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Chapter Nineteen.
In which, among other things, Lawrence refuses an Invitation, and bids a Final Farewell to Manuela

A jump of several hundreds of miles at one mighty bound may seem difficult, perhaps impossible, but if the reader will kindly put on the grasshopper legs of imagination which we now provide, such a jump will be found not only possible, but, perchance, agreeable.

We pass at one fell spring, then, from the thick forests of Bolivia to the wide rolling pampas, or plains, of South America.

You are still within sight of the Andes, good reader. You may travel from north to south if you will—from the equatorial regions of the Mexican Gulf to the cold and stormy cape at Tierra del Fuego—without losing sight of that magnificent backbone of the grand continent.

We have reached a frontier town which lies among the undulating hills at the base of the mountains, yet within sight of the outskirts of the grassy pampas. A small town it is, with little white houses and a church glittering in the sunshine. A busy town, too, with a mixed population fluttering in the streets in the variegated trappings and plumage of merchants, and priests, and muleteers, and adventurers, and dark-eyed senhoras, enveloped in all the mysterious witchery that seems inseparable from Spanish mantillas and fans.

It was evening when our travellers arrived at the town. They were on horseback now, having, a considerable time previously, forsaken the rivers for the roads—if we may call by such a name those unmade highways which are merely marked out through the wilderness by the passage of men. Bells were ringing in the steeple as they entered the town, for some fête or holiday was in process of celebration, and the presence of a considerable number of men in uniform gave to the place the appearance of a garrison town.

There were so many odd-looking and striking characters in the streets that the arrival of our party made no particular impression on the people, save that Manuela’s elegant little figure and pretty brown face drew some attention—admiration on the part of the men, scorn on that of a few—a very few—of the senhoras. You see, in all parts of the world some people are found who seem to hold, (though they would find it difficult to say why), that God’s creatures with brown and black skins ought to be looked down upon and held in contempt by His creatures who chance to have white skins! You will generally find that the people who think thus also hold the almost miraculous opinion that those who wear superfine clothing, and possess much money, have a sort of indefinable, but unquestionable, right to look down upon and lord it over those who own little money and wear coarse garments!

You will carefully observe, unprejudiced reader, that we use the word “some” in speaking of those people. We are very far from pitting the poor against the rich. We are bound to recognise the fact that amongst both classes there are gems of brightest lustre, irradiated by rays from the celestial sun, while in both there are also found qualities worthy of condemnation. But when we record the fact that some of the white senhoras looked with jealousy and scorn upon our sweet little Indian heroine, we ought to recognise the undeniable truth that they themselves, (so long as actuated by such a spirit), were beneath contempt—fit subjects only for pity.

As they passed along, much interested and somewhat excited by the comparatively novel sights around them, Pedro rode up to a mounted soldier and accosted him in Spanish.

He returned to his party with a gleam of stronger excitement in his eyes than Lawrence had observed since they became acquainted. Riding alongside of Manuela, who was in advance, he entered into earnest and animated conversation with her. Then, reining back until he was abreast of Lawrence, he said—

“Part of the object of my journey has been accomplished sooner than I had expected, Senhor Armstrong.”

“Indeed? I hope it has been satisfactorily accomplished.”

“Well, yes, as far as it goes. The fact is, I find that there has been a raid of the Indians into this part of the country, and a body of troops has been sent to quell them under Colonel Marchbanks. Now this colonel, as his name will suggest, is an Englishman, in the service of the Argentine army, under whose orders I have been serving, and to communicate with whom was one of my chief reasons for undertaking this journey.”

“Will that, then, render your journey to Buenos Ayres unnecessary?” asked Lawrence, a slight feeling of anxiety creeping over him.

“No, it won’t do that, but it will greatly modify my plans. Among other things, it will oblige me to leave Manuela behind and push on alone as fast as possible. I suppose you will have no objection to a tearing gallop of several hundred miles over the Pampas?” said Pedro, while a smile of peculiar meaning played for an instant on his handsome face.

“Objections!” exclaimed our hero, with great energy, “of course not. A tearing gallop over the Pampas is—a—most—”

He stopped, for a strange, unaccountable feeling of dissatisfaction which he could not understand began to overwhelm him. Was it that he was really in love after all with this Indian girl, and that the thought of final separation from her—impossible! No, he could not credit such an idea for a moment. But he loved her spirit—her soul, as it were—and he could not be blamed for being so sorry, so very sorry, to part with that thus suddenly—thus unexpectedly. Yes, he was not in love. It was a fraternal or paternal—a Platonic feeling of a strong type. He would just see her once more, alone, before starting, say good-bye, and give her a little, as it were, paternal, or fraternal, or Platonic advice.

“Senhor Armstrong is in a meditative mood,” said Pedro, breaking the thread of his meditations.

“Yes, I was thinking—was wondering—that is—by the way, with whom will you leave Manuela?”

“With a friend who lives in a villa in the suburbs.”

“You seem to have friends wherever you go,” said Lawrence.

“Ay, and enemies too,” returned Pedro with a slight frown. “However, with God’s blessing, I shall circumvent the latter.”

“When do you start?” asked Lawrence, with an air of assumed indifference.

“To-morrow or next day, perhaps, but I cannot tell until I meet Colonel Marchbanks. I am not, indeed, under his command—being what you may call a sort of freelance—but I work with him chiefly, that is, under his directions, for he and I hold much the same ideas in regard to most things, and have a common desire to see something like solid peace in the land. Look, do you see that villa with the rustic porch on the cliff; just beyond the town?”

“Yes—it is so conspicuous and so beautifully situated that one cannot help seeing and admiring it.”

“That is where the friend lives with whom I shall leave Manuela.”

“Indeed,” said Lawrence, whose interest in the villa with the rustic porch was suddenly intensified, “and shall we find her there on our return?”

“I was not aware that Senhor Armstrong intended to return!” said Pedro, with a look of surprise.

Lawrence felt somewhat confused and taken aback, but his countenance was not prone to betray him.

“Of course I mean, will you find her there when you return? Though, as to my returning, the thing is not impossible, when one considers that the wreck of part of my father’s property lies on the western side of the Andes.”

“Ah! true. I forgot that for a moment. Well, I suppose she will remain here till my return,” said Pedro, “unless the Indians make a successful raid and carry her off in the meantime!” he added, with a quick glance at his companion.

“And are we to stay to-night at the same villa?”

“No, we shall stay at the inn to which we are now drawing near. I am told that the Colonel has his headquarters there.”

The conversation closed abruptly at this point, for they had reached the inn referred to. At the door stood a tall, good-looking young man, whose shaven chin, cut of whisker, and Tweed shooting costume, betokened him an Englishman of the sporting class.

Addressing himself to this gentleman with a polite bow, Pedro asked whether Colonel Marchbanks was staying there.

“Well—aw—I’m not quite sure, but there is—aw—I believe, a military man of—aw—some sort staying in the place.”

Without meaning to be idiotic, this sporting character was one of those rich, plucky, languid, drawly-wauly men, who regard the world as their special hunting-field, affect free-and-easy nonchalance, and interlard their ideas with “aw” to an extent that is absolutely awful.

The same question, put to a waiter who immediately appeared, elicited the fact that the Colonel did reside there, but was absent at the moment.

“Well, then,” said Pedro, turning quickly to Lawrence, “you had better look after rooms and order supper, while I take Manuela to the villa.”

For the first time since they met, Lawrence felt inclined to disobey his friend. A gush of indignation seemed to surge through his bosom for a moment, but before he could reply, Pedro, who did not expect a reply, had turned away. He remounted his steed and rode off, meekly followed by the Indian girl. Quashy took the bridles of his own and his master’s horse, and stood awaiting orders; while Spotted Tiger, who was not altogether inexperienced in the ways of towns, led his animal and the baggage-mules round to the stables.

“So,” thought Lawrence, bitterly, “I am ordered to look after things here, and Manuela goes quietly away without offering to say good-bye—without even a friendly nod, although she probably knows I may have to start by daybreak to-morrow, and shall never see her again. Bah! what else could I expect from a squaw—a black girl! But no matter. It’s all over! It was only her spirit I admired, and I don’t care even for that now.”

It will be observed that our poor hero did not speak like himself here, so grievous was the effect of his disappointment. Fortunately he did not speak at all, but only muttered and looked savage, to the amusement of the sportsman, who stood leaning against the door-post of the inn, regarding him with much interest.

“Will you sup, senhor?” asked a waiter, coming up just then.

“Eh! no—that is—yes,” replied Lawrence, savagely.

“How many, senhor?”

“How many? eh! How should I know? As many as you like. Come here.”

He thundered off along a passage, clanking his heels and spurs like a whole regiment of dragoons, and without an idea as to whither the passage led or what he meant to do.

“Aw—quite a wemarkable cweature. A sort of—aw—long-legged curiosity of the Andes. Mad, I suppose, or drunk.”

These remarks were partly a soliloquy, partly addressed to a friend who had joined the sportsman, but they were overheard by Quashy, who, with the fire of a free negro and the enthusiasm of a faithful servant, said—

“No more mad or drunk dan you’self—you whitefaced racoon!”

Being unable conveniently to commit an assault at the moment, our free negro contented himself with making a stupendous face at the Englishman, and glaring defiance as he led the cattle away. As the reader knows, that must have been a powerful glare, but its only effect on the sportsman was to produce a beaming smile of Anglo-Saxon good-will.

That night Lawrence Armstrong slept little. Next morning he found that Pedro had to delay a day in order to have some further intercourse with Colonel Marchbanks. Having nothing particular to do, and being still very unhappy—though his temper had quite recovered—he resolved to take a stroll alone. Just as he left the inn, a tall, powerfully-built, soldierly man entered, and bestowed on him a quick, stern glance in passing. He seemed to be between fifty and sixty, straight as a poplar, and without any sign of abated strength, though his moustache and whiskers were nearly white.

Lawrence would have at once recognised a countryman in this old officer, even if the waiter had not addressed him by name as he presented him with a note.

At any other time the sociable instincts of our hero would have led him to seek the acquaintance both of the Colonel and the awful sportsman; but he felt misanthropical just then, and passed on in silence.

Before he had been gone five minutes, Quashy came running after him.

“You no want me, massa?”

“No, Quash, I don’t.”

“P’r’aps,” suggested the faithful man, with an excess of modesty and some hesitation,—“P’r’aps you’d like me to go wid you for—for—company?”

“You’re very kind, Quash, and I should like to have you very much indeed; but at present I’m very much out of sorts, and—”

“O massa!” interrupted the negro, assuming the sympathetic gaze instantly, and speaking with intense feeling, “it’s not in de stummik, am it?” He placed his hand gently on the region referred to.

“No, Quash,” Lawrence replied, with a laugh, “it is not the body at all that affects me; it is the mind.”

“Oh! is dat all?” said the negro, quite relieved. “Den you not need to boder you’self. Nobody ebber troubled long wid dat complaint. Do you know, massa, dat de bery best t’ing for dat is a little cheerful s’iety. I t’ink you’ll be de better ob me.”

He said this with such self-satisfied gravity, and withal seemed to have made up his mind so thoroughly to accompany his young master, that Lawrence gave in, and they had not gone far when he began really to feel the benefit of Quashy’s light talk. We do not mean to inflict it all on the reader, but a few sentences may, perhaps, be advantageous to the development of our tale.

“Splendid place dis, massa,” observed the negro, after they had walked and chatted some distance beyond the town.

“Yes, Quash,—very beautiful.”

“Lots ob nice shady trees an’ bushes, and flowers, an’ fruits, an’ sweet smells ob oranges, an’—”

He waved his arms around, as if to indicate a profusion of delights which his tongue could not adequately describe.

“Quite true, Quash,” replied Lawrence, who was content to play second violin in the duet.

“Is you gwine,” inquired Quashy, after a brief pause, “to de gubner’s ball to-night?”

“No. I did not know there was a governor, or that he intended to give a ball.”

The negro opened his eyes in astonishment.

“You not know ob it!” he exclaimed; “why eberybody knows ob it, an’ a’most eberybody’s agwine—all de ’spectable peepil, I mean, an’ some ob dem what’s not zactly as ’spectable as dey should be. But dey’s all agwine. He’s a liberal gubner, you see, an’ he’s gwine to gib de ball in de inn at de lan’lord’s expense.”

“Indeed; that’s a curiously liberal arrangement.”

“Yes, an’ a bery clebber ’rangement for de lan’lord. He’s a cute man de lan’lord. I s’pose you’s agwine?”

“No, I am not going. I have received no invitation; besides, I have no evening dress.”

“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”

“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”

“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.

Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!

“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”

It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.

“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”

The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.

“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”

A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.

“This is an unexpected meeting, Manuela. I had hardly hoped for it, as we set off very early to-morrow; but I’m glad we have met, for I should never have got over the feeling that I had been unkind in going off without saying good-bye. Do you make out what I mean? I think you understand English better than my bad Spanish.”

“Yes—I understan’. I very sorry we part. Very, very sorry. Good-bye.”

She put out her hand, and Lawrence mechanically took it. There was something so ridiculous in this prompt and cool way of parting, after having been so long together, that the youth could scarcely believe he was awake. Had this pretty little Inca princess, then, no feeling whatever—no touch of common tenderness, like other girls? Did the well-known stoicism of her race require that she should part for the last time from the man who had twice saved her life, with a simple “I’m very sorry. Good-bye?”

He felt cured now, completely. Such a spirit, he thought, could not command esteem, much less affection. As neither body nor spirit was now left to him, he began to feel quite easy in his mind—almost desperately easy—and that paternal, fraternal Platonic interest in the child which we have before mentioned began to revive.

“Well, Manuela,” he said at last, with a stupendous sigh, as though he were heaving the entire Andes off his rugged old shoulders, yet with a brotherly smile as he patted the little brown hand, “you and I have had pleasant times together. I could have wished—oh! how I—well, hem! but no matter. You will soon, no doubt be among your own people again. All I would ask of you is sometimes, when far-away, to think of me; to think of me as perhaps, the presumptuous young fellow who did his best to make a long and rather trying journey agreeable to you. Think of me, Manuela, as a father, and I will think of you as my little Indian girl!”

“I will fink,” she said, dropping her grave eyes on the ground, and the stoicism of all the Incas seemed to be concentrated in her look and bearing at that moment, “t’ink of you as a fadder.”

“Good-bye,” he said again.

“Good-bye,” she replied.

He had intended to print a fatherly kiss on the little brown hand, but this parting was too much. He dropped her hand, and, turning abruptly away with a final “Farewell—God bless you,” quickly left the spot, in a sort of bewildered amazement that a heartless Indian girl should ever have been able to obtain, even for a time, so powerful an influence over him.

Chapter Twenty.
Is cumulatively Astonishing

There are, we suppose, in the lives of all men, critical periods—testing-points, as it were—when their faith in everything true is shaken almost, if not quite, to the foundation, and when they are tempted to ask with more or less of bitterness, “Who will show us any good?”

Well is it for such when, in the hour of trial, they can look up to the Fountain of all good and, in the face of doubt, darkness, difficulty, ay, and seeming contradiction, simply “believe” and “trust.”

When Lawrence Armstrong slowly sauntered back to the inn after his final interview with Manuela, it surprised even himself to find how strong had been his feelings, how profound his faith in the girl’s goodness of heart, and how intensely bitter was his disappointment.

“But it’s all over now,” he muttered, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, and frowning ferociously at some imaginary wrong, though he would have been puzzled, if required, to state exactly what the wrong was. “All over,” he repeated, and then continued with an affected air of indifference, “and what of that? What matters it to me that I have been mistaken? I never was in love with the girl. How could I be with a black—well, a brown squaw. Impossible! It was only admiration—strong admiration I admit—of what I had fancied were rarely fine qualities, especially in a sav— an Indian; and I’ve been mistaken; that’s all. That’s all. But,” (after a pause), “have I been mistaken? Does this unaccountably callous indifference at saying good-bye to one who is nothing to her—who never can be anything to her—argue that all the good qualities I have admired so much are non-existent, or bad qualities? Surely not! Let me consider. Let me look this perplexing matter straight in the face, and see what is to be made of it. What are the good qualities that I seem to have been so mistaken about?”

Frowning still more ferociously, as if with a view to constrain himself to the performance of a deed of impartial justice, our hero continued to mutter—

“Earnest simplicity—that’s the first—no, that’s two qualities. Be just, Lawrence, whatever you are, be just. Earnestness, then, that’s the first point. Whatever else I may have been wrong about, there can be no mistake about that. She is intensely earnest. How often have I noticed her rapt attention and the eager flash of her dark eyes when Pedro or I chanced to tell any anecdote in which injustice or cruelty was laid bare. She is so earnest that I think sometimes she has difficulty in perceiving when one is in jest. She does not understand a practical joke—well, to be sure there was that upsetting of the coffee on Quashy’s leg! But after all I must have been mistaken in that. So much, then, for her earnestness. Next, simplicity. No child could be more simple. Utterly ignorant of the ways of the world—the nauseous conventionalities of civilised life! Brought up in a wigwam, no doubt, among the simple aborigines of the Pampas, or the mountains—yes, it must have been the mountains, for the Incas of Peru dwelt in the Andes.”

He paused here for a few minutes and sauntered on in silence, while a tinge of perplexity mingled with the frown. No doubt he was thinking of the tendency exhibited now and then by the aborigines of the Pampas and mountains to raid on the white man now and then, and appropriate his herds as well as scalp himself!

“However, she had nothing to do with that,” he muttered, apologetically, “and cannot help the peculiarities of her kindred. Gentleness; that is the next quality. A man may mistake motives, but he cannot mistake facts. Her gentleness and sweetness are patent facts, and her modesty is also obvious. Then, she is a Christian. Pedro told me so. She never omits to pray, night and morning. Of course, that does not constitute a Christian, but—well, then the Sabbath-day she has all along respected; and I am almost sure that our regular halts on that day, although ordered by Pedro, were suggested by Manuela. Of course, praying and Sabbath-keeping may be done by hypocrites, and for a bad end; but who, save a consummately blind idiot, would charge that girl with hypocrisy? Besides, what could she gain by it all? Pshaw! the idea is ridiculous. Of course there are many more good qualities which I might enumerate, but these are the most important and clearly pronounced—very clearly.”

He said this very decidedly, for somehow a counteracting suggestion came from somewhere, reminding him that he had twice saved the Indian girl’s life; that he had tried with earnest devotion to help and amuse her in all their journeyings together, and that to be totally indifferent about final separation in these circumstances argued the absence of even ordinary gratitude, which is clearly one of the Christian virtues!

“But, after all,” he muttered, indignantly, “would not any young fellow have done the same for any woman in the circumstances? And why should she care about parting from me? I wouldn’t care much about parting from myself just now, if I could. There, now, that’s an end o’ the matter. She’ll go back to the wigwam of her father, and I’ll go and have a jolly good splitting gallop across the Pampas with Pedro and Quashy.”

“Dat’s just de bery best t’ing what you can do, massa.”

Lawrence turned round abruptly, and found that his faithful servant was hurrying after him, and grinning tremendously.

“Why, you’re always laughing, Quash,” said the youth, a little sharply.

“O massa!” exclaimed the negro, turning his mouth the other way. “I’s nebber laugh no more if you don’ like it.”

“Like it, my good fellow!” exclaimed Lawrence, himself giving way to a short laugh to conceal his feelings, “of course I like it, only you came on me unexpectedly, and, to say truth, I am—”

“Still out ob sorts, massa?”

“Yes, that’s it—exactly.”

“Well, for a man out ob sorts, you walk most awrful irriglar—one time slow, noder time so quick. I was ’bleeged to run to obertake you.”

Further converse was checked by their arrival in the town. On reaching the hotel they found the place in considerable confusion and bustle owing to preparations for the governor’s ball, about to take place that evening.

They met Pedro at the door.

“You’ll go, I suppose?” he said to Lawrence, referring to the ball.

“Indeed I will not. I’ve had no invitation, and have no evening dress.”

“Why, Senhor Armstrong forgets he is not now in England,” said Pedro. “We require neither invitation nor evening dress in an out-o’-the-way place like this. You’ll find all sorts of people there. Indeed, a few are likely to be of the class who prefer to dance with their coats off.”

“No matter, I’ll not go. Nothing will induce me to go,” returned Lawrence, firmly—almost testily.

“Don’t say that,” rejoined Pedro, regarding his companion with a peculiar smile. “You may perhaps meet friends there.”

“You know that I have no friends here,” returned our hero, who thereupon went off to his own room to meditate over his uncomfortable feelings.

But when he had reached his room and shut his door, Pedro’s reference to meeting with friends, coupled with his peculiar look, recurred to him. What could the fellow mean? What friends had he in the country except Pedro himself and Quashy and Spotted Tiger and—and—Manuela, but of course he could not refer to the last, for who ever heard of a governor inviting an unknown Indian girl to a ball! No; Pedro must have been jesting. He would not go!

But the longer he thought over the matter, the more were his perplexity and curiosity increased, until at last he wavered in his firm determination not to go, and when the ball was about to begin, of which the sounds of hurrying steps and musical instruments apprised him, he changed his mind. Combing his hair slightly, he tried to brush his rough garments with his hands, arranged his necktie and flannel collar a little, dusted his long boots with a towel, washed his hands, laid aside his weapons, and went off to the hall with the intention of at least looking in at the door to see what was going on.

He met Pedro in the corridor.

“Ha! Senhor Armstrong has changed his mind?”

“Yes, I have.”

Lawrence said this in the slightly defiant tone of a man who gives in with a bad grace. He was altogether “out of sorts” and unlike himself, but Pedro, like a true friend, took no notice of that.

“I’m glad you have given in, senhor,” said Pedro, “for it saves me the trouble of dragging you there by force, in order that I may have the pleasure of seeing how you will look under the influence of a surprise.”

“A surprise, Pedro?”

“Yes. But come; the ball is about to begin.”

At the end of the corridor they encountered the English sportsman, who at the same moment chanced to meet his friend, to whom he said—

“I say, just come and—aw—have a look at the company. All free and easy, no tickets required, no dress, no—aw—there goes the governor—”

The remainder was lost in distance as the two sporting characters sauntered to the ballroom, where they stood near the door, looking on with condescending benignity, as men might for whose amusement the whole affair had been arranged.

And truly there was much to be amused at, as Lawrence and his companion, standing just within the doorway, soon found. Owing to the situation of the little town near the base of the mountains, there were men there of many nations and tongues on their way to various mines, or on business of some sort in or on the other side of the mountains—Germans, French, Italians, English, Spanish, and Portuguese. All strangers were welcomed by the hospitable governor and landlord—the latter of whom felt, no doubt, that his loss on food was more than counterbalanced by his gain on drink. Among the guests there were Gauchos of the Pampas, and the head men of a band of peons, who had just arrived with a herd of cattle. As these danced variously, in camp-dresses, top-boots, silver spurs, ponchos, and shirt sleeves, and as the ladies of the town appeared in picturesque and varied costumes with mantillas and fans, Lawrence felt as if he were witnessing a fancy dress gathering, and soon became so absorbed as to forget himself and his companion entirely.

He was aroused from his reverie by the drawling exclamation—

“Aw! indeed?”

“Yes,” replied the landlord to the sportsman, “the colonel’s coming. He’s a jolly old man, and likes to see other people enjoyin’ a bit o’ fun. An’ what’s more, he’s goin’ to bring his daughter with him, and another girl—a niece, I suppose. They say they’re both splendid creatures.”

“Aw! indeed,” languidly replied the sportsman, twisting his moustache.

It was evident that the landlord had failed to arouse his interest.

At that moment the first dance came to an end, and there was a stir at the upper end of the room, where was another door of entrance.

“It’s the colonel,” exclaimed the landlord, hurrying forward.

Colonel Marchbanks entered with a lady on either arm. He was a splendid old man—so tall that Lawrence could distinguish his fine bald head, with its fringe of white hair, rising high above the intervening guests.

People became silent and fell away from him, as if to have a better look at him.

“Come,” said Pedro, suddenly, “I will introduce you.”

There was a strange gleam in Pedro’s eyes, and unwonted excitement in his manner, as he pushed his way through the crowd.