He was a man of about forty years of age, strongly built, with a keen, bright eye, grizzly hair and beard, and a complexion tanned as with constant exposure to the forest air. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, a kind of leather jerkin, or tunic, and long boots reaching nearly to his knees. To his high heels was fastened a pair of wide-rowelled spurs, which clanked as he moved.
Dick Sands in an instant saw that he was not looking upon one of the roving Indians of the pampas, but upon one of those adventurers, often of very doubtful character, who are not unfrequently to be met with in the remotest quarters of the earth. Clearly this was neither an Indian nor a Spaniard. His erect, not to say rigid deportment, and the reddish hue with which his hair and beard were streaked, betokened him to be of Anglo-Saxon origin, a conjecture which was at once confirmed when upon Dick’s wishing him “good morning,” he replied in unmistakable English, with hardly a trace of foreign accent—
“Good morning, my young friend.”
He stepped forward, and having shaken hands with Dick, nodded to all his companions.
“Are you English?” he asked.
“No; we are Americans,” replied Dick.
“North or South?” inquired the man.
“North,” Dick answered.
The information seemed to afford the stranger no little satisfaction, and he again wrung Dick’s hand with all the enthusiasm of a fellow-countryman.
“And may I ask what brings you here?” he continued.
Before, however, Dick had time to reply, the stranger had courteously raised his hat, and, looking round, Dick saw that his bow was intended for Mrs. Weldon, who had just reached the riverbank. She proceeded to tell him the particulars of how they had been shipwrecked, and how the vessel had gone to pieces on the reefs.
A look of pity crossed the man’s face as he listened, and he cast his eye, as it might be involuntarily, upon the sea, in order to discern some vestige of the stranded ship.
“Ah! there is nothing to be seen of our poor schooner!” said Dick mournfully; “the last of her was broken up in the storm last night.”
“And now,” interposed Mrs. Weldon, “can you tell us where we are?”
“Where?” exclaimed the man, with every indication of surprise at her question; “why, on the coast of South America, of course!”
“But on what part? are we near Peru?” Dick inquired eagerly.
“No, my lad, no; you are more to the south; you are on the coast of Bolivia; close to the borders of Chile.”
“A good distance, I suppose, from Lima?” asked Dick.
“From Lima? yes, a long way; Lima is far to the north.”
“And what is the name of that promontory?” Dick said, pointing to the adjacent headland.
“That, I confess, is more than I am able to tell you,” replied the stranger; “for although I have travelled a great deal in the interior of the country, I have never before visited this part of the coast.”
Dick pondered in thoughtful silence over the information he had thus received. He had no reason to doubt its accuracy; according to his own reckoning he would have expected to come ashore somewhere between the latitudes of 27° and 30°; and by this stranger’s showing he had made the latitude 25°; the discrepancy was not very great; it was not more than might be accounted for by the action of the currents, which he knew he had been unable to estimate; moreover, the deserted character of the whole shore inclined him to believe more easily that he was in Lower Bolivia.
Whilst this conversation was going on, Mrs. Weldon, whose suspicions had been excited by Negoro’s disappearance, had been scrutinizing the stranger with the utmost attention; but she could detect nothing either in his manner or in his words to give her any cause to doubt his good faith.
“Pardon me,” she said presently; “but you do not seem to me to be a native of Peru?”
“No; like yourself, I am an American, Mrs.—;” he paused, as if waiting to be told her name.
The lady smiled, and gave her name; he thanked her, and continued—
“My name is Harris. I was born in South Carolina; but it is now twenty years since I left my home for the pampas of Bolivia; imagine, therefore, how much pleasure it gives me to come across some countrymen of my own.”
“Do you live in this part of the province, Mr. Harris?” Mrs. Weldon asked.
“No, indeed; far away; I live down to the south, close to the borders of Chile. At present I am taking a journey northeastwards to Atacama.”
“Atacama!” exclaimed Dick; “are we anywhere near the desert of Atacama?”
“Yes, my young friend,” rejoined Harris, “you are just on the edge of it. It extends far beyond those mountains which you see on the horizon, and is one of the most curious and least explored parts of the continent.”
“And are you travelling through it alone?” Mrs. Weldon inquired.
“Yes, quite alone; and it is not the first time I have performed the journey. One of my brothers owns a large farm, the hacienda of San Felice, about 200 miles from here, and I have occasion now and then to pay him business visits.”
After a moment’s hesitation, as if he were weighing a sudden thought, he continued—
“I am on my way there now, and if you will accompany me I can promise you a hearty welcome, and my brother will be most happy to do his best to provide you with means of conveyance to San Francisco.”
Mrs. Weldon had hardly begun to express her thanks for the proposal when he said abruptly—
“Are these negroes your slaves?”
“Slaves! sir,” replied Mrs. Weldon, drawing herself up proudly; “we have no slaves in the United States. The south has now long followed the example of the north. Slavery is abolished.”
“I beg your pardon, madam. I had forgotten that the war of 1862 had solved that question. But seeing these fellows with you, I thought
