Of course, Stephens did anything but rest assured of this. He turned into the hut again, and lo! Catherwood was sleeping as peacefully as a child, with no sign of indisposition except the flush on his face. The chief peeped in apologetically. "He says that the sick señor will be well enough to travel by midday," he whispered. It was now four o'clock; Stephens ate some breakfast fretfully, looked at the patient, walked about the village, and sought to kill time as best he could. Every time he re-entered the hut, Catherwood's temperature was less high; and, about the middle of the day, he awoke of his own accord, ravenous for some breakfast. The old medicine-man had known his business; had administered two, out of the thousand and two, healing drugs which the American forests and valleys produce--probably quinine and some preparation of poppy--and had nipped in the bud what was doubtless an attack of malarial fever. Catherwood paid his doctor's bill by the gift of a four-bladed pen-knife, his friend forced a similar present on the chief, and early in the afternoon they rode away about their business. The next few weeks were passed in hurried journeys from town to town, in false alarms, in being potted at by revolutionaries, and humbugged by officials; and by the time they had crossed once more to the Bay of Honduras and the Guatemala coast, they had found out all that there was to learn. About a mile from the British boundary they encountered their most exciting adventure. Outside a Carib village were a dozen Indians and Mestizos, all armed with guns, and in heated argument with five young men, who were obviously British officers in mufti; these also had guns, and two of them carried well-filled game-bags. "You intend to keep us here? It will be the worse for you if you try it," the eldest of the white men was saying in Spanish. "Unless you give us what we ask," replied a Mestizo insolently. "You have no right to be over the border." The Americans pulled up their horses, and Stephens drew a pistol. "All right," he said. "We're going to be in this." "Then pray begin by putting that pistol out of the way, there's a good fellow," said Major Walrond, the young man who had spoken to the half-caste. "We shall be very glad if you'll back us up. We want to get out of it without firing on them if we can." "What's the row?" "These Mestizos belong to the rebels, and are recruiting among the Indians; promising them all sorts of plunder, no doubt, and they rather think of practising on us for a start; want us to empty our pockets and game-bags, and give up our guns and ammunition. Look out, you fellows." Seeing a reinforcement for the white men, yet not one that need be feared so far as they could see, the ruffians were becoming impatient, and one or two had cocked their guns.