Gaucho is nearer. He is perilously near. He will save him or perish.

Again the lasso leaves his hand. Dugald had thrown up his hands and almost
leapt from the water. He is sinking. Oh, good Gaucho! Oh, good _capataz_,
surely Heaven itself directed that aim, for the noose fell over our
brother's arms and tightened round the chest!

In a few minutes more we have laid his lifeless body on the green bank.

Lifeless only for a time, however. Presently he breathes, and we carry him
away into the evening sunshine and place him on the soft warm moss. He
soon speaks, but is very ill and weak; yet our thanks to God for his
preservation are very sincere. Surely there is a Providence around one
even in the wilderness!

We might have explored our glen this same evening, perhaps we really ought
to have done so, but the excitement caused by Dugald's adventure put
everything else out of our heads.

In this high region, the nights were even cold enough to make a position
near the camp fire rather a thing to be desired than otherwise. It was
especially delightful, I thought, on this particular evening to sit around
the fire and quietly talk. I reclined near Dugald, who had not yet quite
recovered. I made a bed for him with extra rugs; and, as he coughed a good
deal, I begged of him to consider himself an invalid for one night at
least; but no sooner had he drunk his mug of _mate_ than he sat up and
joined in the conversation, assuring us he felt as well as ever he had in
his life.

[Illustration: Tries to steady himself to catch the Lasso]

It was a lovely evening. The sky was unclouded, the stars shining out very
clear, and looking very near, while a round moon was rising slowly over
the hill-peaks towards the east, and the tall dark pine-trees were casting
gloomy shadows on the lake, near which, in an open glade, we were
encamped. I could not look at the dark waters without a shudder, as I
thought of the danger poor Dugald had so narrowly escaped. I am not sure
that the boy was not always my mother's favourite, and I know he was
Flora's. How could I have written and told them of his fearful end? The
very idea made me creep nearer to him and put my arm round his shoulder. I
suppose he interpreted my thoughts, for he patted my knee in his brotherly
fond old fashion.

Our Gaucho _capataz_ was just telling a story, an adventure of his own, in
the lonely pampas. He looked a strange and far from comely being, with his
long, straggli