irst," said Bois-Rose; "rest a few
minutes while we break to pieces and commit to the current this raft,
which has been so useful to us. It is important the Indians should not
trace us."

All three set to work, and already disjointed by the breaking of the
root which held it, and by the shock it had received on touching the
shore, the floating island opposed no great resistance to their efforts.
The trunks of the trees which composed it, were torn asunder and pushed
into the current--which carried them quickly away--and there soon
remained no vestige of what it had taken years to construct. When the
last branch had disappeared from their eyes, Bois-Rose and Pepe busied
themselves in raising up the stalks of the plants, to efface the marks
of their feet, and then all prepared to start. They first entered the
water and walked along the edge, so as to leave no footmarks, and to
lead the Indians to suppose that they had remained on the island. It
was too fatiguing for them to walk very quickly; but, in about an hour,
just as their wounded feet were about to force them to make halt, they
arrived at the fork of two rivers which formed a delta. In this delta
lay the Golden Valley. Daylight was just beginning to appear in the
horizon, and a grey tint upon the sky was taking the place of darkness.
Luckily the arm of the river that they had to cross was not deep, the
mass of the water flowing in the opposite direction. This was
fortunate, for the wounded man could not swim. Bois-Rose lifted him on
his shoulders, and all three waded through the water, which scarcely
reached to their knees. The chain of mountains was only about a league
off, and after a short rest, all resumed their way with renewed ardour.

Soon the country changed its aspect. To the fine sand--for the triangle
formed by the junction of the two rivers was inundated during part of
the year--succeeded deep ruts, and then dry beds of streams, hollowed
out by the torrents in the rainy season. Instead of the narrow border
of willows and cotton-trees which shaded the deserted banks, green oaks
rose up, and the landscape terminated in the line of the foggy
mountains. All looked strange and imposing, and rarely had the foot of
a white man pressed this desert clothed in its virgin wildness. Perhaps
Marcos Arellanos and Cuchillo were the only white men who had ever
wandered to this remote place. A vague sentiment of awe caused the
hunters involuntarily to low