back to the
Cordillera, though a long way south of the pass by which we had descended
to the desert. But I have hardly sighted the outline of the mighty
barrier, looming portentously in the darkness, when he alters his course
once again, wenching this time almost due south. And so he continues for
hours, seldom going straight, now inclining toward the coast, anon facing
toward the Cordillera but always on the southward tack, never turning to
the north.

It was a beautiful night. The splendor of the purple sky with its myriads
of lustrous stars was in striking contrast with the sameness of the white
and deathlike desert. A profound melancholy took hold of me. I had ceased
to fear, almost to think, my perceptions were blinded by excitement and
fatigue, my spirits oppressed by an unspeakable sense of loneliness and
helplessness, and the awful silence, intensified rather than relieved by
the long drawn moaning of the unseen ocean, which, however far I might be
from it, was ever in my ears.

I looked up at the stars, and when the cross began to bend I knew that
midnight was past, and that in a few hours would dawn another day. What
would it bring me--life or death? I hardly cared which; relief from the
torture and suspense I was enduring would be welcome, come how it might.
For I suffered cruelly; I had a terrible thirst. The cords chafed my limbs
and cut into my flesh. Every movement gave an exquisite pain; I was
continually on the rack; rest, even for a moment, was impossible, as,
though the nandu had diminished his speed, he never stopped. And then a
wind came up from the sea, bringing with it clouds of dust, which
well-nigh choked and half blinded me; filled my ears and intensified my
thirst. After a while a strange faintness stole over me; I felt as if I
were dying, my eyes closed, my head sank on my breast, and I remembered no
more.

CHAPTER XXVI.

ANGELA.

"_Regardez mon pere, regardez! Il va mieux, le pauvre homme._"

"_C'est ca, ma fille cherie, faites le boire._"

I open my eyes with an effort, for the dust of the desert has almost
blinded me.

I am in a beautiful garden, leaning against the body of the dead ostrich,
a lovely girl is holding a cup of water to my parched lips, and an old man
of benevolent aspect stands by her side.

"_Merci mademoiselle, vous etes bien bonne_," I murmur.

"Oh, father, he speaks French."

"This passes comprehension. Are you French, monsieur?"

"No, English."