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Arkwright rode beside her baby's mule, at the
head of which the Indian always walked, and the two men went
together in front. The husband had found that his wife would prefer this,
as long as the road allowed of such an arrangement. Her heart was too
full to admit of much speaking, and so they went on in silence.
The first night was passed in a hut by the roadside, which seemed to be
deserted,--a hut or rancho as it is called in that country. Their food they
had, of course, brought with them; and here, by common consent, they
endeavoured in some sort to make themselves merry.
"Fanny," Arkwright said to her, "it is not so bad after all; eh, my
darling?"
"No," she answered; "only that the mule tires one so. Will all the days
be as long as that?"
He had not the heart to tell her that as regarded hours of work, that first
day must of necessity be the shortest. They had risen to a considerable
altitude, and the night was very cold; but baby was enveloped among a
pile of coloured blankets, and things did not go very badly with them;
only this, that when Fanny Arkwright rose from her hard bed, her limbs
were more weary and much more stiff than they had been when
Arkwright had lifted her from her mule.
On the second morning they mounted before the day had quite broken,
in order that they might breakfast on the summit of the ridge which
separates the two oceans. At this spot the good road comes to an end,
and the forest track begins; and here also, they would, in truth, enter the
forest, though their path had for some time been among straggling trees
and bushes. And now, again, they rode two and two, up to this place of
halting, Arkwright and Ring well knowing that from hence their
labours would in truth commence.
Poor Mrs. Arkwright, when she reached this resting-place, would fain
have remained there for the rest of the day. One word, in her low,
plaintive voice, she said, asking whether they might not sleep in the
large shed which stands there. But this was manifestly impossible. At
such a pace they would never reach Greytown; and she spoke no

further word when he told her that they must go on.
At about noon that day the file of travellers formed itself into the line
which it afterwards kept during the whole of the journey, and then
started by the narrow path into the forest. First walked the leader of the
guides, then another man following him; Abel Ring came next, and
behind him the maid-servant; then the baby's mule, with the Indian ever
at its head; close at his heels followed Mrs. Arkwright, so that the
mother's eye might be always on her child; and after her her husband;
then another guide on foot completed the number of the travellers. In
this way they went on and on, day after day, till they reached the banks
of the Serapiqui, never once varying their places in the procession. As
they started in the morning, so they went on till their noon-day's rest,
and so again they made their evening march. In that journey there was
no idea of variety, no searching after the pleasures of scenery, no
attempts at conversation with any object of interest or amusement.
What words were spoken were those simply needful, or produced by
sympathy for suffering. So they journeyed, always in the same places,
with one exception. They began their work with two guides leading
them, but before the first day was over one of them had fallen back to
the side of Mrs. Arkwright, for she was unable to sit on her mule
without support.
Their daily work was divided into two stages, so as to give some hours
for rest in the middle of the day. It had been arranged that the distance
for each day should not be long,--should be very short as was thought
by them all when they talked it over at San Jose; but now the hours
which they passed in the saddle seemed to be endless. Their descent
began from that ridge of which I have spoken, and they had no sooner
turned their faces down upon the mountain slopes looking towards the
Atlantic, than that passage of mud began to which there was no
cessation till they found themselves on the banks of the Serapiqui river.
I doubt whether it be possible to convey in words an adequate idea of
the labour of riding over such a path. It is not that any active exertion is
necessary,--that there is anything which requires doing. The traveller
has before him the simple task of sitting on