“Oh, yes! Don Santiago is on board! Ha! there was an evident interest. Her look as she said it; her manner—furies! But he is a relation, a cousin—a cousin—I hate cousins!”
I must have pronounced the last words aloud, as Lincoln, who walked in my rear, stepped hastily up, and asked:
“What did yer say, Cap’n?”
“Oh! nothing, Sergeant,” stammered I, in some confusion.
Notwithstanding my assurance, I overheard Lincoln whisper to his nearest comrade:
“What ther old Harry hes got into the cap?”
He referred to the fact that I had unconsciously hooked myself half a dozen times on the thorny claws of the pita-plant, and my overalls began to exhibit a most tattered condition.
Our route lay through a dense chaparral—now crossing a sandy spur, covered with mezquite and acacia; then sinking into the bed of some silent creek, shaded with old cork-trees, whose gnarled and venerable trunks were laced together by a thousand parasites. Two miles from the rancho we reached the banks of a considerable stream, which we conjectured was a branch of the Jamapa River.
On both sides a fringe of dark forest-trees flung out long branches extending half-way across the stream. The water flowed darkly underneath.
Huge lilies stood out from the banks—their broad, wax-like leaves trailing upon the glassy ripple.