Early in the morning, we armed ourselves with well-
charged double-barrelled pistols, having been alarmed by accounts of
the Maroon negroes, {55} about a hundred of whom were said to be at
that time lurking in the mountains, and to be so daring that they
extended their inroads as far as the vicinity of Santos itself.
The first eight miles led through the valley to the lofty range of
mountains which we had to cross. The road was good, and more
frequented than any I had yet seen in the Brazils. Handsome wooden
bridges traverse the rivers Vicente and Cubatao; one of these
bridges is actually covered, but then every one is charged a pretty
high toll.
In one of the vendas at the foot of the mountain we fortified
ourselves with some excellent pan-cakes, laid in a stock of sugar-
canes, the juice of which is excessively refreshing in the great
heat, and then proceeded to scale the Serra, 3,400 feet high. The
road was execrable; full of holes, pits, and puddles, in which our
poor beasts often sank above their knees. We had to skirt chasms
and ravines, with torrents rolling loudly beneath, yet not visible
to us, on account of the thick underwood which grew over them. Some
part of the way, too, lay through virgin forests, which, however,
were not nearly so beautiful or thick as some I had traversed on my
excursion to the Puris.
