“The road will show me the way,” I rejoined curtly.
“The road,” he said, “is like a lawsuit; roundabout, full of puddles and pitfalls, and long to travel. It is only meant to be used by old half-blind men and drivers of bullock-carts.”
I hesitated about accepting the guidance of this strange fellow, who appeared to have a ready wit under his heavy-slouching exterior. The mixed contempt and humility in his speech every time he addressed me gave me an uncomfortable sensation; then his poverty-stricken appearance and his furtive glances filled me with suspicion. I looked at my host, who was standing near, thinking to take my cue from the expression of his face; but it was only a stolid Oriental face that revealed nothing. An ancient rule in whist is to play trumps when in doubt; now my rule of action is, when two courses are open to me and I am in doubt, to take the bolder one. Acting on this principle, I determined to go with Marcos, and accordingly we rode forth together.
My guide soon struck away across country, leading me wide of the public road, through such lonely places that I at length began to suspect him of some sinister design against my person, since I had no property worth taking. Presently he surprised me by saying: “You were right, my young friend, in casting away idle fears when you accepted my company. Why do you let them return to trouble your peace? Men of your blood have never inflicted injuries on me that cry out for vengeance. Can I make myself young again by shedding your life, or would there be any profit in changing these rags I now wear for your garments, which are also dusty and frayed? No, no, sir Englishman, this dress of patience and suffering and exile, my covering by day and my bed by night, must soon be changed for brighter garments than you are wearing.”
This speech relieved me sensibly, and I smiled at the poor devil’s ambitious dream of wearing a soldier’s greasy red jacket; for I supposed that that was what his words meant. Still, his “shortest way” to Montevideo continued to puzzle me considerably. For two or three hours we had been riding nearly parallel to a range of hills, or cuchilla, extending away on our left hand towards the southeast. But we were gradually drawing nearer to it, and apparently going purposely out of our way only to traverse a most lonely and difficult country. The few estancia houses we passed, perched on the highest points of the great sweep of moor-like country on our right, appeared to be very far away. Where we rode there were no habitations, not even a shepherd’s hovel; the dry, stony soil was thinly covered with a forest of dwarf thorn-trees, and a scanty pasturage burnt to a rust-brown colour by the summer heats; and out of this arid region rose the hills, their brown, woodless sides looking strangely gaunt and desolate in the fierce noonday sun.
Pointing to the open country on our right, where the blue gleam of a river was visible, I said: “My friend, I assure you, I fear nothing, but I cannot understand why you keep near these hills when the valley over there would have been pleasanter for ourselves, and easier for our horses.”
“I do nothing without a reason,” he said, with a strange smile. “The water you see over there is the Rio de las Canas {River of Grey Hairs}, and those who go down into its valley grow old before their time.”
Occasionally talking, but oftener silent, we jogged on till about three o’clock in the afternoon, when suddenly, as we were skirting a patch of scraggy woodland, a troop of six armed men emerged from it, and, wheeling about, came directly towards us. A glance was enough to tell us that they were soldiers or mounted policemen, scouring the country in search of recruits, or, in other words, of deserters, skulking criminals, and vagabonds of all descriptions. I had nothing to fear from them, but an exclamation of rage escaped my companion’s lips, and, turning to him, I perceived that his face was of the whiteness of ashes. I laughed, for revenge is sweet, and I still smarted a little at his contemptuous treatment of me earlier in the day.
“Is your fear so great?” I said.
“You do not know what you say, boy!” he returned fiercely. “When you have passed through as much hellfire as I have and have rested as sweetly with a corpse for a pillow, you will learn to curb your impertinent tongue when you address a man.”
An angry retort was on my lips, but a glance at his face prevented me from uttering it—it was, in its expression, the face of a wild animal worried by dogs.
In another moment the men had cantered up to us, and one, their commander, addressing me, asked to see my passport.
“I carry no passport,” I replied. “My nationality is a sufficient protection, for I am an Englishman as you can see.”
“We have only your word for that,” said the man. “There is an English consul in the capital, who provides English subjects with passports for their protection, in this country. If you have not got one you must suffer for it, and no one but yourself is to blame. I see in you only a young man complete in all his members, and of such the republic is in need. Your speech is also like that of one who came into the world under this sky. You must go with us.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” I returned.
“Do not say such a thing, master,” said Marcos, astonishing me very much with the change in his tone and manner. “You know I warned you a month ago that it was imprudent to leave Montevideo
