“I wish to go to Higuerote,” she answered, but would explain no further. Seeing her questioned, one of the _asistentes_, a kindly old man, fell back to offer her a cigarette. She took it gratefully. “And do you ignore the Church?” demanded the padre reprovingly. The _asistente_ handed over a cigarette, and soon the three were journeying forward together. The night breeze swept over them as they went, making the way cool, and bringing with it the fragrance of growing things. But their travelling was difficult. The road was only a cart’s width, hard and stony, rising and falling, too, on broken ground. There was no moon over the first third of the journey, and every little while a jaguar, scenting their passing, howled out at them from the dark, vine-hung forest lining the march. Bit by bit Manuelita told her companions the story of Ricardo’s flight. As the padre listened, his round, florid face grew solemn, and he poked out his under lip dubiously. The _asistente_, on the other hand, swore often and pityingly, so that the good priest was kept busy crossing himself. “And have you come all the way from the _hacienda_ San Jacinto to-day?” asked the soldier. “Since morning,” Manuelita answered. “In that case,” interposed the padre, settling himself in the saddle, “to make your walking more easy, you may hold to the tail of my mule on the up grades.” Not long after, they were forced to cover their faces and cease talking. For before the night was half gone, the moon topped the trees, showing its great, burnished shield upon the starlit sky. And with the rising of the moon the forest thinned, the way became more level, but sandy, the walking extremely heavy, and legions of hungry mosquitoes came swarming upon them. The padre’s mule, tormented by the pests, made the middle of the track dangerous for Manuelita. She fell back, and walked in silence beside the old orderly. Once she uncovered to ask him how far they had got. “Half-way,” he answered, when she murmured a thanksgiving. Later she again spoke: “And how long before Higuerote is near?” “Three hours,” he replied. Her hands stole to her belt. “Only one day and one night,” she said, “and yet I am almost upon them!” But she was miserably tired by now, and many times would have stumbled to her knees had not the _asistente_ supported her. He gave her frequent draughts from his _aguardiente_ flask, and little lumps of damp brown sugar out of a canvas bag at his thigh. The padre, riding just in advance, looked back often to speak encouragement, and as often called the _asistente_ forward to levy upon him for a cigarette. Bravely Manuelita persevered. Toward morning her brain seemed to wander, for she talked meaningless things to the old man lagging beside her. But a moment’s rest, a swallow of drink, a whispered reminder, and she struggled forward. “_Santa María!_” was her petition, “only give me strength!”