Here there was a rude shelter constructed of a ragged tarpaulin, and an olla, or earthen water jar, suspended from the branches of a tree.
The girl turned and faced the boys as soon as they reached this primitive camp.
"You are safe, for the present," said she. "I am glad I could do something to help you."
"Strike me lucky!" growled Dick, his keen eyes on the girl's face. "Are you helping us, Ysabel Sixty, or luring us into another trap, like you did up in New Orleans?"
A look of sadness and contrition swept over the girl's face. It was a pretty face—not so pretty as it had been in New Orleans, for now it was worn and haggard—and that ripple of sorrow touched it softly.
"I have paid for all that," said the girl slowly. "I have paid for it with more bitter regrets than I can tell. Now, maybe, I can help to undo the wrong. What I did in New Orleans I did not do willingly. My father threatened to kill me if I failed to carry out his wishes. Now he is in the hands of the law, you are free, and I am adrift in this wild country."
There was something in the girl's voice that touched both Matt and Dick. It could not be that she was again playing a part, for there was that in her words and manner which told of sincerity.
"How do you happen to be here?" asked Matt.
"My father, as I suppose you have heard, left the steamer Santa Maria to go on the schooner North Star and hunt for his water-logged brig. I continued on to Belize on the Santa Maria, with orders from my father to take the first boat from Belize to Port Livingstone, at the mouth of the Izaral. There I was met by some of General Pitou's soldiers, and brought out to this camp to wait until my father, or my uncle, should come. My father did not come, and will not. My uncle has already arrived, and it is to avoid him that I have come away by myself, into this part of the woods."
"Who is your uncle, Ysabel?" asked Matt.