the particular pint that puzzles you, ma’am?”

Emma laughed aloud at this, and coughed a little to conceal the fact. She was rather easily taken by surprise with passing touches of the ludicrous, and had not yet acquired the habit of effectually suppressing little explosions of undertoned mirth.

“The thing that puzzles me,” said Mrs Stoutley, “is, that glaciers should flow, as I am told they do, and yet that they should be as hard and brittle as glass.”

“Ah, well, yes, just so, h’m!” said the Captain, looking very wise; “that is exactly the pint that I want to know myself; for no man who looks at the great tongue of that glacier day Bossung—”

“Des Bossons,” said the Professor, with a bland smile.

“Day Bossong,” repeated the Captain, “can deny that it is marked with all the lines, and waves, an eddies of a rollin’ river, an’ yet as little can they deny that it seems as hard-and-fast as the rock of Gibraltar.”

The Professor nodded approvingly.

“You are right, Captain Whipper—”

“Wopper,” said the Captain, with a grave nod.

“Wopper,” repeated the Professor, “the glacier des Bossons, like all the other glaciers, seems to remain immovable, though in reality it flows—ever flows—downward; but its motion is so slow, that it is not perceptible to the naked eye. Similarly, the hour-hand of a watch is to appearance motionless. Do you want proof? Mark it just now; look again in quarter of an hour, and you see that it has moved. You are convinced. It is so with the glacier. Mark him to-day, go back to-morrow—the mark has changed. Some glaciers flow at the rate of two and three feet in the twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, but how do they flow, being so brittle?” demanded Mrs Stoutley.

“Ay, that’s the pint, Professor,” said the Captain, nodding, “how do they flow, bein’ made of hard and brittle ice?”

“Why, by rolling higgledy-piggledy over itself of course,” said Lewis, flippantly, as he came up and sat down on the end of the sofa, being out of humour with himself and everybody in consequence of having utterly failed to gain the attention of Nita Horetzki, although he had made unusually earnest efforts to join in conversation with her father. Owing to somewhat similar feelings, the artist had flung himself into a chair, and sat glaring at the black fireplace with a degree of concentration that ought to have lighted the firewood therein.

“The cause of a glacier flowing,” said the Professor, “has long been a disputed point. Some men of science have held that it is the pressure of ice and snow behind it which causes it to flow. They do not think that it flows like water, but say it is forced from behind, and crushed through gorges and down valleys, as it were, unwillingly. They say that, if left alone, as they now are, without additions, from this time forward, glaciers would no longer move; they would rest, and slowly melt away; that their motion is due to the fact that there are miles and miles of snow-fields, thousands of feet deep, on the mountain-tops and in the gorges, to which fresh snows are added every winter, so that the weight of what is behind, slipping off the slopes and falling from the cliffs, crushes down and forward that which is below; thus glaciers cannot choose but advance.”

“Ay, ay,” said the Captain, “no doubt no doubt that may be so; but why is it that, bein’ as brittle as glass, a glacier don’t come rumblin’ and clatterin’ down the valleys in small hard bits, like ten thousand millions of smashed-up chandeliers?”

“Ay, there’s the rub,” exclaimed Lewis; “what say you to that?”

“Ha!” exclaimed the Professor, again smiling blandly, “there you have touched what once was, and, to some philosophers it seems, still is, the great difficulty. By some great men it has been held that glacier ice is always in a partially soft, viscid, or semi-fluid condition, somewhat like pitch, so that, although apparently a solid, brittle, and rigid body, it flows sluggishly in reality. Other philosophers have denied this theory, insisting that the ice of glaciers is not like pitch, but like glass, and that it cannot be squeezed without being broken, nor drawn without being cracked. These philosophers have discovered that when ice is subjected to great pressure it melts, and that, when the pressure is removed, the part so melted immediately freezes again—hence the name regelation, or re-freezing, is given to the process. Thus a glacier, they say, is in many places being continually melted and continually and instantaneously re-frozen, so that it is made to pass through narrow gorges, and to open out again when the enormous pressure has been removed. But this theory of regelation, although unquestionably true, and although it exercises some influence on glacier motion, does not, in my opinion, alone account for it. The opinion which seems to be most in favour among learned men—and that which I myself hold firmly—is, the theory of the Scottish Professor Forbes, namely, that a glacier is a semi-fluid body, it is largely impregnated throughout its extent with water, its particles move round and past each other—in other words, it flows in precisely the same manner as water, the only difference being that it is not quite so fluid; it is sluggish in its flow, but it certainly models itself to the ground over which it is forced by its own gravity, and it is only rent or broken into fragments when it is compelled to turn sharp angles, or to pass over steep convex slopes. Forbes, by his careful measurements and investigations, proved incontestably that in some glaciers the central portion travelled down its valley at double or treble the rate of its sides, without the continuity of the mass being broken. In small masses, indeed, glacier-ice is to all appearance rigid, but on a large scale it is unquestionably ductile.”

“Has the theory of regelation been put to the proof?” asked Lewis, with a degree of interest in glaciers which he had never before felt.

“It has,” answered the Professor. “An experimentalist once cut a bar of solid ice, like to a bar of soap in form and size, from a glacier. To this an iron weight of several pounds was suspended by means of a very fine wire, which was tied round the bar. The pressure of the wire melted the ice under it; as the water escaped it instantly re-froze above the wire; thus the wire went on cutting its way through the bar, and the water went on freezing, until at last the weight fell to the ground, and left the bar as solid and entire as if it had never been cut.”

“Well, now,” said Captain Wopper, bringing his hand down on his thigh with a slap that did more to arouse Mrs Stoutley out of her languor than the Professor’s lecture on glacier ice, “I’ve sailed round the world, I have, an’ seen many a strange sight, and what I’ve got to say is that I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You shall see it soon then, I hope,” said the Professor, more blandly than ever, “for I intend to verify this experiment along with several others. I go to the Mer de Glace, perhaps as far as the Jardin, to-morrow. Will you come?”

“What may the Jardang be?” asked the Captain.

“Hallo! monkey, what’s wrong?” said Lewis to Emma, referring to one of the undertoned safety-valves before mentioned.

“Nothing,” replied Emma, pursing her little lips till they resembled a cherry.

“The Jardin, or garden,” said the Professor, “is a little spot of exquisite beauty in the midst of the glaciers, where a knoll of green grass and flowers peeps up in the surrounding sterility. It is one of the regular excursions from Chamouni.”

“Can ladies go?” asked Lewis.

“Young and active ladies can,” said the Professor, with his blandest possible smile, as he bowed to Emma.

“Then, we’ll all go together,” cried Lewis, with energy.

“Not all,” said Mrs Stoutley, with a sigh, “I am neither young nor active.”

“Nonsense, mother, you’re quite young yet, you know, and as active as a kitten when you’ve a mind to be. Come, we’ll have a couple of porters and a chair to have you carried when you knock up.”

Notwithstanding the glowing prospects of ease and felicity thus opened up to her, Mrs Stoutley resolutely refused to go on this excursion, but she generously allowed Emma to go if so disposed. Emma, being disposed, it was finally arranged that, on the following day, she, the Captain, Lewis, and Lawrence, with Gillie White as her page, should proceed up the sides of Mont Blanc with the man of science, and over the Mer de Glace to the Jardin.

Chapter Nine.

A Solid Stream.

There is a river of ice in Switzerland, which, taking its rise on the hoary summit of Mont Blanc, flows through a sinuous mountain-channel, and terminates its grand career by liquefaction in the vale of Chamouni. A mighty river it is in all respects, and a wonderful one—full of interest and mystery and apparent contradiction. It has a grand volume and sweep, varying from one to four miles in width, and is about twelve miles long, with a depth of many hundreds of feet. It is motionless to the eye, yet it descends into the plain continually. It is hard and unyielding in its nature, yet it flows as really and steadily, if not with as lithe a motion, as a liquid river. It is not a half solid mass like mud, which might roll slowly down an incline; it is solid, clear, transparent, brittle ice, which refuses to bend, and cracks sharply under a strain; nevertheless, it has its waves and rapids, cross-currents, eddies, and cascades, which, seen from a moderate distance, display all the grace and beauty of flowing water—as if a grand river in all its varied parts, calm and turbulent, had been actually and suddenly arrested in its course and frozen to the bottom.

It is being melted perpetually too. The fierce sun of summer sends millions of tiny streamlets down into its interior, which collect, augment, cut channels for themselves through the ice, and finally gush into the plain from its lower end in the form of a muddy river. Even in winter this process goes on, yet the ice-river never melts entirely away, but holds on its cold, stately, solemn course from year to year—has done so for unknown ages, and will probably do so to the end of time. It is picturesque in its surroundings, majestic in its motion, tremendous in its action, awful in its sterility, and, altogether, one of the most impressive and sublime works of God.

This gigantic glacier, or stream of ice, springing, as it does, from the giant-mountain of Europe, is appropriately hemmed in, and its mighty force restrained, by a group of Titans, whose sharp aiguilles, or needle-like peaks, shoot upward to a height little short of their rounded and white-headed superior, and from whose wild gorges and riven sides tributary ice-rivers flow, and avalanches thunder incessantly. Leaving its cradle on the top of Mont Blanc, the great river sweeps round the Aiguille du Géant; and, after receiving its first name of Glacier du Géant from that mighty obelisk of rock, which rises 13,156 feet above the sea, it passes onward to welcome two grand tributaries, the Glacier de Léchaud, from the rugged heights of the Grandes Jorasses, and the Glacier du Talèfre from the breast of the Aiguille du Talèfre and the surrounding heights. Thus augmented, the river is named the Mer de Glace, or sea of ice, and continues its downward course; but here it encounters what may be styled “the narrows,” between the crags at the base of the Aiguille Charmoz and Aiguille du Moine, through which it steadily forces its way, though compressed to much less than half its width by the process. In one place the Glacier du Géant is above eleven hundred yards wide; that of the Léchaud is above eight hundred; that of Talèfre above six hundred—the total, when joined, two thousand five hundred yards; and this enormous mass of solid ice is forced through a narrow neck of the valley, which is, in round numbers, only nine hundred yards wide! Of course the ice-river must gain in depth what it loses in breadth in this gorge, through which it travels at the rate of twenty inches a day. Thereafter, it tumbles ruggedly to its termination in the vale of Chamouni, under the name of the Glacier des Bois.

The explanation of the causes of the rise and flow of this ice-river we will leave to the genial and enthusiastic Professor, who glories in dilating on such matters to Captain Wopper, who never tires of the dilations.

Huge, however, though this glacier of the Mer de Glace be, it is only one of a series of similar glaciers which constitute the outlets to that vast reservoir of ice formed by the wide range of Mont Blanc, where the snows of successive winters are stored, packed, solidified, and rendered, as it were, self-regulating in their supplies of water to the plains. And the Mont Blanc range itself is but a portion of the great glacial world of Switzerland, the area occupied by which is computed at 900 square miles. Two-thirds of these send their waters to the sea through the channel of the Rhine. The most extensive of these glaciers is the Aletsch glacier, which is fifteen miles in length. It is said that above six hundred distinct glaciers have been reckoned in Switzerland.

This, good reader, is but a brief reference to the wonders of the glacial world. It is but a scratching of the surface. There is a very mine of interesting, curious, and astonishing facts below the surface. Nature is prodigal of her information to those who question her closely, correctly, and perseveringly. Even to those who observe her carelessly, she is not altogether dumb. She is generous; and the God of Nature has caused it to be written for our instruction that, “His works are wonderful, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein.”

We may not, however, prolong our remarks on the subject of ice-rivers at this time. Our travellers at Chamouni are getting ready to start, and it is our duty at present to follow them.

Chapter Ten.

The First Excursion.

“A Splendid morning!” exclaimed Dr George Lawrence, as he entered the Salle à manger with an obviously new alpenstock in his hand.

“Jolly!” replied Lewis Stoutley, who was stooping at the moment to button one of his gaiters.

Lewis was addicted to slang, not by any means an uncommon characteristic of youth!

“The man,” he said, with some bitterness, “who invented big buttons and little button-holes should have had his nose skewered with a button-hook. He was an ass!”

In order to relieve his feelings and accomplish his ends, Lewis summarily enlarged the holes with his penknife.

“And round buttons, too,” he said, indignantly; “what on earth was the use of making round buttons when flat ones had been invented? A big hole and a flat button will hold against anything—even against Scotch whins and heather. There, now, that abominable job is done.”

“You are fond of strong language, Lewie,” said Lawrence, as he examined the spike at the end of his alpenstock.

“I am. It relieves my feelings.”

“But don’t you think it weakens your influence on occasions when nothing but strong language will serve? You rob yourself of the power, you know, to increase the force of it.”

“Oh bother! don’t moralise, man, but let’s have your opinion of the weather, which is an all-important subject just now.”

“I have already given my opinion as to that,” said Lawrence, “but here comes one who will give us an opinion of value.—He is in capital time.”

“Good morning, Antoine.”

Their guide for the day, Antoine Grennon, a fine stalwart specimen of his class, returned the salutation, and added that it was a very fine morning.

“Capital, isn’t it?” cried Lewis, cheerfully, for he had got over the irritation caused by the buttons. “Couldn’t be better; could it?”

The guide did not admit that the weather could not be better.

“You look doubtful, Antoine,” said Lawrence. “Don’t you think the day will keep up?”

“Keep up!” exclaimed Lewis; “why, the sky is perfectly clear. Of course it will. I never saw a finer day, even in England. Why do you doubt it, Antoine?”

The guide pointed to a small cloud that hung over the brow of one of the higher peaks.

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful in this country,” he said. “I don’t doubt the fineness of the day at present, but—”

He was interrupted here by the sudden and noisy entrance of Captain Wopper and the Professor, followed by the mad artist, whose name, by the way, was Slingsby.

“No, no,” said the Captain to the Professor, with whom he had already become very intimate, “it won’t do to part company. If the Jardang is too far for the ladies, we will steer for the Mairdyglass, an’ cross over to the what’s-’is-name—”

“Chapeau,” said the Professor.

“Ah! the shappo,” continued the Captain, “and so down by the glacier dez boys—”

“The what?” asked Lewis, with a half-suppressed smile.

“The glacier dez boys, youngster,” repeated the Captain, stoutly.

“Oh, I see; you mean the Glacier des Bois?” said Lewis, suppressing the smile no longer.

“What I mean, young man,” said the Captain, sternly, “is best known to myself. You and other College-bred coxcombs may call it day bwa, if you like, but I have overhauled the chart, and there it’s spelt d-e-s, which sounds dez, and b-o-i-s, which seafarin’ men pronounce boys, so don’t go for to cross my hawse again, but rather join me in tryin’ to indooce the Professor to putt off his trip to the Jardang, an’ sail in company with us for the day.”

“I will join you heartily in that,” said Lewis, turning to the man of science, who stood regarding the Captain with an amiable smile, as a huge Newfoundland dog might regard a large mastiff; “but why is our proposed excursion to the Jardin to be altered?”

“Because,” said the Professor, “your amiable sister—I beg pardon, cousin—with that irresistible power of suasion which seems inherent in her nature, has prevailed on Mademoiselle Horetzki to join the party, and Mademoiselle is too delicate—sylph-like—to endure the fatigues of so long an excursion over the ice. Our worthy guide suggests that it would afford more pleasure to the ladies—and of course, therefore, to the gentlemen—if you were to make your first expedition only to the Montanvert which is but a two hours’ climb from Chamouni, picnic there, cross the Mer de Glace, which is narrow at that point, and descend again to Chamouni by the side of the Glacier des Bois, where you can behold the great moraines, and also the source of the river Arveiron. This would be a pleasant and not too fatiguing round, and I, who might perhaps be an encumbrance to you, will prosecute my inquiries at the Jardin alone.”

“Impossible,” exclaimed Lewis, “the Captain is right when he observes that we must not part company. As my mother says, we are a giddy crew, and will be the better of a little scientific ballast to keep us from capsizing into a crevasse. Do come, my dear sir, if it were only out of charity, to keep us in order.”

To this entreaty Lawrence and the artist added their persuasions, which were further backed by the eloquence of Emma Gray and Nita Horetzki, who entered at the moment radiant with the flush of life’s dawning day, and irresistible in picturesque mountain attire, the chief characteristics of which consisted in an extensive looping up of drapery, and an ostentatious display of those staffs called alpenstocks, five feet long, tipped with chamois horn, which are an indispensable requisite in Alpine work.

“Oh! you muss go,” said Nita, in silvery tones and disjointed English. “If you go not, monsieur, I go not!”

“That of course decides the question, Mademoiselle,” said the gallant Professor, with one of his blandest smiles, “I shall accompany you with pleasure. But I have one little request to make. My time at Chamouni is short; will you permit me, on arriving at the Mer de Glace, to prosecute my inquiries? I am here to ask questions of Nature, and must do so with perseverance and patience. Will you allow me to devote more of my attention to her than to yourself?”

“H’m! well—what you say, Mademoiselle Gray?” demanded Nita, with an arch look at her companion. “Is the Professor’s request reasonable?”

To this Emma replied that as Nature was, upon the whole, a more important lady than either of them, she thought it was reasonable; whereupon the Professor agreed to postpone his visit to the Jardin, and devote his day to fixing stakes and making observations on the Mer de Glace, with a view to ascertaining the diurnal rate of speed at which the glacier flowed.

“You spoke of putting certain questions to Nature, Professor,” said Lawrence, when the party were slowly toiling up the mountain-side. “Have they not already been put to her, and satisfactorily answered some time ago?”

“They have been put,” replied the Professor, “by such learned men as Saussure, Agassiz, Rendu, Charpentier, and by your own countryman Forbes, and others, and undoubtedly their questions have received distinct answers, insomuch that our knowledge of the nature and action of glacial ice is now very considerable. But, my dear sir, learned men have not been agreed as to what Nature’s replies mean, nor have they exhausted the subject; besides, no true man of science is quite satisfied with merely hearing the reports of others, he is not content until he has met and conversed with Nature face to face. I wish, therefore, to have a personal interview with her in these Alps, or rather,” continued the Professor, in a more earnest tone, “I do wish to see the works of my Maker with my own eyes, and to hear His voice with the ears of my own understanding.”

“Your object, then, is to verify, not to discover?” said Lawrence.

“It is both. Primarily to verify; but the man of science always goes forth with the happy consciousness that the mine in which he proposes to dig is rich in gems, and that, while seeking for one sort, he may light upon another unexpectedly.”

“When Captain Wopper turned up yonder gem, he lit on one which, if not of the purest water, is unquestionably a brilliant specimen of the class to which it belongs,” said Lewis, coming up at that moment, and pointing to a projection in the somewhat steep part of the path up which they were winding.

The gem referred to was no other than our friend Gillie White. That hilarious youth, although regenerated outwardly as regards blue cloth and buttons, had not by any means changed his spirit since fortune began to smile on him. Finding that his mistress, being engaged with her dark-eyed friend, did not require his services, and observing that his patron, Captain Wopper, held intercourse with the guide—in broken English, because he, the guide, also spoke broken English—that Lawrence and the Professor seemed capable of entertaining each other, that Lewis and the artist, although dreadfully jealous of each other, were fain to hold social intercourse, the ladies being inseparable, and that he, Gillie, was therefore left to entertain himself he set about amusing himself to the best of his power by keeping well in rear of the party and scrambling up dangerous precipices, throwing stones at little birds, charging shrubs and stabbing the earth with Emma’s alpenstock, immolating snails, rolling rocks down precipitous parts of the hill, and otherwise exhibiting a tendency to sport with Nature—all of which he did to music whistled by himself, and in happy forgetfulness of everything save the business in hand. He was engaged in some apparently difficult piece of fancy work, involving large boulders, when Lewis drew attention to him.

“What can the imp be up to?” he said.

“Most likely worrying some poor reptile to death,” said the artist, removing his conical wideawake and fanning himself therewith. (Mr Slingsby was very warm, his slender frame not being equal to his indomitable spirit.)

“I think he is trying to break your alpenstock, Emma,” observed Lewis.

There seemed to be truth in this, for Gillie, having fixed the staff as a lever, was pulling at it with all his might. The projection of rock on which he stood, and which overhung the zigzag road, was partially concealed by bushes, so that the precise intention of his efforts could not be discovered.

At that moment Antoine, the guide, turned to see what detained the party, and instantly uttered a loud shout of alarm as he ran back to them.

The warning or remonstrance came too late. Gillie had loosened an enormous rock which had been on the point of falling, and with a throb of exultation, which found vent in a suppressed squeal, he hurled a mass, something about the size and weight of a cart of coals, down the precipice.

But the current of Gillie’s feelings was rudely changed when a shriek from the ladies, and something between a roar and a yell from the gentlemen, told that they had observed a man with a mule, who, in ascending from the valley, had reached a spot which lay in the direct line of the miniature avalanche; and when the muleteer, also observing the missile, added a hideous howl to the chorus, the poor urchin shrank back appalled. The rock struck the track directly behind the mule with a force which, had it been expended only six inches more to the right, would have driven that creature’s hind legs into the earth as if they had been tenpenny nails; it then bounded clear over the next turning of the track, crashed madly through several bushes, overturned five or six trees, knocked into atoms a sister rock which had taken the same leap some ages before, and finally, leaving behind it a grand tail of dust and débris, rolled to its rest upon the plain.

At the first symptom of the danger, Captain Wopper had rushed towards the culprit.

“Rascal!” he growled between his teeth, as he seized Gillie by the nape of the neck, lifted him almost off his legs, and shook him, “d’ee see what you’ve done?”

He thrust the urchin partially over the precipice, and pointed to the man and the mule.

“Please, I haven’t done it,” pleaded Gillie.

“But you did your best to—you—you small—there!”

He finished off the sentence with an open-handed whack that aroused the echoes of Mont Blanc, and cast the culprit adrift.

“Now, look ’ee, lad,” said the Captain, with impressive solemnity, “if you ever go to chuck stones like that over the precipices of this here mountain again, I’ll chuck you over after ’em. D’ee hear?”

“Yes, Cappen,” grumbled Gillie, rubbing himself, “but if you do, it’s murder. No jury of Englishmen would think of recommendin’ you to mercy in the succumstances. You’d be sure to swing—an’ I—I could wish you a better fate.”

The Captain did not wait to hear the boy’s good wishes, but hastened to rejoin his friends, while Gillie followed in rear, commenting audibly on the recent incident.

“Well, well,” he said, thrusting both hands deep into bush trouser-pockets, according to custom when in a moralising frame of mind, “who’d a thought it, Gillie White, that you’d ’ave bin brought all the way from London to the Halps to make such a close shave o’ committin’ man-slaughter to say nothin’ of mule-slaughter, and to git whacked by your best friend? Oh! Cappen, Cappen, I couldn’t ’ave believed it of you if I ’adn’t felt it. But, I say, Gillie, wasn’t it a big ’un? Ha! ha! The Cappen threatened to chuck me over the precipice, but I’ve chucked over a wopper that beats him all to sticks. Hallo! I say that’s worthy of Punch. P’r’aps I’ll be a contributor to it w’en I gets back from Zwizzerland, if I ever does get back, vich is by no means certain. Susan, my girl, I’ll ’ave summat to enliven you with this evenin’.”

We need scarcely say that this last remark had reference to Mrs Stoutley’s maid, with whom the boy had become a great favourite. Indeed the regard was mutual, though there was this difference about it, that Susan, being two years older than Gillie, and tall as well as womanly for her age, looked upon the boy as a precocious little oddity, whereas Gillie, esteeming himself a man—“all but”—regarded Susan with the powerful feelings of a first affection.

From this, and what has been already said, it will be apparent to our fair readers that Cupid had accompanied Mrs Stoutley’s party to Chamouni, with the intention apparently of amusing himself as well as interfering with Captain Wopper’s matrimonial designs.

The road to the Montanvert is a broad and easy bridle-path, which, after leaving the valley, traverses a pine-forest in its ascent and becomes in places somewhat steep. Here and there a zigzag is found necessary, and in several places there are tracks of avalanches. About half-way up there is a spring named the Caillet which was shaded by trees in days of yore, but the avalanches have swept these away. Beside the spring of pure water there was a spring of “fire-water,” in a hut where so-called “refreshments” might also be obtained. As none of our party deemed it necessary to stimulate powers, which, at that time of the day, were fresh and vigorous, they passed this point of temptation without halting.

Other temptations, however, were not so easily resisted. The Professor was stopped by rocky stratifications, the ladies were stopped by flowers and views, the younger gentlemen were of course stopped by the ladies, and the mad artist was stopped by everything. Poor Mr Slingsby, who had been asked to join the party, in virtue of his being a friend of the Count, and, therefore, of Nita, was so torn by the conflict resulting from his desire to cultivate Nita, and cut out Lewis and Lawrence, and his desire to prosecute his beloved art, that he became madder than usual. “Splendid foregrounds” met him at every turn; “lovely middle-distances” chained him in everywhere; “enchanting backgrounds” beset him on all sides; gorgeous colours dazzled him above and below; and Nita’s black eyes pierced him continually through and through. It was terrible! He was constantly getting into positions of danger—going out on ledges to obtain particular views, rolling his large eyes, pulling off his hat and tossing back his long hair, so as to drink in more thoroughly the beauties around him, and clambering up precipices to fetch down bunches of wild flowers when Nita chanced to express the most distant allusion to, or admiration of, them.

“He will leave his bones in one crevasse!” growled Antoine, on seeing him rush to a point of vantage, and, for the fiftieth time, squat down to make a rapid sketch of some “exquisite bit” that had taken his fancy.

“’Tis of no use,” he said, on returning to his friends, “I cannot sketch. The beauties around me are too much for me.”

He glanced timidly at Nita, who looked at him boldly, laughed, and advised him to shut his eyes, so as not to be distracted with such beauties.

“Impossible; I cannot choose but look. See,” he said, pointing backward to their track, “see what a lovely effect of tender blue and yellow through yonder opening—”

“D’you mean Gillie?” asked Lewis, with a quiet grin, as that reckless youth suddenly presented his blue coat and yellow buttons in the very opening referred to.

The laugh called forth by this was checked by the voice of Captain Wopper, who was far in advance shouting to them to come on.

A few minutes more, and the whole party stood on the Montanvert beside the small inn which has been erected there for the use of summer tourists, and from which point the great glacier broke for the first time in all its grandeur, on their view.

Well might Emma and Nita stand entranced for some time, unable to find utterance to their feelings, save in the one word—wonderful! Even Slingsby’s mercurial spirit was awed into silence, for, straight before them, the white and frozen billows of the Mer de Glace stretched for miles away up into the gorges of the giant hills until lost in and mingled with the clouds of heaven.

Chapter Eleven.

The Pursuit of Science under Difficulties.

After the first burst of enthusiasm and interest had abated, the attention of the party became engrossed in the proceedings of the Professor, who, with his assistants, began at once to adjust his theodolite, and fix stakes in the ice. While he was thus engaged, Captain Wopper regarded the Mer de Glace with a gaze of fixedness so intense as to draw on him the attention and arouse the curiosity of his friends.

“D’you see anything curious, Captain?” asked Emma, who chanced to stand beside him.

“Coorious—eh?” repeated the Captain slowly, without altering his gaze or adding to his reply.

“Monsieur le Capitaine is lost in consternation,” said Nita, with a smile.

“I think, Miss Horetzki,” said Lewis, “that you probably mean admiration.”

“How you knows w’at I mean?” demanded Nita, quickly.

“Ha! a very proper and pertinent question,” observed Slingsby, in an audible though under tone.

“I nevair do put pertinent questions, sir,” said Nita, turning her black eyes sharply, though with something of a twinkle in them, on the mad artist.

Poor Slingsby began to explain, but Nita cut him short by turning to Lewis and again demanding, “How you knows w’at I mean?”

“The uniform propriety of your thoughts, Mademoiselle,” replied Lewis, with a continental bow, and an air of pretended respect, “induces me to suppose that your words misinterpret them.”

Nita’s knowledge of English was such that this remark gave her only a hazy idea of the youth’s meaning; she accepted it, however, as an apologetic explanation, and ordered him to awaken the Captain and find out from him what it was that so riveted his attention.

“You hear my orders,” said Lewis, laying his hand with a slap on the Captain’s shoulder. “What are you staring at?”

“Move!” murmured the Captain, returning as it were to consciousness with a long deep sigh, “it don’t move an inch.”

“What does not move?” said Lawrence, who had been assisting to adjust the theodolite, and came forward at the moment.

“The ice, to be sure,” answered the Captain. “I say, Professor, do ’ee mean to tell me that the whole of that there Mairdy-glass is movin’?”

“I do,” answered the Professor, pausing for a minute in his arrangements, and looking over his spectacles at the Captain with an amused expression.

“Then,” returned the Captain, with emphasis, “I think you’ll find that you’re mistaken.”

“Ha! Captain Weeper—”

“Wopper,” said the Captain.

“Wopper,” repeated the Professor, “you are not the first who has expressed disbelief in what he cannot see, and you will assuredly not be the last; but if you will wait I will convince you.”

“Very good,” replied the Captain, “I’m open to conviction.”

“Which means,” said Lewis, “that you have nailed your colours to the mast, and mean to die rather than give in.”

“No doubt,” said the Captain, paying no attention to the last remark, “I see, and believe, that at some time or other the ice here must have been in a flowin’ state. I’m too well aware o’ the shape of waves an’ eddies, cross-currents and ripples, to doubt or deny that but any man with half an eye can see that it’s anchored hard and fast now. I’ve looked at it without flinchin’ for good ten minutes, and not the smallest sign of motion can I detect.”

“So might you say of the hour-hand of a watch,” observed Lawrence.

“Not at all,” retorted the Captain, becoming argumentative. “I look at the hour-hand of a watch for ten minutes and don’t see it move, but I do see that it has in reality passed over a very small but appreciable space in that time.”

“Just so,” said the Professor, “I will ere long show you the same thing in regard to the ice.”

“I’ll bet you ten thousand pounds you don’t,” returned the Captain, with an assured nod.

“Colours nailed!” said Lewis; “but I say, Captain,” he added, remonstratively, “I thought you were a sworn enemy to gambling. Isn’t betting gambling?”

“It is, young man,” answered the Captain, “but I always bet ten thousand pounds sterling, which I never mean to pay if I lose, nor to accept if I win—and that is not gambling. Put that in your pipe and smoke it; and if you’ll take my advice, you’ll go look after your friend Slingsby, who is gambolling up yonder in another fashion that will soon bring him to grief if he’s not stopped.”

All eyes were turned towards the mad artist, who, finding that his advances to Mademoiselle Nita were not well received, had for the time forsaken her, and returned to his first (and professional) love. In wooing her, he had clambered to an almost inaccessible cliff from which he hoped to obtain a very sketchable view of the Mer de Glace, and, when Captain Wopper drew attention to him, was making frantic efforts to swing himself by the branch of a tree to a projecting rock, which was so slightly attached to its parent cliff that his weight would in all probability have hurled it and himself down the precipice.

The remonstrative shouts of his friends, however, induced him to desist, and he sat down to work in a less perilous position.

Meanwhile the Professor, having completed his preliminary preparations, ordered his assistants to go and “fix the stakes in the ice.”

It had been arranged that while the scientific experiments were in progress, the young ladies should ramble about the neighbourhood in search of flowers and plants, under the care of Lewis, until two o’clock, at which hour all were to assemble at the Montanvert hotel for luncheon, Captain Wopper and Lawrence resolving to remain and assist, or at least observe, the Professor. The former, indeed, bearing in mind his great and ruling wish even in the midst of scientific doubt and inquiries, had suggested that the latter should also accompany the ladies, the country being somewhat rugged, and the ladies—especially Miss Emma—not being very sure-footed; but Lawrence, to his disappointment, had declined, saying that the ladies had a sufficient protector in the gallant Lewis, and that Miss Emma was unquestionably the surest-footed of the whole party.

Lawrence therefore remained, and, at the Professor’s request, accompanied the party who were to fix the stakes on the ice.

As this operation was attended with considerable difficulty and some danger, we will describe the process.

Finding that the spot which he had first chosen for his observations was not a very good one, the Professor changed his position to a point farther down on the steep sloping rocks that form the left bank of the Glacier des Bois. Here the theodolite was fixed. This instrument as even our young readers may probably know, is a small telescope attached to a stand with three long legs, and having spirit-levels, by means of which it can be fixed in a position, if we may say so, of exact flatness with reference to the centre of the earth. Within the telescope are two crossed hairs of a spider’s-web, so fine as to be scarcely visible to the naked eye, and so arranged that their crossing-point is exactly in the centre of the tube. By means of pivots and screws the telescope can be moved up or down, right or left, without in the smallest degree altering the flatness or position of its stand. On looking through the telescope the delicate threads can be distinctly seen, and the point where they cross can be brought to bear on any distant object.

Having fixed the instrument on the rocks quite clear of the ice, the Professor determined the direction of a supposed line perpendicular to the axis of the glacier. He then sought for a conspicuous and well-defined object on the opposite side of the valley, as near as possible to that direction. In this he was greatly helped by Captain Wopper, who, having been long accustomed to look-out with precision at sea, found it not very difficult to apply his powers on land.

“There’s a good land-mark, Professor,” he said, pointing towards a sharply-cut rock, “as like the Dook of Wellington’s nose as two peas.”

“I see it,” said the Professor, whose solid and masculine countenance was just the smallest possible degree flushed by the strong under-current of enthusiasm with which he prosecuted his experiments.

“You couldn’t have a better object than the pint o’ that,” observed the Captain, whose enthusiasm was quite as great as, and his excitement much greater than, that of the Professor.

Having carefully directed the telescope to the extreme point of the “Dook’s” nose, the Professor now ordered one of his assistants to go on the glacier with a stake. Lawrence descended with him, and thus planted his foot on glacier-ice for the first time, as Lewis afterwards remarked, in the pursuit scientific knowledge.

While they were clambering slowly down among the loose boulders and débris which had been left by the glacier in previous years, the Professor carefully sketched the Duke of Wellington’s nose with the rocks, etcetera, immediately around it, in his notebook, so that it might be easily recognised again on returning to the spot on a future day.

The assistant who had been sent out with the first stake proved to be rather stupid, so that it was fortunate he had been accompanied by Lawrence, and by the guide, Antoine Grennon, who stirred up his perceptions. By rough signalling he was made to stand near the place where the first stake was to be driven in. The telescope was then lowered, and the man was made, by signals, to move about and plant his stake here and there in an upright position until the point of intersection of the spider’s threads fell exactly on the bottom of the stake. A pre-arranged signal was then made, and at that point an auger hole was bored deep into the ice and the stake driven home.

“So much for number one,” said Captain Wopper, with a look of satisfaction.

“They won’t fix the other ones so easily,” observed the Professor, re-examining the stake through the telescope with great care.

He was right in this. The first stake had been planted not far from the shore, but now Lawrence and his party had to proceed in a straight line over the glacier, which, at this steep portion of its descent into the Vale of Chamouni, was rent, dislocated, and tortured, to such an extent that it was covered with huge blocks and pinnacles of ice, and seamed with yawning crevasses. To clamber over some of the ice-ridges was almost impossible, and, in order to avoid pinnacles and crevasses, which were quite impassable, frequent détours had to be made. If the object of the ice-party had merely been to cross the glacier, the difficulties would not have been great; but the necessity of always returning to the straight line pointed out by the inexorable theodolite, led them into positions of considerable difficulty. To the inexperienced Lawrence they also appeared to be positions of great danger, much to the amusement of Antoine, who, accustomed as he was to the fearful ice-slopes and abysses of the higher regions, looked upon this work as mere child’s play.

“You’ll come to have a different notion of crevasses, sir,” he said, with a quiet smile, “after you’ve bin among the seracs of the Grand Mulet, and up some of the couloirs of Monte Rosa.”

“I doubt it not, Antoine,” said Lawrence, gazing with feelings of awe into a terrible split in the ice, whose beautiful light-blue sides deepened into intense blackness as they were lost to vision in an abyss, out of which arose the deep-toned gurgling of sub-glacial streams; “but you must not forget that this is quite new to me, and my feet are not yet aware of the precise grip with which they must hold on to so slippery a foundation.”

It was in truth no discredit to Lawrence that he felt a tendency to shrink from edges of chasms which appeared ready to break off, or walked with caution on ice-slopes which led to unfathomable holes, for the said slopes, although not steep, were undoubtedly slippery.

After much clambering, a ridge was at length gained, on which the second stake was set up, and then the party proceeded onwards to fix the third; but now the difficulties proved to be greater than before. A huge block of ice was fixed upon as that which would suit their purpose, but it stood like a peninsula in the very midst of a crevasse, and connected with the main body of ice by a neck which looked as sharp as a knife on its upper edge, so that none but tight-rope or slack-wire dancers could have proceeded along it; and even such performers would have found the edge too brittle to sustain them.

“You’ll have to show, Monsieur, some of your mountaineer skill here?” said the man who carried the stakes to Antoine.

He spoke in French, which Lawrence understood perfectly. We render it as nearly as possible into the counterpart English.

Antoine at once stepped forward with his Alpine axe, and, swinging it vigorously over his head, cut a deep notch on the sloping side of the neck of ice. Beyond it he cut a second notch. No man—not even a monkey—could have stood on the glassy slope which descended into the abyss at their side; but Antoine, putting one foot in the first notch, and the other in the second, stood as secure as if he had been on a flat rock. Again he swung his axe, and planted his foot in a third notch, swinging his axe the instant it was fixed for the purpose of cutting the fourth. Thus, cut by cut and step by step, he passed over to the block of ice aimed at. It was but a short neck. A few notches were sufficient, yet without an axe to cut these notches, the place had been absolutely impassable. It was by no means a “dangerous” place, according to the ideas of Alpine mountaineers, nevertheless a slip, or the loss of balance, would have been followed by contain death. Antoine knew this, and, like a wise guide, took proper precautions.

“Stay, sir,” he said, as Lawrence was screwing up his courage to follow him, “I will show you another piece of Alpine practice.”

He returned as he spoke, and, unwinding a coil of rope which he carried, fastened one end thereof round his waist. Allowing a few feet of interval, he then fastened the rope round Lawrence’s waist, and the assistants with the stakes—of whom there were two besides the man already referred to—also attached themselves to the rope in like manner. By this means they all passed over with comparative security, because if any one of them had chanced to slip, the others would have fixed the points of their axes and alpenstocks in the ice and held on until their overbalanced comrade should have been restored to his position.

On gaining the block, however, it was found that the line communicating with the theodolite on the one hand, and the Dook’s nose on the other, just missed it. The Professor’s signals continued to indicate “more to the left,” (his left, that is) until the stake-driver stood on the extreme edge of the crevasse, and his comrades held on tight by the rope to prevent him from falling over. Still the professor indicated “more to the left!”

As “more to the left” implied the planting of the stake in atmospheric air, they were fain to search for a suitable spot farther on.

This they found, after some scrambling, on a serrated ridge whose edge was just wide and strong enough to sustain them. Here the exact line was marked, but while the hole was being bored, an ominous crack was heard ascending as if from the heart of the glacier.

“What was that?” said Lawrence, turning to the guide with a quick surprised look.

“Only a split in the ice somewhere. It’s a common sound enough, as you might expect in a mass that is constantly moving,” replied Antoine, looking gravely round him, “but I can’t help thinking that this lump of ice, with crevasses on each side, is not the best of all spots for fixing a stake. It isn’t solid enough.”

As he spoke, another crash was heard, not quite so loud as the last and at the same moment the whole mass on which the party stood slid forward a few inches. It seemed as if it were about to tumble into the very jaws of the crevasse. With the natural instinct of self-preservation strong upon him, Lawrence darted across the narrow ridge to the firm ice in rear, dispensing entirely with that extreme caution which had marked his first passage over it. Indeed the tight-rope and slack-wire dancers formerly referred to could not have performed the feat with greater lightness, rapidity, and precision. The stake-drivers followed him with almost similar alacrity. Even the guide retraced his steps without further delay than was necessary to permit of his picking up the stakes which their proper custodians had left behind in their alarm—for they were not guides, merely young and inexperienced porters.

“For shame, lads,” said Antoine, laughing and shaking his head, “you’ll be but bad specimens of the men of Chamouni if you don’t learn more coolness on the ice.”

One would have thought that coolness on the ice was an almost unavoidable consequence of the surrounding conditions, yet Lawrence seemed to contradict the idea, for his face appeared unusually warm as he laughed and said:—

“The shame lies with me, Antoine, for I set them the example, and all history goes to prove that even brave men are swept away under the influence of a panic which the act of one cowardly man may produce.”

As Lawrence spoke in French, the porters understood and appreciated his defence of them, but Antoine would by no means encourage the fallacy.

“It is not cowardly, sir,” he said, “to spring quickly out of a danger that one don’t understand the nature of, but the young men of Chamouni have, or ought to have, a good understanding of the nature of ice, and the danger should be great indeed that would necessitate the leaving of their tools behind them.”

A roar like that of a bull of Bashan, or a boatswain, here interrupted the conversation.

“Don’t plant your post the–r–r–re,” shouted Captain Wopper from the banks of the ice-river, “the Professor says the ice ain’t firm enough. Heave ahead—to where its ha–a–ard an’ fa–a–ast.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” shouted Lawrence, with nautical brevity, in reply.

The next stake was accordingly fixed on a part of the ice which was obviously incapable of what might be called a local slip, and which must, if it moved at all, do so in accordance with the movements of the entire glacier.

Thus one by one the stakes were planted in a perfectly straight line, so that when Captain Wopper was requested by the Professor to look through the telescope—which he did with a seaman’s readiness and precision—he observed that all the stakes together appeared to form but one stake, the bottom of which was touched on one side of the Mer de Glace by the centre-point of the crossed threads, and, on the other, by the extreme point of the “Dook” of Wellington’s nose. The last stake had been fixed not many yards distant from the opposite bank of the glacier.

“Now,” said the Professor, with a deep sigh of satisfaction when all this was accomplished and noted, “we will go have our luncheon and return hither to-morrow to observe the result of our experiments. But first we must fix the exact position of our theodolite, for unless it occupies to a hair’s-breadth to-morrow the same position which it occupies to-day, the result will be quite inconclusive.”

So saying, the man of science took a little line and plummet from his pocket, which he hung under the theodolite, and the spot where the plummet touched the ground was carefully marked by a small stake driven quite down to its head.

Thereafter an attempt was made to gather together the scattered party, but this was difficult. Owing to various causes several members of it had become oblivious of time. Emma had forgotten time in the pursuit of wild-flowers, of which she was excessively fond, partly because she had learned to press and classify and write their proper names under them, but chiefly because they were intrinsically lovely, and usually grew in the midst of beautiful scenery. Nita had forgotten it in the pursuit of Emma, of whom she had become suddenly and passionately fond, partly because she possessed a loving nature, but chiefly because Emma was her counterpart. Lewis had forgotten it in pursuit of Nita, of whom he had become extremely fond, partly because she was pretty and pert, but chiefly because he—he—well, we cannot say precisely why, seeing that he did not inform us, and did not himself appear clearly to know. Slingsby had forgotten it in the ardent effort to reproduce on paper and with pencil, a scene so magnificent that a brush dipped in the rainbow and applied by Claude or Turner would have utterly failed to do it justice; and last, as well as least, Gillie White had forgotten it in the pursuit of general knowledge, in which pursuit he had used his alpenstock effectively in opening up everything, stabbing, knocking down, uprooting, overturning, and generally shattering everything that was capable of being in any degree affected by the physical powers and forces at his command. There can be no doubt whatever that if Gillie White had been big and strong enough, Mont Blanc itself would have succumbed that day to his inquiring mind, and the greatest ice-reservoir of Europe would have been levelled with the plain. As it was, he merely levelled himself, after reaching the point of exhaustion, and went to sleep on the sunny side of a rock, where he was nearly roasted alive before being aroused by the shouts of Captain Wopper.

At last, however, the party assembled at the Montanvert, where, amid interjectional accounts of the various incidents and adventures of the forenoon, strength was recruited for the subsequent operations of the day. These, however, were only matters of amusement. The Professor, remarking jocosely that he now cast science to the dogs and cats (which latter he pronounced cawts), sent his instruments back to Chamouni, and, with the zest of a big boy let loose from school, crossed the Mer de Glace to the Chapeau.

This feat was by no means so difficult as that which had been accomplished by Lawrence. It will be remembered that the spot selected for measurement had been at the steep and rugged part of the ice-river styled the Glacier des Bois, below the Montanvert. The ordinary crossing-place lay considerably higher up, just opposite to the inn. The track had been marked out over the easiest and flattest part of the ice, and levelled here and there where necessary for the special benefit of tourists. Still man—even when doing his worst in the way of making rough places plain, and robbing nature of some of her romance—could not do much to damage the grandeur of that impressive spot. His axe only chipped a little of the surface and made the footing secure. It could not mar the beauty of the picturesque surroundings, or dim the sun’s glitter on the ice-pinnacles, or taint the purity of these delicate blue depths into which Emma and Nita gazed for the first time with admiration and surprise while they listened to the mysterious murmurings of sub-glacial waters with mingled feelings of curiosity and awe.

Full of interest they traversed the grand unfathomable river of ice,—the product of the compressed snows of innumerable winters,—and, reaching the other side in less than an hour, descended the Chapeau through the terminal moraine.

Those who have not seen it can form but a faint conception of the stupendous mass of débris which is cut, torn, wrenched, carried, swept, hurled, rolled, crushed, and ground down by a glacier from the mountain-heights into the plain below. The terminal moraine of the Mer de Glace is a whole valley whose floor and sides are not only quite, but deeply, covered with rocks of every shape and size, from a pebble the size of a pea, to a boulder as large as a cottage, all strewn, piled, and heaped together in a wild confusion that is eminently suggestive of the mighty force which cast them there.

“To me there do seem something dreadful as well as grand in it,” said Nita, as she sat down on a boulder beside Emma, near the lower end of the chaotic valley.

“It is, indeed, terrible,” answered Emma, “and fills me with wonder when I think that frozen water possesses power so stupendous.”

“And yet the same element,” said the Professor, “which, when frozen, thus rends the mountains with force irresistible, when melted flows through the land in gentle fertilising streams. In both forms its power is most wonderful.”

“Like that of Him who created it,” said Emma, in a low tone.

The party stood on the margin of a little pond or lakelet that had collected in the midst of the débris, and which, by reflecting the clear sky and their figures, with several large boulders on its margin, gave point and a measure of softness to the otherwise confused and rugged scene. While they stood and sat rapt in silent contemplation of the tongue of the Mer de Glace, at whose tip was the blue ice-cave whence issued the Arveiron, a lordly eagle rose from a neighbouring cliff and soared grandly over their heads, while a bright gleam of the sinking sun shot over the white shoulders of Mont Blanc and lit up the higher end of the valley, throwing the lower part into deeper shade by contrast.

“There is a warning to us,” said Lewis, whose chief interest in the scene lay in the reflection of it that gleamed from Nita Horetzki’s eyes.

“Which is the warning,” asked Slingsby, “the gleam of sunshine or the eagle?”

“Both, for while the sun is going to bed behind the snow, the eagle is doubtless going home to her eyrie, and Antoine tells me that it is full three miles from this spot to our hotel in Chamouni.”

It did not take them long to traverse that space, and ere long, like the eagle and the sun, the whole party had retired to rest—the younger members, doubtless, to dreamless slumber; the Professor and the Captain, probably, to visions of theodolites and ice.

Although, however, these worthies must needs await the coming day to have their scientific hopes realised, it would be cruel to keep our patient reader in suspense. We may therefore note here that when, on the following day, the theodolite was re-fixed, and the man of science and his amateur friend had applied their respective eyes to the telescope, they were assured beyond a doubt that the stakes had moved, some more and some less, while the “Dook’s nose,” of course, remained hard and fast as the rock of which it was composed. The stakes had descended from about one to three feet during the twenty-four hours—those near the edge having moved least and those near the centre of the ice-river’s flow having moved farthest.

Of course there was a great deal of observing with the theodolite, and careful measuring as well as scrambling on the ice, similar to that of the previous day; but the end of the whole was that the glacier was ascertained to have flowed, definitely and observably down its channel, there could be no doubt whatever about that; the thing had been clearly proved, therefore the Professor was triumphant and the Captain, being a reasonable man, was convinced.

Chapter Twelve.

In which Gillie is Sagacious, an Excursion is undertaken, Wondrous Sights are seen, and Avalanches of more kinds than one are encountered.

“Susan,” said Gillie, one morning, entering the private apartment of Mrs Stoutley’s maid with the confidence of a privileged friend, flinging himself languidly into a chair and stretching out his little legs with the air of a rather used-up, though by no means discontented, man, “Susan, this is a coorious world—wery coorious—the most coorious I may say that I ever come across.”

“I won’t speak a word to you, Gillie,” said Susan, firmly, “unless you throw that cigar out of the window.”

“Ah, Susan, you would not rob me of my mornin’ weed, would you?” remonstrated Gillie, puffing a long cloud of smoke from his lips as he took from between them the end of a cigar that had been thrown away by some one the night before.

“Yes, I would, child, you are too young to smoke.”

“Child!” repeated Gillie, in a tone of reproach, “too young! Why, Susan, there’s only two years between you an’ me—that ain’t much, you know, at our time of life.”

“Well, what then? I don’t smoke,” said Susan.

“True,” returned Gillie, with an approving nod, “and, to say truth, I’m pleased to find that you don’t. It’s a nasty habit in women.”

“It’s an equally nasty habit in boys. Now, do as I bid you directly.”

“When a man is told by the girl he loves to do anythink, he is bound to do it—even if it wor the sheddin’ of his blood. Susan, your word is law.”

He turned and tossed the cigar-end out of the window. Susan laughingly stooped, kissed the urchin’s forehead, and called him a good boy.

“Now,” said she, “what do you mean by sayin’ that this is a curious world? Do you refer to this part of it, or to the whole of it?”

“Well, for the matter of that,” replied Gillie, crossing his legs, and folding his hands over his knee, as he looked gravely up in Susan’s pretty face, “I means the whole of it, this part included, and the people in it likewise. Don’t suppose that I go for to exclude myself. We’re all coorious, every one on us.”

“What! me too?”

“You? w’y, you are the cooriousest of us all, Susan, seeing that you’re only a lady’s-maid when you’re pretty enough to have been a lady—a dutchess, in fact, or somethin’ o’ that sort.”

“You are an impudent little thing,” retorted Susan, with a laugh; “but tell me, what do you find so curious about the people up-stairs?”

“Why, for one thing, they seem all to have falled in love.”

“That’s not very curious is it?” said Susan, quietly; “it’s common enough, anyhow.”

“Ah, some kinds of it, yes,” returned Gillie, with the air of a philosopher, “but at Chamouni the disease appears to have become viroolent an’ pecoolier. There’s the Capp’n, he’s falled in love wi’ the Professor, an’ it seems to me that the attachment is mootooal. Then Mister Lewis has falled in love with Madmysell Nita Hooray-tskie (that’s a sneezer, ain’t it), an’ the mad artist, as Mister Lewis call him, has falled in love with her too, poor feller, an’ Miss Nita has falled in love with Miss Emma, an Miss Emma, besides reciprocatin’ that passion, has falled in love with the flowers and the scenery—gone in for it wholesale, so to speak—and Dr Lawrence, he seems to have falled in love with everybody all round; anyhow everybody has falled in love with him, for he’s continually goin’ about doin’ little good turns wherever he gits the chance, without seemin’ to intend it, or shovin’ hisself to the front. In fact I do think he don’t intend it, but only can’t help it; just the way he used to be to my old mother and the rest of us in Grubb’s Court. And I say, Susan,” here Gillie looked very mysterious, and dropped his voice to a whisper, “Miss Emma has falled in love with him.”

“Nonsense, child! how is it possible that you can tell that?” said Susan.

The boy nodded his head with a look of preternatural wisdom, and put his forefinger to the side of his nose.

“Ah,” said he, “yes, I can’t explain how it is that I knows it, but I do know it. Bless you, Susan, I can see through a four-inch plank in thick weather without the aid of a gimlet hole. You may believe it or not, but I know that Miss Emma has falled in love with Dr Lawrence, but whether Dr Lawrence has failed in love with Miss Emma is more than I can tell. That plank is at least a six-inch one, an’ too much for my wision. But have a care, Susan, don’t mention wot I’ve said to a single soul—livin’ or dead. Miss Emma is a modest young woman, she is, an’ would rather eat her fingers off, rings and all, than let her feelin’s be known. I see that ’cause she fights shy o’ Dr Lawrence, rather too shy of ’im, I fear, for secrecy. Why he doesn’t make up to her is a puzzle that I don’t understand, for she’d make a good wife, would Miss Emma, an’ Dr Lawrence may live to repent of it, if he don’t go in and win.”

Susan looked with mingled surprise and indignation at the precocious little creature who sat before her giving vent to his opinions as coolly as if he were a middle-aged man. After contemplating him for a few moments in silence, she expressed her belief that he was a conceited little imp, to venture to speak of his young mistress in that way.

“I wouldn’t do it to any one but yourself, Susan,” he said, in no wise abashed, “an’ I hope you appreciate my confidence.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense, child, but go on with what you were speaking about,” rejoined Susan, with a smile, to conceal which she bent down her head as she plied her needle briskly on one of Emma’s mountain-torn dresses.

“Well, where was I?” continued Gillie, “ah, yes. Then, Lord what’s-’is-name, he’s falled in love with the mountain-tops, an’ is for ever tryin’ to get at ’em, in which he would succeed, for he’s a plucky young feller, if it worn’t for that snob—who’s got charge of ’im—Mister Lumbard—whose pecooliarity lies in preferrin’ every wrong road to the right one. As I heard Mr Lewis say the other day, w’en I chanced to be passin’ the keyhole of the sallymanjay, ‘he’d raither go up to the roof of a ’ouse by the waterspout than the staircase,’ just for the sake of boastin’ of it.”

“And is Mr Lumbard in love with any one?” asked Susan.

“Of course he is,” answered Gillie, “he’s in love with hisself. He’s always talkin’ of hisself, an’ praisin’ hisself, an’ boastin’ of hisself an’ what he’s done and agoin’ to do. He’s plucky enough, no doubt, and if there wor a lightnin’-conductor runnin’ to top of Mount Blang, I do b’lieve he’d try to—to—lead his Lordship up that; but he’s too fond of talkin’ an’ swaggerin’ about with his big axe, an’ wearin’ a coil of rope on his shoulder when he ain’t goin’ nowhere. Bah! I don’t like him. What do you think, Susan, I met him on the road the other evenin’ w’en takin’ a stroll by myself down near the Glassyer day Bossong, an’ I says to him, quite in a friendly way, ‘bong joor,’ says I, which is French, you know, an’ what the natives here says when they’re in good humour an’ want to say ‘good-day,’ ‘all serene,’ ‘how are you off for soap?’ an’ suchlike purlitenesses. Well, would you believe it, he went past without takin’ no notice of me whatsumdever.”

“How very impolite,” said Susan, “and what did you do?”

“Do,” cried Gillie, drawing himself up, “why, I cocked my nose in the air and walked on without disdainin’ to say another word—treated ’im with suvrin contempt. But enough of him—an’ more than enough. Well, to continue, then there’s Missis Stoutley, she’s falled in love too.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes, with wittles. The Count Hur—what’s-’is-name, who’s always doin’ the purlite when he’s not mopin’, says it’s the mountain hair as is agreein’ with her, but I think its the hair-soup. Anyhow she’s more friendly with her wittles here than she ever was in England. After comin’ in from that excursion where them two stout fellers carried her up the mountains, an’ all but capsized her and themselves, incloodin’ the chair, down a precipice, while passin’ a string o’ mules on a track no broader than the brim of Mister Slingsby’s wide-awake, she took to her wittles with a sort of lovin’ awidity that an’t describable. The way she shovelled in the soup, an’ stowed away the mutton chops, an’ pitched into the pease and taters, to say nothing of cauliflower and cutlets, was a caution to the billions. It made my mouth water to look at her, an’ my eyes too—only that may have had somethin’ to do with the keyhole, for them ’otels of Chamouni are oncommon draughty. Yes,” continued Gillie, slowly, as if he were musing, “she’s failed in love with wittles, an’ it’s by no means a misplaced affection. It would be well for the Count if he could fall in the same direction. Did you ever look steadily at the Count, Susan?”

“I can’t say I ever did; at least not more so than at other people. Why?”

“Because, if you ever do look at him steadily, you’ll see care a-sittin’ wery heavy on his long yeller face. There’s somethin’ the matter with that Count, either in ’is head or ’is stummick, I ain’t sure which; but, whichever it is, it has descended to his darter, for that gal’s face is too anxious by half for such a young and pretty one. I have quite a sympathy, a sort o’ feller-feelin’, for that Count. He seems to me the wictim of a secret sorrow.”

Susan looked at her small admirer with surprise, and then burst into a hearty laugh.

“You’re a queer boy, Gillie.”

To an unsophisticated country girl like Susan Quick, the London street-boy must indeed have seemed a remarkable being. He was not indeed an absolute “Arab,” being the son of an honest hardworking mother, but being also the son of a drunken, ill-doing father, he had, in the course of an extensive experience of bringing his paternal parent home from gin-palaces and low theatres, imbibed a good deal of the superficial part of the “waif” character, and, but for the powerful and benign influence of his mother, might have long ago entered the ranks of our criminal population. As it was, he had acquired a knowledge of “the world” of London—its thoughts, feelings, and manners—which rendered him in Susan’s eyes a perfect miracle of intelligence; and she listened to his drolleries and precocious wisdom with open-mouthed admiration. Of course the urchin was quite aware of this, and plumed himself not a little on his powers of attraction.

“Yes,” continued Gillie, without remarking on Susan’s observation that he was a “queer boy,” for he esteemed that a compliment “the Count is the only man among ’em who hasn’t falled in love with nothink or nobody. But tell me, Susan, is your fair buzzum free from the—the tender—you know what?”

“Oh! yes,” laughed the maid, “quite free.”

“Ah!” said Gillie, with a sigh of satisfaction, “then there’s hope for me.”

“Of course there is plenty of hope,” said Susan, laughing still more heartily as she looked at the thing in blue and buttons which thus addressed her.

“But now, tell me, where are they talking of going to-day?”

“To the Jardang,” replied Gillie. “It was putt off to please the young ladies t’other day, and now it’s putt on to please the Professor. It seems to me that the Professor has got well to wind’ard of ’em all—as the Cappen would say; he can twirl the whole bilin’ of ’em round his little finger with his outlandish talk, which I believe is more than half nonsense. Hows’ever, he’s goin’ to take ’em all to the Jardang, to lunch there, an’ make some more obserwations and measurements of the ice. Why he takes so much trouble about sitch a trifle, beats my understandin’. If the ice is six feet, or six hundred feet thick, what then? If it moves, or if it don’t move, wot’s the odds, so long as yer ’appy? If it won’t move, w’y don’t they send for a company of London bobbies and make ’em tell it to ‘move on,’ it couldn’t refuse, you know, for nothin’ can resist that. Hows’ever, they are all goin’ to foller the lead of the Professor again to-day—them that was with ’em last time—not the Count though, for I heard him say (much to the distress apperiently of his darter) that he was goin’ on business to Marteeny, over the Tait Nwar, though what that is I don’t know—a mountain, I suppose. They’re all keen for goin’ over things in this country, an’ some of ’em goes under altogether in the doin’ of it. If I ain’t mistaken, that pleasant fate awaits Lord what’s-’is-name an’ Mr Lumbard, for I heard the Cappen sayin’, just afore I come to see you, that he was goin’ to take his Lordship to the main truck of Mount Blang by way of the signal halliards, in preference to the regular road.”

“Are the young ladies going?” asked Susan.

“Of course they are, from w’ich it follers that Mr Lewis an’ the mad artist are goin’ too.”

“And Mrs Stoutley?” asked Susan.

“No; it’s much too far and difficult for her.”

“Gillie, Gillie!” shouted a stentorian voice at this point in the conversation.

“Ay, ay, Cappen,” yelled Gillie, in reply. Rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets, he sauntered leisurely from the room, recommending the Captain, in an undertone, to save his wind for the mountainside.

Not long afterwards, the same parties that had accompanied the Professor to the Montanvert were toiling up the Mer de Glace, at a considerable distance above the scene of their former exploits, on their way to the Jardin.

The day was all that could be desired. There were a few clouds, but these were light and feathery; clear blue predominated all over the sky. Over the masses of the Jorasses and the peaks of the Géant, the Aiguille du Dru, the slopes of Mont Mallet, the pinnacles of Charmoz, and the rounded white summit of Mont Blanc—everywhere—the heavens were serene and beautiful.

The Jardin, towards which they ascended, lies like an island in the midst of the Glacier du Talèfre. It is a favourite expedition of travellers, being a verdant gem on a field of white—a true oasis in the desert of ice and snow—and within a five hours’ walk of Chamouni.

Their route lay partly on the moraines and partly over the surface of the glacier. On their previous visit to the Mer de Glace, those of the party to whom the sight was new imagined that they had seen all the wonders of the glacier world. They were soon undeceived. While at the Montanvert on their first excursion, they could turn their eyes from the sea of ice to the tree-clad slopes behind them, and at the Chapeau could gaze on a splendid stretch of the Vale of Chamouni to refresh their eyes when wearied with the rugged cataract of the Glacier des Bois; but as they advanced slowly up into the icy solitudes, all traces of the softer world were lost to view. Only ice and snow lay around them. Ice under foot, ice on the cliffs, ice in the mountain valleys, ice in the higher gorges, and snow on the summits,—except where these latter were so sharp and steep that snow could not find a lodgment. There was nothing in all the field of vision to remind them of the vegetable world from which they had passed as if by magic. As Lewis remarked, they seemed to have been suddenly transported to within the Arctic circle, and got lost among the ice-mountains of Spitzbergen or Nova Zembla.

“It is magnificent!” exclaimed Nita Horetzki with enthusiasm, as she paused on the summit of an ice-ridge, up the slippery sides of which she had been assisted by Antoine Grennon, who still held her little hand in his.

Ah, thoughtless man! he little knew what daggers of envy were lacerating the heart of the mad artist who would have given all that he possessed—colour-box and camp-stool included—to have been allowed to hold that little hand even for a few seconds! Indeed he had, in a fit of desperation, offered to aid her by taking the other hand when half-way up that very slope, but had slipped at the moment of making the offer and rolled to the bottom. Lewis, seeing the fate of his rival, wisely refrained from putting himself in a false position by offering any assistance, excusing his apparent want of gallantry by remarking that if he were doomed to slip into a crevasse he should prefer not to drag another along with him. Antoine, therefore, had the little hand all to himself.

The Professor, being a somewhat experienced ice-man, assisted Emma in all cases of difficulty. As for the Captain, Gillie, and Lawrence, they had quite enough to do to look after themselves.

“How different from what I had expected,” said Emma, resting a hand on the shoulder of Nita; “it is a very landscape of ice.”

Emma’s simile was not far-fetched. They had reached a part of the glacier where the slope and the configuration of the valley had caused severe strains on the ice in various directions, so that there were not only transverse crevasses but longitudinal cracks, which unitedly had cut up the ice into blocks of all shapes and sizes. These, as their position shifted, had become isolated, more or less,—and being partially melted by the sun, had assumed all sorts of fantastic shapes. There were ice-bridges, ice-caves, and ice obelisks and spires, some of which latter towered to a height of fifty feet or more; there were also forms suggestive of cottages and trees, with here and there real rivulets rippling down their icy beds, or leaping over pale blue ledges, or gliding into blue-green lakes, or plunging into black-blue chasms. The sun-light playing among these silvery realms—glinting over edges and peaks, blazing on broad masses, shimmering through semi-transparent cliffs, and casting soft grey shadows everywhere—was inexpressibly beautiful, while the whole, looming through a thin golden haze, seemed to be of gigantic proportions.

It seemed as if the region of ice around them must at one time have been in tremendous convulsions, but the Professor assured them that this was not the case, that the formation of crevasses and those confused heaps of ice called seracs was a slow and prolonged process. “Doubtless,” he said, “you have here and there the wild rush of avalanches, and suchlike convulsions, but the rupture of the great body of the ice is gradual. A crevasse is an almost invisible crack at first. It yawns slowly and takes a long time to open out to the dimensions and confusion which you see around.”

“What are those curious things?” asked Nita, pointing to some forms before her.

“They look like giant mushrooms,” said Captain Wopper.

“They are ice-tables,” answered Antoine.

“Blocks of stone on the top of cones of ice,” said the Professor. “Come, we will go near and examine one.”

The object in question was well suited to cause surprise, for it was found to be an enormous flat mass of rock, many tons in weight, perched on a pillar of ice and bearing some resemblance to a table with a central leg.

“Now,” said Captain Wopper emphatically, “that is a puzzler. How did it ever get up there?”

“I have read of such tables,” said Lawrence.

“They are the result of the sun’s action, I believe.”

“Oh, it’s all very well, Lawrence,” said Lewis, with a touch of sarcasm, “to talk in a vague way about the sun’s action, but it’s quite plain, even to an unphilosophical mind like mine, that the sun can’t lift a block of stone some tons in weight and clap it on the top of a pillar of ice about ten feet high.”

“Nevertheless the sun has done it,” returned Lawrence. “Am I not right Professor?”

The man of science, who had listened with a bland smile on his broad countenance, admitted that Lawrence was right.

“At first,” he said, “that big stone fell from the cliffs higher up the valley, and it has now been carried down thus far by the ice. During its progress the sun has been shining day by day and melting the surface of the ice all round, with the exception of that part which was covered by the rock. Thus the general level of the ice has been lowered and the protected portion left prominent with its protector on the top. The sides of the block of ice on which the rock has rested have also melted slowly, reducing it to the stalk or pillar which you now see. In time it will melt so much that the rock will slide off, fall on another part of the ice, which it will protect from the sun as before until another stem shall support it, and thus it will go on until it tumbles into a crevasse, reaches the under part of the glacier, perhaps there gets rolled and rounded into a boulder, and finally is discharged, many years hence, it may be, into the terminal moraine; or, perchance, it may get stranded on the sides of the valley among the débris or rubbish which we call the lateral moraine.”

As the party advanced, new, and, if possible; still more striking objects met the eye, while mysterious sounds struck the ear. Low grumbling noises and gurglings were heard underfoot, as if great boulders were dropping into buried lakes from the roofs of sub-glacial caverns, while, on the surface, the glacier was strewn here and there with débris which had fallen from steep parts of the mountains that rose beside them into the clouds. Sudden rushing sounds—as if of short-lived squalls, in the midst of which were crashes like the thunder of distant artillery—began now to attract attention, and a feeling of awe crept into the hearts of those of the party who were strangers to the ice-world. Sounds of unseen avalanches, muffled more or less according to distance, were mingled with what may be called the shots of the boulders, which fell almost every five minutes from the Aiguille Verte and other mountains, and there was something deeply impressive in the solemn echoes that followed each deep-toned growl, and were repeated until they died out in soft murmurs.

As the party crossed an ice-plain, whose surface was thickly strewn with the wreck of mountains, a sense of insecurity crept into the feelings of more than one member of it but not a word was said until a sudden and tremendous crash, followed by a continuous roar, was heard close at hand.

“An avalanche!” shouted Slingsby, pointing upwards, and turning back with the evident intention to fly.

It did indeed seem the wisest thing that man or woman could do in the circumstances, for, high up among the wild cliffs, huge masses of rock, mingled with ice, dirt, water, and snow, were seen rushing down a “couloir,” or steep gully, straight towards them.

“Rest tranquil where you are,” said the guide, laying his hand on the artist’s arm; “the couloir takes a bend, you see, near the bottom. There is no danger.”

Thus assured, the whole of the party stood still and gazed upward.

Owing to the great height from which the descending mass was pouring, the inexperienced were deceived as to the dimensions of the avalanche. It seemed at first as if the boulders were too small to account for the sounds created, but in a few seconds their real proportions became more apparent, especially when the whole rush came straight towards the spot on which the travellers stood with such an aspect of being fraught with inevitable destruction, that all of them except the guide shrank involuntarily backwards. At this crisis the chaotic mass was driven with terrible violence against the cliffs to the left of the couloir, and bounding, we might almost say fiercely, to the right, rushed out upon the frozen plain about two hundred yards in advance of the spot on which they stood.

“Is there not danger in being so close to such places?” asked Lewis, glancing uneasily at Nita, whose flashing eyes and heightened colour told eloquently of the excitement which the sight had aroused in her breast.

“Not much,” answered the Professor, “no doubt we cannot be said to be in a place of absolute safety, nevertheless the danger is not great, because we can generally observe the avalanches in time to get out of the way of spent shots; and, besides, if we run under the lea of such boulders as that, we are quite safe, unless it were to be hit by one pretty nearly as large as itself.” He pointed as he spoke to a mass of granite about the size of an omnibus, which lay just in front of them. “But I see,” he added, laughing, “that Antoine thinks this is not a suitable place for the delivery of lectures; we must hasten forward.”

Soon they surmounted the steeps of the Glacier du Talèfre, and reached the object of their desire, the Jardin.

It is well named. A wonderful spot of earth and rock which rises out of the midst of a great basin of half-formed ice, the lower part being covered with green sward and spangled with flowers, while the summit of the rock forms a splendid out-look from which to view the surrounding scene.

Here, seated on the soft grass—the green of which was absolutely delicious to the eyes after the long walk over the glaring ice—the jovial Professor, with a sandwich in one hand and a flask of vin ordinaire in the other, descanted on the world of ice. He had a willing audience, for they were all too busy with food to use their tongues in speech, except in making an occasional brief demand or comment.

“Glorious!” exclaimed the Professor.

“Which, the view or the victuals?” asked Lewis. “Both,” cried the Professor, helping himself to another half-dozen sandwiches.

“Thank you—no more at present,” said Nita to the disappointed Slingsby, who placed the rejected limb of a fowl on his own plate with a deep sigh.

“Professor,” said Nita, half-turning her back on the afflicted artist, “how, when, and where be all this ice formed?”

“A comprehensive question!” cried the Professor. “Thank you—yes, a wing and a leg; also, if you can spare it, a piece of the—ah! so, you are right. The whole fowl is best. I can then help myself. Miss Gray, shall I assist you to a—no? Well, as I was about to remark, in reply to your comprehensive question, Mademoiselle, this basin, in which our Jardin lies, may be styled a mighty collector of the material which forms that great tributary of the Mer de Glace, named the Glacier du Talèfre. This material is called névé.”

“An’ what’s nevy?” asked Captain Wopper, as well as a full mouth would allow him.

“Névé,” replied the Professor, “is snow altered by partial melting, and freezing, and compression—snow in the process of being squeezed into ice. You must know that there is a line on all high mountains which is called the snow-line. Above this line, the snow that falls each year never disappears; below it the snow, and ice too, undergoes the melting process continually. The portion below the snow-line is always being diminished; that above it is always augmenting; thus the loss of the one is counterbalanced by the gain of the other; and thus the continuity of glaciers is maintained. That part of a glacier which lies above the snow-line is styled névé; it is the fountain-head and source of supply to the glacier proper, which is the part that lies below the snow-line. Sometimes, for a series of years, perhaps, the supply from above is greater than the diminution below, the result being that the snout of a glacier advances into its valley, ploughs up the land, and sometimes overturns the cottages. (See Note 2.) On the other hand the reverse process goes on, it may be for years, and a glacier recedes somewhat, leaving a whole valley of débris, or terminal moraine, which is sometimes, after centuries perhaps, clothed with vegetation and dotted with cottages.”

“This basin, or collector of névé, on whose beautiful oasis I have the felicity to lunch in such charming society (the jovial Professor bowed to the ladies), is, according to your talented Professor Forbes (he bowed to Lawrence), about four thousand two hundred yards wide, and all the ice it contains is, farther down, squeezed through a gorge not more than seven hundred yards wide, thus forming that grand ice-cascade of the Talèfre which you have seen on the way hither. It is a splendid, as well as interesting amphitheatre, for it is bounded, as you see, on one side by the Grandes Jorasses, on the other by Mont Mallet, while elsewhere you have the vast plateau whence the Glacier du Géant is fed; the Aiguille du Géant, the Aiguille Noire, the Montagnes Mandites, and Mont Blanc. Another wing, if you please—ah, finished? No matter, pass the loaf. It will do as well.”

The Professor devoted himself for some minutes in silence to the loaf, which was much shorn of its proportions on leaving his hand. Like many great men, he was a great eater. The fires of intellect that burned within him seemed to require a more than ordinary supply of fuel. He slept, too, like an infant Hercules, and, as a natural consequence, toiled like a giant when awake.

Little Gillie White regarded him with feelings of undisguised awe, astonishment and delight, and was often sorely perplexed within himself as to whether he or Captain Wopper was the greater man. Both were colossal in size and energetic in body, and both were free and easy in manners, as well as good-humoured. No doubt, as Gillie argued with himself (and sometimes with Susan), the Professor was uncommon larned an’ deep, but then the Captain had a humorous vein, which fully counterbalanced that in Gillie’s estimation.

The philosophic urchin was deeply engaged in debating this point with himself, and gazing open-mouthed at the Professor, when there suddenly occurred an avalanche so peculiar and destructive that it threw the whole party into the utmost consternation. While removing a pile of plates, Gillie, in his abstraction, tripped on a stone, tumbled over the artist, crushed that gentleman’s head into Nita’s lap, and, descending head foremost, plates and all, into the midst of the feast, scattered very moraine of crockery and bottles all round. It was an appalling smash, and when the Captain seized Gillie by the back of his trousers with one hand and lifted him tenderly out of the midst of the débris, the limp way in which he hung suggested the idea that a broken bottle must have penetrated his vitals and finished him.

It was not so, however. Gillie’s sagacity told him that he would probably be wounded if he were to move. He wisely, therefore, remained quite passive, and allowed himself to be lifted out of danger.

“Nobody hurt, I ’ope,” he said, on being set on his legs; “it was a awk’ard plunge.”

“Awk’ard? you blue spider,” cried the Captain; “you deserve to be keel-hauled, or pitched into a crevasse. Look alive now, an’ clear up the mess you’ve made.”

Fortunately the feast was about concluded when this contretemps occurred, so that no serious loss was sustained. Some of the gentlemen lighted their pipes and cigars, to solace themselves before commencing the return journey. The ladies went off to saunter and to botanise, and Slingsby attempted to sketch the scenery.

And here again, as on the previous excursion, Captain Wopper received a chill in regard to his matrimonial hopes. When the ladies rose, Lewis managed to engage Nita in an interesting conversation on what he styled the flora of central Europe, and led her away. Emma was thus left without her companion. Now, thought the Captain, there’s your chance, Dr Lawrence, go in and win! But Lawrence did not avail himself of the chance. He suffered Emma to follow her friend, and remained behind talking with the Professor on the vexed subject of the cause of glacial motion.

“Most extraor’nary,” thought the Captain, somewhat nettled, as well as disappointed. “What can the youngster mean? She’s as sweet a gal as a fellow would wish to see, an’ yet he don’t pay no more attention to her than if she was an old bumboat ’ooman. Very odd. Can’t make it out nohow!”

Captain Wopper was not the first, and will certainly not be the last, to experience difficulty in accounting for the conduct of young men and maidens in this world of cross-currents and queer fancies.

Chapter Thirteen.

Shows what Dangers may be encountered in the Pursuit of Art and Science.

Who has not experienced the almost unqualified pleasure of a walk, on a bright beautiful morning, before breakfast? How amply it repays one for the self-denying misery of getting up! We say misery advisedly, for it is an undoubted, though short-lived, agony, that of arousing one’s inert, contented, and peaceful frame into a state of activity. There is a moment in the daily life of man—of some men, at least—when heroism of a very high stamp is displayed; that moment when, the appointed hour of morning having arrived, he thrusts one lethargic toe from under the warm bed-clothes into the relatively cold atmosphere of his chamber. If the toe is drawn back, the man is nobody. If it is thrust further out, and followed up by the unwilling body, the man is a hero! The agony, however, like that of tooth-drawing, is soon over, and the delightful commendations of an approving conscience are superadded to the pleasures of an early morning walk.

Such pleasures were enjoyed one morning by Emma Gray and Nita Horetzki and Lewis Stoutley, when, at an early hour, they issued from their hotel, and walked away briskly up the Vale of Chamouni.

“I say, Emma, isn’t it a charming, delicious, and outrageously delightful day!” exclaimed Lewis.

Although the young man addressed himself to his cousin, who walked on his left, he glanced at Nita, who walked on his right, and thus, with a sense of justice peculiarly his own, divided his attentions equally between them.

“You are unusually enthusiastic, cousin,” said Emma, with a laugh. “I thought you said last night that weather never affected you?”

“True, but there is more than weather here, there is scenery, and—and sunshine.”

“Sunshine?” repeated Nita, lifting her large orbs to his face with a look of surprise, for although the sun may be said to have risen as regards the world at large, it had not yet surmounted the range of Mont Blanc, or risen to the inhabitants of Chamouni. “I not see it; where is the sunshine?”

“There!” exclaimed Lewis, mentally, as he gazed straight down into her wondering orbs, and then added aloud, as he swept his arm aloft with a mock-heroic air, “behold it gleaming on the mountain-ridges.”

There is no doubt that the enthusiasm of Lewis as to the weather, scenery, and sunshine would have been much reduced, perhaps quenched altogether, if Nita had not been there, for the youth was steeped in that exquisite condition termed first love,—the very torments incident to which are moderated joys,—but it must not be supposed that he conducted himself with the maudlin sentimentality not unfrequently allied to that condition. Although a mischievous and, we are bound to admit, a reckless youth, he was masculine in his temperament, and capable of being deeply, though not easily, stirred into enthusiasm. It was quite in accordance with this nature that his jesting tone and manner suddenly vanished as his gaze became riveted on the ridge to which he had carelessly directed attention. Even Nita was for a moment forgotten in the sight that met his eyes, for the trees and bushes which crowned the ridge were to all appearance composed of solid fire!

“Did you ever see anything like that before Emma?” he asked, eagerly.

“Never; I have seen sunrises and sunsets in many parts of our own land, but nothing at all like that; what can be the cause of it?”

There was good reason for the wonder thus called forth, for the light was not on the trees but behind them. The sun had not quite risen, but was very near the summit of the ridge, so that these trees and bushes were pictured, as it were, against the brightest part of the glowing sky. In such circumstances we are taught by ordinary experience that objects will be unusually dark, but these trees were incomparably brighter than the glowing sky itself. It was not that their mere edges were tipped with fire, but their entire substance, even to the central core of the pine-stems, was to all appearance made of pure light, as if each tree and shrub had been made of steel raised to a condition of intense white heat. No shining of the sun through or upon trees can convey the slightest idea of the sight. It was something absolutely new to our travellers, and roused their astonishment as well as wonder to the highest pitch.

“Oh!” exclaimed Nita, clasping her hands with a force peculiar to her demonstrative nature, “how wonderful! How I do wish the Professor was here to tell us how and what it be.”

That evening the Professor, who had observed the phenomenon more than once, told them all he knew about it. There were differences of opinion, he said, as to the cause, for men of physical science, not less than doctors, were prone to differ. For himself, he had only noted the facts and knew not the cause. The luminous trees appeared only at that part of the ridge where the sun was just going to rise—elsewhere the trees were projected as dark objects, in the usual way, against the bright sky. Not only were the trees thus apparently self-luminous, but when birds chanced to be flying amongst them, they had the appearance of sparks of molten silver flitting to and fro. (See Note 1.)

“But you have not yet told me, ladies,” said Lewis, as they resumed their walk, “what has induced you to indulge in so early a ramble to-day?”

“Can you not imagine,” said Nita, “that it is the love of Nature?”

“Undoubtedly I can; but as this is the first time since we came that you have chosen to display a love for Nature before breakfast, I may be forgiven for supposing there is another and no doubt secondary cause.”

“You are right,” said Emma; “were you not present last night when we discussed our plans for to-day?”

“No, he was in the verandah,” interposed Nita, with an arch smile, “indulging that savage and unintellectual taste you call smoking.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, be not too severe. It may not, indeed, be styled an intellectual pursuit, but neither, surely, can it be called savage, seeing that it softens and ameliorates the rugged spirit of man.”

“It is savage,” returned Nita, “because you do not encourage ladies to join you in it.”

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” cried Lewis, pulling out his cigar-case, “nothing would gratify me more than your acceptance of—”

“Insult me not, Monsieur,” said Nita, with a toss of her pretty little head, “but reply to your cousin’s question.”

“Ah, to be sure, well—let me see, what was it? Was I present when the plans for the day were arranged? Yes I was, but I missed the first part of the conversation, having been, as Mademoiselle Horetzki truly observes, occupied with that—a—”

“Savage habit,” interposed Nita.

“Savage habit,” said Lewis, “the savage element of which I am willing to do away with at a moment’s notice when desired. I merely heard that the professor had fixed to go on the glacier for the purpose of measuring it, as though it were a badly clad giant, and he a scientific tailor who had undertaken to make a top-coat for it. I also heard that you two had decided on a walk before breakfast, and, not caring to do tailoring on the ice, I begged leave to join you—therefore I am here.”

“Ah, you prefer woman’s society and safety to manly exercise and danger!” said Nita.

Although Lewis was, as we have said, by no means an effeminate youth, he was at that age when the male creature shrinks from the slightest imputation of a lack of manliness. He coloured, therefore, as he laughingly replied that in his humble opinion his present walk involved the manly exercise of moral courage in withstanding shafts of sarcasm, which were far more dangerous in his eyes than hidden crevasses or flying boulders.

“But you both forget,” interposed Emma, “that I have not yet explained the object of our morning walk.”

“True, cousin, let us have it.”

“Well,” continued Emma, “when you were engages in your ‘savage’ indulgence, a difficulty stood in the way of the Professor’s plans, inasmuch as our guide Antoine had asked and obtained leave to absent himself a couple of days for the purpose of taking his wife and child over the country to pay a short visit to a relative in some valley, the name of which I forget. Antoine had said that he would be quite willing to give up his leave of absence if a messenger were sent to inform his wife of his change of plan, and to ask a certain Baptist Le Croix, who lives close beside her, to be her guide. As we two did not mean to join the ice-party, we at once offered to be the messengers. Hence our present expedition at so early an hour. After seeing Madame Antoine Grennon and having breakfast we mean to spend the day in sketching.”

“May I join you in this after-portion of the day’s work?” asked Lewis. “I may not, indeed, claim to use the pencil with the facility of our friend Slingsby, but I am not altogether destitute of a little native talent in that way. I will promise to give you both as many cigars as you choose, and will submit my sketches to Mademoiselle’s criticism, which will be incurring extreme danger.”

“Well, you may come,” said Nita, with a condescending nod, “but pray fulfil the first part of your promise, give me the cigars.”

Lewis drew them out with alacrity, and laughingly asked, “how many?”

“All of them; the case also.”

In some surprise the youth put the cigar-case into her hand, and she immediately flung it into a neighbouring pool.

“Ah, how cruel,” said Lewis, putting on a most forlorn look, while Emma gave vent to one of her subdued little explosions of laughter.

“What! is our society not enough for Monsieur?” asked Nita, in affected surprise.

“More than enough,” replied Lewis, with affected enthusiasm.

“Then you can be happy without your cigars,” returned Nita.

“Perfectly happy,” replied Lewis, taking a small case from his pocket, from which he extracted a neat little meerschaum pipe, and began to fill it with tobacco.

Again Emma had occasion to open the safety-valve of another little explosive laugh; but before anything further could be said, they came in sight of Antoine Grennon’s cottage.

It was prettily situated beneath a clump of pines. A small stream, spanned by a rustic bridge, danced past it. Under the shadow of the bridge they saw Madame engaged in washing linen. She had a washing-tub, of course, but instead of putting the linen into this she put herself in it, after having made an island of it by placing it a few inches deep in the stream. Thus she could kneel and get at the water conveniently without wetting her knees or skirts. On a sloping slab of wood she manipulated the linen with such instrumentality as cold water, soap, a wooden mallet and a hard brush. Beside her, in a miniature tub, her little daughter conducted a miniature washing.

The three travellers, looking over the bridge, could witness the operation without being themselves observed.

“It is a lively process,” remarked Lewis, as Madame seized a mass of linen with great vigour, and caused it to fall on the sloping plank with a sounding slap.

Madame was an exceedingly handsome and well-made woman, turned thirty, and much inclined to embonpoint. Her daughter was turned three, and still more inclined to the same condition. Their rounded, well-shaped, and muscular arms, acted very much in the same way, only Madame’s vigour was a good deal more intense and persistent—too much so, perhaps, for the fabrics with which she had to deal; but if the said fabrics possessed the smallest degree of consciousness, they could not have had the heart to complain of rough treatment from such neat though strong hands, while being smiled upon by such a pretty, though decisive countenance.

“It is dreadfully rough treatment,” said Emma, whose domestic-economical spirit was rather shocked.

“Terrible!” exclaimed Nita, as Madame gripped another article of apparel and beat it with her mallet as though it had been the skull of her bitterest enemy, while soap-suds and water spurted from it as if they had been that enemy’s brains.

“And she washes, I believe, for our hotel,” said Emma, with a slightly troubled expression. Perhaps a thought of her work-box and buttons flashed across her mind at the moment.

“You are right,” said Lewis, with a pleased smile.

“I heard Antoine say to Gillie, the other day, that his wife washed a large portion of the hotel linen. No doubt some of ours is amongst it. Indeed I am sure of it,” he added, with a look of quiet gravity, as Madame Grennon seized another article, swished it through the water, caused it to resound on the plank, and scrubbed it powerfully with soap; “that a what’s-’is-name, belongs to me. I know it by the cut of its collar. Formerly, I used to know it chiefly by its fair and fragile texture. I shall know it hereafter as an amazing illustration of the truth of the proverb, that no one knows what he can stand till he is tried. The blows which she is at present delivering to it with her mallet, are fast driving all preconceived notions in regard to linen out of my head. Scrubbing it, as she does now, with a hard brush, against the asperities of the rough plank, and then twisting it up like a roly-poly prior to swishing it through the water a second time, would once have induced me to doubt the strength of delicate mother-of-pearl buttons and fine white thread. I shall doubt no longer.”

As he said so, Madame Grennon chanced to look up, and caught sight of the strangers. She rose at once, and, forsaking her tub, advanced to meet them, the curly-haired daughter following close at her heels, for, wherever her mother went she followed, and whatever her mother did she imitated.

The object of the visit was soon explained, and the good woman led the visitors into her hut where Baptist Le Croix chanced to be at the time.

There was something very striking in the appearance of this man. He was a tall fine-looking fellow, a little past the prime of life, but with a frame whose great muscular power was in no degree abated. His face was grave, good-natured, and deeply sunburnt; but there was a peculiarly anxious look about the eyes, and a restless motion in them, as if he were constantly searching for something which he could not find.

He willingly undertook to conduct his friend’s wife and child to the residence of their relative.

On leaving the hut to return to Chamouni, Madame Grennon accompanied her visitors a short way, and Nita took occasion, while expressing admiration of Baptist’s appearance, to comment on his curiously anxious look.

“Ah! Mademoiselle,” said Madame, with a half sad look, “the poor man is taken up with a strange notion—some people call it a delusion—that gold is to be found somewhere here in the mountains.”

“Gold?” cried Nita, with such energy that her companions looked at her in surprise.

“Why, Nita,” exclaimed Emma, “your looks are almost as troubled and anxious as those of Le Croix himself.”

“How strange!” said Nita, musing and paying no attention to Emma’s remark. “Why does he think so?”

“Indeed, Mademoiselle, I cannot tell; but he seems quite sure of it, and spends nearly all his time in the mountains searching for gold, and hunting the chamois.”

They parted here, and for a time Lewis tried to rally Nita about what he styled her sympathy with the chamois-hunter, but Nita did not retort with her wonted sprightliness; the flow of her spirits was obviously checked, and did not return during their walk back to the hotel.

While this little incident was enacting in the valley, events of a far different nature were taking place among the mountains, into the solitudes of which the Professor, accompanied by Captain Wopper, Lawrence, Slingsby, and Gillie, and led by Antoine, had penetrated for the purpose of ascertaining the motion of a huge precipice of ice.

“You are not a nervous man, I think,” said the Professor to Antoine as they plodded over the ice together.

“No, Monsieur, not very,” answered the guide, with a smile and a sly glance out of the corners of his eyes. Captain Wopper laughed aloud at the question, and Gillie grinned. Gillie’s countenance was frequently the residence of a broad grin. Nature had furnished him with a keen sense of the ludicrous, and a remarkably open countenance. Human beings are said to be blind to their own peculiarities.

If Gillie had been an exception to this rule and if he could have, by some magical power, been enabled to stand aside and look at his own spider-like little frame, as others saw it, clad in blue tights and buttons, it is highly probable that he would have expired in laughing at himself.

“I ask the question,” continued the Professor, “because I mean to request your assistance in taking measurements in a somewhat dangerous place, namely, the ice-precipice of the Tacul.”

“It is well, Monsieur,” returned the guide, with another smile, “I am a little used to dangerous places.”

Gillie pulled his small hands out of the trouser-pockets in which he usually carried them, and rubbed them by way of expressing his gleeful feelings. Had the sentiment which predominated in his little mind been audibly expressed, it would probably have found vent in some such phrase as, “won’t there be fun, neither—oh dear no, not by no means.” To him the height of happiness was the practice of mischief. Danger in his estimation meant an extremely delicious form of mischief.

“Is the place picturesque as well as dangerous?” asked Slingsby, with a wild look in his large eyes as he walked nearer to the Professor.

“It is; you will find many aspects of ice-formation well worthy of your pencil.”

It is due to the artist to say that his wildness that morning was not the result only of despair at the obvious indifference with which Nita regarded him. It was the combination of that wretched condition with a heroic resolve to forsake the coy maiden and return to his first love—his beloved art—that excited him; and the idea of renewing his devotion to her in dangerous circumstances was rather congenial to his savage state of mind. It may be here remarked that Mr Slingsby, besides being an enthusiastic painter, was an original genius in a variety of ways. Among other qualities he possessed an inventive mind, and, besides having had an ice-axe made after a pattern of his own,—which was entirely new and nearly useless,—he had designed a new style of belt with a powerful rope having a hook attached to it, with which he proposed, and actually managed, to clamber up and down difficult places, and thus attain points of vantage for sketching. Several times had he been rescued by guides from positions of extreme peril, but his daring and altogether unteachable spirit had thrown him again and again into new conditions of danger. He was armed with his formidable belt and rope on the present excursion, and his aspect was such that his friends felt rather uneasy about him, and would not have been surprised if he had put the belt round his neck instead of his waist, and attempted to hang himself.

“Do you expect to complete your measurements to-day?” asked Lawrence, who accompanied the Professor as his assistant.

“Oh no. That were impossible. I can merely fix my stakes to-day and leave them. To-morrow or next day I will return to observe the result.”

The eastern side of the Glacier du Géant, near the Tacul, at which they soon arrived, showed an almost perpendicular precipice about 140 feet high. As they collected in a group in front of that mighty pale-blue wall, the danger to which the Professor had alluded became apparent, even to the most inexperienced eye among them. High on the summit of the precipice, where its edge cut sharply against the blue sky, could be seen the black boulders and débris of the lateral moraine of the glacier. The day was unusually warm, and the ice melted so rapidly that parts of this moraine were being sent down in frequent avalanches. The rustle of débris was almost incessant, and, ever and anon, the rustle rose into a roar as great boulders bounded over the edge, and, after dashing portions of the ice-cliffs into atoms, went smoking down into the chaos below. It was just beyond this chaos that the party stood.

“Now, Antoine,” said the Professor, “I want you to go to the foot of that precipice and fix a stake in the ice there.”

“Well, Monsieur, it shall be done,” returned the guide, divesting himself of his knapsack and shouldering his axe and a stake.

“Meanwhile,” continued the Professor, “I will watch the falling débris to warn you of danger in time, and the direction in which you must run to avoid it. My friend Lawrence, with the aid of Captain Wopper, will fix the theodolite on yonder rocky knoll to our left.”

“Nothin’ for you an’ me to do,” said Gillie to the artist; “p’r’aps we’d better go and draw—eh?”

Slingsby looked at the blue spider before him with an amused smile, and agreed that his suggestion was not a bad one, so they went off together.

While Antoine was proceeding to the foot of the ice-cliffs on his dangerous mission, the Professor observed that the first direction of a falling stone’s bound was no sure index of its subsequent motion, as it was sent hither and thither by the obstructions with which it met. He therefore recalled the guide.

“It won’t do, Antoine, the danger is too great.”

“But, Monsieur, if it is necessary—”

“But it is not necessary that you should risk your life in the pursuit of knowledge. Besides, I must have a stake fixed half-way up the face of that precipice.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” said Antoine, with an incredulous smile, “that is not possible!”

To this the Professor made no reply, but ordered his guide to make a détour and ascend to the upper edge of the ice-precipice for the purpose of dislodging the larger and more dangerous blocks of stone there, and, after that, to plant a stake on the summit.

This operation was not quickly performed. Antoine had to make a long détour to get on the glacier, and when he did reach the moraine on the top, he found that many of the most dangerous blocks lay beyond the reach of his axe. However, he sent the smaller débris in copious showers down the precipice, and by cleverly rolling some comparatively small boulders down upon those larger ones which lay out of reach, he succeeded in dislodging many of them. This accomplished, he proceeded to fix the stake on the upper surface of the glacier.

While he was thus occupied, the Professor assisted Lawrence in fixing the theodolite, and then, leaving him, went to a neighbouring heap of débris followed by the Captain, whom he stationed there.

“I want you,” he said, “to keep a good look-out and warn me as to which way I must run to avoid falling rocks. Antoine has dislodged many of them, but some he cannot reach. These enemies must be watched.”

So saying, the Professor placed a stake and an auger against his breast, buttoned his coat over them, and shouldered his axe.

“You don’t mean to say that you’re agoing to go under that cliff?” exclaimed the Captain, in great surprise, laying his hand on the Professor’s arm and detaining him.

“My friend,” returned the man of science, “do not detain me. Time is precious just now. You have placed yourself under my orders for the day, and, being a seaman, must understand the value of prompt obedience. Do as I bid you.”

He turned and went off at a swinging pace towards the foot of the ice-cliff, while the Captain, in a state of anxiety, amounting almost to consternation, sat down on a boulder, took off his hat, wiped his heated brow, pronounced the Professor as mad as a March hare, and prepared to discharge his duties as “the look-out.”

Although cool as a cucumber in all circumstances at sea, where he knew every danger and how to meet or avoid it, the worthy Captain now almost lost self-control and became intensely agitated and anxious, insomuch that he gave frequent and hurried false alarms, which he no less hurriedly attempted to correct, sometimes in nautical terms, much to the confusion of the Professor.

“Hallo! hi! look out—starboard—sta–a–arboard!” he shouted wildly, on beholding a rock about the size of a chest of drawers spring from the heights above and rush downward, with a smoke of ice-dust and débris following, “quick! there! no! port! Port! I say it’s—”

Before he could finish the sentence, the mass had fallen a long way to the right of the Professor, and lay quiet on the ice not far from where the Captain stood.

In spite of the interruptions thus caused, the lower stake was fixed in a few minutes. The Professor then swung his axe vigorously, and began to cut an oblique stair-case in the ice up the sheer face of the precipice.

In some respects the danger to the bold adventurer was now not so great because, being, as it were, flat against the ice-cliffs, falling rocks were more likely, by striking some projection, to bound beyond him. Still there was the danger of deflected shots, and when, by cutting a succession of notches in which to place one foot at a time, he had ascended to the height of an average three-storey house, the danger of losing his balance or slipping a foot became very great indeed. But the man of science persevered in doing what he conceived to be his duty with as much coolness as if he were the leader of a forlorn hope. Following the example of experienced ice-men on steep places, he took good care to make the notches or steps slope a little inwards, never lifted his foot from one step until the next was ready, and never swung his axe until his balance was perfectly secured. Having gained a height of about thirty feet, he pierced a hole with his auger, fastened a stake in it, and descended amid a heavy cannonade of boulders and a smart fire of smaller débris.

During the whole proceeding Lawrence directed his friend as to the placing of the stake, and watched with surprise as well as anxiety, while Captain Wopper kept on shouting unintelligible words of warning in a state of extreme agitation. The guide returned just in time to see this part of the work completed, and to remonstrate gravely with the Professor on his reckless conduct.

“‘All’s well that ends well,’ Antoine, as a great poet says,” replied the Professor, with one of his most genial smiles. “We must run some risk in the pursuit of scientific investigation. Now then, Lawrence, I hope you have got the three stakes in the same line—let me see.”

Applying his eye to the theodolite, he found that the stakes were in an exactly perpendicular line, one above another. He then carefully marked the spot occupied by the instrument and thus completed his labours for that time.

We may add here in passing that next day he returned to the same place, and found that in twenty-four hours the bottom stake had moved downwards a little more than two inches, the middle stake had descended a little more than three, and the upper stake exactly six inches. Thus he was enabled to corroborate the fact which had been ascertained by other men of science before him, that glacier-motion is more rapid at the top than at the bottom, where the friction against its bed tends to hinder its advance, and that the rate of flow increases gradually from the bottom upwards.

While these points of interest were being established, our artist was not less earnestly engaged in prosecuting his own peculiar work, to the intense interest of Gillie, who, although he had seen and admired many a picture in the London shop-windows, had never before witnessed the actual process by which such things are created.

Wandering away on the glacier among some fantastically formed and towering blocks or obelisks of ice, Mr Slingsby expressed to Gillie his admiration of their picturesque shapes and delicate blue colour, in language which his small companion did not clearly understand, but which he highly approved of notwithstanding.

“I think this one is worth painting,” cried Slingsby, pausing and throwing himself into an observant attitude before a natural arch, from the roof of which depended some large icicles; “it is extremely picturesque.”

“I think,” said Gillie, with earnest gravity, “that yonder’s one as is more picturesker.”

He had carefully watched the artist’s various observant attitudes, and now threw himself into one of these as he pointed to a sloping obelisk, the size of an average church-steeple, which bore some resemblance to the leaning-tower of Pisa.

“You are right, boy; that is a better mass. Come, let us go paint it.”

While walking towards it, Gillie asked how such wild masses came to be made.

“I am told by the Professor,” said Slingsby, “that when the ice cracks across, and afterwards lengthwise, the square blocks thus formed get detached as they descend the valley, and assume these fantastic forms.”

“Ah! jis so. They descends the walley, does they?”

“So it is said.”

Gillie made no reply, though he said in his heart, “you won’t git me to swaller that, by no manner of means.” His unbelief was, however, rebuked by the leaning-tower of Pisa giving a terrible rend at that moment, and slowly bending forward. It was an alarming as well as grand sight, for they were pretty near to it. Some smaller blocks of ice that lay below prevented the tower from being broken in its fall. These were crushed to powder by it, and then, as if they formed a convenient carriage for it, the mighty mass slid slowly down the slope for a few feet. It was checked for a moment by another block, which, however, gave way before the great pressure, fell aside and let it pass. The slope was slight at the spot so that the obelisk moved slowly, and once or twice seemed on the point of stopping, but as if it had become endowed with life, it made a sudden thrust, squeezed two or three obstacles flat, turned others aside, and thus wound its way among its fellows with a low groaning sound like some sluggish monster of the antediluvian world. Reaching a steeper part of the glacier, on the ridge of which it hung for a moment, as if unwilling to exert itself, it seemed to awake to the reality of its position. Making a lively rush, that seemed tremendously inconsistent with its weight, it shot over the edge of a yawning crevasse, burst with a thunderclap on the opposite ice-cliff, and went roaring into the dark bowels of the glacier, whence the echoes of its tumbling masses, subdued by distance, came up like the mutterings of evil spirits.

Gillie viewed this wondrous spectacle with an awe-stricken heart, and then vented his feelings in a prolonged yell of ecstasy.

“Ain’t it splendid, sir?” he cried, turning his glowing eyes on Slingsby.

“Majestic!” exclaimed the artist, whose enthusiasm was equal to that of his companion, though not quite so demonstrative.

“Raither spoiled your drawin’, though, ain’t it, sir?”

“Yonder is something quite as good, if not better,” said Slingsby.

He pointed, as he spoke, to a part of the crevasse higher up on the glacier, where a projecting cave of snow overhung the abyss. From the under-surface of this a number of gigantic icicles hung, the lower points of the longer ones almost lost in the blue depths. A good position from which to sketch it, however, was not easily reached, and it was only by getting close to the edge of the crevasse that the persevering artist at length attained his object. Here he sat down on his top-coat, folded several times to guard him from the cold ice, spread out his colour-box and sketching-block, and otherwise made himself comfortable, while Gillie sat down beside him on his own cap, for want of a better protector.

Had these two enthusiasts known the nature of their position, they would have retired from it precipitately with horror, for, ignorant of almost everything connected with glaciers, they had walked right off the solid ice and seated themselves on a comparatively thin projecting ledge of snow which overhung the crevasse. Thus they remained for some time enjoying themselves, with death, as it were, waiting for them underneath! What rendered their position more critical was the great heat of the day, which, whatever might be the strength of the sustaining ledge, was reducing its bulk continually.

After having sketched for some time, the artist thought it advisable to see as far down into the crevasse as possible, in order to put in the point of the longest icicle. The better to do this, he unwound his rope from his waist and flung it on the ice by his side, while he lay down on his breast and looked over the edge. Still he did not perceive the danger of his position, and went on sketching diligently in this awkward attitude.

Now it was a melancholy fact that Master Gillie’s interest in art or science was short-lived, though keen. He soon tired of watching his companion, and began to look about him with a view to mischief. Not seeing anything specially suggestive, he thought of aiding the operations of nature by expediting the descent of some neighbouring boulders from their positions on ice-blocks. He intimated his intention to Slingsby, but the artist was too much engrossed to give heed to him. Just as he was rising, Gillie’s eye fell on the rope, and a happy thought struck him. To carry striking thoughts into immediate execution was a marked feature of the boy’s character. He observed that one end of the rope was attached to Mr Slingsby’s belt. Taking up the hook at the other end, he went with it towards a large boulder, drawing the rope after him with extreme care, for fear of arousing his companion by a tug. He found that, when fully stretched, it was just long enough to pass round the rock. Quickly fastening it, therefore, by means of the hook, he walked quietly away.

He did not exhibit much excitement while doing this. It was, after all, but a trifling jest in his esteem, as the only result to be hoped for would be the giving of a surprise by the little tug which might perhaps be experienced by the artist on rising.

Thereafter, Gillie sent innumerable ice-blocks to premature destruction, and enjoyed the work immensely for a time, but, having exploratory tendencies, he soon wandered about among obelisks and caverns until he found himself underneath the ice-cliff on which his friend was seated. Then, as he looked up at the overhanging ledge from which gigantic icicles were hanging, a shock of alarm thrilled his little breast. This was increased by the falling of one of the icicles, which went like a blue javelin into the crevasse beside him. Gillie thought of shouting to warn Mr Slingsby of his danger, but before he could do so he was startled by an appalling yell. At the same moment part of the ice overhead gave way, and he beheld the artist descending. He was stopped with a sudden jerk, as the rope tightened, and remained suspended in the air, while his coat and colour-box accompanied icicles and snow-blocks into the abyss below. A second later and the struggling artist’s head appeared to fall off, but it was only his hat.

Gillie had by this time recovered himself so far as to be able to add his piercing shrieks for help to the cries of the artist, and well was it that day for Mr Slingsby that Gillie had, since the years of infancy, practised his lungs to some purpose in terrifying cats and defying “Bobbies” in the streets of London.

“Oh, sir! sir!—I say—hi!” he cried, panting and glaring up.

“Eh? what? Hah!” gasped Slingsby, panting and glaring down.

“Don’t kick like that sir; pray don’t,” cried Gillie in agonised tones, “you’ll start the boulder wot yer fast to, if you don’t keep still.”

“Oh!” groaned the artist and instantly hung limp and motionless, in which condition he remained while Gillie ran towards the place where he had left the rest of the party, jumping and slipping and falling and yelling over the ice like a maniac in blue and buttons!

“D’ee hear that?” exclaimed Captain Wopper with a startled look, as he and his companions busied themselves packing up their instruments.

Antoine Grennon heard it but made no reply. He was familiar with cries of alarm. Turning abruptly he dashed off at full speed in the direction whence the cries came. The Captain and Professor instantly followed; Lawrence overtook and passed them. In a few minutes they met the terrified boy, who, instead of waiting for them and wasting time by telling what was wrong, turned sharp round, gave one wild wave of his hand, and ran straight back to the ledge from which poor Slingsby hung. Stout willing arms were soon pulling cautiously on the rope, and in a few minutes more the artist lay upon the safe ice, almost speechless from terror, and with a deadly pallor on his brow.

Strange to say the indomitable artist had held on tight to his sketch-book, possibly because it was almost as dear to him as life, but more probably because of that feeling which induces a drowning man to clutch at a straw.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Grand Ascent Begun.

Mrs Stoutley, reposing at full length on a sofa in the salon one evening, observed to the Count Horetzki that she really could not understand it at all; that it seemed to her a tempting of Providence to risk one’s life for nothing, and that upon the whole she thought these excursions on glaciers were very useless and foolish.

The salon was full of people grouped in little knots, fighting the battles of the day o’er again, playing backgammon and chess, or poring over maps and guide-books.

“It does indeed seem foolish,” answered the Count whose native politeness induced him always to agree with ladies when possible, “and as far as any practical purpose is served I should think it useless. Nevertheless it seems to afford amusement to many people, and amusement, in some form or other, would appear to be almost necessary to our happy existence.”

“True,” replied Mrs Stoutley, languidly, “but people ought to content themselves with quiet and safe amusements. How ridiculous it is to find pleasure in climbing ice-precipices, and leaping over crevasses, and sitting under shower-baths of boulder-stones. I’m sure that I could not find pleasure in such pranks even if I were to make the effort. How much better to seek and find enjoyment in wandering with a book through shady forests and gathering wild-flowers! Don’t you agree with me, Count?”

The Count’s usually grave and anxious visage relaxed into a smile as he protested that he agreed with her entirely. “At the same time,” he added, “there does appear to be some sort of aspiring tendency in the young and strong, to attempt the repression of which would seem to be useless, even if desirable. Do you know, Madame, while on a voyage some years ago I saw a boy who used to dive off the fore-yard-arm into the sea, and who went regularly every morning before breakfast to the main-mast-head and sat on that button-like piece of wood called the truck?”

“How very reckless,” said Mrs Stoutley, “and how shamefully regardless of the feelings of his mother, for of course if he had a mother, and if she were a woman of right feeling, she must have been horrified!”

“I am afraid, Madame, that you would have esteemed her a lady of wrong feeling, for she applauded her boy, and used to say that if he only took care to acquire as much moral as he had physical courage, so as to become as brave and bold a soldier of the Cross as he was sure to be of the Crown, he would resemble his own father, who was the best and bravest man that ever lived.”

“How strange!” murmured Mrs Stoutley, “such inconsistencies! But there does seem to be a considerable number of masculine women in the world, who encourage what we call muscular Christianity.”

“Yes, there are indeed strange inconsistencies around us,” returned the Count. “You have, however, mistaken the character of this particular mother, for she was the reverse of masculine, being delicate, and tender-hearted, and refined, and ladylike, while her boy was bold as a lion—yet obedient and gentle to her as a lamb. He afterwards became a soldier, and on the occasion of a wild storm on the east coast of England he swam off to a wreck with a rope, when no man in the place could be got to do it for love or money, and was the means of rescuing four women and six men, in accomplishing which, however, he lost his life.”

“Oh, how shocking! how very sad!” said Mrs Stoutley, startled into animation by the suddenness of the revelation, “and how different it might have been if the youth had been trained to gentler amusements. He might have been alive now.”

“Yes,” returned the Count, “and the four women and six men might have been dead! But here come two friends who are better able to give an opinion on the point than I am.”

“What may the pint be?” asked Captain Wopper, with a genial smile, as if he were ready to tackle anything from a pint of beer to a “pint” of the compass. “Only state your case, Mrs Stoutley, an’ the Professor here, he’ll act the judge, an’ I’ll be the jury.”

“The jury is too small,” said Lewis, coming up at that moment.

“Small, young man!” repeated the Captain, with feigned surprise, as he drew himself up to his full height and squared his broad shoulders.

“Not physically, but numerically,” retorted Lewis, with a laugh—“ho! Emma, Miss Horetzki, Lawrence, Slingsby,” he called to the quartette, who sat chatting in a bay window, “you are hereby summoned to act on a jury. Come along and have yourselves impaled—I mean to say impannelled. A most important case, just going on for trial.”

“What is the nature of the case?” asked Lawrence, as they all came forward and sat down in a semicircle before Mrs Stoutley.

“It han’t got no natur—it’s unnateral altogether,” said the Captain, who had just heard it briefly stated by the Count.

“Hallo! are you appointed public prosecutor?” demanded Lewis.

“Yes, I am,” retorted the Captain, “I’ve appinted myself public persecuter, Lord Advocate, Lord High Commissioner to the Woolsack, an’ any other legal an’ illegal character ye choose to name. So you clap a stopper on yer muzzle, youngster, while I state the case. Here is Mrs Stoutley, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, who says that climbin’, an’ gaugin’, and glaciers is foolish and useless. That’s two counts which the Count here (nothin’ personal meant) says the prisoner was guilty of. We’ll go in an’ win on the last count, for if these things ain’t useless, d’ee see, they can’t be foolish. Well, the question is, ‘Guilty or not guilty?’”

“Guilty!” replied Mrs Stoutley, with an amused smile.

“Hear! hear!” from Slingsby.

“Silence in the Court!” from Lewis.

“I’m afraid,” said the Professor, “that our forms of legal procedure are somewhat irregular.”

“Never mind that, Professor,” said the Captain, “you go ahead an’ prove the prisoner wrong. Take the wind out of her sails if ’ee can.”

The Professor smiled blandly, and began in jest; but his enthusiastic spirit and love of abstract truth soon made him argue in earnest.

“Oh, that’s all very well,” said Mrs Stoutley, interrupting him, “but what possible use can there be in knowing the rate of speed at which a glacier flows? What does it matter whether it flows six, or sixty, or six hundred feet in a day?”

“Matter!” cried Lewis, before the Professor could reply, “why, it matters very much indeed. I can prove it. Our excellent guide Antoine told me of a man who fell into a crevasse high up on the Glacier des Bossons, and was of course lost; but about forty years afterwards the part of the glacier into which he fell had descended into the valley, and the body of the man was found—at least portions of it were found here and there. This, as you are all aware, is a well-known fact. Bear in mind, in connection with this, that all glaciers do not travel at the same rate, nor all parts of a glacier at an equal rate. Now, suppose that you were to lose a gold watch or a diamond ring in a crevasse, the value of which might be incalculable in consequence of being a gift from some beloved one, would it not be a matter of the last importance to know exactly the rate at which the said crevasse travelled, so that you or your grandchildren might return at the precise time and claim the property?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Lewie,” said his mother.

“No doubt,” said the Professor, laughing, “my young friend’s illustration is to the point, and I fear that I cannot give you anything more definite to prove the value of glacial measurements and observations. I must rest my proof on the abstract truth that all knowledge is desirable, and ought to be sought after for its own sake, as being the means whereby we shall come better to know the good and wise Creator, ‘whom to know,’ as His own Word says, ‘is life eternal’ But I can give you distinct proof, in a somewhat analogous case, of good resulting from knowledge which was eagerly pursued and acquired without the searcher having the slightest idea as to the use to which his knowledge would be ultimately put. You have doubtless heard of Captain Maury, of the United States Navy?”

“Oh yes,” replied Mrs Stoutley, “he who writes that charming book, the Physical Geography of the Sea, or some such title. My son is a great admirer of that work. I tried to read it to please him, but I must confess that I could not go far into it. It seemed to me an endless and useless search after currents of wind and water.”

“I see you must have missed the very illustrations which I am about to cite, for they are given in his book—one of the most interesting I ever read, and not the less interesting that its author distinguishes a connection between the Creator’s Word and His works. You know that Captain Maury’s investigations of currents of wind and water were conducted wisely, and on a vast scale. Nautical men of many nations sent in their ‘logs’ to him, and he patiently collected and collated all the facts observed in all parts of the ocean.”

“Yes, and quite useless knowledge, it appears to me,” said Mrs Stoutley.

“Well, we shall see,” returned the Professor. “There was once a terrible storm on the Atlantic, and a vessel with troops on board was so disabled as to be left at last a helpless log upon the sea. She was passed by other vessels, but these could render no assistance, owing to the raging storm. They, however, took note of the latitude and longitude of the wreck, and reported her on arriving at New York. A rescue-ship was at once ordered to search for her, but, before sailing, Captain Maury was applied to for instructions how they should proceed. The man of science was seated in his study, had probably scarce observed the storm, and knew nothing about the wreck save her position, as observed at a certain date. Why, therefore, we might ask; apply to him? Just because he sat at the fountain-head of such knowledge as was needed. He had long studied, and well knew, the currents of the ocean, their direction and their rate of progress at specified times and particular places. He prepared a chart and marked a spot at, or near which, the wreck, he said, would probably be found. The wreck was found—not indeed by the rescue-ship, but by another vessel, at the very spot indicated—and the surviving crew and troops were saved. So, in like manner, the study of truth regarding currents of air has led us to knowledge which enables mariners to escape the Atlantic Sargasso-sea—”

“Ha! the Doldrums,” growled Captain Wopper, as if he had a special and bitter hatred of that sea. “Yes, the Doldrums, or Sargasso-sea, where ships used to be detained by long, vexatious calms, and islands of floating sea-weed, but which now we escape, because studious men have pointed out, that by sailing to one side of that sea you can get into favourable breezes, avoid the calm regions, and thus save much time.”

“Now, Madame,” said Captain Wopper, “are you convinced?”

“Not quite,” replied Mrs Stoutley, with a baffled look; “but, I suppose, on the strength of this, and similar reasons, you intend to ascend Mont Blanc to-morrow?”

“We do,” said the Professor. “I intend to go for the purpose of attempting to fix a thermometer on the summit, in order to ascertain, if possible, the winter temperature.”

“And pray, for what purpose?” said Mrs Stoutley with a touch of sarcasm, “does Dr Lawrence intend to go?”

“For the purpose of seeing the magnificent view, and of testing the lungs and muscles, which are now, I think, sufficiently trained to enable me to make the ascent with ease,” replied the doctor, promptly.

“I go to assist the Professor,” said Captain Wopper.

“And I,” said Lewis, “intend to go for fun; so you see, mother, as our reasons are all good, you had better go to bed, for it’s getting late.”

Mrs Stoutley accepted the suggestion, delivered a yawn into her pocket-handkerchief, and retired, as she remarked, to ascend Mont Blanc in dreams, and thus have all the pleasure without the bodily fatigue.

We are on the sides of the mountain monarch now, slowly wending our way through the sable fringe of pines that ornaments the skirt of his white mantle. We tramp along very slowly, for Antoine Grennon is in front and won’t allow us to go faster. To the impatient and youthful spirits of Lawrence and Lewis, the pace appears ridiculously slow, and the latter does not hesitate to make audible reference in his best French to the progress of snails, but Antoine is deaf to such references. One might fancy that he did not understand bad French, but for the momentary twinkle in his earnest eyes. But nothing will induce him to mend his pace, for well does he know that the ascent of Mont Blanc is no trifle; that even trained lungs and muscles are pretty severely taxed before the fifteen thousand seven hundred and eighty feet of perpendicular height above the sea-level is placed below the soles of the feet. He knows, also, from long experience, that he who would climb a mountain well, and use his strength to advantage, must begin with a slow, leisurely pace, as if he were merely out for a saunter, yet must progress with steady, persevering regularity. He knows, too, that young blood is prone to breast a mountain with head erect and spanking action, and to descend with woeful countenance and limp limbs. It must be restrained, and Antoine does his duty.

The ascent of Mont Blanc cannot be accomplished in one day. It is therefore necessary to sleep at a place named the Grands Mulets, from which a fresh start is made for the summit at the earliest hours of morning on the second day. Towards this resting-place our travellers now directed their steps.

The party consisted of the Professor, Captain Wopper, Lewis, Lawrence, and Slingsby, headed by their trusty guide, besides three porters with knapsacks containing food, wine, etcetera. One of these latter was the chamois-hunter, Baptist Le Croix. He brought up the rear of the party, and all proceeded in single file, each, like the North American Indian, treading in his predecessor’s footsteps.

Passing from the dark fringe of pines they emerged upon a more open country where the royal robe was wrought with larch and hazel, bilberry, and varied underwood, and speckled with rhododendrons and other flowers on a ground of rich brown, green, and grey. Steadily upwards, over the Glacier des Bossons, they went, with airy cloudlets floating around them, with the summit at which they aimed, the Dôme du Gouter, and the Aiguille du Gouter in front, luring them on, and other giant Aiguilles around watching them. Several hours of steady climbing brought them to the Pierre l’Échelle, where they were furnished with woollen leggings to protect their legs from the snow. Here also they procured a ladder and began the tedious work of traversing the glaciers. Hitherto their route had lain chiefly on solid ground—over grassy slopes and along rocky paths. It was now to be confined almost entirely to the ice, which they found to be cut up in all directions with fissures, so that great caution was needed in crossing crevasses and creeping round slippery ridges, and progress was for some time very slow.

Coming to one of the crevasses which was too wide to leap, the ladder was put in requisition. The iron spikes with which one end of it was shod were driven firmly into the ice at one side of the chasm and the other end rested on the opposite side.

Antoine crossed first and then held out his hand to the Professor, who followed, but the man of science was an expert ice-man, and in another moment stood at the guide’s side without having required assistance. Not so Captain Wopper.

“I’m not exactly a feather,” he said, looking with a doubtful expression at the frail bridge.

“It bore me well enough, Captain,” said the Professor with a smile.

“That’s just what it didn’t,” replied the Captain, “it seemed to me to bend too much under you; besides, although I’m bound to admit that you’re a good lump of a man, Professor, I suspect there’s a couple of stones more on me than on you. If it was only a rope, now, such as I’ve bin used to, I’d go at it at once, but—”

“It is quite strong enough,” said the guide confidently.

“Well, here goes,” returned the mariner, “but if it gives way, Antoine, I’ll have you hanged for murder.”

Uttering this threat he crossed in safety, the others followed, and the party advanced over a part of the glacier which was rugged with mounds, towers, obelisks, and pyramids of ice. For some time nothing serious interrupted their progress until they came to another wide crevasse, when it was found, to the guide’s indignation, that the ladder had been purposely left behind by the porter to whom it had been intrusted, he being under the impression that it would not be further required.

“Blockhead!” cried the Professor, whose enthusiastic spirit was easily roused to indignation, “it was your duty to carry it till ordered to lay it down. You were hired to act, sir, not to think. Obedience is the highest virtue of a servant! Shall we send him back for it?” he said, turning to Antoine with a flushed countenance.

“Not now, Monsieur,” answered the guide, “it would create needless delay. We shall try to work round the crevasse.”

This they did by following its edge until they found a part where crossing was possible, though attended with considerable danger in consequence of the wedge-like and crumbling nature of the ice.

Hoping that such a difficulty would not occur again they pushed on, but had not gone far when another, and still more impassable, fissure presented itself.

“How provoking, couldn’t we jump it?” said Lewis, looking inquiringly into the dark-blue depths.

“Pr’aps you might, youngster, with your half fledged spider-legs,” said the Captain, “but you’ll not catch fourteen-stun-six goin’ over that with its own free will. What’s to be done now, Antoine?”

The guide, after looking at the crevasse for a few minutes, said that the next thing to be done was to look for a snow-bridge, which he had no doubt would be found somewhere. In search of this he scattered the whole party, and in a few minutes a loud shout from the chamois-hunter told that he had been successful. The members of the party at once converged towards him, but found that the success was only partial. He had indeed found a part of the crevasse, which, during some of the wild storms so frequent on the mountain, had been bridged over by a snow-wreath, but the central part of the bridge had given way, and it was thus divided by a gap of about a foot wide. This would have been but a small and insignificant step to take had the substance been solid, but although the ice on one side was strong the opposite edge was comparatively soft snow, and not much more than a foot thick. The chamois-hunter, being the lightest of the party, was called to the front and ordered to test the strength of the frail bridge, if bridge it could be called.

“Why, he might as well try to step on a bit of sea-foam,” said the Captain in surprise.

Lawrence, Lewis, and Slingsby, having as yet had no experience of such places, expressed, or held a similar opinion, but the Professor bade them wait and see.

Baptist, throwing off his pack, and fastening a rope round his waist, which his comrades held, advanced to the extreme edge of the ice, and with his long-handled axe, gently patted the snow on the opposite side. The surface yielded, and it seemed as if even that small weight would break the lump off, but the operation consolidated the mass in a few minutes, by reason of what the Professor termed “regelation.” He then stepped tenderly on it, crossed over, and drew the rope after him. Antoine followed next, and in a few minutes the whole party was safe on the other side.

“Dr Lawrence,” said Slingsby, in a low grave tone, as they walked along after this, “if we ever see Chamouni again I shall be surprised.”

“Indeed?” returned Lawrence, with a short laugh, “I don’t take quite so gloomy a view of our case. Don’t you think that the free and easy, quiet look of our guide and porters indicates that such work looks more dangerous than it really is?”

“I don’t know that,” said the artist, shaking his head, “when men get thoroughly accustomed to danger they become foolhardy, and don’t realise it. I think it sheer madness to cross such places.”

Lewis, who overheard the conversation, could scarce refrain from a burst of laughter.

“Upon my word, Slingsby,” said he, “such observations come strangely from the lips of a man, who only a day or two ago was caught sketching on a snow-wreath over the edge of a crevasse.”

“Ah, but I didn’t know it,” retorted the other, “and even if I had known it, the ledge of snow was immensely stronger than that on which we have just stood.”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the guide stopping and saying that it was now necessary to tie the party together.

They had reached those higher parts of the glacier where snow frequently falls and covers, to some extent the narrower crevasses, thus, by concealing them, rendering them extremely dangerous traps. It therefore became necessary to attach the various members of the party together by means of a rope, which, passing round their waists, with a few feet between each, enabled them to rescue any one who should chance to break through.

Thus, in a string, they advanced, and had scarcely proceeded a hundred yards when a surprised “hallo!” from Captain Wopper arrested them. He had sunk up to the knees in snow. A “hallo!” of alarm instantly succeeded. He was waist deep. A stentorian yell followed:

“Ho! hallo! hi!—avast! Hold on there abaft! My legs are waublin’ in nothin’!”

His great weight had indeed nearly plunged him into a hidden crevasse, over which those who preceded him had passed in safety. If the Captain had stood alone that crevasse would certainly have been his grave, but his friends held him tight, and in a few seconds he was dragged out of danger.

“Well, well,” he said, wiping some large drops of perspiration from his brow, as he stood on the other side of the chasm, “land-lubbers talk about seafarin’ men havin’ nothin’ but a plank between them an’ death, but to my thinkin’ the rottenest plank that ever was launched is absolute safety compared to ‘a snow-wreath.’”

“Ah! Captain,” said the Professor, laughing, “you think so just now because you’re not used to it. In a few weeks you’ll hold a different opinion.”

“May be so,” replied the Captain quietly, “but it don’t feel so—heave ahead, my hearties!”

Thus encouraged the party proceeded with caution, the guide sounding the snow at each step with his long axe-handle as he moved in advance.

Slowly they mounted higher and higher, occasionally meeting with, but always overcoming, difficulties, until towards evening they reached the little log cabin on the Grands Mulets, not sorry to find in it a sufficient though humble resting-place for the night.

Here they proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Some firewood had been carried up by the porters, with which a fire was kindled, wet garments were hung up to dry, and hot coffee was prepared, while the sun sank in a gorgeous world of amber and crimson fire.

One by one the stars came out and gradually twinkled into brilliancy, until at last the glorious host of heaven shone in the deepening sky with an intensity of lustre that cannot be described, contrasting strangely with the pallid ghostly aspect of the surrounding snow-fields. These were the only trace of earth that now remained to greet the eyes of our travellers when they looked forth from the door of the little hut. Besides being calm and beautiful, the night was intensely cold. There is this peculiarity, on Alpine mountain tops, that when the sun’s last rays desert them the temperature falls abruptly, there being little or nothing of earth or rock to conserve the heat poured out during the day. The mountaineers, therefore, soon after night closed in, found it necessary to shut the door of their cabin, where they roused up the fire, quaffed their steaming coffee, and smoked their pipes, in joyful anticipation of the coming day.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Grand Ascent Continued and Completed.

Need we say that the younger of our adventurers—for such they may truly be styled—felt a tendency to “spin yarns,” as Captain Wopper expressed it, till a late hour that night, as they sat round the fire at the Grands Mulets?

During this enjoyable period, Lawrence and Lewis made themselves better acquainted with Baptist Le Croix, the chamois-hunter, whose quiet, gentle, and unobtrusive manner was very attractive to them. Many an anecdote did he relate of adventures among the Alpine peaks and passes while pursuing the chamois, or guiding travellers on their way, and it is probable that he might have roamed in spirit among his beloved haunts—eagerly followed in spirit by the young men—if he had not been called to order by the guide, who, remembering the hard work that lay before them on the morrow, suggested repose. The profound silence that soon reigned in the hut was broken only by an occasional long-drawn sigh. Even Captain Wopper was quiet, having been so powerfully influenced by fresh mountain air and exercise as to have forgotten or foregone his ordinary and inveterate snore.

There is something peculiarly disagreeable in being awakened, when one is very tired and sleepy, about two minutes after one has dropped into a profound refreshing slumber; and the annoyance is severely aggravated when it is caused by the wanton act of one of whom we had expected better things.

So, in a hazy way, thought Lewis Stoutley when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and heard the voice of Antoine Grennon.

“Monsieur! Monsieur!” said the guide.

“G–t—long. D–n borer me,” murmured Lewis, in tones so sleepy that the dash of crossness was barely perceptible.

“It is time to rise, sir,” persisted Antoine.

“’Mposs’ble—’v jus’ b’n two min’ts sl–e—”

A profound sigh formed an eloquent peroration to the sentence.

A loud laugh from his companions, who were already up and getting ready, did more than the guide’s powers of suasion to arouse the heavy sleeper. He started to a sitting posture, stared with imbecile surprise at the candle which dimly lighted the cabin, and yawned vociferously.

“What a sleeper you are, Lewie!” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as, on his knees before the fire, he busied himself in preparing coffee for the party.

“And such a growler, too, when any one touches you,” observed Slingsby, buttoning on his leggings.

“Sleeper! growler!” groaned Lewis, “you’ve only given me five minutes in which to sleep or growl.”

“Ah, the happy obliviousness of youth!” said the Professor, assisting one of the porters to strap up the scientific instruments, “you have been asleep four hours at least. It is now past one. We must start in less than an hour, so bestir yourself—and pray, Dr Lawrence, make haste with that coffee.”

The doctor was by no means slow in his operations, but the difficulties in his way delayed him. At such a height, and in such a frozen region, the only mode of procuring water was to place a panful of snow on the fire; and, no matter how full the pan might be stuffed with it, this snow, when melted, was reduced to only a very small quantity of water; more snow had, therefore, to be added and melted, so that much time was spent before the boiling point was reached. Patience, however, was at last rewarded with a steaming draught, which, with bread and ham, did more than fire towards warming their chill bodies.

Outside, the scene was still exquisitely calm and beautiful. The stars appeared to have gathered fresh brilliancy and to have increased in number during the night. Those of them near the horizon, as the Professor pointed out, twinkled energetically, as if they had just risen, and, like Lewis, were sleepy, while those in the zenith shone with steady lustre, as if particularly wide awake to the doings of the presumptuous men who were climbing so much nearer than usual to their habitation in the sky. One star in particular gleamed with a sheen that was pre-eminently glorious—now it was ruby red, now metallic blue, anon emerald green. Of course, no sunlight would tinge the horizon for several hours, but the bright moon, which had just risen, rolled floods of silver over the snowy wastes, rendering unnecessary the lantern which had been provided to illumine their upward path.

The party, having been tied together with a rope as on the previous day, set forth in line over the snow, each following the other, and soon they were doing battle with the deep crevasses. The nature of the ice varied, of course, with the form of the mountain, sometimes presenting rugged and difficult places, in which, as the Captain put it, they got among breakers and had to steer with caution, at other times presenting comparatively level plains of snow over which all was “plain sailing,” but the movement was upwards—ever upwards—and, as the day advanced, felt so prolonged that, at last, as Slingsby said, the climbing motion grew into a confirmed habit. Meanwhile the old world sank steadily below them, and, seen from such an elevation in the pale moonlight, lost much of its familiar look.

Even sounds appeared gradually to die out of that mysterious region, for when they chanced to pause for a moment to recover breath, or to gaze downward, each appeared unwilling to break the excessive stillness, and all seemed to listen intently, as it were, to the soundlessness around—hearing nought, however, save the beating of their own pulsations. In such a spot, if unaccompanied by guide or friend, one might perhaps realise, more than in other parts of earth, the significance of the phrase, “Alone with God.”

As dawn approached, Lewis, who had taken care to have himself placed next to Baptist Le Croix, renewed his converse in reference to chamois-hunting, and made arrangements to accompany the hunter on one of his expeditions.

“Is that your sole occupation?” he asked, as the party entered upon a somewhat level snow-field.

“That and assisting travellers,” answered Baptist.

“By the way,” said Lewis, in a careless tone, “they tell me that gold is to be found in some parts of these mountains. Is that true?”

If the youth’s back had not been towards the hunter, who walked behind him, he might have seen that this question was received with a startled look, and that a strange gleam shot from the man’s eyes. The question was repeated before he answered it.

“Yes,” said he, in a low voice, “they say it is to be found—but I have never found it.”

“Have you sought much for it?”

“I have sought for it.”

The answer was not given promptly, and Lewis found, with some surprise, that the subject appeared to be distasteful to the hunter. He therefore dropped it and walked on in silence.

Walking at the time was comparatively easy, for a sharp frost had hardened the surface of the snow, and the gem-like lights of heaven enabled them to traverse valleys of ice, clamber up snow-slopes and cross crevasses without danger, except in one or two places, where the natural snow-bridges were frail and the chasms unusually wide.

At one of these crevasses they were brought to a complete standstill. It was too wide to be leaped, and no bridge was to be found. The movements of a glacier cause the continual shifting of its parts, so that, although rugged or smooth spots are always sure to be found at the same parts of the glacier each year, there is, nevertheless, annual variety in minute detail. Hence the most expert guides are sometimes puzzled as to routes.

The crevasse in question was a new one, and it was Antoine’s first ascent of Mont Blanc for that year, so that he had to explore for a passage just as if he had never been there before. The party turned to the left and marched along the edge of the chasm some distance, but no bridge could be found. The ice became more broken up, smaller crevasses intersected the large one, and at last a place was reached where the chaos of dislocation rendered further advance impossible.

“Lost your bearin’s, Antoine?” asked Captain Wopper.

“No; I have only got into difficulties,” replied the guide, with a quiet smile.

“Just so—breakers ahead. Well, I suppose you’ll ’bout ship an’ run along the coast till we find a channel.”

This was precisely what Antoine meant to do, and did, but it was not until more than an hour had been lost that a safe bridge was found. When they had crossed, the configuration of the ice forced them to adopt a route which they would willingly have avoided. A steep incline of snow rose on their right, on the heights above which loose ice-grags were poised as if on the point of falling. Indeed, two or three tracks were passed, down which, probably at no distant period, some of these avalanches had shot. It was nervous work passing under them. Even Antoine looked up at them with a grave, inquiring glance, and hastened his pace as much as was consistent with comfort and dignity.

Soon after this the sun began to rise, and the upper portions of the snow were irradiated with pink splendour, but to our travellers he had not yet risen, owing to the intervening peaks of the Aiguille du Midi. In the brightening light they emerged upon a plain named the Petit Plateau, which forms a reservoir for the avalanches of the Dôme du Gouté. Above them rose the mountain-crest in three grand masses, divided from each other by rents, which exposed that peculiar stratified form of the glacier caused by the annual bedding of the snow. From the heights, innumerable avalanches had descended, strewing the spot where they stood with huge blocks of ice and masses of rock.

Threading their way through these impediments was a matter not only of time, but of difficulty, for in some parts the spaces between the boulders and blocks were hollow, and covered with thin crusts of snow, which gave way the instant a foot was set on them, plunging up to their waists the unfortunates who trod there, with a shock which usually called forth shouts of astonishment not unmingled with consternation.

“Here, then, we draw near to the grand summit,” said the Professor, pointing to the snow-cliffs on the right, “whence originates the ice-fountain that supplies such mighty ice-rivers as the Glacier des Bossons and the Mer de Glace.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” replied Antoine, smiling, “we draw near, but we are not yet near.”

“We are nearer to the summit however, than we are to the plain,” retorted the Professor.

“Truly, yes,” assented the guide.

“I should think no one could doubt that,” observed Slingsby, looking upwards.

“It looks quite near now,” said Lewis.

“Not so near, however, as you think, and as you shall find,” rejoined the guide, as they resumed their upward march.

This was indeed true. Nothing is more deceptive to an inexperienced eye than the apparent distance of a high mountain-top. When you imagine that the plain below is miles and miles away, and the peak above close at hand, you find, perhaps, on consulting your watch, that the plain cannot be very far distant, and that the greater part of your work still lies before you. It requires no small amount of resolution to bear up against the depression of spirit caused by frequent mistakes in this matter.

Owing to the increasing height and power of the sun, the snow beyond the Petit Plateau soon became soft, and the steepness of the ascent increasing, their advance became slower, and their work much more laborious. A pleasant break was, however, at hand, for, on reaching the Grand Plateau, they were cheered by the sun’s rays beaming directly on them, and by the information that they had at length reached their breakfast-point.

It may not be a very romantic, but it is an interesting fact, that the joys connected with intellectual and material food are intimately blended. Man, without intellectual food, becomes a “lower animal.” What intellectual man is without material food, even for part of a day, let those testify who have had the misfortune to go on a pic-nic, and discover that an essential element of diet had been forgotten. It is not merely that food is necessary to maintain our strength; were that so, a five minutes’ pause, or ten at the outside, would suffice, in Captain Wopper’s phraseology, to take in cargo, or coal the human engine; but we “rejoice in food,” and we believe that none enjoy it so much as those whose intellectual appetite is strong. If any doubters of these truths had witnessed the Professor and his friends at breakfast that morning on the Grand Plateau, they must have infallibly been convinced.

“What a gourmand he is!” whispered Lewis to the Captain, in reference to the man of science, “and such a genial outflow of wit to correspond with his amazing indraught of wittles.”

The Captain’s teeth were at the moment fixed with almost tigerish ferocity in a chicken drumstick, but the humour and the amazing novelty—to say nothing of the truth—of Lewis’s remark made him remove the drumstick, and give vent to a roar of laughter that shook the very summit of Mont Blanc—at all events the Professor said it did, and he was a man who weighed his words and considered well his sentiments.

“Do not imagine that I exaggerate,” he said, as distinctly as was compatible with a very large mouthful of ham and bread, “sound is a motion of vibration, not of translation. That delightfully sonorous laugh emitted by Captain Wopper (pass the wine, Slingsby—thanks) was an impulse or push delivered by his organs of respiration to the particles of air in immediate contact with his magnificent beard. The impulse thus given to the air was re-delivered or passed on, not as I pass the mutton to Dr Lawrence (whose plate is almost empty), but by each particle of air passing the impulse to its neighbour; thus creating an aerial wave, or multitude of waves, which rolled away into space. Those of the waves which rolled in the direction of Mont Blanc communicated their vibrations to the more solid atoms of the mountain, these passed the motion on to each other, of course with slight—inconceivably slight—but actual force, and thus the tremor passed entirely through the mountain, out on the other side, greatly diminished in power no doubt, and right on throughout space.—Hand me the bread, Lewis, and don’t sit grinning there like a Cheshire cat with tic-douloureux in its tail.”

At this Slingsby laughed and shook the mountain again, besides overturning a bottle of water, and upsetting the gravity of Antoine Grennon, who chanced to be looking at him; for the artist’s mouth, being large, and also queerly shaped, appeared to the guide somewhat ludicrous. Sympathy, like waves of sound, is easily transmitted. Thus, on the Captain making to Antoine the very simple remark that the “mootong was mannyfeek,” there was a general roar that ought to have brought Mont Blanc down about their ears. But it didn’t—it only shook him. Laughter and sympathy combined improve digestion and strengthen appetite. Thus the Professor’s brilliant coruscations, and the appreciative condition of his audience, created an enjoyment of that morning’s meal which was remembered with pleasure long after the event, and induced an excessive consumption of food, which called forth the remonstrances of the guide, who had to remind his uproarious flock that a portion must be reserved for the descent. To the propriety of this Lewis not only assented, but said that he meant to continue the ascent, and rose for that purpose, whereupon the Doctor said that he dissented entirely from the notion that bad puns increased the hilarity of a party, and the Captain, giving an impulse to the atmosphere with his respiratory organs, produced the sound “Avast!” and advised them to clap a stopper in their potato-traps.

Even at these sallies they all laughed—proving, among other things, that mountain air and exercise, combined with intellectual and physical food, are conducive to easy-going good humour.

It is not impossible that the tremors to which Mont Blanc had been subjected that morning had put him a little out of humour, for our mountaineers had scarcely recommenced their upward toil when he shrouded his summit in a few fleecy clouds. The guide shook his head at this.

“I fear the weather won’t hold,” he said.

“Won’t hold!” exclaimed the Captain, “why, it’s holdin’ now as hard as it can grip.”

“True,” observed the Professor; “but weather in these regions is apt to change its mood rather suddenly.”

“Yet there seems to me no sign of an unfavourable change,” said Lawrence, looking up at the blue and almost cloudless sky.

“Fleecy clouds are fleeting at times,” returned the Professor, pointing to the summit which again showed its cap of clear dazzling white, “but at other times they are indicative of conditions that tend to storm. However, we must push on and hope for the best.”

They did push on accordingly, and all, except the guide, had no difficulty in “hoping.” As they passed over the Plateau the sun poured floods of light on the snow, from the little crystals of which it shone with prismatic colours, as though the place had been strewn with diamonds. The spirit of levity was put to flight by this splendid spectacle, and the feelings of the travellers were deepened to solemnity when the guide pointed to a yawning crevasse into which, he said, three guides were hurled by an avalanche in the year 1820. He also related how, on one occasion, a party of eleven tourists perished, not far from where they then stood, during a terrible storm, and how an English lady and her guide were, at another time, lost in a neighbouring crevasse.

By this time all except the chief among the surrounding heights were beginning to look insignificant by comparison, and the country assumed a sort of rugged flatness in consequence of being looked down upon from such an elevation. Passing the Grand Plateau they reached a steep incline, which rose towards a tremendous ice-precipice. From the upper edge of this there hung gigantic icicles. Up the incline they went slowly, for the crust of the snow broke down at every step, and the Captain, being heavy, began to show symptoms of excessive heat and labouring breath, but he grew comparatively cool on coming to a snow-bridge which had to be passed in order to get over a crevasse.

“It’ll never bear my weight,” he said, looking doubtfully at the frail bridge, and at the blue gulf, which appeared to be a bottomless pit.

Antoine, however, thought it might prove strong enough. He patted the snow gently, as on previous occasions of a similar kind, and advanced with caution, while his followers fixed their heels in the snow, and held tight to the rope to save him if he should break through. He passed in safety, and the others followed, but new difficulties awaited them on the other side. Just beyond this bridge they came to a slope from which the snow had been completely swept, leaving the surface of hard ice exposed. It was so steep that walking on it was impossible. Antoine, therefore, proceeded to cut steps along its face. Two swings of his ponderous mountain-axe were sufficient to cut each step in the brittle ice, and in a few minutes the whole party were on the slope, every man having a coil of the rope round his waist, while, with the spike of his alpenstock driven firmly into the ice, he steadied himself before taking each successive step.

There would have been no difficulty in crossing such a slope if its base had terminated in snow, but as it went straight down to the brow of an ice-precipice, and then abruptly terminated in a cornice, from which the giant icicles, before mentioned, hung down into an unfathomable abyss, each man knew that a false step, a slip, or the loss of balance, might result in the instant destruction of the whole party. They moved therefore very slowly, keeping their eyes steadily fixed on their feet.

The mercurial temperament of Mr Slingsby was severely tried at this point. His desire to look up and revel in the beauties of nature around him proved too strong a temptation. While gazing with feelings of awe at the terrible edge or cornice below he became, for the first time, fully alive to his situation,—the smallness of the step of ice on which he stood, the exceeding steepness of the glassy slope below, the dread abyss beyond! He shut his eyes; a giddy feeling came over him—a rush of horror.

“Take care, Monsieur!” was uttered in a quick, deep tone, behind him.

It was the warning voice of Le Croix, who observed his condition.

The warning came too late. Slingsby wavered, threw up his arms, slipped, and fell with an appalling shriek.

Le Croix, however, was prepared. In an instant he had fixed his staff and heels firmly, and had leaned well back to resist the pull. The porter in front was not less prompt; the stout rope stood the strain; and in another moment the artist was restored to his position, panting, pale, and humbled.

A few minutes sufficed to restore his confidence sufficiently to admit of his proceeding, and, with many warnings to be more cautious, the advance was continued.

Up to this point the weather had favoured them, but now Mont Blanc seemed as if inclined to resent the free and easy way in which these men of mingled muscle and science had attacked his crown. He drew several ominous clouds around him, and shook out a flood of hoary locks from his white head, which, caught up by a blast, created apparently for the purpose, were whirled aloft in wild confusion, and swooped down upon the mountaineers with bitter emphasis, in the form of snow-drift, as if they had come direct from Captain Wopper’s favourite place of reference,—Nova Zembla. Coats, which had hitherto been carried on the arm or thrown open, were put on and buttoned, and heads were bent to meet the blast and repel the snow-drift. Little was said, save a murmured doubt by Antoine as to the possibility of gaining the summit, even although they were now so near it, for the day was far spent by that time, and the rugged nature of the route over they had passed, precluded the possibility of a rapid return to the hut at the Grands Mulets. They pushed steadily on, however, for the Professor was anxious to bury his thermometer in the snow at the top; the guide was anxious to maintain his credit for perseverance; and the others were anxious to be able to say they had reached the highest height in Europe.

In any weather the ascent of Mont Blanc requires somewhat more than the average share of physical vigour and perseverance; in bad weather it demands unusual strength and resolution. When, therefore, a severe storm of wind arose, most of the party began to show symptoms of distress. The labour of ascending, being coupled with that of forcing way against the blast, was very exhausting to the muscles, while the extreme cold reduced the physical energy and cooled the most sanguine spirit. Antoine alone seemed to be proof against all influences, but the responsibility lying on him clouded his usually open countenance with a careworn expression. Prudence counselled immediate return. Ambition, as they were now so near the top, urged prolonged effort. The guide expressed his anxieties, but meeting with no response, followed the dictates of his feelings, and pushed on.

Like pillars of living snow they toiled patiently upwards. Breath became too precious to waste in words. They advanced in silence. The wind howled around them, and the snow circled in mad evolutions, as if the demon of wintry storms dwelt there, and meant to defend his citadel to the “bitter end.” There are two rocks near the summit, which crop through the ice like rugged jewels in the monarch’s diadem. The lower is named the Petits Mulets, the upper the Derniers Roches. On reaching the latter of these they paused a few moments to rest. A feeling of certainty that the end would be gained now began to prevail, but the guide was a little alarmed, and the Professor horrified, on looking at their companions’ faces, to observe that they were pinched, haggard, and old-looking, as if they all had aged somewhat during the last few hours! Captain Wopper’s rubicund visage was pale, and his nose blue; the face of Lewis was white all over, and drawn, as if he were suffering pain; Dr Lawrence’s countenance was yellow, and Slingsby’s was green. The Professor himself was as bad as his comrades, and the porters were no better.

“We shan’t be beaten now,” said the man of science, with a ghastly smile.

“Go ’head! nev’r s’die s’l’ng’s th’r’s shot ’n th’ locker!” replied the Captain, in the tone of a man who would rather avoid speaking, if possible.

“What a face you’ve got, Stoutley!” said the artist.

“You’re another!” replied Lewis, with a horrible grin.

“Allons!” exclaimed the guide, bending once more against the storm.

Once, for a few minutes, the wind ceased and the clouds lifted. Captain Wopper uttered a cheer, and rushed forward in advance of the guide, took off his hat and threw it into the air. They had reached the round summit without being aware of it. They stood 15,781 feet above the sea-level! No envious peak rose above their heads. The whole world lay below them, bathed, too, in bright sunshine, for the storm, which had so suddenly swooped upon them, was confined, like an elemental body-guard, to the head of the mountain-king. But, clear though it was at the moment, they were too high in the air to see anything quite distinctly, yet this hazy aspect had a charm of its own, for it increased the feeling and idea of vastness in connection with surrounding space. Around, and now beneath, stood the mountain nobility of the land, looking, however, somewhat reduced in size and majesty, as seen from the royal presence.

Scarcely had the mountaineers assembled and glanced at the wondrous panorama, when the envious clouds swooped down again and mingled with the snow-drift which once more rose to meet them.

“We must be quick, Monsieur,” said Antoine, taking a shovel from one of the porters, while Le Croix grasped another. “Where shall we dig?”

The Professor fixed on a spot, and, while the grave of the thermometer was being dug, a plaid was set up on a couple of alpenstocks, in the shelter of which the others consumed the bread and wine that had been saved from breakfast. It did them little good, however; the cold was too intense. The Captain’s beard was already fringed with icicles, and the whiskers of those who had them were covered with hoar-frost, while the breath issued from their mouths like steam. Before the thermometer was buried all had risen, and were endeavouring to recover heat by rubbing their hands, beating their arms across their breasts, and stamping violently.

“Come,” said the Professor, quickly, when the work was done, “we must start at once.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” assented the guide, and, without more words, the whole party began to descend the mountain at a run.

There was cause for haste. Not only did the storm increase in violence, but evening drew on apace, and all of them were more or less exhausted by prolonged muscular exertion and exposure to severe cold.

Suddenly, having gone a considerable way down the mountain, they emerged from fog and snow-drift into blazing sunshine! The strife of elements was confined entirely to the summit. The inferior ice-slopes and the valleys far below were bathed in the golden glories of a magnificent sunset and, before they reached the huts at the Grands Mulets, they had passed from a condition of excessive cold to one of extreme heat, insomuch that the Captain and Professor were compelled to walk with their coats slung over their shoulders, while perspiration streamed from their bare brows.

That night the party slept again at the Grands Mulets, and next day they reached Chamouni, fagged, no doubt, and bearing marks of mountaineering in the shape of sun-burnt cheeks and peeled noses, but hearty, nevertheless, and not a little elated with their success in having scaled the mighty sides and the hoary summit of Mont Blanc.

Chapter Sixteen.

Tells how Lewis distinguished himself.

Seated one morning on an easy chair in Susan Quick’s apartment and swinging his little blue legs to and fro in a careless, negligent manner, Gillie White announced it as his opinion that Mister Lewis had gone, or was fast going, mad.

“Why do you think so?” asked Susan, with a smile, looking up for a moment from some portion of Lewis’s nether integuments, which Mont Blanc had riven almost to shreds.

“W’y do I think so?” repeated Gillie; “w’y, cos he’s not content with havin’ busted his boots an’ his clo’se, an’ all but busted hisself, in goin’ to the top o’ Mont Blang an’ Monty Rosa, an’ all the other Monty-thingumbobs about but he’s agoin’ off to day with that queer fish Laycrwa to hunt some where up above the clouds—in among the stars, I fancy—for shamwas.”

“Indeed!” said Susan, with a neat little laugh.

“Yes, indeed. He’s mountain-mad—mad as a Swiss March hare, if not madder—By the way, Susan, wot d’ee think o’ the French?”

Gillie propounded this question with the air of a philosopher.

“D’you mean French people?”

“No; I means the French lingo, as my friend Cappen Wopper calls it.”

“Well, I can’t say that I have thought much about it yet. Missis keeps me so busy that I haven’t time.”

“Ah!” said Gillie, “you’re wastin’ of precious opportoonities, Susan. I’ve bin a-studdyin’ of that lingo myself, now, for three weeks—off and on.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Susan, with an amused glance, “and what do you think of it?”

“Think of it! I think it’s the most outrageous stuff as ever was. The man who first inwented it must ’ave ’ad p’ralersis o’ the brain, besides a bad cold in ’is ’ead, for most o’ the enns an’ gees come tumblin’ through the nose, but only git half out after all, as if the speaker was afraid to let ’em go, lest he shouldn’t git hold of ’em again. There’s that there mountain, now. They can’t call it Mont Blang, with a good strong out-an’-out bang, like a Briton would do, but they catches hold o’ the gee when it’s got about as far as the bridge o’ the nose, half throttles it and shoves it right back, so that you can scarce hear it at all. An’ the best joke is, there ain’t no gee in the word at all!”

“No?” said Susan, in surprise.

“No,” repeated Gillie. “I’ve bin studdyin’ the spellin’ o’ the words in shop-winders an’ posters, an’, would you b’lieve it, they end the word Blang with a c.”

“You don’t say so!”

“Yes I do; an’ how d’ee think they spell the name o’ that feller Laycrwa?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Susan.

“They spells it,” returned Gillie, with a solemn look, “L-e-c-r-o-i-x. Now, if I had spelt it that way, I’d have pronounced it Laycroiks. Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, yes, I think I should,” said Susan.

“It seems to me,” continued Gillie, “that they goes on the plan of spellin’ one way an’ purnouncin’ another—always takin’ care to choose the most difficult way, an’ the most unnatt’ral, so that a feller has no chance to come near it except by corkin’ up one nostril tight, an’ borin’ a small extra hole in the other about half-way up. If you was to mix a sneeze with what you said, an’ paid little or no attention to the sense, p’raps it would be French—but I ain’t sure. I only wish you heard Cappen Wopper hoistin’ French out of hisself as if he was a wessel short-handed, an’ every word was a heavy bale. He’s werry shy about it, is the Cappen, an’ wouldn’t for the world say a word if he thought any one was near; but when he thinks he’s alone with Antoine—that’s our guide, you know—he sometimes lets fly a broadside o’ French that well-nigh takes my breath away.”

The urchin broke into a laugh here at the memory of the Captain’s efforts to master what he styled a furrin’ tongue, but Susan checked him by saying slily, “How could you know, Gillie, if the Captain was alone with Antoine?”

“Oh, don’t you know,” replied Gillie, trying to recover his gravity, “the Cappen he’s wery fond o’ me, and I like to gratify his feelin’s by keepin’ near him. Sometimes I keep so near—under the shadow of his huge calf d’ee see—that he don’t observe me on lookin’ round; an’, thinkin’ he’s all alone, lets fly his French broadsides in a way that a’most sends Antoine on his beam-ends. But Antoine is tough, he is. He gin’rally says, ‘I not un’r’stan’ English ver’ well,’ shakes his head an’ grins, but the Cappen never listens to his answers, bein’ too busy loadin’ and primin’ for another broadside.”

The man to whom he referred cut short the conversation at this point by shouting down the stair:—

“Hallo! Gillie, you powder-monkey, where are my shoes?”

“Here they are, Cappen, all ready; fit to do dooty as a lookin’-glass to shave yerself,” cried the “powder-monkey,” leaping up and leaving the room abruptly.

Gillie’s opinion in regard to the madness of Lewis was shared by several of his friends above stairs. Doctor Lawrence, especially, felt much anxiety about him, having overheard one or two conversations held by the guides on the subject of the young Englishman’s recklessness.

“Really, Lewis,” said the Doctor, on one occasion, “you must listen to a lecture from me, because you are in a measure under my charge.”

“I’m all attention, sir,” said Lewis meekly, as he sat down on the edge of his bed and folded his hands in his lap.

“Well then, to begin,” said the Doctor, with a half-serious smile, “I won’t trouble you with my own opinion, to which you attach no weight—”

“Pardon me, Lawrence, I attach great weight to it—or, rather, it has so much weight that I can scarcely bear it.”

“Just so, and therefore you shan’t have it. But you must admit that the opinion of a good guide is worth something. Now, I heard Antoine Grennon the other day laying down some unquestionable principles to the Professor—”

“What! lecturing the Professor?” interrupted Lewis, “how very presumptuous.”

“He said,” continued the Doctor, “that the dangers connected with the ascent of these Swiss mountains are real, and, unless properly provided against, may become terrible, if not fatal. He instanced your own tendency to go roving about among the glaciers alone. With a comrade or a guide attached to you by a rope there is no danger worth speaking of, but it must be as clear to you as it is to me that it when out on the mountains alone, you step on a snow-covered crevasse and break through, your instant death is inevitable.”

“Yes, but,” objected Lewis, with that unwillingness to be convinced which is one of the chief characteristics of youth, “I always walk, when alone on the glaciers, with the utmost caution, sounding the snow in front of me with the long handle of my axe at every step as I go.”

“If the guides do not find this always a sufficient protection for themselves, by what amazing power of self-sufficiency do you persuade yourself that it is sufficient for you?” demanded Lawrence.

“Your question suffices, Doctor,” said Lewis, laughing; “go on with your lecture, I’m all attention and, and humility.”

“Not my lecture,” retorted Lawrence, “the guide’s. He was very strong, I assure you, on the subject of men going on the high glaciers without a rope, or, which comes to the same thing, alone, and he was not less severe on those who are so foolhardy, or so ignorant, as to cross steep slopes of ice on new-fallen snow. Nothing is easier, the new snow affording such good foothold, as you told us the other day when describing your adventures under the cliffs of Monte Rosa, and yet nothing is more dangerous, says Antoine, for if the snow were to slip, as it is very apt to do, you would be smothered in it, or swept into a crevasse by it. Lives are lost in the Alps every year, I am told, owing to indifference to these two points. The guides say—and their opinions are corroborated by men of science and Alpine experience—that it is dangerous to meddle with any slope exceeding 30 degrees for several days after a heavy fall, and yet it is certain that slopes exceeding this angle are traversed annually by travellers who are ignorant, or reckless, or both. Did you not say that the slope which you crossed the other day was a steeper angle than this, and the snow on it not more than twenty-four hours’ old?”

“Guilty!” exclaimed Lewis, with a sigh.

“I condemn you, then,” said Lawrence, with a smile, “to a continuation of this lecture, and, be assured, the punishment is much lighter than you deserve. Listen:— There are three unavoidable dangers in Alpine climbing—”

“Please don’t be long on each head,” pleaded Lewis, throwing himself back in his bed, while his friend placed the point of each finger of his right hand on a corresponding point of the left, and crossed his legs.

“I won’t. I shall be brief—brief as your life is likely to be if you don’t attend to me. The three dangers are, as I have said, unavoidable; but two of them may be guarded against; the other cannot. First, there is danger from falling rocks. This danger may be styled positive. It hangs over the head like the sword of Damocles. There is no avoiding it except by not climbing at all, for boulders and ice-blocks are perched here, and there, and everywhere, and no one can tell the moment when they shall fall. Secondly, there is danger from crevasses—the danger of tumbling into one when crossing a bridge of snow, and the danger of breaking through a crust of snow which conceals one. This may be called a negative danger. It is reduced to almost nothing if you are tied to your comrade by a rope, and if the leader sounds with his staff as he walks along; but it changes from a negative to a positive danger to the man who is so mad as to go out alone. Thirdly, there is danger from new snow on steep slopes, which is positive if you step on it when recently fallen, and when the slope is very steep; but is negative when you allow sufficient time for it to harden. While, however, it is certain that many deaths occur from these three dangers being neglected, it is equally true that the largest number of accidents which occur in the Alps arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, from false steps, the result of carelessness or self-confidence, and from men attempting to do what is beyond their powers. Men who are too old for such fatigue, and men who, though young, are not sufficiently strong, usually come to grief. I close my lecture with a quotation from the writings of a celebrated mountaineer—‘In all cases the man rather than the mountain is at fault.’”

“There is truth in what you say,” observed Lewis, rising, with a yawn.

“Nay, but,” returned his friend, seriously, “your mother, who is made very anxious by your reckless expeditions, begged me to impress these truths on you. Will you promise me, like a good fellow, to consider them?”

“I promise,” said Lewis, becoming serious in his turn, and taking his friend’s hand; “but you must not expect sudden perfection to be exemplified in me.—Come, let’s go have a talk with Le Croix about his projected expedition after the chamois.”

Up in the mountains now,—above some of the clouds undoubtedly, almost ’mong the stars, as Gillie put it,—Lewis wanders in company with Baptist Le Croix, half-forgetful of his promise to Lawrence. Below them lies a world of hills and valleys; above towers a fairy-land of ice, cliff, and cloud. No human habitation is near. The only indications of man’s existence are so faint, and so far off in the plains below, that houses are barely visible, and villages look like toys. A sea of cloud floats beneath them, and it is only through gaps in this sea that the terrestrial world is seen. Piercing through it are the more prominent of the Alpine peaks—the dark tremendous obelisk of the Matterhorn towering in one direction, the not less tremendous and far grander head of Mont Blanc looming in another. The sun shines brightly over all, piercing and rendering semi-transparent some of the clouds, gilding the edges and deepening the shadows of others.

“Do you see anything, Le Croix?” asked Lewis, as he reclined on a narrow ledge of rock recovering breath after a fatiguing climb, while his comrade peered intently through a telescope into the recesses of a dark mountain gorge that lay a little below them.

For some moments the hunter made no reply. Presently he closed the glass, and, with an air of satisfaction, said, “Chamois!”

“Where?” asked Lewis, rising eagerly and taking the glass.

Le Croix carefully pointed out the spot but no effort on the part of the inexperienced youth could bring anything resembling the light and graceful form of a chamois into the field of vision.

“Never mind, Le Croix,” he said, quickly returning the glass and picking up his rifle; “come along, let’s have at them.”

“Softly,” returned the hunter; “we must get well to leeward of them before we can venture to approach.”

“Lead where you will; you’ll find me a quiet and unquestioning follower.”

The hunter at once turned, and, descending the mountain by a precipice which was so steep that they had in some places to drop from ledge to ledge, at last gained a position where the light air, that floated but scarce moved the clouds, came direct from the spot where the chamois lay. He then turned and made straight towards them. As they advanced the ground became more rugged and precipitous, so that their progress was unavoidably slow, and rendered more so by the necessity that lay on them of approaching their game without noise.

When they had reached a spot where a sheer precipice appeared to render further progress impossible, the hunter stopped and said in a low tone, “Look, they are too far off; a bullet could not reach them.”

Lewis craned his neck over the cliff, and saw the chamois grazing quietly on a small patch of green that lay among brown rocks below.

“What’s to be done?” he asked anxiously. “Couldn’t we try a long shot?”

“Useless. Your eyes are inexperienced. The distance is greater than you think.”

“What, then, shall we do?”

Le Croix did not answer. He appeared to be revolving some plan in his mind. Turning at last to his companion, he said—

“I counsel that you remain here. It is a place near to which they must pass if driven by some one from below. I will descend.”

“But how descend?” asked Lewis. “I see no path by which even a goat could get down.”

“Leave that to me,” replied the hunter. “Keep perfectly still till you see them within range. Have your rifle ready; do not fire in haste; there will be time for a slow and sure aim. Most bad hunters owe their ill-luck to haste.”

With this advice Le Croix crept quietly round a projecting rock, and, dropping apparently over the precipice, disappeared.

Solitude is suggestive. As long as his companion was with him, Lewis felt careless and easy in mind, but now that he was left alone in one of the wildest and grandest scenes he had yet beheld, he became solemnised, and could not help feeling, that without his guide he would be very helpless in such a place. Being alone in the mountains was not indeed new to him. As we have already said, he had acquired the character of being much too reckless in wandering about by himself; but there was a vast difference between going alone over ground which he had traversed several times with guides in the immediate neighbourhood of Chamouni, and being left in a region to which he had been conducted by paths so intricate, tortuous, and difficult, that the mere effort to trace back in memory even the last few miles of the route confused him.

There was a mysterious stillness, too, about everything around him; and the fogs, which floated in heavy masses above and below, gave a character of changeful wildness to the scenery.

“What a place to get lost in and benighted!” he thought. Then his mind, with that curious capacity for sudden flight, which is one of the chief characteristics of thought, leaped down the precipices, up which he had toiled so slowly, sped away over hill and dale, and landed him in Chamouni at the feet of Nita Horetzki. Once there, he had no desire to move. He kept looking steadily in her pretty face, speculated as to the nature of the charm that rendered it so sweet, wondered what was the cause of the lines of care that at times rippled her smooth white brow, longed to become the sharer of her grief, and her comforter, and pondered the improbability of his ever being in a position to call her Nita—darling Nita—sweetest Nita—exquisite Nita! He was still engaged in creating adjectives at Chamouni when he was brought suddenly back to the Alpine heights by the sound of a shot. It was repeated in a hundred echoes by the surrounding cliffs, as he seized his rifle and gazed over the precipice.

A puff of smoke, hanging like a cloudlet, guided his eyes. Not far in front of it he saw the fawn-like form of a chamois stretched in death upon the ground, while two others were seen bounding with amazing precision and elasticity over the rocks towards him.

He turned at once to an opening among the rocks at his right, for, even to his unpractised eye, it was obviously impossible that anything without wings could approach him in front or at his left.

Coolness and promptitude were characteristics of the youth; so that he sat crouching with the rifle, resting in the palm of his left hand, over one knee, as motionless as if he had been chiselled from the rock against which he leaned; but his natural coolness of deportment could not prevent, though it concealed, a throbbing of anxiety lest the game should pass out of reach, or behind rocks, which would prevent his seeing it. For an instant he half-rose, intending to rush to some more commanding elevation, but remembering the parting advice of Le Croix, he sank down again and remained steady.

Scarcely had he done so when the clatter of bounding hoofs was heard. He knew well that the open space, across which he now felt sure the chamois must pass, was only broad enough to afford the briefest possible time for an aim. He raised the rifle more than half-way to the shoulder. Another instant and a chamois appeared like an arrow shooting athwart the hill-side before him. He fired, and missed! The bullet, however, which had been destined for the heart of the first animal, was caught in the brain of that which followed. It sprang high into the air, and, rolling over several times, lay stretched at full length on the rocks.

We need not pause to describe the rejoicing of the young sportsman over his first chamois, or to detail Lecroix’s complimentary observations thereon.

Having deposited their game in a place of safety, the hunter suggested that, as there was no chance of their seeing any more in that locality, it would be well to devote the remainder of the day to exploring the higher slopes of a neighbouring glacier, for, familiar as he was with all the grander features of the region, there were some of the minuter details, he said, with which he was unacquainted.

Lewis was a little surprised at the proposal, but, being quite satisfied with his success, and not unwilling to join in anything that smacked of exploration, he readily assented; and, ere long, the two aspiring spirits were high above the spot where the chamois had fallen, and struggling with the difficulties of couloir and crevasse.

Before quitting the lower ground, they had deposited their game and rifles in a cave well known to Le Croix, in which they intended to pass the night, and they now advanced armed only with their long-handled Alpine hatchets, without which implements it is impossible to travel over glaciers.

Being both of them strong in wind and limb, they did not pause often to rest, though Lewis occasionally called a momentary halt to enjoy the magnificent prospect. During one of these pauses a dark object was seen moving over the ice far below them.

Le Croix pointed to it, and said that it approached them.

“What is it—a crow?” asked Lewis.

“More like a man; but it is neither,” returned the hunter, adjusting his telescope; “yes, it is, as I fancied, a chamois.”

“Then it cannot have seen us,” said Lewis, “else it would not approach.”

“Nay, it approaches because it has seen us. It mistakes us for relatives. Let us sit down to deceive it a little.”

They crouched beside a piece of ice, and the chamois advanced, until its pretty form became recognisable by the naked eye. Its motions, however, were irregular. It was evidently timid. Sometimes it came on at full gallop, then paused to look, and uttered a loud piping sound, advancing a few paces with caution, and pausing to gaze again. Le Croix replied with an imitative whistle to its call. It immediately bounded forward with pleasure, but soon again hesitated, and stopped. At last it seemed to become aware of its mistake, for, turning at a tangent, it scoured away over the ice like wind swooping down from the mountain-summits, bounded over the crevasses like an india-rubber ball, and was quickly out of sight.

While gazing with profound interest at this graceful creature, the explorers were not at first aware that a dark mass of inky cloud was rapidly bearing down on them, and that one of those wild storms which sweep frequently over the high Alps seemed to be gathering.

“We must make haste, if we would gain the shelter of our cave,” said Le Croix, rising.

As he spoke, a low rumbling sound was heard behind them. They turned just in time to see a small avalanche of rocks hopping down the cliffs towards them. It was so far off, and looked such an innocent rolling of pebbles, that Lewis regarded it as an insignificant phenomenon. His companion formed a better estimate of its character, but being at least five hundred yards to one side of the couloir or snow-slope, down which it rushed, he judged that they were safe. He was mistaken. Some of the largest stones flew past quite near them, several striking the glacier as they passed, and sending clouds of ice-dust over them, and one, as large as a hogshead, bounding, with awful force, straight over their heads.

They turned instantly to hasten from so dangerous a spot, but were arrested by another and much louder rumbling sound.

“Quick, fly, Monsieur!” exclaimed Le Croix, setting his young companion the example.

Truly there was cause for haste. A sub-glacial lake among the heights above had burst its icy barriers, and, down the same couloir from which the smaller avalanche had sprung, a very ocean of boulders, mud, ice, and débris came crashing and roaring with a noise like the loudest thunder, with this difference, that there was no intermission of the roar for full quarter of an hour; only, at frequent intervals, a series of pre-eminent peals were heard, when boulders, from six to ten feet in diameter, met with obstacles, and dashed them aside, or broke themselves into atoms.

Our hunters fled for their lives, and barely gained the shelter of a giant boulder, when the skirts of the hideous torrent roared past leaped over an ice-cliff, and was swallowed up by the insatiable crevasses of the glacier below. For several minutes after they had reached, and stood panting in, a position of safety, they listened to the thunderous roar of Alpine artillery, until it died slowly away—as if unwillingly—in the light pattering of pebbles.

Gratitude to the Almighty for deliverance from a great danger was the strongest feeling in the heart of the chamois-hunter. Profound astonishment and joy at having witnessed such an amazing sight, quickened the pulse of Lewis.

“That was a narrow escape, Le Croix?”

“It was. I never see such a sight without a shudder, because I lost a brother in such an avalanche. It was on the slopes of the Jungfrau. He was literally broken to fragments by it.”

Lewis expressed sympathy, and his feelings were somewhat solemnised by the graphic recital of the details of the sad incident with which the hunter entertained him, as they descended the mountain rapidly.

In order to escape an impending storm, which was evidently brewing in the clouds above, Lewis suggested that they should diverge from the route by which they had ascended, and attempt a short cut by a steeper part of the mountains.

Le Croix looked round and pondered. “I don’t like diverging into unknown parts when in a hurry, and with the day far spent,” he said. “One never knows when a sheer precipice will shut up the way in places like this.”

The youth, however, was confident, and the man of experience was too amiable and yielding. There was also urgent reason for haste. It was therefore decided that the steeper slopes should be attempted.

They began with a glissade. A very steep snow-slope happened to be close at hand. It stretched uninterruptedly down several hundred feet to one of the terraces, into which the precipitous mountainside at that place was cut.

“Will you try?” asked Le Croix, looking doubtfully at his companion.

“Of course I will,” replied Lewis, shortly. “Where you choose to go I will follow.”

“Have you ever done such work before?”

“Yes, often, though never on quite so steep or long a slope.”

Le Croix was apparently satisfied. He sat down on the summit of the slope, fixed the spiked end of his axe in the snow, resting heavily on the handle, in order to check his descent, and hitched himself forward.

“Keep steady and don’t roll over,” he cried, as he shot away. The snow rose and trailed like a white tail behind him. His speed increased almost to that of an avalanche, and in a few seconds he was at the bottom.

Lewis seated himself in precisely the same manner, but overbalanced himself when halfway down, swung round, lost self-command, let slip his axe, and finally went head over heels, with legs and arms flying wildly.

Le Croix, half-expecting something of the kind, was prepared. He had re-ascended the slope a short way, and received the human avalanche on his right shoulder, was knocked down violently as a matter of course, and the two went spinning in a heap together to the bottom.

“Not hurt, I hope?” cried Lewis, jumping up and looking at his comrade with some anxiety.

“No, Monsieur,” replied Le Croix, quietly, as he shook the snow from his garments—“And you?”

“Oh! I’m all right. That was a splendid beginning. We shall get down to our cave in no time at this rate.”

The hunter shook his head. “It is not all glissading,” he said, as they continued the descent by clambering down the face of a precipice.

Some thousands of feet below them lay the tortuous surface of a glacier, on which they hoped to be able to walk towards their intended night-bivouac, but the cliffs leading to this grew steeper as they proceeded. Some hours’ work was before them ere the glacier could be reached, and the day was already drawing towards its close. A feeling of anxiety kept them both silent as they pushed on with the utmost possible speed, save when it was necessary for one to direct the other as to his foothold.

On gaining each successive ledge of the terraced hill-side, they walked along it in the hope of reaching better ground, or another snow-slope; but each ledge ended in a precipice, so that there was no resource left but to scramble down to the ledge below to find a similar disappointment. The slopes also increased, rather than decreased, in steepness, yet so gradually, that the mountaineers at last went dropping from point to point down the sheer cliffs without fully realising the danger of their position. At a certain point they came to the head of a slope so steep, that the snow had been unable to lie on it, and it was impossible to glissade on the pure ice. It was quite possible, however, to cut foot-holes down. Le Croix had with him a stout Manilla rope of about three hundred feet in length. With this tied round his waist, and Lewis, firmly planted, holding on to it, he commenced the staircase. Two blows sufficed for each step, yet two hours were consumed before the work was finished. Re-ascending, he tied the rope round Lewis, and thus enabled him to descend with a degree of confidence which he could not have felt if unattached. Le Croix himself descended without this moral support, but, being as sure-footed as a chamois, it mattered little.

Pretty well exhausted by their exertions, they now found themselves at the summit of a precipice so perpendicular and unbroken, that a single glance sufficed to convince them of the utter impossibility of further descent in that quarter. The ledge on which they stood was not more than three feet broad. Below them the glacier appeared in the fading light to be as far off as ever. Above, the cliffs frowned like inaccessible battlements. They were indeed like flies clinging to a wall, and, to add to their difficulties, the storm which had threatened now began in earnest.

A cloud as black as pitch hung in front of them. Suddenly, from its heart, there gushed a blinding flash of lightning, followed, almost without interval, by a crash of thunder. The echoes took up the sounds, hurling them back and forward among the cliffs as if cyclopean mountain spirits were playing tennis with boulders. Rain also descended in torrents, and for some time the whole scene became as dark as if overspread with the wing of night.

Crouching under a slight projection of rock, the explorers remained until the first fury of the squall was over. Fortunately, it was as short-lived as violent, but its effects were disagreeable, for cataracts now poured on them as they hurried along the top of the precipice vainly looking for a way of escape. At last, on coming to one of those checks which had so often met them that day, Le Croix turned and said—

“There is no help for it, Monsieur, we must spend the night here.”

“Here!” exclaimed Lewis, glancing at the cliffs above and the gulf below.

“It is not a pleasant resting-place,” replied the hunter, with a sad smile, “but we cannot go on. It will be quite dark in half an hour, when an effort to advance would insure our destruction. The little light that remains must be spent in seeking out a place to lie on.”

The two men, who were thrown thus together in such perilous circumstances, were possessed of more than average courage, yet it would be false to say that fear found no place in their breasts. On the contrary, each confessed to the other the following day that his heart had sunk within him as he thought of the tremendous cliffs against which they were stuck, with descent and ascent equally impossible, a narrow ledge on the precipice-edge for their bed, and a long, wild night before them. Cowardice does not consist in simple fear. It consists in the fear of trifles; in unreasonable fear, and in such fear as incapacitates a man for action. The situation of our explorers was not one of slight danger. They had the best of reason for anxiety, because they knew not whether escape, even in daylight, were possible. As to incapacity for action, the best proof that fear had not brought them to that condition lay in the fact, that they set about preparations for spending the night with a degree of vigour amounting almost to cheerfulness.

After the most careful survey, only one spot was found wider than the rest of the ledge, and it was not more than four feet wide, the difference being caused by a slight hollow under the rock, which thus might overhang them—one of them at least—and form a sensation of canopy. At its best, a bed only four feet wide is esteemed narrow enough for one, and quite inadequate for two, but when it is considered that the bed now selected was of hard granite, rather round-backed than flat, with a sheer precipice descending a thousand feet, more or less, on one side of it, and a slope in that direction, there will be no difficulty in conceiving something of the state of mind in which Lewis Stoutley and Baptist Le Croix lay down to repose till morning in wet garments, with the thermometer somewhere between thirty-two and zero, Fahrenheit.

To prevent their rolling off the ledge when asleep, they built on the edge of the cliff a wall of the largest loose stones they could find. It was but an imaginary protection at best, for the slightest push sent some of the stones toppling over, and it necessarily curtailed the available space. No provisions, save one small piece of bread, had been brought, as they had intended returning to their cave to feast luxuriously. Having eaten the bread, they prepared to lie down.

It was agreed that only one at a time should sleep; the other was to remain awake, to prevent the sleeper from inadvertently moving. It was also arranged, that he whose turn it was to sleep should lie on the inner side. But here arose a difference. Le Croix insisted that Lewis should have the first sleep. Lewis, on the other hand, declared that he was not sleepy; that the attempt to sleep would only waste the time of both, and that therefore Le Croix should have the first.

The contention was pretty sharp for a time, but the obstinacy of the Englishman prevailed. The hunter gave in, and at once lay down straight out with his face to the cliff, and as close to it as he could squeeze. Lewis immediately lay down outside of him, and, throwing one arm over his Lecroix’s broad chest gave him a half-jocular hug that a bear might have enjoyed, and told him to go to sleep. In doing this he dislodged a stone from the outer wall, which went clattering down into the dark gulf.

Almost immediately the deep, regular breathing of the wearied hunter told that he was already in the land of Nod.

It was a strange, romantic position; and Lewis rejoiced, in the midst of his anxieties, as he lay there wakefully guarding the chamois-hunter while he slept. It appeared to Lewis that his companion felt the need of a guardian, for he grasped with both hands the arm which he had thrown round him.

How greatly he wished that his friends at Chamouni could have even a faint conception of his position that night! What would Lawrence have thought of it? And the Captain,—how would he have conducted himself in the circumstances? His mother, Emma, the Count, Antoine, Gillie, Susan—every one had a share in his thoughts, as he lay wakeful and watching on the giddy ledge—and Nita, as a great under-current like the sub-glacial rivers, kept flowing continually, and twining herself through all. Mingled with these thoughts was the sound of avalanches, which ever and anon broke in upon the still night with a muttering like distant thunder, or with a startling roar as masses of ice tottered over the brinks of the cascades, or boulders loosened by the recent rain lost their hold and involved a host of smaller fry in their fall. Twining and tying these thoughts together into a wild entanglement quite in keeping with the place, the youth never for one moment lost the sense of an ever present and imminent danger—he scarce knew what—and the necessity for watchfulness. This feeling culminated when he beheld Nita Horetzki suddenly appear standing close above him on a most dangerous-looking ledge of rock!

Uttering a loud cry of alarm he sought to start up, and in so doing sent three-quarters of the protecting wall down the precipice with an appalling rush and rumble. Unquestionably he would have followed it if he had not been held by the wrist as if by a vice!

“Hallo! take care, Monsieur,” cried Le Croix, in a quick anxious tone, still holding tightly to his companion’s arm.

“Why! what? Le Croix—I saw—I—I—saw—Well, well—I do really believe I have been—I’m ashamed to say—”

“Yes, Monsieur, you’ve been asleep,” said the hunter, with a quiet laugh, gently letting go his hold of the arm as he became fully persuaded that Lewis was by that time quite awake and able to take care of himself.

“Have you been asleep too?” asked Lewis.

“Truly, no!” replied the hunter, rising with care, “but you have had full three hours of it, so it’s my turn now.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Lewis.

“Indeed I do; and now, please, get next the cliff and let me lie outside, so that I may rest with an easy mind.”

Lewis opposed him no longer. He rose, and they both stood up to stamp their feet and belabour their chests for some time—the cold at such a height being intense, while their wet garments and want of covering rendered them peculiarly unfitted to withstand it. The effort was not very successful. The darkness of the night, the narrowness of their ledge, and the sleepiness of their spirits rendering extreme caution necessary.

At last the languid blood began to flow; a moderate degree of warmth was restored, and, lying down again side by side in the new position, the hunter and the student sought and found repose.

Chapter Seventeen.

Danger and Death on the Glacier.

Daylight—blessed daylight! How often longed for by the sick and weary! How imperfectly appreciated by those whose chief thoughts and experiences of night are fitly expressed by the couplet:—

“Bed, bed, delicious bed,

Haven of rest for the weary head.”

Daylight came at last, to the intense relief of poor Lewis, who had become restless as the interminable night wore on, and the cold seemed to penetrate to his very marrow. Although unable to sleep, however, he lay perfectly still, being anxious not to interrupt the rest of his companion. But Le Croix, like the other, did not sleep soundly; he awoke several times, and, towards morning, began to dream and mutter short sentences.

At first Lewis paid no attention to this, but at length, becoming weary of his own thoughts, he set himself with a half-amused feeling to listen. The amusement gave place to surprise and to a touch of sadness when he found that the word ‘gold’ frequently dropped from the sleeper’s lips.

“Can it be,” he thought, “that this poor fellow is really what they say, a half-crazed gold-hunter? I hope not. It seems nonsensical. I never heard of there being gold in these mountains. Yet it may be so, and too much longing after gold is said to turn people crazy. I shouldn’t wonder if it did.”

Thoughts are proverbial wanderers, and of a wayward spirit, and not easy of restraint. They are often very honest too, and refuse to flatter. As the youth lay on his back gazing dreamily from that giddy height on the first faint tinge of light that suffused the eastern sky, his thoughts rambled on in the same channel.

“Strange, that a chamois-hunter should become a gold-hunter. How much more respectable the former occupation, and yet how many gold-hunters there are in the world! Gamblers are gold-hunters; and I was a gambler once! Aha! Mr Lewis, the cap once fitted you! Fitted, did I say? It fits still. Have I not been playing billiards every night nearly since I came here, despite Captain Wopper’s warnings and the lesson I got from poor Leven? Poor Leven indeed! it’s little gold that he has, and I robbed him. However, I paid him back, that’s one comfort, and my stakes now are mere trifles—just enough to give interest to the game. Yet, shame on you, Lewie; can’t you take interest in a game for its own sake? The smallest coin staked involves the spirit of gambling. You shouldn’t do it, my boy, you know that well enough, if you’d only let your conscience speak out. And Nita seems not to like it too—ah, Nita! She’s as good as gold—as good! ten million times better than the finest gold. I wonder why that queer careworn look comes over her angel face when she hears me say that I’ve been having a game of billiards? I might whisper some flattering things to myself in reference to this, were it not that she seems just as much put out when any one else talks about it. Ah, Nita!”

It is unnecessary to follow the youth’s thoughts further, for, having got upon Nita, they immediately ceased their wayward wandering practices and remained fixed on that theme.

Soon afterwards, the light being sufficient the mountaineers rose and continued their descent which was accomplished after much toil and trouble, and they proceeded at a quick pace over the glacier towards the place where the chamois had been left the previous day.

“Why are you so fond of gold, Le Croix?” said Lewis, abruptly, and in a half-jesting tone, as they walked along.

The hunter’s countenance flushed deeply, and he turned with a look of severity towards his companion.

“Who said that I was fond of it?”

“A very good friend of mine,” replied Lewis, with a light laugh.

“He can be no friend of mine,” returned the hunter, with contracted brows.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said the other; “at least if you count yourself a friend. You whispered so much about gold in your dreams this morning that I came to the conclusion you were rather fond of it.”

The expression of the hunter changed completely. There seemed to be a struggle between indignation and sorrow in his breast as he stopped, and, facing his companion, said, with vehemence—

“Monsieur, I do not count myself a friend. I have ever found self to be my greatest enemy. The good God knows how hard I have fought against self for years, and how often—oh, how often—I have been beaten down and overcome. God help me. It is a weary struggle.”

Lecroix’s countenance and tones changed as rapidly as the cloud-forms on his own mountain peaks. His last words were uttered with the deepest pathos, and his now pale face was turned upward, as if he sought for hope from a source higher than the “everlasting hills.” Lewis was amazed at the sudden burst of feeling in one who was unusually quiet and sedate, and stood looking at him in silence.

“Young man,” resumed the hunter, in a calmer tone, laying his large brown hand impressively on the youth’s shoulder, “you have heard aright. I have loved gold too much. If I had resisted the temptation at the first I might have escaped, but I shall yet be saved, ay, despite of self, for there is a Saviour! For years I have sought for gold among these mountains. They tell me it is to be found there, but I have never found it. To-day I intended to have visited yonder yellow cliffs high up on the shoulder of the pass. Do you see them?”

He pointed eagerly, and a strange gleam was in his blue eyes as he went on to say rapidly, and without waiting for an answer—

“I have not yet been up there. It looks a likely place—a very likely place—but your words have turned me from my purpose. The evil spirit is gone for to-day—perhaps for ever. Come,” he added, in a tone of firm determination, “we will cross this crevasse and hasten down to the cave.”

He wrenched himself round while he spoke, as if the hand of some invisible spirit had been holding him, and hurried quickly towards a wide crevasse which crossed their path at that place.

“Had we not better tie ourselves together before attempting it?” suggested Lewis, hastening after him.

Le Croix did not answer, but quickened his pace to a run.

“Not there!” exclaimed Lewis, in sudden alarm. “It is almost too wide for a leap, and the snow on the other side overhangs. Stop! for God’s sake—not there!”

He rushed forward, but was too late. Le Croix was already on the brink of the chasm; next moment, with a tremendous bound, he cleared it, and alighted on the snow beyond. His weight snapped off the mass, his arms were thrown wildly aloft, and, with a shout, rather than a cry, he fell headlong into the dark abyss!

Horror-stricken, unable to move or cry out Lewis stood on the edge. From far down in the blue depths of the crevasse there arose a terrible sound, as if of a heavy blow. It was followed by the familiar rattling of masses of falling ice, which seemed to die away in the profound heart of the glacier.

The “weary struggle” had come to an end at last. The chamois-hunter had found a tomb, like too many, alas! of his bold-hearted countrymen, among those great fields of ice, over which he had so often sped with sure foot and cool head in days gone by.

Lewis was as thoroughly convinced that his late comrade was dead, as if he had seen his mangled corpse before him, but with a sort of passionate unbelief he refused to admit the fact. He stood perfectly motionless, as if transfixed and frozen, in the act of bending over the crevasse. He listened intently and long for a sound which yet he knew could never come. An oppressive, sickening silence reigned around him, which he suddenly broke with a great and terrible cry, as, recovering from his stupor, he hurried wildly to and fro, seeking for some slope by which he might descend to the rescue of his friend.

Vainly he sought. Both walls of the crevasse were sheer precipices of clear ice. At one spot, indeed, he found a short slope, and, madly seizing his axe, he cut foot-holds down it, descending, quite regardless of danger, until the slope became too perpendicular to admit of farther progress. Struck then with alarm for himself, he returned cautiously to the top, while beads of cold perspiration stood on his pale brow. A few minutes more, and he became sufficiently calm to realise the fact that poor Le Croix was indeed beyond all hope. As the truth was forced into his heart he covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.

It was long ere the passionate burst of feeling subsided. Lewis was very impressionable, and his young heart recoiled in agony from such a shock. Although the hunter had been to him nothing but a pleasant guide, he now felt as if he had lost a friend. When his mind was capable of connected thought he dwelt on the unfortunate man’s kindly, modest, and bold disposition, and especially on the incidents of the previous night, when they two had lain side by side like brothers on their hard couch.

At last he rose, and, with a feeling of dead weight crushing his spirit began to think of continuing his descent. He felt that, although there was no hope of rescuing life, still no time should be lost in rousing the guides of Chamouni and recovering, if possible, the remains.

Other thoughts now came upon him with a rush. He was still high up among the great cliffs, and alone! The vale of Chamouni was still far distant, and he was bewildered as to his route, for, in whatever direction he turned, nothing met his eye save wildly-riven glaciers or jagged cliffs and peaks. He stood in the midst of a scene of savage grandeur, which corresponded somewhat with his feelings.

His knowledge of ice-craft, if we may use the expression, was by that time considerable, but he felt that it was not sufficient for the work that lay before him; besides, what knowledge he possessed could not make up for the want of a companion and a rope, while, to add to his distress, weakness, resulting partly from hunger, began to tell on him.

Perhaps it was well that such thoughts interfered with those that unmanned him, for they served to rouse his spirit and nerve him to exertion. Feeling that his life, under God, depended on the wisdom, vigour, and promptitude of his actions during the next few hours, he raised his eyes upward for a moment, and, perhaps for the first time in his life, asked help and guidance of his Creator, with the feeling strong upon him that help and guidance were sorely needed.

Almost at the commencement of his descent an event occurred which taught him the necessity of extreme caution. This was the slipping of his axe. He had left the fatal crevasse only a few hundred yards behind him, when he came to a fracture in the ice that rendered it impossible to advance in that direction any longer; he therefore turned aside, but was met by a snow slope which terminated in another yawning crevasse. While standing on the top of this, endeavouring to make up his mind as to the best route to be followed, he chanced to swing his axe carelessly and let it fall. Instantly it turned over the edge, and shot like an arrow down the slope. He was ice-man enough to know that the loss of his axe in such circumstances was equivalent to the signing of his death-warrant and his face flushed with the gush of feeling that resulted from the accident. Fortunately, the head of the weapon caught on a lamp of ice just at the edge of the crevasse, and the handle hung over it. Something akin to desperation now took possession of the youth. The slope was far too steep to slide down. Not having his axe, it was impossible to cut the necessary steps. In any case it was excessively dangerous, for, although the snow was not new, it lay on such an incline that the least weight on it might set it in motion, in which case inevitable death would have been the result. The case was too critical to admit of delay or thought. At all hazards the axe must be recovered. He therefore lay down with his face to the slope, and began to kick foot-holds with the toe of his boots. It was exceedingly slow and laborious work, for he dared not to kick with all his force, lest he should lose his balance, and, indeed, he only retained it by thrusting both arms firmly into the upper holes and fixing one foot deep in a lower hole, while with the other he cautiously kicked each new step in succession. At last, after toiling steadily thus for two hours, he regained his axe.

The grip with which he seized the handle, and the tender feeling with which he afterwards laid it on his shoulder, created in him a new idea as to the strange affection with which man can be brought to regard inanimate objects, and the fervency with which he condemned his former flippancy, and vowed never more to go out on the high Alps alone, formed a striking commentary on the adage, “Experience teaches fools!”

For some time after this Lewis advanced with both speed and caution. At each point of vantage that he reached he made a rapid and careful survey of all the ground before him, decided on the exact route which he should take, as far as the eye could range, and then refused every temptation to deviate from it save when insurmountable obstacles presented themselves in the shape of unbridged crevasses or sheer ice-precipices. Such obstacles were painfully numerous, but by indomitable perseverance, and sometimes by a desperate venture, he overcame them.

Once he got involved in a succession of crevasses which ran into each other, so that he found himself at last walking on the edge of a wedge of ice not a foot broad, with unfathomable abysses on either side. The wedge terminated at last in a thin edge with a deep crevasse beyond. He was about to retrace his steps—for the tenth time in that place—when it struck him that if he could only reach the other side of the crevasse on his right, he might gain a level patch of ice that appeared to communicate with the sounder part of the glacier beyond. He paused and drew his breath. It was not much of a leap. In ordinary circumstances he could have bounded over it like a chamois, but he was weak now from hunger and fatigue; besides which, the wedge on which he stood was rotten, and might yield to his bound, while the opposite edge seemed insecure and might fail him, like the mass that had proved fatal to Le Croix.

He felt the venture to be desperate, but the way before him was yet very long, and the day was declining. Screwing up his courage he sprang over, and a powerful shudder shook his frame when he alighted safe on the other side.

Farther down the glacier he came to a level stretch, and began to walk with greater speed, neglecting for a little the precaution of driving the end of his axe-handle into the snow in front at each step. The result was, that he stepped suddenly on the snow that concealed a narrow crevasse. It sank at once, sending something like a galvanic shock through his frame. The shock effected what his tired muscles might have failed to accomplish. It caused him to fling himself backward with cat-like agility, and thus he escaped narrowly. It is needless to say that thereafter he proceeded with a degree of care and caution that might have done credit even to a trained mountaineer.

At last Lewis found it necessary to quit the glacier and scale the mountains by way of a pass which led into the gorge from which he hoped to reach the vale of Chamouni. He was in great perplexity here, for, the aspect of the country being unfamiliar to his eye, he feared that he must have lost his way. Nothing but decision, however, and prompt action could serve him now. To have vacillated or retraced part of his steps, would have involved his spending a second night among the icy solitudes without shelter; and this he felt, fatigued and fasting as he was, would have been quite beyond his powers of endurance. He therefore crossed the bergschrund, or crevasse between the glacier and the cliffs, on a snow-bridge, faced the mountain-side once more, and, toiling upwards, reached the summit of the pass a little before sunset. Fortunately the weather continued fine, and the country below appeared much less rugged than that over which he had passed, but he had not yet got clear of difficulties. Just below him lay the longest ice-slope, or couloir, he had hitherto encountered. The snow had been completely swept off its surface, and it bore evidence of being the channel down which rushed the boulders and obelisks of ice that strewed the plain below. To reach that plain by any other route would have involved a circuit of unknown extent. The risk was great but the danger of delay was greater. He swung the heavy axe round his head, and began at once the tedious process of cutting steps. Being an apt scholar, he had profited well from the lessons taught by Le Croix and others. Quick, yet measured and firm, was each stroke. A forced calmness rested on his face, for, while the ice-blocks above, apparently nodding to their fall, warned him to make haste, the fear of slipping a foot, or losing balance, compelled him to be very cautious. In such a case, a rope round the waist and a friend above would have been of inestimable value.

When about two-thirds of the way down, the exhausted youth was forced to stop for a few seconds to rest. Just then several pieces of ice, the size of a man’s head, rushed down the couloir and dashed close past him. They served to show the usual direction of an avalanche. Fearing they were the prelude to something worse, he quickly cut his way to the side of the couloir. He was not a moment too soon. Glancing up in alarm, he saw the foundations of one of the largest ice-masses give way. The top bent over slowly at first, then fell forward with a crash and broke into smaller fragments, which dashed like lightning down the slope, leaping from side to side, and carrying huge rocks and masses of débris to the plain with horrible din.

Poor Lewis felt his spirit and his body shrink. He had, however, chosen his position well. Nothing save a cloud of dust and snow reached him, but the part of the slope down which he had passed was swept clean as with the besom of destruction. It was an awful ordeal for one so young and inexperienced, for the risk had to be encountered again. “The sooner the better,” thought he, and immediately swayed aloft his axe again, lifting, as he did so, his heart to his Maker for the second time that day. A few minutes more, and he stood at the foot of the couloir.

Without a moment’s pause he hurried on, and finally reached the lower slopes of the mountains. Here, to his inexpressible joy and thankfulness, he fell in with a sheep-track, and, following it up, was soon on the high-road of the valley. But it was not till far on in the night that he reached Chamouni, scarce able to drag himself along.

He went straight to the Bureau of Guides, where a profound sensation was created by the sad tidings which he brought. Antoine Grennon happened to be there, and to him Lewis told his sad tale, at the same time eagerly suggesting that an immediate search should be made for the body, and offering to go back at once to guide them to the scene of the accident. Antoine looked earnestly in the youth’s face.

“Ah, Monsieur,” he said, shaking his head, “you are not fit to guide any one to-night. Besides, I know the place well. If poor Le Croix has fallen into that crevasse, he is now past all human aid.”

“But why not start at once?” said Lewis, anxiously, “if there is but the merest vestige of a chance—”

“There is no chance, Monsieur, if your description is correct; besides, no man could find the spot in a dark night. But rest assured that we will not fail to do our duty to our comrade. A party will start off within an hour, proceed as far as is possible during the night, and, at the first gleam of day, we will push up the mountains. We need no one to guide us, but you need rest. Go, in the morning you may be able to follow us.”

We need scarcely say that the search was unavailing. The body of the unfortunate hunter was never recovered. In all probability it still lies entombed in the ice of the great glacier.

Chapter Eighteen.

A Mystery cleared up.

“Is Nita unwell, Emma?” asked Lewis early one morning, not long after the sad event narrated in the last chapter.

“I think not. She is merely depressed, as we all are, by the melancholy death of poor Le Croix.”

“I can well believe it,” returned Lewis. “Nevertheless, it seems to me that her careworn expression and deep despondency cannot be accounted for by that event.”

“You know that her father left last week very suddenly,” said Emma. “Perhaps there may be domestic affairs that weigh heavily on her. I know not, for she never refers to her family or kindred. The only time I ventured to do so she appeared unhappy, and quickly changed the subject.”

The cousins were sauntering near their hotel and observed Dr Lawrence hurry from the front door.

“Hallo! Lawrence,” called out Lewis.

“Ah! the very man I want,” exclaimed the Doctor, hastening to join them, “do you know that Miss Horetzki is ill?”

“How strange that we should just this moment have referred to her looking ill! Not seriously ill, I trust,” said Emma, with a troubled look in her sympathetic eyes.

“I hope not, but her case puzzles me more than any that I have yet met with. I fancy it may be the result of an overstrained nervous system, but there appears no present cause for that. She evidently possesses a vigorous constitution, and every one here is kind to her—her father particularly so. Even if she were in love, which she doesn’t seem to be (a faint twinkle in the Doctor’s eye here), that would not account for her condition.”

“I can’t help thinking,” observed Lewis, with a troubled look, “that her father is somehow the cause of her careworn looks. No doubt he is very kind to her in public, but may there not be a very different state of things behind the scenes?”

“I think not. The Count’s temper is gentle, and his sentiments are good. If he were irascible there might be something behind the scenes, for when restraint is removed and temper gets headway, good principles may check but cannot always prevent unkindness. Now, Emma, I have sought you and Lewis to ask for counsel. I do not say that Nita is seriously ill, but she is ill enough to cause those who love her—as I know you do—some anxiety. It is very evident to me, from what she says, that she eagerly desires her father to be with her, and yet when I suggest that he should be sent for, she nervously declines to entertain the proposal. If this strange state of mind is allowed to go on, it will aggravate the feverish attack from which she now suffers. I wish, therefore, to send for the Count without letting her know. Do you think this a wise step?”

“Undoubtedly; but why ask such a question of me?” said Emma, with a look of surprise.

“First, because you are Nita’s friend—not perhaps, a friend of long standing, but, if I mistake not, a very loving one; and, secondly, as well as chiefly, because I want you to find out from her where her father is at present, and let me know.”

“There is something disagreeably underhand in such a proceeding,” objected Emma.

“You know that a doctor is, or ought to be, considered a sort of pope,” returned Lawrence. “I absolve you from all guilt by assuring you that there is urgent need for pursuing the course I suggest.”

“Well, I will at all events do what I can to help you,” said Emma. “Shall I find her in her own room?”

“Yes, in bed, attended, with Mrs Stoutley’s permission, by Susan Quick. Get rid of the maid before entering on the subject.”

In a few minutes Emma returned to the Doctor, who still walked up and down in earnest conversation with Lewis. She had succeeded, she said, in persuading Nita to let her father be sent for, and the place to which he had gone for a few days was Saxon, in the Rhone valley. The Count’s address had also been obtained, but Nita had stipulated that the messenger should on no account disturb her father by entering the house, but should send for him and wait outside.

“Strange prohibition!” exclaimed Lawrence. “However, we must send off a messenger without delay.”

“Stay,” said Lewis, detaining his friend; “there seems to be delicacy as well as mystery connected with this matter, you must therefore allow me to be the messenger.”

Lawrence had no objection to the proposal, and in less than an hour Lewis, guided by Antoine Grennon, was on the road to Martigny by way of the celebrated pass of the Tête-Noire.

The guide was one of Nature’s gentlemen. Although low in the social scale, and trained in a rugged school, he possessed that innate refinement of sentiment and feeling—a gift of God sometimes transmitted through a gentle mother—which makes a true gentleman. Among men of the upper ranks this refinement of soul may be counterfeited by the superficial polish of manners; among those who stand lower in the social scale it cannot be counterfeited at all, but still less can it be concealed. As broadcloth can neither make nor mar a true gentleman, so fustian cannot hide one. If Antoine Grennon had been bred “at Court,” and arrayed in sumptuous apparel, he could not have been more considerate than he was of the feelings and wishes of others, or more gentle, yet manly, in his demeanour.

If, on an excursion, you wished to proceed in a certain direction, Antoine never suggested that you should go in another, unless there were insurmountable difficulties in the way. If you chanced to grow weary, you could not have asked Antoine to carry your top-coat, because he would have observed your condition and anticipated your wishes. If you had been inclined to talk he would have chatted away by the hour on every subject that came within the range of his knowledge, and if you had taken him beyond his depth, he would have listened by the hour with profound respect, obviously pleased, and attempting to understand you. Yet he would not have “bored” you. He possessed great tact. He would have allowed you to lead the conversation, and when you ceased to do so he would have stopped. He never looked sulky or displeased. He never said unkind things, though he often said and did kind ones, and, with all that, was as independent in his opinions as the whistling wind among his native glaciers. In fact he was a prince among guides, and a pre-eminently unselfish man.

Heigho! if all the world—you and I, reader, included—bore a stronger resemblance to Antoine Grennon, we should have happy times of it. Well, well, don’t let us sigh despairingly because of our inability to come up to the mark. It is some comfort that there are not a few such men about us to look up to as exemplars. We know several such, both men and women, among our own friends. Let’s be thankful for them. It does us good to think of them!

From what we have said, the reader will not be surprised to hear that, after the first words of morning salutation, Lewis Stoutley walked smartly along the high road leading up the valley of Chamouni in perfect silence, with Antoine trudging like a mute by his side.

Lewis was too busy with his thoughts to speak at first. Nita’s illness, and the mystery connected somehow with the Count, afforded food not only for meditation, but anxiety, and it was not until the town lay far behind them that he looked at his guide, and said:—

“The route over the Tête-Noire is very grand, I am told?”

“Very grand, Monsieur—magnificent!”

“You are well acquainted with it, doubtless?”

“Yes; I have passed over it hundreds of times. Does Monsieur intend to make a divergence to the Col de Balme?”

“No; I have urgent business on hand, and must push on to catch the railway. Would the divergence you speak of take up much time? Is the Col de Balme worth going out of one’s way to see?”

“It is well worthy of a visit,” said the guide, replying to the last query first, “as you can there have a completely uninterrupted view—one of the very finest views of Mont Blanc, and all its surroundings. The time required for the divergence is little more than two hours; with Monsieur’s walking powers perhaps not so much; besides, there is plenty of time, as we shall reach Martigny much too soon for the train.”

“In that case we shall make the détour,” said Lewis. “Are the roads difficult?”

“No; quite easy. It is well that Monsieur dispensed with a mule, as we shall be more independent; and a mule is not so quick in its progress as an active man.”

While they chatted thus, walking at a quick pace up the valley, Antoine, observing that his young charge was now in a conversational frame of mind, commented on the magnificent scenery, and drew attention to points of interest as they came into view.

Their route at first lay in the low ground by the banks of the river Arve, which rushed along, wild and muddy, as if rejoicing in its escape from the superincumbent glaciers that gave it birth. The great peaks of the Mont Blanc range hemmed them in on the right, the slopes of the Brévent on the left. Passing the village of Argentière with rapid strides, and pausing but a few moments to look at the vast glacier of the same name which pours into the valley the ice-floods gendered among the heights around the Aiguille Verte and the Aiguille du Chardonnet, which rise respectively to a height of above 13,400 and 12,500 feet they reached the point where the Tête-Noire route diverged to the left at that time, in the form of a mere bridle-path, and pushed forward towards the Col, or pass.

On the way, Antoine pointed out heaps of slabs of black slate. These, he said, were collected by the peasants, who, in spring, covered their snow-clad fields with them; the sun, heating the slabs, caused the snow beneath to melt rapidly; and thus, by a very simple touch of art, they managed to wrest from Nature several weeks that would otherwise have been lost!

As they rose into the higher grounds, heaps and rude pillars of stone were observed. These were the landmarks which guided travellers through that region when it was clad in its wintry robe of deep snow, and all paths obliterated.

At last they stood on the Col de Balme. There was a solitary inn there, but Antoine turned aside from it and led his companion a mile or so to one side, to a white stone, which marked the boundary between Switzerland and France.

It is vain to attempt in words a description of scenes of grandeur. Ink, at the best, is impotent in such matters; even paint fails to give an adequate idea. We can do no more than run over a list of names. From this commanding point of view Mont Blanc is visible in all his majesty—vast, boundless, solemn, incomprehensible—with his Aiguilles de Tour, d’Argentière, Verte, du Dru, de Charmoz, du Midi, etcetera, around him; his white head in the clouds, his glacial drapery rolling into the vale of Chamouni, his rocks and his pine-clad slopes toned down by distance into fine shadows. On the other side of the vale rise the steeps of the Aiguilles Rouges and the Brévent. To the north towers the Croix de Fer, and to the north-east is seen the entire chain of the Bernese Alps, rising like a mighty white leviathan, with a bristling back of pinnacles.

Splendid though the view was, however, Lewis did not for a moment forget his mission. Allowing himself only a few minutes to drink it in, he hastened back to the Tête-Noire path, and soon found himself traversing a widely different scene. On the Col he had, as it were, stood aloof, and looked abroad on a vast and glorious region; now, he was involved in its rocky, ridgy, woody details. Here and there long vistas opened up to view, but, for the most part, his vision was circumscribed by towering cliffs and deep ravines. Sometimes he was down in the bottom of mountain valleys, at other times walking on ledges so high on the precipice-faces, that cottages in the vales below seemed little bigger than sheep. Now the country was wooded and soft; anon it was barren and rocky, but never tame or uninteresting.

At one place, where the narrow gorge was strewn with huge boulders, Antoine pointed out a spot where two Swiss youths had been overwhelmed by an avalanche. It had come down from the red gorges of the Aiguilles Rouges, at a spot where the vale, or pass, was comparatively wide. Perhaps its width had induced the hapless lads to believe themselves quite safe from anything descending on the other side of the valley. If so, they were mistaken; the dreadful rush of rock and wrack swept the entire plain, and buried them in the ruin.

Towards evening the travellers reached Martigny in good time for the train, which speedily conveyed them to Saxon.

This town is the only one in Switzerland—the only one, indeed, in Europe with the exception of Monaco—which possesses that great blight on civilisation, a public gambling-table. That the blight is an unusually terrible one may be assumed from the fact that every civilised European nation has found it absolutely necessary to put such places down with a strong hand.

At the time Lewis Stoutley visited the town, however, it was not so singular in its infamy as it now is. He was ignorant of everything about the place save its name. Going straight to the first hotel that presented itself, he inquired for the Count Horetzki. The Count he was told, did not reside there; perhaps he was at the Casino.

To the Casino Lewis went at once. It was an elegant Swiss building, the promenade of which was crowded with visitors. The strains of music fell sweetly on the youth’s ear as he approached.

Leaving Antoine outside, he entered, and repeated his inquiries for the Count.

They did not know the Count, was the reply, but if Monsieur would enter the rooms perhaps he might find him.

Lewis, remembering the expressed desire of Nita, hesitated, but as no one seemed inclined to attend to his inquiries, beyond a civil reply that nothing was known about the Count he entered, not a little surprised at the difficulty thrown in his way.

The appearance of the salon into which he was ushered at once explained the difficulty, and at the same time sent a sudden gleam of light into his mind. Crowds of ladies and gentlemen—some eager, some anxious, others flippant or dogged, and a good many quite calm and cool—surrounded the brilliantly-lighted gaming tables. Every one seemed to mind only his own business, and each man’s business may be said to have been the fleecing of his neighbour to the utmost of his power—not by means of skill or wisdom, but by means of mere chance, and through the medium of professional gamblers and rouge-et-noir.

With a strange fluttering at his heart, for he remembered his own weakness, Lewis hurried forward and glanced quickly at the players. Almost the first face he saw was that of the Count. But what a changed countenance! Instead of the usual placid smile, and good-humoured though sad expression about the eyes, there was a terrible look of intense fixed anxiety, with deep-knotted lines on his brow, and a horribly drawn look about the mouth.

“Make your play, gentlemen,” said the presiding genius of the tables, as he spun round the board on the action of which so much depended.

The Count had already laid his stake on the table, and clutched his rake with such violence as almost to snap the handle.

Other players had also placed their stakes, some with cool calculating precision, a few with nervous uncertainty, many with apparent indifference. With the exception of the Count and a lady near him, however, there was little of what might indicate very strong feeling on any countenance. One young and pretty girl, after placing her little pile of silver, stood awaiting the result with calm indifference—possibly assumed. Whatever might be the thoughts or feelings of the players, there was nothing but business-like gravity stamped on the countenances of the four men who presided over the revolving board, each with neatly-arranged rows of silver five-franc pieces in front of him, and a wooden rake lying ready to hand. Each player also had a rake, with which he or she pushed the coins staked upon a certain space of the table, or on one of the dividing lines, which gave at least a varied, if not a better, chance.

The process of play was short and sharp. For a few seconds the board spun, the players continuing to place, or increase, or modify the arrangement of the stakes up to nearly the last moment. As the board revolved more slowly a pea fell into a hole—red or black—and upon this the fate of each hung. A notable event, truly, on which untold millions of money have changed hands, innumerable lives have been sacrificed, and unspeakable misery and crime produced in days gone by!

The decision of the pea—if we may so express it—was quietly stated, and to an ignorant spectator it seemed as if the guardians of the table raked all the stakes into their own maws. But here and there, like white rocks in a dark sea, several little piles were left untouched. To the owners of these a number of silver pieces were tossed—tossed so deftly that we might almost say it rained silver on those regions of the table. No wizard of legerdemain ever equalled the sleight of hand with which these men pitched, reckoned, manipulated, and raked in silver pieces!

The Count’s pile remained untouched, and a bright flush suffused his hitherto pale cheeks while the silver rain was falling on his square, but to the surprise of Lewis, he did not rake it towards him as did the others. He left the increased amount on exactly the same spot, merely drawing it gently together with his rake. As he did so the knotted haggard look returned to his once again bloodless brow and face. Not less precise and silent were his companions. The board again spun round; the inexorable pea fell; the raking and raining were repeated, and again the Count’s stake lay glittering before him. His eyes glittered even more brightly than the silver. Lewis concluded that he must have been brought down to desperate poverty, and meant to recover himself by desperate means, for he left the whole stake again on the same spot.

This time the pea fell into black. The colour was symbolic of the Count’s feelings, for next moment the silver heap was raked from before him, along with other heaps, as if nothing unusual had happened; and, in truth, nothing had. Wholesale ruin and robbery was the daily occupation there!

For a few seconds the Count gazed at the blank space before him with an expression of stony unbelief; then springing suddenly to his feet, he spurned his chair from him and rushed from the room. So quick was the movement, that he had reached the door and passed out before Lewis could stop him.

Springing after him with a feeling of great alarm, the youth dashed across the entrance-hall, but turned in the wrong direction. Being put right by a porter, he leaped through the doorway and looked for Antoine, who, he knew, must have seen the Count pass, but Antoine was not there.

As he quickly questioned one who stood near, he thought he saw a man running among the adjacent shrubbery. He could not be sure, the night being dark, but he promptly ran after him. On dashing round a turn in the gravel-walk, he found two men engaged in what appeared to be a deadly struggle. Suddenly the place was illumined by a red flash, a loud report followed, and one of the two fell.

“Ah! Monsieur,” exclaimed Antoine, as Lewis came forward, “aid me here; he is not hurt, I think.”

“Hurt! Do you mean that he tried to shoot himself?”

“He had not time to try, but I’m quite sure that he meant to,” said Antoine; “so I ran after him and caught his hand. The pistol exploded in the struggle.”

As the guide spoke, the Count rose slowly. The star-light was faint, but it sufficed to show that the stony look of despair was gone, and that the gentle expression, natural to him, had returned. He was deadly pale, and bowed his head as one overwhelmed with shame.

“Oh pardon, Monsieur!” exclaimed poor Antoine, as he thought of the roughness with which he had been compelled to treat him. “I did not mean to throw you.”

“You did not throw me, friend. I tripped and fell,” replied the Count, in a low, husky voice. “Mr Stoutley,” he added, turning to Lewis, “by what mischance you came here I know not but I trust that you were not—were not—present. I mean—do you know the cause of my conduct—this—”

He stopped abruptly.

“My dear sir,” said Lewis, in a low, kind voice, at the same time grasping the Count’s hand, and leading him aside, “I was in the rooms; I saw you there; but believe me when I assure you, that no feeling but that of sympathy can touch the heart of one who has been involved in the meshes of the same net.”

The Count’s manner changed instantly. He returned the grasp of the young man, and looked eagerly in his face, as he repeated—

“Has been involved! How, then, did you escape?”

“I’m not sure that I have escaped,” answered Lewis, sadly.

“Not sure! Oh, young man, make sure. Give no rest to your soul till you are quite sure. It is a dreadful net—terrible! When once wrapped tightly round one there is no escape—no escape. In this it resembles its sister passion—the love of strong drink.”

The Count spoke with such deep pathos, and in tones so utterly hopeless, that Lewis’s ready sympathies were touched, and he would have given anything to be able to comfort his friend, but never before having been called upon to act as a comforter, he felt sorely perplexed.

“Call it not a passion,” he said. “The love of gaming, as of drink, is a disease; and a disease may be cured—has been cured, even when desperate.”

The Count shook his head.

“You speak in ignorance, Mr Stoutley. You know nothing of the struggles I have made. It is impossible.”

“With God all things are possible,” replied Lewis, quoting, almost to his own surprise, a text of Scripture. “But forgive my delay,” he added; “I came here on purpose to look for you. Your daughter Nita is ill—not seriously ill, I believe,” he said, on observing the Count’s startled look, “but ill enough to warrant your being sent for.”

“I know—I know,” cried the Count, with a troubled look, as he passed his hand across his brow. “I might have expected it. She cannot sustain the misery I have brought on her. Oh! why was I prevented from freeing her from such a father. Is she very ill? Did she send for me? Did she tell you what I am?”

The excited manner and wild aspect of the gambler, more than the words, told of a mind almost, if not altogether, unhinged. Observing this with some anxiety, Lewis tried to soothe him. While leading him to an hotel, he explained the nature of Nita’s attack as well as he could, and said that she had not only refrained from saying anything about her father, but that she seemed excessively unwilling to reveal the name of the place to which he had gone, or to send for him.

“No one knows anything unfavourable about Count Horetzki,” said Lewis, in a gentle tone, “save his fellow-sinner, who now assures him of his sincere regard. As for Antoine Grennon, he is a wise, and can be a silent, man. No brother could be more tender of the feelings of others than he. Come, you will consent to be my guest to-night. You are unwell; I shall be your amateur physician. My treatment and a night of rest will put you all right, and to-morrow, by break of day, we will hie back to Chamouni over the Tête-Noire.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Mountaineering in General.

A week passed away, during which Nita was confined to bed, and the Count waited on her with the most tender solicitude. As their meals were sent to their rooms, it was not necessary for the latter to appear in the salle-à-manger or the salon. He kept himself carefully out of sight, and intelligence of the invalid’s progress was carried to their friends by Susan Quick, who was allowed to remain as sick-nurse, and who rejoiced in filling that office to one so amiable and uncomplaining as Nita.

Of course, Lewis was almost irresistibly tempted to talk with Susan about her charge, but he felt the impropriety of such a proceeding, and refrained. Not so Gillie White. That sapient blue spider, sitting in his wonted chair, resplendent with brass buttons and brazen impudence, availed himself of every opportunity to perform an operation which he styled “pumping;” but Susan, although ready enough to converse freely on things in general, was judicious in regard to things particular. Whatever might have passed in the sick-room, the pumping only brought up such facts as that the Count was a splendid nurse as well as a loving father, and that he and his daughter were tenderly attached to each other.

“Well, Susan,” observed Gillie, with an approving nod, “I’m glad to hear wot you say, for it’s my b’lief that tender attachments is the right sort o’ thing. I’ve got one or two myself.”

“Indeed!” said Susan, “who for, I wonder?”

“W’y, for one,” replied the spider, “I’ve had a wery tender attachment to my mother ever since that blessed time w’en I was attached to her buzzum in the rampagin’ hunger of infancy. Then I’ve got another attachment—not quite so old, but wery strong, oh uncommon powerful—for a young lady named Susan Quick. D’you happen to know her?”

“Oh, Gillie, you’re a sad boy,” said Susan.

“Well, I make a pint never to contradict a ’ooman, believin’ it to be dangerous,” returned Gillie, “but I can’t say that I feel sad. I’m raither jolly than otherwise.”

A summons from the sick-room cut short the conversation.

During the week in question it had rained a good deal, compelling the visitors at Chamouni to pass the time in-doors with books, billiards, draughts, and chess. Towards the end of the week Lewis met the Count and discovered that he was absolutely destitute of funds—did not, in fact possess enough to defray the hotel expenses.

“Mother,” said Lewis, during a private audience in her bed-chamber the same evening, “I want twenty pounds from you.”

“Certainly, my boy; but why do you come to me? You know that Dr Lawrence has charge of and manages my money. How I wish there were no such thing as money, and no need for it!”

Mrs Stoutley finished her remark with her usual languid smile and pathetic sigh, but if her physician, Dr Tough, had been there, he would probably have noted that mountain-air had robbed the smile of half its languor, and the sigh of nearly all its pathos. There was something like seriousness, too, in the good lady’s eye. She had been impressed more than she chose to admit by the sudden death of Le Croix, whom she had frequently seen, and whose stalwart frame and grave countenance she had greatly admired. Besides this, one or two accidents had occurred since her arrival in the Swiss valley; for there never passes a season without the occurrence of accidents more or less serious in the Alps. On one occasion the news had been brought that a young lady, recently married, whose good looks had been the subject of remark more than once, was killed by falling rocks before her husband’s eyes. On another occasion the spirits of the tourists were clouded by the report that a guide had fallen into a crevasse, and, though not killed, was much injured. Mrs Stoutley chanced to meet the rescue-party returning slowly to the village, with the poor shattered frame of the fine young fellow on a stretcher. It is one thing to read of such events in the newspapers. It is another and a very different thing to be near or to witness them—to be in the actual presence of physical and mental agony. Antoine Grennon, too, had made a favourable impression on Mrs Stoutley; and when, in passing one day his extremely humble cottage, she was invited by Antoine’s exceedingly pretty wife to enter and partake of bread and milk largely impregnated with cream, which was handed to her by Antoine’s excessively sweet blue-eyed daughter, the lady who had hitherto spent her life among the bright ice-pinnacles of society, was forced to admit to Emma Gray that Dr Tough was right when he said there were some beautiful and precious stones to be found among the moraines of social life.

“I know that Lawrence keeps the purse,” said Lewis, “but I want your special permission to take this money, because I intend to give it away.”

“Twenty pounds is a pretty large gift, Lewis,” said his mother, raising her eyebrows. “Who is it that has touched the springs of your liberality? Not the family of poor Le Croix?”

“No; Le Croix happily leaves no family. He was an unmarried man. I must not tell you, just yet, mother. Trust me, it shall be well bestowed; besides, I ask it as a loan. It shall be refunded.”

“Don’t talk of refunding money to your mother, foolish boy. Go; you may have it.”

Lewis kissed his mother’s cheek and thanked her. He quickly found the Count, but experienced considerable difficulty in persuading him to accept the money. However, by delicacy of management and by assuming, as a matter of course, that it was a loan, to be repaid when convenient, he prevailed. The Count made an entry of the loan in his notebook, with Lewis’s London address, and they parted with a kindly shake of the hand, little imagining that they had seen each other on earth for the last time.

On the Monday following, a superb day opened on the vale of Chamouni, such a day as, through the medium of sight and scent, is calculated to gladden the heart of man and beast. That the beasts enjoyed it was manifest from the pleasant sounds that they sent, gushing, like a hymn of thanksgiving—and who shall say it was not!—into the bright blue sky.

Birds carolled on the shrubs and in the air; cats ventured abroad with hair erect and backs curved, to exchange greetings with each other in wary defiance of dogs; kittens sprawled in the sunshine, and made frantic efforts to achieve the impossible feat of catching their own shadows, varying the pastime with more successful, though arduous, attempts at their own tails; dogs bounded and danced, chiefly on their hind legs, round their loved companion man (including woman); juvenile dogs chased, tumbled over, barked at, and gnawed each other with amiable fury, wagging their various tails with a vigour that suggested a desire to shake them off; tourist men and boys moved about with a decision that indicated the having of particular business on hand; tourist women and girls were busily engaged with baskets and botanical boxes, or flitted hither and thither in climbing costume with obtrusive alpenstocks, as though a general attack on Mont Blanc and all his satellite aiguilles were meditated.

Among these were our friends the Professor, Captain Wopper, Emma Gray, Slingsby, Lewis, and Lawrence, under the guidance of Antoine Grennon.

Strange to say they were all a little dull, notwithstanding the beauty of the weather, and the pleasant anticipation of a day on the hills—not a hard, toilsome day, with some awful Alpine summit as its aim, but what Lewis termed a jolly day, a picnicky day, to be extended into night, and to include any place, or to be cut short or extended according to whim.

The Professor was dull, because, having to leave, this was to be his last excursion; Captain Wopper was dull, because his cherished matrimonial hopes were being gradually dissipated. He could not perceive that Lawrence was falling in love with Emma, or Emma with Lawrence. The utmost exertion of sly diplomacy of which he was capable, short of straightforward advice, had failed to accomplish anything towards the desirable end. Emma was dull, because her friend Nita, although recovering, was still far from well. Slingsby was dull for the same reason, and also because he felt his passion to be hopeless. Lewis was dull because he knew Nita’s circumstances to be so very sad; and Lawrence was dull because—well, we are not quite sure why he was dull. He was rather a self-contained fellow, and couldn’t be easily understood. Of the whole party, Antoine alone was not dull. Nothing could put him in that condition, but, seeing that the others were so, he was grave, quiet attentive.

Some of the excursionists had left at a much earlier hour. Four strapping youths, with guides, had set out for the summit of Mont Blanc; a mingled party of ladies, gentlemen, guides, and mules, were on the point of starting to visit the Mer de Glace; a delicate student, unable for long excursions, was preparing to visit with his sister, the Glacier des Bossons. Others were going, or had gone, to the source of the Arveiron, and to the Brévent, while the British peer, having previously been conducted by a new and needlessly difficult path to the top of Monte Rosa, was led off by his persecutor to attempt, by an impossible route, to scale the Matterhorn—to reach the main-truck, as Captain Wopper put it, by going down the stern-post along the keel, over the bobstay, up the flyin’ jib, across the foretopmast-stay, and up the maintop-gallant halyards. This at least was Lewis Stoutley’s report of the Captain’s remark. We cannot answer for its correctness.

But nothing can withstand the sweet influences of fresh mountain-air and sunshine. In a short time “dull care” was put to flight and when our party—Emma being on a mule—reached the neighbouring heights, past and future were largely forgotten in the enjoyment of the present.

Besides being sunny and bright, the day was rather cool, so that, after dismissing the mule, and taking to the glaciers and ice-slope, the air was found to be eminently suitable for walking.

“It’s a bad look-out,” murmured Captain Wopper, when he observed that Dr Lawrence turned deliberately to converse with the Professor, leaving Lewis to assist Emma to alight, even although he, the Captain, had, by means of laboured contrivance and vast sagacity, brought the Doctor and the mule into close juxtaposition at the right time. However, the Captain’s temperament was sanguine. He soon forgot his troubles in observing the curious position assumed by Slingsby on the first steep slope of rocky ground they had to descend, for descents as well as ascents were frequent at first.

The artist walked on all-fours, but with his back to the hill instead of his face, his feet thus being in advance.

“What sort of an outside-in fashion is that, Slingsby?” asked the Captain, when they had reached the bottom.

“It’s a way I have of relieving my knees,” said Slingsby; “try it.”

“Thank ’ee; no,” returned the Captain. “It don’t suit my pecooliar build; it would throw too much of my weight amidships.”

“You’ve no idea,” said Slingsby, “what a comfort it is to a man whose knees suffer in descending. I’d rather go up twenty mountains than descend one. This plan answers only on steep places, and is but a temporary relief. Still that is something at the end of a long day.”

The artist exemplified his plan at the next slope. The Captain tried it, but, as he expressed it, broke in two at the waist and rolled down the slope, to the unspeakable delight of his friends.

“I fear you will find this rather severe?” said the Professor to Emma, during a pause in a steep ascent.

“Oh no; I am remarkably strong,” replied Emma, smiling. “I was in Switzerland two years ago, and am quite accustomed to mountaineering.”

“Yes,” remarked Lawrence, “and Miss Gray on that occasion, I am told, ascended to the top of the Dent du Midi, which you know is between ten and eleven thousand feet high; and she also, during the same season, walked from Champéry to Sixt which is a good day’s journey, so we need have no anxiety on her account.”

Although the Doctor smiled as he spoke, he also glanced at Emma with a look of admiration. Captain Wopper noted the glance and was comforted. At luncheon, however, the Doctor seated himself so that the Professor’s bulky person came between him and Emma. The Captain noted that also, and was depressed. What between elation and depression, mingled with fatigue and victuals, the Captain ultimately became recklessly jovial.

“What are yonder curious things?” asked Emma, pointing to so me gigantic objects which looked at a distance like rude pillars carved by man.

“These,” said the Professor, “are Nature’s handiwork. You will observe that on each pillar rests a rugged capital. The capital is the cause of the pillar. It is a hard rock which originally rested on a softer bed of friable stone. The weather has worn away the soft bed, except where it has been protected by the hard stone, and thus a natural pillar has arisen—just like the ice-pillars, which are protected from the sun in the same way; only the latter are more evanescent.”

Further on, the Professor drew the attention of his friends to the beautiful blue colour of the holes which their alpenstocks made in the snow. “Once,” said he, “while walking on the heights of Monte Rosa, I observed this effect with great interest, and, while engaged in the investigation of the cause, got a surprise which was not altogether agreeable. Some of the paths there are on very narrow ridges, and the snow on these ridges often overhangs them. I chanced to be walking in advance of my guide at the time to which I refer, and amused myself as I went along by driving my alpenstock deep into the snow, when suddenly, to my amazement I sent the end of the staff right through the snow, and, on withdrawing it, looked down into space! I had actually walked over the ridge altogether, and was standing above an abyss some thousands of feet deep!”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Emma. “You jumped off pretty quickly, I dare say.”

“Nay, I walked off with extreme caution; but I confess to having felt a sort of cold shudder with which my frame had not been acquainted previously.”

While they were thus conversing, a cloud passed overhead and sent down a slight shower of snow. To most of the party this was a matter of indifference, but the man of science soon changed their feelings by drawing attention to the form of the flakes. He carried a magnifying glass with him, which enabled him to show their wonders more distinctly. It was like a shower of frozen flowers of the most delicate and exquisite kind. Each flake was a flower with six leaves. Some of the leaves threw out lateral spines or points, like ferns, some were rounded, others arrowy, reticulated, and serrated; but, although varied in many respects, there was no variation in the number of leaves.

“What amazin’ beauty in a snowflake,” exclaimed the Captain, “many a one I’ve seen without knowin’ how splendid it was.”

“The works of God are indeed wonderful,” said the Professor, “but they must be ‘sought out’—examined with care—to be fully understood and appreciated.”

“Yet there are certain philosophers,” observed Lewis, “who hold that the evidence of design here and elsewhere does not at all prove the existence of God. They say that the crystals of these snow-flakes are drawn together and arrange themselves by means of natural forces.”

“They say truly,” replied the Professor, “but they seem to me to stop short in their reasoning. They appear to ignore the fact that this elemental original force of which they speak must have had a Creator. However far they may go back into mysterious and incomprehensible elements, which they choose to call ‘blind forces,’ they do not escape the fact that matter cannot have created itself; that behind their utmost conceptions there must still be One non-created, eternal, living Being who created all, who upholds all, and whom we call God.”

Descending again from the heights in order to cross a valley and gain the opposite mountain, our ramblers quitted the glacier, and, about noon, found themselves close to a lovely pine-clad knoll, the shaded slopes of which commanded an unusually fine view of rocky cliff and fringing wood, with a background of glacier and snow-flecked pinnacles.

Halting, accidentally in a row, before this spot they looked at it with interest. Suddenly the Professor stepped in front of the others, and, pointing to the knoll, said, with twinkling eyes—

“What does it suggest? Come, dux (to Slingsby, who happened to stand at the head of the line), tell me, sir, what does it suggest?”

“I know, sir!” exclaimed the Captain, who stood at the dunce’s extremity of the line, holding out his fist with true schoolboy eagerness.

“It suggests,” said the artist, rolling his eyes, “‘a thing of beauty;’ and—”

“Next!” interrupted the Professor, pointing to Lawrence.

“I know, sir,” shouted the Captain.

“Hold your tongue, sir!”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“It is suggestive,” said Lawrence, “of an oasis in the desert.”

“Very poor, sir,” said the Professor, severely. “Next.”

“It suggests a cool shade on a hot day,” said Emma.

“Better, but not right. Next.”

“Please, sir, I’d rather not answer,” said Lewis, putting his forefinger in his mouth.

“You must, sir.”

“I know, sir,” interrupted Captain Wopper, shaking his fist eagerly.

“Silence, you booby!—Well, boy, what does it suggest to you?”

“Please, sir,” answered Lewis, “it suggests the mole on your professorial cheek.”

“Sir,” cried the Professor, sternly, “remind me to give you a severe caning to-night.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, booby, what have you got to say to it?”

“Wittles!” shouted the Captain.

“Right,” cried the Professor, “only it would have been better expressed had you said—Luncheon. Go up, sir; put yourself at the head of the class, and lead it to a scene of glorious festivity.”

Thus instructed, the Captain put himself at the head of the line.

“Now, then, Captain,” said Lewis, “let’s have a true-blue nautical word of command—hoist yer main tops’l sky-scrapers abaft the cleat o’ the spanker boom, heave the main deck overboard and let go the painter—or something o’ that sort.”

“Hold on to the painter, you mean,” said Slingsby.

“You’re both wrong,” cried the Captain, “my orders are those of the immortal Nelson—‘Close action, my lads—England expects every man to’—hooray!”

With a wild cheer, and waving his hat, the seaman rushed up the side of the knoll, followed by his obedient and willing crew.

In order to render the feast more complete, several members of the party had brought small private supplies to supplement the cold mutton, ham, bread, and light claret which Antoine and two porters had carried in their knapsacks. Captain Wopper had brought a supply of variously coloured abominations known in England by the name of comfits, in Scotland as sweeties. These, mixed with snow and water, he styled “iced-lemonade.” Emma tried the mixture and declared it excellent, which caused someone to remark that the expression of her face contradicted her tongue. Lewis produced a small flask full of a rich dark port-winey liquid, which he said he had brought because it had formerly been one of the most delightful beverages of his childish years. It was tasted with interest and rejected with horror, being liquorice water! Emma produced a bottle of milk, in the consumption of which she was ably assisted by the Professor, who declared that his natural spirits required no artificial stimulants. The Professor himself had not been forgetful of the general good. He had brought with him a complex copper implement, which his friends had supposed was a new species of theodolite, but which turned out to be a scientific coffee-pot, in the development of which and its purposes, as the man of science carefully explained, there was called into play some of the principles involved in the sciences of hydraulics and pneumatics, to which list Lewis added, in an under-tone, those of aquatics, ecstatics, and rheumatics. The machine was perfect, but the Professor’s natural turn for practical mechanics not being equal to his knowledge of other branches of science, he failed properly to adjust a screw. This resulted in an explosion of the pot which blew its lid, as Lewis expressed it, into the north of Italy, and its contents into the fire. A second effort, using the remains of the scientific pot as an ordinary kettle, was more successful.

“You see, my friends,” said the Professor, apologetically, “it is one of the prerogatives of science that her progress cannot be hindered. Her resources and appliances are inexhaustible. When one style of experiment fails we turn at once to another and obtain our result, as I now prove to you by handing this cup of coffee to Miss Gray. You had better not sweeten it, Mademoiselle. It is quite unnecessary to make the very trite observation that in your case no sugar is required. Yes, the progress of science is slow, but it is sure. Everything must fall before it in time.”

“Ah, just so—‘one down, another come on,’—that’s your motto, ain’t it?” said Captain Wopper, who invariably, during the meal, delivered his remarks from a cavern filled with a compound of mutton, bread, and ham. “But I say, Professor, are you spliced?”

“Spliced?” echoed the man of science.

“Ay; married, I mean.”

“Yes, I am wed,” he replied, with enthusiasm. “I have a beautiful wife in Russia, and she is good as beautiful.”

“In Roosia—eh! Well, it’s a longish way off, but I’d advise you, as a friend, not to let her know that you pay such wallopin’ compliments to young English ladies. It might disagree with her, d’ye see?”

At this point the conversation and festivities were interrupted by Slingsby, who, having gone off to sketch, had seated himself on a mound within sight of his friends, in a position so doubled up and ridiculous as to call forth the remark from Lawrence, that few traits of character were more admirable and interesting than those which illustrated the utter disregard of personal appearance in true and enthusiastic devotees of art. To which Captain Wopper added that “he was a rum lot an’ no mistake.”

The devotee was seen by the revellers to start once or twice and clap his hands to various pockets, as though he had forgotten his india-rubber or pen-knife. Then he was observed to drop his sketching-book and hastily slap all his pockets, as if he had forgotten fifty pieces of india-rubber and innumerable pen-knives. Finally, he sprang up and slapped himself all over wildly, yelling at the same time as if he had been a maniac.

He had inadvertently selected an ant-hill as his seat, that was all; but that was sufficient to check his devotion to art, and necessitate his retirement to a rocky defile, where he devoted himself to the study of “the nude” in his own person, and whence he returned looking imbecile and hot.

Such contretemps, however, do not materially affect the health or spirits of the young and strong. Ere long Slingsby was following his companions with his wonted enthusiasm and devotee-like admiration of Nature in all her varying aspects.

His enthusiasm was, however, diverted from the study of vegetable and mineral, if we may so put it, to that of animal nature, for one of the porters, who had a tendency to go poking his staff into holes and crannies of the rocks, suddenly touched a marmot. He dropped his pack and began at once to dig up earth and stones as fast as possible, assisted by his comrades; but the little creature was too sagacious for them. They came to its bed at last, and found that, while they had been busy at one end of the hole, the marmot had quietly walked out at the other, and made off.

Having pushed over the valley, and once more ascended to the regions of perpetual ice, the ramblers determined to “attack”—as the phrase goes among Alpine climbers—a neighbouring summit. It was not a very high one, and Emma declared that she was not only quite able, but very anxious, to attempt it. The attempt was, therefore, made, and, after a couple of hours of pretty laborious work, accomplished. They found themselves on a pinnacle which overlooked a large portion of the ice-world around Mont Blanc. While standing there, one or two avalanches were observed, and the Professor pointed out that avalanches were not all of one character. Some, he said, were composed of rock, mud, and water; others entirely of ice; many of them were composed of these elements mixed, and others were entirely of snow.

“True, Monsieur,” observed the guide, “and the last kind is sometimes very fatal. There was one from which my wife and child had a narrow escape. They were visiting at the time a near relation who dwelt in a village in a valley not far distant from this spot. Behind the village there is a steep slope covered with pines; behind that the mountain rises still more steeply. The little forest stands between that village and destruction. But for it, avalanches would soon sweep the village away; but wood is not always a sure protector. Sometimes, when frost renders the snow crisp and dry, the trees fail to check its descent. It was so on the last night of my wife’s visit. A brother was about to set off with her from the door of our relative’s house, when the snow began to descend through the trees like water. It was like dry flour. There was not much noise, merely a hissing sound, but it came down in a deluge, filled all the houses, and suffocated nearly all the people in them. My brother-in-law saw it in time. He put his horse to full speed, and brought my dear wife and child away in safety, but his own father, mother, and sister were lost. We tried to reach their house the next day, but could advance through the soft snow only by taking two planks with us, and placing one before the other as we went along.”

Soon after the ramblers had begun their return journey, they came to a slope which they thought might be descended by sliding or “glissading.” It was the first time that Emma had seen such work, and she felt much inclined to try it, but was dissuaded by Antoine, who led her round by an easier way. At the foot of the slope they came to a couloir, or sloping gorge, so steep that snow could not lie on it. Its surface was, therefore, hard ice. Although passable, Antoine deemed it prudent not to cross, the more so that he observed some ominous obelisks of ice impending at the top of the slope.

“Why not cross and let Emma see how we manage by cutting steps in the ice?” said Lewis.

He received a conclusive though unexpected answer from one of the obelisks above-mentioned, which fell at the moment, broke into fragments, and swept the couloir from top to bottom with incredible violence.

It is wonderful what a deal of experience is required to make foolish people wise! Winthin the next ten minutes this warning was forgotten, and Lewis led his cousin into a danger which almost cost the lives of three of the party.

Chapter Twenty.

Records a Serious Event.

Our ramblers had now reached a place where a great expanse of rock surface was exposed, and the temptation to dilate on the action of glaciers proved too strong for the Professor. He therefore led those who were willing to follow to a suitable spot and pointed out the striations, flutings, and polishings of the granite, which showed that in former ages the glacier had passed there, although at that time it was far below in the valley. The polishings, he said, were caused by the ice slowly grinding over the surface of the rock, and the flutings and groovings were caused, not by the ice itself, but by stones which were embedded in its under surface, and which cut the solid granite as if with chisels.

Meanwhile, Lewis and Emma, having taken the opportunity to search for plants, had wandered on a little in advance, and had come to another steep slope, which was, however, covered with snow at its upper part. Below, where it became steeper, there was no snow, only pure ice, which extended downwards to an immense distance, broken only here and there by a few rocks that cropped through its surface. It terminated in a rocky gorge, which was strewn thickly with débris from above.

“Let us cross this,” said Emma, with a look of glee, for she possessed an adventurous spirit.

“We’d better not,” answered Lewis. “The slope is very steep.”

“True, O cautious cousin,” retorted Emma, with a laugh, “but it is covered here with snow that is soft and probably knee-deep. Go on it, sir, and try.”

Thus commanded, Lewis obeyed, and found that the snow was indeed knee-deep, and that there was no possibility of their either slipping or falling, unless one were unusually careless, and even in that case the soft snow would have checked anything like an involuntary glissade.

“Let me go first,” said Lewis.

“Nay, I will go first,” returned Emma, “you will follow and pick me up if I should fall.”

So saying, she stepped lightly into the snow and advanced, while her companion stood looking at her with a half-amused, half-anxious smile.

She had not made six steps, and Lewis was on the point of following, when he observed that there was a crack across the snow just above where he stood, and the whole mass began to slide. For a moment he was transfixed with horror. The next he had sprung to his cousin’s side and seized her arm, shouting—

“Emma! Emma! come back. Quick! It moves.” But poor Emma could not obey. She would as soon have expected the mountain itself to give way as the huge mass of snow on which she stood. At first its motion was slow, and Lewis struggled wildly to extricate her, but in vain, for the snow avalanche gathered speed as it advanced, and in its motion not only sank them to their waists, but turned them helplessly round, thus placing Lewis farthest from the firm land. He shouted now with all the power of his lungs for help, while Emma screamed from terror.

Lawrence chanced to be nearest to them. He saw at a glance what had occurred, and dashed down the hill-side at headlong speed. A wave was driving in front of the couple, who were now embedded nearly to their armpits, while streams of snow were hissing all round them, and the mass was beginning to rush. One look sufficed to show Lawrence that rescue from the side was impossible, but, with that swift power of perception which is aroused in some natures by the urgent call to act, he observed that some yards lower down—near the place where the ice-slope began—there was a rock near to the side in the track of the avalanche, which it divided. Leaping down to this, he sprang into the sliding flood a little above it, and, with a powerful effort, caught the rock and drew himself upon it. Next moment Emma was borne past out of reach of his hand. Lawrence rushed deep into the snow and held out his alpenstock. Emma caught it. He felt himself turned irresistibly round, and a sick feeling of despair chilled his life-blood. At the same moment a powerful hand grasped his collar.

“Hold on, Monsieur,” cried Antoine, in a deep, yet encouraging voice, “I’ve got you safe.”

As he spoke, Emma shrieked, “I cannot hold on!”

No wonder! She had not only to resist the rushing snow, but to sustain the drag of Lewis, who, as we have said, had been carried beyond his cousin, and whose only chance now lay in his retaining hold of her arm. Ere the words had quite left her lips, Lewis was seen deliberately to let go his hold and throw up his arm—it seemed as if waving it.

Next moment Emma was dragged on the rock, where she and her companions stood gazing in horror as their companion was swept upon the ice-slope and carried down headlong. The snow was by this time whirled onward in a sort of mist or spray, in the midst of which Lewis was seen to strike a rock with his shoulder and swing violently round, while parts of his clothing were plainly rent from his body, but the painful sight did not last long. A few seconds more and he was hurled, apparently a lifeless form, among the débris and rocks far below.

Death, in such a case, might have been expected to be instantaneous, but the very element that caused the poor youth’s fall, helped to save him. During the struggle for life while clinging to Emma’s arm, the check, brief though it was, sufficed to allow most of the snow to pass down before him, so that he finally fell on a comparatively soft bed; but it was clear that he had been terribly injured, and, what made matters worse, he had fallen into a deep gorge surrounded by precipices, which seemed to some of the party to render it quite impossible to reach him.

“What is to be done?” exclaimed Lawrence, with intense anxiety. “He must be got at immediately. Delay of treatment in his case, even for a short time, may prove fatal.”

“I know it, Monsieur,” said Antoine, who had been quietly but quickly uncoiling his rope. “One of the porters and I will descend by the precipices. They are too steep for any but well-accustomed hands and feet. You, Monsieur, understand pretty well the use of the axe and rope. Cut your way down the ice-slope with Jacques. He is a steady man, and may be trusted. Run, Rollo (to the third porter), and fetch aid from Gaspard’s châlet. It is the nearest. I need not say make haste.”

These orders were delivered in a low, rapid voice. The men proceeded at once to obey them. At the same time Antoine and his comrade swung themselves down the cliffs, and were instantly lost to view. The young porter, whom he had named Rollo, was already going down the mountain at a smart run, and Jacques was on the ice-slope wielding his axe with ceaseless energy and effect, while Lawrence held the rope to which he was attached, and descended the rude and giddy staircase behind him.

It was a terrible time for those who were left above in a state of inaction and deep anxiety, but there was no help for it. They had to content themselves with watching the rescue, and praying for success.

It was not long before the guide and porter reached the spot where poor Lewis lay. He was not insensible, but a deadly pallor overspread his scarred face, and the position in which he lay betokened utter helplessness. He could scarcely speak, but whispered that he fancied he was not so much hurt as might have been expected, and expressed wonder at their having been so long in reaching him.

The guide spoke to him with the tenderness of a woman. He knew well how severely the poor youth was injured, and handled him very delicately while making such preliminary arrangements as were in his power. A few drops of brandy and water were administered, the poor limbs were arranged in a position of greater comfort, and the torn rags of clothing wrapped round him.

Soon they were joined by Lawrence, who merely whispered a few kind words, and proceeded at once to examine him. His chief anxiety was as to the amount of skin that had been destroyed. The examination revealed a terrible and bloody spectacle; over which we will draw a veil; yet there was reason to believe that the amount of skin torn off and abraded was not sufficient to cause death. Lawrence was comforted also by finding that no bones appeared to have been broken.

Nothing could be done in the way of attempting a removal until the return of Rollo with a litter. Fortunately this was not long of being brought, for the young porter was active and willing, and Gaspard had promptly accompanied him with men and materials for the rescue.

But it was a sad, slow, and painful process, to bear the poor youth’s frame from that savage gorge, and convey him on a litter, carried by four men, over glaciers and down rugged mountain sides, even although done by tender hearts and strong hands. Everything that ingenuity could contrive was done to relieve the sufferer, and when at last, after weary hours, they reached the high-road of the valley, a carriage was found waiting. A messenger had been sent in advance to fetch it, and Mrs Stoutley was in it.

There was something quite touching in the quiet, firm air of self-restraint with which she met the procession, and afterwards tended her poor boy; it was so unlike her old character!

The sun was setting in a field of golden glory when they carried Lewis into the hotel at Chamouni, and laid him on his bed—a mere wreck of his former self.

Chapter Twenty One.

Down in the Moraine at last.

As the reader may suppose, the terrible accident to Lewis Stoutley put an end to further merry-making among our friends at Chamouni. Mrs Stoutley would have left for England at once if that had been possible, but Lewis could not be moved for several weeks. At first indeed, fears were entertained for his life, but his constitution being good, and not having been damaged by dissipation, he rallied sooner than might have been expected, although it was evident from the beginning that complete restoration could not be looked for until many months, perhaps years, had passed away.

We need scarcely say, that the rapid improvement of his health was largely due to the tender watchful care of his mother.

Since visiting Switzerland, that excellent lady’s spirit had undergone a considerable change. Without going minutely into particulars, we may say that the startling events which had occurred had been made the means of opening her spiritual eyes. It had occurred to her—she scarce knew how or why—that her Creator had a claim on her for more consideration than she had been in the habit, heretofore, of testifying by a few formalities on Sundays; that there must be some higher end and aim in life than the mere obtaining and maintaining of health, and the pursuit of pleasure; and that as there was a Saviour, whom she professed on Sundays to follow, there must be something real from which she had to be saved, as well as something real that had to be done. Sin, she knew, of course, was the evil from which everybody had to be saved; but, being a good-natured and easy-going woman, she really did not feel much troubled by sin. Little weaknesses she had, no doubt, but not half so many as other people she knew of. As to anything seriously worthy the name of sin, she did not believe she had any at all. It had never, until now, occurred to her that the treating of her best Friend, during a lifetime, with cool and systematic indifference, or with mere protestations, on Sundays, of adoration, was probably as great a sin as she could commit.

Her thoughts on these points she did not at first mention to any one, but she received great help and enlightenment, as well as comfort, from the quiet sensible talk of Dr Lawrence, as he sat day after day, and hour after hour, at the bedside of his friend, endeavouring to cheer his spirits as well as to relieve his physical pain—for Lawrence was well fitted to do both.

He was not by any means what is styled a sermoniser. He made no apparent effort to turn conversation into religious channels. Indeed we believe that when men talk with the unrestrained freedom of true friendship, conversation needs no directing. It will naturally flow along all channels, and into all the zigzags and crevices of human thought—religion included. Lewis was in great pain and serious danger. Lawrence was a man full of the Holy Spirit and love to Jesus. Out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spoke when his friend appeared to desire such converse; but he never bored him with any subject—for it is possible to be a profane, as well as a religious, bore!

As soon as Lewis could turn his mind to anything, after his being brought back to the hotel, he asked earnestly after Nita Horetzki.

“She has left,” said Mrs Stoutley.

“Left! D’you mean gone from Chamouni, mother?” exclaimed Lewis, with a start and a look of anxiety which he did not care to conceal.

“Yes, they went yesterday. Nita had recovered sufficiently to travel, and the medical man who has been attending her urged her removal without delay. She and her father seemed both very sorry to leave us, and left kind messages for you. The Count wanted much to see you, but we would not allow it.”

“Kind messages for me,” repeated Lewis, in a tone of bitterness, “what sort of messages?”

“Well, really, I cannot exactly remember,” returned Mrs Stoutley, with a slight smile, “the kind of messages that amiable people might be expected to leave in the circumstances, you know—regret that they should have to leave us in such a sad condition, and sincere hope that you might soon recover, etcetera. Yes, by the way, Nita also, just at parting, expressed a hope—an earnest hope—that we might meet again. Poor dear thing, she is an extremely affectionate girl, and quite broke down when saying good-bye.”

“D’you know where they have gone to, mother?”

“No. They mean to move about from place to place, I believe.”

“Nita said nothing about writing to you, did she?”

“Did they leave any address—a poste restante—anywhere, or any clew whatever as to their whereabouts?”

“None whatever.”

So then, during the weary days of suffering that he knew full well lay before him, poor Lewis had no consolatory thought in regard to Nita save in her expressed “earnest hope” that they might meet again. It was not much, but it was better than nothing. Being an ingenious as well as daring architect, Lewis built amazing structures on that slight foundation—structures which charmed his mental eyes to look upon, and which, we verily believe, tended to facilitate his recovery—so potent is the power of true love!

“Captain Wopper,” said Mrs Stoutley one morning, towards the end of their stay in Switzerland, Lewis having been pronounced sufficiently restored to travel homeward by easy stages, “I have sent for you to ask you to do me a favour—to give me your advice—your—”

Here, to the Captain’s amazement, not to say consternation, Mrs Stoutley’s voice trembled, and she burst into tears. If she had suddenly caught him by the nose, pulled his rugged face down and kissed it, he could not have been more taken aback.

“My dear madam,” he stammered, sitting down inadvertently on Mrs Stoutley’s bonnet—for it was to the good lady’s private dressing-room that he had been summoned by Gillie White—“hold on! don’t now, please! What ever have I done to—”

“You’ve done nothing, my dear Captain,” said Mrs Stoutley, endeavouring to check her tears. “There, I’m very foolish, but I can’t help it. Indeed I can’t.”

In proof of the truth of this assertion she broke down again, and the Captain, moving uneasily on his chair, ground the bonnet almost to powder—it was a straw one.

“You have been a kind friend, Captain Wopper,” said Mrs Stoutley, drying her eyes, “a very kind friend.”

“I’m glad you think so, ma’am; I’ve meant to be—anyhow.”

“You have, you have,” cried Mrs Stoutley, earnestly, as she looked through her tears into the seaman’s rugged countenance, “and that is my reason for venturing to ask you now to trouble yourself with—with—”

There was an alarming symptom here of a recurrence of “squally weather,” which caused the Captain to give the bonnet an “extra turn,” but she recovered herself and went on—

“With my affairs. I would not have thought of troubling you, but with poor Lewie so ill, and Dr Lawrence being so young, and probably inexperienced in the ways of life, and Emma so innocent and helpless, and—in short I’m—hee!—that is to say—ho dear! I am so silly, but I can’t—indeed I can’t—hoo–o–o!”

It blew a regular gale now, and a very rain of straw débris fell through the cane-bottomed chair on which the Captain sat, as he vainly essayed to sooth his friend by earnest, pathetic, and even tender adjurations to “clap a stopper upon that,” to “hold hard,” to “belay”, to “shut down the dead-lights of her peepers,” and such-like expressive phrases.

At length, amid many sobs, the poor lady revealed the overwhelming fact that she was a beggar; that she had actually come down to her last franc; that her man of business had flatly declined to advance her another sovereign, informing her that the Gorong mine had declared “no dividend;” that the wreck of her shattered fortune had been swallowed up by the expenses of their ill-advised trip to Switzerland, and that she had not even funds enough to pay their travelling expenses home; in short that she was a miserable boulder, at the lowest level of the terminal moraine!

To all this Captain Wopper listened in perfect silence, with a blank expression on his face that revealed nothing of the state of feeling within.

“Oh! Captain Wopper,” exclaimed the poor lady anxiously, “surely—surely you won’t forsake me! I know that I have no claim on you beyond friendship, but you have always given us to understand that you were well off, and I merely wish to borrow a small sum. Just enough, and no more. Perhaps I may not be able to repay you just immediately, but I hope soon; and even if it came to the worst, there is the furniture in Euston Square, and the carriage and horses.”

Poor Mrs Stoutley! She was not aware that her man of business had already had these resources appraised, and that they no more belonged to her at that moment than if they had been part of the personal estate of the celebrated man in the moon.

Still the Captain gazed at her in stolid silence.

“Even my personal wardrobe,” proceeded Mrs Stoutley, beginning again to weep, “I will gladly dis—”

“Avast! Madam,” cried the Captain, suddenly, thrusting his right hand into his breeches-pocket, and endeavouring to drag something therefrom with a series of wrenches that would have been terribly trying to the bonnet, had its ruin not been already complete, “don’t talk to me of repayment. Ain’t I your—your—husband’s brother’s buzzum friend—Willum’s old chum an’ messmate? See here.”

He jerked the chair (without rising) close to a table which stood at his elbow, and placed thereon a large canvas bag, much soiled, and tied round the neck with a piece of rope-yarn, which smelt of tar even at a distance. This was the Captain’s purse. He carried it always in his right trouser-pocket, and it contained his gold. As for such trifling metal as silver, he carried that loose, mixed with coppers, bits of tobacco, broken pipes, and a clasp-knife, in the other pocket. He was very fond of his purse. In California he had been wont to carry nuggets in it, that simple species of exchange being the chief currency of the country at the time he was there. Some of the Californian débris had stuck to it when he had filled it, at a place of exchange in London, with Napoleons. Emptying its glittering contents upon the table, he spread it out.

“There, madam,” he said, with a hearty smile, “you’re welcome to all I’ve got about me just at this moment, and you shall have more when that’s done. Don’t say ‘not so much,’ cause it ain’t much, fifty pound, more or less, barrin’ the nuggets, which I’ll keep, as I dessay they would only worry you, and there’s plenty more shot in the locker where that come from; an’ don’t talk about payin’ back or thankin’ me. You’ve no occasion to thank me. It’s only a loan, an’ I’ll hold Willum, your brother-in-law, responsible. You wouldn’t decline to take it from Willum, would you?”

“Indeed no; William Stout has always been so kind to us—kinder than I have deserved.”

“Well, then, I’ll write to Willum. I’ll say to him, ‘Willum, my boy, here’s your brother’s widdy bin caught in a squall, had her sails blown to ribbons, bin throw’d on her beam-ends, and every stick torn out of her. You’ve got more cash, Willum, than you knows what to do with, so, hand over, send me a power of attorney (is that the thing?) or an affydavy—whatever lawyer’s dockiments is required—an’ I’ll stand by and do the needful.’ An’ Willum ’ll write back, with that power an’ brevity for which he is celebrated,—‘Wopper, my lad, all right; fire away. Anything short o’ ten thousand, more or less. Do yer w’ust. Yours to command,

“‘Willum.’”

There was no resisting such arguments. Mrs Stoutley smiled through her tears as she accepted the money. Captain Wopper rose, crammed the empty canvas bag into his pocket, and hastily retired, with portions of the bonnet attached to him.

“Susan,” said Mrs Stoutley, on the maid answering her summons, “we shall start for London tomorrow, or the day after, so, pray, set about packing up without delay.”

“Very well, ma’am,” replied Susan, whose eyes were riveted with an expression of surprised curiosity on the cane-bottomed chair.

“It is my bonnet Susan,” said the lady, looking in the same direction with a sad smile. “Captain Wopper sat down on it by mistake. You had better remove it.”

To remove it was a feat which even Susan, with all her ready wit and neatness of hand, could not have accomplished without the aid of brush and shovel. She, therefore, carried it off chair and all, to the regions below, where she and Gillie went into convulsions over it.

“Oh! Susan,” exclaimed the blue spider, “wot would I not have given to have seed him a-doin’ of it! Only think! The ribbons, flowers, and straw in one uniwarsal mush! Wot a grindin’ there must ave bin! I heer’d the Purfesser the other day talkin’ of wot he calls glacier-haction—how they flutes the rocks an’ grinds in a most musical way over the boulders with crushin’ wiolence; but wot’s glacier haction to that?”

Susan admitted that it was nothing; and they both returned at intervals in the packing, during the remainder of that day, to have another look at the bonnet-débris, and enjoy a fresh explosion over it.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Mysterious Proceedings of the Captain and Gillie.

We are back again in London—in Mrs Roby’s little cabin at the top of the old tenement in Grubb’s Court.

Captain Wopper is there, of course. So is Mrs Roby. Gillie White is there also, and Susan Quick. The Captain is at home. The two latter are on a visit—a social tea-party. Little Netta White, having deposited Baby White in the mud at the lowest corner of the Court for greater security, is waiting upon them—a temporary handmaiden, relieving, by means of variety, the cares of permanent nursehood. Mrs White is up to the elbows in soap-suds, taking at least ocular and vocal charge of the babe in the mud, and her husband is—“drunk, as usual?” No—there is a change there. Good of some kind has been somewhere at work. Either knowingly or unwittingly some one has been “overcoming evil with good,” for Mrs White’s husband is down at the docks toiling hard to earn a few pence wherewith to increase the family funds. And who can tell what a terrible yet hopeful war is going on within that care-worn, sin-worn man? To toil hard with shattered health is burden enough. What must it be when, along with the outward toil, there is a constant fight with a raging watchful devil within? But the man has given that devil some desperate falls of late. Oh, how often and how long he has fought with him, and been overcome, cast down, and his armoury of resolutions scattered to the winds! But he has been to see some one, or some one has been to see him, who has advised him to try another kind of armour—not his own. He knows the power of a “new affection” now. Despair was his portion not long ago. He is now animated by Hope, for the long uncared-for name of Jesus is now growing sweet to his ear. But the change has taken place recently, and he looks very weary as he toils and fights.

“Well, mother,” said Captain Wopper, “now that I’ve given you a full, true, an’ partikler account of Switzerland, what d’ee think of it?”

“It is a strange place—very, but I don’t approve of people risking their lives and breaking their limbs for the mere pleasure of getting to the top of a mountain of ice.”

“But we can’t do anything in life without riskin’ our lives an’ breakin’ our limbs more or less,” said the Captain.

“An’ think o’ the interests of science,” said Gillie, quoting the Professor.

Mrs Roby shook her tall cap and remained unconvinced. To have expected the old nurse to take an enlightened view on that point would have been as unreasonable as to have looked for just views in Gillie White on the subject of conic sections.

“Why, mother, a man may break a leg or an arm in going down stairs,” said the Captain, pursuing the subject; “by the way, that reminds me to ask for Fred Leven. Didn’t I hear that he broke his arm coming up his own stair? Is it true?”

“True enough,” replied Mrs Roby.

“Was he the worse of liquor at the time?”

“No. It was dark, and he was carrying a heavy box of something or other for his mother. Fred is a reformed man. I think the sight of your poor father, Gillie, has had something to do with it, and that night when his mother nearly died. At all events he never touches drink now, and he has got a good situation in one of the warehouses at the docks.”

“That’s well,” returned the Captain, with satisfaction. “I had hopes of that young feller from the night you mention. Now, mother, I’m off. Gillie and I have some business to transact up the water. Very particular business—eh, lad?”

“Oh! wery partickler,” said Gillie, responding to his patron’s glance with a powerful wink.

Expressing a hope that Susan would keep Mrs Roby company till he returned, the Captain left the room with his usual heavy roll, and the spider followed with imitative swagger.

Captain Wopper was fond of mystery. Although he had, to some extent made a confidant of the boy for whom he had taken so strong a fancy, he nevertheless usually maintained a dignified distance of demeanour towards him, and a certain amount of reticence, which, as a stern disciplinarian, he deemed to be essential. This, however, did not prevent him from indulging in occasional, not to say frequent, unbendings of disposition, which he condescended to exhibit by way of encouragement to his small protégé; but these unbendings and confidences were always more or less shrouded in mystery. Many of them, indeed, consisted of nothing more intelligible than nods, grins, and winks.

“That’ll be rather a nice cottage when it’s launched,” said the Captain, pointing to a building in process of erection, which stood so close to the edge of the Thames that its being launched seemed as much a literal allusion as a metaphor.

“Raither bobbish,” assented the spider.

“Clean run fore and aft with bluff bows, like a good sea-boat,” said the Captain. “Come, let’s have a look at it.”

Asking permission to enter of a workman who granted the same with, what appeared to Gillie, an unnecessarily broad grin, the Captain led the way up a spiral staircase. It bore such a strong resemblance to the familiar one of Grubb’s Court that Gillie’s eyes enlarged with surprise, and he looked involuntarily back for his soapy mother and the babe in the mud. There were, however, strong points of dissimilarity, inasmuch as there was no mud or filth of any kind near the new building except lime; and the stair, instead of leading like that of the Tower of Babel an interminable distance upwards, ended abruptly at the second floor. Here, however, there was a passage exactly similar to the passage leading to Mrs Roby’s cabin, save that it was well lighted, and at the end thereof was an almost exact counterpart of the cabin itself. There was the same low roof, the same little fireplace, with the space above for ornaments, and the same couple of little windows looking out upon a stretch of the noble river, from which you might have fished. There was the same colour of paint on the walls, which had been so managed as to represent the dinginess of antiquity. There was also, to all appearance, Mrs Roby’s own identical bed, with its chintz curtains. Here, however, resemblance ended, for there was none of the Grubb’s Court dirt. The craft on the river were not so large or numerous, the reach being above the bridges. If you had fished you not have hooked rats or dead cats, and if you had put your head out and looked round, you would have encountered altogether a clean, airy, and respectable neighbourhood, populous enough to be quite cheery, with occasional gardens instead of mud-banks, and without interminable rows of tall chimney-pots excluding the light of heaven.

Gillie, not yet having been quite cured of his objectionable qualities, at once apostrophised his eye and Elizabeth Martin.

“As like as two peas, barrin’ the dirt!”

The Captain evidently enjoyed the lad’s astonishment.

“A ship-shape sort o’ craft, ain’t it? It wouldn’t be a bad joke to buy it—eh?”

Gillie, who was rather perplexed, but too much a man of the world to disclose much of his state of mind, said that it wouldn’t be a bad move for any feller who had got the blunt. “How much would it cost now?”

“A thousand pounds, more or less,” said the Captain, with discreet allowance for latitude.

“Ha! a goodish lump, no doubt.”

“I’ve half a mind to buy it,” continued the Captain, looking round with a satisfied smile. “It would be an amoosin’ sort o’ thing, now, to bring old Mrs Roby here. The air would be fresher for her old lungs, wouldn’t it?”

Gillie nodded, but was otherwise reticent.

“The stair, too, wouldn’t be too high to get her down now and again, and a boat could be handy to shove her into without much exertion. For the matter of that,” said the Captain, looking out, “we might have a slide made, like a Swiss couloir, you know, and she could glissade comfortably into the boat out o’ the winder. Then, there’s a beam to hang her ship an’ Chinee lanterns from, an’ a place over the fireplace to stick her knick-knacks. What d’ee think, my lad?”

Gillie, who had begun to allow a ray of light to enter his mind, gave, as his answer, an emphatic nod and a broad grin.

The Captain replied with a nod and a wink, whereupon the other retired behind his patron, for the purpose of giving himself a quiet hug of delight, in which act, however, he was caught; the Captain being one who always, according to his own showing, kept his weather-eye open.

“W’y, what’s the matter with you, boy?”

“Pains in the stummick is aggrawatin’ sometimes,” answered Gillie.

“You haven’t got ’em, have you?”

“Well, I can’t exactly go for to say as I has,” answered Gillie, with another grin.

“Now, look ’ee here, youngster,” said the Captain, suddenly seizing the spider by his collar and trousers, and swinging him as though about to hurl him through the window into the river, “if you go an’ let your tongue wag in regard to this matter, out you go, right through the port-hole—d’ee see?”

He set the spider quietly on his legs again, who replied, with unruffled coolness—

“Mum’s the word, Cappen.”

Gillie had been shorn of his blue tights and brass buttons, poor Mrs Stoutley having found it absolutely necessary, on her return home, to dismiss all her servants, dispose of all her belongings, and retire into the privacy of a poor lodging in a back street. Thus the spider had come to be suddenly thrown on the world again, but Captain Wopper had retained him, he said, as a mixture of errand-boy, cabin-boy, and powder-monkey, in which capacity he dwelt with his mother during the night and revolved like a satellite round the Captain during the day. A suit of much more appropriate pepper-and-salt had replaced the blue tights and buttons. Altogether, his tout-ensemble was what the Captain styled “more ship-shape.”

We have said that Mrs Stoutley and her family had made a descent in life. As poor Lewis remarked, with a sad smile, they had quitted the gay and glittering heights, and gone, like a magnificent avalanche, down into the moraine. Social, not less than physical, avalanches multiply their parts and widen their course during descent. The Stoutleys did not fall alone. A green-grocer, a shoemaker, and a baker, who had long been trembling, like human boulders, on the precipice of bankruptcy, went tumbling down along with them, and found rest in a lower part of the moraine than they had previously occupied.

“It’s a sad business,” said Lewis to Dr Lawrence one morning; “and if you continue to attend me, you must do so without the most distant prospect of a fee.”

“My dear fellow,” returned Lawrence, “have you no such thing as gratitude in your composition?”

“Not much, and, if I had ever so much, it would be poor pay.”

“Poor, indeed, if regarded as one’s only source of livelihood,” rejoined Lawrence, “but it is ample remuneration from a friend, whether rich or poor, and, happily, capable of being mixed with pounds, shillings and pence without deterioration. In the present case, I shall be more than rejoiced to take the fee unmixed, but, whether fee’d or not fee’d, I insist on continuing attendance on a case which I have a right to consider peculiarly my own.”

“It would have been a bad case, indeed, but for you,” returned Lewis, a flush for a moment suffusing his pale cheek as he took his friend’s hand and squeezed it. “I am thoroughly convinced, Lawrence, that God’s blessing on your skill and unwearied care of me at the time of the accident is the cause of my being alive to thank you to-day. But sit down, my dear fellow, and pray postpone your professional inquiries for a little, as I have something on my mind which I wish to ask you about.”

Lawrence shook his head. “Business first, pleasure afterwards,” he said; “professional duties must not be postponed.”

“Now,” said Lewis when he had finished, “are you satisfied? Do you admit that even an unprofessional man might have seen at a glance that I am much better, and that your present draft on my gratitude is a mere swindle?”

“I admit nothing,” retorted the other; “but now, what have you got to say to me?”

“I am going to make a confidant of you. Are you to be trusted?”

“Perhaps; I dare not say yes unconditionally, because I’m rather sociable and communicative, and apt to talk in my sleep.”

“That will do. Your answer is sufficiently modest. I will venture. You know Captain Wopper, I mean, you are well acquainted with his character; well, that kind and eccentric man has made a proposal to my dear mother, which we do not like to accept, and which at the same time we do not quite see our way to refuse. My mother, when in great distress in Switzerland, was forced to borrow a small sum of money from him, and thought it right to justify her doing so by letting him know—what everybody, alas! may know now—that we were ruined. With that ready kindness which is his chief characteristic he at once complied. Since our return home he has, with great delicacy but much determination, insisted that we shall accept from him a regular weekly allowance until we have had time to correspond with our uncle Stout in California. ‘You mustn’t starve,’ he said to my mother—I give you his own words—‘and you’d be sure to starve if you was to try to wegitate for six months or so on atmospheric air. It’ll take that time before you could get a letter from Willum, an’ though your son Lewis could an’ would, work like a nigger to keep your pot bilin’ if he was well an’ hearty, it’s as plain as the nose on your own face, ma’am, that he can’t work while he’s as thin as a fathom of pump-water an’ as weak as a babby. Now, you know-at least I can tell ’ee—that my old chum Willum is as rich as a East Injin nabob. You wouldn’t believe, madam, what fortins some gold-diggers have made. W’y, I’ve seed men light their pipes with fi’-pun’ notes for a mere brag out there. I’ve made a goodish lump o’ money myself too,—a’most more than I know what to do with, an’ as to Willum, I may say he’s actooally rollin’ in gold. He’s also chockfull of regard for you and yours, ma’am. That bein’ so, he’s sure to send you somethin’ to tide you over yer difficulties, an’ he’s also sure to send somethin’ to Lewis to help him start fair when he gits well, and he’s surest of all to send somethin’ to Miss Emma for all the kind letters she’s writ to him doorin’ the last five or six years. Well, then, I’m Willum’s buzzum friend, and, knowin’ exactly what he’ll say an’ do in the circumstances, what more nat’ral an’ proper than that Willum’s chum should anticipate Willum’s wishes, and advance the money—some of it at least—say three thousand pounds to start with.’ Now, Lawrence,” continued Lewis, “what should we do? Should we accept this offer? The good fellow has evidently made a great deal of money at the gold-fields, and no doubt speaks truly when he says he can afford to advance that sum. And we know our uncle William’s character well enough, though we have never seen him, to be quite sure that he will assist my dear mother until I am able to support her. What say you?”

“Accept the offer at once,” said Lawrence. “From what I have seen of the Captain, I am convinced that he is a warm friend and a genuine man. No doubt he can well afford to do what he proposes, and his opinion of William Stout’s character is just, for, from what I know of him through Mrs Roby, who knew him when he was a lad, when his life was saved by my father, he must have a kind heart.”

“I have no doubt of it, Lawrence, and a grateful heart too, if I may judge from a few words that fell from Captain Wopper about your father and yourself.”

“Indeed! what did he say about us?”

“I have no right to repeat observations dropped inadvertently,” said Lewis, with a laugh.

“Nor to raise curiosity which you don’t mean to satisfy,” retorted his friend; “however, my advice is, that you accept the Captain’s offer, and trust to your uncle’s generosity.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Captain surprises his Friends in various Ways, and is himself Baffled.

Time and Tide passed on—as they are proverbially said to do—without waiting for any one. Some people in the great city, aware of this cavalier style of proceeding on the part of Time and Tide, took advantage of both, and scaled the pinnacled heights of society. Others, neglecting their opportunities, or misusing them, produced a series of avalanches more or less noteworthy, and added a few more boulders to the vast accumulations in the great social moraine.

Several of the actors in this tale were among those who, having learnt a few sharp lessons in the avalanche school, began to note and avail themselves of Time and Tide—notably, Mrs Stoutley and her son and niece. A decided change had come over the spirit of Mrs Stoutley’s dream of life. She had at last visited the great London moraine, especially that part of it called Grubb’s Court, and had already dug up a few nuggets and diamonds, one of which latter she brought to her humble home in the back street, with the design of polishing it into a good servant-maid. Its name was Netta White. Mrs Stoutley had formerly been a spendthrift; now she was become covetous. She coveted the male diamond belonging to the same part of the moraine—once named the Spider, alias the Imp—but Captain Wopper had dug up that one for himself and would not part with it. Gradually the good lady conceived and carried out the idea of digging out and rescuing a number of diamonds, considerably lower in the scale than the Netta type, training them for service, and taking pains to get them into good situations. It was hard work no doubt, but Mrs Stoutley persevered, and was well repaid—for the Master of such labourers esteems them “worthy of their hire.” Emma assisted in the work most heartily. It was by no means new to her. She might have directed if she had chosen, but she preferred to follow.

Lewis recovered rapidly—so rapidly that he was soon able to resume his medical studies and prosecute them with vigour. No bad effects of the accident remained, yet he was an altered man—not altered in appearance or in character, but in spirit. He was still off-hand in manner, handsome in face and figure, hearty in society, but earnest and grave—very grave—in private. He pored over his books, and strove, successfully too, to master the difficulties of the healing art; but do what he would, and fight against it as he might, he was constantly distracted by a pretty face with bright sparkling eyes and a strangely sad expression coming between him and the page. He made continual inquiries after the owner of the sparkling eyes in every direction without success, and at last got into the habit when walking, of looking earnestly at people as if he expected to meet with some one. “If I had got into this state,” he sometimes said to himself, “because of being merely in love with a pretty face, I should consider myself a silly nincompoop; but it is such a terrible thing for so sweet and young a creature to be chained to a man who must in the nature of things, land her in beggary and break her heart.” Thus he deceived himself as to his main motive. Poor Lewis!

One morning Captain Wopper got up a little earlier than usual, and began a series of performances which Mrs Roby had long ago styled “rampadgin” round his garret.

The reader may have discovered by this time that the Captain was no ordinary man. Whatever he did in connection with himself was done with almost superhuman energy and noise. Since the commencement of his residence in the garret he had unwittingly subjected the nerves of poor Mrs Roby to such a variety of shocks, that the mere fact of her reason remaining on its throne was an unquestionable proof of a more than usually powerful constitution. It could not well be otherwise. The Captain’s limbs resembled the limbs of oaks in regard to size and toughness. His spirits were far above “proof.” His organs were cathedral organs compared with the mere barrel-organs of ordinary men. On the other hand, the “cabin” in Grubb’s Court was but a flimsy tenement; its plank floorings were thin, and its beams and rafters slim and somewhat loose owing to age, so that when the captain snored, which he did regularly and continuously, it was as if a mastiff had got inside a double-bass and were growling hideously.

But Mrs Roby had now got pretty well accustomed to her lodger’s ways. Her nerves had become strung to the ordeal, and she even came to like the galvanic battery in which she dwelt, because of its being worked by the intimate friend of her dear William; such is the power of love—we might almost say, in this case, of reflected love! The good old lady had even become so acute in her perceptions, that, without seeing the “rampadger,” she knew precisely the part of his daily programme with which he happened to be engaged. Of course the snoring told its own tale with brazen-tongued clamour, and the whole tenement trembled all night long from top to bottom. Nothing but the regardless nature of the surrounding population prevented the Captain from being indicted as a nuisance; but there were other sounds that were not so easily recognised.

On the morning in question, Mrs Roby, lying placidly in her neat white little bed, and gazing with a sweet contented face through one of her cabin windows at the bright blue sky, heard a sound as though a compound animal—hog and whale—had aroused itself and rolled over on its other side. A low whistling followed. Mrs Roby knew that the Captain was pleasantly engaged with his thoughts—planning out the proceedings of the day. Suddenly the whistling ceased and was followed by a sonorous “how-ho!” terminating in a gasp worthy of an express locomotive. The Captain had stretched himself and Mrs Roby smiled at her own thoughts, as well she might for they embraced the idea that a twentieth part of the force employed in that stretch would have rent in twain every tendon, muscle, sinew, and filament in her, Mrs Roby’s, body. Next, there descended on the floor overhead a sixteen-stone cannon ball, which caused—not the neighbours, but the boards and rafters to complain. The Captain was up! and succeeding sounds proved that he had had another stretch, for there was a bump in the middle of it which showed that, forgetting his stature, the careless man had hit the ceiling with his head. That was evidently a matter of no consequence.

From this point the boards and rafters continued to make unceasing complaint, now creaking uneasily as if under great provocation, anon groaning or yelling as though under insufferable torment. From the ceiling of Mrs Roby’s room numerous small bits of plaster, unable to stand it longer, fell and powdered Mrs Roby’s floor. The curtains of her little bed saved her face. There was a slushing and swishing and gasping and blowing now, which might have done credit to a school of porpoises. The Captain was washing. Something between the flapping of a main top-sail in a shifting squall and the currying of a hippopotamus indicated that the Captain was drying himself. The process was interrupted by an unusual, though not quite unknown, crash and a howl; he had overturned the wash-hand basin, and a double thump, followed by heavy dabs, told that the Captain was on his knees swabbing it up.

Next instant the Captain’s head, with beard and hair in a tremendously rubbed-up condition, appeared upside down at the hatchway.

“Hallo! old girl, has she sprung a leak anywhere?”

“Nowhere,” replied Mrs Roby, with a quiet smile. She felt the question to be unnecessary. “She,” that is, the roof above her, never did leak in such circumstances. If the Thames had suddenly flooded the garret, the Captain’s energy was sufficient to have swabbed it up in time to prevent a drop reaching “the lower deck.”

Soon after this catastrophe there was a prolonged silence. The Captain was reading. Mrs Roby shut her eyes and joined him in spirit. Thereafter the Captain’s feet appeared at the trap where his head had been, and he descended with a final and tremendous crash to the floor.

“See here, mother,” he cried, with a look of delight, holding up a very soiled and crumpled letter, “that’s from Willum.”

“From William,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly; “why, when did you get it? the postman can’t have been here this morning.”

“Of course he hasn’t; I got it last night from the limb-o’-the-law that looks after my little matters. I came in late, and you were asleep, so I kep’ it to whet yer appetite for breakfast. Now listen, you must take it first; I’ll get you breakfast afterwards.”

The Captain had by this time got into the way of giving the old woman her breakfast in bed every morning.

“Go on,” said the old woman, nodding.

The Captain spread out the letter on his knee with great care, and read aloud:—

“MY DEAR WOPPER, Got yer letter all right.

“My blissin’ to the poor widdy. Help her? ov coorse I’ll help her. You did right in advancin’ the money, though you fell short, by a long way, when you advanced so little. Hows’ever, no matter. I gave you my last will an’ testimony w’en we parted. Here’s a noo un. Inside o’ this, if I don’t forget it before I’ve done, you’ll find a cheque for thirteen thousand pounds sterling. Give three to the widdy, with my respects; give four to dear Emma Gray, with my best love and blissin’; give two to Mister Lewis, with my compliments; an’ give four to young Lawrence, with my benediction, for his father’s sake. As for the old ’ooman Roby, you don’t need to give nothin’ to her. She and I understand each other. I’ll look after her myself. I’ll make her my residooary legatee, an’ wotever else is needful; but, in the meantime, you may as well see that she’s got all that she wants. Build her a noo house too. I’m told that Grubb’s Court ain’t exactly aristocratic or clean; see to that. Wotever you advance out o’ yer own pocket, I’ll pay back with interest. That’s to begin with, tell ’em. There’s more comin’. There—I’m used up wi’ writin’ such a long screed. I’d raither dig a twenty-futt hole in clay sile any day.—Yours to command, WILLUM.

“P.S.—You ain’t comin’ back soon—are you?”

“Now, mother, what d’ee think o’ that?” said the Captain, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket.

“It’s a good, kind letter—just like William,” answered the old woman.

“Well, so I’m inclined to think,” rejoined the Captain, busying himself about breakfast while he spoke; “it provides for everybody in a sort o’ way, and encourages ’em to go on hopeful like—don’t it strike you so? Then, you see, that’s four to Miss Emma, and four to Dr Lawrence, which would be eight, equal to four hundred a year; and that, with the practice he’s gettin’ into, would make it six, or thereabouts—not bad to begin with, eh?”

The Captain followed his remark with a sigh.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs Roby.

“Why, you remember, mother, before goin’ abroad I set my heart on these two gettin’ spliced; but I fear it’s no go. Sometimes I think they looks fond o’ one another, at other times I don’t. It’s a puzzler. They’re both young an’ good-lookin’ an’ good. What more would they have?”

“Perhaps they want money,” suggested the old woman. “You say Dr Lawrence’s income just now is about two hundred; well, gentlefolks find it summat difficult to keep house on that, though it’s plenty for the likes of you an’ me.”

“That’s true. P’r’aps the Doctor is sheerin’ off for fear o’ draggin’ a young creeter into poverty. It never struck me in that light before.”

Beaming under the influence of this hopeful view of the case, the Captain proceeded to make another move in the complicated game which he had resolved to play out and win; but this move, which he had considered one of the easiest of all, proved to be the most unfortunate, or rather unmanageable.

“Now, mother,” said he, “I mean to make a proposal to ’ee, before going out for the day, so that you may have time to think over it. This cabin o’ yours ain’t just the thing, you know,—raither dirty, and too high in the clouds by a long way, so I’ve bin an’ seen a noo house on the river, not unlike this one, an’ I wants you to shift your berth. What say ’ee—eh?”

To the Captain’s surprise and dismay, the old woman shook her head decidedly, and no argument which he could bring to bear had the least effect on her. She had, in fact, got used to her humble old home, and attached to it, and could not bear the thought of leaving it. Having exhausted his powers of suasion in vain, he left her to think over it, and sallied forth crestfallen. However, he consoled himself with the hope that time and consideration would bring her to a right state of mind. Meanwhile he would go to the parties interested, and communicate the contents of Willum’s letter.

He went first to Doctor Lawrence, who was delighted as well as pleased at what it contained. The Captain at first read only the clauses which affected his friends the Stoutleys, and said nothing about that which referred to the Doctor himself.

“So you see, Doctor, I’m off to let the Stoutleys know about this little matter, and just looked in on you in passing.”

“It was very kind of you, Captain.”

“Not at all, by no means,” returned the Captain, pulling out a large clasp-knife, with which he proceeded carefully to pare his left thumb nail. “By the way, Doctor,” he said carelessly, “were you ever in love?”

Lawrence flushed, and cast a quick glance at his interrogator, who, however, was deeply engaged with the thumb nail.

“Well, I suppose men at my time of life,” he replied, with a laugh, “have had some—”

“Of course—of course,” interrupted the other, “but I mean that I wonder a strapping young fellow like you, with such a good practice, don’t get married.”

The Doctor, who had recovered himself, laughed, and said that his good practice was chiefly among the poor, and that even if he wished to marry—or rather, if any one would have him—he would never attempt to win a girl while he had nothing better than two hundred a year and prospects to offer her.

“Then I suppose you would marry if you had something better to offer,” said the Captain, finishing off the nail and shutting the clasp-knife with a snap.

Again the Doctor laughed, wondered why the Captain had touched on such a theme, and said that he couldn’t exactly say what he might or might not do if circumstances were altered.

The Captain was baffled. However, he said that circumstances were altered, and, after reading over the latter part of Willum’s letter, left Lawrence to digest it at his leisure.

We need not follow him on his mission. Suffice it to say that he carried no small amount of relief to the minds of Mrs Stoutley and her household; and, thereafter, met Gillie by appointment at Charing Cross, whence he went to Kensington to see a villa, with a view to purchasing it.

At night he again essayed to move Mrs Roby’s resolution, and many a time afterwards attacked her, but always with the same result. Although, as he said, he fought like a true-blue British seaman, and gave her broadside after broadside as fast as he could load and fire, he made no impression on her whatever. She had nailed her colours to the mast and would never give in.

Chapter Twenty Four.

In which Tremendous Forces come to the Captain’s Aid.

It is probable that most people can recall occasions when “circumstances” have done for them that which they have utterly failed to effect for themselves.

Some time after the failure of Captain Wopper’s little plots and plans in regard to Mrs Roby, “circumstances” favoured him—the wind shifted round, so to speak, and blew right astern. To continue our metaphor, it blew a tremendous gale, and the Captain’s ends were gained at last only by the sinking of the ship!

This is how it happened. One afternoon the Captain was walking rather disconsolately down the Strand in company with his satellite—we might almost say, his confidant. The street was very crowded, insomuch that at one or two crossings they were obliged to stand a few minutes before venturing over,—not that the difficulty was great, many active men being seen to dodge among the carts, drays, vans, and busses with marvellous ease and safety, but the Captain was cautious. He was wont to say that he warn’t used to sail in such crowded waters—there warn’t enough o’ sea room for him—he’d rather lay-to, or stand—off-an’-on for half a day than risk being run down by them shore-goin’ crafts.

“Everything in life seems to go wrong at times,” muttered the Captain, as he and the satellite lay-to at one of these crossings.

“Yes, it’s coorious, ain’t it, sir,” said Gillie, “an’ at other times everything seems to go right—don’t it, sir?”

“True, my lad, that’s a better view to take of it,” returned the Captain, cheerfully, “come, we’ll heave ahead.”

As they were “heaving” along in silence, the rattle and noise around them being unsuited to conversation, they suddenly became aware that the ordinary din of the Strand swelled into a furious roar. Gillie was half way up a lamp-post in an instant! from which elevated position he looked down on the Captain, and said—

“A ingine!”

“What sort of a ingine, my lad?”

“A fire! hooray!” shouted Gillie, with glittering eyes and flushed countenance, “look out, Cappen, keep close ’longside o’ me, under the lee o’ the lamp-post. It’s not a bad buffer, though never quite a sure one, bein’ carried clean away sometimes by the wheels w’en there’s a bad driver.”

As he spoke, the most intense excitement was manifested in the crowded thoroughfare. Whips were flourished, cabmen shouted, horses reared, vehicles of all kinds scattered right and left even although there had seemed almost a “block” two seconds before. Timid foot passengers rushed into shops, bold ones mounted steps and kerb-stones, or stood on tip-toe, and the Captain, towering over the crowd, saw the gleam of brass helmets as the charioteer clove his way through the swaying mass.

There is something powerfully exciting to most minds in the sight of men rushing into violent action, especially when the action may possibly involve life and death. The natural excitement aroused in the Captain’s breast was increased by the deep bass nautical roar that met his ear. Every man in the London fire-brigade is, or used to be, a picked man-of-war’s-man, and the shouting necessary in such a thoroughfare to make people get out of the way was not only tremendous but unceasing. It was as though a dozen mad “bo’s’ns,” capped with brazen war-helmets, had been let loose on London society, through which they tore at full gallop behind three powerful horses on a hissing and smoking monster of brass and iron. A bomb shell from a twenty-five-ton gun could scarce have cut a lane more effectually. The Captain took off his hat and cheered in sympathy. The satellite almost dropped from the lamp-post with excess of feeling. The crash and roar increased, culminated, rushed past and gone in a moment.

Gillie dropped to the ground as if he had been shot, seized the Captain’s hand, and attempted to drag him along. He might as well have tried to drag Vesuvius from its base, but the Captain was willing. A hansom-cab chanced to be in front of them as they dashed into the road, the driver smoking and cool as a cucumber, being used to such incidents. He held up a finger.

“Quick, in with you, Cappen!”

Gillie got behind his patron, and in attempting to expedite his movements with a push, almost sent him out at the other side.

“After the ingine—slap!” yelled Gillie to the face which looked down through the conversation-hole in the roof, “double extra fare if you look sharp.”

The cabman was evidently a sympathetic soul. He followed in the wake of the fire-engine as well as he could; but it was a difficult process, for, while the world at large made way for it, nobody cared a straw for him!

“Ain’t it fun?” said Gillie, as he settled his panting little body on the cushion beside his friend and master.

“Not bad,” responded the Captain, who half laughed at the thought of being so led away by excitement and a small boy.

“I’d give up all my bright prospects of advancement in life,” continued Gillie, “to be a fireman. There’s no fun goin’ equal to a fire.”

“P’r’aps it don’t seem quite so funny to them as is bein’ burnt out,” suggested the Captain.

“Of course it don’t, but that can’t be helped, you know—can it, sir? What can’t be cured must be endoored, as the proverb says. Get along, old fellow, don’t spare his ribs—double fare, you know; we’ll lose ’em if you don’t.”

The latter part of the remark was shouted through the hole to the cabman, who however, pulled up instead of complying.

“It’s of no use, sir,” he said, looking down at the Captain, “I’ve lost sight of ’em.”

Gillie was on the pavement in a moment.

“Never mind, Cappen, give him five bob, an’ decline the change; come along. I see ’em go past the Bridge, so ten to one it’s down about the docks somewheres—the wust place in London for a fire w’ich, of course, means the best.”

The idea of its being so afforded such unalloyed pleasure to Gillie, that he found it hard to restrain himself and accommodate his pace to that of his friend.

It soon became very evident that the fire was in truth somewhere about the docks, for not only was a dense cloud of smoke seen rising in that direction, but fire-engines began to dash from side streets everywhere, and to rush towards the smoke as if they were sentient things impatient for the fray.

The cause of such unusual vigour and accumulation of power was, that a fire anywhere about the docks is deemed pre-eminently dangerous, owing to the great and crowded warehouses being stuffed from cellars to roof-trees with combustibles. The docks, in regard to fire, form the citadel of London. If the enemy gets a footing there, he must be expelled at all hazards and at any cost.

As the Captain and his protégé hurried along, they were naturally led in the direction of their home. A vague undefined fear at the same instant took possession of both, for they glanced gravely at each other without speaking, and, as if by mutual consent, began to run. Gillie had no need now to complain of his companion’s pace. He had enough to do to keep up with it. There were many runners besides themselves now, for the fire was obviously near at hand, and the entire population of the streets seemed to be pressing towards it. A few steps more brought them in sight of the head of Grubb’s Court. Here several fire-engines were standing in full play surrounded by a swaying mass of human beings. Still there was no sign of the precise locality of the fires for the tall houses hid everything from view save the dense cloud which overshadowed them all.

Even Captain Wopper’s great strength would have been neutralised in such a crowd if it had not now been seconded by an excitement and anxiety that nothing could resist. He crushed his way through as if he had been one of the steam fire-engines, Gillie holding tight to the stout tails of his monkey jacket. Several powerful roughs came in his way, and sought to check him. The Captain had hitherto merely used his shoulders and his weight. To the roughs he applied a fist—right and left—and two went down. A few seconds brought him to the cordon of policemen. They had seen him approaching, and one placed himself in front of the Captain with the quiet air of a man who is accustomed never to give way to physical force!

“I live down Grubb’s Court, my man,” said the Captain, with an eager respectful air, for he was of a law-abiding spirit.

The constable stepped aside, and nodded gravely. The Captain passed the line, but Gillie was pounced upon as if he had been a mouse and the constable a cat.

“He belongs to me,” cried the Captain, turning back on hearing Gillie’s yell of despair.

The boy was released, and both flew down the Court, on the pavement of which the snake-like water-hose lay spirting at its seams.

“It’s in the cabin,” said the Captain, in a low deep voice, as he dashed into the Court, where a crowd of firemen were toiling with cool, quiet, yet tremendous energy. No crowd interrupted them here, save the few frantic inhabitants of the Court, who were screaming advice and doing nothing; but no attention whatever was paid to them. A foreman of the brigade stood looking calmly upwards engaged in low-toned conversation with a brother fireman, as if they were discussing theories of the picturesque and beautiful with special application to chimney-cans, clouds of smoke, and leaping tongues of fire.

Immense engine power had been brought to bear, and one of the gigantic floating-engines of the Thames had got near enough to shower tons of water over the buildings, still it was a matter of uncertainty whether the fire could be confined to the Court where it had originated.

The result of the foreman’s quiet talk was that the brother-fireman suddenly seized a nozzle from a comrade, and made a dash at the door leading up to “the cabin.” Flames and smoke drove him back instantly.

It was at this moment that Captain Wopper came on the scene. Without a moment’s hesitation he rushed towards the same door. The foreman seized his arm.

“It’s of no use, sir, you can’t do it.”

The Captain shook him off and sprang in. A few seconds and he rushed out choking, scorched, and with his eyes starting almost out of their sockets.

“It is of no use, sir,” remonstrated the foreman, “besides, the people have all bin got out, I’m told.”

“No, they ’aven’t,” cried Mrs White, coming up at the moment, frantically wringing the last article of linen on which she had been professionally engaged, “Mrs Roby’s there yet.”

“All right, sir,” said the foreman, with that quiet comforting intonation which is peculiar to men of power, resource, and self-reliance, “come to the back. The escape will be up immediately. It couldn’t get down the Court, owin’ to some masonry that was piled there, and had to be sent round.”

Quick to understand, the Captain followed the fireman, and reached the back of the house, on the riverside, just as the towering head of the escape emerged from a flanking alley.

“This way. The small window on the right at the top—so.”

The ladder was barely placed when the Captain sprang upon it and ran up as, many a time before, he had run up the shrouds of his own vessel. A cheer from the crowd below greeted this display of activity, but it was changed into a laugh when the Captain, finding the window shut and bolted, want into the room head first, carrying frame and glass along with him! Divesting himself of the uncomfortable necklace, he looked hastily round. The smoke was pretty thick, but not sufficiently so to prevent his seeing poor Mrs Roby lying on the floor as if she had fallen down suffocated.

“Cheer up, old lass,” he cried, kneeling and raising her head tenderly.

“Is that you, Cappen?” said the old woman, in a weak voice.

“Come, we’ve no time to lose. Let me lift you; the place is all alight. I thought you was choked.”

“Choked! oh dear, no,” replied the old woman, “but I’ve always heard that in a fire you should keep your face close to the ground for air—Ah! gently, Cappen, dear!”

While she was speaking, the Captain was getting her tucked under his strong right arm. He could have whisked her on his shoulder in a moment, but was afraid of her poor old bones, and treated her as if she had been a fragile China tea-cup of great value.

Next moment he was out on the escape, and reached the ground amid ringing cheers. He carried her at once to the nearest place of safety, and, committing her to the care of Mrs White, rushed back to the scene of conflagration just as they were about to remove the escape.

“Stop!” shouted the Captain, springing on it.

“There’s nobody else up, is there?” cried a fireman, as the Captain ran up.

“No, nobody.”

“Come down then, directly,” roared the fireman, “the escape is wanted elsewhere. Come down, I say, or we’ll leave you.”

“You’re welcome to leave me,” roared the Captain, as he stepped into the window, “only hold your noise, an’ mind your own business.”

With a mingled feeling of amusement and indignation they hurried away with the escape. It had been urgently wanted to reach a commanding position whence to assail the fire. The order to send it was peremptory, so the Captain was left in his uncomfortable situation, with the smoke increasing around him, and the fire roaring underneath.

The actions of our seaman were now curious as well as prompt. Taking a blanket from his old friend’s bed, he spread it below the chimney-piece, and in a remarkably short time pulled down, without damaging, every object on the wall and threw it into the blanket. He then added to the heap the Chinese lantern, the Turkish scimitar, the New Zealand club, the Eastern shield, the ornamented dagger, the worsted work sampler, the sou’-wester, the oiled coat, the telescope, the framed sheet of the flags of all nations, and the small portrait of the sea-captain in his “go-to-meetin’” clothes; also the big Bible and a very small box, which latter contained Mrs Roby’s limited wardrobe. He tied all up in a tight bundle. A coil of rope hung on a peg on the wall. The bundle was fastened to the end of it and lowered to the ground, amid a fire of remarks from the crowd, which were rather caustic and humorous than complimentary.

“Gillie,” shouted the Captain, “cast off the rope, lad, and look well after the property.”

“Ay, ay, Cappen,” replied the youth, taking up a thick cart-pin, or something of the sort, that lay near, and mounting guard.

There was another laugh, from crowd and firemen, at the nautical brevity and promptitude of Gillie.

At every large fire in London there may be seen a few firemen standing about in what an ignorant spectator might imagine to be easy indifference and idleness, but these men are not idlers. They are resting. The men who first arrive at a fire go into action with the utmost vigour, and toil until their powers are nearly—sometimes quite—exhausted. As time passes fresh men are continually arriving from the more distant stations. These go into action as they come up, thus relieving the others, who stand aloof for a time looking on, or doing easy work, and recruiting their energies. It was these men who watched the Captain’s proceedings with much amusement while their comrades were doing battle with the foe.

Presently the Captain reappeared at the window and lowered a huge sea-chest. A third time he appeared with the model of a full-rigged ship in his hand. This time he let the end of the rope down, and then getting over the window, slid easily to the ground.

“You’re uncommon careful o’ your property,” exclaimed one of the onlookers, with a broad grin.

“’Taint all my property, lad,” replied the Captain, with a good-humoured nod, “most of it is a poor old ’ooman’s belongings.”

So saying, he got a man to carry his sea-chest, himself shouldered the bundle, Gillie was intrusted with the full-rigged model, and thus laden they left the scene followed by another laugh and a hearty cheer.

But our bluff seaman was not content with rescuing Mrs Roby and her property. He afterwards proceeded to lend his effective aid to all who desired his assistance, and did not cease his exertions until evening, by which time the fire was happily subdued.

“She must not be moved to-night Captain,” said Dr Lawrence, for whom Gillie had been sent; “the place where she lies is doubtless far from comfortable, but I have got her to sleep, and it would be a pity to awake her. To-morrow we shall get her into more comfortable quarters.”

“Could she bear movin’ to-morrow, a mile or so?” asked the Captain.

“Certainly, but there is no occasion to go so far. Lodgings are to be had—”

“All right, Doctor; I’ve got a lodging ready for her, and will ask you to come an’ have pot-luck with us before long. Gillie, my lad, you go hail a cab, and then come back to lend a hand wi’ the cargo.”

In a few minutes the pair were whirling towards the west end of London, and were finally landed with their “cargo” on the banks of the Thames above the bridges, near the new building which Captain Wopper had named, after its prototype, “the cabin.”

To fit this up after the fashion of the old place was a comparatively short and easy work for two such handy labourers. Before they left that night it was so like its predecessor in all respects, except dirt, that both declared it to be the “identical same craft, in shape and rig, even to the little bed and curtains.” Next afternoon Mrs Roby was brought to it by Captain Wopper, in a specially easy carriage hired for the purpose.

The poor old woman had received more of a shock than she was willing to admit, and did exactly as she was bid, with many a sigh, however, at the thought of having been burnt out of the old home. She was carried up the stair in a chair by two porters, and permitted the Captain to draw a thick veil over her head to conceal, as he said, her blushes from the men. He also took particular care to draw the curtains of the bed close round her after she had been laid in it and then retired to allow her to be disrobed by Netta, who had been obtained from Mrs Stoutley on loan expressly for the occasion.

Much of this care to prevent her seeing the place that day, however, was unnecessary. The poor old creature was too much wearied by the short journey to look at anything. After partaking of a little tea and toast she fell into a quiet sleep, which was not broken till late on the following morning.

Her first thought on waking was the fire. Her second, the Captain. He was in the room, she knew, because he was whistling in his usual low tone while moving about the fireplace preparing breakfast. She glanced at the curtains; her own curtains certainly,—and the bed too! Much surprised, she quietly put out her thin hand and drew the curtain slightly aside. The Captain in his shirt sleeves, as usual, preparing buttered toast, the fireplace, the old kettle with the defiant spout singing away as defiantly as ever, the various photographs, pot-lids, and other ornaments above the fireplace, the two little windows commanding an extensive prospect of the sky from the spot where she lay, the full-rigged ship, the Chinese lantern hanging from the beam—everything just as it should be!

“Well, well,” thought Mrs Roby, with a sigh of relief; “the fire must have been a dream after all! but what a vivid one!”

She coughed. The Captain was at her side instantly.

“Slept well, old girl?”

“Very well, thank you. I’ve had such a queer dream, d’you know?”

“Have you? Take your breakfast, mother, before tellin’ it. It’s all ready—there, fire away.”

“It was such a vivid one,” she resumed, when half through her third cup, “all about a fire, and you were in it too.”

Here she proceeded to relate her dream with the most circumstantial care. The Captain listened with patient attention till she had finished, and then said—

“It was no dream, mother. It’s said that the great fire of London was a real blessin’ to the city. The last fire in London will, I hope, be a blessin’ to you an’ me. It was real enough and terrible too, but through God’s mercy you have been saved from it. I managed to save your little odds and ends too. This is the noo ‘cabin,’ mother, that you wouldn’t consent to come to. Something like the old one, ain’t it?”

Mrs Roby spoke never a word, but looked round the room in bewilderment. Taking the Captain’s hand she kissed it, and gazed at him and the room until she fell asleep. Awaking again in half an hour, she finished her breakfast, asked for the old Bible, and, declaring herself content, fell straightway into her old ways and habits.

Chapter Twenty Five.

An Unexpected Gem Found.

Although Lewis Stoutley found it extremely difficult to pursue his studies with the profusely illustrated edition of medical works at his command, he nevertheless persevered with a degree of calm, steady resolution which might be almost styled heroic. To tear out the illustrations was impossible, for Nita’s portrait was stamped on every page, compelling him to read the letterpress through it. Success, however, attended his labours, for he not only carried out the regular course, but he attached himself to the poor district of the “moraine” which had been appropriated as their own by his mother and Emma, who ministered to the bodies of the sick while they sought to bring their souls to the Good Physician. This professional work he did as a sort of amateur, being only a student under the guidance of his friend Lawrence, whose extending practice included that district. It happened also to be the district in which Mrs Roby’s new “cabin” was situated.

These labourers, in what Dr Tough had styled the London gold fields, not only did good to the people, and to themselves in the prosecution of them, but resulted occasionally in their picking up a nugget, or a diamond, which was quite a prize. One such was found by Lewis about this time, which, although sadly dim and soiled when first discovered, proved to be such a precious and sparkling gem that he resolved to wear it himself. He and Emma one day paid a visit to the cabin, where they found old Mrs Roby alone, and had a long chat with her, chiefly about the peculiarities of the Captain and his boy.

“By the way,” said Mrs Roby to Lewis, when they rose to go, “a poor woman was here just before you came, askin’ if I knew where she could find a doctor, for her father, she said, was very ill. The two have come to live in a room near the foot of this stair, it seems, and they appear to be very poor. I could not give her Dr Lawrence’s new address, for I don’t know it, so I advised her to apply to the nearest chemist. Perhaps, Mr Lewis, you’ll go yourself and see the poor man?”

“Willingly, and I shall myself call for Lawrence on my way home and send him, if necessary. Come, Emma. Perhaps this may be a case for the exercise of your philanthropy.”

They soon found the place, and knocked at a low door, which was slowly opened by a middle-aged woman, meanly clad and apparently very poor.

“Ah, sir, you’re too late, he’s dead,” said the woman, in reply to Lewis’s inquiry.

“O how sad!” broke from Emma’s sympathetic spirit, “I am so sorry we are too late. Did you find a doctor?”

“No, ma’am, I didn’t, but the chemist gave me the address of one, so I ran back to tell the poor young thing that I’d go fetch one as quick as I could, and I found him just dying in her arms.”

“In whose arms? are not you the daughter—” said Emma.

“Me, miss! oh dear, no. I’m only a neighbour.”

“Has she any friends?” asked Lewis.

“None as I knows of. They are strangers here—only just came to the room. There it is,” she added, stepping back and pointing to an inner door.

Lewis advanced and knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. He therefore ventured to lift the latch and enter.

It was a miserable, ill-lighted room, of small size and destitute of all furniture save a truckle bed, a heap of clean straw in a corner, on which lay a black shawl, a deal chair, and a small table. Abject poverty was stamped on the whole place. On the bed lay the dead man, covered with a sheet. Beside it kneeled, or rather lay, the figure of a woman. Her dress was a soiled and rusty black. Her hair, fallen from its fastenings, hung dishevelled on her shoulders. Her arms clasped the dead form.

“My poor woman,” whispered Emma, as she knelt beside her, and put a hand timidly on her shoulder.

But the woman made no answer.

“She has fainted, I think,” exclaimed Emma, rising quickly and trying to raise the woman’s head. Suddenly Lewis uttered a great cry, lifted the woman in his arms, and gazed wildly into her face.

“Nita!” he cried, passionately clasping her to his heart and covering the poor faded face with kisses; but Nita heard not. It seemed as if the silver chord had already snapped. Becoming suddenly aware of the impropriety as well as selfishness of his behaviour, Lewis hastily bore the inanimate form to the heap of straw, pillowed the small head on the old shawl, and began to chafe the hands while Emma aided him to restore consciousness. They were soon successful. Nita heaved a sigh.

“Now, Emma,” said Lewis, rising, “this is your place just now, I will go and fetch something to revive her.”

He stopped for one moment at the bed in passing, and lifted the sheet. There was no mistaking the handsome face of the Count even in death. It was terribly thin, but the lines of sorrow and anxiety were gone at last from the marble brow, and a look of rest pervaded the whole countenance.

On returning, Lewis found that Nita had thrown her arms round Emma’s neck and was sobbing violently. She looked up as he entered, and held out her hand. “God has sent you,” she said, looking at Emma, “to save my heart from breaking.”

Lewis again knelt beside her and put her hand to his lips, but he had no power to utter a word. Presently, as the poor girl’s eye fell on the bed, there was a fresh outburst of grief. “Oh, how he loved me!—and how nobly he fought!—and how gloriously he conquered!—God be praised for that!”

She spoke, or rather sobbed, in broken sentences. To distract her mind, if possible, even for a little, from her bereavement, Emma ventured to ask her how she came there, when her father became so ill, and similar questions. Little by little, in brief sentences, and with many choking words and tears, the sad story came out.

Ever since the night when her father met with Lewis at Saxon, he had firmly resisted the temptation to gamble. God had opened his ear to listen to, and his heart to receive, the Saviour. Arriving in London with the money so generously lent to them by Lewis, they took a small lodging and sought for work. God was faithful to His promises, she said; he had sent a measure of prosperity. Her father taught music, she obtained needlework. All was going well when her father became suddenly ill. Slowly but steadily he sank. The teaching had to be given up, the hours of labour with the needle increased. This, coupled with constant nursing, began to sap her own strength, but she had been enabled to hold out until her father became so ill that she dared not leave him even for a few minutes to visit the shops where she had obtained sewing-work. Then, all source of livelihood being dried up, she had been compelled to sell one by one the few articles of clothing and furniture which they had begun to accumulate about them.

“Thus,” she said, in conclusion, “we were nearly reduced to a state of destitution, but, before absolute want had been felt by us, God mercifully took my darling father home—and—and—I shall soon join him.”

“Say not so, darling,” said Emma, twining her arms round the poor stricken girl. “It may be that He has much work for you to do for Jesus here before He takes you home. Meanwhile, He has sent us to claim you as our very dear friend—as our sister. You must come and stay with mamma and me. We, too, have tasted something of that cup of adversity, which you have drained to the very dregs, my poor Nita, but we are comparatively well off now. Mamma will be so glad to have you. Say you will come. Won’t you, dearest?”

Nita replied by lifting her eyes with a bewildered look to the bed, and again burst into a passion of uncontrollable sorrow.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Dénouement.

Being naturally a straightforward man, and not gifted with much power in the way of plotting and scheming, Captain Wopper began in time to discover that he had plunged his mental faculties into a disagreeable state of confusion.

“Gillie, my lad,” he said, looking earnestly at his satellite while they walked one afternoon along the Bayswater road in the direction of Kensington, “it’s a bad business altogether.”

Gillie, not having the smallest idea what the Captain referred to, admitted that it was “wery bad indeed,” but suggested that “it might be wuss.”

“It’s such a perplexin’ state o’ things,” pursued the Captain, “to be always bouncin’ up an’ down wi’ hopes, an’ fears, an’ disappointments, like a mad barometer, not knowin’ rightly what’s what or who’s who.”

“Uncommon perplexin’,” assented Gillie. “If I was you, Cappen, I’d heave the barometer overboard along wi’ the main-deck, nail yer colours to the mast, cram the rudder into the lee-scuppers, kick up your flyin’-jib-boom into the new moon, an’ go down stern foremost like a man!”

“Ha!” said the Captain, with a twinkle in the corner of his “weather-eye,” “not a bad notion.”

“Now, my lad, I’m goin’ out to my villa at Kensington to dine. There’s to be company, too, an’ you’re to be waiter—”

“Stooard, you mean?”

“Well, yes—stooard. Now, stooard, you’ll keep a good look-out, an’ clap as tight a stopper on yer tongue as may be. I’ve got a little plot in hand, d’ee see, an’ I want you to help me with it. Keep your eye in a quiet way on Dr Lawrence and Miss Gray. I’ve taken a fancy that perhaps they may be in love with each other. You just let me have your opinion on that pint after dinner, but have a care that you don’t show what you’re up to, and, whatever you do, don’t be cheeky.”

“All right,” said the stooard, thrusting both hands into his trouser-pockets; “I’ll do my best.”

While these two were slowly wending their way through Kensington Gardens, Emma Gray arrived at the Captain’s villa—California Cottage, he called it—and rang the bell. The gate was opened by Netta White, who, although not much bigger than when first introduced to the reader, was incomparably more beautiful and smart. Mrs Stoutley had reason to be proud of her.

“I did not know that you were to be here, Netta?” said Emma, in surprise, as she entered.

“It was a very sudden call, Miss,” said Netta, with a smile. “Captain Wopper wrote a note to me, begging me to ask Mrs Stoutley to be so good as lend me to him for a day to help at his house-warming. Here is the letter, Miss.”

Emma laughed as she glanced carelessly at the epistle, but became suddenly grave, turned white, then red, and, snatching the letter from the girl’s hand, gazed at it intently.

“La! Miss, is anything wrong?”

“May I keep this?” asked Emma.

“Certainly, Miss, if you wish it.”

Before she could say anything more, they were interrupted by the entrance of Dr Lawrence. With a surprised look and smile he said—

“I have been invited to dine with our friend Captain Wopper, but did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting Miss Gray here.”

Emma explained that she also had been invited to dine with the Captain, along with her mother and brother, but had supposed that that was all the party, as he, the Captain, had mentioned no one else, and had been particular in begging her to come an hour before the time, for the purpose of going over his new villa with him, and giving him her private opinion of it.

“I am punctual,” she added, consulting her watch; “it is just four o’clock.”

“Four! Then what is the dinner hour?”

“Five,” answered Emma.

“The Captain’s wits must have been wool-gathering,” rejoined Lawrence, with a laugh. “He told me to come punctually at four. However, I rejoice in the mistake, as it gives me the great pleasure of assisting you to form an unprejudiced opinion of the merits of the new villa. Shall we begin with an exploration of the garden?”

Emma had no cause to blush at such an innocent proposal, nevertheless a richer colour than usual mantled on her modest little face as she fell in with the Doctor’s humour and stepped out into the small piece of ground behind the house.

It was of very limited extent and, although not surrounded too closely by other villas, was nevertheless thoroughly overlooked by them, so that seclusion in that garden was impossible. Recognising this fact, a former proprietor had erected at the lower end of the garden a bower so contrived that its interior was invisible from all points except one, and that was a side door to the garden which opened on a little passage by which coals, milk, meat, and similar substances were conveyed from the front to the rear of the house.

Dr Lawrence and Emma walked round and round the garden very slowly, conversing earnestly. Strange to say, they quite forgot the object which had taken them there. Their talk was solely of Switzerland. As it continued, the Doctor’s voice deepened in tones and interest, and his fair companion’s cheek deepened in colour. Suddenly they turned into the bower. As they did so, Gillie White chanced to appear at the garden door above referred to, which stood ajar. The spider’s countenance was a speaking one. During the five minutes which it appeared in the doorway, it, and the body belonging to it, became powerfully eloquent. It might have conveyed to one’s mind, as it were, a series of tableaux vivants. Gillie’s first look was as if he had been struck dumb with amazement (that was Lawrence suddenly seizing one of Emma’s hands in both of his and looking intently into her face). Then Gillie’s look of amazement gave place to one of intense, quite touching—we might almost say sympathetic—anxiety as he placed a hand on each knee and stooped (that was the Doctor’s right hand stealing round Emma’s waist, and Emma shrinking from him with averted face). The urchin’s visage suddenly lighted up with a blaze of triumph, and he seized his cap as if about to cheer (that was the Doctor’s superior strength prevailing, and Emma’s head, now turned the other way, laid on his shoulder). All at once Gillie went into quiet convulsions, grinned from ear to ear, doubled himself up, slapped his thigh inaudibly—à la Captain Wopper—and otherwise behaved like an outrageous, yet self-restrained, maniac (that was—well, we have no right to say what that was). As a faithful chronicler, however, we must report that one-half minute later the stooard found Captain Wopper in the villa drawing-room, and there stated to him that it was “hall right; that he didn’t need for to perplex hisself about Doctor Lawrence and Miss Hemma Gray, for that they was as good as spliced already, having been seen by him, Gillie, in the bower at the end of the garding a-blushin’ and a—” Here the spider stopped short and went into another fit of convulsions—this time unrestrained.

Is it necessary to say that Captain Wopper sat at the foot of his own table that day—Mrs Stoutley being at the head—with his rugged visage radiant and his powerful voice explosive; that he told innumerable sea-stories without point, and laughed at them without propriety; that, in the excess of his hilarity, he drank a mysterious toast to the success of all sorts of engagements, present and future; that he called Mrs Stoutley (in joke) sister, and Emma and Lewis (also in joke) niece and neffy; that he called Doctor Lawrence neffy, too, with a pointedness and a sense of its being the richest possible joke, that covered with confusion the affianced pair; and with surprise the rest of the company; that he kicked the stooard amicably out of the room for indulging in explosions of laughter behind his chair, and recommending him, the Captain, to go it strong, and to clap on sail till he should tear the mast out of ’er, or git blowed on his beam-ends; that the stooard returned unabashed to repeat the offence unreproved; that towards the end, the Captain began a long-winded graphic story which served to show how his good friend and chum Willum Stout in Callyforny had commissioned him to buy and furnish a villa for the purpose of presenting it to a certain young lady in token of his gratitood to her for bein’ such a good and faithful correspondent to him, Willum, while he was in furrin’ parts; also, how he was commissioned to buy and furnish another villa and present it to a certain doctor whose father had saved him from drownin’ long long ago, he would not say how long ago; and how that this villa, in which they was feedin’, was one of the said villas, and that he found it quite unnecessary to spend any more of Willum’s hard-earned gains in the purchase of the other villa, owing to circumstances which had took place in a certain bower that very day! Is it necessary, we again ask, to detail all this? We think not; therefore, we won’t.

When reference was made to the bower, Emma could stand, or sit, it no longer. She rose hastily and ran blushing into the garden. Captain Wopper uttered a thunderous laugh, rose and ran after her. He found her in the bower with her face in her hands, and sat down beside her.

“Captain Wopper,” she suddenly exclaimed, looking up and drawing a note from her pocket, “do you know this?”

“Yes, duckie,” (the Captain was quite reckless now), “it’s my last billy-doo to Netta White. I never was good at pot-hooks and hangers.”

“And do you know this letter?” said Emma, holding up to the seaman’s eyes her uncle William’s last letter to herself.

The Captain looked surprised, then became suddenly red and confused.

“W’y—ye–es, it’s Willum’s, ain’t it?”

“The same pot-hooks and hangers precisely!” said Emma, “are they not? Oh!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms round the Captain’s neck and kissing him, “uncle William, how could you deceive us so?”

The Captain, to use his own expressions, was taken aback—fairly brought up all standin’.

It had never occurred to his innocent mind that he should commit himself so simply. He felt an unconquerable objection to expressions of gratitude, and perceiving, with deep foresight that such were impending, his first impulse was to rise and fly, but Emma’s kiss made him change his mind. He returned it in kind but not in degree, for it caused the bower to resound as with a pistol shot.

“Oh! wot a cracker, ain’t it just? you’re a nice man, ain’t you, to go poachin’ on other fellers—”

The Captain seized his opportunity, he broke from Emma and dashed wildly at the spider, who incontinently fled down the conduit for coals, cheering with the fury of a victorious Ashantee chief!

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Last.

Humbly confessing to Emma Gray that he had no talent whatever for plotting, Captain Wopper went off with a deprecatory expression of countenance to reveal himself to Mrs Roby. Great was his anxiety. He entered her presence like a guilty thing. If, however, his anxiety was great, his surprise and consternation were greater when she received his revelation with tears, and for some time refused to be comforted!

The workings of the human mind are wonderful. Sometimes they are, as the Captain said, bamboozling. If analysed it might have been discovered that, apart altogether from the shock of unexpectedness and the strain on her credulity, poor Mrs Roby suffered—without clearly understanding it—from a double loss. She had learned to love Captain Wopper for his own sake, and now Captain Wopper was lost to her in William Stout! On the other hand William, her darling, her smooth-faced chubby boy, was lost to her for ever in the hairy savage Captain Wopper! It was perplexing as well as heart-rending. Captain Wopper was gone, because, properly, there was no such being in existence. William Stout was gone because he would never write to her any more, and could never more return to her from California!

It was of no use that the Captain expressed the deepest contrition for the deception he had practised, urging that he had done it “for the best;” the old woman only wept the more; but when, in desperation, the Captain hauled taut the sheets of his intellect, got well to wind’ard of the old ’ooman an’ gave her a broadside of philosophy, he was more successful.

“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “you don’t feel easy under this breeze, ’cause why? you’re entirely on the wrong tack. Ready about now, an’ see what a change it’ll make. Look ’ee here. You’ve gained us both instead of lost us both. Here am I, Willum Stout yours to command, a trifle stouter, it may be, and hairier than I once was, not to say older, but by a long chalk better able to love the old girl who took me in, an’ befriended me when I was a reg’lar castaway, with dirty weather brewin’, an’ the rocks o’ destitootion close under my lee; and who’ll never forget your kindness, no never, so long as two timbers of the old hulk hold together. Well then, that’s the view over the starboard bulwarks. Cast your eyes over to port now. Here am I, Captain Wopper, also yours to command, strong as a horse, as fond o’ you as if you was my own mother, an’ resolved to stick by you through thick and thin to the last. So you see, you’ve got us both—Willum an’ me—me an’ Willum, both of us lovin’ you like blazes an’ lookin’ arter you like dootiful sons. A double tide of affection, so to speak, flowin’ like strong double-stout from the beer barrel out of which you originally drew me, if I may say so. Ain’t you convinced?”

Mrs Roby was convinced. She gave in, and lived for many years afterwards in the full enjoyment of the double blessing which had thus fallen to her lot in the evening of her days.

And here, good reader, we might close our tale; but we cannot do so without a few parting words in reference to the various friends in whose company we have travelled so long.

Of course it is unnecessary to say, (especially to our lady readers, who were no doubt quite aware of it from the beginning), that Lawrence and Emma, Lewis and Nita, were, in the course of time, duly married. The love of their respective wives for each other induced the husbands not only to dwell in adjoining villas, but to enter into a medical co-partnery, in the prosecution of which they became professionally the deities, and, privately, the adored of a large population of invalids—with their more or less healthy friends—in the salubrious neighbourhood of Kensington. To go about “doing good” was the business, and became the second nature, of the young doctors. It was long a matter of great surprise to not a few of their friends that though Lawrence and Lewis neither smoked nor drank, they were uncommonly healthy and apparently happy! Some caustic spirits asserted that they were sure budding wings were to be found on the shoulders of the two doctors, but we are warranted in asserting, on the best authority, that on a strict examination, nothing of the kind was discovered. Need we say that Emma and Nita were pattern wives? Of course not, therefore we won’t say it. Our reticence on this point will no doubt be acceptable to those who, being themselves naughty, don’t believe in or admire “patterns,” even though these be of “heavenly things.” It is astonishing, though, what an effect their so-called “perfection” had in tightening the bonds of matrimony. Furthermore, they had immense families of sons and daughters, insomuch that it became necessary to lengthen their cords and strengthen their stakes, and “Calyforny Villa” became a mere band-box compared to the mansions which they ultimately called “home.”

Mrs Stoutley having managed to get entirely out of herself—chiefly by means of the Bible and the London gold-fields and moraines—became so amiable and so unlike her former self, and, withal, so healthy and cheery, that the two great families of Stoutley and Lawrence went to war for possession of her.

The feud at last threatened to become chronic, and was usually carried to an excess of virulence about Christmas and New Year time. In order, therefore, to the establishment of peace, Mrs Stoutley agreed to live one-half of the year with Lewis, and the other half with Lawrence—Lewis to have the larger half as a matter of course; but she retained her cottage in Notting Hill and her maid Netta White, with the right to retire at any moment, when the exigencies of the gold-fields or the moraines demanded special attention; or when the excess of juvenile life in the mansions before mentioned became too much for her. On these occasions of retirement which, to say truth, were not very frequent, she was accompanied by Netta White—for Netta loved her mistress and clave to her as Ruth to Naomi. Being a native of the “fields,” she was an able and sympathetic guide and adviser at all times, and nothing pleased Netta better than a visit to Grubb’s Court, for there she saw the blessed fruit of diamond and gold digging illustrated in the person of her own reformed father and happy mother, who had removed from their former damp rooms on the ground floor to the more salubrious apartments among the chimney pots, which had been erected on the site of the “cabin” after “the fire.” Directly below them, in somewhat more pretentious apartments, shone another rescued diamond in the person of Fred Leven. He was now the support and comfort of his old mother as well as of a pretty little young woman who had loved him even while he was a drunkard, and who, had it been otherwise decreed, would have gone on loving him and mourning over him and praying for him till he was dead. In her case, however, the mourning had been turned into joy.

In process of time Gillie White, alias the spider, became a sturdy, square-set, active little man, and was promoted to the position of coachman in the family of Lewis Stoutley. Susan Quick served in the same family in the capacity of nurse for many years, and, being naturally thrown much into the society of the young coachman, was finally induced to cement the friendship which had begun in Switzerland by a wedding. This wedding, Gillie often declared to Susan, with much earnestness, was the “stunninest ewent that had ever occurred to him in his private capacity as a man.”

There is a proverb which asserts that “it never rains but it pours.” This proverb was verified in the experience of the various personages of our tale, for soon after the tide of fortune had turned in their favour, the first showers of success swelled into absolute cataracts of prosperity. Among other things, the Gowrong mines suddenly went right. Mrs Stoutley’s former man of business, Mr Temple, called one day, and informed her that her shares in that splendid undertaking had been purchased, on her behalf, by a friend who had faith in the ultimate success of the mines; that the friend forbade the mention of his name; and that he, Mr Temple, had called to pay her her dividends, and to congratulate her on her recovery of health and fortune. Dr Tough—who, when his services were no longer required, owing to the absence of illness, had continued his visits as a jovial friend—chanced to call at the same time with Mr Temple, and added his congratulations to those of the man of business, observing, with enthusiasm, that the air of the Swiss mountains, mixed in equal parts with that of the London diamond-fields, would cure any disease under the sun. His former patient heartily agreed with him, but said that the medicine in question was not a mere mixture but a chemical compound, containing an element higher than the mountains and deeper than the diamond-fields, without which the cure would certainly not have been effected.

Need we say that Captain Wopper stuck to Mrs Roby and the “new cabin” to the last? Many and powerful efforts were made to induce him to bring his “mother” to dwell in Kensington, but Mrs Roby flatly refused to move again under any suasion less powerful than that of a fire. The eldest of Lewis Stoutley’s boys therefore hit on a plan for frequent and easy inter-communication. He one day suggested the idea of a boating-club to his brothers and companions. The proposal was received with wild enthusiasm. The club was established, and a boathouse, with all its nautical appurtenances, was built under the very shadow of Mrs Roby’s dwelling. A trusty “diamond” from Grubb’s Court was made boat-cleaner and repairer and guardian of the keys, and Captain Wopper was created superintendent general director, chairman, honorary member, and perpetual grand master of the club, in which varied offices he continued to give unlimited satisfaction to the end of his days.

As for Slingsby, he became an aspirant to the honours of the Royal Academy, and even dreamt of the president’s chair! Not being a madman, he recovered from the disease of blighted hopes, and discovered that there were other beings as well as Nita worth living for! He also became an intimate and welcome visitor at the two Kensington mansions, the walls of which were largely decorated with his productions. Whether he succeeded in life to the full extent of his hopes we cannot say, but we have good reason to believe that he did not entirely fail.

From time to time Lewis heard of his old guide Antoine Grennon from friends who at various periods paid a visit to the glaciers of Switzerland, and more than once, in after years, he and his family were led by that prince of guides over the old romantic and familiar ground, where things were not so much given to change as in other regions; where the ice-rivers flowed with the same aspects, the same frozen currents, eddies, and cataracts as in days gone by; where the elderly guides were replaced by youthful guides of the same type and metal—ready to breast the mountain slopes and scale the highest peaks at a moment’s notice; and where Antoine’s cottage stood unchanged, with a pretty and rather stout young woman usually kneeling in a tub, engaged in the destruction of linen, and a pretty little girl, who called her “mother,” busy with a miniature washing of her own. The only difference being that the child called Antoine “grandfather,” and appeared to regard a strapping youth who dwelt there as her sire, and a remarkably stout but handsome middle-aged woman as her grandmother.

Last, but not least, the Professor claims a parting word. Little, however, is known as to the future career of the genial man of science, one of whose chief characteristics was his reverent recognition of God in conversing about His works. After returning to his home in the cold north he corresponded for some years with Dr Lawrence, and never failed to express his warmest regard for the friends with whom he had the good fortune to meet while in Switzerland. He was particularly emphatic—we might almost say enthusiastic—in his expressions of regard for Captain Wopper, expressions and sentiments which the bold mariner heartily reciprocated, and he often stated to Mrs Roby, over an afternoon cup of tea, his conviction that that Roosian Professor was out o’ sight one of the best fellows he had ever met with, and that the remembrance of him warmed his heart to furriners in general and Roosians in particular. This remark usually had the effect of inducing Mrs Roby to ask some question about his, the Captain’s, intercourse with the Professor, which question invariably opened the flood-gates of the Captain’s memory, and drew from him prolonged and innumerable “yarns” about his visit to the Continent—yarns which are too long to be set down here, for the Captain never tired of relating, and old Mrs Roby never wearied of listening, to his memorable rambles on the snow-capped mountains, and his strange adventures among the—Rivers of Ice.

The End.

ENDNOTES

Note 1. Such is actually true at the present time of the Görner glacier, which has for a long time been advancing, and, during the last sixty years or so, has overturned between forty and fifty châlets.

Note 2. We ourselves had the satisfaction of witnessing this wonderful and beautiful phenomenon before having read or heard of it, while on a trip from Chamouni to Martigny over the Tête Noire.

Chapter One.

A Tale of Adventure in South America.

At the Foot of the Mountain Range.

Towards the close of a bright and warm day, between fifty and sixty years ago, a solitary man might have been seen, mounted on a mule, wending his way slowly up the western slopes of the Andes.

Although decidedly inelegant and unhandsome, this specimen of the human family was by no means uninteresting. He was so large, and his legs were so long, that the contrast between him and the little mule which he bestrode was ridiculous. He was what is sometimes styled “loosely put together;” nevertheless, the various parts of him were so massive and muscular that, however loosely he might have been built up, most men would have found it rather difficult to take him down. Although wanting in grace, he was by no means repulsive, for his face, which was ornamented with a soft flaxen beard and moustache of juvenile texture, expressed wonderful depths of the milk of human kindness.

He wore boots with the trousers tucked into them, a grey tunic, or hunting coat, belted at the waist, and a broad-brimmed straw hat, or sombrero.

Evidently the times in which he travelled were troublous, for, besides having a brace of large pistols in his belt, he wore a cavalry sabre at his side. As if to increase the eccentricity of his appearance, he carried a heavy cudgel, by way of riding-whip; but it might have been observed that, however much he flourished this whip about, he never actually applied it to his steed.

On reaching a turn of the road at the brow of an eminence the mule stopped, and, letting its head droop till almost as pendent as its tail, silently expressed a desire for repose. The cavalier stepped off. It would convey a false impression to say that he dismounted. The mule heaved a sigh.

“Poor little thing!” murmured the traveller in a soft, low voice, and in a language which even a mule might have recognised as English; “you may well sigh. I really feel ashamed of myself for asking you to carry such a mass of flesh and bone. But it’s your own fault—you know it is—for you won’t be led. I’m quite willing to walk if you will only follow. Come—let us try!”

Gently, insinuatingly, persuasively, the traveller touched the reins, and sought to lead the way. He might as well have tried to lead one of the snow-clad peaks of the mighty Cordillera which towered into the sky before him. With ears inclining to the neck, a resolute expression in the eyes, his fore-legs thrown forward and a lean slightly backward, the mule refused to move.

“Come now, do be amiable; there’s a good little thing! Come on,” said the strong youth, applying more force.

Peruvian mules are not open to flattery. The advance of the fore-legs became more decided, the lean backward more pronounced, the ears went flat down, and incipient passion gleamed in the eyes.

“Well, well, have it your own way,” exclaimed the youth, with a laugh, “but don’t blame me for riding you so much.”

He once more re-m–; no, we forgot—he once more lifted his right leg over the saddle and sat down. Fired, no doubt, with the glow of conscious victory the mule moved on and up at a more lively pace than before.

Thus the pair advanced until they gained a rocky eminence, whence the rich Peruvian plains could be seen stretching far-away toward the glowing horizon, where the sun was about to dip into the Pacific.

Here again the mule stopped, and the rider getting off sat down on a rock to take a look at the level horizon of the west—for he had reached a spot where the next turn in the road would partially shut out the plains and enclose him among the giant mountains.

As he sat there meditating, while the mule cropped the herbage at his side, he observed two riders a considerable way down the circuitous road by which he had ascended—a man and a boy, apparently.

Whether it was the fine stalwart figure of the man that influenced him, or the mere presence of wayfarers in such a solitary place, our traveller could not tell, but he certainly felt unusual interest, and not only watched the pair as they approached, but sat still until they came up. As they drew near he perceived that the smaller of the two, whom at a distance he had taken for a boy, was an Indian girl, who, according to custom, bestrode her mule like a man. Her companion was a handsome Spanish-looking man—a Peruvian or it might be a Chilian—with fine masculine features and magnificent black eyes. He was well-armed, and, to judge from his looks, seemed a little suspicious of the tall Englishman.

The hearty salutation of the latter, however, in bad Spanish, at once dissipated his suspicions. Replying in the same tongue, he then added, in good English:—

“You are a stranger in this land, I perceive.”

“In truth I am,” replied the other, while the Peruvian dismounted, “nevertheless, I ought scarcely to admit the fact, for I was born in Peru. This perhaps may seem contradictory, but it is not more so than your being apparently a native of the soil yet speaking English like an Englishman.”

“From which it follows,” returned the Peruvian, “that men ought not to judge altogether by appearances. But you are wrong in supposing me a native of the soil, and yet—I am not an Englishman. I have got a gift of language, however—at least I feel myself equally at home in English, Indian, Spanish, and Portuguese, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that I have been forced to talk in all four languages for nigh a quarter of a century.”

“Then you must have been but a boy when you came here,” returned the Englishman, “for you seem to be not yet middle-aged.”

“Right, I was indeed a mere boy when I came to this land.”

“And I was a boy of seven when I left it to be educated in Europe,” returned the Englishman. “It is sixteen years since then, and I had feared that my memory might have failed to recognise the old landmarks, but I am rejoiced to find that I remember every turn of the road as if I had left home but yesterday.”

We have said that the tall youth’s face was not handsome, but the glow of animation which rested on it when he spoke of home, seemed for a moment to transform it.

“Your home, then, cannot be far distant?” remarked the Peruvian, with a peculiar look that might have attracted the attention of the younger man if his gaze had not at the moment been directed to the Indian girl, who, during the foregoing conversation, had remained motionless on her mule with her eyes looking pensively at the ground, like a beautiful statue in bronze.

“My home is close at hand,” said the Englishman, when the question had been repeated; “unless memory plays me false, two more turns in the road will reveal it.”

The earnest look of the Peruvian deepened as he asked if the Estate of Passamanka was his home.

“Yes, you know it, then?” exclaimed the youth eagerly; “and perhaps you knew my father too?”

“Yes, indeed; there are few people within a hundred miles of the place who did not know the famous sugar-mill and its hospitable owner, Senhor Armstrong. But excuse me,” added the Peruvian, with some hesitation, “you are aware, I suppose, that your father is dead?”

“Ay, well do I know that,” returned the other in a deeper tone. “It is to take my father’s place at the mills that I have been hastily summoned from England. Alas! I know nothing of the work, and it will be sorely against the grain to attempt the carrying on of the old business in the desolate old home.”

“Of course you also know,” continued the Peruvian, “that the country is disturbed just now—that the old smouldering enmity between Chili and Peru has broken forth again in open war.”

“I could not have passed through the low country without finding that out. Indeed,” said the youth, glancing at his belt with a half-apologetic smile, “these weapons, which are so unfamiliar to my hand, and so distasteful to my spirit, are proof that I, at least, do not look for a time of peace. I accoutred myself thus on landing, at the urgent advice of a friend, though my good cudgel—which has sufficed for all my needs hitherto—is more to my mind, besides being useful as a mountain staff. But why do you ask? Is there much probability of the belligerents coming so far among the hills?”

“Wherever carrion is to be found, there you may be sure the vultures will congregate. There is booty to be got here among the hills; and whether the soldiers belong to the well-trained battalions of Chili, or the wretched levies of Peru, they are always prepared, for plunder—ready to make hay while the sun shines. I only hope, Senhor Armstrong, that—but come, let us advance and see before the sun sets.”

Turning abruptly as he spoke, the man mounted his mule and rode briskly up the winding road, followed by the Indian girl and our Englishman.

At the second turning of the road they reached a spot where an opening in the hills revealed the level country below, stretching away into illimitable distance.

As had been anticipated, they here came upon the mills they were in quest of. The Peruvian reined up abruptly and looked back.

“I feared as much,” he said in a low tone as the Englishman rode forward.

Rendered anxious by the man’s manner, Lawrence Armstrong sprang from his mule and pushed forward, but suddenly stopped and stood with clasped hands and a gaze of agony.

For there stood the ruins of his early home—where his mother had died while he was yet a child, where his father had made a fortune, which, in his desolation, he had failed to enjoy, and where he finally died, leaving his possessions to his only child.

The troops had visited the spot, fired no doubt with patriotic fervour and knowing its owner to be wealthy. They had sacked the place, feasted on the provisions, drunk the wines, smashed up, by way of pleasantry, all the valuables that were too heavy to carry away, and, finally, setting fire to the place, had marched off to other fields of “glory.”

It was a tremendous blow to poor Lawrence, coming as he did fresh from college in a peaceful land, and full of the reminiscences of childhood.

Sitting down on a broken wall, he bowed his head and wept bitterly—though silently—while the Peruvian, quietly retiring with the Indian girl, left him alone.

The first paroxysm of grief over, young Armstrong rose, and began sadly to wander about the ruins. It had been an extensive structure, fitted with all the most approved appliances of mechanism which wealth could purchase. These now helped to enhance the wild aspect of the wreck, for iron girders had been twisted by the action of fire into snake-like convolutions in some places, while, in others, their ends stuck out fantastically from the blackened walls. Beautiful furniture had been smashed up to furnish firewood for the cooking of the meal with which the heroic troops had refreshed themselves before leaving, while a number of broken wine-bottles at the side of a rosewood writing-desk with an empty bottle on the top of it and heaps of stones and pebbles around, suggested the idea that the warriors had mingled light amusement with sterner business. The roofs of most of the buildings had fallen in; the window-frames, where spared by the fire, had been torn out; and a pianoforte, which lay on its back on the grass, showed evidence of having undergone an examination of its internal arrangements, with the aid of the butt-ends of muskets.

“And this is the result of war!” muttered the young man, at last breaking silence.

“Only one phase of it,” replied a voice at his side, in tones of exceeding bitterness; “you must imagine a few corpses of slaughtered men and women and children, if you would have a perfect picture of war.”

The speaker was the Peruvian, who had quietly approached to say that if they wished to reach the next resting-place before dark it was necessary to proceed without delay.

“But perhaps,” he added, “you do not intend to go further. No doubt this was to have been the end of your journey had all been well. It can scarcely, I fear, be the end of it now. I do not wish to intrude upon your sorrows, Mr Armstrong, but my business will not admit of delay. I must push on, yet I would not do so without expressing my profound sympathy, and offering to aid you if it lies in my power.”

There was a tone and look about the man which awoke a feeling of gratitude and confidence in the forlorn youth’s heart.

“You are very kind,” he said, “but it is not in the power of man to help me. As your business is urgent you had better go and leave me. I thank you for the sympathy you express—yet stay. You cannot advance much further to-night, why not encamp here? There used to be a small hut or out-house not far-off, in which my father spent much of his leisure. Perhaps the—the—”

“Patriots!” suggested the Peruvian.

“The scoundrels,” said Lawrence, “may have spared or overlooked it. The hut would furnish shelter enough, and we have provisions with us.”

After a moment’s reflection the Peruvian assented to this proposal, and, leaving the ruins together, they returned to the road, where they found the Indian girl holding the youth’s mule as well as that of her companion.

Hastening forward, Lawrence apologised for having in the agitation of the moment allowed his mule to run loose.

“But I forgot,” he added, “of course you do not understand English.”

“Try Spanish,” suggested the Peruvian, “she knows a little of that.”

“Unfortunately I have forgotten the little that I had picked up here when a boy,” returned Lawrence, as he mounted, “if I can manage to ask for food and lodging in that tongue, it is all that I can do.”

They soon reached an opening in the bushes at the roadside, and, at the further end of a natural glade or track, observed a small wooden hut thatched with rushes. Towards this young Armstrong led the way.

He was evidently much affected, for his lips were compressed, and he gave no heed to a remark made by his companion. Entering the hut, he stood for some time looking silently round.

It was but a poor place with bare walls; a carpenter’s bench in one corner, near to it a smith’s forge, one or two chairs, and a few tools;—not much to interest a stranger but to Lawrence full of tender associations.

“It was here,” he said in tones of deepest pathos, “that my father showed me how to handle tools, and my mother taught me to read from the Word of God.”

Looking at his companions he observed that the large dark eyes of the Indian girl were fixed on him with an expression of unmistakable sympathy. He felt grateful at the moment, for to most men sympathy is sweet when unobtrusively offered whether it come from rich or poor—civilised or savage.

“Come, this will do,” said the Peruvian, looking round, “if you will kindle a fire on the forge, Senhor Armstrong, Manuela will arrange a sleeping chamber for herself in the closet I see there, while I look after the beasts.”

He spoke in cheering tones, which had the effect of rousing the poor youth somewhat from his despondency.

“Well, then,” he replied, “let us to work, and it is but just, as we are to sup together, and you know my name, that I should be put on an equal footing with yourself—”

“Impossible!” interrupted the other, with a slight curl of his moustache, “for as I am only six feet one, and you are at least six feet four, we can never be on an equal footing.”

“Nay, but I referred to names, not to inches. Pray, by what name shall I call you?”

“Pedro,” returned the Spaniard. “I am known by several names in these parts—some of them complimentary, others the reverse, according as I am referred to by friends or foes. Men often speak of me as a confirmed rover because of my wandering tendencies, but I’m not particular and will answer to any name you choose, so long as it is politely uttered. The one I prefer is Pedro.”

He went out as he spoke to look after the mules, while Lawrence set about kindling a small fire and otherwise making preparations for supper.

The Indian girl, Manuela, with that prompt and humble obedience characteristic of the race to which she belonged, had gone at once into the little closet which her companion had pointed out, and was by that time busily arranging it as a sleeping chamber for the night.

Chapter Two.

Compact with the New Friend and Discovery of an Old One.

Keeping the fire low in order to prevent its being seen by any of the wandering bands of patriots—alias soldiers, alias banditti—who might chance to be in the neighbourhood, the three travellers thus thrown unexpectedly together ate their supper in comparative silence, Lawrence and Pedro exchanging a comment on the viands now and then, and the handsome Indian girl sitting opposite to them with her eyes for the most part fixed on the ground, though now and then she raised them to take a quick stealthy glance at the huge youth whose appetite did not seem to be greatly affected by his misfortunes. Perhaps she was wondering whether all Englishmen, possessed such innocent kindly faces and such ungainly though powerful frames. It may be that she was contrasting him with the handsome well-knit Pedro at his side.

Whatever her thoughts might have been, the short glances of her lustrous eyes gave no clue to them, and her tongue was silent, save when she replied by some brief monosyllable to a remark or query put in the Indian language occasionally by Pedro. Sometimes a gleam of the firelight threw her fine brown features into bold relief, but on these occasions, when Lawrence Armstrong chanced to observe them, they conveyed no expression whatever save that of profound gravity, with a touch, perhaps, of sadness.

The bench being awkwardly situated for a table, they had arranged a small box, bottom up, instead. Lawrence and his new acquaintance seated themselves on the ground, and Manuela used her saddle as a chair.

Towards the end of their meal the two men became more communicative, and when Pedro had lighted a cigarette, they began to talk of their immediate future.

“You don’t smoke?” remarked Pedro in passing.

“No,” replied Lawrence.

“Not like the most of your countrymen,” said the other.

“So much the worse,” rejoined the youth.

“The worse for them or for you—which?” asked Pedro, with a significant glance.

“No matter,” returned Lawrence with a laugh.

“Well, now,” resumed Pedro, after a few puffs, during the emission of which his countenance assumed the expression of seriousness, which seemed most natural to it, “what do you intend to do? It is well to have that point fairly settled to-night, so that there may be no uncertainty or delay in the morning. I would not urge the question were it not that in the morning we must either go on together as travelling companions, or say our final adieux and part. I am not in the habit of prying into men’s private affairs, but, to speak the bare truth, I am naturally interested in one whose father has on more than one occasion done me good service. You need not answer me unless you please, senhor,” added the man with the air of one who is prepared to retire upon his dignity at a moment’s notice.

“Thanks, thanks, Pedro,” said the Englishman, heartily, “I appreciate your kindness, and accept your sympathy with gratitude. Moreover, I am glad to find that I have been thrown at such a crisis in my fortunes into the company of one who had regard for my dear father. But I scarce know what to do. I will give you my confidence unreservedly. Perhaps you may be able to advise—”

“Stay,” interrupted the other, on whose countenance a slightly stern expression hovered. “Before you give me unreserved confidence, it is but fair that I should tell you candidly that I cannot pay you back in kind. As to private matters, I have none that would be likely to interest any one under the sun. In regard to other things—my business is not my own. Why I am here and what I mean to do I have no right to reveal. Whither I am bound, however, is not necessarily a secret, and if you choose to travel with me you undoubtedly have a right to know.”

Young Armstrong expressed himself satisfied. He might have wished to know more, but, like Pedro, he had no desire to pry into other men’s affairs, and, being of an open confiding nature, was quite ready to take his companion on trust, even though he had been less candid and engaging in manner than he was. After explaining that he had been educated in Edinburgh, and trained to the medical profession, he went on to say that he had been hastily summoned to take charge of the sugar-mill at his father’s death, and that he had expected to find an old overseer, who would have instructed him in all that he had to do in a business with which he was totally unacquainted.

“You see,” he continued, “my father always said that he meant to retire on his fortune, and did not wish me to carry on the business, but, being naturally an uncommunicative man on business matters, he never gave me any information as to details. Of course, I had expected that his manager here, and his books, would reveal all that I required to know, but the soldiers have settled that question. Mill and books have gone together, and as to manager, clerks, and servants, I know not where they are.”

“Scattered, no doubt,” said Pedro, “here, there, and everywhere—only too glad to escape from a neighbourhood which has been given up to fire and sword by way of improving its political condition!”

“I know not,” returned Lawrence, sadly. “But it would be useless, I fear, to try to ferret them out.”

“Quite useless,” said Pedro. “Besides, what would it avail to talk with any of them about the affairs of a place that is now in ashes? But if your father spoke of his fortune, he must have had at least some of it in a bank somewhere.”

“True, but I don’t know where. All I know is that he once mentioned casually in one of his letters that he was going to Buenos Ayres, where he had some property.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Pedro. “Come, that may help you to decide, for I am myself going to Buenos Ayres, and can guide you there if disposed to go. Only, you will have to make up your mind to a pretty long and hard journey, for duty requires me to go by a devious route. You must know,” he continued, lighting another cigarette, “that I am pledged to take that girl to her father, who lives not far from Buenos Ayres.”

He pointed as he spoke to Manuela, who, having laid her head on her saddle, appeared to have fallen asleep.

“Her father must be a chief, I should think, to judge from her dignified, graceful carriage, as well as her fine features,” said Lawrence in a low tone.

“Yes, he is a chief—a great chief,” returned Pedro, gazing at his cigarette in a meditative mood—“a very great chief. You see, she happened to be living with friends on the western side of the mountains when this war between Chili and Peru broke out, and her father naturally wants to get her out of danger. The old chief once saved my life, so, you see, I am bound both by duty and gratitude to rescue his daughter.”

“Indeed you are, and a pleasant duty it must be,” returned Lawrence with an approving nod; “but don’t you think it might have been wise to have rescued some other female, a domestic for instance, to keep her company? The poor girl will feel very lonely on such a long journey as you speak of.”

Pedro again looked musingly at his cigarette, and flipped off the ash with his little finger.

“You have not had much experience of war, young man,” he said, “if you think that in cases of rescue men can always arrange things comfortably, and according to the rules of propriety. When towns and villages are in flames, when plunder and rapine run riot everywhere, and little children are spitted on the bayonets of patriots, as is often the case even in what men have agreed to term civilised warfare, one is glad to escape with the skin of one’s teeth. Yet I was not as regardless of Manuela’s comfort as you seem to think. A poor woman who had nursed her when a child volunteered to accompany us, and continued with us on the first part of our journey; but the exertion, as I had feared, was too much for her. She caught a fever and died, so that we were forced to come on alone. If you join us, however, I shall be greatly pleased, for two can always make a better fight than one, and in these unsettled times there is no saying what we may fall in with in crossing the mountains.”

“But why expose the poor girl to such risks?” asked Lawrence. “Surely there must be some place of safety nearer than Buenos Ayres, to which you might conduct her?”

“Senhor Armstrong,” replied the man, with a return of his stern expression, “I have told you that my business is urgent. Not even the rescue of my old friend’s daughter can turn me aside from it. When Manuela begged me to take her with me, I pointed out the difficulties and dangers of the route, and the necessity for my pursuing a long and devious course, but she said she feared to remain where she was; that, being young, strong, and accustomed to an active life, she felt sure she was equal to the journey; that she could trust me, and that she knew her father would approve of her taking the step. I agreed, with some hesitation. It turned out that the girl was right in her fears, for before we left the town it was attacked by the troops of Chili. The Peruvians made but a poor resistance, and it was carried by assault. When I saw that all hope of saving the place was gone, I managed to bring Manuela and her nurse away in safety. As I have told you, the nurse died, and now—here we are alone. Manuela chooses to run the risk. I will not turn aside from my duty. If you choose to join us, the girl will be safer—at least until we cross the mountains. On the other side I shall be joined by friends, if need be.”

Pedro ceased, and rekindled his cigarette, which had gone out during the explanation.

“I will go with you,” said Lawrence, with decision, as he extended his hand.

“Good,” replied Pedro, grasping it with a hearty squeeze; “now I shall have no fears for our little Indian, for robbers are cowards as a rule.”

“Have we, then, much chance of meeting with robbers?”

“Well, I should say we have little chance of altogether escaping them, for in times of war there are always plenty of deserters and other white-livered scoundrels who seize the opportunity to work their will. Besides, there are some noted outlaws in the neighbourhood of the pass we are going to cross. There’s Conrad of the Mountains, for instance. You’ve heard of him?”

“No, never.”

“Ah, senhor, that proves you to be a stranger here, for his name is known from the Atlantic to the Pacific—chiefly, however, on the east side of the Cordillera, and on the Pampas. He is an outlaw—at least he is said to be so; but one cannot believe all one hears. Some say that he is cruel, others that he is ferocious among men, but never hurts women or children.”

“Well, it is to be hoped we may not fall in with him, or any of his band,” said Lawrence; “for it is better to hear of his qualities than to put them to the test.”

“Yet, methinks,” resumed Pedro, “if you fell in with him alone you should have no cause to fear him, for you must be more than his match.”

“I don’t think I should fear him,” returned Lawrence, with a simple look. “As to being more than his match, I know not, for my spirit does not prompt me to light, and I cannot boast of much capacity in the use of arms—unless you count my good oak-cudgel a weapon. I have acquired some facility in the use of that, having practised singlestick as an amusement at school.”

As he spoke, the youth was surprised and somewhat startled by his companion suddenly drawing a pistol from his belt, and pointing it steadily at the open doorway of the hut. Turning his eyes quickly in that direction, he beheld, with increased astonishment, a pair of glaring eyes, two rows of glittering teeth, and a pair of thick red lips! The flesh which united these striking objects was all but invisible, by reason of its being nearly as black as its background.

Most eyes, if human, would have got away from a pistol’s line of fire with precipitancy, but the eyes referred to did not disappear. On the contrary, they paid no regard whatever to the owner of the pistol, but continued to glare steadily at Lawrence Armstrong. Seeing this, Pedro hesitated to pull the trigger. He was quick to defend himself, but not prompt to kill. When he saw that the eyes slowly advanced out of the gloom, that they with the lips and teeth belonged to a negro who advanced into the room unarmed and with outspread hands, he quietly lowered his weapon, and glanced at Lawrence. No doubt Pedro felt, as he certainly looked, perplexed, when he observed that Lawrence returned the intruder’s gaze with almost equal intensity.

Suddenly the negro sprang towards the Englishman. He was a short, thick-set, and exceedingly powerful man; yet Lawrence made no move to defend himself.

“Quashy!” he exclaimed, as the black fell on his knees, seized one of his hands, and covered it with kisses, at the same time bursting into tears.

“Oh! massa Lawrie—oh! massa Lawrie, why you no come sooner? Why you so long? De sodger brutes nebber dar to touch de ole house if you was dere. Oh! Massa Lawrie, you’s too late—too late!—My! how you’s growed!”

In the midst of his sobs the young negro, for he was little more than a youth, drew back his head to obtain a better view of his old companion and playmate.

Need we say that Lawrence reciprocated the affection of the man?

“He was a boy like myself when I was here,” said Lawrence in explanation to the amused Peruvian. “His father was one of my father’s most attached servants, whom he brought from Kentucky on his way to this land, and to whom he gave his freedom. Quashy himself used to be my playmate.—But tell me about the attack on the mill, Quash. Were you present?”

“Prisint! You bery sure I was, an’ I poke some holes in de varmints ’fore dey hoed away.”

“And how did you escape, Quash? Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”

The negro willingly complied. Meanwhile the Indian girl, who had been roused by his sudden entrance, resumed her seat on the saddle, and, looking intently into his black face, seemed to try to gather from the expression of his features something of what he said.

We need not repeat the story. It was a detailed account of murder and destruction; the burning of the place and the scattering of the old servants. Fortunately Lawrence had no relatives to deplore.

“But don’t you know where any of the household have gone?” he asked, when the excited negro paused to recover breath.

“Don’t know nuffin’. Arter I poke de holes in de scoundrils, I was ’bleeged to bolt. When I come back, de ole house was in flames, an’ eberybody gone—what wasn’t dead. I hollered—ay, till I was a’most busted—but nobody reply. Den I bury de dead ones, an’ I’ve hoed about eber since slobberin’ an’ wringin’ my hands.”

“Was our old clerk among the slain?” asked Lawrence.

“No, massa, but I tinks he’s a dead one now, for he too ole to run far.”

“And I suppose you can’t even guess where any of those who escaped went to?”

“Couldn’t guess more nor a Red Injin’s noo-born babby.”

“Quashy,” said Lawrence in a low voice, “be careful how you speak of Indians.”

He glanced, as he spoke, at Manuela, who now sat with grave face and downcast eyes, having apparently found that the human countenance, however expressive, failed to make up for the want of language.

And, truly, Quashy’s countenance was unwontedly mobile and expressive. Every feature seemed to possess the power of independently betraying the thoughts and feelings of the man, so that when they all united for that end the effect was marvellous. Emotional, and full of quick sympathy, Quashy’s visage changed from grave to gay, pitiful to fierce, humorous to savage, at a moment’s notice. When, therefore, he received the gentle rebuke above referred to, his animated countenance assumed a sudden aspect of utter woe and self-condemnation that may be conceived but cannot be described, and when Lawrence gave vent to a short laugh at the unexpected change, Quashy’s eyes glistened with an arch look, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.

And what an expansion that was, to be sure! when you take into account the display of white teeth and red gums by which it was accompanied.

“Well, now, Quash,” resumed Lawrence, “what did you do after that?”

“Arter what, massa?”

“After finding that slobbering and wringing your hands did no good.”

“Oh! arter dat, I not know what to do, an’ den I tried to die—I was so mis’rable. But I couldn’t. You’ve no notion how hard it is to die when you wants to. Anyhow I couldn’t manage it, so I gib up tryin’.”

At this point Manuela rose, and, bidding Pedro good-night in the Indian tongue, passed into her little chamber and shut the door.

“And what do you intend to do now, Quash?” asked Lawrence.

“Stick to you, massa, troo t’ick an’ t’in,” returned the negro with emphatic promptitude, which caused even Pedro to laugh.

“My poor fellow, that is impossible,” said Lawrence, who then explained his position and circumstances, showing how it was that he had little money and no immediate prospect of obtaining any,—that, in short, he was about to start out in the wide world friendless and almost penniless to seek his fortune. To all of which the negro listened with a face so utterly devoid of expression of any kind that his old master and playmate could not tell how he took it.

“And now,” he asked in conclusion, “what say you to all that?”

“Stick to you troo t’ick and t’in,” repeated Quashy, in a tone of what might be styled sulky firmness.

“But,” said Lawrence, “I can’t pay you any wages.”

“Don’ want no wages,” said Quashy.

“Besides,” resumed Lawrence, “even if I were willing to take you, Senhor Pedro might object.”

“I no care for Senhor Pedro one brass buttin,” retorted the negro.

The Peruvian smiled rather approvingly at this candid expression of opinion.

“Where you gwine?” asked Quashy, abruptly.

“To Buenos Ayres.”

“I’s gwine to Bens Airies too. I’s a free nigger, an’ no mortial man kin stop me.”

As Quashy remained obdurate, and, upon consultation, Lawrence and Pedro came to the conclusion that such a sturdy, resolute fellow might be rather useful in the circumstances, it was finally arranged, to the poor fellow’s inexpressible delight, that he should accompany them in their long journey to the far east.

Chapter Three.

Lingual Difficulties Accompanied by Physical Dangers and followed by the Advent of Banditti.

After several days had passed away, our travellers found themselves among the higher passes of the great mountain range of the Andes.

Before reaching that region, however, they had, in one of the villages through which they passed, supplied themselves each with a fresh stout mule, besides two serviceable animals to carry their provisions and camp equipage.

Pedro, who of course rode ahead in the capacity of guide, seemed to possess an unlimited supply of cash, and Lawrence Armstrong had at least sufficient to enable him to bear his fair share of the expenses of the journey. As for Quashy, being a servant he had no expenses to bear.

Of course the finest, as well as the best-looking, mule had been given to the pretty Manuela, and, despite the masculine attitude of her position, she sat and managed her steed with a grace of motion that might have rendered many a white dame envious. Although filled with admiration, Lawrence was by no means surprised, for he knew well that in the Pampas, or plains, to which region her father belonged, the Indians are celebrated for their splendid horsemanship. Indeed, their little children almost live on horseback, commencing their training long before they can mount, and overcoming the difficulty of smallness in early youth, by climbing to the backs of their steeds by means of a fore-leg, and not unfrequently by the tail.

The costume of the girl was well suited to her present mode of life, being a sort of light tunic reaching a little below the knees, with loose leggings, which were richly ornamented with needlework. A straw hat with a simple feather, covered her head, beneath which her curling black hair flowed in unconfined luxuriance. She wore no ornament of any kind, and the slight shoes that covered her small feet were perfectly plain. In short, there was a modest simplicity about the girl’s whole aspect and demeanour which greatly interested the Englishman, inducing him to murmur to himself, “What an uncommonly pretty girl she would be if she were only white!”

The colour of her skin was, indeed, unusually dark, but that fact did not interfere with the classic delicacy of her features, or the natural sweetness of her expression.

The order of progress in narrow places was such that Manuela rode behind Pedro and in front of Lawrence, Quashy bringing up the rear. In more open places the young Englishman used occasionally to ride up abreast of Manuela and endeavour to engage her in conversation. He was, to say truth, very much the reverse of what is styled a lady’s man, and had all his life felt rather shy and awkward in female society, but being a sociable, kindly fellow, he felt it incumbent on him to do what in him lay to lighten the tedium of the long journey to one who, he thought, must naturally feel very lonely with no companions but men. “Besides,” he whispered to himself, “she is only an Indian, and of course cannot construe my attentions to mean anything so ridiculous as love-making—so, I will speak to her in a fatherly sort of way.”

Filled with this idea, as the party came out upon a wide and beautiful table-land, which seemed like a giant emerald set in a circlet of grand blue mountains, Lawrence pushed up alongside, and said—

“Poor girl, I fear that such prolonged riding over these rugged passes must fatigue you.” Manuela raised her dark eyes to the youth’s face, and, with a smile that was very slight—though not so slight but that it revealed a double row of bright little teeth—she replied softly—

“W’at you say?”

“Oh! I forgot, you don’t speak English. How stupid I am!” said Lawrence with a blush, for he was too young to act the “fatherly” part well.

He felt exceedingly awkward, but, observing that the girl’s eyes were again fixed pensively on the ground, he hoped that she had not noticed the blush, and attempted to repeat the phrase in Spanish. What he said it is not possible to set down in that tongue, nor can we gratify the reader with a translation. Whatever it was, Manuela replied by again raising her dark eyes for a moment—this time without a smile—and shaking her head.

Poor Lawrence felt more awkward than ever. In despair he half thought of making trial of Latin or Greek, when Pedro came opportunely to the rescue. Looking back he began—

“Senhor Armstrong—”

“I think,” interrupted the youth, “that you may dispense with ‘Senhor.’”

“Nay, I like to use it,” returned the guide. “It reminds me so forcibly of the time when I addressed your good old father thus.”

“Well, Senhor Pedro, call me what you please. What were you about to say?”

“Only that we are now approaching one of the dangerous passes of the mountains, where baggage-mules sometimes touch the cliffs with their packs, and so get tilted over the precipices. But our mules are quiet, and with ordinary care we have nothing to fear.”

The gorge in the mountains, which the travellers soon afterwards entered, fully justified the guide’s expression “dangerous.” It was a wild, rugged glen, high up on one side of which the narrow pathway wound—in some places rounding a cliff or projecting boulder, which rendered the passage of the baggage-mules extremely difficult. Indeed, one of the mules did slightly graze a rock with its burden; and, although naturally sure-footed, was so far thrown off its balance as to be within a hair’s-breadth of tumbling over the edge and being dashed to pieces on the rocks below, where a turbulent river rushed tumultuously at the bottom of the glen.

One of the snow-clad peaks of the higher Andes lay right before them. One or two guanacos—animals of the lama species—gazed at them from the other side of the gorge, and several ill-omened vultures wheeled in the sky above, as if anticipating a catastrophe which would furnish them with a glorious meal.

“A most suitable place for the depredations of banditti, or fellows like Conrad of the Mountains, I should think,” said Lawrence.

“Bandits are sometimes met with here,” returned Pedro, quietly.

“And what if we should meet with such in a place where there is scarcely room to fight?”

“Why then,” returned the guide, with a slight curl of his moustache, “we should have to try who could fight best in the smallest space.”

“Not a pleasant prospect in the circumstances,” said Lawrence, thinking of Manuela.

For some time they rode together in silence; but Quashy, who had overheard, the conversation, and was of a remarkably combative disposition, though the reverse of bad-tempered or quarrelsome, could not refrain from asking—

“W’y de Guv’mint not hab lots ob sojers an’ pleece in de mountains to squash de raskils?”

“Because Government has enough to do to squash the rascals nearer home, Quashy,” answered Pedro. “Have a care, the track gets rather steep here.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the Indian girl as he spoke. She was riding behind with an air of perfect ease and self-possession.

“Fall to the rear, Quashy,” said Pedro.

The black obeyed at once, and a minute later they turned the corner of a jutting rock, which had hitherto shut out from view the lower part of the gorge and the track they were following.

The sight that met their view was calculated to try the strongest nerves, for there, not a hundred paces in advance, and coming towards them, were ten of the most villainous-looking cut-throats that could be imagined, all mounted, and heavily armed with carbine, sword, and pistol.

Taken completely by surprise, the bandits—for such Pedro knew them to be—pulled up. Not so our guide. It was one of the peculiarities and strong points of Pedro’s character that he was never taken by surprise, or uncertain what to do.

Instantly he drew his sword with one hand, a pistol with the other, and, driving his spurs deep into his mule, dashed down the steep road at the banditti. In the very act he looked back, and, in a voice that caused the echoes of the gorge to ring, shouted in Spanish—

“Come on, comrades! here they are at last! close up!”

A yell of the most fiendish excitement and surprise from Quashy—who was only just coming into view—assisted the deception. If anything was wanting to complete the effect, it was the galvanic upheaval of Lawrence’s long arms and the tremendous flourish of his longer legs, as he vaulted over his mule’s head, left it scornfully behind, uttered a roar worthy of an African lion, and rushed forward on foot. He grasped his great cudgel, for sword and pistol had been utterly forgotten!

Like a human avalanche they descended on the foe. That foe did not await the onset. Panic-stricken they turned and went helter-skelter down the pass—all except two, who seemed made of sterner stuff than their fellows, and hesitated.

One of these Pedro rode fairly down, and sent, horse and all, over the precipice. Lawrence’s cudgel beat down the guard of the other, flattened his sombrero, and stopping only at his skull, stretched him on the ground. As for those who had fled, the appalling yells of Quashy, as he pursued them, scattered to the winds any fag-ends of courage they might have possessed, and effectually prevented their return. So tremendous and sudden was the result, that Manuela felt more inclined to laugh than cry, though naturally a good deal frightened.

Lawrence and Pedro were standing in consultation over the fallen bandit when the negro came back panting from the chase.

“Da’s wan good job dooed, anyhow,” he said. “What’s you be do wid him?”

“What would you recommend?” asked Pedro.

The negro pointed significantly to the precipice, but the guide shook his head.

“No, I cannot kill in cold blood, though I have no doubt he richly deserves it. We’ll bind his hands and leave him. It may be weakness on my part, but we can’t take him on, you know.”

While Pedro was in the act of binding the robber, a wild shriek, as of some one in terrible agony, startled them. Looking cautiously over the precipice, where the sound seemed to come from, they saw that the man whom Pedro had ridden down was hanging over the abyss by the boughs of a small shrub. His steed lay mangled on the rocks of the river bank at the bottom. There was an agonised expression in the man’s countenance which would have touched a heart much less soft than that of Lawrence Armstrong. Evidently the man’s power of holding on was nearly exhausted, and he could not repress a shriek at the prospect of the terrible death which seemed so imminent.

Being a practised mountaineer, Lawrence at once, without thought of personal danger, and moved only by pity, slipped over the crags, and, descending on one or two slight projections, the stability of which even a Swiss goat might have questioned, reached the bush. A look of fierce and deadly hate was on the robber’s face, for, judging of others by himself, he thought, no doubt, that his enemy meant to hasten his destruction.

“Here, catch hold—I’ll save you!” cried Lawrence, extending his strong right hand.

A glance of surprise told that he was understood. The bandit let go the hold of one of his hands and made a convulsive grasp at his rescuer. Their fingers touched, but at the same moment the branch gave way, and, with a cry of wild despair, the wretched man went headlong down.

Not, however, to destruction. The effort he had made threw him slightly to one side of the line which his horse had taken in its fall. The difference was very slight indeed, yet it sufficed to send him towards another bush lower down the cliff. Still, the height he had to fall would have ensured the breaking of all his bones if the bush had not hurled him off with a violent rebound.

Lawrence almost felt giddy with horror. Next moment a heavy plunge was heard. The man had fallen into a deep dark pool in the river, which was scarce distinguishable from the cliffs above. Being fringed with bushes, it was impossible to note whether he rose again. Lawrence was still gazing anxiously at the pool, when something touched his cheek. It was a lasso which Pedro had quietly dropped over his shoulders.

“Hold fast to it, senhor, you’ll never get up without it,” he said, in tones so earnest that the youth became suddenly alive to the great danger of his position. In the haste and anxiety of his descent he had failed to note that one or two of the slight projections on which he had placed his feet had broken away, and that therefore a return to the top of the almost perpendicular precipice by the same route was impracticable. Even the slight ledge on which he stood, and from which the little shrub grew, seemed to be crumbling away beneath his great weight. With that feeling of alarm which the sudden and unexpected prospect of instant death brings, we presume, even to the stoutest hearts, Lawrence clutched the line convulsively. He was ignorant at that time of the great strength of the South American lasso, and hesitated to trust his life entirely to it. Pedro guessed his feelings.

“Don’t fear to trust it,” he said, “many a wild bull it has held, four times your size; but wait till Quashy and I get our feet well fixed—we’ll haul you up easily.”

“Have you made the end fast?” cried Lawrence, looking up and encountering the anxious gaze of the Indian maiden.

“Yes, massa, all fast,” answered Quashy, whose look of horror can be more easily imagined than described.

“Hold on, then, and don’t haul.”

The two men obeyed, and the active youth pulled himself up hand over hand, making good use in passing of any hollow or projection that afforded the slightest hold for his toes. At the top he was roughly grasped by his rescuers and dragged into safety.

“Poor fellow!” he exclaimed, on reaching the top.

“Well, massa,” said Quashy, with a broad grin, “das jist w’at I’s agwine to say, but you’s too quick for me.”

“I meant the bandit, not myself,” said Lawrence, looking over the cliff at the pool with an expression of great pity.

“Ha! don’t be uneasy about him,” said Pedro, with a short laugh, as he resumed the binding of the stunned robber. “If he’s killed or drowned he’s well out o’ the way. If he has escaped he’ll be sure to recover and make himself a pest to the neighbourhood for many a day to come.—No, no, my good man, it’s of no use, you needn’t try it.”

The latter part of this speech was in Spanish, and addressed to the robber, who, having recovered consciousness, had made a sudden struggle to shake off his captor. As suddenly he ceased the effort on finding that the strength of the guide was greatly superior to his own.

In another minute Pedro stood up, having bound the bandit’s hands in front of him in a manner that rendered any effort at self-liberation impossible—at least in a short space of time.

“There,” said Pedro to Lawrence, “I’ll warrant him to lead a harmless life until to-morrow at any rate.”

As he spoke he drew the man’s pistols, knife, and carbine, and handed them to Quashy.

“There,” he said, “you may find these useful.”

Meanwhile the robber lay quietly on his back, glancing from one to another of the party with looks of hatred that told clearly enough how he would have acted had he been free.

Turning to him as he was about to remount and quit the scene, Pedro said very sternly in Spanish—

“You and I have met before, friend, and you know my powers with the rifle at long-range. If you offer to rise from the spot where you now lie until we have disappeared round that rocky point half a mile along the road, you are a dead man. After we have turned the point, you may go where you will and do what you please. I might point out that in refraining from cutting your throat I am showing mercy which you don’t deserve—but it is useless to throw pearls to swine.”

The man spoke no word of reply, though he did look a little surprised as the party left him and rode away.

“Would it not have been safer to have bound his hands behind his back?” asked Lawrence.

“No doubt it would, but he is secure enough for our purpose as he is. If I had bound him as you suggest, he would have been almost certain to perish, being quite unable to help himself. As it is, he can use his tied hands to some extent, and, by perseverance in sawing the lines against sharp rocks, he will set himself free at last. By that time, however, we shall be beyond his reach.”

From time to time they all glanced over their shoulders as they rode along, but the bound man did not stir. After they had passed beyond the point of rock before referred to, Lawrence’s curiosity prompted him to turn back and peep round.

The bandit had already risen from the ground, and could be seen walking, as quickly as circumstances permitted, up the track by which they had just descended.

In a few minutes his tall figure was seen to pause for a brief space at the summit of the pass. Then it disappeared on the other side into the gloomy recesses of the mountains.

Chapter Four.

In which Quashy is Communicative and an Enemy is Turned into a Friend.

The pass which our travellers had just crossed merely led them over a mountain chain which may be described as the Peruvian Cordillera. Beyond it lay a fruitful valley of considerable extent, which terminated at the base of the great range, or backbone, of the Andes. Beyond this again lay another valley of greater extent than the first, which was bounded by a third range or cordillera of inferior height, the eastern slopes of which descended on one hand in varying undulations to the dense forests of equatorial Brazil, on the other, by easy gradations to the level Pampas or plains which extend for hundreds of miles through the lands of the Argentine Confederation to the Atlantic.

Two mountain passes, therefore, were still to be crossed, and Lawrence Armstrong began to think that if things went on as they had begun a pretty lively experience probably lay before them.

But in this he was mistaken, at least as regarded banditti, though in some other respects the journey was not quite devoid of stirring incidents—as we shall see.

We have said that the good-nature of the young Englishman induced him to attempt conversation with the Indian girl, and at first Manuela appeared to be amused, if not interested, by his unsuccessful efforts; but after one of these futile attempts Pedro made some remarks to the girl in the Indian tongue, and in a tone of remonstrance, which had the effect of rendering her more silent and grave than before. Lawrence, therefore, finally ceased to address her, though his natural gallantry prompted him to offer assistance when it seemed necessary, and to accost her with a hearty good-night and good-morning each day.

As Pedro, in his capacity of guide, usually rode a few paces in advance, and was frequently in a silent, abstracted mood, Lawrence was thus thrown almost entirely on the negro for companionship. Although the young Englishman may not have estimated his company very highly, nothing could have been more satisfactory to Quashy, who, with delight expressed in every wrinkle and lineament of his black visage, fully availed himself of his opportunities.

“O Massa Lawrie!” he exclaimed, at the close of one of their conversations, “how I does lub to talk ob de ole times when me an’ you was play togidder!”

“Yes, it’s very nice to recall old times,” answered Lawrence, with a half-suppressed yawn, for they had by that time gone over the old times so often that the novelty had rather worn off.

“Yes, bery nice,” repeated Quashy, with gleaming eyes, “when I tink ob de ole fadder an’ de ole mill an’ de ole fun what me an’ you carried on—oh! my heart goes like to bu’st.”

“Don’t let it bu’st here, whatever you do, Quashy, for you’ll need all the heart you possess to carry you safely over these mountain passes.”

Quashy opened his huge mouth, shut his eyes, and went off in a high falsetto—his usual mode of laughing. He always laughed at Lawrence’s little jokes, whether good or bad, insomuch that the youth finally abstained from jesting as much as possible.

“I did not know,” continued Lawrence, “that there were so many robbers about. Pedro tells me that the mountains are swarming with them just now.”

“Ho yis, massa, plenty ob rubbers eberywhar,” said Quashy, with a nod, “more nor ’nuff ob dem. You see, massa, Chili an’ Proo’s a-fightin’ wid each oder jus’ now. What dey’s fightin’ about no mortial knows; an’, what’s more, nobody cares. I s’pose one say de oder’s wrong an’ de oder say de one’s say not right. Bof say das a big lie so at it dey goes hammer an’ tongs to prove—ha! ha! to prove dey’s bof right. Oh my!”

Here the negro opened his cavernous jaws and gave vent to another explosion of shrill laughter.

“What fools dey is!”

“Then you think it is only fools who fight, Quashy?”

“Ob coorse, massa. Don’ you see, if dey wasn’t fools dey wouldn’t fight; ’cause fightin’ can’t prove nuffin’, an’ it can’t do nuffin’, ’cep’ waste life an’ money. No doubt,” added the negro, with a meditative gaze at the ground, “when rubbers come at a feller he’s boun’ to fight, for why? he can’t help it; or when Red Injin savages—”

“Have a care, Quashy, what you say about Indians. I’ve warned you once already.”

“O massa!” said the poor black, with a look of almost superhuman penitence, “I beg your pard’n. I’s quite forgit to remimber. I was just agwine to say that there is times when you mus’ fight. But isn’t Chili Christ’n, an’ isn’t P’roo Christ’n? I don’ bleeve in Christ’ns what cut each oder’s t’roats to prove dey’s right. Howsever, das noting. What I’s agwine to say is—dars a lot o’ white livers on bof sides, an’ dese dey runs away, takes to de mountains and becomes rubbers. But dey’s not all bad alike, dough none of em’s good. You’s heer’d ob Conrad ob de Mountains, massa?”

“Yes, Pedro mentioned his name. He seems to be a celebrated bandit.”

“Well, I’s not sure. Some peepil say he’s not a rubber at all, but a good sort o’ feller as goes mad sometimes. He’s bery kind to women an’ child’n, but he’s bery awrful.”

“That’s a strange character. How do you know he’s so very awful, Quashy?”

“Because I seed ’im, massa.”

“Indeed, where?”

“On de plains ob Proo, massa,” replied the negro, with that self-satisfied clearing of the throat which was usually the prelude to a long story.

“Come now, Quashy,” said Lawrence, with a laugh, “don’t be too long-winded, and don’t exaggerate.”

“Don’t ex-what-gerate, massa?”

“Exaggerate.”

“What’s dat, massa?”

“Never mind, Quashy—go on.”

With a genial and highly exaggerated smile, the negro proceeded:—

“Well, as I was agwine to say, I see dis man, Conrad ob de Mountains, on de plains ob Proo. I’s in de Proo camp at de time, attendin’ on you’s fadder, an’ de army ob Chili was in front ob us on de slopes ob de hills, agwine to go in for a fight wid us. De sojers of Proo wasn’t bery keen for fightin’. I could see dat, but their gin’ral screwed ’em up to de pint, an’ dey was all ready, when all of a sudden, we sees a pris’ner brought in by four sojers. Dey seem so ’fraid ob him dey darn’t touch him, tho’ he was unarmed. Two walked behind him, an’ two walked in front ob ’im, all wid dere baynets pintin’ at ’im, ready to skewer ’im all round if he was try to run. But, poor chap, he walk wid his head down, bery sad-like—nebber t’inkin’ ob runnin’. So dey druv’ ’im up to our gin’ral. I was in a crowd o’ tall fellers, an’ de pris’ner had his back to me, so I not seed his face well. ‘Das Conrad ob de Mountains dey’ve cotched,’ says a feller near me. ‘Listen!’ We all listen’d so quiet you could hear a ’skito sneeze. ‘What’s you’ name?’ asks de gin’ral, ridin’ close up to Conrad on his splendid war-hoss—a child ob one ob de war-hosses as come ober wid Pizarro from Spain. ‘My name’s Pumpkin,’ answers de pris’ner. ‘Das a lie!’ says de gin’ral. ‘No’s not,’ says Conrad, lookin’ up, as I could see by de back ob his head. ‘What side you b’longs to, raskil?’ ‘To no side, gin’ral.’ ‘Whar you come fro’?’ ‘Fro’ de mountains, gin’r’l.’ ‘Whar you go to?’ ‘Ober de mountains, gin’ral.’ I could see by de way de fedders in de gin’ral’s hat shake dat he’s gittin’ in a wax at de cool imprence ob de pris’ner, but he ’strain hisself, an’ spoke sarkmustic. ‘Senhor Pumpkin,’ says he, ‘you are Conrad ob de Mountains,’—(’cause he guess who he was by dat time); ‘how you prepose to go ober de mountains?’ ‘Dis way!’ says Conrad, an’, nixt momint, up goes de gin’ral’s leg, down goes his head an’ fedders on de ground, and Conrad sits in de saddle afore you can wink. All round de baynets was charge, but dey haul up jist in time not to skewer one anoder, for de horse shotted out fro’ between dem all, an’ away straight to de Chili lines, whar dere was a great cheerin’, for dey t’ought it was a deserter. When Conrad came up, he trotted quietly troo de ranks, till he got near to whar de Chili commander stood wid his hofficers, wonderin’ who he was. As he couldn’t ’spec’ to git no furder, he rides quietly up to a hofficer, takes de sword out ob his hand afore he understand what he wants, den, diggin’ de spurs into de big war-hoss, off he goes wid a yell like a Red Inj—oh! I’s mean like a—a buff’lo bull. Out comes de swords. Dey close all round ’im. I no see him by dat time. He too fur off; but a friend ob mine was near, an’ he say dat Conrad swing de long sword so quick, an’ de sun was shinin’ so clar, dat it look like a circle ob fire all round him. Down dey hoed on ebery side. Off goed a head here, an arm dere. One trooper cut troo at de waist, an’ fall’d off, but de legs stick on. Anoder splitted right down fro’ de helmet, so as one half fall on one side, an’ de odour half fall—”

“Come now, Quashy,” interrupted Lawrence, with a laugh, “you exaggerate.”

“What! you call dat exaggerate, massa? Den Conrad exaggerate about ten more afore he cut his way troo an’ ’scaped to de hills. Oh, he’s an awrful man!”

“Truly he must be very awful, if all you relate of him be true,” said Lawrence; “and I sincerely trust that if we fall in with him we may find him friendly. Now, I shall ride forward, and ask Pedro if we are far from our halting-place.”

This abrupt change of subject was usually understood by the amiable negro to mean that our hero—whom he persisted in regarding as his master—had had enough of his conversation at that time, so he reined back his mule, while Lawrence pushed forward.

To his question Pedro replied that he expected to reach the next sleeping-place very soon.

“It will not be as luxurious as the last,” he said; “but, doubtless, one who has traversed the mountains of Scotland is prepared to rough it in South America.”

“You speak as if you were yourself somewhat acquainted with the Scottish mountains.”

“So I am, senhor,” replied the guide. “I had clambered up Ben Nevis while I was yet a little boy.”

“Surely you are not a Scot?” said Lawrence, with a quick glance.

“No, I am not a Scot, senhor. To have travelled in a country does not render one a native, else might I claim England, Ireland, and Switzerland as my native lands. See, yonder lies the little farm where I hope to put up for the night.”

He pointed as he spoke to the head of the glen or valley, which was somewhat narrower and more gloomy than the vales through which they had ridden in the earlier part of the day. Since crossing the first cordillera on the Pacific side of the Andes they had, indeed, traversed a great variety of country. In some places the land was rocky and comparatively barren. In others, where the peculiar form of the mountains sheltered the table-lands, the country was fertile, and numerous farms dotted the landscape, but as they ascended higher on the main chain the farms became fewer, until they finally disappeared, and an occasional hut, with a mere patch of cultivated ground, was all that remained in the vast solitudes to tell of the presence of man.

It was to one of these huts that Pedro now directed his companion’s attention.

“A most suitable place for the abode of banditti,” remarked Lawrence, as they advanced up the winding path.

“And many a time do the bandits lodge there,” returned Pedro. “Of course, robbers of the Andes do not go about with placards on their backs announcing their profession to all the world, and, as long as they behave themselves, farmers are bound to regard them as honest men.”

“You said, if I heard rightly,” observed Lawrence, “that you had formerly met with the rascal whom we let off the other day.”

“Yes, I know him well. One of the worst men in the land. I’m almost sorry we did not shoot him, but I never could take human life in cold blood, even when that life had been forfeited over and over again. However, he’s sure to get his deserts sooner or later.”

“Then he is not Conrad of the Mountains whom you mentioned to me lately?”

“No, Conrad is a very different stamp of man—though he has not too much to boast of in the way of character if all that’s said of him be true. The man we let go is a gaucho of the Pampas named Cruz. He delights in war, and has fought in the armies of Chili, Peru, and the Argentine Confederation without much regard to the cause of quarrel. In fact, wherever fighting is going on Cruz is sure to be there. Lately he has taken to the mountains, and now fights for his own hand.”

“And the other poor fellow who went over the precipice,” asked Lawrence, “did you know him?”

“I knew him slightly. Antonio is his name, I think, but he is a villain of no note—an inferior bandit, though quite equal to his captain, no doubt, in selfishness and cruelty.”

On arriving at the hut or small farm at the head of the valley, they found its owner, a burly, good-humoured Creole, alone with his mother, an old woman whose shrivelled-up appearance suggested the idea of a mummy partially thawed into life. She was busy cooking over a small fire, the smoke of which seemed congenial to her—judging from the frequency with which she thrust her old head into it while inspecting the contents of an iron pot.

There was plenty of room for them, the host said, with an air of profound respect for Pedro, whom he saluted as an old acquaintance. The house had been full two days before, but the travellers had gone on, and the only one who remained was a poor man who lay in an out-house very sick.

“Who is he?” asked Pedro, as he assisted Manuela to alight.

“I know not, senhor,” replied the host. “He is a stranger, who tells me he has been robbed. I can well believe it, for he has been roughly handled, and there are some well-known bandits in the neighbourhood. His injuries would not have been so serious, however, if he had not caught a fever from exposure.”

“Indeed,” returned the guide, who, however, seemed more interested in unsaddling his mules than in listening to the account of the unfortunate man, “was it near this that he fell in with the bandits?”

“No, senhor, it was far to the west. The travellers who brought him on said they found him almost insensible on the banks of a stream into which he appeared to have fallen or been thrown.”

Pedro glanced at Lawrence.

“Hear you that, senhor?”

“My Spanish only suffices to inform me that some one has been robbed and injured.”

Explaining fully what their host had said, Pedro advised Lawrence to visit the stranger in his medical character.

“My friend is a doctor,” he said, turning to the host, “take him to the sick man; for myself, I will put up the mules and then assist the old mother, for mountain air sharpens appetite.”

In a rude, tumble-down hut close to the main building Lawrence found his patient. He lay stretched in a corner on a heap of straw in a state of great exhaustion—apparently dying—and with several bandages about his cut and bruised head and face.

The first glance told Lawrence that it was Antonio, the robber whom he had tried to rescue, but he carefully concealed his knowledge, and, bending over the man, addressed him as if he were a stranger. The start and look of surprise mingled with alarm on the robber’s face told that he had recognised Lawrence, but he also laid restraint on himself, and drew one of the bandages lower down on his eyes.

Feeling his pulse, Lawrence asked him about his food.

He got little, he said, and that little was not good; the people of the farm seemed to grudge it.

“My poor man,” said Lawrence in his bad Spanish, “they are starving you to death. But I’ll see to that.”

He rose and went out quickly. Returning with a basin of soup, he presented it to the invalid, who ate it with relish. Then the man began to relate how he had been attacked a few days before by a party of robbers in one of the mountain passes, who had cut the throats of all his party in cold blood, and had almost killed himself, when he was rescued by the opportune arrival of some travellers.

Lawrence was much disgusted at first by the man’s falsehood. Observing the poor fellow’s extreme weakness, however, and his evident anxiety lest he should be recognised, the feeling changed to pity. Laying his hand gently on the man’s shoulder, he said, with a look of solemnity which perchance made, up to some extent for the baldness of the phraseology—

“Antonio, tell not lies; you are dying!”

The startled man looked at his visitor earnestly. “Am I dying?” he asked, in a low tone.

“You are, perhaps; I know not. I will save you if possible.”

These words were accompanied by a kind look and a comforting pat on the shoulder, which, it may be, did more for the sick man than the best of physic. At all events the result was a sudden grasp of the hand and a look of gratitude which spoke volumes. The robber was about to give vent to his feelings in speech when the door opened, and the burly host, putting his head in, announced that supper was ready.

Giving his patient another reassuring pat, the young doctor left him and returned to the banqueting-hall of the mountain farm, where he found that Manuela, Pedro, and Quashy were more or less earnestly engaged with the contents of the iron pot.

Chapter Five.

Lawrence and Quashy become “Flosuffical,” and they camp out beside the “Giant’s Castle.”

While the party were at supper the first gusts of a storm, which had for some time been brewing, shook the little hut, and before they had all fallen into the profound slumber which usually followed their day’s journey, a heavy gale was howling among the mountain gorges with a noise like the roaring of a thousand lions. For two days the gale raged so furiously that travelling—especially in the higher regions of the Andes—became impossible. The Indian girl, Pedro, and the negro, bore their detention with that stoicism which is not an infrequent characteristic of mountaineers, guides, and savages. As for our hero, he devoted himself and all his skill to his patient—to which duty he was the more reconciled that it afforded him a good opportunity at once for improving his Spanish and pointing out to the bandit the error of his ways.

To do the man justice, he seemed to be fully sensible of the young doctor’s kindness, and thanked him, with tears in his eyes, not only for his previous intention to save him from the tremendous fall over the cliff, but for his subsequent efforts to alleviate the evil consequences thereof.

It mattered nothing to the great warm-hearted, loose-jointed Englishman that when he mentioned these hopeful signs in his patient to Pedro, that worthy shook his head and smiled sarcastically, or that Quashy received the same information with a closing of the eyes and an expansion of the jaws which revealed the red recesses of his throat to their darkest deeps! Lawrence, being a man of strong opinions, was not to be shaken out of them either by sarcasm or good-humoured contempt.

Turning to the Indian girl for sympathy, he related the matter to her at a time when the other inhabitants of the hut had gone out and left them alone.

“You see,—Manuela,” he said, with the frown of meditation on his brow, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, “I have no belief in the very common idea that there is a soft spot in the heart of every man, however bad; but I do believe that the heart of the very worst of men may be made soft by the Spirit of God, and that He employs us, who call ourselves Christians, as His agents in bringing about the result. It is quite possible that I may have been thrown in the way of this robber for the very purpose of touching his heart through kindness—God’s own motive-power—and that the Spirit will soften his heart to receive the touch.”

He paused, and, withdrawing his gaze from the ceiling, observed that the girl’s eyes were fixed on his face with an expression of perplexity and earnestness.

It then suddenly occurred to him that, having spoken in English, she could not have understood him.

“But you do look as if you had some idea of what I have been saying, Manuela. Have you?”

“Si, senhor, some,” was the reply, as she dropped her eyes with an embarrassed look and blushed so as to make her pretty brown face look alarmingly red.

Endeavouring to convey the same ideas through the medium of Spanish, Lawrence made such a bungle of it that Manuela, instead of expressing sympathy, began to struggle so obviously with her feelings that the poor Englishman gave up the attempt, and good-naturedly joined his companion in a little burst of laughter. They were in the midst of this when the door opened and Quashy entered.

“You ’pears to be jolly,” observed the genial negro, with every wrinkle of his black visage ready to join in sympathetically, “was de jok a desprit good un?”

“Not very desperate, Quashy,” said Lawrence, “it was only my bad Spanish which made Manuela laugh. If you had been here to interpret we might have got on better with our philosophical discourse.”

“O massa!” returned the black—solemn remonstrance, both in manner and tone, putting to sudden flight the beaming look of sympathy—“don’t speak of me ’terpretin’ Spinich. Nebber could take kindly to dat stuff. Ob course I kin talk wid de peons an’ de gauchos, whose conv’sation am mostly ’bout grub, an’ hosses, an’ cattle, an’ dollars, an’ murder, but when I tries to go in for flosuffy, an’ sitch like, I breaks down altogidder.”

At this point the Indian girl’s tendency to laugh increased, but whether because of fresh views of the absurdity of what had passed, or because of some faint perception of the negro’s meaning, Lawrence had no power to decide.

“I should have thought, Quashy,” he said, with a return of his wonted gravity, “that a man of a thoughtful and contemplative turn of mind like you would have acquired the power of expressing almost any idea in Spanish by this time.”

“T’ank you for de compl’ment, massa,” replied Quashy, “but I not so clebber as you t’ink. Der am some tings in flosuffy dat beats me. When I tries to putt ’em afore oder peepil in Spinich, I somehow gits de brain-pan into sitch a conglomeration ob fumbustication dat I not able to see quite clar what I mean myself—dough, ob course, I knows dat I’m right.”

“Indeed!”

“Yis; but de great consolation I has is dat de peepil I’m talkin’ to don’t onderstand me a mossel better nor myself; an’, ob course, as noting in de wurl could show dem dey was wrong, it don’t much matter.”

“That is good philosophy, at all events. Isn’t it, Manuela?” asked Lawrence in Spanish.

“Si, senhor,” replied the girl, with sparkling eyes and a dazzling display of little teeth which seemed to indicate that she fully appreciated what was said.

“Strange,” thought Lawrence—“so grave and pensive, yet at times so sprightly; so intelligent, yet, of course, so ignorant; so very brown, and yet so pretty. What a pity she is not white!”

He only said, however, with a sigh, “Is the gale abating, Quashy?”

To which the negro replied, with a responsive sigh, “Yis, massa,—it am.”

After two days’ delay our travellers were enabled to proceed. While their host was busy saddling the mules Lawrence took Pedro aside.

“I am anxious about that bandit,” he said. “It is not his power of recovering I am afraid of, but our host’s willingness to take care of him.”

“Have you not spoken to him about it, senhor, and paid him in advance, like the good Samaritan?”

“Truly I have, but that does not secure fidelity in our host, and the man’s life may depend on his treatment during the next few days. I almost wish that we might delay our journey a little.”

“That cannot be,” returned Pedro, with decision. “Besides, it is unnecessary, for I have spoken to our host, and told him to take good care of the fellow.”

Lawrence could scarcely forbear smiling at the quiet assurance with which Pedro spoke.

“Surely,” he said, “you cannot count on his being influenced by your commands after you are gone?”

“Yes, senhor, I can count on that, for he knows me, and I occasionally pass this way.”

Pedro turned away as he spoke and went towards the mules, the fastenings of whose loads he carefully inspected. Lawrence went to look after his own animal with his mind much relieved, for the manner of Pedro was such as to inspire irresistible, almost blind, confidence.

During the first mile or two, as they rode along, our hero puzzled himself in a vain attempt to analyse the cause of this confidence. Was it the result of that imperturbable self-possession and invariable readiness of resource which marked the guide; or was it the stern truthfulness of his dark eyes, coupled with the retiring modesty and gravity of his demeanour? Perhaps it was the union of these characteristics. He could not tell.

While thus engaged in profound thought he was roused by Manuela riding alongside of him, and pointing upwards with animated looks while she exclaimed—

“See—look—senhor!”

Much surprised, for this was the first time during the journey that the girl had ventured to attract his attention, the youth looked in the direction indicated, and certainly the view that met his eyes was calculated to banish not only the surprise, but all other feelings save those of admiration of Nature and reverence for Nature’s God.

They had just rounded one of those rocky bluffs which so frequently interrupted their view during their upward journey, and had come upon a scene which they could not find words adequately to describe. As interjectional phrases alone could indicate something of their emotions to each other, so fragmentary sentences alone will convey a faint semblance of the truth to the intelligence of the reader.

Mountains, glens, and mighty cliffs; hideous precipices and yawning gulfs; snow-clad summits high above them, and rock-riven gorges far below. Distance upon distance ranging backward and upward to infinity, where all was mingled with cloudland; sunlit here, darkest shadowed there—wildness, weirdness, grandeur, and magnificence everywhere!

In the immediate foreground the serpentine path wound upward among rugged rocks, and the riders, picking their steps, as it were, midway up the face of a stupendous precipice, looked upward on the left at an apparently summitless wall, and downward on the right into an almost bottomless valley, through which a river roared as if mad with joy at having escaped its glacier-prison; though its roaring was softened well-nigh to silence by distance, while in appearance it seemed little larger than a silver thread.

“I could almost believe that to be a giant’s castle,” remarked Lawrence, pointing to the opposite side of the ravine, where a huge perpendicular mountain of porphyry was so broken into turrets, towers, and battlements, that it was difficult, except for its size, to believe it other than the work of man. There were even holes and formations about it that had the appearance of antique windows, gates, and drawbridges!

“Yes, it is a strange place,” said the guide, checking his mule; “moreover, we must spend the night under its shadow, for it is impossible to reach a better place of shelter to-night; and, by good fortune, yonder is something fresh for supper.”

Pedro pointed to a spot about seven or eight hundred yards distant, where a group of guanacos stood gazing at the intruders with profound attention.

“How will you get near enough for a shot?” asked Lawrence; “they will be gone before you can get across the ravine, and there is little or no cover.”

“You shall see,” said Pedro, cocking his rifle.

“But—but no weapon short of a cannon will carry so far—at least with accuracy,” exclaimed Lawrence in surprise, for at the time of which we write breech-loaders and the long-range weapons of precision had not been introduced in those regions. Indeed, the armies of South America, and of Europe also, still slew each other with the familiar Brown Bess and the clumsy flint-lock at that time.

Pedro paid no attention to the remark, but, dismounting, slowly raised the rifle to his shoulder. The guide was one of those men who seem to live in advance of their age. He had thought out, and carried out in a rough-and-ready manner, ideas which have since been scientifically reduced to practice. Being well aware that any projectile is drawn downward in its flight by the law of gravitation, and that if you want to hit a distant point you must aim considerably above it, he had, by careful experiment, found out how high above an object at a given distance one must aim in order to hit, and, by constant practice in judging distance, as well as in taking aim above his mark, he had attained to such skill as a long-range marksman that his friends almost believed it impossible for game to get beyond the range of his deadly weapon, and foes never felt easy till they were entirely out of his sight. The comparative slowness, too, of the flint-lock in discharging a rifle, had necessitated in him a degree of steadiness, not only while taking aim, but even after pulling the trigger, which rendered him what we might term statuesque in his action as he levelled his piece.

For a few seconds the rock beside him was not more steady. Then the cliffs burst into a fusillade of echoes, and the guanacos leaped wildly up the mountain-side, leaving one of their number on the rocks behind them.

It was some time before the young Englishman could get over his astonishment at this feat, for Pedro had pointed his weapon so high that he did not appear to be aiming at the animal at all, and he maintained an animated discussion with the mountaineer until they reached a part of the pass which proved to be somewhat dangerous.

And here they met with a party of muleteers crossing the mountains in the opposite direction. They were still far above them when first observed descending the same steep and narrow road.

“We will wait here till they pass,” said the guide, pulling up at a point where the width of the track was considerable. “I see by the escort that they carry something of value—probably bars of silver from one of the mines. They have reached the worst part of the pass. I shouldn’t wonder to see one of the mules go over—they often do.”

“And always get killed, I suppose,” said Lawrence.

“Not always. Now and then they have wonderful escapes, but many hundreds have been lost here. See!”

As he spoke one of the baggage-mules of the party touched the cliff with its load. This caused the animal to stagger; his hind-legs actually went over the precipice, and the loose stones began to roll away from under his hoofs. With his fore-feet, however, still on the narrow track, he held on bravely, even sticking his nose on the ground, so that he had the appearance of holding on by his teeth! Two of the peons rushed to render assistance, but before they reached him he had slipped, and rolled down the awful slope which ended in a sheer perpendicular precipice. Here he bounded off into space, and next moment fell, baggage and all, with a tremendous splash into the river.

It seemed impossible that the poor animal could have escaped with life, but in another moment his head reappeared above water, and he made a brave struggle to gain the bank. The current, however, was too strong for him. Down he went below the foaming water, his scraggy tail making a farewell flourish as he disappeared. But again his head appeared, and once again he struggled for the bank. This time with success, for he had been swept into a shallow in which he was able to maintain his foothold and slowly drag himself out of the river. When in safety, he stood with drooping head and tail, as if in a state of the most thorough dejection at having made such an exhibition of himself.

“Clebber beast!” shouted Quashy, who had stood with his ten fingers expanded, his great mouth open, and his whole emotional soul glaring out of his monstrous eyes.

“Well done!” echoed Lawrence, who was scarcely less pleased than his servant.

The party now drew near, and very striking was their appearance—the variously coloured mules, following the bell-mare which went in advance as a leader, winding slowly down the crooked path, and the peons in their picturesque costumes shouting, laughing, or singing wild snatches of song as they were moved by fury, fun, or fancy.

The men, who numbered a dozen or so, and were well-armed, were apparently relieved to find that our travellers were not bandits, in regard to whom their questions showed that they felt some anxiety. They had witnessed Pedro’s shot from the heights above, and looked upon him with no little surprise and much respect as they commented on his power with the rifle.

A few questions were asked, a few compliments paid, and then the two parties, passing each other, proceeded on their respective ways.

Crossing the mountain torrent at a rather dangerous ford, towards evening Pedro led his companions to a spot not far from the ramparts of what Lawrence styled the giant’s castle.

It was not an inviting spot at first. There was little pasture for the wearied mules on the almost naked rocks, and the stunted trees and gnarled roots told eloquently of the severity of winter in those high regions. There was, however, a good spring of water and an over-arching rock, which promised some degree of refreshment and shelter, and when firewood was collected, a ruddy blaze sent up, the kettle put on to boil, and several fine cuts of the guanaco set up to roast, the feelings of sadness which had at first influenced Lawrence were put to flight, and he felt more satisfaction in his lodging than he could have experienced if it had been a palatial hotel with its confined air and feather beds and cloying luxuries.

There was a species of natural recess in the cliff which Pedro screened off as a chamber for Manuela, while she assisted Quashy to prepare the supper.

“There’s nothing like fresh mountain air,” exclaimed Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm, after the first attack on the guanaco steaks had subsided.

“Specially when the said air happens to be quiet and warm, and the night fine and the stars bright and the company pleasant,” added the guide.

Quashy had a habit, when his risible faculties were only gently tickled, of shutting his eyes, throwing back his head, opening his great mouth wide, and indulging in a silent laugh. Having done so on the present occasion, he shut his mouth with a snap and opened his eyes.

“Ho yis,” he said in a low tone, “bery nice when it all plisent like now, but it am anoder t’ing when de fresh mountain air goes howlerin’ an’ bowlerin’ about like a wild beast, an’ when it snowses an frozes fit to cut off your noses an’ shribel up de bery marrow in your bones! Oh! you got no notion what—”

“Hold your tongue, Quashy,” interrupted Lawrence, “why, your description of such things makes one shiver. Let us hope we may have no experience of them and enjoy our comforts while we may.”

“Dat’s true flosuffy, massa,” returned the negro, helping himself to more guanaco, and offering some on the end of his fork to Manuela, who accepted the same with her usual ready smile, which, however, on this occasion, expanded into an uncontrollable little laugh.

Lawrence was perplexed, and so was Quashy, for the quiet little Indian was not given to giggling at trifles, much less to laughing at nothing. Lawrence observed, however, that the girl did not reach out her hand with her usual graceful action, but on the contrary gave her arm an awkward twist which obliged the negro to stretch needlessly far over towards her in handing the meat.

The result was that a pannikin of coffee which Quashy had placed on his plate—the plate being in his lap—began to tilt over. Before any one could warn him it overturned, causing the poor man to spring up with a yell as the hot liquid drenched his legs. Of course every one laughed. People always do at such mild mishaps. As the coffee was not too hot, and there was more in the kettle, Quashy joined in the laugh while he wiped his garments, and afterwards replenished his pannikin.

But a new light began to force itself upon Lawrence. “Can it be,” he thought, “that she did that on purpose?—that she saw the pannikin was tilting, and—no, that’s impossible!”

He looked earnestly at the girl. She had recovered her gravity by that time, and was quietly eating her supper with downcast eyes. “Impossible,” he repeated in thought, “so unlike her, and so very unlike the Indian character.” Nevertheless his perplexity remained, and when he went to sleep that night, after gazing long and earnestly up at the bright stars and at the white summits of the Andes which rose in awful grandeur above him, he dreamed that while Quashy was sitting sound asleep with his head on his knees in front of the fire, Manuela availed herself of the opportunity to pour an ocean of hot coffee down his back!

Starting up wide awake at this, he found that Quashy lay beside him, sleeping quietly on his back, that Pedro was similarly engaged, that the Indian girl had disappeared into her dormitory, that the giant’s castle looked more splendidly real than ever in the rising moonlight, and that no sound was to be heard save the brawling of the escaped river, as it fled from its glacier-prison to its home in the mighty sea.

Chapter Six.

A Storm in the Mountains—Refuge found—Converse round the Fire.

The summit of the pass was at last gained, and not a moment too soon, for the storm which they had experienced a few days before was but the prelude to a gale such as is rarely experienced save in the winter months of the year, when most of the mountain passes are closed.

It began by mutterings of distant thunder, which caused the guide to look round the horizon and up at the sky somewhat anxiously.

“Do you think we shall reach our next shelter before it breaks?” asked Lawrence.

“I hope so,” said Pedro, pausing on a ridge from which an almost illimitable view was had of mountain range and valley in all directions.

“Far over in that direction,” he continued, pointing with his hand, “lies the land of the Incas. You have heard of the Incas, senhor?”

“Yes, I have heard of them, but cannot say that I am intimately acquainted with their history.”

“It is a strange history—a very sad one,” returned Pedro. “I will tell you something about it at another time; at present it behoves us to push on.”

There was no question as to that point, for just as he spoke a sudden and powerful gust of wind swept Quashy’s straw hat off and sent it spinning gaily along the path. Vaulting from his mule with a wild shout, the negro gave chase on foot, with an amount of anxiety that seemed not justified by the occasion. But as the poet truly puts it, “things are not what they seem,” and Quashy’s head-piece, which presented much the appearance of a battered old straw hat, was in truth an article of very considerable value.

It was one of those hats made by the people of South America, with a delicate fibre so finely plaited that in texture it resembles fine canvas, though in appearance it is like straw. It is exceedingly tough, takes a very long time to manufacture, and costs many dollars—so many, indeed, that a hat of the kind is thought worthy of being preserved and left as an heirloom from father to son as long as it lasts.

No wonder then that the negro made frantic efforts to regain his property—all the more frantic that he was well aware if it should pass over one of the neighbouring precipices it would be lost to him for ever. At last a friendly gust sent it into a snowdrift, through which Quashy plunged and captured it.

Snow in considerable quantities lay here and there around them in the form of old patches or drifts, and this began to be swept up by the fierce wind in spite of its solidity. Soon new snow began to fall, and, mingling with the old drifts, rendered the air so thick that it was sometimes difficult to see more than a few yards in advance. Lawrence, being unused to such scenes, began to fear they should get lost in these awful solitudes, and felt specially anxious for Manuela, who, despite the vigour of a frame trained, as it no doubt had been, in all the hardihood incidental to Indian camp life, seemed to shrink from the fierce blast and to droop before the bitter cold.

“Here, put on my poncho,” said the youth, riding suddenly up to the girl’s side and unceremoniously flinging his ample garment over the slight poncho she already wore. She drew it round her at once, and silently accepted the offering with a smile and an inclination of her small head which, even in these uncomfortable circumstances, were full of grace.

“Why was she born a savage?” thought the youth, with almost petulant exasperation. “If she had only been white and civilised, I would have wooed and won—at least,” he added, modestly, “I would have tried to win and wed her in spite of all the opposing world. As it is, the—the—gulf is impassable!”

“You have anticipated me, senhor,” said the guide, who had reined in until the rest of the party overtook him. “I had halted with the intention of offering my poncho to Manuela. Poor girl, she is a daughter of the warm Pampas, and unused to the cold of the mountains.”

He turned to her, and said something in the Indian tongue which seemed to comfort her greatly, for she replied with a look and tone of satisfaction.

“I have just told her,” he said to Lawrence, as they resumed the journey, “that in half an hour we shall reach a hut of shelter. It is at the foot of a steep descent close ahead; and as the wind is fortunately on our backs, we shall be partially protected by the hill.”

“Surely the place cannot be a farm,” said Lawrence; “it must be too high up for that.”

“No, as you say, it is too high for human habitation. The hut is one of those places of refuge which have been built at every two or three leagues to afford protection to travellers when assailed by such snow-storms as that which is about to break on us now.”

He stopped, for the party came at the moment to a slope so steep that it seemed impossible for man or mule to descend. Being partly sheltered from the fitful gusts of wind, it was pretty clear of snow, and they could see that a zigzag track led to the bottom. What made the descent all the more difficult was a loose layer of small stones, on which they slipped continually. Before they had quite completed the descent the storm burst forth. Suddenly dense clouds of snow were seen rushing down from the neighbouring peaks before a hurricane of wind, compared with which previous gusts were trifles.

“Come on—fast—fast!” shouted the guide, looking back and waving his hand.

The first deafening roar of the blast drowned the shout; but before the snowdrift blinded him, Lawrence had observed the wave of the hand and the anxious look. Dashing the cruel Spanish spurs for the first time into the side of his no doubt astonished steed, he sprang alongside of Manuela’s mule, seized the bridle, and dragged it forward by main force. Of course the creature objected, but the steep road and slipping gravel favoured them, so that they reached the bottom in safety.

Here they found the first of the refuge-huts, and in a few moments were all safe within its sheltering walls.

Having been erected for a special purpose, the hut was well adapted to resist the wildest storm. It was built of brick and mortar, the foundation being very solid, and about twelve feet high, with a brick staircase outside leading to the doorway. Thus the habitable part of the edifice was raised well above the snow. The room was about twelve feet square, the floor of brick, and the roof arched. It was a dungeon-like place, dimly lighted by three loop-holes about six inches square, and without furniture of any kind. A mark in the wall indicated the place where a small table had originally been fixed; but it had been torn down long before, as Pedro explained, by imprisoned and starving travellers to serve for firewood. The remains of some pieces of charred wood lay on the floor where the fire was usually kindled, and, to Pedro’s great satisfaction, they found a small pile of firewood which had been left there by the last travellers.

“A dismal enough place,” remarked Lawrence, looking round after shaking and stamping the snow out of his garments.

“You have reason to thank God, senhor, that we have reached it.”

“True, Senhor Pedro, and I am not thankless; yet do I feel free to repeat that it is a most dismal place.”

“Mos’ horriboble,” said Quashy, looking up at the vaulted roof.

“Ay, and it could tell many a dismal story if it had a tongue,” said the guide, as he busied himself arranging the saddles and baggage, and making other preparations to spend the night as comfortably as circumstances should permit. “Luckily there’s a door this time.”

“Is it sometimes without a door, then?” asked Lawrence, as he assisted in the arrangements, while Quashy set about kindling a fire.

“Ay, the poor fellows who are sometimes stormstaid and starved here have a tendency to use all they can find about the place for firewood. Some one has replaced the door, however, since I was here last. You’ll find two big nails in the wall, Manuela,” he added in Indian; “if you tie one of the baggage cords to them, I’ll give you a rug directly, which will make a good screen to cut off your sleeping berth from ours.”

In a short time Quashy had a bright little fire burning, with the kettle on it stuffed full of fresh snow; the saddles and their furniture made comfortable seats and lounges around it; and soon a savoury smell of cooked meat rendered the cold air fragrant, while the cheery blaze dispelled the gloom and made a wonderful change in the spirits of all. Perhaps we should except the guide, whose calm, grave, stern yet kindly aspect rarely underwent much change, either in the way of elation or depression, whatever the surrounding circumstances might be. His prevailing character reminded one of a rock, whether in the midst of a calm or raging sea—or of a strong tower, whether surrounded by warring elements or by profound calm. Need we say that Pedro’s imperturbability was by no means the result of apathy?

“Blow away till you bust your buzzum,” said Quashy, apostrophising the gale as he sat down with a beaming display of teeth and spread out his hands before the blaze, after having advanced supper to a point which admitted of a pause; “I don’ care a butt’n how hard you blow now.”

“Ah! Quashy,” said the guide, shaking his head slowly, as, seated on his saddle, he rolled up a neat cigarette, “don’t be too confident. You little know what sights these four walls have witnessed. True, this is not quite the season when one runs much risk of being starved to death, but the thing is not impossible.”

“Surely,” said Lawrence, stretching himself on his saddle-cloths and glancing at Manuela, who was by that time seated on the opposite side of the fire arranging some hard biscuits on a plate, “surely people have not been starved to death here, have they?”

“Indeed they have—only too often, senhor. I myself came once to this hut to rescue a party, but was nearly too late, for most of them were dead.”

He paused to light his cigarette. The negro, after making the door more secure, sat down again and gazed at the guide with the glaring aspect of a man who fears, but delights in, the horrible. Manuela, letting her clasped hands fall in her lap, also gazed at Pedro with the intense earnestness that was habitual to her. She seemed to listen. Perhaps, being unusually intelligent, she picked up some information from the guide’s expressive face. She could hardly have learned much from his speech, as her knowledge of English seemed to be little more than “yes,” “no,” and “t’ank you!”

“It was during a change of government, senhor,” said Pedro, “that I chanced to be crossing the mountains. There is usually a considerable row in South America when a change of government takes place. Sometimes they cause a change of government to take place in order to get up a considerable row, for they’re a lively people—almost as fond of fighting as the Irish, though scarcely so sound in judgment. I had some business on hand on the western side of the Cordillera, but turned back to give a helping hand to my friends, for of course I try never to shirk duty, though I’m not fond of fighting. Well, when I got to the farm nearest to this hut where we now sit, they told me that a tremendous gale had been blowing in the mountains, that ten travellers had been snowed up, and that they feared they must all have perished, since travelling in such weather was impossible.”

“‘Have you made no effort to rescue them?’ I asked of the farmer.

“‘No,’ says he, ‘I couldn’t get any o’ my fellows to move, because they’ve been terrified about a ghost that’s been seen up there.’

“‘What was the ghost like?’ I asked; so he told me that it was a fearful creature—a mulish-looking sort of man, who was in the habit of terrifying the arrieros and peons who passed that way, but he said they were going to get a priest to put a cross up there, and so lay the ghost.

“‘Meanwhile,’ I said, ‘the ten travellers are to be left to starve?’

“‘It’s my belief they’re starved already,’ answered the farmer.”

At this point Pedro paused to relight his cigarette, and Quashy breathed a little more freely. He was a firm believer in ghosts, and feared them more than he would have feared an army of Redskins or jaguars. Indeed it is a question whether Quashy could ever have been brought to realise the sensation of fear if it had not been for the existence, in his imagination, of ghosts! The mere mention of the word in present circumstances had converted him into a sort of human sensitive-plant. He gave a little start and glance over his shoulder at every gust of unusual power that rattled the door, and had become visibly paler—perhaps we should say less black.

Manuela was evidently troubled by no such fears, perhaps because she did not understand the meaning of the word ghost, yet she gazed at the speaker in apparently rapt attention.

“You may believe,” continued the guide, “that I was disgusted at their cowardice; so, to shame them, as well as to do what I could for the travellers, I loaded a couple of my mules with meat, and said I would set off alone. This had the desired effect, for three men volunteered to go with me. When we reached the hut we found that six of the ten poor fellows were dead. The bodies of two who had died just before our arrival were lying in the corner over there behind Quashy. They were more like skeletons covered with skin than corpses. The four who still lived were in the corner here beside me, huddled together for warmth, and so worn out by hunger and despair that they did not seem to care at first that we had come to save them. We warmed and fed them, however, brought them gradually round, and at last took them back to the farm. They all recovered. During the time they were snowed up the poor fellows had eaten their mules and dogs. I have no doubt that if the ground were clear of snow you would find the bones of these animals scattered about still.”

This was not a very pleasant anecdote, Lawrence thought, on which to retire to rest, so he changed the subject by asking Pedro if there were many of the Incas still remaining.

Before he could reply Manuela rose, and, bidding them good-night in Spanish, retired to her screened-off corner.

“A good many of the Incas are still left,” replied the guide to his companion’s question; “and if you were to visit their capital city you would be surprised to see the remains of temples and other evidences of a very advanced civilisation in a people who existed long before the conquest of Peru.”

“Massa Pedro,” said Quashy, who would have been glad to have the recollection of ghosts totally banished from his mind, “I’s oftin hear ob de Incas, but I knows not’ing about dem. Who is dey? whar dey come fro?”

“It would take a long time, Quashy, to answer these two questions fully; nevertheless, I think I could give you a roughish outline of a notion in about five minutes, if you’ll promise not to stare so hard, and keep your mouth shut.”

The negro shut his eyes, expanded his mouth to its utmost in a silent laugh, and nodded his head acquiescently.

“Well, then, you must know,” said Pedro, “that in days of old—about the time that William the Conqueror invaded England—a certain Manco Capac founded the dynasty of the Incas. According to an old legend this Manco was the son of a white man who was shipwrecked on the coast of Peru. He married the daughter of an Indian chief, and taught the people agriculture, architecture, and other arts. He must have been a man of great power, from the influence he exerted over the natives, who styled him the ‘blooming stranger.’ His hair was of a golden colour, and this gave rise to the story that he was a child of the sun, who had been sent to rule over the Indians and found an empire. Another tradition says that Manco Capac was accompanied by a wife named Mama Oello Huaco, who taught the Indian women the mysteries of spinning and weaving, while her husband taught the arts of civilisation to the men.

“Whatever truth there may be in these legends, certain it is that Manco Capac did become the first of a race of Incas—or kings or chiefs—and, it is said, laid the foundations of the city of Cuzco, the remains of which at the present day show the power, splendour, and wealth to which Manco Capac and his successors attained. The government of the Incas was despotic, but of a benignant and patriarchal type, which gained the affections of those over whom they ruled, and enabled them to extend their sway far and wide over the land, so that, at the time of the invasion by the Spaniards under Pizarro, the Peruvians were found to have reached a high degree of civilisation, as was seen by their public works—roads, bridges, terrace-gardens, fortifications, and magnificent buildings, and so forth. It is said by those who have studied the matter, that this civilisation existed long before the coming of the Incas. On this point I can say nothing, but no doubt or uncertainty rests on the later history of this race. Cuzco, on Lake Titicaca, became the capital city of a great and flourishing monarchy, and possessed many splendid buildings in spacious squares and streets. It also became the Holy City and great temple of the Sun, to which pilgrims came from all parts of the country. It was defended by a fortress and walls built of stone, some blocks of which were above thirty feet long by eighteen broad and six thick. Many towns sprang up in the land. Under good government the people flourished and became rich. They had plenty of gold and silver, which they used extensively in the adornment of their temples and palaces. But evil followed in the train of wealth. By degrees their simplicity departed from them. Their prosperity led to the desire for conquest. Then two sons of one of the Incas disputed with each other for supremacy, and fought. One was conquered and taken prisoner by the other, who is reported to have been guilty of excessive cruelties to his relations, and caused his brother to be put to death. Finally, in 1532, the Spaniards came and accomplished the conquest of Peru—from which date not much of peace or prosperity has fallen to the lot of this unhappy land.

“Yes,” said the guide in conclusion, “the Incas were, and some of their descendants still are, a very fine race. Many of the men are what I call nature’s gentlemen, having thoughts—ay, and manners too, that would grace any society. Some of their women, also, are worthy to—”

“Pedro!” interrupted Lawrence eagerly, laying his hand on the guide’s arm, for a sudden idea had flashed into his mind. (He was rather subject to the flashing of sudden ideas!) “Pedro! she is a daughter of a chief of the Incas—is she not? a princess of the Incas! Have I not guessed rightly?”

He said this in a half whisper, and pointed as he spoke to the screen behind which Manuela lay.

Pedro smiled slightly and tipped the ash from the end of his cigarette, but made no answer.

“Nay, I will not pry into other people’s affairs,” said Lawrence, in his usual tone, “but you once told me she is the daughter of a chief, and assuredly no lady in this land could equal her in grace or dignity of carriage and manner, to say nothing of modesty, which is the invariable evidence.”

“Not of high rank?” interrupted the guide, with a quick and slightly sarcastic glance.

“No, but of nobility of mind and heart,” replied the youth, with much enthusiasm. In which feeling he was earnestly backed up by Quashy, who, with eyes that absolutely glowed, said—

“You’s right, massa—sure an’ sartin! Modesty am de grandest t’ing I knows. Once I knowed a young nigger gal what libbed near your fadder’s mill—Sooz’n dey calls ’er—an’ she’s so modest, so—oh! I not kin ’splain rightly—but I say to ’er one day, when I’d got my courage screwed up, ‘Sooz’n,’ ses I. ‘Well,’ ses she. ‘I—I lub you,’ ses I, ‘more nor myself, ’cause I t’ink so well ob you. Eberybody t’inks well ob you, Sooz’n. What—what—’ (I was gitten out o’ bref by dis time from ’citement, and not knowin’ what more to say, so I ses) ‘what—what you t’ink ob you’self Sooz’n?’

“‘Nuffin’,’ ses she! Now, wasn’t dat modest?”

“It certainly was, Quashy. Couldn’t have been more so,” said Pedro. “And after that we couldn’t, I think, do better than turn in.”

The fire had by that time burned low, and the gale was still raging around them, driving the snowdrift wildly against the hut, and sometimes giving the door so violent a shake as to startle poor Quashy out of sweet memories of Sooz’n into awful thoughts of the ghost that had not yet been laid.

Each man appropriated a vacant corner of the hut in which to spread his simple couch, the negro taking care to secure that furthest from the door.

Lawrence Armstrong thought much over his supposed discovery before falling asleep that night, and the more he thought the more he felt convinced that the Indian girl was indeed a princess, and owed her good looks, sweet disposition, graceful form and noble carriage to her descent from a race which had at one period been highly civilised when all around them were savage. It was a curious subject of contemplation. The colour of his waking thoughts naturally projected itself into the young man’s dreams. He was engaged in an interesting anthropological study. He found himself in the ancient capital of the Incas. He beheld a princess of great beauty surrounded by courtiers, but she was brown! He thought what an overwhelming pity it was that she was not white! Then he experienced a feeling of intense disappointment that he himself had not been born brown. By degrees his thoughts became more confused and less decided in colour—whitey-brown, in fact,—and presented a series of complicated regrets and perplexing impossibilities, in a vain effort to disentangle which he dropped asleep.

Chapter Seven.

Things begin to look Brighter—The Guide’s Story.

It was bright day when our travellers awoke, but only a dim light penetrated into their dungeon-like dormitory, for, besides being very small, the three windows, or loop-holes, had been so filled up with snow as to shut out much of the light that would naturally have entered.

That the gale still raged outside was evident enough to the sense of hearing, and sometimes the gusts were so sudden and strong that the little building trembled, stout though it was. Indeed, Lawrence at first thought they must be experiencing the shocks of an earthquake, a mistake not unnatural in one who, besides having had but little experience in regard to such catastrophes, knew well that he was at the time almost in the centre of a region celebrated for earthquakes.

It was with mingled feelings of interest, anxiety, and solemnity that he surveyed the scene outside through a hole in the door. It seemed as if an Arctic winter had suddenly descended on them. Snow completely covered hill and gorge as far as the vision could range but they could not see far, for at every fresh burst of the furious wind the restless wreaths were gathered up and whirled madly to the sky, or swept wildly down the valleys, or dashed with fury against black precipices and beetling cliffs, to which they would sometimes cling for a few seconds, then, falling away, would be caught up again by the tormenting gale, and driven along in some new direction with intensified violence.

“No prospect of quitting the hut to-day,” observed Lawrence, turning away from the bewildering scene.

“None,” said Pedro, stretching himself, and rising sleepily on one elbow, as men are wont to do when unwilling to get up.

“Nebber mind, massa; lots o’ grub!” cried Quashy, awaking at that moment, leaping up like an acrobat, and instantly setting about the kindling of the fire.

Having, as Quashy truly said, lots of grub, possessing a superabundance of animal vigour, and being gifted with untried as well as unknown depths of intellectual power, also with inexhaustible stores of youthful hope, our travellers had no difficulty in passing that day in considerable enjoyment, despite adverse circumstances; but when they awoke on the second morning and found the gale still howling, and the snow still madly whirling, all except Pedro began to express in word and countenance feelings of despondency. Manuela did not speak much, it is true, but she naturally looked somewhat anxious. Lawrence began to recall the fate of previous travellers in that very hut, and his countenance became unusually grave, whereupon Quashy—whose nature it was to conform to the lead of those whom he loved, and, in conforming, outrageously to overdo his part—looked in his young master’s face and assumed such an aspect of woeful depression that his visage became distinctly oval, though naturally round.

Observing this, Lawrence could not restrain a short laugh, whereupon, true as the compass to the Pole, the facile Quashy went right round; his chin came up, his cheeks went out, his eyes opened with hopeful sheen, and his thick lips expanded into a placid grin.

“There is no cause for alarm,” observed Pedro, who had risen to assist in preparing breakfast. “No doubt it is the worst storm I ever met with, or even heard of, at this season of the year, but it cannot last much longer; and whatever happens, it can’t run into winter just now.”

As if to justify the guide’s words, the hurricane began to diminish in violence, and the pauses between blasts were more frequent and prolonged. When breakfast was over, appearances became much more hopeful, and before noon the storm had ceased to rage.

Taking advantage of the change, without delay they loaded the pack-mules, saddled, mounted, and set forth.

To many travellers it would have been death to have ventured out on such a trackless waste, but Pedro knew the road and the landmarks so thoroughly that he advanced with his wonted confidence. At first the snow was very deep, and, despite their utmost care, they once or twice strayed from the road, and were not far from destruction. As they descended, however, the intense cold abated; and when they came out upon occasional table-lands, they found that the snow-fall there had been much less than in the higher regions, also that it had drifted off the road so much that travelling became more easy.

That night they came to a second hut-of-refuge, and next day had descended into a distinctly warmer region on the eastern slopes of the great range, over which they travelled from day to day with ever increasing comfort. Sometimes they put up at outlying mountain farms, and were always hospitably received; sometimes at small hamlets or villages, where they could exchange or purchase mules, and, not unfrequently, they encamped on the wild mountain slopes, with the green trees or an overhanging cliff, or the open sky to curtain them, and the voices of the puma and the jaguar for their lullaby.

Strange to say, in crossing the higher parts of the Andes not one of the party suffered from the rarity of the air. Many travellers experience sickness, giddiness, and extreme exhaustion from this cause in those regions. Some have even died of the effects experienced at the greater heights, yet neither Manuela, nor Lawrence, nor Quashy was affected in the slightest degree. We can assign no reason for their exemption—can only state the fact. As for the guide, he was in this matter—as, indeed, he seemed to be in everything—invulnerable.

One afternoon, as they rode along a mountain track enjoying the sunshine, which at that hour was not too warm, Lawrence pushed up alongside of the guide.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that we are wandering wonderfully far out of our way just now. We have been going due north for several days; at least so my pocket compass tells me, and if my geography is not greatly at fault, our backs instead of our faces are turned at present towards Buenos Ayres. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Senhor Pedro, but if it is not presuming too much I should like to know when we shall begin to move in the direction of our journey’s end.”

“There is neither presumption nor impropriety in your wish,” returned the guide. “I told you at starting that we should pursue a devious route, for reasons which are immaterial to you, but there is no reason why I should not explain that at present I am diverging for only a few miles from our track to visit a locality—a cottage—which is sacred to me. After that we will turn eastward until we reach the head-waters of streams that will conduct us towards our journey’s end.”

With this explanation he was obliged to rest content, for Pedro spoke like one who did not care to be questioned. Indeed there was an unusually absent air about him, seeing which Lawrence drew rein and fell back until he found himself alongside of Quashy.

Always ready—nay, eager—for sympathetic discourse, the negro received his young master with a bland, expansive, we might almost say effusive, smile.

“Well, massa, how’s you gittin’ along now?”

“Pretty well, Quashy. How do you?”

“Oh! fuss-rate, massa—only consid’rable obercome wid surprise.”

“What surprises you?”

“De way we’s agwine, to be sure. Look dar.” He pointed towards the towering mountain peaks and wild precipices that closed in the narrow glen or gorge up which they were slowly proceeding.

“In all our trabels we’s nebber come to a place like dat. It looks like de fag end ob creation. You couldn’t git ober de mountain-tops ’cept you had wings, an’ you couldn’t climb ober de pres’pisses ’cep you was a monkey or a skirl—though it am bery lubly, no doubt.”

The negro’s comments were strictly correct, though somewhat uncouthly expressed. The valley was apparently surrounded in all directions by inaccessible precipices, and the white peaks of the Andes towered into the skies at its head. Within rugged setting lay a fine stretch of undulating land, diversified by crag and hillock, lake and rivulet, with clustering shrubs and trees clinging to the cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur and loveliness in profound solitude which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, “Why did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?”

For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation appeared in the valley, though myriads of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground.

Perchance man over-estimates his own importance—at least underrates that of the animal kingdom below him—and is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness doomed to “blush unseen”? Is all the sweetness expended on the desert air “wasted?”

As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees.

Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing motionless, with clasped hands and drooping head.

Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed.

Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and said—

“My home. I bid you welcome.”

“Your home!” echoed Lawrence, in surprise.

“Ay, a happy home it once was—but—desolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?”

Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness.

There was a rustic bower on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word “Mariquita.”

Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadness—

“The body of my wife lies there. Her pure spirit, thank God, is with its Maker.”

Lawrence’s power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him.

“Sit beside me, senhor,” he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. “You have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in return—as far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit there since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?”

Of course Lawrence assented, with a look of deep interest.

“Well, then,” said Pedro, “it may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman.”

To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.

“I’m not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or otherwise,” returned Pedro; “however, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I won’t quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word ‘chance’ fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty. I must have been led or guided here.

“At all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic of youth—content to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs.

“At last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a man’s throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage with the butt of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her father’s blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita!

“Around her,” continued Pedro, in deepening tones, “lay her mother and two brothers—all slaughtered. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmaster’s wife attended to her.

“On seeing her next morning I felt that my life’s happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence, simplicity, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time.

“Often before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the world—and I cannot say that the doom gave me much concern. But now—well, if you understand me, senhor, I need not explain, and if you don’t understand, explanation is useless! Mariquita was left alone in the wide world. I would not, for all the gold and silver of Peru, have spoken of love to her at that time; but I made arrangements with the postmaster and his wife to take care of the poor girl till I should return. In time I did return. She accepted me. We were married, and I brought her up here, for I wanted no society but hers. I was content to live in absolute solitude with her. She was much of the same mind, dear girl, but God had touched her heart, and in her sweet talk—without intending it, or dreaming of it—she showed me how selfish I was in thinking only of our own happiness, and caring nothing for the woes or the joys of our fellow-men.

“My conscience reproached me, and I began to think how I could manage to live a less selfish life, but before I could make up my mind what course to follow an event occurred which caused delay. A little girl was sent to us. I called her Mariquita, of course, and thought no more of leaving our happy home in the mountains. For five years we remained here, and the little Mariquita grew to be an angel of light and beauty—like her mother in all respects, except that she was very fair, with curly golden hair.

“About that time war broke out—doubly accursed war! One night a band of deserters came and attacked my cottage. It had always been well prepared for anything of the sort with bolts, and bars and shutters, and even flanking loop-holes, as well as plenty of fire-arms and ammunition. But the party was too numerous. The villains forced the door in spite of me, and fired a volley before making a rush. From that moment I remembered nothing more until I recovered and found my head supported on the knee of an old man. I knew him at once to be a poor lonely old hunter who ranged about in the mountains here, and had paid us occasional visits. When he saw I was able to understand him, he told me that he had come suddenly on the villains and shot two of them, and that the others, perhaps thinking him the advance-guard of a larger party, had taken fright and made off. ‘But,’ he said, in a low, hesitating tone, ‘Mariquita is dead!’

“I sprang up as if I had been shot, but instantly fell again, for my leg had been broken. I had seen enough, however. My beloved one lay dead on the floor, not far from me, with a bullet through her brain. And now,” added Pedro, pointing in deep despondency to the little mound at their feet—“she lies there!”

“Not so, my friend,” said Lawrence, in a low but earnest tone, as he grasped the man’s hand, “it is only her dust that lies there, and even that is precious in the sight of her Lord.”

“Thank you, senhor, for reminding me,” returned Pedro; “but when the memory of that awful night is strong upon me, my faith almost fails.”

“No wonder,” rejoined Lawrence, “but what of the child?”

“Ah! that is what I asked the old hunter,” returned Pedro. “He started up, and searched high and low, but could not find her. Then he went out, calling her by name loudly, and searched the bushes. Then he returned with a wild look and said the robbers must have taken her away—he would pursue! I knew it would be useless, for the scoundrels were mounted and the old hunter was on foot; but I let him go, and was not surprised when, two hours later, he returned quite exhausted. ‘It is in vain,’ he said. ‘Yet if I could have come up with them, I would have died for her.’

“I was long ill after that. A good while, they say, I was out of my mind, but old Ignacio nursed me through. He also buried Mariquita where she now lies.”

The guide paused.

“And the child?” asked Lawrence, anxiously.

“I have sought her far and wide, year after year, over mountain and plain. She may be dead—she may be alive—but I have never seen her nor heard of her from that day to this.”

“Your story is a very, very sad one,” said Lawrence, his face expressing the genuine sympathy which he felt. “May I ask—are your wanderings mere haphazard? Have you no idea who they were that stole your little one, or where they went to?”

“None whatever. The broken leg, you know, prevented my commencing the search at once, and when I was able to go about I found that all trace of the band was gone. No wonder, for the country was at war at the time, and many marauding parties had traversed the land since then.”

“I—I shrink,” said Lawrence, with some hesitation, “from even the appearance of unkindness, but I cannot help expressing the fear that this vague, undirected wandering will be useless.”

“It would be so,” returned Pedro, “if God did not direct all human affairs. If it be His will, I shall yet find my child on earth. If not, I shall find her above—with her mother. In our intercourse, senhor, I have observed in you a respect for God’s Word. Is it not written, ‘Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass?’”

“Most true,” replied Lawrence, feeling the reproof, “yet God works by means. If we do not take the right means, we cannot expect to attain our end, however much we may trust.”

“Right, senhor, and I have taken the only means open to me. Since I cannot give direction to my search, I search everywhere. Fortunately my business permits of this, and also of doing a little service to my fellow-men as I go on my way. Periodically I return here to rest,”—(he pointed to the little mound,)—“and when my powers begin to wane, either through disease or age, it is my purpose, if God permit, to return and die beside Mariquita’s grave.”

Chapter Eight.

A New Acquaintance and a Change of Scene.

On their way back to the cottage they heard dogs barking, and a man talking to them. Next moment these came in sight.

“The old hunter!” exclaimed Pedro, hastening forward with evident pleasure to meet his friend.

It was equally evident that the old man was as much pleased to meet Pedro, for they grasped each other’s hands with hearty good-will.

“What news?” asked the old man, eagerly, as he held up a hand to check the dogs, which were leaping round him.

Pedro shook his head sadly, and the expression of the old man became grave. The question referred to Pedro’s search for his lost child. It had long been the first inquiry when these two met after a separation. The old man seemed never to lose hope, but he had become so accustomed to the reply that his despondency was now of short duration. He had known and loved the child in days gone by—had helped the mother in cultivating her garden-plot, and had gone out hunting with the father many a time. He was a fine-looking man, above seventy years of age, with iron-grey hair, turning in some places to pure white. The hunter’s spare though still upright figure showed that he must have been a powerful man in his youth, and the deeply-marked wrinkles about his mouth and eyes told eloquently that he was a kind one. Round his shoulders were twined the cords of the heavy “bolas,” or balls, with which he sometimes felled, at other times entangled, his prey. These balls were covered with clotted blood. He carried a short gun in his hand, and a large knife was stuck in his belt.

The dogs that leaped around him were a strange pack—some being very large, some very small, and all of different breeds. A few of them had been lamed, and all were more or less marked by the wounds received from jaguars and pumas.

“You expected me, Ignacio?” said Pedro, after the first greetings were over.

“No—not quite so soon, but I chanced to be wandering about in the mountains, and came down to take a look at the old place, to see that all was right. You know I am fond of our old haunts, and never stay long away from them, but I did not expect to find you here.”

The hunter spoke in Spanish, and Lawrence found to his satisfaction that, although he by no means understood all that was said, he had already improved so much in that tongue through his frequent efforts to converse with Manuela, that he could follow the drift at least of the hunter’s remarks.

“I have come back sooner than I intended,” returned Pedro, “for war is a wonderful hastener, as well as dictator, of events; but I have to thank war for having given me a new friend. Let me introduce Senhor Lawrence Armstrong to you; Senhor, my old comrade Ignacio, who, as I have told you, nursed me back to life many years ago.”

The old man held out a hard bony hand, and gave Lawrence a hearty squeeze of friendship that had something vice-like in its vigour. He then turned to Pedro, and began to make anxious inquiries about the war. As the two men spoke in undertones, Lawrence drew back a few paces, and followed them towards the cottage. He observed that Ignacio shook his head very often, and also that he laughed once or twice silently, but with apparent heartiness. As he overheard the name of Manuela just before one of these laughs, he experienced some disagreeable feelings, which it was not easy to understand or get rid of, so he took to fondling the hunter’s dogs by way of diversion to his mind.

The animals testified indirectly to the character of their master by receiving his advances with effusive demonstrations of joy.

At the cottage they found Ignacio’s horse—a very fine one—with a lasso hanging from the saddle. Beside it stood a loose horse with the carcass of a guanaco flung over it, and a Gaucho lad who was the hunter’s only attendant. Quashy was engaged in animated conversation with this youth, and Manuela stood beside him listening.

“I cannot understand,” said Lawrence to Pedro, as they approached, “how men ever acquire dexterity in the use of these bolas.”

“Practice makes perfect, you know,” said the guide, “and it doesn’t matter much what sort of weapons you use, if you only learn to use them well. Of course it’s not easy to a beginner. When Ignacio’s dogs turn out a jaguar or a puma, they follow him hotly till he stops to defend himself. If the dogs fly upon the brute, the hunter usually jumps off his horse, whirls the three balls about till they get up tremendous momentum, and then brings them down on the jaguar’s skull with a whack that generally drops him. But if the dogs are afraid to go at him, Ignacio throws the lasso over him, gallops away, and drags him over the ground, while the dogs rush in and tear him. What between bumping and hounds, the jaguar’s career is soon finished.”

“I’m glad I’ve met you,” said Pedro to Ignacio, as they turned aside into the bushes together, “for I’ve got news to tell, and I’ll want your help. There’s mischief brewing in the air, and I am commissioned—”

Thus much did Lawrence and Quashy overhear before the voice died away in the distance. It was a tantalising point to stop at! Lawrence looked at Quashy and at Manuela, who stood near.

“Does Manuela know anything of the mischief that is brewing?” asked Lawrence in amazing Spanish.

“Not’ing,” replied the girl in English, “but she trust Pedro.”

“So do I, with all my heart,” returned Lawrence; “my question was prompted by curiosity, not by doubt.”

“I’s not so sure,” said Quashy, with a frown, and a tone of self-assertion which was rare in him. “Nice-lookin’ men like him’s not allers as nice as dey looks.”

“Fie, Quashy! I thought you were of a more trustful spirit.”

“So I is, massa—awrful trus’ful! Kin trus’ you wid a’most anyt’ing. Trus’ dis yer Injin gal wid untol’ gol’. Trus’ Sooz’n wid de whole world, an’ eberyt’ing else besides, but I’s not quite so sure about dis yer Pedro. Di’n’t he say dar’s noos to tell, an’ he wants help, an’ der’s mischif a-brewin’? An’ ain’t I sure ’nuff dat he’s got suffin to do wid de mischif, or he wouldn’t be so secret?”

“Well, Quashy, you’d better not tell Pedro your doubts of him,” said Lawrence; “for if he knocks you down, I won’t feel bound to stand up for you—seeing that I have perfect confidence in him.”

Further conversation on this point was cut abruptly short by a tremendous hissing inside the cottage, followed by clouds of steam. It was caused by one of Quashy’s pots having boiled over. The negro sprang to the rescue. Soon afterwards, the host and the old hunter returning, they all entered the place together, and sat down to supper.

It was but a simple cottage, suitable to the simple tastes of a mountaineer in such a region, with only two rooms and a kitchen, besides a small attic divided into two chambers, which could be reached only by a ladder through a trap-door. Little furniture graced it, yet what little there was bore evidence of having felt the touch of a tasteful female hand. Numerous nails and pegs were stuck in the walls for the purpose of supporting fire-arms, etcetera, but the weapons had been secreted in a place of safety, for, during the owner’s frequent and long absences from home, the cottage was locked up and left pretty much to take care of itself, being deemed safe enough, owing to its remote and lonely position.

The key was always left in charge of old Ignacio who was understood to have his eye on the place, and privileged to inhabit it whenever he chose.

All this, and a great deal more, Pedro told to Lawrence as they sat round the table at supper in what used to be the parlour of the establishment. “But I’m going to lock it up, and hide the key this time,” he continued; “because I have to send Ignacio on urgent matters into the eastern parts of Bolivia, to—”

“To git help, an’ tell de noos about de mischif what’s a-brewin’,” said the negro abruptly, with a pointed stare at the guide, and an arrested potato on the end of his fork.

“You’ve learnt your lesson well, Quashy,” returned Pedro, with a good-humoured smile, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of meat; “these are the very words—to obtain help and spread the news about the mischief that’s brewing. Pass the salt, like a good fellow, and help Manuela to some more maize. You’re forgetting your manners, boy.”

The negro heaved a sigh of discomfiture, and did as he was bid.

Next morning at daybreak they left the cottage, and descended the intricate valley which led to it. Pedro seemed to have quite subdued his feelings—at least all outward manifestation of them—for he was sterner and more silent than usual as they resumed their journey. For some distance their route and that of Ignacio lay in the same direction, but towards the afternoon of the same day on which they left Mariquita Cottage the old hunter bade the party adieu, and, accompanied by his Gaucho lad and his dogs, entered a north-easterly defile of the hills, and disappeared.

“We shall soon get to more cultivated lands, Manuela,” said Pedro, in the Indian tongue, glancing back at Lawrence, who rode a few paces behind. “I doubt not you will be glad to see female faces again.”

To the surprise of the guide, Manuela said that she did not care!

“Indeed!” he rejoined; “I thought you would be getting tired by this time of such rough travelling, and frequent hard lodging and fare, as well as of the conversation of us men.”

“No, I am not tired. I delight in this wild, free life.”

“Surely not because it is new to you,” said Pedro, with a glance of amusement; “when you dwell with your kindred, your life must be wild enough—unless indeed the great chief, your father, deems it beneath the dignity of his daughter to join in the sports of her fellows.”

Manuela made no reply, but for a moment or two gave vent to that clear, short, merry laugh in which she sometimes indulged. Lawrence Armstrong, irresistibly charmed by the sound, rode up alongside.

“Manuela is merry,” he said to the guide; “will you not translate, that I may enjoy the joke?”

“It is not easy to translate,” replied Pedro. “In fact, I doubt if you will see the joke at all. It requires a little knowledge of Manuela’s past career to make understanding possible. She only said that she delighted in this wild, free life.”

“Not much jest in that, truly,” returned Lawrence, “being, I fear, dull of comprehension; nevertheless, I see an unintentional compliment to us in the remark, for it implies that we have not made Manuela’s journey tedious to her.”

“It may be so,” said Pedro, simply. “I was just telling her that we shall soon get to more inhabited parts of the land, where she will have a little female society now and then, and I was about to add that afterwards we shall descend into the lower grounds of Bolivia, where she will have wild life enough to her heart’s content—perchance too much of it.”

Soon afterwards the guide’s prophecy came true, for they passed from the rugged mountains into a wide and richly clothed table-land, where there were a few scattered farms, at which they were made heartily welcome whenever they chose to stop for the night or for a meal.

Passing thence into another range of comparatively low hills, they reached the town of San Ambrosio, where they found comfortable quarters in a new and commodious inn—at least it seemed commodious, after the recent experiences of our travellers.

Here Pedro said he would have to spend a day or two, as he had business to transact in the town, and that he would search out an old acquaintance with whose family he would place Manuela till their departure.

While Pedro was gone in quest of his friend, the Indian girl, probably feeling shy in the midst of such unwonted crowds, retired to the room provided for her, and Lawrence and Quashy found themselves left in the unusual condition of having nothing to do. Of course, in these circumstances, they resolved to go out and see the town.

While Lawrence was questioning the landlord, an American, as to how he should proceed, a very decided tremor passed through his frame. Quashy seemed to experience a similar sensation, for he said abruptly—

“Eart’quak’!”

“That’s nothing new here, sir,” said the landlord to Lawrence, as he lighted a cigarette; “we’re used to it, though some of the natives ain’t quite easy in their minds, for the shocks have been both frequent as well as violent lately.”

“Have they done any damage?” asked Lawrence.

“Nothin’ to speak of. Only shook down a house or two that was built to sell, I suppose, not to stand. You’ll find the market-place second turn to your left.”

Somewhat impressed by the landlord’s free-and-easy manner, as well as by his apparent contempt for earthquakes, the master and man went out together. With characteristic modesty the negro attempted to walk behind, but Lawrence would by no means permit this. He insisted on his walking beside him.

“Bery good, massa,” said Quashy, at last giving in, “if you will walk ’longside ob a nigger, ’s’not my fault. Don’t blame me.”

With this protest, solemnly uttered, the faithful negro accompanied our hero in his inspection of the town.

Chapter Nine.

Tells of a Tremendous Catastrophe.

San Ambrosio was, at the period of which we write, a small and thriving place—though what may be styled a mushroom town, which owed its prosperity to recently discovered silver-mines. All things considered, it was a town of unusual magnificence on a small scale.

Being built with straight streets, cutting each other at right angles, Lawrence and his man had no difficulty in finding the principal square, or market-place, which was crowded with people selling and buying vegetables, milk, eggs, fruit, etcetera, brought in from the surrounding districts. The people presented all the picturesque characteristics of the land in profusion—peons, with huge Spanish spurs, mounted on gaily caparisoned mules; Gauchos, on active horses of the Pampas; market-women, in varied costumes more or less becoming, and dark-eyed senhoras on balconies and verandas sporting the graceful mantilla and the indispensable fan.

The carts and donkeys, and dogs and fowls, and boys had the curious effect of reducing the babel of voices and discordant sounds to something like a grand harmony.

Besides these, there was a sprinkling of men of free-and-easy swagger, in long boots, with more or less of villainy in their faces—adventurers these, attracted by the hope of “something turning up” to their advantage, though afflicted, most of them, with an intense objection to take the trouble of turning up anything for themselves. Dangerous fellows, too, who would not scruple to appropriate the turnings up of other people when safe opportunity offered.

A clear fountain played in the centre of the square—its cool, refreshing splash sounding very sweet in the ears of Lawrence, whose recent sojourn in the cold regions of the higher Andes had rendered him sensitive to the oppressive heat of the town. Besides this, a clear rivulet ran along one side of the square, near to which was the governor’s house. A line of trees threw a grateful shade over the footpath here. On the opposite side stood the barracks, where a few ill-clad unsoldierly men lounged about with muskets in their hands. All the houses and church walls and spires, not only in the square, but in the town, bore evidence, in the form of cracked walls and twisted windows and doorways, of the prevalence of earthquakes; and there was a general appearance of dilapidation and dirt around, which was anything but agreeable to men who had just come from the free, grand, sweet-scented scenery of the mountains.

“They seem to have had some severe shakings here,” said Lawrence, pointing with his stick to a crack in the side of one of the houses which extended from the roof to the ground.

We may remark here that, on entering the town, our travellers had laid aside their arms as being useless encumbrances, though Lawrence still carried his oaken cudgel, not as a weapon but a walking-stick.

“Yes, massa,” replied Quashy, “got lots ob eart’ quaks in dem diggins. Ebery day, more or less, dey hab a few. Jest afore you come down dis mornin’ I hab some conv’sashin’ wid de landlord, an’ he say he don’ like de look ob t’ings.”

“Indeed, Quashy. Why not?”

“’Cause it’s gittin’ too hot, he say, for de time ob year—sulfry, he called it.”

“Sultry, you mean?”

“Well, I’s not ’zactly sure what I means, but he said sulfry. An’ dey’ve bin shook more dan ornar ob late. An’ dere’s a scienskrific gen’leman in our inn what’s bin a-profisyin’ as there’ll be a grand bust-up afore long.”

“I hope he’ll turn out to be a false prophet,” said Lawrence. “What is his name?”

“Dun’ know, massa. Look dar!” exclaimed Quashy, with a grin, pointing to a fat priest with a broad-brimmed white hat on a sleek mule, “he do look comf’rable.”

“More comfortable than the poor beast behind him,” returned Lawrence, with a laugh, as he observed three little children cantering along on one horse.

There was no lack of entertainment and variety in that town, for people generally seemed to a great extent to have cast off the trammels of social etiquette, both in habits and costume. Many of the horses that passed were made to carry double. Here would ride past a man with a woman behind him; there a couple of girls, or two elderly females. Elsewhere appeared a priest of tremendous length and thinness, with feet much too near the ground, and further on a boy, so small as to resemble a monkey, with behind him a woman so old as to suggest the idea he had taken his great-grandmother out for a ride, or—vice versa!

For some hours master and man wandered about enjoying themselves thoroughly in spite of the heat, commenting freely on all they saw and heard, until hunger reminded them of the flight of time. Returning to their hotel, Lawrence, to his surprise, found a note awaiting him. It was from Pedro, saying that he had found his friend in a village about three miles from San Ambrosio, describing the route to the place, and asking him to send Quashy out immediately, as he wanted his assistance that night for a few hours.

“I wonder what he wants with you?” said Lawrence.

“To help him wid de mischif!” replied the negro, in a half-sulky tone.

“Well, you’ll have to go, but you’d better eat something first.”

“No, massa; wid you’s leave I’ll go off at once. A hunk ob bread in de pocket an’ lots o’ fruit by de way—das ’nuff for dis nigger.”

“Off with you, then, and tell Pedro that you left Manuela and me quite comfortable.”

“O Massa Lawrie!—’scuse me usin’ de ole name—it am so nice to hear you speak jolly like dat. ’Minds me ob de ole times!”

“Get along with you,” said Lawrence, with a laugh, as the warm-hearted black left the hotel.

Thus these two parted. Little did they imagine what singular experiences they should encounter before meeting again.

Soon after Quashy’s departure Lawrence went to the door of Manuela’s room, and, tapping gently, said—

“Dinner is ready, Manuela.”

“I kom queek,” replied the girl, with a hearty laugh.

It had by that time become an established little touch of pleasantry between these two that Lawrence should teach the Indian girl English—at least to the extent of familiar phrases—while she should do the same for him with Spanish. There was one thing that the youth liked much in this, and it also surprised him a little, namely, that it seemed to draw the girl out of her Indian reticence and gravity, for she laughed with childlike delight at the amazing blunders she made in attempting English. Indeed, she laughed far more at herself than at him, although his attempts at Spanish were even more ridiculous.

A few minutes later Manuela entered the room, and, with a modest yet gracious smile, took a seat opposite her pupil-teacher.

“Dignity,” thought the latter—“native dignity and grace! Being the daughter of a great chief of the Incas—a princess, I suppose—she cannot help it. An ordinary Indian female, now, would have come into the room clumsily, looked sheepish, and sat down on the edge of her chair—perhaps on the floor!”

But as he gazed at her short, black, curly hair, her splendid black eyebrows, her pretty little high-bred mouth, beautiful white teeth, and horribly brown skin, he sighed, and only said—

“Ay, ay! Well, well! What a pity!”

“What ees dat?” inquired the girl, with a look of grave simplicity.

“Did I speak?” returned Lawrence, a little confused.

“Yes—you say, ‘Ay, ay. Well, well. What a pittie!’”

“Oh!—ah!—yes—I was only thinking, Manuela. What will you have?”

“Som muttin,” replied the girl, with a pursing of the little mouth that indicated a tendency to laugh.

“It is not mutton. It’s beef, I think.”

“Well, bee-eef very naice—an’ som’ gravvie too, plee-ese.”

She went off at this point into a rippling laugh, which, being infectious in its nature, also set her companion off, but the entrance of the landlord checked them both. He sat down at a small table near to them, and, being joined by a friend, called for a bottle of wine.

“Hotter than ever,” he remarked to Lawrence.

“Yes, very sultry indeed.”

“Shouldn’t wonder if we was to have a sharpish touch or two to-night.”

To which his friend, who was also an American if not an Englishman, and appeared to be sceptical in his nature, replied, “Gammon!”

This led to a conversation between the two which is not worthy of record, as it was chiefly speculative in regard to earthquakes in general, and tailed off into guesses as to social convulsions present, past or pending. One remark they made, however, which attracted the attention of our hero, and made him wish to hear more. It had reference to some desperate character whose name he failed to catch, but who was said to be in the neighbourhood again, “trying to raise men to join his band of robbers,” the landlord supposed, to which the landlord’s friend replied with emphasis that he had come to the right place, for, as far as his experience went, San Ambrosio was swarming with men that seemed fit for anything—from “pitch-and-toss to manslaughter.”

Not wishing, apparently, to hear anything more about such disagreeable characters and subjects, Manuela rose at the conclusion of the meal and retired to her apartment, while Lawrence continued to sip his coffee in a balcony which overlooked the vineyard behind the hotel.

It was evening, and, although unusually warm, the weather was very enjoyable, for a profound calm reigned around, and the hum of the multitudes in the distant square seemed hushed as the church bells rang the hour for evening prayers. As the twilight deepened, and the stars came faintly into sight in the dark-blue vault above, the thoughts of Lawrence became strangely saddened, and, gradually quitting the scene of peaceful beauty on which he gazed, sped over the Cordillera of the Andes to that home of his boyhood which now lay in ashes. The frame of mind thus induced naturally led him to dwell on past scenes in which his mother had taken a part, and he was still meditating, more than half asleep, on the joys which were never to return, when he was roused into sudden and thorough consciousness by something—he could not tell what—a sort of sensation—which caused him to leap from his chair.

At the same moment there arose from the streets a cry, or wail. Suddenly a rumbling noise was heard. Lawrence bounded towards the nearest door. Full well he knew what it meant. Before he could escape there was a tremendous upheaval of the solid earth, and in one instant, without further warning, the entire town fell with one mighty crash! Lawrence just saw the walls and roof collapsing—then all was dark, and consciousness forsook him.

Chapter Ten.

Recounts some Terrible and some Vigorous Deeds.

How long our hero lay in this state he could not tell, but on recovering his faculties he became conscious of the fact that he was in total darkness, lying on his back, with a tremendous weight pressing on his chest. For a few moments he remained still, quite unable to recollect what had occurred, or where he was.

Suddenly memory resumed its office—the earthquake! the fall of the hotel!—and, with a gush of horror, he realised the terrible truth that he was buried alive.

The reader must have been in the position we describe to understand fully the feelings of the poor youth at that moment. His first impulse was to make a violent effort to shake off the intolerable weight that almost suffocated him; but his efforts, strong though he was, proved in vain. It felt as if a mountain held him down. Then the thought of Manuela rushed in upon him, and he uttered a loud cry. The sound of his voice in the confined space was terrible. It seemed to rush in upon his brain with awful din. In his agony, a feeling of frantic despair came over him, and, with the strength of a giant, he struggled to be free, but still without success. Exhausted as much by his horror as by his efforts, he lay for some minutes quite still, his brain keenly alive and thirsting, as it were, for some sound that might convey hope. No sound was to be heard, save the intense beating of his own pulsations which seemed to throb into his ears, and down into his very extremities.

As he lay listening, it came strangely into his thoughts, with something like a feeling of regret, that it would be very hard for him to die! So much strong life as he possessed must, he thought, take long to destroy! But again, the memory of poor Manuela, perhaps in a similar condition, and certainly not far from him, banished the thoughts of self, and he listened once more intently.

All was still as the grave. The effort at self-control, however, calmed him a little, and, in a gentler mood, he tried to move his arms. The left arm was fixed as in a vice, and gave him so much pain, that he feared it had been broken. The right arm was also fast, but he felt that he could move his hand.

It was a feeble straw for the buried man to clutch at, yet it was strong enough to buoy up Hope in a stout heart. His courage returned, and with calm, resolute patience he set to work, uttering the fervent prayer, “Help me, O God!”

Where there was space for a hand to move freely, he knew there must be space to remove rubbish, though it might be ever so little. In a few minutes some handful of earth were thrust aside. Then, by drawing his arm upwards and pushing it downwards, he loosened the rubbish around it, and by slow degrees set it partially free. If he had been entombed in solid earth, this, he was well aware, could not have been possible; but, rightly judging that in a mass of mingled bricks, mortar, and beams there must be spaces more or less open, he worked away, with patience and in hope. The result was that he was able at last to touch with his right hand the object which lay so crushingly on his chest. It was an enormous beam. The utter impossibility of even moving it filled him for a moment with despair, but again he cried to God for help. The cry was answered, truly and effectively, yet without a miracle, for the very act of trust in the Almighty calmed his mind and set it free to consider intelligently.

He could not hope to lift the beam. It was far too heavy. Being so heavy, he knew it would have killed him outright if it had not been checked in its descent, and partially supported somehow. Might he not, then, scrape away the rubbish on which he lay until he should, as it were, sink away from the beam? He tried at once, and managed to get his right hand slightly under him. He could reach his haunch. It was a terribly slow process, but by degrees the busy hand reached the waist, drawing the rubbish out by small portions at a time. It seemed to him as if hours were spent in these painful efforts. Still no appreciable difference was made in his position, and he had by that time pushed his hand as far up under his back towards his neck as it was possible to turn it. Finding that he could scrape away no more in that direction, he now sought to deepen the hollows already made. In doing so he got hold of a brick, which he wrenched out with a desperate effort. The result was instantaneous relief, for he seemed to subside, not much, indeed, but sufficiently to permit of his breathing freely.

With a fervent exclamation of thankfulness he turned slightly round, and drew his left arm out from the rubbish. He felt it anxiously. It was bruised a good deal, but not broken.

Although so greatly relieved that he felt for a few moments almost as if he had been delivered from death, the poor youth was still in a terrible case. The space in which he was confined did not admit of his sitting up, much less standing. What seemed to be a solid mass of the fallen wall was above him, prevented from crushing him by the beam before mentioned, while around him were masses of brick and mortar densely packed.

Again exerting his lungs, the youth shouted with all his might, and then paused to listen; but there was no reply. Then he shouted the name of Manuela, in the hope that she might hear, and answer, if still alive. But no answering voice replied.

Believing now that nothing could save him but a fixed purpose and a prolonged desperate effort on an intelligent plan, he prayed again for help, and then proceeded to enlarge his tomb by scraping the rubbish back under the beam, from beneath which he had drawn himself, and packing it tightly down. This enlarged the space, enabling him to get upon his knees. To work upward through the fallen wall would, he knew, be an impossibility. He therefore worked horizontally for some time, throwing the rubbish between his legs behind him, as, we presume, the moles are accustomed to do. Then he passed his hand along over his head, and found that the solid wall was no longer above him,—only disjointed bricks and beams.

With renewed hope and redoubled effort he now worked his way upwards, although well-nigh suffocated by dust, as well as by smoke arising from fires which had broken out in many places all over the ruined town. Suddenly, while thus engaged, he heard voices faintly. He shouted with all his might, and listened. Yes, he was not mistaken; he heard voices distinctly, and they appeared to be speaking in Spanish. With something like a bounding of the heart he repeated his shout, and renewed his labours.

If he had known the character of the persons who had thus encouraged him, his hopes would not have been so strong.

We have said that the entire town had been levelled by one tremendous convulsion, and that in many places fires had broken out among the ruins. These fires sent up dense volumes of smoke, which naturally attracted people from all quarters of the surrounding country. Among them came bands of desperate and lawless characters, who fastened on the ruins as vultures seize on carrion. They resembled the unclean birds in more respects than one, for they went about as long as there was anything of value to be seized, long after other people had been forced to quit the place owing to the horrible stench of the hundreds of corpses decaying, and in many cases burning, among the ruins. (See note 1.)

It was the voices of some of these lawless ruffians that Lawrence had heard. He soon became aware of their character by the terrible oaths which they used, and the fiendish laughter in which they indulged whenever he called for help. Knowing that he had nothing to hope from such miscreants, he ceased to call out, but toiled none the less vigorously to effect his deliverance. At last he managed to scrape through to the upper world; and a feeling of inexpressible relief filled his breast as a bright ray of sunshine shot into his prison.

That it was daylight did not surprise him, for the many hours which he had spent under ground seemed to him like weeks. But he soon found that he was not yet free. The hole which he had scraped was much too small to admit of the passage of even a little boy. In trying to enlarge it, he found, to his dismay, that on one side of it was an enormous beam, on the other a mass of solid masonry, which could not be moved without aid. Looking out, he saw nothing but confused heaps of smoking ruins, save in one direction, where, in the far distance, (for the hotel had stood on a mound), he could see a group of men engaged as if searching for something.

To these he shouted again, but did not attract their attention. Either they did not hear him, or did not care. Turning then to the beam, he tried with all his might to raise it, but failed, though it moved slightly. Encouraged by hope, and afterwards influenced by despair, he tried again and again, until his strength broke down.

At this juncture he heard footsteps, and saw a man passing near.

“Senhor! senhor!” he cried, in the best Spanish he could muster, “aid me to get out, for the love of God!”

A coarse insult was the only reply as the man passed on. A group of other men who passed soon after behaved as badly, for they only laughed at his entreaties.

It is difficult to say whether rage or indignation was more powerful in Lawrence’s heart, but both passions were equally unavailing in the circumstances. He felt this, and soon calmed down; so that when, half an hour later, another man passed that way, he addressed him in tones of respect and earnest entreaty.

The bandit, for such he was, seemed to be utterly unaffected; for although he must certainly have heard the appeal, he, like the others, passed on without taking the slightest notice.

“Senhor! senhor!” cried Lawrence, “I have a gold watch and chain, to which you—”

The man stopped, for the bait took at once. Turning, and walking towards the place from which the sound came, he soon found the hole through which our hero looked.

“Hand out the watch, senhor,” he said.

“No, no,” answered Lawrence; “aid me first to lift the beam.”

Whether the man understood the bad Spanish or not we cannot say, but instead of helping to lift the beam, he drew a pistol from his belt, and said—

“Hand out the watch, or I shoot!”

“Shoot away, then,” cried Lawrence, savagely, as he drew quickly back into his hole.

The report of the pistol followed the words, and the ball caused a cloud of dust and rubbish to mingle with the smoke.

A wild laugh of defiance from within told that our Englishman was not hurt.

“Ha—ha! Shoot again,” he cried, fiercely.

“No, senhor, no. You are brave. I will help you,” replied the miscreant.

Lawrence doubted the honesty of the man’s assurance, but of course thanked him, and expressed readiness to avail himself of his assistance. He kept carefully at the extreme end of the hole, however, while his murderous deliverer removed some of the rubbish from the beam, and so made it possible to raise it. Remaining quite still, Lawrence waited till he saw that the beam had been so far moved as to enlarge the space sufficiently for him to get through. Then, with a sudden spring à la Jack-in-the-box, he leaped out, and stood before the astonished bandit.

Lawrence, whose sense of honour taught him to hold his promise as sacred to a thief as to an honest man, had fully intended to give up his watch and chain to the man if he should remain peaceably disposed; but the bandit was not so disposed. Recovering from his surprise, he drew a second pistol from his belt and levelled it at Lawrence.

Thought is quick; quicker even than triggers. His length of limb happily flashed into the youth’s mind. Up went his foot with a sudden kick, and away went the pistol into the air, where it exploded after the manner of a sky-rocket! The bandit did not wait for more. He turned and fled, much to the satisfaction of the victor, who, overcome by prolonged exhaustive toil and excitement, sank down on a heap of rubbish, and lay there in a semi-conscious state. It seemed as if both mind and body had resolved to find rest at all hazards, for he lay perfectly motionless for nearly an hour,—not exactly asleep, but without being fully conscious of connected thought.

From this state of repose, if it may be so called, he was partially aroused by the voices of men near him, talking in coarse, violent language. Raising his head languidly, he observed a band of about eight or ten villainous-looking fellows busy round a hole, out of which they appeared to be drawing some sort of booty.

“A prize!” exclaimed one of the men; “be gentle; she’s worth taking alive.”

A loud laugh from the others roused Lawrence again, but a feeling of unwonted exhaustion oppressed him, so that he scarce knew what it was he heard.

Suddenly there arose a female voice, in a cry of pain. Lawrence started up on one elbow, and beheld Manuela struggling in the grasp of one of the band.

If electric fire had taken the place of blood in his veins, he could not have bounded up more quickly. The shock seemed to renew and double his wonted strength. Like the English bull-dog, with terrible purpose, but in absolute silence, he rushed over the rubbish towards the man who held the struggling girl. The man seemed to be a leader, being the only one of the band who carried a cavalry sabre. The others were armed, some with short swords, some with carbines and pistols.

Swift though Lawrence was, the chief saw him coming. He let go the girl, and made a wild cut at him with the sabre.

Lawrence received the cut on his left arm. At the same moment he struck the villain such a blow with his clenched fist, that it seemed to crush in his skull, and sent him headlong into the hole out of which they had just dragged the Indian girl. Fortunately he dropped his sabre as he fell. With a shout of defiance our hero caught it up, just in time to arrest the descent of a carbine butt on his head. Next moment the man who aimed the blow was cleft to the chin, and a united rush of the robbers was for the moment arrested.

Manuela, helpless and horror-struck, had stood motionless on the spot where the chief had released her. Lawrence caught her in his left arm, swung her into an angle of the broken wall, placed himself in front, and faced his foes.

The villains, though taken by surprise, were no cravens. Apparently they had already discharged their fire-arms, for only one fired at our hero with a pistol, and missed his aim. Flinging the weapon at his adversary with a yell of disappointment, he missed his aim a second time. At the same moment another of the band—one of the tallest and most ferocious-looking—sprang upon the youth with terrible fury. He knew well, apparently, how to use his weapon; and Lawrence felt that his experience at school now stood him in good stead. As the weapons of these giants flew around with rapid whirl and clash, the others stood aside to see the end. Doubtless they would have taken unfair advantage of their foe if they could, but Lawrence, turning his back to the wall, where Manuela crouched, prevented that. At last one dastardly wretch, seeing that his comrade was getting the worst of it, bethought him of his carbine, and began hurriedly to load. Our hero noted the act, and understood its fatal significance. With a bound like that of a tiger he sprang at the man, and cut him down with a back-handed blow, turning, even in the act, just in time to guard a sweeping cut dealt at his head. With a straight point he thrust his sword through teeth, gullet, and skull of his tall adversary, until it stood six inches out behind his head. Then, without a moment’s pause, he leaped upon the nearest of the other bandits.

Awe-stricken, they all gave back, and it seemed as if the youth would yet win the day single-handed against them all, when a shout was heard, and half a dozen men of the same stamp, if not the same band, came running to the rescue.

Lawrence drew hastily back to his protecting wall.

“Pray, Manuela, pray,” he gasped; “we are in God’s hands.”

At that moment two shots were heard away on their right, and two of the advancing bandits fell. An instant later, and Quashy bounded upon the scene with a high trumpet-shriek like a wild elephant. Pedro followed, brandishing the rifle which he had just discharged with such fatal effect. Lawrence joined them with a genuine British cheer, but their adversaries did not await the onset. They turned, fled, and speedily scattered themselves among the ruins.

“T’ank God, massa, we’s in time,” said Quashy, wiping with his sleeve the perspiration that streamed from his face, as they returned quickly to Manuela.

“We must not wait a moment here,” said Pedro, hurriedly. “There may be more of the villains about. But you are wounded, Senhor Armstrong.”

“Not badly,” said Lawrence. “It might have been worse, but the fellow was in such a hurry that the edge of his sabre turned, and I got only a blow with the side of it. If I had only had my good cudgel—by the way, it must be in the hole. It was in my hand when— Stay, I’ll return in a few seconds.”

He ran back to his late tomb, and quickly returned in triumph with his favourite weapon.

“Come, we must get away from this at once,” said Pedro, turning to Manuela. “No time for explanations. Are you hurt?”

“No; thank God. Let us go,” replied the girl, who was pale and haggard, as she staggered towards them.

“Take my arm,” said Lawrence, presenting his wounded limb.

The girl pointed with trembling hand to the blood.

“It is nothing—a mere scratch,” said Lawrence.

In his anxiety he forgot to speak in Spanish. Manuela appeared as if about to sink with fear. He caught her, lifted her in his arms as if she had been a little child, and, following Pedro’s lead, left the place which had been the scene of so many terrible events.

In the outskirts of the town there was a large low building of mud or sun-dried bricks, which had not been overthrown by the earthquake. To this Pedro conducted his companions. They found room in the place, though it was nearly full of survivors in all conditions of injury,—from those who had got mere scratches and bruises, to those who had been so crushed and mangled that life was gradually ebbing away. There seemed to be about fifty people in the room, and every minute more were being brought in.

Here Lawrence set down his burden, who had by that time quite recovered, and turned quickly to the guide.

“Come, Pedro,” he said, “I can be of use here; but we must have my own wound dressed first. You can do it, I doubt not.”

Pedro professed to be not only able but willing. Before he did it, however, he whispered in a low tone, yet with much emphasis, to Manuela—

“Don’t forget yourself! Remember!”

As he whispered pretty loud, and in Spanish, Lawrence overheard and understood him, and puzzled himself, not only that day, but for many days and nights after, as to how it was possible that Manuela could forget herself, and what it was she had to remember. But the more and the longer he puzzled over it, the less did he clear up his mind on the subject.

When it became known that Lawrence was a doctor, there was a visible increase of hope in the expression and bearing of the poor wounded people. And the youth soon justified their trustful feelings, for, with Pedro and Quashy as assistant-surgeons, and Manuela as head-nurse, he went about setting broken bones, bandaging limbs, sewing up wounds, and otherwise relieving the sufferers around him.

While this was going on the poor people were recounting many marvellous tales of terrible risks run, escapes made, and dangers evaded. During all this time, too, frequent shocks of earthquake were felt, of greater or less violence, and these afterwards continued daily for a month, so that the few buildings which had partially survived the first awful shock were finally levelled like the rest.

When Lawrence with his assistants had gone the rounds of the extemporised hospital, he was so completely worn out that he could scarcely keep his eyes open. Swallowing a cup of hot coffee hastily, he flung himself on a heap of straw beside one of his patients, and almost instantly fell into a profound lethargic slumber.

There was an unoccupied arm-chair in the room. Placing this beside the youth’s couch, the Indian girl sat down with a fan, purposing, in her gratitude, to protect her preserver from the mosquitoes, which were having an unusual bout of revelry over the sufferers that night.

Quashy, observing this as he lay down in a corner, shook his head sadly, and whispered to himself:

“Ah! you brown gal, you’s in lub wid massa. But it’s useless. De ole story ob unrekited affection; for you know, pretty though you is, massa kin nebber marry a squaw!”

Thus thinking, Quashy went sweetly to sleep.

So did most of the others in that crowded place. But Manuela stuck to her colours nobly. She kept awake until her pretty black eyes became lustreless, until her pretty brown face became expressionless, until the effort to continue awake became hopeless. Then her little head fell back on the cushion of the chair, the little mouth opened, and the large eyes closed. The little hand which held the fan dropped by her side. The fan itself dropped on the floor, and, like the others, poor Manuela at length found rest and solace in slumber.

Chapter Eleven.

Outwitted by a Bandit.

Early next morning Pedro went round and quietly roused his friends.

“We must start at once,” he said in a low voice to Lawrence, when the wearied youth was sufficiently awake to understand. “Your wounded arm is better, I hope?”

“It is only stiff and painful; happily, no bones are injured. But why such haste? I don’t like to leave my poor patients in this fashion.”

“Will any of them die if you don’t stay to nurse them?” asked the guide, with a grave, almost stern, expression.

“Why, no; not exactly,” returned Lawrence; “but many of them will want their wounds dressed, and all of them will be the better for a little more skilled attendance.”

“Will they not survive under ordinary attendance?” asked Pedro, with increasing severity of expression.

“Doubtless they will, but—”

“Would you like,” interrupted the inflexible guide, “to have them all roused up at this early hour to hear a little farewell speech from you, explaining the absolute necessity for your going away, and your extreme regret at leaving them?”

“Not if there is such necessity,” returned Lawrence, yawning, and raising himself on one elbow.

“There is such necessity, senhor. I have been down to the village where my friend lives, and have got fresh horses. Manuela and Quashy are already mounted. I let you sleep to the last moment, seeing you were so tired. Don’t forget your pistols; you may need them.”

Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room. The young doctor hesitated no longer. Regret at quitting the poor people around him was overborne by the fear of being left behind, for he had by that time begun to entertain a vague suspicion that the stern and peculiar man by whom he was led would not permit any object whatever to stand in the way of what he believed to be his duty.

In a few seconds he issued from the hut, armed with his pair of double-barrelled pistols and the faithful cudgel. The cavalry sabre, however, had been lost, not much to his regret.

The grey light of dawn was just sufficient to give a ghostly appearance to what may be truly termed the ghastly ruins around them, and to reveal in undefined solemnity the neighbouring mountains. Smoke still issued from the half-smothered fires, and here and there a spectral figure might be seen flitting silently to and fro. But all was profoundly still and quiet, even the occasional tremors of the earth had ceased for a time, when they issued from the enclosure of the hut.

Without speaking, Lawrence mounted the horse which stood ready for him, and they all rode silently away, picking their steps with great care through the upheaved and obstructed streets. It was a scene of absolute and utter ruin, which Lawrence felt could never be effaced from his memory, but must remain there burned in deeply, in its minutest details, to the end of time.

When they had passed the suburbs, however, and reached the country beyond, the depressing influences passed away, and, a certain degree of cheerfulness returning with the sun, they began to chat and to explain to each other their various experiences.

“Of course, when I felt the earthquake,” said Pedro to Lawrence, “I knew that, although little damage was done to the village to which I had gone in search of my friends, it must have been very severe on the town with its spires and public buildings; so I saddled up at once, and set off on my return. I met Quashy just as I left the village, and we both spurred back as fast as we could. When we came in sight of it, we saw at once that the place was destroyed, but, until we reached it, had no idea of the completeness of the destruction. We could not even find the road that led to the inn where we had left you and Manuela; and it was not till the following morning that we found the inn itself, and came up, as you know, just in time to help you, though we had sought diligently all night.”

“Das so, massa,” broke in Quashy, who had listened with glittering eyes to Pedro’s narrative, which of course was much more extended and full, “an’ you’s got no notion how we’s banged about our poor shins among dese ruins afore we founded you. S’my b’lief but for de fires we’d nebber hab founded you at all. And dem scoundrils—oh! dem scoundrils—”

Quashy’s feelings at this point failed to find vent in words sufficiently expressive, so he relieved them to some extent by shaking his fist at scoundreldom in general, and grinding his teeth. No words could have expressed his feelings half so well. By way of changing a subject that appeared to be almost too much for him, he turned abruptly to the Indian girl; and said, in Spanish quite as bad as that of Lawrence—

“But where were you, senhorina, all the time?”

“Ay, Manuela, let’s hear how it was that you escaped,” said Pedro quickly, in Indian.

“I escaped through the mercy of God,” replied the girl, in a low voice.

“True, Manuela, true,” replied the guide, “you never said a truer word than that; but by what means was His mercy displayed?”

“I can scarcely tell,” returned the girl; “when the earthquake came I was sitting on my bed. Then the wall of the room seemed to fall on me, and my senses were gone. How long I lay so, I cannot tell. When I recovered my mind I felt as if buried alive, but I could breathe, and although unable to rise, I could move. Then I heard cries, and I replied; but my strength was gone, and I think no one heard me. Then I prayed, and then, I think, I slept, but am not sure. At last I heard a spade striking the earth above me. Soon an opening was made, and I was dragged rudely out. The rest you know.”

On this being interpreted to her companions, Quashy gave it as his decided opinion that a miracle had been performed for her special deliverance; but Lawrence thought that, without miraculous interference, God had caused a mass of wall to fall over and protect her in much the same way that he himself had been protected.

While they were talking thus, and slowly descending one of the numerous richly-wooded, though rugged, paths which traverse the lower slopes of the Andes, they encountered a party of horsemen from the Pampas. They were well-armed, and from their looks might have been another troop of banditti, coming like human vultures from afar to swoop down on the carcass of the unfortunate town.

To have shown the slightest hesitancy or fear—supposing them to have been what they looked—would have been to invite attack, but, as the reader knows, our travellers were not the men to betray themselves thus. Before starting, they had carefully examined their weapons, and had bestowed them about their persons somewhat ostentatiously. Pedro had even caused Manuela to stick a brace of small pistols and a large knife in her belt; and, as Indian women are sometimes known to be capable of defending themselves as vigorously as men, she was by no means a cipher in the effective strength of the party.

With a dignified yet free-and-easy air that would have done credit to a Spanish Don of the olden time, Pedro saluted the party as he rode past. His aspect, and the quiet, self-possessed air of the huge Englishman, with the singularity of his cudgel, coupled with the look of graceful decision about the Indian maiden, and the blunt bull-doggedness of the square negro, were sufficient to ensure a polite response, not only from that party, but from several other bands of the same stamp that were met with during the day.

Diverging from the main road in order to avoid these bands, they followed a track well-known to the guide. Towards the afternoon, from the top of a rising ground, they descried a solitary foot traveller wending his way wearily up the hill.

He was a man of middle age, and powerfully-built, but walked with such evident difficulty that it seemed as if he were either ill or exhausted. Pedro eyed him with considerable suspicion as he approached. In passing, he begged for assistance. As he spoke in French, Lawrence, whose sympathies, like those of Quashy, were easily roused, asked in that tongue what was the matter with him.

He had been robbed, he said, by that villainous bandit, Conrad of the Mountains, or some one extremely like him, and had been nearly killed by him. He was on his way to San Ambrosio, where his wife and family dwelt, having heard that it had been greatly damaged, if not destroyed, by an earthquake.

“It has been utterly destroyed, my poor fellow,” said Lawrence, in a tone of pity; “but it may be that your family has escaped. A good number of people have escaped. Here are a few dollars for you. You will need them, I fear. You can owe them to me, and pay them when next we meet.”

The gift was accompanied with a look of pleasantry, for Lawrence well knew there was little chance of their ever meeting again.

Pedro sat regarding them with a grim smile. “You are a stout fellow,” he said, in a tone that was not conciliatory, after the beggar had accepted the dollars with many expressions of gratitude; “from all I have heard of Conrad of the Mountains, you are quite a match for him, if he were alone.”

“He was not alone, senhor,” replied the beggar, with a look that told of a temper easily disturbed.

To this Pedro replied contemptuously, “Oh, indeed!” and, turning abruptly away, rode on.

“You doubt that man?” said Lawrence, following him.

“I do.”

“He looked honest.”

“Men are not always to be judged by their looks.”

“Das a fact!” interposed Quashy; “what would peepil judge ob me, now, if dey hoed by looks?”

“They’d say you were a fine, genial, hearty, good-natured blockhead,” said Lawrence, laughing.

“True, massa, you’s right. I’m all dat an’ wuss, but not always dat. Sometimes I’m roused; an’ I’m awrful w’en I’m roused! You should see me w’en my back’s riz. Oh my!”

The negro opened his eyes and mouth so awfully at the mere idea of such a rising that his companions were fain to seek relief in laughter. Even the grave Manuela gave way to unrestrained merriment, for if she failed to thoroughly understand Quashy’s meaning, she quite understood his face.

That night they found welcome shelter in a small farm.

“Did you fall in with the notorious bandit, Conrad of the Mountains?” asked their host, after the ceremonious reception of his guests was over.

“No, senhor,” answered Pedro. “Is that fellow in this neighbourhood just now?”

“So it is said, senhor. I have not seen him myself, and should not know him if I saw him, but from descriptions I should think it must be he. I have a poor fellow—a peon—lying here just now, who has been robbed and nearly murdered by him. Come, he is in the next room; you can speak to him.”

Saying this, the host introduced Pedro and Lawrence into an inner chamber, where the wounded man lay, groaning horribly. He was very ready, indeed eager, to give all the information in his power. Fear had evidently given the poor fellow an exaggerated idea of the appearance of the man who had waylaid him; nevertheless, from his description our travellers had no difficulty in recognising the poor bereaved beggar whom they had met and assisted.

“Was he a large man?” asked Pedro.

“Yes, yes, senhor; tremendous!—seven feet or more, and so”—indicating about three feet—“across the shoulders. Rough black head, huge black beard and moustache, hawk nose, with such awful eyes, and the strength of a tiger! I could never have been so easily overcome by one man if he had not been a giant.”

“You see,” said Pedro in English, turning to Lawrence with a smile, “the description tallies exactly, making due allowance for this poor fellow’s alarm. He must be a clever fellow this Conrad of the Mountains, for he has not only frightened a peon out of his wits, but roused the pity of an Englishman by asserting that he had been robbed by himself! Your charity, you see, was ill bestowed.”

“So, it seems we might have made this noted bandit prisoner if we had only known!” exclaimed Lawrence, who seemed more distressed at missing the chance of becoming an amateur thief-catcher than at misdirected charity. “But do you really think the fellow was Conrad of the Mountains?”

“I am certain he was not,” said Pedro.

“How do you know?”

“I have several grounds for my belief, but, even if I had not, I might easily judge from appearances. Conrad is said to be kind to women and children. The scoundrel we met with could not be kind to any one. Moreover, there is no clear proof that Conrad is a bandit, while this man certainly is one.”

“I’m sorry you seem so sure, because I should like much to be able to say I had seen this notorious fellow about whom every one appears to hear so much and to know so little.”

Although the bandit of whom we have just made mention was not Conrad of the Mountains, it may interest the reader to know that he was in truth a sufficiently notorious villain, named Fan, the captain of a band of twenty assassins, most of whom were escaped criminals from the prisons of Chili and Peru. Among other exploits, Fan once attacked the armed escort of a troop of mules conveying silver in bars from the mines to Chili. Fan and his men attacked them in a ravine so suddenly, and with such a deadly fire of musketry, that the few who survived laid down their arms at once, on the promise being made that their lives should be spared.

Banditti do not usually regard promises as binding. It would be surprising if they did. Fan made the survivors lie down on their faces, and was about to plunder the mules, when he changed his mind, and shot all the rest of the convoy in cold blood, except the last, who, seeing the fate that awaited him, leaped over a precipice, rolled down a steep slope many hundred feet deep, and, strange to say, escaped with his life. He then procured a dozen or two well-armed men, and returned to the scene of the robbery, but found that the robbers had flown with as much silver as they could carry, the remainder being scattered about on the road.

These miscreants were afterwards captured, but, owing to disputes between the Peruvian and the Chilian Governments, the former of whom had hold of, while the latter claimed, the robbers, they all escaped their merited punishment, and were set at large.

Chapter Twelve.

Thick Woods, Heat, Change of Scene, and Savages.

We must change the scene now, and transport our reader to one of those numerous streams which convey the surplus waters of the Andes to the warmer regions of Bolivia, and thence, through many a wild, luxuriant wilderness and jungle, to the Parana river, by which they ultimately find their way to the sea.

It was approaching the afternoon of a very sultry day when Lawrence awoke from his midday siesta under an algaroba-tree, and slowly opened his eyes. The first object they rested upon was the brown little face of Manuela, reposing on a pillow formed of leopard skin. In those regions it was the practice, when convenient, to sling a network hammock between two trees, and enjoy one’s siesta in that. The Indian girl lay in her hammock, with her eyes shut, and her little mouth open,—not undignifiedly open, but just sufficiently so to permit of one seeing something of the teeth and tongue inside.

Fascinated apparently by the sight, a mite of a blue-bird with a golden head sat on the edge of the hammock close to the little mouth, and looked in. Evidently it was a bird of an inquiring disposition, for, having gazed for a considerable time with one eye, it turned its head, and gazed a longer time with the other. Quashy lay close to Lawrence, with his back towards him. The latter, observing that the cheek of the former was more lumpy and prominent than usual, raised himself on one elbow to look at him, and found that the lump was the result of an expansion of the mouth from ear to ear. He was wide awake, gloating over the proceedings of that little blue-bird, but he heard Lawrence move, and turning his head slightly round, whispered—

“Dat am berry funny—i’n’t it?”

The whisper slightly roused Manuela. She drew a long breath, vented a deep sigh, and effectually blew the blue-bird away.

At the same moment the whole party was roused by a wild and indescribable scream, followed by a magnificent flash of what seemed to be coloured fire.

In his half-sleeping condition, Lawrence, believing it to be the war-whoop of wild Indians, leaped up and grasped his cudgel, but nothing was to be seen save the grinning face of Quashy and the amused looks of Manuela and Pedro.

“Purrits,” remarked the negro, by way of explanation.

“What do you mean by purrits?” demanded Lawrence, half ashamed of his alarm.

“I mean what I says, massa,—purrits.”

“He means parrots,” said Pedro, with a grave smile, as he rose, and proceeded to fold up the poncho on which he had lain. “We’ve had many a song from these screamers, but I don’t remember ever seeing such a big flock come so near us, or scream so loud, before. They must have been attracted by your pretty face, Manuela, and could not help shouting with surprise at finding you asleep.”

Manuela laughed lightly as she stepped out of her hammock.

“They’ve just roused us in good time,” continued Pedro, looking up between the tree-tops at the sky, “for the hut of the tiger-hunter is a long way off, and I’m anxious to reach it before dark.”

In a few minutes the hammock and other camp equipage was conveyed to one of the native canoes, which lay close to the river’s bank, our travellers embarked, and ere long were far from the spot where the siesta had been taken.

In the afternoon they stopped for a little to refresh themselves with roasted parrot, chocolate, and biscuit.

Parrots are found everywhere and in great numbers in those regions between the Atlantic and Pacific. They live and travel in large flocks, and, as every one knows, they are remarkably fond of using their discordant voices, much to the annoyance of sensitive travellers. Fortunately such travellers do not often go to the wild regions of South America,—when they do, they soon become un-sensitive. When parrots assemble in a flock on the trees, they keep fluttering their wings with a tremulous motion, bending down their heads and chattering, young and old, without regard to each other or to harmony. Each seems bent on giving his own opinion in the loudest key, and pays no regard whatever to the opinions of others. There is something almost human in this!

It is a curious fact that, while the plumage of the parrots’ breasts is always gaudy and brilliant in the extreme, that of their backs is usually the colour of the general tone of the region they inhabit. In woods, where the bark of trees is chiefly bright yellow and green, their backs are of these colours. In the plains they are a mixture of green and brown, so that when skimming over a country they are not easily distinguished, but if they chance to come unexpectedly on travellers, they sheer off with a shriek, and expose their gaudy breasts to view.

The large flock that had so suddenly come on our friends while taking their siesta had turned off thus with a horrible scream, and revealed their gay breasts, on which the sun chanced to shine at the moment with great power, thus producing, as we have said, a splendid flash of colour.

“Massa,” inquired Quashy, as they sat in the canoe enjoying the cold meal and floating slowly with the stream, “which you likes best,—ros’ purrit or ros’ monkey?”

“Really, I’m not quite sure,” replied Lawrence; “it depends very much on appetite. If I’m very hungry, I prefer the one that comes first to hand. Which do you like best?”

“Well, I’s not kite sure needer. I t’ink sometimes dat monkey is best, but I can’t easy git ober de face.”

“How so, Quashy?”

“’Cause it am so like eatin’ a bit o’ my great-gran’moder.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. You’s no notion how like dey all is to dat ole lady. You see, she was uncommon old. She come ob a long-lib race. Das whar’ it is. My moder was eighty-two, an’ my gran’moder was ninety-siven, an’ my great-gran’moder was a hun’r’d an’ sixteen, an’ dey was all alive togidder, an’ at fuss you couldn’ tell which was de oldest. Dey run neck an’ neck for a long time, but arter de great-gran’ one pass de hunr’ milestone—oh! she hoed ahead like a rattlesnake. De wrinkles an’ de crows’ foots, an’ de—de colour—jes’ like bu’nt leather! She lef’ de oders far behind, an’ looked like nuffin so much as dat poor little blear-eyed monkey you shot de oder day, what Senhorina Manuela say was so nice to eat. What! you un’erstan’ Ingliss?” added the negro, looking at the Indian girl, who had given vent to a half-suppressed giggle.

“Yes—leetil,” replied Manuela, without attempting further to restrain her mirth.

Quite pleased that his remarks should afford amusement, Quashy was about to launch out extensively on the “great-gran’moder” theme, when an exclamation from the guide checked him.

“Look, Senhor Armstrong,” he said, arresting the progress of the canoe by a slight turn of his paddle. “Yonder is a mode of fishing which no doubt is new to you.”

Pedro pointed as he spoke to a canoe which a sharp bend of the stream had just revealed to them. Its occupants were Indians. They were almost naked, and so intent on their occupation that the arrival of our travellers had not been observed. One of the Indians, a splendid specimen of muscular strength, stood up in the canoe with a bow and arrow in his hands and one foot on the gunwale, quite motionless. Suddenly he drew the bow, the arrow pierced the water without causing a ripple, and next moment a transfixed fish was struggling on the surface.

The fish was barely secured when the presence of strangers was discovered. An exclamation followed. Instantly the dark savage bent his bow, with the arrow pointed this time full at the breast of Pedro.

That worthy did not, however, seem much alarmed. He at once pushed out into the stream, and gave a shout which induced the savage not only to lower his bow, but to fling it into his canoe and throw up his arms with exclamations of surprise and joy.

“He knows you?” said Lawrence, looking back at Pedro, who sat in the stern of their canoe.

“Yes, he knows me. I am pretty well-known to most people in these regions. This is the tiger-hunter of whom I have spoken. His dwelling is not far-off.”

The meeting of the two friends was remarkably cordial, and it was evident to both Lawrence and Quashy that the white man and the brown were not only old friends, but more than usually fond of each other.

After the first salutations, both canoes were run to the bank of the stream, and when they had all landed, Pedro presented his friend to Lawrence, who shook hands with him in the English fashion.

“You have not mentioned your friend’s name,” said Lawrence.

“His name!” replied Pedro, with a laugh, “well, it is almost unpronounceable. Perhaps you had better call him by the name he goes by among his friends—Spotted Tiger, or, more briefly—Tiger.”

“Tell Spotted Tiger, then,” said Lawrence, “that I am happy to make his acquaintance.”

When the guide had translated this, and the Indian had returned a complimentary rejoinder, they continued to converse in the Indian tongue with much animation, and, on the part of Spotted Tiger, with some excitement. Of course Lawrence understood nothing, but he continued to watch the expressive features of the savage with interest, and observed, when their glances showed they were talking of Manuela, that Tiger first raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then smiled peculiarly.

“Strange,” thought Lawrence, “what can he mean by that? Perhaps he knows the chief, her father, but why look surprised and smile on that account? I wish Pedro was not so secretive. However, it’s his business, not mine!”

Consoling himself with this philosophic thought, Lawrence re-embarked with his friends, and, accompanied by Tiger, proceeded down stream till they came to a beautiful spot where the banks widened out into a small lake or pond. On its shores, under the cool shade of many trees, stood the hut of the savage.

The scenery here was more than usually beautiful, being diversified not only in form, but in its wealth and variety of trees, and twining parasites and graceful ferns, with, in one place, groves of tall trees covered with balls of wild cotton, as large as an orange, and, elsewhere, inextricable entanglements of gorgeously flowering creepers, such as the most vivid imagination would fail to invent or conceive. Behind one part of the scene the setting sun shone with intense light, turning all into dark forms, while in other parts the slanting rays fell upon masses of rich foliage, and intensified its colour.

In front of the hut a handsome Indian woman stood awaiting the arrival of her husband. She held in her arms a naked little ball of whitey-brown fat, which represented the youngest Tiger-cub of the family. Other cubs, less whitey, and more brown, romped around, while up in the trees several remembrancers of Quashy’s great-great-grandmother sat grinning with delight, if not indignation, at the human beings below.

After being hospitably entertained by the Indian with fish, alligator soup, roast parrot, and young monkey, the party assembled round a fire, kindled outside the hut more for the purpose of scaring away wild beasts than cooking, though the little Tiger-cubs used it for the latter purpose.

Then Pedro said to Lawrence—

“Now, Senhor Armstrong, I am going to ask you to exercise a little patience at this point in our journey. The business I have in hand requires that I should leave you for two or three days. I fully expect to be back by the end of that time, and meanwhile I leave you and Quashy and Manuela in good company, for my friend Spotted Tiger is true as steel, though he is an Indian, and will perhaps show you a little sport to prevent your wearying.”

“Very good, Pedro. I am quite willing to wait,” said Lawrence. “You know I am not pressed for time at present. I shall be very glad to remain and see what is to be seen here, and learn Spanish from Manuela.”

“Or teach her Angleesh,” suggested the girl, bashfully.

“Certainly. Whichever pleases you best, Manuela,” returned Lawrence.

“But s’pose,” said Quashy, with a look of awful solemnity at Pedro—“s’pose you nebber comes back at all! S’pose you gits drownded, or killed by a tiger, or shot by a Injin. What den?”

“Suppose,” retorted the guide, “that an earthquake should swallow up South America, or that the world should catch fire—what then?”

“Why den, we no care a buttin for not’ing arter dat,” replied the negro, promptly, “but if you don’ return, we nebber reach Buenos Ayres.”

“Never fear, Quashy. If I don’t return, Spotted Tiger will guide you safely there.”

That night Pedro and his friend left the hut in a canoe, lighted by a brilliant moon. Before morning the latter returned alone.

Meanwhile Lawrence had slung Manuela’s hammock between two trees, with a fire on either side, yet screened from the chief camp-fire by a thick bush, so that though close at hand, and under his protection, she occupied, as it were, a separate chamber of her own. His own hammock and that of Quashy—for they all used hammocks—were hung side by side a little nearer to the large fire.

Mr and Mrs Tiger, with all the little Tigers, finding their hut rather warm, came outside, and also made their beds beside their visitors.

Chapter Thirteen.

Deals with Spotted Tiger’s Home, and a Hunting Expedition.

In spite of howling jaguars, and snarling pumas, and buzzing mosquitoes, and the whole host of nocturnal abominations peculiar to those regions, our weary travellers lay peacefully in their hammocks, and slept like humming-tops. In regard to Quashy, we might more appropriately say like a buzzing-top.

Once or twice during the night Quashy rose to replenish the fires, for the jaguars kept up a concert that rendered attention to this protection advisable; but he did it with half-closed eyes, and a sort of semi-wakefulness which changed into profound repose the instant he tumbled back into his hammock. Lawrence, not being so well accustomed to the situation, lay awake a short time at first, having his loaded pistols under his pillow; but, as we have said, he soon slumbered, and it is probable that all the jaguars, pumas, peccaries, tapirs, alligators, and wild cats in that district might have walked in procession under his hammock without disturbing him in the least, had they been so minded. As for Manuela, with that quiet indifference to mere prospective danger that usually characterises her race, she laid her head on her tiger-skin pillow, and slept the sleep of innocence—having absolute faith, no doubt, in the vigilance and care of her protectors.

It might have been observed, however, that before lying down the Indian maiden knelt beside her hammock and hid her face in her hands. Indeed from the first it had been seen by her fellow-travellers that Manuela thus communed with her God, and on one occasion Lawrence, remarking on the fact, had asked Pedro if she were a Christian.

“She is a Christian,” was Pedro’s reply, but as he manifested an evident intention not to be communicative on the subject, Lawrence forbore to put further questions, although he felt his interest in the girl as well as his curiosity increasing, and he longed to know how and when she had been turned from heathen worship to the knowledge of Christ.

When daylight began to glimmer in the east, the bird, beast, and insect worlds began to stir. And a wonderful stir do these worlds make at that hour in the grand regions of Central South America; for although nocturnal birds and beasts retire and, at least partially, hide their diminished heads at daylight, the myriad denizens of the forests bound forth with renewed life and vigour to sing a morning hymn of praise to their Maker—involuntarily or voluntarily, who can tell which, and what right has man to say dogmatically that it cannot be the latter? Thousands of cooing doves, legions of chattering parrots, made the air vocal; millions of little birds of every size and hue twittered an accompaniment, and myriads of mosquitoes and other insects filled up the orchestra with a high pitched drone, while alligators and other aquatic monsters beat time with flipper, fin, and tail.

Breakfast, consisting of excellent fish, eggs, maize, jaguar-steak, roast duck, alligator-ragout, and chocolate, was prepared outside the Indian hut. The hut itself was unusually clean, Tiger being a peculiar and eccentric savage, who seemed to have been born, as the saying is, in advance of his generation. He was a noted man among his brethren, not only for strength and prowess, but for strange ideas and practices, especially for his total disregard of public opinion.

In respect of cleanliness, his hut differed from the huts of all other men of his tribe. It was built of sun-dried mud. The furniture consisted of two beds, or heaps of leaves and skins, and several rude vessels of clay. The walls were decorated with bows, arrows, blow-pipes, lances, game-bags, fishing-lines, and other articles of the chase, as well as with miniature weapons and appliances of a similar kind, varying its size according to the ages of the little Tigers. Besides these, there hung from the rafters—if we may so name the sticks that stretched overhead—several network hammocks and unfinished garments, the handiwork of Mrs Tiger.

That lady herself was a fat and by no means uncomely young woman, simply clothed in a white tunic, fastened at the waist with a belt—the arms and neck being bare. Her black hair was cut straight across the forehead, an extremely ugly but simple mode of freeing the face from interference, which we might say is peculiar to all savage nations had not the highly civilised English of the present day adopted it, thus proving the truth of the proverb that “extremes meet”! The rest of her hair was gathered into one long heavy plait, which hung down behind. Altogether, Madame Tiger was clean and pleasant looking—for a savage. This is more than could be said of her progeny, which swarmed about the place in undisguised contempt of cleanliness or propriety.

Stepping into the hut after kindling the fire outside, Quashy proceeded to make himself at home by sitting down on a bundle.

The bundle spurted out a yell, wriggled violently, and proved itself to be a boy!

Jumping up in haste, Quashy discommoded a tame parrot on the rafters, which, with a horrible shriek in the Indian tongue, descended on his head and grasped his hair, while a tame monkey made faces at him and a tame turtle waddled out of his way.

Having thus as it were established his footing in the family, the negro removed the parrot to his perch, receiving a powerful bite of gratitude in the act, and invited the wife of Spotted Tiger to join the breakfast-party. This he did by the express order of Lawrence, for he would not himself have originated such a piece of condescension. Not knowing the dialect of that region, however, he failed to convey his meaning by words and resorted to pantomime. Rubbing his stomach gently with one hand, he opened his mouth wide, pointed down his throat with the forefinger of the other hand, and made a jerky reference with his thumb to the scene of preparations outside.

Madame Tiger declined, however, and pointed to a dark corner, where a sick child claimed her attention.

“O poor t’ing! what’s de matter wid it?” asked Quashy, going forward and taking one of the child’s thin hands in his enormous paw.

The little girl must have been rather pretty when in health, but there was not much of good looks left at that time, save the splendid black eyes, the lustre of which seemed rather to have improved with sickness. The poor thing appeared to know that she had found in the negro a sympathetic soul, for she not only suffered her hand to remain in his, but gave vent to a little squeak of contentment.

“Stop! You hold on a bit, Poppity,” said Quashy, whose inventive capacity in the way of endearing terms was great, “I’ll fetch de doctor.”

He ran out and presently returned with Lawrence, who shook his head the moment he set eyes on the child.

“No hope?” inquired Quashy, with solemnity unspeakable on his countenance.

“Well, I won’t say that. While there is life there is hope, but it would have been more hopeful if I had seen the child a week or two sooner.”

After a careful examination, during which the father, who had come in, and the mother looked on with quiet patience, and Manuela with some anxiety, he found that there was still room for hope, but, he said, turning to Quashy, “she will require the most careful and constant nursing, and as neither Tiger nor his wife understands what we say, and Pedro may not be back for some days, it will be difficult to explain to them what should be done. Can you not speak their dialect even a little?” he added in Spanish to Manuela.

She shook her head, but said quietly—

“Me will nurse.”

“That’s very kind of you, and it will really be a charity, for the child is seriously ill. She is a strangely attractive little thing,” he continued, bending over her couch and stroking her hair gently. “I feel quite as if I had known her a long time. Now, I will give you instructions as well as I can as to what you have to do. Shall I give them in Spanish or English?”

Quite gravely the Indian girl replied, “Angleesh.”

“Very well,” said he, and proceeded to tell Manuela how to act as sick-nurse. When he had finished, the girl at once stepped up to Tiger’s wife with a winning smile, patted her shoulder, kissed her forehead, and then, pointing to the little invalid with a look of profound intelligence, went out of the hut. Presently she returned with some of the gravy of the alligator-ragout, sat down beside the little one, and began to administer it in small quantities. Evidently the child was pleased both with the food and the angel of mercy who had found her, for she nestled in a comfortable way close to Manuela’s side. Lawrence observed, when the latter looked round for something she wanted, that her eyes were full of tears.

“I knew I was right,” he muttered to himself as he returned to the fire, where Quashy had already spread out the breakfast, “she certainly must be a princess of the Incas. They were notoriously celebrated for their gentle and amiable qualities, even at the time of Pizarro’s conquest.”

What more passed in his mind we cannot tell, for he ceased to mutter, and never revealed his subsequent thoughts to any one.

“Now, Quashy,” said Lawrence, when breakfast was over, “we are left here in what we may style difficulties. The Indians don’t understand Spanish or English, so until Pedro returns we shall have to get along as best we can by signs.”

“Bery well, massa, I hope you knows how to talk by signs, for its more dan dis nigger do.”

As he spoke he threw an ear of maize at a monkey which sat on a branch overhead gazing at the party with an expression of the most woebegone resignation. He missed his aim, but none the less did that monkey change its look into a glare of intense indignation, after which it fled shrieking, with hurt feelings, into the woods.

“I’m not much up in the language of signs,” said Lawrence, “but we must try our best.”

Saying which he arose, and, touching Tiger on the shoulder, beckoned him to follow.

With the lithe, easy motions of the animal after which he was named, the Indian rose. Lawrence led him a few paces from the fire, and then, putting himself in the attitude of a man discharging an arrow from a bow, suddenly let the imaginary arrow fly, looked at the savage, touched his own breast, and smiled.

So did Quashy, with compound interest. Spotted Tiger looked puzzled, shook his head, and also smiled.

“He t’ink you wants him to shoot you,” said Quashy.

“No, no, that’s not it,” said Lawrence, with a somewhat abashed look at the Indian. “I want you to take us out shooting—hunting, you know—hunting.”

As Tiger did not know the word “hunting” he continued to shake his head with a puzzled air.

Every one who has tried it knows what a silly, almost imbecile, feeling comes over one when one attempts the communication of ideas in dumb show. Feelings of this sort affected our hero very keenly. He therefore, while continuing the pantomime, kept up a running or interjectional accompaniment in the English language.

“Look here, Tiger,” he said, impressively, taking up two sticks which he made to represent a bow and arrow, and placing them in position, “I want to go hunting with you—hunting—shooting the jaguar.”

“Yes, de jaguar—tiger, you know,” said Quashy, who, in his anxiety to get the savage to understand, imitated his master’s actions, and could not refrain from occasionally supplementing his speech.

As a tiger-skin chanced to be hanging on a bush near to the fire, Lawrence completed his pantomime by throwing his mimic arrow against that.

A gleam of intelligence suffused the face of the savage. Stalking into his hut, he returned with a bow considerably longer than himself, and an arrow, also of great length. Retiring to a distance from the jaguar-skin above referred to, he bent his bow quickly, and sent an arrow straight through the middle of it, thereafter raising himself with a look of pride.

“Why, the fellow thinks I want him to show off his powers of shooting,” said Lawrence.

“So he do—de idjit!” said Quashy.

With much anxiety of expression, great demonstration of vigorous action, and many painful efforts of inventive genius, the two men tried to convey their wishes to that son of the soil, but all in vain. At last in desperation Quashy suddenly seized the jaguar-skin, threw it over his own shoulders, placed a long pole in Lawrence’s hands, and said—

“Now, massa, you look out, I’s agwine to spring at you, and you stick me.”

He uttered a mighty roar as he spoke, and bounded towards his master, who, entering at once into the spirit of the play, received him on the point of his spear, whereupon the human jaguar instantly fell and revelled for a few seconds in the agonies of death. Then he calmly rose.

“Now,” said he, with a look of contempt, “if he no understan’ dat, it’s ’cause he hain’t got no brains.”

At first the Indian had gazed at this little scene with a look of intense astonishment. When it was finished he burst into a fit of hearty laughter. Evidently it was the best piece of acting he had seen since he was born, and if he had been other than a savage, he must certainly have shouted “bravo!” perhaps “encore!” and clapped his hands.

“Boh! he’s a born idjit!” cried Quashy, turning away in disgust, but a new idea seemed to flash into his fertile brain.

“Stop a bit!” he suddenly exclaimed, seizing a piece of flat bark that lay at his feet. On this, with the point of a charred stick, he drew a triangular form, with three dots in it for two eyes and a nose. An oval attached to this represented a body; at the other end a long waving line served for a tail; four short lines below indicated legs. This creature he covered all over with spots.

“There,” he cried, sticking it into a bush, and glaring at the Indian, “jaguar!—jaguar!”

Catching up the pole which Lawrence had thrown down, he rushed at this jaguar, and pierced it through the heart. Thereafter, in hot haste, he picked up Tiger’s bow and arrows, ran down to the river, put them into a small canoe, and thrust it into the water. Holding on with one hand, he waved with the other.

“Ho! hi! come along, you stuppid idjit!”

The “stuppid idjit” was enlightened at last. With a dignified smile, which would probably have been a frown if he had understood Quashy’s words, he went up to his hut, and selected a lance and a bow, with which, and a quiver of arrows, he returned to the little hunting canoe.

Seeing that they were now understood, Lawrence took his shot-gun and pistols; the negro also armed himself, and in a few minutes more they found themselves paddling gently down the sluggish current of the river.

The scenery through which those curiously assorted hunters passed that day in their light canoe was singularly beautiful; and when, turning up one of the narrow streams that fed the main river, they came into a region of sweet, mellow twilight, caused by the over-arching trees, where the very aspect of nature suggested, though it could not create, coolness, Lawrence felt as if he had been at last transported into those famous regions of fairyland which, if they really existed, and we were in very deed to get into them, would, perchance, not equal, and certainly could not excel, our own actual world!

Gigantic trees towered upwards till their heads were lost in the umbrageous canopy, while their stems were clasped by powerful snake-like creepers, or adorned with flowering parasites. The bushes grew so thick and tangled that it seemed as if neither man nor beast could penetrate them—which indeed was the case, as regards man, in many places; yet here and there unexpected openings permitted the charmed eyes to rest upon romantic vistas where creepers, convolvuli, and other flowers, of every shape, hue, and size, hung in festoons and clusters, or carpeted the ground. Fruit, too, was there in abundance. Everything seemed to bear fruit. The refreshing and not too luscious prickly pear; the oukli, an enormous cactus, not unlike the prickly pear but with larger fruit, whose delightful pulp was of a blood-red colour; the ancoche, with sweet-tasted pearl-like drops, and many others.

There was plenty of animal life, also, in and around this stream, to interest the hunters, who were now obliged to exert themselves a little to make head against the sluggish current. Water-hens were innumerable, and other wild-fowl flew or paddled about, enjoying, apparently, a most luxuriant existence, while brown ant-hills were suggestive of exceedingly busy life below as well as above ground. There are many kinds of ants out there, some of them very large, others not quite so large, which, however, make up in vicious wickedness what they lack in size.

At one bend in the stream they came suddenly on a boa-constrictor which was swimming across; at another turn they discovered a sight which caused Lawrence to exclaim—

“There’s a breakfast for you, Quashy. What would you say to that?”

“I’d like to hab ’im cooked, massa.”

The reference was to an alligator which was crossing the stream a few yards ahead of them, with a live boa in his jaws. The huge serpent was about twelve feet long, and wriggled horribly to escape, but the monster had it fast by the middle. Evidently its doom was fixed.

Several tapirs and a band of grunting peccaries were also seen, but all these were passed without molestation, for the ambitions of our hunters that day soared to nothing less than the tiger of the American jungles—the sneaking, lithe, strong, and much-dreaded jaguar.

Spotted Tiger seemed to have at last become fully aware of the spirit of his companions, for he took no apparent note of the various animals seen as they passed along, and evidently was on the outlook for the monarch of the jungle. Having been told by Pedro that he was a celebrated hunter, Lawrence felt sure that he would lead them to success.

“Why you no shoot de deer an’ pepper de alligators, massa?” asked Quashy at last, after several of the creatures mentioned had been seen and passed.

“Because I don’t want them,” returned Lawrence, “and I have no pleasure in useless destruction of life. Besides, I am anxious to shoot a jaguar, having a strong wish to take home the claws and skull of one—the first for my friends, the last for a museum. When we want food I will shoot deer, or anything else that’s eatable.”

Quashy remained silent. He seemed to be revolving his master’s reply in a philosophical way, when something between a snarl and a growl turned his thoughts sharply into another channel.

Tiger quietly prepared his bow and arrows and laid his spears so that they should be handy. Lawrence and the negro also got ready their weapons, and then they advanced with caution, dipping their paddles lightly, and gazing earnestly into the jungle on the right bank of the stream.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Hunt continued; one of the Hunters almost concluded. Explorations indulged in, and a Capture effected.

“Dar, massa, dar he is,” exclaimed Quashy, in a hoarse whisper, pointing into the bushes.

“Nonsense, man,” replied Lawrence, in a low voice, “it’s only an ant-hill.”

Even in that moment of excitement, Lawrence could scarce refrain from laughter at the face of his humble follower, for Quashy’s business in life had not accustomed him to much sport at any time; and the prospect of actually assisting at the slaughter of a jaguar or a puma had stirred every nerve and fibre of his black being into intense excitation, so that his eyes and nostrils were dilated to the utmost, and he panted vehemently—with hope, of course, not fear!

Tiger, on the contrary, was cool and calm, though watchful. He paid no attention whatever to his companions, being too well acquainted with his work to stand in need of either advice or assistance from them.

As guide, the savage occupied the bow of the canoe; Lawrence sat in the middle, and Quashy in the stern, for he understood how to steer. Having been admonished to hold his tongue, he crouched so as, if possible, to diminish his size. He also pursed his lips,—and what a tight rounding and projecting of superfluous flesh that pursing was no tongue can adequately tell. He also glared, and this “talking with the eyes” was a mute sermon in itself.

Yet no jaguar could be seen. Silently, with dip of paddle that made no sound, and glide of craft through the water that produced only an oily ripple, they slowly ascended the stream.

At first Lawrence had seized his fowling-piece, which was charged with ball for the occasion; but as time passed, and the Indian showed no intention of landing, he laid the gun down, and again took up his paddle.

After a time, through some inadvertence of Quashy, the canoe was sent rather close in among the reeds and giant leaves of the bank.

“That was stupid of you, Quash,” said Lawrence, as he stood up to assist Tiger in backing out.

“Das true, massa,” said the negro, in profoundest humility of self-condemnation, “I’s a black idjit.”

As the fore part of the canoe had touched on a mudbank, Lawrence seized one of the Indian’s lances, and used the butt end as a pole with which to push off. Under this impulse the canoe was gradually sliding into deep water, when a rustling of the leaves was heard, and next instant a full-sized jaguar sprang upon the Indian with cat-like agility. Whether the brute had slipped on the muddy bank we cannot say, but it missed its aim, and, instead of alighting on the shoulders of the man, it merely struck him on the head with one of its paws in passing, and went with a tremendous splash into the water.

Tiger fell forward insensible from the severe scalp-wound inflicted. Next instant the jaguar rose, grasped the edge of the canoe, and almost overturned it as it strove to climb in; and there is no doubt that in another moment it would have succeeded, for the attack was so sudden that Quashy sat paralysed, while Lawrence forgot his pistols, and his gun lay in the bottom of the canoe! Happily, however, he recovered enough of presence of mind to use the lance in his hands. Turning the point of the weapon to the jaguar’s mouth, he thrust it in with such tremendous force that it passed right down its throat and into its very vitals. With a gasping snarl the monster fell back into the stream, and was quickly drowned as well as impaled.

“Help me to haul him on board,” cried Lawrence.

Thus awakened, the negro, relieving his feelings by giving vent to a roar which partook somewhat of a cheer, seized the jaguar’s tail. His master grasped its ears, and in another moment it lay in the bottom of the canoe.

“Now, help to lay the poor fellow beside it,” said Lawrence.

“O massa!—he not dead, eh?” groaned the negro, as he assisted in the work.

“No; nor likely to die yet a while,” replied Lawrence, with much satisfaction, as he examined and bound up the scalp-wound. “It is not deep; he’ll soon come round; but we must get him home without delay. Out with your paddle, Quashy, and use it well. I’ll take the bow.”

The canoe, which, during these proceedings, had been floating slowly down stream, was now turned in the right direction, and in a short time was out upon the larger river.

Here, however, they had to labour with energy against the stream, and it was far on in the afternoon before they came in sight of the Indian’s hut. By that time Spotted Tiger had partially recovered, as Lawrence observed during a pause made for rest. On reaching an eddy, which carried the canoe in the right direction, they rested again. The cessation of paddling appeared to rouse the wounded man, for he sat up, and, with a half-dazed look, stared at the head of the dead jaguar, on the haunch of which his elbow leaned. Then he cast an inquiring look at Lawrence, who replied to him with a nod and a smile, and went on to indicate, by means of pantomime, what had occurred.

He pointed to the animal’s claws, and to Tiger’s head; then to the bloody spear which lay at his side, and to the jaguar’s blood-stained throat, after which he pointed to his own breast and nodded again.

The Indian evidently understood him, for an expression of gratitude overspread his countenance as he extended his right hand—English fashion—for a shake. Our hero was not slow to grasp it, and the two exchanged a squeeze which told of lasting friendship and good-will.

A few minutes later, and the canoe was run upon the bank in front of the hut, where all the children were assembled to receive them.

It did not seem as if any of the family were deeply affected by the shaky appearance of the father as he stepped on shore, but the younger members evinced feelings of intense delight when the jaguar was lifted out; and two of them, seizing the tail as a tow-rope, passed it over their shoulders, and dragged the carcass up to the hut to show it to their mother.

O mothers! loving repositories of childhood’s joys and woes, ye are unquestionably the same in substance and in spirit all the world over!

Tiger’s wife was more affected than Lawrence expected she would have been by her husband’s accident, and tended him with anxious care. By taking hold of him, and laying him gently down in a corner opposite to that of his sick child, Lawrence gave him to understand that it was his duty to take rest. To say truth, he did not require much persuasion, but at once laid his head on his pillow, and quietly went to sleep.

“The hospital is filling rather quickly, Manuela,” said Lawrence, when he had finished tending his new patient, “and your duties are increasing, I fear.”

“No fear. Me likes to nuss,” replied the girl, with a look that puzzled the young doctor.

It was Manuela’s fascinating smile that came hardest on our poor hero. When she looked grave or sad, he could regard her as a mere statue, an unusually classical-looking bronze savage; but when she smiled, there was something so bewitchingly sweet in the lines of her little face that he felt constrained to shut his eyes, turn away, and groan in spirit, to think that she was brown, and a savage!

“Was there ever a case,” he thought, “so mysteriously miserable, so singularly sad, as mine! If she were only white, I would marry her at once, (if she would have me), for the sake of her gentle spirit alone,—ay, even though she were the child of a costermonger; but I cannot, I do not, love a savage, the daughter of a savage chief, with a skin the colour of shoe leather! No, it is impossible! and yet, I am in love with her spirit. I know it. I feel it. I never heard of such a strange thing before,—a man in love with a portion of a woman, and that the immaterial portion!”

The last word changed the current of his thoughts, for it suggested the idea of another “portion” belonging to some girls with which men are too apt to fall in love!

“Massa, de grub’s ready,” said Quashy, entering the hut at that moment.

“Go to work then, Quash. Don’t wait. I’ll be with you directly.”

But Quashy did wait. He was much too unselfish a son of ebony to think of beginning before his master.

When they had seated themselves on the grass outside the hut, along with Manuela, who left her post of duty in order to dine, and had made a considerable impression on the alligator-ragout and tiger-steaks and other delicacies, Quashy heaved a deep sigh of partial satisfaction, and asked if Tiger would be well enough to go out hunting next day.

“I think not,” said Lawrence; “no doubt he may feel able for it, but if he shows any disposition to do so, I shall forbid him.”

“How you forbid him, when you not can speak hims tongue?” asked Manuela, in a mild little voice, but with an arch look to which her arched black eyebrows gave intense expression.

“Well,” replied Lawrence, laughing, “I must try signs, I suppose, as usual.”

“No use, massa,” said Quashy; “nebber make him understan’. I gib you a plan. See here. You tie him up hand an’ foot; den we go off huntin’ by our lone, an’ let him lie till we comes back.”

Lawrence shook his head. “I fear he would kill us on our return. No, we must just go off early in the morning before he wakes, and get Manuela to try her hand at sign-language. She can prevail on him, no doubt, to remain at home.”

“I vill try,” said Manuela, with a laugh.

In pursuance of this plan, Lawrence and Quashy rose before broad daylight the following morning, launched the little canoe they had used the day before, put gun, spears, etcetera, on board, and were about to push off, when one of the boys of the family ran down, and seemed to wish to accompany them.

“We’d better take him,” said Lawrence; “he’s not very big or old, but he seems intelligent enough, and no doubt knows something of his father’s haunts and sporting customs.”

“You’s right, massa,” assented the negro.

Lawrence made a sign to the lad to embark, and Quashy backed the invitation with—

“Jump aboord, Leetle Cub.”

Instead of obeying, Leetle Cub ran up into the bush, but presently returned with a long stick like a headless lance, a bow and arrows, and an instrument resembling a large grappling anchor, made of wood. Placing these softly in the canoe, the little fellow, who seemed to be about ten years of age, stepped in, and they all pushed off into the river—getting out of sight of the hut without having roused any one. Turning into the same stream which they had visited the day before, they pushed past the place where the jaguar had been killed, and entered on an exploration, as Lawrence called it.

“I’m very fond of an exploration, Quashy,” he said, dipping his paddle softly, and working gently, for there was so little current that it seemed more like the narrows of a lake than a stream.

“Yes, I’s bery fond ob ’sploration too, massa,” replied the negro, with a self-satisfied nod. “It am so nice not to know whar you’s gwine to, or whar you’s comin’ to, or who’s dar, or who’s not dar, or what fish’ll turn up, or what beast’ll turn down, or what nixt—oh! it am so jolly! what you sniggerin’ at, you dirty leetle cub?”

The question was put to the Indian boy, who seemed much amused by something he saw up among the trees.

Looking up they saw at least a dozen red monkeys grinning at them, and one of these—a small one—was hanging on by its father’s tail.

“Oh! shoot! shoot!” cried Quashy to Lawrence, opening his great eyes eagerly. “Dey’s so good to eat!”

“No, Quash, I won’t shoot. We have shot enough of fat ducks to feed us all for one or two days at least. Besides, I can’t bear to kill monkeys. It feels so like committing murder.”

While he was yet speaking, Leetle Cub had taken up the long lance-like stick before mentioned and pointed it at the monkeys. It was a blow-pipe. Before Lawrence could interfere, the short arrow with which it was charged had sped on its mission with deadly aim, and the smallest monkey, relaxing its hold of the paternal tail, fell without even a cry into the water—shot through the heart.

Lawrence said nothing, but, resolving that if the boy should attempt such another shot, he would disturb his aim, he dipped his paddle vigorously, and pushed up the river.

Coming at last to an open space where the stream widened into something like a little pond, they observed an erection of timber on the bank which aroused their curiosity. It also seemed to arouse the Cub’s interest, for he made somewhat excited signs that he wished to land there. Willing to humour him, they ran the canoe on the beach. Leetle Cub jumped out at once, and, taking up the anchor-like piece of wood before mentioned, went with it towards the timber erection.

“I do believe it is an alligator-hook,” said Lawrence.

“Das a fact,” said Quashy, “we’ll washum,” (by which he meant, “we’ll watch him!”)

It was indeed interesting to watch that little fellow—who was evidently in all respects a thorough chip of the old block—as he went about his work, quietly, yet with an undercurrent of excitement which he was not entirely able to conceal. He took his bow and arrows, as well as the blow-pipe, on shore, and laid them at his side, so as to be ready at hand in case of emergency, while he baited the alligator-hook with the dead monkey.

The hook was simple. It consisted of four pieces of tough hard wood, about a foot long, and the thickness of a man’s thumb. These were tied to the end of a stout rope made of raw hide, and so arranged that their points were directed backwards, and curved somewhat outwards—thus forming as it were four huge barbs. The dead monkey was placed on and around this horrible hook—if we may so term it. The delicate morsel was then attached to the end of a pole which stretched over the stream, so that the bait, when fixed, remained suspended just above the water. The slack of the rope was then made fast to a tree. Thus the arrangement was such as to compel the alligator to raise himself well out of the water to obtain his mouthful.

While Leetle Cub was engaged in erecting this cumbrous machine, a young alligator, about a foot long, crawled out from under some leaves on the bank close to him. The urchin saw it instantly, seized his bow, and in a moment transfixed it with an arrow. The fury of the little creature, infant though it was, seemed tremendous. It turned round, snapping viciously at the arrow, and would probably have escaped with it into the water if another shot from the same unerring hand had not terminated its career.

After setting his line, the Cub carried the little alligator to the canoe, and put it carefully therein.

“Das what dey make de soup ob,” said Quashy.

“The ragout, you mean.”

“Dun’ know what’s a ragoo, massa. We calls it soup. Anyhow, it’s bery good.”

“Yes, Quash, it’s not bad. But look there, our daring and expert young hunter evidently wants us to land, for he is pointing to the bush. Shall we go?”

“P’r’aps it’s as well, massa. Ob course no alligator’s sitch a fool as swaller dat little mout’ful when we’s a-lookin’ at it. I s’pose Leetle Cub wants us to go away, an’ gib ’em a chance.”

Having made up their minds to gratify the little fellow, they landed and accompanied him into the woods. He seemed quite to expect that they would do so and follow his lead. He set off at a smart pace in advance of them, carrying his bow on his shoulder. Lawrence was well repaid by this walk, because it led him into and through scenery of a more striking and beautiful character than he had yet seen of its kind. In many places the trees formed long aisles and vaulted colonnades and arches so regular that it seemed as though they had been planted by the hand of man. Elsewhere the chaos of tree and shrub, flower and fern and twining root was so indescribable, that it seemed as if chance and haphazard had originated it all; but the mind of our hero was cast, if we may say so, in too logical a mould to accept such an absurd origin for anything.

“My Father made it all,” he said, mentally, with a glow of enthusiasm; “and although, like a little child gazing at an intricate machine, I see not the order or arrangement, certain am I that both must be there.”

Between the tree-stems they saw ant-hills fully five or six feet high. From the trees hung thousands of orchids of various colours, and so attractive was the aspect of things overhead, that Lawrence was more than once tripped up by the long tangled grasses through which, in some parts, they had to push their way. Of course, there were plenty of parrots and monkeys and other creatures to make the forest lively. Indeed, in some parts there seemed a prospect of its becoming still more lively, for their little guide pointed out in soft places the footprints of tapirs and jaguars, which seemed to be quite fresh. Lizards innumerable crossed their path at every point; snakes were seen gliding out of their way—a fortunate tendency on the part of most snakes!—and the woods resounded with the singing of the yapu, a bird something like a blackbird, with yellow tips to its wings, and somewhat like the mocking-bird in that it imitated every other bird in the forest. Whether there is jealousy between the yapu and the parrot we have not been able to ascertain, but if birds are like men in their sentiments, we fear it is more than probable. Unlike man, however, the yapu prefers to sing upside-down, swinging the while from the branch of a tree, and ruffling its plumage.

“Hallo! massa. Look dar!” said Quashy, pointing with intense surprise at a neighbouring tree-stem. “Did you ebber see a crab climbin’ up a tree?”

“I certainly never did,” replied Lawrence, as he looked in the direction indicated, where he saw, not a crab indeed, but a monstrous hairy spider as large as a goodly-sized crab. Stepping forward to examine the creature, he was surprised to have his hat twitched off his head, and found that it was the web of the said spider which had done it! Afterwards he learned that the spider in question subsists by catching little birds, and that its bite is not so venomous as that of a smaller kind which abounds in the woods there. Not being desirous of testing the creature’s power in that way at the time, he contented himself with inspecting it, and listening to a learned dissertation on spiders in general from Quashy, as he afterwards walked on.

Good fortune seemed to smile on them that day, for they had not advanced a hundred yards further when two large jaguars crossed their path. It is probable that they did not see the hunters, for they did not look up, but, gliding cat-like into the jungle, quickly disappeared.

Perhaps it was fortunate that Lawrence and his man recovered their presence of mind when too late, for if they had fired hastily and only wounded the creatures, it might have brought to an abrupt end their terrestrial career. As it was. Quashy recovered with a gasp, drew his two double-barrelled pistols, which in his eagerness he neglected to cock, and, with one in each hand, rushed yelling after the jaguars. Lawrence cocked his gun and followed at a smart, though more sedate, pace. Leetle Cub, who probably thought them both fools, ran after them with a broad grin on his dingy countenance.

We need scarcely say that the pursuit was useless. Quashy returned in a few minutes with labouring breath, and streaming at every pore. Lawrence, scarcely less blown, sat down on a fallen tree and laughed when his lungs permitted. Of course he was joined by the sympathetic black, echoed by the small boy, and imitated—not badly—by a number of parrots which wisely availed themselves of the rare opportunity to learn a lesson from man!

As they advanced the path became more encumbered and difficult to traverse, so they determined to return. Their little guide, however, seemed to object very strongly, and made wonderful gesticulations in his efforts to induce them to go on. Lawrence, however, remained firm. Seeing at last that his followers had determined to rebel, the Cub gave up trying to influence them, scooped a quantity of wild honey out of a hole in a tree, and, sitting down in a half-sulky mood, sought to console himself by eating the same.

“Come, we’ll follow you in that, at all events,” said Lawrence, seating himself beside the child and regaling himself with the sweet food. Quashy followed his example with right good-will.

When their modest meal was over they returned to the river. The little boy, on nearing it, ran anxiously forward in advance, and soon they perceived by his frantic gesticulations and shouts that something of interest awaited them there.

“He’s cotched!” cried Quashy, and darted off as if shot from a catapult.

Lawrence followed, using his long legs to such advantage that he was not far behind his man; for although gifted with greater powers of self-restraint than Quashy, our hero was not a whit behind him in strong enthusiasm.

They found that an alligator—not, indeed, of the largest size, but nevertheless about six or seven feet long—had swallowed the monkey, and was tugging at the rope like a mad thing—turning round and round in its rage, and smacking the water with its resounding tail.

Instantly they all laid hold of the rope, and began to drag it towards the bank.

“How shall we manage to kill it?” said Lawrence, as the monster came close in.

“Stick ’im! shot ’im! hang ’im. Nebber mind dat. Git ’im fust,—kill ’im arter,” gasped the negro, as he strained at the rope, ably seconded by his comrades.

It was a hard tussle, and might have been unsuccessful if Lawrence and Quashy had not possessed more than average physical strength. As it was, they pulled the monstrous animal just near enough to get his head clear of the water, and then, putting several balls into him, killed him outright.

“Plenty ragoo now, massa!” exclaimed the negro, with a broad grin, after they had stowed the carcass in the canoe.

“Yes, Quash, more than enough.”

Leetle Cub seemed to have his mind running in the same direction, for he eyed the alligator with longing looks, and licked his lips expressively as they re-entered the canoe, shoved off, and directed the bow homeward.

Chapter Fifteen.

An Unexpected Attack and an Unlooked-for Arrival.

Thus excitingly, and, we presume, pleasantly, passed the time at Tiger’s hut during three days.

In that period the Indian hunter quite recovered from his wounds, and his little girl, Manca by name, began to show decided signs of amendment under Manuela’s careful nursing. During that period, also, Spotted Tiger conducted his visitors to many scenes of beauty, where the young doctor not only shot a variety of game, large and small, feathered and furred, but made acquaintance with many quite new species of plants. He collected and preserved a few of the rarest of these, but owing to the style of travelling, both past and prospective, he had to deny himself much in that respect.

Likewise, during those three days, he made acquaintance with the numerous pets of Tiger’s household—not the human pets, (although he became a great favourite with these also), but the lower-animal pets—the turtle, and the noisy parrot already mentioned, a fat little guinea-pig, a most melancholy red monkey, a young jaguar, a very juvenile tapir, a flamingo, and other creatures.

The tapir was about the size of a six months’ old pig. Instead of the blackish brown hair peculiar to the adult tapir, its coat was striped longitudinally with black, grey, and yellow, and was so brilliant in colour that the animal was quite a dazzling pet! besides which, it was an affectionate little thing, and particularly susceptible to the pleasure of being tickled.

The tame jaguar, however, was a very different style of animal. It did indeed like to be caressed, but it had gradually grown too large to be a safe plaything, and there was an occasional gleam in its eye which rendered Lawrence uneasy when he saw the Indian children playing with it. It was about the size of a small Newfoundland dog, but had grown up so gradually with the family that they appeared not to realise the danger attending its great strength. Spotted Tiger himself had indeed perceived something of it, for at the time we write of he had tied the animal to a stake with a stout rope, which was long enough to permit of his ranging in a wide circle.

Little did Lawrence dream of the part that peculiar pet was to play before the period of three days closed.

It was on the evening of the third day. They were all seated round a fire at supper, in front of the hut. Lawrence sat beside Manuela, as usual, and was taking much pains to teach her the correct pronunciation of an English word, of which she made a wonderful bungle, and seemed to derive much amusement from the fact, to judge from her occasional peals of silvery laughter. We use the word advisedly, in deference to the feelings of our hero, who thought and called the laughter silvery!

Tiger sat on the girl’s other side, and Quashy was seated opposite, with Little Cub and several of the lesser cubs beside him. The pet jaguar crouched close to its stake, glaring at them. There was nothing unusual either in the attitude or the glare to cause anxiety, yet Lawrence did not like it, and while engaged in imparting the difficult lesson referred to, kept his eye on the brute.

Suddenly, without warning or roar, the dangerous pet sprang at Manuela! Why it selected her we cannot imagine, unless it was that, being a brute of good taste, it chose her as the tenderest of the party. The strong cord by which it was fastened snapped like a piece of thread, but Lawrence threw himself in front of the girl, caught the animal by the throat, and held him with both hands, as if in a vice. Instantly every claw of the four paws was buried in the flesh of his legs and arms, and he would certainly have been fearfully rent by his powerful antagonist if Tiger had not, with lightning stroke, buried his long keen knife in the animal’s heart.

So swiftly and effectually was the deed done, that the jaguar next moment hung limp and dead in our hero’s grasp. Dropping it on the ground, he turned up his sleeves to examine the wounds.

“Deep enough, but not lacerated, thank God,” he said. “They won’t give me much trouble. Come, Quash, into the bush, and help me to look at the other scratches and dress them. I must appoint you assistant-surgeon for the occasion!”

Manuela murmured her thanks in a deep, tremulous voice that said much for her power of gratitude, and, timidly taking the youth’s hand as he passed, humbly touched it with her lips.

The wounds were soon dressed, and, thanks to Tiger’s promptitude, they did not afterwards give much trouble.

That night, as they were about to retire to their several hammocks, Lawrence went up to the Indian girl, and, for the first time, held out his hand for a shake in the white man’s fashion.

“I’m glad, Manuela,” he said, as she frankly grasped it, “that it has pleased God to make me the instrument of—of—protecting you.”

“Twice,” replied the girl quickly, and then paused, with a confused look,—“how you say, twice—or two times?”

“Say which you like,” replied Lawrence, with a hearty laugh; “the words will sound equally well from your lips, but ‘twice’ is the right way.”

“Well, twice you have save me. I am gratitude. My father will be gratitude.”

“Tell me, Manuela,” returned Lawrence, earnestly, “is your father a chief?”

“Yes,—a great chief.”

There was a peculiar smile on the girl’s lips as she said this that disconcerted him. We have said that he was naturally shy. He had intended to follow up his first question by asking if her father was descended from the Incas, but the peculiar smile checked him. He bade her good-night, and turned abruptly away.

While he was sitting by the fire meditating on this matter, he heard a step in the bushes. Tiger, who had already retired to his hammock, also heard it, and bounded to his feet. Next instant Pedro glided into the circle of light and saluted them.

He appeared to be worn out with exhaustion, for, flinging himself on the ground beside the fire, he rested his head in silence for a few minutes on a poncho. Then, observing a piece of manioca cake that had been dropped by some one at supper, he took it up and ate it almost ravenously.

“Why, you seem to be starving, Pedro,” said Lawrence, earnestly

“Not so bad as that,” returned Pedro with a faint smile. “A man can scarcely be said to starve with so many of the fruits of the earth around him. But I’ve been hard pressed since early morning, and—”

“Stay,” interrupted Lawrence, “before you say another word, I will go and fetch you some food.”

“No need, senhor. My old friend Spotted Tiger has forestalled you.”

This was true. The Indian, having seen at a glance how matters stood, had gone up to the hut without speaking. He now returned with a bowl of boiled maize, a bunch of bananas, and a jar of water.

While his friend was busy with these, he asked a few questions, which Pedro answered briefly.

From the expression of the Indian’s face, Lawrence gathered that these replies caused him some anxiety. As the guide’s appetite became gradually appeased his loquacity increased, but he made few remarks to Lawrence until the meal was finished. Then, turning to him with a sigh of contentment, he said—

“I’ve been slightly wounded, senhor, but I doubt not that you can soon put me all right.”

Taking off his poncho as he spoke, and pushing aside his light cotton shirt, he revealed the fact that his left breast was bound with a piece of blood-stained calico.

Lawrence at once examined the wound.

“A slight wound, indeed,” he said, “but vigorously dealt. I can see that,—and you’ve had a narrow escape, too. Half an inch higher up would have been fatal.”

“Yes, it was meant to kill,” was Pedro’s quiet rejoinder; “but, thank God, I had a friend near who meant to save, and he turned the knife aside in time. Sit down now, I’ll tell you how it happened.

“My business required me to visit a certain tribe of Indians at a considerable distance from here, where the country is somewhat disturbed, and the white inhabitants are threatening to cut each other’s throats by way of mending political affairs. They took me for a spy. It is not the first time that I have been taken for a spy, and I suppose it won’t be the last,” continued Pedro, with a grave smile. “Of course I protested my innocence, explained my object, and showed that my visit was one of peace. They would have let me go if an enemy had not been in the camp. You see, Senhor Armstrong, I have many enemies as well as friends everywhere.”

“That is always the case with men who hold decided principles, and try to act up to them with vigour,” returned Lawrence.

“So I have found it,” rejoined Pedro, looking earnestly at his young friend. “You have had a more varied experience of life than I. Has that been your experience too?”

“It has. But I suspect that my experience of life has not been so much varied as yours, Pedro, for it has been chiefly among civilised communities until now. Still, I have observed that it is only those who swim with the current of public opinion, and jostle nobody, who manage to keep friends with everybody. When a man ventures to think for himself,—as he ought to do,—and take action, he is sure to have enemies as well as friends,—supposing, of course, that he is a man of any power or influence.”

“Well, I suppose it is because I try to have influence,” rejoined Pedro, “that I manage to have plenty of friends and foes,—the last being sometimes unreasonably bitter.”

“That proves your influence to be powerful,” said Lawrence.

“H’m! it may be so. I know not. Time will show. At all events, this enemy of mine stirred up a number of men like himself in the camp to such an extent that they seized me, and carried me to the banks of their river, with the purpose of throwing me to the alligators. Some of those who were in my favour ran along with them, and among them I observed one man who I knew would be willing to risk his life for me. This gave me hope; but my enemy did not approve of the mode of my execution; he thought—rightly—that a chance of escape was involved in it; so, to make sure, I suppose, he came close up, and when they were on the point of throwing me into the river, he drew his knife and made a plunge at my heart. My friend must have suspected something of the sort, for he had also pushed close to me, and I saw him give the would-be murderer the jostle that turned his knife aside.

“Next moment I was in the river. I knew that it swarmed with alligators, and felt an uncomfortable thrill as I went in head foremost; but I knew also that I was a strong and swift swimmer, so I struck out for my life to the opposite bank, which was not more than forty yards off. I splashed as much as I could, for you know, senhor, that splashing tends to keep alligators off, though it is not always successful. Before I had made half a dozen strokes, however, I felt my flesh creep. Do you know what it feels like to have your flesh creep?”

“No, not exactly,” replied Lawrence; “but I have a pretty good guess as to what you mean.”

“Well,” resumed the guide, “I felt my flesh creep, for I heard a most awful puffing and splashing close behind me. At the same time I heard a wild cheer on the bank, as if my foes were rejoicing at the prospect of my being eaten up! I looked back quickly, expecting to see the terrible jaws and the long rows of teeth; but, to my great surprise, I saw only my friend pursuing me with his knife in his teeth, as if he wanted to finish me. I understood the thing at once. The good fellow knew that two could make a better splashing than one, and he also hoped, no doubt, that his comrades would give him credit for extreme bravery in thus jumping into such danger for the sake—as they would suppose—of killing an enemy! The cheer they gave him showed what they thought on that point.

“We both gained the opposite bank—I a few yards in advance. You may be sure I was not slow in bounding up the bank. I could hear the howl of rage with which the villains saw the failure of their plan. What is more, I could both hear and see the arrows that were sent after me, but, through God’s blessing, none of them touched me, and I was soon in the shelter of the woods. I could also hear my friend panting at my heels.

“I’m a pretty fair runner,” continued Pedro, “but my friend is a better. He passed me like a deer. ‘Come on,’ he cried, ‘you’ve no time to lose.’ From which I knew he meant that the blackguards would cross the river in canoes and pursue me. He led me across a spit of jungle-land where the river took a sudden bend, and came out on the bank at the head of a long rapid. On reaching the bank he pulled out a small canoe which had been concealed there, and told me to jump in. ‘You’ll have to run the rapid. It’s not much of a chance, but it’s your only one.’ I squeezed his hand, thanked him hastily, and was soon paddling quickly with the current. In a few moments I heard my friend shouting with rage and brandishing his knife. He was acting, I knew. Looking back I saw that a number of men had joined him, and again the arrows began to drop around me, but I was soon beyond their reach and battling with the rapid.

“Well was it for me that I have been much used to canoeing, for the words of my friend, ‘It’s not much of a chance,’ were literally true. For some minutes I was whirled about by eddies and shoots in such a way that it seems to me now a miracle that I escaped being dashed to pieces several times. I forgot all about my pursuers, so great was the danger; but when at last I ran out of the lowest shoot into the water below the rapids, I saw, on looking back, that they were still following me along the banks. I was going faster, however, than they were, so I felt easier in my mind, till I saw them jump into several canoes and push off in chase. By that time I had more than a mile of start, and the sun was setting. ‘Now, Pedro,’ said I to myself, ‘it’s a fair race for your life; so bend your back to it, my boy.’ I went on till it grew so dark that I could hardly see twenty yards ahead of me. Then I put ashore, hauled the canoe up among the reeds, climbed into a tree and went to sleep, for well I knew that it would be death both to them and me if we continued descending a stream like that in the dark.

“Well, I slept like a top, for I was dead beat; but two or three times I awoke with a tremendous start under the impression that I was falling. I’ve always found it so when obliged to spend the night in the branches of a tree. Did you ever sleep so, Senhor Armstrong?”

Lawrence confessed that he had never yet indulged in such bird-like repose.

“Well, it’s not so difficult as you might think,” continued Pedro, with a meditative gaze at the fire, “especially if you’re very tired, hard pressed for time, and in some danger. Under these circumstances it’s wonderful what a fellow can do to make the best of his opportunities. You find out, somehow, the securest way to twine your legs and arms in among the branches, and twist your feet and fingers into the forks and twigs—don’t you know?”

Yes, Lawrence knew well; at least, if he did not know exactly, he had a powerful imagination!

“Well, then, long before daylight I was up and off, feeling my way as best I could in the first grey glimpses of dawn, so that I got a good start—at least I thought so; but soon I found my pursuers had also started early and were overhauling me; and no wonder, seeing that their canoes were large and well manned. I now felt that I had no chance of escaping by water, but I had by that time got into a part of the country with which I was well acquainted, and knew that if I could only reach a certain point before being caught, I might take to the bush and cross overland to my friend’s hut here. That was early this morning. The only trouble I had was that my wound was beginning to give me considerable pain, and I felt losing strength for want of food. I had scarce time to cat, much less to search for food, they pressed me so hard. However, a man makes a hard struggle for life, so I tightened my belt, and set to work with such good will, that I was soon a long way ahead of them, and got out of sight at a place where the river takes a number of bends and is full of small islands. At last, about noon, I reached the desired point, paddled carefully in among the reeds, so as to prevent the savages seeing where I had landed, jumped ashore, hid the canoe, stepped out as hard as I could, and—here I am.”

“But,” exclaimed Lawrence, with some excitement, “if you left the Indians so recently, won’t they be close on your heels?”

“No fear. I came here in a straight line overland. By the windings of the river they cannot be here, even at the soonest, before the afternoon of to-morrow. But they will probably give up the chase long before getting this length. Besides, if they did arrive, they would find a warm reception from four well-armed men, instead of catching one poor unarmed fugitive. But we won’t give them the chance. We will be up and away by daybreak. Tiger here has agreed to join us in our trip to Buenos Ayres. He will take his wife and family down stream to his father-in-law’s tribe, where they will be safe till his return. Are you all well, and ready for a start?”

“Yes, all well—and shall be ready as soon as you please.”

“That’s right. Where’s Quashy?”

“Close alongside. Don’t you hear him?”

Lawrence referred to a sound like the drone of a giant mosquito, which proceeded from the negro’s nose, for that worthy was a heavy sleeper—when not in danger—and had not been disturbed by the arrival of the guide.

Giving vent to a prolonged yawn, Pedro rose and stretched himself. Then he went up to the sleeping Quashy and took him by the nose, at the same time putting his hand on his mouth to smother the inevitable yell in its birth. When sufficiently awake to be released with safety, the amiable negro was permitted to raise himself, and when aware of who had grasped him, he beamed with good-will, and gleamed with surprise.

“Get up, Quashy, and help them to pack,” said Pedro, curtly, “we start at daybreak.”

Quashy was on his feet in a moment. “Don’t rouse me till it’s time to start,” added Pedro, who thereupon rolled into the vacant hammock, and was asleep—perchance in the land of dreams—almost as soon as his wearied head reposed on the negro’s pillow.

Chapter Sixteen.

Tells of Absurd, as well as Evil, Doings, and winds up with a Horrid Surprise.

Whether Pedro’s pursuers continued the chase as far as the Indian hunter’s hut we cannot tell, for long before noon of the following day our travellers were far from the hunting-grounds of the gallant savage.

Soon after the usual midday siesta, the canoe, which contained the whole of the hunter’s worldly wealth, was run on the beach near to the spot where dwelt his father-in-law with many members of his tribe.

That worthy old man, in a light evening costume consisting of a cotton shirt and straw hat, came down to receive his children, who landed amid much noise with their boys and girls and household gods, including the red monkey, the parrot, the flamingo, the fat guinea-pig, the turtle, and the infant tapir. The old chief was quite willing to take care of the family during the absence of his son-in-law, and was very pressing in his offers of hospitality to the white travellers, but Pedro refused to delay more than an hour at the village.

The old man also evinced a considerable amount of curiosity in regard to Manuela, and made one or two attempts to engage her in conversation, but on being informed by Pedro that she belonged to a tribe living half-way between his hunting-grounds and the regions of Patagonia, and that she did not understand his dialect at all, he forbore to question her, and satisfied himself with simply gazing.

After a farewell which was wonderfully affectionate for savages, Spotted Tiger embarked in Pedro’s canoe, and, pushing off into the river, bade the Indians adieu.

The canoe in which the party now travelled belonged to Tiger, and was larger as well as more commodious than that in which they had hitherto journeyed, having a gondola-like cabin constructed of grasses and palm-leaves, underneath which Manuela found shelter from the sun. In the evenings Pedro could lie at full length on the top of it and smoke his cigarette. They were floating with the current, you see, and did not require to labour much at the paddles at that time.

It would weary the reader were we to continue our description of the daily proceedings of our adventurers in journalistic form. To get on with our tale requires that we should advance by bounds, and even flights—not exactly of fancy, but over stretches of space and time, though now and then we may find it desirable to creep or even to stand still.

We request the reader to creep with us at present, and quietly listen while Pedro and Tiger talk.

Pedro lies extended on his back on the roof of the gondola-like cabin, his hands under his head, his knees elevated, and a cigarette in his mouth. Lawrence and Quashy are leaning in more or less lazy attitudes on the gunwale of the canoe, indulging now and then in a few remarks, which do not merit attention. Manuela, also in a reclining attitude, rests under the shade of the erection on which Pedro lies, listening to their discourse. Tiger is the only one on duty, but his labour is light: it consists merely of holding the steering oar, and guiding the light craft along the smooth current of the river. Pedro lies with his head to the stern, so that his talk with the Indian is conducted, so to speak, upside-down. But that does not seem to incommode them, for the ideas probably turn right end foremost in passing to and fro.

Of course their language is in the Indian tongue. We translate.

“Tiger,” said Pedro, sending a long whiff of smoke straight up towards the bright blue sky, where the sun was beginning to descend towards his western couch, “we shan’t make much, I fear, of the men of this part of the country.”

“I did not expect that you would,” replied the Indian, giving a gentle turn to his oar in order to clear a mudbank, on which a number of alligators were basking comfortably.

“Why so, Tiger? Surely peace and good government are as desirable to them as to others.”

“No doubt, but many of them do not love peace. They are young. Their blood is hot, and they have nothing to do. When that is so, war is pleasant to them. It is natural. Man must work, or play, or fight. He cannot lie still. Those who are killed cannot return to tell their comrades what fools they have been, so those that remain are greater fools than ever.”

“I agree with you, Tiger; but you see it is not the young men who have the making of war, though they generally get all the doing of it, and the poor women and children take the consequences; it is the governors, whom one would expect to show some sort of wisdom, and recognise the fact that union is strength, and that respect for Law is the only hope of the land.”

“Governors,” returned Tiger, in a deep voice, “are not only fools, but villains—tyrants!”

The Indian spoke with such evidence of suppressed indignation that Pedro tried to look at him.

The aspect of his frowning countenance upside-down was not conducive to gravity.

“Come, Tiger,” said Pedro, with a tendency to laugh, “they are not all tyrants; I know one or two who are not bad fellows.”

“I know one who is a fool and a robber.”

“Indeed. What has he done to make you so bitter?” asked Pedro.

“Made us wear spectacles!” replied the Indian, sternly.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you not heard about it?”

“No; you know I have been away in Chili for some time, and am ignorant of much that has been going on in these parts.”

“There is in Spain a white man, I know not who,” said Tiger, with an expression of ineffable contempt, “but he must be the chief of the fools among the white men, who seem to me to be all fools together.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Pedro, with a laugh.

“This white fool,” continued Tiger, paying no regard to his friend’s interruption, “thought that he would send out here for sale some spectacles—glass things, you know, that old white men look through when they cannot see. We Indians, as you know, never need such things. We can see well as long as we live. It is supposed that a mistake was made by some one, for something like a canoe-load of spectacles was sent out—so many that in a hundred years the white men could not have used them up. The trader knew not what to do. There was no sale for them. He applied to the governor—that robber of whom I have spoken. He said to the trader, with a wink of his eye—that sort of wink which the white fool gives when he means to pass from folly to knavery—‘Wait,’ he said, ‘and you shall see.’ Then he issued an order that no Indian should dare to appear in his district, or in church during festival-days, without spectacles! The consequence was that the spectacles were all sold. I know not the price of these foolish things, but some white men told me they were sold at an enormous profit.”

Although Pedro sympathised heartily with his brown friend in his indignation, he could not quite repress a smile at the ridiculous ideas called up. Fortunately the Indian failed to interpret an upside-down smile, particularly with the moustache, as it were, below instead of above the mouth, and a cigarette in the lips. It was too complicated.

“And were you obliged to buy and wear a pair of these spectacles, Tiger?” asked Pedro, after a few silent puffs.

“Yes—look! here they are,” he replied, with inconceivable bitterness, drawing forth the implements of vision from his pouch and fixing them on his nose with intense disgust. Then, suddenly plucking them off; he hurled them into the river, and said savagely—“I was a Christian once, but I am not a Christian now.”

“How? what do you mean?” asked Pedro, raising himself on his elbow at this, so as to look straightly as well as gravely at his friend.

“I mean that the religion of such men must be false,” growled the Indian, somewhat defiantly.

“Now, Tiger,” returned his friend in a remonstrative tone, “that is not spoken with your usual wisdom. The religion which a man professes may be true, though his profession of it may be false. However, I am not unwilling to admit that the view of our religion which is presented in this land is false—very false. Nevertheless, Christianity is true. I will have some talk with you at another time on this subject, my friend. Meanwhile, let us return to the point from which we broke off—the disturbed state of this unhappy country.”

Let us pause here, reader, to assure you that this incident of the spectacles is no fiction. Well would it be for the South American Republics at this day, as well as for the good name of Spain, if the poor aborigines of South America had nothing more serious to complain of than the arbitrary act of the dishonest governor referred to; but it is a melancholy fact that, ever since the conquest of Peru by Pizarro, the Spaniards have treated the Indians with brutal severity, and it is no wonder that revenge of the fiercest nature still lingers in the breasts of the descendants of those unfortunate savages.

Probably our reader knows that the Peruvian region of the Andes is rich in gold and silver-mines. These the Spanish conquerors worked by means of Indian slave labour. Not long after the conquest a compulsory system of personal toil was established, whereby a certain proportion of the natives of each district were appointed by lot to work in the mines. Every individual who obtained a grant of a mine became entitled to a certain number of Indians to work it, and every mine which remained unwrought for a year and a day became the property of any one who chose to claim and work it. As there were many hundreds of mines registered in Peru alone, it may be imagined what a host of Indians were consequently condemned to a degraded state of slavery.

The labour of the mines was so dreadful that each unfortunate on whom the lot fell considered it equivalent to his death-warrant. And that there was ground for this belief is proved by the fact that not more than one in six of the Indians condemned to the mines survived the treatment there inflicted. Each mitayo, or conscript, received nominally two shillings a day. But he never actually received it. On his fate being fixed by lot, the poor fellow carried his wife and children to the mines with him, and made arrangements for never again returning home. His food and lodging, being supplied by his employers, (owners?) were furnished at such an extravagant rate that he always found himself in debt at the end of his first year—if he outlived it. In that case he was not allowed to leave until his debt was paid, which, of course, it never was.

Usually, however, the bad air and heavy labour of the mines, coupled with grief, told so much on men accustomed to the fresh air and free life of the wilderness, that death closed the scene before the first year of servitude was out. It is said that above eight millions of natives have perished thus in the mines of Peru.

We have shown briefly one of the many phases of tyrannical cruelty practised by the conquerors of the land. Here is another specimen. At first there were few merchants in Peru, therefore privilege was granted to the Spanish corregidors, or governors of districts, to import goods suitable for Indians, and barter them at a fair price. Of course this permission was abused, and trade became a compulsory and disgraceful traffic. Useless and worthless articles and damaged goods—razors, for instance, silk stockings, velvets, etcetera—were forced on Indians who preferred naked feet and had no beards.

The deeds of the soldiers, miners, and governors were but too readily copied by the priests, many of whom were rapacious villains who had chosen the crucifix as their weapon instead of the sword. One priest, for instance, besides his regular dues and fees, received during the year as presents, which he exacted at certain festivals, 200 sheep, 6000 head of poultry, 4000 guinea-pigs, and 50,000 eggs, and he would not say mass on those festival-days until a due proportion of the presents was delivered. And this case of extortion is not told of one of the priests of old. It occurred in the second quarter of the present century. Another priest summoned a widow to make declaration of the property left her by her husband, so that he might fix the scale of his burial fees! He made a high demand. She implored his mercy, reminding him of her large family. He was inexorable, but offered to give up his claim if she would give him her eldest son—a boy of eight—to be sold as a slave or given away as a present. (It seems that the senhoras of those lands want such boys to carry their kneeling carpets.) The civil authorities could not be appealed to in this case. There was no redress, so the widow had to agree to give up her son! Doubtless both in camp and in church there may have been good men, but if so, they form an almost invisible minority on the page of Peruvian history.

In short, tyranny in every form was, and for centuries has been, practised by the white men on the savages; and it is not a matter of wonder that the memory of these things rankles in the Indian’s bosom even at the present time, and that in recent books of travel we read of deeds of diabolical cruelty and revenge which we, in peaceful England, are too apt to think of as belonging exclusively to the days of old.

But let us return to our friends in the little canoe.

“To tell you the truth,” said Pedro to the Indian, “I am deeply disappointed with the result of my mission. It is not so much that men do not see the advantages and necessity for union, as that they are heartless and indifferent—caring nothing, apparently, for the welfare of the land, so long as the wants and pleasures of the present hour are supplied.”

“Has it ever been otherwise?” asked Tiger, with grave severity of expression.

“Well, I confess that my reading of history does not warrant me to say that it has; but my reading of the good Creator’s Word entitles me to hope for and strive after better times.”

“I know not,” returned the Indian, with a far-off, pensive look, “what your histories say. I cannot read. There are no books in my tongue, but my memory is strong. The stories, true stories, of my fathers reach very far back—to the time before the white man came to curse the land,—and I remember no time in which men did not desire each other’s property, and slay each other for revenge. It is man’s nature, as it is the river’s nature to flow down hill.”

“It is man’s fallen, not his first, nature,” said Pedro. “Things were as bad in England once. They are not quite so bad now. God’s law has made the difference. However, we must take things here as we find them, and I’m sorry to think that up to this point my mission has been a failure. Indeed, the last effort, as you know, nearly cost me my life.”

“And what will you now do?” asked Tiger.

“I will visit a few more places in the hope that some of the people may support us. After that, I’ll mount and away over the Pampas to Buenos Ayres; see the colonel, and deliver Manuela to her father.”

“The white-haired chief?” asked Tiger.

“Even so,” replied Pedro.

During the foregoing conversation Quashy had thrust his fat nose down on a plank and gone to sleep, while Lawrence and Manuela, having nothing better to do, taught each other Spanish and English respectively! And, strange though it may appear, it is a fact that Manuela, with all her quick-witted intelligence, was wonderfully slow at learning English. To Lawrence’s intense astonishment and, it must be confessed, to his no small disappointment, the Indian maiden not only made the same blunders over and over again, and seemed to be incapable of making progress, but even laughed at her own stupidity. This somewhat cooled his admiration of her character, which coolness afforded him satisfaction rather than the reverse, as going far to prove that he was not really, (as how could he be?) in love with the brown-skinned, uneducated, half-savage girl, but only much impressed with her amiable qualities. Poor fellow, he was much comforted by these thoughts, because, had it been otherwise, how terrible would have been his fate!—either, on the one hand, to marry her and go and dwell with her savage relations—perhaps be compelled to paint his visage scarlet with arabesque devices in charcoal, and go on the war-path against the white man; or, on the other hand, to introduce his Indian bride into the salons of civilisation, with the certainty of beholding the sneer of contempt on the face of outraged society; with the probability of innumerable violations of the rules of etiquette, and the possibility of Manuela exhibiting the squaw’s preference for the floor to a chair, fingers to knives and forks, and—pooh! the thing was absurd, utterly out of the question!

Towards sunset they came to a part of the river where there were a good many sandbanks, as well as extensive reaches of sand along shore.

On one of these low-lying spits they drew up the canoe, and encamped for that night in the bushes, close enough to the edge to be able to see the river, where a wide-spreading tree canopied them from the dews of night.

Solemn and inexpressibly sad were the views of life taken by Lawrence that night as he stood by the river’s brink in the moonlight, while his companions were preparing the evening meal, and gave himself up to the contemplation of things past, present, and to come,—which is very much like saying that he thought about nothing in particular. What he felt quite sure of was that he was horribly depressed—dissatisfied with himself, his companions and his surroundings, and ashamed in no small degree of his dissatisfaction. As well he might be; for were not his companions particularly agreeable, and were not his surroundings exquisitely beautiful and intensely romantic? The moon in a cloudless sky glittered in the broad stream, and threw its rippling silver treasures at his very feet. A gentle balmy air fanned his cheek, on which mantled the hue of redundant health, and the tremendous puffs and long-drawn sighs of the alligators, with the growl of jaguars, croak and whistle of frogs, and the voice of the howling monkey, combined to fill his ear with the music of thrilling romance, if not of sweetness.

“What more could I wish?” he murmured, self-reproachfully.

A tremendous slap on the face—dealt by his own hand, as a giant mosquito found and probed some tenderer spot than usual—reminded him that some few things, which he did not wish for, were left to mingle in his cup of too great felicity, and reduce it, like water in overproof whisky, to the level of human capacity.

Still dissatisfied, despite his reflections, he returned to the fire under the spreading tree, and sat down to enjoy a splendid basin of turtle soup,—soup prepared by Tiger the day before from the flesh of a turtle slain by his own hand, and warmed up for the supper of that evening. A large tin dish or tureen full of the same was placed at his elbow to tempt his appetite, which, to say truth, required no tempting.

Manuela, having already supped, sat with her little hands clasped in her lap, and her lustrous eyes gazing pensively into the fire. Perhaps she was attempting to read her fortune in the blazing embers. Perchance engaged in thinking of that very common subject—nothing! If Pedro had smoked the same thing, it would have been better for his health and pocket; but Pedro, thinking otherwise, fumigated his fine moustache, and disconcerted the mosquitoes in the region of his nose.

Quashy, having just replenished the fire until the logs rose two feet or more from the ground, turned his back on the same, warmed his hands behind him, and gazed up through the over-arching boughs at the starry sky with that wistfully philosophical expression which negroes are apt to assume when their thoughts are “too deep,” or too complex, “for utterance.”

Spotted Tiger continued to dally with the turtle soup, and seemed loath to give in as he slowly, with many a pause between, raised the huge iron spoon to his lips.

No one seemed inclined to break the silence into which they had sunk, for all were more or less fatigued; and it seemed as if the very brutes around sympathised with them, for there was a perceptible lull in the whistling of the frogs, the howling monkeys appeared to have gone to rest, and the sighing alligators to have subsided and sunk, so that the breaking of a twig or the falling of a leaf was perceptible to the listening ear.

Things were in this state of profound and peaceful calm when a slight rustling was heard among the branches of the tree above them.

The instant glare of Quashy’s eyes; the gaze of Manuela’s; the cock of Pedro’s ear, and the sudden pause of our hero’s spoon on its way to his lips, were sights to behold! The Indian alone seemed comparatively indifferent to the sound, though he looked up inquiringly.

At that moment there burst forth an ear-splitting, marrow-shrivelling blood-curdling yell, that seemed to rouse the entire universe into a state of wild insanity. There could be no mistaking it—the peculiar, horrid, shrieking, only too familiar war-whoop of the painted savage!

Quashy staggered back. He could not recover himself, for a log had caught his heel. To sit down on the fire he knew would be death, therefore he bounded over it backwards and fell into Lawrence’s lap, crushing that youth’s plate almost into the region where the soup had already gone, and dashing his feet into the tureen!

Lawrence roared; Manuela shrieked; Pedro sprang up and seized his weapons. So did Lawrence and his man, regardless of the soup.

Tiger alone sat still, conveying the iron spoon slowly to his lips, but with a peculiar motion of his broad shoulders which suggested that the usually grave savage was convulsed with internal laughter.

“Ghosts and crokidiles!—what’s dat?” gasped Quashy, staring up into the tree, and ready to fire at the first visible object.

Tiger also looked up, made a peculiar sound with his mouth, and held out his hand.

Immediately a huge bird, responding to the call, descended from the tree and settled on his wrist.

Quashy’s brief commentary explained it all.

“Purrit!”

It was indeed the Indian’s faithful pet-parrot, which he had taught thus to raise the war-cry of his tribe, and which, having bestowed its entire affections on its master, was in the habit of taking occasional flights after him when he went away from home.

Chapter Seventeen.

In which Ingenuity, Comicality, Ferocity, Eccentricity, Fecundity, and some other “Ities” in Man and Beast are mentioned.

Plain sailing, fair weather, perpetual calm and sunshine are not the lot of any man or woman here.

The weather, that fertile source of human intercourse, is occasionally boisterous as well as serene in the regions of Peru and Bolivia. A day or two after the events recounted in the last chapter our travellers experienced a sudden change.

We have said that they had come to a part of the river where there were occasional stretches of sand, and here they had evidence of the improvident nature of Indians, in the number of turtle-shells found lying on the sands with parts of the animals still adhering to them.

On one particular spot they found a space, of about seventy yards in diameter completely covered with the upper and under shells of turtles. These had evidently been cut asunder violently with hatchets, and reddish-brown furrows in the sands told where streams of blood had flowed during the massacre.

“What wanton slaughter!” exclaimed Lawrence, as he and his friends stood looking at the scene.

“And it is not long since it was done,” said Pedro, “for the flesh—at least what’s left of it—is still fresh.”

“Ugh, you brutes!” exclaimed Quashy, referring to a number of urubu vultures which stood on the shells, all more or less gorged, some still tearing sleepily at the meat, others standing in apoplectic apathy, quite unable to fly.

They counted upwards of three hundred dead turtles, and this carnage, it was afterwards ascertained, had been the work of only a dozen or so of Indians—not for food, but for the sake of the fine yellow fat covering the intestines, which formed an article of commerce at the time between the red men and the white.

That night after supper time the party busied themselves in making mosquito-curtains out of a small quantity of green muslin obtained from Spotted Tiger’s father-in-law, who had received it from the missionaries. The supply being quite insufficient to make curtains for them all, Quashy had set his fertile brain to work and devised a species of net which, having never been seen in that country before, deserves special notice. It may serve as a hint to other mortals similarly situated and tormented.

“You mus’ know,” remarked Quashy to his friends, who watched him while he fabricated the first of these curtains, “dat my gran’fadder was a injineer, an’ some ob his geenus comed down to me. Dat’s why I’s so clebber wid my hands. Has you got dem hoops tied, massa?”

“All right, Quashy, I’m just finishing the last one. There—are these the right sizes?”

“Das right, massa. Biggest two one futt six in dameter; oder two leetle ones, one futt. Now, you looks here, ladies an’ gen’lemen. See, I’s made a bag ob dis muzzlin ’bout two futt six long an’ ’bout two futt wide. Well, one end ob de bag is close up—as you see. ’Tother end am open—as you b’hold. Vwalla! as de Frenchman says. Now, I puts into de closed end one small hoop—so. Den de two large hoops—so—’bout six inches apart. Den de leetle hoop—so. Which makes my bag into what you may call a gauze-barrel, wid de hoops inside ’stead ob outside. Nixt, I puts it ober my head, lets de bottom hoop rest on my shoulders, shoves de slack ob de veil—I calls it a veil, not a curtin,—down my neck under my poncho, so’s nuffin can git inside, an’ dere you are. No skeeters git at me now!”

“But, Quash,” said Lawrence, who had watched the making of this ingenious device, as well as lent assistance, “there are mosquitoes inside it even now; and with such swarms as are about us, how will you keep them out while putting the thing on.”

“Don’ call it a ‘t’ing,’ massa,” said Quashy, with a dignified look, “call it a ‘veil.’ Dere’s nuflin easier. See here.”

He rose, took off the veil, and flattened the hoops down on each other, so as to drive out all that might be inside. Then he stepped to leeward of the fire, held his breath for a few seconds while in the smoke, quickly adjusted his novel head-piece, and stood up fully armed against the “skeeters.”

“But,” still objected Lawrence, “how can you lay your head on your pillow with such a thing—beg pardon, such a veil on?”

“Nuffin easier, massa.”

He illustrated his point by rolling over into one of the nearest hammocks—which had already been hung—and laying his head down, when, of course, the machine bulged away from his black face, and the discomfited millions kept thrusting their probosces—and, doubtless, making faces at him—ineffectually.

“But how if you should want to roll about in your sleep?” asked Pedro.

“Don’t want to roll about in your sleep!” replied the negro, curtly.

It is right to say that, in spite of the advice thus firmly given, Quashy did roll in his sleep that night, with the result that his nose at last got close to the veil and pressed against it. No malignant foe ever took advantage of an enemy’s weak point more promptly than did the “skeeters” of Quashy’s nocturnal trumpet. They settled on its point with a species of triumphant hum. They warred with each other in their bloodthirsty desire to seize on the delicate but limited morsel. It was “cut and come again”—at least it was “cut away and let others come on”—as long as the chance lasted. And the consequence was that Quashy rose next morning with two noses! His natural nose being a mere lump of fat and the lump raised on it being much the same in form and size with the original, we feel justified in saying that he had two noses—nearly.

Notwithstanding, it is but fair to add that the veils were afterwards pronounced a great success.

But to return.

That night, after the veils in question had been made and put on by all except Tiger, who was skeeto-proof, and the happy wearers were steeped in blissful repose, a tremendous hurricane burst upon them, with thunder, lightning, and rain. The wind came in furious gusts which tore away some of the veils, overturned the hammocks, scattered the bedding, extinguished the fire, drenched them to the skin, and otherwise rendered them supremely miserable.

Retiring to a thicker part of the jungle, they cut down branches and made a temporary erection which they covered with ponchos and blankets; but as everything had to be done in the dark, it was a wretched affair, and, at the best, only a partial protection. Into the furthest extremity of this hut poor Manuela crept. The others followed, and there they all sat or reclined, shivering, till morning.

About daybreak Lawrence heard Pedro and the Indian girl conversing in the Indian language and in unusually earnest tones, which were interrupted once or twice by slight laughter. He wondered much what they found to laugh at, but having become by that time accustomed to the guide’s little touches of mystery, and being very sleepy, he did not trouble himself about it long.

The storm happily was short-lived, and when the sun appeared, enabling them to dry their garments, and a good breakfast had been eaten, the discomforts of the past night were forgotten, and Quashy even ceased to growl at the “skeeters” and lament his double nose.

Hitherto they had met with few Indians, and these few were friendly, being acquainted either personally or by report with Spotted Tiger, for the man’s reputation as a jaguar and puma slayer had extended far beyond his own tribe. That day, however, several native canoes were passed, and in the evening they found that the place on which Tiger had made up his mind to encamp was in possession of Indians.

“Friendly?” asked Pedro, as they approached the shore.

“Yes, friendly,” replied Tiger.

“Would it not be better to go a little further and encamp away from them?” asked Lawrence, who retained unpleasant memories of the dirtiness of Indian encampments.

“Tiger wishes to speak to them,” said Pedro, as the canoe was run on shore.

It was found that the party consisted of several families of Indians who were out on a turtle-hunting expedition, for the season had arrived when turtles lay their eggs.

This laying season of the turtle sets the whole population of those regions, civilised and savage, in motion, searching in the sands for eggs, and capturing or killing the animals. The Indians now met with were on the latter business. Upon the weather depends the commencement of this season of unwonted activity among the turtles and wild excitement among the river-side Indians, for the snows must cease to fall on the summits of the Andes, and the rivers must decrease in volume so as to lay bare vast spaces of sand, before the eggs can be laid.

No alderman in London city ever equalled—much less excelled—a South American savage of that region in his love of turtle, or in his capacity for devouring it. But the savage goes immeasurably further than the alderman! He occupies altogether a higher and more noble position in regard to the turtle, for he not only studies, with prolonged care and deep interest, its habits and manners, but follows it, watches it, catches it, kills it, and, finally, cooks it with his own hands, before arriving at the alderman’s comparatively simple and undignified act of eating it.

So exact are these Indians in their observations and knowledge of the turtle question, that they can tell almost to a day when and where their unsuspecting victims will land and lay. There was an extensive stretch of flat sand close to the spot where our voyageurs put ashore, on which the Indians had observed numerous claw-marked furrows, which had been traced by the turtles. Here, therefore, they had called a halt, built a number of ajoupas, or leafy sheds, about two hundred yards from the edge of the river, under the shelter of which to sit at night and watch for their prey.

The turtles, it was found, were expected to land that night. Meanwhile, the savages were regaling themselves with a splendid dish, or rather jar, containing hundreds of turtles’ eggs, mixed with bananas.

These they hospitably shared with their visitors. The mess was very palatable, though “heavy,” and our travellers did justice to it—especially the negro, whose gastronomic powers were equal to all emergencies.

“How do they know,” asked Lawrence, as he and Pedro busied themselves in tying up the hammocks in a suitable part of the jungle, “when to expect the turtles?”

“Who can tell?” said Pedro. “Instinct, I suppose.”

“But dey not stink at all,” objected Quashy, “anyhow, not till arter dey’s dead, so’t can’t be dat.”

“It’s not that kind of stink I mean, Quashy; quite another sort,” said Pedro, who felt unequal to the task of explanation. “But look sharp; we must lend the Indians a helping hand to-night.”

“But I don’t know nuffin about it,” said Quashy, “an’ a man what don’t know what to do is on’y in de way ob oder peepil.”

“You take a just view of things, boy,” returned Pedro, “but you won’t find it difficult to learn. Five minutes looking at what the Indians do will suffice, for they only turn the turtles.”

“How you mean? Turn ’im upside-down, or outside in—w’ich?”

“You’d find it hard to do the last, Quashy. No, you’ve only to turn them over on their backs, and let them lie; that’s all.”

While the negro was thus gathering useful knowledge, the Indians amused themselves in various ways until darkness should call them forth to the business of the hour. Some, with that amazing tendency to improve their personal appearance, which is common alike to civilised and savage, plucked out the little beard with which nature had endowed them by means of tweezers, deeming it no doubt wiser on the whole to pluck up the beard by the roots than to cut it off close thereto, as indeed it was, seeing that the former process did not need regular repetition. Others were still busy with the turtle-egg ragout, unable, apparently to decide whether or not appetite was satisfied. Two somewhat elderly but deeply interested savages whiled away the time with a game of cup-and-ball, turn and turn about, with imperturbable gravity.

This game was different from that of Europe to the extent of being played on precisely opposite principles. It was not he who caught the ball on the point of the sharp stick that won, but he who failed to catch it, for failure was more difficult to achieve than success! The explanation is simple. The handle was a piece of pointed wood, about the thickness of a ramrod, and a yard or so in length. To this, by a piece of string made from fibres of the palm, was attached the ball, which was formed of the skull of a turtle, carefully scraped. There was no “cup” in the game. It was all point, and the great point was to touch the ball a certain number of times without catching it, a somewhat difficult feat to accomplish owing to the dozen or more natural cavities with which the skull-ball was pierced, and into one of which the point was almost always pretty sure to enter.

At last the shades of night descended on the scene, and the Indians, laying aside ragout, tweezers, cup-and-ball, etcetera, went down to the sand-flats, and crouched, kneeled, or squatted under the leafy ajoupas. Of course their visitors accompanied them.

It was a profoundly dark night, for during the first part of it there was no moon, and the stars, although they lent beauty and lustre to the heavens, did not shed much light upon the sands. There is a weird solemnity about such a scene which induces contemplative thought even in the most frivolous, while it moves the religious mind to think more definitely, somehow, of the near presence of the Creator. For some time Lawrence, who crouched in profound silence beside Pedro, almost forgot the object for which he was waiting there. The guide seemed to be in a similarly absent mood, for he remarked at last in a low voice—

“How striking would be the contrasts presented to us constantly by nature, if we were not so thoroughly accustomed to them! Storm, and noise, and war of elements last night,—to-night, silence, calm, and peace! At present, darkness profound,—in half an hour or so the moon will rise, and the sands will be like a sheet of silver. This moment, quiet repose,—a few moments hence, it may be, all will be turmoil and wildest action—that is, if the turtles come.”

“True,” assented Lawrence, “and we may add yet another illustration: at one moment, subjects of contemplation most sublime,—next moment, objects the most ridiculous.”

He pointed as he spoke to Quashy, whose grinning teeth and glaring eyes alone were distinctly visible in the background of ebony. He was creeping on his hands and knees, by way of rendering himself, if possible, less obtrusive.

“Massa,” he said, in a hoarse yet apologetic whisper, “I’s come to ax if you t’ink de turtles am comin’ at all dis night.”

“How can I tell, Quash, you stupid fellow? Get away to your own ajoupa, and keep quiet. I wonder the Indians haven’t let fly a poisoned arrow at you. Go,—and have patience.”

Poor Quashy shut his mouth and his eyes—it was as if three little lights had gone out—while his dusky frame melted into its native gloom.

No sound was to be heard on the sand-flats after that until about midnight, when the moon appeared on the horizon. Just then a sound was heard on the river.

“Here they come,” whispered Pedro.

The sound increased. It was like a swirling, hissing noise. Soon they could see by the increasing light that the water of the river seemed actually to boil. Immediately afterwards, thousands of turtles came tumbling clumsily out of the water, and spread themselves over the flats.

Evidently egg-laying was no joke with them. The well-known sluggishness of the creatures was laid aside for this great occasion, and wonderful activity marked their every movement from first to last. You see, they had to manage the business in a wholesale sort of fashion, each turtle having from thirty to forty eggs, or more, to deposit in the sand,—on which sand, in conjunction with the sun, devolved the duty of subsequent maternal care.

That the creatures acted on pre-arranged principles was evident from the fact that they worked in separate detachments, each working-party devoting its energies to the digging of a trench two feet deep, four feet broad, and sometimes 200 yards long. Their zeal was amazing; as well it might be, for they allowed themselves less than an hour in which to do it all. Each animal dug like a hero with its fore-feet, and sent the sand flying about it to such an extent that the whole flat appeared to be enveloped in a thick fog!

When satisfied that their trench was deep enough they stopped work, deposited their soft-shelled eggs, and, with their hind feet, soon filled up the trench. So great was their eagerness and hurry, that during the operation more than one turtle, tumbling over her companions, rolled into the trench and was buried alive. No sooner was the stupendous work accomplished than they made a disorderly rush for the river, as if aware of the fate which threatened them.

And now at last came the opportunity of the savage. The Iron Duke’s “Up, guards, and at ’em!” could not have been more promptly or gladly obeyed than was the signal of the red-skinned chief. Like statues they had awaited it. Like catapults they responded to it, with yells of mingled madness and joy.

But there was method in their madness. To have run between the shelly host and the river, so as to cut off its retreat, would have been sheer lunacy, at which Luna herself—by that time shining superbly—would have paled with horror, for the men would have certainly been overthrown and trampled under foot by the charging squadrons. What the Indians did was to rush upon the flanks of the host, seize the animals’ tail, and hurl them over on their backs, in which position they lay flapping helplessly. Before the retreating “miserables” reached the river, hundreds of captives were thus obtained.

You may be sure that Lawrence and Pedro and Spotted Tiger acted their part well that night, and that Quashy was not long in learning his lesson!

The first tail the negro grasped slipped through his hands, so mighty was his effort, and, as a consequence, he sat down with that sudden involuntary flop which one associates irresistibly with nurseries. Jumping up, and rendered wise, he took a better grip next time, turned the turtle over, and fell on the top of it, receiving a tremendous whack on the cheek from its right flipper as a reward for his clumsiness. But practice makes perfect. Even in the brief space of time at his disposal, Quashy managed to turn ten turtles with his own hands, besides turning himself over six times, if not more.

Rendered wild by success, and desperate with anxiety, as the fugitives neared the river, the negro fixed his glittering eyes on a particularly huge turtle, which was scuttling along in almost drunken haste. With an impromptu war-howl, Quashy charged down on it, and caught it by the tail. With a heave worthy of Hercules he lifted his foe some inches off the sand, but failed to turn it. Making a second effort, he grasped the edge of the creature’s shell with his left hand, and the tail more firmly with the right.

“Huyp!” he shouted, and made a Herculean heave. A second time he would have failed, if it had not been that he was on the edge of a part of the trench which the turtles had not had time to fill up. The weight of the creature caused a fore-leg to break off part of the edge, and over it went, slowly, on its side,—almost balancing thus, and flapping as it went. To expedite the process Quashy seized it by the neck and gave another heave and howl. Unfortunately, the edge of the trench again gave way under one of his own feet, and he fell into it with a cry of distress, for the turtle fell on the top of him, crushing him down into the soft watery sand!

Well was it for Quashy that night that Lawrence Armstrong had good ears, and was prompt to respond to the cry of distress, else had he come to an untimely and inglorious end! Hearing the cry, Lawrence looked quickly round, guessed the cause, shouted to Pedro, who was not far-off, and was soon on the spot,—yet not a moment too soon, for poor Quashy was almost squashy by that time. They dragged the turtle off, dug the negro out, and found that he had become insensible.

Raising him gently in their arms, they bore him up to the camp, where they found Manuela ready to minister to him.

“Dead!” exclaimed the horrified girl when she saw the negro laid down, and beheld the awful dirty-green colour of his countenance.

“I hope not,” replied Lawrence, earnestly.

“I’s sh–—squeesh!—sure not!” exclaimed Quashy himself, with a sneeze, as he opened his eyes.

And Quashy, we need scarcely add, was right. He was not dead. He did not die for many years afterwards. For aught that we know, indeed, he may be living still, for he came of a very long-lived race.

His accident, however, had the useful effect of preventing his giving way to too exuberant felicity, and rendered him a little more careful as to the quantity of turtle-egg ragout which he consumed that night for supper.

It would be pleasant to end our chapter here, but a regard for facts compels us to refer to the slaughter of the unfortunate turtles next morning.

There is in the interior of the turtle a quantity of yellow fat, which is said to be superior in delicacy to the fat of the goose, and from which is obtained a fine oil, highly prized as an article of commerce. To secure this fat, the animals which had been “turned” were killed at daylight the following morning. The axes of the Indians caused the shells to fly in splinters; the intestines were then torn out and handed to the Indian women, whose duty it was to remove from them the precious fat, after which the carcasses were left to the vultures and fisher-eagles, which flocked from afar to the scene of carnage with that unerring instinct which has so often been commented on by travellers, but which no one can understand.

Chapter Eighteen.

Pedro becomes communicative; Manuela vocal; Lawrence preposterous; Quashy and Tiger violent—The Whole ending in a Grand Catastrophe.

“Senhor Armstrong,” said Pedro, the evening after that on which the capture of turtles took place, “I have received some bad news—at least unsatisfactory news—which will necessitate a change in our style of travelling, and a more rapid progress towards our journey’s end.”

“I’m sorry for that,” Lawrence answered, “for, to my mind, our style of travelling is very agreeable, and the rate quite fast enough, especially for one who has no definite purpose in view.”

“That may be so, senhor,” returned Pedro, with a grim smile, “but as I have something of a definite purpose in view, the case is different.”

“True, Pedro,—true. I do not object to any change in your plans; I merely comment on the very pleasant time we are having, and shall be ready to act as you desire; so, you see, I am as I promised to be—an obedient follower. But where got you this news from? I have seen no one arrive in the camp since we came. What may the nature of the news be, if I may venture to ask of one who is so—so very reticent?”

The guide pondered some time before replying to these questions. Then, with the air of one who has made up his mind on an uncertain point, said—

“I had no intention of rousing your curiosity by needless secrecy. I have not very many or very profound secrets. Only, in a disturbed country it behoves a man to hold his tongue in regard to his affairs. But I feel that you are a friend, Senhor Armstrong, who may be trusted; not that I have much to trust to you,—and yet, my doings are so mixed up with the affairs of other people that to some extent I am tongue-tied. I may tell you, however, that I am a secret agent of the government, to which I have volunteered my services solely because I love peace and hate war, and am desirous of doing all I can to promote the first and abate the last. The idea may appear to you Quixotic, but—”

“Pardon me, Senhor Pedro,” interrupted Lawrence, promptly. “I think you the reverse of Quixotic. I honour you for your sentiments, and sympathise with you most heartily. Do I not remember that it is written, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’ and also, ‘Scatter thou the people that delight in war?’”

“Yes, I have gathered from your conversation that such are your sentiments, but do not misunderstand me. I am not of those who would have peace at any price. I believe in the right of self-defence. I recognise the right of oppressed nations to rise up and draw the sword in order to free themselves from tyrants; in short, I believe that there are some things that are worse even than war; but while I concede so much, I hold that most of the wars recorded in history have been undertaken without just cause, many of them without any real or obvious cause at all, too many of them with a distinctly bad cause. Even in the present day, and among Christian nations, there is far too little tendency to appeal to arbitration, which is the only legitimate way for reasonable men to settle any dispute or quarrel. Does your sympathy go with me thus far?”

Lawrence, with a glow of enthusiasm on his face, extended his hand, and, grasping that of his companion, shook it warmly.

“I go with you in every word, Pedro. You are a man after my own heart; and I say, God prosper you in your good work wherever you go!”

Manuela, who was standing near at the time, looked up at the enthusiastic youth quickly. Her knowledge of English must have been improving, despite the badness of her pronunciation, for she seemed to understand the conversation, and to regard Lawrence with profound interest.

The youth was so carried away with his feelings, however, that he did not observe the girl’s look or expression.

“That is well,” Pedro said, with a pleased look, as he returned his friend’s grasp; “but I fear you won’t find many of our way of thinking in this unhappy country. You are aware, no doubt, that it is frequently—I might almost say every three or four years—disturbed by factious quarrels which too often end in riot and bloodshed, though these are not often on so large a scale as to be styled civil war. Well, there is a party of peace-lovers even here, who do their best to bring about a better state of things, and a more settled and powerful government. Some of the men of influence at Buenos Ayres, and some even of the military men, are of this party. I am, as I have said, their secret agent—secret, because if I were to attempt the thing openly, or as a government agent, I should be treated with ridicule by some, or be murdered perhaps by others, in either of which cases my influence would be gone. Of course, as you have seen, I run considerable risk in travelling through the land on my mission, for I have been several times taken for a spy, but I don’t object to run risk, the cause being a good one.

“As to the news, which I have received by mere chance from a passing Indian, it is another outbreak in the San Juan district which makes a change in the disposition of troops necessary; and as I have particular business with one of the officers, I must change my route and make for Buenos Ayres as straight as possible. That is all the mystery about it; so you see, as I said, it is not very profound.”

“It is very interesting, however,” returned Lawrence, “and you may depend on my falling in with your plans, whatever they are.”

“Well, then,” returned the guide, “the first part of my plan is simple enough—merely to start off to-morrow by the first peep of day. Will you go, therefore, and tell Quashy to get ready, while I have a talk with Manuela?”

We do not intend to inflict on the reader the whole of the conversation that took place in the Indian tongue between the little brown maiden and the guide. A small portion of it will suffice.

“I repeat, Manuela,” said the latter, in a remonstrative tone, “that you are not wise.”

“My kind protector forgets,” replied the girl, with a modest look, “that I have never set up any claim to wisdom.”

“But what will your father say?”

“I really cannot guess what he will say,” she answered, with one of her prettiest little smiles.

“But you may be quite sure that the thing is impossible. Consider the immense difference between you, and, forgive me, Manuela, but I think it is not fair.”

“Now my protector forgets himself,” returned the maiden, drawing herself up and bestowing a look on the guide which was quite worthy of an Inca princess—supposing Lawrence to have been right in his conjecture on that point!

“Well, well, please yourself, Manuela,” returned Pedro, with a laugh, in which exasperation slightly mingled, “but do me the justice to tell your father when you meet that I fairly remonstrated with and warned you. After all, nothing would please me better,—if it should ever come about.”

He turned on his heel and went off, with a mingling of expressions on his handsome face, to look after the canoe and make preparations for an early start in the morning.

Canoe travelling appears to be rather slow work while it is going on, even when descending the current of a river. Each point of land seems to be reached and passed so gradually; every vista of the river seems so extensive, and the trees on shore drop so leisurely astern, that when you think of the hundreds of miles which lie in advance, you are apt to feel as if the journey or voyage would never come to an end. But when you forget the present and reflect on the past, when you think how many hundreds of miles now lie behind, although it seems but yesterday that you set out on the journey, then you realise the fact that the “power of littles,” of steady, daily unremitting perseverance, has had too little weight with you in your estimates, and that, just as fast as your starting-point recedes from you, exactly so fast does your goal approach, although those misleading factors, your feelings, may have induced you to think otherwise.

Five days after the occurrence of the events on what we may style Turtle-beach, Lawrence found himself wondering at what appeared to be the far-off-ness of the spot, considering the slowness of the hourly progress, yet at the same time wondering if they should ever traverse the nine hundred or a thousand miles that yet intervened between him and Buenos Ayres.

To do Lawrence Armstrong justice, however, he was by no means impatient. He was quite satisfied that things should go as slowly as they pleased, for was he not travelling through the most interesting of countries, in which the flora and the fauna and the geological features furnished abundant—ay, superabundant—food for the satisfaction of his scientific appetite, while his companions were of the pleasantest character? Pedro, since the opening up of his heart to him, had laid aside much—though not all—of his reserve, and shown himself to be a man of extensive information and profound thought.

Spotted Tiger was a splendid specimen, physically and mentally, of the sons of the soil, in the contemplation of whom he could expend whatever smattering he possessed of ethnological science. Then Quashy—was not that negro the very soul and embodiment of courage, fidelity, and good-humour, the changes of whose April face alone might have furnished rich material for the study of a physiognomist or a Rembrandt.

And as for Manuela—we cannot analyse his thoughts about her. It is probable that he could not have expounded them himself. Take the following sample of them, as overheard by us one day when he had strayed into the wild woods alone, and was seated on the roots of a mighty tree, pencil in hand, attempting unsuccessfully to make a sketch.

“I do believe,” he murmured, with a gesture of impatience—for he had drawn a small convolvulus, hanging from a tree, with such disregard for the rules of linear perspective that it was the proportionate size of an omnibus—“I do believe that that girl has come between me and my wits. Of course it is not love. That is quite out of the question. A white man could not fall in love with a black woman.”

Yes, he did the poor girl the injustice, in his perplexed indignation with himself, to call her black, although it must have been obvious to the most careless observer that she was only reddish-brown, or, to speak more correctly, brownish-red.

“I can’t understand it,” he continued to murmur in that low, slow, absent far-away tone and manner characteristic of artists when at work. “No doubt her nose is Grecian, and her mouth small, as well as exquisitely formed, her chin full and rounded, her teeth faultless, her eyes gorgeous, and her whole contour perfect, but—but—she’s black—at least,” (correcting himself with a touch of compunction), “she’s brown. No; I see what it is—it’s—(well that’s more like a balloon than a water-lily)—yes, it must be that I am in love with her spirit. That’s it! I’ve said so before, and—and—I say it again.”

He drew back his head at this point, and looked critically—even sternly—at the sketch. There was room both for criticism and indignation, for the display, in so small a compass, of bad drawing, vile composition, ridiculous chiaro-oscuro, and impossible perspective, could only have been justified by the supposition that his intellect had been warped through the heart, in consequence of an unheard of perplexity connected therewith.

“Yes,” he continued, resuming his work with the air of an invincible man, “there is something distinctly and exasperatingly wrong here. I am in love with her spirit, and not with her person! Is it possible that the human race, descending from Adam and Eve, should have reached the nineteenth century without such a case ever having been heard of before, and that I—I should be the first wretched example—or—or victim! It is like loving the jewel without caring for the cas— no, that’s a bad simile, for one could throw away a casket and keep the jewel, which could not conveniently be done in this case. I wonder what it is that makes the rules of perspective so difficult, and the practice so im—”

His meditations were checked at this point by a sound so sweet that his heart almost stood still, his pencil remained suspended over the sketch, and the half-formed word remained in the half-opened mouth. It was as if an angel had come to earth, and were warbling the airs of paradise.

Peeping through the bushes, Lawrence saw that it was Manuela! She was sauntering along pensively, humming as she went. He sat still, amazed and silent. From what cause we know not, but the Indian girl had not until that day opened her mouth in song. The youth’s surprise was increased when she came near enough to let him hear that the words were Spanish; but suddenly remembering that English girls sometimes learned Italian songs by rote, like parrots, his surprise partly abated—why should not an Indian girl learn Spanish songs by rote?

Manuela passed close to the tree behind which our hero sat. On observing him she stopped, and blushed intensely red. Evidently she had thought herself quite alone, and experienced the usual dislike of humanity to being caught in the act of singing to itself!

In a burst of great enthusiasm Lawrence sprang up, overturned his drawing materials, seized the girl’s hand, and dropped it again as if it had burnt him, as he exclaimed—

“I wish—oh! I wish, Manuela, that I were your brother!”

The lightning flash is said to be quick, and we suppose, relatively speaking, it is so, but we are quite sure that lightning cannot hold a candle to thought in this respect. Lawrence, as the reader has doubtless observed, was not a man of much more than average intelligence, or action of mind, yet between the first “wish” and the word “brother,” he had perceived and condemned the impropriety of exhibiting strong feeling in thus grasping Manuela’s hand; the unmanliness of doing or saying anything to her that had the remotest approach to love-making while in circumstances where the poor girl could not get out of his way, however much she might wish to do so, and the meanness, not to say absurdity, of showing anything like a lover’s affection for a spirit which could only make itself known through the medium of a brown visage. Hence Lawrence, who was the soul of honour and gallantry, got out of the dilemma by suddenly conceiving and expressing the above intense wish to be Manuela’s brother!

It did not occur to him that the gratification of his wish might have involved war-paint and feathers, a semi-nude body, a wild unlettered life, and a predilection for raw meat and murder. No, rapid though thought is, it did not convey these ideas to his mind. His one desire—after the first unguarded “exclamation” and impulsive grasp of the hand, was to escape from his false position without committing himself, and without giving pain or annoyance to the unprotected girl. And his success was in proportion to his boldness, for Manuela burst into a hearty laugh, and said—

“Why you wants be my brudder?”

“Brother, Manuela, not brudder,” replied Lawrence, joining in the laugh, and much relieved in mind. “The word is spelt with t-h, not with two d’s. The reason is that I should then have the right to order you to sit at my feet and sing me these pretty songs whenever I liked. And I fear I should be a very tyrannical brother to you, for I would make you sing all day.”

“What—is—t’rannical?” asked the girl, whose tendency to laugh was evidently not yet quite subdued.

“Hallo! hi! Quashy!” came the guide’s strong voice at that moment, ringing through the arches of the forest, and preventing the explanation, that might have been, of “t’rannical.”

But Quashy replied not. It was the end of the noontide siesta. While Lawrence, as we have seen, had taken to sketching and Manuela to singing, the negro had gone off on his own account, and Pedro was now anxious to have his assistance in getting ready to start.

As Lawrence hurriedly collected his pencils the Indian girl stood admiring his work—poor ignorant thing! Just then there arose in the forest a sound which filled them both with mingled surprise and alarm.

It was a peculiar, dull sound, almost indescribable, but something like what one might expect to hear from a hundred spades or pickaxes working together in the depths of the forest. After a minute or two it ceased, and profound silence reigned. Dead silence in critical circumstances is even more alarming than definite noise, for then the imagination is allowed full play, and only those who have got the imagination powerfully developed know of what wild and terrifying vagaries it is capable!

Lawrence and Manuela looked at each other. The former had often before admired the gorgeous black orbs of the latter, but he had not till then thought them to be so very large.

Suddenly the earth trembled under their feet; it seemed as if a volcano were heaving underground. The memory of San Ambrosio rushed upon them, and they too trembled—at least the girl did. At the same time a shout arose which seemed to them not unfamiliar. The noise increased to something like the galloping of a distant squadron of cavalry.

“Let me lift you into this tree,” said Lawrence, quickly.

Manuela did not object. He lifted her by the waist with his two large hands as if she had been a little child, and placed her on a branch that happened to be just within his reach. Scarcely had he done so when a host, a very army, of American wild-hogs, or peccaries, burst from the bushes like a tornado and bore down on them. They were so near that there was no time for Lawrence to climb up beside Manuela. He could only seize the branch with both hands and draw up his long legs. The living torrent passed under him in a few seconds, and thus—thanks to his gymnastic training at school—he escaped being ripped up in all directions by the creatures’ tusks.

It was these same tusks digging round trees for the purpose of grubbing up roots that had produced the strange sounds, and it was the shouts of Quashy and Tiger in pursuit that had awakened the echoes of the forest.

On the heels of the large animals came galloping and squealing a herd of little ones, and close upon these followed the two hunters just named—panting, war-whooping, and cheering. Several of the little pigs were speared; some were even caught by the tail, and a goodly supply of meat was obtained for at least that day and the next. But before noon of that next day an event of a very different and much more serious nature occurred.

It was early morning at the time. They were traversing a wide sheet of water, both banks of which were high, richly-wooded, and all aglow with convolvuli and other flowers, and innumerable rope-like creepers, the graceful festoons and hanging tendrils of which gave inexpressible softness to the scene. In the middle of the lake-like expanse were numerous mud-flats, partly covered with tropical reeds and rushes of gigantic size.

The course our voyagers had to pursue made it necessary to keep close under the right bank, which was unusually steep and high. They were all silent, for the hour and the slumbering elements induced quiescence. A severe thunderstorm accompanied by heavy rains had broken over that district two days before, and Lawrence observed that deep watercourses had been ploughed among the trees and bushes in several places, but every other trace of the elemental war had vanished, and the quiet of early morning seemed to him sweet beyond expression, inducing his earnest spirit to wish that the mystery of sin had never been permitted, and that it were still possible for man to walk humbly with his God in a world of peacefulness as real as that of inanimate nature around him.

When the sun arose, a legion of living creatures came out from wood and swamp and reedy isle to welcome him. Flamingoes, otters, herons white and grey, and even jaguars, then began to set about their daily work of fishing for breakfast. Rugged alligators, like animated trunks of fallen trees, crawled in slimy beds or ploughed up the sands of the shore in deep furrows, while birds of gorgeous plumage and graceful—sometimes clumsy—form audibly, if not always visibly, united to chant their morning hymn.

Such were the sights on which our travellers’ eyes rested, with a sort of quiet delight, when Pedro broke the silence in a low voice.

“You’d better keep a little farther out into the stream,” he said to Tiger.

The Indian silently obeyed.

It was well that he did so promptly, for, in less than a minute, and without the slightest premonition, the immense bank above them slid with a terrific rumbling noise into the river. The enormous mass of sand and vegetable detritus thus detached could not have been much, if at all, less than half a mile in extent. It came surging and hurling down—trees and roots and rocks and mud intermingling in a chaos of grand confusion, the great cable-like creepers twining like snakes in agony, and snapping as if they were mere strands of packthread; timber crashing; rock grinding, sometimes bursting like cannon shots, and the whole plunging into the water and raising a great wave that swept the alligators from the mud-flats, and swallowed up the reeds and rushes, sending herons, kingfishers, and flamingoes screaming into the air, and dashing high into the jungle on the opposite shore.

As we have said, the canoe got out of reach of the terrible avalanche just in time, but it could not escape the wave. The Indian, however, was prepared for that. It was not the first time he had seen such a catastrophe. Turning the bow of the canoe instantly towards the falling bank, he thus met the wave, as it were, in the teeth, and rode safely over it.

If he had been less alive to the danger, or less prompt to meet it, or if he had under-estimated it, and allowed the wave to catch them on the side of the canoe, the adventures of our five friends had that day come to an abrupt close, and, what is probably of greater consequence to the reader, this faithful record would never have been written!

Chapter Nineteen.

In which, among other things, Lawrence refuses an Invitation, and bids a Final Farewell to Manuela.

A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable.

We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America.

You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will—from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego—without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent.

We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans.

It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads—if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fête or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town.

There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela’s elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention—admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few—a very few—of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God’s creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments!

You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word “some” in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt—fit subjects only for pity.

As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish.

He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said—

“Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong.”

“Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished.”

“Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey.”

“Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?” asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him.

“No, it won’t do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?” said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face.

“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”

He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part with that thus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he was not in love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.

“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.

“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”

“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”

“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.

“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”

“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.

“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”

“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”

“That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela.”

“Indeed,” said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, “and shall we find her there on our return?”

“I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!” said Pedro, with a look of surprise.

Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him.

“Of course I mean, will you find her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father’s property lies on the western side of the Andes.”

“Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return,” said Pedro, “unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!” he added, with a quick glance at his companion.

“And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?”

“No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there.”

The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class.

Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there.

“Well—aw—I’m not quite sure, but there is—aw—I believe, a military man of—aw—some sort staying in the place.”

Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with “aw” to an extent that is absolutely awful.

The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment.

“Well, then,” said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, “you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa.”

For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master’s horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables.

“So,” thought Lawrence, bitterly, “I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye—without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw—a black girl! But no matter. It’s all over! It was only her spirit I admired, and I don’t care even for that now.”

It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest.

“Will you sup, senhor?” asked a waiter, coming up just then.

“Eh! no—that is—yes,” replied Lawrence, savagely.

“How many, senhor?”

“How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here.”

He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do.

“Aw—quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of—aw—long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk.”

These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said—

“No more mad or drunk dan you’self—you whitefaced racoon!”

Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will.

That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy—though his temper had quite recovered—he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.

Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.

At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence.

Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.

“You no want me, massa?”

“No, Quash, I don’t.”

“P’r’aps,” suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,—“P’r’aps you’d like me to go wid you for—for—company?”

“You’re very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I’m very much out of sorts, and—”

“O massa!” interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, “it’s not in de stummik, am it?” He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.

“No, Quash,” Lawrence replied, with a laugh, “it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind.”

“Oh! is dat all?” said the negro, quite relieved. “Den you not need to boder you’self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t’ing for dat is a little cheerful s’iety. I t’ink you’ll be de better ob me.”

He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy’s light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.

“Splendid place dis, massa,” observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.

“Yes, Quash,—very beautiful.”

“Lots ob nice shady trees an’ bushes, and flowers, an’ fruits, an’ sweet smells ob oranges, an’—”

He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.

“Quite true, Quash,” replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.

“Is you gwine,” inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, “to de gubner’s ball to-night?”

“No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball.”

The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.

“You not know ob it!” he exclaimed; “why eberybody knows ob it, an’ a’most eberybody’s agwine—all de ’spectable peepil, I mean, an’ some ob dem what’s not zactly as ’spectable as dey should be. But dey’s all agwine. He’s a liberal gubner, you see, an’ he’s gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan’lord’s expense.”

“Indeed; that’s a curiously liberal arrangement.”

“Yes, an’ a bery clebber ’rangement for de lan’lord. He’s a cute man de lan’lord. I s’pose you’s agwine?”

“No, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress.”

“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”

“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”

“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.

Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!

“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”

It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”

The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.

“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”

A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.

“This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I’m glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish.”

“Yes—I understan’. I very sorry we part. Very, very sorry. Good-bye.”

She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever—no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple “I’m very sorry. Good-bye?”

He felt cured now, completely. Such a spirit, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind—almost desperately easy—and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.

“Well, Manuela,” he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, “you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished—oh! how I—well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!”

“I will fink,” she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, “t’ink of you as a fadder.”

“Good-bye,” he said again.

“Good-bye,” she replied.

He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final “Farewell—God bless you,” quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.

Chapter Twenty.

Is cumulatively Astonishing.

There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods—testing-points, as it were—when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, “Who will show us any good?”

Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply “believe” and “trust.”

When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl’s goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.

“But it’s all over now,” he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. “All over,” he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, “and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black—well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration—strong admiration I admit—of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav— an Indian; and I’ve been mistaken; that’s all. That’s all. But,” (after a pause), “have I been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her—who never can be anything to her—argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, or bad qualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. What are the good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?”

Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter—

“Earnest simplicity—that’s the first—no, that’s two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that’s the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke—well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy’s leg! But after all I must have been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world—the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains—yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes.”

He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself!

“However, she had nothing to do with that,” he muttered, apologetically, “and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course, that does not constitute a Christian, but—well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced—very clearly.”

He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl’s life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!

“But, after all,” he muttered, indignantly, “would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting from me? I wouldn’t care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that’s an end o’ the matter. She’ll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I’ll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy.”

“Dat’s just de bery best t’ing what you can do, massa.”

Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.

“Why, you’re always laughing, Quash,” said the youth, a little sharply.

“O massa!” exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. “I’s nebber laugh no more if you don’ like it.”

“Like it, my good fellow!” exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, “of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am—”

“Still out ob sorts, massa?”

“Yes, that’s it—exactly.”

“Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar—one time slow, noder time so quick. I was ’bleeged to run to obertake you.”

Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor’s ball, about to take place that evening.

They met Pedro at the door.

“You’ll go, I suppose?” he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.

“Indeed I will not. I’ve had no invitation, and have no evening dress.”

“Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England,” said Pedro. “We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o’-the-way place like this. You’ll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off.”

“No matter, I’ll not go. Nothing will induce me to go,” returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.

“Don’t say that,” rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. “You may perhaps meet friends there.”

“You know that I have no friends here,” returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.

But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro’s reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and—and—Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He would not go!

But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on.

He met Pedro in the corridor.

“Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?”

“Yes, I have.”

Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether “out of sorts” and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.

“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”

“A surprise, Pedro?”

“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”

At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—

“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”

The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.

And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.

He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—

“Aw! indeed?”

“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”

“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.

It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.

At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.

“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.

Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.

People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.

“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”

There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Lawrence followed in some surprise.

Suddenly he heard a sharp, strange, indescribable shout. It was the voice of Pedro, who was only a few yards in advance of him. Our hero sprang forward and beheld a sight which filled him with surprise. One of the girls who leaned on the colonel’s arm was a beautiful blonde of about fifteen, with flowing golden hair and rich brown eyes. She stood as if petrified, with the brown eyes gazing intensely at Pedro, who also stood transfixed returning the gaze with compound interest.

“Mariquita!” he murmured, holding out both hands.

“Yes,” said the delighted colonel, “I felt quite sure she was your child, but said nothing about—”

“Father!” burst from the girl, as, with a cry of joy, she bounded into Pedro’s arms.

“Just so,” continued the colonel, “I didn’t like to mention my suspicions for fear of raising false hopes, and thought the surest way would be to bring them face to face. Wasn’t it so, Manuela?”

Lawrence turned as if he had received an electric shock. He had been so absorbed in the scene we have just described, that he had not looked at the girl who leaned on the colonel’s other arm. He now turned and beheld—not the Indian girl of his travels, but a fair-skinned, dark-eyed senhorina. Yet as he gazed, the blood seemed to rush to his brain, for these were the eyes of Manuela, and the slightly open little mouth was hers—the straight Grecian nose, and the graceful figure. It seemed as if his wildest dream were realised, and that Manuela had become white!

He clasped his hands and gazed, as Pedro had just done, with such intensity that the sportsman, observing the rudeness, said to his friend—

“Aw—don’t you think it would be as well to—aw—kick the fellow out of the room?”

“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed the old colonel, turning sharply on Lawrence with a magnificent frown.

It was quite evident that he, as well as Pedro and our hero, had also received a most unexpected surprise, for, not only did the youth continue to stand gazing, with clasped hands, but the young lady did not seem in the least offended. On the contrary, she looked up at the colonel with an incomprehensible expression and a bewitching smile, as she said, in excellent English—

“He is not rude, father, only astonished. Let me introduce my friend and preserver, Mr Lawrence Armstrong.”

But Lawrence heard not, and cared nothing for the introduction.

“It is Manuela!” he exclaimed, with a hesitating step forward, and a look of unbelief still lingering in his eyes.

She held out her little white hand!

He grasped it. The same hand certainly! There could be no doubt about that.

“’Pon my honour—aw—the most interesting tableau vivant I ever—aw—saw!”

“Come, come,” cried the colonel, whose pleased smile had given place to unimaginable astonishment. “You—you should have prepared me for this, Manuela. I—I’m obliged to you, senhor, of course, for—for saving my daughter; but—come, follow me!”

He turned and left the room with rapid strides, and would have dragged Manuela after him, if that young lady had not been endued with a pace—neat, active, and what is sometimes called “tripping,”—which kept her easily alongside of the ancient man of war.

Lawrence followed mechanically.

Pedro, with an arm round Mariquita’s waist, brought up the rear.

As they vanished through the doorway the people gave them a hearty cheer, and resumed dancing.

The sportsman found himself so much overcome that he could only ejaculate, “aw!” But presently he recovered so far as to say, “Let’s go an’ have a ciga’,” and he also melted from the scene.

Chapter Twenty One.

Hopes, Fears, Perplexities, Joys, and Explanations.

Two conversations took place shortly after the scene in the ballroom, and to these we now draw attention. The first was in the hotel—in the private apartment of Colonel Marchbanks.

Having got rid of the ladies, the fiery man of war led his victim—if we may so style him—into the apartment referred to, and shut the door. Without asking Lawrence to be seated, he stalked into the middle of the room.

“Now, senhor,” he said, wheeling round suddenly, and confronting Lawrence with a tremendous frown, “what do you mean by this?”

The look and the tone were such as the youth would in ordinary circumstances have resented, but he was far removed from ordinary circumstances just then. He was a victim! As such he looked at his questioner with perplexity in his countenance, and said—

“I beg pardon?”

“What do you mean by your conduct, I say?” repeated the colonel, fiercely; for he mistook and was rendered more irritable by the youth’s apparent stupidity. “You have insulted my daughter in the ballroom—”

“Your daughter?” said Lawrence, with the air of a man whose eyes are dazzled by some sudden burst of strong light which he does not quite understand.

“Yes, sir. You know quite well what I mean,” cried the colonel, waxing angrier. “It may be true, for all I know or care, that you have saved her life more than once, as Pedro tells me, but—”

“I saved the life of an Indian girl,” interrupted Lawrence, gently, and gazing wistfully in the colonel’s angry face, as if he saw a distant landscape of marvellous beauty through it, “the daughter of a great chief, and a descendant of the Incas.”

“A descendant of the Hottentots, sir!” exclaimed the colonel, becoming furious, for he now thought the young man was attempting to jest; “the fact that my daughter—my daughter, sir, was persuaded to assume that useless and ridiculous disguise, and the fact that you rendered her assistance when so disguised, gives you no right to—to insult her in public, and—and—I have heard, sir, from Manuela herself, that—”

“Manuela!” interrupted the victim, in a soft, unbelieving voice, and with an eager, wistful look at the exquisite landscape again,—“is it possible?”

“Sir, you’re a fool!” shouted the old soldier, unable to contain himself. “Pedro told me much about you, but he did not say you were a fool!”

“Impossible! I knew it must be a dream,” murmured Lawrence, as if to himself, “I was never called a fool before. No gentleman would have done it—least of all an English gentleman.”

This shot, although not aimed, hit the mark fairly.

“Forgive me, senhor,” said the colonel, modifying his tone, though evidently still much annoyed, “but your manners and language are so strange that, really—”

He stopped, as a new light broke upon him.

“Surely,” he said, “you cannot have been in ignorance all this time that Manuela is my daughter?”

“Tell me,” cried Lawrence, suddenly shaking off the dream of unbelief, advancing a step, and gazing so intensely into the colonel’s eyes that the man of war made a quick, involuntary, motion with his right hand towards his sword,—“Tell me, Colonel Marchbanks—is Manuela, who, I thought, was an Inca princess, really your daughter!”

“I know nothing about the Inca princesses, senhor,” replied the old man, sternly, but with a perplexed air; “all I know is that the disguised girl with whom you have been unfortunately travelling of late is my daughter, and, although your ignorance of the fact accounts in some degree—”

He got no further, for Lawrence gave a full, free, shout of joy, such as he had not vented since he was a schoolboy, raised himself to his full height, and threw up his arms, clearing off a very constellation of crystal gimcracks from a chandelier in the mighty stretch, and exclaimed—

“I’ll have her: I’ll have her! Yes, in spite of all—”

The door opened at that moment and he stood transfixed, for there was Spotted Tiger—glaring horribly, and obviously charged with important tidings.

“Come in,” cried the colonel in Spanish.

“Come out,” cried the savage in some other language, which Lawrence did not understand, but which the colonel evidently did, for he clapped on his hat, and, without a word of explanation, hurried with Tiger out of the room, leaving Lawrence to solitary meditation.

The other conversation that we have referred to was held in the garden of the hotel, under a thick overhanging tree, between Pedro and the lovely lady who had been the cause of Lawrence’s little affair with the colonel.

“What have you done with her, Pedro?” asked the lovely lady.

“Taken her to the villa, where she will be well cared for.”

“But why so quickly? Why not wait for me?” The voice was in very truth that of Manuela, though the countenance was that of a Spanish senhorina!

“Because time is precious. We have received news which calls for speedy action, and I must be in close attendance on your father, Manuela. As I am likely to have quarter of an hour to spare while he holds a palaver with Tiger, I have sought you out to ask an explanation, for I’m eager to know how and where my darling was found. I can wait as well as most men, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Manuela, drawing her mantilla a little more closely over her now fair face. “You shall hear. Listen. You know that my father loves you?”

Pedro smiled assent, and nodded.

“His is a loving and loveable nature,” resumed our heroine.

(“So is his daughter’s,” thought Pedro, but he did not say so.)

“And he never forgets a friend,” continued Manuela. “He has often, often spoken to me about you, and your dear ones, and many a time in his military wanderings has he made inquiries about the dear child who was stolen so long ago—ten years now, is it not?”

“Ay, not far short of eleven. She was just turned five when last I beheld her angel face—no, not last, thank God.”

“Well, Pedro, you may easily believe that we had many raisings of our hopes, like yourself, and many, many disappointments, but these last arose from our looking chiefly in wrong directions. It somehow never occurred to us that her lot might have fallen among people of rank and wealth. Yet so it was. One day when out on the Pampas not far from Buenos Ayres, visiting a friend, and never thinking of dear Mariquita, we saw a young girl coming towards us down the garden walk.

“As she came near, my father stopped short, and laid his hand on my shoulder with such a grasp that I nearly cried out. I looked up in surprise, and never before saw such an expression of eager inquiry on his face.

“‘Manuela!’ he said, in a low, tremulous voice, ‘if Mariquita is alive I see her now. I see our friend Pedro in every line of her pretty face.’

“I looked, but could not see the likeness. You know how differently people seem to be affected by the same face. I failed to see in the sweet countenance framed in curling fair hair, and in the slight girlish figure of surpassing grace, my swarthy friend Pedro. She seemed startled at first by my father’s abrupt manner. He questioned her. What was her name—‘Mariquita,’ she said. ‘I was sure of it,’ rejoined my father. ‘Your surname, my girl?’

“‘Arnold, senhor,’ she replied, with surprise.

“My dear father is very impulsive. His hopes sank as fast as they had risen. ‘Of course,’ he said afterwards, ‘Mariquita is a common name, and should not have raised my expectations so quickly, but the likeness, you see, staggered me.’

“Dear father!” continued Manuela, casting down her eyes, and speaking in a pensive tone, “I do love him so, because of his little imperfections. They set off his good points to so much greater advantage. I should not like to have a perfect father. Would you, Pedro?”

She raised her eyes to the guide’s face with an arch look—and those eyes had become wonderfully lustrous since the skin had lost its brown hue.

“Really, Manuela,” returned the impatient guide, “I have not yet considered what degree of perfection I should like in my father—but how about—”

“Forgive me, yes—Mariquita. Well, finding that we were going to the house where she dwelt, Mariquita walked with us, and told us that she had lived with our English friends, Mr and Mrs Daulton, since she was a little child. Did she remember her parents? we asked. Yes, she remembered them perfectly, and tried to describe them, but we could make nothing of that for evidently she thought them handsomer, grander, and more beautiful than any other people in the world. She did not remember where they dwelt—except that it was in the woods and among mountains.

“‘That corresponds exactly,’ cried my father, becoming excited. ‘Forgive me, child; I am an eccentric old fellow, but—did you quit your home amid fire and smoke and yells—’

“My father was stopped at this point by our arrival at the house, and the appearance of our friends. But he was too much roused by that time to let the matter drop, so he carried Mrs Daulton off to the library, and learned from her that the child had been lent to her by a priest!

“‘Lent, my dear madam?’ said my father.

“‘Yes, lent. The priest laughed when he presented her, but said the child was the orphan daughter of a distant relation of his who had left her to his care. He did not want her, or know what to do with her, and offered to give her to us. My husband said he could not accept such a gift, but he would gladly accept her as a loan! We both disbelieved the priest, for he was a bad man; but, as we were much in want of a companion for our own little girl at the time, we accepted her, and brought her here. The priest died suddenly, and as there was no one else to claim her, we have kept her ever since, and right glad we are to have her.’

“‘You won’t have her long,’ said my sweet father, in his usual blunt and pleasant way. ‘I am convinced that I know her father. Of course Arnold is a name you gave her?’ ‘No; when she came to us she said her name was Mariquita, but she knew of no other name. It was the priest who told, us her surname was Arnold.’

“Well, Pedro, to bring my story to an end, my father told the Daultons all about you, and got them to lend Mariquita to us. That was two years ago. Since then she has dwelt with us as my very dear sister. My father knew you were in Peru at the time, and his purpose was to wait till you should return, and present Mariquita unexpectedly to you to see if you would recognise each other. Therefore he did not mention her when he wrote asking you so urgently to return here. Neither did he mention his suspicions to Mariquita herself. We just led her to understand that we found her company so pleasant that we wished her to remain with us for a long visit. Then came news of the illness of a dear relation of mine in Chili. I was sent by my father to see and nurse her. At parting he told me if I should by any chance meet with you, I was on no account to speak or even hint at this matter. Little did either of us think at the time that I was destined to make so long a journey under your care. And you know, Senhor Pedro, that I am not bad at keeping secrets. I not only obeyed my father in this matter, but I faithfully obeyed yourself when you imposed on me the necessity of keeping my disguise secret from Senhor Armstrong.”

“You did, Manuela, faithfully.”

“And it was very hard to do, let me assure you, as well as needless,” returned Manuela, in a slightly hurt tone. “Over and over again I have been on the point of betraying myself. Why did you require me to maintain such secrecy, and afflict myself with such constant care and watchfulness?”

“Because I knew full well,” replied Pedro, with a twinkle in his eye, “that if poor Senhor Armstrong knew your true character, he would infallibly fall in love with you in spite of your brown skin.”

“And pray, senhor, why should you object to Senhor Armstrong, or any one else, falling in love with me in spite of my brown skin?”

“You know very well, Manuela, that, your father being my friend, it is my duty in all circumstances to be faithful to him. You are also aware that your father entertains a strong objection to very young men, who have no money or prospects, presuming to think of marriage with his daughter, and that he would never consent to your being engaged to Senhor Armstrong in present circumstances. It was my simple duty, therefore, when I saw the danger, to warn and protect you. Indeed I saw, almost the first day after we met the youth, that I had made a great mistake in asking him to join us; but it was too late then to change, so I imposed secrecy on you, and admit that you have acted your part well; but my well-meant efforts have been utterly in vain.”

“How so!”

“Why, because the poor wretch has fallen hopelessly in love with you in spite of your disguise—ay, and in spite of his own efforts to the contrary, for I have watched him carefully, and regard him as an uncommonly fine specimen of an amiable, self-denying, and honourable man. And now, as I had feared, your father is furious at his presuming even to think of you, though I have done my best to show him that he has acted nobly all through our journey; that, after all, he may not really care for you at all, and that at all events you have given him no encouragement whatever, and do not care a straw for him.”

Manuela flushed deeply at the last words, and there was the slightest possible contraction of her fine eyebrows as she replied, somewhat loftily—

“Senhor Pedro, you are a kind friend and a faithful guide, but you pretend to a greater knowledge of these matters than you possess. You do not understand my beloved father as well as I do, and you are totally ignorant of the state of my feelings. However, I believe you have done all for the best, and my earnest request now is that, having discharged what you conceive to be your duty on this point, you will say and do nothing more.”

“Your will would be law in this matter, even if I were not under such a deep debt of gratitude to you,” returned Pedro, “and it is all the more easy to obey you now that I have handed you over to your father and am no longer responsible. Are you aware that we start immediately in pursuit of the Indians who have attacked and murdered the poor people of Rolland’s Ranch?”

“Yes, my father has told me all about it.”

“Has he told you that you and Mariquita are to accompany the force so far on the road, and that when we get beyond the disturbed district I am to carry you on with a small party to Buenos Ayres, while the main body pursues the savages?”

“Yes, he told me that too,” replied Manuela; “but,” she added, with a little hesitation, “he did not say who was to go with our small detachment.”

The slightest possible twinkle in Pedro’s eye indicated suppressed feeling as he replied that he also was ignorant on that point—the only things which he was quite sure of being, that Senhor Armstrong and Quashy were to go with the main body.

“Indeed!” exclaimed the maiden in surprise. “I had thought Senhor Armstrong objected to fighting.”

Pedro laughed. “So he does, senhorina; but when the rescue of captive women and children is in the case, he holds fighting to be a duty, as you are aware. But I must go now,” continued Pedro, becoming grave and earnest as he took the girl’s hand. “Words can never express my feelings towards you and your father, dear Manuela. Indeed I have never been in the habit of saying much—least of all when I have felt much. Mariquita and I will bless you both to the latest hour of our lives. Adieu. We meet in the morning at the house in which you are staying—Lawrence has named it the house with the rustic porch—and we start from there. You are all ready, I suppose?”

“Yes. You know I have little luggage to look after,” said Manuela, with a laugh, “and I shall continue to travel as an Indian girl—as an Inca princess!”

“Indeed. Why so?”

“That, Senhor Pedro, is a matter with which you have nothing whatever to do!”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Colonel Marchbanks proves to be not so Good a General as he gets Credit for, and Lawrence stands self-convicted.

It has been stated that our hero had agreed to join Colonel Marchbanks in the pursuit of the Indians, not because the troops sought to avenge the murders which had been committed, but because several women and children had been carried off, and the rescue of these formed the main object of the expedition.

There can be no doubt, however, that the desire of Lawrence to join in such a praiseworthy adventure was not a little stimulated by the fact that Manuela was to accompany her father, at least a part of the way, and he naturally hoped to have some opportunities of speaking to her—perhaps of riding beside her, as he had so often done when he imagined her to be a daughter of the Incas.

But alas! the course of his love being true and deep—remarkably deep—was doomed to run in its proverbially rugged course.

Colonel Marchbanks, when leading his men to “glory”—or otherwise—like a true soldier, as he was, invariably moved with an advance and rear-guard. Like a cautious father, he placed Lawrence in the rear-guard, and arranged that there should be a considerable distance between it and the main body.

We may remark in passing that when the first burst of the old gentleman’s anger with Lawrence was over he had generously resolved, in consideration of what the young man had done for his daughter, to make no further allusion to the ballroom scene, but merely to hold the presumptuous youth politely at arm’s-length, and take especial care that the two young people should not again have an opportunity of meeting alone. He laid no command on either of them, but simply trusted to his own wisdom and watchfulness.

Being as it were a freelance, Lawrence, he knew, would naturally ride in the force very much where he pleased. He had therefore cleverly provided against the evil consequences that might flow from such freedom by making a little arrangement at a brief and final interview the evening before they set out.

“Now, young senhor,” he said, in his usual abrupt way, “although a volunteer in this expedition, and not versed in military matters, you must of course put yourself under my orders, and consider yourself one of my troopers.”

Oh! of course, of course, Lawrence had not the slightest objection to do so. He was quite ready to do whatever was required of him, if only he might assist in the rescue of hapless captives; and although he knew nothing of military matters, still, in the event of an engagement, he might prove himself useful as a surgeon.

“Humph! We don’t deal much in surgeons in this country. It is usually do or die with us,” replied the colonel, with a grim smile. “However, we shall see. Meanwhile, I have appointed you to the charge of some of the baggage-mules. Your late experience must have made you somewhat expert in such matters, and your duty will be with the rear-guard. One of my officers will show you your position in the morning. Good-night.”

Lawrence left with a quiet “Good-night, colonel,” and with a very unquiet feeling that somehow things might not turn out precisely as he had hoped.

Later that night Manuela appeared before her stern father dressed in the old familiar costume of an Indian girl, and with her fair skin stained dark brown. Usually the old soldier met his child with a beaming smile, that lit up his rugged visage with tenderness, as a gleam of sunshine sometimes illumines the rugged peaks of the Andes, but on this occasion he received her with a frown compounded of love and annoyance.

“How now, child? This is an unseasonable time for such foolery.”

“I want to travel in my old dress, father,” she replied, with a winning smile that almost tore the old man’s heart in twain;—and there are such smiles, reader, let us assure you, though you may not have had the good fortune to see them yet!

“You certainly shall do nothing of the sort, my dear,” returned the stern old man, as if he were laying down one of the Medo-Persic laws—for he was very tough, you know, and had great power of control over his feelings, especially the softer ones.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t like it!” said the Inca princess, with a little look of humble disappointment which was infinitely more heartrending than the smile; “but do you know, father, I have ridden so long in this costume, and in the gentleman fashion, that I feel quite sure—at least, I think—I should be utterly knocked up the first day if I were to begin a long hard journey in the ladies’ position. Then, you know, I could not dare to ride so in ordinary female dress and with a white face; the thing would look ridiculous—wouldn’t it? And, of course, everybody knows that Pedro arrived here with an Indian girl in his band, so the thing will seem quite natural, and nobody will notice me, especially if I keep near to Pedro; and the soldiers will just think—if they think at all—that you have left your daughter behind.”

“Ah, well, that alters the case, Manuela,” said the colonel, with most un-Medo-Persic hesitancy, and still frowning a little at his ink-bottle—not at his daughter. “Of course, if it had been merely one of your whims, nothing would have induced me to let you go in such guise, but there is truth in what you say, and—yes—a good thought, you shall travel near Pedro. Good-night. Go to bed, love. You will need all the rest you can obtain between now and morning.”

“Good-night, darling father. I would kiss you if I had not just put on the stain.”

She retired, and soon after laid her pretty brown cheek on her pillow in placid contentment, while her grim father arranged his war plans so that Pedro should travel with the advance-guard.

There was a soft, fresh, exhilarating breeze blowing from the Pampas as the troop issued from the little town at a gallop, when the first streak of dawn became visible.

There was order, doubtless, in all the arrangements, but all seemed utter confusion to Lawrence as he assisted the young officer under whose special command he was placed to look after the mules. Some faint evidence of order, however, began to reveal itself to his uneducated mind when he observed that the confusion abated on the main body moving off and leaving him with a small band behind. His perception of order might have been still further though unpleasantly increased had he known that the advance-guard, with Manuela in its train, had started a considerable time previously. But he had not much time to think, for the command was almost immediately given to mount and ride.

Quashy was beside him, for, being his servant, Colonel Marchbanks had said he might do with him as he pleased. But Quashy was silent, for his spirit was chafed. His master observed the fact after the first half-hour’s gallop.

“What ails you, Quash?”

“I can’t abide peepil,” growled the negro, “what says ‘aw!’”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Aw’s agwine wid us.”

“What—the sportsman—eh?”

“Yes, massa. On’y I don’t b’lieve he ever sported nuffin but a swagger, and—and—‘aw!’ W’en I git up dis mornin’ I heerd ’im say to his friend: ‘I say, Jack, wouldn’t it—aw—be dooced good fun to go and—aw—hab a slap at de Injins?’ If de Injins send a spear troo his libber—aw—he’ll not t’ink it sitch fun!”

“That’s true, Quash, but the same may be said of ourselves.”

“Not so, massa, ’cause we nebber said it would be ‘dooced good fun.’”

“There’s something in that, Quash, but you shouldn’t let feelings of ill-will to any one get the mastery of you. Men of his stamp are often very good fellows at bottom, though they do ‘aw’ in a most ridiculous and unaccountable manner. Besides, he has done you no harm.”

“Done me no harm!” repeated the negro, indignantly, “didn’t he say you was mad or drunk?”

“Well, well,” said Lawrence, laughing, “that was a very innocent remark. It did no harm to either of us.”

“You’s wrong, massa,” returned Quashy in a magnificently hurt tone. “It dood no harm to you, but it hurt my feelin’s, an’ dat’s wuss dan hurtin’ my body.”

At this point in the conversation the troop passed over the brow of an eminence, and beheld the wide rolling sea of the illimitable South American Pampas, or plains, stretching away on all sides to the horizon. During the whole morning they had been galloping through the region of the Monte, or bush, that border-land which connects the treeless plains with the tropical forests of the north, where thorny shrubs covered the ground in more or less dense patches, where groves of the algaroba—a noble tree of the mimosa species,—and trees laden with a peach-like but poisonous fruit, as well as other trees and shrubs, diversified the landscape, and where the ground was carpeted with beautiful flowering plants, among which were the variegated blossoms of verbena, polyanthus, and others.

But now, all was changed. It seemed as if the party had reached the shores of a great, level, grassy sea, with only here and there a seeming islet, where a thicket grew, to break the sky-line of the horizon. For a few minutes the rear-guard drew up to collect the straggling baggage-mules, and then away they went with a wild shout, as if they were moved by the same glad feeling of freedom that affects the petrel when it swoops over the billows of the mighty ocean.

The scene and the sensations were absolutely new to Lawrence and Quashy. Both were mounted on very good horses, which seemed to sympathise with their riders, for they required no spur to urge them over the grassy plain. The sun was bright, and Lawrence had been too long accustomed to the leaden skies of old England to quarrel with the sunshine, however hot it might be; besides, he rather enjoyed heat, and as for Quashy, heat was his native element. A pleasant air was blowing, too. In short, everything looked beautiful, especially to our hero, who knew—at least supposed—that a certain princess of the Incas was in the band immediately in front of him. He was not aware, you see, that she was with the advance-guard!

“Das am mug-nifercent!” exclaimed Quashy, as his horse put his foot into a biscacho-hole, and only escaped a fall by making a splendid bound, where by its haunch, striking the negro’s back, sent him plunging on to its neck.

“Oh! I does like to be shook like dat, massa.”

“If you get shook much worse than that,” cried Lawrence, “I’ll have to stop to pick you up.”

“No fear, massa. Howebber much I wobbles I nebber comes off.”

An islet of bushes at this point necessitated a slight détour. On the other side of it they found that the main body of the troop had halted for rest and food.

Right glad was Lawrence to find that Colonel Marchbanks’s humour was entirely changed, that the asperity of the previous night had passed away, and that the natural urbanity of his nature had returned.

“A pleasant gallop, was it not, Senhor Armstrong?” he said, as our hero joined the group of officers around him.

“Delightful, and quite new to me,” said Lawrence. “I have often read of but never seen the Pampas till now.”

He looked furtively about as he spoke. The colonel marked the look, and with a somewhat grim smile observed that they should see more than enough of the Pampas for some days to come.

“The sea of long yellow-brown grass and thistles,” he added, “gets to be rather monotonous at last; but I never weary of the feeling of immensity and freedom which it inspires. Come, dine with us, senhor.”

Lawrence gladly accepted the invitation.

“We make but a brief halt,” said the colonel, “for time presses and distances are great. Our next shall be at the Estancia Algaroba, where we shall spend the night. Your friend Pedro will make arrangements for us. He is with the advance-guard.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Lawrence; then, feeling that he ought to say something more, “I suppose his newly-found daughter is with him?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, curtly, as he shot a suspicious glance at the youth from under his shaggy brows.

After dining, Lawrence returned to the baggage-mules with an unaccountable depression of spirits upon him, and deeply absorbed with the question whether rear-guards ever overtook advance-guards, and what, if they did, usually became of intervening main bodies. With such puzzling military questions on his mind, the remainder of that day’s journey was not equal to the first part, and even Quashy, the sympathetic, failed to interest him!

The estancia, previously referred to by the colonel, stood on a slight eminence surrounded by the grove of algaroba-trees from which it derived its name. The fruit of this tree forms excellent food for cattle, and Lawrence found himself busily engaged during the first hour after arrival in procuring it for his mules, and otherwise looking after his charge. When this duty was done, feeling no disposition to join his comrades at supper, he sauntered into a garden in rear of the estancia, where he found a rustic seat under an algaroba-tree, and sat down to meditate.

It was a calm, peaceful, moonlight night, with an air, so he felt, of sadness about it which harmonised with his melancholy thoughts. He now believed he saw through Colonel Marchbanks’s plan, and had given up all hope of seeing Manuela again. In these circumstances, being a man of submissive spirit yet powerful will, he set himself resolutely to think of the important object in which he was engaged. Somewhat thus his meditations ran—

“I am no soldier, but I am a man, and I should be less than a man—unworthy to live—if I were not ready to help in the rescue of women and children. Some of the girls, poor things, may be like Manu— that is—. Now, although I hate war, and do not approve of settling disputes by the sword, I feel that self-defence, or the defence of the helpless, justifies war,—ay, to the knife. Of course it does. Was I not thoroughly justified in fighting the robbers when Manu—. Well, then, let me think it out. A thing is not properly thought at all until it is thought out, and found out. Talking of that, how fortunate that Pedro’s little daughter was found out. It is most interesting! I delight to think of her. And she’s so pretty, too—quite beautiful, though, of course, not so beautiful as Man—”

“Bother Manuela!” he exclaimed aloud, starting up.

As he spoke, Manuela herself—the princess of the Incas—stood before him!

In order to account for this sudden miscarriage of the colonel’s plans, we must turn aside to state that the princess, being of an active disposition, and not easily tired, had said to Pedro that evening, when his detachment was encamping under a group of trees not far from the estancia, that she would ride back to the main body to see her father.

“But my strict orders are,” said Pedro, “that I am to keep you with the advance-guard, and you know that your father is not a man to be disobeyed.”

“Quite true,” returned the princess, looking with a solemn expression down at Pedro—for she was still on horseback, while he and his men were dismounted, preparing the camp. “You must on no account disobey my father, Pedro.”

“Well then, you see,” returned the guide, with an amused look, “I cannot give you permission to leave us.”

“Of course not. That would be insubordination, Pedro, would it not? which, in time of war, is punishable, I think, with death. I would never think of asking permission, or tempting you to disobey. I will be sure to tell my father that you positively refused to let me go. Adieu, Senhor Pedro. A good appetite and sweet repose!”

She touched her splendid horse with a switch, and next moment was flying over the Pampas at a pace that rendered pursuit useless.

Dismounting and fastening her steed to a tree, she passed through the garden towards the house, and naturally, as we have seen, came upon Lawrence.

“Manuela!” he exclaimed.

“Si, senhor,” she replied.

He advanced a step with outstretched arms, and then, checking himself, clasped his hands.

“Is it—can it be—a dream?”

“What doos you dream, senhor?” asked the girl, in the old familiar broken English.

“Manuela, dear girl, do not trifle with me. It seems like magic. Did I not see you—in the ballroom—white—the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks?”

“Well, Senhor Armstrong,” said Manuela, earnestly, and in good English, “I admit that I am the daughter of Colonel Marchbanks, but I did not—indeed I did not wish to deceive—”

“Deceive!” interrupted Lawrence, quickly, “as well might you tell me that one of the unfallen angels did not mean to deceive. O dear one, forgive me! I know not how to tell it—but—but—can you believe that a great stupid fellow like myself loves you so that—that—I—well—it’s of no use. I’ll never act wisely if I try to—to—”

He seized her hand. She did not withdraw it. He drew her to him. She did not resist; and there followed a sound—a very slight sound; yet it was not so slight but that it sent a shock of alarm and anger to the soul of Colonel Marchbanks, who came up at that awkward moment.

“Sir! sirrah! senhor,—rascal!” spluttered the old man, as Manuela ran away from the scene, “what—why—what do you mean?”

Drawing himself up, Lawrence said, with a look of dignity—

“Colonel Marchbanks, I can look you honestly in the face, and say that neither in word nor deed have I done you or your daughter wrong.”

“No—have you not?” shouted the colonel. “Sir! rascal!—there is a looking-glass over the mantelpiece in the estancia. Go there, look yourself in the face, and say, if you dare, that you have done me no wrong!”

He wheeled about violently and strode away, fuming.

Lawrence went to his chamber, wondering at such a display of wrath in one so genial.

He glanced at the looking-glass in passing through the chief room of the estancia. The glance revealed to him the fact that there was a large rich brown patch in the region of his mouth and nose!

Chapter Twenty Three.

Treats of Savages, Captives, Chases, Accidents, Incidents, and Perplexities.

Not unfrequently, in human affairs, evil consequences are happily averted by unforeseen circumstances. It was so on the present occasion.

What Colonel Marchbanks’s wrath might have led to no one can tell, for, a little before dawn on the following morning, there came a messenger in hot haste from Pedro stating that one of the scouts had come in with the news that the Indians were encamped with their captives and booty not half a day’s ride in advance of them.

The result was an immediate order to advance and to close up.

It is interesting to consider how small a matter will cheer the spirits of some men. The order to mount and ride naturally produced some excitement in the breast of Lawrence Armstrong, being unaccustomed to the dash and whirl of troops eager to meet the foe; but the succeeding order to “close up” did more, it filled his heart with joy, for did it not imply that the advance and rear-guards must come nearer to each other? At least to his unmilitary mind it seemed so.

In a brief space of time, and with marvellously little noise, the troops were in motion, and at dawn, sure enough, he saw the figures of the ladies galloping with the advance party, with Pedro leading the way—for he had been appointed to the responsible duty of guide.

Venturing to push a little ahead of his special charge, Lawrence soon found himself with the main body, and heard the colonel order one of his officers to ride forward and tell the ladies to fall to the rear of the force.

Hearing this, Lawrence, almost imperceptibly to himself, tightened his reins, but, before he had dropped many strides behind, the colonel turned his head slightly and summoned him by name.

With something like a guilty feeling Lawrence rode forward.

“We have heard of the whereabouts of the savages, Senhor Armstrong. You are a civilian, and as surgeon to the force it is your duty, of course, to keep as much out of danger as possible, but as brave men usually prefer the front, I absolve you from this duty. You are at liberty to go there if you choose.”

The blood rushed to our hero’s face. He knew well what the old soldier meant. With a simple “Thank you, colonel,” he put spurs to his steed, and was in a few seconds galloping alongside of Pedro.

“You ride furiously, senhor,” said the guide, with a twinkle in his eye which was characteristic of him when amused.

Lawrence made no reply.

Just then they overtopped a slight ridge or rising ground, and beheld a few mounted men on the horizon. These were evidently the scouts of the Indian band, for on seeing the soldiers they drew hastily together and stood in a group as if to consult for a few seconds. Then, turning, they galloped over the next rising ground and disappeared.

The soldiers of course increased their speed. On gaining the top of the ridge, they beheld a large band of Indians mounting and galloping off in hot haste. Evidently they did not intend to give battle—at least at that time.

With a mighty shout the soldiers bore down on them at their utmost speed—Lawrence, Pedro, the colonel, and Quashy leading, for they were the best mounted of the party. It was soon perceived that captives were with the Indians, for women in civilised dress were seen on horseback, and some of the savages had children in front of them.

At this sight every thought of self fled from the warm heart of Lawrence Armstrong, and he was impressed with but one idea—“Rescue the helpless!” Urging his steed to its utmost, he was soon far ahead of the troop, closely followed by Quashy, whose eyes and teeth seemed to blaze with excitement.

There was a savage straight ahead of them who carried something in his arms. It seemed to be a child. Fixing his eye on this man, Lawrence spurred on, and grasped his sword with deadly intent. Quashy, ever observant, did the same.

The man, perceiving their intentions, diverged a little to the right of his comrades, probably thinking that his pursuers would be unwilling to quit the main band, and might thus be thrown off. He was mistaken, for Lawrence possessed, with immense power of will, a strong spice of recklessness. The more, therefore, that the savage diverged, the more did his pursuers diverge in their determination to have him. Finding himself hard pressed, he dropped his load. It proved to be only a sack, which, bursting, revealed, not a child, but a quantity of miscellaneous property!

Enraged as well as disappointed by the discovery, our hero, being fallible, permitted evil feelings to enter his bosom, and spurred on with a tighter grasp of the sword under the influence of revenge, but the savage being now lightened held on with still greater speed, diverging more and more until, in a short time, he raced almost at right angles from his companions towards a part of the plain which was somewhat elevated above the surrounding level.

It was a wise move on his part, for the place, he knew, was riddled with biscacho-holes. Among these he steered his course with consummate skill. Of course Lawrence’s steed ere long put its foot into a hole and rolled over, sending its rider headlong to the ground, where he lay on his back insensible, alike to pity for captives and impulses of revenge.

After lying thus for a considerable time he slowly opened his eyes, and, looking up, met the solemn gaze of Quashy. His head rested on the knee of his sable follower.

“What’s wrong, Quash?” was his first inquiry.

“Nuffin’s wrong, massa, now you talk. I was begin to t’ink your mout’ was shut up for ebber.”

“Have they caught the rascals?” asked Lawrence, suddenly recollecting what had passed, and raising himself on one elbow.

“I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell.”

“How—what—where are the troops?”

“Dun know, massa; gone arter de Injins, I s’pose, an’ de Injins gone arter deir own business, an’ bof gone off de face ob de art’ altogidder—so far as I can see.”

Lawrence started up in great anxiety, and although still giddy from the effects of his fall, could see plainly enough that neither troops nor Indians were to be seen—only a mighty sea of waving grass with a clear horizon all round, and nothing to break the monotony of the vast solitude save their two horses browsing quietly a few yards off.

“Quashy, it strikes me that we shall be lost,” said Lawrence, with anxious look.

“’Smy opinion, massa, dat we’s lost a’ready.”

“Come,” returned Lawrence, rising with some difficulty, “let’s mount and be off after them. Which way did they go—that is, at what point of the compass did they disappear?”

Quashy’s face assumed the countless wrinkles of perplexity. He turned north, south, east, and west, with inquiring glances at the blank horizon, and of course gave a blank reply.

“You see, massa,” he said, apologetically, “you hoed a-rollin’ ober an’ ober in sitch a way, dat it rader confused me, an’ I forgits to look whar we was, an’ den I was so awrful cut up for fear you’s gone dead, dat I t’ink ob nuffin else—an’ now, it’s too late!”

“Too late indeed,” rejoined Lawrence, with a feeling of bitterness, “nevertheless, we must ride somewhere. Catch our horses, Quashy, and I will wait for you and think.”

Having applied himself to that most difficult process—thinking out a plan with insufficient material for thought—our hero resolved to ride in what he supposed—judging by the position of the sun—was an easterly direction, hoping to strike the trail of the pursuers and fugitives before night.

“You see, Quashy,” he remarked, as they galloped swiftly over the flowering plains, “we are almost sure to find the trail in a short time; for although neither you nor I have had much experience in following trails in the wilderness, we have got some sort of idea—at least I have, from books—of how the thing should be done, and even the most stupid white man could scarcely ride across the track of several hundred horsemen without observing it.”

“Das true, massa. Eben the stoopidist black man am equal to dat. But what if you’s mistook de d’rection, an’ we’s ridin’ west instead ob east?”

“Why then, Quashy, we’d discover our mistake sooner or later by arriving at the Andes,” returned Lawrence, with a bland smile.

“Hi! I don’ mean west,” returned the negro, with a reciprocal grin; “you couldn’t be so mistook as dat—but s’pose you’se go souf by mistake?”

“Why, then the straits of Magellan would bring us up.”

“Ah—well, massa, I dun know whar de straits ob Majillum is, but it would be a comfort to be brought up anywhar, for den you couldn’t go no farder. An’ if we’s on de right track, we’re sure to come to de Atlantic at last, eben if we miss de Injins an’ de sodjers altogidder. Das pleasant to t’ink on—i’n’t it?”

Apparently Lawrence did not think it remarkably pleasant, for he paid no further attention to the remarks of his companion, but proceeded along with a profound, almost stern, gravity, and with his eyes glancing keenly right and left after the most approved manner of the Indian brave or the backwoods scout.

No track or trail, however, of any kind was to be seen. For more than an hour they sped along, down in the flowering hollows, over the grassy waves steering carefully past the riddled townships of the biscachos, now and then diverging a little to avoid some larger shrubs or tangled masses of herbage, sometimes uttering a word of comment on passing objects, and occasionally craning their necks on observing some buzzard or other bird on the horizon, but never drawing rein until they came to a rising ground, from the highest point of which they could have a commanding view of the region all round. Here they pulled up.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, in a deep, solemn tone, “we are indeed lost.”

“It ’pears to me you’s right, massa.”

“And yet we must be on the right track,” continued Lawrence, as if communing with himself, “unless, indeed, the Indians may have changed their direction and turned off to the south.”

“Or de nort’,” suggested Quashy, in the same self-communing tone.

“Come, there’s nothing for it but to push on,” cried Lawrence, galloping away.

“Das so. Nuffin else,” said Quashy, following.

And so they continued on for another hour or more in grim silence, after which they rode, as it were, in grim despair—at least Lawrence did so, for he felt bitterly that he was now separated, perhaps for ever, from Manuela, and that he could render no further aid in rescuing the captives from the savages. As for the negro, despair was not compatible with his free and easy, not to say reckless, happy-go-lucky temperament. He felt deeply indeed for his young master, and sympathised profoundly; but for himself he cared little, and thought of nothing beyond the interests of the passing hour. Possibly if both horses had broken their legs and Lawrence had broken his neck, Quashy might have given way to despair, but it is probable that nothing less severe could have overcome his buoyant spirit.

At last the sun began to descend behind the Andes, which were by that time turned into a misty range of tender blue in the far, far distance. The steeds also showed signs of declining power, for, in his anxiety to overtake the troops, Lawrence had pressed them rather harder than he would otherwise have done.

Opportunely at that time they came in sight of a small clump of bushes, like a low islet in the sea of grass.

“We will camp here,” said Lawrence, brusquely, as he pulled up and dismounted. “The game is up. We are fairly lost, that’s quite clear, and it is equally clear that we and our horses must rest.”

He spoke in a tone of cynical joviality, as if defying his misfortunes. The simple-minded Quashy, accepting it as genuine, said, “All right, massa,” in a tone of cheerful satisfaction, as he slid off his steed and set about preparing the encampment.

If our hero’s mind had been more at ease, it is probable that he would have enjoyed his surroundings greatly, for, although lost on the wide Pampas, they had not begun yet to suffer physically from that misfortune. Their wallets were still supplied with food sufficient for at least three full meals, the weather was serene, and the situation, viewed in one aspect, was exceedingly romantic. From the top of the rising ground where the fire was burning and the steaks of mare’s flesh roasting, the complete circle of the horizon could be seen, and the yellow-brown grass of the Pampas, at that time about a foot high, rolled with a motion that strangely resembled the waves of the liquid ocean itself.

But poor Lawrence was incapable of enjoying the beauties of nature just then. After one long, anxious look round to see if any object should present itself which might raise the faintest echo of hope, he returned to the camp, and sat down on a mound with a profound sigh.

“Chee’ up, massa,” said Quashy, raising his face, which glittered with his efforts to blow the fire into a glow. “You’s git her in de long run.”

“Get who?” demanded Lawrence, in surprise, not unmingled with a touch of severity, for this was the first time that his humble follower had dared to touch on the theme that was uppermost in his mind.

With a strange compound of what is well named “cheek” and humility, Quashy replied, “Her, you know, de Inca princess—Manuela. It’s all right!”

“And pray, Quashy, how do you know that it’s all right, or that I want anything to be all right. In short, what business have you to presume to—to—”

“Oh, it’s all right, massa,” replied the negro, with a wink—and what a wink that was!—“I knows all about it, bein’ zactly in de same state wid Sooz’n.”

Lawrence sought refuge from conflicting feelings in a loud laugh, and asked what hope Quashy could by any possibility entertain of ever seeing Susan again—she having, as it were, vanished from off the earth.

“Oh, nebber fear,” was Quashy’s comfortable reply. “I’s sure to find Sooz’n, for she no can git along widout me, no more nor I can git along widout her. We’s sure to find one anoder in de long run.”

Envying his man’s unwavering faith, Lawrence sat for some time silently contemplating the gorgeous sunset, when an exclamation drew his attention to the opposite side of the landscape.

“Look, massa. Suffin movin’ dar.”

There was indeed a moving speck—or rather two specks—on the horizon. As they drew nearer it was soon seen to be a Gaucho of the Pampas in full chase of an ostrich. They did not come straight towards our wanderers, but passed within half a mile of them. The picturesque hunter, bending over his steed’s neck, with his scarlet poncho streaming behind him, and the bolas whirling round his head, was so eager in the pursuit that he either did not observe, or did not mind, the thin smoke of the camp-fire. The giant bird, stretching its long legs to the utmost and using its wings as additional propellers, seemed quite able to hold its own and test the powers of the horse. Gradually pursuer and pursued passed out of the range of vision, and were seen no more.

“Just as well,” remarked Lawrence, as he afterwards sat eating his mare-steak by the star-and-fire light, “that fellow might be one of the many robbers who are said to infest the plains; and although we could no doubt have protected ourselves from him, he might have brought a swarm of his comrades about our ears.”

“Yes, massa,” was Quashy’s brief reply, for he was engaged at that moment with a large and tough mouthful.

A long ride, and a hearty though frugal supper, disposed both master and man for rest that night. When the last gleam of sunset had faded from the western sky, and the last scraps of mare’s flesh had vanished from their respective bones; when the stars were twinkling with nocturnal splendour, and all nature was sinking to repose, Lawrence and Quashy lay down on the grass, spread their ponchos above them, pillowed their weary heads upon their saddles, and slept profoundly.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Lawrence and his Man fall in with Strangers, hear Good News, and experience Rough Usage.

“Lost on the Pampas!” thought Lawrence, on awaking next morning. It was romantic, no doubt, but—well, he did not follow up the “but” with very definite conceptions.

As he lifted his eyes towards the horizon, where the rays of the rising sun were suffusing the sky with a tinge of rosy light, his first feelings partook of gratitude for a night of unbroken rest, which had restored a bounding sensation of physical life and strength and energy. Awaking in such a condition of mind and body leads one, contradictory though it may seem, to spend the first few minutes of reviving consciousness in restful contemplation and enjoyment of one’s surroundings. Raising himself on one elbow, our hero let his eyes wander dreamily over the vast plain. There was much monotony about it, no doubt, but the majesty of illimitable space neutralised that impression. On the horizon the intensifying tone of the rapidly increasing light harmonised with the varying greens and yellows of the herbage. Here and there one or two uplands in the far distance caught the sheen of day and relieved the prospect with streaks of varied hue. Still nearer a few clumps of low shrubbery increased this diversity a little. In the middle-distance the varied colours and forms of the grasses became distinct enough to invest the scene with character, while in the immediate foreground additional force and interest were given to the landscape by the person of Quashy lying flat on his back, with his great eyes closed and his huge mouth open.

The state of dreamy contemplation did not last long. The stern realities of the situation seemed to rush in upon his mind with sudden power. Lost! lost! The captives perhaps still unrescued from the savages! Manuela in danger! It was a dreadful state of things.

“Come, Quashy!” cried Lawrence, leaping up and giving the negro a rough shake that brought him instantly to a sitting and blinking condition. “Get up. We must be off. Saddle the horses—the hor— why, where are the horses?”

He finished the sentence in tones of anxiety, for no horses were visible.

Bounding into the patch of bushes, on the edge of which they had passed the night, Lawrence ran through it hastily, followed by his man, who had shaken off lethargy in a moment.

The patch was small. Moreover, the shrubs were barely tall enough to conceal a horse. In five minutes it became quite certain that the horses were not there.

From the highest point of the rising ground they had a clear view of the plains all round, but after the keenest scrutiny not a speck resembling a horse was to be seen. The searchers looked at each other in dismay.

“Lost! and our horses gone!” said Lawrence, in a voice which excess of alarm had reduced to a sort of low, hoarse whisper.

“Most awrful!” murmured Quashy.

Lawrence cleared his throat and paused, while his sympathetic servant gazed.

“Now, Quashy,” he said, “it seems to me quite impossible that our animals could have strayed in a few hours quite out of such an enormous circle of vision. They must be somewhere about, though we can’t see them.”

“Yes, massa, dey must be somewhar, as you say.”

“Well, then, it follows that they must be concealed in one of the few clumps of bushes that lie around us. So we must search these instantly, for our only hope lies in finding the horses.”

“Das so, massa.”

Even our negro’s elastic spirit seemed to be subdued to some extent by the prospect before them; for, apart from the fact that the bushy islets in the grassy sea were scarcely high enough to entirely conceal so large an object as a horse, they were scattered about at such immense distances from each other that a complete search of them implied toilsome labour for at least the whole of that day. Lawrence felt, however, that it had to be done, and arranged that his man should search towards the east, while he should take the west. To prevent the risk of their losing the mound on which they stood, one of their ponchos was thrown over the top of the highest bush and fixed there as a signal. So eager were they to begin, that both started off without a thought of breakfast.

It is not necessary to follow the steps of each. In regard to Lawrence, it may suffice to say that he wandered during the whole of that sultry day over the boundless plain, wearily but persistently examining the few bush-islets that lay to the west of their bivouac without finding a trace of the lost steeds. As the sun began to decline towards the east he gave up in despair, and, with weary limbs and something like wolfish hunger, returned towards the rendezvous.

Very different had been the experience of his sable servant.

Starting off, as we have said, at the same time with his master, Quashy found the two horses, after a two hours’ search, quietly grazing in a grassy hollow. A low shrub-covered mound lying close to this hollow intervened between it and the spot where our adventurers had spent the night, thus effectually concealing the lost steeds from view.

The instant Quashy made the discovery he ran to the nearest elevation on the plain with the intention of shouting the news to his master, but by that time Lawrence was two or three miles away on the other side of the bivouac, quite beyond the range of sight and hearing.

Quashy, therefore, ran back to the hollow with the intention of catching the horses, mounting his own, and driving the other before him to the camp.

And now began that interesting but somewhat exhausting and heart-breaking process which may be styled coquetting with a free horse.

Full of glad enthusiasm, the negro ran towards his own steed, holding out his right hand, and exclaiming, “Come along, Ole Scrubby.”

He had named the horse Ole Scrubby owing to some sort of facetious perversity of his own temperament, for the horse, instead of being “ole,” was quite young, and, far from being scrubby, it was a remarkably fine animal.

“Come now, Ole Scrubby,” repeated the man, “we’s got no time to waste. D’ee hear?”

Evidently it heard, for, after allowing its master to advance within three feet of it, and even putting out its nose to smell his black hand, it gave a snort, turned round, tossed up its heels, and trotted away. Stopping short suddenly it turned again and looked at its master with a high head, as if to say, “There! what think you of that?”

“You ole scoundril,” growled the negro, with an injured look, “di’n’t I say we’s got no time to waste? eh! Come, now. Das enuff o’ your fun.”

He had again approached to within three feet or so, and again the playful steed had protruded its nose and even touched his hand, but before that hand could grasp the halter, tail and heels were in the air, and away it went a second time.

Indignation, intensified to the uttermost, sat on Quashy’s countenance. “Scrubs,” he said, solemnly—modifying the name a little, as he became more serious—“you nebber doo’d dat before! Come, sar, you ’bey orders, an’ stan’ still.”

But the horse refused to obey orders, and declined to stand still. His master began to lose temper—if we may so speak of one who only became a little less amiable than usual. Under the influence of the condition, however, whatever it was, he became unjust, and began to call his horse names.

“What! you not ’bey orders? you ole screw—you unnat’ral villin—you obs’nit lump o’ hoss-flesh! Stan’ still, I say!”

Need we say that the horse refused to stand still?

Again, and again, and over again, the negro tried to lay hands on the animal, and as often did he fail. Quashy, however, was not to be easily beaten. His was a resolute and persevering nature; but the misfortune on that occasion was that he had to do with a creature possessed of greater resolution and perseverance than himself. He spent hours over the effort. He coaxed the horse. He wheedled it. He remonstrated with and reproved it. He tried the effect of the most endearing entreaties, and assurances of personal esteem. Losing—no, becoming less amiable, he flew round to the other extreme, and accused it of ingratitude, indefensible even in an ass. Then he sought to bribe it with offers of free forgiveness. After that he tried to frighten it with threats of the most painful and every way horrible consequences; but whatever effect all these varied influences might have had upon the horse’s mind, the one unvarying effect on its body was to send its tail and heels towards the sky, while it neighed joyously and trotted around. Poor Quashy went up to it smilingly—after that, frowningly; he cringed towards it; he advanced straightforwardly; he sidled slily; he ran at it; he rushed at it; he bounced at it; he yelled at it; he groaned at it; he perspired after it; he went nearly mad over it, and, finally, he sat down before it, and glared in deadly silence in its innocent face!

Then the unfortunate man, having spent a very considerable part of the day thus, bethought him of trying to catch the other horse, but with it he was also unsuccessful—indeed, the failure was even more emphatic, for Lawrence’s steed refused to let him come within even hopeful distance of it.

At last, in the profoundest state of despair to which he was ever known to have sunk, he returned to camp. Lawrence had got there before him, saw him coming, and advanced to meet him.

“Well, Quashy, I have failed,” he said, with a sigh.

“So’s I,” returned Quashy, with a growl.

“This losing of our horses,” remarked Lawrence, “is the worst that could have befallen us.”

“No, massa,” said the negro, with more of sulkiness—or less of amiability—than he had exhibited since they first met on the western side of the Andes, “breakin’ our legs would be wuss—smashin’ our necks would be wusser still. But de hosses is not lost. Dey’s on’y spunkerblued.”

“How? What d’you mean?”

“Dey’s down dar,” returned the negro, pointing with his finger, “down in dat holler—spunkerblued.”

“Not killed, I hope,” asked Lawrence, anxiously.

“Oh no, massa, on’y spunkerblued—stuffed to de muzzle wid deir own self-will.”

Lawrence received this explanation with a light laugh. “Come,” he said, quickly, “lead the way, Quash, and I’ll show you how to get them out of the spunkerblues.”

Comforted and reassured by his master’s hearty tone and manner, the negro led the way to the spot where he had spent such a busy day.

Now, we do not know whether we have made it obvious to the reader that Lawrence Armstrong’s kindliness of nature embraced not only the human race but the whole animal kingdom. At all events it is true that wherever he came in contact with the lower animals he managed by some species of fascination to gain their affections. The mode of fascination began, no doubt, with their stomachs, but this does not alter the fact. Among other creatures Lawrence had gained the affections of Quashy’s steed, and also of Manuela’s and Pedro’s horses, as well as his own, by means of sugar. With this simple appliance he went into the hollow, and held out his hand.

“Come, Ole Scrubby,” he cried, using Quashy’s words.

With a cheerful neigh the rebellious one trotted up, received the sugar, and suffered himself to be led once more into servitude.

“Even among the brutes, Quash,” he remarked, as he patted the nose of his own steed, “we are meant to ‘overcome evil with good.’ Come, we must spend another night here, for it is too late to start off now; besides, I am tired out, and starving.”

“Massa,” returned Quashy, as they mounted, “I’s done up to dat extent, an’ so hungry, I could sleep on prickly pears, an’ heat my wittles raw.”

In this condition of body and mind they galloped back to camp, and took particular care that the horses should not again stray.

Next morning, after breakfasting on the remains of their food, they mounted, and, taking the sun as their guide, headed away eastward at full gallop.

Silently and steadily for two hours or more they swept along over the Pampas waves, turning aside only a little once or twice to avoid ground that had been riddled and rendered unsafe by the biscachos.

As noon approached Quashy gave a shout, and pointed to the horizon ahead of them, where living objects of some kind were seen moving along.

“Ostriches,” said Lawrence.

“Dey’s a noo kind ob ostriches wid four legs,” returned the negro, “an’ wid peepil on deir backs.”

“I believe you are right. A party of mounted men, apparently. Come, this is well. Whoever they are we shall at least be able to gather some information from them, and, at the worst, we can follow them to some inhabited spot.”

“True, massa, an’ if dey’s rubbers we kin fight dem.”

On drawing near they found that the riders belonged to a family of Gauchos. There were six of them—all fine-looking fellows, clad in the graceful, though ragged costume of the Pampas. One of their number was a little boy of about five years of age, who rode his horse with all the elegance and ease of a Spanish grandee, though only about the size of a large monkey.

They turned out to be honest and friendly men, who said that they were returning home after assisting in a successful chase after Indians.

Had they been assisted by troops in the chase, Lawrence asked, eagerly.

Yes, they had—troops under a tall, white-haired colonel, and the captives had been rescued, the savages scattered, and the soldiers had gone off in the direction of Buenos Ayres.

“So, Quashy, they’ve managed the job without our assistance,” said Lawrence, on hearing this. “Now we must spur after the troops as hard as our steeds can go.”

On this being stated to the leading Gaucho he shook his head, and advised the senhor to go to their hut for the night. It was only a little way out of the line of march; there the travellers could feed and rest well, and start refreshed in the morning. Besides, a storm was coming on which would prevent all travelling for some hours.

As he spoke he pointed to a part of the sky which had become dark with clouds, and, without further remark, galloped away, followed by his companions. Lawrence deemed it wise in the circumstances to accept the invitation.

The day had been very sultry, and if our travellers had not been ignorant of the signs of the Pampas they might have known that the day was heavy with the presage of storm.

Before the Gaucho home, to which they were hastening, appeared on the horizon, the whole sky had become overclouded and vivid forked lightning began to play. From the way in which the Gauchos spurred and the horses trembled it was clear that they feared being caught in the storm; and little wonder, for both men and beasts are filled with alarm when overtaken on the unsheltered Pampas by one of these terrific tempests. The blast, sweeping unchecked over hundreds of miles of wilderness, often acquires a force that drives all before it. Sometimes great herds of cattle have been driven bellowing before the gale, tumbling over each other in wild confusion till some swollen river has checked their flight and ended their career.

Race, and spur, and shout as they might, however, the storm was too quick for them on this occasion. The wind seemed to rush down upon them with evil intent and fury, changing the temperature from sultry heat to sudden and bitter cold. Dust, too, was stirred up, and swept along so thickly that the day became as dark as night. Then the rain burst upon them like a waterspout, and, mingling with the flying dust overhead, came down in the form of mud, mixed with flying sticks and stones, and grass, and prickly thistle-heads.

So fierce was the hurly-burly that it seemed as if man and horse must perish under it. Thunder also cracked and roared in terrific peals, while ever and anon the lightning flashed like gleaming steel through the darkness.

In the midst of this elemental war the party reached the Gaucho huts. What they were like Lawrence could not tell. He had galloped like the rest wildly along, with his face buried in his poncho, and saw nothing—save once or twice, when, raising his head slightly and opening one eye, he saw, or fancied he saw, the Gauchos, like dark phantoms, flying before him, and Quashy at his side, bending flat on his horse’s neck. The stout negro seemed to care nothing for his body so long as his face was safe, for he had let his poncho go, and as it was fastened only at the neck, it flapped wildly above his head.

Presently they passed through an opening in what seemed a mud wall. Then they stopped so suddenly that Lawrence almost went over his steed’s head, while his man effectually did so, and, throwing a complete somersault, alighted by good fortune on his feet.

They all tumbled promiscuously into a mud hut, and then, clearing their eyes, found that the Gaucho-leader and a woman, apparently his wife, were smiling welcome beside them; that the short-lived storm was already passing away, after having done its worst, and that they were drenched to the skin as well as covered with mud and thistle-heads from top to toe.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Begins with Gaucho Homes and Domestic Concerns; continues with two Fights, and ends with a Friend and a “Puzzler.”

That a hard ride and a thorough soaking do not interfere much with the comfort of the young and healthy was proved that night in the Gaucho camp by the intense devotion paid by Lawrence and Quashy to the ample supper set before them, and by the profundity of their slumbers thereafter.

True, the supper was not luxurious. It consisted of only one dish,—roasted mare’s flesh—and one beverage,—water; but, happily, the tastes of our adventurers were simple.

The Gaucho hut in which they had found shelter was a very humble dwelling built of mud. It contained only one room, in which the whole family resided. Like other Gaucho huts—which are nearly all alike—it was covered with long yellow grass, and bore so strong a resemblance to the surrounding country, that, at a little distance, it might easily have been mistaken for a hillock. The kitchen of the establishment was a detached shed a few yards off. After sunset the hut was lighted by a feeble lamp, made of bullock’s tallow, which brought into strong relief the bridles, spurs, bolas, and lassos which hung from bone pegs on the walls. Other objects of interest were revealed by the primitive lamp. In one corner a large dog lay sleeping. A naked negro child—a sort of ebony cupid—lay asleep beside it, with its little head pillowed on the dog’s haunch. In another corner a hen was sitting on eggs, while its companions, guarded by a noble cock, roosted on one of the rafters, and several children, of ages ranging from four to sixteen, were seated or standing about awaiting supper. Last, but not least in importance, a Gaucho infant hung suspended from the rafters in a primitive cradle of bullock’s skin, the corners of which were drawn together by four strips of hide. The place would have been insufferably close but for the fortunate circumstance that a number of holes in the dilapidated roof allowed free ventilation. They also allowed free entrance of rain in bad weather, but—Gauchos are not particular!

Although indifferent as to appearances, those Gauchos of the Pampas—many of whom are descendants of the “best” old families in Spain—retain much of the manners of their forefathers, being hospitable and polite not only to strangers but to each other.

When supper was ready the great iron spit on which the beef had been roasted was brought in, and the point of it stuck into the dried mud floor. The master of the hut then stepped forward with the air of a hidalgo and offered Lawrence the skeleton of a horse’s head to sit upon. Quashy having been provided with a similar seat, the whole household drew in their horse-heads, circled round the spit, and, drawing their long knives, began supper. They meant business. Hunger was the sauce. Water washed the viands down. There was little conversation, for large mouthfuls were the order of the evening. Lawrence and his man acquitted themselves creditably, and supper did not terminate till the roast was gone. Then they all spread their beds on the floor and retired for the night. Each covered his or her head with a poncho, or other garment—nothing of the sleepers being left visible save their bare feet—after which silence reigned around.

In summer, abodes of this kind are so animated with insect life that the inhabitants usually prefer to sleep on the ground in front of their dwellings, but in the present case the recent storm had rendered this luxury for the time impossible.

Little cared Lawrence and his man for that. Where they lay down to repose, there they remained without motion till daylight. Then the magnificent cock overhead raised his voice, and proclaimed the advent of a new day. Quashy sat up, split his face across, displayed his internal throat, and rubbed his eyes. Immediately the cock descended on his woolly head, flapped its wings, and crowed again. The people began to stir, and Lawrence went out with Quashy to saddle their horses, being anxious to follow in the trail of the troops without delay. A prolonged search convinced them that their horses had either strayed or been stolen, for they were nowhere to be found.

Returning to the hut, they observed that the Gauchos were exceedingly busy round their corral, or enclosure for cattle.

“What can they be about?” said Lawrence, as they drew near.

“Killin’ pigs, I t’ink.”

“I think not; there seems too much excitement for that.”

There certainly was a considerable noise of piggish voices, and the Gauchos were galloping about in an unaccountable manner, but, as is usually the case, a little investigation explained the seemingly unaccountable. The men were engaged in driving some cattle into the enclosure, and as these were more than half wild and self-willed, the process entailed much energy of limb and noise. As to the porcine yells, the whole of the almost superhuman skirling arose from one little pig, which the ebony cupid before mentioned had lassoed by the hind leg.

Gaucho children—after being delivered from the cradle before described, and after passing through the crawling period of infancy and attaining to the dignity of the stagger—begin to copy their seniors. With lassos and bolas made of twine, they practise on little birds, or on the dogs and fowls of home. Our ebony cupid, though not indeed a Gaucho, but a negro infant, partook of the Gaucho spirit, and, although little more than four years of age, had succeeded in catching his first pig. Violence seemed to have reached a white heat in the heart of that little pig! Besides giving vent to intensified shrieking, it dragged its captor along, in a state of blazing triumph, until it overturned him, snapped the twine, and got away.

But cupid was not to be balked of his prey. With a staggering rush to where several horses were standing ready bridled, he caught hold of the tail of a meek-looking animal, and scrambled by means of that appendage on to its back. Seizing the bridle, he uttered a wild though tiny shout, and dashed away after the fugitive.

Whether he recaptured it or not Lawrence never found out, for at that moment a subject of greater interest claimed his attention.

Besides the hut in which they had spent the night, there were several other huts near the corral, and Lawrence now perceived that the place was a sort of hamlet, surrounded by a small ditch by way of defence. While our hero was glancing round him he observed that Quashy stopped suddenly, and gazed at something in front of him as if transfixed with a surprise which threw quite into the shade all his previous expressions of astonishment, and convinced his master that he had not yet fathomed half the depth of meaning that could be thrown into that sable countenance. Quashy bent slightly forward, extended his arms, spread out his ten fingers, opened his mouth, and tried to speak.

“S–S–Soo—!” he began, and gasped.

“S–Soo—Sooz’n!” he shouted.

Yes, there she stood, in the doorway of a hut, as black as life, and with a glare of joyful surprise that was only surpassed by that of her admirer.

A moment later they recovered. They rushed into each other’s arms, and their lips met.

Pistols and carbines! what a smack it was!

In his joy Quashy lifted Susan fairly off her feet and danced with her until he was exhausted, then he set her down and danced round her.

Susan had recovered her composure by that time. Whether Quashy’s mode of treatment is characteristic of negroes of the Pampas we do not pretend to say, but the girl stood there with a modestly pleased expression of face, while Quashy continued to dance round her.

Susan’s modesty and blackness were alike set off by her costume, which consisted of a short white frock, while her simple adornments were a pair of gold ear-rings and a necklace of red coral.

Alas for the fleeting nature of human joys! While Quashy was thus evincing his delight at the unexpected recovery of his betrothed, a wild shouting was heard, and several horsemen were seen flying over the plains towards the huts at a speed and with an action that betokened them the bearers of important news. They proved to be men of the village who had encountered a large band of Indians on their way to attack the place.

Instantly all the men of the hamlet, amounting perhaps to about fifty, prepared for defence, placing the women and children in the huts for safety. Of course Lawrence and his man would have volunteered their services even if self-defence had not required that line of conduct.

We have said that the hamlet was surrounded by a shallow ditch. This was backed by a hedge of prickly pears. Behind the hedge the men dispersed themselves, armed with several rusty flint-lock guns, some old swords, a few Indian spears, and other less warlike weapons.

Lawrence and Quashy took up a position at the entrance to the little fortress, the opening of which was blocked by cactus-bushes. Their host of the previous night stood beside them. Light though such defences seemed, they were more effective than might have been supposed, for Indian horses as a rule will not leap even a shallow ditch, and cannot be made to burst through prickly pears, though, doubtless, there may be some exceptions.

The defenders had not long to wait. Their preparations were barely completed when horsemen were descried on the horizon, and in a very brief space of time a band of above a hundred naked savages came thundering down on them, uttering terrific screams or yells, and brandishing long spears. They rode straight towards the opening in the defences.

The chief Gaucho was evidently a man of courage, for although he knew well that capture meant death—perhaps with torture—he stood firm without blanching, his eyes fixed sternly on the approaching foe, and his strong hands grasping the stock of a rusty old musket, the very look of which might have caused anxiety to its handler.

“Now Quash,” whispered Lawrence, “don’t fire till I do—and keep cool.”

“Yes, massa. I’s cool as a lump o’ hice.”

The savage who led the assailants was a tall, powerful fellow on a splendid horse. When within about sixty yards of the defences he levelled his spear and made a tremendous rush as if resolved to bear down all obstacles. The Gaucho chief—if we may so style him—presented his musket and pulled the trigger. It missed fire!

“I’ll try him with shot first,” remarked Lawrence to Quashy, presenting his double-barrelled gun.

At the distance of fifty yards or so the shot, when it entered the savage leader, was well scattered, so that horse and man were peppered all over. The latter dropped his lance and almost fell off, while the former, getting on its hind-legs, executed a pirouette which brought its tail to the rear and sent it charging wildly back upon its friends. The second in command, receiving the other barrel, at even shorter range, went through the same performance with greater impetuosity. At the same moment the old musket was prevailed on to go off, and Quashy delivered four pistol-shots in quick succession, with the result that several men and horses were wounded, and the entire body of Indians turned and fled in a state of frenzied surprise.

They soon pulled up, however, and held a momentary consultation out of range. Then, being bold fellows, they charged again, but this time in two bands, one of which attacked the place in rear.

As before, the band which attacked the front was vigorously repelled, but in rear the defenders were less successful. How it was managed Lawrence never found out, but he had barely succeeded in driving off the foe in front, and was congratulating Quashy on his coolness, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by yelling savages.

The Gaucho chief made a desperate fight towards his own hut, which he gained and entered in safety. Lawrence and Quashy tried to follow, but were too much pressed by numbers. Back to back they fought, and Quashy used his sword with such agility and vigour that in a few seconds he sent several Indians bleeding to the rear. Lawrence, despising the weapons of civilised warfare, held his now empty gun in his left hand, using it as a sort of shield, and brandished his favourite cudgel with such effect that he quickly strewed the ground around him with crown-cracked men. Unfortunately a stone struck him on the temple, and he fell. Thus left unsupported, Quashy, after slicing the nose half off a too ardent savage, was struck from behind, and also fell.

When our hero recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground, afflicted with a strange inability to move hand or foot, and conscious, chiefly, of a splitting headache. Presently a voice beside him whispered—

“Is you bery bad, massa?”

Lawrence turned his head with great difficulty and beheld his faithful follower lying like himself on the ground, firmly bound to a stout spar or pole. His own inability to move was at once explained, for he soon perceived that he was in the same bound condition.

“D’you know what has happened, Quashy?”

“Ho yes, massa. De reptiles has took de place, an’ tied you an’ me to sticks. What for I don’ know, but I s’pose dey means to skin us alive, or roast us, p’r’aps, to ’muse deir women an’ child’n.”

“More likely that they hope to have us ransomed,” returned Lawrence, with a shudder.

“What’s ramsumd, massa?”

“Try to get our friends to give them money for us. Have they killed many of the men—or got hold of the women and children?” asked Lawrence, anxiously.

“Yes, dey’s kill a few ob de men, but not many, for some hab got into de huts, an’ some into de corral, an’ dey’ll fight to de last. De savages am holdin’ a palaver jist now—see, dey’s agwine to begin again. Screw your head roun’ to de right an’ you see.”

Lawrence obeyed, and saw the savages assembled on a knoll. After driving the defenders into the huts, they had held a brief consultation, and seemed on the eve of renewing the attack. Filled with deep anxiety for the fate of the poor women and children, our hero made a desperate struggle to snap his bonds.

“No use, massa,” remarked Quashy. “I’s tried dat till I nearly bu’sted. Better lie still. P’r’aps dey forgit us.”

Lawrence groaned. He felt so helpless, and consequently hopeless, that he almost gave way to despair.

The spot where they had been flung down after their capture was so covered with rank grass that they could not see far in any direction. What they did see, however, aroused curiosity, if it did not inspire hope, for the savages seemed suddenly to have changed their plans. They were talking excitedly together on the knoll, and pointing eagerly towards the horizon.

“Das funny, massa,” remarked the negro.

“It is indeed. Perhaps they see some of their friends coming.”

“Or inimies,” suggested Quashy.

The latter was right. In a few minutes the Indians were seen to run down to the defences of the place. Our unfortunates lost sight of them in a few seconds, but they could hear the sound of horsemen approaching at full gallop. In a few minutes they heard shouting; then the yells, fearful cries, and imprecations of men in mortal combat. Soon after that a savage passed the place where they lay, at full speed. Then another and another. It became quickly evident that the defenders of the place were getting the worst of it. At last there was a general flight, and as the savages passed by, the new assailants appeared. It was easy to see that they were composed of all classes, a band of runaway soldiers and escaped convicts.

“Banditti!” exclaimed Lawrence, bitterly.

“Dey’ve got pris’ners. Look, massa.”

Our poor hero looked, and his hearts nearly stood still with horror, for he saw a horseman pass whose figure was strangely like to that of Colonel Marchbanks. His arms were bound, and a villainous-looking man led his horse. Immediately after another bandit-like fellow rode past with a female form seated in front of him. Of course it could be no other than Manuela, and in the agony of the moment Lawrence was about to renew his frantic effort to burst his bonds, when a man on foot ran close past him. Recognising him at once, Lawrence shouted—

“Ignacio!”

The old hunter, for it was he, stopped abruptly, and listened.

Another shout brought him to the side of our hero.

“Good luck!” exclaimed Ignacio, heartily.

“We have been bound by the scoundrels you are chasing,” cried Lawrence, quickly; “cut us free, good Ignacio.”

The hunter drew his long knife and knelt with the apparent intention of releasing them, but suddenly paused.

“No—better as you are,” he muttered, hurriedly, “your friends are in danger—”

“I know it,” interrupted Lawrence, almost wild with anxiety and surprise; “why not, then, release us?”

“There is no time to explain,” said Ignacio, quickly, almost fiercely. “Listen. I and others are secret enemies in this band of outlaws. When you are free be silent, be wise. You will need all your manhood. You must not know me—be silent—wise, but—”

The old hunter leaped up hastily, sheathed his knife and ran on, for at the moment he saw a group of the bandits running towards him. Diverging a little and hailing them, he drew them away from the spot where Lawrence and his man still lay bound.

“Das a puzzler, massa,” gasped Quashy, who had been rendered almost speechless by surprise, “if de bu’stin’-power what’s in my heart just now would on’y go into my muscles, I’d snap dem ropes like Samson.”

As the bursting-power referred to declined to go into the muscles of either master or man, they were fain to lie still with as much patience as they could assume, and await the course of events.

Chapter Twenty Six.

In which Old Friends and Enemies turn up in quite a Surprising Manner, and Quashy’s Joy overflows.

They had not to wait long. A few minutes later and old Ignacio returned with several men, one of whom, from his manner and bearing, appeared to be a chief among the outlaws.

“Who are you, and who bound you?” asked this chief, with a stern look.

Answering in his best Spanish, Lawrence explained how he fell into the hands of the savages.

The chief did not speak for a few seconds, but looked inquiringly at Ignacio.

“It won’t do to make more prisoners, you know,” said the old hunter, replying to the look; “we have too many on our hands as it is. The troops are already on our track, and you may be sure they won’t lose time. Besides, these men are unknown, and won’t fetch a ransom.”

“What would you advise, then?”

“Cut their throats,” suggested Ignacio, coolly.

“You old fool!” returned the outlaw, “what good would that do? Isn’t it clear that these men are the enemies of the savages, and we want such to join us.”

“Ay,” returned Ignacio, “but they may be friends of the troops, and you don’t want such to join us.”

“There’s truth in that, old man. Well, we’ll just let them lie. They’re safe enough, as they are, not to do either good or evil. As you say, it is of no use burdening ourselves with prisoners who won’t fetch a ransom. The colonel and his women will fetch a good price, but these—nothing. I suppose that is why Cruz has ordered Conrad to be shot before we leave the place.”

“Why, I thought,” said Ignacio, with a look of surprise, “that Conrad of the Mountains was an outlaw like yourselves.”

“Not he. He’s a spy, and he’ll meet a spy’s doom, if he has not met it already.”

“Come—I’ll go and see this Conrad,” said Ignacio, “I should like to see a spy get his deserts.”

He turned quickly and hurried away, followed by the outlaw.

“Most awrful!” groaned Quashy, when they were gone.

“Awful indeed, to think that Manuela and her father are in the hands of such villains!” returned Lawrence.

“An’ Sooz’n,” said Quashy, with a deeper groan.

“But, massa, what’s come ober de ole hunter? He not in arnest, ob course.”

“Of course not,” replied Lawrence, “that is our one ray of hope now. He is only acting a part. He will assuredly help us, and means us to help him, but he takes a strange way to do it.”

He ceased to speak, for at that moment a man was seen approaching. He moved about like one who was searching for something. At last he caught sight of the bound men, and ran towards them, drawing his knife as he did so. For one instant a feeling of horror shot through the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, but next moment they were relieved, for they recognised in the approaching man the features of their old acquaintance of the Andes, the robber Antonio.

“I come to pay my debt,” he said, going down on one knee, and severing the cords which bound Lawrence, who heartily showered on him all the Spanish terms for thanks and gratitude that he could recall. Of course Quashy was also set free, and was equally profuse in his grateful expressions, but Antonio cut them both short.

“Come, we must be quick,” he said, and hurried away.

As they crossed the spot where the recent fight with the Indians had taken place, Quashy picked up one of the spears which lay on the ground, and Lawrence, to his great satisfaction, discovered his favourite cudgel lying where he had been knocked down. He picked it up, almost affectionately, and hurried on.

Antonio was in evident haste. Leading them through the hamlet, he went towards the corral, where, it could be seen, a party of the bandits were standing as if in wait. Suddenly they heard a noise behind them, and observed a party of men with muskets on their shoulders surrounding a prisoner. Antonio drew his companions into the shelter of a bush till they should pass.

“It is Conrad of the Mountains,” he whispered, while a fierce expression lighted up his eyes. “They go to shoot him. He must not die!”

As what seemed to be the firing-party advanced, followed by a straggling group of ruffians, Lawrence looked with profound interest and pity towards one of whom he had heard so much. The prisoner’s head hung down as he approached the bush, but on passing it he looked up. The sight of his face sent a shock of surprise and consternation to the hearts of Lawrence and Quashy, for the doomed man was no other than their friend Pedro!

Lawrence turned quickly to Antonio. “Conrad?” he asked, pointing to Pedro.

“Si, senhor,” replied the outlaw.

When the procession had passed, Lawrence stepped from behind the bush, and quietly joined it without being recognised by Pedro. He had not at that moment the most remote idea of what he intended to do; but one feeling was powerfully dominant in his breast—namely, that Pedro must be saved at all hazards. Of course Quashy and Antonio followed him.

The sudden appearance of the two strangers did not cause much surprise among the band who followed the prisoner, for, besides their being in the company of one whom they knew, the men who had been gathered together by Cruz on this occasion were not all known to each other. What they knew for certain was, that the country was up in arms because of some political convulsion, and that Cruz was a great leader, who knew how to make the most of such circumstances for the benefit of himself and his followers.

In a state of feverish anxiety, but with a calm outward appearance, Lawrence marched on, quite incapable of forming any plan of rescue, but not incapable of prayer, or of forming a resolve to do something, though he should die in the attempt. On reaching the corral, he saw Cruz, and recognised him at once. The bandit chief was obviously in haste, for he at once ordered Conrad—or, as we still prefer to call him, Pedro—to be placed with his back against the corral, and the firing-party to draw up in front of him at about twenty yards distance.

Pedro offered no resistance while being led towards the mud wall of the corral. There was neither bravado nor fear in his bearing. Evidently he had made up his mind to die like a Christian, and had given up all hope of deliverance from the foes by whom he was surrounded. But friends were near whom he little dreamed of.

Having up to that point kept his eyes on the ground, he had not observed Lawrence; and the first intimation he had of his presence was on hearing his voice as he stepped forward, placed his tall and stalwart frame in front of him, and said sternly to the firing-party—

“Villains! you will have to send your bullets through my breast before they harm Conrad!”

“Yes, an’ troo dis buzzum too,” cried Quashy, planting himself in front of Lawrence, and glaring defiance in his own peculiar and powerful manner.

“What! two more enemies?” exclaimed Cruz, with a look of pleased surprise and triumph; “seize them, men; but no,—stay, we can as easily kill the three birds at one shot. Ready!”

The firing-party cocked and raised their guns, but were suddenly arrested by seeing the wall of the enclosure behind Pedro lined, as if by magic, with human heads, all of which carefully levelled an equal number of muskets. At the same moment Antonio, Ignacio, Spotted Tiger, Colonel Marchbanks, and the sporting Englishman sprang to the front, and the old hunter, cutting Pedro’s bonds, put a musket into his hands.

“Traitor!” exclaimed Cruz, grinding his teeth with passion, as he scowled at Antonio.

“Fool! do you not know,” retorted Antonio, contemptuously, “that traitors are the offspring of tyrants? I acknowledge you as father in this respect. But I am not here to bandy words. Colonel Marchbanks will speak.”

“Yes, Cruz,” said the old colonel, stepping a pace to the front, “I will speak, and that to the purpose. You see those men?” (pointing to the heads looking over the corral wall)—“ten of the best shots among them have their weapons pointed at your heart. If a single musket is fired by your blackguards, you know what the result will be.”

Bold as Cruz undoubtedly was, this speech of the colonel had an obviously quieting effect on him, as well as on his followers, who, however, being numerous, and not wanting in courage, stood ready to obey orders.

“Now, I will tell you in few words what I have got to say,” continued the colonel, addressing Cruz. “When you locked the villagers here in their own huts, you forgot, or did not know, that, being a tyrant as well as a scoundrel, you had enemies among your own followers. These have not only set us, your prisoners, free, but have done the same good turn to the villagers, who have been persuaded to join us against you. And now, as our numbers are pretty equal, we give you the option of going away quietly wherever you please, or, if you prefer it, having a fair fight. I may add that if I were backed by my troops, instead of these villagers, I would not give you this option; but as I have no official right to command these men, I now make you the proposal either to retire quietly or fight.”

“Aw—just so,” said the sporting Englishman. “And let me add, as a sort of—aw—freelance that I and my friend here hope sincerely that you will choose to fight.”

“You’s a brick!” exclaimed Quashy, with emphasis, regarding the sportsman for the first time with favour.

Cruz hesitated. He was swayed by a burning thirst for vengeance and a prudent regard for his personal safety. By way of hastening his decision, Colonel Marchbanks added—

“It may be well to remind you that when you unfortunately succeeded in decoying me and my friends into your snares, and captured us, you did not leave my troops without officers. The gentleman now in command will not lose time in following us up, and he is aided by Gauchos who could trace you out though you were to hide your rascally head in the darkest retreats of the Andes. So, you’d better be off at once, or come on.”

“Aw—yes. If I might advise—come on!” suggested the sportsman.

“Das so. Come on!” urged Quashy.

But Cruz refused their well-meant advice. Regarding discretion as the better part of valour, and resolving, no doubt, to “fight another day,” he elected to “be off.” Collecting his men in sulky silence, he speedily rode away.

“Sorry he’s so chicken-hearted,” said the sportsman, forgetting even to “aw” in his disappointment.

“You ought rather to be glad of it,” remarked Lawrence; “you forget that there are women and children behind us, and that our defeat would have ensured their destruction.”

“Oh no!” replied the Englishman, who had recovered his quiet nonchalance, “I did not forget the women and children—dear creatures!—but I confess that the idea of our defeat had not occurred to me.”

Colonel Marchbanks did not give his opinion at the time, but his air and expression suggested that, fire-eater though he was, he by no means regretted the turn events had taken.

Holding out his hand to Lawrence, in a condescending manner, he thanked him for the service he had just rendered.

“You have quite a talent for turning up unexpectedly in the nick of time,” he added, with a peculiar smile, as he turned and walked off towards the huts, around which the men who had sided with Antonio were by that time assembling. Among them Lawrence, to his ineffable joy, found Manuela and Mariquita. He was too wise, however, in the presence of the colonel to take any demonstrative notice of her. He merely shook hands with both ladies, and congratulated them on their escape from the banditti.

“You have rendered us good service, senhor,” said Mariquita, with a brilliant smile—a smile that was indeed more brilliant than there seemed any occasion for.

“I—I have been very fortunate,” stammered Lawrence, glancing at Manuela.

But that princess of the Incas, with an aspect of imperturbable gravity, kept her pretty eyes on the ground, though the brown of her little cheeks seemed to deepen a trifle in colour.

“Now, Antonio,” cried the colonel, coming forward at the moment, “what do you intend to do? If my men were here, you know, I should be under the necessity of making you and your fellows prisoners, notwithstanding your good services to-day. As it is, those of us who stick together must be off without delay eastward. I suppose you will rather take to the mountains.”

“Indeed no, Colonel Marchbanks. I am willing to give myself up and to take service under you if that may be allowed. And if you will take my advice, comrades,” added Antonio, turning to his companions, “you’ll do the same, for depend on it no good can come of our late style of life.”

Antonio’s comrades did not feel disposed to take his advice. Indeed they had only rebelled against their late captain because of his tyrannical nature, but were by no means desirous of changing their mode of life. Seeing this, the colonel accepted Antonio’s offer and gave his comrades a few words of serious warning and advice, mingled with thanks for the service they had rendered him, after which the two parties separated and went on their respective ways, leaving the Gauchos to fortify their village more carefully, and get into a better state of readiness to resist the attacks alike of outlaws and Indians.

Before leaving, however, Quashy had a noteworthy interview with Susan. It occurred at the time that Antonio and his men were holding the above conversation with the colonel.

The negro lovers were affectionately seated on a horse-skull in one of the huts, regardless of all the world but themselves.

“Sooz’n, my lub,” said Quashy, “I’s agwine to carry you off wid me.”

“Quashy, my b’lubbed, I expecs you is,” replied Susan, simply, passing her black fingers through her lover’s very curly locks.

“O Sooz’n, how I lubs you! I know’d I’d find you. I always said it. I always t’ought it, an’ now I’s dood it.”

“Das so,” returned Susan, with a bashfully pleased look. “I always know’d it too. I says, if it’s poss’ble for me to be found in dis worl’, Quashy’s de man to found me.”

“’Zactly so!” said the gratified negro. “Now, Sooz’n, tell me. Is you free to go ’way wid me?”

“Yes. I’s kite free. I’s bin kotched by rubbers an’ rescued by Gauchos, an’ stole by Injins, an’ I’s runned away an’ found myself here, an’ dey’s bin good to me here, but dey don’t seem to want me much—so I’s kite free—but I’s awrful heaby!”

“What’s dat got to do wid it?” inquired the lover, tying a knot of perplexity on his eyebrows.

“Why, you an’ me’s too heaby for one hoss, you know, an’ you said you hab on’y one.”

“Das true,” returned Quashy, entangling the knot with another.

“Well, nebber mind,” said Susan, with a little nod of assurance. “I’s put it all right. I’ll stole one.”

“Sooz’n!” exclaimed her lover, with inexpressible solemnity, “you’ll do nuffin ob de sort. I b’longs to a good man now, so I knows better dan dat. You mus’ nebber steal no more—nebber. But I’ll get massa to buy you a hoss. Das what I’ll do.”

Quashy had scarcely given utterance to his intentions, when a shout from Lawrence summoned him. The party under Colonel Marchbanks was about to start on their journey eastward.

The negro soon informed his master of his difficulty. As he had anticipated, it was removed at once. Horse-flesh is cheap on the Pampas. A lady’s wardrobe—especially a black lady’s—does not take long to pack in those regions. In less than half an hour a passable steed was purchased from the Gauchos, and Susan mounted thereon. Her little all, in a bundle, was strapped to her true-lover’s saddle, and she fell into the cavalcade, which soon afterwards left the village and rode out upon the illimitable plains.

It was not a large band, but it was composed of rare and strong materials. Our friend Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—alias the Rover of the Andes—of course took the lead. Colonel Marchbanks, Manuela, and the fair Mariquita followed. Antonio, Spotted Tiger, the sportsman and his friend came next, and Lawrence with Quashy and Sooz’n brought up the rear.

In this order they set off at full gallop over the roadless plains, diverging a little here and there as the nature of the ground required, but otherwise steering a straight line in the direction of the rising sun.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Describes several Interesting and somewhat Violent Proceedings.

Over the flowering plains! Oh, there is something soul-stirring in a free, furious, prolonged gallop, where obstructions are few, where the land is almost level, and Nature reigns unfettered by the influence of man! No fences, no ditches, no ploughed lands, no enclosed estates, nothing to check even for a moment the grand onward sweep through illimitable space save the capacity of endurance in steed and rider.

Of course it has its drawbacks, but we will not pause to meditate on these. Life has its drawbacks everywhere, and if we were to attempt an enumeration of them our tale would become unreasonably long, and also somewhat unprofitable.

Perhaps it adds to the zest of life the fact that many of its incidents are of such a nature that we find it difficult to say whether they are drawbacks or advantages. For instance, the jovial garrulity of Quashy was a drawback at times. At other times it was a decided advantage, and his friends and companions held such interchangeable opinions on the point that they could not readily have expressed them if called on to do so at a moment’s notice.

A runaway tendency in a horse is considered by most people a disadvantage. Yet there are some people whose nerves and spirits are so constituted that they have a sneaking fondness for a horse of this disposition.

Strange though it may seem, Manuela belonged to this class. It is said that men whose characters form a contrast are more likely to draw towards each other than those whose characters are similar. May the same principle not operate between man and the lower animals? Was it not the gentleness, tenderness, womanliness, softness of Manuela which caused her to dote upon and delight in her steed, though it was a huge, high stepping, arch-necked, rearing, plunging animal—something between an Irish hunter and a Mexican warhorse?

The steed in question had been purchased for her by her father from the Gauchos, who assured him that the animal was a remarkably good one to go. They told the simple truth, but not the whole truth, for sometimes it would “go” with its hind-legs doing double service in the way of kicking, and, at other times, it balanced that feat by giving its fore-legs a prodigious flourish while in the act of rearing. To do the creature justice, however, it could and did go ahead of its companions on the journey, and retained that position without fatigue, as was evinced by the flashing eye, distended nostril, pawing and snorting with which it received every proposal to halt.

Being a splendid rider, Manuela managed this spanking charger with infinite grace and ease, all the more that it happened to have a tender mouth, and only succeeded in getting beyond her control when it chanced to get the bit between its teeth. At first her father and the others were alarmed, and offered to change her steed for another; but she refused to change, and when they saw how fearlessly she rode, they became reconciled—all except Lawrence.

“It is the fearlessness of innocence combined with ignorance,” he muttered to himself one afternoon, as Manuela’s horse, without apparent provocation, presented first its tail and then its nose to the sky. The Inca princess patted the playful creature approvingly, and induced it to adopt a bounding, indiarubber-like pace. In a few minutes this was reduced to a springy walk.

Lawrence could not resist the temptation to ride forward and offer his own horse, although Colonel Marchbanks rode alongside of his daughter like an inflexible guardian.

“You will find my horse much easier to manage, Miss Marchbanks,” he said, “and quite as strong and fleet as your own.”

The colonel frowned, and his daughter said, “No, t’ank you, senhor,” with a little bow and a brilliant smile.

It was one of Manuela’s little fancies to revert sometimes to the broken English peculiar to her colour and costume. This was not at all relished by Lawrence. It seemed to argue a want of earnestness, which was not at all in harmony with the tremendous depth of his love for her! He drew rein immediately and fell behind, but at that moment Manuela’s horse put its foot in a biscacho-hole and stumbled. Evidently it had received a violent surprise, for, after having a second time presented its tail and nose alternately to the skies, it gave vent to an indignant snort, performed what seemed to be a pirouette on one leg, took the bit in its teeth, and bolted.

Of course the colonel put spurs to his steed, and gave chase. Instantly Lawrence did the same. As a consequence Quashy followed, and, not wishing to be left behind, the whole cavalcade went after them at full speed. The thunder of numerous hoofs acted as a sharp spur to the wild runaway. At once it became a fair race, in which each gradually took his place according to ability. The course was clear—from the Andes to the Atlantic, almost, and horses and riders were fresh!

In a remarkably short time the party straggled, and the line extended. Soon it became evident that the colonel, Lawrence, Pedro, and Quashy were the best mounted of the troop, for these four drew far ahead of all the others; yet the runaway kept its advantage, despite the utmost efforts of Manuela’s fair little arms to check it. Gradually Pedro and the colonel were left behind. Despite the utmost application of voice and spur, Quashy also dropped to the rear, and the race lay at last between our hero and the Inca princess!

Mile after mile was passed as they flew like the wind over the rolling plains, scarcely impeded at all by the Pampas grass, which was not long at that season, but at last they came to a ridge on which there was a line of low bushes. By that time, by dint of hard spurring, Lawrence had managed to get up almost alongside of the girl, whose look of gleeful excitement was now changed to one of wild anxiety.

“Try to pull just a little harder!” cried Lawrence, “your horse won’t be able to jump it.”

Manuela tried, but she had already put forth all her strength, and if that had been twice what it was, the effect on the powerful creature would probably have been just the same.

As the danger drew nearer, Lawrence made desperate efforts to increase his speed. He was so far successful that when they finally came to the line of bushes, the horses were almost abreast of each other. Horses of the Pampas are not usually jumpers, but Manuela’s horse must have had a touch of the hunter in him, for he rose to the leap, and went up like a rocket. Lawrence, on the other hand, went crashing through the obstruction like the shot of an eighty-ton gun! The leap evidently took more time than the crash, which was fortunate, for it enabled Lawrence to get well alongside at the moment the fore-feet of Manuela’s horse touched the ground, and just as the poor girl herself, unused to leaping, fairly lost her balance as well as her presence of mind and fell backward half fainting. She would have fallen to the ground if Lawrence had not caught her round the waist, and dragged her to the pommel of his own saddle. It was one of those cases of rescue which men are apt—perhaps justifiably so—to style providential, for no planning or judgment or energy on the part of Lawrence could have arranged that Manuela should have been at the apex of her leap when her powers failed, so that she should fall from that height, as it were, almost into his arms!

A few bounds more and they were safe. As if it had understood this, and felt that further effort was needless, the runaway steed stopped abruptly, and, after looking round in unreasonable surprise, began quietly to crop the herbage at its feet.

One by one the rest of the party came up, full of congratulations.

“You dood dat well, massa,” said Quashy, who was the first to arrive, grinning all over; “and dat was a bu’ster,” he added, surveying the gap in the bush through which Lawrence had crashed.

“Please set me down before the others come up!” whispered Manuela, who, having, as we have said, half fainted, had allowed her head to fall on her rescuer’s shoulder.

Lawrence wished that circumstances might have admitted of his continuing the journey as they were then situated, but propriety required him to say—

“Here, Quash,—lend a hand.”

The negro vaulted to the ground, and received Manuela into his arms just as Pedro and the colonel galloped up.

“Thank you, Senhor Armstrong, thank you heartily,” said the latter, as he dismounted, and, sitting down on a mound, drew his child to his side.

“I’m not hurt, not a bit,” sighed Manuela, with a slight attempt at a smile.

“Thank God for that, but you are shaken a little,” returned the old soldier with an anxious look. “Here Pedro, Quashy, fetch me the flask from my saddle.”

By the time a cup of the flask’s contents was administered to Manuela, Mariquita and Susan were kneeling beside her, and the rest were standing round.

“A splendid leap!—aw—couldn’t have been much better done if—aw—it had been an English hunter,” remarked the sportsman in an undertone to his friend. “But, I say, don’t it strike you that the colonel is uncommonly—aw—sweet on that little Indian girl.”

“She’s no more an Indian girl than you are,” replied his friend, with a laugh.

“Aw—you don’t say so?” returned the sportsman, with a slight elevation of his eyebrows.

“Let us go,” said Manuela, rising; “I am much better, only a little shaken by such a leap. But—but I should like another—”

“Yes, to be sure, another horse,” interrupted the colonel; “who will exchange?—a quiet one, of course.”

“Here you is, kurnel,” said Quashy, with a beaming countenance, as he led forward his horse. “Quiet as a lamb, ’cept when you aggrawates him. Nebber goes no faster dan you wants him to,—sometimes not so fast! an’ wouldn’t run away even if you was to ax him on your knees.”

“After such recommendation,” said the colonel, turning to Manuela, “I suppose you will accept of this steed.”

The Inca princess accepted it with a beam of gratitude to Quashy, who thereupon mounted the runaway horse, and in a few minutes the whole cavalcade was sweeping over the plain as swiftly as ever.

Afternoon brought them to a solitary Gaucho hut. They came first upon the corral rather suddenly, for it was concealed in a hollow. It was an enclosure of strong rough posts stuck into the ground, on many of which were perched a number of gorged vultures and hawks.

The ground around it was covered with bones, bullocks’ horns, wool, carcasses of horses, and other refuse, which induced the travellers to keep carefully to windward of it. On a slight rising ground, close at hand, stood the mud hut of the family to which it belonged.

Although living in a state little short of savagery, this family, being descended from one of the best old families of Spain—at least, so they believed—maintained much of the dignity, good manners, and ceremony that characterised the old Spaniards. It comprised several generations, of whom a great-great-grandfather, blind, deaf, and benignant, formed the head, and a baby, fat, wide awake, and uproarious, formed the tail. Between these there was a band of men, women, girls, and boys, whom we will not even attempt to describe, further than to say that they were all black-eyed, sunburnt, and more or less pretty and handsome.

The travellers rode up to the door of the mud mansion, and, according to Pampas etiquette, awaited permission to dismount. This was quickly given with much urbanity by a handsome middle-aged man, who was the active head of the household.

The intention of Colonel Marchbanks was to take a hasty meal here, and push on as far as possible before night. Finding that the Gauchos were engaged at that time in breaking in some young horses, he ordered his party to off-saddle, and went with Pedro, Lawrence, and some others towards the corral while food was being prepared.

Quashy—ever mindful of the welfare of others, and ever thoughtful in regard to what he esteemed the most important things of life—hung behind to advise a daughter of the house to prepare a specially tender fowl for Susan, Manuela, and Mariquita. He even remained a few minutes to receive from the damsel a lesson in cookery.

This daughter of the Pampas whispered something to a very small brother beside her, who was remarkable chiefly for the size of his gorgeous eyes and the scantiness of his costume. With ready obedience the urchin unhooked a miniature lasso from the wall, and lassoed a large hen. How the brother and sister executed that hen was not obvious.

It was, however, quickly and effectively done between them. Then the sister took the bird to a pot of water, which chanced to be boiling at the time, and put it therein, feathers and all. To civilised people this might have seemed rather a savage process, but it was not so. The object was merely to simplify the plucking. After scalding, the feathers came off with wonderful facility, and also stuck to the girl’s wet hands with equally wonderful tenacity. Washing her hands, she next cut off the wings and legs of the fowl, and then separated the breast from the back. These portions she put into a small pot with some suet and water, and threw the rest away.

“Das bery good,” remarked Quashy, nodding his head in approval, after which he advised the girl to treat another fowl or two in a similar manner, and then followed his master to the corral.

Here a very animated scene was being enacted. Half a dozen young horses were about to be mounted for the first time and broken in. What modern horse-trainers of the tender school would have said to the process we cannot tell. Having had no experience in such matters, one way or another, we hazard no opinion. We merely state the facts of the case.

The father of the family, mounted on a strong and steady horse, commenced the business by riding into the corral, and throwing his lasso over the head of a young horse, which he dragged forcibly to the gate. Every step of the process was forcible. There was nothing equivalent to solicitation or inducement from beginning to end. Opposition, dogged and dire, was assumed as a matter of course, and was met by compulsion more dogged and more dire!

At the gate of the corral the end of the lasso was received by the eldest son of the family, a tall, strapping, and exceedingly handsome youth, of about twenty-three, who had been named Pizarro,—no doubt after the conqueror of Peru. He certainly resembled his namesake in courage, vigour, and perseverance, if in nothing else. The young horse displayed great unwillingness at first to quit its companions,—shaking its magnificent mane, and flourishing its voluminous tail in wild disdain as it was dragged out.

But the moment it found itself outside the corral, its first idea was to gallop away. A jerk of the lasso checked him effectually. Another member of the household then deftly threw his lasso in such a manner that the prancing steed put its feet in it, and was caught just above the fetlocks. With a powerful twitch of this second lasso its legs were pulled from under it, and it fell with tremendous violence on its side. Before it could rise the young Gaucho forced its head to the ground and held it there, then drew his long knife, and therewith, in a few seconds, cut off its mane. Another Gaucho performed the same operation on the hair of its tail—both acts being done, as they explained, to indicate that the horse had been once mounted.

Meanwhile Pizarro quickly put a strong hide halter on the animal’s head, and a piece of hide in his mouth to serve as a bit. He also girthed a saddle on him, and, when all was ready, ordered the men who held him to let go. At the same moment he sprang into the saddle and held on.

Holding on was the point on which Pizarro had to concentrate all his attention and power during the next few minutes, for the way in which that outraged and intensely fierce creature strove to unseat him is alike beyond the power of description and conception. Jumping, plunging, kicking, rearing, bounding, and pirouetting are all sufficiently expressive terms in their way, but they are mild words with which to describe the proceedings of that creature of the Pampas while under the influence of temporary insanity. With ears flat on its neck, nostrils distended, and eyes emitting something almost like flames, the young horse absolutely screamed in its fury; but all was in vain. As well might it have tried to shake off its own tail as Pizarro!

Suddenly it changed its plan, and stretched out its sinewy length to its longest stride. Pizarro fell in with the idea, encouraged it with his long sharp spurs and heavy lash, and away they went over the mighty plain like a streak of personified lightning.

It is useful sometimes to let wilful people not only have their way, but compel them to continue it. John Gilpin’s spirit, when he said—

“’Twas for your pleasure you came here;

You shall go back for mine.”

is not unknown on the Pampas and the prairie:

After sailing away over the plain, like a ship going out to sea, until it was a mere speck on the horizon, Pizarro’s horse thought it time to reduce its pace; but here Pizarro did not agree with it. He applied whip and spur until his steed was quite exhausted. Then he turned homewards, and galloped back to the corral, into which he turned the animal in a very broken and humble state of mind. There it found several young friends who had just been subdued in a similar manner, and it is not altogether improbable that they spent the remainder of that evening in comparing notes!

“A roughish method, but—aw—effective,” remarked the sportsman to his friend.

This was true. Perhaps Quashy’s remark to Lawrence was equally true:—

“Dat dood it pritty slick, massa; but I’ve seed it as well dood, p’r’aps better, by kindness.”

There is this, at all events, to be said in regard to the rough system, that no man but an athlete could endure the fatigue of the process, while any man—or even woman—has physical strength sufficient to conquer by love, if only he, or she, possess the requisite patience and milk of human kindness.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Treats of a Gaucho Youth.

From these Gauchos Colonel Marchbanks learned that his troops had been seen searching for him by the eldest son, Pizarro, and that handsome youth professed himself willing to guide the party to the place where the soldiers were likely to be found. Without delay, therefore, they resumed their journey after supper, and that night encamped on the open plain.

While the party was busy making arrangements for the night, Pedro sauntered to the top of a neighbouring knoll to have what he styled a look round.

It was a clear moonlight night, and Lawrence, recognising the figure of the guide, followed him.

“Pedro,” he said, on overtaking him, “how is it possible that Pizarro can guide us to where the troops are, seeing that it is some time since he saw them, and he did not know in what direction they meant to travel? Besides, they may have changed their intentions and their route several times.”

“You forget, senhor, that troops leave a broad trail, and you do not yet, I see, fully appreciate the wonderful powers of some Gauchos in tracking out men. This Pizarro, although so young, is already celebrated in that way.”

“You know him, then? Why, you seem to know everybody!”

“I know every one of note,” replied the guide, “for my travels have been extensive, and my memory is pretty strong. Let me give you one or two instances of Pizarro’s powers. I was in this part of the country two years ago. Having occasion to pass this way, I fell in with Pizarro, and we travelled together a short time. One forenoon we were riding over the plains, when he stopped suddenly, pointed to a footprint, and said, ‘That is the little grey horse that was stolen from my father three years ago!’ ‘Are you sure?’ said I, almost laughing at him. ‘Sure!’ said he, ‘of course I am; moreover, I’m certain that the horse passed here not more than half an hour ago.’ ‘Let’s follow it up, then,’ said I, more in jest than earnest. But we did follow it up, and recovered the little grey horse that same evening.”

“A wonderful power of observation indeed, as well as memory,” said Lawrence, looking with increased interest at the young Gaucho, who could be seen, by the light of the neighbouring camp-fire, moving about in a graceful, free and easy manner, assisting in the preparation of supper.

“It was pretty well in its way,” returned Pedro, “but he did a sharper thing than that last year. A gold escort was attacked somewhere in the west, and the robbers, after killing most of the men, escaped with the bags of gold. The authorities being very anxious to trace out and punish the robbers, offered a high reward for any useful information as to their whereabouts. Now it chanced that Pizarro was moving about the country at that time, and, hearing of the adventure and the reward, kept his eyes open and his wits about him a little more sharply than usual—though he does that pretty well at all times by nature. One day he saw a little child leading a mule laden with raw hides along a narrow path. This is a common enough sight, in no way calculated to attract particular attention; nevertheless it did attract the attention of Pizarro. I don’t pretend to understand the workings of a Gaucho’s mind. Perhaps it was the extreme smallness of the child that struck him, causing him to think that as no father or mother would risk such a little thing with the charge of a loaded mule without a special reason, it would be as well to find out what that special reason might be. Perhaps it was something else. Anyhow, suspicion being awakened, he followed the mule for a short distance, and soon observed that it stepped as if it carried a much heavier weight than a mere pack of hides. At once the stolen gold flashed into Pizarro’s mind. He stopped the mule, cut the bandages off the hides, and there, concealed among them, found the stolen bags!”

“After that,” said Lawrence, “I have no doubt whatever that he will soon find the troops.”

“Neither have I,” returned Pedro; “but Pizarro, and men like him, can do much more than I have told you. By a flight of birds they can tell of an approaching band of men before they are in sight, and by the cloud of dust they make when they appear they can form a close estimate of their numbers. When the Indian hordes are about to make a raid, Gauchos are warned of it by the ostriches and llamas and other timid beasts of the Pampas all travelling in one direction, and in many other ways that seem little short of miraculous they act the part of wilderness-detectives.”

While continuing their journey next day, Lawrence resolved to have a chat with the Gaucho youth. Riding up alongside, he saluted him, and received a reply and a graceful bow that would have done credit to a Spanish grandee. He discovered ere long that the young man’s mind, like his body, had been cast in a noble mould, and that, although ignorant of almost everything beyond his own wild plains, he was deeply imbued with reverence for Truth and Justice in all the relations of life. Indeed, his sense of these attributes of God was so strong that the constant violation of them by those around him roused in him occasional bursts of hot indignation, as Lawrence very soon found when he touched on a recent revolution which had taken place in the province of San Juan.

“Are the troops we search for sent out to aid the government of Mendoza?” demanded Pizarro, turning an earnest and frowning glance on his companion.

“I believe not,” answered Lawrence; “at least I have not heard the colonel talk of such an object; but I am not in his confidence, and know nothing of his plans.”

Pizarro made no rejoinder, and Lawrence, seeing by the continued frown that the youth’s spirit was somewhat stirred, sought for further information by asking about Mendoza.

“Do you not know,” said the Gaucho, with increased vehemence, and a good deal of fine action, “that the people of San Juan have deposed their governor, because he is a bad man?”

“I had not heard of it,” said Lawrence, “but what has that to do with Mendoza?”

“You shall hear, senhor. The governor of San Juan is dishonest. He is bad in every way, and in league with the priests to rob the people. His insolence became so great lately that, as I have said, the people arose, asserted their rights, and deposed him. Then the government of Mendoza sent troops to reinstate the governor of San Juan; but they have not yet succeeded! What right,” continued the youth, with grand indignation,—“What right has the government of Mendoza to interfere? Is not the province of San Juan as free to elect its own governor as the province of Mendoza? Have its men not brains enough to work out their own affairs?—ay, and they have arms strong enough to defend their rights, as the troops shall find when they try to force on the people a governor of whom they do not approve.”

Lawrence felt at once that he was in the presence of one of those strong, untameable spirits, of which the world has all too few, whose love of truth and fair-play becomes, as it were, a master-passion, and around whom cluster not only many of the world’s good men, but—unfortunately for the success of the good cause—also multitudes of the lower dregs of the world’s wickedness, not because these dregs sympathise with truth and justice, but simply because truth-lovers are sometimes unavoidably arrayed against “the powers that be.”

“I don’t know the merits of the case to which you refer,” said Lawrence, “but I have the strongest sympathy with those who fight or suffer in the cause of fair-play—for those who wish to ‘do to others as they would have others do to them.’ Do the people of San Luis sympathise with those of San Juan?”

“I know not, senhor, I have never been to San Luis.”

As the town referred to lay at a comparatively short distance from the other, Lawrence was much surprised by this reply, but his surprise was still further increased when he found that the handsome Gaucho had never seen any of the towns in regard to which his sense of justice had been so strongly stirred!

“Where were you born, Pizarro?” he asked.

“In the hut where you found me, senhor.”

“And you have never been to Mendoza or San Juan?”

“No, senhor, I have never seen a town or a village—never gone beyond the plains where we now ride.”

“How old are you, Pizarro?”

“I do not know, senhor.”

As the youth said this with a slightly confused look, Lawrence forbore to put any more personal questions, and confined his conversation to general topics; but he could not help wondering at this specimen of grand and apparently noble manhood, who could neither read nor write, who knew next to nothing of the great world beyond his own Pampas, and who had not even seen a collection of huts sufficiently large to merit the name of village. He could, however, admirably discern the signs of the wilderness around him, as he showed by suddenly pointing to the sky and exclaiming—

“See! there is a lion!”

“Lions have not wings, Pizarro,” said Lawrence, with a smile, as he looked upward; “but I see, very high in the air, a flock of vultures.”

“Just so, senhor, and you observe that they do not move, but are hovering over one spot?”

“Yes, I see that; what then?”

“A lion is there, senhor, devouring the carcass from which he has driven the vultures away.”

In a short time the correctness of the youth’s observation was proved by the party coming upon, and driving away, a puma which had previously disturbed the vultures at their banquet on the carcass of an unfortunate ox.

The next morning Pizarro’s capacity for tracking the wilderness was proved by the party coming on the broad trail of the troops. Soon afterwards they discovered the men themselves taking their midday siesta.

Not long after that the united party came within scent of the Atlantic, and on the afternoon of the same day galloped into the town of Buenos Ayres.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Describes several Mysterious Meetings and Conversations.

Descriptions, however graphic or faithful, are for the most part misleading and ineffective. Who ever went to a town or a region, and found it to resemble the picture of it which had been previously painted on his imagination by description?

For an account of Buenos Ayres we refer the inquiring reader to other books.

Our business at present is with Quashy and “Sooz’n.”

That sable and now united couple stand under the shade of a marble colonnade watching with open-mouthed interest the bustle of the street in which men and women of many nations—French, Italian, Spanish, English, and other—are passing to and fro on business or pleasure.

This huge, populous town was not only a new sight, but an almost new idea to the negroes, and they were lost alike in amusement and amazement.

“Hi!” exclaimed Quashy in his falsetto, “look, look dar, Sooz’n—das funny.”

He pointed to a little boy who, squatted like a toad on a horse’s back, was galloping to market with several skins of milk slung on either side of the saddle, so that there was no room for his legs.

“O Quash!” exclaimed the bride, “dar’s pumpkins for you. Look!”

They were indeed notable pumpkins—so large that five of them completely filled a wagon drawn by two oxen.

“But come, Sooz’n, da’ling,” said Quashy, starting as if he had just recollected something, “you said you was gwine to tell me suffin as would make my hair stan’ on end. It’ll be awrful strong if it doos dat, for my wool am stiff, an’ de curls pritty tight.”

“Yes, I comed here wid you a-purpose to tell you,” replied the bride, “an’ to ax your ’pinion. But let’s go ober to dat seat in de sun. I not like de shade.”

“Come along, den, Sooz’n. It’s all one to me where we goes, for your eyes dey make sunshine in de shade, an’ suffin as good as shade in de sunshine, ole gurl.”

“Git along wid your rubbish!” retorted Susan as they crossed the street. It was evident, however, that she was much pleased with her gallant spouse.

“Now, den dis is what I calls hebben upon art’,” said Quashy, sitting down with a contented sigh. “To be here a-frizzlin’ in de sunshine wid Sooz’n a-smilin’ at me like a black angel. D’you know, Sooz’n,” he added, with a serious look, “it gibs me a good deal o’ trouble to beliebe it.”

“Yes, it am awrful nice,” responded Susan, gravely, “but we’s not come here to make lub, Quashy, so hol’ your tongue, an’ I’ll tell you what I heared.”

She cleared her throat here, and looked earnest. Having thus reduced her husband to a state of the most solemn expectancy, she began in a low voice—

“You know, Quashy, dat poor Massa Lawrie hab found nuffin ob his fadder’s fortin.”

“Yes, I knows dat, Sooz’n,” replied her husband, with an expression of the deepest woe.

“Well, den—”

“No, Sooz’n, it’s ill den.”

“Quashy!” (remonstratively.)

“Yes?” (interrogatively.)

“Hol’ your tongue.”

“Yes, da’ling.”

“Well, den,” began Susan again, with serious emphasis, “don’ ’trupt me agin, or I’ll git angry. Well, massa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn’t deceive nobody—not even a skeeter.”

“I knows dat, Sooz’n, not even a nigger.”

“Ob course not,” continued Susan; “so what does massa do, but goes off straight to Kurnel Muchbunks, an’ he says, says he, ‘Kurnel, you’s a beggar.’”

“No, Sooz’n, he di’n’t say dat. Dough you says it wid your own sweet lips, I don’ beliebe it.”

“Right, Quashy. You’s allers right,” returned the bride, with a beaming smile. “I made a ’stake—das all. I should hab said dat massa he said, says he, ‘Kurnel Muchbunks,’ says he, ‘I’s a beggar.’”

“Dat was a lie, Sooz’n,” said Quashy, in some surprise.

“I’s afeard it was,” assented Susan, gravely.

“Well, an’ what says de kurnel to dat?” asked the saddened negro, with a sigh.

“Oh! he beliebed it, an’ he says, says he, ‘I’s griebed to hear it, Mis’r Amstrung, an’ ob course you cannot ’spect me to gib my consent to my darter marryin’ a beggar!’ O Quash, w’en I hears dat—I—bu’sted a’most! I do beliebe if I’d bin ’longside o’ dat kurnel at dat momint I hab gib him a most horrible smack in de face.”

“De skownril!” muttered Quashy between his clenched teeth. “But what happen arter dat, Sooz’n?”

“Nuffin happen. Only poor massa he look bery sad, an’ says, says he, ‘Kurnel, I’s come to say farewell. I would not t’ink ob asking your consent to such a marriage, but I do ask you to hold out de hope dat if I ebber comes back agin wid a kumpitincy, (don’ know ’zactly what dat is, but dat’s what he called it)—wid a kumpitincy, you’ll not forbid me payin’ my ’dresses to your darter.’ What he wants to pay her dresses for, an’ why he calls dem his dresses, is more nor I can guess, but das what he say, an’ de kurnel he says, says he, ‘No, Mis’r Amstrung, I’ll not hold out no sich hope. It’s time enough to speak ob dat when you comes back. It’s bery kind ob you to sabe my darter’s life, but—’ an’ den he says a heap more, but I cou’n’t make it rightly out, I was so mad.”

“When dey was partin’, he says, says he, ‘Mis’r Amstrung, you mus’ promise me not to ’tempt to meet my darter before leaving.’ I know’d, by de long silence and den by de way he speak dat Massa Lawrence no like dat, but at last he says, says he, ‘Well, kurnel, I do promise dat I’ll make no ’tempt to meet wid her,’ an’ den he hoed away. Now, Quashy, what you t’ink ob all dat?”

“I t’ink it am a puzzler,” replied the negro, his face twisted up into wrinkles of perplexity. “I’s puzzled to hear dat massa tell a big lie by sayin’ he’s a beggar, an’ den show dat it’s a lie by offerin’ to pay for de kurnel’s darter’s dresses. It’s koorious, but white folk has sitch koorious ways dat it’s not easy to understan’ dem. Let’s be t’ankful, Sooz’n, you an’ me, that we’re bof black.”

“So I is, Quash, bery t’ankful, but what’s to be dooed? Is massa to go away widout sayin’ good-bye to Miss Manuela?”

“Cer’nly not,” cried the negro, with sudden energy, seizing his wife’s face between his hands, and giving her lips a smack that resounded over the place—to the immense delight of several little Gaucho boys, who, clothed in nothing but ponchos and pugnacity, stood gazing at the couple.

Quashy jumped up with such violence that the boys in ponchos fled as he hurried along the street with his bride, earnestly explaining to her as he went, his new-born plans.

At the same moment that this conversation was taking place, Lawrence Armstrong and Pedro—alias Conrad of the Mountains—were holding equally interesting and perhaps more earnest converse over two pots of coffee in a restaurant.

“I have already told you, senhor,” said Pedro, “that old Ignacio followed us thus hotly, and overtook us as it happened so opportunely, for the purpose of telling me of a piece of good fortune that has just been sent to me.”

“True,” returned Lawrence, “and in the bustle of the moment when you told me I forgot to congratulate you, whatever the good fortune may be. What was it?”

“Good old Ignacio little knew,” continued Pedro, sipping his coffee with an air of supreme contentment, “what glad news I had in store for himself about my little Mariquita—the light of my eyes, the very echo of her mother! The good fortune he had to tell me of was but as a candle to the sun compared with what I had to reveal to him, for what is wealth compared with love? However, the other piece of good news is not to be sneezed at.”

“But what is this good news, Pedro?” asked Lawrence, with a touch of impatience, for his curiosity was aroused, and Pedro’s mode of communicating glad tidings was not rapid.

Before he could reply their attention was attracted by the noisy and self-assertive entrance of two jovial British sailors, who, although not quite drunk, were in that condition which is styled by some people “elevated”—by others, debased. Whatever view may be taken of their condition, there could be only one opinion as to their effusive good-humour and universal good-will—a good-will which would probably have expanded at once into pugnacity, if any one had ventured to suggest that the couple had had more than enough of strong drink.

“Now then, Bill,” cried one, smiting the other with facetious violence on the back, “what’ll you have?” Then, without waiting for a reply, he added, to the waiter, “Let’s have some brary-an’-warer!”

The brandy and water having been supplied, Bill nodded his head, cried, “Here’s luck, Jim,” and drained his first glass. Jim responded with the briefer toast, “Luck!” and followed the other’s draining example.

“Now, I’ll tell you wot it is, Jim,” said Bill, setting down his glass and gazing at the brandy bottle with a solemnly virtuous look, “I wouldn’t go for to see another bull-fight like that one we saw just before we left Monte Video, no, not if you was to give me a thousan’ pound down.”

“No more would I,” responded Jim, regarding the water-jug with a virtuously indignant air.

“Such dis-gusting cruelty,” continued Bill. “To see two strong men stand up o’ their own accord an’ hammer their two noses into somethin’ like plum duff, an’ their two daylights into one, ain’t more nor a or’nary seaman can stand; but to see a plucky little bull set to gore an’ rip up a lot o’ poor blinded horses, with a lot o’ cowardly beggars eggin’ it on, an’ stickin’ darts all over it, an’ the place reekin’ wi’ blood, an’ the people cheerin’ like mad—why—it—it made me a’most sea-sick, which I never was in my life yet. Bah! Pass the bottle, Jim.”

“You’re right, Bill,” assented Jim, passing the bottle, “an’ it made poor young Ansty sick altogether. Leastwise, I saw his good-lookin’ face turn a’most green as he got up in a hurry like an’ left the place, for you know, big an’ well made as he is, an’ able to hold his own wi’ the best, Dick Ansty has the heart of a woman for tenderness. His only fault is that he’s a tee-totaller.”

“Ay, a g–great fault that,” said Bill, pouring out and spilling most of another glass. “I wouldn’t give much for him.”

“You couldn’t help likin’ him, though, if you’d sailed with him as I’ve done,” returned Jim. “He’s a reg’lar brick, though he don’t smoke neither.”

“Don’t smoke?” exclaimed Bill, aghast. “Then he ain’t fit for this world! Why, what does he think ’baccy was made for?”

“I dun know as to that, Bill, but I do know that he’s goin’ to leave us. You see, he’s only a sort of half-hand—worked his passage out, you know, an’ well he did it too, though he is only a land-lubber, bein’ a Cornishman, who’s bin lookin’ arter mines o’ some sort ever since he was a boy. He says he’s in great luck, havin’ fallen in wi’ a party as is just agoin’ to start for the west under a feller they call Conrad o’ the Mountains.”

Lawrence and Pedro, who had been trying to ignore the presence of the sailors, and to converse in spite of their noise, became suddenly interested at this point, and the former glanced inquiringly at the latter.

“Listen,” said Pedro, in a low voice, and with a nod of intelligence.

“It’s a queer story,” continued Jim. “I heard all about it this very mornin’ from himself. He’d bin givin’ some on us a lot o’ good advice. You see, he’s a sort of edicated chap, an’ got a tremendjous gift o’ the gab, but none of us could take offence at ’im, for he’s such a quiet, modest feller—although he is big! Well, you must know that—that—what was I sayin’?”

“P–pash th’ bottle,” said Bill.

“No, that’s not what I was— Oh yes, I was goin’ to say he’d bin givin’ us good advice, ‘because you must know, shipmates,’ says he, ‘that I’ve bin in good luck on shore, havin’ fallen in with a most interestin’ man, whose right name I don’t know yet, because everybody speaks of him as Conrad of the Mountains, though some calls him Pedro, and others the Rover of the Andes, and a good lot say he’s a robber. But I don’t care twopence what they say, for I’ve seen him, and believe him to be a first-rate feller. Anyhow, he’s a rich one, and has bin hirin’ a few men to help him to work his silver-mine, and as I know somethin’ about mining, he has engaged me to superintend the underground work.’

“You may be sure we was surprised as well as pleased to hear all this, an’ we pumped him, in course, a good deal, an’ he told us that the mine was in the Andes somewheres, at a place called Murrykeety Valley, or some such name. This Conrad had discovered the mine a good while ago, and had got an old trapper an’ a boy to work it, but never made much of it till a few months back, when the old man an’ the boy came suddenly on some rich ground, where the silver was shovelled up in buckets. In course I don’t rightly know what like silver is when first got hold on. It ain’t in ready-made dollars, I dare say, but anyhow, they say this Conrad’ll be as rich as a nabob; an’ he’s got a pretty darter too, as has bin lost the most of her life, and just turned up at the same time wi’ the silver. I don’t rightly know if they dug her up in the mine, but there she is, an’ she’s goin’ up to the mountains too, so young Ansty will be in good company.”

“Jim,” said Bill at this point, looking with unsteady solemnity at his comrade, and speaking slowly, “I d–don’ b–b’lieve a single word on’t. Here, give us a light, an’—an’—pash th’ borle.”

Rising at this point, Lawrence and Pedro left those jovial British tars to their elevating occupations.

“Well, senhor,” said the latter as they walked away, “you have heard it all, though not just in the way I had intended!”

“But tell me, Pedro, is this all true?”

“Substantially it is as you have heard it described, only I have had more people than old Ignacio and his boy to work my silver-mine. I have had several men at it for a long time, and hitherto it has paid sufficiently well to induce me to continue the works; but when Ignacio visited it a few weeks ago, in passing on his way here to meet me, he found that a very rich lode had been found—so rich, indeed, and extensive, that there is every reason to expect what men call ‘a fortune’ out of it. There is a grave, as you know, which dims for me the lustre of any fortune, but now that it has pleased the Almighty to give me back my child, I will gladly, for her sake, try to extract a little more than the mere necessaries of life out of my silver-mine. Now, my friend,” added Pedro, suddenly stopping and confronting our hero with a decided air, and an earnest look, “will you join me in this venture? I would not give up my life’s work here for all the mines in Peru. In order to raise the people and improve the condition of this land, I must continue to be a Rover of the Andes to the end of my days. So, as I cannot superintend extensive mining operations at the same time, I must have a manager, and I know of no one whom I should like to have associated with me half so well as Senhor Lawrence Armstrong. Will you go with me to the Mariquita Valley?”

Lawrence paused a minute, with his eyes on the ground, before answering.

“I am flattered by your good opinion, Pedro,” he said at length, “and will give you an answer to-morrow, if that will do. I never take any important step in haste. This afternoon I have an appointment with Quashy, and as the hour is near, and I promised to be very punctual, you will excuse my leaving you now.”

“Certainly—to-morrow will do,” said Pedro, “I hope to take Quashy also with me. He is a queer fellow.”

“He is particularly queer just now,” returned Lawrence. “I think his marriage with Susan has turned his brain. So, good-bye, Pedro—till to-morrow.”

They shook hands heartily, and parted.

That same afternoon Quashy paid a formal visit to Manuela at her father’s residence in the suburbs of Buenos Ayres, and told her, with a visage elongated to the uttermost, and eyes in which solemnity sat enthroned, that a very sick man in the country wanted to see her immediately before he died.

“Dear me, Quashy,” said Manuela, an expression of sympathy appearing at once on her fine eyebrows, “who is it? what is his name? and why does he send for me?”

“I can’t tell you his name, miss. I’s not allowed. But it’s a bad case, an’ it will be awrful if he should die widout seein’ you. You’d better be quick, miss, an’ I’ll promise to guide you safe, an’ take great care ob you.”

“That I know you will, Quashy. I can trust you. I’ll order my horse im—”

“De hoss am at de door a’ready, miss. I order ’im afore I come here.”

Manuela could not restrain a little laugh at the cool presumption of her sable friend, as she ran out of the room to get ready.

A few minutes more and the pair were cantering through the streets in the direction of the western suburbs of the town.

Chapter Thirty.

The Last.

We regret to have to record the fact that Quashy’s deep-laid schemes in behalf of Manuela and the “sick man” miscarried.

That same night, by the light of the full moon, he revealed to Susan his account of the affair, with a visage in which the solemnity of the wondering eyes seemed to absorb the expression of all the other features.

“Sooz’n,” he said, “de white folk is past my compre’nshin altogidder, an’ I ha’n’t got words to tell you how t’ankful I am dat you an’ me was born black.”

“Das true, Quash. We’s got reasin to rejoice. But what went wrong?”

“What went wrong? why, my lub, eberyt’ing went wrong. Look here, dis was de way ob it. When me an’ Miss Manuela got to de place whar I had fix on, dar was de lub-sick man sure ’nuff, an’ you may b’liebe he look ’stonished to see Manuela, but he wasn’t half so ’stonished as me at de way dey hoed on. What d’ee t’ink dey dooed, Sooz’n?”

“Dun know. S’pose dey run into each oder’s arms, an’ hab a dance round—like me an’ you.”

“Nuffin ob de sort. I wouldn’t hab bin suprised at dat at all. No, arter de fust look o’ suprise, Massa Lawrence looked orkerd, an’ Miss Manuela looked orkerder!”

“It had bin in my mind,” continued Quashy, “arter I had bring ’em togidder, to turn about, an’ enter into conbersation wid my hoss—what’s pritty well used to my talk by dis time—but when I see how t’ings went, I forgot to turn about, so ob course I heard an’ saw’d.”

“You wasn’t innercent dat time, Quashy.”

“I di’n’t say I was, Sooz’n, but I cou’n’t help it. Well, Massa Lawrence, who’s too much of a man to remain orkerd long, goes up to Miss Manuela wid a leetle smile, an’ holds out his hand. She shakes it quite gently-like, zif dey was on’y noo acquaintances jest interdooced. Ob course I di’n’t hear rightly all dey said—”

“Ha! wantin’ to keep up a leetle innercence?”

“Jest so, Sooz’n, but I couldn’t help hearin’ a good deal—somet’ing like dis:—

“Says Massa Lawrence, says he, ‘Arternoon, Miss Muchbunks.’ ‘Ditto to you, sir,’ says Manuela—”

“No, she didn’t say dat,” interrupted Susan, with decision.

“Well, no, p’r’aps not ’zactly dat, Sooz’n, but suffin wid de same meanin’. You know it i’n’t possible for me to speak like dem. An’ dey bof seemed to hab got deir go-to-meetin’ langwidge on—all stiff an’ stuck up grammar, same zif dey was at school. Well, arter de speech about de wedder, dey bof blushed—I could see dat, dough I was tryin’ hard not to look,—and dey was so long silent dat I begin to t’ink ob offerin’ to help, when Massa Lawrence he plucked up heart all ob a suddent, an’ went in like a good un.

“‘Manuela,’ says he, quite bold-like, ‘I promised your fadder dat I would not make any ’tempt to meet you before leabing for de mountains, an’ I hab fait’fully striben to keep dat promise. It is by mere chance, I assure you, dat I hab meet you here now, and I would not, for all de wurl’ break my word to your fadder. But as chance hab t’rown you in my way, it cannot be wrong to tell you—what you knows a’ready—dat I lub you, and dat, God permittin’, I will return ere long to Buenos Ayres. Farewell.’

“Wid dat he wheel round, zif he was afraid to trust hisself to say more, an’ went off at full gallop.”

“An’ what did Miss Manuela say?” asked Susan.

“She say not’ing—not one word—on’y she smile a leetle, an’ kiss her hand to him when he hoed away. It passes my compre’nshin, kite. An’ as we rode home she says to me, says she, ‘Quashy, you’s a good boy!’ I bery near say to her, ‘Manuela, you’s a bad gurl,’ but I di’n’t feel kite up to dat.”

“Quashy, you’re a fool,” said Susan, abruptly.

“Das no news,” returned the amiable man, “I’s said dat ob myself ober an’ ober again since I’s growed up. De on’y time I feel kite sure I wasn’t a fool was de time I falled in lub wid you, Sooz’n.”

As the negro’s account of this inflecting and parting was substantially correct, we feel indisposed to add more to it, except to say that our hero stuck manfully to his resolve, and finally went off to the distant valley in the Andes without again meeting the Inca princess.

He was accompanied by Pedro and his daughter, Quashy and Susan, Ignacio, the old hunter, and his boy, as well as Spotted Tiger. In addition to these there was a pretty large following—some engaged in the service of Pedro, others taking advantage of the escort. Among them were Dick Ansty, the Cornish youth, Antonio, the ex-bandit, and the English sportsman with—aw—his friend.

It is not our purpose to drag the patient reader a second time over the rolling Pampas, or to introduce him to the mysteries of silver-mining in the Andes. Our end shall be sufficiently explained by stating the fact that as Lawrence was faithful to his promise to Colonel Marchbanks, he was not less faithful to his promise to the daughter.

A year had barely elapsed when he found himself once again in Buenos Ayres, with the faithful Quashy at his side, and presented himself before the old colonel, not now as a beggar, but as part owner of one of the richest silver-mines in Peru.

Colonel Marchbanks, although a prudent man, was by no means avaricious.

“The chief bar which prevented my listening to your proposal,” he said to Lawrence at their first interview, “is now removed, but I have yet to learn from my daughter’s own lips that she will have you. I have carefully avoided the subject from the very first, because I have no faith whatever in forcing, or even leading, the affections of a young girl. And let me tell you flatly, young senhor, that your being the richest man in Peru, and the greatest man as well, would not influence me so much as the weight of a feather, if Manuela does not care for you. So, you will prepare yourself to abide as well as you can by her final decision.”

“I am prepared to abide by Manuela’s decision,” replied Lawrence, with what may be termed a modest smile.

“’Pon my word, young man, you seem to be unwarrantably sure of your position,” said the colonel, somewhat sternly. “However, you have heard all I mean to say on the subject just now. Leave me, and return here in the evening.”

When Lawrence was gone, the old soldier found his daughter in a tastefully arranged closet which she called her boudoir, the miniature glass-door of which opened on a luxuriant garden, where wood, water, sunshine, and herbage, wild and tame, seemed to revel for the mastery.

“That young fellow Armstrong has come back,” said the old man, abruptly.

“I know it,” was Manuela’s brief reply. She did not look up, being too busily engaged at the moment in the hideously commonplace act of darning the smallest possible hole in one of her dear little stockings.

“You know it, child?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you also know that he has just been here, and formally asked your hand in marriage?”

“Yes, father, I know it.”

“Why, child, how could you know that? You surely have not been tempted to—to condescend to eavesdropping?”

“No, father, I have not condescended to that, but I have heard it on the best authority. Have you not yourself just told me?”

“Oh—ah—well,” exclaimed the stern man, relaxing into a smile in spite of himself, as he observed the calm, quiet, earnest way in which that princess of the Incas applied herself to the reparation of that little hole. “Now Manuela, my darling,” continued the colonel, changing his tone and manner suddenly as he sat down beside her and put a hand lovingly on her shoulder, “you know that I would not for all the world permit, or induce you to do anything that would risk your happiness. I now come to ask you seriously if you—if you are in—in short, if you admire this young fellow.”

Instead of answering, Manuela, while searching carefully for any other little hole that might have been made, or that was on the eve of being made, by any other little toe, asked the astounding question—

“Is he rich, father?”

A mixture of surprise and annoyance marked the old man’s tone and look as he replied—

“Why, what has that got to do with it?”

“Have you not over and over again warned me, father, to beware of those gay young fellows who haven’t got two sixpences to rub against each other, but have presumption enough to trifle with the affections of all the silly girls in the world. And are you sorry that I should have laid your lessons to heart?”

“Tut, child, don’t talk nonsense. Whether he is rich or poor is a mere matter of moonshine. The question I have to settle just now is—Are you fond of him?”

“Well, no, father, I can’t exactly say that I—”

“I knew it! I was sure of it! The presumptuous puppy!” shouted the old man of war, jumping up, overturning a work-table with its innumerable contents, and striding towards the door.

“Stay, father!” said Manuela, in a tone that military discipline forbade him to disobey, and holding out both her hands with an air and grace that love forbade him to resist. “I don’t admire him, and I’m not fond of him,” continued the Inca princess, vehemently, as she grasped her parent’s hands; “these terms are ridiculously inadequate. I love him, father—I adore him—I—”

She stopped abruptly, for a noise at the glass-door caused her to turn her eyes in that direction. It was Quashy, who stood there staring at them with all his eyes, and grinning at them with more than all his mouth—to say nothing of his ears!

“You black baboon!” shouted the colonel, when able to speak.

“Oh, nebber mind me, kurnel,” said Quashy, with a deprecatory air, “’skuse me. I’s on’y habin’ a stroll in de gardin an’ come here kite by haxidint. Go on wid your leetle game, an’ nebber mind me. I’s on’y a nigger.”

Colonel Marchbanks could not decide whether to laugh or storm. Manuela decided the question for him by inviting the negro to enter, which he did with humble urbanity.

“Shake hands with him, father. He’s only a nigger, as he says, but he’s one of the very best and bravest and most faithful niggers that I ever had to do with.”

“You’s bery good, Miss—a’most as good as Sooz’n.”

“Oh, well, have it all your own way,” cried the colonel, becoming reckless, and shaking the negro’s hand heartily; “I surrender. Lawrence will dine with us this evening, Manuela, so you’d better see to having covers laid for three—or, perhaps, for four. It may be that Senhor Quashy will honour us with—”

“T’ankee, kurnel, you’s bery kind, but I’s got a prebious engagement.”

“A previous engagement, eh?” repeated the colonel, much tickled with the excuse.

“Yes, kurnel; got to ’tend upon Massa Lawrence; but if you’ll allow me to stan’ behind his chair an’ wait, I’ll be much pleased to listen to all you says, an’ put in a word now an’ den if you chooses.”

And so, good reader, all things came about as the little princess of the Incas had arranged, long before, in her own self-willed little mind. Shall we trouble you with the details? Certainly not. That would be almost an insult to your understanding.

But we will trouble you to mount one of the fleetest steeds of the Pampas and fly with us over the mighty plains into the wildest regions of the Andes.

Though wild, we need not tell you that it is a lovely region, for you have been there already. It is the Mariquita Valley. No longer a silent wilderness, however, as when we saw it last, for, not very long after the events which we have just described, Lawrence Armstrong and his blooming bride, accompanied by the white-haired colonel and the irrepressible Quashy, and another band of miners and selected emigrants, entered that valley in a sort of triumphal procession, and were met and escorted to the head of it by another triumphal procession, which was under the command of Conrad of the Mountains, whose pretty daughter was the first to welcome Manuela to her new home.

But now dismount. Put on these wings and soar with us to the brow of yonder cliff, from which we can have a grand bird’s-eye view of the vale almost from its entrance to the point where it is lost and absorbed in the majestic recesses of the higher Andes.

See you yon cottage-like edifice, close to Pedro’s old home, with the rustic porch in front, and the well-stocked garden around? That is the residence of the overseer of the silver-mine, Lawrence Armstrong, Esquire. The residence as well as the garden is well-stocked; for we have ventured to gallop with you over Time as well as Space—one result being that there are at least three descendants of the Incas, (by the mother’s side), romping in the garden.

On that mound a little way on the other side of Pedro’s cottage stands another building. It resembles the home of Lawrence, but with enough of difference to afford the charm of variety. It is the home of the fine young Cornish youth who worked his way across the sea as a sailor, and accompanied Pedro to the mountains. That trip effectually settled his business, and resulted in the conversion of Mariquita into Mrs Ansty. The change may not strike ordinary readers as being very romantic, but it was attended with much felicity.

In the small clump of wood just behind Pedro’s cottage—where you see the lakelet or tarn glittering in the sunlight, and sending its infant waters to brawl over the neighbouring precipices and scamper down the valley—stands a group of huts. These form the homes of Ignacio, the old hunter, and Spotted Tiger with his family. Ignacio, you see,—still tough and straight, as though he had made up his mind to live and hunt for ever—has a strange power of attracting men to him, and has induced his Indian friend to forsake his old home in the low grounds and dwell with him in the mountains. Of course Spotted Tiger has brought his wife with him, and Leetle Cub, (no longer little), and all the other cubs, including poor Manca, the sick girl, who—thanks to Dr Armstrong’s skill, and change of scene, and God’s blessing on all—is no longer sick, but, on the contrary, robust and grateful.

Strange to say, our English sportsman is living with Ignacio just now, with several sporting friends. He has been back to England and out again since we last saw him, and goes aw-ing all over the settlement with as much nonchalance and latent vigour as ever—when not better engaged with Ignacio and Spotted Tiger, and Leetle Cub, in the mountains.

In Lawrence’s garden, among the romping descendants of the Incas, (by the mother’s side), may be seen four whitey-brown creatures. These are the children of Quashy and Susan. Two of them are little Quashys and two are little “Sooz’ns.” They are not, of course, all named so, but Quashy says if he had “fifty little bustin’ gurls he’d regard ’em all as little Sooz’ns,” and Susan retorts that if she had “five hundred little bad boys she’d call ’em all Quashys.” They dwell in a small hut in rear of the cottage of Massa Lawrence, for Quashy is his gardener and “Sooz’n” his washerwoman, and the little Quashys and “Sooz’ns” are playmates of the little Incas, (by the mother’s side).

Antonio, the ex-bandit, is assistant gardener to the Armstrongs, and it is said that that once ferocious man has become so changed under the influence of Christian treatment, that he not only serves his master faithfully, but has even made more than one attempt to rescue an old enemy named Cruz from his evil ways. He has not yet been successful, but he is strong in faith and hope. Colonel Marchbanks, who has finally retired from the army, dwells with the Armstrongs, and has organised the miners and settlers into a local force of which he is the chief.

For the place has grown much of late in importance as well as in numbers, and in such a wild region there is need for defensive arrangements. It has other arrangements, also, of a much more important kind in which the Word of God plays the chief part, and Conrad of the Mountains lends a helping hand. That earnest rover has built a church and a schoolhouse, and, when at home, does what in him lies to advance the cause of true religion and education. But he has not ceased to wander in the mountains. True to his instincts as a reformer and lover of mankind, he visits with ceaseless activity the great and widely separated centres of population in South America, never losing sight of the great object he has set before him in the amelioration of the condition of the people.

Most people think him a mysterious madman. Some, who know him well, think him an over-sanguine enthusiast, but all agree in regarding him as a calm, gentle, amiable man, with a determination of purpose that nothing can turn aside, and with an intense desire for the welfare and advancement of the country which Mariquita the elder called her native land. Indeed it is thought by some that Pedro must have made to his wife some pledge or promise with reference to that subject, but no one can ascertain the truth of that now.

There is ground for this belief, however, for, as we sit on our perch, overlooking the valley, we see this Pedro, this Conrad of the Mountains, seated in the bower on the mound behind his dwelling, resting contemplatively at the well-loved spot, after one of his periodical returns. Mariquita the younger is beside him. They are both looking earnestly at the grave, and conversing about the time when they shall once again meet the lost one by the side of Jesus in the better land.

Till that day came, Pedro continued unflinchingly to prosecute his self-imposed task, whatever it might be. Whether or what success attended his efforts we cannot tell; yet have we reason to hope that his labour was not in vain. But of this much we are certainly sure, that, to the end of his days on earth he continued to be known as the Rover of the Andes; and when Death—at last—overtook him and arrested his benignant course, it found him advancing with trembling steps towards the old place, and closed with him, finally, as he pillowed his head on Mariquita’s grave.

The End.

ENDNOTE

Note 1. A similar disaster, accompanied by dreadful scenes of lawlessness and horror, occurred in 1861, when the city of Mendoza was totally destroyed by an earthquake, and nine-tenths of the inhabitants perished.

List of Illustrations

CAUGHT NAPPING

DOWN THE WELL

ROONEY BLOWN UP BY HIS WIFE

AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

CLEARING THE SCREW

Preface.

This tale makes no claim to the character of an exhaustive illustration of all that belongs to the art of diving. It merely deals with the most important points, and some of the most interesting incidents connected therewith. In writing it I have sought carefully to exhibit the true and to ignore the false or improbable.

I have to acknowledge myself indebted to the well-known submarine engineers Messrs Siebe and Gorman, and Messrs Heinke and Davis, of London, for much valuable information; and to Messrs Denayrouze, of Paris, for permitting me to go under water in one of their diving-dresses. Also—among many others—to Captain John Hewat, formerly Commander in the service of the Rajah of Sarawak, for much interesting material respecting the pirates of the Eastern Seas.

R.M.B. Edinburgh, 1876.

Chapter One.

Introduces our Hero, one of his Advisers, and some of his Difficulties.

“So, sir, it seems that you’ve set your heart on learning something of everything?”

The man who said this was a tall and rugged professional diver. He to whom it was said was Edgar Berrington, our hero, a strapping youth of twenty-one.

“Well—yes, I have set my heart upon something of that sort, Baldwin,” answered the youth. “You see, I hold that an engineer ought to be practically acquainted, more or less, with everything that bears, even remotely, on his profession; therefore I have come to you for some instruction in the noble art of diving.”

“You’ve come to the right shop, Mister Edgar,” replied Baldwin, with a gratified look. “I taught you to swim when you wasn’t much bigger than a marlinespike, an’ to make boats a’most before you could handle a clasp-knife without cuttin’ your fingers, an’ now that you’ve come to man’s estate nothin’ll please me more than to make a diver of you. But,” continued Baldwin, while a shade clouded his wrinkled and weatherbeaten visage, “I can’t let you go down in the dress without leave. I’m under authority, you know, and durstn’t overstep—”

“Don’t let that trouble you,” interrupted his companion, drawing a letter from his pocket; “I had anticipated that difficulty, and wrote to your employers. Here is their answer, granting me permission to use their dresses.”

“All right, sir,” said Baldwin, returning the letter without looking at it; “I’ll take your word for it, sir, as it’s not much in my line to make out the meanin’ o’ pot-hooks and hangers.—Now, then, when will you have your first lesson?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Just so,” said the diver, looking about him with a thoughtful air.

The apartment in which the man and the youth conversed was a species of out-house or lumber-room which had been selected by Baldwin for the stowing away of his diving apparatus and stores while these were not in use at the new pier which was in process of erection in the neighbouring harbour. Its floor was littered with snaky coils of india-rubber tubing; enormous boots with leaden soles upwards of an inch thick; several diving helmets, two of which were of brightly polished metal, while the others were more or less battered, dulled, and dinted by hard service in the deep. The walls were adorned with large damp india-rubber dresses, which suggested the idea of baby-giants who had fallen into the water and been sent off to bed while their costumes were hung up to dry. In one corner lay several of the massive breast and back weights by which divers manage to sink themselves to the bottom of the sea; in another stood the chest containing the air-pump by means of which they are enabled to maintain themselves alive in that uncomfortable position; while in a third and very dark corner, an old worn-out helmet, catching a gleam from the solitary window by which the place was insufficiently lighted, seemed to glare enviously out of its goggle-eyes at its glittering successors. Altogether, what with the strange spectral objects and the dim light, there was something weird in the aspect of the place, that accorded well with the spirit of young Berrington, who, being a hero and twenty-one, was naturally romantic.

But let us pause here to assert that he was also practical—eminently so. Practicality is compatible with romance as well as with rascality. If we be right in holding that romance is gushing enthusiasm, then are we entitled to hold that many methodical and practical men have been, are, and ever will be, romantic. Time sobers their enthusiasm a little, no doubt, but does by no means abate it, unless the object on which it is expended be unworthy.

Recovering from his thoughtful air, and repeating “Just so,” the diver added, “Well, I suppose we’d better begin wi’ them ’ere odds an’ ends about us.”

“Not so,” returned the youth quickly; “I have often seen the apparatus, and am quite familiar with it. Let us rather go to the pier at once. I’m anxious to go down.”

“Ah! Mister Edgar—hasty as usual,” said Baldwin, shaking his head slowly. “It’s two years since I last saw you, and I had hoped to find that time had quieted you a bit, but—. Well, well—now, look here: you think you’ve seen all my apparatus, an’ know all about it?”

“Not exactly all,” returned the youth, with a smile; “but you know I’ve often been in this store of yours, and heard you enlarge on most if not all of the things in it.”

“Yes—most, but not all, that’s where it lies, sir. You’ve often seen Siebe and Gorman’s dresses, but did you ever see this helmet made by Heinke and Davis?”

“No, I don’t think I ever did.”

“Or that noo helmet wi’ the speakin’-toobe made by Denayrouze and Company, an’ this dress made by the same?”

“No, I’ve seen none of these things, and certainly this is the first time I have heard of a speaking-tube for divers.”

“Well then, you see, Mister Edgar, you have something to larn here after all; among other things, that Denayrouze’s is not the first speakin’-toobe,” said Baldwin, who thereupon proceeded with the most impressive manner and earnest voice to explain minutely to his no less earnest pupil the various clever contrivances by which the several makers sought to render their apparatus perfect.

With all this, however, we will not trouble the reader, but proceed at once to the port, where diving operations were being carried on in connection with repairs to the breakwater.

On their way thither the diver and his young companion continued their conversation.

“Which of the various dresses do you think the best?” asked Edgar.

“I don’t know,” answered Baldwin.

“Ah, then you are not bigotedly attached to that of your employer—like some of your fraternity with whom I have conversed?”

“I am attached to Siebe and Gorman’s dress,” returned Baldwin, “but I am no bigot. I believe in every thing and every creature having good and bad points. The dress I wear and the apparatus I work seem to me as near perfection as may be, but I’ve lived too long in this world to suppose nobody can improve on ’em. I’ve heard men who go down in the dresses of other makers praise ’em just as much as I do mine, an’ maybe with as good reason. I believe ’em all to be serviceable. When I’ve had more experience of ’em I’ll be able to say which I think the best.—I’ve got a noo hand on to-day,” continued Baldwin, “an’ as he’s goin’ down this afternoon for the first time, so you’ve come at a good time. He’s a smart young man, but I’m not very hopeful of him, for he’s an Irishman.”

“Come, old fellow,” said Edgar, with a laugh, “mind what you say about Irishmen. I’ve got a dash of Irish blood in me through my mother, and won’t hear her countrymen spoken of with disrespect. Why should not an Irishman make a good diver?”

“Because he’s too excitable, as a rule,” replied Baldwin. “You see, Mister Edgar, it takes a cool, quiet, collected sort of man to make a good diver, and Irishmen ain’t so cool as I should wish. Englishmen are better, but the best of all are Scotchmen. Give me a good, heavy, raw-boned lump of a Scotchman, who’ll believe nothin’ till he’s convinced, and accept nothin’ till it’s proved, who’ll argue with a stone wall, if he’s got nobody else to dispute with, in that slow sedate humdrum way that drives everybody wild but himself, who’s got an amazin’ conscience, but no nerves whatever to speak of—ah, that’s the man to go under water, an’ crawl about by the hour among mud and wreckage without gittin’ excited or makin’ a fuss about it if he should get his life-line or air-toobe entangled among iron bolts, smashed-up timbers, twisted wire-ropes, or such like.”

“Scotchmen should feel complimented by your opinion of them,” said Edgar.

“So they should, for I mean it,” replied Baldwin, “but I hope the Irishman will turn up a trump this time.—May I take the liberty of askin’ how you’re gittin’ on wi’ the engineering, Mister Edgar?”

“Oh, famously. That is to say, I’ve just finished my engagement with the firm of Steel, Bolt, Hardy, and Company, and am now on the point of going to sea.”

Baldwin looked at his companion in surprise. “Going to sea!” he repeated, “why, I thought you didn’t like the sea?”

“You thought right, Baldwin, but men are sometimes under the necessity of submitting to what they don’t like. I have no love for the sea, except, indeed, as a beautiful object to be admired from the shore, but, you see, I want to finish my education by going a voyage as one of the subordinate engineers in an ocean-steamer, so as to get some practical acquaintance with marine engineering. Besides, I have taken a fancy to see something of foreign parts before settling down vigorously to my profession, and—”

“Well?” said Baldwin, as the youth made rather a long pause.

“Can you keep a secret, Baldwin, and give advice to a fellow who stands sorely in need of it?”

The youth said this so earnestly that the huge diver, who was a sympathetic soul, declared with much fervour that he could do both.

“You must know, then,” began Edgar with some hesitation, “the fact is—you’re such an old friend, Baldwin, and took such care of me when I was a boy up to that sad time when I lost my father, and you lost an employer—”

“Ay, the best master I ever had,” interrupted the diver.

“That—that I think I may trust you; in short, Baldwin, I’m over head and ears with a young girl, and—and—”

“An’ your love ain’t requited—eh?” said Baldwin interrogatively, while his weatherbeaten face elongated.

“No, not exactly that,” rejoined Edgar, with a laugh. “Aileen loves me almost, I believe, as well as I love her, but her father is dead against us. He scorns me because I am not a man of wealth.”

“What is he?” demanded Baldwin.

“A rich China merchant.”

“He’s more than that,” said Baldwin.

“Indeed!” said Edgar, with a surprised look; “what more is he?”

“He’s a goose!” returned the diver stoutly.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Baldwin. Remember, I hope some day to call him father-in-law. But why do you hold so low an opinion of him?”

“Why, because he forgets that riches may, and often do, take to themselves wings and fly away, whereas broad shoulders, and deep chest, and sound limbs, and a good brain, usually last the better part of a lifetime; and a brave heart will last for ever.”

“I am afraid that I have yet to prove, to myself as well as to the old gentleman, that the brave heart is mine,” returned Edgar. “As to the physique—you may be so far right, but he evidently undervalues that.”

“I said nothing about physic,” returned Baldwin, who still frowned as he thought of the China merchant, “and the less that you and I have to do wi’ that the better. But what are you goin’ to do, sir?”

“That is just the point on which I want to have your advice. What ought I to do?”

“Don’t run away with her, whatever you do,” said Baldwin emphatically.

The youth laughed slightly as he explained that there was no chance whatever of his doing that, because Aileen would never consent to run away or to disobey her father.

“Good—good,” said the diver, with still greater emphasis than before, “I like that. The gal that would sacrifice herself and her lover sooner than disobey her father—even though he is a goose—is made o’ the right stuff. If it’s not takin’ too great a liberty, Mister Edgar, may I ask what she’s like?”

“What she’s like—eh?” murmured the other, dropping his head as if in reverie, and stroking the dark shadow on his chin which was beginning to do duty for a beard. “Why, she—she’s like nothing that I ever saw on earth before.”

“No!” ejaculated Baldwin, elevating his eyebrows a little, as he said gravely, “what, not even like an angel?”

“Well, yes; but even that does not sufficiently describe her. She’s fair,”—he waxed enthusiastic here,—“surpassingly fair, with wavy golden tresses and blue eyes, and a bright complexion and a winning voice, and a sylph-like figure and a thinnish but remarkably pretty face—”

“Ah!” interrupted Baldwin, with a sigh, “I know: just like my missus.”

“Why, my good fellow,” cried Edgar, unable to restrain a fit of laughter, “I do not wish to deny the good looks of Mrs Baldwin, but you know that she’s uncommonly ruddy and fat and heavy, as well as fair.”

“Ay, an’ forty, if you come to that,” said the diver. “She’s fourteen stun if she’s an ounce; but let me tell you, Mister Edgar, she wasn’t always heavy. There was a time when my Susan was as trim and taut and clipper-built as any Aileen that ever was born.”

“I have no doubt of it whatever,” returned the youth, “but I was going to say, when you interrupted me, it is her eyes that are her strong point—her deep, liquid, melting blue eyes, that look at you so earnestly, and seem to pierce—”

“Ay, just so,” interrupted the diver; “pierce into you like a gimblet, goin’ slap agin the retina, turnin’ short down the jugular, right into the heart, where they create an agreeable sort o’ fermentation. Oh! Don’t I know?—my Susan all over!”

Edgar’s amusement was tinged slightly with disgust at the diver’s persistent comparisons. However, mastering his feelings, he again demanded advice as to what he should do in the circumstances.

“You han’t told me the circumstances yet,” said the diver quietly.

“Well, here they are. Old Mr Hazlit—”

“What! Hazlit? Miss Hazlit, is that her name?” cried Baldwin, with a look of pleased surprise.

“Yes, do you know her?”

“Know her? Of course I do. Why, she visits the poor in my district o’ the old town—you know I’m a local preacher among the Wesleyans—an’ she’s one o’ the best an’ sweetest—ha! Angel indeed! I’m glad she wasn’t made an angel of, for it would have bin the spoilin’ of a splendid woman. Bless her!”

The diver spoke with much enthusiasm, and the young man smiled as he said, “Of course I add Amen to your last words.—Well then,” he continued, “Aileen’s father has refused to allow me to pay my addresses to his daughter. He has even forbidden me to enter his house, or to hold any intercourse whatever with her. This unhappy state of things has induced me to hasten my departure from England. My intention is to go abroad, make a fortune, and then return to claim my bride, for the want of money is all that the old gentleman objects to. I cannot bear the thought of going away without saying good-bye, but that seems now unavoidable, for he has, as I have said, forbidden me the house.”

Edgar looked anxiously at his companion’s face, but received no encouragement there, for Baldwin kept his eyes on the ground, and shook his head slowly.

“If the old gentleman has forbid you his house, of course you mustn’t go into it. However, it seems to me that you might cruise about the house and watch till Sus— Aileen, I mean—comes out; but I don’t myself quite like the notion of that either, it don’t seem fair an’ above-board like.”

“You are right,” returned Edgar. “I cannot consent to hang about a man’s door, like a thief waiting to pounce on his treasure when it opens. Besides, he has forbidden Aileen to hold any intercourse with me, and I know her dear nature too well to subject it to a useless struggle between duty and inclination. She is certain to obey her father’s orders at any cost.”

“Then, sir,” said Baldwin decidedly, “you’ll just have to go afloat without sayin’ good-bye. There’s no help for it, but there’s this comfort, that, bein’ what she is, she’ll like you all the better for it.—Now, here we are at the pier. Boat a-hoy-oy!”

In reply to the diver’s hail a man in a punt waved his hand, and pulled for the landing-place.

A few strokes of the oar soon placed them on the deck of a large clumsy vessel which lay anchored off the entrance to the harbour. This was the diver’s barge, which exhibited a ponderous crane with a pendulous hook and chain in the place where its fore-mast should have been. Several men were busied about the deck, one of whom sat clothed in the full dress of a diver, with the exception of the helmet, which was unscrewed and lay on the deck near his heavily-weighted feet. The dress was wet, and the man was enjoying a quiet pipe, from all which Edgar judged that he was resting after a dive. Near to the plank on which the diver was seated there stood the chest containing the air-pumps. It was open, the pumps were in working order, with two men standing by to work them. Coils of india-rubber tubing lay beside it. Elsewhere were strewn about stones for repairing the pier, and various building tools.

“Has Machowl come on board yet?” asked Baldwin, as he stepped on the deck. “Ah, I see he has.—Well, Rooney lad, are you prepared to go down?”

“Yis, sur, I am.”

Rooney Machowl, who stepped forward as he spoke, was a fine specimen of a man, and would have done credit to any nationality. He was about the middle height, very broad and muscular, and apparently twenty-three years of age. His countenance was open, good-humoured, and good-looking, though by no means classic—the nose being turned-up, the eyes small and twinkling, and the mouth large.

“Have you ever seen anything of this sort before?” asked Baldwin, with a motion of his hand towards the diving apparatus scattered on the deck.

“No sur, nothin’.”

“Was you bred to any trade?”

“Yis, sur, I’m a ship-carpenter.”

“An’ why don’t you stick to that?”

“Bekase, sur, it won’t stick to me. There’s nothin’ doin’ apparently in this poort. Annyhow I can’t git work, an’ I’ve a wife an’ chick at home, who’ve bin so long used to praties and bacon that their stummicks don’t take kindly to fresh air fried in nothin’. So ye see, sur, findin’ it difficult to make a livin’ above ground, I’m disposed to try to make it under water.”

While Rooney Machowl was speaking Baldwin regarded him with a fixed and critical gaze. What his opinion of the recruit was did not, however, appear on his countenance or in his reply, for he merely said, “Humph! Well, we’ll see. You’ll begin your education in your noo profession by payin’ partikler attention to all that is said an’ done around you.”

“Yis, sur,” returned Machowl, respectfully touching the peak of his cap and wrinkling his forehead very much, while he looked on at the further proceedings of the divers with that expression of deep earnest sincerity of attention which—whether assumed or genuine—is only possible to the countenance of an Irishman.

During this colloquy the two men standing by the pump-case, and two other men who appeared to be supernumeraries, listened with much interest, but the diver seated on the plank, resting and calmly smoking his pipe, gazed with apparent indifference at the sea, from which he had recently emerged.

This man was a very large fellow, with a dark surly countenance—not exactly bad in expression, but rather ill-tempered-looking. His diving-dress being necessarily very wide and baggy, made him seem larger than he really was—indeed, quite gigantic. The dress was made of very thick india-rubber cloth, and all—feet, legs, body, and arms—was of one piece, so perfectly secured at the seams as to be thoroughly impervious to air or water. To get into it was a matter of some difficulty, the entrance being effected at the neck. When this neck is properly attached to the helmet, the diver is thoroughly cut off from the external world, except through the air-tube communicating with his helmet and the pump afore mentioned.

“Have ye got the hole finished, Maxwell?” said Baldwin, turning to the surly diver.

“Yes,” he replied shortly.

“Well, then, go down and fix the charge. Here it is,” said Baldwin, taking from a wooden case an object about eighteen inches long, which resembled a large office-ruler that had been coated thickly with pitch. It was an elongated shell filled to the muzzle with gunpowder. To one end of it was fastened the end of a coil of wire which was also coated with some protecting substance.

As Baldwin spoke Maxwell slowly puffed the last “draw” from his lips and knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the plank, on which he still remained seated while the two supernumeraries busied themselves in completing his toilet for him; one screwing on his helmet, which appeared ridiculously large, the other loading his breast and back with two heavy leaden weights. When fully equipped, the diver carried on his person a weight fully equal to that of his own bulky person.

“Now look here, Mister Edgar, an’ pay partikler attention, Rooney Machowl. This here toobe, made of indyrubber, d’ee see? (‘Yis, sur,’ from Rooney) I fix on, as you perceive, to the back of Maxwell’s helmet. It communicates with that there pump, and when these two men work the pump, air will be forced into the helmet and into the dress down to his very toes. We could bu’st him, if we were so disposed, if it wasn’t for an escape-valve, here close beside the air-toobe, at the back of the helmet, which keeps lettin’ off the surplus air. Moreover, there is another valve, here in front of the breast-plate, which is under the control of the diver, so that he can let air escape by givin’ it a half-turn when the men at the pumps are givin’ him too much, or he can keep it in when they’re givin’ him enough.”

“An’ what does he do,” asked Rooney, with an anxious expression, “whin they give him too little?”

“He pulls on the air-pipe,—as I’ll explain to you in good time—the proper signal for ‘more air.’”

“But what if he forgits, or misremimbers the signal?” asked the inquisitive recruit.

“Why then,” replied Baldwin, “he suffocates, and we pull him up dead, an’ give him decent burial. Keep yourself easy, my lad, an’ you’ll know all about it in good time. I’ll soon give ’ee the chance to suffocate or bu’st yourself accordin’ to taste.”

“Come, cut it short and look alive,” said Maxwell gruffly, as he stood up to permit of a stout rope being fastened to his waist.

“You shut up!” retorted Baldwin.

Having exchanged these little civilities the two divers moved to the side of the barge—Maxwell with a slow ponderous tread.

A short iron ladder dipped from the gunwale of the barge a few feet down into the sea. The diver stepped upon this, turning with his face inwards, descended knee-deep into the water, and then stopped. Baldwin handed him the blasting-charge. At the same moment one of the supernumeraries advanced with the front-glass or bull’s-eye in his hand, and the men at the pumps gave a turn or two to see that all was working well.

“All right?” demanded the supernumerary.

“Right,” responded Maxwell, in a voice which issued sepulchrally from the iron globe.

There are three round windows fitted with thick plate-glass in the helmets to which we refer. The front one is made to screw off and on, and the fixing of this is always the last operation in completing a diver’s toilet.

“Pump away,” said the man, holding the round glass in front of Maxwell’s nose, and looking over his shoulder to see that the order was obeyed. The glass was screwed on, and the man finished off by gravely patting Maxwell in an affectionate manner on the head.

“Why does he pat him so?” asked Edgar, with a laugh at the apparent tenderness of the act.

“It’s a tinder farewell, I suppose,” murmured Rooney, “in case he niver comes up again.”

“It is to let him know that he may now descend in safety,” answered Baldwin. “The pump there is kep’ goin’ from a few moments before the front-glass is screwed on till the diver shows his head above water again—which he’ll do in quarter of an hour or so, for it don’t take long to lay a charge; but our ordinary spell under water, when work is steady, is about four hours—more or less—with perhaps a breath of ten minutes once or twice at the surface when they’re working deep.”

“But why a breath at the surface?” asked Edgar. “Isn’t the air sent down fresh enough?”

“Quite fresh enough, Mister Edgar, but the pressure when we go deep—say ten or fifteen fathoms—is severe on a man if long continued, so that he needs a little relief now and then. Some need more and some less relief, accordin’ to their strength. Maxwell has only gone down fifteen feet, so that he wouldn’t need to come up at all durin’ a spell of work. We’re goin’ to blast a big rock that has bin’ troublesome to us at low water. The hole was driven in it last week. We moored a raft over it and kep’ men at work with a long iron jumper that reached from the rock to the surface of the sea. It was finished last night, and now he’s gone to fix the charge.”

“But I don’t understand about the pressure, sur, at all at all,” said Machowl, with a complicated look of puzzlement; “sure whin I putt my hand in wather I don’t feel no pressure whatsomediver.”

“Of course not,” responded Baldwin, “because you don’t put it deep enough. You must know that our atmosphere presses on our bodies with a weight of about 20,000 pounds. Well, if you go thirty-two feet deep in the sea you get the pressure of exactly another atmosphere, which means that you’ve got to stand a pressure all over your body of 40,000 when you’ve got down as deep as thirty-two feet.”

“But,” objected Rooney, “I don’t fed no pressure of the atmosphere on me body at all.”

“That’s because you’re squeezed by the air inside of you, man, as well as by the atmosphere outside, which takes off the feelin’ of it, an’, moreover, you’re used to it. If the weight of our atmosphere was took off your outside and not took off your inside—your lungs an’ the like,—you’d come to feel it pretty strong, for you’d swell like a balloon an’ bu’st a’most, if not altogether.”

Baldwin paused a moment and regarded the puzzled countenance of his pupil with an air of pity.

“Contrairywise,” he continued, “if the air was all took out of your inside an’ allowed to remain on your outside, you’d go squash together like a collapsed indyrubber ball. Well then, if that be so with one atmosphere, what must it be with a pressure equal to two, which you have when you go down to thirty-two feet deep in the sea? An’ if you go down to twenty-five fathoms, or 150 feet, which is often done, what must the pressure be there?”

“Tightish, no doubt,” said Rooney.

“True, lad,” continued Joe. “Of course, to counteract this we must force more air down to you the deeper you go, so that the pressure inside of you may be a little more than the pressure outside, in order to force the foul air out of the dress through the escape-valve; and what between the one an’ the other your sensations are peculiar, you may be sure.—But come, young man, don’t be alarmed. We’ll not send you down very deep at first. If some divers go down as deep as twenty-five fathoms, surely you’ll not be frightened to try two and a half.”

Whatever Rooney’s feelings might have been, the judicious allusion to the possibility of his being frightened was sufficient to call forth the emphatic assertion that he was ready to go down two thousand fathoms if they had ropes long enough and weights heavy enough to sink him!

While the recruit is preparing for his subaqueous experiments, you and I, reader, will go see what Maxwell is about at the bottom of the sea.

Chapter Two.

Describes a first Visit to the Bottom of the Sea.

When the diver received the encouraging pat on the head, as already related, he descended the ladder to its lowest round. Here, being a few feet below the surface, the buoyancy of the water relieved him of much of the oppression caused by the great weights with which he was loaded. He was in a semi-floating condition, hence the ladder, being no longer necessary, was made to terminate at that point. He let go his hold of it and sank gently to the bottom, regulating his pace by a rope which descended from the foot of the ladder to the mud, on which in a few seconds his leaden soles softly rested. A continuous stream of air-bubbles from the safety-valve behind the helmet indicated to those above that the pumps were doing their duty, and at the same time hid the diver entirely from their sight.

Meanwhile the two men who acted as signalman and assistant stood near the head of the ladder, the first holding the life-line, the assistant the coil of air-tubing. Their duty was to stand by and pay out or haul in tubing and line according as the diver’s movements and necessities should require. They were to attend also to his signals—some of which were transmitted by the line and some by the air-tube. These signals vary among divers. With Baldwin and his party one pull on the life-line meant “All right;” four pulls, “I’m coming up.” One pull on the air-pipe signified “Sufficient air;” two pulls, “More air.” (pump faster.) Four pulls was an alarm, and signified “Haul me up.” The aspect of Rooney Machowl’s face when endeavouring to understand Baldwin’s explanation of these signals was a sight worth seeing!

But to return to our diver. On reaching the bottom, Maxwell took a coil of small line which hung on his left arm, and attached one end of it to a stone or sinker which kept taut the ladder-line by which he had descended. This was his clew to guide him back to the ladder. Not only is the light under water very dim—varying of course, according to depth, until total darkness ensues—but a diver’s vision is much weakened by the muddy state of the water at river-mouths and in harbours, so that he is usually obliged to depend more on feeling than on sight. If he were to leave the foot of his ladder without the guiding-coil, it would be difficult if not impossible to find it again, and his only resource would be to signal “Haul me up,” which would be undignified, to say the least of it! By means of this coil he can wander about at will—within the limits of his air-tube tether of course,—and be certain to find his way back to the ladder-foot in the darkest or muddiest water.

Having fastened the line, the diver walked in the direction of the rock on which he had to operate, dropping gradually the coils of the guiding-line as he proceeded. His progress was very slow, for water is a dense medium, and man’s form is not well adapted for walking in it—as every bather knows who has attempted to walk when up to his neck in it. He soon found the object of his search, and went down on his knees beside the hole already driven into the rock. Even this process of going on his knees was not so simple as it sounds, for the men above were sending down more air than could escape by the valve behind the helmet, and thus were filling his dress to such an extent that he had a tendency to rise off the ground despite his weights. To counteract this he opened the valve in front, let out the superabundant air, got on his knees, and was soon busy at work inserting the charge-tube into the hole and tamping it well home, taking care that the fine wire with which it communicated with the party in the barge should not be injured.

While thus engaged he was watched, apparently with deep interest, by a small crab, a shrimp, and several little fish of various kinds, all of which we may add, seemed to have various degrees of curiosity. One particular little fish, named a goby, and celebrated for its wide-awake nature and impudence, actually came to the front-glass of the helmet and looked in. But the diver was too busy to pay attention to it. Nothing abashed, the goby went to each of the side-windows, but, receiving no encouragement, it made for a convenient ledge of the rock, where, resting its fore-fins on a barnacle, it turned its head a little on one side and looked on in silence. Finding this rather tedious, after a time it went, with much of the spirit of a London street-boy, and, passing close to the shrimp, tweaked the end of one of its feelers, causing that volatile creature to vanish. It then made a demonstration of attack on the crab, but that crustaceous worthy, sitting up on its hind-legs and expanding both claws with a very “come-on-if-you-dare” aspect, bid it defiance.

Meanwhile the charge was laid, and Maxwell rose to return to the world above. Feeling a certain uncomfortable hotness in the air he breathed, and observing that his legs were remarkably thin, and that his dress was clasped somewhat too lovingly about his person, he became aware of the fact that, having neglected to reclose the front-valve, his supply of air was now insufficient. He therefore shut the valve and began to wend his way back to the ladder. By the time he reached it the air in his dress had swelled him out to aldermanic dimensions, so that he pulled himself up the ladder-rope, hand over hand, with the utmost ease—having previously given four pulls on his life-line to signal “coming up.” A few seconds more and his head was seen to emerge from the surface, like some goggle-eyed monster of the briny deep.

A comrade at once advanced and unscrewed his front-glass, and then, but not till then, did the men at the pumps cease their labours.

“All right,” said Maxwell, stepping over the side and seating himself on his plank.

“Stand by,” said Baldwin.

The two satellites did not require that order, for they were already standing by with a small electrical machine. The wire before mentioned as being connected with the charge of powder, now safely lodged in the hole at the bottom of the sea, was connected with the electrical machine, and a few vigorous turns of its handle were given, while every eye was turned expectantly on the surface of the sea.

That magic spark which now circles round the world, annihilating time and space, was evolved; it flashed down the wire; the ocean could not put it out; the dry powder received it; the massive rock burst into fragments; a decided shock was felt on board the barge, and a turmoil of gas-bubbles and dead or dying fish came to the surface, in the midst of which turmoil the shrimp, the crab, and the goby doubtless came to an untimely end.

Thus was cleared out of the way an obstruction which had from time immemorial been a serious inconvenience to that port; and thus every year serious inconveniences and obstructions that most people know very little about are cleared out of the way by our bold, steady, and daring divers, through the wisdom and the wonderful appliances of our submarine engineers.

“Now then, Rooney, come an’ we’ll dress you,” said Baldwin. “As you’re goin’ to be a professional diver it’s right that you should have the first chance and set a good example to Mister Berrington here, who’s only what we may call an amateur.”

“Faix, I’d rather that Mister Berrington shud go first,” said Rooney, who, as he spoke, however, stripped himself of his coat, vest, and trousers preparatory to putting on the costume.

“I’ll be glad to go first, Rooney, if you’re afraid,” said Edgar.

Rooney’s annoyance at being thought afraid was increased to indignation by a contemptuous guffaw from Maxwell.

Flushing deeply and casting a glance of anger at Maxwell, the young Irishman crushed down his feelings and said—

“Sure, I’m only jokin’. Put on the dress Mister Baldwin av ye plaze.”

A diver, like a too high-bred lady, cannot well dress himself. He requires two assistants. Rooney Machowl sat down on the plank beside Maxwell, who was busy taking off his dress, and acted according to orders.

First of all they brought him a thick guernsey shirt, a pair of drawers and pair of inside stockings, which he put on and fastened securely. Sometimes a “crinoline” to afford protection to the stomach in deep water is put on, but on the present occasion it was omitted, the water being shallow. Then Baldwin put on him a “shoulder-pad” to bear the weight of the helmet, etcetera, and prevent chafing.

“If it was cold, Rooney,” said his instructor, “I’d put two guernseys and pairs of drawers and stockin’s on you, but, as it’s warm, one set’ll do. Moreover, if you was goin’ deep you’d have the option of stuffin’ your ears with cotton soaked in oil, to relieve the pressure; some do an’ some don’t. I never do myself. It’s said to relieve the pressure of air on the ears, but my ears are strong. Anyway you won’t want it in this water.—Now for the dress, boys.”

The two assistants—with mouths expanded from ear to ear—here advanced with the strong india-rubber garment whose legs, feet, body, and arms are, as we have already said, all in one piece. Pushing his feet in at the upper opening, Rooney writhed, thrust, and wriggled himself into it, being ably assisted by his attendants, who held open the sleeves for him and expanded the tight elastic cuffs, and, catching the dress at the neck, hitched it upwards so powerfully as almost to lift their patient off his legs. Next, came a pair of outside stockings and canvas overalls or short trousers, both of which were meant to preserve the dress-proper from injury. Having been got into all these things, Rooney was allowed to sit down while his attendants each put on and buckled a boot with leaden soles—each boot weighing about twenty pounds.

“A purty pair of dancin’ pumps!” remarked Rooney, turning out his toes, while Baldwin put on his breast-plate, after having drawn up the inner collar of the dress and tied it round his neck with a piece of spare yarn.

The breast-plate was made of tinned copper. It covered part of the back, breast, and shoulders of the diver, and had a circular neck, to which the helmet was to be ultimately screwed. It rested on the inner collar of the dress, and the outer collar—of stout india-rubber—was drawn over it. In this outer collar were twelve holes, corresponding to twelve screws round the edge of the breast-plate. When these holes had been fitted over their respective screws, a breast-plate-band, in four pieces, was placed over them and screwed tight by means of nuts—thus rendering the connection between the dress and the breast-plate perfectly water-tight. It now only remained to screw the helmet to the circular neck of the breast-plate. Previously, however, a woollen night-cap was drawn over the poor man’s head, well down on his ears, and Rooney looked—as indeed he afterwards admitted that he felt—as if he were going to be hanged. He thought, however, of the proverb, that a man who is born to be drowned never can be hanged, and somehow felt comforted.

The diving helmet is made of tinned copper, and much too large for the largest human head, in order that the wearer may have room to move his head freely about inside of it. It should not touch the head in any part, but is fixed rigidly to the breast-plate, resting on the shoulders, and does not partake of the motions of the head. In it are three round openings filled with the thickest plate-glass and protected by brass bars or guards; also an outlet-valve to allow the foul air to escape; a short metal tube with an inlet-valve, to which the air-pump is screwed; and a regulating cock for getting rid of excess of air. The arrangement is such, that the fresh air enters, and is spread over the front of the diver’s face, while the foul escapes at the back of his head. By a clever contrivance—a segmental screw—the helmet can be fixed to its neck with one-eighth of a turn, instead of having to be twisted round several times. To various hooks and studs on the helmet and breast-plate are hung two leaden masses weighing about forty pounds each.

These weights having been attached, and a waist-belt with a knife in it put round Rooney’s waist, along with the life-line, the air-tube was affixed, and he was asked by Baldwin how he felt.

“A trifle heavy,” replied the pupil, through the front hole of the helmet, which was not yet closed.

“That feeling will go off entirely when you’re under water,” said Baldwin. “Now, remember, if you want more air, just give two pulls on the air-pipe—an’ don’t pull as if you was tryin’ to haul down the barge; we’ll be sure to feel you. Be gentle and quiet, whatever ye do. Gettin’ flurried never does any good whatever. D’ee hear?”

“Yis, sur,” answered Rooney, and his voice sounded metallic and hollow, even to those outside—much more so to himself!

“Well, then, if we give you too much air, you’ve only got to open the front-valve—so, and, when you’re easy, shut it. When you get down to the bottom, give one—only one—pull on the life-line, which means ‘All right,’ and I’ll give one pull in reply. We must always reply to each other, d’ee see? because if you don’t answer, of course we’ll think you’ve been suffocated, or entangled at the bottom among wreckage and what-not, or been took with a fit, an’ we’ll haul you up, as hard as we can; so you’ll have to be particular. D’ee understand?”

Again the learner replied “Yis, sur,” but less confidently than before, for Baldwin’s cautions, although meant to have an encouraging effect, proved rather to be alarming.

“Now,” continued the teacher, leading his pupil to the side of the barge, “be sure to go down slow, and come up slow. Whatever you do, do it slow, for if you do it fast—especially in comin’ up—you’ll come to grief. If a man comes up too fast from deep water, the condensed air inside of him is apt to swell him out, and the brain bein’ relieved too suddenly from the pressure, there’s a rush of blood to it, and a singin’ in the ears, and a pain in the head, with other unpleasant symptoms. Why,” continued Baldwin, growing energetic, “I’ve actually known a man killed outright by bein’ pulled up too quick from a depth of twenty fathoms. So mark my words, lad, and take it easy. If you get nervous, just stop a bit an’ amuse yourself with thinkin’ over what I’ve told you, and then go on with your descent.”

At this point Rooney’s heart almost failed him, but, catching sight of Maxwell’s half-amused, half-contemptuous face, he stepped resolutely on the ladder, and began to descend in haste.

“Hold on!” roared Baldwin, laying hold of the life-line. “Why, man alive, you’re off without the front-glass!”

“Och! Whirra! So I am,” said Rooney, pausing.

“Pump away, lads,” cried Baldwin, looking back at his assistants.

“Whist! What’s that?” asked the pupil excitedly, as a hissing sound buzzed round his head.

“Why, that’s the air coming in. Now then, I’ll screw on the glass. Are you all right?”

“All right,” replied Rooney, telling, as he said himself afterwards, “one of the biggist lies he iver towld in his life!”

The glass was screwed on, and the learner was effectually cut off from all connection with the outer air, save through the slight medium of an india-rubber pipe.

Having thus screwed him up—or in—Baldwin gave him the patronising pat on the helmet, as a signal for him to descend, but Rooney stood tightly fixed to the ladder, and motionless.

Again Baldwin patted his head encouragingly, but still Rooney stood as motionless as one of the iron-clad warriors in the Tower of London. The fact was, his courage had totally failed him. He was ashamed to come up, and could not by any effort of will force himself to go down.

“Why, what’s wrong?” demanded Baldwin, looking in at the glass, which, however, was so clouded with the inmate’s breath that he could only be seen dimly. It was evident that Rooney was speaking in an excited voice, but no sound was audible through that impervious mass of metal and glass. Baldwin was therefore about to unscrew the mouth-glass, when accident brought about what Rooney’s will could not accomplish. In attempting to move, the poor pupil missed his hold, or slipped somehow, and fell into the sea with a sounding splash.

“Let him go, boys—gently, or he’ll break everything. A dip’ll do him no harm,” cried Baldwin to the alarmed assistants.

The men let the life-line and air-tube slip, until the rushing descent was somewhat abated, and then, checking the involuntary diver, they hauled him slowly to the surface, where his arms and open palms went swaying wildly round until they came in contact with the ladder, on which they fastened with a grip that was sufficient to have squeezed the life out of a gorilla.

In a few seconds he ascended a step, and his head emerged, then another step, and Baldwin was able to unscrew the glass.

The first word that the poor man uttered through his porthole was “Och!” the next, “Musha!”

A burst of laughter from his friends above somewhat reassured him, and again the tinge of contempt in Maxwell’s voice reinfused courage and desperate resolve.

“Why, man, what was your haste?” said Baldwin.

“Sure the rounds o’ yer ladder was slippy,” answered Rooney, with some indignation. “Didn’t ye see, I lost me howld? Come, putt on the glass an’ I’ll try again. Never say die was a motto of me owld father, an’ it was the only legacy he left me.—I’m ready, sur.”

It is right here to remark that something of the pupil’s return of courage and resolution was due to his quick perception. He had time to reflect that he really had been at, or near, the bottom of the sea—at all events over head and ears in water—for several minutes without being drowned, even without being moistened, and his faith in the diving-dress, though still weak, had dawned sufficiently to assert itself as a power.

“Ha! My lad, you’ll do. You’ll make a diver yet,” said Baldwin, when about to readjust the glass. “I forgot to tell you that when your breath clouds the front-glass, you’ve only got to bend your head down, and wipe it off with your night-cap. Now, then, down you go once more.”

This time the pat on the head was followed by a descending motion. The mailed figure was feeling with its right foot for the next round of the ladder. Then slowly—very slowly—the left foot was let down, while the two hands held on with a tenacity that caused all the muscles and sinews to stand out rigidly. Then one hand was loosened, and caught nervously at a lower round—then the other hand followed, and thus by degrees the pupil went under the surface, when his helmet appeared like a large round ball of light enveloped in the milky-way of air-bubbles that rose from it.

“You’d better give the signal to ask if all’s right,” said Edgar, who felt a little anxious.

“Do so,” said Baldwin, nodding to the assistant.

The man obeyed, but no answering signal was returned.

According to rule they should instantly have hauled the diver up, but Baldwin bade them delay a moment.

“I’m quite sure there’s nothing wrong,” he said, stooping over the side of the barge, and gazing into the water, “it’s only another touch of nervousness.—Ah! I see him, holdin’ on like a barnacle to the ladder, afraid to let go. He’ll soon tire of kickin’ there—that’s it: there he goes down the rope like the best of us.”

In another moment the life-line and air-pipe ceased to run out, and then the assistant gave one pull on the line. Immediately there came back one pull—all right.

“That’s all right,” repeated Baldwin; “now the ice is fairly broken, and we’ll soon see how he’s going to get on.”

In order that we too may see that more comfortably, you and I, reader, will again go under water and watch him. We will also listen to him, for Rooney has a convenient habit of talking to himself, and neither water nor helmet can prevent us from overhearing.

True to his instructions, the pupil proceeded to fasten his clew-line to the stone at the foot of the ladder-rope, and attempted to kneel.

“Well, well,” he said, “did ye iver! What would me mother say if she heard I couldn’t git on my knees whin I tried to?”

Rooney began this remark aloud, but the sound of his own voice was so horribly loud and unnaturally near that he finished off in a whisper, and continued his observations in that confidential tone.

“Och! Is it dancin’ yer goin’ to do, Rooney?—in the day-time too!” he whispered, as his feet slowly left the bottom. “Howld on, man!”

He made a futile effort to stoop and grasp the mud, then, bethinking himself of Baldwin’s instructions, he remembered that too much air had a tendency to bring him to the surface, and that opening the front-valve was the remedy. He was not much too soon in recollecting this, for, besides rising, he was beginning to feel a singing in his head and a disagreeable pressure on the ears, caused by the ever-increasing density of the air. The moment the valve was fully opened, a rush out of air occurred which immediately sank him again, and he had now no difficulty in getting on his knees.

“There’s little enough light down here, anyhow,” he muttered, as he fumbled about the stone sinker in a vain attempt to fasten his line to it, “sure the windy must be dirty.”

The thought reminded him of Baldwin’s teaching. He bent forward his head and wiped the glass with his night-cap, but without much advantage, for the dimness was caused by the muddiness of the water.

Just then he began to experience uncomfortable sensations; he felt a tendency to gasp for air, and became very hot, while his garments clasped his limbs very tightly. He had, like Maxwell, forgotten to reclose the breast-valve, but, unlike the more experienced diver, he had failed to discover his omission. He became flurried and anxious, and getting, more and more confused, fumbled nervously at his helmet to ascertain that all was right there. In so doing he opened the little regulating cock, which served to form an additional outlet to foul air. This of course made matters worse. The pressure of air in the dress was barely sufficient to prevent the water from entering by the breast-valve and regulating cock. Perspiration burst out on his forehead. He naturally raised his hand to wipe it away, but was prevented by the helmet.

Rooney possessed an active mind. His thoughts flew fast. This check induced the following ideas—

“What if I shud want to scratch me head or blow me nose? Or what if an earwig shud chance to have got inside this iron pot, and take a fancy to go into my ear?”

His right ear became itchy at the bare idea. He made a desperate blow at it, and skinned his knuckles, while a hitherto unconceived intensity of desire to scratch his head and blow his nose took violent possession of him.

Just then a dead cat, that had been flung into the harbour the night before, and had not been immersed long enough to rise to the surface, floated past with the tide, and its sightless eyeballs and ghastly row of teeth glared and glistened on him, as it surged against his front-glass. A slight spirt of water came through the regulating cock at the same instant, as if the dead cat had spit in his face.

“Hooroo! Haul up!” shouted Rooney, following the order with a yell that sounded like the concentrated voice of infuriated Ireland. At the same time he seized the life-line and air-tube, and tugged at both, not four times, but nigh forty times four, and never ceased to tug until he found himself gasping on the deck of the barge with his helmet off and his comrades laughing round him.

“It’s not a bad beginning,” said Baldwin, as he assisted his pupil to unrobe; “you’ll make a good diver in course o’ time.”

Baldwin was right in this prophecy, for in a few months Rooney Machowl became one of the best and coolest divers on his staff.

We need not try the reader’s patience with an account of Edgar’s descent, which immediately followed that of the Irishman. Let it suffice to say that he too accomplished, with credit and with less demonstration, his first descent to the bottom of the sea.

Chapter Three.

Refers to a small Tea-Party, and touches very mildly on Love.

Miss Pritty was a good soul, but weak. She was Edgar Berrington’s maiden aunt—of an uncertain age—on the mother’s side. Her chief characteristic was delicacy—delicacy of health, delicacy of sentiment, delicacy of intellect—general delicacy, in fact, all over. She was slight too—slightly made, slightly educated, slightly pretty, and slightly cracked. But there were a few things in regard to which Miss Laura Pritty was strong. She was strong in her affections, strong in her reverence for all good things (including a few bad things which in her innocence she thought good), strong in her prejudices and impulses, and strong—remarkably strong—in parentheses. Her speech was eminently parenthetical, insomuch that the range of her ideas was wholly untrammelled by the proprieties of subject or language. Given a point to be aimed at in conversation, Miss Pritty never aimed at it. She invariably began with it, and, parting finally from it at the outset, diverged to any or every other point in nature. Perplexity, as a matter of course, was the usual result both in speaker and hearer, but then that mattered little, for Miss Pritty was also strong in easy-going good-nature.

On the evening in which we introduce her, Miss Pritty was going to have her dear and intimate friend Aileen Hazlit to tea, and she laid out her little tea-table with as much care as an engineer might have taken in drawing a mathematical problem. The teapot was placed in the exact centre of the tray, with its spout and handle pointing so that a line drawn through them would have been parallel to the sides of her little “boudoir.” The urn stood exactly behind it. The sugar-basin formed, on one side of the tray, a pendant to the cream-jug on the other, and inasmuch as the cream-jug was small, a toast-rack was coupled with it to constitute the necessary balance. So, too, with the cups: they were placed equidistant from the teapot, the sides of the tray, and each other, while a salver of cake on one side of the table was scrupulously balanced by a plate of buns on the other side.

“There she is—the darling!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, with a little skip and (excuse the word) a giggle as the bell rang.

“Miss Aileen Hazlit,” announced Miss Pritty’s small and only domestic, who flung wide open the door of the boudoir, as its owner was fond of styling it.

Whereupon there entered “an angel in blue, with a straw hat and ostrich feather.”

We quote from the last, almost dying, speech of a hopeless youth in the town—a lawyer’s clerk—whose heart was stamped over so completely with the word “Aileen” that it was unrecognisable, and practically useless for any purpose except beating—which it did, hard, at all times.

Aileen was beautiful beyond compare, because, in her case, extreme beauty of face and feature was coupled with rare beauty of expression, indicating fine qualities of mind. She was quiet in demeanour, grave in speech, serious and very earnest in thought, enthusiastic in action, unconscious and unselfish.

“Pooh! Perfection!” I hear some lady reader ejaculate.

No, fair one, not quite that, but as near it as was compatible with humanity. Happily there are many such in the world—some with more and some with less of the external beauty—and man is blessed and the world upheld by them.

The chief bond that bound Aileen and Miss Pritty together was a text of Scripture, “Consider the poor.” The latter had strong sympathy with the poor, being herself one of the number. The former, being rich in faith as well as in means, “considered” them. The two laid their heads together and concerted plans for the “raising of the masses,” which might have been food for study to some statesmen. For instance, they fed the hungry and clothed the naked; they encouraged the well-disposed and reproved the evil; they “scattered seeds of kindness” wherever they went; they sowed the precious Word of God in all kinds of ground—good and bad; they comforted the sorrowing; they visited the sick and the prisoner; they refused to help, or, in any way to encourage, the idle; they handed the obstreperous and violent over to the police, with the hope—if not the recommendation—that the rod should not be spared; and in all cases they prayed for them. The results were considerable, but, not being ostentatiously trumpeted, were not always recognised or traced to their true cause.

“Come away, darling,” exclaimed Miss Pritty, eagerly embracing and kissing her friend, who accepted, but did not return, the embrace, though she did the kiss. “I thought you were not coming at all, and I have not seen you for a whole week! What has kept you? There, put off your hat. I’m so glad to see you, dear Aileen. Isn’t it strange that I’m so fond of you? They say that people who are contrasts generally draw together—at least I’ve often heard Mrs Boxer, the wife of Captain Boxer, you know, of the navy, who used to swear so dreadfully before he was married, but, I am happy to say, has quite given it up now, which says a great deal for wedded life, though it’s a state that I don’t quite believe in myself, for if Adam had never married Eve he would not have been tempted to eat the forbidden fruit, and so there would have been no sin and no sorrow or poverty—no poor! Only think of that.”

“So that our chief occupation would have been gone,” said Aileen, with a slight twinkle of her lustrous blue eyes, “and perhaps you and I might never have met.”

Miss Pritty replied to this something very much to the effect that she would have preferred the entrance of sin and all its consequences—poverty included—into the world, rather than have missed making the friendship of Miss Hazlit. At least her words might have borne that interpretation—or any other!

“My father detained me,” said Aileen, seating herself at the table, while her volatile friend put lumps of sugar into the cups, with a tender yet sprightly motion of the hand, as if she were doing the cups a special kindness—as indeed she was, when preparing one of them to touch the lips of Aileen.

“Naughty man, why did he detain you?” said Miss Pritty.

“Only to write one or two notes, his right hand being disabled at present by rheumatism.”

“A gentleman, Miss, in the dinin’-room,” said the small domestic, suddenly opening a chink of the door for the admission of her somewhat dishevelled head. “He won’t send his name up—says he wants to see you.”

“How vexing!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, “but I’ll go down. I’m determined that he shan’t interrupt our tête-à-tête.”

Miss Pritty uttered a little scream of surprise on entering the dining-room.

“Well, aunt,” said Edgar Berrington, with a hearty smile, as he extended his hand, “you are surprised to see me?”

“Of course I am, dear Eddy,” cried Miss Pritty, holding up her cheek for a kiss. “Sit down. Why, you were in London when I last heard of you.”

“True, but I’m not in London now, as you see. I’ve been a week here.”

“A week, Eddy! And you did not come to see me till now?”

“Well, I ought to apologise,” replied the youth, with a slight look of confusion, “but—the fact is, I came down partly on business, and—and—so you see I’ve been very busy.”

“Of course,” laughed Miss Pritty; “people who have business to do are usually very busy! Well, I forgive you, and am glad to see you—but—”

“Well, aunt—but what?”

“In short, Eddy, I happen to be particularly engaged this evening—on business, too, like yourself; but, after all, why should I not introduce you to my friend? You might help us in our discussion—it is to be about the poor. Do you know much about the poor and their miseries?”

Edgar smiled sadly as he replied—

“Yes, I have had some experimental knowledge of the poor—being one of them myself, and my poverty too has made me inconceivably miserable.”

“Come, Eddy, don’t talk nonsense. You know I mean the very poor, the destitute. But let us go up-stairs and have a cup of tea.”

The idea of discussing the condition of the poor over a cup of tea with two ladies was not attractive to our hero in his then state of mind, and he was beginning to excuse himself when his aunt stopped him:—

“Now, don’t say you can’t, or won’t, for you must. And I shall introduce you to a very pretty girl—oh! such a pretty one—you’ve no idea—and so sweet!”

Miss Pritty spoke impressively and with enthusiasm, but as the youth knew himself to be already acquainted with and beloved by the prettiest girl in the town he was not so much impressed as he might have been. However, being a good-natured fellow, he was easily persuaded.

All the way up-stairs, and while they were entering the boudoir, little Miss Pritty’s tongue never ceased to vibrate, but when she observed her nephew gazing in surprise at her friend, whose usually calm and self-possessed face was covered with confusion, she stopped suddenly.

“Good-evening, Miss Hazlit,” said Edgar, recovering himself, and holding out his hand as he advanced towards her; “I did not anticipate the pleasure of meeting you here.”

“Then you are acquainted already!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, looking as much amazed as if the accident of two young people being acquainted without her knowledge were something tantamount to a miracle.

“Yes, I have met Mr Berrington at my father’s several times,” said Aileen, resuming her seat, and bestowing a minute examination on the corner of her handkerchief.

If Aileen had added that she had met Mr Berrington every evening for a week past at her father’s, had there renewed the acquaintance begun in London a year before, and had been wooed and won by him before his stern repulse by her father, she would have said nothing beyond the bare truth; but she thought, no doubt, that it was not necessary to add all that.

“Well, well, what strange things do happen!” said Miss Pritty, resuming her duties at the tea-table. “Sugar, Eddy? And cream?—Only to think that Aileen and I have known each other so well, and she did not know that you were my nephew; but after all it could not well be otherwise, for now I think of it, I never mentioned your name to her. Out of sight, out of mind, Eddy, you know, and indeed you don’t deserve to be remembered. If we all had our deserts, some people that I know of would be in a very different position from what they are, and some people wouldn’t be at all.”

“Why, aunt,” said Edgar, laughing. “Would you—”

“Some more cake, Eddy?”

“No, thank you. I was going to say—”

“Have you enough cream? Allow me to—”

“Quite enough, thanks. I was about to remark—”

“Some sugar, Aileen?—I beg your pardon—yes—you were about to say—”

“Oh! Nothing,” replied Edgar, half exasperated by these frequent interruptions, but laughing in spite of himself, “only I’m surprised that sentence of annihilation should be passed on ‘some people’ by one so amiable as you are.”

“Oh! I didn’t exactly mean annihilation,” returned Miss Pritty, with a pitiful smile; “I only mean that I wouldn’t have had them come into existence, they seem to be so utterly useless in the world, and so interfering, too, with those who want to be useful.”

“Surely that quality, or capacity of interference, proves them to be not utterly useless,” said Edgar, “for does it not give occasion for the exercise of patience and forbearance?”

“Ah!” replied Miss Pritty, with an arch smile, shaking her finger at her nephew, “you are a fallacious reasoner. Do you know what that means? I can’t help laughing still at the trouble I used to have in trying to find out the meaning of that word fallacious, when I was at Miss Dullandoor’s seminary for young ladies—hi! Hi! Some of us were excessively young ladies, and we were taught everything by rote, explanations of meanings of anything being quite ignored by Miss Dullandoor. Do you remember her sister? Oh! I’m so stupid to forget that it’s exactly thirty years to-day since she died, and you can’t be quite that age yet; besides, even if you were, it would require that you should have seen, and recognised, and remembered her on her deathbed about the time of your own birth. Oh! She was so funny, both in face and figure. One of the older girls made a portrait of her for me which I have yet. I’ll go fetch it; the expression is irresistible—it is killing. Excuse me a minute.”

Miss Pritty rose and tripped—she never walked—from the room. During much of the previous conversation our hero had been sorely perplexed in his mind as to his duty in present circumstances. Having been forbidden to hold any intercourse with Aileen, he questioned the propriety of his remaining to spend the evening with her, and had made up his mind to rise and tear himself away when this unlooked-for opportunity for a tête-à-tête occurred. Being a man of quick wit and strong will, he did not neglect it. Turning suddenly to the fair girl, he said, in a voice low and measured—

“Aileen, your father commanded me to have no further intercourse with you, and he made me aware that he had laid a similar injunction on yourself. I know full well your true-hearted loyalty to him, and do not intend to induce you to disobey. I ask you to make no reply to what I say that is not consistent with your promise to your father. For myself, common courtesy tells me that I may not leave your presence for a distant land without saying at least good-bye. Nay, more, I feel that I break no command in making to you a simple deliberate statement.”

Edgar paused for a moment, for, in spite of the powerful restraint put on himself, and the intended sedateness of his words, his feelings were almost too strong for him.

“Aileen,” he resumed, “I may never see you again. Your father intends that I shall not. Your looks seem to say that you fear as much. Now, my heart tells me that I shall; but, whatever betide, or wherever I go, let me assure you that I will continue to love you with unalterable fidelity. More than this I shall not say, less I could not. You said that these New Testaments”—pointing to a pile of four or five which lay on the table—“are meant to be given to poor men. I am a poor man: will you give me one?”

“Willingly,” said Aileen, taking one from the pile.

She handed it to her lover without a single word, but with a tender anxious look that went straight to his heart, and took up its lodging there—to abide for ever!

The youth grasped the book and the hand at once, and, stooping, pressed the latter fervently to his lips.

At that moment Miss Pritty was heard tripping along the passage.

Edgar sprang to intercept her, and closed the door of the boudoir behind him.

“Why, Edgar, you seem in haste!”

“I am, dear aunt; circumstances require that I should be. Come down-stairs with me. I have stayed too long already. I am going abroad, and may not spend more time with you this evening.”

“Going abroad!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, in breathless surprise, “where?”

“I don’t know. To China, Japan, New Zealand, the North Pole—anywhere. In fact, I’ve not quite fixed. Good-bye, dear aunt. Sorry to have seen so little of you. Good-bye.”

He stooped, printed a gentle kiss between Miss Pritty’s wondering eyes, and vanished.

“A most remarkable boy,” said the disconcerted lady, resuming her seat at the tea-table—“so impulsive and volatile. But he’s a dear good boy nevertheless—was so kind to his mother while she was alive, and ran away from school when quite young—and no wonder, for it was a dreadful school, where they used to torture the boys,—absolutely tortured them. The head-master and ushers were tried for it afterwards, I’m told. At all events; Eddy ran away from it after pulling the master’s nose and kicking the head usher—so it is said, though I cannot believe it, he is usually so gentle and courteous.—Do have a little more tea. No? A piece of bun? No? Why, you seem quite flushed, my love. Not unwell, I trust? No? Well, then, let us proceed to business.”

Chapter Four.

Divers Matters.

Charles Hazlit, Esquire, was a merchant and a shipowner, a landed proprietor, a manager of banks, a member of numerous boards and committees, a guardian of the poor, a volunteer colonel, and a good-humoured man on the whole, but purse-proud and pompous. He was also the father of Aileen.

Behold him seated in an elegant drawing-room, in a splendid mansion at the “west end” (strange that all aristocratic ends would appear to be west ends!) of the seaport town which owned him. His blooming daughter sat beside him at a table, on which lay a small, peculiar, box. He doated on his daughter, and with good reason. Their attention was so exclusively taken up with the peculiar box that they had failed to observe the entrance, unannounced, of a man of rough exterior, who stood at the door, hat in hand, bowing and coughing attractively, but without success.

“My darling,” said Mr Hazlit, stooping to kiss his child—his only child—who raised her pretty little three-cornered mouth to receive it, “this being your twenty-first birthday, I have at last brought myself to look once again on your sainted mother’s jewel-case, in order that I may present it to you. I have not opened it since the day she died. It is now yours, my child.”

Aileen opened her eyes in mute amazement. It would seem as though there had been some secret sympathy between her and the man at the door, for he did precisely the same thing. He also crushed his hat somewhat convulsively with both hands, but without doing it any damage, as it was a very hard sailor-like hat. He also did something to his lips with his tongue, which looked a little like licking them.

“Oh papa!” exclaimed Aileen, seizing his hand, “how kind; how—”

“Nay, love, no thanks are due to me. It is your mother’s gift. On her deathbed she made me promise to give it you when you came of age, and to train you, up to that age, as far as possible, with a disregard for dress and show. I think your dear mother was wrong,” continued Mr Hazlit, with a mournful smile, “but, whether right or wrong, you can bear me witness that I have sought to fulfil the second part of her dying request, and I now accomplish the first.”

He proceeded to unlock, the fastenings of the little box, which was made of some dark metal resembling iron, and was deeply as well as richly embossed on the lid and sides with quaint figures and devices.

Mr Hazlit had acquired a grand, free-handed way of manipulating treasure. Instead of lifting the magnificent jewels carefully from the casket, he tumbled them out like a gorgeous cataract of light and colour, by the simple process of turning the box upside down.

“Oh papa, take care!” exclaimed Aileen, spreading her little hands in front of the cataract to stem its progress to the floor, while her two eyes opened in surprise, and shone with a lustre that might have made the insensate gems envious. “How exquisite! How inexpressibly beautiful!—oh my dear, darling mother—!”

She stopped abruptly, and tears fluttered from her eyes. In a few seconds she continued, pushing the gems away, almost passionately—

“But I cannot wear them, papa. They are worthless to me.”

She was right. She had no need of such gems. Was not her hair golden and her skin alabaster? Were not her lips coral and her teeth pearls? And were not diamonds of the purest water dropping at that moment from her down-cast eyes?

“True, my child, and the sentiment does your heart credit; they are worthless, utterly worthless— mere paste”—at this point the face of the man at the door visibly changed for the worse—“mere paste, as regards their power to bring back to us the dear one who wore them. Nevertheless, in a commercial point of view”—here the ears of the man at the door cocked—“they are worth some eight or nine thousand pounds sterling, so they may as well be taken care of.”

The tongue and lips of the man at the door again became active. He attempted—unsuccessfully, as before—to crush his hat, and inadvertently coughed.

Mr Hazlit’s usually pale countenance flushed, and he started up.

“Hallo! My man, how came you here?”

The man looked at the door and hesitated in his attempt to reply to so useless a question.

“How comes it that you enter my house and drawing-room without being announced?” asked Mr Hazlit, drawing himself up.

“’Cause I wanted to see you, an’ I found the door open, an’ there warn’t nobody down stair to announce me,” answered the man in a rather surly tone.

“Oh, indeed?—ah,” said Mr Hazlit, drawing out a large silk handkerchief with a flourish, blowing his nose therewith, and casting it carelessly on the table so as to cover the jewel-box. “Well, as you are now ere, pray what have you got to say to me?”

“Your ship the Seagull has bin’ wrecked, sir, on Toosday night on the coast of Wales.”

“I received that unpleasant piece of news on Wednesday morning. What has that to do with your visit?”

“Only that I thought you might want divers for to go to the wreck, an’ I’m a diver—that’s all.”

The man at the door said this in a very surly tone, for the slight tendency to politeness which had begun to manifest itself while the prospect of “a job” was hopeful, vanished before the haughty manner of the merchant.

“Well, it is just possible that I may require the assistance of divers,” said Mr Hazlit, ringing the bell; “when I do, I can send for you.—John, show this person out.”

The hall-footman, who had been listening attentively at the key-hole, and allowed a second or two to elapse before opening the door, bowed with a guilty flush on his face and held the door wide open.

David Maxwell—for it was he—passed out with an angry scowl, and as he strode with noisy tread across the hall, said something uncommonly pithy to the footman about “upstarts” and “puppies,” and “people who thought they was made o’ different dirt from others,” accompanied with many other words and expressions which we may not repeat.

To all of this John replied with bland smiles and polite bows, hoping that the effects of the interview might not render him feverish, and reminding him that if it did he was in a better position than most men for cooling himself at the bottom of the sea.

“Farewell,” said John earnestly; “and if you should take a fancy to honour us any day with your company to dinner, do send a line to say you’re coming.”

John did not indulge in this pleasantry until the exasperated diver was just outside of the house, and it was well that he was so prudent, for Maxwell turned round like a tiger and struck with tremendous force at his face. His hard knuckles met the panel of the door, in which they left an indelible print, and at the same time sent a sound like a distant cannon shot into the library.

“I’m afraid I have been a little too sharp with him,” said Mr Hazlit, assisting his daughter to replace the jewels.

Aileen agreed with him, but as nothing could induce her to condemn her father with her lips she made no reply.

“But,” continued the old gentleman, “the rascal had no right to enter my house without ringing. He might have been a thief, you know. He looked rough and coarse enough to be one.”

“Oh papa,” said Aileen entreatingly, “don’t be too hasty in judging those who are sometimes called rough and coarse. I do assure you I’ve met many men in my district who are big and rough and coarse to look at, but who have the feelings and hearts of tender women.”

“I know it, simple one; you must not suppose that I judged him by his exterior; I judged him by his rude manner and conduct, and I do not extend my opinion of him to the whole class to which he belongs.”

It is strange—and illustrative of the occasional perversity of human reasoning—that Mr Hazlit did not perceive that he himself had given the diver cause to judge him, Mr Hazlit, very harshly, and the worst of it was that Maxwell did, in his wrath, extend his opinion of the merchant to the entire class to which he belonged, expressing a deep undertoned hope that the “whole bilin’ of ’em” might end their days in a place where he spent many of his own, namely, at the bottom of the sea. It is to be presumed that he wished them to be there without the benefit of diving-dresses!

“It is curious, however,” continued Mr Hazlit, “that I had been thinking this very morning about making inquiries after a diver, one whom I have frequently heard spoken of as an exceedingly able and respectable man—Balding or Bolding or some such name, I think.”

“Oh! Baldwin, Joe Baldwin, as his intimate friends call him,” said Aileen eagerly. “I know him well; he is in my district.”

“What!” exclaimed Mr Hazlit, “not one of your paupers?”

Aileen burst into a merry laugh. “No, papa, no; not a pauper certainly. He’s a well-off diver, and a Wesleyan—a local preacher, I believe—but he lives in my district, and is one of the most zealous labourers in it. Oh! If you saw him, papa, with his large burly frame and his rough bronzed kindly face, and broad shoulders, and deep bass voice and hearty laugh.”

The word suggested the act, for Aileen went off again at the bare idea of Joe Baldwin being a pauper—one at whose feet, she said, she delighted to sit and learn.

“Well, I’m glad to have such a good account of him from one so well able to judge,” rejoined her father, “and as I mean to go visit him without delay I’ll be obliged if you’ll give me his address.”

Having received it, the merchant sallied forth into those regions of the town where, albeit she was not a guardian of the poor, his daughter’s light figure was a much more familiar object than his own.

“Does a diver named Baldwin live here?” asked Mr Hazlit of a figure which he found standing in a doorway near the end of a narrow passage.

The figure was hazy and indistinct by reason of the heavy wreaths of tobacco-smoke wherewith it was enveloped.

“Yis, sur,” replied the figure; “he lives in the door it the other ind o’ the passage. It’s not over-light here, sur; mind yer feet as ye go, an’ pay attintion to your head, for what betune holes in the floor an’ beams in the ceilin’, tall gintlemen like you, sur, come to grief sometimes.”

Thanking the figure for its civility, Mr Hazlit knocked at the door indicated, but there was no response.

“Sure it’s out they are!” cried the figure from the other end of the passage. “Joe Baldwin’s layin’ a charge under the wreck off the jetty to-day—no doubt that’s what’s kep’ ’im, and it’s washin’-day with Mrs Joe, I belave; but I’m his pardner, sur, an’ if ye’ll step this way, Mrs Machowl’ll be only too glad to see ye, sur, an’ I can take yer orders.”

Not a little amused by this free-and-easy invitation, Mr Hazlit entered a small apartment, which surprised him by its clean and tidy appearance. A pretty little Irishwoman, with a pert little turned-up nose, auburn hair so luxuriant that it could not be kept in order, and a set of teeth that glistened in their purity, invited him to sit down, and wiped a chair with her apron for his accommodation.

“You’ve got a nice little place here,” remarked the visitor, looking round him.

“Troth, sur, ye wouldn’t have said that if you’d seen it whin we first came to it. Of all the dirty places I iver saw! I belave an Irish pig would have scunnered at it, an’ held his nose till he got out. It’s very well for England, but we was used to cleaner places in the owld country. Hows’iver we’ve got it made respictable now, and we’re not hard to plaze.”

This was a crushing reply. It upset Mr Hazlit’s preconceived ideas regarding the two countries so completely that he was perplexed. Not being a man of rapid thought he changed the subject:—

“You are a diver, you say?”

“I am, sur.”

“And Mr Baldwin’s partner—if I understand you correctly?”

“Well, we work together—whin we’re not workin’ apart—pritty regular. He took in hand to train me some months gone by, an’ as our two missusses has took a fancy to aich other, we’re likely to hold on for some time—barrin’ accidents, av coorse.”

“Well, then,” said Mr Hazlit, “I came to see Mr Baldwin about a vessel of mine, which was wrecked a few days ago on the coast of Wales—”

“Och! The Seagull it is,” exclaimed Rooney.

“The same; and as it is a matter of importance that I should have the wreck visited without delay, I shall be obliged by your sending your partner to my house this evening.”

Rooney promised to send Baldwin up, and took his wife Molly to witness, with much solemnity, that he would not lose a single minute. Thereafter the conversation became general, and at last the merchant left the place much shaken in his previous opinion of Irish character, and deeply impressed with the sagacity of Rooney Machowl.

The result of this visit was that Baldwin was engaged to dive for the cargo of the Seagull, and found himself, a few days later, busy at work on the Welsh coast with a staff of men under him, among whom were our friends Rooney Machowl and surly David Maxwell. The latter had at first declined to have anything to do with the job, but, on consideration of the wages, he changed his mind.

Chapter Five.

Treats of Plots and Plans, Engineering and otherwise.

The spot where the wreck of the Seagull lay was a peaceful sequestered cove or bay on the coast of Anglesea. The general aspect of the neighbouring land was bleak. There were no trees, and few bushes. Indeed, the spire of a solitary little church on an adjoining hill was the most prominent object in the scene. The parsonage belonging to it was concealed by a rise in the ground, and the very small hamlet connected with it was hid like a rabbit in the clefts of some rugged cliffs. The little church was one of those temples which are meant to meet the wants of a rural district, and which cause a feeling of surprise in the minds of town visitors as to where the congregation can come from that fills them.

But, bleak though the country was, the immediate shore was interesting and romantic in its form. In one place perpendicular cliffs, cut up by ragged gorges, descended sheer down into deep water, and meeting the constant roll of the Irish Channel, even in calm weather, fringed themselves with lace-work of foam, as if in cool defiance of the ocean. In another place a mass of boulders and shattered rocks stretched out into the sea as if still resistant though for the time subdued. Elsewhere a half-moon of yellow sand received the ripples with a kiss, suggestive of utter conquest and the end of strife.

As we have said, the spot was peaceful, for, at the time to which we refer, ocean and air were still, but ah! Those who have not dwelt near the great deep and beheld its fury when roused can form but a faint conception of the scene that occurred there on the night in which the Seagull went down!

Mr Hazlit thought of the place as something like the region of a “bad debt,”—where a portion of his wealth had been wrecked. Some knew it as the hated spot where they had suffered the loss of all their fortune; but others there were, who, untouched by the thought of material gain or loss, knew it as the scene of the wreck of all their earthly hopes—for the Seagull had been a passenger-ship, and in that quiet bay God in His providence had dealt some of the most awful blows that human beings are capable of bearing.

Close to a bald cliff on the northern shore the foretopmast of the wreck rose a few feet above the calm water. In a cove of the cliff the remains of a mast or yard lay parallel with a deep and thick mass of wreckage, which had surged out and into that cove on the fatal night with such violence that it now lay in small pieces, like giant matchwood. On a patch of gravel not far from that cliff a husband and father had wandered for many days, after being saved—he knew not how—gazing wistfully, hopelessly at the sea which had swallowed up wife and children and fortune. He had been a “successful” gold-digger! On that patch of gravel scenes of terrible suspense had been enacted. Expectant ones had come to inquire whether those whom they sought had really embarked in that vessel, while grave and sympathetic but worn-out or weary men of the Coast-guard, stood ready to give information or to defend the wreck.

In the church on the hill there were dreadful marks on the floor, where the recovered bodies had lain for a time, while frantic relations came and went day by day to search for and claim their dead. Ah, reader, we are not mocking you with fiction. What we refer to is fact. We saw it with our eyes. Peaceful though that spot looked—and often looks—it was once the scene of the wildest of storms, the most terrible of mercantile disasters, and the deepest of human woe.

But we are mingling thoughts with memories. The wreck which has crept into our mind is that of the Royal Charter. The Seagull, although a passenger-ship, and wrecked near the same region, does not resemble that!

At the time of which we write, Joe Baldwin and his men had already saved a considerable portion of the cargo, but during his submarine explorations and meditations Joe had conceived the idea that there was some possibility of saving the vessel itself, for, having recoiled from its first shock and sunk in deep water, the hull was comparatively uninjured.

But Joe, although a good diver, was not a practical engineer. He knew himself to be not a very good judge of such matters, and was too modest to suggest anything to competent submarine engineers. He could not, however, help casting the thing about in his mind for some time. At last, one evening while reading a newspaper that had been got from a passing boat, he observed the return of the ship in which his young friend Edgar Berrington had gone to India. At once he wrote the following letter:—

“MY DEAR MISTER EDGAR,—I’m in a fix here. It’s my opinion there’s a chance of savin’ a wreck if only good brains was set to work to do it. It would pay if we was to succeed. If you happen to be on the loose just now, as is likely, run over an’ see what you think of it.—Yours to command,

“J.B.”

Our hero received the letter, at once acted on it, and in a few days was on the spot.

“What a change there is in you, my dear sir!” said Joe, looking with admiration at the browned, stalwart youth before him; “why, you’ve grown moustaches!”

“I couldn’t help it, Joe,” replied Edgar; “they would come, and I had no time to shave on board.—But now, tell me about this wreck.”

When Edgar heard that the vessel belonged to Mr Hazlit his first impulse was to have nothing to do with it. He felt that any interference in regard to it would seem like a desire to thrust himself before the merchant’s notice—and that, too, in a needy manner, as if he sought employment at his hands; but on consideration he came to the conclusion that he might act as a wire-puller, give Baldwin the benefit of his knowledge, and allow him to reap the credit and the emoluments. But for a long time the honest diver would not listen to such a suggestion, and was only constrained to give in at last when Edgar threatened to leave him altogether.

“By the way, have you seen Miss Aileen since you came home?” asked Baldwin, while the two friends were seated in the cabin of the diver’s vessel poring, pencil in hand, over several sheets of paper on which were sundry mysterious designs.

“No; I was on the point of paying a visit to my good aunt Miss Pritty, with ulterior ends in view, when your letter reached me and brought me here. To say truth, your note arrived very opportunely, for I was engaged at the time in rather a hard struggle between inclination and duty—not feeling quite sure whether it was right or wise to throw myself in her way just now, for, as you may easily believe, I have not, during my comparatively short absence, made a fortune that is at all likely to satisfy the requirements of her father.”

“I suppose not,” returned the diver. “No doubt, at gold-diggin’s an’ diamond-fields an’ such-like one does hear of a man makin’ a find that enables him to set up his carriage an’ four, and ride, mayhap at a tremendous pace, straight on to ruin by means of it, but as a rule people don’t pick up sovereigns like stones either at home or abroad. It’s the experience of most men, that steady perseverance leads by the shortest road to competence, if not to wealth.—But that’s beside the question. I think you did right, Mister Eddy—excuse an old servant, sir, if it’s taking too much liberty to use the old familiar name,—you did right in coming here instead of going there.”

“So thought I, Baldy—you see that I too can take liberties,—else I should not have come. Your letter solved the difficulty, for, when I was at the very height of the struggle before mentioned—at equipoise so to speak,—and knew not whether to go to the right or to the left, that decided me. I regarded it as a leading of Providence.”

Baldwin turned a rather sudden look of surprise on his young companion.

“A leading of Providence, Mr Eddy! I never heard you use such an expression before.”

“True, but I have learned to use it since I went to sea,” replied our hero quietly.

“That’s strange,” rejoined the diver in a low voice, as if he feared to scare the young man from a subject that was very near his own heart, “very strange, for goin’ to sea has not often the effect of makin’ careless young fellows serious—though it sometimes has, no doubt. How was it, if I—”

“Yes, Baldy,” interrupted Edgar, with a pleasant smile, laying his hand on the diver’s huge shoulder, “I don’t mind making a confidant of you in this as in other matters. I’ll tell you,—the story is short enough. When I parted from Aileen, she made me a present of a New Testament from a pile that she happened to have by her to give to the poor people. To be more particular, I asked for one, and she consented to let me have it. You see I wanted a keepsake! Well, when at sea, I read the Testament regularly, night and morning, for Aileen’s sake, but God in His great love led me at last to read it for the sake of Him whose blessed life and death it records.”

“Then you’ve fairly hauled down the enemy’s colours and hoisted those of the Lord?” asked Baldwin.

“I have been led to do so,” replied the youth modestly but firmly.

“Bless the Lord!” said the diver in a low tone as he grasped Edgar’s hand, while he bowed his head for a moment.

Presently he looked up, and seemed about to resume the subject of conversation when Edgar interrupted him—

“Have you seen or heard anything of Aileen since I left?”

“Nothing, except that she’s been somewhat out of sorts, and her father has sent her up to London for a change.”

“Has he gone to London with her?”

“No, I believe not; he’s taken up a good deal wi’ the cargo o’ this ship, and comes down to see us now and then, but for the most part he remains at home attendin’ to business.”

“Have you spoken to him about raising the hull of the ship?”

“Not yet. He evidently thinks the thing impossible—besides, I wanted to hear your opinion on the matter before sayin’ anything about it.”

“Well, come, let us go into it at once,” said the youth, turning to the sheets of paper before him and taking up a pencil. “You see, Baldwin, this trip of mine as second engineer has been of good service to me in many ways, for, besides becoming practically acquainted with everything connected with marine engines, I have acquired considerable knowledge of things relating to ships in general, and am all the more able to afford you some help in this matter of raising the ship. I’ve been studying a book written by a member of the firm whose dresses you patronise, (Note. ‘The Conquest of the Sea’, by Henry Siebe.) which gives a thorough account in detail of everything connected with diving, and in it there is reference to the various modes that have hitherto been successful in the raising of sunken vessels.”

“I’ve heard of it, but not seen it,” said Baldwin. “Of course I know somewhat about raisin’ ships, havin’ once or twice lent a hand, but I’ve no head for engineerin’. What are the various modes you speak of? That’s not one of ’em, is it?”

He pointed, with a grave smile as he spoke, to the outline of a female head which Edgar had been absently tracing on the paper.

“Well, no,” replied the youth, scribbling out the head, “that’s not one of Siebe and Gorman’s appliances, and yet I venture to prophesy that that head will have a good deal to do with the raising of the Seagull! However, don’t let’s waste more time. Here you are. The first method,—that of putting empty casks in the hold so as to give the hull a floating tendency, and then mooring lighters over it and pushing chains under it,—we may dismiss at once, as being suitable only for small vessels; but the second method is worth considering, namely, that of fixing air-bags of india-rubber in the hold, attaching them to the sides, and then inflating them all at the same time by means of a powerful air-pump. We could get your divers to pass chains under her, and, when she began to rise could haul on these chains by means of lighters moored above, and so move the wreck inshore till she grounded. What say you to that?”

Baldwin shook his head. “She’s too big, I fear, for such treatment.”

“Good-sized vessels have been raised by these air-bags of late,” said Edgar. “Let me see: there were the brig Ridesdale, of 170 tons burthen, sunk off Calshot Castle, and Her Majesty’s gun-brig Partridge, 180 tons, and the brig Dauntless, 179 tons, and last, but not least, the Prince Consort, at Aberdeen, an iron paddle-steamer of 607 tons, and the dead weight lifted was 560 tons, including engines and boilers.”

Still Baldwin shook his head, remarking that the Seagull was full 900 tons.

“Well, then,” resumed the young engineer, “here is still another method. We might send down your men to make all the openings,—ports, windows, etcetera—water-tight, fix a shield over the hole she knocked in her bottom on the cliffs, and then, by means of several water-pumps reaching from above the surface to the hold, clear her of water. When sufficiently floated by such means a steam-tug could haul her into port. The iron steamship London was, not long ago, raised and saved at Dundee in that way. She rose four feet after the pumps had been worked only two hours, and while she was being towed into dock the pumps were still kept going. It was a great success—and so may it be in this case. Then, you know, we might construct a pontoon by making a raft to float on a multitude of empty barrels, pass chains under the Seagull and fix them to this pontoon at low water, so that when the tide rose she would rise perforce along with the pontoon and tide, and could be moved inshore till she grounded; then, waiting for low tide, we could taughten the chains again, and repeat the process till we got her ashore. Or, better still, we could hire Siebe and Gorman’s patent pontoon, which, if I mistake not, is much the same thing that I now suggest carried out to perfection.”

“I’m not sure that the pontoon you speak of has been launched yet. I’m afraid it’s only in model,” said Baldwin.

“More’s the pity,” rejoined Edgar, “but I can go to London and ascertain. In any case, I shall have to go to London to make inquiries, and secure the necessary apparatus.”

“Are you sure,” said Baldwin, with a look of great solemnity, “that your going to London has nothing whatever to do with apparatus of that sort?”

He placed a blunt forefinger, as he spoke on the obliterated sketch of the female head.

“Oh you suspicious old fellow!” replied Edgar; “come, you are presuming now.—We will change the subject, and go on deck.”

“Human natur’s the same everywhere,” observed Baldwin, with a quiet laugh as he rose. “Same with me exactly when I was after Susan. For one glance of her black eye I’d have gone straight off to China or Timbuctoo at half-an-hour’s notice. Well, well!—Now, Mister Eddy, don’t you think it would be as well for you to go down and have a look at the wreck? You’ll then be better able to judge as to what’s best to be done, an’ I’ve got a noo dress by the firm of Denayrouze, with a speakin’-apparatus, which’ll fit you. I got it for myself, and we’re much about a size—barrin’ the waist, in which I have the advantage of you as to girth. Their noo pump and lamp, too, will interest you. See, here is the pump.”

As he spoke, the diver pointed to a pump which commended itself at first sight by its extreme simplicity. Whether or not it was better than the more complex, but well-tried, pumps of other makers, our hero was well aware could only be proved by time and experience. Meanwhile he was favourably impressed with it.

The peculiarities of the pump referred to were, first, and most obvious, that it had no outer wooden case or box, and the parts were exceedingly few and simple. It was on the lever principle, the cylinders, instead of the pistons, being movable. The pistons were fixed to a bed-plate and pointed upwards, so that the pump was, as it were, turned upside down, a position which, among other advantages, allowed of the plungers being covered with water, through which the air was forced and partially cooled. Another and important peculiarity was an air-reservoir which received air from the pump direct, and then passed it on to the diver, so that even if the pumps should stop working there would still be a supply of air flowing down to the diver for several minutes. The lamp referred to was also a novelty, inasmuch as it was supplied with air by a separate tube from the reservoir in the same way as if it were a separate human diver. The Henkie and Davis lamp burns, on the other hand, entirely without air, by means of certain acids. That of Siebe and Gorman is an electric-lamp. Both are said to be effective and economical.

Putting on the new dress, our hero was soon ready to descend, with the lamp burning in his hand.

“There are three men down just now,” said Baldwin as he was about to screw on the mouth-piece, “two of ’em bein’ your old friends Maxwell and Rooney Machowl. They’ve been down about three hours, and won’t be up for an hour yet. See that you don’t foul them in your wanderings below. The other man, Jem Hogg—an’ he’s well named—is the laziest chap I ever had to do with. I do believe he sometimes goes to sleep under water!”

“Is that possible?” asked Edgar.

“Possible? Ay, I’ve caught ’em takin’ a snooze before now. Why, I’ve known a man smoke under water. There was one of our fellows once got a comrade to let him keep his pipe in his mouth while he screwed on the front-glass; you see he couldn’t have put it in his mouth after that was fixed; but he was well paid. For a time he smoked away well enough, and the draught of air carried off the smoke through the escape-valve, but an extra strong puff sent a spark out o’ the bowl, which went straight into his eye. He spat out the pipe, and nearly drove in the glasses in his useless efforts to get at his eye, and then he tugged at the lines like fury, and, when we got him on deck he danced about like wildfire, as if he’d been shod with indyrubber instead of bein’ weighted with lead. We thought he had gone mad, and held him fast till we got his helmet off. It cost him a month in hospital before that eye was cured.”

“That being the case, I won’t smoke while below,” said Edgar, laughing; “screw away.”

The glass was fastened, and our hero quickly disappeared under the sea.

Chapter Six.

A sunken Wreck inspected, sundry wonderful Doings under Water Recorded, and various Plans successfully carried out.

The vessel which Edgar Berrington had left his native element to inspect was a large barque. It had gone to the bottom only a few months after having been launched. The cargo, being intended for the Cape of Good Hope colony, was of a miscellaneous character, and some of it was of course ruined by water, but much remained almost uninjured, or only a little damaged.

It was for the purpose of raising the latter portion of the cargo that Baldwin and his men had been engaged by Mr Hazlit. Hitherto the divers had been extremely successful. With the usual appliances of slings, chains, shears and windlasses, etcetera, they had already recovered a large quantity of goods, and were still busy in the hold when Edgar went down.

As we have said, the wreck lay in comparatively deep water—about ten fathoms. The ladder which descended from the side of the diver’s vessel was not two fathoms in length, so that after reaching the lowest round, Edgar had to continue his descent by slipping down the rope which hung from the ladder and was weighted at the bottom with a stone.

On reaching the ground he knelt, set down the lamp, and attached his guide-line to the stone. While thus engaged he looked with much interest at his little lamp, which burned as brightly and steadily down in the depths of ocean as if on land, while, from its chimney the air which gave it life rose upwards in a constant stream of bubbles. The water being dense and very dark its light did not penetrate far, but close to the bull’s-eye it was sufficiently strong to enable our hero to see what he was about. Having fixed the line, he was about to move in the direction of the wreck when he received one pull on his life-line. Replying to it with one pull—“all right”—he was again about to move, when a strange unearthly sound filled his ears, and he smiled to think that in his interest about the lamp and fastening his guide-line he had totally forgotten the speaking apparatus connected with his helmet.

“How d’ee git on down there?” inquired the voice, which sounded strangely mysterious, not to say unpleasant, in his confined metal head-piece.

“Splendidly,” he replied, not applying his mouth to any orifice in his helmet—for there was no opening into the speaking-tube—but simply giving utterance to the word in his usual manner. “I’ve just fixed my line and am going to move on.”

“Go ahead, and luck go with ’ee,” was the prompt reply from Joe Baldwin.

We have said that there was no opening into the helmet in connection with the speaking apparatus, such not being necessary. It was quite sufficient that the speaking-tube was fastened to the outside of the helmet, just over a sort of cavity formed inside by means of what we may style an interior patch of metal. The sound passed through the head-piece and up the tube—or vice versa—and thus even though the tube should get broken and filled with water, no evil result could follow to the diver.

Suddenly Berrington was again arrested.

“Hallo!” shouted Baldwin.

“Hallo! Well?” was sent up in reply, and the voice that came from below came out at the mouth-piece above, so soft and faint and far-far-away-like that it seemed to Joe to belong to another world, and had to be listened to attentively to be understood.

“D’you think you could read by the light of your lamp?”

“Yes, I’m sure I could.”

“Look out then; I’m sending you down a copy o’ the Times.”

The youth looked up, and now perceived the advantage of the fourth hole or window, just over the forehead, which is peculiar to the Denayrouze helmet, most others having only three openings. He could look up by merely raising his eyes, whereas with the other helmets it is necessary to bend well back in order to get the front-glass to face upwards. Afterwards he found that there were some who objected to this glass on the ground that as divers when below, and in total or partial darkness, are constantly butting their heads against beams and other portions of wrecks, the upper glass would be in frequent danger of being broken, but to this it was replied that it might be well guarded by powerful cross-bars. The point we believe is still an open question. At all events the upper glass was found useful on the occasion to which we refer, for, looking up through it, our amateur diver saw a stone coming down to him. It was lowered by a piece of twine, and tied to it was an old Times newspaper. Detaching and unfolding it Berrington set his lamp on the sand, and, seating himself beside it, found that he could read with perfect ease!

Intimating the fact to his friend above, he returned the paper and began his explorations.

He had been lowered close beside the stern of the wreck, that he might be as far as possible from the divers who were at work in the hold, and had taken only half a dozen steps in the direction of it when its vast bulk appeared above him, looming through the dark water like a darker cloud. For some time he went carefully round it, minutely examining the rudder and stern-post and the parts connected therewith, all of which he found to be uninjured. Then, passing along the starboard side, he proceeded in his inspection until he reached a point which he judged to be nearly amidships. Glancing upwards, he thought he could see the life-lines and air-pipes of the other divers. To make sure he signalled for more air. This he did by means of the air-pipe—two pulls—instead of using the speaking-tube, because the air-pipe and life-line are never for a single instant let go or neglected by the attendants above, whereas the speaking-tube, on that occasion, was merely tried for the first time by these divers as an experiment. Immediately the puffing at the airhole showed that the men at the pumps were on the alert. Edgar now closed his front-valve so that no air at all was suffered to escape through it; the dress began to inflate, and in a few seconds was swelled out pretty tightly.

Up to that period he had felt no further inconvenience than a slight pressure on the drums of his ears, which was relieved by the usual method of swallowing the saliva, which action has the effect of opening a small, and not easily opened, internal orifice or passage to the drum, and thus, by admitting the condensed air to the interior of the ear, enables it to resist the pressure on the outside. Each inspiration of air has the same effect on the lungs, and the pressure, inside and outside, being at once equalised, is in their case unfelt, although it remains and tests the strength of the animal tissues. Hence it is a recognised rule that a man who has at any time spat blood is unsuited to a diver’s work, as his weak blood-vessels are apt to burst. But now, under the increased pressure, our hero felt his ears affected considerably, and other disagreeable sensations came on—such as singing in the head, etcetera; nevertheless, confident in his strength, he persevered.

Presently the amount of air in his dress more than counterbalanced the weight of lead about him—great though it was—and he began to rise like a cork—slowly. In a few seconds his head was close to the lines and air-pipes which he observed passing over the bulwarks of the wreck and down into the hold. Afraid lest he should get entangled in them he caught hold of the end of a piece of iron which projected near him and checked his upward rise. At the same time he opened his valves; the air rushed out, and he immediately descended. On reaching the bottom he regulated the valves so as to give himself just enough of air to permit of his keeping the ground, and moving about as before.

He had observed, while up, that one set of lines diverged away from the wreck, but this did not strike him at the time as being noteworthy. After a few minutes he signalled his friends above, and shouted by means of the speaking-tube—

“Pay out the air-pipe and life-lines and give me free play.”

This being done he could pass under the lines of the other divers, and examined the wreck as far as the bow, where he found an immense hole, partially filled by a mass of the rock which had originally driven it in. This of itself was sufficient to have sunk the vessel. In order to examine the port side of the wreck he returned towards the stern and signalled for more air. As before, he rose to the bulwarks, over which he passed by a slight effort, and, opening the valves, dropt gently, like a bird, upon the deck. Walking across it slowly, and with some difficulty, owing to the broken spars and cordage with which it was encumbered, he passed over the port bulwarks and lowered himself again to the bottom. A careful examination showed him that no injury worth mentioning had been sustained on that side, and he finally came to the conclusion that the large hole in the starboard bow was the only serious damage done to the hull.

To make sure of this he returned to it, and satisfied himself as to its exact nature and extent. While thus engaged, his attention was again directed to the diverging line and air-pipe before referred to. Following these up he came to a mass of rocks, in a snug corner of which he found a diver fast asleep. At first he could scarcely believe his eyes, but when he cautiously held the lantern close to the man’s front-glass all doubt was removed, for not only were the eyes of the sleeper tightly closed, but the opening and shutting of his nostrils, coupled with certain regular motions about the lips, gave unquestionable evidence that the man was snoring vigorously, although, of course, no sound passed the metal covering that hermetically sealed his head.

While Edgar gazed at the slumberer, around whose form a number of small fish were prying inquiringly, he observed that his life-line received a jerk, and came to the correct conclusion that the attendants above, alarmed at the absence of motion in the diver’s life-line and air-pipe, had signalled to know if all was right. Of course he expected that the sleeper would give no reply, and would, according to rule in such cases, be hauled up without delay. What then was his astonishment to see the man slowly lay hold of his lifeline with his left hand, give it a single tug to indicate that all was right, and then settle himself more comfortably to continue his submarine slumbers!

Our hero gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of laughter, which, however, resounded so horribly in his ears that he checked it suddenly and began to consider what he should do in order to punish the idler.

Remembering to have heard it said that divers might communicate with each other with their voices by bringing their helmets into contact, so that the sound should vibrate through both, he resolved to test this and try an effect. Hooking the lantern to his belt behind, in such a way that its light was concealed, he kneeled down beside the diver—who, he had no doubt, was the Jem Hogg mentioned to him by Baldwin—and rested his helmet on the rock, in such a way that the side of it was brought into contact with the back of Jem’s head-piece. No sooner did it touch than the snoring became audible. Feeling assured, therefore, of success, our hero drew in a long breath and gave vent to a Red-Indian yell that rendered himself completely deaf. Its effect on the sleeper was electric. Edgar could just hear the beginning of a responsive yell of terror when Jem’s springing up separated the helmets and produced silence. At first the scared man stood up and stared right before him in a state of wild amazement, while Edgar took care to stand directly behind him, out of sight. A man in a diving-dress cannot turn his head round so as to look over his shoulder. When he wishes to see behind him he must needs turn round. Seeing nothing in front to account for the alarming sound, Jem began to turn, but Edgar knew that this motion would have the effect of twisting their lines and pipes together. He therefore seized Jem suddenly round the chest, and, being a much larger and stronger man, held him like a vice in the grasp of his left arm while he pommelled him heartily with his right all over the back and ribs. At the same time he punished him considerably with his knees, and then, a sudden fancy striking him, he placed his helmet against that of Jem, and began to laugh, howl, and yell like a maniac, the laughter being rendered very real and particularly effective owing to the shrieks of terror which he then heard issuing from the horrified diver. Not content with this he seized his lantern and passed it smartly in front of his victim’s front-glass, in the hope that the unwonted and unaccountable glare might add to his consternation. That he had not failed in his intention was made plain by the shock which he immediately felt thrilling Jem’s frame from head to foot.

Strong though he was, however, our hero was not powerful enough to prevent the struggle from agitating the air-pipes and lines to such an extent that those in charge above became alarmed, and signalled down to Jem to know if all was right. Edgar observed the jerk, and felt the diver make a violent effort to disengage one hand, with the intention, no doubt, of replying; he therefore held him all the tighter, and seizing the line replied for him—“All right.” At the same moment his own line received one jerk, to which he quickly replied in the same manner, and then resumed his belabouring, which, being delivered under water, required to be done vigorously in order to have any satisfactory effect. While thus engaged, and during a momentary pause in his howlings, he heard a faint voice come down his speaking-tube, and instantly removed his head from Jim’s in order to prevent the latter hearing it.

“What on earth are you about down there?”

“Never mind; all right; attend to signals!” answered Edgar sharply; then, being pretty well fatigued with his exertions, he suddenly gave four pulls at Jem’s line with such good-will as almost to haul the attendant at the other end into the sea. At the same instant he relaxed his grip and Jem Hogg shot upwards like a submarine rocket!

While this struggle was going on at the bottom, the attendants above were, as we have said, greatly perplexed, and it is certain that they would have hauled both divers up but for the reassuring signals of young Berrington.

“I say, Bill,” remarked one of the couple who held Jem Hogg’s lines, “Jem seems to be doin’ somethin’ uncommon queer—he’s either got hold of a conger-eel by the tail, or he’s amoosin himself by dancin’ a hornpipe.”

“Why, boys,” answered Bill, who was one of the attendants on Edgar, “I do believe Mr Berrington has got hold o’ somethin’ o’ the same sort. See here: his line is quiverin’ as if a grampus was nibblin’ at the end of it. Hadn’t we better haul ’im up, sir?”

He addressed Joe Baldwin, who chanced to come on deck at the moment.

“Haul ’im up—no, why?”

“Why, sir, just look at the lines an’ pipes.”

“Have you signalled down?” asked Joe.

“Yes, sir, an’ he’s answered ‘all right.’”

“So’s Jem, sir, signalled the same,” said one of the latter’s attendants.

Baldwin looked anxiously at the lines, and went quickly to the speaking-tube, to which he applied his ear. A look of surprise mingled with the anxiety as he put his lips to the tube.

It was at this moment that he sent down the message before referred to, and received Edgar’s prompt reply.

“All right,” said Baldwin, turning gravely to his men, while a little gleam of intelligence and humour twinkled in his grey eyes. “When a man signals ‘all right,’ he must be all right, you know. Let ’em alone, but stand by and mind your signals.”

He had scarcely finished speaking when the man at Jem’s life-line gave a shout, and held on, as if to an angry shark.

“Hallo! Hi! Haul in. Lend a hand!”

He said no more, and did not require to, for willing hands came to the rescue.

In a few seconds poor Jem Hogg was hauled inboard, and tumbled on the deck, where he lay rolling about for some time, and kicking as if in a fit.

“Hold him fast, Bill! Off with his mouth-piece,” cried Baldwin, kneeling on the writhing diver; “why, what’s wrong, Jem?”

“Wrong?” gasped Jem, as soon as his glass was off; “wrong? Hey!—haul me up! Hi!—”

These exclamations terminated in a fearful yell, and it was plain that Jem was about to relapse into hysterics or a fit, when Baldwin, lifting him in his arms, planted him sitting-wise, and with some violence, on a seat.

“Come, none o’ that” he said sternly. “Off with his helmet, Bill. If you don’t quiet yourself, I’ll chuck you overboard—d’ee hear?”

Somewhat reassured by this remark, and having his helmet and weights removed, Jem Hogg looked about him with bloodshot eyes and a countenance that was almost sea-green with terror.

“There’s nothin’ bu’st about your dress,” said Baldwin, examining it, “nor broken about the helmet. What on earth’s wrong with you?”

“Wrong?” shouted Jem again, while a horrible grin distorted his unhandsome visage; “wrong? Hey! Oh! I’ve seen—seen the—ho!—”

Another relapse seemed imminent, but Baldwin held up a warning finger, which restored him, and then the poor man went on by slow degrees, and with many gasping interruptions, to tell how, when busily engaged at work in the hold of the wreck, he had been suddenly seized by a “Zanthripologus,” or some such hideous creature, with only one eye, like a glaring carbuncle in its stomach, and dragged right out o’ the hold, overboard, taken to the bottom, and there bashed and battered among the rocks, until all his bones were smashed; squeezed by the monster’s tentacles—sixteen feet long at the very least—until all his ribs were broke, and his heart nigh forced out of his mouth, and finally pitched right up to the surface with one tremendous swing of its mighty tail!

All this and a great deal more was related by the unfortunate diver, while having his dress removed, his volubility increasing as his fears were allayed, but he was not fairly restored to his wonted state of mind until he had swallowed a stiff glass of grog, and been put into his hammock, where, in his sleep, he was heard to protest with great fervour that he wouldn’t go under water again for any sum short of ten hundred thousand million pounds!

Meanwhile our amateur diver continued his inspection of the wreck. Returning to the deck he went down into the hold.

The idea occurred to him that the other divers might also be indulging in a siesta. He therefore left his lamp on the deck behind him. The hold was very dark, and at first he could see nothing. As he could hear nothing, he fancied that the men could not be there, but he was somewhat rudely corrected in this error by receiving a severe blow on the helmet from a large box which, having just been attached to the slings, was being hauled up by the men at the windlass overhead. The blow knocked him off a beam on which he stood, and he fell on the cargo below, fortunately, however, without evil result, owing to the medium in which he half-floated. Presently his eyes became accustomed to the faint light that penetrated from above, and he saw an indistinct figure moving slowly towards him, with a sprawling motion. As it drew near, the huge head and distended form proved it to be a diver. He was guiding the box above mentioned, and had let it slip, when it came so violently against Edgar’s helmet. Not wishing to be recognised at first, our amateur drew back into a darker spot and watched.

The diver bent his head close to the slings, apparently to see that all was secure, and gave a signal with his line on which the box moved slowly up. A few minutes later it was deposited on the deck of the vessel overhead, and added to the heap of goods which had previously been recovered from the deep.

The diver sprawled slowly back into darkness again. As he disappeared, a similar figure became faintly visible, guiding another box of goods. The box was sent up as before, and now Edgar was convinced that Rooney Machowl and his comrade David Maxwell—unlike their sleepy-headed companion—were busy at work.

Thousands of pounds’ worth of property is saved in this manner by divers every year—not only on the coasts of England, but all over the world, where-ever human enterprise and commerce have touched, or costly ships gone down.

As we have said, a large portion of the cargo of the Seagull had already been recovered. During the process a healthy spirit of emulation had arisen among the men as to which of them should send up most of the sunken property. Rooney and Maxwell were confessedly the best divers among them, but the rivalry between these two had degenerated, on the part of Maxwell, into a spirit of jealousy. Under the influence of this, even Rooney’s good-nature had to some extent given way, and frequent disputes and semi-quarrels were the result. But these quarrels were always made up, and the two were soon as good friends as ever.

At this time, however, while Edgar Berrington stood watching them, these two men seemed to have found an apple of discord of unusual size—to judge from the energetic display of feeling which it occasioned. Edgar never ascertained what the bale in dispute contained, but he saw them appear rather suddenly and simultaneously, dragging it between them. The violent gesticulations of the two showed that their spirits were greatly roused, both having evidently resolved to claim and keep possession of the bale. At last one of them struck the other a severe blow on the chest, which, though it did not hurt him, caused him to stumble and fall. From his smaller size Edgar judged the striker to be Rooney. Before the other could recover, he had fastened his slings to the bale, and given the signal to hoist—intending to go up with it, but Maxwell caught him by the legs and attempted to drag him off, whereupon Rooney kicked as hard as his suspended position would admit of, and in his struggles kicked in one of the glasses of his comrade’s helmet. The water instantly began to rush in, and he would certainly have been suffocated had he not signalled quickly, and been hauled up to the surface without delay. At the same time Rooney Machowl signalled to be hauled up in haste, and appeared on deck of the attendant vessel, in dreadful anxiety as to the consequence of his violent conduct under water.

But Maxwell was not seriously injured. He had indeed been half-suffocated, and had to be invalided for a few days, but soon he and Rooney were at work again, as good—or, if you will, as bad—friends as ever!

After this incident Edgar received a pull on his life-line, to which he replied “All right.” Immediately after, and while he was in the act of rising from the hold of the wreck by the process of retaining his air until it floated him, he heard Baldwin’s voice saying—

“You’ve kicked up a pretty shindy among my men, Mister Edgar, since you went under. Don’t you think you’d better come up?”

“Yes, I’m coming directly,” he replied.

“There’s a letter here for you—just brought off by a boat.”

“All right; send me more air.”

While this order was being obeyed, Edgar made his way to the ladder-line, being guided thereto by his guide-line, and then, shutting his valves, he quickly inflated his dress which soon floated him, so that he used the rope depending from the ladder merely to guide him upwards. As he ascended the light became gradually stronger, the pressure of water also decreased, obliging him to open his valves and let out air which was becoming superabundant. At last he emerged from the sea, was assisted over the side, and two men began to divest him of his dress.

While thus occupied he read his letter. It was from the owners of the steamer in which he had made his recent voyage. Not being aware of his distance from London they merely asked him to call, as they wished to talk with him on a matter of importance.

“I wish they had mentioned what the matter was,” said Edgar, with a troubled look, as he and Baldwin descended to the cabin. “It may be important enough to justify my returning to London at once, and yet may not be worth more than a walk of half a mile.”

“True, Mister Edgar,” said Baldwin. “However, as you say you’ve examined the hull well, and feel sure it can be raised, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go see about the apparatus required, and so kill two birds with one stone. Meanwhile, I’ll write to Mr Hazlit, recommending him to try to raise the wreck, and he’s pretty sure to take my advice.”

In accordance with this plan Edgar returned to London. We will not however trace his future steps in regard to the Seagull. It is sufficient to say that his advice was acted on. The divers tightly closed the hole in the bow of the wreck, they also stopped up every other orifice in her, and then pumped her out until at last she floated, was towed into dock, and finally repaired.

Thus were several thousands of pounds saved to Mr Hazlit, and not only to him, but to the world, for a lost ship—unlike a dropt purse—is a total loss to the human race.

Chapter Seven.

Historical but not Heavy.

There can be no question of the fact that authentic history sends its roots into the subsoil of fabulous antiquity. In turning to the records of submarine exploration we are staggered on the very threshold of the question with obvious absurdity. We are depressed. We seek to dive into our subject, but find it too deep for us. If we were to put on the latest “patent improved diving-dress,” with all its accompaniments of double-extra pumps, pipes, powers, and purchases, and descend to a depth of antiquity that would suffice to collapse a whale, we should find nothing but idiotic speculation in the midst of chaotic darkness.

In this chapter we shall give a mere outline, and even that somewhat disjointed, of the subject of diving. We feel tempted to pass by the fabulous period altogether, but fear lest, in our effort to eschew the false, we do damage to the true. Perhaps, therefore, it were well to walk humbly in the beaten path of our forefathers, and begin at the beginning.

It is not certain whether Adam was a diver. There is reason to believe that he wore no “dress” of any kind at first, so that, if he dived at all, he must have used his natural powers alone. These powers, we learn from the best authorities, are barely sufficient to enable a man to stay under water for two minutes at the furthest. Experience corroborates these “best authorities.” It has been asserted that pearl-divers can sometimes stay under water as long as three, four, and even five minutes, but we don’t believe the assertion. If the reader does, we have no hesitation in pronouncing him—or her—credulous.

To return to Adam. We have no doubt whatever that he—perhaps Eve also—could dive. It is possible, though not probable, that they “guddled” small trout in the streams of Paradise, and dived for the big ones in the deeper pools. We may be wrong in supposing that they did, but he would certainly be bold who should assert that they did not. Unfortunately neither Adam nor Eve used the pen, therefore we have no authentic records as to the art of diving at that period of the world’s history.

The first writer who makes reference to diving is Homer, who is supposed to have lived somewhere about a thousand years before the Christian era, and he refers to it not as a novelty but in an off-hand way that proves it to have been at that time a well-known art, practised for the purpose of obtaining oysters. Then we find Aeschylus comparing mental vision to the strong natural eye of the “deep diver.” But Thucydides speaks more definitely of divers having been employed at the siege of Syracuse to cut down barriers which had been constructed below water; to damage the Grecian vessels while attempting to enter the harbour, and, generally, to go under and injure the enemy’s ships. All this inclines us to think they must at that time have learned to supplement their natural powers with artificial.

Livy mentions the fact that the ancients employed divers for the purpose of recovering property from the sea. The Rhodians had a law fixing the share of the recovered treasure which was due to the divers who saved it. According to this law the remuneration was in proportion to the depth from which it was brought up, and the risk incurred. But as these divers considered four fathoms or thereabouts an extreme and dangerous depth, it is probable that they did their work in the natural way without the aid of apparatus.

For the benefit of the credulous we may mention several statements which have been more or less received. The Dutch were once celebrated divers, and it is reported that some of them have remained under water more than an hour! From this report some have argued that these Dutchmen must have possessed artificial means of maintaining life below water. To this we reply, if that were so, is it likely that the reporter who made reference to the length of time spent below water was ignorant as to the means—if any—by which this apparent miracle was accomplished? And if he was not ignorant, would he have passed over such means in silence? The idea is absurd. The probability is rather that the reporter had been gulled, or was fond of drawing the “long bow.”

Again, mention is made by one Mersennius of a man who could remain six hours under water! If Mersennius were in a position to become acquainted with that diver’s powers, how comes it that he failed to become acquainted with his apparatus? Simply because there was no such apparatus, and the whole affair is a fable.

But the most remarkable of these stories is recorded by a certain Father Kircher, who might appropriately be styled a father of lies! Here is his fabrication:—

In the time of Frederick of Sicily there lived a man named Nicolo Pesce,—Nicholas the Fish. This man’s powers seem to have been decidedly superhuman. He was evidently an amphibious animal. He appears to have acted the part of ocean-postman in these old times, for it is related of him that he used to carry letters for the king far and wide about the Mediterranean. On one occasion a vessel found him out of sight of land in the discharge of ocean-postal duty—bearing despatches of the king from Sicily to Calabria. They took him on board and had a chat with him. It is not said that they smoked a friendly pipe with him or gave him a glass of grog, but we think it probable that they did! After a little rest and refreshment Nicholas the Fish bade them good-bye, jumped overboard, and continued his voyage. The end of this poor man was very sad. The king, being seized with an insane desire to know something about the depths of the terrible gulf of Charybdis, offered Nicholas a golden cup if he would dive down and explore them. He dived accordingly, remained below nearly an hour, and brought back a glowing account of the wonders and horrors of the seething whirlpool. The king, far from being satisfied, became more than ever desirous of knowledge. He asked Nicholas to dive again, and tempted him with the offer of another and larger cup, as well as a purse of gold. The poor Fish, after some hesitation, again dived into the gulf and was never more heard of!

We don’t wonder at it. The greatest wonder is, that Nicolo Pesce ever obtained a place in the encyclopaedias of the world. From the fact, however, that he has been thus rescued from oblivion, we conclude, that although much that is said of him is false, the man himself was not a myth, but a fact; that he was a man of the Captain Webb type, who possessed extraordinary powers of swimming, perhaps of diving, to the extent, it may be, of nearly three minutes, and that he possibly lost his life by rashly venturing into the vortex of some dangerous whirlpool. That he did not use diving apparatus of any kind is clear from the fact that nothing is said about such apparatus, which, had it really existed, would have claimed as much attention and caused as much talk as did the man himself.

The earliest authentic records we have of the use of diving apparatus belong to the beginning of the sixteenth century. In an edition of Vegetius on the Art of War, published in 1511, there is an engraving of a diver walking in the sea with a cap over his head and shoulders, from which a flexible tube rises to the surface. This was, no doubt, the embryo of our “diving-dress.” John Taisner, in 1538, says that he saw two Greeks, at Toledo in Spain, make experiments with diving apparatus, in presence of the Emperor Charles the Fifth and ten thousand spectators. Gaspar Schott of Numberg, in 1664, refers to this Greek machine as an “aquatic kettle;” but mentions, as preferable in his estimation, a species of “aquatic armour,” which enabled those who wore it to walk under water. The “aquatic kettle” was doubtless the embryo of the diving-bell.

From that time onward inventive minds have been turned, with more or less success, towards the subject of submarine operations, and many are the contrivances—clever, queer, absurd, and useful—which have been the outcome. Not content with “kettles” and “bells,” by means of which they could descend into the deep and remain there for an hour or more at a time, and with “armour” and “dresses” with which they could walk about at the bottom of the sea, men have constructed several submarine boats and machines, in which, shut up like Jonah in the whale, they purposed to move about from place to place, sink to the bottom and rise to the surface, at will, or go under the bottoms of enemy’s ships and fix torpedoes wherewith to blow them up, and otherwise do them damage. These latter machines have not attained to any noteworthy degree of success—at least they have not yet done either much good or much harm to the human race; but the former—the “kettles” and the “armour,”—in other words, the “diving-bells” and “dresses”—have attained to a high degree of perfection and efficiency, and have done incalculable good service.

The diving-bell was so styled owing to the first machines being made in the shape of a gigantic bell. An inverted wine-glass, thrust mouth downwards into water, will not fill with water, owing to the air which it contains keeping the water out. It will partially fill, however, because air is compressible, and the deeper down it is thrust the more will the air be compressed. At a depth of thirty-three feet the air will be compressed to half its bulk—in other words, the glass will be half-full of water. It is clear that a fly or any small insect could live in the air thus confined although thrust to great depths under water. But it could not live long, because air becomes unfit for use after being breathed a certain time, and cannot sustain life. Hence, if we are to preserve the life of our fly, we must send fresh air down to it.

The first diving-bells were made so large that the air contained in them sufficed for a considerable period—an hour or more. When this air had lost its life-sustaining qualities, the bell had to be drawn up and the air renewed. This was so inconvenient that ingenious men soon hit on various plans to renew the air without raising the bells. One plan, that of Dr Halley, was to send air down in tight casks, which were emptied into the bell and then sent up, full of water, for a fresh supply of air, while the foul air was let out of the bell by a valve in the top. Another plan was to have tubes from the bell to the surface by which air was made to circulate downwards, at first being forced down by a pair of bellows, and afterwards by means of air-pumps.

Round the inside of the bell ran a seat for the divers. One or more holes fitted with thick plate-glass, gave them light and enabled them to use the various tools and implements required in their vocation. From some of these bells, a man could be sent out, when at or near the bottom, having on a water-tight head-piece connected by a tube with the air inside the bell. He could thus move about with more freedom than his comrades inside, but of course could not travel further than the length of his tube, while, being wet, he could not endure the cold for any great length of time.

As time went on the form of the bell was improved until that of a square or oblong box of iron came to be generally adopted. The bell now in use is that which was made in 1788 by the celebrated engineer Smeaton, who applied the air forcing-pump to it, and otherwise brought the machine to a high degree of perfection. He used it with great advantage in the works at Ramsgate harbour, and Smeaton’s diving-bell, improved by Rennie, has continued in constant and general use on all submarine works until a very recent period. It has now been almost entirely superseded—except in the case of some special kinds of work—by the diving-dress—the value and the use of which it is the province of our tale to illustrate and expound.

In regard to the diving-dress, we may say that it has grown out of the “aquatic armour” of the olden time, but no great advance in its improvement was made until the end of the eighteenth and beginning of the present centuries, when the names of Rowe, Halley, Spalding, Bushwell, and Colt, appear in connection with various clever contrivances to facilitate diving operations. Benjamin Martin, a London optician, made a dress of strong leather in 1778 which fitted his arms and legs as well as his trunk, and held half a hogshead of air. With this he could enter the hold of a sunk vessel, and he is said to have been very successful in the use of it. Mr Kleingert of Breslau, in 1798, designed a dress somewhat like the above, part of which, however, was made of tin-plate. The diving-dress was greatly improved by Mr Deane, and in the recovery of guns, etcetera, from the wreck of the Royal George, in 1834 to 1836, as well as in many other operations, this dress—much improved, and made by Mr Siebe, under Deane’s directions—did signal service.

It has now been brought to a high state of perfection by the well-known submarine engineers Siebe and Gorman, Heinke and Davis, and others, of London, and Denayrouze of Paris. It encases the diver completely from head to foot, is perfectly water-tight, and is made of thick sheet india-rubber covered on both sides with tanned twill—the helmet and breast-plate being metal.

For further information on this subject we refer the inquisitive reader to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, to the descriptive pamphlets of the submarine engineers above named, and to an admirable little book styled The Conquest of the Sea, by Henry Siebe, which contains a full and graphic account in detail of almost everything connected with diving and submarine engineering. (See Note 1.)

Chapter Eight.

The Grinding of the Screw.

It is proverbial that incidents in themselves trivial frequently form the hinges on which great events turn. When Edgar Berrington went to London he learned that the owners of the fine ocean-steamer the Warrior wished him to become their chief engineer for that voyage, the previous chief having been suddenly taken ill and obliged to leave them. Although flattered by the proposal, and the terms in which it was made, Edgar declined it, for, having acquired all the knowledge he desired about marine engines during the voyage out and home, he did not wish to waste more time at sea. The owner, however, being aware of his worth, was not to be put off with a first refusal. He took Edgar into his private room and reasoned with him.

“Come now, Mr Berrington, consider my proposal again. You’ll go, won’t you?”

“Impossible,” replied Edgar. “You are very kind, and I assure you that I fully appreciate your offer, but—”

He was interrupted by a clerk who entered at the moment and spoke a few words in an under tone to the owner.

“Excuse me one minute, Mr Berrington,” said the latter, rising quickly. “I shall return immediately. There is a newspaper, to look—no—where is it? Ah! No matter: here is a list of the passengers going out to China in the Warrior. It may amuse you. Perhaps you may find a friend amongst them.”

Left alone, Edgar ran his eye carelessly over the names—thinking the while of the disagreeables of another long sea-voyage, and strengthening his resolves not to be tempted to go.

Now, the careless glance at this passenger-list was the apparently trifling incident on which hinged the whole of our hero’s future career; his careless glance became suddenly fixed and attentive; his eyebrows lifted to their utmost elevation and his face flushed crimson, for there he beheld the names of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, and his daughter, Miss Aileen Hazlit.

Just at that moment the owner of the Warrior returned. This owner was an intelligent, shrewd man—quick to observe. He noted the flush on Edgar’s countenance, and Edgar immediately blew his nose with violence to account for the flush.

“Well now, Mr Berrington, what say you?” he resumed.

Poor Edgar knew not what to say. A reply had to be given at once. He had no time to think. Aileen going to China! An offer of a situation in the same vessel!

“Well, sir,” said our hero, with sudden decision, “I will go.”

Of course the owner expressed himself well pleased, and then there followed a deal of nautico-scientific talk, after which Edgar ventured to say—

“I observe the name of Mr Charles Hazlit on your list. He is an acquaintance of mine. Do you happen to know what takes him so far from home?”

“Can’t say exactly,” replied the other. “I think some one told me his affairs in China require looking after, and his daughter’s health necessitates a long sea-voyage.”

“Health!” exclaimed Edgar, striving to look and speak in a comparatively indifferent manner. “She was quite well when I saw her last.”

“Very likely,” said the owner, with a smile, “but it does not take long to make a young lady ill—especially when her heart is touched. Some sort of rumour floats in my mind to the effect that Miss Hazlit is going out to China to be married, or requires to go out because she doesn’t want to be married—I forget which. But it comes pretty much to the same thing in the end!”

“Hah!” said Edgar shortly.

If he had said “Oh!” in tones of agony, it would have been more truly expressive of his feelings.

The moment he got out of the office and felt the cool air of the street he repented of his decision and pronounced himself to be a consummate donkey!

“There,” thought he, “I’ve made a fool of myself. I’ve engaged for a long voyage in a capacity which precludes the possibility of my associating with the passengers, for not only must nearly all my waking hours be spent down beside the engine, but when I come up to cool myself I must perforce do so in dirty costume, with oily hands and face, quite in an unfit state to be seen by Aileen, and without the slightest right to take any notice of her. Oh! Donkey—goose that you are, Eddy! But you’ve done it now, and can’t undo it, therefore you must go through with it.”

Thinking of himself in this lowly strain he went home to the solitude of his lodging, sat down before his tea-table, thrust both hands into his pockets, and, in a by no means unhappy frame of mind, brooded over his trials and sorrows.

Let us change the scene now. We are out upon the sea—in a floating palace. And oh how that palace rushes onward, ever onward, without rest, without check, night and day, cleaving its way irresistibly through the mighty deep. Mighty! Ah! how mighty no one on board can tell so well as that thin, gentle, evidently dying youth who leans over the stern watching the screws and the “wake” that seems to rush behind, marking off, as it were mile by mile, the vast and ever-increasing space—never to be re-traversed he knows full well—that separates him from home and all that is dear to him on earth.

The palace is made of iron—hard, unyielding, unbeautiful, uncompromising iron,—but her cushions are soft, her gilding is gorgeous, her fittings are elegant, her food is sumptuous, her society—at least much of it—is refined. Of course representatives of the unrefined are also there—in the after-cabin too—just as there are specimens of the refined in the fore-cabin. But, taking them all in all, they are a remarkably harmonious band, the inhabitants of this iron palace, from the captain to the cabin-boy inclusive. The latter is a sprightly imp; the former is—to use the expression of one of the unrefined—“a brick.” He is not tall—few sea-captains seem to be so—but he is very broad, and manly, and as strong as an elephant. He is a pattern captain. Gallant to the lady passengers, chatty with the gentlemen, polite to the unrefined, sedately grave among the officers and crew, and jocular to the children; in short, he is all things to all men—and much of the harmony on board is due to his unconscious influence. He has a handsome face, glittering black eyes, an aquiline nose that commands respect, and a black beard and moustache that covered a firm mouth and chin.

Grinding is one of the prominent ideas that are suggested on board the iron palace. There are many other ideas, no doubt. Among seventy or eighty educated and intelligent human beings of both sexes and all ages it could not be otherwise. We allude, however, to the boat—not to the passengers. The screw grinds and the engine grinds incessantly. When one thinks of a thing, or things, going round and round, or up and down, regularly, uninterruptedly, vigorously, doggedly, obstinately, hour after hour, one is impressed, to say the least; and when one thinks of the said thing, or things, going on thus, night and day without rest, one is solemnised; but when one meditates on these motions being continued for many weeks together, one has a tendency to feel mentally overwhelmed.

The great crank that grinds the screw, and is itself ground by the piston—not to mention the cylinder and boiler—works in a dark place deep down in the engine-room, like a giant hand constantly engaged on deeds of violence and evil.

Here Edgar Berrington, clothed in white canvas and oil, finds genial companionship. He dotes on the great crank. It is a sympathetic thing. It represents his feelings wonderfully. Returning from the deck after inhaling a little fresh air, he leans against the iron bulkhead in these clanking depths and gazes gloomily and for prolonged periods at the crank while it grinds with a sort of vicious energy that seems in strange harmony with his soul. Sometimes he grinds his teeth as a sort of obbligato accompaniment—especially if he has while on deck, during a wistful gaze at the distant perspective of the aft-regions, beheld, (or fancied he has beheld) a familiar and adored form.

At first the passengers were sick—very sick, most of them—insomuch that there were some who would gladly, if possible, have surrendered their lives with their dinners; but by degrees they began to improve, and to regard meals with anticipation instead of loathing. When the sunny and calm latitudes near the line were reached, every one grew well and hearty, and at last there was not a sad soul on board except the poor sick lad who studied the screw and measured the ever-increasing distance from home. One of the first evidences of the return of health was the sound of song. When the nights were clear and calm, and naught was audible save the grinding of the screw, the passengers crystallised naturally into groups in the same way that ice-particles arrange themselves in sympathetic stars; and from several such constellations the music of the spheres was naturally evolved.

One of these crystals was formed, usually in a tent on deck, by the attractive influence of smoke. It was consequently not a bright crystal, and included particles both refined and otherwise. Its music was gruff for the most part, sometimes growly. There was another crystal which varied its position occasionally—according to the position of the moon, for it was a crystal formed of romantic elements. One of its parts was a Scottish maiden whose voice was melodious, flexible, and very sweet. Her face and spirit had been made to match. She had many admirers, and a bosom-friend of kindly heart and aspect, with wealth of golden hair, in some respects like herself.

Our heroine Aileen, being passionately fond of music, and herself a sweet singer, attached herself to this crystal, and became as it were another bosom-friend.

Two bearded men were also much given to seek attachment to this crystal. They also seemed knit to each other in bosom-friendship—if we may venture to use such a term with reference to bearded men. One was amateurly musical, the other powerfully sympathetic. A pastor, of unusually stalwart proportions, with a gentle pretty wife and lovable family, also had a decided leaning to this crystal.

One evening the group, finding its favourite part of the deck occupied, was driven to a position near the tent of the smoky crystal, and, sitting down not far from the engineer’s quarters, began to indulge in song. Grave and gay alternated. Duets followed; trios ensued, and miscellaneous new forms of harmony sometimes intervened.

“Do sing a solo, Miss Hazlit,” said the Scottish maiden. “I like your voice so much, and want to hear it alone. Will you sing?”

Aileen had an obliging spirit. She at once began, in a low contralto voice, “I cannot sing the old songs.”

Sometimes in private life one hears a voice so sweet, so thrilling, with a “something” so powerful in it, that one feels, amid other sensations of pleasure, great satisfaction to think that none of the public singers in the world could “bat that” if they were to try their best, and that few of them could equal it!

Such a voice was that of our heroine. It drew towards her the soul, body, and spirit of the music-lovers who listened. Of course we do not deny that there were some who could not be drawn thus. There were a few, among the smoky crystals, for whom a draw of the pipe or a mildly drawn pot of bitter beer had greater charms than sweet sounds, however melting. With the exceptions of these, nearly all who chanced to be within hearing drew near to the musical group, and listened while that most, beautiful of songs was being warbled in tones not loud but inexpressibly pathetic.

Among the listeners was our friend Edgar Berrington. Seated, as usual, in front of the great crank, with bare muscular arms folded on his broad chest and a dark frown on his forehead, he riveted his eyes on the crank as if it were the author of all his anxieties. Suddenly the terminating lines, “I cannot sing the old songs, they are too dear to me,” rising above the din of machinery, floated gently down through iron lattice-work, beams, rods, cranks, and bars, and smote upon his ear.

Like a galvanised man he sprang on his legs and stood erect. Then, if we may say so, like a human rocket, he shot upwards and stood on the margin of the crowd. Being head and shoulders over most of them he observed a clear space beside the singer. The night was dark, features could not be discerned, even forms were not easily recognisable. He glided into the open space, and silently but promptly sat down on the deck beside Aileen. His elbow even touched one of the folds of her garment. He went straight into paradise and remained there!

As for Aileen, if she observed the action at all, she probably set it down to the enthusiasm of a more than usually musical member of the ship’s crew.

While she was still dwelling on the last note, a grinding sound was heard and a slight tremor felt that not only stopped the song abruptly but checked the applause that was ready to burst from every lip and hand. Edgar vanished from the spot where he sat quite as quickly as he had appeared, and in a moment was at his station. The captain’s voice was heard on the bridge. The signal was given to stop the engines—to back them—to stop again. Eager inquiries followed—“What’s that? Did you feel it? Hear it? Could it be a rock? Impossible, surely?” No one could answer with knowledge or authority, save those who were too busy to be spoken to. Accustomed as they all were for many weeks past to the ceaseless motion of the engines, the sudden stoppage had a strange and solemnising effect on most of the passengers. Presently the order was given to steam ahead, and once more they breathed more freely on hearing again the familiar grinding of the screw.

To the anxious inquiries afterwards made of him, the captain only smiled and said he could not tell what it was—perhaps it might have been a piece of wreck. “But it did not feel like that, captain,” objected one of the passengers, who, having frequently been to sea before, was regarded as being semi-nautical; “it was too like a touch on something solid. You’ve heard, I suppose, of coral reefs growing in places where none are marked on our charts?”

“I have,” answered the captain drily.

“Might it not be something of the kind?”

“It might,” replied the captain.

“We are not far from the coast of China, are we?” asked the semi-nautical passenger.

“Not very far.”

Seeing that the captain was not disposed to be communicative, the semi-nautical passenger retired to persecute and terrify some of the ladies with his surmises. Meanwhile the well was sounded and a slight increase of water ascertained, but nothing worth speaking of, and the pumps were set to work.

The anxiety of the passengers was soon allayed, everything going on as smoothly as before. The evening merged into night. The moon rose slowly and spread a path of rippling silver from the ship to the horizon. The various groups began to un-crystallise. Sleepy ones went below and melted away somehow. Sleepless ones went to their great panacea, smoke. Lights were put out everywhere save where the duties of the ship required them to burn continually. At last the latest of the sleepless turned in, and none were wakeful through the iron palace except the poor youth who mentally measured the distance from home, and the officers and men on duty. Among the latter was Edgar Berrington, who, standing at his accustomed post down in his own iron depths, pondered the events of the evening while he watched the motions of the great crank and listened to the grinding of the screw.

Chapter Nine.

Treats of a Leak and consequent Difficulties.

It turned out, on investigation, that, whatever the object by which the vessel had been touched, some degree of injury had been done to her iron-plating, for the pumps were found to be insufficient to prevent the rising of water in the hold. This was a serious matter, because although the rise was very slow, it was steady, and if not checked would sooner or later sink the ship. Everything that could be done was attempted in order to discover and stop the leak, but without success.

Fortunately it happened that the Warrior had among her other goods a quantity of diving apparatus on board, consigned to a firm in Hong-Kong that had lost valuable property in a wreck, and meant to attempt the recovery of it by means of divers. The men had gone out by a previous vessel, but their dresses, having been accidentally delayed, had been sent after them in the Warrior. Bethinking himself of these dresses, the captain conceived that he was justified, in the circumstances, in making temporary use of them; but he was disappointed to find, on inquiry, that not a man of his ordinary crew had ever seen a diving-dress put on, or its attendant air-pumps worked. In these circumstances he sent for the chief engineer.

Edgar Berrington was busy about some trifling repairs to the machinery when the message reached him. The place being very hot, he was clad only in shirt and trousers, with a belt round his waist—a by no means unbecoming costume for a well-made figure! His shirt-sleeves were rolled up to the shoulders, displaying a pair of very muscular and elegantly moulded arms—such as Hercules might have been pleased with, and Apollo would not have disdained. His hands were black and oily, and his face was similarly affected.

Expecting to meet the captain at the entrance to his domains, Edgar merely rolled down his sleeves, and seized a bundle of waste with which he hastily wiped his hands and face, thereby drawing on the latter, which had previously been spotty, a series of varied streaks and blotches that might have raised the envy of a Querikoboo savage. But the captain was not where he expected to find him, and on looking aft he saw him on the quarter-deck in converse with one of the passengers. Edgar would rather not have appeared in public in such guise, but being in haste to return to the work from which he had been called, he pulled on a light linen jacket and forage-cap, and walked quickly aft. To his horror he saw Aileen seated on a basket-work easy-chair close to the captain. It was too late, however, to retreat, for the latter had already observed him. Fortunately Aileen was deeply engaged with a book. Edgar quickly advanced and took such a position that his back was turned to her.

“Excuse my appearance, sir,” he said in a low voice, touching his cap to the captain; “I am in the midst of a job that requires to be—”

“No matter,” interrupted the captain, with a laugh, “you look very well in your war-paint. We’ll excuse you.”

Attracted by the laugh, Aileen looked up at the tall form in front of her.

“What a very handsome figure!” she whispered to her bosom-friend, who sat beside her reading.

The bosom-friend put her book in front of her mouth and whispered—

“Yes, very. I wish he would turn round and show his face.”

But her wish was not granted, for the captain walked slowly forward in conversation with the “very handsome figure,” which obstinately,—we might almost say carefully,—kept its back turned towards them.

Great was the satisfaction of the captain when he found not only that one of the subordinate engineers understood a good deal about diving, but that the chief himself was a diver! It was accordingly arranged that a descent should be made without delay. The dresses were got up and unpacked, and one was found suitable for a large man.

Soon the air-pumps were set up and rigged on deck. One of the sub-engineers was set to work them, with one of the crew, while another sub and an officer, having been previously instructed by our hero, were detailed to the important duty of holding the life-line and air-pipe. Thereafter the engines were stopped, and the dead-calm that followed,—that feeling of unnatural quietude to which we have referred elsewhere,—did more perhaps to arouse all the sleepers, readers, and dreamers on board, than if a cannon had been fired. Of course the descent of a diver over the side was a point of great interest to the passengers, coupled as it was with some anxiety as to the leak, of the existence of which all were fully aware, though only a select few had been informed of its serious nature—if not checked. They crowded round the apparatus therefore, and regarded its arrangement with the deepest interest.

When all was ready Edgar issued from the deck-cabin, in which he meant to dress, to take a final look at the air-pumps. In the flutter of excitement he had for one moment, and for the first time since the beginning of the voyage, totally forgotten the existence of Aileen. Now, she and Lintie, the Scottish maiden who sang so well, chanced to be looking with much interest at the helmet which lay on the deck, when his eye fell on them. At once he turned on his heel and retreated towards his cabin.

“That’s the man who is to go down, I believe,” observed one of the passengers, pointing to him.

Lintie looked up and saw his back.

“Oh!” she whispered to Aileen, “it is the very handsome man!”

“Is it?” replied Aileen, with indifference, for she was engrossed with the helmet just then.

Greatly perplexed as to how he should escape observation, poor Edgar began to dress—or, rather, to be dressed by his assistants,—delaying the operation as long as possible; but delay did not seem to increase his inventive powers, and could not prevent the completion of the process.

The guernsey, drawers, and outside stockings were drawn on, and Edgar’s brain worked the while like the great crank of his own engine; but no feasible plan of escape was evolved. Then the “crinoline” was drawn on, but it added no feminine sharpness to his wits, though it seriously modified and damaged the shape of his person. The crinoline, as we have said elsewhere, is seldom used except at great depths, where the pressure of water is excessive. It was put on Edgar at this time partly because it formed a portion of the dress, and partly because, his mind being preoccupied, he did not observe with sufficient care what his attendants were about.

After this came the shoulder-pad, and then the thick dress itself was drawn on, and the attendants hitched it up with difficulty over his spreading shoulders, but they could not hitch up an idea along with it. The forcing of his hands through the tight india-rubber wrists of the sleeves was done with tremendous power, but it was nothing compared with the energy he put forth to force himself through his mental difficulty—yet all in vain! The outside stockings and the canvas “overalls” followed, and he finally put on the red night-cap, which seemed to extinguish all capacity for thought.

“You seem to be a little nervous, sir,” remarked one of the attendants, as he affixed the back and chest weights, while the other put on his ponderous boots.

“Am I,—eh!” said Edgar, with a grim smile; then he added, as a sudden idea flashed on him; “go fetch me the dirtiest bundle of waste you can find below, and give it a good scrape on the blackest part of the boiler as you pass.”

“Sir!” exclaimed the attendant.

“Go; do what I bid you.” said Edgar, in a tone that did not brook delay.

The attendant vanished and speedily returned with the desired piece of waste.

Edgar at once rubbed it over his face and became so piebald and hideous that both the attendants laughed.

Not heeding them, and only half sure of the completeness of the disguise, Edgar issued boldly from his cabin, and walked with heavy tread towards the place where he had to sit down to have the helmet screwed on.

A loud roar of laughter greeted him.

“Why, you’ve been kissing the funnel,” exclaimed one of the mates.

“That’ll do me no harm,” growled Edgar, stooping to catch hold of the air-tube, and making an excuse for sidling and backing towards his seat.

“Oh! What a fright! And such a figure!” exclaimed Lintie; “come round, let us try to get a nearer view of him.”

She dragged the laughing Aileen with her, for she was an impulsive little woman; but at whatever opening in the crowd she and her friend presented themselves, they were sure to find the diver’s ridiculously broad and now inelegant back turned towards them.

“Plague on him!” she exclaimed, for she was an impatient little woman, just then, “I don’t believe he’s got a front at all! Come round again—quick.”

“Why, what are you turning about like that for?” exclaimed one of the exasperated attendants, who stood ready with the helmet.

“His head’s turned wi’ fear, an’ he’s a-follerin’ of it,” growled the boatswain.

“Why don’t you sit down?” said the attendant.

“Are you ready?” asked Edgar, in a low gruff voice.

“Of course I am—don’t you see me?”

Another happy idea came into Edgar’s head at that moment. He pulled his red night-cap well down over his eyes, and sat down with a crash, while another hearty laugh greeted his supposed eccentricity.

“Hallo, I say, you’re not going to be hanged—no need to draw it down like that,” said the first officer.

“Drowning comes much to the same thing; let’s do it decently—according to rule,” retorted Edgar, with a grin that displayed a brilliant set of teeth.

“H’m! We shan’t see him now,” whispered Lintie, in disappointment, forcing her way once more to the front.

This time there was no reply from Aileen, for a strange shock passed through her as she observed the momentary smile—and no wonder, for many a time had that same mouth smiled upon her with winning tenderness.

Of course she did not for a moment suspect the truth, but she thought it strange, nevertheless, that the diver’s mouth should have such a strong resemblance to—she knew not precisely what! Afterwards she confided to Lintie that it had struck her as bearing a faint—very faint—resemblance to the mouth of a friend.

“Of a very particular friend?” inquired Lintie, who was sharp-witted.

Aileen blushed and hid her face on the neck of her friend, and suddenly poured out her soul, which the other drank up with avidity.

That same night, lying in her berth, which was a top one, and looking languidly over the side at her friend, who lay in the berth below looking sympathetically up, she revealed her hopes and fears and sentiments, to the edification, (it is to be hoped) of a mean-spirited passenger in the saloon, who stood on the other side of the very thin partition, and tried to overhear. If he succeeded it must have been a new sensation to him to listen to the gentle streams of hope and love that flowed through to him—for Aileen’s thoughts were gems, as pure and beautiful as the casket which contained them. We are not quite sure, but we more than half suspect that if his presence there had been discovered, and himself had been within easy reach, the casket’s palm would have evoked something resembling a pistol-shot from his dirty cheek!

But to return to our diver. The moment his helmet was on he breathed freely, recovered his equanimity, and went down the rope-ladder that hung over the side, with an air of easy decision that checked the criticisms of the men and aroused the admiration—not to mention the alarm—of the women.

“The puir felly’ll be droon’d,” pitifully observed a fore-cabin passenger from Edinburgh, as she gazed at the mass of air-bubbles that arose when Edgar’s iron head had disappeared.

“Nothink of the sort,” responded a fore-cabin passenger from London, who had taken an immense liking to the fore-cabin passenger from Edinburgh, in virtue of their total mental, moral, and physical dissimilarity; “divers are never drownded.”

We need scarcely observe to the intelligent reader that both females were wrong—as such females, in regard to such matters, usually are. Edgar was not “droon’d,” and divers are sometimes “drownded.”

So far from being drowned, he was remarkably successful in discovering the leak on his first descent.

It was caused by one of the iron-plates near the keel having been badly torn by a coral rock.

Thoroughly to repair this was a difficulty. Our diver did indeed stuff it with oakum in a way that at once diminished the influx of water; but this was merely a makeshift. It now became a question whether it were possible to effect the necessary repairs while at sea. Our young engineer removed the difficulty. He undertook to rivet an iron-plate over the hole—at least to make the attempt.

In order to effect this, a rope-ladder was constructed long enough to pass entirely under the ship’s bottom, to which it was tightly pressed by means of tackle at both ends. The rounds of this ladder were made of wood, and all along its course were fastened rough balls or blocks of wood about four inches in diameter, which prevented it coming too close to the ship’s bottom. Thus there was secured space for the diver to place his feet on the rounds. This ladder having been affixed, so as to pass close to the injured plate, a boat was lowered, and from this boat descended a small ladder, hung in such a way that the diver, when a few feet under water, could easily step from it to the fixed rope-ladder. In addition to this, a small plank suspended to a rope, somewhat after the fashion of a familiar style of bed-room bookshelf, was taken down by the diver and hung to the rope-ladder by a hook, so that he could sit on it while at work, and move it about at pleasure.

All having been prepared, our engineer descended with the necessary tools, and, to make a long story short, riveted a new plate over the old one in such a way as effectually to close the leak, so that thereafter it gave no further trouble or anxiety.

But for this the vessel would certainly have been lost, unless they had succeeded in beaching her before the final catastrophe, on some part of the neighbouring coast; in which case they would have run the chance of being taken by the pirates who at that time infested the China seas.

Delivered from this threatened danger, the good ship sped merrily on her course; most of the crystallised groups grew closer together—in some instances, however, they burst asunder! Musical tendencies also developed, though in some cases the sublime gave place to the ridiculous, and music actually, once or twice, became a nuisance. As the end of the voyage drew near, the hearty captain grew heartier, the bosom-friends drew closer; the shy passengers opened up; the congenial passengers began to grieve over the thought of parting; charades were acted; concerts were given: the mean-spirited passenger became a little less vile; the fore-cabin passenger from Edinburgh observed to her friend that the “goin’s on a’boord were wonderfu’;” to which the fore-cabin passenger from London replied that “they certainly was;” flying-fish and porpoises, and sharks and albatrosses, and tropical heat, ceased to furnish topics of interest, and men and women were thrown back on their mental resources, which were, among other things, largely wid pleasantly—sometimes even hotly!—exercised on religious discussion. In short the little community, thus temporarily thrown together, became an epitome of human life. As calm and storm alternated outside the iron palace, so, inside, there was mingled joy and sorrow. Friendships were formed and cemented. Love and folly, and hate and pride, and all the passions, were represented—ay, and Death was also there.

In the silent night, when nothing was heard save that ceaseless music of the screw, the destroying angel came—so silently that only a few were aware of his dread presence—and took away the youth whose sole occupation seemed to have been the watching of the ever-increasing distance from that home which he was destined never again to see. It was inexpressibly sad to those left behind when his coffin was committed to the deep amid the solemn silence that once again ensued on the stoppage of the engines, while the low voice of a pastor prayed for those who wept his departure; but it was not sad for him who had been taken—he had reached the “better home,” and, sitting by the side of Jesus, could doubtless afford to think, at last without longing, of the old home beyond the sea.

Chapter Ten.

Anxieties; Disasters; Hopes.

Standing in his accustomed place on the iron floor of the iron chamber, Edgar Berrington watched the grinding of the great crank, and pondered.

He had now been many weeks at sea, and had not once spoken a word to Aileen—had not even seen her more than half-a-dozen times in the far vista of the quarter-deck. Each Sabbath-day, indeed, dressed like his former self, he had worshipped with her in the same saloon, but on these occasions he had kept carefully in the background, had crept quietly down after the others had assembled, had kept in the shadow of the door, and had left before the worshippers had time to rise.

An event, however, was now pending, which was destined to remove his present difficulties in a very unexpected manner, and to saddle on the shoulders of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, difficulties which he had never in all his previous business calculations taken into account.

During most part of the voyage out to China Mr Hazlit’s visage had presented a sea-green aspect, edged with yellow. The great Demon of the sea had seized upon and held him with unwonted avidity and perseverance. It appeared to regard him as fair game—as one whose life had been largely devoted to ploughing up its peculiar domain—or rather, inducing others to plough there—and who was therefore worthy of special attention. At all events, the wealthy merchant did not appear above-board until the lapse of two weeks after leaving his native land. At the end of that period something like the ghost of him crawled on deck one rather fine day, but a demoniac squall rudely sent him below, where he remained until those charming regions of the Equatorial calms were entered. Here a bad likeness—a sort of spoiled photograph—of him again made its appearance, and lay down helplessly on a mattress, or smiled with pathetic sarcasm when food was offered. But soon the calm regions were passed; the Cape of Storms was doubled, and the fierce “south-easters” of the Indian seas were encountered, during which period Mr Hazlit passed away, as one of the things that had been, from the memory of all on board, with the exception of Aileen, the captain, the bed-room steward, and a Christian pastor, who, with his amiable wife, had done much during the voyage for their fellow-passengers.

At last, when the shores of China were approached, and people began to talk earnestly about the end of the voyage, Mr Hazlit’s shade once more made its appearance, with a spot of dark red on each cheek and on the point of his nose. These spots were hopefully regarded as signs of returning health. They did not appear too soon, for the shade would infallibly have vanished altogether if it had been subjected to further attenuation.

“Oh, papa dear, you look so much better to-day!” said Aileen, arranging his shawls as he lay on deck—“quite rosy.”

If she had said port-winy it would have been more in accordance with truth, but Aileen was rather apt to diverge from truth, unintentionally, in speaking of her father.

“I am thankful, dear,” replied the shade in a faint voice, and with a fainter smile. “The captain says we shall be in port in a few days, and then we shall be all right, and—”

“Ha! Shall you?” exclaimed the Demon of the sea, giving the ship a little lurch to starboard, which cut short the merchant’s remarks abruptly; “you think so, do you? Ho! We shall see!”

Following up this inaudible speech with one of those audible howls for which demons are so justly celebrated, he went off in a gust of wind, and summoned to his aid one of those simooms, or monsoons, or typhoons which are in the habit of ravaging the southern seas.

These spirits, quickly obeying the summons, sent not only Mr Hazlit but many of the other passengers to their berths, blew into ribbons the few sails that chanced to be hoisted, boiled up the sea as if in a huge caldron, caused the blackened sky to mingle with the world of waters, rent the firmament with gleaming fire and crashing thunder, and hissed or yelled everywhere in the spirit of wildest revelry.

The Warrior was a splendid steamer, and her commander an able seaman, but neither splendour of material nor power of mind can avert what is decreed.

The storm was prolonged, and raged with unwonted fury, the captain did his best, the good ship behaved nobly, and things went well until the night of the third day. It was at that time so very dark that nothing could be seen farther off than a few yards beyond the bulwarks, where the white-crested waves loomed high in air in a sort of ghostly fashion as if they meant to fall on the deck unawares and sink the ship.

The passengers had by degrees got used to the mad plunging and rolling of their iron home, and even the timid among them began to feel hopeful that after all the gale would be weathered, and the harbour gained.

What the captain thought no one could tell. He remained on the bridge night and day, clad from head to foot in oil-skin garments, facing the furious blast as if it were his native air, watching every motion of his vessel, and gazing intently into the world of ebony ahead as if trying to read his fate there.

The darkness around was almost palpable. Sometimes it seemed as if the vessel were rushing against a mighty rock, that towered high above the masts, but this was only optical illusion, or, perhaps, a denser storm-cloud than usual passing by, for the steamer continued to plough her onward way unchecked, save, now and then, by the bursting on her bows of a monster billow, which caused her to quiver from stem to stern, and swept the decks with green seas fore and aft. One such sea had carried away part of the bulwarks, and swept overboard all the loose material on the decks. Presently, there was a slight diminution in the force of the seas. The captain noted this, and gave orders to get the lead ready to heave.

Deep in the iron chambers below, Edgar Berrington stood—not in his wonted dreamy mood, beside the great crank, but close to the steering-wheel of the engine,—alert, steady, with his hand on the wheel, his eye on the index.

Suddenly the order came, “Half-speed,”—then abruptly followed, “Stop.”

These orders were obeyed instantly.

The lead was hove—the result, “no bottom at thirty fathoms.”

Again Edgar was signalled—“Half-speed,” then—as the captain looked into the darkness ahead, and saw, or thought he saw, it deepen horribly—came the sharp order, “Astern, full-speed!”

Full well did Edgar know that this implied imminent danger. Quick as lightning he reversed the engines.

Next moment there was an appalling crash that overturned everything in the vessel. Our hero was himself wrenched from his position, and hurled against the bulkhead of the boiler-room; the masts went over the sides as if they had been pipe-stems, and the wire-ropes snapt like pack-thread. A moment of appalling silence followed, as if the very elements had suspended their strife, then there came shriek and cry from fore and aft as the passengers rushed frantically about, while above all yelled the escaping steam when Edgar opened the safety-valves.

The spot where they had struck was partially protected by cliffs, that rose like a wall in front. These cliffs turned off the direct force of the gale, but the general turmoil of the sea raised a surf around them which rendered the prospect of effecting a landing a very poor one, even if the vessel should hold together for any length of time. They had not struck on the shore of the mainland, but on a solitary islet or rock, not far from the coast, which rose abruptly out of deep water. Hence the silence of “the lead” as to its presence.

It were vain to attempt a description of the confusion that followed. The few cool and collected men in the ship were powerless at first, but gradually they succeeded in restoring some degree of order. Then the captain explained that being hard and fast on the rocks they could not sink, and that the vessel being strong was likely to hold together, perhaps, for several hours.

“We’re not hard and fast, captain,” said the semi-nautical passenger in an undertone, as he stood by the after-hatch, where most of the cabin passengers were assembled.

He referred to a swinging motion of the wreck, which, however, was so very slight as to be almost imperceptible.

“I know that,” replied the captain, also in an undertone, but somewhat sternly, “we may slip back into deep water, but we’re hard and fast just now, and I shall do my best to keep her so. Don’t you go, sir, and raise needless alarm in the minds of the passengers. See,” he added aloud, pointing towards the east, “day is already breaking; we shall soon have light enough to commence landing. Go below, ladies, and get your bonnet-boxes packed.”

The captain’s mind was far enough from jesting at that moment, but he knew that a quiet joke, possessing a modicum of truth in it, would do more to calm the fears of the timid than solemn advice or reasoning. He was right. Many went to their cabins to look after their most precious treasures, while the officers and men commenced active preparations for escaping to the islet, whose towering cliffs now began to loom heavily through the driving mist and foam.

From the first it was evident that only one mode of escape offered, namely, by means of a rope to the shore, and a running tackle. This material was easily procured and arranged, but the connecting of the rope with the shore was another question. As daylight increased, the island was recognised as a mere uninhabited rock, from which, therefore, no assistance could be expected, and the terrible turmoil of waters that leaped and seethed between the wreck and the cliffs, seemed to all on board, including the captain himself, to be impassable.

At last it became necessary to make an effort, for it was soon discovered that the vessel hung on the edge of a ledge, outside of which the water deepened suddenly to twenty fathoms, and a slip back into that would have been equivalent to certain and immediate death to all on board.

“My lads,” said the captain to the crew, most of whom were assembled with the passengers near the port bow, where the preparations for escaping were going on, “we must have a man to go ashore with that line. I cannot swim myself, else I would not ask for a volunteer. Come; who has got the heart to do a gallant deed, and save these women and children?”

He turned as he spoke, and glanced at the female passengers and children, who crowded under the lee of the cook-house, wet, dishevelled, and terrified, Aileen and her musical friend being among them.

There was no response at first. The men turned with doubtful looks at the furious sea, in the midst of whose white surges black forbidding rocks seemed to rise and disappear, and the surface of which had by that time become much cumbered with portions of wreckage.

“If I could only swim,” growled the boatswain, “I’d try, but I can’t float no more than a stone.”

Others, who looked stout and bold enough to make the venture, seemed to think it might be better to stick to the ship until the sea should go down. Indeed one of them said as much, but the captain interrupted him, and was about to make another appeal, when there was a movement in the crowd, and one of the sub-engineers pushed towards him with the information that a volunteer was ready, and would appear immediately.

“Who is it?” asked the captain.

“Mr Berrington, sir; he’s getting ready.”

“The chief engineer!” exclaimed the captain. “Good; if there’s a man in the ship can do it, he is the man.”

Aileen, standing somewhat back in the crowd, thought she had caught a familiar sound!

“Who is going to make the venture?” she inquired of a man near her.

“The chief engineer, Miss, I believe.”

At the moment the crowd opened and our hero came forward, clothed only in a shirt and duck trousers. His face was not streaked with professional paint on this occasion. It beamed with the flush and the latent fire of one who feels that he has made up his mind deliberately to face death.

“Oh! It’s the man with the handsome figure,” gasped Lintie, with a wild look of surprise.

Aileen did not now require to be told who it was. Unlike heroines, she neither screamed nor fainted, but through the wonder which shone in her eyes she shot forth another look,—one of proud confidence,—which Edgar caught in passing, and it rendered his power and purpose irresistible. The stern work before him, however, was not compatible with soft emotions. Seizing the end of the light line which was ready, he tied it firmly round his waist and leaped into the raging sea, while an enthusiastic cheer burst from the crew.

At first it seemed as if the youth had been endowed with superhuman powers, so vigorously and with such ease did he push through the surf and spurn aside the pieces of wreck that came in his way; but as his distance from the vessel increased, and the surging foam bore him in among the rocks, he received several blows from a piece of the floating bulwarks. Once also he was launched with terrible violence against a rock. This checked him a little. Still, however, he swam on, apparently unhurt, while the people on board the wreck gazed after him with inexpressible eagerness. They not only thought of the imminent danger of the gallant youth, but fully realised the probability that his failure would be the sealing of their own doom.

As he drew near to the rocks on shore, a mass of wreck was seen to rise on the crest of the surf close to the swimmer’s side and fall on him. An irresistible cry of despair burst from those in the ship. Some one shouted to haul on the line and pull him on board, and several seamen sprang to do so, but the captain checked them, for through his glass he could see Edgar struggling to free himself from the wreck. In a few minutes he succeeded, and the next wave hurled him on the rocky shore, to which he clung until the retreating water had lost its power. Then he rose, and struggling upwards, gained a ledge of rock where he was safe from the violence of the waves.

It need scarcely be said that his success was hailed with three tremendous cheers, and not a few deep and fervent exclamations of “Thank God” from some who regarded the young engineer’s safety as a foretaste of their own. Some there were, however, who knew that the work which yet remained to be done was fraught with danger as well as difficulty. This work was commenced without delay.

By means of the light line which he had carried ashore, Edgar hauled the two ends of a stouter line or small rope from the wreck. These two ends he quickly spliced together, thus making the rope an endless one, or, as seamen have it, an endless fall. The other loop, or bight, of this endless double-rope was retained on the wreck, having been previously rove through a block or pulley which was attached to the broken fore-mast about ten feet above the deck—in accordance with our “rocket apparatus” directions. In fact, the whole contrivance, got up so hastily at this time, was just an extemporised rocket apparatus without the rocket—Edgar having already performed the duty of that projectile, which is to effect communication between wreck and shore.

By means of the endless fall our hero now hauled a heavy rope or cable from the wreck, the end of which he fastened round a large boulder. This rope, being hauled taut, remained suspended between the wreck and the cliffs some feet above the sea. Previous to fixing it a large block had been run upon it, and to this block was suspended one of those circular cork life-preservers which one usually sees attached to the bulwarks of ships. It was made into a sort of bag by means of a piece of canvas. The endless fall was then attached to this bag so that it could travel with its block backwards and forwards on the thick cable.

The first who passed from the wreck to the shore by means of this contrivance was a stout seaman with two very small children in charge. The man was sent partly to give the passengers confidence in the safety of the mode of transit, and partly that he might aid Edgar in the working of the tackle. The next who passed was the mother of the children. Then followed Aileen, and after her the sweet singer. Thus, one by one, all the females and children on board were borne in safety to land.

After these the male passengers commenced to go ashore. A few of the older men were sent first. Among them was Mr Hazlit.

The unfortunate merchant was so weak as to be scarcely equal to the exertion of getting over the side into the life-buoy or bag, and he was so tall that, despite the efforts he made to double himself together, there was so much of him above the machine that he had a tendency to topple over. This would have mattered nothing if he had possessed even a moderate degree of power to hold on, but his hands were as weak as those of a child. However, the case being desperate, he made the attempt, and was sent away from the wreck with many earnest cautions to “hold on tight and keep cool.”

You may be sure that his progress was watched with intense anxiety by Aileen, who stood close to Edgar as he hauled in the rope carefully.

“Oh! He will fall out,” she cried in an agony as the rope dipped a little, and let him just touch the roaring surf, when he was somewhat more than half way over.

Edgar saw that her fears were not unlikely to be realised. He therefore gave the rope to the seaman who had first come ashore, with orders to haul steadily.

Owing to its position and the dipping of the life-buoy with its burden, the cable formed a pretty steep slope from the shore. Throwing himself on the cable, Edgar slid swiftly down this incline until stopped by the buoy. The effect of course was to sink the machine deeper than ever, insomuch that poor Mr Hazlit, unable any longer to withstand the buffeting, threw up his arms with a cry of despair. Edgar caught him as he was falling over.

“Here, put your arms round my neck,” he cried, struggling violently to fix himself firmly to the life-buoy.

The merchant obeyed instantly, giving the youth an embrace such as he had never expected to receive at his hands! Even in that moment of danger and anxiety, Edgar could not help smiling at the gaze of unutterable wonder which Mr Hazlit cast on him through the salt water—if not tears—that filled his eyes, for he had not seen the youth when he jumped overboard.

“Haul away!” shouted our hero; but the words were stifled by a sea which at the moment overwhelmed them.

The man at the line, however, knew what to do. He and some of the passengers hauled steadily but swiftly on the line, and in a few seconds the buoy, with its double freight, was brought safe to land. Mr Hazlit was carried at once by his rescuer to a recess in the cliffs which was partially protected from the storm, and Edgar, after doing what he could to place him comfortably on the ground, left him to the care of his daughter.

On his return to the beach he found the passengers who had been saved in a state of great alarm because of the slipping backwards of the wreck, which strained the cable so much that it had become as rigid as a bar of iron. He began, therefore, to ply the means of rescue with redoubled energy, for there were still some of the passengers and all the crew on board; but suddenly, while the buoy was being sent out for another freight, the cable snapt, the wreck slid off the shelf or ledge on which it had hung so long, and sank in deep water, leaving nothing save a momentary whirlpool in the surf to tell where the splendid ocean palace had gone down.

The horror that filled the minds of those who witnessed the catastrophe cannot be described. A feeling of dreary desolation and helplessness followed the sudden cessation of violent energy and hopeful toil in which most of them had been previously engaged. This was in some degree changed, if not relieved, by the necessity which lay on all to lace the vicissitudes of their new position.

That these were neither few nor light soon became apparent, for Edgar and the seaman, after an hour’s investigation, returned to their friends with the information that they had been cast on a small rocky islet, which was uninhabited, and contained not a vestige of wood or of anything that could sustain the life of man. Thus they were left without shelter or food, or the means of quitting the inhospitable spot—not, however, without hope, for one of the seamen said that he knew it to be an isle lying not very far from the mainland, and that it was almost certain to be passed ere long by ships or native boats.

On further search, too, a spring of fresh water was discovered, with sufficient grass growing near it to make comfortable beds for the women and children. The grass was spread under the shelter of an overhanging cliff, and as the weather was warm, though stormy, the feelings of despair that had at first overwhelmed young and old soon began to abate. During the day the gale decreased and a hot sun came out at intervals, enabling them to dry their soaking garments.

That night, taking Edgar aside, Mr Hazlit thanked him warmly for preserving his life.

“But,” said he, seriously, “forgive me if I at once broach a painful subject, and point out that our positions are not changed by this disaster. Much though I love my life I love my daughter’s happiness more, and I would rather die than allow her to marry—excuse me, Mr Berrington—a penniless man. Of course,” continued the merchant, with a sad smile as he looked around him, “it would be ridiculous as well as ungrateful were I to forbid your holding ordinary converse with her here, but I trust to your honour that nothing more than ordinary converse shall pass between you.”

“My dear sir,” replied the youth, “you greatly mistake my spirit if you imagine that I would for one moment take advantage of the position in which I am now placed. I thank God for having permitted me to be the means of rendering aid to you and Ai— your daughter. Depend upon it I will not give you reason to regret having trusted my honour. But,” (he hesitated here) “you have referred to my position. If, in time and through God’s goodness, I succeed in improving my position; in gaining by industry a sufficiency of this world’s pelf to maintain Aileen in a condition of comfort approaching in some degree that in which she has been brought up, may I hope—may I—”

Mr Hazlit took the young man’s hand and said, “You may;” but he said it sadly, and with a look that seemed to imply that he had no expectation of Edgar ever attaining to the required position.

Satisfied with the shake of the hand, our hero turned abruptly away, and went off to ruminate by the sea-shore. At first he was filled with hope; then, as he thought of his being penniless and without influential friends, and of the immense amount of money that would have to be made in order to meet the wealthy merchant’s idea of comfort, he began to despair. Presently the words came to his mind—“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him, and He shall bring it to pass.” This revived him, and he began to run over in his mind all sorts of wild plans of making a huge fortune quickly! Again a word came to him—“Make not haste to be rich.”

“But what is making haste?” he thought, and his conscience at once replied, “Taking illegitimate courses—venturesome speculation without means—devotion of the soul and body to business in such a way as to demoralise the one and deteriorate the other—engaging in the pursuit of wealth hastily and with eager anxieties, which imply that you doubt God’s promise to direct and prosper all works committed to Him.”

“My plan, then,” thought Edgar, “is to maintain a calm and trusting mind; to be diligent in fulfilling present duty, whatever that may be; to look about for the direction that is promised, and take prompt advantage of any clear opportunity that offers. God helping me, I’ll try.”

Strong in his resolves, but, happily, stronger in his trust, he returned to the cavern in which his companions in misfortune had already laid them down to rest, and throwing himself on a bed of grass near the entrance, quickly fell into that profound slumber which is the perquisite of those who unite a healthy mind to a sound body.

Chapter Eleven.

Tells of bold Plans, followed by bolder Deeds.

Months passed away, and Miss Pritty, sitting in her little boudoir sipping a cup of that which cheers, received a letter.

“I know that hand, of course I do. How strange it is there should be such a variety of hands—no two alike, just like faces; though for my part I think that some faces are quite alike, so much so that there are one or two people who are always mistaken for each other, so that people don’t know which is which. Dear me! What an awful thing it would be if these people were so like that each should forget which was the other! Nobody else being able to put them right, there would be irretrievable confusion. What do you want, eh?”

The first part of Miss Pritty’s mutterances was a soliloquy; the query was addressed to her small and only domestic with the dishevelled head, who lingered at the door from motives of curiosity.

“Nothink, ma’am. Do you wish me to wait, ma’am?”

“No;—go.”

She went, and Miss Pritty, opening the letter, exclaimed, “From my nephew, Edgar! I knew it. Dear fellow! I wonder why he writes to me.”

The letter ran as follows:—

“DEAR AUNT,—You will doubtless be surprised to receive a letter from me. It must be brief; the post leaves in an hour. Since I saw you we have had a charming voyage out, but at the last we ran on a rocky island off the coast of China, and became a total wreck in a few minutes.”

At this point Miss Pritty gasped “oh!” and fainted—at least she went into a perfect semblance of the state of coma, but as she recovered suddenly, and appealed to the letter again with intense earnestness, it may have been something else that was the matter. She resumed her perusal:—

“We succeeded in getting a hawser on shore, by means of which, through God’s mercy, nearly all the passengers were saved, including, of course, your friend Miss Hazlit and her father. It is mournful to have to add, however, that before the work was finished the wreck slipped into deep water and sank with all her crew on board. We remained only one day on the rock, when a passing ship observed our signals, took us off, and carried us safely into Hong-Kong.

“Mr Hazlit and his daughter immediately left for—I know not where! I remained here to make some inquiries about the wreck, which I am told contains a large amount of gold coin. Now, I want you to take the enclosed letter to my father’s old servant, Joe Baldwin; help him to read it, if necessary, and to answer it by return of post. It is important; therefore, dear aunt, don’t delay. I think you know Baldwin’s address, as I’ve been told he lives in the district of the town which you are wont to visit. Excuse this shabby scrawl, and the trouble I ask you to take, and believe me to be your loving nephew, EDGAR BERRINGTON.”

Miss Pritty was a prompt little woman. Instead of finishing her tea she postponed that meal to an indefinite season, threw on her bonnet and shawl, and left her humble abode abruptly.

Joe Baldwin was enjoying a quiet pipe at his own fireside—in company with his buxom wife and his friends Mr and Mrs Rooney Machowl—when Miss Pritty tripped up to his door and knocked.

She was received warmly, for Joe sympathised with her affectionate and self-denying spirit, and Mrs Joe believed in her. Woe to the unfortunate in whom Mrs Joe—alias Susan—did not believe.

“Come away, Miss,—glad to see you—always so,” said Joe, wiping a chair with his cap and extinguishing his pipe out of deference; “sit down, Miss.”

Miss Pritty bowed all round, wished each of the party good-evening by name, and seating herself beside the little fire as easily and unceremoniously as though it had been her own, drew forth her letter.

“This is for you, Mr Baldwin,” she said; “it came enclosed in one to me, and is from my nephew, Edgar Berrington, who says it is important.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Joe, taking the letter, opening it, and looking at it inquiringly.

“Now Miss,” said he, “it’s of no manner o’ use my tryin’ to make it out. You mustn’t suppose, Miss, that divers can’t read. There’s many of ’em who have got a good education in the three R’s, an’ some who have gone further. For the matter of that I can read print easy enough, as you know, but I never was good at pot-hooks and hangers, d’ee see; therefore I’ll be obliged, Miss, if you’ll read it to me.”

Miss Pritty graciously acceded to the request, and read:—

“DEAR BALDWIN,—My aunt, Miss Pritty, who will hand this letter to you, will tell you about our being wrecked. Now, in regard to that I have a proposal to make. First, let me explain. The wreck of the Warrior, after slipping off the ledge on which she struck, sank in twenty fathoms water. On our arrival at Hong-Kong, the agent of the owners sent off to see what could be done in the way of recovering the treasure on board—there being no less than fifty thousand pounds sterling in gold in her treasure-room, besides valuables belonging to passengers. A Lloyds’ agent also visited the place, and both came to the conclusion that it was utterly impossible to recover anything from such a depth by means of divers. This being so, and I happening to be on the spot, offered to purchase the right to recover and appropriate all the gold I could fish up. They laughed at me as a wild enthusiast, but, regarding the thing as hopeless themselves, were quite willing to let me have the wreck, etcetera, for what you would call ‘an old song.’ Now, although nominally a ‘penniless man,’ I do happen to possess a small property, in the form of a block of old houses in Newcastle, which were left to me by an uncle, and which I have never seen. On these I have raised sufficient money for my purpose, and I intend to make the venture, being convinced that with the new and almost perfect apparatus now turned out in London by our submarine engineers, bold divers may reach even a greater depth than twenty fathoms. My proposal then is, that you should come to my aid. I will divide all we bring up into three equal portions. One of these you shall have, one I’ll keep to myself, and the third shall be shared equally by such divers as you think it advisable to employ. What say you? Do the prospects and terms suit, and will you come without delay? If so, reply at once, and send all the requisite material to this place. Be particular to bring dresses made by the first makers in London. I wish this to be a sort of semi-scientific experiment—to recover property from a great depth, to test the powers and properties of the various apparatus now in use and recently invented, and, while so doing, to make my fortune as well as yours, and that of all concerned! Perhaps you think the idea a wild one. Well, it may be so, but wilder ideas than this have been realised. Remember the noble house of Mulgrave!—Yours truly,—

“EDGAR BERRINGTON.”

The last sentence in the letter referred to a fact in the history of diving which is worthy of mention. In or about the year 1683 a man named Phipps, the son of an American blacksmith, was smitten with a mania, then prevalent, for recovering treasure from sunken wrecks by means of diving. He succeeded in fishing up a small amount from the wreck of a Spanish galleon off the coast of Hispaniola, which, however, did not pay expenses. Being a man of indomitable perseverance as well as enthusiasm, Phipps continued his experiments with varying success, and on one occasion—if not more—succeeded in reducing himself to poverty. But the blacksmith’s son was made of tough material—as though he had been carefully fashioned on his father’s anvil. He was a man of strong faith, and this, in material as well as spiritual affairs, can remove mountains. He was invincibly convinced of the practicability of his schemes. As is usual in such men, he had the power to impart his faith to others. He had moved Charles the Second to assist him in his first efforts, which had failed, but was unable to similarly influence the cautious—not to say close-fisted—James the Second. The Duke of Albemarle, however, proved more tractable. Through his aid and influence, and with funds obtained from the public, Phipps was enabled in 1687 once more to try his fortune. He set sail in a 200-ton vessel, and after many fruitless efforts succeeded in raising from a depth of between six and seven fathoms, (considered but a small depth now-a-days) property to the value of about 300,000 pounds. Of this sum the usurious Earl obtained as his share 90,000 pounds while Phipps received 20,000 pounds. Although James the Second had refused to aid in the expedition, he had the wisdom to recognise the good service done to mankind in the saving of so much valuable property at so great personal risk. He knighted Phipps, who thus became the founder of the house of Mulgrave—now represented by the Marquis of Normanby.

When Miss Pritty had concluded the letter, Joe Baldwin turned to Rooney Machowl:—

“What think you, lad,” he said, “would you venture down to twenty fathom?”

“To twenty thousand fathom, if you’ll consint to watch the pumps and howld the life-line,” replied the daring son of Erin.

“Will you let me go, Susan?” said Baldwin, turning to his wife.

“How could I hinder you, Joe?” answered Mrs Baldwin, with a face reddened by suppressed emotion at the bare idea.

“And will you go with me, Susan?”

“I’d sooner go to the—” she stopped, unable to decide as to what part of earth she would not sooner go to than China, but not being versed in geography she finished by asserting that she’d sooner go to the moon!

Pretty little Mrs Machowl, on the contrary, vowed that no power on earth should separate between her and her Rooney, and that if he went she should go, and the baby too.

“Well then, Miss,” said Baldwin to his visitor, “if you’ll be so kind as to write for me I’ll be obliged. Say to Mister Eddy—I can’t forget the old name, you see—that I’m agreeable; that I’ll undertake the job, along with Rooney Machowl here, and mayhap another man or two. I’ll get all the dresses and apparatus he requires, and will set sail as soon as I can; but, you see, I can’t well start right off, because I’ve a job or two on hand. I’ve a well to go down an’ putt right, an’ I’ve some dock repairs to finish. However, to save time I’ll send Rooney off at once with one dress and apparatus, so that they can be tryin’ experiments till I arrive—which will be by the following steamer. Now, Miss, d’you think you can tell him all that?”

“I will try,” said Miss Pritty, making rapid entries in a small note-book, after completing which and putting a few more questions she hurried home.

Meanwhile Rooney’s wife went off to make arrangements for a long voyage, and a probably prolonged residence in foreign parts, and Joe Baldwin went to visit the well he had engaged to descend, taking Rooney as his assistant. During his visit to this well, Joe underwent some experiences, both physical and mental, which tried his nerve and courage more severely than any descent he had ever made in the open sea.

It is a well-known fact among divers that various temperaments are suited to various works, and that, among other things, many men who are bold enough in open water lose courage in confined places such as wells. They say—so powerful is imagination!—that they “cannot breathe” down in a well, though, of course, the means of breathing is the same in all cases. Joe Baldwin, being gifted with cool blood and strong nerves, and possessing very little imagination, was noted among his fellows for his readiness and ability to venture anywhere under water and do anything.

The well in question was connected with the waterworks of a neighbouring town. Having got himself and his apparatus conveyed thither he spent the night in the town and proceeded on the following morning at day-break to inspect the scene of his operations.

The well was an old one and very deep—about fifteen fathoms. That, however, was a matter of small importance to our diver. What concerned him most was the narrowness of the manhole or entrance at the top, and the generally dilapidated state of the whole affair.

The well, instead of being a circular hole in the ground lined with brick, like ordinary wells, was composed of huge iron cylinders four feet in diameter, fitted together and sunk ninety feet into the ground. This vast tube or circular iron well rested on a foundation of brick-work. When sunk to its foundation its upper edge was just level with the ground. Inside of this tube there were a variety of cross-beams, and a succession of iron ladders zigzagging from top to bottom, so that it could be descended when empty. At the time of Joe’s visit it was found nearly full of water. Down the centre of the well ran two iron pipes, or pumps, each having a “rose” at its lower end, through which the water could be sucked and pumped up to a reservoir a hundred feet high for the supply of the town. These two pumps were worked by an engine whose distinguishing features were noise and rickets. It could, however, just do its work; but, recently, something had gone wrong with one of the pumps—no water was thrown up by it. Two results followed. On the one hand the water-supply to the town became insufficient, and, on the other, the surplus water in the well could not be pumped out so as to permit of a man descending to effect repairs. In these circumstances a diver became absolutely necessary. Hence the visit of Baldwin and Machowl.

“Now then, diver,” said the managing engineer of the works to Joe, after he had examined everything above ground with care, “you see it is impossible to pump the well dry, because of the defective pump and the strength of the spring which feeds it. Water is admitted into the great cylinder through a number of holes in the bottom. These holes therefore must be stopped. In order to this, you will have to descend in the water with a bag of wooden pegs and a hammer—all of which are ready for you—and plug up these holes. You see, the work to be done is simple enough.”

“Ay,” asserted Baldwin, “but the way how to set about it ain’t so simple or clear. How, for instance, is a man of my size to squeeze through that hole at the top?”

“You are large,” said the engineer, regarding the diver for a moment, “but not too large, I should think, to squeeze through.”

“What! With a divin’ dress on?”

“Ah, true; I fear that is a puzzling difficulty at the outset, for you see the well is frail, and we dare not venture to enlarge the hole by cutting the beams that support the pumps.”

While he was speaking the diver put his head through the hole in question, and gazed down into darkness visible where water was dripping and gurgling, and hissing a sort of accompaniment to the discordant clanking and jarring of the pump-rods. The rickety engine that worked them kept puffing close alongside—grinding out a horrible addition to the din. As his eyes became more accustomed to the subdued light, Baldwin could see that there was an empty space between the surface of the water and the top of the well, great part of the first length of zigzag ladder being visible, and also the cross-beams on which its foot rested. He also observed various green slimy beams, which being perpetually moistened by droppings from the pumps, seemed alive like water snakes.

“Well,” said the diver, withdrawing his head, “I’ll try it. I’ll dress inside there. You’re sure o’ the old ingine, I fancy?”

“It has not yet failed us,” answered the engineer, with a smile.

“What would happen if it broke or stopped working?” asked Joe.

“The well would fill to the brim and overflow in a minute or two.”

“So that,” rejoined the diver, “if it caught me in the middle o’ dressin’, me and my mate would be drownded.”

“You’d stand a good chance of coming to that end,” replied the engineer, with a laugh. “Your mate might get out in time, but as you say the dress would prevent you getting back through the hole, there would be no hope for you.”

“Well then, we’ll begin,” said Baldwin; “come, Rooney, get the gear in order.” So saying, the adventurous man went to work with his wonted energy. The air-pumps were set up, and two men of the works instructed in the use of them. Then Baldwin squeezed himself with difficulty through the manhole, and the dress was passed down to him. Rooney then squeezed himself through, and both went a few steps down the iron ladder until they stood on the cross-beams behind and underneath it. The position was exceedingly awkward, for the ladder obliged them to stoop, and they did not dare to move their feet except with caution, for fear of slipping off the beams into the water—in which, even as it was, they were ankle-deep while standing on the beams. They were soon soaked to the skin by the drippings and spirtings from the pipes, and almost incapable of hearing each other speak, owing to the din. If Rooney had dropped the lead-soled boots or the shoulder-weights, they would have sunk at once beyond recovery, and have rendered the descent of the diver very difficult if not impossible.

Realising all this, the two comrades proceeded with great care and slowness. Dressing a diver in the most favourable circumstances involves a considerable amount of physical exertion and violence of action. It may therefore be well believed that in the case of which we write, a long time elapsed before Baldwin got the length of putting on his helmet. At last it was screwed on. Then a hammer and a bagful of wooden pins were placed in his hands.

“Now, Joe, are ye aisy?” asked Rooney, holding the front-glass in his hand, preparatory to sealing his friend up.

“All right,” answered Baldwin.

“Set a-goin’ the air-pumps up there,” shouted Rooney, from whose face the perspiration flowed freely, as much from anxiety about his friend as from prolonged exertion in a constrained attitude.

In a few seconds the air came hissing into the helmet, showing that the two men who wrought it were equal to their duty, though inexperienced.

“All right?” asked Rooney a second time.

The reply was given, “Yes,” and the bull’s-eye was screwed on.

Rooney then sprang up the ladder and through the manhole; took his station at the signal-line and air-pipe, while the engineer of the works watched the air-pump. The rickety steam-engine was then stopped, and, as had been predicted, the water rose quickly. It rose over Baldwin’s knees, waist, and head, and, finally, rushed out at the manhole, deluging Rooney’s legs.

Our diver was now fairly imprisoned; an accident, however trifling in itself, that should stop the air-pump would have been his death-knell. Fully impressed with this uncomfortable assurance, he felt his way slowly down the second ladder, knocking his head slightly against cross-beams as he went, holding on tightly to his bag and hammer, and getting down into darkness so profound as to be “felt.” He soon reached the head of the third ladder, and then the fourth.

But here, at a depth of about thirty feet, an unexpected difficulty occurred which had well-nigh caused a failure. The head of the fourth ladder was covered with wood, through which a square manhole led to the bottom of the well. Of course Joe Baldwin discovered this only by touch, and great was his anxiety when, passing his hand round it, he found the hole to be too small for his broad shoulders to pass. At this point, he afterwards admitted, he “felt rather curious,” the whole structure being very frail. However, with characteristic determination he muttered to himself, “never mind, Joe, do it if you can,” and down he went through the hole, putting one arm down with his body, and holding the other up and drawing it down after him, by which process he squeezed his shoulders through at an angle. After reaching the bottom of the well, a feeling of alarm seized him lest he should be unable to force his way upwards through the hole. To settle this question at once he ascended to it, forced himself through, and then, being easy in mind, he redescended to the bottom and went to work with the hammer and wooden pegs.

At first he had some difficulty in finding the holes in the great cylinder, but after a dozen of them had been plugged it became easier, as the water rushed in through the remaining holes with greater force. While thus engaged his foot suddenly slipped. To save himself from falling—he knew not whither—he let go the bag of pegs and the hammer—the first of which went upwards and the latter down. To find the hammer in total darkness among the brick-work at the bottom was hopeless, therefore Joe signalled that he was coming up, and started for the top after the bag, but failed to find it. In much perplexity he went to the upper manhole and put up one of his hands.

To those who were inexperienced it was somewhat alarming to see the hand of an apparently drowning man with the fingers wriggling violently, but Rooney understood matters.

“Arrah, now,” said he, giving the hand a friendly shake, “it’s somethin’ you’re wantin’, sure. What a pity it is wan can’t spake wid his fingers!”

Presently the hand shut itself as if grasping something, and moved in a distinct and steady manner.

“Och! It’s a hammer he wants. He’s gone an’ lost it. Here you are, boy—there’s another.”

The hand disappeared, transferred the implement to the left hand, and reappeared, evidently asking for more.

“What now, boy?” muttered Rooney, with a perplexed look.

“Doubtless he wants more pegs,” said the engineer of the works, coming up at the moment.

“Sure, sur, that can’t be it, for if he’d lost his pegs wouldn’t they have comed up an’ floated?”

“They’ve caught somewhere, no doubt, among the timbers on the way up. Anyhow, I had provided against such an accident,” said the engineer, putting another bag of pegs into the impatient hand.

It seemed satisfied, and disappeared at once.

Joe returned to the bottom, and succeeded in plugging every hole, so that the water from the outside spring could not enter. That done, he ascended, and signalled to the engineer to begin pumping. The rickety engine was set to work, and soon reduced the water so much that Rooney was able to re-descend and undress his friend. Thereafter, in about five hours, the well was pumped dry. The engineer then went down, and soon discovered that one of the pump-rods had been broken near the foot, and that its bucket lay useless at the bottom of the pipe. The repairs could now be easily made, and our divers, having finished their difficult and somewhat dangerous job, returned home. (See Note 2.)

Next day Joe Baldwin paid a visit to the neighbouring harbour, where a new part of the pier was being built by divers. His object was to sound our surly friend David Maxwell about joining him in his intended trip to the antipodes, for Maxwell was a first-rate diver, though a somewhat cross-grained man.

Maxwell was under water when he arrived. It was Baldwin’s duty to superintend part of the works. He therefore went down, and met his man at the bottom of the sea. Joe took a small school-slate with him, and a piece of pencil—for, the depth being not more than a couple of fathoms, it was possible to see to read and write there.

The spot where Maxwell wrought was at the extreme end of the unfinished part of the breakwater. He was busily engaged at the time in laying a large stone which hung suspended to a travelling-crane connected with the temporary works overhead. Joe refrained from interrupting him. Another man assisted him. In the diver fraternity, there are men who thoroughly understand all sorts of handicrafts—there are blacksmiths, carpenters, stone-masons, etcetera. Maxwell was a skilled mechanic, and could do his work as well under water as many a man does above it—perhaps better than some! The bed for the stone had been carefully prepared on a mass of solid masonry which had been already laid. By means of the signal-line Maxwell directed the men in charge of the crane to move it forward, backward, to the right or to the left, as required. At last it hung precisely over the required spot, and was lowered into its final resting-place.

Then Baldwin tapped Maxwell on the shoulder. The latter looked earnestly in at the window—if we may so call it—of his visitor, and, recognising Joe, shook hands with him. Joe pointed to a rock, and sat down. Maxwell sat down beside him, and then ensued the following conversation. Using the slate, Baldwin wrote in large printed letters:—

“I’ve got a splendid offer to go out to dive in the China seas. Are you game to go?”

Taking the slate and pencil, Maxwell wrote—“Game for anything!”

“We must finish this job first,” wrote Joe, “and I shall send Rooney out before us with some of the gear—to be ready.”

“All right,” was Maxwell’s laconic answer.

Baldwin nodded approval of this, but the nod was lost on his comrade owing to the fact that his helmet was immovably fixed to his shoulders. Maxwell evidently understood it, however, for he replied with a nod which was equally lost on his comrade. They then shook hands on it, and Joe, touching his signal-line four times, spurned the ground with a light fantastic toe, and shot to the realms above like a colossal cherub.

Chapter Twelve.

Diving Practice Extraordinary in the East.

In a certain street of Hong-Kong there stands one of those temples in which men devote themselves to the consumption of opium, that terrible drug which is said to destroy the natives of the celestial empire more fatally than “strong drink” does the peoples of the west. In various little compartments of this temple, many celestials lay in various conditions of debauch. Among them was a stout youth of twenty or so. He was in the act of lighting the little pipe from which the noxious vapour is inhaled. His fat and healthy visage proved that he had only commenced his downward career.

He had scarce drawn a single whiff, however, when a burly sailor-like man in an English garb entered the temple, went straight to the compartment where our beginner reclined, plucked the pipe from his hand, and dashed it on the ground.

“I know’d ye was here,” said the man, sternly, “an’ I said you was here, an’ sure haven’t I found you here—you spalpeen! You pig-faced bag o’ fat! What d’ee mane by it, Chok-foo? Didn’t I say I’d give you as much baccy as ye could chaw or smoke an ye’d only kape out o’ this place? Come along wid ye!”

It is perhaps scarcely necessary to say that the man who spoke, and who immediately collared and dragged Chok-foo away, was none other than our friend Rooney Machowl. That worthy had been sent to China in advance of the party of divers with his wife and baby—for in the event of success he said he’d be able to “affoord it,” and in the event of failure he meant to try his luck in “furrin’ parts,” and would on no account leave either wife or chick behind him.

On his arrival a double misfortune awaited him. First he found that his employer, Edgar Berrington, was laid up with fever, in the house of an English friend, and could not be spoken to, or even seen; and second, the lodging in which he had put up caught fire the second night after his arrival, and was burnt to the ground, with all its contents, including nearly the whole of his diving apparatus. Fortunately, the unlucky Irishman saved his wife and child and money, the last having been placed in a leathern belt made for the purpose, and worn night and day round his waist. Being a resolute and hopeful man, Rooney determined to hunt up a diving apparatus of some sort, if such was to be found in China, and he succeeded. He found, in an old iron-and-rag-store sort of place, a very ancient head-piece and dress, which were in good repair though of primitive construction. Fortunately, his own pumps and air-pipes, having been deposited in an out-house, had escaped the general conflagration.

Rooney was a man of contrivance and resource. He soon fitted the pump to the new dress and found that it worked well, though the helmet was destitute of the modern regulating valves under the diver’s control, and he knew that it must needs therefore leave the diver who should use it very much at the mercy of the men who worked the pumps.

After the fire, Rooney removed with his family to the house of a Chinese labourer named Chok-foo, whose brother, Ram-stam, dwelt with him. They were both honest hard-working men, but Chok-foo was beginning, as we have seen, to fall under the baleful influence of opium-smoking. Ram-stam may be said to have been a teetotaler in this respect. They were both men of humble spirit.

Chok-foo took the destruction of his pipe and the rough collaring that followed in good part, protesting, in an extraordinary jargon, which is styled Pidgin-English, that he had only meant to have a “Very littee smokee,” not being able, just then, to resist the temptation.

“Blathers!” said Rooney, as they walked along in the direction of the lower part of the town, “you could resist the timptation aisy av you’d only try, for you’re only beginnin’, an’ it hasn’t got howld of ’ee yit. Look at your brother Ram, now; why don’t ’ee take example by him?”

“Yis, Ram-stam’s first-chop boy,” said Chok-foo, with a penitential expression on his fat visage.

“Well, then, you try and be a first-chop boy too, Chok, an’ it’ll be better for you. Now, you see, you’ve kep’ us all waiting for full half an hour, though we was so anxious to try how the dress answers.”

In a few minutes the son of Erin and the Chinaman entered the half ruinous pagoda which was their habitation. Here little Mrs Machowl was on her knees before an air-pump, oiling and rubbing up its parts. Ram-stam, with clasped hands, head a little on one side, and a gentle smile of approbation on his lips, admired the progress of the operation.

“Now then, Chok and Ram,” said Rooney, sitting down on a stool and making the two men stand before him like a small awkward squad, “I’m goin’ to taich you about pumps an’ pumpin’, so pay attintion av ye plaze. Hids up an’ ears on full cock! Now then.”

Here the vigorous diver began an elaborate explanation which we will spare the reader, and which his pupils evidently did not comprehend, though they smiled with ineffable sweetness and listened with close attention. When, however, the teacher descended from theory to practice, and took the pump to pieces, put it up again, and showed the manner of working, the Chinamen became more intelligent, and soon showed that they could turn the handles with great vigour. They were hopelessly stupid, however, in regard to the use of the signal-line—insomuch that Rooney began to despair.

“Niver mind, boys,” he cried, hopefully, “we’ll try it.”

Accordingly he donned the diving-dress, and teaching his wife how to screw on the bull’s-eye, he gave the signal to “pump away.”

Of course Chok-foo and Ram-stam, though anxious to do well, did ill continually. When Rooney, standing in the room and looking at them, signalled to give “more air,” they became anxious and gave him less, until his dress was nearly empty. When he signalled for “less air” they gave him more, until his dress nearly burst, and then, not having the breast-valve, he was obliged to unscrew his front-glass to prevent an explosion! At last the perplexed man resolved to make his wife do duty as attender to signals, and was fortunate in this arrangement at first, for Molly was quick of apprehension. She soon understood all about it, and, receiving her husband’s signals, directed the Chinamen what to do. In order to test his assistants better, he then went out on the verandah of the pagoda, where the pumpers could not see him nor he them. He was, of course, fully dressed, only the bull’s-eye was not fixed.

“Now, Molly, dear,” said he, “go to work just as if I was goin’ under water.”

Molly dimpled her cheeks with a smile as she held up the glass, and said, “Are ye ready?”

“Not yet; putt your lips here first.”

He stooped; Molly inserted part of her face into the circular hole, and a smack resounded in the helmet.

“Now, cushla, I’m ready.”

“Pump away, boys,” shouted the energetic little woman.

As soon as she heard the hiss of the air in the helmet, she screwed on the bull’s-eye, and our diver was as much shut off from surrounding atmosphere as if he had been twenty fathoms under the sea. Then she went to where the pumpers were at work, and taking the air-pipe in one hand and the life-line in the other, awaited signals. These were soon sent from the verandah. More air was demanded and given; less was asked and the pumpers wrought gently. Molly gave one pull at the life-line, “All right?” Rooney replied, “All right.” This was repeated several times. Then came four sharp pulls at the line. Molly was on the alert; she bid Ram-stam continue to pump while Chok-foo helped her to pull the diver forcibly out of the verandah into the interior of the pagoda amid shouts of laughter, in which Rooney plainly joined though his voice could not be heard.

“Capital, Molly,” exclaimed the delighted husband when his glass was off; “I always belaved—an’ I belave it now more than iver—that a purty woman is fit for anything. After a few more experiments like that I’ll go down in shallow wather wid an aisy mind.”

Rooney kept his word. When he deemed his assistants perfect at their work, he went one morning to the river with all his gear, hired a boat, pushed off till he had got into two fathoms water, and then, dressing himself with the aid of the Chinamen, prepared to descend.

“Are you ready?” asked his wife.

“Yis, cushla, but you’ve forgot the kiss.”

“Am I to kiss all the divers we shall have to do with before sending them down?” she asked.

“If you want all the divers to be kicked you may,” was the reply.

Molly cut short further remark by giving the order to pump, and affixing the glass. For a few seconds the diver looked earnestly at the Chinamen and at his better half, who may have been said to hold his life in her hands. Then he stepped boldly on the short ladder that had been let down outside the boat, and was soon lost to view in the multitude of air-bells that rose above him.

Now, Rooney had neglected to take into his calculations the excitability of female nerves. It was all very well for his wife to remember everything and proceed correctly when he was in the verandah of the pagoda, but when she knew that her best-beloved was at the bottom of the sea, and saw the air-bells rising, her courage vanished, and with her courage went her presence of mind. A rush of alarm entered her soul as she saw the boiling of the water, and fancying she was giving too much air, she said hurriedly, “Pump slow, boys,” but immediately conceiving she had done wrong, she said, “Pump harder, boys.”

The Chinamen pumped with a will, for they also had become excited, and were only too glad to obey orders.

A signal-pull now came for “Less air,” but Molly had taken up an idea, and it could not be dislodged. She thought it must be “More air” that was wanted.

“Pump away, boys—pump,” she cried, in rapidly increasing alarm.

Chok-foo and Ram-stam obeyed.

The signal was repeated somewhat impatiently.

“Pump away, boys; for dear life—pump,” cried the little woman in desperate anxiety.

Perspiration rolled down the cheeks of Chok-foo and Ram-stam as they gasped for breath and turned the handles with all the strength they possessed.

“Pump—oh! Pump—for pity’s sake.”

She ended with a wild shriek, for at that moment the waves were cleft alongside, and Rooney Machowl came up from the bottom, feet foremost, with a bounce that covered the sea with foam. He had literally been blown up from the bottom—his dress being filled with so much compressed air that he had become like a huge bladder, and despite all his weights, he rolled helplessly on the surface in vain attempts to get his head up and his feet down.

Of course his distracted wife hauled in on the life-line with all her might, and Chok-foo and Ram-stam, forsaking the pump, lent their aid and soon hauled the luckless diver into the boat, when his first act was to deal the Chinamen a cuff each that sent one into the stern-sheets on his nose, and the other into the bow on his back. Immediately thereafter he fell down as if senseless, and Molly, with trembling hands, unscrewed the bull’s-eye.

Her horror may be imagined when she beheld the countenance of her husband as pale as death, while blood flowed copiously from his mouth, ears, and nostrils.

“Niver mind, cushla!” he said, faintly, “I’ll be all right in a minute. This couldn’t have happened if I’d had one o’ the noo helmets.—Git off my—”

“Ochone! He’s fainted!” cried Mrs Machowl; “help me, boys.”

In a few minutes Rooney’s helmet was removed and he began to recover, but it was not until several days had elapsed that he was completely restored; so severe had been the consequences of the enormous pressure to which his lungs and tissues had been subjected, by the powerful working of the pump on that memorable day by Ram-stam and Chok-foo.

Chapter Thirteen.

Treasure recovered—Accidents encountered—An unexpected Discovery—Enemies met and circumvented.

It is pleasant to loll in the sunshine on a calm day in the stern of a boat and gaze down into unfathomable depths, as one listens to the slow, regular beating of the oars, and the water rippling against the prow—and especially pleasant is this when one in such circumstances is convalescent after a prolonged and severe illness.

So thought Edgar Berrington one lovely morning, some months after the events related in the last chapter, as he was being rowed gently over the fair bosom of the China sea. The boat—a large one with a little one towing astern—was so far from the coast that no land could be seen. A few sea-gulls sported round them, dipping their wings in the wave, or putting a plaintive question now and then to the rowers. Nothing else was visible except a rocky isle not far off that rose abruptly from the sea.

“Well, we’re nearing the spot at last,” said Edgar, heaving that prolonged sigh which usually indicates one’s waking up from a pleasant reverie. “What a glorious world this is, Baldwin! How impressively it speaks to us of its Maker!”

“Ay, whether in the calm or in the storm,” responded Joe.

“Yes; it was under a very different aspect I saw this place last,” returned Edgar. “Yonder is the cliff now coming into view, where the vessel we are in search of went down.”

“An ugly place,” remarked Joe, who was steering the boat. “Come boys, give way. The morning’s gittin’ on, an’ we must set to work as soon as ever we can. Time an’ tide, you know, etcetera.”

Rooney, Maxwell, Chok-foo, and Ram-stam, who were rowing, bent to their work with a will, but the heavy boat did not respond heartily, being weighted with a large amount of diving gear. Just then a light breeze arose, and the boat, obedient to the higher power, bent over and rippled swiftly on.

The only other individual on board was a Malay—the owner of the boat. He sat on the extreme end of the bow looking with a vacant gaze at the island. He was a man of large size and forbidding, though well-formed, features, and was clothed in a costume, half European half Oriental, which gave little clew to the nature of his profession—except that it savoured a good deal of the sea. His name, Dwarro, was, like his person, nondescript. Probably it was a corruption of his eastern cognomen. At all events it suffered further corruption from his companions in the boat, for Baldwin and Maxwell called him Dworro, while Rooney Machowl named him Dwarry. This diversity of pronunciation, however, seemed a matter of no consequence to the stolid boatman, who, when directly addressed, answered to any name that people chose to give him. He was taciturn—never spoke save when spoken to; and at such times used English so broken that it was difficult to put it together so as to make sense. He was there only in capacity of owner and guardian of the boat. Those who hired it would gladly have dispensed with his services, but he would not let them have it without taking himself into the bargain.

Having reached the scene of the wreck of the Warrior, the party at once proceeded to sound and drag for it, and soon discovered its position, for it had not shifted much after slipping off the ledge, where it had met its doom on the night of the storm. Its depth under the surface was exactly twenty-three fathoms, or 138 feet.

“It will try our metal,” observed Baldwin, “for the greatest depth that the Admiralty allow their divers to go down is twenty fathom.”

“What o’ that?” growled Maxwell, “I’ve worked myself many a time in twenty-three fathom water, an’ll do it again any day. We don’t need to mind what the Admiralty says. The submarine engineers of London tell us they limit a man to twenty-five fathom, an’ they ought to know what’s possible if any one should.”

“That’s true, David,” remarked Rooney, as he filled his pipe, “but I’ve heard of a man goin’ down twinty-eight fathom, an’ comin’ up alive.”

“Oh, as to that,” said Berrington, “I have heard of one man who descended to thirty-four fathom, at which depth he must have sustained a pressure of 88 and a half pounds on every square inch of his body—and he came up alive, but his case is an exception. It was fool-hardy, and he could do no effective work at such a depth. However, here we are, and here we must go to work with a will, whatever the depth be. You and I, Joe, shall descend first. The others will look after us. I’ll put on a Siebe and Gorman dress. You will don one of Heinke and Davis, and we’ll take down with us one of Denayrouze’s lamps, reserving Siebe’s electric light for a future occasion.”

In pursuance of these plans the boat was moored over the place where the wreck lay, a short ladder was hung over the side of a smaller boat they had in tow with its pendent line and weight, the pumps were set up and rigged, the dresses were put on, and, in a short time our hero found himself in his old quarters down beside the great crank!

But ah! What a change was there! The grinding had ceased for ever; the great crank’s labours were over, and its surface was covered with mud, sand, barnacles, and sea-weed, and involved in a maze of twisted iron and wrecked timbers—for the ship had broken her back in slipping into deep water, and wrenched her parts asunder into a state of violent confusion. Thick darkness prevailed at that depth, but Denayrouze’s lamp rendered the darkness visible, and sufficed to enable the divers to steer clear of bristling rods and twisted iron-bands that might otherwise have torn their dresses and endangered their lives.

The work of inspection was necessarily slow as well as fraught with risk, for great difficulty was experienced while moving about, in preventing the entanglement of air-pipes and life-lines. The two men kept together, partly for company and partly to benefit mutually by the lamp. Presently they came on human bones tightly wedged between masses of timber. Turning from the sad spectacle, they descended into the cabin and made their way towards the place where Berrington knew that the treasure had been stowed. Here he found, with something like a shock of disappointment, that the stern of the vessel had been burst open, and the contents of the cabin swept out.

On further inspection, however, the treasure-room was found to be uninjured. Putting down the lamp on an adjacent beam, Edgar lifted a heavy mass of wreck from the ground, and dashed the door in. The scene that presented itself was interesting. On the floor lay a number of little barrels, which the divers knew contained the gold they were in search of. Most of these were so riddled by worms that they were falling to pieces. Some, indeed, had partially given way, so that the piles of coin could be seen through the staves, and two or three had been so completely eaten away as to have fallen off, leaving the masses of gold in unbroken piles. There were also bags as well as kegs of coin, all more or less in a state of decay.

The divers gazed at this sight for a few moments quite motionless. Then Edgar with one hand turned the lamp full on his companion’s front-glass so as to see his face, while with the other hand he pointed to the treasure. Joe’s eyes expressed surprise, and his mouth smiling satisfaction. Turning the light full on his own face to show his comrade that he was similarly impressed, Edgar motioned to Joe to sit down on an iron chest that stood in a corner, and giving the requisite signal with his life-line, went up to the surface. He did this very slowly in order to accustom his frame to the change of pressure both of air and water, for he was well aware of the danger of rapid ascent from such a depth. Soon after, he redescended, bearing several canvas sacks, some cord, and a couple of small crowbars. Placing the lamp in a convenient position, and throwing the bags on the floor of the treasure-room, Edgar and Baldwin set to work diligently with the crowbars, broke open the kegs, and emptied their golden contents into one of the bags, until it was quite full; tied up the mouth, fastened it to a rope which communicated with the boat above, and gave the signal to hoist away. The bag quickly rose and vanished.

Previous to redescending, our hero had arranged with Rooney to have pieces of sail-cloth in readiness to wrap the bags in the instant of their being got into the small boat, so that when being transferred to the large boat’s locker, their form and contents might be concealed from the pilot, Dwarro. The precaution, however, did not seem to be necessary, for Dwarro was afflicted with laziness, and devoted himself entirely to the occupations of alternately smoking, in a dreamy way, and sleeping.

For three hours the divers wrought under great excitement, as well as pressure, and then, feeling much exhausted, returned to the surface, having sent up the contents of about twenty boxes and kegs of treasure. Rooney and Maxwell then took their turn under water, and were equally successful.

That night, being very calm and clear, they ran the boat into a sheltered crevice among the cliffs, and slept on board of her. Next morning at day-break they were again at work, but were not equally fortunate, for although plenty of treasure was sent up, several accidents occurred which were severe, though, happily, not fatal.

In the first place, Baldwin tore his left hand badly while attempting to raise a heavy mass of ragged iron-plate that prevented his reaching some loose coin lying under it. This, though painful, did not render him altogether incapable of working. Then, while Edgar Berrington was passing from one part of the wreck to another, threading his way carefully, a mass of wire-ropes and other wreckage suddenly dropt from a position where it had been balanced, and felled him to the deck with such violence that for a few moments he was stunned. On recovering, he found to his horror that he was pressed down by the mass, and had got inextricably entangled with it. If his dress had been torn at that time, or his helmet damaged, it is certain that his adventures would have been finally cut short, and there can be no doubt that his preservation was largely owing to the excellence of the material of which his dress was made.

But how to escape from his wire-cage was a difficulty he could not solve, for the lamp had been extinguished, and the entanglement of his line and air-pipe rendered signalling impossible. He continued to struggle helplessly, therefore, in total darkness. That the air-tube continued all right, was evident from the fact that air came down to him as before.

In this dilemma he remained for a short time, occasionally managing to clear himself partially, and at other times becoming more and more involved.

At last Rooney Machowl, who was attending to the lines above, bethought him that he had not received any signals for some time or observed any of those motions which usually indicate that a diver is busy below. He therefore gave a pull to the lifeline. Of course no answer was received.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Rooney, with a start, for in diving operations Life and Death frequently stand elbowing each other.

He gave another and still more decided pull, but no answer was returned.

Jumping up in excitement, he attempted to haul on the line, so as to bring Edgar to the surface by force, but to his consternation he found it to be immovably fixed.

“Hooroo! Man alive,” he yelled, rather than shouted, to Maxwell, who was attending the other line, “signal for Joe to come up—look sharp!”

Maxwell obeyed with four strong quick pulls on Joe’s line, and Joe appeared at the surface rather sooner than was consistent with safety. On learning the cause of his being called, he infixed his bull’s-eye hastily; went down again with a heavy plunge, and discovering his companion, soon removed the wreck by which he was entangled, and set him free.

Experience, it is said, teaches fools; much more does it instruct wise men. After this event our hero became a little more careful in his movements below.

When a considerable amount of treasure had been recovered, it was thought advisable to return to the shore and place it in security.

“It won’t be easy to manage this,” said Edgar to Baldwin in a low tone, as they sailed away from the rocky islet, under a light breeze. “I have an uncomfortable belief that that fellow Dwarro suspects the nature of the contents of these bags, despite our efforts at concealment.”

“I don’t think he does,” whispered Baldwin. “He seems to me to be one o’ these miserable opium-smokers whose brains get too much fuddled to understand or care for anything.”

“Whist now, don’t spake so loud,” said Rooney, advancing his head closer to his companions, and glancing doubtfully at the object of their suspicion; “sure he’s got a sharp countenance, fuddled or not fuddled.”

The pilot had indeed an intelligent cast of countenance, but as he sat in a careless attitude in the bow of the boat smoking listlessly and gazing dreamily, almost stupidly, towards the shore, it did seem as though he had indulged too freely in the noxious drag which poisons so many inhabitants of these unhappy lands.

As he was out of earshot, the four adventurers drew their heads still closer together, and talked eagerly about their prospects.

“Sure our fortins is made already,” said Rooney; “how much d’ee think we’ve fished up, Mr Berrington?”

“I cannot say, but at a rough guess I should think not less than twenty thousand pounds.”

“Ye don’t main it? Och! Molly astore! Ye shall walk in silks an’ satins from this day forward—to say nothin’ of a carridge an’ four, if not six.”

“But where’ll we putt it, sir?” asked Baldwin.

“I’ve been thinking of that,” replied Edgar. “You see I don’t like the notion of running right into port with it, where this pilot has probably numerous friends who would aid him in making a dash for such a prize—supposing he has guessed what we are about. Now, I happen to have a trusty friend here, a young Scotchman, who lives in a quiet out-o’-the-way part. We’ll run up to his place, land the gold quickly, and get him to carry it off to some place of security—”

“Whist, not so loud! I do belave,” said Rooney, “that rascal is cocking his weather ear.”

“He don’t understand a word of English,” muttered Baldwin.

Dwarro looked so intensely absent and sleepy as he sat lounging in the bow, that the divers felt relieved and continued, though in more cautious tones, to discuss their plans.

Meanwhile the boat ran into the Hong-Kong river. As it proceeded, a small light boat or skiff was observed approaching. Baldwin, who steered, sheered out a little in the hope of avoiding her, but the man who sculled her conformed to the movement, and quickly shot past their bow—so closely that he could exchange salutations with the pilot. Nothing more appeared to pass between the two,—indeed there seemed no time for further communication—nevertheless Rooney Machowl declared that some telegraphic signals by means of hands and fingers had certainly been exchanged.

In a short time the boat was turned sharp round by Baldwin, and run into a cove near a wall in which was a little wooden gate. A flight of dilapidated steps led to this gate.

“What if your friend should not be at home?” asked Joe, in a whisper.

“I’ll land the bags in any case and await him, while you return to the port with Dwarro,” replied Edgar.

If the pilot was interested in their proceedings, he must have been a consummate actor, for he took no notice whatever of the sudden change of the boat’s course, but continued to smoke languidly, and to gaze abstractedly into the water as if trying to read his fortune there, while Edgar and Rooney landed the bags, and carried them through the little gate into the Scotchman’s garden. In a few minutes Edgar returned to the boat, stepped in, and pushed off, while the two Chinamen, in obedience to orders, rowed out into the river.

“It’s all right,” whispered Edgar, sitting down beside Joe, “Wilson is at home, and has undertaken to have the bags carried to a place of safety long before any attempt to capture them could be organised, even if Dwarro knew our secret and were disposed to attempt such a thing. Besides, we will keep him under our eyes to-night as long as possible.”

That night, highly elated at the success of their labours, our four friends sat round their evening meal in the pagoda and related their various diving adventures and experiences to the admiring and sympathetic Molly Machowl. They had previously entertained the pilot with unlimited hospitality and tobacco, and that suspected individual, so far from showing any restless anxiety to shorten his stay, had coolly enjoyed himself until they were at last glad when he rose to go away.

On the following morning, too, he was ready with his boat before day-break, and the party returned to the scene of operations at the wreck in high spirits.

It is certain that their enthusiasm would have been considerably damped had they known that exactly three hours after their gold was landed, a party of six stout nautical-looking Malays entered the residence of Wilson, the Scotchman, knocked down Wilson’s servants, gagged Wilson’s mouth, drank up the claret with which Wilson had been regaling himself, and carried off the bags of gold before his very eyes! Fortunately for their peace of mind and the success of their labours, our adventurers did not know all this, but, descending to the wreck with heavy soles and light hearts, they proceeded to recover and send up additional bags of gold.

That day they were not quite so successful. Unforeseen difficulties lay in their way. Some of the gold had been washed out of the treasure-room in their absence, and was not easily recovered from the sand and sea-weed. In order the better to find this, the electric-lamp was brought into requisition and found to be most effective, its light being very powerful—equal to that of fifteen thousand candles,—and so arranged as to direct the light in four directions, one of these being towards the bottom by means of a reflecting prism. It burned without air, and when at the bottom, could be lighted or extinguished from the boat by means of electricity.

Still, notwithstanding its aid, they had not collected treasure beyond the value of about eight thousand pounds when the time for rest and taking their mid-day meal arrived. This amount was, however, quite sufficient to improve their appetites, and render them sanguine as to the work of the afternoon.

“You’d better signal Mr Berrington to come up,” said Joe, who with all the others of the party were assembled in the stern of the boat, anxiously waiting to begin their dinner.

“Sure I’ve done it twice a’ready,” replied Rooney, who was attending to our hero’s life-line while Ram-stam and Chok-foo toiled at the air-pumps.

“What does he reply?” asked Joe.

“He replies, ‘all right,’ but nothin’ more. If he knew the imptiness of my—och! There he goes at last, four tugs. Come along, my hearty,” said Rooney, coiling away the slack as Edgar rose slowly to the surface.

Presently his helmet appeared like a huge round goblet ascending from the mighty deep. Then the surface was broken with a gurgle, and the goggle-eyes appeared. Rooney unscrewed the front-glass, and the Chinamen were free to cease their weary pumping. When Edgar was assisted into the boat, it was observed that he had a small peculiarly-shaped box under his arm. He made no reference to this until relieved of his helmet, when he took it up and examined it with much curiosity.

“What have you got there, sir?” asked Joe Baldwin, coming forward.

“That is just what I don’t know,” answered Edgar. “It seems to me like an iron or steel box much encrusted with rust, and I shouldn’t wonder if it contained something of value. One thing is certain, that we have not got the key, and must therefore break it open.”

While he was speaking, David Maxwell gazed at the box intently. He did not speak, but there was a peculiar motion about his lips as if he were licking them. A fiend happened just then to stand at Maxwell’s ear. It whispered, “You know it.”

“Ay,” said Maxwell, under his breath, in reply, “I knows it—well.”

“I wonder if there are valuables in it,” said Edgar.

“Shouldn’t wonder if there wor,” said Rooney.

“Eight or nine thousand pounds, more or less,” whispered the fiend, quoting words used by Mr Hazlit on a former occasion.

“Ah—jis’ so,” muttered Maxwell.

“Don’t you say a word more, David,” said the fiend.

“I wont,” muttered Maxwell’s heart; for the hearts of men are desperately wicked.

“That’s right,” continued the fiend, “for if you keep quiet, you know, the contents will fall to be divided among you, and the loss won’t be felt by a rich fellow like old Hazlit.”

Maxwell’s heart approved and applauded the sentiment, but a stronger power moved in the rough man’s heart, and softly whispered, “Shame!”

“Why, Maxwell,” said Edgar, smiling, “you look at the box as if it were a ghost!”

“An’ so it is,” said Maxwell, with a sudden and unaccountable growl, at the sound of which the fiend sprang overboard, and, diving into the sea, disappeared from Maxwell’s view for ever!

“Why, what d’ee mean, David?” asked Baldwin, in surprise.

“I mean, sir,” said Maxwell, turning to Edgar with a look of unwonted honesty on his rugged face, “that that box is the ghost of one that belongs to Miss Hazlit, if it ain’t the box itself.”

“To Miss Hazlit,” exclaimed Edgar, in surprise; “explain yourself.”

In reply to this the diver told how he had originally become acquainted with the box and its contents, and said that he had more than once searched about the region of Miss Hazlit’s cabin while down at the wreck in hope of finding it, but without success.

“Strange,” said Edgar, “I too have more than once searched in the same place in the hope of finding something, or anything that might have belonged to her, but everything had been washed away. Of course, knowing nothing about this box, I did not look for it, and found it at last, by mere chance, some distance from the berth she occupied. Why did you not mention it before?”

Maxwell was silent, and at that moment the drift of thought and conversation was abruptly turned by Rooney Machowl shouting, “Dinner ahoy!” with impatient asperity.

While engaged in the pleasant duty of appeasing hunger, our divers chatted on many subjects, chiefly professional. Among other things, Rooney remarked that he had heard it said a diving-dress contained sufficient air in it to keep a man alive for more than five minutes.

“I have heard the same,” said Edgar.

“Come, David,” suggested Joe Baldwin, “let’s test it on you.”

“Ready,” said Maxwell, rising and wiping his huge mouth.

The proposal which was made in jest was thereupon carried out in earnest!

Dinner being over, Maxwell put on his diving-dress; the Chinamen set the pump going, and the front-glass was screwed on. Air was forced into the dress until it was completely inflated and looked as if ready to burst, while Maxwell stood on the deck holding on to a back-stay. At a given signal the pumpers ceased to work, and the adventurous man was thus cut off from all further communication with the outward air.

At first the onlookers were amused; then they became interested, and as the minutes flew by, a little anxious, but Maxwell’s grave countenance, as seen through the bull’s-eye, gave no cause for alarm. Thus he stood for full ten minutes, and then opening the escape-valve, signalled for more air.

This was a sufficient evidence that a man might have ample time to return to the surface from great depths, even if the air-pumps should break down.

“But, perhaps,” said Edgar, as they conversed on the subject, “you might not be able to hold out so long under water where the pressure would be great.”

“Sure that’s true. What d’ee say to try, David?” said Rooney.

Again Maxwell expressed willingness to risk the attempt. The glass was once more screwed on, the pumps set agoing, and down the bold diver went to the bottom. On receiving a pre-arranged signal, the pumps were stopped.

This, let the reader fully understand, is a thing that is never done with the ordinary pumps, which are not permitted to cease working from the time the bull’s-eye is fixed on until after it is taken off, on the diver’s return to the surface. It was therefore with much anxiety that the experimenters awaited the result—anxiety that was not allayed by Rooney Machowl’s expression of countenance, and his occasional suggestion that “he must be dead by this time,” or, “Och! He’s gone entirely now!”

For full five minutes Maxwell stayed under water without a fresh supply of air—then he signalled for it, and the anxious pumpers sent it down with a will. Thus it was found that there was still sufficient time for a man to return to the surface with the air contained in his dress, in the event of accident to the pumps. (See Note 3.)

While the divers were engaged with these experiments, Chok-foo was sent on shore in the small boat for a supply of fresh water from a spring near the top of the island.

Having filled his keg, the Chinaman turned his fat good-humoured countenance toward the sea, for the purpose of taking an amiable view of Nature in general before commencing the descent. As he afterwards gazed in the direction of the mainland, he observed what appeared to be a line of sea-gulls on the horizon. He looked intently at these after shouldering his water-keg. Chok-foo’s visage was yellow by nature. It suddenly became pale green. He dropped his burden and bounded down the hillside as if he had gone mad. The water-keg followed him. Being small and heavy it overtook him, swept the legs from under him, and preceded him to the beach, where it was dashed to atoms. Chok-foo recovered himself, continued his wild descent, sprang into the boat, rowed out to his companions in furious haste, and breathlessly gave the information that pirates were coming!

Those to whom he said this knew too well what he meant to require explanation. They were aware that many so-called “traders” in the Eastern seas become pirates on the shortest notice when it suits their convenience.

Edgar Berrington immediately drew a revolver from his pocket, and stepping suddenly up to Dwarro, said sternly:—

“Look here!”

The pilot did look, and for the first time his calm, cool, imperturbable expression deserted him, for he saw that he had to deal with a resolute and powerful man. At the same time his right hand moved towards his breast, but it was arrested from behind in the iron grip of Joe Baldwin.

“Now, pilot,” said Edgar, “submit, and no one shall harm you. Resist, and you are a dead man. Search him, Joe.”

The diver opened Dwarro’s pilot-coat, and found beneath it a brace of pistols and a long sheath knife, which he quietly removed and transferred to his own person. The other men in the boat looked on, meanwhile, in silence.

“Dwarro,” continued Edgar, “you have planned this, I know, but I’ll thwart you. I won’t tie or gag you. I’ll make you sit at the helm and steer, while we evade your friends. I shall sit beside you, and you may rely on it that if you disobey an order in the slightest degree, or give a signal by word or look to any one, I’ll blow out your brains. D’you understand me?”

The pilot made no reply save by a slight inclination of the head, while a dark frown settled on his features.

It was obvious that fear found no place in the man’s breast, for a deep flush of indignation covered his countenance. He merely felt that he must obey or die, and wisely chose the former alternative.

Meanwhile the fleet of boats which had appeared to the Chinaman on the hill-top was now seen by the party in the boat as they drew nearer under the influence of a land breeze—their high sails rendering them visible before the low boat of our divers could be seen by them.

The wind had not yet reached the island, but, even if it had, the divers would not have hoisted sail, lest they should have been seen.

“Ship your oars now, lads, and pull for life,” cried Edgar, seizing the tiller with one hand, while with the other he held the revolver. “You take this oar, Dwarro, and pull with a will.”

In a few seconds the pilot boat was creeping pretty swiftly along the rugged shore of the island, in the direction of the open sea. To lighten her, the little boat astern was cut adrift. Continuing their course, they rowed quite past the island, and then, turning abruptly to the southward, they pulled steadily on until the first “cat’s-paw” of the breeze ruffled the glassy sea.

By this time the fleet of boats was distinctly visible, making straight for the island. Edgar now ordered the sails to be set, and bade Dwarro take the helm. The pilot obeyed with the air of a Stoic. It was clear that his mind was made up. This had the effect of calling up a look of settled resolution on Edgar’s face.

In a few minutes the sails filled, and then, to the surprise not only of Dwarro but all on board, Edgar ordered the pilot to steer straight for the line of advancing boats.

Two of these had changed their course on first observing the divers’ boat, but when they saw it steering straight down, as if to meet or join them, they resumed their course for the island. Presently the breeze increased, and the pilot boat leaped over the waves as if it had received new life.

“It’s a bowld thing to try,” muttered Rooney Machowl, “but I’m afeard, sir—”

He was silenced by a peremptory “Hush” from Edgar. “Get down so as to be out of sight,” he continued, “all of you except the Chinamen.—You two come and sit by Dwarro.”

As he spoke, Edgar himself sat down on an oar, so as to be able to see over the gunwale without himself being seen. To those in the fleet it would thus appear that their vessel was a pilot boat returning from seaward with its skipper and two Chinamen. Whatever Dwarro’s intentions had been, he was evidently somewhat disconcerted, and glanced more than once uneasily at the calm youth who sat pistol in hand at his side directing him how to steer.

Although there was a considerable fleet of the piratical boats, they were spread out so that a space of several hundred yards intervened between each. Edgar steered for the centre of the widest gap, and his bold venture was favoured by a sudden increase of wind, which caused the waves to gurgle from the bow.

Just as they passed between two of the boats they were hailed by one of them. Edgar kept his eyes fixed on Dwarro, who became slightly pale. The click of the pistol at the moment caused the pilot to start.

“You may inform and we may be caught,” said Edgar, sternly; “but whatever happens you shall die if you disobey. Speak not, but wave your hand in reply.”

Dwarro obeyed. Those who had hailed him apparently thought the distance too great for speech; they waved their hands in return, and the boat passed on. A few minutes more and our divers were safely beyond the chance of capture, making for the mainland under a steady breeze.

Chapter Fourteen.

Miss Pritty’s “Worst Fears” are more than realised.

Turn we now to Miss Pritty—and a pretty sight she is when we turn to her! In her normal condition Miss Pritty is the pink of propriety and neatness. At the present moment she lies with her mouth open, and her eyes shut, hair dishevelled, garments disordered, slippers off, and stockings not properly on. Need we say that the sea is at the bottom of it? One of the most modest, gentle, unassuming, amiable of women has been brought to the condition of calmly and deliberately asserting that she “doesn’t care!”—doesn’t care for appearances; doesn’t care for character; doesn’t care for past reminiscences or future prospects; doesn’t care, in short, for anything—life and death included. It is a sad state of mind and body—happily a transient!

“Stewardess.”

“Yes, Miss?”

“I shall die.”

“Oh no, Miss, don’t say so. You’ll be quite well in a short time,” (the stewardess has a pleasant motherly way of encouraging the faint-hearted). “Don’t give way to it, Miss. You’ve no idea what a happytite you’ll ’ave in a few days. You’ll be soon able to eat hoceans of soup and ’eaps of fat pork, and—”

She stops abruptly, for Miss Pritty has gone into sudden convulsions, in the midst of which she begs the stewardess, quite fiercely, to “Go away.”

Let us draw a veil over the scene.

Miss Pritty has been brought to this pass by Mr Charles Hazlit, whose daughter, Aileen, has been taken ill in China. Being a man of unbounded wealth, and understanding that Miss Pritty is a sympathetic friend of his daughter and an admirable nurse, he has written home to that lady requesting her, in rather peremptory terms, to “come out to them.” Miss Pritty, resenting the tone of the request as much as it was in her nature to resent anything, went off instanter, in a gush of tender love and sympathy, and took passage in the first ship that presented itself as being bound for the China seas. She did not know much about ships. Her maritime ideas were vague. If a washing-tub had been advertised just then as being A1 at Lloyds’ and about to put forth for that region of the earth with every possible convenience on board for the delight of human beings, she would have taken a berth in it at once.

We do not intend to inflict Miss Pritty’s voyage on our reader. Suffice it to say that she survived it, reached China in robust health, and found her sick friend,—who had recovered,—in a somewhat similar condition.

After an embrace such as women alone can bestow on each other, Miss Pritty, holding her friend’s hand, sat down to talk. After an hour of interjectional, exclamatory, disconnected, irrelevant, and largely idiotical converse—sustained chiefly by herself—Miss Pritty said:—

“And oh! The pirates!”

She said this with an expression of such awful solemnity that Aileen could not forbear smiling as she asked—

“Did you see any?”

“Gracious! No,” exclaimed Miss Pritty, with a look of horror, “but we heard of them. Only think of that! If I have one horror on earth which transcends all other horrors in horribleness, that horror is—pirates. I once had the misfortune to read of them when quite a girl—they were called Buccaneers, I think, in the book—and I have never got over it. Well, one day when we were sailing past the straits of Malacca,—I think it was,—our captain said they were swarming in these regions, and that he had actually seen them—more than that, had slain them with his own—oh! It is too horrible to think of. And our captain was such a dear good man too. Not fierce one bit, and so kind to everybody on board, especially the ladies! I really cannot understand it. There are such dreadfully strange mixtures of character in this world. No, he did not say he had slain them, but he used nautical expressions which amount to the same thing, I believe; he said he had spiflicated lots of ’em and sent no end of ’em to somebody’s locker. It may be wrong in me even to quote such expressions, dear Aileen, but I cannot explain myself properly if I don’t. It is fearful to know there are so many of them, ‘swarming,’ as our captain said.”

“The worst of it is that many of the boatmen and small traders on the coast,” said Aileen, “are also pirates, or little better.”

“Dreadful!” exclaimed her friend. “Why, oh why do people go to sea at all?”

“To transport merchandise, I suppose,” said Aileen. “We should be rather badly off without tea, and silk, and spices, and such things—shouldn’t we?”

“Tea and silk! Aileen. I would be content to wear cotton and drink coffee or cocoa—which latter I hate—if we only got rid of pirates.”

“Even cotton, coffee, and cocoa are imported, I fear,” suggested Aileen.

“Then I’d wear wool and drink water—anything for peace. Oh how I wish,” said Miss Pritty, with as much solemn enthusiasm as if she were the first who had wished it, “that I were the Queen of England—then I’d let the world see something.”

“What would you do, dear?” asked Aileen.

“Do! Well, I’ll tell you. Being the head of the greatest nation of the earth—except, of course, the Americans, who assert their supremacy so constantly that they must be right—being the head, I say, of the greatest earthly nation, with that exception, I would order out all my gun-ships and turret-boats, and build new ones, and send them all round to the eastern seas, attack the pirates in their strongholds, and—and—blow them all out o’ the water, or send the whole concern to the bottom! You needn’t laugh, Aileen. Of course I do not use my own language. I quote from our captain. Really you have no idea what strong, and to me quite new expressions that dear man used. So powerful too, but never naughty. No, never. I often felt as if I ought to have been shocked by them, but on consideration I never was, for it was more the manner than the matter that seemed shocking. He was so gentle and kind, too, with it all. I shall never forget how he gave me his arm the first day I was able to come on deck, after being reduced to a mere shadow by sea-sickness, and how tenderly he led me up and down, preventing me, as he expressed it, from lurching into the lee-scuppers, or going slap through the quarter-rails into the sea.”

After a little more desultory converse, Aileen asked her friend if she were prepared to hear some bad news.

Miss Pritty declared that she was, and evinced the truth of her declaration by looking prematurely horrified.

Aileen, although by no means demonstrative, could not refrain from laying her head on her friend’s shoulder as she said, “Well then, dear Laura, we are beggars! Dear papa has failed in business, and we have not a penny in the world!”

Miss Pritty was not nearly so horrified as she had anticipated being. Poor thing, she was so frequently in the condition of being without a penny that she had become accustomed to it. Her face, however, expressed deep sympathy, and her words corresponded therewith.

“How did it happen?” she asked, at the close of a torrent of condolence.

“Indeed I don’t know,” replied Aileen, looking up with a smile as she brushed away the two tears which the mention of their distress had forced into her eyes. “Papa says it was owing to the mismanagement of a head clerk and the dishonesty of a foreign agent, but whatever the cause, the fact is that we are ruined. Of course that means, I suppose, that we shall have no more than enough to procure the bare necessaries of life, and shall now, alas! Know experimentally what it is to be poor.”

Miss Pritty, when in possession of “enough to procure the bare necessaries of life,” had been wont to consider herself rich, but her powers of sympathy were great. She scorned petty details, and poured herself out on her poor friend as a true comforter—counselled resignation as a matter of course, but suggested such a series of bright impossibilities for the future as caused Aileen to laugh, despite her grief.

In the midst of one of these bursts of hilarity Mr Hazlit entered the room. The sound seemed to grate on his feelings, for he frowned as he walked, in an absent mood, up to a glass case full of gaudy birds, and turned his back to it under the impression, apparently, that it was a fire.

“Aileen,” he said, jingling some loose coin in his pocket with one hand, while with the other he twisted the links of a massive gold chain, “your mirth is ill-timed. I am sorry, Miss Pritty, to have to announce to you, so soon after your arrival, that I am a beggar.”

As he spoke he drew himself up to his full height, and looked, on the whole, like an over-fed, highly ornamented, and well-to-do beggar.

“Yes,” he said, repeating the word with emphasis as if he were rather proud of it, “a beggar. I have not a possession in the world save the clothes on my back, which common decency demands that my creditors should allow to remain there. Now, I have all my life been a man of action, promptitude, decision. We return to England immediately—I do not mean before luncheon, but as soon as the vessel in which I have taken our passage is ready for sea, which will probably be in a few days. I am sorry, Miss Pritty, that I have put you to so much unnecessary trouble, but of course I could not foresee what was impending. All I can do now is to thank you, and pay your passage back in the same vessel with ourselves if you are disposed to go. That vessel, I may tell you, has been selected by me with strict regard to my altered position. It is a very small one, a mere schooner, in which there are no luxuries though enough of necessaries. You will therefore, my child, prepare for departure without delay.”

In accordance with this decision Mr and Miss Hazlit and Miss Pritty found themselves not long afterwards on board the Fairy Queen as the only passengers, and, in process of time, were conveyed by winds and currents to the neighbourhood of the island of Borneo, where we will leave them while we proceed onward to the island of Ceylon. Time and distance are a hindrance to most people. They are fortunately nothing whatever in the way of writers and readers!

Here a strange scene presents itself; numerous pearl-divers are at work—most of them native, some European. But with these we have nothing particular to do, except in so far as they engage the attention of a certain man in a small boat, whose movements we will watch. The man had been rowed to the scene of action by two Malays from a large junk, or Chinese vessel, which lay in the offing. He was himself a Malay—tall, dark, stern, handsome, and of very powerful build. The rowers were perfectly silent and observant of his orders, which were more frequently conveyed by a glance or a nod than by words.

Threading his way among the boats of the divers, the Malay skipper, for such he seemed, signed to the rowers to stop, and directed his attention specially to one boat. In truth this boat seemed worthy of attention because of the energy of the men on board of it. A diver had just leaped from its side into the sea. He was a stalwart man of colour, quite naked, and aided his descent by means of a large stone attached to each of the sandals which he wore. These sandals, on his desiring to return to the surface, could be thrown off, being recoverable by means of cords fastened to them. Just as he went down another naked diver came up from the bottom, and was assisted into the boat. A little blood trickled from his nose and ears, and he appeared altogether much exhausted. No wonder. He had not indeed remained down at any time more than a minute and a half, but he had dived nearly fifty times that day, and sent up a basket containing a hundred pearl oysters each time.

Presently the man who had just descended reappeared. He also looked fagged, but after a short rest prepared again to descend. He had been under water about ninety seconds. Few divers can remain longer. The average time is one minute and a half, sometimes two minutes. It is said that these men are short-lived, and we can well believe it, for their work, although performed only during a short period of each year, is in violent opposition to the laws of nature.

Directing his men to row on, our skipper soon came to another boat, which not only arrested his attention but aroused his curiosity, for never before had he seen so strange a sight. It was a large boat with novel apparatus on board of it, and white men—in very strange costume. In fact it was a party of European divers using the diving-dress among the pearl-fishers of Ceylon, and great was the interest they created, as well as the unbelief, scepticism, misgiving, and doubt which they drew forth—for, although not quite a novelty in those waters, the dress was new to many of the natives present on that occasion, and Easterns, not less than Westerns, are liable to prejudice!

A large concourse of boats watched the costuming of the divers, and breathless interest was aroused as they went calmly over the side and remained down for more than an hour, sending up immense quantities of oysters. Of course liberal-minded men were made converts on the spot, and, equally of course, the narrow-minded remained “of the same opinion still.” Nevertheless, that day’s trial of Western ingenuity has borne much fruit, for we are now told, by the best authorities, that at the present time the diving-dress is very extensively used in sponge, pearl, and coral fisheries in many parts of the world where naked divers alone were employed not many years ago; and that in the Greek Archipelago and on the Turkish and Barbary coasts alone upwards of three hundred diving apparatuses are employed in the sponge fisheries, with immense advantage to all concerned and to the world at large.

Leaving this interesting sight, our Malay skipper threaded his way through the fleet of boats and made for the shores of the Bay of Condatchy, which was crowded with eager men of many nations.

This bay, on the west coast of Ceylon, is the busy scene of one of the world’s great fisheries of the pearl oyster. The fishing, being in the hands of Government, is kept under strict control. It is farmed out. The beds of oysters are annually-surveyed and reported on. They are divided into four equal portions, only one of which is worked each year. As the fishing produces vast wealth and affords scope for much speculation during the short period of its exercise, the bay during February, March, and April of each year presents a wondrous spectacle, for here Jews, Indians, merchants, jewellers, boatmen, conjurors to charm off the dreaded sharks, Brahmins, Roman Catholic priests, and many other professions and nationalities are represented, all in a state of speculation, hope, and excitement that fill their faces with animation and their frames with activity.

The fleet of boats leaves the shore at 10 p.m. on the firing of a signal-gun, and returns at noon next day, when again the gun is fired, flags are hoisted, and Babel immediately ensues.

It was noon when our Malay skipper landed. The gun had just been fired. Many of the boats were in, others were arriving. Leaving his boat in charge of his men, the skipper wended his way quickly through the excited crowd with the wandering yet earnest gaze of a man who searches for some one. Being head and shoulders above most of the men around him, he could do this with ease. For some time he was unsuccessful, but at last he espied an old grey-bearded Jew, and pushed his way towards him.

“Ha! Pungarin, my excellent friend,” exclaimed the Jew, extending his hand, which the skipper merely condescended to touch, “how do you do? I am so overjoyed to see you; you have business to transact eh?”

“You may be quite sure, Moses, that I did not come to this nest of sharpers merely for pleasure,” replied Pungarin, brusquely.

“Ah, my friend, you are really too severe. No doubt we are sharp, but that is a proper business qualification. Besides, our trade is legitimate, while yours, my friend, is—”

The Jew stopped and cast a twinkling glance at his tall companion.

“Is not legitimate, you would say,” observed Pungarin, “but that is open to dispute. In my opinion this is a world of robbers; the only difference among us is that some are sneaking robbers, others are open. Every man to his taste. I have been doing a little of the world’s work openly of late, and I come here with part of the result to give you a chance of robbing me in the other way.”

“Nay, nay, you are altogether too hard,” returned the Jew, with a deprecating smile; “but come to my little office. We shall have more privacy there. How comes it, Pungarin, that you are so far from your own waters? It is a longish way from Ceylon to Borneo.”

“How comes it,” replied the Malay, “that the sea-mew flies far from home? There is no limit to the flight of a sea-rover, save the sea-shore.”

“True, true,” returned the Jew, with a nod of intelligence; “but here is my place of business. Enter my humble abode, and pray be seated.”

Pungarin stooped to pass the low doorway, and seated himself beside a small deal table which, although destitute of a cloth, was thickly covered with ink-stains. The Malay rover was clad in a thin loose red jacket, a short petticoat or kilt, and yellow trousers. A red fez, with a kerchief wound round it turban fashion, covered his head. He was a well-made stalwart man, with a handsome but fierce-looking countenance.

From beneath the loose jacket Pungarin drew forth a small, richly chased, metal casket. Placing it on the table he opened it, and, turning it upside down, poured from it a little cataract of glittering jewellery.

“Ha! My friend,” exclaimed his companion, “you have got a prize. Where did you find it?”

“I might answer, ‘What is that to you?’ but I won’t, for I wish to keep you in good humour till our business is concluded. Here, then, are the facts connected with the case. Not long ago some Englishmen came out to Hong-Kong to dive to a vessel which had been wrecked on an island off the coast. My worthy agent there, Dwarro, cast his eyes on them and soon found out all about their plans. Dwarro is a very intelligent fellow. Like yourself, he has a good deal of the sneaking robber about him. He ascertained that the wreck had much gold coin in it, and so managed that they hired his boat to go off to it with their diving apparatus. Somewhat against their will he accompanied them. They were very successful. The first time they went on shore, they took with them gold to the value of about twenty thousand pounds. Dwarro cleverly managed to have this secured a few hours after it was landed. He also made arrangements to have a fleet of my fellows ready, so that when more gold had been recovered from the wreck they might surround them on the spot and secure it. But the young Englishman at the head of the party was more than a match for us. He cowed Dwarro, and cleverly escaped to land. There, however, another of my agents had the good fortune to discover the Englishmen while they were landing their gold. He was too late, indeed, to secure the gold, which had been sent on inland in charge of two Chinamen, but he was lucky enough to discover this casket in the stern-sheets of their boat. The Englishmen fought hard for it, especially the young fellow in command, who was more like a tiger than a man, and knocked down half a dozen of our men before he was overpowered. We would have cut his throat then and there, but a party of inhabitants, guided by one of the Chinamen, came to the rescue, and we were glad to push off with what we had got. Now, Moses, this casket is worth a good round sum. Dwarro wisely took the trouble to make inquiries about it through one of the Chinamen, who happened to be an honest man and fortunately also very stupid. From this man, Chok-foo, who is easily imposed on, he learned that the casket belongs to a very rich English merchant, who would give anything to recover it, because it belonged to his wife, who is dead—”

“A rich English merchant?” interrupted Moses, “we Jews are acquainted pretty well with all the rich English merchants. Do you know his name?”

“Yes; Charles Hazlit,” answered the Malay.

“Indeed! Well—go on.”

“Well,” said Pungarin, abruptly, “I have nothing more to say, except, what will you give for these things?”

“One thousand pounds would be a large sum to offer,” said the Jew, slowly.

“And a very small one to accept,” returned Pungarin, as he slowly gathered the gems together and put them back into the casket.

“Nay, my friend, be not so hasty,” said Moses; “what do you ask for them?”

“I shall ask nothing,” replied the Malay; “the fact is, I think it probable that I may be able to screw more than their value out of Mr Hazlit.”

“I am sorry to disappoint your expectations,” returned the Jew, with something approaching to a sneer, as he rose; and, selecting one from a pile of English newspapers, slowly read out to his companion the announcement of the failure of the firm of Hazlit and Company. “You see, my good friend, we Jews are very knowing as well as sharp. It were better for you to transact your little business with me.”

Knowing and sharp as he was, the Jew was not sufficiently so to foresee the result of his line of conduct with the Malay rover. Instead of giving in and making the best of circumstances, that freebooter, with characteristic impetuosity, shut the steel box with a loud snap, put it under his arm, rose, and walked out of the place without uttering a word. He went down to the beach and rowed away, leaving Moses to moralise on the uncertainty of all human affairs.

Favouring gales carried the Malay pirate-junk swiftly to the east. The same gales checked, baffled, and retarded the schooner Fairy Queen on her voyage to the west.

“Darling Aileen,” said Miss Pritty, recovering from a paroxysm, “did you ever hear of any one dying of sea-sickness?”

“I never did,” answered Aileen, with a languid smile.

Both ladies lay in their berths, their pale cheeks resting on the woodwork thereof, and their eyes resting pitifully on each other.

“It is awful—horrible!” sighed Miss Pritty at at the end of another paroxysm.

Aileen, who was not so ill as her friend, smiled but said nothing. Miss Pritty was past smiling, but not quite past speaking.

“What dreadful noises occur on board ships,” she said, after a long pause; “such rattling, and thumping, and creaking, and stamping. Perhaps the sailors get their feet wet and are so cold that they require to stamp constantly to warm them!”

Aileen displayed all her teeth and said, “Perhaps.”

At that moment the stamping became so great, and was accompanied by so much shouting, that both ladies became attentive.

A few moments later their door opened violently, and Mr Hazlit appeared with a very pale face. He was obviously in a state of great perturbation.

“My dears,” he said, hurriedly, “excuse my intruding—we are—attacked—pirates—get up; put on your things!”

His retreat and the closing of the door was followed by a crash overhead and a yell. Immediately after the schooner quivered from stem to stern, under the shock of her only carronade, which was fired at the moment; the shot being accompanied by a loud cheer.

“Oh horror!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, “my worst fears are realised!”

Poor Miss Pritty was wrong. Like many people whose “worst fears” have been engendered at a civilised fireside, she was only beginning to realise a few of her fears. She lived to learn that her “worst fears” were mere child’s play to the world’s dread realities.

Her sea-sickness, however, vanished as if by magic, and in a few minutes she and her companion were dressed.

During those few minutes the noise on deck had increased, and the shouts, yells, and curses told them too plainly that men were engaged in doing what we might well believe is the work only of devils. Then shrieks of despair followed.

Presently all was silent. In a few minutes the cabin door opened, and Pungarin entered.

“Go on deck,” he said, in a quiet tone.

The poor ladies obeyed. On reaching the deck the first sight that met them was Mr Hazlit standing by the binnacle. A Malay pirate with a drawn sword stood beside him, but he was otherwise unfettered. They evidently thought him harmless. Near to him stood the skipper of the Fairy Queen with the stern resolution of a true Briton on his countenance, yet with the sad thoughtful glance of one trained under Christian influences in his eye. His hands were bound, and a Malay pirate stood on either side of him. He was obviously not deemed harmless!

The decks were everywhere covered with blood, but not a man of the crew was to be seen.

“You are the captain of this schooner?” asked Pungarin.

“Yes,” replied the prisoner, firmly.

“Have you treasure on board?”

“No.”

“We shall soon find out the truth as to that. Meanwhile, who is this?” (pointing to Mr Hazlit.)

The captain was silent and thoughtful for a few moments. He was well aware of the nature of the men with whom he had to do. He had seen his crew murdered in cold blood. He knew that his own end drew near.

“This gentleman,” he said, slowly, “is a wealthy British merchant—well-known and respected in England. He has rich friends. It may be worth your while to spare him.”

“And this,” added the pirate captain, pointing to Aileen.

“Is his only child,” answered the other.

“Your name?” asked Pungarin.

“Charles Hazlit,” said the hapless merchant.

A sudden flash of intelligence lit up for a moment the swarthy features of the pirate. It passed quickly. Then he spoke in an undertone to one of his men, who, with the assistance of another, led the captain of the schooner to the forward part of the ship. A stifled groan, followed by a plunge, was heard by the horrified survivors. That was all they ever knew of the fate of their late captain. But for what some would term a mere accident, even that and their own fate would have remained unknown to the world—at least during the revolution of Time. The romances of life are often enacted by commonplace people. Many good ships with ordinary people on board, (like you and me, reader), leave port, and are “never again heard of.” Who can tell what tales may be revealed in regard to such, in Eternity?

The Fairy Queen was one of those vessels whose fate it was to have her “fate” revealed in Time.

We cannot state with certainty what were the motives which induced Pungarin to spare the lives of Mr Hazlit and his family; all we know is, that he transferred them to his junk. After taking everything of value out of the schooner, he scuttled her.

Not many days after, he attacked a small hamlet on the coast of Borneo, massacred most of the men, saved a few of the young and powerful of them—to serve his purposes—also some of the younger women and children, and continued his voyage.

The poor English victims whom he had thus got possession of lived, meanwhile, in a condition of what we may term unreality. They could not absolutely credit their senses. They felt strangely impelled to believe that a hideous nightmare had beset them—that they were dreaming; that they would unquestionably awake at last, and find that it was time to get up to a substantial and very commonplace English breakfast. But, mingled with this feeling, or rather, underlying it, there was a terrible assurance that the dream was true. So is it throughout life. What is fiction to you, reader, is fact to some one else, and that which is your fact is some one else’s fiction. If any lesson is taught by this, surely it is the lesson of sympathy—that we should try more earnestly than we do to throw ourselves out of ourselves into the place of others.

Poor Miss Pritty and Aileen learned this lesson. From that date forward, instead of merely shaking their heads and sighing in a hopeless sort of way, and doing nothing—or nearly nothing—to check the evils they deplored, they became red-hot enthusiasts in condemning piracy and slavery, (which latter is the grossest form of piracy), and despotism of every kind, whether practised by a private pirate like Pungarin, or by a weak pirate like the Sultan of Zanzibar, or by comparatively strong pirates like the nations of Spain and Portugal.

In course of time the pirate-junk anchored at the mouth of a river, and much of her freight, with all her captives, was transferred to native boats. These were propelled by means of numerous oars, and the male captives were now set to work at these oars.

Mr Hazlit and his daughter and Miss Pritty were allowed to sit idle in the stem of one of the boats, and for a time they felt their drooping spirits revive a little under the influence of the sweet sunshine while they rowed along shore, but as time passed these feelings were rudely put to flight.

The captives were various in their character and nationality, as well as in their spirits and temperaments. These had all to be brought into quick subjection and working order. There were far more captives than the pirates knew what to do with. One of those who sat on the thwart next to the Hazlits had been a policeman in one of the China ports. He was a high-spirited young fellow. It was obvious that his soul was seething into rebellion. The pirate in charge of the boat noted the fact, and whispered to one of his men, who thereupon ordered the policeman to pull harder, and accompanied his order with a cut from a bamboo cane.

Instantly the youth sprang up, and tried to burst his bonds. He succeeded, but before he could do anything, he was overpowered by half a dozen men, and re-bound. Then two men sat down beside him, each with a small stick, with which they beat the muscles of his arms and legs, until their power was completely taken away. This done, they left him, a living heap of impotent flesh in the bottom of the boat, and a salutary warning to the rebellious.

But it did not end here. As soon as the poor fellow had recovered sufficiently to move, he was again set to the oar, and forced to row as best he could.

The voyage along the coast, and up a river into which they finally turned, occupied several days. At first, on starting, Aileen and her companions had looked with tender pity on the captives as they toiled at the heavy oars, but this deepened into earnest solicitude as they saw them, after hours of toil, gasping for want of water and apparently faint from want of food. Next day, although they had lain down in the bottom of the boat supperless, the rest had refreshed most of them, and they pulled on with some degree of vigour. But noon came, and with it culminated the heat of a burning sun. Still no water was served out, no food distributed. Mr Hazlit and his party had biscuit and water given them in the morning and at noon. During the latter meal Aileen observed the native policeman regarding her food with such eager wolfish eyes that under an impulse of uncontrollable feeling she held out her can of water to him. He seized and drank the half of it before one of the pirates had time to dash it from his lips.

Presently a youth, who seemed less robust than his comrades, uttered a wild shriek, threw up his hands, and fell backwards. At once the pirates detached him from his oar, threw him into the sea, and made another captive fill his place. And now, to their inexpressible horror, the Hazlits discovered that the practice of these wretches—when they happened to have a super-abundance of captives—was to make them row on without meat or drink, until they dropt at the oar, and then throw them overboard! Reader, we do not deal in fiction here, we describe what we have heard from the mouth of a trustworthy eye-witness.

In these circumstances the harrowing scenes that were enacted before the English ladies were indeed fitted to arouse that “horror” which poor Miss Pritty, in her innocence, had imagined to have reached its worst. We will pass it over. Many of the captives died. A few of the strongest survived, and these, at last, were fed a little in order to enable them to complete the journey. Among them was the native policeman, who had suddenly discovered that his wisest course of action, in the meantime, was submission.

At last the boats reached a village in one of those rivers whose low and wooded shores afford shelter to too many nests of Malay pirates even at the present time—and no wonder! When the rulers and grandees of some Eastern nations live by plunder, what can be expected of the people?

The few captives who survived were sent ashore. Among them were our English friends.

Chapter Fifteen.

Sudden and bad News induces sudden and good Action.

About this time there hung a dark cloud over the pagoda in Hong-Kong. Even the bright eyes of Molly Machowl could not pierce through this cloud. Rooney himself had lost much of his hopeful disposition. As for Edgar Berrington, Joe Baldwin, and David Maxwell, they were silently depressed, for adversity had crushed them very severely of late.

Immediately after their losses, as already detailed or referred to, stormy weather had for several weeks prevented them from resuming operations at the wreck, and when at last they succeeded in reaching the old locality, they found themselves so closely watched by shore boats that the impossibility of their being able to keep anything they should bring up became obvious. They were forced, therefore, to give up the idea of making further attempts.

“It’s too bad,” growled Maxwell one morning at breakfast, “that all our trouble and expense should end in nothin’—or next to nothin’.”

“Come, Maxwell,” said Edgar, “don’t say ‘nothing.’ It is true we lost our first great find that luckless night when we left it with Wilson, but our second haul is safe, and though it amounts only to eight thousand pounds sterling, that after all is not to be sneezed at by men in our circumstances.”

“Make not haste to be rich,” muttered Joe Baldwin in an undertone.

“Did we make haste to be rich?” asked Edgar, smiling. “It seems to me that we set about it in a cool, quiet, business-like way.”

“Humph, that’s true, but we got uncommon keen over it—somethin’ like what gamblers do.”

“Our over-keenness,” returned Edgar, “was not right, perhaps, but our course of action was quite legitimate—for it is a good turn done not only to ourselves but to the world when we save property; and the salvor of property—who necessarily risks so much—is surely worthy of a good reward in kind.”

“Troth, an’ that’s true,” said Rooney, with a wry grin, “I had quite made up me mind to a carridge and four with Molly astore sittin’ in silks an’ satins inside.”

“Molly would much rather sit in cotton,” said the lady referred to, as she presided at the breakfast-table; “have another cup, Rooney, an’ don’t be talking nonsense.”

“But it does seem hard,” continued Maxwell in his growling voice, “after all our trouble in thin venture, to be obliged to take to divin’ at mere harbour-works in Eastern waters, just to keep body and soul together.”

“Never mind, boy,” exclaimed Rooney with a successful effort at heartiness, “it won’t last long—it’s only till we get a suitable chance of a ship to take us an’ our small fortins back to ould Ireland—or England, if ye prefer it—though it’s my own opinion that England is only an Irish colony. Never say die. Sure we’ve seen a dale of life, too, in them parts. Come, I’ll give ye a sintiment, an’ we’ll drink it in tay—”

Before the hopeful Irishman could give the sentiment, he was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door and the abrupt entrance of a Chinaman, who looked at the breakfast party with keen interest and some anxiety.

“If it’s your grandmother you’re lookin’ for,” said Rooney, “she don’t live here, young man.”

Paying no attention to this pleasantry, the Chinaman closed the door with an air of mystery, and, going up to Edgar, looked him inquiringly in the face, as he said interrogatively:—

“I’s pleeceman. You’s Eggirbringting?”

“Not a bad attempt,” exclaimed Edgar, with a laugh. “I suppose that is my name translated into Chinese.”

“Took me muchee—long—time for learn him from young missee,” said the Chinaman with a hurt look.

At the mention of a young lady Edgar’s amused look changed into one of anxiety, for he had, through an English acquaintance in the port, become aware not only of Mr Hazlit’s failure, but of his sudden departure for England with his daughter and Miss Pritty, and a vague suspicion of bad news flashed upon him.

“You bring a message, I see?” he said, rising and speaking hurriedly. “Let me hear it. Quick.”

Thus invoked, the Chinaman spoke so quickly and in such a miraculous jumble of bad English, that Edgar could not comprehend him at all;—only one thing he felt quite sure of, namely, that his anxiety was well found.

“Ho! Chok-foo!” he shouted.

The domestic entered, and to him the Chinaman delivered his message, which was to the following effect:—

He was a native policeman who had been captured on the coast when in discharge of his duties. Many others had been taken by the same pirates at different times, and among them an English gentleman named Hazlit, with his daughter and a lady friend. These latter had been spared, probably with a view to ransom, at the time the crew of their vessel was massacred, and were at that moment in one of the strongholds belonging to the pirates, up one of the intricate rivers on the coast of Borneo. He, the policeman, having resolved to make his escape, and being, in virtue of his wise, wily, and constabular nature, well able to do so, had mentioned the circumstance to the young lady, and, under promise of a handsome reward, had agreed to travel and voyage, night and day, by boat or vessel, as fortune should favour him, in order to convey immediate intelligence of these facts to a youth named “Eggirbringting,” whom the young lady described as being very tall and stout, and extremely handsome.

It may easily be imagined with what mingled feelings of anxiety and impatience the “tall, stout, and extremely handsome young man” listened to this narrative as it was volubly delivered by the “pleeceman” and slowly translated by Chok-foo.

When at last he was fairly in possession of all that the messenger had to relate, Edgar paced up and down the room for a few seconds with rapid strides.

“We must go into action at once, sir,” suggested Joe Baldwin.

“Of course, of course, but how? That’s the point,” exclaimed Edgar, with a look of impatient vexation. “Borneo is a long way off. There are no steamers running regularly to it that I know of. However, it’s of no use talking; let’s go at once and make inquiry. I’ll go see our consul—perhaps—”

“P’lhaps,” interrupted the messenger, “p’lhaps the pleeceman can talkee.”

“If he can, let him speak,” cried Edgar, with impatience.

“Pleece he nevir too muchee quick,” returned the man, coolly. “We knows what we’s can do. Hai, yach!”

Edgar sat down with a sharp sigh of discontent, and waited for more.

“Well?”

“Well,” repeated the policeman, “there be steam-boat here now—go for Borneo quick.”

“At once!” cried Edgar, starting up and seizing his hat, “why did you not—”

“Sh! Keepee cool, you no ’casion makes so fashion,” interrupted the policeman, who thereupon went on to explain that on his arrival in Hong-Kong he had gone at once to head-quarters, before delivering his message to Edgar, in order to make himself master of all the news about town that was worth knowing, or likely in any way to advance the interest of those whom he sought to serve. Among other things he had learned the important fact that, two days before his arrival, a small gun-boat, belonging to a certain Rajah of Borneo, and commanded by a certain Scotchman, and employed for the express purpose of hunting up and rooting out the pirates of the China seas, had put in to the port for repairs. He had hurried down to the gun-boat in time to prevent her departure, had told his story, and had just come from her to say that her captain would like much to see Mr Berrington.

On hearing this, Edgar again started up and eagerly ordered the native policeman to guide him to the gun-boat in question without another moment’s delay. He was followed, of course, by his male companions, who were nearly as much interested in the matter as himself. They were soon on the deck of the gun-boat.

It was a neat trim screw-steamer of small size, 180 tons burthen, and manned by about sixty Malays and a few Englishmen. Everything on board was as bright and orderly as if it had been a British man-of-war. Her commander received the visitors on the quarter-deck. He looked like one who was eminently well qualified to hunt up, run down, cut out, or in any other mode make away with pirates. There was much of the bull-terrier in him—solid, broad, short, large-chested—no doubt also large-hearted—active, in the prime of life, with short black curly hair, a short black beard and moustache, a square chin, a pleasant smile, a prominent nose, and an eagle eye. Indeed he might himself have made a splendid chief of the very race against which he waged “war to the knife.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Berrington,” said the captain, holding out his hand. “The native policeman has told me all about your friends—I understand them to be such?”

“Yes—intimate friends.”

“Well, this business is quite in my way. I shall be glad to take you with me. But who are these?” he added, looking at Edgar’s companions.

“They are comrades, and might do good service if you will allow them to volunteer.”

“My crew is complete,” said the captain, doubtfully, “except, indeed, that my chief engineer is just dead, but none of your men look as if they could fill his shoes.”

“That is true, but I can fill them myself,” said Edgar, eagerly.

“Indeed!”

“Yes, I am an engineer by profession; my comrades are professional divers. We have been engaged on a wreck here for some time past.”

“Good,” said the captain; “are your dresses and apparatus at hand?”

“Some of them are.”

“Then bring them aboard at once. I leave in an hour. Just bring what you have handy. Lose no time. I will take your men also. They may be of use.”

Within an hour after the foregoing conversation Molly Machowl was left disconsolate in the pagoda under the care of Chok-foo, while the Rajah’s gun-boat was steaming out to sea with Edgar, Baldwin, Rooney, Maxwell, and Ram-stam added to her warlike crew.

Chapter Sixteen.

Bearding the Lion in his Den.

Steam has pretty well subdued time. Fifty years ago it was a mighty feat to “put a circle round the globe.” Now-a-days a “Cook”—by no means a captain—will take or send you round it in “a few weeks.”

Romantic reader, don’t despair! By such means romance has undoubtedly been affected in some degree, but let not that grieve thee! Romance has by no means been taken out of the world; nor has it been, to use an unromantic phrase, reduced in quantity or quality. Human inventions and appliances alter the aspects of romance, and transfer its influences, but they cannot destroy a Creator’s gift to the human race. They have, indeed, taken the romance out of some things which were once romantic, but that is simply because they have made such things familiar and commonplace. They have not yet touched other things which still remain in the hallowed region of romance. Romance is a region. Things crowd out of it, but other things crowd into it. The romantic soul dwells perpetually in it, and while, perhaps with regret, it recognises the fact that many things depart from that region, it also observes, with pleasure, that many things enter into it, and that the entrances are more numerous than the exits. The philosophico-romantic spirit will admit all this and be grateful. The unphilosophico-romantic spirit will not quite see through it, and may, perchance, be perplexed. But be of good cheer. Have faith! Do not let the matter-of-fact “steam-engine,” and the “telegraph,” and the “post-office,” rob thee of thy joys. They have somewhat modified the flow of the river of Romance, but they have not touched its fountain-head,—and never can.

Why, what is Romance? Despite the teachings of the dictionaries—which often give us the original and obsolete meaning of words—we maintain that romance signifies the human soul’s aspirations after the high, and the grand, and the good. In its fallen condition the poor soul undoubtedly makes wondrous mistakes in its romantic strainings, but these mistakes are comparatively seldom on the side of exaggeration. Our dictionary says that romance is extravagance—a fiction which passes beyond the limits of real life. Now, we maintain that no one—not even the most romantic of individuals—ever comes up to real life. We have been a child—at least we incline to that belief—and we have been, like other children, in the habit of romancing, as it is called, that is, according to dictionaries, passing “beyond the limits of real life” into “extravagance.” We are now a man—it is to be hoped—have travelled far and seen much and yet we can say conscientiously that the wildest fancies of our most romantic moods in childhood have been immeasurably surpassed by the grand realities of actual life! What are the most brilliant fancies of a child or of a mere ignorant “romancer,” compared to the amazing visions of the Arctic regions or the high Alps, which we have seen? “Fictions” and “extravagance”! All our wildest sallies are but intravagance and feeble fancy compared with the sublimity of fact. No doubt there are men and women gifted with the power of burlesquing reality, and thus, not going beyond its limits, but causing much dust and confusion within its limits by the exaggeration and falsification of individual facts. This, however, is not romance. We stand up for romance as being the bright staircase that leads childhood to reality, and culminates at last in that vision which the eye of man hath not yet seen nor his mind conceived; a vision which transcends all romance is itself the greatest of all realities, and is “laid up for the people of God.”

We return from this divergence to the point which led to it—the power of steam to subdue time. No doubt it was unromantic enough to be pushed, propelled, thrust, willing or not willing, against, or with, wind and tide, so that you could gauge your distance run—and to be run—almost to a foot; but it was very satisfactory, nevertheless, especially to those whose hearts were far in advance of their vessel, and it was more than satisfactory when at the end of their voyage of a few days they found themselves gliding swiftly, almost noiselessly, up the windings of a quiet river whose picturesque scenery, romantic vistas, and beautiful reflections might have marked it the entrance to a paradise instead of a human pandemonium.

It was very early when the gun-boat entered the stream. The mists of morning still prevailed, and rendered all nature fairy-like. Weird-looking mangrove bushes rose on their leg-like roots from the water, as if independent of soil. Vigorous parasites and creepers strove to strangle the larger trees, but strove in vain. Thick jungle concealed wealth of feathered, insect, and reptile life, including the reptile man, and sundry notes of warning told that these were awaking to their daily toil—the lower animals to fulfil the ends of their being, the higher animal to violate some of the most blessed laws of his Creator. Gradually the sun rose and dispelled the mists, while it warmed everything into strong vitality. As they passed up, clouds of water-fowl rose whirring from their lairs, and luxuriant growth of weeds threatened to obstruct the progress of the steamer.

“Come here, policeman,” said the captain to the native functionary; “how far above this, did you say, is the nest of the vipers?”

“’Bout tree mile.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the captain, turning to Berrington, who had come on deck at the moment. “I never went higher up the river than this point, for, just ahead, there are reeds enough to stop the screw of a three thousand ton ship, but if you’ll get your diving-dresses ready I’ll try it. It would be much better to bring our big guns to bear on them than to attack in boats.”

“I’ll have ’em ready directly,” said Edgar. “Perhaps we’d better stop the engines now.”

“Just so; stop them.”

The engines were stopped, and the gun-boat glided slowly over the still water until it came to rest on its own inverted image.

Meanwhile the air-pump was rigged, and Joe Baldwin put on his dress, to the great interest and no little surprise of the Malay crew.

“Ready, sir,” said Edgar, when Joe sat costumed, with the helmet at his side and his friends Rooney and Maxwell at the pumps.

“Go ahead, then—full steam,” said the captain.

Just in front of the vessel the river was impeded quite across by a dense growth of rank reeds and sedges; a little further on there was clear water. Into this the gun-boat plunged under full steam.

As was expected, the screw soon became choked, and finally stopped. Had the pirates expected this they would probably have made a vigorous attack just then. But the danger, being so obvious, had never before been incurred, and was therefore not prepared for or taken advantage of by the pirates. Nevertheless the captain was ready for them if they had attacked. Every man was at his station armed to the teeth.

The moment the boat began to work heavily Joe’s helmet was put on, and when she came to a stand he went over the stern by means of a rope-ladder prepared for the purpose.

“Be as active as you can, Joe. Got everything you want?” said Edgar, taking up the bull’s-eye.

“All right, sir,” said Joe.

“Pump away,” cried Edgar, looking over his shoulder.

Next moment Joe was under water, and the Malays, with glaring eyes and open mouths, were gazing at the confusion of air-bubbles that arose from him continually. From their looks it seemed as though some of them fancied the whole affair to be a new species of torture invented by their captain.

Joe carried a small hatchet in his girdle and a long sharp knife in his hand. With these he attacked the reeds and weeds, and in ten minutes or less had set the screw free. He soon reappeared on the rope-ladder, and Edgar, who had been attending to his lines, removed the bull’s-eye.

“What now, Joe?” he asked.

“All clear,” said Joe, coming inboard.

“What! Done it already?”

“Ay; steam ahead when you like, sir.”

The order was given at once. The assistant engineer put on full steam, and the gun-boat, crashing through the remaining obstruction, floated into the comparatively clear water beyond. The screw had been again partially fouled, of course, but ten minutes more of our diver’s knife and axe set it free, and the vessel proceeded on her way.

Scouts from the pirate-camp had been watching the gun-boat, for they had counted on nothing worse than an attack by boats, which, strong in numbers, they could easily have repelled. Great therefore was the consternation when these scouts ran in and reported that the vessel had cleared the obstructions by some miraculous power which they could not explain or understand, and was now advancing on them under full steam.

While the operations we have described were being carried out on board the gun-boat, in the pirate village poor Mr Hazlit was seated on a stump outside a rude hut made chiefly of bamboos and palm leaves. He wore only his trousers and shirt, both sadly torn—one of the pirates having taken a fancy to his coat and vest, the former of which he wore round his loins with his legs thrust through the sleeves. The captive merchant sat with his face buried in his hands and bowed on his knees.

Inside the hut sat Aileen with poor Miss Pritty resting on her bosom. Miss Pritty was of a tender confiding nature, and felt it absolutely necessary to rest on somebody’s bosom. She would rather have used a cat’s or dog’s than none. Aileen, being affectionate and sympathetic, had no objection. Nevertheless, not being altogether of angelic extraction, she was a little put out by the constant tremors of her friend.

“Come, dear, don’t shudder so fearfully,” she said, in a half coaxing half remonstrative tone.

“Is he gone?” asked Miss Pritty in a feeble voice, with her eyes tight shut.

She referred to a half-naked warrior who had entered the hut, had half shut his great eyes, and had displayed a huge cavern of red gum and white teeth in an irresistible smile at the woe-begone aspect of Miss Pritty. He had then silently taken his departure.

“Gone,” repeated Aileen, rather sharply; “of course he is, and if he were not, what then? Sure his being dark and rather lightly clothed is not calculated to shock you so much.”

“Aileen!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, raising her head suddenly, and gazing with anxiety into the face of her friend; “has our short residence among these wretches begun to remove that delicacy of mind and sentiment for which I always admired you?”

“No,” returned Aileen, firmly, “but your excessive alarms may have done something towards that end. Nay, forgive me, dear,” she added, gently, as Miss Pritty’s head sank again on her shoulder, with a sob, “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, but really, if you only think of it, our present position demands the utmost resolution, caution, and fortitude of which we are capable; and you know, love, that this shuddering at trifles and imagining of improbabilities will tend to unfit you for action when the time arrives, as it surely will sooner or later, for my father has taken the wisest steps for our deliverance, and, besides, a Greater than my father watches over us.”

“That is true, dear,” assented Miss Pritty, with a tender look. “Now you speak like your old self; but you must not blame me for being so foolish. Indeed, I know that I am, but, then, have not my worst fears been realised? Are we not in the hands—actually in the hands—of pirates—real pirates, buccaneers—ugh!”

Again the poor lady drooped her head and shuddered.

“Your worst fears may have been realised,” said Aileen; “but we have certainly not experienced the worst that might have happened. On the contrary, we have been remarkably well treated—what do you say? Fed on rats and roast puppies! Well, the things they send us may be such, for they resemble these creatures as much as anything else, but they are well cooked and very nice, you must allow, and—”

At that moment Aileen’s tongue was suddenly arrested, and, figuratively speaking, Miss Pritty’s blood curdled in her veins and her heart ceased to beat, for, without an instant’s warning, the woods resounded with a terrific salvo of artillery; grape and canister shot came tearing, hissing, and crashing through the trees, and fierce yells, mingled with fiend-like shrieks, rent the air.

Both ladies sat as if transfixed—pale, mute, and motionless. Next moment Mr Hazlit sprang into the hut, glaring with excitement, while a stream of blood trickled from a slight wound in his forehead.

Uttering a yell, no whit inferior to that of the fiercest pirate near him, and following it up with a fit of savage laughter that was quite appalling, the once dignified and self-possessed merchant rolled his eyes round the hut as if in search of something. Suddenly espying a heavy pole, or species of war-club, which lay in a corner, he seized it and whirled it round his head as if he had been trained to such arms from childhood.

Just then a second salvo shook the very earth. Mr Hazlit sprang out of the hut, shouted, “To the rescue! Aileen, to the rescue!” in the voice of a Stentor, plunged wildly into a forest-path, and disappeared almost before the horrified ladies could form a guess as to his intentions.

Chapter Seventeen.

Recounts the wild, fierce, and in some Respects peculiar Incidents of a Bush Fight.

Although the pirates were taken aback by this unexpected advance of the Rajah’s gun-boat to within pistol-shot of their very doors, they were by no means cowed. Malays are brave as a race, and peculiarly regardless of their lives. They manned their guns, and stood to them with unflinching courage, but they were opposed by men of the same mettle, who had the great advantage of being better armed, and led by a man of consummate coolness and skill, whose motto was—“Conquer or die!”

We do not say that the captain of the gun-boat professed to hold that motto, for he was not a boaster, but it was clearly written in the fire of his eye, and stamped upon the bridge of his nose!

The pirate-guns were soon dismounted, their stockade was battered down, and when a party at last landed, with the captain at their head, and Edgar with his diving friends close at his heels, they were driven out of their fortification into the woods.

Previously to this, however, all the women and children had been sent further into the bush, so that the attacking party met none but fighting-men. Turning round a bend in a little path among the bushes, Edgar, who had become a little separated from his friends, came upon a half-naked Malay, who glared at him from behind a long shield. The pirate’s style of fighting was that of the Malay race in general, and had something ludicrous, as well as dangerous, about it. He did not stand up and come on like a man, but, with his long legs wide apart and bent at the knees, he bounded hither and thither like a monkey, always keeping his body well under cover of the shield, and peering round its edges or over, or even under it, according to fancy, while his right hand held a light spear, ready to be launched at the first favourable moment into the unprotected body of his adversary.

Edgar at once rushed upon him, snapping his revolver as he ran; but, all the chambers having been already emptied, no shot followed. Brandishing his cutlass, he uttered an involuntary shout.

The shout was unexpectedly replied to by another shout of “Aileen, to the rescue!” which not only arrested him in his career, but seemed to perplex the pirate greatly.

At that moment the bushes behind the latter opened; a man in ragged shirt-sleeves and torn trousers sprang through, whirled a mighty club in the air, and smote the pirate’s uplifted shield with such violence as to crush it down on its owner’s head, and lay him flat and senseless on the ground.

“Mr Hazlit!” gasped Edgar.

The merchant bounded at our hero with the fury of a wild cat, and would have quickly laid him beside the pirate if he had not leaped actively aside. A small tree received the blow meant for him, and the merchant passed on with another yell, “To the rescue!”

Of course Edgar followed, but the bush paths were intricate. He unfortunately turned into a wrong one, when the fugitive was for a moment hidden by a thicket, and immediately lost all trace of him.

Meanwhile Rooney Machowl, hearing the merchant’s shout, turned aside to respond to it. He met Mr Hazlit right in the teeth, and, owing to his not expecting an assault, had, like Edgar, well-nigh fallen by the hand of his friend. As it was, he evaded the huge club by a hair’s-breadth, and immediately gave chase to the maniac—for such the poor gentleman had obviously become. But although he kept the fugitive for some time in view, he failed to come up with him owing to a stumble over a root which precipitated him violently on his nose. On recovering his feet Mr Hazlit was out of sight.

Rooney, caressing with much tenderness his injured nose, now sought to return to his friends, but the more he tried to do so, the farther he appeared to wander away from them.

“Sure it’s a quare thing that I can’t git howld of the road I comed by,” he muttered, as with a look of perplexity he paused and listened.

Faint shouts were heard on his left, and he was about to proceed in that direction, when distinct cries arose on his right. He went in that direction for a time, then vacillated, and, finally, came to a dead stand, as well as to the conclusion that he had missed his way; which belief he stated to himself in the following soliloquy:—

“Rooney, me boy, you’ve gone an’ lost yoursilf. Ah, bad scran to ’ee. Isn’t it the fulfilment of your grandmother’s owld prophecy, that you’d come to a bad ind at last? It’s little I’d care for your misfortin myself, if it warn’t that you ought to be helpin’ poor Mr Hazlit, who’s gone as mad as blazes, an’ whose daughter can’t be far off. Och! Man alive,” he added, with sudden enthusiasm, “niver give in while there’s a purty girl in the case!”

Under the impulse of this latter sentiment, Rooney started off at a run in a new and totally unconsidered direction, which, strange to say, brought him into sudden and very violent contact with some of those individuals in whom he was interested.

Here we must, in hunters’ language, “hark back” on our course for a few minutes—if, indeed, that be hunters’ language! We do not profess to know much thereof, but the amiable reader will understand our meaning.

Just after the attack had begun, and Mr Hazlit had sallied from the hut with his war-club, as already related, Aileen became deeply impressed with the fact that all the women and children who had been wont to visit and gaze at her in wonder had vanished. The rattling of shot over her head, too, and the frequent rush of pirates past her temporary abode, warned her that the place was too much exposed in every way to be safe. She therefore sought to rouse her companion to attempt flight.

“Laura,” she said, anxiously, as a round shot cut in half the left corner-post of the building, “come, we must fly. We shall be killed if we remain here.”

“I care not,” exclaimed Miss Pritty, clasping her friend closer than ever, and shuddering; “my worst fears have been realised. Let me die!”

“But I don’t want to die yet,” remonstrated Aileen; “think of me, dear, if you can, and of my father.”

“Ah, true!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, with sudden calmness, as she unclasped her arms and arose. “Forgive my selfishness. Come; let us fly!”

If the poor lady had owned a private pair of cherubic wings, she could not have prepared for flight with greater assurance or activity. She tightened her waist-belt, wrapped her shawl firmly round her, fastened her bonnet strings in a Gordian knot, and finally, holding out her hand to her friend, as if they had suddenly changed characters, said, “Come, are you ready?” with a tremendous show of decision. She even led the wondering Aileen along a winding path into the jungle for a considerable distance; then, as the path became more intricate, she stopped, burst into tears, laid her head again on its old resting-place, and said in a hollow voice:— “Yes; all is lost!”

“Come, Laura, don’t give way; there’s a dear. Just exert yourself a little and we shall soon be safe at—at—somewhere.”

Miss Pritty made a vigorous struggle. She even smiled through her tears as she replied:— “Well, lead on, love; I will follow you—to death!”

With her eyes tightly shut, lest she should see something hideous in the woods, she stumbled on, holding to her friend’s arm.

“Where are we going to?” she asked, feebly, after a few minutes, during which Aileen had pulled her swiftly along.

“I don’t know, dear, but a footpath must lead to something or somewhere.”

Aileen was wrong. The footpath led apparently to nothing and nowhere. At all events it soon became so indistinct that they lost it, and, finally, after an hour’s wandering, found themselves hopelessly involved in the intricacies of a dense jungle, without the slightest clew as to how they should get out of it.

Aileen stopped at last.

“Laura,” she said, anxiously, “we are lost!”

“I told you so,” returned Miss Pritty, in a tone that was not quite devoid of triumph.

“True, dear; but when you told me so we were not lost. Now we are. I fear we shall have to spend the night here,” she added, looking round.

Miss Pritty opened her eyes and also looked round. The sight that met her gaze was not encouraging. Afternoon was drawing on. Thick bushes and trees formed a sort of twilight there even at noon-day. Nothing with life was visible. Not a sound was to be heard, save such little rustlings of dry leaves and chirpings as were suggestive of snakes and centipedes. The unhappy Laura was now too frightened to shudder.

“What shall we do?” she asked; “shriek for help?”

“That might bring pirates to us instead of friends,” said Aileen. “Listen; do you hear no sound?”

“Nothing,” replied Miss Pritty, after a few moments of intense silence, “save the beating of my own heart. Aileen,” she continued, with sudden anxiety, “are there not serpents in these woods?”

“Yes, I believe there are.”

“And tarantulas?”

“Probably.”

“And tortoises?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Darling, how can we sleep among tortoises, tarantulas, and serpents?”

Even Aileen was at a loss for a reply, though she smiled in spite of herself.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, cheerfully, “if we must spend the night in the bush we shall get into a tree. That will at least save us from all the venomous creatures as well as dangerous beasts that crawl upon the ground. Can you climb?”

“Climb!” repeated Miss Pritty, with a hysterical laugh, “you might as well ask me if I can dive.”

“Well, you must learn. Come, I will teach you. Here is a capital tree that seems easy to get into.”

Saying this, Aileen ran to a gnarled old tree whose trunk was divided into two parts, and from which spread out a series of stout branches that formed a sort of net-work of foliage about eight or ten feet from the ground. Climbing actively up to these branches, she crept out upon them, and from that position, parting the twigs, she looked down laughingly at her friend.

Her bright spirit was contagious. Miss Pritty almost forgot her anxieties, smiled in return, and walked towards the tree, in doing which she trod on something that moved in the grass. A piercing shriek was the result. It was immediately replied to by a wild yell at no great distance.

“It was only a frog; look, I see it now, hopping away. Do be quick, Laura; I am sure that was the yell of a savage.”

No further spur was needed. Miss Pritty scrambled up into the tree and crept towards her friend with such reckless haste that one of her feet slipped off the branch, and her leg passing through the foliage, appeared in the regions below. Recovering herself, she reached what she deemed a place of security.

“Now, dear, we are safe—at least for a time,” said Aileen, arranging her friend’s disordered dress. “Take care, however; you must be careful to trust only to limbs of the tree; the foliage cannot bear you. Look, you can see through it to the ground. Lean your back against this fork here; sit on this place—so; put your foot on this branch, there—why, it is almost like a chair—hush!”

It was quite unnecessary to impose silence. They both sat among the branches as motionless as though they had been parts of the tree. They scarce dared to breathe, while they peered through the foliage and beheld the dim form of a man advancing.

Whoever he was, the man seemed to growl as though he had been allied to the beasts of the jungle. He came forward slowly, looking from side to side with caution, and, stopping directly under the tree of refuge, said—

“Musha!” with great emphasis, then placing both hands to his mouth he gave vent to a roar that would have done credit to a South African lion.

As neither of the ladies understood the meaning of “Musha,” they listened to the roar with a thrill of unutterable horror. Miss Pritty, as if fascinated, leant forward, the better to observe her foe. Suddenly, like the lightning-flash, and without even a shriek of warning, she lost her balance and dived head-foremost into the bosom of Rooney Machowl!

Well was it for the bold Irishman that Miss Pritty was a light weight, else had he that day ended his career in the jungles of Borneo. As it was he went down like a shock of corn before the scythe, grasped Miss Pritty in an embrace such as she had never before even imagined, and proceeded to punch her poor head.

Then, indeed, she made herself known by a powerful scream that caused the horrified man to loose his hold and spring up with a torrent of apologies and self-abuse.

“Och! it’s not possible. Baste that I am! Oh ma cushla astore, forgive me! It’s a gorilla I thought ye was, sure, for I hadn’t time to look, d’ee see. It’s wishin’ you had staved in my timbers intirely I am.”

Rooney’s exclamations were here cut short, and turned on another theme by the sudden appearance of Aileen Hazlit, who soon found that her friend was more alarmed than hurt.

“I am so glad you have found us, and so surprised,” said Aileen, who had met Rooney in England during one of her visits to Joe Baldwin’s abode, “for we have quite lost ourselves.”

Rooney looked a little awkwardly at the fair girl.

“Sure, it’s glad I am myself that I’ve found you,” he said, “but faix, I’m lost too! I do belave, howiver, that somebody’s goin’ to find us.”

He turned his head aside and listened intently. Presently a cry was heard at no great distance. It was replied to by another.

“Pirates,” said Rooney, in a hoarse whisper, drawing a cutlass from his belt.

As he spoke another cry was heard in an opposite direction.

“Friends!” exclaimed Rooney. “Sure we’re surrounded by friends and foes! Come, git into the tree, ladies. I’ll give a hail, an’ if the varmin should come up first, I’ll kape them in play. Don’t show yer purty faces dears, an’ be as aisy as ye can.”

So saying, Rooney gave vent to a true British cheer, while the ladies ascended once more into the tree.

The cheer was instantly replied to by counter-cheers and howls. A minute more and two half-naked Malays, armed with spears and long shields, bounded into the clear space and attacked the Irishman, but Rooney had placed his back to the tree and was ready for them. Although he was scarcely a match for two such men, whose peculiar and bounding mode of fighting he did not understand, Rooney nevertheless quickly disabled one by the sheer strength of a blow, which cut through the shield and wounded his enemy’s head. The other he sprang upon like a wild cat and grappled with him. At that moment a third Malay glided on the scene, brandished his spear, and stood by the swaying combatants awaiting a favourable opportunity to thrust his weapon into the white man’s back. He stood right under the branch in which the ladies were concealed. Miss Pritty saw his intention and felt convinced he would succeed. In desperate alarm at the danger of her protector, and horrified at what she was about to do, she grasped the pirate by the hair and tore out a large handful, at the same time uttering shriek upon shriek mingled with appalling bursts of hysterical laughter.

This saved Rooney, who turned just in time to protect himself, but as he did so six more pirates leaped upon the scene and overpowered him. They also sprung up the tree, and quickly brought down the ladies.

Poor Miss Pritty had gone fairly off into violent hysterics by that time. She was carried down in the arms of a pirate, into whose hair she had permanently fastened her ten fingers, while she filled the woods with unearthly cries.

Before any advantage, however, could be taken of this success, a cheer was heard close at hand. Next moment, Edgar Berrington burst on the scene, followed by the captain of the gun-boat and a body of men. The pirates did not await them, but fled instantly.

“Fire a volley, lads,” shouted the captain.

The men obeyed, and one or two yells told that it had not been without effect, nevertheless, all the miscreants escaped with the exception of Miss Pritty’s captive, who, unable to clear himself from her close embrace with sufficient speed, was collared and throttled into submission by Edgar.

“We’ll divide our force here,” said the captain. “I’ll follow them up a while with some of the boys, and you, Mr Berrington, will return with the rest to the gun-boat, in charge of the ladies.”

Edgar was about to object, but the captain silenced him at once with:—

“Come, sir, you’re under my orders. Do what I bid you.”

There was no resisting this, so Edgar turned, not unwillingly, and gave his arm to Aileen, who seized it with a grateful eagerness that sent a thrill of delight through all his frame.

“Come along, my lads,” he cried. “Take care of Miss Pritty, poor thing!” he added, turning to Rooney.

The Irishman obeyed. He stooped and lifted her in his arms. She had been lying in a state of semi-insensibility with her eyes tightly shut. The moment she felt herself being lifted, she clutched her protector by the hair, and held on, shrieking.

“Ay, tug away, cushla!” said Rooney, as he moved after his friends, “it’s not much of that ye’ll manage to root up.”

“Have you seen my father?” asked Aileen, anxiously, as they moved on together.

“He is safe,” answered Edgar; “I found him exhausted in the hut which he told me you had occupied, and had him conveyed on board the gun-boat.”

“Thank God!” exclaimed Aileen, fervently, “but,” she added, with a slight shudder, “it seemed to me as if his mind had been unhinged—and—and he was wounded.”

“A mere scratch on the temple,” said Edgar, “yet sufficient, with surrounding circumstances, to account for the temporary madness that assailed him. Fear not, Aileen, he is safe now, through God’s mercy, and you shall soon be safe beside him.”

A feeling of deep gratitude and restfulness stole over the poor girl’s spirit, and she almost wept for joy as they stepped into a small boat, and were rowed over the calm water to the gun-boat, which lay, black and still, under the deep shadow of a bank of luxuriant foliage.

“My child,” said Mr Hazlit, sadly, as they reclined together on the couches of the little cabin, while Edgar sat on a camp-stool near them, Miss Pritty having been consigned to the captain’s berth, “they tell me that this fearful work is not yet over. There is to be more fighting and bloodshed.”

“How? What do you mean, papa?”

“Tell her, Mr Berrington.”

“We have just had news sent us by a fast row-boat from a town about sixty miles along the coast that a large fleet of pirate-prows have been seen off the coast. They have taken several trading prows, and captured many men belonging to the Sarawak territory, besides several Chinamen. When our captain completes his work on shore here, he intends to start at once in chase of these pirates, in the hope of destroying them and freeing their slaves.”

“God help us,” said Aileen, “it seems as if men in this part of the world, gloried in pouring out blood like water.”

“Some of them undoubtedly do. Perhaps it may reconcile your mind to the destruction of these miscreants to know that for every one killed there will probably be saved the lives of dozens—if not hundreds—of innocent men and women, whom he would have murdered, or doomed to hopeless slavery, in the course of his wicked career.”

As Edgar spoke, the sound of oars was heard. Presently the captain and his men leaped on deck. The moorings were cast loose, our hero took his station at the engine, and the gun-boat glided swiftly down the river, leaving the pirate stronghold in flames.

Chapter Eighteen.

Lifts the Curtain slightly as to piratical Doings in the nineteenth Century.

Silently they glided on, until the shades of evening fell, and the brilliant stars came out. Silently, for the gun-boat went at half-speed; silently, for her engines were good and new, and worked softly without the jarring of age or mal-construction; silently, because those on board were in a tranquil mood, and did not raise their voices above a low murmur.

“How romantic,” said Aileen, in a low tone, as she sat by the stern-rail and watched the gleaming track left by the screw; “how enjoyable, if we could only forget what has just passed, and the object we have in view. The world is a mystery!”

“Is this the first time you have thought so?” asked Edgar, who leaned on the rail near her.

“Well, I think it is,” she replied, with a sad smile; “at least it is the first time I have been deeply impressed with the thought.”

“It is a very old thought,” returned the youth, musingly. “Philosophers from the earliest times have recorded it. Thoughtful men and women of all ages have expressed it. Young people of all generations fancy they have discovered it. The Bible is a key which opens up much of it, and makes it plain; but much still remains in mystery, and I suppose will continue so to remain, till Time merges in Eternity.”

“Do you think such mystery undesirable?” asked Aileen.

“No. It is desirable, else God would not have left it there. ‘Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?’ There is a need be, I doubt not, for mystery, and there is no need for our being distressed by it, for what we know not now we shall know hereafter. But there is much cause for anxiety lest we, either through wilful ignorance, or carelessness, or stupidity, should allow that to remain involved in mystery which is made plain by revelation. The way of salvation was an insurmountable mystery to me once, but since you gave me that poor man’s Testament, Aileen, it has become very plain and very dear to me, through Jesus Christ.”

Aileen thanked God in her heart, and a thrill of gladness filled her, but before she could utter a word in reply, the captain came forward and said in a low tone:—

“Stop the engine, Mr Berrington. We’ll lie by in this creek till day-break.”

Edgar went below. The vibrating of the boat ceased, and an awful stillness seemed to sink down upon her as she glided into a little creek or bay, which was deeply shaded by mangrove trees.

But the silence did not last long. It was still three hours from daylight, and the captain employed the time in preparations for the action which he anticipated on the following day. The yards were sent down; the decks were cleared of all useless incumbrances; the guns were got ready; and an attempt was made, to some extent, to disguise the vessel, so that, in the event of the pirates being found, the gun-boat might get as near as possible without her true character being discovered. The men, meanwhile, who were not engaged in such work, busied themselves in sharpening cutlasses and cleaning small arms, while they conversed in an undertone. All was activity and order, without fuss or needless noise—the result of a man of the right stamp being in command.

“It’s a brush we’ll be havin’ soon,” said Rooney Machowl, with a flash of the eye which told that he inherited a little of his nation’s love of fighting.

“Looks like it,” replied Maxwell, who sat beside his friend in the midst of a group of the Malay crew, rubbing up his cutlass with much interest.

“Does anybody know how many of a crew we have altogether?” asked Rooney.

“I heard the captain say to Mr Berrington,” answered Joe Baldwin, who was busy cleaning a rifle, “that we’ve got ninety men all told, which is quite enough for a 180-ton vessel. With these and seven guns we should be more than a match for all the pirates of the eastern seas.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Ram-stam, looking up from the weapon he was engaged on with an amused expression, “you know noting of pirits of dem seas. Hi! Hi! Wait.”

Ram-stam said this with the air of one who held the decided opinion that when he had waited Joe would have his views enlarged.

“What, are they such bold fellows?”

“Ho yis, vely muchee bold. Ca’es for noting. ’Flaid of noting. Doos a’most anyting—’cept what’s good.”

“Swate cratures,” murmured Rooney; “I hope we’ll be introdooced to aich other soon.”

As it is desirable that the reader should have a little more extended knowledge of the miscreants referred to, we will retrace our steps in time a little, and change the scene.

On one of those sweltering mornings in which the eastern seas appear to have a tendency to boil under the influence of the sun, three piratical junks might have been seen approaching a small island which lay on the sea as if on a mirror. They were propelled by oars. The largest of these junks was under command of our red-jacketed acquaintance, Pungarin. It was what is termed double-banked, and the oars were pulled by “slaves,” that is to say, the crews of trading vessels recently captured.

Pungarin had more slaves than he knew what to do with on that occasion. He had been unusually successful in his captures. All the white men taken had at once been slaughtered, also all who attempted to give the pirates trouble in any way, including those who chanced to be too weak, ill, or old to work. In regard to the rest, each man was secured to his place at the oar by means of a strip of cane, called rattan, fastened round his neck, and a man was appointed to lash them when they showed symptoms of flagging. This the unhappy wretches frequently did, for, as on a former occasion to which we have referred, they were made to pull continuously without food or water, and occasionally, after dropping their oars through exhaustion, it took severe application of the lash, and the discovery of some unusually sensitive spot of the body, to rouse some of them again to the point of labour.

The junks were strange, uncouth vessels, of considerable size, capable, each, of containing a very large crew. They might almost have been styled “life-boats,” as they had hollow bamboos wrought into their structure in a manner which gave them great buoyancy, besides projecting beyond the hulls and forming a sort of outside platform. On these platforms the slaves who rowed were fastened. In each vessel there were at least forty or fifty rowers.

Pungarin walked up and down his poop-deck as if in meditation, paying no regard to what was going on around him until a feeble cry was heard from one of the rowers,—a middle-aged and sickly man. The pirate captain looked carelessly on, while the overseer flogged this man; but the lash failed to arouse him, and the captain ordered the man to desist—but not in mercy.

“Over with him,” he said, curtly, and then resumed his walk.

The slave-driver drew his knife, and cut the rattan that bound the man, who turned his dying eyes on him with an imploring look.

At that moment one of the pirates, who from his dress and bearing seemed to occupy a position of authority, stepped upon the platform and looked at him. He gave a brief order to one of his comrades, who brought a large piece of cork and fastened it to the slave’s neck. He also brought a short spear, with a little flag at its handle. This he thrust a few inches into the fleshy part of his shoulder, and then pushed him off the platform into the sea. Thus the wretched creature was made to float, and, as he went astern, some of the pirates amused themselves by shooting at him with their muskets.

Now, gentle reader, don’t shut your eyes and exclaim, “Oh! Too horrible.” It is very much because of that expression of yours, and the shutting of your “gentle,” (we would rather say selfish) eyes that these accursed facts exist! Yes, we charge it home on you so-called “soft ones” of the earth, that your action,—namely, shutting your eyes,—does probably as much, if not more, to perpetuate horrible evil as does the action of open godlessness,—that condition which is most aptly expressed by the world’s maxim, “every man for himself and the devil for us all.”

Do not imagine that we presume to invent such things or to exaggerate for the sake of “sensation.” We relate well-authenticated facts. We entertain strong doubts as to whether devils are, in any degree, worse than some among the unsaved human race. There is great occasion for you, reader, whoever you are, to know and ponder such facts as we now relate. We are too apt to regard as being applicable only to the past these words, “the dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty.” If we were to fill our book with horrors from beginning to end, we should only have scratched the surface of the great and terrible truth. Assuredly now, not less than in days of old, there is urgent need of red-hot philanthropy.

But we gladly pass from the cruel to the cunning phase of piratical life. These villains had at that time been about six months on their cruise. They had made the entire circuit of Borneo, murdering, and plundering, and striking terror and desolation wherever they went. The scenes enacted by Norse pirates in the tenth century were repeated in the middle of the nineteenth by a people who, unlike the Norsemen, had no regard whatever for law; and now they were returning home laden with booty.

The pirate-chiefs usual mode of procedure on such occasions was to go to an unfrequented island in the neighbourhood of Singapore, land all his warlike stores and prisoners, and, leaving them under a strong guard, proceed with two of his prows loaded to the gunwale with merchandise, to the port. The merchant-boats which he had previously sunk, and whose crews he had murdered, provided him with “port-clearances,” which enabled him to personate the trader and regularly enter and clear the customs at Singapore, so as to cause no suspicion; then, returning to his place of rendezvous with a fresh supply of guns, ammunition, etcetera, he divided his ill-gotten gains and recommenced his piratical expeditions.

On the present occasion, however, Pungarin had received intelligence which induced him to modify his plans. Hearing that a gun-boat was in pursuit of him, he determined to change his rendezvous for the time.

The weary slaves were therefore again set to work at the oars; but “kind Nature” took pity on them. A breeze sprang up and increased into a gale, under the influence of which the prows sped out to sea and soon left the islands far behind them.

It was while thus attempting to evade their enemy that the pirates had the misfortune to run at last into the very jaws of the lion.

Chapter Nineteen.

A Fight with Malay Pirates.

At six o’clock in the morning, the tide suiting, the gun-boat crept out to sea, and steamed slowly along the coast to the southward, keeping a good look-out. They soon discovered sundry prows, but, after ordering them to come alongside, found that they were legitimate traders. Thus the day was spent in a vain search, and at night they returned to their anchorage, as it was not possible to make any discoveries in the dark.

Next morning, at the same hour, they steamed out to sea again, intending to keep about twelve miles off the coast, so as to be able to command a broad expanse of water in every direction; but before they had got two miles from the anchorage, three prows were observed about four or five miles to seaward.

“That looks like the rascals,” observed the captain, as he surveyed them through the glass.

“Indeed,” said Mr Hazlit, who, rather pale and weak from his recent unwonted experiences, leaned in a helpless manner on the quarter-rails.

“Yes; they pull forty or fifty oars, double-banked,” returned the captain, wiping his glass carefully. “They’ve got heavy guns on board, no doubt. We shall have to protect our boiler.”

The gun-boat was so small that a portion of her steam-case was unavoidably exposed above deck. A shot into this would have been disastrous. Orders were therefore given to surround it with bags of coal, which was promptly done.

“And, one of you,” said the captain, turning to the man who chanced to be nearest him, “go into the cabin and bring up the sofa cushions; we shall want them to protect the legs of the men stationed on the poop.”

Rooney Machowl happened to be the man who received this order. He at once descended.

“By your lave, Miss,” he said, with a bashful air; “I’m sorry to ask a lady to git up, but it’s the capting’s orders—he wants the cushions.”

“By all means,” said Aileen, with a smile; “why does he want them?”

“Plaze, Miss, to protect our legs, savin’ yer presence.”

Somewhat puzzled, and not a little amused by the reply, Aileen rose and allowed the cushion on which she sat to be removed. These cushions were placed in the nettings on the poop, which was much exposed, to arrest the enemy’s bullets.

In a few minutes it was seen that the three prows were doing their best to get into shoal water, where the steamer could not have followed them. In this effort one of them was successful, for although the gun-boat’s course was changed in order to cut her off, she managed to run on shore, whence the pirates immediately opened fire. The other two, seeing there was no possibility of accomplishing the same feat, ceased rowing, and also opened fire, at a distance of about five or six hundred yards.

“We shall attack from our port side,” said the captain to his chief officer; “let the guns be laid accordingly.”

The armament of the gun-boat consisted of two nine-pounder guns, one on the forecastle, and one on the poop; one twelve-pounder, just before the bridge; and four six-pound brass carronades. These were all soon ready, but the order was not given to fire till they had got to within a hundred yards of the pirates, who were now pelting them smartly with small arms.

The captain stood on the bridge, the most commanding and, at the same time, the most exposed position in the vessel. He wore a cap, from under which his black eyes seemed to twinkle with fire and mischief.

He soon observed that the two prows, wincing under his fire, were edging for the shore. With that reckless resolution, therefore, to which all true heroes give way at times—not excepting Nelson himself—he resolved to run them down.

The recklessness of this consisted in the fact that his vessel was not a “ram,” but built of comparatively thin plates. The necessity for it lay in the certainty that a few minutes more would enable the prows to gain shallow water and escape.

“Besides,” thought the captain to himself, as he walked up and down the bridge with his hands in his pockets, while bullets whistled round his head, “even a thin plate can stand a good strain when struck end-on. Never venture, never win!”

Giving the order “full-speed” to the engineer, and “port your helm a little—steady” to the man at the wheel, the captain quietly awaited the result.

The result was most effective. The gun-boat went at the prow like a war-horse; her sharp bow struck one of the pirate vessels fair amidships and cut her in two pieces, launching her crew and captives into the sea!

She then backed astern, and made for the other prow, but she, laying to heart the fate of her companion, made for the shore as fast as possible. It was in vain. The gun-boat ran into her and sank her immediately, but so nearly had they succeeded in their intention, that there were only six inches of water under the steamer’s keel when she backed out.

“Lower the boats,” shouted the captain, the instant his object had been accomplished; and it was not a moment too soon, for the sea all round was alive with human beings, some of whom evidently waited to be picked up, while others swam vigorously for the shore. In a short time, about a hundred men were rescued, most of whom were slaves—only ten being pirates. There was no difficulty in distinguishing between pirates and slaves, because the latter wore the “rattan” round their necks, in addition to which their spitting on the pirates, and furiously abusing them for past cruelty, and their falling down and kissing the feet of their deliverers, made the distinction abundantly clear.

Most of the other pirates gained the shore, but we may here finally dismiss them, and relieve the reader’s mind by stating that they were afterwards hunted down and slain to a man by the natives of that district, who entertained a deadly, and very natural hatred of them, having suffered much at their hands in time past.

While the rescued captives were going about excitedly telling of the shocking barbarities that had been practised on them, the captain discovered among them a Singapore native who could speak a little English. Taking this man aft, he questioned him closely.

“Are there any more pirate-junks hereabouts?” he said.

“Yis; tree more.”

“Whereaway?”

“Hout seaward. Not know how far. Longish way off, me tink. We was sent off from dem last night, after all de goods an’ money was tooked out of us. What for, no kin tell. Where tothers go, no kin tell.”

“They’ve got lots of captives aboard, I suppose?” said the captain.

“Ho! Great lots,” replied the Singapore man.

“And lots of treasure too, no doubt.”

“Ho! Very greater lots of dat.”

After obtaining all the information he could from this man and from the other passengers, the captain steamed out to sea in a westerly direction, keeping a man at the mast-head to look out. The captives were in the meanwhile made as comfortable as circumstances would admit of, and the ten pirates were put in irons in the hold.

As the morning advanced, the sun increased in power and splendour. Not a breath of wind ruffled the sea, which shone like a mirror, reflecting perfectly the sea-birds that accompanied them. Everything was so calm and peaceful that the captain sent a message to Mr Hazlit and his daughter to request them to come up and enjoy the fresh air.

During the brief action described, they had been sent below to be out of danger. They obeyed the summons, and even Miss Pritty was induced by Aileen to come on deck.

Poor Miss Pritty! Her hysterical fit was now quite over, but pale cheeks and a trembling exhausted frame told eloquently of her recent sufferings. Mr Hazlit’s limbs were also shaky, and his face cadaverous, showing that his temporary aberration of reason had told upon him.

“Oh how delicious!” exclaimed Miss Pritty, referring to the atmosphere, as she sank into an easy-chair which the captain placed for her. “Are these the pirates?” she added, shuddering, as her eyes fell on some of the rescued people.

“No, Miss Pritty,” answered the captain, “these are the freed captives. The pirates are in irons in the hold.”

“You had to fight, I suppose?” continued Miss Pritty, shutting her eyes and pursing her mouth with the air of one who braces herself to face the inevitable.

“Well, we could hardly call it fighting,” answered the captain, with a smile, as he cleaned the glasses of his telescope and swept the horizon carefully; “we had a round or two of the guns, and a few bullets whistled about our ears for a little—that was all.”

“Was any one wounded—k–killed?” asked Miss Pritty, opening her eyes with an anxious look; “and oh!” she added, with a sudden expression of horror, as she drew up her feet and glanced downwards, “perhaps the decks are—no,” she continued sinking back again with a sigh, “they are not bloody!”

At that moment the man at the mast-head reported three prows, just visible on the horizon ahead.

“I suppose we must go below again,” said Aileen, sadly, after the captain returned from the bridge, to which he had gone to examine the prows in question.

“Not yet, Miss Hazlit. It will probably be an hour ere we come up with them. You’d better enjoy the morning air while you may. I’ll warn you in good time.”

Aileen therefore remained on deck for some time with her father, but poor Miss Pritty, on the first intimation that more pirates were in sight, got up hastily, staggered with a face expressive of the utmost horror into the cabin, flung herself into the captain’s berth, thrust her head under the pillow, piled the clothes over that, and lay there—quaking!

She quaked for full half an hour before anything happened. Then she felt a hand trying to remove her superincumbent head-gear. This induced her to hold on tight and shriek, but, recognising Aileen’s voice, she presently put her face out.

“Don’t be so terrified, dear,” said Aileen, scarce able to repress a smile.

“I can’t help it,” answered her friend, whimpering; “are the—the pirates—”

“They are not far off now. But don’t give way to needless alarm, dear. Our captain sent me below because he is going to fight them, and you know he is sure to win, for he is a brave man. He says he’ll run them all down in a few minutes.”

“Oh!” groaned Miss Pritty, and with that, pulling her head in like a snail, she resumed quaking.

Poor Aileen, although talking thus bravely to her friend, was by no means easy in her own mind, for apart from the fact that they were about to engage three pirate-junks, manned by hundreds of desperate men, she could not repress her shrinking horror at the bare idea of men talking coolly about shedding human blood. To one of her imaginative nature, too, it was no small trial to have to sit alone and inactive in the cabin, while the bustle of preparation for war went on overhead; we say alone, because her father, although there, was too much exhausted to act the part of companion or comforter in any degree.

Meanwhile the gun-boat approached close to the enemy, and it soon became apparent that they meant to fight—trusting, no doubt, to their very decided superiority in numbers.

“They mean mischief,” said the captain, as he shut up his telescope.

“Faix, an’ they’ll git it too,” replied Rooney Machowl, who chanced to be near at the time, though the remark was not addressed to him.

To this the captain made no reply, save by a grim curl of his black moustache, as he once more ascended to his exposed position on the bridge. From this outlook he could see plainly that the pirates were lashing their three prows together, and training all their guns on one side, where the attack was expected. As each prow mounted twelve guns, they could thus fire a broadside of thirty-six heavy pieces, besides small arms.

The men of the gun-boat were now all at their quarters, eagerly awaiting the order to begin. The captain descended and went round among them, so as to inspect everything with his own eye.

“Now, lads,” he said, in passing, “remember, not a single shot till I give you positive orders.”

He returned to the bridge. Although naturally disinclined to parley with scoundrels, he felt that he had a duty to perform, and resolved to go close up, and, if possible, induce them to surrender. But he was saved the trouble of attempting a parley, for while yet six hundred yards off, a regular volley burst from the sides of the pirate vessels.

Again the black moustache curled, but this time with a touch of ferocity, for the shot partly took effect, cutting the rigging to some extent, killing one man of the crew, and wounding several. A musket-ball also struck his own cap and knocked it off his head.

“Just hand that up,” he said, pointing to the cap.

One of the men obeyed, and the captain, taking a look at the hole, replaced it. Still he gave no order to fire, although the pirates were seen to be busily re-loading.

Hanging up to within a hundred yards, the captain looked quickly at his men.

“Port, a little,” said he to the man at the wheel.

“Are you ready?”

“Ay, ay, sur,” from Rooney Machowl, in a deep bass undertone.

“Fire!”

As if but one piece had been fired the whole broadside burst from the side of the gun-boat, shaking the little vessel violently. Miss Pritty’s voice came up responsive with an unearthly yell!

“Load!” was instantly ordered, and so quickly was it obeyed that before the enemy were ready with their second volley the gun-boat had charged and fired again, doing great damage.

There being no wind, a dense cloud of smoke from the three volleys settled down on the water and completely hid them and their enemy from each other.

“Steam ahead, full-speed,” signalled the captain to Edgar Berrington.

The screw instantly whirled, and under cover of the dense veil, the active little vessel moved away just in time to escape a murderous volley of shot, shrapnel, and ball, which was poured into the smoke she had left behind her! The pirates followed this up with a wild cheer and a brisk fire of musketry, which only ceased when, discovering their mistake, they beheld the gun-boat emerge from the smoke, steer round the end of their line, and, slewing to port, deliver another volley of great guns and small arms, that raked them all from stem to stern, doing terrible execution both to the prows and their crews.

Thus the gun-boat played round and round the enemy, always maintaining the distance of about a hundred yards, and keeping up the action as fast as they could load and fire. The pirates, on their part, fought with the courage of trained men of war and with the ferocity of tigers at bay—who ask and expect no mercy. And thus they fought for no less than three hours.

One reason why the pirates were able to hold out so long lay in the fact that their prows were surrounded by a thick matting made from a certain palm-leaf, which, although it could not prevent shot from passing through, concealed the men who lay behind it, and so prevented the riflemen of the gun-boat crew from taking aim. In order to get the better of this difficulty, the latter fell into the way of watching for the puffs of smoke that came through the matting, and firing at these puffs.

Conspicuous among the pirates for his coolness, daring, and utter disregard of his life, was one tall, powerful fellow in a red jacket. Every one guessed him at once to be a chief among the pirates, and this question was soon settled by some of the recently freed captives, who recognised him as being the great chief of the fleet—Pungarin.

He went about the deck of his prow, which occupied the centre of the line, encouraging his men to rapid action, and often pointing the guns with his own hands.

Many rifle-shots were fired at him, but in vain. He seemed to bear a charmed life.

“Can none of you pick him off?” said the captain of the gun-boat.

Twenty rifles replied to the words, and the man’s red jacket was seen to be torn in many places, but himself remained unhurt!

At last the pirate-guns were silenced in two of the prows, only the chief’s maintaining an obstinate fire. This vessel would have been much sooner silenced, no doubt, but for the ferocity of Pungarin. When his men, driven at last by the deadly fire of the assailants, forsook a gun and sought refuge behind the matting, the pirate-chief would promptly step forward and serve the gun himself, until very shame sometimes forced his men to return.

At last all the guns were disabled but one, and that one Pungarin continued to serve, uninjured, amid a perfect storm of shot.

“The fellow has got the lives of twenty cats,” growled the captain, as he turned to give directions to the steersman, which brought the gun-boat still closer to the enemy. The effect of a well-delivered volley at this shorter range was to cut the fastenings of the three prows, thus permitting them to separate.

This was precisely what was desired, the captain having resolved to run the pirates down one at a time, as he had done before. He would not board them, because their superior numbers and desperate ferocity would have insured a hand-to-hand conflict, which, even at the best, might have cost the lives of many of his men. The instant, therefore, that the prows were cut adrift, he gave the order to back astern. At the same moment Pungarin was heard to give an order to his men, which resulted in the oars being got out and manned by the surviving pirates and slaves, who rowed for the land as fast as possible. Their escape in this way, however, the captain knew to be impossible, for they were now fully twenty-five miles from shore. He therefore went about his work leisurely.

Backing a considerable distance, so as to enable his little war-horse to get up full-speed, he took careful aim as he charged.

It was interesting to watch the swart faces and glaring eyeballs of those on board the first prow, as the gun-boat bore down on them. Some glared from hate, others obviously from fear, and all seemed a little uncertain as to what was about to be done. This uncertainty was only dispelled when the prow was struck amidships, and, with a tremendous crash, cut clean in two. Simultaneous with the crash arose a yell of mingled anger and despair, as pirates and prisoners were all hurled into the sea.

Again the order was given to go astern. The steamer immediately backed out of the wreck. After gaining a sufficient distance the engines were reversed, and the little vessel bore down on another prow.

This one made violent efforts to evade the blow, but the captain had anticipated as much. His orders were sharp; his steersman was prompt. The cut-water did its duty nobly, and in a few seconds another pirate vessel was sent to the bottom.

The sea was now swarming with human beings in all directions, some clinging to any scrap of wreck they could lay hold of, some paddling about aimlessly and roaring for help, while others swam steadily in the direction of the land. These last were chiefly pirates, who had evidently made up their minds to escape or drown rather than be captured.

As it was evident that many of those struggling in the water would be drowned in a few minutes, the captain delayed his attack on the third prow, and ordered the boats to be lowered. This was done promptly, and many of the poor victims captured by the pirates were rescued and brought on board. A few of the pirates were also picked up. These had jumped overboard with their “creases” and other weapons in their hands, and were so vindictive as to show fight furiously in the water when the sailors attempted to save them. Many of the men suffered from this. Poor Rooney Machowl was among the number.

He pulled the bow-oar of his boat, and hauled it in on drawing near to any one, so as to be ready to catch the hand of the swimmer, or make a grasp at him. As they approached one of the swimmers, Rooney observed that he had a short twisted sword in his hand, and that he looked over his shoulder with a fierce scowl. Nevertheless, as he leaned over to the rescue, it did not occur to the worthy man that the swimmer meant mischief, until he saw the twisted sword leap from the water, and felt the point of his nose almost severed from his face!

“Och! You spalpeen,” cried Rooney, with a yell of intense indignation and pain.

He was about to follow this up with a blow from his powerful fist that would have sent the pirate at least a fathom of the way down to the bottom, but the sword again leaped upwards, causing him to start back as it flashed close past his cheek, and went right over the boat into the sea. At the same moment a Malay seized the pirate by an ear, another grasped him by an arm, and he was quickly hauled inboard and bound. “Here, Joe Baldwin,” cried Rooney to his comrade, who pulled an oar near the stern of the boat, “for anny favour lind a hand to fix on the pint o’ my poor nose. It was niver purty, but och! It’s ruinated now past redimption.”

“Not a bit, man,” said Joe, as he bound up the injured member by the simple process of tying a kerchief right round his friend’s face and head; “it’ll be handsomer than ever. There was always too much of it. You can afford to have it reduced.”

Rooney did not quite seem to appreciate this comforting remark; however, after his nose was bound he and the rest of the boat’s crew continued their work, and soon returned on board the gun-boat with a mixed lot of pirates and captives. Of course the rescuers were more careful in approaching the swimmers after Rooney’s misfortune, but in spite of this many of them were wounded by the pirates slashing at them with their swords and knives, or flinging these weapons violently into the boats.

In a short time all were saved who yet remained above water. Then the boats were hauled up and the steamer gave chase to the prow in charge of the pirate captain, which was by that time far away on the horizon.

Chapter Twenty.

The Fight concluded.

The nautical proverb saith that “A stern chase is a long one;” but that proverb, to make it perfect and universally applicable, should have been prefaced by the words “All things being equal.”

In the present case all things were not equal. The gun-boat was a fast steamer; the chase was a slow row-boat, insufficiently manned by tired and wounded men. But many of them were desperate men. Their leader was an arch-fiend of resolution and ferocity. He knew that escape, in the circumstances, was impossible. He was well aware of the fate that awaited him if taken. He therefore made up his mind to give his enemies as much trouble as possible, to delay their triumph and cause it to cost them dear, and, in every practicable way that might occur, to thwart and worry them to the end.

Animated by such a spirit, he managed to encourage his men, and to terrify and lash his slaves to almost superhuman exertions, so that before being overtaken they approached considerably nearer to the shore than would otherwise have been the case. This, as it afterwards turned out, resulted in a benefit to some of those in the gun-boat, which they did not think of at the time. As they overtook the prow, Pungarin ordered the starboard rowers to cease. Those on the port side continued to pull, and in a few seconds the prow’s broadside was brought to bear on the approaching enemy. Not till they were within a hundred yards did the pirate leader again speak. Then his powerful voice resounded through his vessel:—

“Fire!”

At the word every piece on board the prow, great and small, belched forth a volume of smoke, flame, and metal, but the result was trifling. In his anxiety to do deadly execution, the pirate had overdone his work. He had allowed his foe to come too close, and most of the discharge from the heavy guns passed over her, while the men with small arms, rendered nervous by prolonged delay, fired hastily, and, therefore, badly. A few wounds were suffered, and many narrow escapes were made, but in other respects the discharge passed by harmlessly. The captain, in his exposed and elevated position on the bridge, felt, indeed, as if a thunder-shower of iron hail had passed, not only round, but through him! He paid no regard to it, however, but held straight on. Next moment there was a dire collision; the prow went under water, and the surface of the sea was covered with shouting and struggling men.

The boats were quickly lowered, as on the previous occasion, and most of the people were rescued, though, of course, some who could not swim were drowned.

The scene that now ensued was very exciting, and in some respects very terrible, for, besides the gurgling cries of the perishing, there were the defiant yells of the pirates, who, more fiercely than those in the other prows, resisted being taken alive, and used their creases and knives with deadly effect.

This naturally filled the conquerors with such indignation that in many cases they killed the pirates who showed fight, instead of disarming and capturing them.

At last every one in the water was either saved, killed, drowned, or captured, with the exception of one man, whose red jacket clearly pointed him out as the pirate-chief. Being greatly superior to his fellows in mental and physical powers, it was natural that he should excel them in his efforts to escape. Even after the whole affair was over, this man, who might have been a hero in other circumstances, continued to baffle his pursuers.

In the boat which finally captured him was the Singapore man already mentioned. This man, for reasons best known to himself, had a bitter hatred of Pungarin, and was the chief cause of the boat in which he pulled an oar being kept in close pursuit of the pirate-chief.

“Dis way,” he cried, when the general mêlée was drawing to a close. “Yonder is de red-coat. He make for de shore.”

The steersman at once turned in the direction indicated, which brought them close to the gun-boat.

Pungarin’s keen eye quickly observed that they were making towards him, although the water around him swarmed with other men. He at once dived and came up close to the side of the vessel, under its quarter, and in dangerous proximity to its screw. The boldness of the course might have diverted attention from him for a time, but his one touch of vanity—the red jacket—betrayed him. He was soon observed. A cry was given. His sharp-eyed enemy the Singapore man saw him, and the boat was once more pulled towards its mark. But Pungarin dived like an otter—not only under the boat, but under the steamer also; coming up on the other side, and resting while they sought for him. Again they discovered him. Again he passed under the ship’s bottom, and this time continued his dive onwards towards the shore. When his power of remaining under water failed, he came gently to the surface, turning on his back, so that only his mouth and nose appeared.

One full breath sufficed, and he dived again without having been observed. If Pungarin had adopted this plan while the boats were busy capturing his comrades, it is possible that he might have escaped, for his swimming powers and endurance were very great; but it was now too late. When he rose the second time to the surface, the affair was over, and men’s minds were free to fix entirely on himself. Just then, too, he thought it advisable to put his head fully out of the water in order to see that he had kept in the right direction.

He was instantly observed by his Singapore enemy, and the chase was resumed.

It is almost unnecessary to say that it terminated unfavourably for the pirate-chief. For several minutes he continued to dive under the boat while they tried to seize him, and wounded some of the men nearest to him; but his Herculean powers began at last to fail, and he finally floated on the surface as if helpless.

Even this was a ruse, for no sooner was the boat near enough, and the Singapore man within reach of his arm, than he raised himself, and made a cut at that individual with such good will that he split his skull across down nearly to the ears.

Next moment he was hauled into the boat and bound hand and foot.

The scene on board the gun-boat now was a very terrible one. Every man there was more or less begrimed with powder and smoke, or bespattered with blood and soaked with water, while all round the decks the wounded were sitting or lying awaiting their turn of being attended to, and groaning more or less with pain.

On calling the roll after the action was over, it was found that the loss suffered by the gun-boat crew was two men killed and eighteen wounded—a very small number considering the time during which the affair had lasted, and the vigour with which the pirates had fought.

And now was beautifully exemplified the advantage of a man possessing a “little knowledge”—falsely styled “a dangerous thing”—over a man who possesses no knowledge. Now, also, was exhibited the power and courage that are latent in true womanhood.

There was no surgeon on board of that gun-boat, and, with the exception of Edgar Berrington, there was not a man possessed of a single scrap of surgical knowledge deeper than that required for the binding up of a cut finger.

As we have already shown, our hero had an inquiring mind. While at college he had become intimately acquainted with, and interested in, one or two medical students, with whom he conversed so much and so frequently about their studies, that he became quite familiar with these, and with their medical and surgical phraseology, so that people frequently mistook him for a student of medicine. Being gifted with a mechanical turn of mind, he talked with special interest on surgery; discussed difficulties, propounded theories, and visited the hospitals, the dissecting-rooms, and the operating-theatres frequently. Thus he came, unintentionally, to possess a considerable amount of surgical knowledge, and when, at last, he was thrown providentially into a position where no trained man could be found, and urgent need for one existed, he came forward and did his best like a man.

Aileen Hazlit also, on being told that there was need of a woman’s tender hand in such work, at once overcame her natural repugnance to scenes of blood; she proceeded on deck, and, with a beating heart but steady hand, went to work like a trained disciple of Florence Nightingale.

To the credit of the timid, and for the encouragement of the weak, we have to add that Miss Pritty likewise became a true heroine!

No average individual, male or female, can by any effort of imagination attain to the faintest idea of poor Miss Pritty’s horror at the sight of “blood!”—“human gore!” particularly. Nevertheless Miss Pritty, encouraged by her friend’s example, rose to the occasion. With a face and lips so deadly pale that one might have been justified in believing that all the blood on the decks had flowed therefrom, she went about among the wounded, assisting Aileen in every possible way with her eyes shut. She did indeed open them when it was absolutely necessary to do so, but shut them again instantly on the necessity for vision passing away. She cut short bandages when directed so to do; she held threads or tapes; she tore up shirts, and slips, and other linen garments, with the most reckless disregard of propriety; she wiped away blood from wounds (under direction), and moistened many dry lips with a sponge, and brushed beads of perspiration from pale brows—like a heroine.

Meanwhile Edgar went about actively, rejoicing in his new-found capacity to alleviate human suffering. What the Faculty would have thought of him we know not. All on board the gun-boat venerated him as a most perfect surgeon. His natural neatness of hand stood him in good stead, for men were bleeding to death all round him, and in order to save some it was necessary that he should use despatch with others. Of course he attended to the most critical cases first, except in the case of those who were so hopelessly injured as to be obviously beyond the reach of benefit from man. From these he turned sadly away, after whispering to them an earnest word or two about the Saviour of mankind—to those of them at least who understood English. To waste time with these he felt would be to rob hopeful cases of a chance. All simple and easy cases of bandaging he left to the captain and his chief officer. Joe Baldwin, being a cool steady man, was appointed to act as his own assistant.

From one to another he passed unweariedly, cutting off portions of torn flesh, extracting bullets, setting broken bones, taking up and tying severed arteries, sewing together the edges of gaping wounds, and completing the amputation of limbs, in regard to which the operation had been begun—sometimes nearly finished—by cannon shot.

“How terribly some of the poor wretches have been starved!” muttered Edgar as he bent over one of the captives, attempting to draw together the edges of a sword-cut in his arm; “why, there is not enough of flesh on him to cover his wound.”

“There an’t much, sir,” assented Joe Baldwin, in a sympathetic tone, as he stood close by holding the needle and thread in readiness. “There’s one man for’ard, sir, that I saw in passing to the chest for this thread, that has scarcely as much flesh on him as would bait a rat-trap. But he seems quite contented, poor fellow, at bein’ freed from slavery, and don’t seem to mind much the want o’ flesh and blood. Perhaps he counts on gettin’ these back again.”

“Hm! These are not so easily regained when lost as you seem to imagine, my friend,” exclaimed a pompous but rather weak voice. Joe looked up. It was Mr Hazlit, whose bloodless countenance and shrunken condition had become more apparent than ever after he had been enabled to reclothe himself in the garments of civilisation.

“Why, sir,” said Joe, gently, “you seem to have bin badly shaken. Not bin wounded, I hope, sir?”

“No,—at least not in body,” replied the merchant, with a faint smile and shake of the head; “but I’ve been sadly bruised and broken in spirit.”

Joe, remembering somewhat of Mr Hazlit’s former state of spirit, had almost congratulated him on the beneficial change before it occurred that his meaning in doing so might have been misunderstood. He therefore coughed slightly and said, “Ah—indeed!”

“Yes, indeed, my man,” returned the merchant; “but I have reason to be supremely thankful that I am here now in any condition of mind and body worthy of being recognised.”

As the amateur surgeon here desired Joe to assist him in moving his patient a little, Mr Hazlit turned away, in a stooping attitude because of weakness, and, with his vest flapping against the place where his chief development had once been, shuffled slowly towards the quarter-deck.

It was at this time that the boat which captured Pungarin came alongside, and there was a general movement of curiosity towards the gangway as he was passed on board.

The hands of the pirate-chief were tied behind his back, but otherwise he was free, the cords that had bound his legs having been cast loose.

A howl of execration burst from the captives when they saw him, and several ran forward with the evident intention of spitting on him, but these were promptly checked by the sailors.

Pungarin drew himself up and stood calmly, but not defiantly, as if waiting orders. There was no expression on his bold countenance save that of stern indifference for the crowd around him, over whose heads he gazed quietly out to sea. His brow remained as unflushed and his breathing as gentle as though his struggles for life had occurred weeks ago, though the wet garments and the ragged red jacket told eloquently of the share he had taken in the recent fight.

“Take him below and put him in irons,” said the captain.

“Please, sir,” remarked the man whose duty it was to secure the prisoners, “we’ve got no more irons on board. We had only thirty pair, and there’s now thirty-eight prisoners in the hold.”

“Secure him with ropes, then,” returned the captain;—“where is Mr Berrington?” he added, looking round hurriedly.

“For’ard, sir, lookin’ after the wounded,” answered a sailor.

While the pirate-chief was led below, the captain walked quickly to the place where Edgar was busy.

“Can you spare a minute?” he asked.

“Not easily,” said Edgar, who had just finished the dressing with which we left him engaged; “there are several here who require prompt attention; but of course if the case is urgent—”

“It is urgent: come and see.”

Without a word our amateur surgeon rose and walked after the captain, who led him to the companion-hatch, leaning against which he found the Singapore man, with his head split across and apparently cut down nearly from ear to ear. From this awful wound two small spouts of blood, about the thickness of a coarse thread, rose a foot and a half into the air. We use no exaggeration, reader, in describing this. We almost quote verbatim the words of a most trustworthy eye-witness from whose lips we received the account.

The man looked anxiously at Edgar, who turned at once to the captain and said in an undertone, but hurriedly, “I can be of no use here. It is quite impossible that he can live. To attempt anything would really be taking up time that is of vast importance to more hopeful cases.”

“Sir, do try,” faltered the poor man in English.

“Ha! You speak English?” said Edgar, turning quickly towards him; “forgive me, my poor fellow, I did not know that you understood—”

“Yis, me speak Engleesh. Me Singapore man. Go for vist me friends here. Cotch by pirits. Do try, doctir.”

While he was speaking Edgar quickly took off the man’s necktie and bound it round his head; then, using a little piece of wood as a lever, he passed it through the tie and twisted it until the two sides of the gaping gash were brought together, which operation stopped the bleeding at once. This done he hastily left him; but it will interest the reader to know that this Singapore man actually recovered from his terrible wound after a month of hospital treatment. He was afterwards taken over to Singapore as a natural curiosity, and exhibited there to several doctors who had refused to believe the story. For aught we know to the contrary, the man may be alive and well at the present day. Certain it is that his cure at that time was complete. (Note. We were told this fact by a trustworthy eye-witness.)

It was evening before all the wounds were dressed, and it was dark night ere the disorder caused by the action and its consequences were removed, and the gun-boat restored to somewhat of its wonted tidiness and appearance of comfort. But there was little comfort on board during the silence of that long night, which seemed to many as though it would never end; and which, in the case of a few, ended in Eternity.

Although silence began to descend on all, sleep was not there. Excitement, fatigue, and the awful scenes they had witnessed, drove it from the pillows of Aileen and her friend. Frequent calls for the aid of the surgeon put anything like refreshing rest—much though he required it—quite out of the question, and at whatever hour of the night or early morning he entered the temporary hospital where the sufferers lay, he was sure to be met by the white flash of the many eyes in haggard swart faces that turned eagerly and expectantly towards him—proving that sleep had little or no influence there.

There was less of this want of repose, strange to say, in another part of the vessel.

Down in the dark hold, where one feeble lamp cast a mere apology for light on the wretched surroundings, many of the pirates slept soundly. Their days were numbered—each one knew that full well—yet they slept. Their hearts ought to have been fall of dark forebodings, but they slumbered—some of them with the profound quietude of infants! One might wonder at this were it not a familiar fact. This condition of “the wicked” has been observed in every age, and is stated in holy writ.

But all were not asleep in that dismal prison-house. There were among them, it seemed, a few who were troubled with fears—perhaps some who had consciences not yet utterly seared. At all events, two or three of them moved uneasily as they sat huddled together, for there was little room for so many in such a confined space, and now and then a bursting sigh escaped. But such evidences of weakness, if such it may be called, were few. For the most part silence reigned. In mercy the captain had ordered a chink of the hatch to be left open, and through this the stars shone down into the dark chamber.

Looking up at these, in statue-like silence, sat the pirate-chief. No one had spoken to him, and he had spoken to none since his entry there. Sleep did not visit his eyes, nor rest his heart, yet he sat perfectly still, hour after hour. Perchance he experienced the rest resulting from an iron will that abides its approaching time for action.

The tending of the wounded, the cleansing of the ship, the feeding of survivors, the shutting up and arranging for the night, had passed away—even the groaning of sufferers had dwindled down to its lowest ebb—long before Pungarin moved with the intent to carry out his purpose.

The night-watch had been set and changed; the guard over the prisoners had been relieved; the man in charge of them had gone his rounds and examined their fetters; the careful captain had himself inspected them,—all was perfectly quiet and deemed safe, when Pungarin at last moved, and gave vent to one deep prolonged sigh that seemed to be the opening of the escape-valve of his heart, and the out-rush of its long-pent-up emotions.

Slowly, but persistently, he began to struggle, and in the darkness of the place it seemed to those of his comrades who observed him as if he were writhing like a snake. But little did his fellow-pirates heed. Their hearts had long ago ceased to be impressible by horrid fancies. They could not help but see what went on before their eyes—it did not require an effort to help caring!

We have already said that some of the prisoners had been bound with ropes for want of irons. Pungarin was among the number, and his almost superhuman efforts were directed to freeing himself from his rope, either by tearing his limbs out of it, or by snapping it asunder. In both attempts he failed. Sailors are, of all men, least likely to tie a knot badly, or to select a rope too weak for its purpose. The pirate at length made this discovery, and sank down exhausted. But he rose again ere long.

Those of the prisoners who had been secured by ropes were fastened to a beam overhead. The place was very low. None of them could have stood erect under this beam. While endeavouring to free himself, Pungarin had struggled on his knees. He now raised himself as high as possible on his knees. His hands, although tied in front of him, could be raised to his head. He quickly made a loop on the rope and passed it over his head.

Just then the guard removed the hatchway, and descended to make the last inspection for the night. Pungarin hastily removed the rope, sank down and lay quite still as if in slumber.

Night passed slowly on. The morning-star arose. The sun soon chased away the shadows, and brought joy to the awaking world. It even brought some degree of comfort to the comfortless on board the gun-boat. The sleepers began to rouse themselves, the wounded to move and relieve themselves, if possible, by change of position. The cook set about his preparations for the morning meal, and the captain, who, being dangerously close to shore, had taken no rest whatever during the night, gave up the charge of his vessel to the first officer, and went below to seek that repose which he had so well earned.

Ere he had closed an eye, however, his attention, was arrested by a cry, and by a peculiar noise of voices on deck. There are tones in the human voice which need no verbal explanation to tell us that they mean something serious. He jumped up and sprang on deck. As if by instinct he went towards the hatchway leading to the hold.

“He’s dead, sir!” were the first words that greeted him.

A glance into the hold was enough to explain.

The pirate-chief had hanged himself. With difficulty, but with inflexible resolution, he had accomplished his purpose by fastening the rope round his neck and lifting his legs off the ground, so that he was actually found suspended in a sitting posture.

His comrades in guilt, little impressed, apparently, by his fate, sat or reclined around his body in callous indifference.

Chapter Twenty One.

Difficulties of various Kinds, also Troubles, and a Discovery.

“Gentlemen,” said the captain of the gun-boat to Mr Hazlit and Edgar as they sat that morning at breakfast, “it is my intention to run to the nearest town on the coast—which happens to be Muku—have these pirates tried and shot, then proceed to Singapore, and perhaps run thence to the coast of China. I will take you with me if you wish it, or if you prefer it, will put you on board the first homeward-bound passenger-ship that we can find. What say you?”

Now, reader, we possess the happy privilege of knowing what Mr Hazlit and Edgar thought as well as what they said, and will use that privilege for purposes of our own.

In the first place, Edgar thought he should very much like to hear Mr Hazlit’s views on that subject before speaking. He therefore said nothing.

The course being thus left clear to him, the merchant thought as follows:—

“It’s very awkward, excessively awkward and vexatious. Here am I, ever so many thousands of miles away from home, without a single sovereign in my purse, and without even the right to borrow of the captain, for I have nothing certainly available even at home—Some! Why, I have no home!”

At this point the poor man’s thoughts took form in words.

“Ahem!” he said, clearing his throat, “I am much obliged by your kindness (‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ from the captain), and should prefer, if possible, to reach Hong-Kong and ship thence for England. You see, I have some business friends there, and as I shall have to replenish my purse before—”

“Oh, don’t let that stand in the way,” said the captain, promptly, “I shall be happy to lend what you may require, and—”

“Excuse my interrupting you, captain, and thanks for your obliging offer,” said Mr Hazlit, holding up his large hand as if to put the suggestion away; “but for reasons that it is not necessary to explain, I wish to recruit my finances at Hong-Kong.”

“And I,” said Edgar, breaking in here, “wish to go to the same place, not so much on my own account as on that of one of my companions, who has left two very pretty little pieces of property there in the shape of a wife and a child, who might object to being left behind.”

This settled the question, and the breakfast party went on deck.

“Mr Hazlit,” said Edgar, “will you walk with me to the stern of the vessel? I wish to get out of earshot of others.”

Mr Hazlit replied, “Certainly, Mr Berrington;” but he thought a good deal more than he said. Among many other things he thought, “Ah! Here it comes at last. He thinks this a good time to renew his suit, having just rendered us such signal assistance. I think he might have waited! Besides, his saving our lives does not alter the fact that he is still a penniless youth, and I will not give my daughter to such. It is true I am a more thoroughly penniless man than he, for these villains have robbed me and Aileen of our rings, chains, and watches, on which I counted a good deal,—alas! But that does not mend matters. It makes them rather worse. No, it must not be! My child’s interests must be considered even before gratitude. I must be firm.”

Thought is wondrously rapid. Mr Hazlit thought all that and a great deal more during the brief passage from the companion-hatch to the stern-rail.

“I wish to ask you to do me a favour, Mr Hazlit,” the young man began.

The merchant looked at him with a troubled expression.

“Mr Berrington, you have been the means of saving our lives. It would be ungrateful in me to refuse you any favour that I can, with propriety, grant.”

“I am aware,” continued Edgar, “that you have—have—met with losses. That your circumstances are changed—”

Mr Hazlit coloured and drew himself proudly up.

“Be not offended, my dear sir,” continued the youth earnestly; “I do not intrude on private matters—I would not dare to do so. I only speak of what I saw in English newspapers in Hong-Kong just before I left, and therefore refer to what is generally known to all. And while I sincerely deplore what I know, I would not presume to touch on it at all were I not certain that the pirates must have robbed you of all you possess, and that you must of necessity be in want of present funds. I also know that some of a man’s so-called ‘friends’ are apt to fall off and fail him in the time of financial difficulty. Now, the favour I ask is that you will consider me—as indeed I am—one of your true friends, and accept of a loan of two or three hundred pounds—”

“Impossible, sir,—im— it is very kind of you—very, Mr Berrington—but, impossible,” said Mr Hazlit, struggling between kindly feeling and hurt dignity.

“Nay, but,” pleaded Edgar, “I only offer you a loan. Besides, I want to benefit myself,” he added, with a smile. “The fact is, I have made a little money in a diving venture, which I and some others undertook to these seas, and I receive no interest for it just now. If you would accept of a few hundreds—what you require for present necessities—you may have them at three or five per cent. I would ask more, but that, you know, would be usurious!”

Still the fallen merchant remained immovable. He acknowledged Edgar’s pleasantry about interest with a smile, but would by no means accept of a single penny from him in any form.

Edgar had set his heart upon two things that morning, and had prayed, not for success, but, for guidance in regard to them.

In the first he had failed—apparently. Not much depressed, and nothing daunted, he tried the second.

“Captain,” he said, pacing up and down by the side of that black-bearded, black-eyed, and powerful pirate-killer, “what say you to run back to the spot where you sank the pirates, and attempt to fish up some of the treasure with our diving apparatus?”

“I’ve thought of that two or three times,” replied the captain, shaking his head; “but they went down in deep waters,—forty fathoms, at least,—which is far beyond your powers.”

“True,” returned Edgar, “but the prow of the pirate-chief was, you know, run down in only nineteen fathoms, and that is not beyond us.”

“Is it not?”

“No, we have already been deeper than twenty fathoms with the dress I have on board.”

“There is only one objection,” said the captain, pausing in his walk; “I have learned from the prisoners that before we came up with them, Pungarin had had all the money and chief treasure transferred from his own prow to another, which was a faster boat, intending to change into it himself, but that after our appearing he deferred doing so until the fight should be over. If this be true, then the treasure went down in deep water, and the chiefs prow has nothing in it worth diving for.”

“But we are not sure that this story is true; and at all events it is probable that at least some of the treasure may have been left in Pungarin’s boat,” urged Edgar.

“Well, I’ll make the trial; but first I must dispose of my prisoners.”

So saying, the captain resumed his walk and Edgar went below to look after his engine, having, in passing, given Rooney Machowl instructions to overhaul the diving gear and get it into good working order.

This Rooney did with much consequential display, for he dearly loved to bring about that condition of things which is styled “astonishing the natives.” As the Malays on board, seamen and captives, were easily astonished by the novelties of the western hemisphere, he had no difficulty in attracting and chaining their attention to the minutest details of his apparatus. He more than astonished them!

With the able assistance of Baldwin and Maxwell and Ram-stam, he drew out, uncoiled, rubbed, examined inch by inch, and re-coiled the life-line and the air-tube; unscrewed the various pieces—glasses, nuts, and valves—of the helmet, carefully examined them, oiled them, and re-fastened them, much to the interest and curiosity of “the natives.” The helmet itself he polished up till it shone like a great globe of silver, to the intense admiration of “the natives.” The pump he took to pieces elaborately, much to the anxiety of “the natives,” who evidently thought he had wantonly destroyed it, but who soon saw it gradually put together again, much to their satisfaction, and brought into good working order. Rooney even went the length of horrifying one or two of “the natives” by letting one of the heavy shoulder-weights fall on their naked toes. This had the effect of making them jump and howl, while it threw the others into ecstasies of delight, which they expressed by throwing back their heads, shutting their eyes, opening their mouths, and chuckling heartily.

Aileen and Miss Pritty, in the meantime, lay on the sofas in the cabin, and at last obtained much-needed refreshment to their weary spirits by falling into deep, dreamless, and untroubled slumber.

Thus the gun-boat with its varied freight sped on until it reached Sarawak, where the pirates were sent ashore under a strong guard.

With these our tale has now nothing more to do; but as this cutting short of their career is not fiction, it may interest the reader to know that they were afterwards tried by a jury composed half of native chiefs and half of Europeans, who unanimously found them guilty. They were condemned to be shot, and the sentence was carried out immediately, in the jungle, two miles outside of the town. They were buried where they fell, and thus ended one of the sharpest lessons that had ever been taught to a band of miscreants, who had long filled with terror the inhabitants of Borneo and the neighbouring archipelago.

Some idea may be formed of the service done on this occasion—as estimated by those who were well able to judge—when we say that the captain of the gun-boat afterwards received, in recognition of his prowess, a handsome sword and letter of thanks from the Rajah, Sir James Brooke; a certificate, with a pocket chronometer, from the Netherlands-Indian Government; a commander’s commission from the Sarawak Government; and letters of grateful thanks from the Resident Governor of the west coast of Borneo, the Council of Singapore for the Netherlands Government, and others—all expressive of his gallant conduct in utterly routing so large a body of pirates, liberating two hundred and fifty slaves—chiefly of the Dutch settlements—and clearing the Borneon coast of a curse that had infested it for many years. (See Note 4.)

Having disposed of the pirates, the gun-boat proceeded immediately to sea, and in a short time reached the scene of her recent victory. It had previously been proposed to Mr Hazlit that he might remain in Sarawak, if he chose, during the short period of the gun-boat’s intended absence, but the unfortunate man—owing to financial reasons!—decided to remain in the vessel.

It happened to be a calm, lovely morning, not unlike that on which the action had been fought, when they reached the scene of their intended operations, and began to drag for the sunken prow.

The difficulty of finding it was much greater than had been anticipated, for the land, although visible, was much too far off to be of any service as a guide. At last, however, it was discovered; the diving apparatus was got out; the anchor cast, and Maxwell, being esteemed the most enduring among the divers, prepared to go down.

“It feels quite like old times, sir, don’t it?” said Joe Baldwin to Edgar Berrington, as he assisted to dress the diver, and manipulated the various parts of the costume with a fondness that one might feel towards a favourite dog from which one had been for some time parted.

“It does indeed, Joe,” replied Edgar, smiling; “I almost envy Maxwell the pleasure of a dip—especially in such a clear cool sea in this hot weather.”

“How is he to breathe?” asked Miss Pritty, who with Aileen and her father, as well as the captain and crew of the gun-boat, watched the process of robing with as much interest as if they had never before seen it performed.

“Sure, Miss,” observed Rooney Machowl, with great simplicity of aspect, “he does it by drawin’ in an’ puffin’ out the air through his mouth an’ nose.”

“Very true,” observed Miss Pritty, with a good-natured smile, for even she could see that the Irishman was poking fun at her; “but how is air conveyed to him?”

“It is sent down by means of an air-pump,” said Edgar, who took on himself the duty of explaining.

“Dear me!” returned Miss Pritty, elevating her eyebrows in surprise; “I always thought that pumps were used only for pumping up water.”

“Och! No, Miss,” said Rooney, “they’re largely used for pumping up beer in London.”

“Now, David, are you all right?” asked Joe.

“All right,” said Maxwell, as he rose and shook himself to settle the weights comfortably on his back and breast.

“Come along then, me boy,” said Rooney.

Maxwell went to the side of the vessel, where a rope-ladder had been prepared, and his two attendants assisted him to get over.

“All right?” asked Joe again, after giving the order to pump, which Ram-stam commenced with the steady coolness and regularity of a veteran.

“All right,” replied Maxwell, who immediately afterwards slowly disappeared.

After an hour’s absence he signalled that he was coming up. In a few minutes his helmet was seen far down in the depths. Then it emerged from the surface.

“I want a crowbar,” he said on the glass being removed.

“If you’d had on a helmet with a speakin’-tube,” observed Rooney, “you might have said that without comin’ up.”

“True, lad,” growled Maxwell, “but not havin’ on a helmet with a speakin’-toobe, here I am, so please look alive.”

“Any sign of treasure?” asked Edgar.

“Not as yet, sir.”

The crowbar having been brought, the diver again went down.

For some time all went on quietly, for it was expected that, deep though the water was, Maxwell’s power of enduring pressure would enable him to remain below for at least two hours, if not longer. After looking for some time inquiringly at the spot where he had disappeared, most of the Malays resumed their various duties about the vessel, though a few remained a little to regard Ram-stam with much interest, as being one who, in a measure, held the life of a fellow-being in his hands.

Suddenly a loud hissing noise was heard over the side. It sounded to those on deck as if the great sea-serpent had put his head out of the sea close alongside and sent a violent hiss into the air.

Joe Baldwin was attending to the air-tube, while Rooney held the life-line. He looked quickly down.

“The air-pipe’s burst!” he shouted, and both he and his comrade, without a moment’s delay, began to haul up the diver as fast as they possibly could.

That the reader may properly appreciate what had happened, it is necessary to remind him that at nineteen fathoms Maxwell’s body was subjected to a pressure—from water, outside his dress—of about 50 pounds to the square inch, and that to prevent such a tremendous pressure from crushing in and collapsing all the cavities of his body, an equal pressure of air had to be forced into his dress, so that the pressure of water outside the dress was met and counteracted by the pressure of air inside. This highly condensed air of course tended to crush the diver, as did the water, but with this important difference, that the air entered his lungs, wind-pipe, ears, nose, etcetera, and thus prevented these organs from collapsing, and confined the absolute pressure to their walls of flesh so to speak, and to the solid muscular parts of his frame. Maxwell, being a very muscular man and tough, was, as we have said, able to stand the pressure on these parts better than many men. When, therefore, the air-tube burst—which it happened to do at a weak point just a foot or so above water—the diver’s dress was instantaneously crushed tight round him in every part, the air was driven completely out of it, and also largely out of poor Maxwell’s body!

The moment he appeared at the surface it was seen that he was insensible, for he swung about by his life-line and tube in a helpless manner.

Seeing this, Edgar, who had anxiously watched for him, got out on the ladder and passed the loop of a rope under his arms. It was quickly done. He was laid on deck and the bull’s-eye was unscrewed by Rooney, who instantly exclaimed, “He’s dead!”

“No, he’s not; I see his lips move,” said Joe Baldwin, aiding Edgar to unscrew the helmet.

This was soon removed, and a frightful sight was revealed to the spectators. Maxwell’s face and neck were quite livid and swelled out to an almost bursting extent; blood was flowing profusely from his mouth and ears, and his eyes protruded horribly, as if they had been nearly forced out of their sockets.

It is right to observe that the helmet worn by Maxwell on this occasion was an old-fashioned one which, in the haste of departure from Hong-Kong, they had taken with them instead of one of their new ones. Most of the helmets now in use possess a valve which shuts of itself in the event of the air-tube bursting, and prevents the air from being crushed out of the dress. A dress full of air will, as we have already said, keep a man alive for at least five minutes. He has time, therefore, to reach the surface, so that danger from this source is not nearly so great as it used to be.

Such restoratives as suggested themselves to the chief onlookers were applied, and, to the surprise of every one, the diver began to show signs of returning life. In a few minutes he began to retch, and soon vomited a large quantity of clotted blood. After a time he began to whisper a few words.

“Cheer up, my lad,” said the captain in a kindly voice, as he went down on one knee beside the prostrate man; “don’t attempt to speak or exert yourself in any way. You’ll be all right in a few days. We’ll have your dress taken off and send you below, where you shall be taken good care of.”

With returning vitality came back Maxwell’s inbred obstinacy. He would not hold his tongue, but insisted on explaining his sensations to his comrades as they busied themselves taking off his dress—a rather violent operation at all times, and very difficult in the circumstances.

“W’y messmates,” he said, “I hadn’t even time to guess wot ’ad ’appened. Got no warnin’ wotsomedever. I just felt a tree-mendous shock all of a suddent that struck me motionless—as if Tom Sayers had hit me a double-handed cropper on the top o’ my beak an’ in the pit o’ my bread-basket at one an’ the same moment. Then came an ’orrible pressure as if a two-thousand-ton ship ’ad bin let down a-top o’ me, an’ arter that I remembers nothin’.”

It is probable that the poor fellow would have gone on with his comments, though he spoke with difficulty and in a feeble voice, in which none of his characteristic gruffness remained, if he had not been cut short by Joe Baldwin and Rooney Machowl lifting him up and carrying him below.

Rooney, who carried his shoulders, took occasion to say while on the way down:—

“David, boy, did ye find anny treasure?”

“No;—see’d nothin’.”

“Ow, ow, worse luck!” sighed Rooney.

Maxwell was made comfortable with a glass of weak brandy and water—hot—and his comrades returned on deck, where they found Edgar Berrington commencing to put on the diving-dress.

“Goin’ down, sir?” inquired Joe.

“Yes. We have fortunately another air-tube, and I want to complete the work we have begun.”

“Is there not a risk,” whispered Aileen to her father, “that the same accident may happen again?”

“Ah, true,” answered Mr Hazlit aloud; “the water appears to be very deep, Mr Berrington. Do you not think it probable that the air-tube may burst a second time?”

“I think not,” replied Edgar, as he sat down to have his helmet affixed to the dress. “The best made articles are liable to possess flaws. Even the most perfect railway-wheel, in which the cleverest engineer alive might fail to detect a fault, may conceal a dangerous flaw. There is no certainty in human affairs. All we can say is that, when we consider the thousands of divers who are daily employed all over the world, accidents of the kind you have just witnessed are not numerous. If I were to refrain from going down because this accident has occurred, I might as well refrain evermore from entering a railway-carriage. We must risk something sometimes in our progress through life, Mr Hazlit. It was intended that we should. Why were we gifted with the quality of courage if risk and danger were never to be encountered?”

The screwing on of the bull’s-eye put a stop to further remark, and a few seconds later our hero went over the side, while Ram-stam, smiling benignant indifference as to the event which had so recently happened, steadily performed his duty.

As Mr Hazlit and Aileen watched the bubbles that rose in multitudes to the surface, the former repeated to himself, mentally, “Yes, we must risk something sometimes in our progress through life.” He went on repeating this until at last he followed it up with the sudden reflection:—“Well, perhaps I must risk my daughter’s happiness in this youth’s hands, even though he is penniless. He seems an able fellow; will, doubtless, make his way anywhere. At all events it is quite evident that he will risk his life anywhere! Besides, now I think of it, he said something about lending me some hundred pounds or so. Perhaps he is not absolutely penniless. It is quite certain that I am. Curious sentiment that of his: ‘We must risk something sometimes.’ Very curious, and quite new—at least exhibited to me in quite a new light.”

While Mr Hazlit’s mind ran on thus, and his eyes dreamily watched the bubbles on the surface of the sea, our hero was grubbing like a big-headed goblin among the wreckage at the bottom.

He moved about from place to place in that slow leaning fashion which the resistance of water renders unavoidable, but he found nothing whatever to repay him for his trouble. There were beams and twisted iron-work, and overturned guns, and a few bales, but nothing that bore the least resemblance to boxes or bags of money.

One or two large cases he discovered, and forced them open with the crowbar, which Maxwell had dropped when he was struck insensible, but they contained nothing worth the labour of having them hoisted up. At last he was about to leave, after a careful search of more than an hour, when he espied something shining in a corner of what had once been the pirate-chief’s cabin. He took it up and found it to be a small box of unusual weight for its size. His sense of touch told him that it was ornamented with carving on its surface, but the light was not sufficient to enable him to see it distinctly. His heart beat hopefully, however, as he hastened as fast as the water would permit out of the cabin, and then, to his joy he found that it was Aileen Hazlit’s jewel-box! How it came there he could not guess; but the reader partly knows the truth, and can easily imagine that when the pirate-chief sent his other valuables to the swift prow, as before mentioned, he kept this—the most precious of them all—close to his own person to the last, desiring, no doubt, to have it always under his own eye.

Not troubling himself much, however, with such speculations, Edgar returned to the cabin, placed the box where he found it, and spent full half-an-hour more in plying his crowbar in the hope of discovering more of the pirate’s horde. While thus engaged he received two or three signals to “Come up” from Joe Baldwin, who held his life-line; but he signalled back “All right—let me alone,” and went on with his work.

At last there came the signal “Come up!” given with such a peremptory tug that he was fain, though unwilling, to comply. Taking the box under his arm he began to ascend slowly. On gaining the surface he was made at once aware of the reason of the repeated signalling, for a sudden squall had burst upon the eastern sea, which by that time, although perfectly calm below, was tumbling about in waves so large that the gun-boat was tossing like a cork at her anchor, and it was found to be almost impossible to work the air-pump. In fact it was only by having two men stationed to keep Ram-stam on his legs that the thing could be done!

With some difficulty Edgar was got on board, and the order was immediately given to weigh anchor.

Expressing great surprise at the state of things he found above water, and regret that he had not sooner attended to orders, Edgar placed the box on the deck. Then he unrobed, and drawing on his trousers and a canvas jacket he issued from behind the funnel—which had been his robing-room—and went aft, where he found Aileen seated between her friend Miss Pritty and her father.

“Miss Hazlit,” he said with a peculiar smile, “allow me to introduce you to an old friend.”

He held up before her the carved steel box.

“My mother’s jewel-case!” she exclaimed, with a look of intense surprise.

“My—my wife’s jewels!” stammered Mr Hazlit, in equal surprise; “whereon earth—why—how—where—young man, did you find them?”

“I found them at the bottom of the sea,” replied Edgar. “It is the second time, strange to say, that I have had the pleasure of fishing them up from that vast repository of riches where, I doubt not, many another jewel-case still lies, and will continue to lie, unclaimed for ever. Meanwhile, I count myself peculiarly fortunate in being the means of restoring this case to its rightful owner.”

So saying he placed it in the hands of Aileen.

The captain, who had watched the whole scene with quiet interest and a peculiar curl about his black moustache, as well as a twinkle in his sharp black eye, uttered a short laugh, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked away to give the order that the steamer’s head should be laid precisely “sou’, sou’-west, and by south, half-south,” with a slight—almost a shadowy—leaning in the direction of “southerly.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Miscellaneous Matters, ending with a “Scrimmage” under Water.

We are back again in Hong-Kong—in the pagoda—with our old friends seated comfortably round their little table enjoying a good supper.

Pretty little Mrs Machowl has prepared it, and is now assisting at the partaking of it. Young Master Teddy Machowl is similarly engaged on his father’s knee. The child has grown appallingly during its father’s absence! Ram-stam and Chok-foo are in waiting—gazing at each other with the affection of Chinese lovers re-united.

“What a sight you are, Rooney!” said Mrs Machowl, pausing between bites to look at her husband.

“Sure it’s the same may be said of yoursilf, cushla!” replied Rooney, stuffing his child’s mouth with sweet potato.

“Yes, but it’s what a fright you are, I mane,” said Mrs Machowl.

“An’ it’s what a purty cratur you are that I mane,” replied Rooney, repeating the dose to Teddy, who regarded his father with looks of deep affection.

“Ah! Go ’long wid you. Sure it’s your nose is spoilt entirely,” said Mrs Machowl.

“An’ it’s your own that is swaiter than iver, which more than makes up the difference,” retorted her lord.—“Howld it open as wide as ye can this time, Ted, me boy; there, that’s your sort—but don’t choke, ye spalpeen.”

There seemed indeed some occasion for the latter admonition, for Teddy, unused to such vigorous treatment, was beginning to look purple in the face and apoplectic about the eyes. In short, there is every probability that an attack of croup, or something dreadful, would have ensued if the child’s mother had not risen hastily and snatched it away from the would-be infanticide.

“Now then, Ram-stam and Chok-foo,” said Edgar Berrington, putting down his spoon, “clear away the rat’s-tail soup, and bring on the roast puppy.”

Grinning from ear to ear, and with almost closed eyes, the Chinese servitors obeyed.

While they cleared the table and laid the second course, the conversation became general. Previously it had been particular, referring chiefly to the soup and the free circulation of the salt.

“So, then,” observed Joe Baldwin, leaning back in his chair, “we must make up our minds to be content with what we have got. Well, it an’t so bad after all! Let me see. How much did you say the total is, Mister Eddy?”

“Close upon eight thousand five hundred pounds.”

“A tidy little sum,” observed Rooney, with an air of satisfaction.

“Eight thousand—eh?” repeated Joe; “hum, well, we’ll cut off the five hundred for expenses and passage home, and that leaves eight thousand clear, which, according to agreement, gives each of us two thousand pounds.”

Maxwell, who still looked pale and thin from the effects of his late accident, nodded his head slowly, and growled, “Two thousand—jus’ so.”

“An’ that, Molly, my dear,” said Rooney, “if properly invisted, gives you an’ me a clair income—only think, an income, Molly—of wan hundred a year! It’s true, cushla! That ye won’t be able to rowl in yer carridge an’ walk in silks an’ satins on that income, but it’ll pay the rint an’ taxes, owld girl, an’ help Teddy to a collidge eddication—to say nothin’ o’ pipes an’ baccy. Ochone!—if we’d only not lost the first haul, we’d have bin millerinaires be this time. I wouldn’t have called the Quane me grandmother.”

“Come, Rooney, be grateful for what you’ve got,” said Edgar. “Enough is as good as a feast.”

“Ah! Sur, it’ll be time to say that when we’ve finished the puppy,” replied the Irishman, as Chok-foo placed on the board a savoury roast which bore some resemblance to the animal named, though, having had its head and legs amputated, there could be no absolute certainty on the point. Whatever it was, the party attacked it with relish, and silence reigned until it was finished, after which conversation flowed again—somewhat languidly at first. When, however, pipes were got out by those who smoked, and chairs were placed in the verandah, and no sound was heard around save the yelling of Chinese children who were romping in the Chinese kennel that skirted the pagoda, and the champing of the jaws of Ram-stam and Chok-foo as they masticated inside—then came the feast of reason, not to mention the flow of soul.

“I wonder what our friends at Whitstable will say to this ventur’ of ours,” said Maxwell.

“Have you many friends there?” asked Edgar.

“Many?—of course I has. W’y, I suppose every English diver must have friends there.”

“Where is it?” asked Edgar.

“Why, sir, don’t you know Whitstable?” exclaimed Joe Baldwin, in surprise.

“You forget, Joe,” replied Edgar, with a smile, “that although I have learnt how to dive, and have read a good deal about the history of diving, I am only an amateur after all, and cannot be supposed to know everything connected with the profession. All I know about Whitstable is that it is a port somewhere in the south of England.”

“Right, sir,” said Joe, “but it’s more than that; it lies on the coast of Kent, and is famous for its oyster-beds and its divers. How it came to be a place of resort for divers I don’t know, but so it is, an’ I have heard say it was divin’ for oysters in days of old that gave the natives a taste for the work. Anyhow, they’ve got the taste very decided somehow, an’ after every spell o’ dirty weather they’re sure to have telegrams from all parts of the coast, and you’ll see Lloyds’ agents huntin’ up the divers in the public-houses an’ packin’ ’em off wi’ their gear right and left by rail to look after salvage.

“These men,” continued Joe, “are most of ’em handicraftmen as well as divers, because you know, sir, it would be of no use to send down a mere labourer to repair the bottom of a ship, no matter how good he was at divin’; so, you’ll find among ’em masons, and shipbuilders, and carpenters, and engineers—”

“Ah!” interrupted Edgar, “I was just wondering how they would manage if it were found necessary to have the engines of a sunk steamer taken to pieces and sent up.”

“Well, sir,” rejoined Joe, “they’ve got men there who can dive, and who know as much about marine engines as you do yourself. And these men make lots of tin, for a good diver can earn a pound a day, an’ be kept in pretty regular employment in deep water. In shallow water he can earn from ten to fifteen shillings a day. Besides this, they make special arrangements for runnin’ extra risks. Then the savin’ they sometimes effect is amazin’. Why, sir, although you do know somethin’ of the advantages of diving, you can never know fully what good they do in the world at large. Just take the case of the Agamemnon at Sebastopol—”

“Och!” interrupted Rooney, whose visage was perplexed by reason of his pipe refusing to draw well, “wasn’t (puff) that a good job intirely (puff! There; you’re all right at last!) He was a friend o’ mine that managed that job. Tarry, we called him—though that wasn’t his right name. This is how it was. The fleet was blazin’ away at the fortifications, an’ of coorse the fortifications—out o’ politeness if nothin’ else—was blazin’ away at the fleet, and smoke was curlin’ up like a chimbley on fire, an’ big balls was goin’ about like pais in a rattle, an’ small shot like hail was blowin’ horizontal, an’ men was bein’ shot an’ cut to pieces, an’ them as warn’t was cheerin’ as if there was any glory in wholesale murther—bah! I wouldn’t give a day at Donnybrook wid a shillelah for all the sieges of Sebastopool as ever I heard tell of. Well, suddintly, bang goes a round shot slap through the hull of the Agamemnon, below the water-line! Here was a pretty to do! The ordinary coorse in this case would have bin to haul out of action, go right away to Malta, an’ have the ship docked and repaired there. But what does they do? Why, they gets from under fire for a bit, and sends down my friend Tarry to look at the hole. He goes down, looks at it, then comes up an’ looks at the Commodore,—bowld as brass.

“‘I can repair it,’ says Tarry.

“‘Well, do,’ says the Commodore.

“So down he goes an’ does it, an’ very soon after that the Agamemnon went into action again, and blazed away at the walls o’ the owld place harder than ever.”

“That was a good case, an’ a true one,” said Joe Baldwin, with an approving nod.

“And these divers, Mr Edgar,” continued Joe, “sometimes go on their own hook, like we have done this time, with more or less luck. There was one chum of mine who took it into his head to try his chances at the wreck of the Royal Charter, long after all hope of further salvage had been abandoned, and in a short time he managed to recover between three and four hundred pounds sterling.”

“An immense amount of money, they do say, was recovered from the Royal Charter by divers,” observed Maxwell.

“That is true, and it happens,” said Edgar, sadly, “that I know a few interesting facts regarding that vessel. I know of some people whose hearts were broken by the loss of relatives in that wreck. There were many such—God comfort them! But that is not what I meant to speak of. The facts I refer to are connected with the treasure lost in the vessel. Just before leaving London I had occasion to call on the gentleman who had the management of the recovered gold, and he told me several interesting things. First of all, the whole of the gold that could be identified was handed at once over to its owners; but this matter of identification was not easy, for much of the gold was found quite loose in the form of sovereigns and nuggets and dust. The dust was ordered to be sent up with the ‘dirt’ that surrounded it, and a process of gold-washing was instituted, after the regular diggings fashion, with a bowl and water. Tons of ‘dirt’ were sent up and washed in this way, and a large quantity of gold saved. The agent showed me the bowl that was used on this occasion. He also showed me sovereigns that had been kept as curious specimens. Some of them were partly destroyed, as if they had been caught between iron-plates and cut in half; others were more or less defaced and bent, and a few had been squeezed almost into an unrecognisable shape. In one place, he told me, the divers saw a pile of sovereigns through a rent in an iron-plate. The rent was too small to admit a man’s arm, and the plates could not be dislodged. The divers, therefore, made a pair of iron tongs, with which they picked out the sovereigns, and thus saved a large sum of money. One very curious case of identification occurred. A bag of sovereigns was found with no name on it. A claimant appeared, but he could tell of no mark to prove that he was the rightful owner. Of course it could not be given up, and it appeared as if the unfortunate man (who was indeed the owner) must relinquish his claim, when in a happy moment his wife remembered that she had put a brass ‘token’ into the bag with the gold. The bag was searched, the token was found, and the gold was immediately handed to them.”

“Molly, my dear,” said Rooney Machowl at this point, “you make a note o’ that; an’ if ever you have to do with bags o’ goold, just putt a brass token or two into ’em.”

“Ah! Shut up, Rooney,” said Mrs Machowl, in a voice so sweet that the contrast between it and her language caused Edgar and Joe to laugh.

“Well, then,” continued Edgar, “in many other curious ways gold was identified and delivered to its owners: thus, in one case, an incomplete seal, bearing part of the legs of a griffin, was found on a bag of two thousand sovereigns, and the owner, showing the seal with which he had stamped it, established his claim. Of course in all cases where bars of gold were found with the owners’ names stamped on them, the property was at once handed over; but after all was done that could be done by means of the most painstaking inquiry, an immense amount of gold necessarily remained unclaimed.”

“And I s’pose if it wasn’t for us divers,” said Maxwell, “the whole consarn would have remained a dead loss to mankind.”

“True for ye,” responded Rooney; “it’s not often ye come out wid such a blaze of wisdom as that, David! It must be the puppy as has stirred ye up, boy, or, mayhap, the baccy!”

“Take care you don’t stir me up, lad, else it may be worse for you,” growled Maxwell.

“Och! I’m safe,” returned the Irishman, carelessly; “I’d putt Molly betwain us, an’ sure ye’d have to come over her dead body before ye’d git at me.—It wasn’t you, was it, David,” continued Rooney, with sudden earnestness, “that got knocked over by a blast at the works in Ringwall harbour two or three years ago?”

“No, it warn’t me,” responded Maxwell; “it was long Tom Skinclip. He was too tall for a diver—he was. They say he stood six futt four in his socks; moreover he was as thin as a shadow from a bad gas-lamp. He was workin’ one day down in the ’arbour, layin’ stones at the foundations of the noo breakwater, when they set off a blast about a hundred yards off from where he was workin’, an’ so powerful was the blast that it knocked him clean on his back. He got such a fright that he signalled violently to haul up, an’ they did haul ’im up, expectin’ to find one of his glasses broke, or his toobes bu’sted. There was nothin’ wotsomedever the matter with ’im, but he wouldn’t go down again that day. ’Owsever, he got over it, an’ after that went down to work at a wreck somewhere in the eastern seas—not far from Ceylon, I’m told. When there ’e got another fright that well-nigh finished him, an’ from that day he gave up divin’ an’ tuck to gardening, for which he was much better suited.”

“What happened to him?” asked Edgar.

“I’m not rightly sure,” answered Maxwell, refilling his pipe, “but I’ve bin told he had to go down one day in shallow water among sea-weed. It was a beautiful sort o’ submarine garden, so to speak, an’ long Tom Skinclip was so fond o’ flowers an’ gardens nat’rally, that he forgot hisself, an’ went wanderin’ about what he called the ‘submarine groves’ till they thought he must have gone mad. They could see him quite plain, you see, from the boat, an’ they watched him while he wandered about. The sea-weed was up’ard of six feet high, tufted on the top with a sort o’ thing you might a’most fancy was flowers. The colours, too, was bright. Among the branches o’ this submarine forest, or grove, small lobsters, an’ shrimps, an’ other sorts o’ shell-fish, were doin’ dooty as birds—hoppin’ from one branch to another, an’ creepin’ about in all directions.

“After a time long Tom Skinclip he sat down on a rock an’ wiped the perspiration off his brow—at least he tried to do it, which set the men in the boat all off in roars of laughter, for, d’ee see, Skinclip was an absent sort of a feller, an’ used to do strange things. No doubt when he sat down on the rock he felt warm, an’ bein’ a narvish sort o’ chap, I make no question but he was a-sweatin’ pretty hard, so, without thinkin’, he up with his arm, quite nat’ral like, an’ drawed it across where his brow would have bin if the helmet hadn’t been on. It didn’t seem to strike him as absurd, however, for he putt both hands on ’is knees, an’ sat lookin’ straight before ’im.

“He hadn’t sat long in this way when they see’d a huge fish—about two futt long—comin’ slowly through the grove behind ’im. It was one o’ them creeters o’ the deep as seems to have had its head born five or six sizes too big for its tail—with eyes an’ mouth to match. It had also two great horns above its eyes, an’ a cravat or frill o’ bristles round its neck. Its round eyes and half-open mouth gave it the appearance o’ bein’ always more or less in a state of astonishment. P’r’aps it was—at the fact of its havin’ bin born at all! Anyhow, it swum’d slowly along till it cotched sight o’ Skinclip, when it went at him, an’ looked at the back of his helmet in great astonishment, an’ appeared to smell it, but evidently it could make nothin’ of it. Then it looked all down his back with an equal want of appreciation. Arter that it came round to the front, and looked straight in at Skinclip’s bull’s-eye! They do say it was a sight to see the start he gave!

“He jump up as smart a’most as if he’d bin in the open air, an’ they obsarved, when he turned round, that a huge lobster of some unbeknown species was holdin’ on to his trousers with all its claws like a limpet! The fish—or ripslang, as one of the men called it, who said he knowed it well—turned out to be a pugnaceous creetur, for no sooner did it see Skinclip’s great eyes lookin’ at it in horror, than it set up its frill of spikes, threw for’ard the long horns, an’ went slap at the bull’s-eye fit to drive it in. Skinclip he putt down his head, an’ the ripslang made five or six charges at the helmet without much effect. Then it changed its tactics, turned on its side, wriggled under the helmet, an’ looked in at Skinclip with one of its glarin’ eyes close to the glass. At the same time the lobster gave him a tree-mendious tug behind. This was more than Skinclip could stand. They see’d him jump round, seize the life-line, an’ give it four deadly pulls, but his comrades paid no attention to it. The lobster gave him another tug, an’ the ripslang prepared for another charge. It seemed to have got some extra spikes set up in its wrath, for its whole body was bristlin’ more or less by this time.

“Again Skinclip tugged like a maniac at the line. The ripslang charged; the lobster tugged; the poor feller stepped back hastily, got his heels entangled in sea-weed, and went down head first into the grove!

“The men got alarmed by this time, so they pulled him up as fast as they could, an’ got him inboard in a few minutes; but they do say,” added Maxwell, with emphasis, “that that ripslang leaped right out o’ the water arter him, an’ the lobster held on so that they had to chop its claws off with a hatchet to make it let go. They supped off it the game night, and long Tom Skinclip, who owned an over strong appetite, had a bad fit of indisgestion in consikence.”

Chapter Twenty Three.

More about the Sea.

Once more we beg our reader to accompany us to sea—out into the thick darkness, over the wild waves, far from the abodes of man.

There, one night in December, a powerful steamer did battle with a tempest. The wind was against her, and, as a matter of course, also the sea. The first howled among her rigging with what might have been styled vicious violence. The seas hit her bows with a fury that caused her to stagger, and, bursting right over her bulwarks at times, swept the decks from stem to stern, but nothing could altogether stop her onward progress. The sleepless monster in the hold, with a heart of fervent heat, and scalding breath of intense energy, and muscles of iron mould, and an indomitable—yet to man submissive—will, wrought on night and day unweariedly, driving the floating palace straight and steadily on her course—homeward-bound.

Down in the cabin, in one of the side berths lay a female form. Opposite to it, in a similar berth, lay another female form. Both forms were very limp. The faces attached to the forms were pale yellow, edged here and there with green.

“My dear,” sighed one of the forms, “this is dreadful!”

After a long silence, as though much time were required for the inhalation of sufficient air for the purpose, the other form replied:—

“Yes, Laura, dear, it is dreadful.”

“’Ave a cup of tea, ladies?” said the stewardess, opening the door just then, and appearing at an acute angle with the doorway, holding a cup in each hand.

Miss Pritty shuddered and covered her head with the bed-clothes. Aileen made the form of “no, thanks,” with her lips, and shut her eyes.

“Do ’ave a cup,” said the stewardess, persuasively.

The cups appeared at that moment inclined to “’ave” a little game of hide-and-seek, which the stewardess nimbly prevented by suddenly forming an obtuse angle with the floor, and following that action up with a plunge to starboard, and a heel to port, that was suggestive—at least to a landsman—of an intention to baptise Miss Pritty with hot tea, and thereafter take a “header” through the cabin window into the boiling sea! She did neither, however, but, muttered something about “’ow she do roll, to be sure,” and, seeing that her mission was hopeless, left the cabin with a balked stagger and a sudden rush, which was appropriately followed up by the door shutting itself with a terrific bang, as though it should say, “You might have known as much, goose! Why did you open me?”

“Laura, dear,” said Aileen, “did you hear what the captain said to some one just now in the cabin, when the door was open?”

“N–no,” replied Miss Pritty, faintly.

“I distinctly heard some one ask how fast we were going, but I could not make out his reply.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the other, brightening for a brief moment; “yes, I did hear him. He said we were going six knots. Now I do not understand what that means.”

“Did you mean that?” asked Aileen, turning her eyes languidly on her friend, while a faint smile flickered on her mouth.

“Mean what?” said Miss Pritty, in evident surprise.

“No, I see you didn’t. Well, a knot means, I believe, a nautical mile.”

“A notticle mile, Aileen; what is that?”

“A nautical mile; dear me, how stupid you are, Laura!”

“Oh! I understand. But, really, the noise of that screw makes it difficult to hear distinctly. And, after all, it is no wonder if I am stupid, for what between eating nothing but pickles for six weeks, and this dreadful—there! Oh! It comes ag—”

Poor Miss Pritty stopped abruptly, and made a desperate effort to think of home. Aileen, albeit full of sympathy, turned her face to the wall, and lay with closed eyes.

After a time the latter looked slowly round.

“Are you asleep, Laura?”

Miss Pritty gave a sharp semi-hysterical laugh at the bare idea of such an impossible condition.

“Well, I was going to say,” resumed Aileen, “that we cannot be very far from land now, and when we do get there—”

“Happy day!” murmured Miss Pritty.

“We intend,” continued Aileen, “to go straight home—I—I mean to our old home, sell everything at once, and go to live in a cottage—quite a tiny cottage—by the sea somewhere. Now, I want you to come and visit us the very day we get into our cottage. I know you would like it—would like being with me, wouldn’t you?”

“Like it? I should delight in it of all things.”

“I knew you would. Well, I was going to say that it would be such a kindness to dear papa too, for you know he will naturally be very low-spirited when we make the change—for it is a great change, Laura, greater perhaps than you, who have never been very rich, can imagine, and I doubt my capacity to be a good comforter to him though I have all the will.”

Two little spots of red appeared for the first time for many weeks on Miss Pritty’s cheeks, as she said in a tone of enthusiasm:—

“What! You not a good comforter? I’ve a good mind to refuse your invitation, since you dare to insinuate that I could in any degree supplement you in such a matter.”

“Well, then, we won’t make any more insinuations,” returned Aileen, with a sad smile; “but you’ll come—that’s settled. You know, dear, that we had lost everything, but ever since our jewel-case was found by—by—”

“By Edgar,” said Miss Pritty; “why don’t you go on?”

“Yes, by Mr Berrington,” continued Aileen, “ever since that, papa has been very hopeful. I don’t know exactly what his mind runs on, but I can see that he is making heaps of plans in regard to the future, and oh! You can’t think how glad and how thankful I am for the change. The state of dull, heartbreaking, weary depression that he fell into just after getting the news of our failure was beginning to undermine his health. I could see that plainly, and felt quite wretched about him. But now he is comparatively cheerful, and so gentle too. Do you know, I have been thinking a good deal lately of the psalmist’s saying, ‘it is good for me that I have been afflicted;’ and, in the midst of it all, our Heavenly Father remembered mercy, for it was He who sent our jewel-box, as if to prevent the burden from being too heavy for papa.”

Miss Pritty’s kind face beamed agreement with these sentiments.

“Now,” continued Aileen, “these jewels are, it seems, worth a great deal of money—much more than I had any idea of—for there are among them a number of very fine diamond rings and brooches. In fact, papa told me that he believed the whole were worth between eight and nine thousand pounds. This, you know, is a sum which will at least raise us above want, (poor Miss Pritty, well did she know that!)—though of course it will not enable us to live very luxuriously. How fortunate it was that these pirates—”

“Oh!” screamed Miss Pritty, suddenly, as she drew the clothes over her head.

“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Aileen; “are you going to be—”

“Oh! No, no, no,” said Miss Pritty, peeping out again; “how could you bring these dreadful creatures to my remembrance so abruptly? I had quite forgotten them for the time. Why, oh why did you banish from my mind that sweet idea of a charming cottage by the sea, and all its little unluxurious elegancies, and call up in its place the h–h–horrors of that village-nest—pig-sty—of the dreadful buccaneers? But it can’t be helped now,” added Miss Pritty, with a resigned shudder, “and we have the greatest reason to be thankful that their hope of a good ransom made them treat us as well as they did;—but go on, dear, you were saying that it was fortunate that these p–pirates—”

“That they did not sell the jewels or take any of them out of the box, or send them into the other prow which was sunk in deep water, where the divers could not have gone down to recover them.”

“Very true,” assented Miss Pritty.

At this point the cabin door again burst open, and the amiable stewardess appeared, bearing two cups of fresh tea, which she watched with the eyes of a tigress and the smile of an angel, while her body kept assuming sudden, and one would have thought impossible, attitudes.

“Now, ladies, do try some tea. Really you must. I insist on it. Why, you’ll both die if you don’t.”

Impressed with the force of this reasoning, both ladies made an effort, and got up on their respective elbows. They smiled incredulously at each other, and then, becoming suddenly grave, fell flat down on their backs, and remained so for some time without speaking.

“Now, try again; do try, it will do you so much good—really.”

Thus adjured they tried again and succeeded. Aileen took one sip of tea, spilt much of the rest in thrusting it hurriedly into the ready hands of the all but ubiquitous stewardess, and fell over with her face to the wall. Miss Pritty looked at her tea for a few seconds, earnestly. The stewardess, not being quite ubiquitous, failed to catch the cup as it was wildly held towards her. Miss Pritty therefore capsized the whole affair over her bed-clothes, and fell back with a deadly groan.

The stewardess did not lose temper. She was used to such things. If Miss Pritty had capsized her intellect over the bed-clothes, the stewardess would only have smiled, and wiped it up with a napkin.

“You’ll be better soon, Miss,” said the amiable woman, as she retired with the débris.

The self-acting door shut her out with a bang of contemptuous mockery, and the poor ladies were once more left alone in their misery.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Taking the Tide at the Ebb.

When things in this world reach their lowest ebb, it is generally understood or expected that the tide will turn, somehow, and rise. Not unfrequently the understanding and the expectation are disappointed. Still, there are sufficiently numerous instances of the fulfilment of both, to warrant the hope which is usually entertained by men and women whose tide has reached its lowest.

Mr Hazlit was naturally of a sanguine temperament. He entertained, we had almost said, majestic views on many points. Esteeming himself “a beggar” on three hundred a year—the remains of the wreck of his vast fortune—he resolved to commence business again. Being a man of strict probity and punctuality in all business matters, and being much respected and sympathised with by his numerous business friends, he experienced little difficulty in doing so. Success attended his efforts; the tide began to rise.

Seated in a miniature parlour, before a snug fire, in his cottage by the sea, with one of the prettiest girls in all England by his side, knitting him a pair of inimitable socks, the “beggar” opened his mouth slowly and spake.

“Aileen,” said he, “I’ve been a fool!”

Had Mr Hazlit said so to some of his cynical male friends they might have tacitly admitted the fact, and softened the admission with a smile. As it was, his auditor replied:—

“No, papa, you have not.”

“Yes, my love, I have. But I do not intend to prove the point or dispute it. There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the ebb, leads on to fortune.”

Aileen suspended her knitting and looked at her sire with some surprise, for, being a very matter-of-fact unpoetical man, this misquotation almost alarmed her.

“‘Taken at the flood,’ is it not, papa?”

“It may be so in Shakespeare’s experience. I say the ebb. When first I was reduced to beggary—”

“You never were that, papa. We have never yet had to beg.”

“Of course, of course,” said Mr Hazlit, with a motion of his hand to forbid further interruption. “When I say ‘beggary,’ you know what I mean. I certainly do not mean that I carry a wallet and a staff, and wear ragged garments, and knock at backdoors. Well, when I was reduced to beggary, I had reached the lowest ebb. At that time I was led—mark me, I was led—to ‘take the tide.’ I took it, and have been rising with the flood to fortune ever since. And yet, strange to say, though I am now rich in a way I never before dreamed of, I have still an insane thirst for earthly gold. What was the passage, dear, that you quoted to me as being your text for the day?”

“‘Owe no man anything,’” replied Aileen.

“Yes, it is curious. I have never mentioned the subject to you, my child, but some months ago—when, as I have said, the tide was very low—I was led to consider that passage, and under the influence of it I went to my creditors and delivered up to them your box of jewels. You are aware, no doubt, that having passed through the insolvency court, and given up all that I possessed, I became legally free. This box was recovered from the deep, and restored to me after my effects had been given up to my creditors, so that I might have retained it. But I felt that this would have been unjust. I respect the law which, after a man has given up all he possesses, sets him free to begin life again with some degree of hope, but I cannot avoid coming to the conclusion that moral duties cannot be abrogated by human laws. I take advantage of the law to prevent inhuman creditors from grinding me to death, but I refuse to take advantage of the law so as to escape from the clear duty that I ought to pay these creditors—gradually and according to my ability—to the uttermost farthing. Having been led to act on this opinion, I gave up the box of jewels. To my surprise, my creditors refused to take them. They returned them to me as a gift. I accepted the gift as a trust. On the proceeds, as you see, we manage to live comfortably, and I am now conducting a fairly successful business in the old line—on a small scale.”

Mr Hazlit smiled sadly as he uttered the last words.

“And the debts, papa, which you told me once were so heavy, do you mean to pay them all?” asked Aileen, anxiously.

“I do,” replied her father, earnestly; “by slow degrees it may be, but to the last farthing if I live. I shall try to owe no man anything.”

A glad smile lit up Aileen’s face as she was on the point of throwing her arms round her father’s neck, when the door opened, and a small domestic—their only one besides the cook—put a letter into the hands of her young mistress.

Aileen’s countenance assumed a troubled look a she handed it to her father.

“It is for you, papa.”

Mr Hazlit’s visage also assumed an expression of anxiety as he opened and read the letter. It ran thus:—

“DEER SUR,—i thinks it unkomon ’ard that a man shood ’ave is beed sold under im wen anuther man oas im munny, speshally wen is wifes ill—praps a-dyin—the Law has washt yoo sur, but it do seam ’ard on me, if yoo cood spair ony a pownd or two id taik it kind.—Yoors to komand, JOHN TIMMS.”

“This is very much to the point,” said Mr Hazlit, with a faint smile, handing the letter to Aileen. “It is, as you see, from our old green-grocer, who must indeed be in great trouble when he, who used to be so particularly civil, could write in that strain to me. Now, Aileen, I want your opinion on a certain point. In consequence of your economical ways, my love, I find myself in a position to give fifty pounds this half-year towards the liquidation of my debts.”

The merchant paused, smiled, and absolutely looked a little confused. The idea of commencing to liquidate many thousands of pounds by means of fifty was so inexpressibly ridiculous, that he half expected to hear his own respectful child laugh at him. But Aileen did not laugh. With her large earnest eyes she looked at him, and the unuttered language of her pursed, grave, little mouth was “Well, go on.”

“The liquidation of my debts,” repeated Mr Hazlit, firmly. “The sum is indeed a small one—a paltry one—compared with the amount of these debts, but the passage which we have been considering appears to me to leave no option, save to begin at once, even on the smallest possible scale. Now, my love, duty requires that I should at once begin to liquidate. Observe, the law of the land requires nothing. It has set me free, but the law of God requires that I should pay, at once, as I am able. Conscience echoes the law, and says, ‘pay.’ What, therefore, am I to do?”

Mr Hazlit propounded this question with such an abrupt gaze as well as tone of interrogation, that the little pursed mouth relaxed into a little smile as it said, “I suppose you must divide the sum proportionally among your creditors, or something of that sort.”

“Just so,” said Mr Hazlit, nodding approval. “Now,” he continued, with much gravity, “if I were to make the necessary calculation—which, I may remark, would be a question in proportion running into what I may be allowed to style infinitesimal fractions—I would probably find out that the proportion payable to one would be a shilling, to another half a sovereign, to another a pound or so, while to many would accrue so small a fraction of a farthing that no suitable coin of this realm could be found wherewith to pay it. If I were to go with, say two shillings, and offer them to my good friend Granby as part payment of my debt to him, the probability is that he would laugh in my face and invite me to dinner in order that we might celebrate the event over a bottle of very old port. Don’t you think so?”

Aileen laughed, and said that she did think so.

“Well, then,” continued her father, “what, in these circumstances, says common sense?”

Aileen’s mouth became grave again, and her eyes very earnest as she said quickly—

“Pay off the green-grocer!”

Mr Hazlit nodded approval. “You are right. Mr Timms’ account amounts to twenty pounds. To offer twenty pounds to Mr Granby—to whom I owe some eight thousand, more or less—would be a poor practical joke. To give it to Mr Timms will evidently be the saving of his business at a time when it appears to have reached a crisis. Put on your bonnet and shawl, dear, and we will go about this matter without delay.”

Aileen was one of those girls who possessed the rare and delectable capacity to “throw on” her bonnet and shawl. One glance in the mirror sufficed to convince her that these articles, although thrown on, had fallen into their appropriate places neatly. It could scarcely have been otherwise. Her bonnet and shawl took kindly to her, like all other things in nature—animate and otherwise. She reappeared before her sedate father had quite finished drawing on his gloves.

Mr John Timms dwelt in a back lane which wriggled out of a back street as if it were anxious to find something still further back into which to back itself. He had been in better circumstances and in a better part of the town when Mr Hazlit had employed him. At the time of the rich merchant’s failure, the house of Timms had been in a shaky condition. That failure was the removal of its last prop; it fell, and Timms retired, as we have seen, into the commercial background. Here, however, he did not find relief. Being a trustful man he was cheated until he became untrustful. His wife became ill owing to bad air and low diet. His six children became unavoidably neglected and riotous, and his business, started on the wreck of the old one, again came to the brink of failure. It was in these circumstances that he sat down, under the impulse of a fit of desperation, and penned the celebrated letter to his old customer.

When Mr Hazlit and his daughter had, with great difficulty, discovered Mr Timms’ residence and approached the door, they were checked on the threshold by the sound of men apparently in a state of violent altercation within.

“Git out wid ye, an’ look sharp, you spalpeen,” cried one of the voices.

“Oh, pray don’t—don’t fight!” cried a weak female voice.

“No, I won’t git out till I’m paid, or carry your bed away with me,” cried a man’s voice, fiercely.

“You won’t, eh! Arrah then—hup!”

The last sound, which is not describable, was immediately followed by the sudden appearance of a man, who flew down the passage as if from a projectile, and went headlong into the kennel. He was followed closely by Rooney Machowl, who dealt the man as he rose a sounding slap on the right cheek, which would certainly have tumbled him over again had it not been followed by an equally sounding slap on the left cheek, which “brought him up all standing.”

Catching sight at that moment of Mr Hazlit and Aileen, Rooney stopped short and stood confused.

“Murder!” shrieked the injured man.

“Hooray! Here’s a lark!” screamed a small street-boy.

“Go it! Plice! A skrimmage!” yelled another street-boy in an ecstasy of delight, which immediately drew to the spot the nucleus of a crowd.

Mr Hazlit was a man of promptitude. He was also a large man, as we have elsewhere said, and by no means devoid of courage. Dropping his daughter’s arm he suddenly seized the ill-used and noisy man by the neck, and thrust him almost as violently back into the green-grocer’s house as Rooney had kicked him out of it. He then said, “Go in,” to the amazed Rooney, and dragging his no less astonished child in along with him, shut and locked the door.

“Now,” said Mr Hazlit, sitting down on a broken chair in a very shabby little room, and wiping his heated brow, “what is the meaning of all this, Mr Timms?”

“Well, sir,” answered Timms, with a deprecatory air, “I’m sorry, sir, it should ’ave ’appened just w’en you was a-goin’ to favour me with the unexpected honour of a wisit; but the truth is, sir, I couldn’t ’elp it. This ’ere sc— man is my landlord, sir, an’ ’e wouldn’t wait another day for ’is rent, sir, though I told ’im he was pretty sure o’ ’avin it in a week or so, w’en I ’ad time to c’lect my outstandin’ little bills—”

“More nor that, sur,” burst in the impatient and indignant Rooney, “he would ’ave gone into that there room, sur,—if I may miscall a dark closet by that name—an’ ’ave pulled the bed out from under Mrs Timms, who’s a-dyin’, sur, if I ’adn’t chanced to come in, sur, an’ kick the spalpeen into the street, as you see’d.”

“For w’ich you’ll smart yet,” growled the landlord, who stood in a dishevelled heap like a bad boy in a corner.

“How much rent does he owe you?” asked Mr Hazlit of the landlord.

“That’s no business o’ yours,” replied the man, sulkily.

“If I were to offer to pay it, perhaps you’d allow that it was my business.”

“So I will w’en you offers.”

“Well, then, I offer now,” said Mr Hazlit, taking out his purse, and pouring a little stream of sovereigns into his hand. “Have you the receipt made out?”

The landlord made no reply, but, with a look of wonder at his interrogator, drew a small piece of dirty paper from his pocket and held it out. Mr Hazlit examined it carefully from beginning to end.

“Is this right, Mr Timms?” he asked.

The green-grocer examined the paper, and said it was—that five pounds was the exact amount.

“You can put the receipt in your pocket,” said Mr Hazlit, turning round and counting out five sovereigns on the table, which he pushed towards the landlord. “Now, take yourself off, as quietly as you can, else I’ll have you taken up and tried for entering a man’s premises forcibly, and endeavouring to obtain money by intimidation. Go!”

This was a bold stroke on the part of the merchant, whose legal knowledge was not extensive, but it succeeded. The landlord pocketed the money and moved towards the door. Rooney Machowl followed him.

“Rooney!” said Mr Hazlit, calling him back.

“Mayn’t I show him out, sur?” said Rooney, earnestly.

“By no means.”

“Ah, sur, mayn’t I give him a farewell kick?”

“Certainly not.”

Mr Hazlit then expressed a desire to see Mrs Timms, and the green-grocer, thanking the merchant fervently for his timely aid, lighted a candle and led the way into the dark closet.

Poor Mrs Timms, a delicate-looking woman, not yet forty, who had evidently been pretty once, lay on a miserable bed, apparently at the point of death.

Aileen glided quickly to the bed, sat down on it, and took the woman’s hand, while she bent over her and whispered:—

“Don’t be distressed. The rent is paid. He will disturb you no more. You shall be quiet now, and I will come to see you sometimes, if you’ll let me.”

The woman gazed at the girl with surprise, then, as she felt the gentle warm pressure of her hand a sudden rush of faith seemed to fill her soul. She drew Aileen towards her, and looked earnestly into her face.

“Come here, Timms,” said Mr Hazlit, abruptly, as he turned round and walked out of the closet, “I want to speak to you. I am no doctor, but depend upon it your wife will not die. There is a very small building—quite a hut I may say—near my house—ahem! Near my cottage close to the sea, which is at present to let. I advise you strongly to take that hut and start a green-grocery there. I’m not aware that there is one in the immediate neighbourhood, and there are many respectable families about whose custom you might doubtless count on; at all events, you would be sure of ours to begin with. The sea-air would do your wife a world of good, and the sea-beach would be an agreeable and extensive playground for your children.”

The green-grocer stood almost aghast! The energy with which Mr Hazlit poured out his words, and, as it seemed to Timms, the free and easy magnificence of his ideas were overpowering.

“W’y, sir, I ain’t got no money to do sitch a thing with,” he said at last, with a broad grin.

“Yes, you have,” said Mr Hazlit, again pulling out his purse and emptying its golden contents on the table in a little heap, from which he counted fifteen sovereigns. “My debt to you amounts, I believe, to twenty pounds; five I have just paid to your landlord, here is the balance. You needn’t mind a receipt. Send me the discharged account at your leisure, and think over what I have suggested. Aileen, my dear, we will go now.”

Aileen said good-night at once to the sick woman and followed her father as he went out, repeating—“Good-evening, Timms, think over my suggestion.”

They walked slowly home without speaking. Soon they reached the cottage by the sea. As they stood under the trellis-work porch the merchant turned round and gazed at the sun, which was just dipping into the horizon, flooding sea and sky with golden glory.

“Aileen,” he said in a low voice, “I have commenced life at last—life in earnest. I was a poor fool once. Through grace I am a rich man now.”

Chapter Twenty Five.

Shows how our Hero formed Plans, how Miss Pritty formed Plots, and how the small Domestic amused herself.

On a certain cold, raw, bleak, biting, bitter day in November, our hero found himself comfortably situated at the bottom of the sea.

We say ‘comfortably’ advisedly and comparatively, for, as compared with the men whose duty it was to send air down to him, Edgar Berrington was in a state of decided comfort. Above water nought was to be seen but a bleak, rocky, forbidding coast, a grey sky with sleet driving across it, and an angry indigo sea covered with white wavelets. Nothing was to be felt but a stiff cutting breeze, icy particles in the air, and cold blood in the veins. Below water all was calm and placid; groves of sea-weed delighted the eye; patches of yellow sand invited to a siesta; the curiously-twisted and smashed-up remains of a wreck formed a subject of interesting contemplation, while a few wandering crabs, and an erratic lobster or two, gave life and variety to the scene, while the temperature, if not warm, was at all events considerably milder than that overhead. In short, strange though it may seem, Edgar was in rather an enviable position than otherwise, on that bleak November day.

Some two years or so previous to the day to which we refer, Edgar, with his diving friends, had returned to England. Mr Hazlit had preceded them by a month. But Edgar did not seek him out. He had set a purpose before him, and meant to stick to it. He had made up his mind not to go near Aileen again until he had made for himself a position, and secured a steady income which would enable him to offer her a home at least equal to that in which she now dwelt.

Mr Hazlit rather wondered that the young engineer never made his appearance at the cottage by the sea, but, coming to the conclusion that his passion had cooled, he consoled himself with the thought that, after all, he was nearly penniless, and that it was perhaps as well that he had sheered off.

Aileen also wondered, but she did not for a moment believe that his love had cooled, being well aware that that was an impossibility. Still she was perplexed, for although the terms on which they stood to each other did not allow of correspondence, she thought, sometimes, that he might have written to her father—if only to ask how they were after their adventures in the China seas.

Miss Pritty—to whom Aileen confided her troubles—came nearer the mark than either of them. She conceived, and stoutly maintained, that Edgar had gone abroad to seek his fortune, and meant to return and marry Aileen when he had made it.

Edgar, however, had not gone abroad. He had struck out a line of life for himself, and had prosecuted it during these two years with untiring energy. He had devoted himself to submarine engineering, and, having an independent spirit, he carved his way very much as a freelance. At first he devoted himself to studying the subject, and ere long there was not a method of raising a sunken vessel, of building a difficult breakwater, of repairing a complicated damage to a pier, or a well, or anything else subaqueous, with which he was not thoroughly acquainted, and in regard to which he had not suggested or carried out bold and novel plans and improvements, both in regard to the machinery employed and the modes of action pursued.

After a time he became noted for his success in undertaking difficult works, and at last employed a staff of divers to do the work, while he chiefly superintended. Joe Baldwin became his right-hand man and constant attendant. Rooney and Maxwell, preferring steadier and less adventurous work, got permanent employment on the harbour improvements of their own seaport town.

Thus engaged, Edgar and his man Joe visited nearly all the wild places round the stormy shores of Great Britain and Ireland. They raised many ships from the bottom of the sea that had been pronounced by other engineers to be hopelessly lost. They laid foundations of piers and breakwaters in places where old Ocean had strewn wrecks since the foundation of the world. They cleared passages by blasting and levelling rocks whose stern crests had bid defiance to winds and waves for ages, and they recovered cargoes that had been given up for years to Neptune’s custody. In short, wherever a difficult submarine operation had to be undertaken, Edgar Berrington and his man Joe, with, perhaps, a gang of divers under them, were pretty sure to be asked to undertake it.

The risk, we need scarcely say, was often considerable; hence the remuneration was good, and both Edgar and his man speedily acquired a considerable sum of money.

At the end of two years, the former came to the conclusion that he had a sufficient sum at his credit in the bank to warrant a visit to the cottage by the sea; and it was when this idea had grown into a fixed intention that he found himself, as we have mentioned, in rather comfortable circumstances at the bottom of the sea.

The particular part of the bottom lay off the west coast of England. Joe and a gang of men were hard at work on a pier when Edgar went down. He carried a slate and piece of pencil with him. The bottom was not very deep down. There was sufficient light to enable him to find his man easily.

Joe was busy laying a large stone in its bed. When he raised his burly form, after fixing the stone, Edgar stepped forward, and, touching him on the shoulder, held out the slate, whereon was written in a bold running hand:—

“Joe, I’m going off to get engaged, and after that, as soon as possible, to be married.”

Through the window of his helmet, Joe looked at his employer with an expression of pleased surprise. Then he took the slate, obliterated the information on it, and printed in an equally bold, but very sprawly hand:—

“Indeed? I wish you joy, sir.”

Thereupon Edgar took the slate and wrote:—

“Thank you, Joe. Now, I leave you in charge. Keep a sharp eye on the men—especially on that lazy fellow who has a tendency to sleep and shirk duty. If the rock in the fair-way is got ready before my return, blast it at once, without waiting for me. You will find one of Siebe and Gorman’s voltaic batteries in my lodging, also a frictional electrical machine, which you can use if you prefer it. In the store there is a large supply of tin-cases for gunpowder and compressed gun-cotton charges. There also you will find one of Heinke and Davis’s magneto-electric exploders. I leave it entirely to your own judgment which apparatus to use. All sorts are admirable in their way; quite fresh, and in good working order. Have you anything to say to me before I go?”

“All right, sir,” replied Joe, in his sprawly hand; “I’ll attend to orders. When do you start, and when do you expect to be back?”

“I start immediately. The day of my return is uncertain, but I’ll write to you.”

Rubbing this out, Joe wrote:—

“You’ll p’r’aps see my old ’ooman, sir. If you do, just give her my respects, an’ say the last pair o’ divin’ drawers she knitted for me was fust-rate. Tightish, if anything, round the waist, but a bit o’ rope-yarn putt that all right—they’re warm an’ comfortable. Good-bye, I wish you joy again, sir.”

“Good-bye,” replied Edgar.

It was impossible that our hero could follow his inclination, and nod with his stiff-necked iron head-piece at parting. He therefore made the motion of kissing his hand to his trusty man, and giving the requisite signal, spread his arms like a pair of wings, and flew up to the realms of light!

Joe grinned broadly, and made the motion of kissing his hand to the ponderous soles of his employer’s leaden boots as they passed him, then, turning to the granite masonry at his side, he bent down and resumed his work.

Arrived at the region of atmospheric air, Edgar Berrington clambered on board the attending vessel, took off his amphibious clothing, and arrayed himself in the ordinary habiliments of a gentleman, after which he went ashore, gave some instructions to the keeper of his lodgings, ordered his horse, galloped to the nearest railway station, flashed a telegraphic message to Miss Pritty to expect to see him that evening, and soon found himself rushing at forty miles an hour, away from the scene of his recent labours.

Receiving a telegraph envelope half-an-hour later, Miss Pritty turned pale, laid it on the table, sank on the sofa, shut her eyes, and attempted to reduce the violent beating of her heart, by pressing her left side tightly with both hands.

“It must be death!—or accident!” she murmured faintly to herself, for she happened to be alone at the time.

Poor Miss Pritty had no near relations in the world except Edgar, and therefore there was little or no probability that any one would telegraph to her in connection with accident or death, nevertheless she entertained such an unconquerable horror of a telegram, that the mere sight of the well-known envelope, with its large-type title, gave her a little shock; the reception of one was almost too much for her.

After suffering tortures for about as long a time as the telegram had taken to reach her, she at last summoned courage to open the envelope.

The first words, “Edgar Berrington,” induced a little scream of alarm. The next, “to Miss Pritty,” quieted her a little. When, however, she learned that instead of being visited by news of death and disaster, she was merely to be visited by her nephew that same evening, all anxiety vanished from her speaking countenance, and was replaced by a mixture of surprise and amusement. Then she sat down on the sofa—from which, in her agitation, she had risen—and fell into a state of perplexity.

“Now I do wish,” she said, aloud, “that Eddy had had the sense to tell me whether I am to let his friends the Hazlits know of his impending visit. Perhaps he telegraphed to me on purpose to give me time to call and prepare them for his arrival. On the other hand, perhaps he wishes to take them by surprise. It may be that he is not on good terms with Mr Hazlit, and intends to use me as a go-between. What shall I do?”

As her conscience was not appealed to in the matter, it gave no reply to the question; having little or no common sense to speak of, she could scarcely expect much of an answer from that part of her being. At last she made up her mind, and, according to a habit induced by a life of solitude, expressed it to the fireplace.

“Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I shall wait till near the time of the arrival of the last train, and then go straight off to Sea Cottage to spend the evening, leaving a message that if any one should call in my absence I am to be found there. This will give him an excuse, if he wants one, for calling, and if he does not want an excuse he can remain here till my return. I’ll have the fire made up, and tell my domestic to offer tea to any one who should chance to call.”

Miss Pritty thought it best, on the whole, to give an ambiguous order about the tea to her small domestic, for she knew that lively creature to be a compound of inquisitiveness and impudence, and did not choose to tell her who it was that she expected to call. She was very emphatic, however, in impressing on the small domestic the importance of being very civil and attentive, and of offering tea, insomuch that the child protested with much fervour that she would be sure to attend to orders.

This resulted in quite an evening’s amusement to the small domestic.

After Miss Pritty had gone out, the first person who chanced to call was the spouse of Mr Timms, the green-grocer, who had obviously recovered from her illness.

“Is Miss Pritty at ’ome?” she asked.

“No, ma’am, she ain’t, she’s hout,” answered the small domestic.

“Ah! Well, it don’t much matter. I on’y called to leave this ’ere little present of cabbidges an’ cawliflowers—with Mr Timms’ kind compliments and mine. She’s been wery kind to us, ’as Miss Pritty, an’ we wishes to acknowledge it.”

“Please, ma’am,” said the domestic with a broad smile, as she took the basket of vegetables, “would you like a cup of tea?”

“What d’you mean, girl?” asked the green-grocer’s wife in surprise.

“Please, ma’am, Miss Pritty told me to be sure to offer you a cup of tea.”

“Did she, indeed? That’s was wery kind of her, wery kind, though ’ow she come for to know I was a-goin’ to call beats my comprehension. ’Owever, tell her I’m greatly obleeged to her, but ’avin ’ad tea just afore comin’ out, an’ bein’ chock-full as I can ’old, I’d rather not. Best thanks, all the same.”

Mrs Timms went away deeply impressed with Miss Pritty’s thoughtful kindness, and the small domestic, shutting the door, indulged in a fit of that species of suppressed laughter which is usually indicated by a series of spurts through the top of the nose and the compressed lips.

She was suddenly interrupted by a tap at the knocker.

Allowing as many minutes to elapse as she thought would have sufficed for her ascent from the kitchen, she once more opened the door. It was only a beggar—a ragged disreputable man—and she was about to shut the door in his face, with that summary politeness so well understood by servant girls, when a thought struck her.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “would you like a cup of tea?”

The man evidently thought he was being made game of, for his face assumed such a threatening aspect that the small domestic incontinently shut the door with a sudden bang. The beggar amused himself by battering it with his stick for five minutes and then went away.

The next visitor was a lady.

“Is Miss Pritty at home, child?” she asked, regarding the domestic with a half-patronising, half-pitying air.

“No, ma’am, she’s hout.”

“Oh! That’s a pity,” said the lady, taking a book out of her pocket. “Will you tell her that I called for her subscription to the new hospital that is about to be built in the town? Your mistress does not know me personally, but she knows all about the hospital, and this book, which I shall call for to-morrow, will speak for itself. Be sure you give it to her, child.”

“Yes, ma’am. And, please, ma’am, would you like a cup of tea?”

The lady, who happened to possess a majestic pair of eyes, looked so astonished that the small domestic could scarcely contain herself.

“Are you deranged, child?” asked the lady.

“No, ma’am, if you please; but Miss Pritty told me to be sure to offer you a cup.”

“To offer me a cup, child!”

“Yes, ma’am. At least to offer a cup to any one who should call.”

It need scarcely be added that the lady declined the tea, and went away, observing to herself in an undertone, that “she must be deranged.”

The small domestic again shut the door and spurted.

It was in her estimation quite a rare, delicious, and novel species of fun. To one whose monotonous life was spent underground, with a prospect of bricks at two feet from her window, and in company with pots, pans, potato-peelings, and black-beetles, it was as good as a scene in a play.

The next visitor was the butcher’s boy, who came round to take “orders” for the following day. This boy had a tendency to chaff.

“Well, my lady, has your ladyship any orders?”

“Nothink to-day,” answered the domestic, curtly.

“What! Nothink at all? Goin’ to fast to-morrow, eh? Or to live on stooed hatmospheric hair with your own sauce for gravey—hey?”

“No, we doesn’t want nothink,” repeated the domestic, stoutly. “Missus said so, an’ she bid me ask you if you’d like a cup of tea?”

The butcher’s boy opened his mouth and eyes in amazement. To have his own weapons thus turned, as he thought, against him by one who was usually rather soft and somewhat shy of him, took him quite aback. He recovered, however, quickly, and made a rush at the girl, who, as before, attempted to shut the door with a bang, but the boy was too sharp for her. His foot prevented her succeeding, and there is no doubt that in another moment he would have forcibly entered the house, if he had not been seized from behind by the collar in the powerful grasp of Edgar Berrington, who sent him staggering into the street. The boy did not wait for more. With a wild-Indian war-whoop he turned and fled.

Excited, and, to some extent, exasperated by this last visit, the small domestic received Edgar with a one-third timid, one-third gleeful, and one-third reckless spirit.

“What did the boy mean?” asked Edgar, as he turned towards her.

“Please, sir, ’e wouldn’t ’ave a cup of tea, sir,” she replied meekly, then, with a gleam of hope in her eyes—“Will you ’ave one, sir?”

“You’re a curious creature,” answered Edgar, with a smile. “Is Miss Pritty at home?”

“No, sir, she ain’t.”

This answer appeared to surprise and annoy him.

“Very odd,” he said, with a little frown. “Did she not expect me?”

“No, sir, I think she didn’t. Leastways she didn’t say as she did, but she was very partikler in tellin’ me to be sure to hoffer you a cup of tea.”

Edgar looked at the small domestic, and, as he looked, his mouth expanded. Her mouth followed suit, and they both burst into a fit of laughter. After a moment or two the former recovered.

“This is all very pleasant, no doubt,” he said, “but it is uncommonly awkward. Did she say when she would be home?”

“No, sir, she didn’t, but she bid me say if any one wanted her, that they’d find her at Sea Cottage.”

“At Sea Cottage—who lives there?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Where is it?”

“On the sea-shore, sir.”

“Which way—this way or that way?” asked Edgar, pointing right and left.

“That way,” answered the girl, pointing left.

The impatient youth turned hastily to leave.

“Please, sir—” said the domestic.

“Well,” said Edgar, stopping.

“You’re sure, sir—” she stopped.

“Well?—go on.”

“That you wouldn’t like to ’ave a cup of tea?”

“Child,” said Edgar, as he turned finally away, “you’re mad—as mad as a March hare.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The small domestic shut the door and retired to the regions below, where, taking the pots and pans and black-beetles into her confidence, she shrieked with delight for full ten minutes, and hugged herself.

Chapter Twenty Six.

A Climax is reached.

When Edgar Berrington discovered the cottage by the sea, and ascertained that Miss Pritty was within, he gave his name, and was ushered into the snug little room under the name of Mr Briggington. Aileen gave a particularly minute, but irrepressible and quite inaudible scream; Mr Hazlit sat bolt up in his chair, as if he had seen a ghost; and Miss Pritty—feeling, somehow, that her diplomacy had not become a brilliant success—shrank within herself, and wished it were to-morrow.

Their various expressions, however, were as nothing compared with Edgar’s blazing surprise.

“Mr Hazlit,” he stammered, “pray pardon my sudden intrusion at so unseasonable an hour; but, really, I was not aware that—did you not get my telegram, aunt?”

He turned abruptly to Miss Pritty.

“Why ye–es, but I thought that you—in fact—I could not imagine that—”

“Never mind explanations just now,” said Mr Hazlit, recovering himself, and rising with a bland smile, “you are welcome, Mr Berrington; no hour is unseasonable for one to whom we owe so much.”

They shook hands and laughed; then Edgar shook hands with Aileen and blushed, no doubt because she blushed, then he saluted his aunt, and took refuge in being very particular about her receipt of the telegram. This threw Miss Pritty into a state of unutterable confusion, because of her efforts to tell the truth and conceal the truth at one and the same time. After this they spent a very happy evening together, during the course of which Mr Hazlit took occasion to ask Edgar to accompany him into a little pigeon-hole of a room which, in deference to a few books that dwelt there, was styled the library.

“Mr Berrington,” he said, sitting down and pointing to a chair, “be seated. I wish to have a little private conversation with you. We are both practical men, and know the importance of thoroughly understanding each other. When I saw you last—now about two years ago—you indicated some disposition to—to regard—in fact to pay your addresses to my daughter. At that time I objected to you on the ground that you were penniless. Whether right or wrong in that objection is now a matter of no importance, because it turns out that I was right on other grounds, as I now find that you did not know your own feelings, and did not care for her—”

“Did not care for her?” interrupted Edgar, in sudden amazement, not unmingled with indignation.

“Of course,” continued Mr Hazlit, with undisturbed calmness, “I mean that you did not care for her sufficiently; that you did not regard her with that unconquerable affection which is usually styled ‘love’, and without which no union can be a happy one. The proof to me that your feeling towards her was evanescent, lies in the fact that you have taken no notice either of her or of me for two years. Had you gained my daughter’s affections, this might have caused me deep regret, but as she has seldom mentioned your name since we last saw you, save when I happened to refer to you, I perceive that her heart has been untouched—for which I feel exceedingly thankful, knowing as I do, only too well, that we cannot command our affections.”

Mr Hazlit paused a moment, and Edgar was so thunderstruck by the unexpected nature of his host’s discourse, that he could only stare at him in mute surprise and unbelief in the evidence of his own ears.

“Now,” resumed Mr Hazlit, “as things stand, I shall be very happy indeed that we should return to our old intimacy. I can never forget the debt of obligation we owe to you as our rescuer from worse than death—from slavery among brutalised men, and I shall be very happy indeed that you should make my little cottage by the sea—as Aileen loves to style it—your abode whenever business or pleasure call you to this part of the country.”

The merchant extended his hand with a smile of genuine urbanity. The youth took it, mechanically shook it, let it fall, and continued to stare in a manner that made Mr Hazlit feel quite uneasy. Suddenly he recovered, and, looking the latter earnestly in the face, said:—

“Mr Hazlit, did you not, two years ago, forbid me to enter your dwelling?”

“True, true,” replied the other somewhat disconcerted; “but the events which have occurred since that time warranted your considering that order as cancelled.”

“But you did not say it was cancelled. Moreover your first objection still remained, for I was nearly penniless then, although, in the good providence of God, I am comparatively rich now. I therefore resolved to obey your injunctions, sir, and keep away from your house and from your daughter’s distracting influence, until I could return with a few of those pence, which you appear to consider so vitally important.”

“Mr Berrington,” exclaimed the old gentleman, who was roused by this hit, “you mistake me. My opinions in regard to wealth have been considerably changed of late. But my daughter does not love you, and if you were as rich as Croesus, sir, you should not have her hand without her heart.”

Mr Hazlit said this stoutly, and, just as stoutly, Edgar replied:—

“If I were as rich as Croesus, sir, I would not accept her hand without her heart; but, Mr Hazlit, I am richer than Croesus!”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean that I am rich in the possession of that which a world’s wealth could not purchase—your daughter’s affections.”

“Impossible! Mr Berrington, your passion urges you to deceive yourself.”

“You will believe what she herself says, I suppose?” asked Edgar, plunging his hand into a breast-pocket.

“Of course I will.”

“Well then, listen,” said the youth, drawing out a small three-cornered note. “A good many months ago, when I found my business to be in a somewhat flourishing condition, I ventured to write to Aileen, telling her of my circumstances, of my unalterable love, and expressing a wish that she would write me at least one letter to give me hope that the love, which she, allowed me to understand was in her breast before you forbade our intercourse, still continued. This,” he added, handing the three-cornered note to the old gentleman, “is her reply.”

Mr Hazlit took the note, and, with a troubled countenance, read:—

“DEAR MR BERRINGTON,—I am not sure that I am right in replying to you without my father’s knowledge, and only prevail on myself to do so because I intend that our correspondence shall go no further, and what I shall say will, I know, be in accordance with his sentiments. My feelings towards you remain unchanged. We cannot command feelings, but I consider the duty I owe to my dear father to be superior to my feelings, and I am resolved to be guided by his expressed wishes as long as I remain under his roof. He has forbidden me to have any intercourse with you: I will therefore obey until he sanctions a change of conduct. Even this brief note should not have been written were it not that it would be worse than rude to take no notice of a letter from one who has rendered us such signal service, and whom I shall never forget.—Yours sincerely, AILEEN HAZLIT.”

The last sentence—“and whom I shall never forget”—had been carefully scribbled out, but Edgar had set himself to work, with the care and earnest application of an engineer and a lover, to decipher the words.

“Dear child!” exclaimed Mr Hazlit, in a fit of abstraction, kissing the note; “this accounts for her never mentioning him;” then, recovering himself, and turning abruptly and sternly to Edgar, he said:— “How did you dare, sir, to write to her after my express prohibition?”

“Well,” replied Edgar, “some allowance ought to be made for a lover’s anxiety to know how matters stood, and I fully intended to follow up my letter to her with one to you; but I confess that I did wrong—”

“No, sir, no,” cried Mr Hazlit, abruptly starting up and grasping Edgar’s hand, which he shook violently, “you did not do wrong. You did quite right, sir. I would have done the same myself in similar circumstances.”

So saying, Mr Hazlit, feeling that he was compromising his dignity, shook Edgar’s hand again, and hastened from the room. He met Aileen descending the staircase. Brushing past her, he went into his bed-room, and shut and locked the door.

Much alarmed by such an unwonted display of haste and feeling, Aileen ran into the library.

“Oh! Mr Berrington, what is the matter with papa?”

“If you will sit down beside me, Aileen,” said Edgar, earnestly, tenderly, and firmly, taking her hand, “I will tell you.”

Aileen blushed, stammered, attempted to draw back, but was constrained to comply. Edgar, on the contrary, was as cool as a cucumber. He had evidently availed himself of his engineering knowledge, and fitted extra weights of at least seven thousand tons to the various safety-valves of his feelings.

“Your father,” he began, looking earnestly into the girl’s down-cast face, “is—”

But hold! Reader; we must not go on. If you are a boy, you won’t mind what followed; if a girl, you have no right to pry into such matters. We therefore beg leave at this point to shut the lids of our dexter eye, and drop the curtain.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The last.

One day Joe Baldwin, assisted by his old friend, Rooney Machowl, was busily engaged down at the bottom of the sea, off the Irish coast, slinging a box of gold specie. He had given the signal to haul up, and Rooney had moved away to put slings round another box, when the chain to which the gold was suspended snapt, and the box descended on Joe. If it had hit him on the back in its descent it would certainly have killed him, but it only hit his collar-bone and broke it.

Joe had just time to give four pulls on his lines, and then fainted. He was instantly hauled up, carefully unrobed, and put to bed.

This was a turning-point in our diver’s career. The collar-bone was all right in the course of a month or two, but Mrs Baldwin positively refused to allow her goodman to go under water again.

“The little fortin’ you made out in Chiny,” she said one evening while seated with her husband at supper in company with Rooney and his wife, “pays for our rent, an’ somethin’ over. You’re a handy man, and can do a-many things to earn a penny, and I can wash enough myself to keep us both. You’ve bin a ’ard workin’ man, Joe, for many a year. You’ve bin long enough under water. You’ll git rheumatiz, or somethin’ o’ that sort, if you go on longer, so I’m resolved that you shan’t do it—there!”

“Molly, cushla!” said Machowl, in a modest tone, “I hope you won’t clap a stopper on my goin’ under water for some time yit—plaze.”

Molly laughed.

“Oh! It’s all very well for you to poke fun at me, Mister Machowl,” said Mrs Baldwin, “but you’re young yet, an’ my Joe’s past his prime. When you’ve done as much work as he’s done—there now, you’ve done it at last. I told you so.”

This last remark had reference to the fact that young Teddy Machowl, having been over-fed by his father, had gone into a stiff blue-in-the-face condition that was alarming to say the least of it. Mrs Machowl dashed at her offspring, and, giving him an unmerciful thump on the back, effected the ejection of a mass of beef which had been the cause of the phenomena.

“What a bu’ster it is—the spalpeen,” observed Rooney, with a smile, as he resumed the feeding process, much to Teddy’s delight; “you’ll niver do for a diver if you give way to appleplectic tendencies o’ that sort. Here—open your mouth wide and shut your eyes.”

“Well, well, it’ll only be brought in manslaughter, so he won’t swing for it,” remarked Mrs Baldwin, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Now, Joe,” she continued, turning to her husband, “you’ll begin at once to look out for a situation above water. David Maxwell can finish the job you had in hand,—speakin’ of that, does any one know where David is just now?”

“He’s down at the bottom of a gasometer,” answered Joe; “leastwise he was there this afternoon—an’ a dirty place it is.”

“A bad-smellin’ job that, I should think,” observed Rooney.

“Well, it ain’t a sweet-smellin’ one,” returned Joe. “He’s an adventurous man is David. I don’t believe there’s any hole of dirty water or mud on the face o’ this earth that he wouldn’t go down to the bottom of if he was dared to it. He’s fond of speculatin’ too, ever since that trip to the China seas. You must know, Mrs Rooney, if your husband hasn’t told you already, that we divers, many of us, have our pet schemes for makin’ fortunes, and some of us have tried to come across the Spanish dubloons that are said to lie on the sea-bottom off many parts of our coast where the Armada was lost.”

“It’s jokin’ ye are,” said Mrs Machowl, looking at Joe with a sly twinkle in her pretty eyes.

“Jokin’! No, indeed, I ain’t,” rejoined the diver. “Did Rooney never tell ye about the Spanish Armada?”

“Och! He’s bin sayin’ somethin’ about it now an’ again, but he’s such a man for blarney that I never belave more nor half he says.”

“Sure ain’t that the very raison I tell ye always at laste twice as much as I know?” said Rooney, lighting his pipe.

“Well, my dear,” continued Joe, “the short an’ the long of it is, that about the year 1588, the Spaniards sent off a huge fleet of big ships to take Great Britain and Ireland by storm—once for all—and have done with it, but Providence had work for Britain to do, and sent a series o’ storms that wrecked nearly the whole Spanish fleet on our shores. Many of these vessels had plenty of gold dubloons on board, so when divin’ bells and dresses were invented, men began to try their hands at fishin’ it up, and, sure enough, some of it was actually found and brought up—especially off the shores of the island of Mull, in Scotland. They even went the length of forming companies in this country, and in Holland, for the purpose of recovering treasure from wrecks. Well, ever since then, up to the present time, there have been speculative men among divers, who have kept on tryin’ their hands at it. Some have succeeded; others have failed. David Maxwell is one of the lucky ones for the most part, and even when luck fails, he never comes by any loss, for he’s a hard-workin’ man, an’ keeps a tight hold of whatever he makes, whether by luck or by labour.”

“But what about the bad-smellin’ job he’s got on hand just now?” asked Rooney.

“Why, he’s repairin’ the bottom of a gas tank. He got the job through recoverin’ some gold watches that were thrown into the Thames by some thieves, as they were bein’ chased over London Bridge. David found ten of ’em—one bein’ worth fifty pounds. Well, just at that time an experienced and hardy fellow was wanted for the gas-work business, so David was recommended. You know a gas tank, as to look an’ smell, is horrible enough to frighten a hippopotamus, but David went up to the edge of this tank by a ladder, and jumped in as cool as if he’d bin jumpin’ into a bed with clean sheets. He stopped down five hours. Of course, in such filthy water, a light would have been useless. He had to do it all by feelin’, nevertheless, they say, he made a splendid job of it,—the bed of clay and puddle, at the bottom, bein’ smoothed as flat a’most as a billiard table,—besides fixin’ sixteen iron-plates for the gas-holder to rest on. He was to finish the job this afternoon, I believe.” (See Note 5.)

“Ah, he’s a cute feller is David,” observed Rooney, reflectively, as he watched a ring of smoke that rose from his pipe towards the ceiling. “What d’ee intind to turn your hand to if you give up divin’, Joe?”

“If!” said Mrs Baldwin, with a peculiar intonation.

“Well, when you give it up,” said Rooney, with a bland smile.

“I’m not rightly sure,” replied Joe. “In the first place, I’ll watch for the leadings of Providence, for without that, I cannot expect success. Then I’ll go and see Mr Berrington, who has just returned, they say, from his wedding trip. My own wish is to become a sort of missionary among the poor people hereabouts.”

“Why, Joe,” said his friend, “you’ve bin that, more or less, for years past.”

“Ay, at odd times,” returned Joe, “but I should like to devote all my time to it now.”

In pursuance of his plan the ex-diver went the following morning to the sea-shore, and walked in the direction of Sea Cottage, following the road that bordered the sands.

Near to that cottage, about two hundred yards from it, stood a small but very pretty villa. Joe knew its name to be Sea-beach Villa, and understood that it was the abode of his former master and friend, Edgar Berrington. There was a lovely garden in front, full to overflowing with flowers of every name and hue, and trellis-work bowers here and there, covered with jessamine and honeysuckle. A sea-shell walk led to the front door. Up this walk the diver sauntered, and applied the knocker.

The door was promptly opened by a very small, sharp-eyed domestic.

“Is your master at home, my dear?” asked Joe, kindly.

“I ain’t got no master,” replied the girl.

“No!” returned Joe, in some surprise. “Your missus then?”

“My missus don’t live ’ere. I’m on’y loaned to this ’ouse,” said the small domestic; “loaned by Miss Pritty for two days, till they find a servant gal for themselves.”

“Oh!” said Joe, with a smile, “is the gentleman who borrowed you within?”

“No, ’e ain’t,” replied the small domestic.

At that moment Mr Hazlit walked up the path, and accosted Joe.

“Ah, you want to see my son-in-law? He had not yet returned. I expect him, however, to-day. Perhaps, if you call in the afternoon, or to-morrow morning, you may—”

He was interrupted by the sound of wheels. Next moment a carriage dashed round the corner of the garden wall, and drew up in front of the house. Before the old gentleman had clearly realised the fact, he found himself being smothered by one of the prettiest girls in all England, and Joe felt his hand seized in a grasp worthy of a diver.

While Aileen dragged her father into the villa, in order to enable him to boast ever after that he had received the first kiss she ever gave under her own roof, Edgar led Joe to a trellis-work arbour, and, sitting down beside him there, said:—

“Come, Joe, I know you want to see me about something. While these two are having it out indoors, you and I can talk here.”

“First, Mister Eddy,” said Joe, holding out his big horny hand, “let me congratulate you on comin’ home. May the Lord dwell in your house, and write His name in your two hearts.”

“Amen!” returned Edgar, again grasping the diver’s hand. “My dear wife and I expect to have that prayer answered in our new home, for we put up a similar one before entering it. And now, Joe, what is it that you want?”

“Well, sir, the fact is, that my old woman thinks since I smashed my shoulder, that it’s high time for me to give up divin’, and take to lighter work; but I didn’t know you were comin’ home to-day, sir. I thought you’d been home some days already, else I wouldn’t have come to you, but—”

“Never mind, Joe. There’s no time like the present—go on.”

Thus encouraged, Joe explained his circumstances and desires. When he had ended, Edgar remained silent for some minutes.

“Joe,” he said at length, “you used to be fond of gardening. Have you forgotten all about it?”

“Why, not quite, sir, but—”

“Stay—I’ll come back in a few minutes,” said Edgar, rising hastily, and going into the house.

In a few minutes he returned with his wife.

“Joe,” said he, “Mrs Berrington has something to say to you.”

“Mr Baldwin,” said Aileen, with a peculiar smile, “I am greatly in want of a gardener. Can you tell me where I am likely to find one, or can you recommend one?”

Joe, who was a quick-witted fellow, replied with much gravity:—

“No Miss—ma’am, I mean—I can’t.”

“That’s a pity,” returned Aileen, with a little frown of perplexity; “I am also much in want of a cook—do you know of one?”

“No, ma’am,” said Joe, “I don’t.”

“What a stupid, unobservant fellow you must be, Joe,” said Edgar, “not to be able to recommend a cook or a gardener, and you living, as I may say, in the very midst of such useful personages. Now, Aileen, I can recommend both a cook and a gardener to you.”

“You see, ma’am,” interrupted Joe, with profound gravity, and an earnestness of manner that quite threw his questioners off their guard, “this is an occasion when you may learn a valuable lesson at the outset of wedded life, so to speak—namely, that it is much safer an’ wiser, when you chance to be in a difficulty, to apply to your husband for information than to the likes of me; you see, he’s ready with what you want at a moment’s notice.”

Aileen and Edgar were upset by this; they both laughed heartily, and then the former said:—

“Now, Mr Baldwin, we won’t beat any longer about the bush. We have not succeeded in getting a cook, being in the meantime obliged to content ourselves with a temporary loan of the green-grocer’s wife, and of Miss Pritty’s small domestic; therefore I want to engage your wife, who is at present, I believe, open to an engagement. We are also unprovided with a man to tend our garden, look after our pony, and help me in the missionary work, in which I hope immediately to be engaged in this town. Do you accept that situation?”

Aileen said this with such an earnest irresistible air, that Joe Baldwin struck his colours on the spot, and said, “I do!” with nearly as much fervour as Edgar had said these words six weeks before.

The thing was settled then and there, for Joe felt well assured that his amiable Susan would have no objection to such an arrangement.

Now, while this was going on in the bower, Mr Hazlit, observing that his children were occupied with something important, sauntered down the sea-shell road in the direction of his own cottage. Here he met Miss Pritty.

The sight of her mild innocent face called up a thought. Dozens of other thoughts immediately seized hold of the first thought, and followed it. Mr Hazlit was sometimes, though not often, impulsive. He took Miss Pritty’s hand without saying a word, drew her arm within his own, and led her into the cottage.

“Miss Pritty,” he said, sitting down and pointing to a chair, “you have always been very kind to my daughter.”

“She has always been very kind—very kind—to me,” answered Miss Pritty, with a slight look of surprise.

“True—there is no doubt whatever about that,” returned Mr Hazlit, “but just now I wish to refer to your kindness to her. You came, unselfishly, at great personal inconvenience, to China, at my selfish request, and for her sake you endured horrors in connection with the sea, of which I had no conception until I witnessed your sufferings. I am grateful for your self-sacrificing kindness, and am now about to take a somewhat doubtful mode of showing my gratitude, namely, by asking you to give up your residence in town, and come to be my housekeeper—my companion and friend.”

Mr Hazlit paused, and Miss Pritty, looking at him with her mild eyes excessively wide open, gave no audible expression to her feelings or sentiments, being, for the moment, bereft of the power of utterance.

“You see,” continued Mr Hazlit, in a sad voice, looking slowly round the snug parlour, “I shall be a very lonely man now that my darling has left my roof. And you must not suppose, Miss Pritty, that I ask you to make any engagement that would tie you, even for a year, to a life that you might not relish. I only ask you to come and try it. If you find that you prefer a life of solitude, unhampered in any way, you will only have to say so at any time—a month, a week, after coming here—and I will cheerfully, and without remonstrance, reinstate you in your old home—or a similar one—exactly as I found you, even to your small domestic, who may come here and be your private maid if you choose.”

Miss Pritty could not find it in her heart to refuse an offer so kindly made. The matter was therefore settled then and there, just as that of the diver and his wife had been arranged next door.

Is it necessary to say that both arrangements were found, in course of time, to answer admirably? Miss Pritty discovered that housekeeping was her forte, and that she possessed powers of comprehension, in regard to financial matters connected with the payment of debts and dividends, such as she had all her previous life believed to be unattainable anywhere, save in the Bank of England or on the Stock Exchange.

Mrs Baldwin discovered that cooking was her calling—the end for which she had been born—although discovered rather late in life. Joe made the discovery that gardening and stable-work were very easy employments in the Berrington household, and that his young mistress kept him uncommonly busy amongst the poor of the town, encouraging him to attend chiefly to their spiritual wants, though by no means neglectful of their physical. In these matters he became also agent and assistant to Mr Hazlit—so that the gardening and stable-tending ultimately became a mere sham, and it was found necessary to provide a juvenile assistant, in the person of the green-grocer’s eldest boy, to fill these responsible posts.

The green-grocer himself, and his wife, discovered that Christian influence, good example, and kind words, were so attractive and powerful as to induce them, insensibly, to begin a process of imitation, which ended, quite naturally, in a flourishing business and a happy home.

The small domestic also made a discovery or two. She found that a kitchen with a view of the open sea from its window, and a reasonable as well as motherly companion to talk to, was, on the whole, superior to a kitchen with a window opening up a near prospect of bricks, and the companionship of black pots and beetles.

At first, Aileen travelled a good deal with her husband in his various business expeditions, and thus visited many wild, romantic, and out-o’-the-way parts of our shores; but the advent of a juvenile Berrington put a sudden stop to that, and the flow of juvenile Berringtons that followed induced her to remain very much at home. This influx of “little strangers” induced the building of so many wings to Sea-beach Villa, that its body at last became lost in its wings, and gave rise to a prophecy that it would one day rise into the air and fly away: up to the present time, however, this remains a portion of unfulfilled prophecy.

Mr Hazlit became rich again, not indeed so rich as at first, but comfortably rich. Nevertheless, he determined to remain comparatively poor, in order that he might pay his debts to the uttermost farthing. His cottage by the sea had comforts in it, but nothing that could fairly be styled a luxury, except, of course, a luxurious army of well-trained grandchildren, who invaded his premises every morning with terrific noise, and kept possession until fairly driven out by force of arms.

Rooney Machowl and David Maxwell stuck to their colours manfully. They went into partnership, and continued for years struggling together at the bottom of the sea. Mrs Machowl tended the amiable Teddy during the early, or chokable period of infancy, but when he had safely passed that season, his father took him in hand, and taught him to dive. He began by tumbling him into a washing-tub at odd times, in order to accustom him to water. Then, when a little older, he amused himself by occasionally throwing him off the end of the pier, and jumping in to save him. Afterwards he initiated him into the mysteries of the dress, the helmet, the life-line, the air-pipe, etcetera, and, finally, took him down bodily to the bottom of the sea. At last, Teddy became as good and fearless a diver as his father. He was also the pride of his mother.

One afternoon—a bright glowing afternoon—in the autumn of the year, Mr Hazlit sat in a favourite bower in the garden of his cottage, with Aileen on one side of him, and Edgar on the other. At the foot of the garden a miscellaneous group of boys, girls, and babies, of all ages, romped and rolled upon the turf. In front lay the yellow sands, and, beyond, the glorious glittering sea rolled away to the horizon.

Mr Hazlit had just been commenting on their happy condition as compared with the time when they “knew not God.” The children having just romped themselves into a state of exhaustion, were reasonably quiet, and the sun was setting in floods of amber and gold.

“What a peaceful evening!” remarked Aileen.

“How different,” said Edgar, “from that of which it is the anniversary! Don’t you remember that this is the evening of the day in which we attacked the Malay pirates long ago?”

“So it is. I had forgotten,” said Mr Hazlit.

“Dinner, sir,” said a boy in buttons, who bore a marked resemblance to the green-grocer’s wife.

As he spoke a stout gentleman opened the garden gate and walked up the path leading to the bower. At the same moment Miss Pritty issued from the house and echoed the green-grocer’s boy’s announcement.

They were all silent as the stout gentleman approached.

“What! can it be?” cried Edgar, starting up in excitement.

“The captain!” exclaimed Mr Hazlit.

“Impossible!” murmured Aileen.

“Pirates!” cried Miss Pritty, turning deadly white, and preparing to fall into Edgar’s arms, but curiosity prevented her.

There could be no mistake. The bright glittering eyes, the black beard and moustache, the prominent nose, the kindly smile, the broad chest and shoulders, revealed unquestionably the captain of the Rajah’s gun-boat.

“Miraculous!” cried Edgar, as he wrung the captain’s right hand. “We were just talking of the great fight of which this is the anniversary.”

“Amazing coincidence!” exclaimed Mr Hazlit, seizing the other hand.

“Not so much of a coincidence as it seems, however,” said the captain with a laugh, as he shook hands with the ladies, “for I made arrangements on purpose to be here on the anniversary day, thinking that it might add to the interest of my visit.”

“And to come just at dinner-time too,” said Miss Pritty, who had recovered.

“Another coincidence,” observed Aileen, with an arch look.

“Come—come in—here, this way, captain,” cried Mr Hazlit, dragging his friend by the hand. “Welcome—heartily welcome to Sea Cottage.”

The captain submitted to be dragged; to be placed by the side of Aileen; to be overwhelmed with kindness by the elder members of the family, and with questions by the younger members, who regarded him as a hero of romance quite equal, if not superior, to Jack the Giant-killer.

But how can we describe what followed? It is impossible. We can only say that the evening was one of a thousand. All the battles were fought over again. The captain came out strong for the benefit of the youngsters, and described innumerable scenes of wild adventure in which he had been personally engaged. And to cap it all, after dinner, when they went out into the garden, and were seated in floods of moonlight in the bower, two men opened the garden gate and made for the back kitchen, with the evident intention of calling on the cook. These were discovered to be Rooney Machowl and David Maxwell.

Of course they were made to come and shake hands with their old commander, the captain, and gradually got into a talk, and laughed a good deal at the recollection of old times, insomuch that the noise they made drew Joe Baldwin to the scene, and, as a natural result, this led the conversation into divers channels—among others to life and adventure at the bottom of the sea, and there is no saying how long they might have talked there if a cloud had not obliterated the moon, and admonished them that the night was at hand.

And now, good reader, with regret we find that our tale has reached its close. We may not have added much to your knowledge, but if we have, in any degree, interested you in the characters we have summoned to our little stage, or in the incidents that have been enacted thereon, we shall not have wrought in vain, for the subject into which you have consented to dive with us is not only an interesting, but a dangerous one—involving as it does the constant risking of manly lives, the well-being of large communities, the progress of important industries, and the salvation of much valuable property to the world at large.

The End.

ENDNOTES

Note 1. It may interest practical spirits to know that they can see the diving-dress and apparatus in operation, by going to Number 17 Mason Street, Westminster Bridge Road, London, where Messrs Siebe and Gorman have erected a large Tank for the purpose of illustrating their apparatus. At the Alexandra Palace, also, Messrs Denayrouze and Company have a tank for the same purpose.

Note 2. A “job” precisely similar to this was undertaken, and successfully accomplished by Corporal Falconer of the Royal Engineers, and assistant-instructor in diving, from whom we received the details. The gallant corporal was publicly thanked and promoted for his courage and daring in this and other diving operations.

Note 3. The pump used by Denayrouze of Paris, besides being very simple in its parts and action, possesses an air-reservoir which renders a cessation of the pump-action for a few minutes of no importance.

Note 4. We may as well state here that our information on this subject was obtained from Captain John Hewat, formerly in command of the steam gun-boat Rainbow,—belonging to Sir James Brooke, K.C.B., Rajah of Sarawak,—in which he had six years’ experience of pirate-hunting in the eastern seas, and now captain of one of Donald Currie and Company’s magnificent line of Cape steamers. Perhaps we ought to apologise for thus dragging the gallant captain into fiction, but we trust he will find that, in regard to his own particular doings, we have stuck pretty closely to fact.

Note 5. Something similar to the “job” above mentioned was accomplished by G. Smith, a diver on the staff of Messrs Heinke and Davis, of London.

R.M. Ballantyne

"Up in the Clouds"

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter One.

Balloon Voyages.

Treats of Early Efforts to Fly, etcetera.

It is man’s nature to soar intellectually, and it seems to have been his ambition from earliest ages to soar physically.

Every one in health knows, or at some period of life must have known, that upward bounding of the spirit which induces a longing for the possession of wings, that the material body might be wafted upwards into those blue realms of light, which are so attractive to the eye and imagination of poor creeping man that he has appropriately styled them the heavens.

Man has envied the birds since the world began. Who has not watched, with something more than admiration, the easy gyrations of the sea-mew, and listened, with something more than delight, to the song of the soaring lark?

To fly with the body as well as with the mind, is a wish so universal that the benignant Creator Himself seems to recognise it in that most attractive passage in Holy Writ, wherein it is said that believers shall “mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”

Of course man has not reached the middle of the nineteenth century without making numerous attempts to fly bodily up to the skies. Fortunately, however, such ambitious efforts have seldom been made except by the intellectually enthusiastic. Prosaic man, except in the case of the Tower of Babel, has remained content to gaze upwards with longing desire, and only a few of our species in the course of centuries have possessed temerity enough to make the deliberate effort to ride upon the wings of the wind.

Naturally, the first attempts were, like most beginnings, simple and imitative. The birds flew with wings, therefore man put on artificial wings and essayed to fly like the birds. It was not until many grievous disappointments and sad accidents had befallen him, that he unwillingly gave up wings in despair, and set to work to accomplish his ends by more cumbrous and complex machinery.

Very early in the world’s history, however, “flying machines” were made, some of which were doubtless intended by their honest inventors to carry men through the air, while others were mere shams, made by designing men, wherewith to impose upon the ignorant for wicked ends of their own; and some of these last were, no doubt, believed to be capable of the feats attributed to them.

The credulity of the ancients is not to be wondered at when we reflect on the magical illusions which science enables us to produce at the present day—illusions so vivid and startling that it requires the most elaborate explanations by adepts and philosophers to convince some among their audiences that what they think they see is absolutely not real! No wonder that the men of old had firm faith in the existence of all kinds of flying machines and creatures.

They believed that fiery dragons were created by infernal machination, which, although not what we may call natural creatures, were nevertheless supposed to rush impetuous through the sky, vomiting flames and scattering the seeds of pestilence far and wide. In those dark ages, writers even ventured to describe the method of imitating the composition of such terrific monsters! A number of large hollow reeds were to be bound together, then sheathed completely in skin, and smeared over with pitch and other inflammable matters. This light and bulky engine, when set on fire, launched during thick darkness from some cliff into the air, and borne along by the force of the wind, would undoubtedly carry conviction to the minds of the populace, whilst it would fill them with amazement and terror!

Sometimes, however, those who attempted to practise on the credulity of their fellows were themselves appalled by the results of their contrivances. Such was the case so late as the year 1750, when a small Roman Catholic town in Swabia was almost entirely burnt to ashes by an unsuccessful experiment made by some of the lowest order of priests for the astonishment, if not the edification, of their flocks. An attempt was made by them to represent the effigy of Martin Luther, whom the monks believed to be in league with Satan, under the form of a winged serpent with a forked tail and hideous claws. Unfortunately Martin’s effigy, when ignited, refused to fly, and, instead of doing what was required of it, fell against the chimney of a house to which it set fire. The flames spread furiously in every direction, and were not subdued until the town was nearly consumed.

In the early part of the sixteenth century a very determined attempt at flying was made by an Italian who visited Scotland, and was patronised by James the Fourth. He gained the favour of that monarch by holding out to him hopes of replenishing his treasury by means of the “philosopher’s stone.” The wily Italian managed, by his plausible address, to obtain a position which replenished, to some degree, his own empty purse, having been collated by royal favour to the abbacy of Tungland, in Galloway. Being an ingenious fellow, and somewhat, apparently, of an enthusiast, he spent some of his leisure time in fashioning a pair of huge wings of various plumage, with which he actually undertook to fly through the air from the walls of Stirling Castle to France! That he believed himself to be capable of doing so seems probable, from the fact that he actually made the attempt, but fell to the ground with such violence as to break his leg. He was sharp-witted, however, for instead of retiring crest-fallen at his failure, he coolly accounted for the accident by saying, “My wings were composed of various feathers; among them were the feathers of dunghill fowls, and they, by a certain sympathy, were attracted to the dunghill; whereas, had my wings been composed of eagles’ feathers alone, the same sympathy would have attracted them to the region of the air!”

About a century later a poor monk, whose boldness and enterprise were more conspicuous than his prudence, attempted a similar feat. He provided himself with a gigantic pair of wings, constructed on a principle propounded by the rector of the grammar school of Tubingen, in 1617, and, leaping from the top of a high tower, fell to the ground, broke both his legs, and lost his life.

It was long before men came to see and admit that in regard to this they were attempting to accomplish the impossible.

There can be no doubt that it is absolutely impossible for man to fly by the simple power of his own muscles, applied to any sort of machinery whatever. This is not an open question. That man may yet contrive to raise himself in the air by means of steam or electricity, or some other motive power, remains to be seen. It does not seem probable, but no one can say authoritatively that it is impossible. It is demonstrable, however, that to rise, or even to remain suspended, in the air by means of machinery impelled by human force alone is a feat which is as much an impossibility as it is for a man, by the strength of his own legs, to leap thirty or forty times his own length,—a grasshopper can do that easily, and a bird can fly easily, but a man cannot, and never will be able to do so, because his peculiar conformation forbids it.

This was first demonstrated by Borelli, an eminent Italian mathematician and philosopher, who lived in a fertile age of discovery, and was thoroughly acquainted with the true principles of mechanics and pneumatics. He showed, by accurate calculation, the prodigious force which in birds must be exerted and maintained by the pectoral muscles with which the all-wise Creator has supplied them, and, by applying the same principles to the structure of the human frame, he proved how extremely disproportionate was the strength of the corresponding muscles in man. In fact, the man who should attempt to fly like a bird would be guilty of greater folly and ignorant presumption than the little infant who should endeavour to perform the feats of a gladiator! It is well for man in all things to attain, if possible, to a knowledge of what certainly lies beyond his powers, for such knowledge prevents the waste and misdirection of energies, as well as saving from disappointment and other evil results.

But many of those enthusiasts, who have attempted at various periods of the world’s history to fly, did not fall into the error which we have attempted to point out. On the contrary, they went intelligently to work; their only aim being modestly to fly somewhat after the manner of a bird, but they all failed; nevertheless one philosopher, of modern times, stoutly continued to assert the opinion that there is no impossibility in man being able to fly apparently, though not really, like a bird. He did not hold that man could ever fly as high, or as far, or as fast, or in any degree as easily, as a bird. All that he ventured to say was, that he might perhaps fly somewhat like one.

As the plan of this philosopher is rather curious, we shall detail it.

It is well known that balloons, filled with appropriate gas, will rise. Big balloons and little ones are equally uppish in their tendencies. It is also known that rotundity of form is not essential to the successful rising of a balloon. “Well, then,” says this philosopher, “what is to prevent a man making two balloons, flattish, and in the form of wings, which, instead of flying away with him, as ordinary balloons would infallibly do, should be so proportioned to his size and weight as that they would not do more than raise him an inch or so off the ground, and so keep him stotting and bobbing lightly about, something like the bright thin india-rubber balls with which children are wont to play now-a-days?

“Having attained this position of, so to speak, readiness to fly, there is nothing to prevent him from propelling himself gently along the surface of the ground by means of fans, or, if you choose, small flexible cloth wings attached to the hands and arms. The legs might also be brought into play a little. It is obvious, however, that such wings would require to be mounted only in calm weather, for a breeze of wind would infallibly sweep the flyer off the face of the earth! We would only observe, in conclusion, that, however ridiculous this method of flying may appear in your eyes, this at least may be said in its favour, that whereas all other plans that have been tried have signally failed, this plan has never failed—never having been tried! We throw the idea before a discriminating public, in the hope that some aspiring enthusiast, with plenty of means and nerve, and no family to mourn his loss, may one day prove, to the confusion of the incredulous, that our plan is not a mere flight of imagination!”

When men began to find that wings refused in any circumstances to waft them to the realms of ether, they set about inventing aerial machines in which to ascend through the clouds and navigate the skies.

In the fourteenth century a glimmering of the true principles on which a balloon could be constructed was entertained by Albert of Saxony, a monk of the order of Saint Augustin, but he never carried his theories into practice. His opinion was that, since fire is more attenuated than air, and floats above the region of our atmosphere, all that was necessary would be to enclose a portion of such ethereal substance in a light hollow globe which would thus be raised to a certain height, and kept suspended in the sky, and that by introducing a portion of air into the globe it would be rendered heavier than before, and might thus be made to descend. This was in fact the statement of the principles on which fire-balloons were afterwards constructed and successfully sent up, excepting that air heated by fire, instead of fire itself, was used.

Others who came after Albert of Saxony held the same theory, but they all failed to reduce it to practice, and most of these men coupled with their correct notions on the subject, the very erroneous idea that by means of masts, sails, and a rudder, a balloon might be made to sail through the air as a ship sails upon the sea. In this they seem to have confounded two things which are dissimilar, namely, a vessel driven through water, and a vessel floating in air.

The fallacy here may be easily pointed out. A ship is driven through water by a body in motion, namely, wind, while its rudder is dragged through a body comparatively at rest, namely, water; hence the rudder slides against or is pushed against the water, and according as it is turned to one side or the other, it is pushed to one side or the other, the stern of the ship going along with it, and the bow, of course, making a corresponding motion in the opposite direction. Thus the ship is turned or “steered,” but it is manifest that if the ship were at rest there would be no pushing of the rudder by the water—no steering. On the other hand, if, though the ship were in motion, the sea was also flowing at the same rate with the wind, there would be no flowing of water past the ship, the rudder would not be acted on, and the vessel could not be steered.

Now a balloon, carried by the wind, cannot be steered by a rudder, because it does not, like the ship, rest half in one medium which is in motion, and half in another medium which is at rest. There is no sliding of any substance past its side, no possibility therefore of pushing a rudder against anything. All floats along with the wind.

If, however, the balloon could be made to go faster than the wind, then steering would at once become possible; but sails cannot accomplish this, because, although wind can drive a ship faster than water flows, wind cannot drive a substance faster than itself flows.

The men of old did not, however, seem to take these points into consideration. It yet remains to be seen whether steam shall ever be successfully applied to aerial machines, but this may certainly be assumed in the meantime, that, until by some means a balloon is propelled faster than the wind through the atmosphere, sails will be useless, and steering, or giving direction, impossible.

It was believed, in those early times, when scientific knowledge was slender, that the dew which falls during the night is of celestial origin, shed by the stars, and drawn by the sun, in the heat of the day, back to its native skies. Many people even went the length of asserting that an egg, filled with the morning dew, would, as the day advanced, rise spontaneously into the air. Indeed one man, named Father Laurus, speaks of this as an observed fact, and gravely gives directions how it is to be accomplished. “Take,” says he, “a goose’s egg, and having filled it with dew gathered fresh in the morning, expose it to the sun during the hottest part of the day, and it will ascend and rest suspended for a few moments.” Father Laurus must surely have omitted to add that a goose’s brains in the head of the operator was an element essential to the success of the experiment!

But this man, although very ignorant in regard to the nature of the substances with which he wrought, had some quaint notions in his head. He thought, for instance, that if he were to cram the cavity of an artificial dove with highly condensed air, the imprisoned fluid would impel the machine in the same manner as wind impels a sail. If this should not be found to act effectively, he proposed to apply fire to it in some way or other, and, to prevent the machine from being spirited away altogether by that volatile element, asbestos, or some incombustible material, was to be used as a lining. To feed and support this fire steadily, he suggested a compound of butter, salts, and orpiment, lodged in metallic tubes, which, he imagined, would at the same time heighten the whole effect by emitting a variety of musical tones like an organ!

Another man, still more sanguine than the lest in his aerial flights of fancy, proposed that an ascent should be attempted by the application of fire as in a rocket to an aerial machine. We are not, however, told that this daring spirit ever ventured to try thus to invade the sky.

There can be no doubt that much ingenuity, as well as absurdity, has been displayed in the various suggestions that have been made from time to time, and occasionally carried into practice. One man went the length of describing a huge apparatus, consisting of very long tin pipes, in which air was to be compressed by the vehement action of fire below. In a boat suspended from the machine a man was to sit and direct the whole by the opening and shutting of valves.

Another scheme, more ingenious but not less fallacious, was propounded in 1670 by Francis Lana, a Jesuit, for navigating the air. This plan was to make four copper balls of very large dimensions, yet so extremely thin that, after the air had been extracted, they should become, in a considerable degree, specifically lighter than the surrounding medium. Each of his copper balls was to be about 25 feet in diameter, with the thickness of only the 225th part of an inch, the metal weighing 365 pounds avoirdupois, while the weight of the air which it should contain would be about 670 pounds, leaving, after a vacuum had been formed, an excess of 305 pounds for the power of ascension. The four balls would therefore, it was thought, rise into the air with a combined force of 1220 pounds, which was deemed by Lana to be sufficient to transport a boat completely furnished with masts, sails, oars, and rudders, and carrying several passengers. The method by which the vacuum was to be obtained was by connecting each globe, fitted with a stop-cock, to a tube of at least thirty-five feet long; the whole being filled with water; when raised to the vertical position the water would run out, the stop-cocks would be closed at the proper time, and the vacuum secured. It does not seem to have entered the head of this philosopher that the weight of the surrounding atmosphere would crush and destroy his thin exhausted receivers, but he seems to have been alarmed at the idea of his supposed discovery being applied to improper uses, such as the passing of desperadoes over fortified cities, on which they might rain down fire and destruction from the clouds!

Perhaps the grandest of all the fanciful ideas that have been promulgated on this subject was that of Galien, a Dominican friar, who proposed to collect the fine diffused air of the higher regions, where hail is formed, above the summit of the loftiest mountains, and to enclose it in a cubical bag of enormous dimensions—extending more than a mile every way! This vast machine was to be composed of the thickest and strongest sail-cloth, and was expected to be capable of transporting through the air a whole army with all their munitions of war!

There were many other devices which men hit upon, some of which embraced a certain modicum of truth mixed with a large proportion of fallacy. Ignorance, more or less complete, as to the principles and powers with which they dealt, was, in days gone by, the cause of many of the errors and absurdities into which men were led in their efforts to mount the atmosphere. Our space, however, forbids further consideration of this subject, which is undoubtedly one of considerable interest, and encircled with a good deal of romance.

Turning away from all those early and fanciful speculations, we now come to that period in the history of balloon voyaging, or aeronautics, when true theories began to be philosophically applied, and ascending into the skies became an accomplished fact.

Chapter Two.

The First Balloons.

The germ of the invention of the balloon lies in the discovery of Mr Cavendish, made in 1766, that hydrogen gas, called inflammable air, is at least seven times lighter than atmospheric air. Founding on this fact, Dr Black of Edinburgh proved by experiment that a very thin bag, filled with this gas, would rise to the ceiling of a room.

In Dr Thomson’s History of Chemistry, an anecdote, related by Mr Benjamin Bell, refers to this as follows:—

“Soon after the appearance of Mr Cavendish’s paper on hydrogen gas, in which he made an approximation to the specific gravity of that body, showing that it was at least ten times lighter than common air, Dr Black invited a party of friends to supper, informing them that he had a curiosity to show them. Dr Hutton, Mr Clerk of Eldin, and Sir George Clerk of Penicuik, were of the number. When the company invited had arrived, he took them into a room where he had the allantois of a calf filled with hydrogen gas, and, upon setting it at liberty, it immediately ascended and adhered to the ceiling. The phenomenon was easily accounted for; it was taken for granted that a small black thread had been attached to the allantois, that the thread passed through the ceiling, and that some one in the apartment above, by pulling the thread, elevated it to the ceiling, and kept it in its position! This explanation was so plausible, that it was agreed to by the whole company, though, like many other plausible theories, it turned out wholly fallacious, for, when the allantois was brought down, no thread whatever was found attached to it. Dr Black explained the cause of the ascent to his admiring friends; but such was his carelessness of his own reputation, that he never gave the least account of this curious experiment even to his class, and several years elapsed before this obvious property of hydrogen gas was applied to the elevation of balloons.”

Cavallo made the first practical attempts with hydrogen gas six years later, but he only succeeded in causing soap-bubbles to ascend.

At last the art of aerial navigation was discovered in France, and in 1782 the first ascent was made. The triumph was achieved by Stephen and Joseph Montgolfier, sons of a wealthy paper-maker who dwelt at Annonay, on the banks of a rivulet which flows into the Rhone, not far from Lyons.

These brothers were remarkable men. Although bred in a remote provincial town, and without the benefit of a liberal education, they were possessed in a high degree of ingenuity and the spirit of observation. They educated themselves, and acquired an unusually large stock of information, which their inventive and original minds led them to apply in new fields of speculation. They were associated in business with their father, a man who passed his quiet days like a patriarch amidst a large family and a numerous body of dependants, until he reached the advanced age of ninety-three.

Stephen devoted himself chiefly to the study of mathematics, Joseph to chemistry; and they were accustomed to form their plans in concert. It appears that they had long contemplated, with philosophical interest, the floating and ascent of clouds in the air, and when they heard of or read Cavendish’s theories in regard to different kinds of air, it at once struck them that by enclosing some gas lighter than the atmosphere in a bag, a weight might be raised from the earth into the air.

The brothers Montgolfier were men of that vigorous stamp who act promptly on receiving their convictions. At once they set about experimenting, and constructed large bags of paper,—the substance which naturally came readiest to their hands, and which appeared to them to be best suited to their purpose. These were filled with hydrogen gas, which raised them to the ceiling; but, owing to the escape of the gas through the pores and cracks of the case, those embryo balloons descended in a few minutes. Instead of varnishing the paper to prevent the escape of the gas, and supposing, erroneously, that the fault lay in the latter, they sought about for a new gas more suitable to the paper. This they found, as they supposed, in the gas which resulted from the combustion of wet straw and wool, which had an upward tendency, they thought, on account of its electrical properties, which caused it to be repelled from the ground. It is scarcely necessary now to point out that the true cause of the upward tendency lay in the rarefaction of the air by the heat of the fire, and that hot air has a tendency to rise because its bulk is greatly increased beyond the same quantity of the surrounding cold air.

Although wrong in assigning the cause of the result, they were right in the application of it. While on a visit to Avignon Joseph Montgolfier procured a silk bag having a small opening at its lower end, and a capacity of about fifty cubic feet. Under the orifice some paper was burnt; the air inside was heated and expanded so as to fill the bag, which, when let go, soared rapidly up to the height of seventy or eighty feet, where it remained until the air cooled and allowed it to descend. Thus did the first balloon ascend in the month of November 1782.

Delighted with their success, the indefatigable brothers resolved to make further experiment on a larger scale. They procured a quantity of packcloth or coarse linen, formed it into a globe about ninety feet in circumference, lined it with paper, and lighted a fire under it in an iron choffer. This balloon went up with a force which they estimated as equivalent to 500 pounds.

After this the Montgolfiers appeared to have become ambitious of accomplishing greater things, and giving to their discoveries publicity; for we are told that, “they invited the members of the provincial meeting of the states of the Vivarais, then assembled at Annonay, to witness the first public aerial ascent. On the 5th June 1783, amidst a very large concourse of spectators, the spherical bag or balloon, consisting of different pieces of linen, merely buttoned together, was suspended from cross poles. Two men kindled a fire under it, and kept feeding the flame with small bundles of chopped straw. The loose bag gradually swelled, assuming a graceful form, and in the space of five minutes it was completely distended, and made such an effort to escape that eight men were required to hold it down.

“On a signal being given the stays were slipped, and the balloon instantly rose with an accelerating motion till it reached some height, when its velocity continued uniform, and carried it to an elevation of more than a mile. All was admiration and transport. Amidst the shouts of unbounded applause, the progress of the artificial cloud retiring from sight arrested every eye. It was hurried along by the wind; but its buoyant force being soon spent, it remained suspended only ten minutes, and fell gently in a vineyard at a distance of about a mile and a half from the place of its ascension. So memorable a feat lighted up the glow of national vanity, and the two Montgolfiers were hailed and exalted by the spontaneous impulse of their fellow-citizens.”

This event created a sensation not only in France but over the whole of Europe. In Paris, particularly, the effect on all classes was so great that they determined to have the experiment repeated, set a subscription on foot, and appointed a scientific man named Charles, and two brothers of the name of Robert, to construct a balloon. This they did, but instead of applying the Montgolfier motive power—heated air—they used hydrogen gas, procured by the action of diluted sulphuric acid upon iron filings. Their balloon, which was made of thin silk, varnished with a solution of elastic gum, was a much nearer approach to the balloon of modern days than that of Montgolfier. It was a great success; it rose and remained suspended at a height of 100 feet, in which state it was conveyed with acclamation to the Place des Victoires, where it rested and underwent some repairs. At midnight it was conveyed in solemn procession by torchlight, and guarded by a detachment of horse, to the Champ de Mars, where, on the following day, the whole world of Paris turned out to witness another ascent. The balloon went up to the sound of cannon, and in two minutes reached a height of 3000 feet, when it was lost for a time in a dark cloud, but speedily reappeared still higher. After a flight of fifteen miles, performed in three-quarters of an hour, it sunk to the ground in a field near Ecouen, where it was secured by the peasants.

The Parisians now appeared to become balloon-mad. The Royal Academy of Sciences invited Joseph Montgolfier to repeat his experiments, and another balloon was prepared by him of coarse linen with a paper lining, which, however, was destroyed by incessant and violent rain before it could be tried. Undeterred by this, another was constructed by him, which ascended from Versailles on the 19th of September 1783.

This balloon deserves peculiar notice as being the first which carried up living creatures. A sheep, a cockerel, and a duck, were the first aeronauts! They ascended to a height of about 1500 feet; remained suspended for a time, and descended some two miles off in perfect safety—indeed we may say in perfect comfort, for the sheep was discovered to be quietly feeding when it returned to the earth!

The practicability of ballooning being now fairly established, men soon began to venture their own persons in the frail cars. A young and enthusiastic naturalist named Rozier leaped into the car of another of Montgolfier’s balloons soon after this, and ascended in safety to an elevation of about 300 feet, but on this occasion the balloon was held down by ropes. The ice, however, was broken, and bolder attempts quickly followed.

Chapter Three.

Early Attempts at Aerial Navigation.

The first free and unfettered balloon voyage was performed very soon after the event mentioned at the end of the last chapter. It was a daring attempt, and attended with great danger.

A balloon made by Montgolfier was used. It was 75 feet high, 45 feet wide, and spheroidal in form—heated air being the motive power. The bold aeronauts, on this occasion, were the naturalist Rozier and the Marquis d’Arlandes, a major of infantry. From the gardens of the Château of Muetta they ascended on the 21st November 1783.

In the car there was a quantity of ballast, and a provision of straw to feed the fire. The balloon mounted at first with a majestic steady motion, gazed at in breathless wonder by thousands of spectators, who assembled not only in the neighbourhood of the Château, but clustered on every point of vantage in Paris.

When the daring voyagers reached a considerable height, they took off their hats and waved them to their friends below, and the multitude—realising, perhaps, that that which in former ages had been deemed the dream of visionaries, was at last an accomplished fact—responded with enthusiastic acclamations until the balloon passed upwards through the clouds and was lost to view.

It would seem that these first aeronauts were of different temperaments; for, after they had reached a height of nearly 3000 feet, and the earth was no longer distinguishable, the Marquis began to think that he had seen enough of the upper regions, would fain have descended, and murmured against his companion, who still kept feeding the fire. Apparently his alarm was justifiable, for Rozier continued recklessly to heap on fuel, until he almost set the balloon on fire. On hearing some cracks from the top, and observing some holes burning in its sides, the Marquis became so alarmed that he compelled his companion to desist, and with wet sponges stopped the conflagration, which had actually begun.

When the fire diminished, however, the balloon began to descend much quicker than was safe or agreeable, and the marquis himself began to throw fresh straw on the fire to enable them to clear the roofs of Paris. This they did very dexterously, considering that they were so unaccustomed to such navigation, throwing on just as much fuel as was sufficient for the purpose, and keeping clear of steeples and chimneys until they alighted in safety beyond the Boulevards. Their voyage lasted about half-an-hour, and they described a track of six miles around Paris, having ascended to a height of 3000 feet.

Thus was the first balloon voyage successfully accomplished by the French; and the Montgolfiers, besides enjoying the triumph which their persevering efforts deserved, were awarded the annual prize—six hundred livres—of the Academy of Sciences. The elder brother was invited to Court, decorated with the badge of Saint Michael, and received a patent of nobility; while the younger received a pension and a sum of forty thousand livres wherewith to prosecute his experiments with balloons.

The great success of the Montgolfier balloons naturally threw the efforts of Monsieur Charles and the brothers Robert into the shade. Nevertheless those gentlemen had got hold of a better principle than their rivals; and, knowing this, they resolved to convince the sceptical by constructing another balloon. They wisely began by obtaining subscriptions to enable them to carry out their designs, and finally succeeded in making a globe formed of tiffany, covered with elastic varnish, which was twenty-eight feet in diameter. This they filled with hydrogen gas. Some idea of their difficulties and expenses may be gathered from the fact that the mere filling of the balloon required an apparatus which cost about 400 pounds sterling, one-half of which was expended on the production of the gas alone.

The ascent of this balloon deserves to be regarded with special interest, because, besides being the first hydrogen balloon which carried up human beings, it was the first in which scientific observations were made and recorded. Monsieur Charles was a lecturer on natural philosophy, and, like our own great aeronaut, Mr Glaisher, does not seem to have been content to produce merely a spectacle, but went up to the realms of ether with an intelligent and scientific eye; for we read of him recording the indications of the thermometer and barometer at different heights and under various conditions.

There were many accidents and delays in the construction of this balloon; but at last, on the 1st December 1783, it was taken to the Tuileries and there filled with gas. The process was slow, as the gas had to be generated in large quantities by means of diluted sulphuric acid and iron filings put into wooden casks disposed round a large cistern, from which it was conveyed through water in long leaden pipes. To keep the impatient populace quiet, therefore, during the tedious operation, Montgolfier sent up one of his fire-balloons.

At last, when it was sufficiently filled, Messieurs Charles and Robert stepped into the car, which was ballasted with sandbags, and the ropes were let go. It went up with slow and solemn motion, at the rate of about five miles an hour. “The car,” writes a reporter of the day in language more inflated than the balloon itself, “ascending amidst profound silence and admiration, allowed, in its soft and measured ascent, the bystanders to follow with their eyes and hearts two interesting men, who, like demigods, soared to the abode of the immortals, to receive the reward of intellectual progress, and carry the imperishable name of Montgolfier. After the globe had reached the height of 2000 feet, it was no longer possible to distinguish the aerial navigators; but the coloured pennants which they waved in the air testified their safety and their tranquil feelings. All fears were now dissipated; enthusiasm succeeded to astonishment; and every demonstration was given of joy and applause.”

The period of flight was an hour and three-quarters, which, for those early days of the art, was a pretty long voyage. By throwing over ballast the voyagers ascended, and by letting off gas they descended at pleasure; and they observed that during an hour, while they were exposed to the sun’s rays, the gas was heated up to the temperature of fifty-five degrees of Fahrenheit’s scale, which had the effect of sensibly increasing the buoyancy of the balloon. They descended safely on the meadow of Nesle, about twenty-five miles from Paris.

But, not content with what he had accomplished, Monsieur Charles made a sudden resolve to have another flight alone. The shades of night were falling, and the sun had already set, when the enthusiastic aeronaut re-entered the car, and, casting off the grapnels, began his solitary night voyage. He was well rewarded. The balloon shot up with such celerity as to reach the height of about two miles in ten minutes, and the sun rose again to him in full orb! From his lofty station he watched it until it set again below the distant horizon. Probably Monsieur Charles was the first man in the world on whom the sun thus rose and set twice in the same day!

In such regions, at that romantic period of night, the aeronaut, as might have been expected, saw strange unearthly sights. Rising vapours concealed the lower world from view, and the moon shed her pale rays on accumulated masses of clouds, casting various hues over their fantastic and changing forms. No wonder that one thus surrounded by objects of awful grandeur and sublimity, left, as it were, more completely alone with God than any of his fellow-mortals, found it impossible to refrain from giving vent to his emotion in tears.

Monsieur Charles did not remain long at this elevation. As the cold was excessive, and night advancing, he deemed it prudent to descend; opened the safety-valve, out of which the gas rushed like a misty vapour with a whistling noise, and, after the lapse of a little more than half an hour, alighted in safety near the wood of Tour du Lay, having travelled about nine miles.

After this, balloon ascents became frequent. We cannot here give a particular account of each, even if it were desirable to do so, but, before passing to the consideration of the more recent voyages, we shall run over a few facts and incidents that occurred during the early period of aerial navigation.

The first lady who went up in a balloon was a Madame Thiblé. She ascended from Lyons on 28th June 1784 with a Monsieur Fleurant in a fire-balloon. This lady of Lyons mounted to the extraordinary elevation of 13,500 feet—at least so it was estimated. The flagstaff, a pole of fourteen pounds weight, was thrown out and took seven minutes to reach the ground. The thermometer dropped to minus 43 degrees Fahrenheit, and the voyagers felt a ringing sensation in their ears.

The first long voyage accomplished was about the same period, by a balloon constructed by Monsieur Robert, which was filled with hydrogen. It was 56 feet in height, and 36 in diameter. The Duke de Chartres ascended in it along with Robert and two others to a considerable height, and in five hours performed a voyage of 135 miles. This machine was furnished with a helm and four oars, for men still laboured under the erroneous belief that it was possible to direct the course of a balloon.

One of the most interesting balloon voyages of the last century was that of Monsieur Testu. He ascended from Paris on the 18th June 1786 in a balloon of glazed tiffany, 29 feet in diameter, which was constructed by himself. It was filled with hydrogen, and had wings as well as oars! When the aeronaut deemed it advisable to descend, he attempted to do so by using the wings. These had little or no power, but the gradual waste of gas lowered him until he alighted safely in a corn field in the plain of Montmorency. Here he began to collect stones without quitting the car; but while thus engaged, was seized by the proprietor of the field with a troop of peasants, who demanded indemnification for the damage alleged to have been done by him. Poor Testu assured them that his wings being broken, he was at their mercy, whereupon the stupid and ill-natured boors seized the stay of the balloon, which floated some height above the ground, and dragged him in triumph towards their village. Their triumph, however, was short-lived. Finding that the loss of his wings and some other articles had lightened him considerably, he quietly cut the cord and bade the clowns an abrupt farewell!

Testu then rose to the clouds, where he experienced the violence and witnessed the grandeur of a thunderstorm, the terrible nature of which was greatly increased when night closed in, while lightning flashed on all sides, thunder reverberated in the sky, and sleet fell copiously around him. On this voyage he saw some hunters in a field, and descended to observe them! He remained out all night, saw the sun set and rise, and finally alighted near the village of Campremi, about sixty-three miles from Paris.

Chapter Four.

The first Aerial Voyages made in Great Britain—Succeeding Ascents.

The credit of the first aerial voyage made in Great Britain has usually been given to Vincenzo Lunardi, an Italian. There is ground for believing, however, that the first balloon voyage was performed by a Scotchman, as the following extract from Chamber’s Book of Days will show:—

“It is generally supposed that Lunardi was the first person who ascended by means of a balloon in Great Britain, but he certainly was not. A very poor man, named James Tytler, who then lived in Edinburgh, supporting himself and family in the humblest style of garret or cottage life by the exercise of his pen, had this honour. He had effected an ascent at Edinburgh on the 27th of August 1784, just nineteen days previous to Lunardi. Tytler’s ascent, however, was almost a failure, by his employing the dangerous and unmanageable Montgolfier principle. After several ineffectual attempts, Tytler, finding that he could not carry up his fire-stove with him, determined, in the maddening desperation of disappointment, to go without this his sole sustaining power. Jumping into his car, which was no other than a common crate used for packing earthenware, he and the balloon ascended from Comely Garden, and immediately afterwards fell in the Restalrig Road. For a wonder, Tytler was uninjured; and though he did not reach a greater altitude than 300 feet, nor traverse a greater distance than half a mile, yet his name must ever be mentioned as that of the first Briton who ascended with a balloon, and the first man who ascended in Britain.

“Tytler was the son of a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, and had been educated as a surgeon; but being of an eccentric and erratic genius, he adopted literature as a profession, and was the principal editor of the first edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Becoming embroiled in politics, he published a handbill of a seditious tendency, and consequently was compelled to seek a refuge in America, where he died in 1805, after conducting a newspaper at Salem, in New England, for several years.”

The voyage of Vincenzo Lunardi was made in September 1784. His letters to a friend, in which he comments on the manners and customs of the English, are very amusing. His balloon was of the ordinary spherical shape, made of the best oiled silk, about 520 yards of which were used in its construction. It was filled with hydrogen gas, and provided with car, oars, and wings. The car consisted simply of a wooden platform surrounded by a breast high railing, and the oars and wings were intended, the one to check, by a vertical motion, the rapidity of descent, and the other to act as sails when becalmed in the upper regions of cloudland. He requested permission to make Chelsea Hospital the scene of his first aerial exploit, and the Governor, Sir George Howard, with the full approval of His Majesty King George the Third, gave his consent. He accordingly made all necessary arrangements for an ascent, and his fondest expectations seemed about to be realised. He was, however, doomed to disappointment, owing to the failure of a rival balloon. Writing to a friend at this time he says, “The events of this extraordinary island are as variable as its climate. It was but lately everything relating to my undertaking wore a favourable and pleasing appearance, but I am at this moment overwhelmed with anxiety, vexation, and despair.”

This rival balloon was constructed by a Frenchman named De Moret, who, having succeeded in attracting a concourse of fifty or sixty thousand people to see his ascent, failed in the primary part of his undertaking,—that of filling his balloon. The people, after waiting patiently for three hours, and supposing “the whole affair an imposture, rushed in and tore it to pieces.” In consequence of this failure, and the riots with which it was followed, the Governor forbade Signor Lunardi to make his ascent from Chelsea Hospital grounds. He writes again to his friend, “The national prejudice of the English against France is supposed to have its full effect on a subject from which the literati of England expect to derive but little honour. An unsuccessful attempt has been made by a Frenchman, and my name being that of a foreigner, a very excusable ignorance in the people may place me among the adventurers of that nation, who are said to have sometimes distinguished themselves here by ingenious impositions.” In vain did he try to obtain another place to launch his aerial ship; he was laughed at and ridiculed as an impostor, and the colleague of De Moret. At length, after much exertion, he obtained leave to ascend from the ground of the Honourable Artillery Company. By twelve o’clock on the day fixed for the ascension, an immense mass of people had assembled, including the Prince of Wales. The filling of the balloon caused some delay, but, in order to keep the patience of the populace within control, it was only partially filled. At five minutes past two the balloon ascended amid the loud acclamations of the assembled multitudes, and Signor Lunardi had proved himself no impostor. He writes to his friend, “The stillness, extent, and magnificence of the scene rendered it highly awful. My horizon seemed a perfect circle, the terminating line several hundred miles in circumference; this I conjectured from the view of London, the extreme points of which formed an angle only a few degrees. It was so reduced on the great scale before me that I can find no simile to convey an idea of it. I could distinguish Saint Paul’s and other churches from the houses; I saw the streets as lines, all animated with beings whom I knew to be men and women, but which otherwise I should have had a difficulty in describing. It was an enormous bee-hive, but the industry of it was suspended. All the moving mass seemed to have no object but myself, and the transition from the suspicion, perhaps contempt, of the preceding hour, to the affectionate transport, admiration, and glory of the present moment, was not without its effect on my mind. It seemed as if I had left below all the cares and passions that molest mankind. I had not the slightest sense of motion in the machine; I knew not whether it went swiftly or slowly, whether it ascended or descended, whether it was agitated or tranquil, but by the appearance or disappearance of objects on the earth. The height had not the effect which a much less degree of it has near the earth, that of producing giddiness. The gradual diminution of objects, and the masses of light and shade, are intelligible in oblique and common prospects, but here everything wore a new appearance and had a new effect. The face of the country had a mild and permanent verdure to which Italy is a stranger. The variety of cultivation and the accuracy with which property is divided give the idea, ever present to the stranger in England, of good civil laws and an equitable administration. The rivulets meandering; the immense districts beneath me spotted with cities, towns, villages, and houses, pouring out their inhabitants to hail my appearance. You will allow me some merit in not having been exceedingly intoxicated with my situation.” He descended at North Mimms about half-past three-o’clock, but wishing to obtain a second triumph, he threw out the remainder of his ballast and provisions, landed a cat which he had taken up with him, and which had suffered severely from the cold, and again ascended to the regions above. This time his ascent was more rapid, the thermometer quickly fell to 29 degrees, and icicles were soon formed all round his machine. He descended at twenty minutes past four near Ware in Hertfordshire, and the balloon being properly secured, the gas was let out and “nearly poisoned the whole neighbourhood by the disagreeable stench emitted.” The success and triumph of this first attempt in aerial navigation in English air exceeded Signor Lunardi’s utmost expectations. Everywhere he was received with marks of approbation, and treated as a hero. “My fame,” he writes, “has not been sparingly diffused by the newspapers (which in England are the barometers of public opinion; often erroneous, as other instruments are, in their particular information, but yielding the best that can be obtained). You will imagine the importance of these vehicles of knowledge when you learn that in London alone there are printed no less than 160,000 papers weekly, which, by a stamp on each paper, and a duty on advertisements, brings into the treasury of the nation upwards of 80,000 pounds a year. They are to the English constitution what the Censors were to those of ancient Rome. Ministers of State are checked and kept in awe by them, and they freely, and often judiciously, expose the pretensions of those who would harass Government merely to be taken into its service.”

There were many other aeronauts who distinguished themselves after this period.

In 1785, Monsieur Blanchard, with Dr J. Jeffries, an American, crossed the channel between England and France in a balloon—starting from Dover, and descending in safety in the Forest of Guiennes. They had, however, a narrow escape, having been compelled to throw out all their ballast, and everything they could dispense with, to prevent their balloon from falling into the sea.

The first ascents for scientific purposes were made about the beginning of the present century. In 1803, Mr Robertson ascended from Saint Petersburg, for the purpose of making electrical, magnetical, and physiological experiments. Messieurs Gay-Lussac and Biot followed his example from Paris, in 1804. Gay-Lussac was an enthusiastic and celebrated aeronaut. He made several interesting ascents.

Two years afterwards, Brioschi, the Astronomer-Royal at Naples, endeavoured to ascend to a higher elevation than had been reached by Monsieur Gay-Lussac—namely, 22,977 feet. He was accompanied by Signor Andreani, the first Italian aeronaut. The balloon burst when at a great height, but the remnants were sufficient to check the descent so much that both gentlemen escaped with their lives. Brioschi, however, received injuries which afterwards resulted in his death.

In England one of the most famous aeronauts was Mr Green, who introduced coal gas for balloons, and made many hundreds of ascents. In the year 1836 he ascended from London in a coal-gas balloon, and with two other gentlemen made an aerial voyage to Weilburg in the grand Duchy of Nassau. It lasted eighteen hours, and extended over 500 miles.

Chapter Five.

Parachutes.

Of the other voyages which were made in balloons in our own country and in foreign lands about this period we shall say nothing, but, before describing the most interesting of recent ascents, give a short account of the parachute.

This contrivance has been considered by some a very important adjunct to the balloon; whether it be so or no, we do not pretend to determine, but certainly it is an interesting and curious machine, which merits notice.

The parachute may be described as a species of gigantic umbrella attached to the balloon below the car, which hangs in a loose form while ascending, but expands, of necessity, when cut adrift and allowed to descend. As the balloon has a car hung beneath it, so in like manner the parachute has a small car or basket, capable of holding one person, suspended from it. The word signifies a guard against falling—from the French parer, to ward off, and chute, a fall, and is allied to parasol, which means literally “a warder off of the sun.”

The parachute was introduced some years after a terrible accident which occurred to the celebrated aeronaut Rozier, who, desirous of emulating Blanchard and Jeffries by crossing the channel from France to England in a balloon, made an attempt, which cost him his life. Rozier’s balloon was about forty feet in diameter, and had attached to it, beneath, a smaller balloon on the Montgolfier principle. On the 15th of June 1785, he entered the car with Monsieur Romain, and ascended to the height of above three thousand feet, when it was observed by the spectators that the lower balloon had caught fire. With horror they saw that the fire spread—the whole apparatus was in a blaze—and in another minute it descended like a shattered meteor to the ground with a terrible crash. It fell near the sea-shore, about four miles from Boulogne, and of course the unfortunate voyagers were killed instantaneously. At a later period a Venetian nobleman and his lady fell with their balloon from a great height and were killed. It must be remarked, however, that cases of this kind were very rare, considering the rage which there was at that period for ballooning.

In order to provide aeronauts with a means of escape—a last resource in case of accident—the parachute was invented. It may be regarded as a balloon’s lifeboat, which will (perhaps!) bear the passengers in safety to the ground in case of balloon-wreck.

Doubtless the umbrella suggested the parachute. Every one knows the tremendous force that this implement exerts in a high wind if the unfortunate owner should happen to get turned round in the wrong direction. The men of the east have, it is said, turned this power to account by making use of an umbrella to enable them to leap from considerable heights. In particular, a native of Siam, who was noted for his feats of agility, was wont to amuse the King and his court by taking tremendous leaps, having two small umbrellas with long slender handles attached to his girdle. These eased him down in safety, but he was occasionally driven by the wind against trees or houses, and sometimes into a neighbouring river.

In case any adventurous individual should be tempted to make trial of the powers of himself and his umbrella in this way, we think it right, by way of caution, to tell him that the French General Bournonville, who was imprisoned in the fortress of Olmutz in 1793, became so desperate that he attempted to regain his freedom by leaping with an umbrella from his window, which was forty feet from the ground. He hoped that the umbrella would break his fall. Doubtless it did so to some extent, and saved him from being killed, but being a large heavy man, he came down with sufficient violence to break his leg, and was carried back to his dungeon.

The chief differences between a parachute and an umbrella lie in the great size of the former, and in the cords which stretch from the outer points of its ribs to the lower end of the handle. These cords give it strength, and prevent it from turning inside out. There is also a hole in the top of the parachute to allow some of the air to escape.

The first parachute was constructed by Blanchard in 1785, and a dog was the first living creature that descended in it, and reached the earth unhurt. Blanchard afterwards made a descent in person at Basle, and broke his leg in the fall.

The bold aeronaut Monsieur Garnerin next ventured to make the perilous descent. He visited London in 1802, and made several ascents in a balloon. During one of these, on the evening of the 2nd November, he cut himself adrift in his parachute when at a vast height. The parachute was made of white canvas, having thirty-two gores, which, when not in use, hung with its cords from a hoop near the top of the machine. When expanded, it formed a vast umbrella of twenty-three feet in diameter, with a small basket about four feet high, and two and a quarter wide, suspended below it. Monsieur Garnerin stood in this basket when his balloon mounted into the air from an enclosure near North Audley Street. The parachute hung like a curtain over his head, above it towered the balloon, beneath stood the anxious multitude.

Well might they gaze in breathless expectation! After floating for some time in the upper regions of the air, as if he dreaded to make the bold attempt, he cut the cord that fastened him to the balloon when at the height, probably, of about half a mile. At first the parachute remained closed and descended with frightful violence; then it burst open, and for some seconds tossed about to such an extent that the basket was sometimes thrown almost into a horizontal position. The wind carried it over Marylebone and Somerstown; it almost grazed some of the houses of Saint Pancras in passing, and finally came to the ground in a field with such violence that poor Garnerin was thrown on his face and severely cut and bruised. No wonder that we are told he received a terrible shock. He trembled violently, and blood flowed from his nose and ears. Nevertheless, the accident did not deter his daughter from afterwards making the descent several times—and in safety.

The cause of the irregularity and violence of Garnerin’s descent was the giving way of one of the stays, which had the effect of deranging the balance of the apparatus.

In 1837 Mr Cocking invented a new parachute, which he hoped would be free from the faults of the other. It may be described as being the reverse of that of Garnerin, being made in the form of an umbrella blown inside out. The resistance to the air, it was thought, would be sufficient to check the rapid descent, while its form would prevent the tendency to oscillate.

This parachute was 34 feet in diameter, and was distended by a strong hoop to prevent its closing. There was also a hole in the middle of it, about 6 feet in diameter. Mr Cocking started from Vauxhall Gardens on the 24th of July, and after ascending to a considerable height, cut himself loose from his balloon when over Blackheath. The parachute descended rapidly and vibrated with great violence; the large hoop broke, the machine collapsed, and the unfortunate aeronaut was killed, and his body dreadfully mutilated.

Fatal accidents of this kind were to be expected; nevertheless it is a fact that the disasters which have befallen aeronauts have been comparatively few, considering the extreme danger to which they are necessarily exposed, not only from the delicacy of the materials with which they operate and the uncertainty of the medium through which they move, but, particularly, because of the impossibility of giving direction to their air-ships, or to arrest their progress through space. Parachutes, however, are not so absolutely incapable of being directed as are balloons. Monsieur Nadar writes on this point as follows:—

“Let us consider the action of the parachute.

“A parachute is a sort of umbrella, in which the handle is replaced at its point of insertion by an opening intended to ease the excess of air, in order to avoid the strong oscillations, chiefly at the moment at which it is first expanded. Cords, departing symmetrically from divers points of the circumference, meet concentrically at the basket in which is the aeronaut. Above this basket, and at the entrance of the folded parachute, that is to say closed during the rise, a hoop of sufficient diameter is intended to facilitate, at the moment of the fall, the entrance of the air which, rushing in under the pressure, expands the folds more easily and rapidly.

“Now the parachute, where the weight of the car, of the attaching cords, and the wrigglings of the aeronaut, is in equilibrium with the expansion—the parachute, which seems to have no other aim but to moderate the shock in falling—the parachute even has been found capable of being directed, and aeronauts who have practised it, take care not to forget it. If the current is about to drive the aeronaut over a place where the descent is dangerous—say a river, a town, or a forest—the aeronaut perceiving to his right, let us suppose, a piece of ground suitable for his purpose, pulls at the cords which surround the right side, and by thus imparting a greater obliquity to his roof of silk, glides through the air, which it cleaves obliquely, towards the desired spot. Every descent, in fact, is determined by the side on which the incline is greatest.”

That these are not mere theoretical opinions or conjectures is certain from the fact that Mademoiselle Garnerin once wagered to guide herself with a parachute from the point of separation from her balloon to a place determined and very remote. By the combined inclinations which could be given to her parachute, she was seen in fact, very distinctly, to manoeuvre and tend towards the appointed place, and succeeded at length in alighting within a few yards of it.

Chapter Six.

Ascents by Messrs Glaisher and Coxwell.

We now come to that point in our subject where it is appropriate to give more detailed and graphic accounts of the recent doings of aeronauts. An extremely interesting description of a scientific balloon ascent is given by the celebrated aeronaut, Mr Glaisher, in a pamphlet, from which we shall make a few extracts. (See Note 1.) His description is illustrative of the subject of ballooning, and contains the salient points of several ascents.

He asks us to imagine the balloon somewhat more than half inflated, eager for flight, with only one link connecting it with earth, namely, a rope attached to an instrument, called a liberating iron catch. When all the ballast, instruments, etcetera, were placed in the car, Mr Coxwell brought the balloon to a nice and even balance, so that the addition of twenty pounds would have prevented it from rising.

As the moment for departure drew near, friends became impatient, and every one anxiously watched the final arrangements, which were made by Mr Coxwell, on whom was laid the important duty of letting go. His hand was on the catch, his countenance was fixed, and his expression stern, as he gazed up into the heavens. He was waiting for the right moment, for the sky was partially cloudy, and it was necessary to wait until the balloon was midway between the cloud that had just passed and the next that was approaching, so that the aeronauts might have a clear sky, and be able to see the earth they were about to quit for a time. Nor was this all; he knew that in every wind, however strong it might be, there are periods of calm. If he could start in one of these he would avoid much rotatory motion. The deciding, therefore, of the exact moment for making a fair start was not so easy a matter as one might suppose.

Some one at this critical time, with the characteristic eagerness of poor human nature to “put its finger in the pie,” cried out “Now!” and another shouted “Pull!” but Mr Coxwell, regardless of every one, decided for himself; and, just when the wind lulled and the sun shone bright, and the balloon stood proudly erect, he pulled the trigger and they were free.

But they were more than free. They were suddenly in profound repose, for—however high the wind may be, however agitated the balloon, swaying to and fro with sudden and violent action, despite the efforts of many hands that endeavour to restrain it,—no sooner do aeronauts quit their hold of earth, than, in an instant, all agitation ceases and they are in perfect stillness, without any sense of motion whatever; and this freedom continues throughout the entire flight—except, indeed, when they sink so low as to come into contact with mother earth, when the serenity of their flight is terribly and violently interrupted, as shall be seen in the case of another balloon voyage hereafter to be described.

They were now fairly away, but we pause to remark, before joining them in their voyage, that their object on this occasion was not merely amusement—scientific investigation and experiment were their aim. In order that the reader may have some idea of the nature of such, we subjoin Mr Glaisher’s list of the objects of his experiments:

The primary objects were, he says, “to determine, at various heights, up to five miles—first, the pressure of the atmosphere; second, the temperature of the air; third, the hygrometrical (or moist-measured) states of the air.”

The secondary objects were:

“To compare the readings of an aneroid barometer with those of a mercurial barometer, up to five miles.

“To determine the electrical state of the air.

“To determine the oxygenic state of the atmosphere by means of ozone papers.

“To determine the time of vibration of a magnet on the earth, and at different distances from it.

“To determine the temperature of the dew point by Daniell’s dew point hygrometer and Regnault’s condensing hygrometer, and by the use of the dry and wet bulb thermometers, as ordinarily used, and their use when under the influence of the aspirator, causing considerable volumes of air to pass over both their bulbs, at different elevations, as high as possible, but particularly up to heights where man may be resident, or where troops may be located, as in the high table-lands and plains of India; with the view of ascertaining what confidence may be placed in the use of the dry and wet bulb thermometers at those elevations, by comparison with Daniell’s and Regnault’s hygrometers; and also to compare the results as found by the two hygrometers together.

“To collect air at different elevations.

“To note the height and kind of clouds, their density and thickness at different elevations.

“To determine the rate and direction of different currents in the atmosphere if possible.

“To make observations on sound.

“To note atmospherical phenomena in general, and to make general observations.”

With these objects in view the aeronauts left terra firma and soared into the skies.

“Once away,” says Mr Glaisher, “we are both immediately at work; we have no time for graceful acknowledgments to cheering friends. Mr Coxwell must put the car in order, and accordingly looks to it, to his balloon, and to the course we are taking; and I must get my instruments in order, and without delay place them in their situations, adjust them, and take a reading as soon as possible.

“In a few minutes we are from 1000 to 2000 feet high. Mr Coxwell looks intently upwards to see how the huge folds of the balloon fill into the netting. If we have started from a town, we now hear its busy hum, and the now fast fading cheers of our assembled friends naturally attract our attention. We behold at a glance the quickly-diminishing forms of the objects which we so lately left, and then resume our work.

“Presently Mr Coxwell, who is always alive to the beauties of the ever-varying scene below, and to the opening landscape, fixes his eye upon me, and, just when a rural scene of surpassing beauty is lighted up in the west, he summons me to look and admire. I struggle against picturesque temptations, somewhat at variance with my duties, but cannot so quickly suppress them. A fine cloud rears its Alpine cap in close proximity to the car; Mr Coxwell looks as delighted as an artist when he displays a magnificent painting. I feel I must conquer such enchantment, and exclaim, ‘Beautiful! grand indeed!’ and again resume my observations, with a cold philosophic resolve to pursue my readings without further interruption.

“For a while I am quiet, the instruments affording indication that we are rising rapidly. Mr Coxwell again disturbs me just as we are approaching the clouds, and recommends a farewell peep at mother earth; and just as I take this, the clouds receive us, at first in a light gauze of vapour, and then in their chilly embrace, where I examine their structure, and note the temperature of the dew point particularly.

“Shortly it becomes lighter, the light gradually increasing, till it is succeeded by a flood of light, at first striking, then dazzling, and we pass out of the dense cloud to where the clouds open out in bold and fantastic shapes, showing us light and shadow, and spectral scenes, with prismatic embellishments, disporting themselves around us in wild grandeur, till at length we break out into brilliant sunshine, and the clouds roll away in a perfect sea of vapour, obscuring the earth entirely; so that now in perfect silence I note the circumstances, and make my observations for some time uninterruptedly.

“After a time Mr Coxwell directs my attention to the fact that the balloon is full, and that the gas is coming out from the safety-valve. I of course look, for this is an exciting moment. He then directs my attention to the fit and proportions of the netting. I find the gas, which was before cloudy and opaque, is now clear and transparent, so that I can look right up the balloon and see the meshes of the net-work showing through it, the upper valve with its springs and line reaching to the car, and the geometrical form of the balloon itself. Nor is this an idle examination. I have already said that, in passing through the cloud, the netting would gather moisture, augmenting the weight of the balloon. If this should not all have evaporated, the net-work would have become frozen, and be a wire-rope; so that, if the diamond shape of the netting when under tension, and the form of the crown of the balloon, be not symmetrical, the weight might not be equally distributed, and there would be danger of it cutting the balloon. A sense of security therefore follows such an examination.

“A stream of gas now continually issues from the neck, which is very capacious, being fully two square feet in area, which is always left open. Presently I see Mr Coxwell, whose eye has been continually watching the balloon, pass his fingers over the valve-line, as if in readiness to pull the cord. I observe a slight gathering on his brow, and look inquiringly at him. He says, ‘I have decided upon opening the large upper valve,’ and carefully explains why. ‘The tension,’ he says, ‘in the balloon is not greater than it would bear with safety in a warm stratum of air; but now that we are three miles up with a chilled balloon, it is better to allow some to escape at top, as well as a good deal from the neck.’ At once I see the force of the argument, and inwardly infer that I am in no way dependent upon chance, and not likely to suffer from carelessness with Mr Coxwell. We are now far beyond all ordinary sounds from the earth; a sea of clouds is below us, so dense that it is difficult to persuade ourselves that we have passed through them. Up to this time little or no inconvenience is met with; but on passing above four miles, much personal discomfort is experienced; respiration becomes difficult; the beating of the heart at times is audible; the hands and lips become blue, and at higher elevations the face also; and it requires the exercise of a strong will to make and record observations. Before getting to our highest point, Mr Coxwell counts the number of his sandbags, and calculates how much higher we can go, with respect to the reserve of ballast necessary to regulate the descent.

“Then I feel a vibration in the car, and, on turning round, see Mr Coxwell in the act of lowering down the grapnel, then looking up at the balloon, then scanning the horizon, and weighing apparently in his mind some distant clouds through which we are likely to pass in going down.

“A glance suffices to show that his mind is made up how much higher it is prudent to rise, and how much ballast it is expedient to preserve.

“The balloon is now lingering, as it were, under the deep blue vault of space, hesitating whether to mount higher or begin its descent without further warning. We now hold a consultation, and then look around from the highest point, giving silent scope to those emotions of the soul which are naturally called forth by such a wide-spread range of creation.

“Our course is now about to change. But here I interpose with ‘No, no; stop; not yet; let us remain so long that the instruments are certain to take up the true temperature, and that no doubt can rest upon the observations here. When I am satisfied I shall say, “Pull.”’

“Then in silence—for here we respire with difficulty, and talk but little—in the centre of this immense space, in solitude, without a single object to interrupt the view for 200 miles or more all round, abstracted from the earth, upheld by an invisible medium, our mouths so dry that we cannot eat, a white sea below us, so far below, we see few, if any, irregularities. I watch the instruments; but, forcibly impelled, again look round from the centre of this vacuity, whose boundary-line is 1500 miles, commanding nearly 130,000 square miles, till I catch Mr Coxwell’s eye turned towards me, when I again direct mine to the instruments; and when I find no further changes are proceeding, I wave my hand and say, ‘Pull.’

“A deep resonant sound is heard overhead; a second pull is followed by a second report, that rings as with shrill accompaniment down the very sides of the balloon. It is the working of the valve, which causes a loud booming noise, as from a sounding-board, as the springs force the shutters back.

“But this sound in that solitary region, amid silence so profound that no silence on earth is equal to it,—a drum-like sound meeting the ear from above, from whence we do not usually hear sounds—strikes one forcibly. It is, however, one sound only; there is no reverberation, no reflection; and this is characteristic of all sounds in the balloon,—one clear sound continuing during its vibrations, then gone in a moment. No sound ever reaches the ear a second time. But though the sound from the closing of the valve in those silent regions is striking, it is also cheering,—it is reassuring; it proves all to be right, that the balloon is sound, that the colder regions have not frozen tight the outlet for gas, and that we are so far safe. We have descended a mile, and our feelings improve with the increase of air and warmth. But silence reigns supreme, and Mr Coxwell, I observe, turns his back upon me, scanning intently the cloudscape, speculating as to when and where we shall break through and catch sight of the earth. We have been now two hours without seeing terra firma. How striking and impressive is it to realise a position such as this; and yet as men of action, whose province it is to subordinate mere feelings, we refrain from indulging in sentiment. I say refrain, for presently Mr Coxwell breaks out, no longer able to contain himself: ‘Here, Mr Glaisher, you must welcome another balloon. It is the counterpart of our own.’ This spectral balloon is charming to look upon, and presents itself under a variety of imposing aspects, which are magnified or diminished by the relative distance of our balloon from the clouds, and by its position in relation to the sun, which produces the shadow. At mid-day it is deep down, almost underneath; but it is more grandly defined towards evening, when the golden and ruby tints of the declining sun impart a gorgeous colouring to cloudland. You may then see the spectre balloon magnified upon the distant cloud-tops, with three beautiful circles of rainbow tints. Language fails utterly to describe these illuminated photographs, which spring up with matchless truthfulness and choice decoration.

“Just before we enter the clouds, Mr Coxwell, having made all preparations for the descent, strictly enjoins me to be ready to put up the instruments, lest, when we lose the powerful rays of the sun, and absorb the moisture of the lower clouds, we should approach the earth with too great rapidity.

“We now near the confines of the clouds, and dip swiftly into the thickest of them; we experience a decided chill, and hear the rustling of the collapsing balloon, which is now but one-third full, but cannot see it, so dense is the mass of vapour. One, two, three, or more minutes pass, and we are still in the cloud. How thick it must be, considering the rapidity of the descent! Presently we pass below, and the earth is visible. There is a high road intersecting green pastures; a piece of water looking like polished steel presents itself; a farmhouse, with stacks and cattle, is directly under us. We see the sea-coast, but at a distance. An open country lies before us. A shout comes up, and announces that we are seen, and all goes well, save the rapidity of our descent, which has been caused by that dark frowning cloud which shut us out from the sun’s rays, and bedewed us with moisture. Mr Coxwell, however, is counteracting it by means of the ballast, and streams out one bag, which appears to fly up instead of falling down; now another is cast forth, but still it goes up, up. A third reduces the wayward balloon within the bounds of moderation, and Mr Coxwell exultingly exclaims that ‘he has it now under perfect command, with sand enough, and to spare.’

“Delighted to find the balloon is thus checked, as it is favourable to good readings of the several instruments at this elevation, I work as quickly as I can, noticing also the landscape below; rich mounds of green foliage, fields of various shades of green, like a tessellated pavement in motion; with roads, rivers, rivulets, and the undulatory nature of the ground varying the scene every instant. Should our passage be over a town, it is like a model in motion; and all is seen with a distinctness superior to that from the earth; the line of sight is through a purer and less dense medium; everything seems clearer, though smaller; even at the height of four miles above Birmingham we distinguished the New Street Station and the streets.

“We have been descending slowly for a little time, when I am challenged to signify when I can close my observations, as yonder, about two miles distant, is a fine park, where Mr Coxwell’s eye seems to wander with something like a desire to enter it. I approve of the spot, as it is in every way suitable for a descent. The under-current, which is oftentimes stronger than the upper, is wafting us merrily in that direction. We are now only a few hundred feet above the surface. ‘Put up your instruments,’ cries Mr Coxwell, ‘and we will keep on this level until you are ready.’

“A little more sand is let out, and I pack up the instruments quickly in their wadded cases. ‘Are you all right?’ inquires the aeronaut. ‘All right,’ I respond; ‘look out then, and hold fast by the ropes, as the grapnel will stop us in that large meadow, with the hedgerow in front.’

“There, sure enough, we land. The cattle stand at bay affrighted, their tails are horizontal, and they run wildly away. But a group of friends from among the gentry and villagers draws up near the balloon, and although some few question whether we belong to this planet, or whether we are just imported from another, yet any doubt upon this point is soon set at rest, and we are greeted with a hearty welcome from all when we tell our story, how we travelled the realms of space, not from motives of curiosity, but for the advancement of science, its applicability to useful purposes, and the good of mankind.”

In commenting on the several ascents thus combined in one description, Mr Glaisher gives us various pieces of information which are highly interesting. The clouds, he says, on which the sun was shining brightly, each moment opened up to view deep ravines, and shining masses appeared like mountain ranges, some rising perpendicularly from rolling seas or plains, with summits of dazzling brightness, some pyramidal, others undulatory, with deep shadows between.

While passing over London on one occasion at night, at the height of about one mile, he heard the hum of the great city, and saw its lights. The river looked dull, but the bridges that spanned it, and the many miles of straight, intersecting, and winding streets were distinctly visible.

In referring to sound, he tells us that, on different occasions, at a height of 11,800 feet above the earth, a band was heard playing. At between four and five thousand feet a railway whistle and the shouting of people were heard, and at 10,070 feet the report of a gun. A dog was also heard barking at a height of two miles. At a height of 19,000 feet the hands and lips were observed, during one ascent, to be of a dark bluish colour. At four miles the palpitations of the heart were audible, and the breathing was affected. Considerable difficulty was experienced in respiration at higher elevations. From his various observations he found that the effect of high elevation is different upon the same individuals at different times, and believed that, up to heights less than three miles—to which persons of ordinary self-possession might ascend—delicate and accurate scientific observations might be made with ease, but at heights approaching to four miles, such observations could not be made so well, because of the personal distress of the observer, and on approaching to five miles above the earth it required the exercise of a strong will to take any observations at all.

The most wonderful and alarming of the experiences of Mr Glaisher appear to have occurred to him and his companion, Mr Coxwell, during an ascent made from Wolverhampton on the 5th September, when they reached the enormous elevation of between six and seven miles.

They felt no particular inconvenience until after passing above the fifth mile. When at a height of 26,000 feet, Mr Glaisher could not see the column of mercury in the tube; then the fine divisions on the scale of the instrument became invisible. Shortly afterwards he laid his arm on the table, and on attempting again to use it found that the limb was powerless. He tried to move the other arm, and found that it also was paralysed. He then tried to shake himself, and succeeded in shaking his body, but experienced the curious sensation of having no legs! While in this condition he attempted to look at the barometer, and, while doing so, his head fell on his left shoulder. Struggling to get out of this lethargic state, he found that he could still shake his body, although he could not move either arms or legs. He got his head upright for an instant, but it dropped again on his shoulder, and he fell backwards, his back resting against the side of the car, and his head on its edge.

In this position his eyes were directed to Mr Coxwell, who did not at first observe the state of his companion, in consequence of his having had to ascend into the ring of the balloon to disentangle the valve-line, which had become twisted. Hitherto Mr Glaisher had retained the power of moving the muscles of his back and neck, but suddenly this was lost to him. He saw Mr Coxwell dimly in the ring, and attempted to speak to him, but could not do so. A moment later intense black darkness surrounded him—the optic nerve had lost its power! He was still conscious, however, and with his brain as active as at other times. He fancied he had been seized with asphyxia, and that death would quickly ensue unless they descended without delay. Suddenly the power of thought ceased, and he became unconscious. All these extraordinary and alarming sensations, he calculated, must have taken place within five or six minutes.

While still powerless he heard the words “temperature” and “observation,” and knew that Mr Coxwell was in the car endeavouring to arouse him. Presently he heard him speak more emphatically, but could neither see, reply, nor move. Then he heard him say, “Do try now, do,” after which vision slightly returned, and in a short time he saw clearly again, rose from his seat, looked round, and said to Mr Coxwell, “I have been insensible.” His friend replied, “You have, and I too very nearly.” Mr Coxwell had lost the use of his hands, which were black; Mr Glaisher, therefore, poured brandy over them. His companion then told him that, on descending from the ring, he thought he had laid himself back to rest, but noticing that his legs projected, and his arms hung down by his side, it struck him there was something wrong, and he attempted to go to his assistance, but felt insensibility coming over himself. He tried to open the valve, so that they might descend, but, having lost the use of his hands, could not. In this critical moment he seized the cord with his teeth, dipped his head two or three times, and thus succeeded in opening the valve and descending from those dangerous regions of attenuated atmosphere!

At first they went down at the tremendous rate of twenty miles an hour, but after descending three miles in nine minutes, the balloon’s progress was checked, and they finally alighted safely in a grass field, where their appearance so terrified the country folk that it required a good deal of coaxing in plain English to convince them that the aeronauts were not inhabitants of another world!

Note 1. Exeter Hall Lectures—Scientific Experiments in Balloons, by James Glaisher, Esquire, F.R.S.—Published by James Nisbet and Company, London.

Chapter Seven.

Account of Nadar’s Balloon, “Le Géant.” First Ascent.

As the “Giant” is the largest balloon that has yet been made, and as its experiences on the occasions of its first and second ascents were not only peculiar but terrible, we shall give an account of it in detail—commencing with its construction, and ending with the thrilling termination of its brief but wild career.

Monsieur Nadar, a photographer of Paris, was the enthusiastic and persevering aeronaut who called it into being, and encountered the perils of its ascents, from which he did not emerge scatheless, as we shall see.

Besides being an experimental voyager in cloudland, Monsieur Nadar started a newspaper named L’Aéronaute, in which he gives an account of the “Giant,” and his reasons for constructing it.

These latter were peculiar. He is emphatic in asserting that the huge balloon was never intended by him to be an “end,” but a mere stepping-stone to an end—which end was the construction of an aeromotive—a machine which was to be driven by means of a screw, and which he intended should supersede balloons altogether, so that his own “Giant” was meant to be the last of its race!

In reference to this, Monsieur Nadar tells us that he was deeply impressed with the belief that the screw would ultimately become our aerial motor, but that, being ignorant of what it was likely the experiments of this first aeromotive would cost, he had resolved, instead of begging for funds to enable him to accomplish his great end, to procure funds for himself in the following manner:—

“I shall,” says he, “make a balloon—the last balloon—in proportions extraordinarily gigantic, twenty times larger than the largest, which shall realise that which has never been but a dream in the American journals, which shall attract, in France, England, and America, the crowd always ready to run to witness the most insignificant ascent. In order to add further to the interest of the spectacle—which, I declare beforehand, without fear of being belied, shall be the most beautiful spectacle which it has ever been given to man to contemplate,—I shall dispose under this monster balloon a small balloon (balloneau), destined to receive and preserve the excess of gas produced by dilation, instead of losing this excess, as has hitherto been the case, which will permit my balloon to undertake veritable long voyages, instead of remaining in the air two or three hours only, like our predecessors. I do not wish to ask anything of any one, nor of the State, to aid me, even in this question of general, and also of such immense, interest. I shall endeavour to furnish myself the two hundred thousand francs necessary for the construction of my balloon. The said balloon finished, by public ascents and successive exhibitions at Paris, London, Brussels, Vienna, Baden, Berlin, New York, and everywhere, I know that I shall collect ten times the funds necessary for the construction of our first aeromotive.”

This first aeromotive, however, has not yet made its appearance, whether from want of funds or of practicability we do not know, but Monsieur Nadar carried his designs triumphantly into effect with the “monster balloon,” which in course of time made its appearance, performed flights, attracted the wonder and admiration, as well as a good deal of the coin, of hundreds of thousands in France and England, even conveyed royalty up into the clouds, broke the bones of its originator, and was exhibited in the great transept (which it nearly filled) of the Crystal Palace at Sydenham. While there we had the good fortune to behold it with our own eyes!

The construction of this balloon merits particular notice; but first, it may be remarked that it is well worthy of being named a giant, seeing that its height was only forty-five feet less than that of the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral, namely 196 feet.

That Nadar had cut out for himself an arduous task will be readily believed. Touching on this, he writes thus:—

“I have set myself to work immediately, and with difficulties, sleepless nights, vexations which I have kept to myself alone to this hour, and which some one of the days of this winter, the most urgent part of my task being finished, I shall in part make in confidence to my readers. I have succeeded in establishing my balloon, in founding at the same time this journal—indispensable moniteur to the aerial automotive—and in laying the basis of that which shall be, perhaps, the greatest financial operation of the age. Those who shall see and appreciate these labours, will please to pardon me, I hope, for having wiped my forehead with a little touch of pride, when at the end of a month—one month!—I have said to myself, ‘it is done!’”

The “Giant” was composed of yellowish white silk, of which there were used 22,000 yards at about 5 shillings 4 pence a yard, so that the cost of the silk alone was 5,866 pounds. This was cut into 118 gores, which were entirely hand-sewed with a double seam, and some idea of the vastness of the work may be gathered from the fact that 200 women were employed during a month in the sewing of the gores. For the sake of greater strength the silk was doubled. In other words, there were two balloons of the same size, one within the other.

Directly beneath, and attached to its lower orifice, there was a small balloon called a compensator, the object of which was to receive and retain for use the surplus gas. When a balloon rises to the higher regions of the atmosphere, the gas within it expands, so that a large quantity of it is allowed to rush out at the open mouth beneath, or at the safety-valve above. Were this not the case, the balloon would certainly burst. This loss of gas, however, is undesirable, because when the balloon descends the gas contracts, and the loss is then felt to be a great one. By collecting the over-flow of gas in the compensator, this disadvantage is obviated.

The car, which was made chiefly of wicker-work, was actually a small cottage of two storeys (a ground-floor and platform or upper deck), with door and windows. Its height was about eight, and its length thirteen feet. The ground-floor contained a cruciform passage and six divisions. At one extremity was a captain’s cabin with a bed in it, and underneath a compartment for luggage. At the other was the passengers’ cabin, with three beds, one above the other. The four other divisions or rooms were a provision store, a lavatory, a place for conducting photographic operations, and a room for a small lithographic press, with which it was intended to print an account of the voyage, to be scattered about the localities over which they should pass!

In reference to this last, Monsieur Nadar writes:—

“An English company a month ago (our neighbours are marvellous in not losing time), appreciating the bustle which the sight of a balloon always excites in every inhabited place, and judging rightly that papers would never be better received and more greedily read than those thrown overboard by us, despatched a messenger to propose to me to accept commercial prospectuses. We shall never have too much money for the construction of our first aeromotive. I have accepted and made a contract.”

Besides many miscellaneous articles, such as grapnels, fowling-pieces, speaking-trumpets, etcetera, that were to be carried up in this cot, there were provisions of all sorts, instruments for scientific observations, games, means of defence in case of descent among an inhospitable people, and two cages of carrier-pigeons sent from Liège. The car and all it contained was secured by twenty cables traversing on and beneath its walls, interlaced with the fabric and fastened to a large hoop just below the neck, to which hoop was also attached the ropes of the net-work by which the balloon itself was enveloped. There were two axles and four wheels connected with the car, by means of which it could, when necessary, be drawn along an ordinary road. Canes, disposed to act as springs, were placed underneath and round the middle of it to protect it from concussions, besides which internal buoys and an immense girdle in compartments of inflated india-rubber, rendered it incapable of submersion in water.

Such was the giant balloon in which Monsieur Nadar and his friends made two ascents; of the first of which (4th October 1863) Galignani writes thus:—

“The departure of this Leviathan of the airy regions attracted immense crowds to the Champ de Mars yesterday afternoon. Considering that the avenues encircling that vast space were filled to suffocation, so that we found it extremely difficult to force our way to the open ground reserved for tickets, and that all the housetops were occupied by spectators, we think the number of persons present may fairly be stated at 80,000. Ample precautions had been taken to prevent disasters,—a strong police force, supported by a company of infantry and some cavalry, being present to maintain order. The balloon, which is 90 yards in circumference, and has consumed upwards of 20,000 yards of silk in its manufacture, was held down, while filling, by about 100 men, and the weight of at least 200 sandbags. The car was of wicker-work, comprising an inner surface of about 54 square feet divided into three compartments or small rooms, surmounted by an open terrace, to which the balloon was braced. Outside grapnels, wheels, and fowling-pieces, four of each, besides two speaking-trumpets, were lashed to the sides of the car. (The wheels were intended to be put to the car after alighting, in order to convey it back with horses.) The preliminary operations took considerable time, putting the patience of the spectators to a severe trial, a circumstance which perhaps prevented them from cheering when the words ‘Lâchez tout!’ were given, and the immense machine rose slowly and majestically into the air. We were rather surprised at the silence of the public, considering the very remarkable and interesting feat in aeronautics thus successfully performed. There were fifteen persons in the car, or rather cabin:— Monsieur Nadar, captain; Messieurs Marcel, Louis and Jules Godard, lieutenants; the Prince de Sayn-Wittgenstein, Count de Saint Martin, Monsieur Tournachon (Nadar’s brother), Messieurs Eugène Delessert, Thirion, Piallat, Robert Mitchell, Gabriel Morris, Paul de Saint Victor, de Villemessant, and one lady, the Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne. The Princess was taking her usual drive to the Bois de Boulogne, when, observing an unusual movement in the neighbourhood of the Invalides, and having inquired the cause; she ordered her coach man to drive to the Champ de Mars. Having seen the balloon, she expressed a wish to make the ascent, and although Nadar had to the last moment refused to take any lady, and even his own wife, he could not resist the entreaty of the Princess. On starting, Monsieur Nadar climbed up the net-work and took off his hat to the spectators. The balloon took a north-easterly direction, and was visible for some time. At the moment of going to press, a communication has reached us, signed by the captain, Monsieur Nadar, and all those who had taken places in the balloon, stating that on alighting yesterday evening at nine o’clock at Ibarcy, near Meaux (Seine-et-Marne), three severe shocks were experienced, which had the effect of completely capsizing the balloon, and inflicting on its occupants several rather severe contusions.

“Interesting details of the ascent of the Nadar balloon, said to have been narrated by Prince Wittgenstein, are given by the France. The most extraordinary is, that at half-past eight, when the balloon attained the height of 1500 metres, the aeronauts saw the sun, which had set for the earth below upwards of two hours before. The effect of the light upon the balloon is described as something marvellous, and as having thrown the travellers into a sort of ecstasy. Although they met with no rain, their clothes were all dripping wet from the mist which they passed through. The descent was more perilous than at first reported. The car dragged on its side for nearly a mile, and the passengers took refuge in the ropes, to which they clung. Several were considerably bruised—though, as before stated, no one sustained any very serious injury. Everybody behaved well. Nadar, visibly uneasy about his fair charge, the young Princess de la Tour d’Auvergne, was told by her to attend to his duty as captain. ‘Every one at his post,’ said she; ‘I will keep to mine.’ Notwithstanding all the shaking which the car underwent, the 37 bottles of wine provided for the journey were all found unbroken, and they were most joyously broached when the party got on terra firma. The rifles, the crockery, as well as a cake and 13 ices, presented to Nadar by Siraudin, of the Rue de la Paix, were all uninjured. When the descent was effected, the lights and the speaking-trumpets soon attracted a number of peasants, who brought carts and helped the party to the village of Barcy, where most of them passed the night; but Monsieur Nadar and the Prince de Wittgenstein, with two or three others, came to Paris by the first train from Meaux.

“It is said that the descent was resolved upon in consequence of the advice of the brothers Godard, and contrary to the wish of Monsieur Nadar, who, as captain, had made every one of his companions sign an agreement to act upon his orders, even though the vote should be unanimously against him. He, however, yielded his opinion, in deference to that of these experienced aeronauts. A truly extraordinary statement is, that they fancied the wind was blowing them to the sea, and certain destruction, whereas they were going due east, with no sea at all before them nearer than the Caspian.

“There was great disappointment in the receipts at the Champ de Mars, which are said to have realised only 27,000 francs, whereas 150,000 had been calculated upon. The papers say that the public broke down the barriers and got in for nothing, instead of paying their franc. It is quite certain that at the moment of the ascent there could not have been less than 50,000 people on the Champ de Mars, and on the terraces and heights around there must have been four times that number.”

Monsieur Nadar, on his return to Paris, wrote as follows:—

“Here, as briefly as possible, is the account which you asked me to send. Yesterday evening at nine o’clock, the ‘Giant’ was compelled to descend near the Barcy Marsh, two leagues from Meaux, after three violent shocks, the last of which completely turned everything in the car topsy-turvy, and it descended on its side. The rupture of our valve-pipe rope while travelling by night, forced us to throw out our anchors. One of the prongs of the first anchor having broken, the principal anchor fortunately took hold of the ground. We were able to let out the gas, notwithstanding the violence of the wind, and the car was set up at half-past one in the morning. Some slight contusions and a concussion of the knee of one of the passengers—that is our receipt in full. It is not too dear.

“A. Nadar.”

This bold and zealous aeronaut unfortunately paid dearer for his succeeding ascent as shall be seen in the next chapter.

Chapter Eight.

Second Ascent of Nadar’s “Giant” Balloon.

Before describing the second ascent, which was decidedly the more adventurous, we shall give the rules laid down for his party by Monsieur Nadar, which were remarkably stringent, and somewhat amusing:—

“1. Every traveller on board the ‘Géant’ must, before mounting, take knowledge of the present rules, and engage himself upon his honour to respect them, and to make them respected, both in the letter and in the spirit. He accepts and will obey this obligation until the descent.

“2. From the departure to the return there shall be only one command, that of the captain. That command shall be absolute.

“3. As legal penalty cannot be enforced, the captain, having the responsibility of the lives of the passengers, decides alone, and without appeal, in all circumstances, the means of assuring the execution of his orders with the aid of all under him. The captain can, in certain cases, take the advice of the crew, but his own authority is decisive.

“4. Every passenger declares, at the time of ascending, that he carries with him no inflammable materials.

“5. Every passenger accepts, by his simple presence on board, his entire part and perfect co-operation in all manoeuvres, and submits himself to all the necessities of the service; above all, to the command of the captain. On landing, he must not quit the balloon without permission duly acquired.

“6. Silence must be absolutely observed when ordered by the captain.

“7. Victuals and liquors carried up by the travellers must be deposited in the common canteen, of which the captain alone has the key, and who regulates the distribution thereof. Passengers have no claim to victuals and liquors, except when on board.

“8. The duration of the journey is not limited. The captain alone decides the limitation; the same judgment decides, without appeal, the putting down of one or more travellers in the course of the voyage.

“9. All gambling is expressly prohibited.

“10. It is absolutely forbidden to any traveller to throw overboard ballast, or any packet whatever.

“11. No passenger can carry up with him luggage exceeding thirty pounds in weight, and occupying more space than a travelling-bag.

“12. Except in very rare cases, of which the captain alone shall be judge, it is absolutely forbidden to smoke on board, or on land within the vicinity of the balloon.”

The second ascent took place on the 18th of October, when Monsieur Nadar, nothing daunted by his former experience, again went up in his “Giant” from the Champ de Mars. On this occasion preliminaries were managed with greater success than on the former, and the event was regarded with much more general interest. Soldiers kept the ground; the Emperor himself was present, and conversed with the bold aeronaut on the subject of his balloon; George the First of Greece was there also, and the crowd which assembled to witness the ascent surpassed all expectation.

There were two peculiar features in this second ascent. It had been doubted whether the balloon, which was said to be capable of raising four-and-a-half tons, could carry more than thirteen men. In order to set this question at rest, a short preliminary flight was made with a rope attached to restrain the “Giant.” About thirty soldiers were then put into the car, who mounted to the extent of the rope, and were pulled down again. The other feature was that a balloon of more ordinary dimensions was let fly along with the “Giant,” to give, by contrast, a better idea of its size. The balloon used for this purpose was the “Godillot,” which had been used by the Emperor in the Italian campaign for reconnoitring the enemy.

After the usual delays which are inseparable from such displays, Monsieur Nadar, with eight friends, stepped into the car, the rope was let go, and the “Giant” rose slowly towards the clouds, grew “small by degrees and beautifully less,” until it finally disappeared about night-fall—being wafted along by a gentle south-easterly breeze.

Nothing more was heard of the aeronauts for the next two days, and their friends were becoming naturally very anxious about them, when at last a telegram came from Bremen, dated the 21st, which ran as follows:—

“Nadar’s balloon descended near Eystrup in Hanover. There were nine persons in it, of whom three were seriously, and two slightly injured.”

Other telegrams quickly followed stating that Monsieur Nadar had both legs dislocated; Monsieur Saint Felix had sustained severe fractures and contusions; and that Madame Nadar had also been severely injured.

It was stated that the voyagers would probably all have perished if Jules Godard (a celebrated aeronaut, who, with his brother Louis, accompanied Nadar), had not, at the risk of his life, climbed up the net-work, and cut a hole in the silk with a hatchet, so as to allow the gas to escape. By so doing, he stopped the furious course of the balloon, which was making truly gigantic bounds of from forty to fifty yards over the ground, with a violence that would soon have knocked the car to pieces!

A full and graphic, but inflated and sentimental account of the voyage—which was one of real and thrilling interest—is given by one of the voyagers, Monsieur Eugène Arnould, a reporter of the French newspaper La Nation. Had Monsieur Arnould confined himself to a simple statement of facts, he would have greatly increased the interest and power of his description. However, we must take him as we find him, and as his account is the most complete—and correct in the main, although exaggerated in detail—we present it to the reader.

“At nine o’clock at night (the same night on which they started) we were at Erquelines; we passed over Malines, and towards midnight we were in Holland. We rose up very high, but it was necessary to come down to see where we were. Ignorant of that, our position was a critical one. Below, as far as we could see, were marshes, and in the distance we could hear the roar of the sea. We threw out ballast, and, mounting again, soon lost sight of the earth. What a night! Nobody slept, as you may suppose, for the idea of falling into the sea had nothing pleasant about it, and it was necessary to keep a look-out in order to effect, if necessary, a descent. My compass showed that we were going towards the east—that is to say, towards Germany. In the morning, after a frugal breakfast made in the clouds, we re-descended. An immense plain was beneath us; the villages appeared to us like children’s toys—rivers seemed like little rivulets—it was magical. The sun shone splendidly over all. Towards eight o’clock we arrived near a great lake; there I found out our bearings, and announced that we were at the end of Holland, near the sea.

“We passed I know not how much time in contemplating the enchanting scene around us; but at length we all felt the necessity of going downwards to see where we were. Presently the balloon came so near to the earth that we could readily distinguish the tall chimneys of a great many flaming furnaces. ‘If we were to fall upon some of them,’ said Montgolfier anxiously. These furnaces told us very clearly that we were in Belgium, and, besides, the Flemish songs that continually reached our ears left no doubt upon the point. Godard, Nadar, all of us, called out frequently to the people below, ‘Where are we?’ but we got no other answer than shouts of laughter. There were two bells in the car, and Yon and myself rang them as hard as we could, while Nadar roared through his speaking-trumpet. I had an opportunity of observing that the purity of the air in no degree attenuates the quantity of false notes lodged in the throats of certain individuals. Our aerial Charivari at length provoked a corresponding one on earth, and we could hear dogs barking, ducks quacking, men swearing, and women screaming. All this had a droll effect; but time went on, the wind blew hard, it was dark night, and our balloon drove on with prodigious rapidity, and we were not able to tell exactly where we were. I could not see my compass, and we were not allowed to light a lucifer match under any pretext whatsoever. From the direction in which we had passed over Lille, we judged that we must be going towards the sea; Louis Godard fancied that he could see lighthouses. We descended again to within 150 yards of the earth. Beneath us we saw a flat marshy country of sinister aspect, and indicating plainly the neighbourhood of the coast. Every one listened with all his ears, and many fancied they heard the murmurs of the sea. The further we went on the more desert the country became: there was no light whatever, and it became more and more difficult to guess where we were going. ‘I am entirely out of my reckoning,’ exclaimed Louis Godard, ‘and my opinion is that the only thing we have to do is to descend at once.’ ‘What! here in the marshes!’ remonstrated all of us; ‘and suppose we are driven into the sea?’ The balloon went driving on still. ‘We cannot descend here,’ said Jules Godard; ‘we are over water.’ Two or three of us looked over the edge of the car, and affirmed that we were not over water, but trees. ‘It is water,’ Jules Godard persisted. Every one now looked out attentively; and, as the balloon descended a little, we saw plainly that there was no water, but without being able to say positively whether there were trees or not. At the moment when Jules Godard thought he saw water, Nadar exclaimed, ‘I see a railway.’ It turned out that what Nadar took for a railway was a canal running towards the Scheldt, which we had passed over a few minutes before. Hurrah for balloons! They are the things to travel in; rivers, mountains, custom-houses,—all are passed without let or hindrance. But every medal has its reverse; and, if we were delighted at having safely got over the Scheldt, we by no means relished the prospect of going on to the Zuyder Zee. ‘Shall we go down?’ asked Louis Godard. There was a moment’s pause. We consulted together. Suddenly I uttered a cry of joy; the position of the needle of my compass indicated that the balloon had made a half turn to the right, and was now going due east. The aspect of the stars confirmed this assertion. Forward! was now the cry. We threw out a little ballast, mounted higher, and started with renewed vigour with our backs turned to the depreciated Zuyder Zee. It was now three in the morning, and none of us had slept. Just as we began to try to sleep a little, my diabolical compass showed that the balloon was turning back again. ‘Where are you going to take us to?’ cried out Yon to the immense mass of canvas which was oscillating above our heads. Louis Godard again proposed to descend; but we said, ‘No! forward! forward!’ Two hours sped away without our being able to tell where we were. At five o’clock day broke, and broad daylight came on with marvellous rapidity. It is true that we were at a height of 980 metres. Novel-writers and others have so much abused descriptions of sunrise, on mountains and on the ocean, that I shall say little about this one, although it is not a common thing to see the horizon on fire below the clouds. The finest Venetian paintings could alone give an idea of the luxuriant tones of the heaven that we saw. Such dazzling magnificence led me to wonder that there is no revival of sun worship, since men must necessarily have some material representation of the divinity. It is true that the sun is not made in man’s image! We now had beneath us an immense plain, the same, probably, that we had passed over in the night. There is nothing more pleasant at first sight, nor more monotonous in the long-run, than the sort of country which forms at least one-third of Holland. There are miniature woods the size of bouquets, fields admirably cultivated and divided into little patches like gardens, rivers with extraordinary windings, microscopic roads, coquettish-looking villages, so white and so clean that I think the Dutch housewives must scour the very roofs of their houses every morning. In the midst of every village there is a jewel of a church with a shining steeple. While riding along at a height of 700 metres, we had beneath us a picture of Paul Potter’s fifty leagues square. All at once the tableaux became animated. The people below had perceived the balloon. We heard cries expressive of astonishment, fright, and even of anger; but the feeling of fright seemed to predominate. We distinctly saw women in their chemises look hurriedly out of windows and then rush back again. We saw chubby boys looking at us, and blubbering as if they were mad. Some men, more determined than the rest, fired off guns at us. I saw several mammas pointing us out to stubborn babies, with an attitude which seemed to say that our balloon was Old Bogy. Old women raised their hands against us, and at their signal many ran away, making the sign of the cross. It is evident that in some of these villages we were taken to be the devil in person. On this point it is apropos to cite a letter communicated to me which has been addressed to the Courrier de Hanovre. I translate it textually:—

“‘This morning, at about six o’clock, we saw passing over our heads, at a prodigious height, an immense round form, to which was suspended some thing which looked like a square house of a red colour. Some people pretend to have seen animated beings in this strange machine, and to have heard issuing from it superhuman cries. What think you, Mr Editor? The whole country is in a state of alarm, and it will be long before our people recover their equanimity.’

“At seven a.m. we crossed over a lake near Yssel; the wind then again pushed us in a new direction, nearly at right angles with that which we were taking before. In less than a quarter of an hour the balloon got into Westphalia near Renheim; then we crossed the great river Ems, the towns of Rheine and Ibbenbüren, and returned to Hanover a little above Osnabrück. We traversed, without deigning to take notice of them, a little chain of mountains, and by way, no doubt, of relaxation after so long a journey, went all round a lake which is called in German Dummersee. We then got into a great plain, through which runs a road. At this time the balloon became almost motionless. The reason of this was, that the heat of the sun had caused the gas to expand. The thermometer was then at 145 degrees (about 59 degrees Fahrenheit (No! editor)). Louis Godard was very uneasy about this dilation. After two or three oscillations, our aerial courser decided upon going off rapidly in an eastern direction, with about two degrees variation towards the north. This course would have taken us to Hamburg and the Baltic; but we were all so completely absorbed by the splendour of the tableau before us that we took little note of the change. Our hippogriff passed over Wagenfeld-Steyerberg, where there is a river which flows into the Weser. We came within sight of the great river and Nienburg, a considerable town on one of its banks. We saw a steamboat going down the river from the town. The view here was charming. A rustling of the silk of our balloon made us look upwards; the monster, under the influence of the sun, now very hot, was palpably swelling. As it would have been supremely ridiculous, after having made such a first-rate journey, to have treated the inhabitants of Nienburg with the spectacle of seeing us blown up—to say nothing of the consequences of such a catastrophe to our own limbs—we resolved to come down. The remaining bags of ballast were got in order, the ropes and the anchors prepared, and Godard opened the safety-valve. ‘The monster is disgorging!’ exclaimed Thirion. And the balloon did vomit forth its gas with a tremendous noise, which may be compared to the snoring of some gigantic animal. While our companion made this observation, we were descending at the rate of two metres to the second. ‘To the ropes! to the ropes!—hold on well!’ cried the brothers Godard, who seemed quite in their element, ‘take care of the shock!’ Every one climbed up to the ropes which attach the car to the circular handles underneath the balloon. Madame Nadar, whose sang-froid was truly magnificent, grasped two large ropes with her delicate hands. Nadar did the like, but at the same time put his arms round his wife so as to protect her body. I was on one side towards the middle of the sort of hurdle which serves as a balcony. I was on my knees and clinging to two ropes. Montgolfier, Thirion, and Saint Felix were near me. The balloon descended so rapidly that it gave us the vertigo. The air, which we had left so calm above, became a violent wind as we neared the earth. ‘We are going to throw down the anchors,’ said Godard, ‘hold tight!’ Ah! the car struck the earth with tremendous violence. I cannot imagine how it was that my arms were not broken. After the first terrible shock the balloon went up again, but the safety-valve was opened—it again fell—and we suffered a second shock, if not more violent, at least more painful to us than the first. Up we went again; the balloon dragged its anchors. Several times we thought we should be thrown out. ‘The anchors are broken,’ exclaimed Godard. The balloon beat the ground with its head, like a kite when it falls down. It was horrible. On we went towards Nienburg, at the rate of ten leagues an hour. Three large trees were cut through by the car, as clean as if by a woodman’s hatchet. One small anchor still remained to us. We threw it down, and it carried away the roof of a house. If the balloon had dragged us through the town we should, inevitably, have been cut to pieces. But fortunately it rose a little and then bumped against the ground again with as much violence as before. Every one of these shocks wrenched our limbs; to complete our misfortunes the rope of the safety-valve got loose from us, and the safety-valve shutting up we lost all hope of the balloon emptying itself. It went on by bounds of twenty-five, thirty, and forty metres from the earth, and continued to fall upon its head. Everything that stood in the way of the car was dashed to pieces.

“Jules Godard then tried, and accomplished, an act of sublime heroism. He clambered up into the netting, the shocks of which were so terrible that three times he fell on my head. At length he reached the cord of the valve, opened it, and the gas having a way of escape the monster ceased to rise but it still shot along in a horizontal line with prodigious rapidity. There were we squatting down upon the frail osier car. ‘Take care!’ we cried, when a tree was in the way. We turned from it, and the tree was broken; but the balloon was discharging its gas, and if the immense plain we were crossing had yet a few leagues, we were saved. But suddenly a forest appeared in the horizon; we must leap out at whatever risk, for the car would be dashed to pieces at the first collision with those trees. I got down into the car, and raising myself I know not how,—for I suffered from a wound in my knees, my trousers were torn,—I jumped, and made I know not how many revolutions, and fell upon my head. After a minute’s dizziness I rose. The car was then far off. By the aid of a stick I dragged myself to the forest, and having gone a few steps I heard some groans. Saint Felix was stretched on the soil frightfully disfigured; his body was one wound; he had an arm broken, the chest torn, and an ankle dislocated. The car had disappeared. After crossing a river I heard a cry. Nadar was stretched on the ground with a dislocated thigh; his wife had fallen into the river. Another companion was shattered. We occupied ourselves with Saint Felix, and Nadar and his wife. In trying to assist the latter I was nearly drowned, for I fell into the water and sank. They picked me up again, and I found the bath had done me good. By the assistance of the inhabitants the salvage was got together. Vehicles were brought; they placed us upon straw. My knees bled; my loins and head seemed to be like mince-meat; but I did not lose my presence of mind an instant, and for a second I felt humiliated at looking from the truss of straw at those clouds which in the night I had had under my feet. It was in this way we reached Rethem, in Hanover.

“In seventeen hours we had made nearly 250 leagues. Our course infernale had covered a space of three leagues. Now that it is over I have some shudderings. It does not signify! we have made a good journey, and I marvel to see with what indifference we may regard the most frightful death, for, besides the prospect of being dashed about on our way, we had that of gaining the sea; and how long should we have lived then? I am glad to have seen this—happier yet at having to narrate it to you. These Germans who surround us are brave people, and we have been as well cared for as the resources of the little spot will allow.

“P.S.—I have just reached Hanover with my companions, and re-open my letter to tell you so. The King has sent an aide-de-camp to us. Are we at the end of our reverses? At any rate, I am consoled to think they can no longer laugh at us in Paris. We have kept our promises, and more.”

Making some allowance for the palpable exaggeration of small details, this excitable Frenchman’s description of the ascent is the best that we have seen, therefore we have given it in full.

The accounts given by other members of the party corroborate most of it, and correct a few of its errors. For instance, where Monsieur Arnould represents the anchor as dragging off the roof of a house, another account states that it tore away one of the rafters; and while he tells us that large trees were “cut through by the car as clean as if by a woodman’s hatchet,” Monsieur Godard says that they were knocked down or uprooted! But, upon the whole, after comparing the several narratives, we are of opinion that, with all his tendency to exaggeration and the use of inflated language, Monsieur Arnould has found it impossible to convey by means of words an adequate conception of this, perhaps, the most wonderful and thrilling balloon voyage on record.

Many dangerous voyages of thrilling interest have been undertaken since this ascent of Monsieur Nadar. We shall just give a brief account of two of these, which occurred at a comparatively recent date, to show the reader that men are not to be deterred by the misfortunes of predecessors from prosecuting inquiries and experiments in this field.

A fête was held some years ago in the park of Mr North, Basford, near Nottingham. Amongst the amusements, it was arranged that Mr Coxwell should make a balloon ascent. The balloon was almost new, but not of very large dimensions. After it had been fully inflated, Mr Coxwell tried it, and found there would be some difficulty in ascending in it, owing to its weight. At this juncture, a Mr James Chambers, of Nottingham, who had previously made many ascents, stepped forward and offered to go in his stead, saying that he was lighter than Mr Coxwell, and that he wished to make the ascent. After some conversation, it was agreed that Chambers should go up, but Mr Coxwell told him not to attempt an ascent unless he felt quite confident that he could manage the balloon. Chambers replied that he had no fear about managing it, and accordingly he was allowed to make the ascent. The balloon rose steadily, and was carried somewhat rapidly in a north-easterly direction towards Nottingham. It proceeded as far as Arno Vale, when it was seen suddenly to collapse, while still at a considerable altitude, and then to fall quickly in an unshapely mass. Some young men who were near the spot where the balloon fell, hastened to render assistance. The balloon dropped into the car as it descended, completely covering it, and ultimately both fell in a field near Scout Lane, three miles from Nottingham. The car struck the ground and rebounded several feet, and then fell again, when it was seized and stopped by the young men, who had followed it. At the bottom of the car lay stretched the body of the unfortunate aeronaut. He was lifted out and found to be breathing, but quite insensible. He was conveyed to the nearest dwelling, and means were adopted to restore animation, but without effect. Two medical gentlemen, named Robertson and Maltby, afterwards saw him, and it was discovered that his left thigh was fractured, and some of the ribs on his left side were broken, but they considered it very probable that the unfortunate man had died through suffocation, as a handkerchief, which had been found in his mouth, had probably been placed there by himself when he found that he was in danger of being stifled by the gas from the collapsing balloon.

On another occasion, still more recent, a perilous balloon voyage was accomplished by an aeronaut named Vouens. He ascended from the Bellevue Gardens, near Huddersfield, in a balloon which was capable of containing 20,000 cubic feet of gas. Its height was 50 feet, and it expanded to 100 feet in circumference. Away floated the balloon in a westerly direction, oscillating for a considerable distance in a most extraordinary and unusual manner. Mr Vouens experienced a stronger breeze than he had anticipated, and, the current changing rapidly, his energy and knowledge as an aeronaut were very severely taxed. A fresh current drove him to the east for a time, but presently another gust unexpectedly sent him in the direction of Halifax, and thence towards Bradford, in a northerly course. After the lapse of twenty minutes the balloon and its occupant pierced the clouds. Mr Vouens then began to make observations for the purpose of selecting a suitable site on which to descend; and in a few minutes concentrated his attention upon a field in which a fête was being held. The breeze, however, carried him some three miles further, and a second time Mr Vouens attempted to lower himself in a field adjoining some farm-houses at Denholme. Cautiously opening the escape-valve, he continued the journey downwards and threw out the grapnels. Impetuous blasts of wind increased the difficulty of bringing the balloon to anchor. A strong wind prevailing, it became unmanageable, and drifted over fields and stone walls with amazing velocity. The flukes of the grapnels penetrated the ground and uprooted the earth as they followed in the wake of the balloon, while the aerial chariot dashed onwards, making, in its career, wide gaps in several stone walls. Mr Vouens, preparing to encounter the worst fate, wrapped the end of the cord which opens the escape-valve round one of his wrists, and, burying himself in the car, permitted the balloon to proceed until the breeze subsided, when, after the car had been thrice capsized, and every article which it contained thrown out, Mr Vouens, who received no injuries, anchored, and completed a voyage of many miles, which occupied half-an-hour in its accomplishment.

Chapter Nine.

War-Balloons.

As the French were the first to teach mankind the art of navigating the air by means of balloons, so they were the first to set the example of applying them to the art of war.

It may not be generally known, perhaps, that balloons have actually been used in war. They were first introduced to this new field of action at Valenciennes in 1793, and the result of the experiment was a failure; not, however, owing to the fault of man, but to the unpropitious nature of the winds. The garrison, being hard pressed by the English and their allies, attached a letter, addressed to the National Assembly, to a small balloon, or parachute, and committed it to a breeze which blew in the direction of Paris. Towards evening the wind changed, and the faithless messenger fell into the enemy’s camp!

About the same time the subject of war-balloons was brought before the Committee of Public Safety, who commissioned a young captain of Engineers, named Coutelle, to make experiments, and report on the matter. He made a balloon twenty-seven feet in diameter, with a car to hold two persons, which, when filled with hydrogen gas, was capable of lifting about a quarter of a ton, and cost a little above 80 pounds. It was not intended that this balloon should go free. It was to be held down by two guy-ropes, each between four and five hundred yards in length, by which, when at the full length of its tether, the balloon was to be hauled about in any direction, pulled down, or allowed to rise in obedience to the wishes of the aeronaut, who was to communicate his orders by means of a system of signals. Reports of what he might be thus enabled to discover of the enemy’s position were to be written on slips of paper, put into small sandbags, and tossed overboard. Small coloured flags were attached to each bag, so that it might be easily observed in its descent.

After several satisfactory ascents to the height of above 500 feet had taken place—the balloon being held easily by ten men, five to each guy-rope—an order was given, in April 1794, for the formation of a company of military aeronauts—styled aerostiers, to which Coutelle was appointed captain-commandant. His company consisted of one lieutenant, one sergeant-major, one sergeant, two corporals, and twenty privates, who wore a dark blue uniform, with black velvet facings, and were armed with pistols and swords.

This new and peculiar company of aerostiers was very soon sent to join the army at Maubeuge, and was regarded with some ridicule and contempt by the rest of the army. Coutelle, however, took an effectual method of commanding respect. He begged that he and his men might be allowed to take part in a projected sortie. They were permitted, and went; an officer and private were wounded, and the corps behaved with such gallantry that it was from that time treated with becoming respect.

Ascents were made daily in the balloon for reconnoitring purposes, and the Austrians fired at their audacious and inquisitive enemy both with muskets and cannon, but without effect.

After a time the balloon was ordered to take the road, and join that part of the army which was marching on Charleroi. Its march through the country in leading-strings was curious to spectators and harassing to the aerostiers. The car, with all its appurtenances, was placed on a cart, over which the balloon was allowed to float at a height sufficient to admit of the passage of cavalry under it. Twenty men, marching in single file, held it down by twenty stays; but they had a sad time of it, for their charge was headstrong and restive, jerking and tugging at them continually, not only with its own inherent power of ascension, but with the irregular impetus derived from gusts and squalls of wind, which caused it to make sudden and violent charges against trees, houses, or whatever chanced to come in its way, and sometimes to beat its blunt forehead wildly on the ground as if it had been a monster in despair!

It reached Charleroi, however, on the 22nd of June, after a journey of three days, and took part in the battle of Fleurus on the 26th. A high wind rendered it necessary, on the day of battle, to fasten its guy-ropes to thirty horses—fifteen to each rope—and, thus secured, it remained in the air eight hours, passing from place to place, and making observations. Its services were so highly appreciated by the generals on that occasion that a second balloon was made and sent to the field of action. The first one, which was named l’Entreprenant, met with accidents which rendered it necessary that it should be sent to Maubeuge for repair; but it afterwards rejoined the army and took part in the battle of Aldenhoven, at the capture of Bonn, and at the operations before Ehrenbreitstein, in all of which it escaped without a wound, although frequently exposed to a furious fire of musketry and shells from the exasperated Austrians.

Nevertheless, its natural enemy, the wind, did not allow it to escape scatheless, as Coutelle shows in one of his letters. He writes thus:

“I received orders to make a reconnaissance of Mayence. I accordingly posted myself between our lines and the town, at about half cannon-shot distance. The wind was very high, so, to counteract its effects as far as lay in my power, I ascended alone, with two hundred pounds additional buoyancy. I was at a height of five hundred metres when three successive gusts dashed me to the ground with such violence that several portions of the car were smashed to bits. Each time the balloon darted up again with so much force that sixty-four men—thirty-two at each guy-rope—were dragged to some distance. Had the guys been made fast to grapnels, as had been suggested to me, they must infallibly have given way.”

Notwithstanding this rough treatment, the aerial warrior managed, during a lull in the wind, to count the number of the enemy’s guns.

But the successes of these war-balloons were sadly intermingled with reverses of fortune and harassing difficulties. The aeronauts had, indeed, won the respect and admiration of the army, but this did not compensate for the terribly fatiguing work of holding on, with scarcely a moment’s intermission, to the ropes of the intractable monsters during long and frequent marches. The second balloon at length succeeded in breaking loose, and was so much damaged as to become unserviceable, and the first one was afterwards found riddled with balls—destroyed, it was supposed, by its own men, who had become tired of the hardships to which they were continually subjected. The balloon was repaired, but was taken prisoner at Wurtzburg in September 1796, after a short but brilliant, and, it is said, useful career.

After this the war-ballooning fell into disrepute. Some attempts have been made in modern times to revive it, but these are not worth mentioning.

Chapter Ten.

Aerial Locomotives, etcetera.

Having treated of the balloon in all its different aspects, it is both just and appropriate to conclude with an account of the theory and construction of that curious machine which is, according to some enthusiastic aeronauts, to supplant the balloon altogether, and enable us to accomplish that which has been one of the great aims and desires of mankind from the earliest ages, namely, the directing of our flight, or steering a course, not only through, but, if need were, in opposition to the winds.

Monsieur Nadar being, perhaps, the most zealous advocate of this machine, we draw our information chiefly from his writings. Of course the reader will understand that we do not support the views which we are about to set forth; neither, however, do we treat them lightly, because we have lived long enough to see proposals which, not many years ago, would have been deemed worthy of the most visionary of lunatics, carried out to a successful issue and reduced to sober facts.

When we hear of a flying machine which is to rise from the earth at the bidding of man, and, like the fabulous creations in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment, dart through the air with passengers and luggage bound for definite localities, turning hither and thither, or alighting on the earth according to the will of a steersman—we confess to a feeling which is apt to wrinkle our visage with the smile of incredulity; but we sternly rebuke the smile, for we know that similar smiles wreathed the faces of exceedingly wise people when, in former days, it was proposed to drive ships and coaches by steam, and hold instantaneous converse with our friends across the Atlantic by means of electricity!

Let us therefore gravely consider the aerial locomotive.

Monsieur Nadar, as the reader already knows, scouts the idea of steering balloons.

In reference to this he states with truth that, “a balloon which presents to the action of the atmosphere a volume of from 22,000 to 42,000 (cubic) feet of a gas from ten to fifteen times lighter than air, is, by its very nature, smitten with incapacity to struggle against the slightest current, no matter what may be the resisting motive force which may be imparted to it. Both by its constitution, and by the medium which drives it hither and thither at the pleasure of the winds, it can never become a vessel. It is a buoy, and remains a buoy.”

Discarding, therefore, with contempt, the balloon as an aerial locomotive, he announces his belief that it is the screw which is destined to drive us, or clamber with us, into the blue vault above, and convey us from place to place. And here it is right to assure the reader that the theoretical power of the screw to accomplish the end in view is not a disputable question. It has been practically proved by models, and the only point that remains to be settled is the possibility of applying the power to machines large enough to carry human beings with a sufficient degree of safety to warrant risking the attempt.

Monsieur Nadar sets out with a statement which he deems self-evident, namely, that, “in order to contend against the air, we must be specifically heavier than the air”—a truth which was also, we are told, announced by the first Napoleon in the epigrammatic sentence, “There can be no progress without resistance.” From this the Frenchman proceeds to prove that, in order to command the air, it is necessary to support one’s-self upon it, instead of being at its mercy; that we can only rest upon that which resists, and that the air itself furnishes us amply with the needful resistance—it being “the same atmosphere which overturns walls, tears up by the root trees a century old, and enables ships to ascend impetuous currents.” Glowing with the ardour of a man whose faith is refreshingly great, he tells us that the time has at last come when the atmosphere must yield to man. “It is for man,” he says, “to restrain and subdue this insolent and abnormal rebellion, which has for so many years laughed at our vain efforts. We are in turn about to make it serve us as a slave, just as the water on which we launch the ship, as the solid earth on which we press the wheel!”

There is a toy called the spiralifer, which is common enough in towns, and which is, doubtless, known to almost every one. It consists of four flat fans attached to a spindle somewhat after the manner of the arms of a windmill. It is placed in a hollow tube and made to spin violently by pulling a string wound round the spindle. The result is that the spiralifer leaps out of the hollow tube and ascends powerfully as long as the violent spinning motion continues. If properly constructed, this toy acts with great force and certainty, and if the spinning motion could only be kept up, by any means, the ascent would be continued. The principal here involved is precisely the same as that which causes a windmill to turn, a screw-propeller to drive a ship, and a cork-screw to enter a cork. It is pressure against a resisting medium. Air is the resisting medium in the case of the mill; water and cork respectively in the other cases. The only difference between the windmill and the spiralifer is, that the first is moved by the air pressing against it, the other by itself, in its rotatory action, pressing against the air. If you turn a bottle upside down, and, while in that position, send a cork-screw up into the cork, you set in motion the same force which is applied in the spiralifer. As the screw screws itself up into the cork, so the spiralifer screws itself up into the air. Of course the screw remains sticking there when the motive power ceases, because of the density of the medium through which it moves, while the spiralifer, when at rest, sinks, because of the fluidity of the air; but the principle of motion in each is the same. The screw-propeller of a ship is just a spiralifer placed horizontally, acting on water instead of air, and having a vessel placed in front of it.

Now, Monsieur Nadar’s aerial locomotive is a huge spiralifer, made strong enough to carry up a steam-engine which shall keep it perpetually spinning, and, therefore, perpetually ascending. Perhaps we should have said that his locomotive is a huge machine to which several spiralifers are attached, so that while one set raises or (by reversing the engine) depresses it, other sets drive it sideways. The theory is perfect, and the practice has been successfully attempted in models. Messieurs Ponton d’Amécourt and de la Laudelle, we are told—“the one a man of the world, and the other a man of letters”—engaged the services of two skilled mechanics, Messieurs Joseph of Arras and J. Richard, who constructed models of machines which ascended the atmosphere, carrying their motive power (springs) along with them.

Besides horizontal screws, it is proposed to furnish additional guiding power to the locomotive by means of inclined planes. These, by being arranged in various positions, while the machine is in motion, would act on the air, as do the wings of a bird, and give it direction.

No doubt, despite the simplicity of all this, difficulties will present themselves to most minds, some of which may perhaps bulk very large in the minds of mechanicians—such as the power of materials to withstand the violence of the forces to which they are to be applied, etcetera. We do not know; however, no difficulties seem to have afflicted Monsieur Nadar, who thus grandly waives them all aside, and revels in the contemplation of the triumphant flights that lie before him in the future:—

“It will be understood,” he writes, “that it belongs not to us to determine at present either the mechanism or the necessary manoeuvres. Neither shall we attempt to fix even approximately the future velocity of the aerial locomotive. Let us rather attempt to calculate the probable velocity of a locomotive gliding through the air, without the possibility of running off the rails, without any oscillation, without the least obstacle. Let us fancy such locomotive encountering on its way, in the midst, one of those atmospheric currents which travel at the rate of forty leagues an hour, and following that current; add together these formidable data, and your imagination will recoil in adding still further to these giddy velocities, that of a machine falling through an angle of descent of from 12,000 to 15,000 feet in a series of gigantic zigzags, and making the tour of the globe in a succession of fantastic leaps.”

Truly Monsieur Nadar seems to us to be right! There are few men or women, we suspect, who would not recoil from such “fantastic leaps,” and unless the prospect of a more sedate style of travelling be held out, it is not probable that aerial locomotives will receive much patronage from the general public.

Lord Carlingford, who mistook the sentiments of Monsieur Nadar in regard to the aerial locomotive, claimed for himself, in 1863, the honour of having previously invented and successfully launched an aerial chariot, weighing seventeen stone, which rose on the air without any assistance but that of the wind, and, having arrived at a horizontal position on the air, it remained stationary there until pulled down.

Monsieur Nadar, at the conclusion of a courteous letter in reply to this claim, gives his intentions and opinions on the subject pretty clearly as follows:—

“In fine, and that there may be no possible mistake on the part of any one regarding what I am attempting, I desire to find the necessary resources for the constitution of a society, which shall be the centre of all hitherto isolated and therefore lost attempts to solve a question so profound, so vast, so complex that it does not seem to belong to a single individual to achieve it. I have my system, which I believe to be good, since it is mine; but I shall aid with all the strength of my will, and with all the energy of my perseverance, every system which shall be proved to be better than mine. The question to me is not at all who may have determined the great problem; it is that the solution may be found at last. The fruit is ripe; I long to see it plucked, no matter by whom; and this is the sole cause of the agitation which I have endeavoured to call forth, and which I am now pursuing.”

A man who takes up a subject with such hearty enthusiasm, and in such a liberal spirit, is, we hold, entitled to the utmost respect. As we have, however, done our best to lay his case before the public, we feel entitled to express with all humility some of the doubts which have been suggested to our own mind while meditating on the subject.

No doubt the theory propounded is correct, and, as carried into practice with models, the aerial locomotive has been a great success. No doubt also it is pleasant to contemplate the possibility of traversing space like a bird, a meteor, or a comet, and the absolute impossibility of “getting off the rails;” but what, we would ask, would be the result of a hitch—ever so small—in the working of the steam-engine or of the spring motor?

If a railway engine breaks down, there are all sorts of chances of escape open to the traveller. The engine may not quit the rails, or it may bound off alone, snap the coupling chains and leave the carriages to run until they come to a gradual standstill; or, the concussion may be so modified that no serious injury may result; or, should it come to the worst, the traveller may be among the fortunate number who make “miraculous escapes.” But if a crank of an aerial machine should snap while it is careering through space, or even a screw get loose and cause a momentary stoppage of the motor, it is abundantly evident that escape from total and swift destruction would be “miraculous” indeed, for the whole affair would come to the ground like a thunderbolt, and “leave not a wrack behind!”

Probably it might be answered in reply that a parachute attached to the machine, or the inclined planes acting as a parachute, would moderate the descent. Well, there may be something in that; nevertheless, parachutes have not yet proved themselves to be very trustworthy,—and we are constrained to reiterate the fact, that while an accident causing the break-down of the motive power of a steamboat or a railway carriage does not necessarily involve fatal consequences, an accident which should stop the motive power in an aerial locomotive would almost to a certainty, result in a grand smash, which would involve machine and passengers in one inconceivable whirl of chaotic destruction.

Whether this machine shall ever be successfully completed or not, it is evident that it still engages the earnest attention of men, as we gather from the following paragraph recently published in the San Francisco Bulletin:—

“At a meeting of the Aerial Navigation Company, held on Friday, July 24, 1869, in San Francisco, it was voted to raise the necessary funds to construct an improved avitor of large size. The opinion of the engineers of the company was unanimous as to success so far, and the feasibility and success of the projected flying-ship. It will be about 150 feet in length, 20 to 40 feet diameter of the gasometer, with propelling blades on each side of the centre, describing a radius of about 16 feet. The propellers are shaped like a steamship’s, with two blades, each very light. They will be driven by a steam-engine of five-horse power, weighing, with boiler connections and water, 430 pounds weight. The planes on each side for floating the machine will be about twenty feet wide at the centre of the machine, and made in sections, so that they can be depressed or elevated at pleasure with the rudder or tail. The gasometer will be made in sections, so that in the event of accident to one section, the remainder will be sufficient for all practical purposes; indeed, it is claimed that the ship can fly through the air with such speed that the sustaining power of the planes alone will be sufficient to maintain the avitor in mid-air. The gasometer will be made, probably, of thin muslin or silk, saturated with gutta-percha. It is to carry four persons, and will be ready for trial in sixty or ninety days. The result of this experiment will be looked for with great interest all over the country.”

The Americans, with that vigour of conception and promptitude in action for which they are celebrated, have done a good deal in the cause of aerostation; but, as their doings and experiences have been in many respects similar to those men whose voyages have been already recounted or touched upon, it would involve too much repetition to detail them here. Some of their attempts, however, have outshone those of the men of the eastern hemisphere. For instance, Mr J. Wise, a noted aeronaut, has several times exploded his balloons while in the air, to show that the fragments with net-work form a sort of parachute which moderates the descent. He also, with Mr La Mountain and others, accomplished in 1859 the longest flight on record, namely, 1150 miles in less than twenty hours; and the latter gentleman did 300 miles in four hours in the same year. Another American, Mr Lowe, made an enormous balloon, with which he resolved to cross the Atlantic in about 48 hours. We await the accomplishment of this feat with much solicitude!

In conclusion, we may say that the subject of aerostation is still in its infancy, and that we have still to learn how to conduct ourselves properly when—Up in the Clouds.

The End.

Table of Contents

Lost in the Forest by R.M. Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Martin Rattler by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Rivers of Ice by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

ENDNOTES

The Rover of the Andes by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

ENDNOTE

Under the Waves by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

List of Illustrations

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Illus: CAUGHT NAPPING

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Illus: DOWN THE WELL

Chapter Twelve.

Illus: ROONEY BLOWN UP BY HIS WIFE

Chapter Thirteen.

Illus: AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SEA

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Illus: CLEARING THE SCREW

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

ENDNOTES

Up in the Clouds by Robert Michael Ballantyne

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10