I hurried through with little wish to penetrate its secret. Mere existence was hard enough in its steaming semi-darkness. Our clothes were now almost torn to shreds (I had sought to mend mine with horse-hair thread, with poor results), and we duly emerged into daylight on the other side, ragged, torn and dirty. Our journey back to civilization was similar to the outward way. We selected a slightly different route, but left the old chief safe and well with his people. One night our horses were startled by a bounding jaguar, and were so terrified that they broke away and scattered in all directions. Searching for them detained us a whole day, but fortunately we were able to round them all up again. Two were found in a wood of strangely-shaped bushes, whose large, tough leaves rustled like parchment. One afternoon a heavy rain came on, and we stopped to construct a shelter of green branches, into which we crept. The downpour became so heavy that it dripped through our hastily-constructed arbor, and we were soon soaking wet. Owing to the dampness of the fuel, it was only after much patient work that we were able to light a fire and dry our clothes. There we remained for three days, Timoteo sighing for Pegwaomi, and the wind sighing still louder, to our discomfort. Everything we had was saturated. Sleeping on the soaking ground, the poisonous tarantula spiders crept over us. These loathsome creatures, second only to the serpent, are frequently so large as to spread their thick, hairy legs over a six-inch diameter. The storm passed, and we started off towards the river Ipane, which was now considerably swollen. Three times on the expedition we had halted to build rough bridges over chasms or mountain streams with perpendicular banks, but this was broad and had to be crossed through the water. As I rode the largest and strongest horse, it was my place to venture first into the rushing stream. The animal bravely stemmed the current, as did the rest, but Old Stabbed Arm, riding a weaker horse, nearly lost his life. The animal was washed down by the strong current, and but for the man's previous long experience in swimming rivers he would never have reached the bank. The pony also somehow struggled through to the side, landing half-drowned, and Old Stabbed Arm received a few hearty pats on the back. The load on the mare was further soaked, but most of our possessions had been ruined long ago. My cartridges I had slung around my neck, and I held the photographic plates in my teeth, while the left hand carried my gun, so these were preserved. To my care on that occasion the reader is indebted for some of the illustrations in this volume. Nandeyara got another wash, but he had been wet before, and never complained!