Some men of the tribe, digging one day for truffles, broke into a cave, in which there was a skeleton. Among the bones, wrapped in soft leather and parchment, the Indians found a book, which they brought to their white leader. It was an illuminated Book of Hours, or "Horæ Beatæ Mariæ Virginis," written in Latin and Spanish, and, as Power ascertained subsequently, the work of an Italian of the fifteenth century. No more beautiful example of the exquisite classical Renaissance period could be produced by the Vatican library. The character in the figures and naturalness in the landscapes bespoke a ripe art, and many of the vellum pages were bordered by the solid frame which gives full scope to the artist's fancy by its facilities for the introduction of medallions, vignettes, twisted Lombardic vines, cupids, fawns, colored gems, and birds of brilliant plumage. Veritably, this "Horæ" was more precious than if its leaves were of solid gold; its value to Power in those lonely hours was of a spring in the desert to a parched traveler. Despite such an invaluable stimulus to his mind, however, it was almost with difficulty, and certainly with marked hesitancy, that he was able now to arrange the words of a sentence in their ordered sequence, and often he found his tongue involuntarily lending an Indian twist to idiomatic expressions. But his labored utterance was either not so marked as he imagined, or his host was so surprised at meeting a white man so far from civilization that he could not repress his own excitement. At the outset, too, the instinct of hospitality helped to relieve the tension. "Can I offer you anything in the way of refreshment--some whisky, or tea, or a cigar?" came the courteous inquiry. "A cigar, by all means. I have not smoked one for so long a time that I have forgotten what it is like." "It is pretty evident you have been living among the Indians," said the other, passing him a cigar-case. "How in the world did you contrive to get lost in these parts? You did not come through Patagonia, I fancy?" Power took thought before answering. Some half-atrophied emotion stirred within him. "Patagonia? Is this country Patagonia?" he said at last. "Yes. Do you mean to say you don't know that?" "I had a notion that it was the Argentine. My Indian friends invariably speak of the white inhabitants as Argentinos." "But how did you get here?" "By crossing the Andes." "With a party?" "No, alone." His questioner whistled. "By Jove!" he cried, "you had your nerve with you." "I couldn't help myself. I was a prisoner in the hands of a Trans-Andean tribe, and they turned me adrift. I had to win through somehow, or die." "What's your name, anyhow?" "John Darien Power."