She touched her pony lightly, and in silence they took up the trail again through the jungle. On and on they rode, twisting and turning amid the India-rubber and banana trees and giant palms that hindered their way, under the strange, drooping foliage of the great amate trees, through which sifted the last rays of the afternoon sun. The darkness had overtaken them, the darkness suffused with the white radiance of a big tropical moon, which had risen somewhere beyond the great forest trees and the broad river, when they struck once more into the coffee fincas of El Paraiso. The path was wide and clear here, and, leaving Florentino far behind, singing as he strode along, they galloped down the fragrant avenues of coffee trees, brushing, as they passed, the shining leaves nodding level with their heads and the white, star-like blossoms with their faint Oriental perfume.
By Carter Goodloe