gure in grey moving silently towards us.

'Speak, quick, else I fire!' shouted our _capataz_.

'_Ave Maria!_'

Yambo lowered the revolver, and we all started to our feet to confront the
figure in grey.

-----

[14] Toldo = a tent.

CHAPTER XX.

THE MOUNTAIN CRUSOE.

The figure in grey--the grey was a garment of skin, cap, coat, breeches,
and even boots, apparently all of the same material--approached with
extended hand. We could see now it was no ghost who stood before us, but a
man of flesh and blood. Very solid flesh, too, judging from the cheeks
that surmounted the silvery beard. The moon shone full on his face, and a
very pleasant one it was, with a bright, merry twinkle in the eye.

'Who are you?' said I.

'Nay, pardon me,' was the bold reply, 'but the question would come with
greater propriety from my lips. I need not ask it, however. You are right
welcome to my little kingdom. You are, I can see, a party of roving
hunters. Few of your sort have ever come here before, I can tell you.'

'And you?' I said, smiling.

'_I_ am--but there, what need to give myself a name? I have not heard my
name for years. Call me Smith, Jones, Robinson; call me a hunter, a
trapper, a madman, a fool--anything.'

'A hermit, anyhow,' said Dugald.

'Yes, boy, a hermit.'

'And an Englishman?'

'No; I am a Portuguese by birth, but I have lived in every country under
the sun, and here I am at last. Have I introduced myself sufficiently?'

'No,' I said; 'but sit down. You have,' I continued, 'only introduced
yourself sufficiently to excite our curiosity. Yours must be a strange
story.'

'Oh, anybody and everybody who lives for over fifty years in the world as
I have done has a strange story, if he cared to tell it. Mine is too long,
and some of it too sad. I have been a soldier, a sailor, a traveller; I
have been wealthy, I have been poor; I have been in love--my love left
_me_. I forgot _her_. I have done everything except commit crime. I have
not run away from anywhere, gentlemen. There is no blood on my hands. I
can still pray. I still love. She whom I love is here.'

'Oh!' cried Dugald, 'won't you bring the lady?'

The hermit laughed.

'She _is_ here, there, all around us. My mistress is Nature. Ah! boys,' he
said, turning to us with such a kind look, 'Nature breaks no hearts; and
the more you love her, the more she loves you, and leads you
upwards--always upwards, never down.'

It was strange, but