The first few miles were trying, for the coast was swampy and thickly grown up to underbrush; but in time the jungle gave place to higher timber and to open savannas deep in guinea-grass.  Soon after noon the travelers came to a farm, the owner of which was known to one of the guides, and here a stop was made in order to secure horses and food.

It was a charming little rancho.  The palm-thatched house was set in a grove of mamey and mango trees, all heavily burdened with fruit; there was a vianda-patch, and, wonder of wonders, there were a half-dozen cows dozing in the shade.  Spying these animals, Norine promptly demanded a glass of milk, and O’Reilly translated her request to the farmer.

The man was obliging until he learned that the American lady purposed drinking the milk fresh and warm; then he refused positively.  Fresh milk was full of fever, he explained:  it was alive with germs.  He would bring her, instead, some which had been boiled and salted in the usual Cuban manner.  This he did, but after one bitter mouthful Norine insisted upon her original request.  With a dubious shake of his head and a further warning the farmer directed his son to oblige the pretty lady by milking one of the cows; he made it plain, however, that he disclaimed all responsibility for the result.

Johnnie, who was badly fagged from the previous night’s work, found a shady spot and stretched himself out for a nap.  He inquired idly if there were any Spaniards in the vicinity, and learned that there were, but that they seldom came this way.

“We’d never see them here, if it were not for these sin verguenzas—­may a bad lightning split them!—­who take money to show them the bridle-paths,” the country-man explained.  “I’d like to guide them once.  I’d lead them into a swamp and leave them to sink in the mud, then I’d go back and cut off their heads.  Ha!  That would be a satisfaction, now, wouldn’t it?”

O’Reilly agreed sleepily that it would doubtless be a very great satisfaction indeed.

“I’m as good a patriot as God ever made,” the fellow ran on.  “You can see that, eh?  But what do you think?  I have a brother, a very blood brother, who would sell himself for a peseta.  He passed here the other day at the head of a whole Spanish guerrillero.”  The speaker bared his teeth and spat viciously.  “Christ!  How I would like to cut his throat!”

The shade was grateful.  O’Reilly dozed.  He was awakened by being roughly shaken, and he found the man with the derby hat bending over him.  The fellow was excited; his eyes were ringed with white; his expression bespoke the liveliest alarm.  Loud voices came from the rear of the bohio.

“What’s the matter?  Spaniards?” Johnnie was on his feet in an instant.

“No, no!  Your senorita!” the man gasped, “For the love of God come quickly.”  He set off at a run, and Johnnie followed, a prey to sudden sick misgivings.

Around the house they dashed, and into a group the center of which was Norine herself, a gourdful of milk in one hand, a partially devoured mango in the other.  At first glance there seemed to be nothing amiss; but the owner of the farm was dancing; he was trying to seize first the mango, then the drinking-vessel.  His wife was wringing her hands and crying, shrilly: