cle. Suddenly a voice called out right above us, "Who is there?"
"Gente de paz," I replied, prompted by the pilot.
"That's not enough. There are three of you, and I must hear three voices."
"Caramba! well," cried the Jarocho. "Tell Campos that I am here—I, Calros Romero, of Manantial."
"And ask him also," added the pilot, haughtily, "if he remembers the name of Sinforoso Ventura, of Bocca del Rio."
A shrill whistle was heard in the woods. It was repeated behind us, showing that both banks were guarded. Two or three seconds elapsed, that seemed as long as so many years. Shadowy forms appeared on the rocks above our heads, threatening cries were heard, and quivering lights danced upon the water. The pilot was not long in firing upon the scoundrels; but they had the advantage in point of position, and wielded arms more terrible than ours. The flash of the gun lighted up all surrounding objects. Mean while an enormous stone, which they had succeeded in moving to the edge of the rocks, fell close to the boat, and splashed us with water from head to foot. The pilot cried out as if he had been hurt. We felt the boat lurch under us heavily, and then, torn from the rude embrace of the branches, drift rapidly down the stream. When I opened my eyes, for we had been both blinded by the spray, Ventura had disappeared. I called aloud several times. There was no reply.
"Tis all over with him!" cried Calros. "He is at the bottom of the river. We must see to ourselves now."
A speedy retreat was the only chance of safety left
