MARTIN RATTLER. 209

the Garden of Eden a paradise. But these thoughts
always carried him back to dear old Aunt Dorothy
and the sweet village of Ashford; and the Brazilian
paradise was not unfrequently obliterated in tears
while he gazed, and turned into a vale of weeping.
Ay, he would have given that magnificent valley—
had it been his own—ten times over, in exchange for
one more glance at the loved faces and the green fields
of home.

Soon after his arrival at the Indian village Martin
was given to understand, by signs, that he was to
reside with a particular family, and work every day
in the maize and mandioca fields, besides doing a
great deal of the drudgery of the hut; so that he
now knew he was regarded as a slave by the tribe
into whose hands he had fallen. It is impossible to
express the bitterness of his feelings at this discovery,
and for many weeks he went about his work scarcely
knowing what he did, and caring little, when the
hot sun beat on him so fiercely that he could hardly
stand, whether he lived or died. At length, however,
he made up his mind firmly to attempt his escape.
He was sitting beneath the shade of his favourite
resort, the tamarind tree, when he made this resolve.
Longing thoughts of home had been strong upon him

all that day, and desire for the companionship of
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