For a long way they trotted along a road of hard caking red earth, passing mules panniered with bulbous bundles on which women sat patiently chewing their cigar stubs. They met bullock waggons like small huts on wheels toiling in laborious procession towards the town, old peasants, dark-eyed and dark-faced, massive and tough as rocks, carrying their produce, eggs, fruit and chickens.

There were a few estancias while they were still near Jācara, but after a while the road ended and they were in the wild, lovely and apparently uninhabited countryside.

Soon they began to climb the low range of hills that sheltered the town from the interior. It was the same range they had climbed the day before and, as Skye’s bump of locality was good, she realised that they were not very far from the same track that she had followed through the woods and fertile valley, which had led, eventually, to the part of the country dominated by El Diablo.

As before the beauty of the scenery, with its flowers and tropical shrubs, its butterflies and brilliantly-plumaged birds, was enchanting.

At times Skye was sorry Jimmy was not with her so that they could have exclaimed together over the loveliness of periwinkles and arum lilies growing side by side, of the hedges of geraniums, the clumps of pink marguerites and the great banks of sweet-scented stock that spread themselves beneath the broad-leaved palms.

She rode on and on, neither tired nor thirsty, until suddenly she realised that the sun had lost some of its strength and the heat of the day was past.

She drew her broad-rimmed hat from her head and fastened it to her saddle. Then she looked at her wristwatch. For the first time for several hours she turned to speak to the men who were riding behind her.

“It’s getting late. We must be turning for home.”

To her surprise they did not immediately agree to her suggestion.

“If the señorita will go a little further,” the Mariposan suggested politely, “there is a very fine view, sumamente bello, only a little mile or two.”

“Of course I would like to see it,” Skye said, not wishing to appear ungracious.

She spurred her horse into a trot. The country here was wild and rough, but, as they passed through a narrow belt of trees, they came to a broad valley and some more grazing pasture.

“Is this the view you spoke of?” she asked.

It was lovely, but no lovelier than anything that they had passed on the way.

“No, no, señorita, it is a little further still.”

He pointed ahead and Skye cantered forward, coming after another quarter of an hour’s riding to a clump of trees.

She wove her way slowly through them, the branches were low and she had to bend her head a dozen times. The birds were singing and she caught a glimpse of some brilliant parakeets fluttering from branch to branch.