“In that case,” interposed the padre, settling himself in the saddle, “to make your walking more easy, you may hold to the tail of my mule on the up grades.”
Not long after, they were forced to cover their faces and cease talking. For before the night was half gone, the moon topped the trees, showing its great, burnished shield upon the starlit sky. And with the rising of the moon the forest thinned, the way became more level, but sandy, the walking extremely heavy, and legions of hungry mosquitoes came swarming upon them. The padre’s mule, tormented by the pests, made the middle of the track dangerous for Manuelita. She fell back, and walked in silence beside the old orderly. Once she uncovered to ask him how far they had got.
“Half-way,” he answered, when she murmured a thanksgiving.
Later she again spoke: “And how long before Higuerote is near?”
“Three hours,” he replied.
Her hands stole to her belt.
“Only one day and one night,” she said, “and yet I am almost upon them!”
But she was miserably tired by now, and many times would have stumbled to her knees had not the asistente supported her. He gave her frequent draughts from his aguardiente flask, and little lumps of damp brown sugar out of a canvas bag at his thigh. The padre, riding just in advance, looked back often to speak encouragement, and as often called the asistente forward to levy upon him for a cigarette.
Bravely Manuelita persevered. Toward morning her brain seemed to wander, for she talked meaningless things to the old man lagging beside her. But a moment’s rest, a swallow of drink, a whispered reminder, and she struggled forward.
“Santa María!” was her petition, “only give me strength!”