“I have been in the heart of the Andes, and I did not write because I was as much cut off from the world as if I had been in another planet.”

“You must have a long story to tell us, then.  But I am forgetting the most important question of all.  Are you still a bachelor?”

“Worse than that, Juanita.  I am a widower.  I have lost the sweetest wife—­”

“Misericordia!  Misericordia!  Pobre amigo mio! Oh, how sorry I am; how much I pity you!” And the dear lady, now a stately and handsome matron, fell a-weeping out of pure tenderness, and I had to tell her the sad story of the quenching of Quipai and Angela’s death.  But the telling of it, together with Juanita’s sympathy, did me good, and I went away in much better spirits than I had come.  Salvador, she said, would be back in a few days, and she much regretted not being able to offer me quarters; it was contrary to the custom of the place and Spanish etiquette for ladies to entertain gentlemen visitors during their husbands’ absence.

After leaving Juanita I walked round by the guard-house in which I had been imprisoned, and through the ruins where Carmen and I had hidden when we were making our escape.  They suggested some stirring memories—­Carera (who, as I learned from Juanita, had been dead several years) and his chivalrous friendship; Salvador and his reckless courage; our midnight ride; Gahra and the bivouac by the mountain-tarn (poor Gahra, what had become of him?); Majia and his guerillas; Griscelli and his blood-hounds (how I hated that man, but surely by this time he had got his deserts); Gondocori and Queen Mamcuna; the man-killer; and Quipai.

My mind was still busied with these memories when I reached the hotel.  There seemed to be much more going on than there had been earlier in the day—­horsemen were coming and going, servants hurrying to and fro, people promenading on the patio, a group of uniformed officers deep in conversation.  One of them, a tall, rather stout man, with grizzled hair, a pair of big epaulettes, and a coat covered with gold lace, had his back toward me, and as my eye fell on his sword-hilt it struck me that I had seen something like it before.  I was trying to think where, when the owner of it turned suddenly round, and I found myself face to face with—­GRISCELLI!!

For some seconds we stared at each other in blank amazement.  I could see that though he recognized me, he was trying to make believe that he did not; or, perhaps, he really doubted whether I was the man I seemed.

“That is my sword,” I said, pointing to the weapon by his side, which had been given to me by Carera.

“Your sword!  What do you mean?” “You took it from me eleven years ago, when I fell into your hands at San Felipe, and you hunted my friend Carmen and myself with bloodhounds.”

“What folly is this?  Hunted you with bloodhounds, forsooth!  Why, this is the first time I ever set eyes on you—­the man is mad—­or drunk” (addressing his friends).