From time to time the wrecks of barns were seen, and we passed many half-submerged willows hung with farming implements.
We emerge at last into a broad silent sea.

It is the "LLANO DE ESPIRITU SANTO." As the wind whistles by me, piling the shallower fresh water into mimic waves, I go back, in fancy, to the long ride of October over that boundless plain, and recall the sharp outlines of the distant hills, which are now lost in the lowering clouds.

The men are rowing silently, and I find my mind, released from its tension, growing benumbed and depressed as then.

The water, too, is getting more shallow as we leave the banks of the creek, and with my hand dipped listlessly over the thwarts, I detect the tops of chimisal, which shows the tide to have somewhat fallen.

There is a black mound, bearing to the north of the line of alder, making an adverse current, which, as we sweep to the right to avoid, I recognize.