he little stream.

"The outlet of _La Cienaga_, Padre," Rosendo offered, laying aside his
paddle and taking his long boat pole. "Lake Simiti flows through this
and into the Magdalena." For a few moments he held the canoe steady,
while from his wallet he drew a few leaves of tobacco and deftly
rolled a long, thick cigar.

The real work of the _boga_ now began, and Rosendo with his long
punter settled down to the several hours' strenuous grind which was
necessary to force the heavy canoe up the little outlet and into the
distant lake beyond. Back and forth he traveled through the
half-length of the boat, setting the pole well forward in the soft
bank, or out into the stream itself, and then, with its end against
his shoulder, urging and teasing the craft a few feet at a time
against the strong current. Jose imagined, as he dully watched him,
that he could see death in the pestiferous effluvia which emanated
from the black, slimy mud which every plunge of the long pole brought
to the surface of the narrow stream.

The afternoon slowly waned, and the temperature lowered a few degrees.
A warm, animal-like breath drifted languidly out from the moist
jungle. The outlet, or _cano_, was heavily shaded throughout its
length. Crocodiles lay along its muddy banks, and slid into the water
at the approach of the canoe. Huge _iguanas_, the gorgeously colored
lizards of tropical America, scurried noisily through the overarching
branches. Here and there monkeys peeped curiously at the intruders and
chattered excitedly as they swung among the lofty treetops. But for
his exhaustion, Jose, as he lay propped up against his trunk, gazing
vacantly upon the slowly unrolling panorama of marvelous plant and
animal life on either hand, might have imagined himself in a realm of
enchantment.

At length the vegetation abruptly ceased; the stream widened; and the
canoe entered a broad lake, at the far end of which, three miles
distant, its two whitewashed churches and its plastered houses
reflecting the red glow of the setting sun, lay the ancient and
decayed town of Simiti, the northern outlet of Spain's mediaeval
treasure house, at the edge of the forgotten district of Guamoco.

Paddling gently across the unruffled surface of the tepid waters,
Rosendo and Juan silently urged the canoe through the fast gathering
dusk, and at length drew up on the shaly beach of the old town. As
they did so, a little girl, bare of feet and with clustering brown