Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon. Жюль Верн

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СКАЧАТЬ in retracing his way through the dense forest. In fact, the pursuit had taken him many miles from the bank of the river, and he would even now find it difficult to return to it.

      Torres hesitated; he tried to resume his thoughts with coolness, and finally, after giving vent to a last imprecation, he was about to abandon all idea of regaining possession of his case, when once more, in spite of himself, there flashed across him the thought of his document, the remembrance of all that scaffolding on which his future hopes depended, on which he had counted so much; and he resolved to make another effort.

      Then he got up.

      The guariba got up too.

      He made several steps in advance.

      The monkey made as many in the rear, but this time, instead of plunging more deeply into the forest, he stopped at the foot of an enormous ficus—the tree of which the different kinds are so numerous all over the Upper Amazon basin.

      To seize the trunk with his four hands, to climb with the agility of a clown who is acting the monkey, to hook on with his prehensile tail 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 to 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 on running toward the monkey’s corpse.

      But the young men, who were taking the same direction, had less ground to cover, and coming forward a few paces, found themselves face to face with Torres.

      The latter had recovered his presence of mind.

      “Many thanks, gentlemen,” said he gayly, as he raised the brim of his hat; “in killing this wretched animal you have just done me a great service!”

      The hunters looked at him inquiringly, not knowing what value to attach to his thanks.

      Torres explained matters in a few words.

      “You thought you had killed a monkey,” said he, “but as it happens you have killed a thief!”

      “If we have been of use to you,” said the youngest of the two, “it was by accident, but we are none the less pleased to find that we have done some good.”

      And taking several steps to the rear, he bent over the guariba, and, not without an effort, withdrew the case from his stiffened hand.

      “Doubtless that, sir, is what belongs to you?”

      “The very thing,” said Torres briskly, catching hold of the case and failing to repress a huge sigh of relief.

      “Whom ought I to thank, gentlemen,” said he, “for the service you have rendered me?”

      “My friend, Manoel, assistant surgeon, Brazilian army,” replied the young man.

      “If it was I who shot the monkey, Benito,” said Manoel, “it was you that pointed him out to me.”

      “In that case, sirs,” replied Torres, “I am under an obligation to you both, as well to you, Mr. Manoel, as to you, Mr. ——”

      “Benito Garral,” replied Manoel.

      The captain of the woods required great command over himself to avoid giving a jump when he heard this name, and more especially when the young man obligingly continued:

      “My father, Joam Garral, has his farm about three miles from here. If you would like, Mr. ——”

      “Torres,” replied the adventurer.

      “If СКАЧАТЬ