grew darker and darker, we dismounted and led our horses along.
"We don't want to go down into any hole," observed Oliver. "My, but this is as dark as a—a"
"Coal hole," I finished. "And, what is worse, we seem to be going down among the hills instead of going up. I believe we're lost."
"That is what it amounts to," said Dan grimly. "Mark, doesn't it put you in mind of the time when you were lost in Cuba with Alano Guerez?"
"I was just going to speak of that," I cried. "But we had a difficulty to contend with that doesn't appear here. We were between the Cuban and Spanish lines all the time and in danger of being shot by one side or the other."
Soon we were forced to come to another halt. On each side of us arose the craggy hills, while before us ran a wild mountain torrent, foaming and bubbling over the volcanic rock.
"Can we ford that stream?" asked Oliver. "It doesn't seem to be very deep."
"It's the swiftness that counts," I said. "Better back your horse in first and see how he stands it."
Oliver did as I suggested. At first the steed would not submit to the backing-up process, but finally he took a few steps to the rear. The water
