ACROSS UNKNOWN SOUTH AMERICA 
from the river. We indulged there in the last tin of the 
sweet guyabada, which I had kept for an emergency. 
After that we metaphorically flew through the forest, so 
fast did we march — if stumbling along constantly and 
even occasionally falling can be called flying. Even at 
that last moment, when our hearts were rejoiced, our 
progress was impeded by a thunder-storm, which broke 
out with such force that we had to halt for nearly two 
hours until it slightly abated. The wind howled among 
the trees, which shook and waved to and fro, some crash¬ 
ing down, so that, with the thunder and lightning and 
the rush of the water, it seemed a regular pandemonium. 
“ The devil is angry with us,” said Benedicto the 
philosopher. “ He does not want us to get back.” 
My impatience to get quickly to the river was so great 
that I could not wait for the storm to be over. In the 
drenching rain we continued our tramp. My sandals 
had given way altogether in the quick march that day, 
and I was once more walking with bare feet. Marching 
so quickly, one did not always have time to detect thorns. 
That day my feet were indeed in a pitiable condition. 
The last trial of all was yet to be added, when we 
had come to within 300 metres of the river. The serin- 
gueiro, from whose hut we had started on our way out, 
had evidently since our departure set the forest on fire 
in order to make a ropa so as to cultivate the land. Hun¬ 
dreds of carbonized trees had fallen down in all directions; 
others had been cut down. So that for those last two 
or three hundred metres we had to get over or under 
those burned trees and struggle through their blackened 
boughs, the stumps of which drove holes into and scratched 
big patches of skin from my legs, arms, and face. Where 
the skin was not taken off altogether it was smeared all 
over with the black from the burnt trees. We looked 
not unlike negro minstrels, with the exception that we 
were also bleeding all over. 
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