"Here is the 'angel-plant,'" resumed l'Encuerado, suddenly. "How pleased my mother used to be when I found one of them." "What are its good properties?" I asked. "Oh! it produces beautiful dreams, which seem to lift you to heaven." The Indian again became pensive, sometimes casting a glance over the vast prospect, and sometimes pulling up pieces of the turf which grew at his feet. "It only needs a palm-tree to make the landscape quite complete," said he, thoughtfully. In a minute or so he advanced towards the bushes, and, kneeling down, plucked a tuft of yellow marigold, which are called in this country "the dead man's flower." Afterwards I heard him sobbing. "Oh Chema! what is the matter?" cried Lucien, running up to his friend. The Indian raised himself and took the boy in his arms. "Once I had a mother, brothers, and a country," he said, sadly; "and this flower reminds me that all those are now sleeping in the grave." "Then you don't love me?" replied Lucien, embracing him. The only answer l'Encuerado made was pressing the boy so tightly against his breast as to draw from him a slight cry. This scene quite affected us, and I and my friend, side by side, walked back to the hut deeply sunk in thought. Hunger soon brought with it more commonplace ideas. The white and juicy flesh of the iguana was quite a feast for us all. Our meal we sat over a longer time than usual; for in conversation we entered upon the subject of our native countries, and the theme appeared inexhaustible. I reminded my friend that, only a few days before, he had shown as much emotion as the Indian on seeing two butterflies which he fancied belonged to a Swiss species; and I brought forward these feelings to oppose the intention he so often expressed of taking up his abode in the midst of the wilderness, so as to live and die in solitude. On the great plateau the sun shines rather later than in the lower regions. As the luminary approached the earth, the sky was lighted up with a purple color, and I saw standing out on our left in bold relief the jagged outline of the Cordilleras of l'Encuerado's country. The whitish ground gradually assumed a transparent appearance; our eyes deceived us to such an extent that we fancied we saw an immense tract of water, above which the trees, appearing as if they were submerged, raised their green heads. The moon rose, and, far from destroying the mirage, it rendered the illusion still more striking. I resolved to descend from the hill in order to convince Lucien how much our vision was deceived. "There is no mistake about the plain being dry," said he, as we returned to the bivouac, "and yet one might fancy that, as we were mounting the hill, the water was rising behind us."