At length their path led them into a shallow vale thickly overgrown with wild thistles. As they were passing through this, a pistol was fired, and a ball whizzed near the breast of the attendant of Donna Marina. A moment after, the athletic form of Yorika rose from the thicket and sprung like a lion upon the object at which his pistol had been aimed. The Spaniard was immediately pulled from his horse, and a desperate conflict ensued. The superior strength of the Indian, however, prevailed, and he soon pressed the form of his antagonist beneath him. He drew his dirk, and was about to plunge it into the breast of his foe. At that critical instant, the Spaniard brought his pistol to bear, and discharging it in the breast of the Indian, laid him prostrate upon the earth. Bruised and bleeding, he rose from the ground and made his way to Marina. At first, the girl shrunk back with horror, imagining that it was the victorious Yorika, who had come to claim her as his own. But when her reason was restored, and she learned the truth, she expressed her joy and gratitude alike for the safety of her lover and her own. Such was one of the tales of my guide, which beguiled the weariness of our journey over the Pampas. He related several narratives respecting the jaguar, which is a kind of tiger infesting the thickets which border upon the road. One day, as we were passing through an immense forest of thistles, ten feet in height, and spreading out like an interminable sea on every side, he pointed to a spot where a traveller, on descending from his horse, had been seized and torn in pieces by one of these furious beasts. Day after day, we continued our monotonous course. Although it was winter, the weather by no means answered to the common idea of that season. We had occasional rain, but it was seldom colder than during our April or May. Few incidents occurred to break the uniformity of our journey. One day appeared like another, and as we had no objects by which we could mark our progress, we seemed, like a ship in the waste of waters, to stand still in the midst of the shoreless desert. As we stood alone upon the bosom of the mighty prairie, stretching out on every side, and blending itself with the sky, we seemed dwindled into insects. Never have I felt such a sense of nothingness as in the presence of that mighty plain. In measuring myself by the gigantic scale which the Pampas presented, it seemed that I might be blotted from existence like the veriest moth that fluttered in the breeze. It was not until I turned my mind upon my plans and prospects, my hopes and fears, that my bosom began to swell again with those powerful emotions which seem to give importance to our existence and enable us to triumph over the despondency which often besets the heart, and might otherwise sink us in despair.