"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 n.o.ble 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 carca.s.s 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 carca.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 Ma.s.sa 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, ma.s.sa, you know, is so honoribic dat he wouldn't deceive n.o.body--not even a skeeter."

"I knows _dat_, Sooz'n, not even a n.i.g.g.e.r."

"Ob course not," continued Susan; "so what does ma.s.sa 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 ma.s.sa 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," a.s.sented 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."