l; while everywhere the mischief done was appalling--
houses toppled down, streets choked with ruins, towers split from top to
bottom, and stones hurled from the unroofed buildings into the gaping
cracks and fissures running down the streets.

But now that the first fright was over, people seemed to take the matter
very coolly, flocking back into the town, to sit and smoke and eat fruit
amidst the ruins of their homes, while others quietly set to work to
restore and repair damages.

"Has there ever been an earthquake here before?" I said to a merchant
who spoke English.

"Earthquakes, my dear senor? Yes, they are common things here."

"But will the inhabitants rebuild the town?"

"Surely. Why not? The site is charming."

I had my thoughts upon the subject, but I did not express them; so, too,
had Tom, but he did express his as above.

"Say, Mas'r Harry, you won't stop here, will you?"

"No," I said; "we are going up the country."

"Because this place ain't safe--there's a screw loose underground
somewheres. Not that I mind. Earthquakes ain't so much account after
all, if they'd come in the day; but all the same, I wouldn't stop here."

I had had no intention of stopping, only just long enough to see the
place and make arrangements for the prosecution of my journey; but this
catastrophe hurried my departure, and at the end of three days we were
both mounted on mules, travelling over hot, bare plains, with the sun
pouring down until one's brain seemed scorched; and when at last water
was reached, it was thick and muddy-looking, so that, but for our
horrible thirst we could not have touched it.

My ideas of South America had been undergoing a great change during the
past few days, and, quite disappointed, in the midst of a long burning
ride I made some remark to Tom about the heat.

"Hot, Mas'r Harry!" he said. "Pooh! this ain't hot, 'Tis a little
warmer than the other place, because there is no sea-breeze, but I could
stand a deal more than this. These here--will you be quiet, then?--
these here mules is the worst of it, though, sir. They won't go like a
horse, nor yet like a donkey; and as to kicking--"

Tom stopped short, for he wanted his breath for other purposes, his
steed having once more turned refractory, kicking, rearing, shaking
itself in an effort to dislodge its rider, spinning round and round,
laying its long ears flat upon its neck, tucking its tail close in
between its legs, and then