a
third species, which was shaped like a triangle, with two horns at its
base. He ran to show us these miniature bulls. Afterwards, armed with a
long branch by way of a lever, he tried to raise up a decayed root
covered with moss. He succeeded to do it, after some trouble, and saw,
cowering down among the roots, a beautiful lizard; it had a greenish
back, and its mouth and the sides of its body were bright blue; it was a
variety which we had never before observed. The little animal, doubtless
dazzled by the light, allowed itself to be caught, and then suddenly
bending down its head, bit the boy's finger, who at once dropped it.
L'Encuerado soon caught the runaway.

"Didn't you know that lizards were harmless?" asked Sumichrast of
Lucien.

"That is why they bite, I suppose," replied the boy, shaking his head.

"Yes," said the naturalist, "but you needn't be afraid; its bite is not
venomous.

"'This brute is surely not disposed to strife,
But you attack it, it'll defend its life.'"

Night came on. A multitude of insects whirled round and round our fire,
burning their wings as if they enjoyed it. Lucien wanted to know what
attracted so many of these poor creatures to the flame. As he inquired,
two or three great beetles suddenly appeared with loud buzzing, and at
once precipitated themselves into the burning coals.

"See what comes of giddiness," said Sumichrast. "If since we set out we
had walked blindly on without looking where we went, long ere this we
should have found ourselves at the bottom of some ravine."

"But these butterflies and beetles throw themselves into the fire on
purpose," said l'Encuerado, with the inflexible logic of facts.

"They are not aware that the flame will burn," I replied.

"That's true," murmured the Indian, in a tone of compassion.

Fatigue compelled us to give up our relaxation, and we soon went to
sleep in a warm atmosphere, which seemed all the more pleasant when we
remembered our sufferings of the night before.

Our slumbers were interrupted toward morning by the frequent cries of a
flight of passerines, called "alarum-birds" (_despertadores_) by the
Mexicans. It was hardly light, and, in spite of l'Encuerado's
predictions, it had not rained. The light of our fire, when we stirred
it, soon drove away our winged friends; but, thanks to their waking us,
the first rays of the sun found us all ready to set out. Just as we were
going to start, an unforeseen