CHAPTER XV

THE NEW LIFE

Nearly seven years had elapsed since Power had either seen a man of his own race, or heard civilized speech. During all that time, save when he spoke aloud in self-communing, or hummed the half-remembered words of a song, he had neither uttered, nor read, nor written a word of English.

One literary treasure, indeed, had come his way, and he made good use of it.

Some men of the tribe, digging one day for truffles, broke into a cave, in which there was a skeleton. Among the bones, wrapped in soft leather and parchment, the Indians found a book, which they brought to their white leader. It was an illuminated Book of Hours, or "Horae Beatae Mariae Virginis," written in Latin and Spanish, and, as Power ascertained subsequently, the work of an Italian of the fifteenth century. No more beautiful example of the exquisite cla.s.sical Renaissance period could be produced by the Vatican library. The character in the figures and naturalness in the landscapes bespoke a ripe art, and many of the vellum pages were bordered by the solid frame which gives full scope to the artist's fancy by its facilities for the introduction of medallions, vignettes, twisted Lombardic vines, cupids, fawns, colored gems, and birds of brilliant plumage. Veritably, this "Horae" was more precious than if its leaves were of solid gold; its value to Power in those lonely hours was of a spring in the desert to a parched traveler.

Despite such an invaluable stimulus to his mind, however, it was almost with difficulty, and certainly with marked hesitancy, that he was able now to arrange the words of a sentence in their ordered sequence, and often he found his tongue involuntarily lending an Indian twist to idiomatic expressions. But his labored utterance was either not so marked as he imagined, or his host was so surprised at meeting a white man so far from civilization that he could not repress his own excitement. At the outset, too, the instinct of hospitality helped to relieve the tension.

"Can I offer you anything in the way of refreshment--some whisky, or tea, or a cigar?" came the courteous inquiry.

"A cigar, by all means. I have not smoked one for so long a time that I have forgotten what it is like."

"It is pretty evident you have been living among the Indians," said the other, pa.s.sing him a cigar-case. "How in the world did you contrive to get lost in these parts? You did not come through Patagonia, I fancy?"

Power took thought before answering. Some half-atrophied emotion stirred within him.

"Patagonia? Is this country Patagonia?" he said at last.

"Yes. Do you mean to say you don't know that?"

"I had a notion that it was the Argentine. My Indian friends invariably speak of the white inhabitants as Argentinos."

"But how did you get here?"

"By crossing the Andes."

"With a party?"

"No, alone."

His questioner whistled. "By Jove!" he cried, "you had your nerve with you."

"I couldn't help myself. I was a prisoner in the hands of a Trans-Andean tribe, and they turned me adrift. I had to win through somehow, or die."

"What's your name, anyhow?"

"John Darien Power."

"Mine's Sinclair--George Sinclair. Well, Mr. Power, this is a fortunate meeting for both of us. You could never have reached the coast if you had not fallen in with just such an outfit as mine, because there are the devil's own breeds of Indians prowling about the last hundred and fifty miles of this river. Luckily, they dare not attack forty well-armed men; but, if looks count, they are willing for the job should an opportunity offer. We simply couldn't secure a guide; so decided to follow the river all the way, especially as it made transport fairly easy, except at the rapids. Now you, on the other hand, can tell us just what we want to know. Is the stream practicable much farther? What sort of country lies between this point and the snow-line?"

"Yes, I can tell you those things, and a good deal more. What is the object of your expedition? Gold?"

Sinclair laughed rather constrainedly. "I suppose that is the bedrock of the proposition," he said. "A bit of science, a bit of prospecting, a last glimpse at a country which is not marked on any map before I leave Patagonia for good--there you have the scheme in a nutsh.e.l.l."

"Are you willing to turn back now?"

"No. Why should we? We have come close on three hundred miles; another fifty, or less, should see us close to the frontier of Chile."

"But you may sacrifice your lives."

"No Indians can stop us--let me a.s.sure you of that, straight away."

"Won't you let me mark your maps? I can supply every detail with sufficient accuracy."

"Allow me to suggest that I am a business man, Mr. Power, and I mean this expedition to pay its way."

"Ah! It is gold you really have in mind, then? But there is no gold."

"Now you are talking nonsense. We have found it."

"You have found alluvial gold. There are few fast-running streams in the world which do not contain gold in that form. The denudation of the Andes is so extraordinarily rapid that it would be a singular fact if this river did not yield float gold. But the metal is not, and cannot be, present in paying quant.i.ties. The primary sources of gold are reefs, either in quartz or in metalliferous veins of galena and the various pyrites. There are none of these in the lower Andean range, which is composed almost exclusively of crystalline schist with a slight blend of basalt. I am a mining engineer, Mr. Sinclair, and I know what I am talking about. If you could put the entire southern Cordillera through a mill, you would not secure a pennyweight of gold to the ton."

Sinclair, of course, could not appreciate the remarkable way in which Power's tongue loosened in dealing with the familiar jargon of his profession. For the time he was far more concerned with what he deemed a real marvel.

"A mining engineer, and your name is Power! Surely you can't be the Mr.

Power who sailed from San Francisco to Valparaiso on the _Panama_ seven years ago?" he cried.

"I am."

"But, excuse me, there must be some mistake. My daughter, Marguerite Sinclair, who was on board that vessel, spoke of a Mr. Power; but he was a young man. Of course, time does not stand still for any of us; but this Mr. Power would now be thirty-five, or thereabouts."

"That is my age."

"Thirty-five?"

"Yes."

Sinclair bent forward and peered into his visitor's eyes; it was difficult to detect any play of expression in the bearded face. "Are you really the man my daughter met on that steamer?" he asked, and there was a note of solemnity, almost of awe, in his voice. This anchorite seemed nearer sixty than thirty-five.

"Yes, I remember her perfectly--a charming girl. She had suffered some injury to her face during an attack by Indians on her father's ranch. Of course, you are her father?"

"Yes. But, tell me, Mr. Power--have you any notion of the extraordinary appearance you present? You force me to be blunt. You look like a man nearly twice your age."

"Lend me a scissors and a razor, and I shall remove a decade or two.

Remember, I have lived as an Indian for seven years."

"I'll do more than that. I can give you some clothes and boots. G.o.d bless my soul! how surprised Meg will be! I recollect now she told me that her Mr. Power walked with a limp. But it's a far cry to Carmen.

I----"

"Carmen, did you say?"

"Yes, why?"