The Rover of the Andes: A Tale of Adventure on South America by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read for students .TXT) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Strange to say, in crossing the higher parts of the Andes not one of the party suffered from the rarity of the air. Many travellers experience sickness, giddiness, and extreme exhaustion from this cause in those regions. Some have even died of the effects experienced at the greater heights, yet neither Manuela, nor Lawrence, nor Quashy was affected in the slightest degree. We can assign no reason for their exemptionâcan only state the fact. As for the guide, he was in this matterâas, indeed, he seemed to be in everythingâinvulnerable.
One afternoon, as they rode along a mountain track enjoying the sunshine, which at that hour was not too warm, Lawrence pushed up alongside of the guide.
âIt seems to me,â he said, âthat we are wandering wonderfully far out of our way just now. We have been going due north for several days; at least so my pocket compass tells me, and if my geography is not greatly at fault, our backs instead of our faces are turned at present towards Buenos Ayres. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Senhor Pedro, but if it is not presuming too much I should like to know when we shall begin to move in the direction of our journeyâs end.â
âThere is neither presumption nor impropriety in your wish,â returned the guide. âI told you at starting that we should pursue a devious route, for reasons which are immaterial to you, but there is no reason why I should not explain that at present I am diverging for only a few miles from our track to visit a localityâa cottageâwhich is sacred to me. After that we will turn eastward until we reach the head-waters of streams that will conduct us towards our journeyâs end.â
With this explanation he was obliged to rest content, for Pedro spoke like one who did not care to be questioned. Indeed there was an unusually absent air about him, seeing which Lawrence drew rein and fell back until he found himself alongside of Quashy.
Always readyânay, eagerâfor sympathetic discourse, the negro received his young master with a bland, expansive, we might almost say effusive, smile.
âWell, massa, howâs you gittinâ along now?â
âPretty well, Quashy. How do you?â
âOh! fuss-rate, massaâonly considârable obercome wid surprise.â
âWhat surprises you?â
âDe way weâs agwine, to be sure. Look dar.â He pointed towards the towering mountain peaks and wild precipices that closed in the narrow glen or gorge up which they were slowly proceeding.
âIn all our trabels weâs nebber come to a place like dat. It looks like de fag end ob creation. You couldnât git ober de mountain-tops âcept you had wings, anâ you couldnât climb ober de presâpisses âcep you was a monkey or a skirlâthough it am bery lubly, no doubt.â
The negroâs comments were strictly correct, though somewhat uncouthly expressed. The valley was apparently surrounded in all directions by inaccessible precipices, and the white peaks of the Andes towered into the skies at its head. Within rugged setting lay a fine stretch of undulating land, diversified by crag and hillock, lake and rivulet, with clustering shrubs and trees clinging to the cliffs, and clothing the mountain slopes in rich, and, in many places, soft luxuriance. It was one of those scenes of grandeur and loveliness in profound solitude which tend to raise in the thoughtful mind the perplexing but not irreverent question, âWhy did the good and bountiful Creator form such places of surpassing beauty to remain for thousands of years almost, if not quite, unknown to man?â
For, as far as could be seen, no human habitation graced the mountain-sides, no sign of cultivation appeared in the valley, though myriads of the lower animals sported on and in the waters, among the trees and on the ground.
Perchance man over-estimates his own importanceâat least underrates that of the animal kingdom below himâand is too apt to deem everything in nature wasted that cannot be directly or indirectly connected with himself! Is all that glows in beauty in the wilderness doomed to âblush unseenâ? Is all the sweetness expended on the desert air âwasted?â
As the guide rode slowly forward, he glanced from side to side with thoughtful yet mournful looks, as if his mind were engaged in meditating on some such insoluble problems. As he neared the head of the valley, however, he seemed to awake from a trance, suddenly put spurs to his mule, and went off at a canter. The rest of the party followed at some distance behind, but at so slow a pace, compared with that of the guide, that the latter was soon lost to sight among the trees.
Somewhat surprised at his unusual state of mind Lawrence pushed on and soon reached an open glade which showed some signs of having been cultivated. At the end of it stood a pretty little cottage, in front of which Pedro was standing motionless, with clasped hands and drooping head.
Lawrence hesitated to disturb him, but as Quashy had no such hesitations, and rode smartly forward, his companions followed.
Pedro turned with a grave look as they came up, and saidâ
âMy home. I bid you welcome.â
âYour home!â echoed Lawrence, in surprise.
âAy, a happy home it once wasâbutâdesolate enough now. Come, we will sleep here to-night. Unload the mules, Quashy, and kindle a fire. Go into the room on the right, Manuela. You will find a couch and other civilised comforts there. Senhor Armstrong, will you come with me?â
Without even awaiting a reply, the guide walked smartly into the bushes in rear of his lonely dwelling, followed by our hero. In a few minutes they reached a mound or hillock, which had been cleared of trees and underwood, and from the summit of which one could see over the tree-tops and the cottage roof away down the valley to the horizon of the table-lands beyond. It was a lovely spot, and, as Lawrence saw it that quiet sunny afternoon, was suggestive only of peace and happiness.
There was a rustic bower on the mound, in which a roughly-constructed seat was fixed firmly to the ground. In front of the bower was a grave with a headstone, on which was carved the single word âMariquita.â
Lawrence looked at his companion, but refrained from speech on observing that he seemed to be struggling with strong emotion. In a few seconds Pedro, having mastered his feelings, turned and said, in a tone that betrayed nothing save profound sadnessâ
âThe body of my wife lies there. Her pure spirit, thank God, is with its Maker.â
Lawrenceâs power of sympathy was so great that he hesitated to reply, fearing to hurt the feelings of one for whom, by that time, he had come to entertain sincere regard. He was about to speak, when Pedro raised his head gently, as if to check him.
âSit beside me, senhor,â he said, seating himself on the rustic seat already referred to. âYou have from our first meeting given me your confidence so frankly and freely that the least I can do is to give you mine in returnâas far, at least, as that is possible. You are the first human being I have invited to sit there since Mariquita left me. Shall I tell you something of my history, Senhor Armstrong?â
Of course Lawrence assented, with a look of deep interest.
âWell, then,â said Pedro, âit may perhaps surprise you to learn that I am an Irishman.â
To this Lawrence replied, with a slight smile, that he was not very greatly surprised, seeing that the perplexing character of that race was such as to justify him in expecting almost anything of them.
âIâm not sure whether to take that remark as complimentary or otherwise,â returned Pedro; âhowever, the fighting tendency with which my countrymen are credited has departed from me. I wonât quarrel with you on the point. At the age of sixteen I was sent to America to seek my fortune. My mother I never knew. She died when I was a child. My father died the year after I left home. How I came to drift here it would be difficult, as well as tedious, to explain. Many of the men with whom I have chummed in years gone by would have said that it was chance which led me to South America. I never could agree with them on this point. The word âchanceâ fitly describes the conditions sometimes existing between man and man, and is used in Scripture in the parable of the Good Samaritan, but there can be no such thing as chance with the Almighty. I must have been led or guided here.
âAt all events, hither I came, and wandered about for some years, with that aimless indifference to the future which is but too characteristic of youthâcontent to eat and sleep and toil, so that I might enjoy life, and get plenty of excitement! I went to Peru first, and of course I joined in the fights that were so frequently stirred up between that country and its neighbour, Chili. A very little of that, however, sufficed. The brutal ferocity of the soldiery with whom I was mixed up, and their fearful disregard of age, sex, infirmity, or helpless childhood during war disgusted me so much that I finally cut the army, and took to hunting and doing a little trade between the countries lying on the east and west sides of the Andes. It was while thus engaged that I became acquainted with your good father, Senhor Armstrong, who has more than once helped me over financial difficulties and set me on my legs.
âAt last came the grand crisis of my life. One evening when travelling over the pampas of La Plata, I, with a dozen Gauchos, arrived at a post-house where we meant to put up for the night. On coming in sight of it we saw that something was wrong, for there were a number of Indians fighting about the door. On seeing us they made off; but one, who was in the house struggling with the postmaster, did not observe the flight of his comrades, or could not get clear of his enemy. We all went madly after the savages. As I was about to pass the door of the house, I heard a woman shriek. The Gauchos paid no attention, but passed on. I glanced inside, and saw the Indian in the act of cutting a manâs throat, while a girl strove wildly to prevent him. You may be sure I was inside in a moment, and I brained the savage with the butt of a pistol. But it was too late. The knife had already done its work, and the poor man only lived long enough to bless his daughter, who, covered with her fatherâs blood, sank fainting on the floor. It was my first meeting with Mariquita!
âAround her,â continued Pedro, in deepening tones, âlay her mother and two brothersâall slaughtered. I will not describe the harrowing scene. I tried to comfort the poor girl, and we took her on with us to the next post, where the postmasterâs wife attended to her.
âOn seeing her next morning I felt that my lifeâs happiness or sorrow lay in her hands. She was innocence, simplicity, beauty, combined. With artless gratitude she grasped and kissed my hand, regarding me, she said, as her deliverer, and one who would have saved her father if he had been in time.
âOften before had my comrades twitted me with my indifference to the female sex. To say truth, I had myself become impressed with the feeling that I was born to be one of the old bachelors of the worldâand I cannot say that the doom gave me much concern. But nowâwell, if you understand me, senhor, I need
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