38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
When Philippa's prospect was limited to the Scotch
firs in the yard, and the curtains of Indian chintz before
the parlor windows, Parke's extended over the savannas
of Apure, where the grasses, verdant through the year,
were more beautiful than the flower-beds of the terrace
at Crest. The earthly paradise, peopled with birds of
the most brilliant colors, and almost every variety of
animal, was at present invaded by a party on a cattle-hunt,
which party, including Parke and Osmond Luce,
was composed of military men, Llaneros, and negroes.
The expedition, starting from Maracay weeks before,
had traversed an extensive tract of country, stopping at
the various cattle-farms on the devious route to the pampas,
to hunt among the wild herds of the native proprietors,
or the still wilder herds with no proprietor at all.
Parke, dressed in a check flannel shirt, breeches buttoned
tightly at the knee, and with a checkered handkerchief
bound round his head, was as much at ease, and
looked far handsomer than any Llanero the pampas
could boast of. Seated on a stool of stretched hide, in
a hut thatched with palm-leaves, and plastered with mud
and straw, he impressed those around him with the air
of having been to the “manor born.”
“Our foreign friend,” observed a young man, “seems
to carry us all in his eye.”
“He plays the Llanero well, though,” replied another.
“He is not the desperate player our comrade Osmond
Luce is.”
“At card-breaking, you mean.”
“Hist, he is looking at you, and he brought some
capital pistols from the States.”
“How much past daybreak is it?” inquired Parke.
“I want to get a jaguar-skin before night.”
“Time enough for that,” replied young Castejon.
“But I say, sir, I have taken a fancy to that cream-colored
horse of yours. Will you part with him?”
“You shall have him,” Parke replied, “if you will
break for me the black stallion we saw in the corral last
night.”
“Excuse me.”
“Pshaw!” cried Osmond. “Break him yourself,
Parke. As for the cream-colored, we'll stake him.”
“Play,” said Parke. “Oh yes—for `el ultimo mono
siempre se ahoga.'” (The last monkey is sure to be
drowned.)
“What! are you apt at our proverbs already?” asked
Castejon. “Let us go and look at the stallion.”
“No,” said Parke, lazily. “You go, and bring me a
lock of his mane.”
“Something is going on now in the majada,” cried
one.
All rushed out except Parke and Osmond. The latter
lighted a cigar, and Parke took his knife from his belt
and examined its edge. Keeping his eye on it, he said:
“The bats dropped into my hammock so last night
that I could not sleep, and with the first light I sauntered
out. I swear to you that the atmosphere was so
transparent that it seemed to bring within my vision
the terrace and the windows of the old house. The
casement didn't grow a `glimmering square,' but the
panes glittered in the morning light, as I have sometimes
seen them glitter at sunset.”
“You've got the mirage—home-sickness.”
“No, I am not home-sick. But why do I ask myself
questions concerning Philippa, lately?”
“No thought of her belongs in these scenes. Suppose
we go and shoot crocodiles this forenoon. We
might dissect one on account of its tears.”
“Her spirit comes,” continued Parke, “when I do not
call for it.”
“And never comes when I do,” said Osmond, tearing
a cigar to pieces.
“Poor Philippa!” mused Parke.
“You continue to believe in your star—don't you?”
Osmond asked, irritably.
“Certainly, in the star of my will.”
“And that has brought you to the pampas.”
“And it may take me back.”
Osmond laughed.
“I'll bet you a herd that when you do go back, you
will find Philippa married.”
“To whom?”
“Jason Auster.”
“Never! It is impossible.”
FINIS.
