Mrs. Weldon, on the contrary, was full of confidence and hope. A woman and a mother, she might have been expected to be conscious of anxiety at the peril to which she might be exposing herself and her child; and doubtless she would have been sensible of alarm if her mind had not been fully satisfied upon two points; first, that the portion of the pampas they were about to traverse was little infested either by natives or by dangerous beasts; and secondly, that she was under the protection of a guide so trustworthy as she believed Harris to be.
The entrance to the forest was hardly more than three hundred paces up the river. An order of march had been arranged which was to be observed as closely as possible throughout the journey. At the head of the troop were Harris and Dick Sands, one armed with his long gun, the other with his Remington; next came Bat and Austin, each carrying a gun and a cutlass, then Mrs. Weldon and Jack, on horseback, closely followed by Tom and old Nan, while Actaeon with the fourth Remington, and Hercules with a huge hatchet in his waist-belt, brought up the rear. Dingo had no especial place in the procession, but wandered to and fro at his pleasure. Ever since he had been cast ashore Dick had noticed a remarkable change in the dog’s behaviour; the animal was in a constant state of agitation, always apparently on the search for some lost scent, and repeatedly giving vent to a low growl, which seemed to proceed from grief rather than from rage.
As for Cousin Benedict, his movements were permitted to be nearly as erratic as Dingo’s; nothing but a leading-string could possibly have kept him in the ranks. With his tin box under his arm, and his butterfly net in his hand, and his huge magnifying-glass suspended from his neck, he would be sometimes far ahead, sometimes a long way behind, and at the risk of being attacked by some venomous snake, would make frantic dashes into the tall grass whenever he espied some attractive orthoptera or other insect which he thought might be honoured by a place in his collection.
In one hour after starting Mrs. Weldon had called to him a dozen times without the slightest effect. At last she told him seriously that if he would not give up chasing the insects at a distance, she should be obliged to take possession of his tin box.
“Take away my box!” he cried, with as much horror as if she had threatened to tear out his vitals.
“Yes, your box and your net too!”
“My box and my net! but surely not my spectacles!” almost shrieked the excited entomologist.
“Yes, and your spectacles as well!” added Mrs. Weldon mercilessly; “I am glad you have reminded me of another means of reducing you to obedience!”
The triple penalty of which he was thus warned had the effect of keeping him from wandering away for the best part of the next hour, but he was soon once more missing from the ranks; he was manifestly incorrigible; the deprivation of box, net, and spectacles would, it was acknowledged, be utterly without avail to prevent him from rambling. Accordingly it was thought better to let him have his own way, especially as Hercules volunteered to keep his eye upon him, and to endeavour to guard the worthy naturalist as carefully as he would himself protect some precious specimen of a Lepidoptera. Further anxiety on his account was thus put to rest.
In spite of Harris’s confident assertion that they were little likely to be molested by any of the nomad Indians, the whole company rejoiced in feeling that they were well armed, and they resolved to keep in a compact body. The way across the forest could scarcely be called a path; it was, in fact, little more than the track of animals, and progress along it was necessarily very slow; indeed it seemed impossible, at the rate they started, to accomplish more than five or six miles in the course of twelve hours.
The weather was beautifully fine; the sun ascended nearly to the zenith, and its rays, descending almost perpendicularly, caused a degree of heat which, as Harris pointed out, would have been unendurable upon the open plain, but was here pleasantly tempered by the shelter of the foliage.
Most of the trees were quite strange to them. To an experienced eye they were such as were remarkable more for their character than for their size. Here, on one side, was the bauhinia, or mountain ebony; there, on the other, the molompi or Pterocarpus, its trunk exuding large quantities of resin, and of which the strong light wood makes excellent oars or paddles; further on were fustics heavily charged with colouring matter, and guaiacums, twelve feet in diameter, surpassing the ordinary kind in magnitude, yet far inferior in quality.
Dick Sands kept perpetually asking Harris to tell him the names of all these trees and plants.
“Have you never been on the coast of South America before?” replied Harris, without giving the explicit information that was sought.
“Never,” said Dick; “never before. Nor do I recollect ever having seen anyone who has.”
“But surely you have explored the coasts of Colombia or Patagonia,” Harris continued.
Dick avowed that he had never had the chance.
“But has Mrs. Weldon never visited these parts? Our countrymen, I know, are great travellers.”
“No,” answered Mrs. Weldon; “my husband’s business called him occasionally to New Zealand, but I have accompanied him nowhere else. With this part of Lower Bolivia we are totally unacquainted.”
“Then, madam, I can only assure you that you will see a most remarkable country, in every way a very striking contrast to the regions of Peru, Brazil, and the Argentine republic. Its animal and vegetable products would fill a naturalist with unbounded wonder. May I not declare it a lucky chance that has brought you here?”
“Do not say chance, Mr. Harris,
