Torres at the present moment was not, however, in Brazil. He had just
passed the frontier, and was wandering in the forests of Peru, from
which issue the waters of the Upper Amazon.
He was a man of about thirty years of age, on whom the fatigues of a
precarious existence seemed, thanks to an exceptional temperament and
an iron constitution, to have had no effect. Of middle height, broad
shoulders, regular features, and decided gait, his face was tanned
with the scorching air of the tropics. He had a thick black beard,
and eyes lost under contracting eyebrows, giving that swift but hard
glance so characteristic of insolent natures. Clothed as backwoodsmen
are generally clothed, not over elaborately, his garments bore
witness to long and roughish wear. On his head, stuck jauntily on one
side, was a leather hat with a large brim. Trousers he had of coarse
wool, which were tucked into the tops of the thick, heavy boots which
formed the most substantial part of his attire, and over all, and
hiding all, was a faded yellowish poncho.
But if Torres was a captain of the woods it was evident that he was
not now employed in that capacity, his means of attack and defense
being obviously insufficient for any one engaged in the pursuit of
the blacks.
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