Vellano was
afraid that his captive might escape if he had a separate mount.

They stayed that night at a small, but well-kept house, hidden in the
forests. The owner seemed to be a simple guarijo or cultivator, but was
very hospitable. Yet, when Stuart, tossing restlessly in the night,
chanced to open his eyes, he saw the guarijo sitting near his bed,
smoking cigarettes, and evidently wide awake and watching. It was clear
that he was keeping guard while Vellano slept. Certainly, the Englishman
had no need to complain that his orders were unheeded!

Taking up the way, next morning, the road became little more than a
trail, through forests as dense as the Haitian jungle. The guarijo
walked ahead of them with his machete, clearing away the undergrowth
sufficiently for the horse and cart to get through. From time to time,
Velanno took his place with the machete and the guarijo sat beside the
boy. Never for a moment was Stuart left alone.

It was a wild drive. The trail threaded its way between great Ceiba
trees, looming weird and gigantic with their buttressed trunks, all
knotted and entwined with hanging lianas and curiously hung with air
plants dropping from the branches. Gay-colored birds flashed in the
patches of sunlight that filtered through the trees. The Cuban
boa-constrictor or Maja, big and cowardly, wound its great length away,
and the air was full of the rich--and not always pleasant--insect life
characteristic of the Cuban eastern forests.

Approaching San Juan de la Caridad, the trail widened. Machete work
being no longer necessary, the guarijo was enabled to return, which he
did with scarcely more than an "adios" to Vellano.

The trail now skirted the edges of deep ravines and hung dizzily on the
borders of precipices of which the sharply and deeply cut Maestra
Mountains are so full. The forest was a little more open. Thanks to the
information given him by Cecil during their walk through the Haitian
jungle, after the parachute descent, Stuart recognized mahogany, lignum
vitae, granadilla, sweet cedar, logwood, sandalwood, red sanders and
scores of other hardwood trees of the highest commercial value, standing
untouched. Passing an unusually fine clump of Cuban mahogany, Stuart
turned to his companion with the exclamation:

"There must be millions of dollars' worth of rare woods, here!"

"Cuba is very rich," came the prompt reply, coupled with the grim
comment, "but Cubans very poor."

"They are poor