You are the Man. “The queen commands you to strip.” “Commands me to strip! What do you mean?” “What I say; you have to strip—undress, take off your clothes.” “You are joking.” “Joking! I should like to see the man who would dare to take such a liberty in the audience-chamber of our Great Mother. Pray don’t make words about it, señor. Take off your clothes without any more bother, or she will be getting angry.” “Let her get angry. I shall do nothing of the sort—No, don’t say that; say that English gentlemen—I mean pale-face medicine-men from over the seas, never undress in the presence of ladies; their religion forbids it.” Gondocori was about to remonstrate again when the queen interposed and insisted on knowing what I said. When she heard that I refused to obey her behest she turned purple with rage, and looked as if she would annihilate me. Then her mood, or her mind, changing, she laughed loudly, at the same time pointing to the door and making an observation to the cacique. Having meanwhile reflected that I was not in an English drawing-room, that this wretched woman could have me stripped whether I would or no, and that refusal to comply with her wishes might cost me my life, I asked Gondocori why the queen wanted me to undress. “She wants to see whether your body is as hairy as your face (I had not shaved since I left Naperima), and your face as fair as your body.” “Will it satisfy her if I meet her half-way—strip to the waist? You can say that I never did as much for any woman before, and that I would not do it for the queen of my own country, whatever might be the consequence.” The cacique interpreted my proposal, and Mamcuna smiled assent. “The queen says, ‘let it be as you say;’ and she charges me to tell you that she is very much pleased to know that you will do for her what you would not do for any other woman.” On that I took off my upper garments and Mamcuna, rising from her hammock, examined me as closely as a military surgeon examines a freshly caught recruit. She felt the muscles of my arms, thumped my chest, took note of the width of my back, punched my ribs, and finally pulled a few hairs out of my beard. Then, smiling approval, she retired to her chinchura. “You may put on your clothes; the inspection is over,” said Gondocori. “I am glad it has passed off so well. I was rather afraid, though, when she began to pinch you.” “Afraid of what?” “Well, the queen is rather curious about skin and color and that, and does curious things sometimes. She once had a strip of skin cut out of a mestiza maiden’s back, to see whether it was the same color on both sides. But she seems to have taken quite a liking for you; says you are the prettiest man she ever saw; and if you cure her of her illness I have no doubt she will give you a condor’s skull helmet and make you a cacique.” “I am greatly obliged to her Majesty, I am sure, and very thankful she did not take a fancy to cut a piece out of my back. As for curing her, I must first of all know what is the matter.” “Shall I ask her to describe her symptoms?” “If you please.” In reply to the questions which I put, through Gondocori, the queen said that she suffered from headache, nausea, and sleeplessness, and that, whereas only a few years ago she was lithe, active, and gay, she was now heavy, indolent, and melancholy, adding that she had suffered much at the hands of the late court medicine-man, who did not understand her case at all, and that to punish him for his ignorance and presumption she made him swallow a jarful of his own physic, from the effects of which he shortly afterward expired in great agony. The place was now vacant, and if I succeeded in restoring her to health she would make me his successor and always have me near her person. I cannot say that I regarded this prospect as particularly encouraging; nevertheless, I tried to look pleased and told Gondocori to assure the queen of my gratitude and devotion and ask her to show me her tongue. He put this request with evident reluctance, and Mamcuna made an angry reply. “I knew how it would be,” said the cacique. “You have put her in a rage. She thinks you want to insult her, and absolutely refuses to make herself hideous by sticking out her tongue.” “She will of course do as she pleases. But unless she shows me her tongue I cannot cure her. I shall not even try. Tell her so.” To tell the truth I had really no great desire to look at the woman’s tongue, but having made the request I meant to stand to my guns. After some further parley she yielded, first of all making the three caciques and Gahra look the other way. The appearance of her tongue confirmed the theory I had already formed that she was suffering from dyspepsia, brought on by overeating and a too free indulgence in the wine of the country (a sort of cider) and indolent habits. I said that if she would follow my instructions I had no doubt that I could not only cure her but make her as lithe and active as ever she was. Remembering, however, that as even the highly civilized people object to be made whole without physic and fuss, and that the queen would certainly not be satisfied with a simple recommendation to take less food and more exercise, I observed that before I could say anything further I must gather plants, make decoctions, and consult the stars, and that my black colleague should prepare a charm which would greatly increase the potency of my remedies and the chances of her recovery. Mamcuna answered that I talked like a medicine-man who understood his business and her case, that she would strictly obey my orders, and so soon as she felt better give me a condor’s skull helmet. Meanwhile, I was to take up my quarters in her own house, and she ordered the caciques to send me forthwith three suits of clothes, my own, as she rightly remarked, not being suitable for a man of my position. “Now, did not I tell you?” said Gondocori, as we left the room. “Oh, we are going on swimmingly; and it is all my doing. I do believe that if I had not protested that you were the greatest medicine-man in the world, and had come expressly to cure her, she would have had you roasted or ripped up by the man-killer or turned adrift in the desert, or something equally diabolical. Your fate is in your own hands now. If you fail to make good your promises, it will be out of my power to help you. You heard how she treated your predecessor.” Chapter XXIII. You are the Man. Return to Table of Contents Early next morning I sent Gahra secretly up to the lake on the bastion for a jar of chalybeate water, which, after being colored with red earth and flavored with wild garlic, was nauseous enough to satisfy the most exacting of physic swallowers. Then the negro sacrificed a cock in the royal presence, and performed an incantation in the most approved African fashion, and we made the creature’s claws and comb into an amulet, which I requested the queen to hang round her neck. This done, I gave my instructions, assuring her that if she failed in any particular to observe them my efforts would be vain, and her cure impossible. She was to drink nothing but water and physic (of the latter very little), eat animal food only once a day, and that sparingly, and walk two hours every morning; and finding that she could ride on horseback (like a man), though she had lately abandoned the exercise, I told her to ride two hours every evening. I also laid down other rules, purposely making them onerous and hard to be observed, partly because I knew that a strict regimen was necessary for her recovery, partly to leave myself a loop-hole, in the event of her not recovering, for I felt pretty sure that she would not do all that I had bidden her, and if she came short in any one thing I should have an excuse ready to my hand. But to my surprise she did not come short. For Mamcuna to give up her cider and her flesh pots, and, flabby and fat as she was, to walk and ride four hours every day, must have been very hard, yet she conformed to regulations with rare resolution and self-denial. As a natural consequence she soon began to mend, at first slowly and almost imperceptibly, afterward rapidly and visibly, as much to my satisfaction as hers; for if my treatment had failed, I could not have said that the fault was hers. Meanwhile I was picking up information about her people, and acquiring a knowledge of their language, and as I was continually hearing it spoken I was soon able to make myself understood. The Pachatupecs, though heathens and savages, were more civilized than any of the so-called Indios civilizados with whom I had come in contact. They were clean as to their persons, bathing frequently, and not filthy in their dwellings; they raised crops, reared cattle, and wore clothing, which for the caciques consisted of a tunic of quilted cotton, breeches loose at the knees, and sandals. The latter virtue may, however, have been due to the climate, for though the days were warm the nights were chilly, and the winters at times rather severe, the country being at a considerable height above the level of the sea. On the other hand, the Pachatupecs were truculent, gluttonous, and not very temperate; they practised polygamy, and all the hard work devolved on the women, whose husbands often brutally ill-used them. It was contrary to etiquette to ask a man questions about his wives, and if you went to a cacique’s house you were expected either to ignore their presence or treat them as slaves, as indeed they were, and the condition of captive Christian girls was even worse than that of the native women. Considering the light esteem in which women were held I was surprised that the Pachatupecs consented to be ruled by one of the sex. But Gondocori told me that Mamcuna came of a long line of princes who were supposed to be descended from the Incas, and when her father died, leaving no male issue, a majority of the caciques chose her as his successor, in part out of reverence for the race, in part out of jealousy of each other, and because they thought she would let them do pretty much as they liked. So far from that, however, she made them do as she liked, and when some of the caciques raised a rebellion she took the field in person, beat them in a pitched battle, and put all the leaders and many of their followers to death. Since that time there had been no serious attempt to dispute her authority, which, so far as I could gather, she used, on the whole, to good purpose. Though cruel and vindictive, she was also shrewd and resolute, and semi-civilized races are not ruled with rose-water. She could only maintain order by making herself feared, and even civilized governments often act on the principle that the end justifies the means. Mamcuna had never married because, as she said, there was no man in the country fit to mate with a daughter of the Incas; but as Gondocori and some others thought, the man did not exist with whom she would consent to share her power. The Pachatupec braves were fine horsemen and expert with the lasso and the spear and very fine archers. They were bold mountaineers, too, and occasionally made long forays as far as the pampas, where, I presume, they had brought the progenitors of the nandus , of which there were a considerable number in the country, both wild and tame. The latter were sometimes ridden, but rather as a feat than a pleasure. The largest flock belonged to the queen. By the time I had so far mastered the language as to be able to converse without much difficulty, the queen had fully regained her health. This result—which was of course entirely due to temperate living and regular exercise—she ascribed to my skill, and I was in high favor. She made me a cacique and court medicine-man; I had quarters in her house, and horses and servants were always at my disposal. Had her Majesty’s gratitude gone no further than this I should have had nothing to complain of; but she never let me alone, and I had no peace. I was continually being summoned to her presence; she kept me talking for hours at a time, and never went out for a ride or a walk without making me bear her company. Her attentions became so marked, in fact, that I began to have an awful fear that she had fallen in love with me. As to this she did not leave me long in doubt. One day when I had been entertaining her with an account of my travels, she startled me by inquiring, à propos to nothing in particular, if I knew why she had not married. “Because you are a daughter of the Incas, and there is no man in Pachatupec of equal rank with yourself.” “Once there was not, but now there is.” I breathed again; she surely could not mean me. “There is now—there has been some time,” she continued, after a short pause. “Know you who he is?” I said that I had not the slightest idea. “Yourself, señor; you are the man.” “Impossible, Mamcuna! I am of very inferior rank, indeed—a common soldier, a mere nobody.” “You are too modest, señor; you do yourself an injustice. A man with so white a skin, a beard so long, and eyes so beautiful must be of royal lineage, and fit to mate even with the daughter of the Incas.” “You are quite mistaken, Mamcuna; I am utterly unworthy of so great an honor.” “You are not, I tell you. Please don’t contradict me, señor” (she always called me ‘señor’); “it makes me angry. You are the man whom I delight to honor and desire to wed; what would you have more?” “Nothing—I would not have so much. You are too good; but it would be wrong. I really cannot let you throw yourself away on a nameless foreigner. Besides what would your caciques say?” “If any man dare say a word against you I will have his tongue torn out by the roots.” “But suppose I am married already—that I have left a wife in my own country?” I urged in desperation. “That would not matter in the least. She is not likely to come hither, and I will take care that I am your only wife in this country.” “Your condescension quite overwhelms me. But all this is so sudden; you must really give me a little time—” “A little time! why? You perhaps think I am not sincere, that I do not mean what I say, that I may change my mind. Have no fear on that score. There shall be no delay. The preparations for our wedding shall be begun at once, and ten days hence, dear señor, you will be my husband.” What could I say? I had, of course, no intention of marrying her—I would as lief have married a leopardess. But had I given her a peremptory negative she might have had me laid by the heels without more ado, or worse. So I bowed my head and held my tongue, resolving at the same time that, before the expiration of the ten days’ respite, I would get out of the country or perish in the attempt. Whereupon Mamcuna, taking my silence for consent, showed great delight, patted me on the back, caressed my beard, fondled my hands, and called me her lord. Fortunately, kissing was not an institution in Pachatupec. One good result of our betrothal, if I may so call it, was that the preparations for the wedding took up so much of Mamcuna’s time that she had none left for me, and I had leisure and opportunity to contrive a plan of escape, if I could, for, as I quickly discovered, the difficulties in the way were almost if not altogether insurmountable. I could neither go back to the eastern Cordillera by the road I had come, nor, without guides, find any other pass, either farther north or farther south. Westward was a range of barren hills bounded by a sandy desert, destitute of life or the means of supporting life, and stretching to the desolate Pacific coast, whence, even if I could reach it, I should have no means of getting away. There was, moreover, nobody to whom I could appeal for counsel or help. Gondocori thought me the most fortunate of men, and was quite incapable of understanding my scruples. Gahra, albeit willing to go with me, knew no more of the country than I did, and there was not a man in it who could have been induced even by a bribe either to act as my guide or otherwise connive at my escape; and I had no inducement to offer. Nevertheless, the opportunity I was looking for came, as opportunities often do come, spontaneously and unexpectedly, yet in shape so questionable that it was open to doubt whether, if I accepted it, my second condition would not be worse than my first. Chapter XXIV. In the Toils. Return to Table of Contents Five days after I had been wooed by the irresistible Mamcuna, and as I was beginning to fear that I should have to marry her first and run away afterward, I chanced to be riding in the neighborhood of the village, when a woman darted out of the thicket and, standing before my horse, held up her arms imploringly. I had never spoken to her, but I knew her as the white wife of one of the caciques. “Save me, señor!” she exclaimed, “for the love of heaven and in the name of our common Christianity, I implore you to save me!” “From what?” “From my wretched life, from despair, degradation, and death.” And then she told me that, while travelling in the mountains with her husband, a certain Señor de la Vega, and several friends, they were set upon by a band of Pachatupecs who, after killing all the male members of the party, carried her off and brought her to Pachacamac, where she had been compelled to become one of the wives of the cacique Chimu, and that between his brutality and the jealousy of the other women, her life, apart from its ignominy, was so utterly wretched that, unless she could escape, she must either go mad or be driven to commit suicide. “I should be only too glad to rescue you if I could. I want to escape myself; but how? I see no way.” “It is not so difficult as you think, señor; if we can get horses and a few hours’ start, I will act as guide and lead you to a civilized settlement, where we shall be safe from pursuit. I know the country well.” “Are you quite sure you can do this, señora? It will be a hazardous enterprise, remember.” “Quite sure.” “And you are prepared to incur the risk?” “I will run any risk rather than stay where I am.” “Very well, I will see what can be done. Meet me here to-morrow at this hour. And now, we had better separate; if we are seen together it will be bad for both of us. Hasta mañana .” And then she went her way and I went mine. I had said truly “a hazardous enterprise.” Hazardous and difficult in any circumstances, the hazard and the difficulty would be greatly increased by the presence of a woman; and the fact of a cacique’s wife being one of the companions of my flight would add to the inveteracy of the pursuit. I greatly doubted, moreover, whether Señora de la Vega knew the country as well as she asserted. She was so sick of her wretched condition that she would say or do anything to get away from it—and no wonder. But was I justified in letting her run the risk? The punishment of a woman who deserted her husband was death by burning; were Señora de la Vega caught, this punishment would be undoubtedly inflicted; were it even suspected that she had met me or any other man, secretly, Chimu would almost certainly kill her. Pachatupec husbands had the power of life and death over their wives, and they were as jealous and as cruel as Moors. Yet death was better than the life she was compelled to lead, and as she was fully cognizant of the risk it seemed my duty to do all that I could to facilitate her escape. Then another thought occurred to me. Could this be a trap, a “put up job,” as the phrase goes. Though the caciques had not dared to make any open protest against Mamcuna’s matrimonial project, I knew that they were bitterly opposed to it, and nothing, I felt sure, would please them better than to kindle the queen’s jealousy by making it appear that I was engaged in an intrigue with one of Chimu’s wives. Yet no, I could not believe it. No Christian woman would play so base a part. Señora de la Vega could have no interest in betraying me. She hated her savage husband too heartily to be the voluntary instrument of my destruction, and she was so utterly wretched that I pitied her from my soul. A creole of pure Spanish blood and noble family, bereft of her husband, forced to become the slave of a brutal Indian, and the constant associate of hardly less brutal women, painfully conscious of her degradation, hopeless of any amendment of her lot, poor Señora de la Vega’s fate would have touched the hardest heart. And she had little children at home! My suspicions vanished even more quickly than they had been conceived, and before I reached my quarters I had decided that, come what might, the attempt should be made. The next question was how and when. Clearly, the sooner the better; but whether we had better set off at sunrise or sunset was open to doubt. By leaving at sunset we should be less easily followed; on the other hand, we should have greater difficulty in finding our way and be sooner missed. It was generally about sunset that Mamcuna sent for me, and I knew that at this time it would be well-nigh impossible for Señora de la Vega to leave Chimu’s house without being observed and questioned, perhaps followed. So when we met as agreed, I told her that I had decided to make the attempt on the next morning, and asked her to be in a grove of plantains, hard by, an hour before dawn. I besought her, whatever she did, to be punctual; our lives depended on our stealing away before people were stirring. Meanwhile Gahra and I had laid our plans. He was to give out the night before that we were setting off early next morning on a hunting expedition. This would enable us, without exciting suspicion, to take a supply of provisions, arms, and a led horse (for carrying any game we might kill) and, as I hoped, give us a long start. For even when Señora de la Vega was missed nobody would suspect that she had gone with us. In the event—as we hoped, the improbable event—of our being overtaken or intercepted, Gahra and I were resolved not to be taken alive; but we had, unfortunately, no firearms; they were all lost in the snow-storm. Our only weapons were bows and arrows and machetes. I carried the former merely as a make-believe, to keep up my character as a hunter; for the same reason we took with us a brace of dogs. If it came to fighting I should have to put my trust in my machete , a long broad-bladed sword like a knife, formidable as a lethal weapon, yet chiefly used for clearing away brambles and cutting down trees. All went well at the beginning. We were up betimes and off with our horses before daylight. The braves on duty asked no questions, there was no reason why they should, and we passed through the village without meeting a soul. So far, good. The omens seemed favorable, and my hopes ran high. We should get off without anybody knowing which way we had taken, and several hours before Señora de la Vega was likely to be missed. But when we reached the rendezvous she was not there. I whistled and called softly; nobody answered. “She will be here presently, we must wait,” I said to Gahra. It was terribly annoying. Every minute was precious. The Pachatupecs are early risers, and if Señora de la Vega did not join us before daylight we might be seen and the opportunity lost. The sun rose; still she did not come, and I had just made up my mind to put off our departure until the next morning, and try to communicate with Señora de la Vega in the meantime, when Gahra pointed to a pathway in the wood, where his sharp eyes had detected the fluttering of a robe. At last she was coming. But too late. To start at that time would be madness, and I was about to tell her so, send her back, and ask her to meet me on the next morning, when she ran forward with terrified face and uplifted hands. “Save me! Save me!” she cried, “I could not get away sooner. I have been watched. They are following me, even now.” This was a frightful misfortune, and I feared that the señora had acted very imprudently. But it was no time either for reproaches or regrets, and the words were scarcely out of her mouth when I lifted her into the saddle; as I did so, I caught sight of two horsemen and several foot-people, coming down the pathway. “Go!” I said to Gahra, “I shall stay here.” “But, señor—” “Go, I say; as you love me, go at once. This lady is in your charge. Take good care of her. I can keep these fellows at bay until you are out of sight and, if possible, I will follow. At once, please, at once!” They went, Gahra’s face expressing the keenest anguish, the señora half dead with fear. As they rode away I turned into the pathway and prepared for the encounter. The foot-people might do as they liked, they could not overtake the fugitives, but I was resolved that the horsemen should only pass over my body. The foremost of them was Chimu himself. When he saw that I had no intention of turning aside, he and his companion (who rode behind him) reined in their horses. The cacique was quivering with rage. “My wife has gone off with your negro,” he said, hoarsely. I made no answer. “I saw you help her to mount. You have met her before. Mamcuna shall know of this, and my wife shall die.” Still I made no answer. “Let me pass!” I drew my machete . Chimu drew his and came at me, but he was so poor a swordsman, that I merely played with him, my object being to gain time, and only when the other fellow tried to push past me and get to my left-rear, did I cut the cacique down. On this his companion bolted the way he had come. I galloped after him, more with the intention of frightening than hurting him, and was just on the point of turning back and following the fugitives, when something dropped over my head, my arms were pinioned to my side, and I was dragged from my saddle. The foot-people had lassoed me. Chapter XXV. The Man-Killer. Return to Table of Contents I was as helpless as a man in a strait waistcoat. When I tried to rise, my captors tautened the rope and dragged me along the ground. Resistance being futile, I resigned myself to my fate. On seeing what had happened, the flying brave (a kinsman of Chimu’s) returned, and he and the others held a palaver. As Mamcuna’s affianced husband, I was a person of importance, and they were evidently at a loss how to dispose of me. If they treated me roughly, they might incur her displeasure. The discussion was long and rather stormy. In the result, I was asked whether I would go with them quietly to the queen’s house or be taken thither, nolens volens . On answering that I would go quietly, I was unbound and allowed to mount my horse. I do not think I am a coward, and in helping Señora de la Vega to escape and sending her off with Gahra, I knew that I had done the right thing. Yet I looked forward to the approaching interview with some misgiving. Barbarian though Mamcuna was, I could not help entertaining a certain respect for her. She had treated me handsomely; in offering to make me her husband she had paid me the greatest compliment in her power; and how little soever you may reciprocate the sentiment, it is impossible to think altogether unkindly of the woman who has given you her love. And my conscience was not free from reproach; I had let her think that I loved her—as I now perceived, a great mistake. Courageous herself, she could appreciate courage in others, and had I boldly and unequivocally refused her offer and given my reasons, I did not believe she would have dealt hardly with me. As it was Mamcuna might well say that, having deliberately deceived her, I deserved the utmost punishment which it was in her power to inflict. At the same time, I was not without hope that when she heard my defence she would spare my life. By the time we reached the queen’s house my escort had swollen into a crowd, and one of the caciques went in to inform Mamcuna what had befallen and ask for her instructions. In a few minutes he brought word that the queen would see me and the people who had taken part in my capture forthwith. We found her sitting in her chinchura , in the room where she and I first met. Bather to my surprise she was calm and collected; yet there was a convulsive twitching of her lips and an angry glitter in her eyes that boded ill for my hopes of pardon. “Is it true, this they tell me, señor—that you have been helping Chimu’s wife to escape, and killed Chimu?” she asked. “It is true.” “So you prefer this wretched pale-face woman to me?” “No, Mamcuna.” “Why, then, did you help her to escape and kill her husband? Don’t trifle with me.” “Because I pitied her.” “Why?” “Chimu treated her ill, and she was very wretched. She wanted to go back to her own country, and she has little children at home.” “What was her wretchedness to you? Did you not know that you were incurring my displeasure and risking your own life?” “I did. But a Christian caballero holds it his duty to protect the weak and deliver the oppressed, even at the risk of his own life.” Mamcuna looked puzzled. The sentiment was too fine for her comprehension. “You talk foolishness, señor. No man would run into danger for a woman whom he did not desire to make his own.” “I had no desire to make Señora de la Vega my wife. I would have done the same for any other woman.” “For any other woman! Would you risk your life for me, señor?” “Surely, Mamcuna, if you were in sorrow or distress and I could do you any good thereby.” “It is well, señor; your voice has the ring of truth,” said the queen, softly, and with a gratified smile, “and inasmuch as you went not away with Chimu’s pale-faced wife, but let her depart with the negro—” “The señor would have gone also had we not hindered him,” interposed Chimu’s kinsman. “We saw him lift the woman into the saddle, and he was turning to follow her when Lurin caught him with the lasso.” “Is this true; would you have gone with the woman?” asked the queen, sternly, her smile changing into an ominous frown. “It is true; but let me explain—” “Enough; I will not hear another word. So you would have left me, a daughter of the Incas, who have honored you above all other men, and gone away with a woman you say you do not love! Your heart is full of deceit, your mouth runs over with lies. You shall die; so shall the white woman and the black slave. Where are they? Bring them hither.” The caciques and braves who were present stared at each other in consternation. In their exultation and excitement over my capture the fugitives had been forgotten. “Mules! Idiots! Old women! Follow them and bring them back. They shall be burned in the same fire. As for you, señor, because you cured me of my sickness and were to have been my husband I will let you choose the method of your death. You may either be roasted before a slow fire, hacked to pieces with machetes , or fastened on the back of the man-killer and sent to perish in the desert. Choose.” “Just one word of explanation, Mamcuna. I would fain—” “Silence! or I will have your tongue torn out by the roots. Choose!” “I choose the man-killer.” “You think it will be an easier death than being hacked to pieces. You are wrong. The vultures will peck out your eyes, and you will die of hunger and thirst. But as you have said so let it be. Tie him to the back of the man-killer, men, and chase it into the desert. If you let him escape you die in his place. But treat him with respect; he was nearly my husband.” And then Mamcuna, sinking back into her chinchura , covered her face with her hands; but she showed no sign of relenting, and I was bound with ropes and hurried from the room. The man-killer was a nandu 1 1. The American ostrich. belonging to the queen, and had gained his name by killing one man and maiming several others who unwisely approached him when he was in an evil temper. Save for an occasional outburst of homicidal mania and his abnormal size and strength, the man-killer did not materially differ from the other nandus of Mamcuna’s flock. His keeper controlled the bird without difficulty, and I had several times seen him mount and ride it round an inclosure. The desert, as I have already mentioned, lies between the Cordillera and the Pacific Ocean, stretching almost the entire length of the Peruvian coast, with here and there an oasis watered by one or other of the few streams which do not lose themselves in the sand before they reach the sea. It is a rainless, hideous region of naked rocks and whirling sands, destitute of fresh water and animal life, a region into which, except for a short distance, the boldest traveller cares not to venture. After leaving the queen’s house I was placed in charge of a party of braves commanded by a cacique, and we set out for the place where my expiation was to begin. The nandu, led by his keeper and another man, of course went with us. My conductors, albeit they made no secret of their joy over my downfall, did their mistress’s bidding, and treated me with respect. They loosed my bonds, taking care, however, so to guard me as to render escape impossible, and, when we halted, gave me to eat and drink. But their talk was not encouraging. In their opinion, nothing could save me from a horrible death, probably of thirst. The best that I could hope for was being smothered in a sandstorm. The man-killer would probably go on till he dropped from exhaustion, and then, whether I was alive or dead, birds of prey would pick out my eyes and tear the flesh from my bones. About midday we reached the mountain range which divides Pachatupec from the desert. Anything more lonesome and depressing it were impossible to conceive. Not a tree, not a shrub, not a blade of grass nor any green thing; neither running stream nor gleam of water could be seen. It was a region in which the blessed rain of heaven had not fallen for untold ages, a region of desolation and death, of naked peaks, rugged precipices, and rocky ravines. The heat from the overhead sun, intensified by the reverberations from the great masses of rock around us, and unrelieved by the slightest breath of air, was well-nigh suffocating. Into this plutonic realm we plunged, and, after a scorching ride, reached the head of a pass which led straight down to the desert. Here the cacique in command of the detachment told me, rather to my surprise, that we were to part company. They were already a long way from home and saw no reason why they should go farther. The desert, albeit four or five leagues distant, was quite visible, and, once started down the pass, the nandu would be bound to go thither. He could not climb the rocks to the right or the left, and the braves would take care that he did not return. As objection, even though I had felt disposed to make it, would have been useless, I bowed acquiescence. The thought of resisting had more than once crossed my mind, and, by dint of struggling and fighting, I might have made the nandu so restive that I could not have been fastened on his back. But in that case my second condition would have been worse than my first; I should have been taken back to Pachatupec and either burned alive or hacked to pieces, and, black as seemed the outlook, I clung to the hope that the man-killer would somehow be the means of saving my life. The binding was effected with considerable difficulty. It required the united strength of nearly all the braves to hold the nandu while the cacique and the keepers secured me on his back. As he was let go he kicked out savagely, ripping open with his terrible claws one of the men who had been holding him. The next moment he was striding down the steep and stony pass at a speed which, in a few minutes, left the pursuing and shouting Pachatupecs far behind. The ground was so rough and the descent so rapid that I expected every moment we should come to grief. But on we went like the wind. Never in my life, except in an express train, was I carried so fast. The great bird was either wild with rage or under the impression that he was being hunted. The speed took my breath away; the motion make me sick. He must have done the fifteen miles between the head of the pass and the beginning of the desert in little more than as many minutes. Then, the ground being covered with sand and comparatively level, the nandu slacked his speed somewhat, though he still went at a great pace. The desert was a vast expanse of white sand, the glare of which, in the bright sunshine, almost blinded me, interspersed with stretches of rock, swept bare by the wind, and loose stones. Instead of turning to the right or left, that is to say, to the north or south, as I hoped and expected he would, the man-killer ran straight on toward the sea. As for the distance of the coast from that part of the Cordillera I had no definite idea—perhaps thirty miles, perhaps fifty, perhaps more. But were it a hundred we should not be long in going thither at the speed we were making; and vague hopes, suggesting the possibility of signalling a passing ship or getting away by sea, began to shape themselves in the mind. The nandu could not go on forever; before reaching the sea he must either alter his course or stop, and if he stopped only a few minutes and so gave me a chance of steadying myself I thought that, by the help of my teeth, I might untie one of the cords which the movements of the bird and my own efforts had already slightly loosened, and once my arms were freed the rest would be easy. An hour (as nearly as I could judge) after leaving the Cordillera I sighted the Pacific—a broad expanse of blue water shining in the sun and stretching to the horizon. How eagerly I looked for a sail, a boat, the hut of some solitary fisherman, or any other sign of human presence! But I saw nothing save water and sand; the ocean was as lonesome as the desert. There was no salvation thitherward. Though my hope had been vague, my disappointment was bitter; but a few minutes later all thought of it was swallowed up in a new fear. The sea was below me, and as the ground had ceased to fall I knew that the desert must end on that side in a line of lofty cliffs. I knew, also, that nandus are among the most stupid of bipeds, and it was just conceivable that the man-killer, not perceiving his danger until too late, might go over the cliffs into the sea. The hoarse roar of the waves as they surge against the rocks, at first faint, grows every moment louder and deeper. I see distinctly the land’s end, and mentally calculate from the angle it makes with the ocean, the height of the cliffs. Still the man-killer strides on, as straight as an arrow and as resolutely as if a hundred miles of desert, instead of ten thousand miles of water, stretched before him. Three minutes more and—I set my teeth hard and draw a deep breath. At any rate, it will be an easier end than burning, or dying of thirst—Another moment and— But now the nandu, seeing that he will soon be treading the air, makes a desperate effort to stop short, in which failing he wheels half round, barely in time to save his life and mine, and then courses madly along the brink for miles, as if unable to tear himself away, keeping me in a state of continual fear, for a single slip, or an accidental swerve to the right, and we should have fallen headlong down the rocks, against which the waves are beating. As night closes in he gradually—to my inexpressible relief—draws inland, making in a direction that must sooner or later take us back to the Cordillera, though a long way south of the pass by which we had descended to the desert. But I have hardly sighted the outline of the mighty barrier, looming portentously in the darkness, when he alters his course once again, wenching this time almost due south. And so he continues for hours, seldom going straight, now inclining toward the coast, anon facing toward the Cordillera but always on the southward tack, never turning to the north. It was a beautiful night. The splendor of the purple sky with its myriads of lustrous stars was in striking contrast with the sameness of the white and deathlike desert. A profound melancholy took hold of me. I had ceased to fear, almost to think, my perceptions were blinded by excitement and fatigue, my spirits oppressed by an unspeakable sense of loneliness and helplessness, and the awful silence, intensified rather than relieved by the long drawn moaning of the unseen ocean, which, however far I might be from it, was ever in my ears. I looked up at the stars, and when the cross began to bend I knew that midnight was past, and that in a few hours would dawn another day. What would it bring me—life or death? I hardly cared which; relief from the torture and suspense I was enduring would be welcome, come how it might. For I suffered cruelly; I had a terrible thirst. The cords chafed my limbs and cut into my flesh. Every movement gave an exquisite pain; I was continually on the rack; rest, even for a moment, was impossible, as, though the nandu had diminished his speed, he never stopped. And then a wind came up from the sea, bringing with it clouds of dust, which well-nigh choked and half blinded me; filled my ears and intensified my thirst. After a while a strange faintness stole over me; I felt as if I were dying, my eyes closed, my head sank on my breast, and I remembered no more. Chapter XXVI. Angela. Return to Table of Contents “ Regardez mon père, regardez! Il va mieux, le pauvre homme. ” “ C’est ça, ma fille chérie, faites le boire. ” I open my eyes with an effort, for the dust of the desert has almost blinded me. I am in a beautiful garden, leaning against the body of the dead ostrich, a lovely girl is holding a cup of water to my parched lips, and an old man of benevolent aspect stands by her side. “ Merci mademoiselle, vous etes bien bonne ,” I murmur. “Oh, father, he speaks French.” “This passes comprehension. Are you French, monsieur?” “No, English.” “English! This is stranger still. But whence come you, and who bound you on the nandu?” “I will tell you—a little more water, I pray you, mademoiselle.” “Let him drink again, Angela—and dash some water in his face; he is faint.” “ Le pauvre homme! See how his lips are swollen! Do you feel better, monsieur?” she asked compassionately, again putting the cup to my lips. “Much. A thousand thanks. I can answer your question now (to the old man). I was bound on the nandu by order of the Queen of the Pachatupec Indians.” “The Pachatupec Indians! I have heard of them. But they are a long way off; more than a hundred leagues of desert lies between us and the Pachatupec country. Are you quite sure, monsieur?” “Quite. And seeing that the nandu went at great speed, though not always in a direct line, and we must have been going fifteen or sixteen hours, I am not surprised that we have travelled so far.” “ Mon dieu! And all that time you have neither eaten nor drunk. No wonder you are exhausted! Come with us, and we will give you something more invigorating than water. You shall tell us your story afterward—if you will.” I tried to rise, but my stiffened and almost paralyzed limbs refused to move. “Let us help you. Take his other arm, Angela—thus, Now!” And with that they each gave me a hand and raised me to my feet. “How was it? Who killed the nandu?” I asked as I hobbled on between them. “We saw the creature coming toward us with what looked like a dead man on his back, and as he did not seem disposed to stop I told Angela, who is a famous archer, to draw her bow and shoot him. He fell dead where he now lies, and when we saw that, though unconscious, you still lived, we unloosed you.” “And saved my life. Might I ask to whom I am indebted for this great service, and to what beautiful country the nandu has brought me?” “Say nothing about the service, my dear sir. Helping each other in difficulty and distress is a duty we owe to Heaven and our common humanity. I count your coming a great blessing. You are the first visitor we have had for many years, and the Abbé Balthazar gives you a warm welcome to San Cristobal de Quipai. The name is of good omen, Quipai being an Indian word which signifies ‘Rest Here,’ and I shall be glad for you to rest here so long as it may please you.” “Nigel Fortescue, formerly an officer in the British Army, at present a fugitive and a wanderer, tenders you his warmest thanks, and gratefully accepts your hospitality—And now that we know each other, Monsieur l’Abbé, might I ask the favor of an introduction to the young lady to whom I owe my deliverance from the nandu?” “She is Angela, monsieur. My people call her Señorita Angela. It pleases me sometimes to speak of her as Angela Dieu-donnée, for she was sent to us by God, and ever since she came among us she has been our good angel.” “I am sure she has. Nobody with so sweet a face could be otherwise than good,” I said, with an admiring glance at the beautiful girl which dyed the damask of her cheek a yet deeper crimson. It was no mere compliment. In all my wanderings I have not beheld the equal of Angela Dieu-donnée. Though I can see her now, though I learned to paint in order that, however inadequately, I might make her likeness, I am unable to describe her; words can give no idea of the comeliness of her face, the grace of her movements, and the shapeliness of her form. I have seen women with skins as fair, hair as dark, eyes as deeply blue, but none with the same brightness of look and sweetness of disposition, none with courage as high, temper as serene. To look at Angela was to love her, though as yet I knew not that I had regained my liberty only to lose my heart. My feelings at the moment oscillated between admiration of her and a painful sense of my own disreputable appearance. Bareheaded and shoeless, covered with the dust of the desert, clad only in a torn shirt and ragged trousers, my arms and legs scored with livid marks, I must have seemed a veritable scarecrow. Angela looked like a queen, or would have done were queens ever so charming, or so becomingly attired. Her low-crowned hat was adorned with beautiful flowers; a loose-fitting alpaca robe of light blue set off her form to the best advantage, and round her waist was a golden baldrick which supported a sheaf of arrows. At her breast was an orchid which in Europe would have been almost priceless, her shapely arms were bare to the shoulder, and her sandaled feet were innocent of hosen. I was wondering who could have designed this costume, in which there was a savor of the pictures of Watteau and the court of Versailles, how so lovely a creature could have found her way to a place so remote as San Cristobal de Quipai, when the abbé resumed the conversation. “Angela came to us as strangely and unexpectedly as you have come, Monsieur Nigel” (he found my Christian name the easier to pronounce), “and, like you, without any volition on her part or previous knowledge of our existence. But there is this difference between you: she came as a little child, you come as a grown man. Sixteen years ago we had several severe earthquakes. They did us little harm down here, but up on the Cordillera they wrought fearful havoc, and the sea rose and there was a great storm, and several ships were dashed to pieces against our iron-bound coast, which no mariner willingly approaches. The morning after the tempest there was found on the edge of the cliffs a cot in which lay a rosy-cheeked babe. How it came to pass none could tell, but we all thought that the cot must have been fastened to a board, which became detached from the cot at the very moment when the sea threw it on the land. The babe was just able to lisp her name—‘Angela,’ which corresponded with the name embroidered on her clothing. This is all we know about her; and I greatly fear that those to whom she belonged perished in the storm. Even the wreckage that was washed ashore furnished no clew; it was part of two different vessels. The little waif was brought to me and with me she has ever since remained.” “And will always remain, dear father,” said Angela, regarding the old priest with loving reverence. “All that I lost in the storm has he been to me—father, mother, instructor, and friend. You see here, monsieur, the best and wisest man in all the world.” “You have had so wide an experience of the world and of men, mignonne !” returned the abbé, with an amused smile. “Sir, since she could speak she has seen two white men. You are the second.—Ah, well, if I were not afraid you would think we had constituted ourselves into a mutual admiration society I should be tempted to say something even more complimentary about her.” “Say it, Monsieur l’Abbé, say it, I pray you,” I exclaimed, eagerly, for it pleased me more than I can tell to hear him sound Angela’s praises. “Nay, I would rather you learned to appreciate her from your own observation. Yet I will say this much. She is the brightness of my life, the solace of my old age, and so good that even praise does not spoil her. But you look tired; shall we sit down on this fallen log and rest a few minutes?” To this proposal I gladly assented, for I was spent with fatigue and faint with hunger. Angela, however, after glancing at me compassionately and saying she would be back in a few minutes, went a little farther and presently returned with a bunch of grapes. “Eat these,” she said, “they will refresh you.” It was a simple act of kindness; but a simple act of kindness, gracefully performed, is often an index of character, and I felt sure that the girl had a kind heart and deserved all the praise bestowed on her by the abbé. I was thanking her, perhaps more warmly than the occasion required, when she stopped the flow of my eloquence by reminding me that I had not yet told them why the Indian queen caused me to be fastened on the back of the nandu . On this hint I spoke, and though the abbé suggested that I was too tired for much talking, I not only answered the question but briefly narrated the main facts of my story, reserving a fuller account for a future occasion. Both listened with rapt attention; but of the two Angela was the more eager listener. She several times interrupted me with requests for information as to matters which even among European children are of common knowledge, for, though the abbé was a man of high learning and she an apt pupil, her experience of life was limited to Quipai; and he had been so long out of the world that he had almost forgotten it. As for news, he was worse off than Fray Ignacio. He had heard of the First Consul but nothing of the Emperor Napoleon, and when I told him of the restoration of the Bourbons he shed tears of joy. “Thank God!” he exclaimed, fervently, “France is once more ruled by a son of St. Louis. The tricolor is replaced by the fleur-de-lis . You are our second good angel, Monsieur Fortescue; you bring us glad tidings of great joy—You smile, but I am persuaded that Providence has led you hither in so strange a way for some good purpose, and as I venture to hope, in answer to my prayers; for albeit our lives here are so calm and happy, and I have been the means of bringing a great work to a successful issue, it is not in the nature of things that men should be free from care, and my mind has lately been troubled with forebodings—” “And you never told me, father!” said Angela, reproachfully. “What are they, these forebodings?” “Why should you be worried with an old man’s difficulties? One has reference to my people, the other—but never mind the other. It may be that already a way has been opened.—If you feel sufficiently rested, Monsieur Nigel, I think we had better proceed. A short walk will bring us to San Cristobal, and it would be well for us to get thither before the heat of the day.” I protested that the rest and the bunch of grapes had so much refreshed me that I felt equal to a long walk, and we moved on. “What a splendid garden!” I exclaimed for the third or fourth time as we entered an alley festooned with trailing flowers and grape-vines from which the fruit hung in thick clusters. “All Quipai is a garden,” said the abbé, proudly. “We have fruit and flowers and cereals all the year round, thanks to the great azequia (aqueduct) which the Incas built and I restored. And such fruit! Let him taste a chirimoya ma fille chèrie .” From a tree about fifteen feet high Angela plucked a round green fruit, not unlike an apple, but covered with small knobs and scales. Then she showed me how to remove the skin, which covered a snow-white juicy pulp of exquisite fragrance and a flavor that I hardly exaggerated in calling divine. It was a fruit fit for the gods, and so I said. “We owe it all to the great azequia ,” observed the abbé. “See, it feeds these rills and fills those fountains, waters our fields, and makes the desert bloom like the rose and the dry places rejoice. And we have not only fruit and flowers, but corn, coffee, cocoa, yuccas, potatoes, and almost every sort of vegetable.” “Quipai is a land of plenty and a garden of delight.” “A most apt description, and so long as the great azequia is kept in repair and the system of irrigation which I have established is maintained it will remain a land of plenty and a garden of delight.” “And if any harm should befall the azequia ?” “In that case, and if our water-supply were to fail, Quipai, as you see it now, would cease to exist. The desert, which we are always fighting and have so far conquered, would regain the mastery, and the mission become what I found it, a little oasis at the foot of the Cordillera, supporting with difficulty a few score families of naked Indians. One of these days, if you are so disposed, you shall follow the course of the azequia and see for yourself with what a marvellous reservoir, fed by Andean snows, Nature has provided us. But more of this another time. Look! Yonder is San Cristobal, our capital as I sometimes call it, though little more than a village.” The abbé said truly. It was little more than a village; but as gay, as picturesque, and as bright as a scene in an opera—two double rows of painted houses forming a large oval, the space between them laid out as a garden with straight walks and fountains and clipped shrubs, after the fashion of Versailles; in the centre a church and two other buildings, one of which, as the abbé told me, was a school, the other his own dwelling. The people we met saluted him with great humility, and he returned their salutations quite en grand seigneur , even, as I thought, somewhat haughtily. One woman knelt in the road, kissed his hand, and asked for his blessing, which he gave like the superior being she obviously considered him. It was the same in the village. Everybody whom we met or passed stood still and uncovered. There could be no question who was master in San Cristobal. Abbé Balthazar was both priest and king, and, as I afterward came to know, there was every reason why he should be. He kept a large establishment, for the country, and lived in considerable state. On entering his house, which was surrounded by a veranda and embowered in trees, the abbé, asked if I would like a bath, and on my answering in the affirmative ordered one of the servants, all of whom spoke Spanish, to take me to the bath-room and find me a suit of clothes. The bath made me feel like another man, and the fresh garments effected as great a change in my personal appearance. There was not much difficulty about the fit. A cotton undershirt, a blue jacket with silver buttons, a red sash, white breeches, loose at the knee, and a pair of sandals, and I was fully attired. Stockings I had to dispense with. They were not in vogue at San Cristobal. When I was ready, the servant, who had acted as my valet, conducted me to the dining-room, where I found Angela and the abbé. “ Parbleu! ” exclaimed the latter, who occasionally indulged in expressions that were not exactly clerical. “ Parbleu! I had no idea that a bath and clean raiment could make so great an improvement in a man’s appearance. That costume becomes you to admiration, Monsieur Nigel. Don’t you think so, Angela?” “You forget, father, that he is the only caballero I ever saw. Are all caballeros like him?” “Very few, I should say. It is a long time since I saw any; but even at the court of Louis XV. I do not remember seeing many braver looking gentlemen than our guest.” As I bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment Angela gave me a quick glance, blushed deeply, and then, turning to the abbé, proposed that we should take our places at the table. I was so hungry that even an indifferent meal would have seemed a luxurious banquet, but the repast set before us might have satisfied an epicure. We had a delicious soup, something like mutton-cutlets, land-turtle steaks, and capon, all perfectly cooked; vegetables and fruit in profusion, and the wine was as good as any I had tasted in France or Spain. After dinner coffee was served and the abbé inquired whether I would retire to my room and have a sleep, or smoke a cigarette with him and Angela on the veranda. In ordinary circumstances I should probably have preferred to sleep; but I was so fascinated with Mademoiselle Dieu-donnée, so excited by all that I had seen and heard, so curious to know the history of this French priest, who talked of the court of Louis XV., who had created a country and a people, and contrived, in a region so remote from civilization, to surround himself with so many luxuries, that I elected without hesitation for the cigarettes and the veranda. Chapter XXVII. Abbé Balthazar. Return to Table of Contents Though my wounds had not ceased their smarting nor my bones their aching my happiness was complete. The splendid prospect before me, the glittering peaks of the Cordillera, the gleaming waters of the far Pacific, the gardens and fountains of San Cristobal, the charm of Angela’s presence, and the abbé’s conversation made me oblivious to the past and careless of the future. The hardships and perils I had lately undergone, my weary wanderings in the wilderness, the dull monotony of the Happy Valley, the passage of the Andes, my terrible ride on the nandu , all were forgotten. The contrast between my by-gone miseries and present surroundings added zest to my enjoyment. I felt as one suddenly transported from Hades to Elysium, and it required an effort to realize that it was not all a dream, destined to end in a rude awaking. After some talk about Europe, the revolt of the Spanish colonies, and my recent adventures, the abbé gave me an account of his life and adventures. The scion of a noble French family, he had been first a page of honor at Versailles, then an officer of the garde du corps , and among the gayest of the gay. But while yet a youth some terrible event on which he did not like to dwell—a disastrous love affair, a duel in which he killed one who had been his friend—wrought so radical a change in his character and his ideals that he resigned his commission, left the court, and joined the Society of Jesus, under the name of Balthazar. Being a noble he became an abbé (though he had never an abbey) as a matter of course, and full of religious ardor and thirsting for distinction in his new calling he volunteered to go out as a missionary among the wild tribes of South America. After long wanderings, and many hardships, Balthazar and two fellow priests accidentally discovered Quipai, at that time a mere collection of huts on the banks of a small stream which descended from the gorges of the Cordillera only to be lost in the sands of the desert. But all around were remains which showed that Quipai had once been a place of importance and the seat of a large population—ruined buildings of colossal dimensions, heaps of quarried stones, a cemetery rich in relics of silver and gold; and a great azequia , in many places still intact, had brought down water from the heart of the mountains for the irrigation of the rainless region of the coast. Balthazar had moreover heard of the marvellous system of irrigation whereby the Incas had fertilized nearly the whole of the Peruvian desert; and as he surveyed the ruins he conceived the great idea of restoring the aqueduct and repeopling the neighboring waste. To this task he devoted his life. His first proceeding was to convert the Indians and found a mission, which he called San Cristobal de Quipai; his next to show them how to make the most of the water-privileges they already possessed. A reservoir was built, more land brought under cultivation, and the oasis rendered capable of supporting a larger population. The resulting prosperity and the abbé’s fame as a physician (he possessed a fair knowledge of medicine) drew other Indians to Quipai. After a while the gigantic undertaking was begun, and little by little, and with infinite patience and pain accomplished. It was a work of many years, and when I travelled the whole length of the azequia I marvelled greatly how the abbé, with the means at his command, could have achieved an enterprise so arduous and vast. The aqueduct, nearly twenty leagues in length, extended from the foot of the snow-line to a valley above Quipai, the water being taken thence in stone-lined canals and wooden pipes to the seashore. In several places the azequia was carried on lofty arches over deep ravines: and there were two great reservoirs, both remarkable works. The upper one was the crater of an extinct volcano, of unknown depth, which contained an immense quantity of water. It took so long to fill that the abbé, as he laughingly told me, began to think that there must be a hole in the bottom. But in the end it did fill to the very brim, and always remained full. The second reservoir, a dammed up valley, was just below the first; it served to break the fall from the higher to the lower level and receive the overflow from the crater. A bursting of either of the reservoirs was quite out of the question; at any rate the abbé so assured me, and certainly the crater looked strong enough to hold all the water in the Andes, could it have been got therein, while the lower reservoir was so shallow—the out-flow and the loss by evaporation being equal to the in-take—that even if the banks were to give way no great harm could be done. I mention these particulars because they have an important bearing on events that afterward befell, and on my own destiny. Only a born engineer and organizer of untiring energy and illimitable patience could have performed so herculean a labor. Balthazar was all this, and more. He knew how to rule men despotically yet secure their love. The Indians did his bidding without hesitation and wrought for him without pay. In the absence of this quality his task had never been done. On the other hand, he owed something to fortune. All the materials were ready to his hand. He built with the stone quarried by the Incas. His work suffered no interruption from frost or snow or rain. His very isolation was an advantage. He had neither enemies to fear, friends to please, nor government officers to propitiate. On the landward side Quipai was accessible only by difficult and little known mountain-passes which nobody without some strong motive would care to traverse, and passing ships might be trusted to give a wide berth to an iron-bound coast destitute alike of harbors and trade. So it came to pass that, albeit the mission of Quipai was in the dominion of the King of Spain, none of his agents knew of its existence, his writs did not run there, and Balthazar treated the royal decree for the expulsion of the Jesuits from South America (of which he heard two or three years after its promulgation) with the contempt that he thought it deserved. Nevertheless, he deemed it the part of prudence to maintain his isolation more rigidly than ever, and make his communications with the outer world few and far between, for had it become known to the captain-general of Peru that there was a member of the proscribed order in his vice-royalty, even at so out of the way a place as Quipai he would have been sent about his business without ceremony. The possibility of this contingency was always in the abbé’s mind. For a time it caused him serious disquiet; but as the years went on and no notice was taken of him his mind became easier. The news I brought of the then recent events in Spain and the revolt of her colonies made him easier. The viceroy would have too many irons in the fire to trouble himself about the mission of Quipai and its chief, even if they should come to his knowledge, which was to the last degree improbable. We sat talking for several hours, and should probably have talked longer had not the abbé kindly yet peremptorily insisted on my retiring to rest. Early next morning we started on an excursion to the valley lake, each of us mounted on a fine mule from the abbé’s stables, and attended by an arriero . North as well as south of San Cristobal (as the village was generally called) the country had the same garden-like aspect. There was none of the tangled vegetation which in tropical forests impedes the traveller’s progress; except where they had been planted by the roadside for protection from the sun, or bent over the water-courses, the trees grew wide apart like trees in a park. Men and women were busy in the fields and plantations, for the abbé had done even a more wonderful thing than restoring the great azequia —converted a tribe of indolent aborigines into an industrious community of husbandmen and craftsmen; among them were carpenters, smiths, masons, weavers, dyers, and cunning workers in silver and gold. The secret of his power was the personal ascendancy of a strong man, the naturally docile character of his converts, the inflexible justice which characterized all his dealings with them, and the belief assiduously cultivated, that as he had been their benefactor in this world he could control their destinies in the next. Though he never punished he was always obeyed, and there was probably not a man or woman under his sway who would have hesitated to obey him, even to death. The lake was small yet picturesque, its verdant banks deepening by contrast the dark desolation of the arid mountains in which it was embosomed. Some three thousand feet above it rose the extinct volcano, the slopes of which in the days of the Incas were terraced and cultivated. Angela and I half rode, half walked to the top; but the abbé, on the plea that he had some business to look after, stayed at the bottom. The crater was about eight hundred yards in diameter and filled nearly to the brim with crystal water, which outflowed by a wide and well made channel into the lake, the supply being kept up by the in-flow from the azequia , whose course we could trace far into the mountains. The view from our coigne of vantage was unspeakably grand. Behind us rose the stupendous range of the Andes, with its snow-white peaks and smoking volcanoes; before us the oasis of Quipai rolled like a river of living green to the shores of the measureless ocean, whose shining waters in that clear air and under that azure sky seemed only a few miles away, while, as far as the eye could reach, the coast-line was fringed with the dreary waste where I had so nearly perished. The oasis, as I now for the first time discovered, was a valley, a broad shallow depression in the desert falling in a gentle slope from the foot of the Cordillera to the sea, whereby its irrigation was greatly facilitated. “How beautiful Quipai looks, and how like a river!” said Angela. “That is what I always think when I come here—how like a river!” “Who knows that long ago the valley was not the bed of a river!” “It must be very long ago, then, before there was any Cordillera. Rain-clouds never cross the Andes, and for untold ages there can have been no rain here on the coast.” “You are right. Without rain you cannot have much of a river, and if the azequia were to fail there would be very little left of Quipai.” “Don’t suggest anything so dreadful as the failure of the azequia . It is the Palladium of the mission and the source of all our prosperity and happiness. Besides, how could it fail? You see how solidly it is built, and every month it is carefully inspected from end to end.” “It might be destroyed by an earthquake.” “You are pleased to be a Job’s comforter, Monsieur Nigel. Damaged it might be, but hardly destroyed, except in some cataclysm which would destroy everything, and that is a risk which, like all dwellers in countries subject to earthquakes, we must run. We cannot escape from the conditions of our existence; and life is so pleasant here, we are spared so many of the miseries which afflict our fellow-creatures in other parts of the world—war, pestilence, strife, and want—that it were as foolish and ungrateful to make ourselves unhappy because we are exposed to some remote danger against which we cannot guard, as to repine because we cannot live forever.”