“That was a narrow escape!” I panted. “Alano, don’t you advise me to rest in a tree again. I would rather run the risk of fever ten times over.”
“Serpents are just as bad in the grass,” he replied simply. “Supposing he had come up when you were flat on your back!”
“Let us get away from here—there may be more. And throw away that stick—it may have poison on it.”
“That serpent was not poisonous, Mark. But I will throw it away,—it is so covered with blood,—and we can easily cut new ones.”
The excitement had made me forget the heat, and we went on for over a mile. Then, coming to a mountain stream, we sat down to take it easy until the sun had passed the zenith and it was a trifle cooler.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, or evening, as they call it in Cuba, we reached the end of the woods and came to the edge of an immense sugar-cane field. The cane waved high over our heads, so that what buildings might be beyond were cut off from view. There was a rough cart-road through the field, and after some hesitation we took to this, it being the only road in sight.
We had traveled on a distance of half a mile when we reached a series of storehouses, each silent and deserted. Beyond was a house, probably belonging to the overseer of the plantation, and this was likewise without occupant, the windows and doors shut tightly and bolted.
“All off to the war, I suppose,” I said. “And I had half an idea we might get a chance to sleep in a bed to-night.”