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.