“Say, Mas’r Harry, you won’t stop in this blessed place, will you?” said Tom, as, in the full light of day, we were, some hours after, busily helping in the town, extricating the dead and wounded, and assisting to bear them to the temporary hospital prepared for their reception.

The house where we had slept was, like hundreds more of the lightly-built tenements, prostrate; and on visiting the scene our escape seemed wonderful; 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 squeaking and squealing in the most outrageous manner imaginable.

I have no doubt that it was most terribly unpleasant to the rider, painful, probably; but to a looker-on it was one of the most ludicrous of sights, and in spite of heat, weariness, and a tendency to low spirits, I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, while Tom grinned with pain and held on with both hands to the refractory beast.

“Ah! would you?” cried Tom, as the brute lifted its heels higher than usual, nearly sending him over its head.  “There never was such a beast as this here, Mas’r Harry.  If I’d only got a thicker stick!”

One could not pity him much, for at starting he had rejected three or four quiet-looking beasts as too slow, and chosen the animal he rode, or rather tried to ride, for, if the reader will pardon the Irishism, a great deal of Tom’s riding was walking, and performed by leading his beast by its bridle.

But really it was a deceptive beast, and to have seen it drooping its head and walking calmly and peacefully by its hirer’s side, no one would have imagined that it possessed so much mischievous sagacity as it very soon displayed when anyone attempted to mount it.

“I like ’em with some sperrit in ’em, Mas’r Harry,” Tom had said.  “If it was a horse it would be different; but if one’s to ride a donkey, let’s have one with something in it.”

And verily Tom’s donkey, as he called it, was not very long before it showed that it had, indeed, something in it, a great deal more, in fact, than Tom had bargained for.  We did not pass many trees by the track, but when we did come upon one Tom had certain information thereof, for the mule rubbed his rider’s leg vigorously against the trunk.  The sight of a muddy pool of water was the signal for him to squeak, elevate his heels, and then go off at a sharp gallop, when, if his rider did not quickly slip off behind, he would be carried into the pool and bathed, for the mule would drink his fill and then indulge in a roll in the mud and water.  In short, I never before saw so many acts of cunning in an animal, one and all directed at dislodging the rider.

At first I was in a state of tremor lest his vagaries should infect the beasts ridden by myself and the guide; but no, they were evidently elderly mules ­bordering on a hundred they might have been, from their grey and mangy aspect.  They had sown their wild oats years before, and all that they did was to trudge solemnly on, quiet and sure-footed, if not swift.

Tom’s mishaps had their pleasant face, though; they served to make a horribly monotonous journey more bearable, and on an average he was in grief, some way or another, about every two hours.

“Oh, senor,” said the guide proudly, “the mule is perfect!  He is a magnificent beast, but he has his antipathies.  He used to be ridden by the padre, and he is a most holy and Christian mule.  He shows his dislike a little sometimes like that, because the senor who rides him is a heretic.”

“Oh!” I said.

“Yes, it is so, senor, I assure you,” said the guide.  “Let your friend ride my beast and I will take his, and then you will see how peaceable he is.”

At first Tom did not seem disposed to agree, for he did not like being beaten; but I ordered him to dismount, his accidents tending so greatly to lengthen our journey.  So the exchange of mules was made, and on we went once more.

“See, senor!” said the guide.  “He is a pattern mule, is Juan; he goes like a lamb.  It is a natural dislike that he has not learned to subdue.  He does not know what good men and generous there are amongst the heretics.”

“Haw, haw, haw, haw!  Look at that, Mas’r Harry ­there’s a game!” roared Tom, for the guide had hardly done speaking, just as we were travelling pleasantly along, before Juan, the mule, stopped short, put his head between his legs, elevated his hind-quarters, and the next moment the guide was sitting amongst the stones staring up at us with a most comical expression of countenance.

“The beast has been cursed!” he cried angrily as he rose.  “Car-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ambo! but you shall starve for this, Juan!”

“Let me have another turn at him,” cried Tom, as he started off to catch the mule, which had cantered off a few hundred yards, and was searching about with his nose amongst the sand and stones for a few succulent blades of grass where there was not so much as a thistle or a cactus to be seen.

But Juan had no wish to be caught, and after leading his pursuer a tolerable race, he stopped short, and placed all four hoofs together, so as to turn easily as upon a pivot, presenting always his tail to the hand that caught at his bridle.

“Poor fellow, then!  Come, then ­come over,” said Tom soothingly.

But the only response he obtained was an occasional lift of the beast’s heels, and an angry kick.

“You ignorant brute, you can’t understand plain English!” cried Tom angrily.

“No, senor, he is a true Spanish mule,” said the guide, coming up.

Between them, Tom and he soon managed to catch Juan, when, holding tightly by the reins, the guide vented his displeasure and took his revenge by thoroughly drumming the poor brute’s ribs with a stout stick, after which Tom mounted, and our journey for the next two hours was without incident.

But we were not to get to the end of the day without mishap.  The sun had begun to descend, and we were panting along, longing for the sight of water to quench our burning throats, when Juan began to show that the pain from the guide’s drubbing had evaporated.  First of all he indulged in a squeal or two, then he contrived to kick the mule I rode upon one of its legs, when, emboldened by the success of the manoeuvre, he waited his time, and then, sidling up to his companion ridden by the guide, he discharged a fierce kick at him, nearly catching the guide in the shin; but the result was a tremendous crack from a stick right upon Juan’s back ­a blow which made him shake his head with dissatisfaction till his ears rattled again.

He had forgotten the pain, though, in ten minutes, and the first hint we had thereof was a squeal and feat of sleight of heel, in which, to all appearances, Juan stood perpendicularly upon his nose and fore-feet for half a minute, like a fleshly tripod, while his rider, or rather his late rider, rolled over and over, the centre of a cloud of impalpable dust, coughing and sneezing, and muttering fiercely.

“There!” exclaimed Tom, as he jumped up and began beating the dust from his garments.  “That’s four times that brute has had me off to-day.  I’ve rid everything in my time, Mas’r Harry, from a pig up to a parish bull.  I’ve been on sheep and donkeys, and when I was at the blacksmith’s I rode all sorts of restive beasts as come to be shod, but I never did get on such a brute as that; his skin don’t fit him, and he slippers about between your legs all sorts of ways; but I mean to ride him yet.  Now just you try him half an hour, Mas’r Harry, to see what he’s like.”

“Not I, thank you, Tom,” was my reply.  “I’m very well content.”

“So am I, Mas’r Harry, only he makes me so sore; but I ain’t bet yet, I can tell him.  Come over, then!”

But the mule would not “come over, then!” and there ensued a fierce fight of kicks between Tom and his steed, Tom essaying to kick the mule for punishment in the ribs; the mule, nowise taken aback, returning the compliment, by essaying to kick his late rider anywhere, though without success.  It might have been imagined, to see the artful feints and moves, that the mule was endowed with human reason.  Tom was more than a match for him at last, though, for, slipping off his jacket, he threw it over the mule’s head and held it there, confusing the poor beast, so that it could not avoid a couple of heartily given kicks in the ribs; and before it could recover from its surprise Tom was once more seated upon its back in triumph.

“I can stand a wonderful sight of kicking off, Mas’r Harry, I can tell you!  I ain’t bet yet!  Co-o-me on, will you!”

Apparently cowed, now that the jacket was removed, the mule journeyed on very peaceably, till leaving the plain we began to ascend a precipitous mountain-side, the track each moment growing more and more sterile, ­if it were possible ­grand, and at the same time dangerous.  And now it was that we began to see the qualities of the mules in the cautious way they picked their steps, feeling each loose piece of path before trusting their weight to it, and doing much towards removing a strange sensation of tremor evoked by the fact that we were progressing along a shelf of rugged rock some two feet wide ­the scarped mountain-side upon our right, a vast precipice on the left.

More than once I was for getting down to walk, but the guide dissuaded me, as he declared that it was far better to trust to the mules, who were never known to slip.

A couple of miles of such travelling served to somewhat reassure me ­ familiarity with danger breeding contempt; and I called out to Tom: 

“I hope your beast won’t bear malice, Tom, for this would be an awkward place for him to try his capers.”

I said so thoughtlessly, just at a time when we were descending; Tom’s beast, which was before me, walking along with the most rigorous care as to where he set his feet.

“Oh!  I say, don’t, Mas’r Harry,” whined Tom, “don’t!  It’s no joke, you know, and this mule understands every word you say ­leastwise he might, you know.  I ain’t afraid, only he might ­”

Tom’s sentence was not finished; for, in fact, just as if every word I had uttered had been comprehended, down went the beast’s head, his heels were elevated, and the next moment, to my horror, poor Tom was over the side of the path, and rolling swiftly down to apparent destruction.

He was brought up, though, the next moment by the reins, which he tightly grasped, and which fortunately did not give way, though they tightened with a jerk that must have nearly dislocated the mule’s neck.  The leather, fortunately, now strained and stretched, but held firm; while, planting its fore-feet close to the edge of the precipice, and throwing its body back against the scarped wall, the mule stood firm as the rock itself, but snorting loudly as with glaring eyeballs it stared down at Tom; who hung there, trying to obtain some rest for his feet, but uttering no sound, only gazing up at us with a wild look that said plainly as could be, “Don’t leave me here to die!”

It was no easy task to help him; for the guide and I had both to dismount on to a narrow ledge of rock, clinging the while to our mules; but we achieved that part of our task, and the next moment, one on each side of Juan, we were kneeling down and trying to reach Tom’s hands.

But our efforts were vain, for the mule was in the way, and there was not standing room for all three.  There was but one way of helping, and that looked too desperate to be attempted, and I hesitated to propose it as I knelt shivering there.

The same thought, though, had occurred to Tom, and in a husky voice he said: 

“Take hold of the guide’s hand, Mas’r Harry, and creep under the mule’s legs to his side.”

It was no time to hesitate; and I did as I was told, the mule giving utterance to quite a shriek as I passed.

“Now can you both reach the bridle?” Tom whispered.

“Yes, yes!” we both exclaimed.

“Hold on tight then, while one of you cuts it through, and then the mule will be out of the way.”

We each took a good grip of the leathern thong, raising it so that we had Tom’s full weight upon our muscles; and then crouching down so as not to be drawn over, I hastily drew out my knife, opened it with some difficulty by means of my teeth, and then tried to cut the bridle above our hands.

But feeling himself partly relieved of his burden, the mule began to grow restless, stamping, whinnying, and trying to get free.  For a moment I thought we might utilise his power, and make him back and help draw Tom up; but the narrowness of the ledge forbade it, and he would only have been drawn sidewise till the rein broke.

Twice I tried to cut the bridle, but twice the mule balked me, and I was glad to ease the fearful strain on one arm by catching at the hand that held the knife.

“Try again, Mas’r Harry, please,” whispered Tom.  “I can’t hang much longer.”

With a desperate effort I cut at the rein, and divided it close to the mule’s mouth.

He started back a few inches, tightening the other rein; but now, once more, I was grasping the rein with both hands lest it should slip through my fingers, and at the same moment the knife fell, striking Tom on the cheek and making the blood spurt out, before flying down ­down to a depth that was horrible to contemplate.

It was a fearful time, and as I crouched there a cold sensation seemed to be creeping through the marrow of all my bones.  We could not raise Tom for the mule, I could not cut the rein, and upon asking I found that the guide had no knife, and, what was worse, it was evident that he was losing nerve.

I dared not try to heave ­it would have been madness, cumbered and crowded together as we were; and in those brief moments of agony it seemed to me that I was Tom’s murderer, for, but on account of my wild thirst for coming abroad, he might have been safe at home.

“Try ­try again, Mas’r Harry, please,” whispered the poor fellow imploringly; “I shouldn’t like to die out here in these savage parts, nor yet this how.  Make one more try to get rid of that beast.”

As if to show that he was not all bad, just at the moment when it seemed that all chance of saving poor Tom was gone, when our arms felt to be dragging out of their sockets, and a something drawing me by a strange fascination, joined to the weight, over the side of the precipice ­the mule gave a wild squeal, shook its head for an instant, seized the tight rein in its teeth, and bit it through.

The next moment it gave a whinny of relief, planted its feet on my back as I half lay down, leaped over me, and was out of our way; while how we managed the next part I cannot say.  All I know is that there was a horrible struggle, a scrambling rush, the panting groans of those who fought with grim death, and then I lay half-fainting upon the shelf, with honest old Tom at my side.

“Thank Heaven!” I muttered.

“Amen, Mas’r Harry!” said Tom in a whisper; and then for some time no one spoke.

Half an hour after, very quiet and sober of mien, we were leading our mules down the shelf, unnerved and trembling, till once more the plain was reached, and with it rest for the night.