"'This brute is surely not disposed to strife,
But you attack it, it'll defend its life.'"
Night came on. A multitude of insects whirled round and round our fire, burning their wings as if they enjoyed it. Lucien wanted to know what attracted so many of these poor creatures to the flame. As he inquired, two or three great beetles suddenly appeared with loud buzzing, and at once precipitated themselves into the burning coals.
"See what comes of giddiness," said Sumichrast. "If since we set out we had walked blindly on without looking where we went, long ere this we should have found ourselves at the bottom of some ravine."
"But these butterflies and beetles throw themselves into the fire on purpose," said l'Encuerado, with the inflexible logic of facts.
"They are not aware that the flame will burn," I replied.
"That's true," murmured the Indian, in a tone of compassion.
Fatigue compelled us to give up our relaxation, and we soon went to sleep in a warm atmosphere, which seemed all the more pleasant when we remembered our sufferings of the night before.
Our slumbers were interrupted toward morning by the frequent cries of a flight of passerines, called "alarum-birds" (despertadores) by the Mexicans. It was hardly light, and, in spite of l'Encuerado's predictions, it had not rained. The light of our fire, when we stirred it, soon drove away our winged friends; but, thanks to their waking us, the first rays of the sun found us all ready to set out. Just as we were going to start, an unforeseen difficulty arose—how to cross the ravine and ford the river? L'Encuerado said that it would be necessary to go up-stream; I, also, agreed with him. Sumichrast, on the contrary, was of opinion that there was much more chance of the banks becoming less steep if we went in the opposite direction; he carried the day, and led the way, cutting a passage through the shrubs with his machete.
As we were determined to skirt the edge of the water, we could not get along without great difficulty. The noise of the torrent, which seemed to grow louder, attracted us towards the forest, where the absence of grass and under-wood enabled us to get on faster. The trees grew farther and farther apart, and we again came upon brush-wood, ere long coming out on to a plain, dotted here and there with guava-trees. These trees furnished us with a quantity of green fruit, of which we were all very fond. L'Encuerado availed himself of this unexpected harvest by filling up all the gaps in his basket with them. The wild guava, a sort of myrtle, which grows naturally in the Terre-Tempérée, reaches to a height of several feet. Its fruit, which seldom gets ripe before it is eaten by the birds or larvæ, is luscious, highly scented, and full of pips; they have the reputation of being antifebrile and astringent. When the shrub is cultivated, its appearance changes considerably; its branches grow longer, and are covered with leaves which are silvery on the back, and the fruit they yield are as large as lemons, which they resemble in shape and color.
We all put on our travelling gear again; but when l'Encuerado wanted to place the basket on his back, he found he could not possibly lift it up. I helped him, trying all the time to persuade him to throw away half his stock; but he resolutely refused to follow my advice. When he began to walk, he staggered like a drunken man, and at last fell down beneath his burden, and all the guavas rolled out on to the ground.