In order to explain to the reader the miraculous disappearance of Rosario, we are obliged to make a few retrograde steps, and return to Curumilla, at the moment when the Ulmen, after his conversation with Trangoil-Lanec, had thrown himself, like a staunch bloodhound, upon the track of the young girl. Curumilla was a warrior as renowned for his prudence and wisdom in council, as for his bravery in fight. Having crossed the river, he left his horse in the care of a peon who had accompanied him, as it would not only be useless to him, but, still further, because it might even be injurious by betraying his presence by the clatter of its hoofs upon the ground. Indians are expert horsemen, but they are indefatigable walkers. Nature has endowed them with incredible strength of muscles of the legs and hams; and they possess in the highest degree the knowledge of that rising and sinking gymnastic step, which, for some years past, has been introduced into Europe, particularly into France, in the marching of troops. They accomplish with incredible swiftness journeys which horses could hardly perform, always directing their course in a straight line, or as the bird flies, without regard to the difficulties that may arise in their way, no obstacle being sufficient to turn them from their course. This quality renders them particularly formidable to the Spanish Americans, who cannot obtain this facility of locomotion, and who, in time of war, find the redskins always before them at the moment they least expect them, and that almost always at considerable distances from the spots where, logically, they ought to be.

Curumilla, after having carefully studied the prints made by the ravishers, at once divined the route they had taken, and the place they were bound to. He did not amuse himself with following them, for that would have been losing precious time; on the contrary, he resolved to cut across country, and wait for them at an elbow of the road he was acquainted with, where, at all events, he could ascertain their numbers, and, perhaps, save the young girl. This being determined, the Ulmen set off. He walked for several hours without rest, eye and ear on the watch, trying to penetrate the darkness, and listening patiently to the various noises of the desert. These noises, which are to us white men a dead letter, have for the Indians, who are accustomed to interrogate them, a special signification, in which they are never deceived; they analyse them, they decompose them, and often learn by this means things which their enemies have the greatest interest in concealing from them. However inexplicable this fact may at first appear, it is very simple. There exists no noise in the desert without a cause. The flight of birds, the passage of wild beasts, the rustling of leaves, the rolling of a stone down a ravine, the undulation of high grass, the friction of branches in the woods, are for the Indian valuable indications.

At a certain point with which he was acquainted, Curumilla laid himself down flat on his face, behind a block of rock, and remained motionless among the grass and bushes that bordered the route. He remained thus for more than an hour, without making the least movement. Whoever might have perceived him would have taken him for a dead body. The practised ear of the Indian, ever on the watch, at length caught in the distance the dull sound of the feet of horses and mules upon the dry and sonorous road. This noise grew rapidly nearer, and soon, from his hiding place, he perceived about twenty horsemen passing slowly along in the dark, within two lance lengths of him. The ravishers, emboldened by their numbers, and believing themselves secure from all danger, rode along in perfect security. The Indian raised his head softly, and leaning on his hands, followed them with his anxious eyes, and waited. They passed without seeing him. At some paces behind the troop, a horseman came along, leaving himself carelessly to the measured pace of his horse. His head occasionally sank upon his breast, and his hands had but a feeble hold of the reins. It was evident that this man was asleep in his saddle.

A sudden idea rushed like lightning through Curumilla's brain; gathering himself up, he stiffened the iron muscles of his legs, and, bounding like a tiger, leaped up behind the horseman. Before the latter, surprised by this unexpected attack, had time to utter a cry, he pressed his throat in such a manner as, for the time, to render him incapable of calling for help. In the twinkling of an eye the horseman was gagged and thrown to the ground: then, securing the horse, Curumilla fastened it to a bush, and returned to his prisoner. The latter, with the stoical and disdainful courage peculiar to the aborigines of America, finding himself conquered, attempted no useless resistance; he looked at his conqueror with a smile of contempt, and waited for him to speak to him.

"Oh!" said Curumilla, who, upon leaning over him, recognised him, "is it you, Joan?"

"Curumilla!" the other replied.

"Hum!" the Ulmen murmured to himself, "I would rather it had been somebody else. What is my brother doing on this path?" he asked.

"Of what consequence is that to my brother?" said the Indian, replying to one question by another.

"We have no time to waste," the chief replied, unsheathing his knife; "let my brother speak."

Joan started; a shudder ran through his limbs at the blue light reflected by the long, sharp blade of the knife.

"The chief can question me," he said, in a husky voice.

"Where is my brother going?"

"To the toldería of San Miguel."

"Good! and for what purpose is my brother going there?"

"To place in the hands of the sister of the grand toqui a woman whom we have carried off this morning."

"Who ordered you to do so?"

"She whom we are going to meet."

"Who had the direction of this affair?"

"I had."

"Good! where does this woman expect the prisoner?"

"I have told the chief; at the toldería of San Miguel."

"In which casa?"

"In the last; the one which stands a little apart from the others."

"That is well! Let my brother exchange poncho and hat with me."

The Indian obeyed without a word, and when the exchange was made, Curumilla said —

"I could kill my brother; prudence would even require me to do so, but pity has entered my heart – Joan has wives and children, he is one of the brave warriors of his tribe; if I let him live, will he be grateful?"

The Indian had expected that he was going to die, but these words restored him to hope. He was not a bad man at bottom; the Ulmen knew him well, and was satisfied he would keep his promises.

"My father holds my life in his hands," Joan replied; "if he does not take it today, I shall remain his debtor – I will lay down my life at a sign from him."

"Very well!" said Curumilla, returning his knife to its sheath, "my brother may rise, a chief keeps his word."

The Indian sprang upon his feet, and fervently kissed the hand of the man who had spared him.

"What does my father command?" he asked.

"My brother must repair as fast as possible to the toldería which the Huincas name Valdivia. He will seek Don Tadeo, the Great Eagle of the Whites, and relate to him what has passed between us, adding, that I will save the prisoner, or die."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. If the Great Eagle requires the services of my brother, he will place himself without hesitation at his orders. Farewell! May Pillian guide my brother! and let him never forget that I was not willing to take the life that was in my power!"

"Joan will not forget," the Indian replied.

At a sign from Curumilla, he bent down in the high grass, crept along like a serpent, and disappeared in the direction of Valdivia. The chief, without losing an instant, jumped into the saddle and soon joined the little troop, who had continued jogging quietly along, without dreaming of the substitution that had just taken place. It was Curumilla who, while carrying the young girl into the house, had whispered hope and courage. These three words, in announcing to her that she had a friend watching over her, had restored her the strength necessary for the struggle that awaited her.

After the unexpected arrival of Antinahuel, when, at the order of Doña Maria, Curumilla led away the prisoner, instead of reconducting her to the apartment in which she had been, he threw a poncho over her to disguise her.

"Follow me," he said in a low voice; "step out boldly, I will endeavour to save you."

The maiden hesitated; she was fearful of a snare. The Ulmen comprehended her feeling, and said quickly, in a low voice —

"I am Curumilla, one of the Ulmens devoted to the two Frenchmen, the friends of Don Tadeo."

Rosario startled imperceptibly.

"Go on," she replied in a firm tone; "happen what may, I will follow you."

And they left the hut together. The Indians, dispersed here and there, were busily talking over the events of the day, and did not observe them. The two fugitives proceeded for ten minutes without exchanging a word. The village was soon lost in the darkness; at length Curumilla stopped at a thick clump of cactus, behind which two horses stood, saddled and bridled.

"Does my sister find herself strong enough to mount on horseback, and ride a long distance?" he asked.

"To escape from my persecutors," she replied, in a broken voice, "I feel I have strength to do anything."

"Good!" said Curumilla, "my sister is courageous. Her God will help her!"

"It is in Him alone I place my hope," she said, with a sigh.

"To horse, then, and let us begone! minutes are ages!"

He unfastened the horses, they mounted, and set of at full speed, without any sound being produced upon the road by their hoofs, which Curumilla had covered with pieces of sheepskin. The maiden breathed a sigh of relief on feeling herself once more free, and under the protection of a devoted friend. The fugitives continued to ride at a rapid pace, in a direction diametrically opposite to the one they should have taken to return to Valdivia. Prudence required that they should not yet take any route on which, according to all possibilities, they would be looked for.

We must leave our friends in this critical position for the present; but those readers who feel an interest in the loves of Don Louis and Doña Rosario, will find their curiosity fully satisfied in the following volume of this series, called "The Pearl of the Andes."