It was well that José’s impassive Indian countenance did not betray the alarm he really felt. He had not the least idea what remedies he ought to use; and even if he had, how was he to procure them in that solitary, desolate place? He drew near, and put his hand on the monk’s forehead. It was burning: so he took the cotton cloth in which he had carried the maize, dipped it in cold water, and laid it on the throbbing brow. The cool application gave temporary relief; and José, perceiving this, renewed it at intervals. As the air was chilly, he collected with considerable difficulty a supply of dry sticks (a few stunted bushes grew near), and made a fire. After what seemed a lengthened period of restless pain and distress, Fray Fernando dropped into an uneasy slumber, which, however, grew gradually quieter and heavier. It lasted so long that his devoted attendant began to think he also might allow himself a little sleep; which he took, stretched on the ground at the sick man’s feet. The next morning was far advanced when Fray Fernando opened his heavy eyes. José, who had no doubt that he would awaken refreshed and strengthened, was greatly disappointed at the pain and weariness still too visible in his countenance. “Where am I?” he asked feebly. “Only two days’ journey from the Golden City, patre,” José cheerfully made answer. “Many, _many_ days from the Golden City—never like to reach it,” Fray Fernando moaned. “Of what can he be thinking?” thought José, in dismay. “Can he be raving?” He said aloud,—“You will reach it easily, patre, when you have had a day or two of rest. Would I dare leave you alone, and I would run and fetch help for you. If God would but send some traveller this way! Patre, how does your head feel?” “It still throbs wildly,” said the monk, feebly raising his hand to it. “What hour is it? How long have I slept?” José answered both questions with as near an approach to accuracy as he could. Then the monk added,— “I have an impression that I talked in my sleep. Did I?” he asked uneasily. “Never a word, patre. You only moaned, like one in pain. Patre, I wish you would eat some of my coca-leaves; they would do you good. Woe is me! I have nothing else to give you, save cold water and maize.” “Away with your coca!” said the monk sternly. “It would be a sin for me to touch or taste it.” “As the patre pleases,” returned José, with apparent indifference. “But, I pray you, try to eat a little maize—just a few grains. I will make them hot for you in a minute; see what a good fire I have kindled!” “Eat the maize yourself, my son; you must have needed it ere this.” “Oh no, patre; I have had abundance,” said José, whose code of morality was not too high to permit what is often, though erroneously, called “a white lie.”