in his whole manner; for he understood what a hold the subject had on
his chum.

Andy nodded, and as soon as he could command his quivering voice, said:

"Yes, nothing more than a letter from the grave, I fear! See, Frank,
written in his own dear hand. Oh! to think of it, that at least three
months ago he was alive, even though a prisoner, the sport of fate."

"A prisoner!" echoed Frank, astonished. "Whatever can you mean? Did he
fall into the hands of some of those strange Indians we have been
reading about, who have their homes around the headwaters of the Orinoco
River in Venezuela?"

This time Andy shook his head in the negative.

"It is stranger than that--almost beyond belief!" he replied. "My poor
father has for months been imprisoned in a great valley, surrounded by
impassable cliffs. Don't you remember something of the sort occurred in
one of Captain Mayne Reid's books, where the young plant hunters found
themselves prisoners in that way? But here, Frank, look for yourself."

"Where does the letter come from, in the beginning?" asked the other,
quietly, wishing to advance by slow degrees, so that he could understand
everything.

"A town in Columbia, called Barranquila," replied Andy, readily
enough. "I'm not sure, but I think it lies at the mouth of the big
Magdalena River, and is upon the coast. You know I've just devoured the
map of that region for months, and every name is familiar to me."