long iron-tipped lances, and
further goad them by shouting their names and adjective titles. But they
move slowly, and are soon left miles behind. In their rear are about a
dozen mules with well-filled panniers, linked together in line by their
tails and rope reins, and led by a mounted driver with a long whip, who
grasps the end of the cord by which they are united, and shouts
ferocious menaces as he goes.

It is still dark. The dew lies thick on everything; myriads of frogs and
night insects yet hold their croaking concert; and the fire-fly cucullo,
with its phosphorescent lantern, darts about here and there, like
falling stars and fireworks. A stony stream has now to be forded. Into
it splash the gigs; our horses following willingly, for they are
thirsty, poor beasts, and the cool spring water is inviting. The roads
are, so far, favourable to our march; but we have arrived at a piece of
ground where muddy puddles lie horse-leg deep. A bridle road invites,
but the thoroughfare being intercepted by brushwood and overhanging
branches, it is not easy to effect a passage. Our leader, Don Severiano,
accordingly unsheathes the long machete, which he wears like a sword,
and hacks him an avenue for self and followers. The thicket is even
darker than the high-road we have deserted, and our leader curbs his
horse with caution while he lights a taper of brown wax; for the ground
is slippery, and abounds in deep holes and unexpected crevices. From my
position in the rear, the effect produced by the rays of the solitary
illumination is agreeable to the sight. The dark outlines of the riders
who precede me, appear like black silhouettes against a background of
green and brown, and nature by candle-light looks like stage scenery.

We emerge again upon the main road, and at full speed gallop after our
friends. We fall in with them at a tienda, or wayside inn, at which they
have halted. Dismounting from our horses, we assist the ladies to alight
from their carriages. Of course I attend upon the fair Cachita, whose
agreeable society I enjoy till our departure from the tienda. The tienda
is a queer combination of tavern, coffee-house, chandler's shop, and
marine-store dealer's. The walls and ceiling are completely concealed by
miscellaneous wares. Spurs and sardine boxes; candles, calico, and
crockery; knives and nutmeg-graters; toys, tubs, and timepieces; rows of
sweet hams, sheathed machetes, pulleys, coils of rope and farming
implem