"Seventeenth century or late sixteenth," replied Brian Strong. "The lace-holes in the breast-plate prove that. A Spaniard, I should imagine. He was crushed by the rock. I don't suppose he was alone. We may have walked over the bodies of his comrades buried underneath the sand." "It would be interesting to know----" began Peter, then he broke off suddenly, adding, "Come on, let's get clear of this rotten hole as fast as we can." Half an hour later, they emerged from the canyon. Ahead stretched a seemingly endless expanse of trackless forest; behind them, the mountains. "There's bound to be water down there," said Brian. "And if there's water, there's a stream. The stream becomes a river, and the river flows into the sea--in our case, the Caribbean. We'll have to skirt the fringe of the forest until we strike a stream." This reasoning proved to be sound. It was not long before they came across a small rivulet gushing from the hillside. This they followed, noting with satisfaction that it grew steadily in volume. For four days they kept to one of its banks, sometimes cutting a way through dense undergrowth, at others wading in the clear shallow stream. Wild animals they neither heard nor saw. Several times they had narrow escapes from poisonous reptiles. At night they were tormented by mosquitoes; by day they were almost knocked out by the moist, enervating heat. Their clothing was in rags, their boots cut almost to ribbons. Yet they held doggedly on their way, living on short rations and sustained by the hope that every step brought them nearer to the sea, though there were no signs of approaching the outskirts of the forest. On the fifth day, both men felt utterly done up. Too exhausted even to speak, they plodded on, until their progress was arrested by the stream flowing into a wide river, literally alive with caymans. "Voices!" exclaimed Peter. Both men listened intently. Brian Strong shook his head. "Imagination!" he replied briefly. "'Fraid you're right," rejoined his companion disconsolately, but seized with an inspiration, he drew his automatic and fired two shots into the air. A few minutes later, a dug-out canoe, manned by a dozen Indians, appeared round the bend of the river. CHAPTER XVIII Orders for Cavendish "Commander wishes to see you, sir!" Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish--affectionately known to his brother-officers as "Weeds" and known to have answered readily to the sobriquet "Plug"--acknowledged the marine orderly's announcement.