pulled back towards the course from which we had been driven. All that night, thunderstorms, like invading columns, swept over the lake around us, but we fell in the course of none of them. They all seemed to linger against the high volcanoes on the opposite shores of the lake, as if they would level in their wrath the daring rocks which opposed their progress. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: THE NIGHT STORM.] [Illustration: SAN MIGUELITO.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The men slept no more that night, but pulled steadily and silently at the oars. Towards morning I crept again under the _chopa_, and slumbered until roused by the bellowing of cattle, and by the sun shining brilliantly in my face. It was after nine o’clock; we had passed the islands of La Boqueta, which lay within view, fresh and inviting, exposing under an archway of trees one or two picturesque huts, with canoes drawn up in front of them. We were within a snug little bay, in front of a broad sandy beach, on which the men were kindling fires preparatory to breakfast, while a herd of sleek-looking cattle wandered along the shore, here stooping to drink, and there engaging in mimic fights. Beneath the trees wound back a broad, well-beaten pathway, and beyond we could see the golden tops of palm-trees, the thatched roofs of houses, and hear the crowing of cocks, and the merry sound of infant voices. We were in the “Bahita de San Miguel,” the little bay of San Miguel, distant about twenty miles from San Carlos, on the northern shore of the lake. The storm of the preceding night seemed almost like a dream; could it be possible that a few hours had wrought such a change? But the tattered sails, and the saturated blankets beneath the _chopa_, bore testimony to the reality of the storm. In fact, Pedro was yet full of wrath at what he called the stupidity of his men—they were “tontos” all, fools and brutes. I had been as indignant as himself, but was too glad to get out of the scrape safely, to nurse my wrath; so I poured out for Pedro a gill of brandy in his calabash, which he drank to our good health, and smacking his lips, straightway recovered his temper.