Vera Cruz.—Bocca del Rio.

The place where Vera Cruz now stands is not that on which Cortez first disembarked. It was not till the end of the sixteenth century that Count de Monterey, the viceroy, laid the foundations of the present city. Destined to become the key to New Spain, Vera Cruz was built by the conquerors with all the splendor which they usually lavished on their undertakings. The houses were made large and spacious, and the streets crossed each other at right angles, to allow the fresh sea-breezes to circulate freely, and to temper the intense heat of the atmosphere. Still faithful to that antipathy to trees, which seems a distinctive trait in their hygienic principles, the Spaniards chose, as a site for the first maritime city in Mexico, a vast sandy plain, enlivened by scarcely a spot of verdure, and not even containing a single spring of water. Even before it was first visited by the yellow fever, a situation so unfavorable gave to Vera Cruz a melancholy appearance, which it has preserved to this day. The town, though scarcely all built upon, nevertheless quickly attained a very high degree of prosperity. It was from its ill-sheltered roadstead that those rich galleons sailed which conveyed to Europe a mass of wealth far surpassing the much-vaunted treasures of Potosi.

Few remains of its former grandeur are now to be seen. Built on too large a scale for its decreasing population, this city, once so flourishing, never tried to struggle against that decline which is soon made known to the traveler by its empty houses and deserted streets. The wind from the sea exercises in full force its destructive agency; and the terrible periodical gales are sometimes so violent as to tear down the crumbling walls of the palaces, and lift from their beds the rusty cannon which serve for posts upon the quays. In Vera Cruz you are reminded of the cities of the East, as well from the rich and picturesque costumes of the people of the neighboring coast and of the interior, who flock to the town, as by the dull appearance of the houses and public buildings. Every where you observe domes of various colors, steeples shooting high into the air, balconies ornamented with massive gratings; and, as if to increase the resemblance still more, the women of the upper classes are never seen in the streets. If you wish to get a glimpse of them, you must penetrate into the interior of the houses, or, rather, go out after sunset. Then, the murmur of mysterious voices, the rustling of a fan, and some pale figures, blanched by the rays of the moon, sitting behind a Venetian blind half opened, reveal the presence of the fair Vera Cruzans to the stranger, whom the freshness of the night, and the delicious coolness of the sea-breeze, have brought out upon the streets.

Washed on one side by the ocean, which is gradually wearing away its admirable mole, surrounded by heaps of sand, which the wind is continually shifting, Vera Cruz, at the present moment, submits with indifference to the progressive encroachment of the sand-hills and the daily ravages of the waves. The north-east wind carries before it, in dense whirling masses, large bodies of sand. For many centuries a line of movable hills has been thus gradually formed behind the city. These hillocks, improperly called medanos, are continually augmented by fresh additions, and are ever changing, according to the caprice of the wind, their place and figure. Some rise in the air like pyramids, from the top of which small portions of sand are constantly flying off like a never-failing bank of fog. The great number of these medanos, many of which attain a height of from fourteen to more than thirty feet, threatens to bury the town; but, as the danger is still distant, and in hot countries one's existence hangs merely by a thread, the inhabitants leave to their posterity the task of providing against that emergency. Another disadvantage still more serious is, that the medanos hinder the rain-water from flowing away. Small lakes are thus formed at the bottom of these sand-hills; and the parched-up ground is gradually converted into a fenny marsh, from which arise the most pernicious exhalations. A thick layer of mud fertilizes the sand, and all the noxious plants which abound in low, moist grounds are here produced in countless profusion. During the rainy season this rank vegetation spreads and grows round all the margin of the ponds. The mangroves shoot their branches down to the ground. They take root there, produce new trunks, and soon form impenetrable thickets—haunts of numberless reptiles of every kind. A thick crust of greenish scum carpets the surface of the water. The fermentation which sets in on the return of hot weather in these frightful marshes disperses deleterious miasmas abroad, and removes to a distance the swarms of musquitoes. For three months of the year, however, the impetuous squalls which usually prevail sweep away all pestilential vapors, and momentarily purify these sinks of putrefaction.

The reader may perhaps remember that, the day after the fandango at Manantial, I had set out with Calros to seek the murderer whom he had sworn to punish. On leaving the village, there were signs abroad which showed the near approach of one of those tempests caused by the north wind, termed by seamen northers. A strange, dreamy sort of languor seemed to brood over all nature; the suffocating heat caused our horses to foam and pant, although our pace was designedly slow, and our lungs sought in vain for the freshness of the morning air.

We had traveled only a few hours on a road overshadowed by trees, when a dull, hollow, rumbling noise was heard. It was the sound of waves; we were approaching the sea without being able to discover its whereabouts. A few minutes afterward we debouched upon the beach, and I could not help contemplating with delight that ocean which bathed the shores of Europe. In the distance we descried Vera Cruz, with its spires and domes, and the fort San Juan de Ulloa, that stood like a rock among the billows, above which shot the tall, slender masts of the shipping in the roads.

The state of the sea gave every indication of a tempest, of which we had recognized the first symptoms in the wood. The waves gently licked the sand; a more than usually keen smell was distinguishable; the fish were evidently uneasy, leaping high out of the water; and the sea-birds wheeled round and round in the air, uttering mournful cries. Thick clouds were already sweeping up over the town. All at once a large cleft was observable in them. The Sierra of San Martin, which extends from Tuxtla to the mouth of the Goazacoalco, was suddenly stripped of the veil which had, till now, hid the range from our eyes, and its sharp peaks were brought out in bold relief against the deep blue sky.

"Woe betide the ships that are in the gulf just now!" said Calros, "for the north wind will advance upon them sword in hand;[64] this will be a tempestuous night. We shall know something more about it this evening at Bocca del Rio."

I made no reply at first. I was gazing on the ocean. To-morrow I intended to bid adieu to Mexico, and to embark for France. Contending emotions were striving for mastery within me. The joy at my return, long desired as it had been, was tinged with a momentary feeling of dejection. The country that I was about to leave had satisfied my thirst for adventure, and I wished ever afterward to lead a more calm and equable life. Calros's remark reminded me that I had not yet left this life of peril, from which I fancied I had been freed too easily. When, after saying nothing for a few moments, I told him—a little confused, I own—that I intended to embark in the first American ship that was leaving the roads, Calros objected with an air of chagrin, reminding me of my promise to accompany him to Bocca del Rio; and he then pointed out the threatening appearance of the sea. Not a single ship will lift her anchor here for four days, he added; and this last argument was decisive. I then agreed to his terms. I arranged to spend one of the four days of detention with him at Bocca del Rio, to assist in the search for the murderer. That port is only twelve miles from Vera Cruz. Calros intended to go through the city on the way to his village. For my part, I resolved to stay in town to make arrangements for my departure, after which I meant to rejoin Calros in the evening.

A short time after this we entered Vera Cruz. Upon the arid, sandy plain which surrounds the town, some muleteers had pitched their tents, waiting impatiently for the time when they could fly this pestiferous coast, which carries off some of their number at almost every trip. Farther off, a few negro porters, accustomed to this burning climate, were wrestling and struggling on the sand, paying no regard to the fine clothes they wore. I could not help smiling involuntarily when I compared in my own mind their condition with those of our porters at home. After renewing my promise to Calros of meeting him soon, I repaired to the countinghouse of my correspondent. I shall pass over in silence the worthless incidents which occurred during this day, till the time when I had to quit the town and set out for Bocca del Rio.

The wind now began to blow strongly from the north. When I reached the shore, after passing the outskirts of the town, great black clouds, preceded by drifting scud, veiled the face of the sky, and an icy blast, charged with cold from Hudson's Bay, struck me at intervals upon the face. The waves broke on the beach with a mighty roar, and the water came up as far as my horse's feet in large sheets of white foam. The farther I advanced, the wind seemed to increase in fury, and the night was growing darker and darker. Forced sometimes to turn my back to avoid the clouds of drifting sand, I now and then had a glimpse of the town that I repented of having left. At regular intervals, the light-house of San Juan de Ulloa blazed up in all the beauty of its revolving light, sometimes gleaming on Vera Cruz shrouded in darkness, and then on the roadstead white with foam. For a moment I discerned the ships at their anchors pitching up and down on the broken swell, and almost driving on each other. The light soon turned, and all was dark. It was scarcely the season for a nocturnal excursion. I advanced, however, with a resolution that deserved some credit, and had already approached the wood at the extremity of which lies the village of Bocca del Rio, when I fancied I distinguished a cavalier somewhat in advance of me. I hastened toward him. Enveloped in a large blue cloak, he seemed at a distance like a Franciscan. The noise of the tempest was so loud and overpowering that I was by his side before he perceived me. I then saw he was not a monk, but a peasant of the coast, whose bayeta[65] I had taken for a frock. With his hand upon his eyes to guard them from the dazzling glare of the lightning, the horseman rode on, casting keen glances toward one side, as if seeking to pierce the dark veil which hung over the ocean; but nothing could be seen but the white crest of the waves lashed into fury by the violence of the storm. I shouted to the stranger with all the force of my lungs, but the violence of the wind hindered my words from reaching him. All at once a loud report was heard in the distance. At the sound, as if it had been a signal he had been ardently expecting, the cavalier put spurs to his horse, and galloped off in the direction of the woods of Bocca del Rio. He was soon lost to view among the trees, and my only care was, in the midst of the lianas and underwood, to keep the straight path which led to the houses. I had reason to hope that, once among the trees and sheltered from the fury of the wind, I could follow the road with ease. As soon as I entered the wood, the noise of the waves gradually died away. I rode almost an hour beneath this leafy vault in complete darkness, and it was not without regret that I again perceived, by a flash of lightning, a long line of foaming breakers. I soon arrived at Bocca del Rio, so called from its situation at the mouth of the river; but, on issuing from the wood, an interesting spectacle met my view, which decided me to make a short halt.

CHAPTER II.

The Wreckers.—Narrow Escape of Ventura.

In spite of the violence of the tempest, the whole population of Bocca del Rio were assembled on the beach, and all eyes were fixed on the boiling sheet of foam, whose phosphorescent light contrasted strongly with the deep black of the heavens above. Not a sail was in sight. The distant boom of a gun, however, signaled that a ship was in distress, and that a pilot was required. In such a night as this, it was evident that nothing short of a miracle could save the luckless vessel from being dashed to pieces. Still, as another gun had not been heard, it was hoped that the ship exposed to the tempest had weathered the danger. Besides, a pilot who had left that morning before the norther began to blow had very likely got on board, and his consummate seamanship and skill eased some minds. A few, however, persisted in looking upon the ship as doomed.

I soon recognized Calros, whom curiosity had brought to the spot. Just when he was concluding his account about the general gathering of the people of the village, we heard another heavy boom, and this time more distinctly than the last. A flash was soon followed by a third report, and at the end of a few seconds the dark mass of a vessel was distinctly seen, driving on shore with as much rapidity as if she had been impelled by sails. Apparently no power could now save her. A by-stander, however, remarked that there was still a chance of safety, if she succeeded in reaching a part of the bay, opposite to which ran a kind of natural canal, where she might glide softly on to a sandy beach; but if, on the contrary, the luckless ship were driven on the rocks, she would infallibly go to pieces as soon as she grounded. Unfortunately, no one could exactly make out the place in question in the dark, since we could not light any fires for fear of guiding her in a wrong direction.

All the manoeuvres of the ship appeared to be now directed to impelling her in the direction of the canal that was covered by the waves. Sometimes she drifted broadside on, sometimes she ran right before the gale, in the direction of the shore. A cry of joy suddenly arose that was heard above the roaring of the tempest. About a gunshot from the place where we were standing, a beacon-fire flashed up with a brilliant flame. Had some courageous fellow hazarded his life to point out the passage into the place of safety? We fancied that the people on board put the same construction upon the light as we did, for the ship was seen advancing toward the light with great rapidity, looming larger and larger as she approached the shore. The light was waved backward and forward, but was kept always in a straight line. A single jib was the only sail that could be set to assist her in answering her helm. Sometimes, when the wind lulled for an instant, her motion appeared to be checked, but a fresh gust soon gave her a new impulse. At last, carried on the top of a high wave, the vessel hung for an instant upon her larboard quarter, then upon her starboard; she then started forward and canted on her broadside, her timbers grinding heavily against the ground. A cry of distress reached our ears, heard distinctly above the roar of the winds and waves; at the same instant the light went out, like one of those glow-worms which flit through the air at night in fenny places, and lead the incautious traveler into quagmires. The schooner was a complete wreck. All we could now do was to save the crew and passengers. While some were deliberating on the means that should be adopted for that purpose, a man was seen making his way along the bows of the wrecked ship, and, by the light of a lamp which shone full upon his face, I distinguished a person who was no longer unknown to me since his visit to Manantial—I mean the pilot Ventura. Some words that he directed to us through a speaking-trumpet were heard very indistinctly, but a line that he held in his hand left us in no doubt as to his meaning. Ventura was begging us to launch a boat to take the end of a rope on shore. But it was impossible that any thing could swim amid these breakers. A boat was then lowered from the bows of the schooner, several seamen got in, and pulled hard to reach the shore; but, in a few minutes, struck by a sea, it filled with water and disappeared.

One man only succeeded in reaching the shore, almost exhausted with cold and fatigue. He was the pilot Ventura. Paying no attention to the questions the people put to him, he unwound a line that was fastened round his body, and ordered them to hold on by the end so as to assist in saving the remaining sailors on board the schooner. A hundred hands immediately seized the rope, and held it with the strength of a capstan. That done, the pilot gave me the details of the dark and mysterious proceeding which I had just witnessed. The ship had been lost through a false light. The beacon-fire that had drawn her upon a reef of rocks had been lit by the perfidious hands of one of those wreckers to whom every shipwreck is a godsend. While telling a story which reflected so much credit upon himself for his courage, Ventura's eyes wandered about among the crowd, seeking to discover the malicious individual who had caused the loss of the schooner. I could hardly help thinking on the person whom I had seen in advance of me before my arrival at Bocca del Rio, and who, on the first signal of distress given by the ship, had galloped off so furiously in the direction of the sea.

"Curse them!" cried Ventura, on finishing his account; "to the devil with those wreckers whom the north wind brings to the coast to rob the shipwrecked and pillage the cargo! Above all, confound the rascal who led us ashore to gratify his own infernal cupidity!"

While he was speaking, the vibratory motion given to the cordage announced that the sailors of the ship were striving to reach the land by its assistance. In fact, partly by swimming, partly by wading, the shipwrecked seamen were not long in reaching the shore, though not without great difficulty and danger, as the sea was running higher, and the wind had increased in fury. The vessel, which was an American schooner, had been bound to Alvarado with a rich cargo of contraband goods, which was destined to become, to all appearance, a prey to the waves and the inhabitants of the coast; but, with American prudence, the lading had been insured for a sum at least equal to its value, and the captain, knowing it was an affair between the underwriters and the proprietors of the ship, interested himself only to procure shelter for himself and crew. The peasants received both him and his men with every demonstration of hospitality, incited, no doubt, by the consideration of profiting without scruple, during the night, by the waifs which the sea would not be long in throwing up. For my part, I intrusted my horse to one of the villagers, after taking the precaution of placing in my belt the pistols which were in the holsters. My intention was to remain upon the beach, that I might not lose a single portion of the strange scene which the organized pillage of a wreck promised me.

The women and children having been sent away, a small number of men only remained upon the shore, waiting impatiently for the moment when the sea would give back a part of the cargo that had been ingulfed in it. Ventura caused all the lights to be extinguished, and the beach became dark, if not still. The hoarse noise of the waves was as loud as the thunder overhead. Sometimes the pale light of the moon illumined the foaming breakers with which the sea was covered, and you got a glimpse of the ill-fated vessel pounding to pieces upon the rocks.

"Wherever there is a corpse," said the pilot, pointing to the schooner, "there you will find zopilotes[66] or sharks. We shall soon see the wretch that caused the loss of the vessel, and it will be a shame if we allow others to share in any thing that the sea may throw upon our coasts."

No sound, however, save the wild war of the elements was heard, and, while waiting for the wreckers, I had leisure to examine the situation of the different places. A few paces from us was the mouth of a river, whose banks were covered on both sides with thick brushwood. On our side of the stream stood the houses of Bocca del Rio, and between it and us ran a thick range of mangroves, which would, owing to the darkness, hide us completely from view. Upon the suggestion of the pilot, we agreed to lie in ambush at this spot.

We were not long kept in suspense. A body of men on horseback soon appeared, riding along the bank of the stream. They stopped upon the beach. The troop halted a short distance from the mangroves as if in doubt, and a horseman advanced alone to reconnoitre.

"The rascal has gone away to get assistance," said the pilot to me, in a low voice.

"And some mules, doubtless, to carry away the spoil," remarked one of the river-men.

In the horseman who had left the main body I was not long in distinguishing the man whose odd behavior had raised my suspicions while on my way from Vera Cruz to Bocca del Rio. Astonished, no doubt, to find the place which he had left so full of life some time before, quite deserted, the man, still enveloped in the same blue bayeta, continued silently to examine every place, and at last advanced near the mangroves. He soon, however, returned to his comrades.

The remains of the schooner's cargo, which the tide was washing on shore, could now be plainly seen. This was a sure indication that the most valuable parts of the lading would not be long in being thrown up. The wreckers could no longer restrain their impatience. They stationed themselves in a long line along the strand, so that nothing could escape them. The man in the blue cloak, who seemed to be the chief of these wretches, rode his horse into the waves, to have a better view of the boxes and bales floating about.

"Will any of you lend me a gun?" asked the pilot.

One of our party handed him his musket. Ventura seized it. At this moment the dark profile of the chief wrecker and his horse, relieved by the white foam of the sea, presented an admirable mark. He fired, and we saw the cavalier fall from his steed, and disappear beneath the waves. The other wretches took to flight. Immediately after, a man came out of the water, and walked up the beach, the ball which Ventura had intended for him having only struck his horse. The pilot ran toward the villain to prevent his escape. A struggle took place in the darkness. Just when we had come up to assist the pilot, he was thrown to the ground by the marauder, whose poniard happily had glided over his clothes without injuring him. It was impossible to overtake the fugitive, as he fled as fast as his legs could carry him, fancying, probably, his opponent had been killed. Ventura rose with difficulty.

"I was not able to hold him," said he, passing his hand over his body; "but that's nothing. I recognized the fellow; it is Campos! I am not hurt a bit; but it is a wonder that the rascal did not pin me to the ground with his dagger. I am curious to know, however, where the deuce the scoundrel got that horse."

"Did you say that the miscreant's name was Campos?" cried Calros; "Tereso Campos?"

"Yes, Tereso Campos."

"That's the man I am seeking," returned the Jarocho, grasping my hand.

"Are you in search of him?" asked the pilot; "and why?"

"To kill him," answered Calros, quite naÏvely.

"Well, I warrant you we shall find him to-morrow; and if the proprietor of the horse he stole join us, as he ought to do, the scoundrel will be very fortunate if he escape."

"You hear, SeÑor Cavalier," said Calros to me; "you have a like interest with us in avenging yourself upon Campos."

"Why?"

"Because, if I am not mistaken, it is your horse he has carried off."

I replied with perfect disinterestedness that, with the exception of the saddle, which was a costly one, I did not attach the slightest value to the sorry hack of which he had deprived me. But my objection was overruled, and I was obliged to yield. The reader may perhaps remember that I had sent my horse to the village in the charge of one of the inhabitants, but the man had tied up the beast to a tree near the beach, intending to return for it in a short time; and Campos, meanwhile, had stepped in and appropriated the animal.

Before advancing up the country in pursuit of the fugitives, a very delicate business still remained to be accomplished. This was the equitable division of the spoils from the wreck, vast quantities of which had been thrown up by the waves. I was not long in perceiving that the wrath of Ventura was chiefly directed against the marauders, because they were poaching on his preserves. At first, a few isolated portions of the rigging had been collected, then casks of wine and brandy, which were soon followed by large quantities of boxes filled with various articles. As they were thrown upon the shore, they were seized and piled up in a dry, sandy hollow till the distribution was made. I must say that Ventura conducted himself on this occasion with the strictest impartiality; he reserved nothing to himself beyond his share but a number of small boxes containing a goodly number of yards of fine Irish linen, as a sort of recompense for the dangers he had run. All was arranged to the full satisfaction of the river-men, who carried their booty away with such expedition that, in a short time, not a single article was to be seen on the sands.

We at last settled what was to be done during the remaining hours of the night, which was already approaching its meridian. In an hour hence we agreed to meet on the bank of the river at a place that the pilot pointed out to us. He, meanwhile, went home to secure his share of the plunder. The Jarocho had contemplated with a disdainful indifference the pillage of the shipwrecked cargo. Before quitting the shore, he threw a last look upon the sea, which was still beating with remorseless fury against the timbers of the ill-fated schooner, and then upon the broken barrels and boxes which the tide was still floating to land.

"All that," said he, with a melancholy smile, "is not to be compared to a fandango under the palm-trees, nor a look from Sacramenta."

I could not help thinking that the Jarocho was right; but it was scarcely the moment to lose one's self in amorous reveries. A short walk took us to the village; and, after a frugal repast, a necessary precaution before setting out to encounter new fatigues, we directed our steps in silence to the place where Ventura was waiting for us.

CHAPTER III.

Excursion up a River.—Vengeance overtakes Campos, the Murderer.

In a little creek, overshadowed by some gigantic willows, we found the pilot engaged in putting the oars on board a small boat that was moored to the bank. I was rather averse to a march through the woods, and it was with a feeling of pleasure that, instead of a pedestrian excursion, I saw we were to be conveyed to our place of destination in a boat. I communicated my satisfaction to the pilot.

"Here," said he, "we only travel in two ways, on horseback or in a 'dingy.' We leave to the newly-landed Galicians the resource of striding a path.[67] You can row, of course?" addressing himself to Calros.

He answered in the affirmative, and we took our places in the skiff. As I was only a passenger, I stretched myself on my cloak at the bottom of the boat to shelter myself from the wind. Though we were at a considerable distance from the mouth of the stream, the river was swollen with the tide, and the water lapped the sides of the boat with great fury. We set out, and, impelled by two pairs of strong arms, soon began to glide rapidly along the surface of the dark water. The usual imposing stillness of American forests was on the banks. At a distance you heard the dull, heavy roar of the wind raging among the trees. The banks of the river were very undulating. Sometimes its bed widened considerably, and we then kept in the centre of the stream. At other times the water flowed between high, precipitous rocks, under a thick canopy of mahogany and cedar trees, from whose branches long-trailing parasitical plants hung over our heads. Charmed with the beauty of the river, I forgot completely the object of our journey. I was soon reminded of it, however, by the pilot.

"Every one," said he, "in this world has his enemies. For my part, I know more than one individual, and Campos among others, who would be very glad to know that at this late hour of the night, in the midst of these solitudes, which alcalde has never visited, they could meet Sinforoso Ventura unarmed and defenseless."

"Have we no arms?" Calros inquired. "Are the pistols of my friend here, my machete, and your musket, to be reckoned as nothing?"

"In an open country such arms would be of the greatest service; here they are of no use. A person hidden in any of the trees which overhang the stream could pick out any of the three he chose, and send a ball through his head; or, by throwing the trunk of a tree across the river, might capsize our boat, if he did not smash it to pieces. What do you think of that?"

"I dare say you're right," answered Calros. "Luckily, nobody is to know that you are to be pulling up the river to-night."

"I am not so sure of that," said the pilot; "there are spies and traitors every where. If any of the marauders we put to flight this evening has the slightest inkling of our plans, be sure that his comrades will be apprised of it time enough to meet us at a part of the river I know. We have already rowed two hours," he added, shaking his head, "and the place is not far off. You now know what we have to fear. Consider, therefore, whether we shall push on, or land, and wait till daylight."

"I can not lose a minute," returned the Jarocho, coldly. "If we pull well, we shall reach the village where Campos lives in an hour."

"It is quite the same to me," Ventura replied. "Let us proceed."

A dead silence succeeded these words. Knowing now the dangers we had to run, I went and seated myself in the bow, to try to make out, if it were possible, the ambuscades that threatened us; but the darkness was so great that I could discover nothing. The leafy vault under which we moved threw a thick shadow over the bed of the river; at times, however, a gust of wind shook into the water, like a shower of golden rain, large cucuyos, which fell from the trees above us. Not a single star was to be seen through the interstices of the foliage. A quarter of an hour had now elapsed without in the least justifying the suspicions of the pilot. The Jarocho lay on his oars to take breath, and the boat, moved by the current, turned broadside on to the stream.

"Keep her head to the stream," cried the pilot, sharply. "Even supposing that we have no ambuscades to fear, the wind may, perhaps, have uprooted some dead tree, and should it happen to hit the side of our boat, it would cant over to a dead certainty; but if we are struck on the bow, it may do us no harm. The tide runs up as far as this, and sharks not uncommonly come up with it."

This last observation disclosed another danger which I had not suspected; and, in the presence of the increasing perils of this nocturnal expedition, I thought, with some bitterness, on the comfortable farniente and refreshing sleep I should have enjoyed had I been in my hotel at Vera Cruz.

Calros did not require a second warning, but resumed his oar with new vigor. We soon arrived at a place where a high rock on each side of the stream approached each other, narrowing very considerably the bed of the river. About a dozen paces farther up, the passage became so contracted that both oars could not be worked, and it was only by the assistance of a boat-hook that the pilot, by fixing it among the lianas, could pull us up against the force of the current. The river widened considerably at the head of this narrow pass, and allowed us again to ply our oars; but as the stream grew broader, the banks rose in proportion. On the right and left, high rocks curved gently inward, and then ran sheer down into the water, like the arch of a bridge broken at the key-stone. Under this vault every stroke produced an echo. We advanced by chance, and the darkness was so intense that we did not know but what every pull would send us up against the wall of rock on either side.

"One would need to have the eyes of a tiger-cat to see in this place," cried the pilot.

"Have we far to go now?" asked Calros.

"A few vigorous strokes will send us there," answered Ventura; "but the most embarrassing thing is to discover the entrance to the narrow reach that runs up from this basin. This reach is as narrow as the one we have just left."

"Put out the boat-hook to feel if we are not running against the rocks."

I did what he ordered me. The boat was still in the middle of the stream. The boat-hook, though stretched out as far as I could reach, struck against nothing.

"All right," I cried. "I can touch the rocks on neither side."

The rowers again plied their oars, and the light skiff flew up the river. All at once the boat-hook, which I was holding at right angles to the boat, hit against a rock, and bounced out of my hands. The shock over-set me completely. A cracking of broken branches was heard. The skiff suddenly stopped.

"What's this?" cried the pilot, who had run to the bow, and was fumbling with his hands among a tangled mass of lianas and branches. "Demonio! the rascals have pitched a dead tree into the river higher up, and the current has carried it down here. We can advance no farther. How shall we get out of this mess? One or two large stones, hurled from the top of these rocks, might crush us to pieces before we could clear the passage."

This took us completely aback, and not another word was said. The only plan seemed to be to return to the reach we had just left; but the boat was so strongly fixed among the branches of the fallen tree that it could not be disengaged. Some moments passed in a fruitless endeavor to overcome this obstacle. Suddenly a voice called out right above us, "Who is there?"

"Gente de paz," I replied, prompted by the pilot.

"That's not enough. There are three of you, and I must hear three voices."

"Caramba! well," cried the Jarocho. "Tell Campos that I am here—I, Calros Romero, of Manantial."

"And ask him also," added the pilot, haughtily, "if he remembers the name of Sinforoso Ventura, of Bocca del Rio."

A shrill whistle was heard in the woods. It was repeated behind us, showing that both banks were guarded. Two or three seconds elapsed, that seemed as long as so many years. Shadowy forms appeared on the rocks above our heads, threatening cries were heard, and quivering lights danced upon the water. The pilot was not long in firing upon the scoundrels; but they had the advantage in point of position, and wielded arms more terrible than ours. The flash of the gun lighted up all surrounding objects. Meanwhile an enormous stone, which they had succeeded in moving to the edge of the rocks, fell close to the boat, and splashed us with water from head to foot. The pilot cried out as if he had been hurt. We felt the boat lurch under us heavily, and then, torn from the rude embrace of the branches, drift rapidly down the stream. When I opened my eyes, for we had been both blinded by the spray, Ventura had disappeared. I called aloud several times. There was no reply.

"'Tis all over with him!" cried Calros. "He is at the bottom of the river. We must see to ourselves now."

A speedy retreat was the only chance of safety left us. The Jarocho seized the oars and began rowing vigorously. Not a sound was heard but the dip of the oar in the water. Had our enemies retreated, or were they waiting for us at the narrow reach we must unavoidably pass? We could not escape the fate that seemed to be awaiting us. We were soon in the dangerous pass. The trunk of a guaiacum or cedar hanging over the water—the noise of the wind in their branches—an iguana leaving its bed of dry leaves—a squirrel frightened by the working of the oars—the slightest sound, or the least object that we saw, all kept our minds on the rack, and our hands on our arms. We stopped at short intervals, after which Calros resumed his oars with new ardor.

We reached at last a spot where the vegetation was not so abundant, and one of the banks was destitute of wood. We landed there. A rapid survey convinced us that this was not the place for an ambuscade. We decided to remain a short time to rest ourselves, and we should afterward consider whether to continue our journey by land or water. The sun was just beginning to make his appearance. What was our surprise, when, as we were about to throw ourselves upon the ground, we heard a voice calling to us! The voice was that of our late companion Ventura. We thought at first that we were laboring under a hallucination; but in a short time we could no longer doubt about the resurrection of our brave friend, who appeared on the opposite bank, waving his hand to invite us to carry him across. To cross the stream was with Calros the work of an instant.

"And by what miracle are you still in this world?" I asked of Ventura. "The cry of agony you uttered still rings in my ears."

"That cry saved my life. As soon as I felt that we ran the risk of getting crushed to pieces without being able to defend ourselves, I jumped among the branches that stopped our passage, and, on seeing the immense stone which they had pushed into the river, I raised a great shriek. The rascals, fancying from the cry that I was mortally wounded, decamped as quickly as they could. Once out of the water, I followed the course of the river, knowing that you could not be far off. I was right, as you see. We shall now resume our journey. As for you, SeÑor Calros, who are so impatient to revenge yourself upon Campos, I have hit on a more expeditious plan than the one we are now following. I have some friends in the village in which Campos lives. We shall go and visit them; and in two hours all your wishes shall be fully satisfied."

The arrival of the pilot had brought back to Calros's mind all that boiling impatience which his exhaustion of body had alone kept under. He would not listen to a halt. A short discussion then arose as to whether we should continue our journey by land or water. Ventura was of opinion that we ought still to make use of the boat and reascend the river, as we should probably fall in with no more enemies, and the force of the current had very likely removed all obstacles to our passage. We therefore took our places in the skiff without loss of time, Calros and Ventura pulling, and I between the two rowers, glad at finding that, from my inexperience in rowing, I should not be expected to give any assistance, and would be at full liberty to admire the glorious landscape that unfolded itself before our eyes, bathed in the first light of dawn.

The river, so dark and sombre the night before, seemed now to smile in the sunlight. Light vapors arose from the surface of the water, drawn up by the heat, which had taken the place of the coolness of the evening before. Numerous aquatic plants covered its surface, and the furrow which our boat cut in passing through them soon closed up again, leaving not a trace of our presence. No sound was heard save the working of the oars in the row-locks, and a green woodpecker tapping with long, regular strokes the trunk of a dead tree.

My companions were quite indifferent to the glorious beauty of this solitude. I must confess, however, that I allowed myself to be distracted from the contemplation of these charms to listen to the conversation of the two men, which was becoming more and more animated. Besides relating the grievances which he had endured from Campos, the pilot, in the course of his narrative, caused a chord to vibrate in the heart of the chivalrous lover of DoÑa Sacramenta. Calros was painfully surprised on learning that Julian, his antagonist in the fandango at Manantial, was his rival. Julian, being the pilot's friend, had no secrets from him. His passion for Sacramenta dated from the time when the parents of the young girl lived in another village called Medellin, before they had come to reside at Manantial. After the departure of Sacramenta for Manantial, Julian had not lost all hope of seeing her again, and of winning her affections. Old Josefa, the woman whose son Campos had killed, and who was seeking every where an avenger for her son's murder, had been often invited from Manantial to Medellin for the purpose of exercising the black art, in which she was considered an adept. It was through her that Julian received news of Sacramenta, and the old crone had even promised to exert her influence with the girl in his favor, if he succeeded in putting her on the traces of her son's murderer. This condition Julian had been able to fulfill through the friendship of the pilot, as the latter, by his ancient relations with Campos, was well aware of all this wretch's crimes. Julian had thus informed her that Campos was her son's murderer, and that the pilot Ventura would lend her a hand in securing him. Josefa had, on her side, kept her word. She had used all her influence with Sacramenta in Julian's favor, "and was successful," said the pilot, with an arch smile, "since the amorous Jarocho had been invited to attend the fÊte of Manantial by the young girl herself, to challenge, in her honor, the bravest champion in the village." The pilot did not know that the old crone Josefa, in her eagerness to have her son avenged, had likewise excited the passion of Calros, in order that she might make him more eager in the search after Campos. Calros and I could alone complete the revelations of Ventura. I did not say a single word, however, because I feared to excite the Jarocho's jealousy still more by untimely consolation, and because I knew that his soul was torn by violent and contending emotions. The pilot, seeing us both sunk in thought, turned to Calros and said,

"Now, when I think of it, it was you that challenged my friend Julian. It was you that was victor in the combat held in honor of the fair Sacramenta. Well, shall I tell you? Julian confessed to me that, even after his defeat, he had not entirely lost hope; so much so that he is talking about quitting Medellin, and you will perhaps see him some of these days quietly settled in Manantial."

"Are you sure of what you say?" asked Calros, in an altered tone.

"Has my good friend Julian ever deceived me?" answered the pilot. "Trust me, he is not a man that is under the influence of illusions. If he never come to Manantial, it is because he will have the best of reasons for staying away."

This was rather much, and Calros asked him no more questions. With eyes fixed mechanically on the water around him, the poor fellow plied his oar with a kind of feverish energy. His body was with us, but his mind had fled away to the woods of Manantial.

We had now gone as far as we could on the river, which had now dribbled down to a mere streamlet, flowing between low banks. Upon one side fields of green sugar-cane, waving in the wind, stretched to the foot of a chain of hills which rose at a short distance from the stream.

"We must land here," cried the pilot; "the village is behind these hills."

[67] Ensillar la vereda.