to the first branches, which stretched away horizontally at forty
feet from the ground, and to hoist himself to the top of the tree, to
the point where the higher branches just bent beneath its weight, was
only sport to the active guariba, and the work of but a few seconds.
Up there, installed at his ease, he resumed his interrupted repast,
and gathered the fruits which were within his reach. Torres, like
him, was much in want of something to eat and drink, but it was
impossible! His pouch was flat, his flask was empty.
However, instead of retracing his steps he directed them toward the
tree, although the position taken up by the monkey was still more
unfavorable for him. He could not dream for one instant of climbing
the ficus, which the thief would have quickly abandoned for another.
And all the time the miserable case rattled at his ear.
Then in his fury, in his folly, Torres apostrophized the guariba. It
would be impossible for us to tell the series of invectives in which
he indulged. Not only did he call him a half-breed, which is the
greatest of insults in the mouth of a Brazilian of white descent, but
_”curiboca”_–that is to say, half-breed negro and Indian, and of all
the insults that one man can hurl at another in this equatorial
latitude _”curiboca”_ is the cruelest.
But the monkey, who was only a humble quadruman, was simply amused at
what would have revolted a representative of humanity.
Then Torres began to throw stones at him again, and bits of roots and
everything he could get hold of that would do for a missile. Had he
the hope to seriously hurt the monkey? No! he no longer knew what he
was about. To tell the truth, anger at his powerlessness had deprived
him of his wits. Perhaps he hoped that in one of the movements which
the guariba would make in passing from branch ot branch the case
might escape him, perhaps he thought that if he continued to worry
the monkey he might throw it at his head. But no! the monkey did not
part with the case, and, holding it with one hand, he had still three
left with which to move.
Torres, in despair, was just about to abandon the chase for good, and
to return toward the Amazon, when he heard the sound of voices. Yes!
the sound of human voices.
Those were speaking at about twenty paces to the right of him.
The first care of Torres was to hide himself in a dense thicket. Like
a prudent man, he did not wish to show himself without at least
knowing with whom he might have to deal. Panting, puzzled, his ears
on the stretch, he waited, when suddenly the sharp report of a gun
rang through the woods.
A cry followed, and the monkey, mortally wounded, fell heavily on the
ground, still holding Torres’ case.
“By Jove!” he muttered, “that bullet came at the right time!”
And then, without fearing to be seen, he came out of the thicket, and
two young gentlemen appeared from under the trees.
They were Brazilians clothed as hunters, with leather boots, light
palm-leaf hats, waistcoats, or rather tunics, buckled in at the
waist, and more convenient than the national poncho. By their
features and their complexion they were at once recognizable as of
Portuguese descent.
Each of them was armed with one of those long guns of Spanish make
which slightly remind us of the arms of the Arabs, guns of long range
and considerable precision, which the dwellers in the forest of the
upper Amazon handle with success.
What had just happened was a proof of this. At an angular distance of
more than eighty paces the quadruman had been shot full in the head.
The two young men carried in addition, in their belts, a sort of
dagger-knife, which is known in Brazil as a _”foca,”_ and which
hunters do not hesitate to use when attacking the ounce and other
wild animals which, if not very formidable, are pretty numerous in
these forests.
Torres had obviously little to fear from this meeting, and so he went