a little room for me, signor, out of charity; for pity's sake, do not leave me here alone!”
“Beware; it is a journey of twenty days.”
“It matters nothing to me.”
“It is a hard journey.”
“I will endure everything.”
“You will have to travel alone.”
“I fear nothing, if I can only find my mother. Have compassion!”
The capataz drew his face close to a lantern, and scrutinized him. Then he said, “Very well.”
The lad kissed his hand.
“You shall sleep in one of the wagons to-night,” added the capataz, as he quitted him; “to-morrow morning, at four o'clock, I will wake you. Good night.”
At four o'clock in the morning, by the light of the stars, the long string of wagons was set in motion with a great noise; each cart was drawn by six oxen, and all were followed by a great number of spare animals for a change.
The boy, who had been awakened and placed in one of the carts, on the sacks, instantly fell again into a deep sleep. When he awoke, the convoy had halted in a solitary spot, full in the sun, and all the men—the peones—were seated round a quarter of calf, which was roasting in the open air beside a large fire, that flickered in the wind. They all ate together, took a nap, and then set out again; and thus the journey continued, regulated like a march of soldiers. Every morning they set out on the road at five o'clock, halted at nine, set out again at five o'clock in the even-
