The next day Hernando mounted his charger, and went forth to the forest. Guarcia's flower had withered, though he had kept its stem in crystal water all night. He was impatient to hear her voice again, athirst for the sweet words that told him of her love. As he galloped through the forest, followed by the hounds that had learned to crouch at Guarcia's feet and play lovingly with her fawns, a figure stepped suddenly across his path and seized his horse by the bit. The horse, restive at feeling a strange hand near his head, made an attempt to rear, but the Carib savage drew him back to the earth with a wrench of his strong arm, and, before Hernando could speak, was looking him gravely in his face. "Come with me, stranger, there is a black cloud over this path." "I am used to danger, chief, as some of your tribe may know," said Hernando, smiling, as he touched the hilt of his sword. "Vipers are not killed with weapons like that," answered the chief; "it is with them you have to deal." "Well, what of them? I prefer an open foe, like the warriors of your tribe. You are an enemy to our people, but now and straightforward what other assailant need I fear?" "We are foes to the Spaniard, but not to you. Come, and I will show you the snares which white men lay for each other." "But what if this were itself a snare?" The Indian drew a knife from his belt, and seizing Hernando's hand in his iron grasp, pierced a vein with the point. Applying his lips to the cut, he drew a mouthful of blood and swallowed it. Then dashing one clenched hand against his broad chest, he exclaimed, with vehemence: "The blood of my pale brother flows here. What Carib ever betrayed his own blood?" Hernando knew that this was a sacred pledge, and turning to the Indian, with a smile, bade him lead on. The Indian did not smile, but his eyes broke into a blaze of delight, and, with a gesture, he plunged into the forest. Some four or five miles from the place of the encounter lay a stretch of swampy land, dark and dismal as stagnant water and the slimy growth of swamp vegetation could render it. Many a rough passage and deep gully lay between the broad savannas and this dreary spot; but the savage passed them without halting, and Hernando followed, though his good steed grew restive with the broken path. At last they came out on a precipice which it was impossible that the horse could descend. "Leave your beast here--he will be safe," said the Indian pointing to a footpath which wound like a black serpent down the precipice.