"Your first letter was quite satisfactory. I was glad to find that you had reached Lima without encountering more than a stiffish gale, which was as well as you could have expected. I was still more glad that you had found Dias alive and willing to accompany you. Your letter from Cuzco has now reached me. I think you were extremely lucky to get through that street broil without any damage to either of you. It was certainly a hazardous business to interfere in an affair of that kind without having any weapons except the sticks you carried. Still, I can well understand that, as you would certainly have lost the services of Dias had you not done so, it was worth running a good deal of risk; and, as you say, it had the natural effect of binding him to you heart and soul.

"I feel very uneasy about you both, and have blamed myself many a time for suggesting this scheme to you. I can only say that it is really the only possible way in which it seemed to me you could carry out the task set you. In fairy stories it is, so far as I can remember, a not uncommon thing for a king to set some task, that appears absolutely hopeless, to the suitors for his daughter's hand, and the hero always accomplishes the impossible. But this is always done with the a.s.sistance of some good fairy, and unfortunately good fairies are not to be met with in the present day. I have great faith in Dias, but fear that he is a very poor subst.i.tute for a fairy G.o.dmother. Still, I am convinced that he will do all in his power, and will even strain his conscience severely, by conducting you to places where his traditions lead him to believe that gold, either in the shape of mines or hidden treasure, is to be found.

"Your search will not improbably lead you into places where the Indians have won back their own from the civilization introduced by the Spaniards, and I have always heard that on the eastern side of the Cordilleras the natives entertain a deadly hatred for whites, and attack all who endeavour to penetrate into the forest. Don't be too rash, lad. Remember that it will not add to your lady-love's happiness to learn that you have been ma.s.sacred in your attempt to carry out your knight-errant adventure, and if you are careless about your own life, don't forget that its loss will probably entail the loss of your brother's also. Dangers, of course, you must meet and face, but remember that prudence is a valuable aid to bravery.

"I am glad to know that Dias has taken his wife with him. A woman is a very useful adjunct to an expedition such as yours. Of course in some ways she is necessarily a trouble, and always a responsibility. Still, if, as you say is the case with her, she is a good cook, this makes a wonderful difference in your comfort, and certainly adds to the chance of your preserving your health. And in the next place, should you fall ill, or be mauled by a tiger or puma, she will make a far better nurse than Dias himself would be. Now that you are cutting yourself adrift from civilization, I shall not expect to hear from you again for a long time. I shall try and not be uneasy; but really, Harry, I do feel that I have incurred a very heavy responsibility, and may, with the best intentions in the world, have sent you and Bertie to your death. I have, as you directed me, addressed this to the care of our consul, and it must be many months before you receive it, many months more before I again hear from you. Should you require more money, draw upon me. I have always a good balance standing at the bank, therefore do not hesitate to draw, in case the amount sent out to you quarterly does not prove sufficient to carry out any scheme you may have in hand.

"With all good wishes for your own and Bertie's welfare,

"I remain,

"Your affectionate guardian,

"JAMES BARNETT."

When he returned to the hotel he handed Mr. Barnett's letter to Bertie to read, and said:

"Stop down here in the patio, Bertie; I have two letters that I want to read quietly."

Bertie laughed.

"All right, Harry; take your time over them; I won't disturb you."

It was dusk now, and when Harry went to his room he lit a couple of candles and seated himself in a large cane arm-chair and opened his letters.

The first one consisted chiefly of expressions of pleasure at his arrival at Callao, of remarks upon the voyage, of complaints as to the long time that had pa.s.sed without news of him, and of a.s.surances of affection.

The second was, like Mr. Barnett's, in reply to his letter from Cuzco.

"My dearest Harry,

"After reading your letter I have been more and more impressed with my heartlessness in allowing you to undertake such a journey as you have before you. I ought to have been braver. I ought to have refused absolutely to allow you to go. The prospect of your being able to overcome my father's objections really amounts to nothing, and I ought to have said that I would not accept the sacrifice, and would not allow you to run such risks; that it would be better and kinder for both of us to accept the inevitable, and not enter upon such a struggle with fate.

"Do not think that I am already growing weary of waiting, and that my heart is in any way changed. It is not that. It is anxiety about you, and the feeling how wrong I was to let you go. Were there even a shadow of chance of your success I would wait patiently for years. I do not say that my life is a pleasant one. It is not. My father is still bitterly angry with me for, as he says, throwing away my chances; that is to say, of marrying a man I do not care for, simply because he is rich. But I can bear that. Mother is very very good, and does all in her power to cheer me; but, as you know, she has never been much more than a cipher, accustomed always to submit to my father's will, and it is wonderful to me that in our matter she has ventured, not openly to oppose him, but to give me what strength and comfort she can.

"I hardly know how I should have got on without her comfort. My father hardly speaks to me. He treats me as if I had been convicted of some deadly sin, and is only restrained from punishing me in some way because, by some blunder or other, contumacy against the will of a father has been omitted from the penal code. Seriously, Harry, it makes me unhappy, not only for myself but for him. Until I was unable to give in to him in this question he has always been the kindest of fathers. I am sure he feels this estrangement between us almost as much as I do, but believes that he is acting for my good; and it is a great pain to him that I cannot see the matter in the same light as he does. Of course to me it is most ridiculous that he should suppose that my happiness depends upon having a t.i.tle, and cutting a figure at court, and that sort of thing; but there is no arguing over it, and I am as thoroughly convinced that my view is the correct one as he is that it is utter folly.

"However, I am almost as sorry for him as for myself, and would do almost anything short of giving you up to make him happy. However, do not think that I am very miserable, because I am not. Somehow, though I can't give any good reason for my belief, I do think you will succeed.

I do not say that I think for a moment you are likely to come home with the sum my father named as necessary; that seems to be quite hopeless.

But I think somehow you may succeed in doing well; and though some people might consider that he was justified in refusing his consent to what he might think was a bad match, he could not do so with any justice were I to determine upon marrying a gentleman with some fortune. He thinks a great deal of public opinion, and would know that even chat would be against him. But Indeed, Harry, I am beginning to doubt whether in the end I shall be able to sacrifice my life to his unfortunate mania, that I must marry what he calls well. I love you, and told him that if at the end of two years you were not in a position to claim my hand, I would give in to my father's wishes. I will keep my promise so far, that I will not run away with you or marry you in defiance of his command. But as I have agreed to wait for two years for you, I may ask you to wait another two years for me.

"When I think of you going through all sorts of dangers and hardships for my sake, I feel that it would be downright wickedness to turn against you if you find that you cannot perform an impossible task.

Instead of this separation making you less dear to me, it is affecting me in quite the other way. My thoughts are always with you. How could it be otherwise? I have worked myself up to such a pitch that I have almost resolved that, when the two years are up, I will say to my father: 'I shall ask Harry to release me from my promise to him, and for two years, Father, I will go about and allow men a fair chance of winning my love. If at the end of that time I have met no one to whom I can give my heart, I will then go my own way, and if Harry will take me I will marry him.' It will require a great deal of courage to say so; but you are doing so much to try and win me, that it would be hard indeed if I were to shrink from doing a little on my part.

"Still, it would make it easier for me if you should have the good fortune to bring home something; not because, as I have told you many times, I should shrink for a moment from renouncing all the luxuries in which I have been brought up, and for which I care so little, but because it would, in his eyes, be a proof of how earnestly you have striven to do what you could to meet his requirements. I did not mean to say this when I began my letter, but it seems to me that it will give you heart and strength in your work, and that you will see from it that I, too, have taken my courage in my hand, and show you that your love and faithfulness shall some day have the reward they deserve.

"G.o.d bless you and keep you, dearest,

"Your loving HILDA."

Harry read the letter through again and again, and at last Bertie came in.

"What! at it still, Harry?" he said with a laugh. "You must have got your letters by heart by this time. I have been sitting in the patio by myself for two mortal hours expecting you to come down. At last I said to myself, 'This sort of thing will bring on madness. When a healthy sailor forgets that his brother is waiting for supper, to say nothing of himself, it is clear that there is something radically wrong.'"

"It is evident, Bertie, that at present you know nothing of human nature. If there had been anything radically wrong in this letter I should probably have been down long ago. It is just the contrary. Hilda says that if I don't succeed here, she will give herself, or rather her father, two years, and at the end of that time, if she doesn't find someone she likes better, she will marry me, whether he likes it or not--at least, that is what it comes to."

"I congratulate you, old boy. At the same time, it is evident that she would not have been worth her salt if she had arrived at any other conclusion. Now, having settled that comfortably, let us go and have something to eat. You appear to forget altogether that you have had nothing since breakfast, and it is now past eight o'clock."

"You boys think of nothing but eating," Harry grumbled.

"Well, up till now, Harry, from the time we started, I have observed that you have a very healthy appet.i.te yourself, and I can tell you it has cost me half a dollar in bribing the cook to stay on beyond his usual hour. I did not like to tell him that you were engaged in reading a love-letter fifty times, so I put it delicately and said that you were engaged in business of importance. It went against my conscience to tell such a buster."

"There, come on, Bertie. I had begun to hope that you were growing into a sensible fellow, but I am afraid that there is no chance of that now, and that you will continue to be a donkey to the end of your life."

Harry had told Dias that they had better take two or three days at home before they came into Lima again, but to his surprise the muleteer came in at ten o'clock next morning.

"Well, Dias, I did not expect to see you again so soon. You have found everything right at home, I hope?"

"No, senor, I am sorry to say I did not. Three days after we left here our house was burnt down."

"Burnt down, Dias! I am sorry indeed to hear that. How did it happen? I thought you said that you had locked it up, and left no one there."

"That was so, senor. The people who took over the garden were to go into the house once a week to see that everything was in order; but as this fire broke out only three days after I left, they had not entered it. Everyone says that it must have been fired on purpose, for the flames seem to have burst out in all parts at once. No one in the town thought that I had an enemy in the world, and all have been wondering who could have had a grudge against me. Of course we need not go very far to guess who was at the bottom of it."

"I suppose not, Dias. It must have been those scoundrels we gave such a thrashing to."

"There is no doubt of that, senor. But this time they have got the best of me, for they know very well that I have no proof against them, and that it would be useless to lodge any complaint."

"I am afraid it would, Dias. Is it quite burnt down?"

"The walls are standing, senor. It takes a good deal to burn adobe."

"What do you suppose it would cost to put it in the same condition as before, with the furniture and everything?"

"No great thing, senor; two hundred or two hundred and fifty dollars.

It would not be as much as that if it hadn't been that Maria had left her festa dresses and her silver trinkets behind. There was not much furniture in the house; but I think I could replace everything for about two hundred dollars, and I have a good deal more than that laid by."

"I shall certainly make that up to you, Dias. It was entirely your kindness in deciding to take us on Mr. Barnett's recommendation, and to undertake this journey, that brought the ill-will of these scoundrels upon you. Of course it is of no use doing anything now, but when our search is over I shall certainly see that you are not in any way the loser."

"No, senor; if I could not replace it myself I might accept your kind offer, but I can do it without breaking very heavily into my savings.

And indeed their attack on me was the outcome of an old grudge. I have been long regarded as a fortunate man, and truly I have been so. If there was a job for five mules, and I was disengaged, I always had the first offer."

"But that was not fortune, Dias; that was because you were known to be wholly trustworthy."

"There are few muleteers who are not so, senor; it is rarely indeed that muleteers are false to their trust. I can scarce remember an instance. We Indians have our faults, but we are honest."

"Well, perhaps your getting the first job to go with foreign travellers may have been a piece of good fortune, but it is because these were so well satisfied with you that others engaged you. Trustworthiness is not the only thing wanted in a muleteer; willingness, cheerfulness, and a readiness to oblige are almost as important for the comfort of travellers. Well, do you think these fellows will try and play you another trick, Dias?"

"I hope they will," Dias said savagely, "that is, if they don't have too much odds against me. I owe them a big score now, for twice they have got the better of me. I should like to get even with them."