nd was to be heard save the brawling of the escaped river, as it
fled from its glacier-prison to its home in the mighty sea.

CHAPTER SIX.

A STORM IN THE MOUNTAINS--REFUGE FOUND--CONVERSE ROUND THE FIRE.

The summit of the pass was at last gained, and not a moment too soon,
for the storm which they had experienced a few days before was but the
prelude to a gale such as is rarely experienced save in the winter
months of the year, when most of the mountain passes are closed.

It began by mutterings of distant thunder, which caused the guide to
look round the horizon and up at the sky somewhat anxiously.

"Do you think we shall reach our next shelter before it breaks?" asked
Lawrence.

"I hope so," said Pedro, pausing on a ridge from which an almost
illimitable view was had of mountain range and valley in all directions.

"Far over in that direction," he continued, pointing with his hand,
"lies the land of the Incas. You have heard of the Incas, senhor?"

"Yes, I have heard of them, but cannot say that I am intimately
acquainted with their history."

"It is a strange history--a very sad one," returned Pedro. "I will tell
you something about it at another time; at present it behoves us to push
on."

There was no question as to that point, for just as he spoke a sudden
and powerful gust of wind swept Quashy's straw hat off and sent it
spinning gaily along the path. Vaulting from his mule with a wild
shout, the negro gave chase on foot, with an amount of anxiety that
seemed not justified by the occasion. But as the poet truly puts it,
"things are not what they seem," and Quashy's head-piece, which
presented much the appearance of a battered old straw hat, was in truth
an article of very considerable value.

It was one of those hats made by the people of South America, with a
delicate fibre so finely plaited that in texture it resembles fine
canvas, though in appearance it is like straw. It is exceedingly tough,
takes a very long time to manufacture, and costs many dollars--so many,
indeed, that a hat of the kind is thought worthy of being preserved and
left as an heirloom from father to son as long as it lasts.

No wonder then that the negro made frantic efforts to regain his
property--all the more frantic that he was well aware if it should pass
over one of the neighbouring precipices it would be lost to him for
ever. At last a friendly gust sent it into a snowdrift, through which
Quashy plunged and