The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,
Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale’s thole,
Crosses himself and whispers ‘A lost soul!’
No, Señor, not a bird, I know it well,
It is the pained soul of some infidel,
Or cursed heretic that cries from hell.
Poor fool! with hope still mocking his despair,
He wanders shrieking on the midnight air,
For human pity and for Christian prayer.”
After six or seven hours of the weariest walking we arrived drenched to the skin—by the way it does not take much to wet the Indians to the skin—at our camp. There I found McTurk footsore, but energetic as usual, and happy in the addition of a few more Indian carriers who were “on the walk,” and willing to accompany us. The chief of the party was an old fellow with streaming black hair and of fierce aspect. He did not know his proper name, but produced a small package in the folds of which was a card with “Isaac” written on it. As there was already one Isaac in our party, we christened the new man “the Pirate.” Among his most cherished treasures was a large parcel, which he opened with much ceremony. It contained five or six other palm leaf packets, from the last of which he drew a printed tract in the Acawai language, which he had obtained from one of the missions near the coast. The tract was composed of a few prayers and Bible extracts, which he requested McTurk to read aloud. It was a curious scene; a few fires threw a glare over the dark forest outside, and clustered round the shelter, under which we lay in our hammocks, were the Indians listening with the deepest attention to the reading, and now and then repeating to each other in a low tone some word that was better understood than the rest.