“Aw, be the powers of Moll Kelly! iv thim little crayteurs hasn’t more sinse than the humans av these parts! It’s a quare counthry, anyhow. Be me sowl! it bates Banagher intirely!”
A general laugh followed the Irishman’s remarks; and we all sprang to our feet, refreshed by our sleep, and lighter in spirits.
The storm had disappeared, and the sun, now setting, gleamed in upon us through the broad leaves of the palms. The birds were abroad once more—brilliant creatures—uttering their sweet songs. Parrots and trogons, and tanagers flashed around our heads; and the great-billed and silly-looking toucans sat silent in the branches above.
The stream had become fordable, and leaving our “lair”, we crossed over, and struck into the woods on the opposite side.
Chapter Forty Seven.
The Jarachos.
We headed towards the National Bridge. Raoul had a friend half-way on the route—an old comrade upon whom he could depend. His rancho was in a secluded spot, near the road that leads to the rinconada (Note 1) of San Martin. We should find refreshment there; and, if not a bed, “at least”, said Raoul, “a roof and a petaté.” We should not be likely to meet anyone, as it was ten miles off, and it would be late when we reached it.
It was late—near midnight—when we dropped in upon the contrabandista, for such was the friend of Raoul; but he and his family were still astir, under the light of a very dull wax candle.