He himself hurried off to arouse the stable-hand.  The stable-hand had not been to Manoel’s house.  He knew nothing of what had happened.  He worked most of the night cheerfully, preparing for the welcome camping-trip.

By noon on the following day, when streets and country roads lay deserted under the tropic sun, the cavalcade was off.  The wagon, drawn by two mules in charge of the stable-hand, led the way.  It was laden with tent, baggage, and the women-folk, Ann, Natalie, and mammy.  Behind followed Leighton on his favorite horse and Shenton and Lewis on their ponies.  By sundown they reached the banks of the Tiete.  It took men and boys an hour to set the big bell tent.

CHAPTER VII

Because the road led north, they traveled north.  Week after week, month after month, sometimes by hard, long stretches where water was scarce, sometimes lingering where pasturage was good, sometimes halting to let a fever run its course, they pushed northward.  The farther they went, the more barren became the wilderness.  The feudal mansions of the wealthy coffee-planters gave way to the miserable abodes of a land of drought.  But houses were never far between, and wherever there were houses, there was cane rum.  It was so cheap it was often given away for a smile.

Twice in the long months Shenton had eluded his watchful father, once by slipping his saddle-cloth and going back to pick it up, and once by riding ahead on a misty morning.  Each time he stole back with hanging and drooping shoulders.  The look of utter despondency and gloomy despair in his eyes wrung his parents’ hearts, held back his father’s hand from wrath.

Of them all, Shenton suffered most from fever.  There came a time when he could no longer ride.  Natalie, grown pale and thin, but strong withal, took his place on the pony and he hers on the wagon.  There he lay long hours in his mother’s arms.

When all the storms of life had swept over her, Ann Leighton looked back upon those days as the abiding-place of her dearest memories.  Safe within the circle of her arms lay her boy.  There no evil could reach him, no gnawing temptation ravage his child’s will.  Her watchful love warded off the gloomy hour.  His prattle of childish things warmed her heart until it swelled to an exquisite agony of content.

One day they awoke to a new presence on the flat horizon.  Far, far away rose a mountain from the plain.  It was wonderfully symmetrical, rising to a single peak.  All day long they traveled toward it.  All day long Shenton kept his somber eyes fixed upon it.  Toward evening he raised his face to his mother’s.  She leaned over him.

“Mother,” he whispered, “I should like to reach the mountain.”

Tears welled from her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.  She held Shenton’s curly head against her face so that he could not see.  She stifled a sob and whispered back: