hubbub, though all in low tones, that Oversluys grew
more and more alarmed. The Cura gave way savagely, however, and they
started again; but Oversluys kept well behind, leading his mule. It was a
dark night, though not dark as in a northern climate. He could follow the
little group with his eyes, a blurred mass stealing over the plaza. The
church itself was faintly visible a hundred yards away. All remained still
and silent. He advanced.

A low wall encircled the church. The Indians did not think it prudent to
use the entrance--of which those idols were the gate-posts, as it may be
said. Oversluys, reassured, had drawn close enough now to see them creep
up to the wall. Suddenly there was a roar! A multitude of figures leapt up
the other side of the wall, yelling!

That was 'Boot and Saddle' for Oversluys. Off he set full gallop, for the
risk of a broken neck is not worth counting when vengeful Indians are on
one's trail. But though all the village must have heard him thudding past,
no one pursued. Very extraordinary, but the whole incident was mysterious.
After fifteen years' experience the collector--a shrewd man at the
beginning--knew Indians well, but he could never explain this adventure.
Sometimes he thought it might have been a trick from beginning to end,
devised by Don Hilario to get the Cura into a scrape. I have no suggestion
to offer, but the little story seems worth note as an illustration of
manners.

Oversluys had good reason to remember it. Uncomfortably enough he waited
for dawn in the dank wood, holding his mule by the bridle, not daring to
advance. As soon as the path could be faintly traced he started, and
happily found the corral where his mules and servants had been left. The
cattle were streaming out already, bulls in advance. They blocked the
gateway, and with the utmost promptitude Oversluys withdrew into the bush.
Making his way to the fence he shouted for his mozos--in vain; climbed
over with no small difficulty and entered the shed. His mules were safe
enough but both mozos had vanished, having found or made friends in the
neighbourhood. And all his precious Cattleyas, left defenceless, had been
munched or trampled flat by the cattle! He never ceased to mourn that
loss.

A STORY OF CATTLEYA MOSSIAE

Since orchids never die, unless by accident, and never cease to grow,
there is no limit to the bulk they may attain. Mishap alone cuts their
lives short--commonly the fall or the burni