"That is some distance from the city; is it long since my brother left it?"

"The moon was about to disappear and the Southern Cross alone shed its splendid light upon the earth, when Joan commenced his journey."

It was nearly eighteen leagues from the village of San Miguel to the city of Valdivia. Don Tadeo was astonished. He took from the table a glass, which he filled to the brim with aguardiente, and presented it to the messenger, saying—

"My brother will drink this coui of firewater; probably, the dust of the road sticking to his palate prevents him from speaking as easily as he could wish."

The Indian smiled; his eyes sparkled greedily; he took the glass and emptied it at a draught.

"Good," he said, smacking his lips. "My father is hospitable; he is truly the Great Eagle of the Whites."

"Does my brother come from the chief of his tribe?" Don Tadeo continued.

"No." Joan replied; "it was Curumilla that sent me."

"Curumilla!" the three men cried.

Don Tadeo breathed more freely.

"Curumilla is my friend," he said; "no harm has happened to him, I hope?"

"Here are his poncho and his hat," Joan replied.

"Heavens!" Louis exclaimed—"he is dead!"

"No," said the Indian, "Curumilla is brave and wise. Joan had carried off the young, pale, blue-eyed maiden; Curumilla might have killed Joan; he was not willing to do so; he preferred making a friend of him."

"Curumilla is good," Don Tadeo replied; "his heart is large and his soul is not cruel."

"Joan was the chief of those who carried off the young white girl. Curumilla changed clothes with him," the Indian continued, sententiously; "and said 'Go and seek the Great Eagle of the Whites, and tell him that Curumilla will save the young maiden, or perish!' Joan has come."

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