CHAPTER XVII.
A HUNDRED MILES IN TWO DAYS.
Generally, travelers or ramblers in the woods, who have slept in the forests under the lovely stars, are awakened by howlings as fantastic as disagreeable.

There is everything in this morning concert: clucking, grunting, croaking, sneering, barking, and almost "speaking," if one may make use of this word, which completes the series of different noises.
There are the monkeys who thus salute the daybreak.

There we meet the little "marikina," the marmoset with a speckled mask; the "mono gris," the skin of which the Indians use to recover the batteries of their guns; the "sagous," recognizable from their long bunches of hair, and many others, specimens of this numerous family.
Of these various four-handed animals, the most remarkable are decidedly the "gueribas," with curling tails and a face like Beelzebub.

When the sun rises, the oldest of the band, with an imposing and mysterious voice, sings a monotonous psalm.

It is the baritone of the troop.