ng my hand in hers, guided me
through the bushes.

Before long we came to an open path or glade, where the darkness was not
profound; and releasing my hand, she began walking rapidly before me,
always keeping at such a distance as just enabled me to distinguish her
grey, shadowy figure, and with frequent doublings to follow the natural
paths and openings which she knew so well. In this way we kept on nearly
to the end, without exchanging a word, and hearing no sound except the
continuous rush of rain, which to our accustomed ears had ceased to
have the effect of sound, and the various gurgling noises of innumerable
runners. All at once, as we came to a more open place, a strip of bright
firelight appeared before us, shining from the half-open door of Nuflo's
lodge. She turned round as much as to say: "Now you know where you are,"
then hurried on, leaving me to follow as best I could.

CHAPTER XI

There was a welcome change in the weather when I rose early next
morning; the sky was without cloud and had that purity in its colour
and look of infinite distance seen only when the atmosphere is free from
vapour. The sun had not yet risen, but old Nuflo was already among the
ashes, on his hands and knees, blowing the embers he had uncovered to a
flame. Then Rima appeared only to pass through the room with quick light
tread to go out of the door without a word or even a glance at my face.
The old man, after watching at the door for a few minutes, turned
and began eagerly questioning me about my adventures on the previous
evening. In reply I related to him how the girl had found me in the
forest lost and unable to extricate myself from the tangled undergrowth.

He rubbed his hands on his knees and chuckled. "Happy for you, senor,"
he said, "that my granddaughter regards you with such friendly eyes,
otherwise you might have perished before morning. Once she was at your
side, no light, whether of sun or moon or lantern, was needed, nor that
small instrument which is said to guide a man aright in the desert, even
in the darkest night--let him that can believe such a thing!"

"Yes, happy for me," I returned. "I am filled with remorse that it was
all through my fault that the poor child was exposed to such weather."

"O senor," he cried airily, "let not that distress you! Rain and wind
and hot suns, from which we seek shelter, do not harm her. She takes no
cold, and no fever, with or without ague."

After some further con