THE SAN BLAS PEOPLE 



hours when out from under the eye of the 

 missionaries they took their comfort. 



River Diabolo is the seat of culture, the 

 home of refinement ; its citizens boasted loudly 

 of its civilization, then sailed away to a chicha 

 five miles below, where a shivering girl sat for 

 three days on a hard-wood stool while the 

 women poured sea water over her. 



There is little violence and a strict regard 

 for the law among these people, but a few days 

 before we arrived at this town a man, crazed 

 by the rum he had drunk at a hair cutting, 

 had stabbed another. His fellow townsmen 

 had seized and imprisoned him; then, when 

 his victim had recovered sufficiently, he was 

 given a knife and compelled to stab his assail- 

 ant. This eye-for-an-eye practice holds gen- 

 erally, we were told. 



"Suppose one man kills another?" I 

 inquired. 



My informant shrugged his shoulders. 



"We take him up the river." He waved 

 towards the solid green of the forest. 



"And then?" 



"We give him poison," said he. "It is a 

 good law." 



We were not welcomed everywhere. For 

 135 



