After a diversity of incidents, we reached the town of Barra, just below the point where the Rio Negro enters the Amazon. We here parted with our bateau and joining some other travellers, hired a larger craft and proceeded on our way. The weather was exceedingly hot, and several of our company were taken sick, and the Spaniard in whose service I was engaged, died of fever. Proceeding to the shore, which at this point was occupied with impenetrable forests, we made a grave in the earth, and left the body to its solitary repose. Among the strangers who had joined us at Barra was a gentleman who appeared marked with care and bowed with years. He was now among the sick, and I was engaged as his attendant. He had caught the fever common to this climate, and it seemed rapidly advancing to its crisis. We had no physician on board, but the stranger seemed competent to give directions, and these I scrupulously followed. At last we came to a small settlement on the banks of the river, and he concluded to be set on shore, in order to obtain medical aid, and have the comforts necessary to his condition. I went with him to his lodgings, and saw him placed in his new quarters. I had felt an interest in him from the beginning, and I now offered to continue with him, at the same time expressing my desire to return to Paramaribo. The name seemed to excite his curiosity, and he looked me steadily in the face for a moment. “Are you going to Paramaribo?” said he. I replied in the affirmative. “I was going thither myself,” said he, “but I may never reach that place. Take this, young man, and on your arrival, deliver it according to its address.” He then handed me a parcel, and as I took it, I saw upon it the name of M. Scager. At this moment an agitating thought took possession of my mind. “Who--what is this stranger? May it not after all be the individual whom I have sought so long?” Struck with this suggestion, I gazed at the sick man with such intensity as to attract his attention. “What is the matter, young man?” said he. “Oh, tell me, sir, tell me your name. For heaven’s sake tell me your name,” said I. The stranger rose from his pillow, and with a startled aspect demanded, “Why this curiosity? what mean these questions?” “Pray sir,” said I, “are you not my uncle?” The sick man leaned back upon his pillow, and with a broad smile upon his countenance as if I had said something exceedingly ludicrous, replied, “I think not; but what is your name?” “Richard Boldhero,” said I. The stranger once more rose from his pillow, saying, “Indeed, indeed, Richard Boldhero?” “Yes, yes,” said I, “and you are my father’s brother--I know you now--you are indeed my uncle.”