A week after this we find our heroes in the yacht anchored in the Caño Colorado—Caño meaning a creek; but in this case, at all events, it really is no creek, but the long quiet mouth of El rio del Guarapiche, a river that, rising afar among the wild hills and forests of the west and north, sweeps briskly on for many a league, forming here and there a cataract, and here and there a broad brown pool, where fishes love to bask in the sweet sunshine or leap gladly up to catch the passing flies.
It is all youth and sunshine and joy with the river at first. Beautiful wild flowers nod over its banks and use it as a mirror, bright-winged birds dip in it as they go skimming through the air, and cloudlands of trees bend down to kiss the gurgling stream. But after many more miles, it goes roaring through dark wild cañons, and is overhung by frowning rocks which narrow and deepen it. The river passes through jungle also, where nightly the wild beasts fight and roar. Then, getting broader now—its happy youth all gone,—less transparent old age seems to gather over its once glad waters, till, weary at last, it glides calmly, softly, into the great Atlantic Ocean.
Miguel landed at the Caño. The young fellow appeared to have friends everywhere, and to be everywhere as welcome as early primroses.
The owner of a property that lay up a creeklet, and had thereon a pretty wooden bungalow, was most happy to see Miguel and his friends. Of course they must stay to dinner, and that meal was one that Creggan could not despise. Delightful curry, most delicious fish, plantains, sweet potatoes, and the rarest of fruit.
And so with talk and song the evening passed away. Then down the creek in the starlight they dropped, and just about
"The wee short 'oor ayont the twal"
everybody was fast asleep—except the sentry—on board the yacht.
On next day towards Maturin.
In no hurry, however. 'Twas best to lounge and dawdle thus, enjoying the dolce far niente by the river's green wooded banks, or out amid-stream in the sparkling sunshine.
On shore many times and oft, however, to enjoy the scenery. Once a huge and insolent cayman attempted to seize a boatman where he sat. They were just then nearing the yacht. Almost instantly after the crack of a heavy rifle in the bows of the Queen sounded the death-knell of that terrible cayman. Even before the sound had ceased to reverberate from rock to rock, he was lashing the water with his tail like some fabled monster of a bygone age, and dyeing the water with his blood.