Once they landed on the north bank of the river, and after dragging the light boat a long way through a rough country, they launched her on a lovely lake of cerulean blue, that, extending far on every side, looked like some vast inland sea.
Miguel had brought along to-day an extra good luncheon. The water teemed with fish, so sport was excellent. They landed in a little cove,
"O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green",
and there in cool umbrageous shade they dined. Then romantic Miguel, who never went anywhere without his sweet-and-sad guitar, played and sang.
They returned not until the moon was shining high and clear over the mirrored lake. Some hands from the yacht met them in the landing-cove, and the boat was again dragged riverwards.
Not without adventure, however.
Creggan always took with him from his ship a Highland plaid, to be worn at night if belated. He was wrapped in that—happily for him—on this particular evening.
The boat was still being dragged along a terribly rough cattle-track, and Creggan was a little way behind. Suddenly from out the jungle came a roar that seemed to shake the earth, and next moment a huge dark beast sprang high in the moonlit air, and our hero was thrown violently to the ground.
The American lion, his yellow eyes glaring, his red mouth spitting spume, tore at the Highland plaid. But the beast's last hour had come, for with an activity but little less than his own, Miguel attacked him. It was a clear-shining dagger that shone aloft. It descended with a dull thud, and was lifted again wet with red blood. In less than ten seconds the wild beast was despatched.
His skin was taken as a trophy by the men, and presented, after being cured, to Creggan himself. That skin is now lying as a rug in the drawing-room of Creggan's mother's house at Torquay.