The next morning brought no communication from the shore, and Brent ordered the launch made ready for a cruise. He was watching the men at work upon it, just before noon, when the second officer called to him suddenly that a boat was approaching the steamship from the shore. Brent hurried to the side. He saw a canoe containing three men rapidly nearing the ship. The two at the paddles were native Patagonians, the third Brent recognized instantly as Casimiro. He motioned to the chief to bring the canoe to the foot of the ladder at the side of the steamship, and in a few moments the old man was on deck, receiving Brent’s greetings with the grave native dignity peculiar to himself. The great ship upon which he stood evidently impressed the Patagonian deeply. He looked about him, forward, aft, aloft, at the immense smoke-tunnel, at the height above the water where he stood, and then shook his head in dumb marvel. Brent waited a moment for his surprise to pass off and then pressed with some anxiety his inquiries for Fraser. The old man’s face changed instantly. His awe became sadness, and again his head shook silently, this time with the dejection of grief. “Tell me,” exclaimed Brent in much alarm, speaking in Spanish, “is my friend dead?” Slowly the old man replied in broken Spanish phrases: “I bring you saddest grief. It is true. The good white cacique is dead. He fell fighting for my people, fighting for the accursed gold.” The news overwhelmed the young man. The blow was so unexpected, in spite of his vague forebodings, that it unmanned him. He leaned against a stanchion, silent and pale. He was unable to ask for the particulars of the tragedy. Casimiro looked on in manifest sympathy with the other’s genuine grief. Presently he invited the young man to go with him to the shore, promising to give him there the whole history of events during his absence. Brent went with him at once, asking no questions. The canoe took them, not to the little cove where they had landed before, but to the opposite side of the river’s mouth, some rods farther away. The country here seemed as deserted as the opposite bank, and there was the same rugged, forbidding coast-line. Casimiro led the way, and a few minutes’ rough walk brought them to another concealed camp, situated somewhat similarly to that which Brent had first visited. But the young man felt neither surprise nor interest in what he saw. He went at once with the chief to the temporary hut which the latter occupied. Brent sat down upon a pile of skins and for the first time asked Casimiro to tell him his story. The old Patagonian’s narrative was not long, as he told it. The limitations of a strange tongue prevented any elaboration of detail. The story as he gave it to Brent was less complete than even the brief version of it which follows: