ndicated by the lieutenant, I saw a bright object, which I at
once recognised as the major's face.

He had drawn aside the broad plantain-leaves, and was peering cautiously
through, with a look of the most ludicrous terror. His face only was
visible, round and luminous, like the full moon; and, like her, too,
variegated with light and shade, for fear had produced spots of white
and purple over the surface of his capacious cheeks.

As soon as the major saw how the "land lay", he came blowing and
blustering through the bushes like an elephant; and it now became
apparent that he carried his long sabre drawn and nourishing.

"Bad luck, after all!" said he as he marched round the pond with a bold
stride. "That's all--is it?" he continued, pointing to the dead cayman.
"Bah! I was in hopes we'd have a brush with the yellow-skins."

"No, Major," said I, trying to look serious, "we are not so fortunate."

"I have no doubt, however," said Clayley with a malicious wink, "but
that we'll have them here in a squirrel's jump. They must have heard
the report of our guns."

A complete change became visible in the major's bearing. The point of
his sabre dropped slowly to the ground, and the blue and white spots
began to array themselves afresh on his great red cheeks.

"Don't you think, Captain," said he, "we've gone far enough into the
cursed country? There's no mules in it--I can certify there's not--not
a single mule. Had we not better return to camp?"

Before I could reply, an object appeared that drew our attention, and
heightened the mosaic upon the major's cheeks.

A man, strangely attired, was seen running down the slope towards the
spot where we were standing.

"Guerillas, by Jove!" exclaimed Clayley, in a voice of feigned terror;
and he pointed to the scarlet sash which was twisted around the man's
waist.

The major looked round for some object where he might shelter himself in
case of a skirmish. He was sidling behind a high point of the parapet,
when the stranger rushed forward, and, throwing both arms about his
neck, poured forth a perfect cataract of Spanish, in which the word
_gracias_ (thanks) was of frequent occurrence.

"What does the man mean with his _grashes_?" exclaimed the major,
struggling to free himself from the Mexican.

But the latter did not hear him, for his eyes at that moment rested upon
my dripping habiliments; and dropping the major, he transferred his
embrace and _gracias_ to me.