"Welcome," said the syringuero.[2] "The storm is bad. You reached shelter just in time. See!"
He pointed through the door-way and Affonzo saw that the streams of water were well-nigh rivers, and the thunder and lightning were almost incessant.
"Where do you suppose my father is?" he asked, and Joachim answered,
"The Senhor has found shelter, do not fear; and he will know you are safe with me."
"There is nothing to do but sit still, I suppose," said Affonzo, rather mournfully, for that was the hardest thing in all the world for him to do.
Vicente gave him a slow smile. He was an old Indian of wiry frame, with keen black eyes. His hair was straight and black, his chin firm and strong, his features clean-cut, his face proud and intelligent. He was in great contrast to curly-haired, black Joachim with his good-humoured, stolid face.
"HE PLACED HIMSELF ON A RAFT AND WAS ROWED TO THE MIDDLE OF THE GREAT RIVER."
Vicente was one of the Indians whose fathers had owned the land before the Portuguese discovered it and named it Brazil from the red colour of its dye woods. He gathered rubber from the great trees which grew in the forest, and lived alone in his little hut. He sat smoking and watching the boy who looked out into the rain feeling very miserable.