I wanted a drink of water and so requested of the man of the house as soon as we arrived. “In a moment,” he said. In fifteen or twenty minutes I asked again for the water. The answer was a “_momentita_,” a little moment. I spoke of it several times, but after an hour and half’s rest we left and the “_momentita_” had not yet elapsed. It is simply an instance of the character of the people.
Journeying across country by mule, and over a rough road, is not a very sociable way to travel. My mule was the slowest gaited one and persisted in lagging behind about a quarter of a mile until I became too weary to spur him to greater effort. There was scarcely a mile of level road, but it was first up hill and then down, and the latter was hardest on the rider. The path in places was very narrow so that two mules could scarcely pass. On one side would be a sheer declivity of several hundred feet at the bottom of which a roaring mountain stream ran with deafening noise. On the other side was a wall of rock. The mule persisted in walking almost on the very edge much to my discomfort. I let him have his own way, however, according to advice, and had no reason to regret it. A surer footed animal never existed than the little tan mule allotted to me, for on dangerous paths he never made a misstep. Some of the descents were so steep that he was obliged to zigzag across the path to prevent slipping and possible fatality.
As we reached higher altitudes the views became more and more magnificent. We passed through groves of oaks and pines and encountered relatives of the thistle and sunflower that, in this land of botanical exuberance, have attained to the dignity of shrubs and trees. Olive-green mistletoe, in masses several feet in diameter, hung from high branches and there were birds so gay of plumage that they seemed like fragments of a disintegrated rainbow as they floated by us.
[Illustration: Copyright, 1907, by Judge Company, New York. JOURNEYING ACROSS COUNTRY BY MULE.]
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when we reached the crest of the mountain. One of my companions pointed out a village in the distance. “That,” he said, “is Sanarate, where we will stop to-night.” It seemed to me that we ought to reach it in about an hour. Our little party started to descend and we were an hour and half in reaching a level surface. Then we crossed a stream, went up a hill and still on, and always on, until darkness had fallen. Had I been alone I should have dropped off under a tree, or at a hut alongside the road, or done anything but go on. And yet I could not be blind to the magnificence of the night, for the skies were brilliant with thousands of stars unseen in these northern latitudes. At times I could forget my troubles and see only the blazing, radiant firmament. Thus it was that I followed the leaders, and finally, weary and aching, we entered the courtyard of a cheery-looking, comfortable hotel where the jolly German host made us welcome to the best his house afforded. Never did the smell of supper seem more refreshing, and never did palatable food taste better than it did that night to me in the _fonda_ of Sanarate.