his
bravery, Moro fashion, and maybe the wise men would praise him. As
he paddled down the river he kept his eyes open for trails; and when
he heard the next cataract thundering its menace in the distance, he
decided to land and search the jungle for a path. Beaching his banco,
he hid it in the undergrowth, and, carefully avoiding the stinging
vines, crept into the shadow of the jungle.

The great silence was everywhere, and Piang wondered if he could
trust his instinct to lead him aright. The heavy vines obstructed his
passage, and he was forced to cut and hew his way through the edge of
the forest. Nature does her best to protect the jungle, for always, on
the edges, bamboo, and _bajuca_ (pronounced bah-hoo-kah) vie with each
other in forming an impenetrable wall; but after the first few yards
the obstinacy of the vines seems to relax, their sentinel duty over.

Luckily for Piang, the jungle was well supplied with paths here, and
he soon found the one leading down to the barrio. His heart was light,
now, and he threw back his head and shouted with glee as he remembered
Sicto, pale with terror, lest he too be swept over the cataract. Very
quickly his exultation subsided, however, when he realized that Sicto
could easily be on this same trail, and he redoubled his efforts as
he imagined he heard twigs snapping behind him. What if the boat had
already gone. What if its coveted treasures were lost forever?

From his customary trot Piang broke into a run, and, panting and
sweating, pushed forward. Soon the trail joined the one he had
taken that morning, and in a moment he would come to the clearing
where he had first seen the strange boat. Yes, there it was;
ugly, cross-looking, without one of those bright-patched sails that
decorated all the boats Piang had ever seen. But--was it moving? With
a cry, Piang started forward as the white smoke appeared, and the
shriek echoed and reechoed through the jungle. Fury, resentment, and
determination flashed across his face; with a howl he darted down the
trail. There was only a little way to go now, and he would run like the
wind. Friends and strangers tried to speak to him as he approached them
on the trail, but he brushed them aside impatiently and rushed onward.

With his last bit of breath he stumbled through the barrio, but the
boat was steadily moving out to sea. He threw himself on his face and
beat the wharf with his clenched fists. All was lost--the beautiful
"ban-da-na