Hot, stifling was the air in the courtyard; the cobbled pavement of the street outside fairly baked beneath the relentless sun. Most of the shops and tiendas were closed for the noon siesta, and only a few listless stragglers ventured beyond the cool white portals of the houses. It was not a happy hour in which to commence a difficult journey; but General Herran, marvelously energetic for once, had planned to cover a certain distance before nightfall. So, without more ado, the “bestias” were marshaled, single file, and driven out, with much shouting and laying on of goads, into the street, where they stood patiently waiting for the eight travelers whom they were to carry to Bogota.
“We are off at last!” announced David, entering the salon where Leighton, Una, Mrs. Quayle and Miranda awaited the caravan’s departure. “In less than a week you’ll hear from me. By that time, I hope, you’ll be ready for Bogota.”
“I can never go on one of those vicious animals,” sighed Mrs. Quayle, her bejeweled fingers nervously clutching the arms of the chair.
“Vicious!” exclaimed David. “They are harmless as kittens.”
As if in denial of the comparison, one of the burros standing near the doorway stiffened out his forefeet and brayed with all the vehemence of which burro lungs are capable. He was followed by his comrades in misery—a full chorus of brays from which no discordant note was missing. Had it been the traditional bellowing of a herd of bulls—it was noisy enough for that—the timid lady could not have been more alarmed, nor the doctor more delighted.
“Bravo!” he shouted. “They want you, my Senora. They wait for you.”
“Good-bye!” said David, clasping Una’s hand.
“Good-bye!” she said, almost inaudibly.
“Doctor, look out for them,” he called to Miranda.