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PROGRAMMING IN

STEPHEN G.KOCHAN

[(]
HAYDEN BOOK COMPAN'(, INC.
Hasbrouck Heights, New Jersey

- --~
.- .".
- .-
r

AcquisUions Editor: DOUGLAS McCORMICK

Production Editor: MAUREEN CONNELLY
Art Director: JIM BERNARD
Cover Design: JEANNETTE JACOBS
Compositor: McFARLAND GRAPHICS & DESIGN INC.
Printed and bound by: HAMILTON PRINTING Co.

Copyright @ 1983 by Stephen G. Kochan. All rights reserved. No part of this

book may be reprinted, or reproduced, or utilized in any form or by any
electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented,
including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage and
retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.
Printed in the United States of America

2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 PRINTING
83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 YEAR
 To my mother

I
r~--------"""""'-------"""""'--------"""""'----------
 ;"1

I wish to thank the following people for their help in the preparation of
this book: Doug McCormick and Maureen Connelly of Hayden Book Com-
pany, Jim Scharf, Tony lannino, Henry Tabickman, and especially Ken
Brown. Ken and I spent many hours discussing various approaches and
ideas, and he was also kind enough to edit the entire text. For this I am
sincerely grateful.
I also wish to thank Henry Mullish of New York University for getting me
started in the publishing business.
Undertaking a project such as this places an equal if not greater burden
on the people closest to you. My wife, Leela, provided her patience and under-
standing. But above all she provided her love.

Stephen G. Kochan
(
c 0 N T E N TS
• • • • };
• • • •
1
,
J
{~
.

1 Introduction • 1
2 Some Fundamentals • 4
3 Writing a Program in C • 10
4 Variables. Constants, Data Types, and Arithmetic
Expressions • 17
5 Program Looping • 34
6 Making Decisions • 53
7 Arrays • 80
B Functions • 99
9 Structures • 138
10 Character Strings • 162
11 Pointers • 196 j
12 Operations on Bits • 234
13 The Preprocessor • 254
14 More on Data Types • ;271
15 Working with Larger Programs • 279
16 Input and Output • 285
17 Miscellaneous Features ~nd Advanced Topics • 308
Appendix A Language Summary • 321
AppendixB Common Programming Mistakes • 351
AppendixC The UNIXC Library • 355
AppendixD Compiling Programs un~er UNIX • 363
AppendixE The Program LINT • 367
AppendixF The ASCn Character Set e. 368
Index • 369
r
 c H A p T E R
• • • • • •
1

INTRODUCTION

The "C" programming language evolved from a succession of programming

languages developed at Bell Laboratories in the early 1970s. It was not until the
late 1970s, however, that this programming language began to gain
widespread popularity and support. This was because until that time C
compilers were not readily available for commercial use outside of Bell
Laboratories. Furthermore, C's growth in popularity has been spurred in
part by the equal, if not faster, growth in popularity of the UNIX! operating
system. This operating system, which was also developed at Bell Laboratories,
has C as its "standard" programming language. In fact, well over 90 percent of
the operating system itself is written in the C language!
C is a so-called "higher-level language," yet it provides capabilities that
enable the user to "get in close" with the hardware and deal with the computer
on a much lower level. This is because, while the C language is a general
purpose structured programming language, it was designed with systems
programming applications in mind and, as such, provides the user with an
enormous amount of power and flexibility. In fact, programming applications
exist that could be easily handled by the C language but that would be difficult,
if not impossible, to develop in other languages such as Pascal, FORTRAN, or
BASIC.
This book proposes to teach you how to program in C. It assumes no
previous exposure to the language whatsoever and was designed to appeal to
both the novice and experienced programmer alike. If you have previous
programming experience, then you will find that C has a unique way of doing
things that will probably differ significantly from any language you have used.
Even if you are coming from a Pascal background-a language that C
superficially resembles-you will quickly discover that there are many
features that are unique to this language, such as pointers, character strings,
and bit operations.
Every feature of the C language is treated in this text. As each new feature
is presented, a small complete program example is usually provided to

I UNIX is a registered trademark of Bell Laboratories.

. ., .
2 o PROGRAMMING IN C 0

illustrate the feature. This reflects the overriding philosophy that has been
used in writing this book: to teach by example. Just as a picture is worth a
thousand words, so is a properly chosen program example. If you have access
to a computer facility that supports the C programming language, then you are
strongly encouraged to enter and run each program that is presented in this
book, and to compare the results obtained on your system to those shown in
the text. By doing so not only will you learn the language and its syntax, but you
will also become familiar with the process of typing in, compiling, and running
C programs.
The style that is used for teaching the C language is one of posing a
particular problem for solution on a computer and then proceeding to develop
a program in C to solve the problem. In this manner, new language constructs
are introduced as they are needed to solve a particular problem.
You will find that program readability has been stressed throughout the
book. This is because I strongly believe that programs should be written so that
they may be easily read-either by the author himself or by somebody else.
Through experience and common sense you will find that such programs are
almost always easier to write, debug, and modify. Furthermore, developing
programs that are readable is a natural result of a true adherence to a
structured programming discipline.
Because this book was written as a tutorial, the material covered in
each chapter is based on previously presented material. Therefore, maximum
benefit will be derived from this book by reading each chapter in succession,
and you are highly discouraged from "skipping around." You should also work
through the exercises that are presented at the end of each chapter before
proceeding to the next chapter.
Chapter 2, which covers some fundamental terminology about higher-
level programming languages and the process of compiling programs, has
been included to make sure that we are speaking the same language
throughout the remainder of the text. From Chapter 3 on, you will be slowly
introduced to the C language. By the time Chapter 16 rolls around, all of the
essential features of the language will have been covered. Chapter 16 goes into
more depth about input! output (I/O) operations in C. Finally, Chapter 17
includes those features of the language that are of a more advanced or esoteric
nature.
Appendix A provides a summary of the syntax of the language, among
other things, and is provided for reference purposes. A comprehensive index is
also provided so that you may quickly find explanations and program
examples of particular C language features.
This book makes no assumptions about a particular computer system or
operating system on which the C language is implemented. However, since C is
most often found running under the UNIX operating system, special attention
is given to using C under UNIX. The text describes how to compile and execute
programs under UNIX, and the Appendix provides a summary of many of the
UNIX runtime library routines, as well as a description of the cc command and
the program lint.
 o Introduction 0 3

If you are using a C compiler under an operating system other than UNIX,
then you may find slight anomalies exist between the C language at your
installation and the language described in the text. This is because as of this
writing there exists no standard definition for the C language.
 c H A p T E R
• • • • • •
2

SOME FUNDAMENTALS

This chapter describes some fundamental terms that you must understand
before you learn how to program in C. A general overview of the nature of
programming in a higher-level language is provided, as is a discussion of the
process of compiling a program developed in such a language.

• Programming •
Computers are really very dumb machines indeed, since they do only what
they are told to do. Most computer systems perform their operations on a very
primitive level. For example, most computers know how to add 1to a number,
or how to test if a number is equal to zero or not. The sophistication of these
basic operations usually does not go much further than that. The basic
operations of a computer system form what is known as the computer's
instruction set. Some computers have very limited instruction sets. For
example, the DEC PDP-8 computer has just a handful of instructions, while the
DEC VAX machines contain instruction sets consisting of hundreds of basic
operations.
In order to solve a problem using a computer, we must express the
solution to the problem in terms of the instructions of the particular
computer. A computer program is actually just a collection of the instructions
necessary to solve a specific problem. The approach or method that is used to
solve the problem is known as an algorithm For example, if we wish to develop
a program that tests if a number is odd or even, then the set of statements
that solves the problem becomes the program. The method that is used to test
if the number is even or odd is the algorithm. Normally, to develop a program
to solve a particular problem, we first express the solution to the problem in
terms of an algorithm and then develop a program that implements that
algorithm. So the algorithm for solving the even! odd problem might be
expressed as follows: "First divide the number by two. If the remainder of the
division is zero then the number is even; otherwise the number is odd." With
the algorithm in hand, we can then proceed to write the instructions necessary

• 4 •
 o Some Fundamentals 0 5

to implement the algorithm on a particular computer system. These

instructions would be expressed in the statements of a particular computer
language, such as BASIC, Pascal, or C.

• Higher-Level Languages •
When computers were first developed, the only way they could be
programmed was in terms of binary numbers that corresponded directly to
specific machine instructions and locations in the computer's memory. The
next technological software advance occurred in the development of
assembly languages, which enabled the programmer to work with the
machine on a slightly higher level. Instead of having to specify sequences of
binary numbers to carry out particular tasks, the assembly language permits
the programmer to use symbolic names to perform various operations and to
refer to specific memory locations. A special program, known as an assembler,
translates the assembly language program from its symbolic format into the
specific machine instructions of the computer system.
Because there still exists a one-to-one correspondence between each
assembly language statement and a specific machine instruction, assembly
languages are regarded as low-level languages. The programmer must still
learn the instruction set of the particular computer system in order to write a
program in assembly language, and the resulting program is not transportable;
that is, the program will not run on a different computer model without being
rewritten. This is because different computer systems have different
instruction sets, and since assembly language programs are written in terms of
these instruction sets, they are machine dependent.
Then, along came the so-called higher-level languages, of which
FORTRAN was one of the first. Programmers developing programs in
FORTRAN no longer had to concern themselves with the architecture of the
particular computer, and operations performed in FORTRAN were of a much
more sophisticated or "higher level," far removed from the instruction set of
the particular machine. One FORTRAN instruction or statement would result
in many different machine instructions being executed, unlike the one-to-one
correspondence found between assembly language statements and machine
instructions.
Standardization of the syntax of a higher-level language meant that a
program could be written in the language to be machine independent. That is, a
program could be run on any machine that supported the language with little
or no changes.
In order to support a higher-level language, a special computer program
must be developed that translates the statements of the program developed in
the higher-level language into a form that the computer can understand-in
other words, into the particular instructions of the computer. Such a program
is known as a compiler.
 6 o PROGRAMMING IN C 0

· Operating Systems ·
Before we proceed with our discussion of compilers, it is worthwhile
discussing the role that is played by a computer program known as an
operating system. An operating system is a program that controls the entire
operation of a computer system. All 110 operations that are performed on a
computer system are channeled through the operating system. The operating
system must also manage the computer system's resources, and must handle
the execution of programs.
One of the most popular operating systems today is the UNIX operating
system, which was developed at Bell Laboratories. UNIX is a rather unusual
operating system in that it can be found on many different types of computer
systems. Historically, operating systems were typically associated with only
one type of computer system. But because UNIX is written primarily in the C
language and makes very few assumptions about the architecture of the
computer, it has been successfully transported to many different computer
systems with a relatively small amount of effort.

· Compiling Programs ·
A compiler is a software program that is in principle no different from the ones
you will be seeing in this book, although it is certainly much more
complex. A compiler analyzes a program developed in a particular computer
language and then translates it into a form that is suitable for execution on
your particular computer system.
Figure 2-1 shows the steps that are involved in entering, compiling,
and executing a computer program developed in the C programming
language.
The program that is to be compiled is first typed into a file on the
computer system. Computer installations have various conventions that are
used for naming files, but in general, the choice of the name is up to you. Under
UNIX, C programs can be given any name provided the last two characters are
'.c'. So the name program.c would be a valid file name for a C program running
under UNIX.
To enter the C program into a file, the use of a text editor is usually
required. The editor ed is most commonly used for entering programs under
UNIX. In order to be able to try the programs presented in this book, you will
first have to learn how to use such an editor. Check with someone at your
installation for getting help and the appropriate documentation for using the
locally available text editor.
The program that is entered into the file is known as the source program,
since it represents the original form of the program expressed in the C
language. Once the source program has been entered into a file, we can then
have it compiled.
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who was about the same age as myself, and his daughter, Elaria,
who was younger. He was a widower when he took charge of me,
and died when I was still a youth. After his death we moved to
Tandil, where we had a house close to the little town; for we were
all minors, and the property had been left to be equally divided
between us when we should be of age. For four years we lived
happily together; then when we were of age we preferred to keep
the property undivided. I proposed that we should go and live on the
estancia, but Torcuato would not consent, liking the place where we
were living best. Finally, not being able to persuade him, I resolved
to go and attend to the estancia myself. He said that I could please
myself and that he should stay where he was with Elaria. It was only
when I told Elaria of these things that I knew how much I loved her.
She wept and implored me not to leave her.
"Why do you shed tears, Elaria?" I said; "is it because you love me?
Know, then, that I also love you with all my heart, and if you will be
mine, nothing can ever make us unhappy. Do not think that my
absence at the estancia will deprive me of this feeling which has
ever been growing up in me."
"I do love you, Anacleto," she replied, "and I have also known of
your love for a long time. But there is something in my heart which I
cannot impart to you; only I ask you, for the love you bear me, do
not leave me, and do not ask me why I say this to you."
After this appeal I could not leave her, nor did I ask her to tell me
her secret. Torcuato and I were friendly, but not as we had been
before this difference. I had no evil thoughts of him; I loved him and
was with him continually; but from the moment I announced to him
that I had changed my mind about going to the estancia, and was
silent when he demanded the reason, there was a something in him
which made it different between us. I could not open my heart to
him about Elaria, and sometimes I thought that he also had a secret
which he had no intention of sharing with me. This coldness did not,
however, distress me very much, so great was the happiness I now
experienced, knowing that I possessed Elaria's love. He was much
away from the house, being fond of amusements, and he had also
begun to gamble. About three months passed in this way, when one
morning Torcuato, who was saddling his horse to go out, said, "Will
you come with me, to-day, Anacleto?"
"I do not care to go," I answered.
"Look, Anacleto," said he; "once you were always ready to
accompany me to a race or dance or cattle-marking. Why have you
ceased to care for these things? Are you growing devout before your
time, or does my company no longer please you?"
"It is best to tell him everything and have done with secrets," said I
to myself, and so replied—
"Since you ask me, Torcuato, I will answer you frankly. It is true that
I now take less pleasure than formerly in these pastimes; but you
have not guessed the reason rightly."
"What then is this reason of which you speak?"
"Since you cannot guess it," I replied, "know that it is love."
"Love for whom?" he asked quickly, and turning very pale.
"Do you need ask? Elaria," I replied.
I had scarcely uttered the name before he turned on me full of rage.
"Elaria!" he exclaimed. "Do you dare tell me of love for Elaria! But
you are only a blind fool, and do not know that I am going to marry
her myself."
"Are you mad, Torcuato, to talk of marrying your sister?"
"She is no more my sister than you are my brother," he returned.
"I," he continued, striking his breast passionately, "am the only child
of my father, Loreto Silva. Elaria, whose mother died in giving her
birth, was adopted by my parents. And because she is going to be
my wife, I am willing that she should have a share of the property;
but you, a miserable foundling, why were you lifted up so high? Was
it not enough that you were clothed and fed till you came to man's
estate? Not a hand's-breadth of the estancia land should be yours by
right, and now you presume to speak of love for Elaria."
My blood was on fire with so many insults, but I remembered all the
benefits I had received from his father, and did not raise my hand
against him. Without more words he left me. I then hastened to
Elaria and told her what had passed.
"This," I said, "is the secret you would not impart to me. Why, when
you knew these things, was I kept in ignorance?"
"Have pity on me, Anacleto," she replied, crying. "Did I not see that
you two were no longer friends and brothers, and this without
knowing of each other's love? I dared not open my lips to you or to
him. It is always a woman's part to suffer in silence. God intended
us to be poor, Anacleto, for we were both born of poor parents, and
had this property never come to us, how happy we might have
been!"
"Why do you say such things, Elaria? Since we love each other, we
cannot be unhappy, rich or poor."
"Is it a little matter," she replied, "that Torcuato must be our bitter
enemy? But you do not know every thing. Before Torcuato's father
died, he said he wished his son to marry me when we came of age.
When he spoke about it we were sitting together by his bed."
"And what did you say, Elaria?" I asked, full of concern.
"Torcuato promised to marry me. I only covered my face, and was
silent, for I loved you best even then, though I was almost a child,
and my heart was filled with grief at his words. After we came here,
Torcuato reminded me of his father's words. I answered that I did
not wish to marry him, that he was only a brother to me. Then he
said that we were young and he could wait until I was of another
mind. This is all I have to say; but how shall we three live together
any longer? I cannot bear to part from you, and every moment I
tremble to think what may happen when you two are together."
"Fear nothing," I said. "To-morrow morning you can go to spend a
week at some friend's house in the town; then I will speak to
Torcuato, and tell him that since we cannot live in peace together we
must separate. Even if he answers with insults I shall do nothing to
grieve you, and if he refuses to listen to me, I shall send some
person we both respect to arrange all things between us."
This satisfied her, but as evening approached she grew paler, and I
knew she feared Torcuato's return. He did not, however, come back
that night. Early next morning she was ready to leave. It was an
easy walk to the town, but the dew was heavy on the grass, and I
saddled a horse for her to ride. I had just lifted her to the saddle
when Torcuato appeared. He came at great speed, and throwing
himself off his horse, advanced to us. Elaria trembled and seemed
ready to sink upon the earth to hide herself like a partridge that has
seen the hawk. I prepared myself for insults and perhaps violence.
He never looked at me; he only spoke to her.
"Elaria," he said, "something has happened—something that obliges
me to leave this house and neighbourhood at once. Remember when
I am away that my father, who cherished you and enriched you with
his bounty, and who also cherished and enriched this ingrate, spoke
to us from his dying bed and made me promise to marry you. Think
what his love was; do not forget that his last wish is sacred, and that
Anacleto has acted a base, treacherous part in trying to steal you
from me. He was lifted out of the mire to be my brother and equal in
everything except this. He has got a third part of my inheritance—let
that satisfy him; your own heart, Elaria, will tell you that a marriage
with him would be a crime before God and man. Look not for my
return to-morrow nor for many days. But if you two begin to laugh
at my father's dying wishes, look for me, for then I shall not delay to
come back to you, Elaria, and to you, Anacleto. I have spoken."
He then mounted his horse and rode away. Very soon we learned
the cause of his sudden departure. He had quarrelled over his cards
and in a struggle that followed had stabbed his adversary to the
heart. He had fled to escape the penalty. We did not believe that he
would remain long absent; for Torcuato was very young, well off,
and much liked, and this was, moreover, his first offence against the
law. But time went on and he did not return, nor did any message
from him reach us, and we at last concluded that he had left the
country. Only now after four years have I accidentally discovered his
fate through seeing his piebald horse.
After he had been absent over a year, I asked Elaria to become my
wife. "We cannot marry till Torcuato returns," she said. "For if we
take the property that ought to have been all his, and at the same
time disobey his father's dying wish, we shall be doing an evil thing.
Let us take care of the property till he returns to receive it all back
from us; then, Anacleto, we shall be free to marry."
I consented, for she was more to me than lands and cattle. I put the
estancia in order and leaving a trustworthy person in charge of
everything I invested my money in fat bullocks to resell in Buenos
Ayres, and in this business I have been employed ever since. From
the estancia I have taken nothing, and now it must all come back to
us—his inheritance and ours. This is a bitter thing and will give Elaria
great grief.

Thus ended Anacleto's story, and when he had finished speaking and
still seemed greatly troubled in his mind, Sotelo said to him, "Friend,
let me advise you what to do. You will now shortly be married to the
woman you love and probably some day a son will be born to you.
Let him be named Torcuato, and let Torcuato's inheritance be kept
for him. And if God gives you no son, remember what was done for
you and for the girl you are going to marry, when you were orphans
and friendless, and look out for some unhappy child in the same
condition, to protect and enrich him as you were enriched."
"You have spoken well," said Anacleto. "I will report your words to
Elaria, and whatever she wishes done that will I do."

So ends my story, friend. The cattle-drover left us that night and we

saw no more of him. Only before going he gave the piebald and the
silver trappings to Sotelo. Six months after his visit, Sotelo also
received a letter from him to say that his marriage with Elaria had
taken place; and the letter was accompanied with a present of seven
cream-coloured horses with black manes and hoofs.
 NIÑO DIABLO.
The wide pampa rough with long grass; a vast level disc now
growing dark, the horizon encircling it with a ring as faultless as that
made by a pebble dropped into smooth water; above it the clear sky
of June, wintry and pale, still showing in the west the saffron hues
of the afterglow tinged with vapoury violet and grey. In the centre of
the disc a large low rancho thatched with yellow rushes, a few
stunted trees and cattle enclosures grouped about it; and dimly seen
in the shadows, cattle and sheep reposing. At the gate stands
Gregory Gorostiaga, lord of house, lands and ruminating herds,
leisurely unsaddling his horse; for whatsoever Gregory does is done
leisurely. Although no person is within earshot he talks much over
his task, now rebuking his restive animal, and now cursing his
benumbed fingers and the hard knots in his gear. A curse falls
readily and not without a certain natural grace from Gregory's lips; it
is the oiled feather with which he touches every difficult knot
encountered in life. From time to time he glances towards the open
kitchen door, from which issue the far-flaring light of the fire and
familiar voices, with savoury smells of cookery that come to his
nostrils like pleasant messengers.
The unsaddling over at last the freed horse gallops away, neighing
joyfully, to seek his fellows; but Gregory is not a four-footed thing to
hurry himself; and so, stepping slowly and pausing frequently to look
about him as if reluctant to quit the cold night air, he turns towards
the house.
The spacious kitchen was lighted by two or three wicks in cups of
melted fat, and by a great fire in the middle of the clay floor that
cast crowds of dancing shadows on the walls and filled the whole
room with grateful warmth. On the walls were fastened many deers'
heads, and on their convenient prongs were hung bridles and lassos,
ropes of onions and garlics, bunches of dried herbs, and various
other objects. At the fire a piece of beef was roasting on a spit; and
in a large pot suspended by hook and chain from the smoke-
blackened central beam, boiled and bubbled an ocean of mutton
broth, puffing out white clouds of steam redolent of herbs and
cummin-seed. Close to the fire, skimmer in hand, sat Magdalen,
Gregory's fat and florid wife, engaged in frying pies in a second
smaller pot. There also, on a high, straight-backed chair, sat
Ascension, her sister-in-law, a wrinkled spinster; also, in a low rush-
bottomed seat, her mother-in-law, an ancient white-headed dame,
staring vacantly into the flames. On the other side of the fire were
Gregory's two eldest daughters, occupied just now in serving maté
to their elders—that harmless bitter decoction the sipping of which
fills up all vacant moments from dawn to bed-time—pretty dove-
eyed girls of sixteen, both also named Magdalen, but not after their
mother nor because confusion was loved by the family for its own
sake; they were twins, and born on the day sacred to Santa
Magdalena. Slumbering dogs and cats were disposed about the floor,
also four children. The eldest, a boy, sitting with legs outstretched
before him, was cutting threads from a slip of colt's hide looped over
his great toe. The two next, boy and girl, were playing a simple
game called nines, once known to English children as nine men's
morrice; the lines were rudely scratched on the clay floor, and the
men they played with were bits of hardened clay, nine red and as
many white. The youngest, a girl of five, sat on the floor nursing a
kitten that purred contentedly on her lap and drowsily winked its
blue eyes at the fire; and as she swayed herself from side to side
she lisped out the old lullaby in her baby voice:—

A-ro-ró mi niño
A-ro-ró mi sol,
A-ro-ró pedazos
De mi corazon.
Gregory stood on the threshold surveying this domestic scene with
manifest pleasure.
"Papa mine, what have you brought me?" cried the child with the
kitten.
"Brought you, interested? Stiff whiskers and cold hands to pinch
your dirty little cheeks. How is your cold to-night, mother?"
"Yes, son, it is very cold to-night; we knew that before you came in,"
replied the old dame testily as she drew her chair a little closer to
the fire.
"It is useless speaking to her," remarked Ascension. "With her to be
out of temper is to be deaf."
"What has happened to put her out?" he asked.
"I can tell you, papa," cried one of the twins. "She wouldn't let me
make your cigars to-day, and sat down out of doors to make them
herself. It was after breakfast when the sun was warm."
"And of course she fell asleep," chimed in Ascension.
"Let me tell it, auntie!" exclaimed the other. "And she fell asleep, and
in a moment Rosita's lamb came and ate up the whole of the
tobacco-leaf in her lap."
"It didn't!" cried Rosita, looking up from her game. "I opened its
mouth and looked with all my eyes, and there was no tobacco-leaf in
it."
"That lamb! that lamb!" said Gregory slily. "Is it to be wondered at
that we are turning grey before our time—all except Rosita! Remind
me to-morrow, wife, to take it to the flock; or if it has grown fat on
all the tobacco-leaf, aprons and old shoes it has eaten—"
"Oh no, no, no!" screamed Rosita, starting up and throwing the
game into confusion, just when her little brother had made a row
and was in the act of seizing on one of her pieces in triumph.
"Hush, silly child, he will not harm your lamb," said the mother,
pausing from her task and raising eyes that were tearful with the
smoke of the fire and of the cigarette she held between her good-
humoured lips. "And now, if these children have finished speaking of
their important affairs, tell me, Gregory, what news do you bring?"
"They say," he returned, sitting down and taking the maté-cup from
his daughter's hand, "that the invading Indians bring seven hundred
lances, and that those that first opposed them were all slain. Some
say they are now retreating with the cattle they have taken; while
others maintain that they are waiting to fight our men."
"Oh, my sons, my sons, what will happen to them!" cried Magdalen,
bursting into tears.
"Why do you cry, wife, before God gives you cause?" returned her
husband. "Are not all men born to fight the infidel? Our boys are not
alone—all their friends and neighbours are with them."
"Say not this to me, Gregory, for I am not a fool nor blind. All their
friends indeed! And this very day I have seen the Niño Diablo; he
galloped past the house, whistling like a partridge that knows no
care. Why must my two sons be called away, while he, a youth
without occupation and with no mother to cry for him, remains
behind?"
"You talk folly, Magdalen," replied her lord. "Complain that the
ostrich and puma are more favoured than your sons, since no man
calls on them to serve the state; but mention not the Niño, for he is
freer than the wild things which Heaven has made, and fights not on
this side nor on that."
"Coward! Miserable!" murmured the incensed mother.
Whereupon one of the twins flushed scarlet, and retorted, "He is not
a coward, mother!"
"And if not a coward why does he sit on the hearth among women
and old men in times like these? Grieved am I to hear a daughter of
mine speak in defence of one who is a vagabond and a stealer of
other men's horses!"
The girl's eyes flashed angrily, but she answered not a word.
"Hold your tongue, woman, and accuse no man of crimes," spoke
Gregory. "Let every Christian take proper care of his animals; and as
for the infidel's horses, he is a virtuous man that steals them. The
girl speaks truth; the Niño is no coward, but he fights not with our
weapons. The web of the spider is coarse and ill-made compared
with the snare he spreads to entangle his prey." Thus fixing his eyes
on the face of the girl who had spoken, he added; "therefore be
warned in season, my daughter, and fall not into the snare of the
Niño Diablo."
Again the girl blushed and hung her head.
At this moment a clatter of hoofs, the jangling of a bell, and shouts
of a traveller to the horses driven before him, came in at the open
door. The dogs roused themselves, almost overturning the children
in their hurry to rush out; and up rose Gregory to find out who was
approaching with so much noise.
"I know, papita," cried one of the children. "It is Uncle Polycarp."
"You are right, child," said her father. "Cousin Polycarp always arrives
at night, shouting to his animals like a troop of Indians." And with
that he went out to welcome his boisterous relative.
The traveller soon arrived, spurring his horse, scared at the light and
snorting loudly, to within two yards o£ the door. In a few minutes
the saddle was thrown off, the fore feet of the bell-mare fettered,
and the horses allowed to wander away in quest of pasturage; then
the two men turned into the kitchen.
A short, burly man aged about fifty, wearing a soft hat thrust far
back on his head, with truculent greenish eyes beneath arched
bushy eyebrows, and a thick shapeless nose surmounting a bristly
moustache—such was Cousin Polycarp. From neck to feet he was
covered with a blue cloth poncho, and on his heels he wore
enormous silver spurs that clanked and jangled over the floor like
the fetters of a convict. After greeting the women and bestowing the
avuncular blessing on the children, who had clamoured for it as for
some inestimable boon—he sat down, and flinging back his poncho
displayed at his waist a huge silver-hilted knife and a heavy brass-
barelled horse-pistol.
"Heaven be praised for its goodness, Cousin Magdalen," he said.
"What with pies and spices your kitchen is more fragrant than a
garden of flowers. That's as it should be, for nothing but rum have I
tasted this bleak day. And the boys are away fighting, Gregory tells
me. Good! When the eaglets have found out their wings let them try
their talons. What, Cousin Magdalen, crying for the boys! Would you
have had them girls?"
"Yes, a thousand times," she replied, drying her wet eyes on her
apron.
"Ah, Magdalen, daughters can't be always young and sweet-
tempered, like your brace of pretty partridges yonder. They grow
old, Cousin Magdalen—old and ugly and spiteful; and are more bitter
and worthless than the wild pumpkin. But I speak not of those who
are present, for I would say nothing to offend my respected Cousin
Ascension, whom may God preserve, though she never married."
"Listen to me, Cousin Polycarp," returned the insulted dame so
pointedly alluded to. "Say nothing to me nor of me, and I will also
hold my peace concerning you; for you know very well that if I were
disposed to open my lips I could say a thousand things."
"Enough, enough, you have already said them a thousand times," he
interrupted. "I know all that, cousin; let us say no more."
"That is only what I ask," she retorted, "for I have never loved to
bandy words with you; and you know already, therefore I need not
recall it to your mind, that if I am single it is not because some men
whose names I could mention if I felt disposed—and they are the
names not of dead but of living men—would not have been glad to
marry me; but because I preferred my liberty and the goods I
inherited from my father; and I see not what advantage there is in
being the wife of one who is a brawler and a drunkard and spender
of other people's money, and I know not what besides."
"There it is!" said Polycarp, appealing to the fire. "I knew that I had
thrust my foot into a red ant's nest—careless that I am! But in truth,
Ascension, it was fortunate for you in those distant days you
mention that you hardened your heart against all lovers. For wives,
like cattle that must be branded with their owner's mark, are first of
all taught submission to their husbands; and consider, cousin, what
tears! what sufferings!" And having ended thus abruptly, he planted
his elbows on his knees and busied himself with the cigarette he had
been trying to roll up with his cold drunken fingers for the last five
minutes.
Ascension gave a nervous twitch at the red cotton kerchief on her
head, and cleared her throat with a sound "sharp and short like the
shrill swallow's cry," when——
"Madre del Cielo, how you frightened me!" screamed one of the
twins, giving a great start.
The cause of this sudden outcry was discovered in the presence of a
young man quietly seated on the bench at the girl's side. He had not
been there a minute before, and no person had seen him enter the
room—what wonder that the girl was startled! He was slender in
form, and had small hands and feet, and oval olive face, smooth as
a girl's except for the incipient moustache on his lip. In place of a
hat he wore only a scarlet ribbon bound about his head, to keep
back the glossy black hair that fell to his shoulders; and he was
wrapped in a white woollen Indian poncho, while his lower limbs
were cased in white colt-skin coverings, shaped like stockings to his
feet, with the red tassels of his embroidered garters falling to the
ankles.
"The Niño Diablo!" all cried in a breath, the children manifesting the
greatest joy at his appearance. But old Gregory spoke with affected
anger. "Why do you always drop on us in this treacherous way, like
rain through a leaky thatch?" he exclaimed. "Keep these strange arts
for your visits in the infidel country; here we are all Christians, and
praise God on the threshold when we visit a neighbour's house. And
now, Niño Diablo, what news of the Indians?"
"Nothing do I know and little do I concern myself about specks on
the horizon," returned the visitor with a light laugh. And at once all
the children gathered round him, for the Niño they considered to
belong to them when he came, and not to their elders with their
solemn talk about Indian warfare and lost horses. And now, now he
would finish that wonderful story, long in the telling, of the little girl
alone and lost in the great desert, and surrounded by all the wild
animals met to discuss what they should do with her. It was a grand
story, even mother Magdalen listened, though she pretended all the
time to be thinking only of her pies—and the teller, like the grand old
historians of other days, put most eloquent speeches, all made out
of his own head, into the lips (and beaks) of the various actors—
puma, ostrich, deer, cavy, and the rest.
In the midst of this performance supper was announced, and all
gathered willingly round a dish of Magdalen's pies, filled with minced
meat, hard-boiled eggs chopped small, raisins, and plenty of spice.
After the pies came roast beef; and, finally, great basins of mutton
broth fragrant with herbs and cummin-seed. The rage of hunger
satisfied, each one said a prayer, the elders murmuring with bowed
heads, the children on their knees uplifting shrill voices. Then
followed the concluding semi-religious ceremony of the day, when
each child in its turn asked a blessing of father, mother,
grandmother, uncle, aunt, and not omitting the stranger within the
gates, even the Niño Diablo of evil-sounding name.
The men drew forth their pouches, and began making their
cigarettes, when once more the children gathered round the story-
teller, their faces glowing with expectation.
"No, no," cried their mother. "No more stories to-night—to bed, to
bed!"
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Rosita pleadingly, and struggling to free
herself; for the good woman had dashed in among them to enforce
obedience. "Oh, let me stay till the story ends! The reed-cat has said
such things! Oh, what will they do with the poor little girl?"
"And oh, mother mine!" drowsily sobbed her little sister; "the
armadillo that said—that said nothing because it had nothing to say,
and the partridge that whistled and said,—" and here she broke into
a prolonged wail. The boys also added their voices until the hubbub
was no longer to be borne, and Gregory rose up in his wrath and
called on some one to lend him a big whip; only then they yielded,
and still sobbing and casting many a lingering look behind, were led
from the kitchen.
During this scene the Niño had been carrying on a whispered
conversation with the pretty Magdalen of his choice, heedless of the
uproar of which he had been the indirect cause; deaf also to the
bitter remarks of Ascension concerning some people who, having no
homes of their own, were fond of coming uninvited into other
people's houses, only to repay the hospitality extended to them by
stealing their silly daughters affections, and teaching their children
to rebel against their authority.
But the noise and confusion had served to arouse Polycarp from a
drowsy fit; for like a boa constrictor, he had dined largely after his
long fast, and dinner had made him dull; bending towards his cousin
he whispered earnestly: "Who is this young stranger, Gregory?"
"In what corner of the earth have you been hiding to ask who the
Niño Diablo is?" returned the other.
"Must I know the history of every cat and dog?"
"The Niño is not cat nor dog, cousin, but a man among men, like a
falcon among birds. When a child of six the Indians killed all his
relations and carried him into captivity. After five years he escaped
out of their hands, and, guided by sun and stars and signs on the
earth, he found his way back to the Christian's country, bringing
many beautiful horses stolen from his captors; also the name of Niño
Diablo first given to him by the infidel. We know him by no other."
"This is a good story; in truth I like it well—it pleases me mightily,"
said Polycarp. "And what more, cousin Gregory?"
"More than I can tell, cousin. When he comes the dogs bark not—
who knows why? his tread is softer than the cat's; the untamed
horse is tame for him. Always in the midst of dangers, yet no harm,
no scratch. Why? Because he stoops like the falcon, makes his
stroke and is gone—Heaven knows where!"
"What strange things are you telling me? Wonderful! And what more
cousin, Gregory?"
"He often goes into the Indian country, and lives freely with the
infidel, disguised, for they do not know him who was once their
captive. They speak of the Niño Diablo to him, saying that when
they catch that thief they will flay him alive. He listens to their
strange stories, then leaves them, taking their finest ponchos and
silver ornaments, and the flower of their horses."
"A brave youth, one after my own heart, cousin Gregory. Heaven
defend and prosper him in all his journeys into the Indian territory!
Before we part I shall embrace him and offer him my friendship,
which is worth something. More, tell me more, cousin Gregory?"
"These things I tell you to put you on your guard; look well to your
horses, cousin."
"What!" shouted the other, lifting himself up from his stooping
posture, and staring at his relation with astonishment and kindling
anger in his countenance.
The conversation had been carried on in a low tone, and the sudden
loud exclamation startled them all—all except the Niño, who
continued smoking and chatting pleasantly to the twins.
"Lightning and pestilence, what is this you say to me, Gregory
Gorostiaga!" continued Polycarp, violently slapping his thigh and
thrusting his hat farther back on his head.
"Prudence!" whispered Gregory. "Say nothing to offend the Niño, he
never forgives an enemy—with horses."
"Talk not to me of prudence!" bawled the other. "You hit me on the
apple of the eye and counsel me not to cry out. What! have not I,
whom men call Polycarp of the South, wrestled with tigers in the
desert, and must I hold my peace because of a boy—even a boy
devil? Talk of what you like, cousin, and I am a meek man—meek as
a sucking babe; but touch not on my horses, for then I am a
whirlwind, a conflagration, a river flooded in winter, and all wrath
and destruction like an invasion of Indians! Who can stand before
me? Ribs of steel are no protection! Look at my knife; do you ask
why there are stains on the blade? Listen; because it has gone
straight to the robber's heart!" And with that he drew out his great
knife and flourished it wildly, and made stabs and slashes at an
imaginary foe suspended above the fire.
The pretty girls grew silent and pale and trembled like poplar leaves;
the old grandmother rose up, and clutching at her shawl toddled
hurriedly away, while Ascension uttered a snort of disdain. But the
Niño still talked and smiled, blowing thin smoke-clouds from his lips,
careless of that tempest of wrath gathering before him; till, seeing
the other so calm, the man of war returned his weapon to its
sheath, and glancing round and lowering his voice to a
conversational tone, informed his hearers that his name was
Polycarp, one known and feared by all men,—especially in the south;
that he was disposed to live in peace and amity with the entire
human race, and he therefore considered it unreasonable of some
men to follow him about the world asking him to kill them.
"Perhaps," he concluded, with a touch of irony, "they think I gain
something by putting them to death. A mistake, good friends; I gain
nothing by it! I am not a vulture, and their dead bodies can be of no
use to me."
Just after this sanguinary protest and disclaimer the Niño all at once
made a gesture as if to impose silence, and turning his face towards
the door, his nostrils dilating, and his eyes appearing to grow large
and luminous like those of a cat.
"What do you hear, Niño?" asked Gregory.
"I hear lapwings screaming," he replied.
"Only at a fox perhaps," said the other. "But go to the door, Niño,
and listen."
"No need," he returned, dropping his hand, the light of a sudden
excitement passing from his face. "'Tis only a single horseman riding
this way at a fast gallop."
Polycarp got up and went to the door, saying that when a man was
among robbers it behoved him to look well after his cattle. Then he
came back and sat down again. "Perhaps," he remarked, with a side
glance at the Niño, "a better plan would be to watch the thief. A lie,
cousin Gregory; no lapwings are screaming; no single horseman
approaching at a fast gallop. The night is serene, and earth as silent
as the sepulchre."
"Prudence!" whispered Gregory again. "Ah, cousin, always playful
like a kitten; when will you grow old and wise? Can you not see a
sleeping snake without turning aside to stir it up with your naked
foot?"
Strange to say, Polycarp made no reply. A long experience in getting
up quarrels had taught him that these impassive men were, in truth,
often enough like venomous snakes, quick and deadly when roused.
He became secret and watchful in his manner.
All now were intently listening. Then said Gregory, "Tell us, Niño,
what voices, fine as the trumpet of the smallest fly, do you hear
coming from that great silence? Has the mother skunk put her little
ones to sleep in their kennel and gone out to seek for the pipit's
nest? Have fox and armadillo met to challenge each other to fresh
trials of strength and cunning? What is the owl saying this moment
to his mistress in praise of her big green eyes?"
The young man smiled slightly but answered not; and for full five
minutes more all listened, then sounds of approaching hoofs became
audible. Dogs began to bark, horses to snort in alarm, and Gregory
rose and went forth to receive the late night-wanderer. Soon he
appeared, beating the angry barking dogs off with his whip, a white-
faced, wild-haired man, furiously spurring his horse like a person
demented or flying from robbers.
"Ave Maria!" he shouted aloud; and when the answer was given in
suitable pious words, the scared-looking stranger drew near, and
bending down said, "Tell me, good friend, is one whom men call
Niño Diablo with you; for to this house I have been directed in my
search for him?"
"He is within, friend," answered Gregory. "Follow me and you shall
see him with your own eyes. Only first unsaddle, so that your horse
may roll before the sweat dries on him."
"How many horses have I ridden their last journey on this quest!"
said the stranger, hurriedly pulling off the saddle and rugs. "But tell
me one thing more; is he well—no indisposition? Has he met with no
accident—a broken bone, a sprained ankle?"
"Friend," said Gregory, "I have heard that once in past times the
moon met with an accident, but of the Niño no such thing has been
reported to me."
With this assurance the stranger followed his host into the kitchen,
made his salutation, and sat down by the fire. He was about thirty
years old, a good-looking man, but his face was haggard, his eyes
bloodshot, his manner restless, and he appeared like one half-crazed
by some great calamity. The hospitable Magdalen placed food before
him and pressed him to eat. He complied, although reluctantly,
despatched his supper in a few moments, and murmured a prayer;
then, glancing curiously at the two men seated near him, he
addressed himself to the burly, well-armed, and dangerous-looking
Polycarp. "Friend," he said, his agitation increasing as he spoke,
"four days have I been seeking you, taking neither food nor rest, so
great was my need of your assistance. You alone, after God, can
help me. Help me in this strait, and half of all I possess in land and
cattle and gold shall be freely given to you, and the angels above
will applaud your deed!"
"Drunk or mad?" was the only reply vouchsafed to this appeal.
"Sir," said the stranger with dignity, "I have not tasted wine these
many days, nor has my great grief crazed me."
"Then what ails the man?" said Polycarp. "Fear perhaps, for he is
white in the face like one who has seen the Indians."
"In truth I have seen them. I was one of those unfortunates who
first opposed them, and most of the friends who were with me are
now food for wild dogs. Where our houses stood there are only
ashes and a stain of blood on the ground. Oh, friend, can you not
guess why you alone were in my thoughts when this trouble came to
me—why I have ridden day and night to find you?"
"Demons!" exclaimed Polycarp, "into what quagmires would this man
lead me? Once for all I understand you not! Leave me in peace,
strange man, or we shall quarrel." And here he tapped his weapon
significantly.
At this juncture, Gregory, who took his time about everything,
thought proper to interpose. "You are mistaken, friend," said he.
"The young man sitting on your right is the Niño Diablo, for whom
you inquired a little while ago."
A look of astonishment, followed by one of intense relief, came over
the stranger's face. Turning to the young man he said, "My friend,
forgive me this mistake. Grief has perhaps dimmed my sight; but
sometimes the iron blade and the blade of finest temper are not
easily distinguished by the eye. When we try them we know which is
the brute metal, and cast it aside to take up the other, and trust our
life to it. The words I have spoken were meant for you, and you
have heard them."
"What can I do for you, friend?" said the Niño.
"Oh, sir, the greatest service! You can restore my lost wife to me.
The savages have taken her away into captivity. What can I do to
save her—I who cannot make myself invisible, and fly like the wind,
and compass all things!" And here he bowed his head, and covering
his face gave way to over-mastering grief.
"Be comforted, friend," said the other, touching him lightly on the
arm. "I will restore her to you."
"Oh, friend, how shall I thank you for these words!" cried the
unhappy man, seizing and pressing the Niño's hand.
"Tell me her name—describe her to me."
"Torcuata is her name—Torcuata de la Rosa. She is one finger's
width taller than this young woman," indicating one of the twins who
was standing. "But not dark; her cheeks are rosy—no, no, I forget,
they will be pale now, white than the grass plumes, with stains of
dark colour under the eyes. Brown hair and blue eyes, but very deep
blue. Look well, friend lest you think them black and leave her to
perish."
"Never!" remarked Gregory, shaking his head.
"Enough—you have told me enough, friend," said the Niño, rolling
up a cigarette.
"Enough!" repeated the other, surprised. "But you do not know; she
is my life; my life is in your hands. How can I persuade you to be
with me? Cattle I have. I had gone to pay the herdsmen their wages
when the Indians came unexpectedly; and my house at La Chilca, on
the banks of the Langueyú, was burnt, and my wife taken away
during my absence. Eight hundred head of cattle have escaped the
savages, and half of them shall be yours; and half of all I possess in
money and land."
"Cattle!" returned the Niño smiling, and holding a lighted stick to his
cigarette. "I have enough to eat without molesting myself with the
care of cattle."
"But I told you that I had other things," said the stranger full of
distress.
The young man laughed, and rose from his seat.
"Listen to me," he said. "I go now to follow the Indians—to mix with
them, perhaps. They are retreating slowly, burdened with much
spoil. In fifteen days go to the little town of Tandil, and wait for me
there. As for land, if God has given so much of it to the ostrich it is
not a thing for a man to set a great value on." Then he bent down to
whisper a few words in the ear of the girl at his side; and
immediately afterwards, with a simple "good-night" to the others,
stepped lightly from the kitchen. By another door the girl also
hurriedly left the room, to hide her tears from the watchful censuring
eyes of mother and aunt.
Then the stranger, recovering from his astonishment at the abrupt
ending of the conversation, started up, and crying aloud, "Stay! stay
one moment—one word more!" rushed out after the young man. At
some distance from the house he caught sight of the Niño, sitting
motionless on his horse, as if waiting to speak to him.
"This is what I have to say to you," spoke the Niño, bending down to
the other. "Go back to Langueyú, and rebuild your house, and expect
me there with your wife in about thirty days. When I bade you go to
the Tandil in fifteen days, I spoke only to mislead that man Polycarp,
who has an evil mind. Can I ride a hundred leagues and back in
fifteen days? Say no word of this to any man. And fear not. If I fail
to return with your wife at the appointed time take some of that
money you have offered me, and bid a priest say a mass for my
soul's repose; for eye of man shall never see me again, and the
brown hawks will be complaining that there is no more flesh to be
picked from my bones."
During this brief colloquy, and afterwards, when Gregory and his
women-folk went off to bed, leaving the stranger to sleep in his rugs
beside the kitchen fire, Polycarp, who had sworn a mighty oath not
to close his eyes that night, busied himself making his horses secure.
Driving them home, he tied them to the posts of the gate within
twenty-five yards of the kitchen door. Then he sat down by the fire
and smoked and dozed, and cursed his dry mouth and drowsy eyes
that were so hard to keep open. At intervals of about fifteen minutes
he would get up and go out to satisfy himself that his precious
horses were still safe. At length in rising, some time after midnight,
his foot kicked against some loud-sounding metal object lying beside
him on the floor, which on examination, proved to be a copper bell
of a peculiar shape, and curiously like the one fastened to the neck
of his bell-mare. Bell in hand, he stepped to the door and put out his
head, and lo! his horses were no longer at the gate! Eight horses:
seven iron-grey geldings, every one of them swift and sure-footed,
sound as the bell in his hand, and as like each other as seven claret
coloured eggs in the tinamou's nest; and the eighth the gentle
piebald mare—the madrina his horses loved and would follow to the
world's end, now, alas! with a thief on her back! Gone—gone!
He rushed out, uttering a succession of frantic howls and
imprecations; and finally, to wind up the performance, dashed the
now useless bell with all his energy against the gate, shattering it
into a hundred pieces. Oh, that bell, how often and how often in
how many a wayside public-house had he boasted, in his cups and
when sober, of its mellow, far-reaching tone,—the sweet sound that
assured him in the silent watches of the night that his beloved
steeds were safe! Now he danced on the broken fragments, digging
them into the earth with his heel; now in his frenzy, he could have
dug them up again to grind them to powder with his teeth!
The children turned restlessly in bed, dreaming of the lost little girl
in the desert; and the stranger half awoke, muttering, "Courage, O
Torcuata—let not your heart break.... Soul of my life, he gives you
back to me—on my bosom, rosa fresca, rosa fresca!" Then the
hands unclenched themselves again, and the muttering died away.
But Gregory woke fully, and instantly divined the cause of the
clamour. "Magdalen! Wife!" he said. "Listen to Polycarp; the Niño has
paid him out for his insolence! Oh, fool, I warned him, and he would
not listen!" But Magdalen refused to wake; and so, hiding his head
under the coverlet, he made the bed shake with suppressed
laughter, so pleased was he at the clever trick played on his
blustering cousin. All at once his laughter ceased, and out popped
his head again, showing in the dim light a somewhat long and
solemn face. For he had suddenly thought of his pretty daughter
asleep in the adjoining room. Asleep! Wide awake, more likely,
thinking of her sweet lover, brushing the dews from the hoary
pampas grass in his southward flight, speeding away into the heart
of the vast mysterious wilderness. Listening also to her uncle, the
desperado, apostrophizing the midnight stars; while with his knife he
excavates two deep trenches, three yards long and intersecting each
other at right angles—a sacred symbol on which he intends, when
finished, to swear a most horrible vengeance. "Perhaps," muttered
Gregory, "the Niño has still other pranks to play in this house."
When the stranger heard next morning what had happened, he was
better able to understand the Niño's motive in giving him that
caution overnight; nor was he greatly put out, but thought it better
that an evil-minded man should lose his horses than that the Niño
should set out badly mounted on such an adventure.
"Let me not forget," said the robbed man, as he rode away on a
horse borrowed from his cousin, "to be at the Tandil this day
fortnight, with a sharp knife and a blunderbuss charged with a
handful of powder and not fewer than twenty-three slugs."
Terribly in earnest was Polycarp of the South! He was there at the
appointed time, slugs and all; but the smooth-cheeked, mysterious,
child-devil came not; nor, stranger still, did the scared-looking de la
Rosa come clattering in to look for his lost Torcuata. At the end of
the fifteenth day de la Rosa was at Langueyú, seventy-five miles
from the Tandil, alone in his new rancho, which had just been rebuilt
with the aid of a few neighbours. Through all that night he sat alone
by the fire, pondering many things. If he could only recover his lost
wife, then he would bid a long farewell to that wild frontier and take
her across the great sea, and to that old tree-shaded stone farm-
house in Andalusia, which he had left a boy, and where his aged
parents still lived, thinking no more to see their wandering son. His
resolution was taken; he would sell all he possessed, all except a
portion of land in the Langueyú with the house he had just rebuilt;
and to the Niño Diablo, the deliverer, he would say, "Friend, though
you despise the things that others value, take this land and poor
house for the sake of the girl Magdalen you love; for then perhaps
her parents will no longer deny her to you."
He was still thinking of these things, when a dozen or twenty
military starlings—that cheerful scarlet-breasted songster of the
lonely pampas—alighted on the thatch outside, and warbling their
gay, careless winter-music told him that it was day. And all day long,
on foot and on horseback, his thoughts were of his lost Torcuata;
and when evening once more drew near his heart was sick with
suspense and longing; and climbing the ladder placed against the
gable of his rancho he stood on the roof gazing westwards into the
blue distance. The sun, crimson and large, sunk into the great green
sea of grass, and from all the plain rose the tender fluting notes of
the tinamou-partridges, bird answering bird. "Oh, that I could pierce
the haze with my vision," he murmured, "that I could see across a
hundred leagues of level plain, and look this moment on your sweet
face, Torcuata!"
And Torcuata was in truth a hundred leagues distant from him at
that moment; and if the miraculous sight he wished for had been
given, this was what he would have seen. A wide barren plain
scantily clothed with yellow tufts of grass and thorny shrubs, and at
its southern extremity, shutting out the view on that side, a low
range of dune-like hills. Over this level ground, towards the range,
moves a vast herd of cattle and horses—fifteen or twenty thousand
head—followed by a scattered horde of savages armed with their
long lances. In a small compact body in the centre ride the captives,
women and children. Just as the red orb touches the horizon the
hills are passed, and lo! a wide grassy valley beyond, with flocks and
herds pasturing, and scattered trees, and the blue gleam of water
from a chain of small lakes! There full in sight, is the Indian
settlement, the smoke rising peacefully up from the clustered huts.
At the sight of home the savages burst into loud cries of joy and
triumph, answered, as they drew near, with piercing screams of
welcome from the village population, chiefly composed of women,
children and old men.

It is past midnight; the young moon has set; the last fires are dying
down; the shouts and loud noise of excited talk and laughter have
ceased, and the weary warriors, after feasting on sweet mare's flesh
to repletion, have fallen asleep in their huts, or lying out of doors on
the ground. Only the dogs are excited still and keep up an incessant
barking. Even the captive women, huddled together in one hut in the
middle of the settlement, fatigued with their long rough journey,
have cried themselves to sleep at last.
At length one of the sad sleepers wakes, or half wakes, dreaming
that some one has called her name. How could such a thing be? Yet
her own name still seems ringing in her brain, and at length, fully
awake, she finds herself intently listening. Again it sounded
—"Torcuata"—a voice fine as the pipe of a mosquito, yet so sharp
and distinct that it tingled in her ear. She sat up and listened again,
and once more it sounded "Torcuata!" "Who speaks?" she returned
in a fearful whisper. The voice, still fine and small, replied, "Come
out from among the others until you touch the wall." Trembling she
obeyed, creeping out from among the sleepers until she came into
contact with the side of the hut. Then the voice sounded again,
"Creep round the wall until you come to a small crack of light on the
other side." Again she obeyed, and when she reached the line of
faint light it widened quickly to an aperture, through which a
shadowy arm was passed round her waist; and in a moment she
was lifted up, and saw the stars above her, and at her feet dark
forms of men wrapped in their ponchos lying asleep. But no one
woke, no alarm was given; and in a very few minutes she was
mounted, man-fashion, on a bare-backed horse, speeding swiftly
over the dim plains, with the shadowy form of her mysterious
deliverer some yards in advance, driving before him a score or so of
horses. He had only spoken half-a-dozen words to her since their
escape from the hut, but she knew by those words that he was
taking her to Langueyú.
 MARTA RIQUELME.
(From the Sepulvida MSS.)

I.
Far away from the paths of those who wander to and fro on the
earth, sleeps Jujuy in the heart of this continent. It is the remotest
of our provinces, and divided from the countries of the Pacific by the
giant range of the Cordillera; a region of mountains and forest, torrid
heats and great storms; and although in itself a country half as large
as the Spanish peninsula, it possesses, as its only means of
communication with the outside world, a few insignificant roads
which are scarcely more than mule-paths.
The people of this region have few wants; they aspire not after
progress, and have never changed their ancient manner of life. The
Spanish were long in conquering them: and now, after three
centuries of Christian dominion, they still speak the Quichua, and
subsist in a great measure on patay, a sweet paste made from the
pod of the wild algarroba tree; while they still retain as a beast of
burden the llama, a gift of their old masters the Peruvian Incas.
This much is common knowledge, but of the peculiar character of
the country, or of the nature of the things which happen within its
borders, nothing is known to those without; Jujuy being to them
only a country lying over against the Andes, far removed from and
unaffected by the progress of the world. It has pleased Providence
to give me a more intimate knowledge, and this has been a sore
affliction and great burden now for many years. But I have not taken
up my pen to complain that all the years of my life are consumed in
a region where the great spiritual enemy of mankind is still
permitted to challenge the supremacy of our Master, waging an
equal war against his followers: my sole object is to warn, perhaps
also to comfort, others who will be my successors in this place, and
who will come to the church of Yala ignorant of the means which will
be used for the destruction of their souls. And if I set down anything
in this narrative which might be injurious to our holy religion, owing
to the darkness of our understandings and the little faith that is in
us, I pray that the sin I now ignorantly commit may be forgiven me,
and that this manuscript may perish miraculously unread by any
person.
I was educated for the priesthood, in the city of Cordova, that
famous seminary of learning and religion; and in 1838, being then in
my twenty-seventh year, I was appointed priest to a small settlement
in the distant province of which I have spoken. The habit of
obedience, early instilled in me by my Jesuit masters, enabled me to
accept this command unmurmuringly, and even with an outward
show of cheerfulness. Nevertheless it filled me with grief, although I
might have suspected that some such hard fate had been designed
for me, since I had been made to study the Quichua language,
which is now only spoken in the Andean provinces. With secret bitter
repinings I tore myself from all that made life pleasant and desirable
—the society of innumerable friends, the libraries, the beautiful
church where I had worshipped, and that renowned University which
has shed on the troubled annals of our unhappy country whatever
lustre of learning and poetry they possess.
My first impressions of Jujuy did not serve to raise my spirits. After a
trying journey of four week's duration—the roads being difficult and
the country greatly disturbed at the time—I reached the capital of
the province, also called Jujuy, a town of about two thousand
inhabitants. Thence I journeyed to my destination, a settlement
called Yala, situated on the north-western border of the province,
where the river Yala takes its rise, at the foot of that range of
mountains which, branching eastwards from the Andes, divides Jujuy
from Bolivia. I was wholly unprepared for the character of the place
I had come to live in. Yala was a scattered village of about ninety
souls—ignorant, apathetic people, chiefly Indians. To my
unaccustomed sight the country appeared a rude, desolate chaos of
rocks and gigantic mountains, compared with which the famous
sierras of Cordova sunk into mere hillocks, and of vast gloomy
forests, whose death-like stillness was broken only by the savage
screams of some strange fowl, or by the hoarse thunders of a
distant waterfall.
As soon as I had made myself known to the people of the village, I
set myself to acquire a knowledge of the surrounding country; but
before long I began to despair of ever finding the limits of my parish
in any direction. The country was wild, being only tenanted by a few
widely-separated families, and like all deserts it was distasteful to me
in an eminent degree; but as I would frequently be called upon to
perform long journeys, I resolved to learn as much as possible of its
geography. Always striving to overcome my own inclinations, which
made a studious, sedentary life most congenial, I aimed at being
very active; and having procured a good mule I began taking long
rides every day, without a guide and with only a pocket compass to
prevent me from losing myself. I could never altogether overcome
my natural aversion to silent deserts, and in my long rides I avoided
the thick forest and deep valleys, keeping as much as possible to the
open plain.
One day having ridden about twelve or fourteen miles from Yala, I
discovered a tree of noble proportions growing by itself in the open,
and feeling much oppressed by the heat I alighted from my mule
and stretched myself on the ground under the grateful shade. There
was a continuous murmur of lecheguanas—a small honey wasp—in
the foliage above me, for the tree was in flower, and this soothing
sound soon brought that restful feeling to my mind which insensibly
leads to slumber. I was, however, still far from sleep, but reclining
with eyes half closed, thinking of nothing, when suddenly, from the
depths of the dense leafage above me, rang forth a shriek, the most
terrible it has ever fallen to the lot of any human being to hear. In
sound it was a human cry, yet expressing a degree of agony and
despair surpassing the power of any human soul to feel, and my
impression was that it could only have been uttered by some
tortured spirit allowed to wander for a season on the earth. Shriek
after shriek, each more powerful and terrible to hear than the last,
succeeded, and I sprang to my feet, the hair standing erect on my
head, a profuse sweat of terror breaking out all over me. The cause
of all these maddening sounds remained invisible to my eyes; and
finally running to my mule I climbed hastily on to its back and never
ceased flogging the poor beast all the way back to Yala.
On reaching my house I sent for one Osuna, a man of substance,
able to converse in Spanish, and much respected in the village. In
the evening he came to see me, and I then gave an account of the
extraordinary experience I had encountered that day.
"Do not distress yourself, Father—you have only heard the Kakué,"
he replied. I then learnt from him that the Kakué is a fowl
frequenting the most gloomy and sequestered forests and known to
every one in the country for its terrible voice. Kakué, he also
informed me, was the ancient name of the country, but the word
was misspelt Jujuy by the early explorers, and this corrupted name
was eventually retained. All this, which I now heard for the first
time, is historical; but when he proceeded to inform me that the
Kakué is a metamorphosed human being, that women and
sometimes men, whose lives have been darkened with great
suffering and calamities, are changed by compassionate spirits into
these lugubrious birds, I asked him somewhat contemptuously
whether he, an enlightened man, believed a thing so absurd.
"There is not in all Jujuy," he replied, "a person who disbelieves it."
"That is a mere assertion," cried I, "but it shows which way your
mind inclines. No doubt the superstition concerning the Kakué is
very ancient, and has come down to us together with the Quichua
language from the aborigines. Transformations of men into animals
are common in all the primitive religions of South America. Thus, the
Guaranies relate that flying from a conflagration caused by the
descent of the sun to the earth many people cast themselves into
the river Paraguay, and were incontinently changed into capybaras
and caymans; while others who took refuge in trees were blackened
and scorched by the heat and became monkeys. But to go no
further than the traditions of the Incas who once ruled over this
region, it is related that after the first creation the entire human
family, inhabiting the slopes of the Andes, were changed into
crickets by a demon at enmity with man's first creator. Throughout
the continent these ancient beliefs are at present either dead or
dying out; and if the Kakué legend still maintains its hold on the
vulgar here it is owing to the isolated position of the country,
hemmed in by vast mountains and having no intercourse with
neighbouring states."
Perceiving that my arguments had entirely failed to produce any
effect I began to lose my temper, and demanded whether he, a
Christian, dared to profess belief in a fable born of the corrupt
imagination of the heathen?
He shrugged his shoulders and replied, "I have only stated what we,
in Jujuy, know to be a fact. What is, is; and if you talk until to-
morrow you cannot make it different, although you may prove
yourself a very learned person."
His answer produced a strange effect on me. For the first time in my
life I experienced the sensation of anger in all its power. Rising to my
feet I paced the floor excitedly, and using many gestures, smiting
the table with my hands and shaking my clenched fist close to his
face in a threatening manner, and with a violence of language
unbecoming in a follower of Christ, I denounced the degrading
ignorance and heathenish condition of mind of the people I had
come to live with; and more particularly of the person before me,
who had some pretensions to education and should have been free
from the gross delusions of the vulgar. While addressing him in this
tone he sat smoking a cigarette, blowing rings from his lips and
placidly watching them rise towards the ceiling, and with his studied
supercilious indifference aggravated my rage to such a degree that I
could scarcely restrain myself from flying at his throat or striking him
to the earth with one of the cane-bottomed chairs in the room.
As soon as he left me, however, I was overwhelmed with remorse at
having behaved in a manner so unseemly. I spent the night in
penitent tears and prayers, and resolved in future to keep a strict
watch over myself, now that the secret enemy of my soul had
revealed itself to me. Nor did I make this resolution a moment too
soon. I had hitherto regarded myself as a person of a somewhat
mild and placid disposition; the sudden change to new influences,
and, perhaps also, the secret disgust I felt at my lot, had quickly
developed my true character, which now become impatient to a
degree and prone to sudden violent outbursts of passion during
which I had little control over my tongue. The perpetual watch over
myself and struggle against my evil nature which had now become
necessary was the cause of but half my trouble. I discovered that my
parishioners, with scarcely an exception, possessed that dull
apathetic temper of mind concerning spiritual things, which had so
greatly exasperated me in the man Osuna, and which obstructed all
my efforts to benefit them. These people, or rather their ancestors
centuries ago, had accepted Christianity, but it had never properly
filtered down into their hearts. It was on the surface still; and if their
half-heathen minds were deeply stirred it was not by the story of the
Passion of our Lord, but by some superstitious belief inherited from
their progenitors. During all the years I have spent in Yala I never
said a Mass, never preached a sermon, never attempted to speak of
the consolations of faith, without having the thought thrust on to me
that my words were useless, that I was watering the rock where no
seed could germinate, and wasting my life in vain efforts to impart
religion to souls that were proof against it. Often have I been
reminded of our holy and learned Father Guevara's words, when he
complains of the difficulties encountered by the earlier Jesuit
missionaries. He relates how one endeavoured to impress the
Chiriguanos with the danger they incurred by refusing baptism,
picturing to them their future condition when they would be
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