[Illustration: “_The sun’s farewell glance spread a woven gold mantilla on the naked shoulders of a grim, forbidding world and the motor car sank, helpless, into the mud as if, also, its day was done._” SEE PAGE 69.] We had crossed several rivers that would have been ten to fifteen feet deep with water during the rainy season. Even now some of them had treacherous bottoms of irregularly piled stone. Before fording, it was necessary for one of us to wade through to map out a route over the high places along which the car might be safely driven through the water. We did not stop for a meal at Esperanza, because the daylight was going away from Santa Clara faster than we were going towards it and we wished to spend the night there. We had not yet driven after dark, but to-night it seemed that either we would have to do so or camp in a seemingly uninhabited tract of marshy land. The low clouds in the west, reflecting the crimson glory of the sun’s farewell glance, spread a woven gold mantilla on the naked shoulders of a grim, forbidding world, and the motor car sank, helpless, into the deep mud as if, also, its day was done. We hesitated before we went to work. We knew that, somewhere, away off behind the big, dark hills, was Santa Clara, food, and shelter. We knew that, somehow, we would raise the car from the enveloping mire. We had accomplished more difficult tasks, yet we hesitated. The flaming clouds darkened into livid fires which flickered and went out. There was no twilight. In the gloom of ominous night, broken only by the slender rays from an oil lamp, we took a new reef in our nerve and began another round of the desperate, elemental fight against the mud. One of us searched for long poles to use as pries. Another vainly sought to make a solid foundation for the jack underneath the car. The others collected rocks. We had previously cursed these ever-present boulders, which we now welcomed. All worn by the day’s hard work and with a big job before us, we stopped, enchanted, as from the far-away hills came the clear, melodious “ah, ohs!” of the voceo de ganado—the silver tones of the native Cuban, calling home his cattle. “Oiga, chico!” yelled the sanguine Rogelio. “Que hay!” came the answering call.