“We haven’t had the fish Jorge promised us,” said Alano, as we were preparing to resume our journey. “A bit of something baked wouldn’t go bad.”
“Fish to-night,” said the guide.
“Have you a line and hook, Jorge?” I asked.
“Yes, always carry him,” he answered; and, upon further questioning, I learned that to carry a fishing outfit was as common among the rebels as to carry a pistol or the ever-ready machete. They had to supply themselves with food, and it was often easier and safer to fish in the mountain streams than to shoot game or cattle.
We made a camp that night under the shelter of a clump of grenadillo trees; and, as Jorge had promised, he tried his luck at fishing in a little pool under some rocks. He remained at his lines, two in number, for nearly an hour, and in that time caught four fish—three of an eel-like nature and a perch. These were cooked for supper, and tasted delicious.
“When will we reach the old convent?” I asked, as we were about to turn in.
“Reach him by to-morrow afternoon maybe, if no storm come,” said Jorge.
“Do you think there will be a storm?”
The guide shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe—time for storm now.”