Prancing and capering, the animal that had been brought for her to ride was an almost black mare.

“Will she be too much for you?” El Diablo enquired.

Skye realised that for once his question was serious and that, if her reply was in the affirmative, he would find her a less spirited animal.

“I have ridden since I could walk,” Skye answered proudly. “I have also helped to break in horses on my grandfather’s ranch in California.”

He said no more and with a brief gesture of his hand he indicated to the Indian standing by that he should help her to mount, while he swung himself into the saddle.

Both horses reared, took a few prancing steps sideways and reared again.

Then Skye felt her mare respond to the touch of the rein and, as she moved forward beside El Diablo, the horses quickly settled into a brisk trot.

The gauchos waiting in a group a little way ahead spurred their horses forward and in a minute the whole cavalcade passed out of the camp and onto the grassy plain.

There were six men in their escort, Skye counted and now some of her anger began to pass from her and with it the tension she had been suffering from ever since she awoke.

It was impossible not to smell the fragrance of the wild flowers and notice the flamingos and white herons flying down to the river. There were clouds of hummingbirds over the pampas, their swiftness of flight an enchantment even apart from the beauty of their plumage.

Several times Skye saw an ostrich hurrying away from their path and once, as they rode past the solitary majesty of an ombu tree, she caught a glimpse of a vividly coloured toucan, its enormous beak open to emit its raucous voice, which seemed strangely discordant amidst so much beauty.

They rode in silence, the clatter of hoofs and the jingle of harnesses seeming to make a music of their own.

Now Skye had a chance to note that every man was armed not only with a revolver, some of them the old, heavy brass-handled type, but also with the cuchillo, an enormous silver-hilted knife without which any gaucho would feel undressed.

She longed to ask El Diablo where they were going, but she would not bring herself to speak to him, vowing with suddenly tightened lips that she would not even address him more than was necessary.

She glanced at him as they rode forward side by side and despite her hatred she could not help but admit that he rode well. His horse, a dark chestnut, was bigger than the average mount and it carried him proudly, his height and breadth of shoulder in perfect proportion to the spirited animal beneath him. Yet in spite of his height he had a lithe grace about him and a wiry flexibility.