lf would not be
paid until they returned. When the _patron_ was satisfied Kit turned to
the sailors.

"You'll have to hustle, boys," he said. "The sooner we make the mission,
the sooner we'll get back, and I reckon nobody wants to stop in these
swamps. There's something beside your wages coming to you."

"That's all right, boss," one replied. "The old man drove hard, but he
paid well and he was white. You can go ahead; we'll put the job over."

The peons took up the stretcher-poles lashed to the coffin, a relief
party went behind and they set off. Nobody spoke and the _Meztisos'_ bare
feet fell silently on the hot sand, although Kit heard the dragging tramp
of the sailors' muddy boots. In the open space round the village, the sun
burned their skin and they pushed on as fast as possible for the twilight
of the woods.

Here and there a bright gleam pierced the gloom, but for the most part
deep shadow filled the gaps between the trunks. Creepers laced the great
cottonwoods, tangled vines crawled about their tall, buttressed roots,
and hung in festoons from the giant branches. Some of the trees were
rotten and orchids covered their decay with fantastic bloom. The forest
smelt like a hothouse, but the smell had an unwholesome sourness. Growth
ran riot; green things shot up, choked each other, and sank in fermenting
corruption.

Kit did not know if it was a relief to escape from the glare of the
clearing or not. The sun no longer burned him, but he could hardly
breathe the humid air, and effort was almost impossible.

All the same, he pushed on, floundering in muddy pools and sinking in
belts of mire. The road had been made long since, by slave labor, when
the Spaniards ruled, and had fallen into ruin, like the country, when
their yoke was broken. Kit could trace the ancient causeway across the
swamps and wondered when another strong race would put their stamp on the
land. The descendants of the conquerors had sunk into apathetic sloth;
the blood of the dark-skinned peoples that ran in their veins had
quenched the old Castilian fire.

When the light was fading, the porters declared the swamps in front were
dangerous and put down their load, and after some trouble the white men
lighted a fire. A heavy dew began to drip from the leaves and the blaze
was comforting in the gloom that swiftly settled down. Kit had brought a
piece of tarpaulin and spread it between the roots of a cottonwood. He
did not mean to go to sleep,