"
The word was passed, and we were soon under weigh, four negroes leading
the van, carrying the uncoffined body of the poor girl on a sofa; while
two servants, with large splinters of a sort of resinous wood for
flambeaux, walked by the side of it. Next followed the women of the
family, covered up with all the cloaks and spare garments that could be
collected; then came Don Picador Cangrejo, with Ricardo Campana, the
skipper, Aaron Bang, and myself; the procession being closed by the
household negroes, with more lights, which all burned steadily and
clear.
We descended through a magnificent natural avenue of lofty trees (whose
brown moss--grown trunks and fantastic boughs were strongly lit up by
the blaze of the torches; while the fresh white splinter--marks where
the branches had been tom off by the storm, glanced bright and clear,
and the rain--drops on the dark leaves sparkled like diamonds) towards
the river, along whose brink the brimful red--foaming waters rushed past
us, close by the edge of the path, now ebbing suddenly a foot or so, and
then surging up again beyond their former bounds, as if large stones or
trunks of trees above, were from time to time damming up the troubled
waters, and then giving way. After walking about four hundred yards, we
came to a small but massive chapel, fronting the river, the back part
resting against a rocky bank, with two superb cypress--trees growing,
one on each side of the door; we entered, Padre Carera leading the way.
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