“I’ve been soaked to the bone for an hour already.”

“Nothing much,” said the newcomer. “The manager called me to look over the account books. He says he’s tired of settling everything on Saturday.”

The traveler smiled.

“Caldeira, eh?”

“Yes, he says that ever since you’re not the boss, everything’s been going better.”

The traveler smiled again without saying anything. But after a while he murmured:

“Poor Caldeira! I think she wants to see him as well.”

When he heard she, the Indian (for the man who had arrived was an Indian) shuddered.

“I haven’t seen her for days,” he murmured.

“Who?”

“Her.”

“Oh! she’s fine.”

The Indian gave the traveler a look of terror and respect.

“Careful, boss!”

The traveler smiled again.

“Boss, I think that’s going too far . . . ,” insisted the Indian in a low voice.

His speaking companion put his hand on his shoulder and fastened on his eyes a deep look of irony and compassion.

“Poor Guaycurú!” he said slowly. “Poor Indian!”

Surely those simple words evoked awful things, for the latter lowered his head as though under the weight of an oppressive memory.

“Is it all over?” said the traveler affectionately.

“Yes,” replied the other man softly. And he added, in a murmur:

“When it’s hot I burn. I’ve got poison in my blood.”

“Still, your face is better now,” said his companion. “Let’s see . . .”

He moved his face closer to the Indian’s, and at that moment a bolt of lightning rent the sky with a phosphorescent slash.

The traveler fell back instantaneously.

“Damn!” he muttered, turning pale. “It’s not a human face anymore . . .”

And in fact that presence wasn’t a face, but something deformed, swollen, out of proportion, cut up into badly healed sores. The forehead, neck, chest, all one could manage to see, offered the same monstrous appearance.

The traveler eyed him a while, his look continually flaring up with ominous glimmers of revenge.

“Has Alves seen you like this?” he asked.

“Yes,” muttered the Indian.

“What did he say to you?”

“He laughed. Yesterday morning when I went to the store to get cooking grease, he yelled at me, laughing . . .”

His words broke off and a howl escaped from the depths of his breast. The traveler shuddered.

“What did he tell you?” he insisted.

“That he was very pleased with the little lesson he’d given me and that he was going to start over again . . . ,” he concluded, lowering his voice bit by bit.

In that trailing off of his voice alone there was a world of suffering, of horrible nightmarish memories and intolerable pain.

“And your feet?” continued the traveler. “Can you walk all right?”

“Yes, they didn’t bite much there . . .”

“I once heard tell of that in Africa,” murmured the traveler, as though talking to himself, “but I never believed it was true . . . Well then,” he added after a moment of silence, “an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Guaycurú. I presume he’ll remember something about you tomorrow.”

“And about you, boss.”

“About me? . . . All I’ve got is this!” he replied, smiling and holding out his left hand. There were three fingers missing, and the stumps were still red.

“But didn’t you get it in the chest too?” added the Indian.

“Yes, a little; a broken rib. But are they talking about me?”

“The other day Juan heard the blasts from your shotgun, but Boss Alves doesn’t think it was yours. He says some jaguar must have eaten you. Last week a dog brought in a bloody rag from the bush. The manager thinks it’s your shirt.”

“That’s all they know?”

“That’s all.”

“And about her?”

The Indian shuddered again.

“No,” he murmured softly.

The traveler was about to answer, and something would surely have come out about her, that creature terrible enough that just evoking her would cause a lowering of voices—he was getting ready to answer, we say, when Guaycurú, lunging forward, caught him quickly by the arm. His companion took a step back.

“Listen, boss!” said the Indian hurriedly.

“What’s up?” replied the traveler, as he spun around as nimbly as a cat.

“Listen to that, boss!” answered the Indian.

They both held still. Then, above the noise of the leaves whipped by the rain, a distant murmur reached their ears, as deep as if it were coming up from underground. The men looked at each other briefly, eye to eye.

“It’s a jaguar,” said the traveler simply. He didn’t have the slightest tremor in his voice, since anxiety over the unknown was succeeded by a real danger, formidable no doubt, but the effect of which, in men of true mettle, is to calm the spirit, preparing all its forces for the struggle.

The Indian still had his ear tuned to that awful warning sound.

“Listen, boss! It’s not a jaguar,” he said.

Once more they held still, and the grim roar came at them again.

“Right, it’s a mountain lion. It’s coming on the run,” said the traveler.

A moment later he added:

“It must be a man-eater.”

“It’s picked up our scent. It’s coming down the trail,” muttered Guaycurú.

And indeed, this time the roar had been heard much nearer.

An instant later it sounded again, then again, and our men, with the quick judgment of those accustomed to knowing the exact limit of their powers, realized, without faltering, that they were no match for that animal, and were doomed.

“And what’s worse, not even a revolver,” muttered the traveler, in a tone of annoyance, but not fear. “Have you got your machete?”

“Yes, no use . . .