south, to indicate
the strip of woods that he desired to cross. The plan seemed feasible
enough. The town, although seemingly near, was over five miles
distant. The road by which the guerrilleros had to reach it was much
farther. Could Rolfe and his party meet them on this road, by an
ambuscade, they would gain an easy victory, although with inferior
numbers, and Rolfe wished to carry back to camp a Mexican prisoner.
This was the object of the scout, to gain information of the force
supposed to be in the rear of our lines. The men, too, were eager for
the wild excitement of a fight. For what came they there?

"Raoul," said Rolfe, "is there any path through these woods?"

"Zar is, von road I have believe--oui--Monsieur Lieutenant."

Raoul was a dapper little Frenchman, who had joined the army at Vera
Cruz, where we found him. He had been a sort of market-gardener for
the plaza, and knew the back country perfectly. He had fallen into bad
odor with the rancheros of the _Tierra Caliente_, and owed them no
good-will. The coming of the American army had been a perfect godsend
to Raoul, who was now an American volunteer, and, as circumstances
afterward proved, worthy of the title.

"Close teecket, monsieur," continued the Frenchman, "but there be von
road, I make ver sure, by that tree, vot you call him, big tree."

Raoul pointed to some live-oaks that formed a dark belt across the
woods.

"Take the lead, Raoul."

The little Frenchman sprung out in front and commenced descending into
the dark woods beneath. The party was soon winding through the shadowy
aisles of a live-oak forest. The woods were at first open and easy.
After a short march they came to a small stream, bright and silvery.
But what was the surprise of Rolfe to find that the path here gave
out, and on the opposite bank of the rivulet the trees grew closer
together, and the woods were almost woven into a solid mass, by the
lianas and other creeping plants. These were covered with blossoms. In
some places a wall of snow-white flowers rose up before you. Pyramidal
forms of foliage, green and yellow, over which hung myriads of
vine-blossoms, like a scarlet mantle. Still there was no path--at
least to be trodden by human foot. Birds flew around, scared in their
solitary haunts. The armadilla and the wolf stood at a distance with
glaring eyes. The fearful-looking guana scampered off upon the
decaying limbs of the live-oak, or the still more fearful cobra di
ca