Three days our poor heroine followed the coast. Her horse was then almost unable to move; and on _his_ account, she turned inland to a thicket for grass and shelter. As she drew near to it, a voice challenged--'_Who goes there_?' Kate answered, '_Spain_.' '_What people_?' '_A friend_.' It was two soldiers, deserters, and almost starving. Kate shared her provisions with these men: and, on hearing their plan, which was to go over the Cordilleras, she agreed to join the party. _Their_ object was the wild one of seeking the river _Dorado_, whose waters rolled along golden sands, and whose pebbles were emeralds. _Hers_ was to throw herself upon a line the least liable to pursuit, and the readiest for a new chapter of life in which oblivion might be found for the past. After a few days of incessant climbing and fatigue, they found themselves in the regions of perpetual snow. Summer would come as vainly to this kingdom of frost as to the grave of her brother. No fire, but the fire of human blood in youthful veins, could ever be kept burning in these aerial solitudes. Fuel was rarely to be found, and kindling a secret hardly known except to Indians. However, our Kate can do everything, and she's the girl, if ever girl _did_ such a thing, or ever girl did _not_ such a thing, that I back at any odds for crossing the Cordilleras. I would bet you something now, reader, if I thought you would deposit your stakes by return of post, (as they play at chess through the post-office,) that Kate does the trick, that she gets down to the other side; that the soldiers do _not_: and that the horse, if preserved at all, is preserved in a way that will leave him very little to boast of.