All night we tossed on the bosom of the lake between San Carlos, at the
source of the San Juan river, and Virgin Bay, on the opposite shore. The
lake is on a table-land a hundred feet or more above the sea; it is a
hundred miles in length and forty-five in width. Our track lay
diagonally across it, a stretch of eighty miles; and when the morning
broke upon us we were upon the point of dropping anchor under the cool
shadow of cloud-capped mountains and in a most refreshing temperature.

Oh, the purple light of dawn that flooded the Bay of the Blessed Virgin!
Of course the night was a horror, and it was our second in transit; but
we were nearing the end of the journey across the Isthmus and were
shortly to embark for San Francisco. I fear we children regretted the
fact. Our life for three days had been like a veritable "Jungle Book."
It almost out-Kiplinged Kipling. We might never again float through
Monkey Land, with clouds of parrots hovering over us and a whole
menagerie of extraordinary creatures making side-shows of themselves on
every hand.

At Virgin Bay we were crowded like sheep into lighters, that were
speedily overladen. Very serious accidents have happened in consequence.
A year before our journey an overcrowded barge was swamped at Virgin Bay
and four and twenty passengers were drowned. The "Transit Company,"
supposed to be responsible for the life and safety of each one of us,
seemed to trouble itself very little concerning our fate. The truth was
they had been paid in full before we boarded the Star of the West at
Pier No. 2, North River.

Having landed in safety, in spite of the negligence of the "Transit