And it chanced
or it was that Juan Lepe lay upon the side toward the peak,
close to forest. The Indians had no thought to guard me.
We lay down under the moon, and that bronze host slept,
naked beautiful statues, in every attitude of rest.
The moon shone until there was silver day. Juan Lepe
was not sleeping.
There was no wind, but he watched a branch move. It
looked like a man's arm, then it moved farther and was a
full man,--an Indian, noiseless, out clear in the moon,
from the wood. I knew him. It was the priest Guarin,
priest and physician, for they are the same here. Palm
against earth, I half rose. He nodded, made a sign to rise
wholly and come. I did so. I stood and saw under the
moon no waking face nor upspringing form. I stepped
across an Indian, another, a third. Then was clear space,
the wood, Guarin. There was no sound save only the constant
sound of this forest by night when a million million
insects waken.
He took my hand and drew me into the brake and wilderness.
There was no path. I followed him over I know
not what of twined root and thick ancient soil, a powder
and flake that gave under foot, to a hidden, rocky shelf
that broke and came again and broke and came again. Now
we were a hundred feet above that camp and going over
mountain brow, going to the north again. Gone were Caonabo
and his Indians; gone the view of the plain and the
mountains of Cibao.
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