probably catching
my foreign accent, he winked and said in plain English,--"Yes? And where
are you going, pard?"

After a hard day's ride, over a shut-in road, destitute of fine views,
we reached the crest overlooking Comitan. The descent was almost
precipitous. The town, better built and more compact than most, was
situated near the foot of the hill; near it, on a terrace, was the
cemetery. On the level road, stretching to a long distance from the
town, we saw lines of hundreds of pack-mules, dwarfed by distance. South
from the town stretched a grassy plain, bordered here and there with
pine trees. Back of this plain rose round-topped hills, and beyond
them were again the blue mountains; far in the distance, behind these,
towered the mighty crests of the Guatemalan Sierra Madre.

The town was crowded, as the annual _feria_ (fair) was in progress, and
it was with difficulty that we found a room to sleep in, going for our
meals to one of the many temporary eating-places in the plaza. Comitan
is the last town of consequence in Mexico, and has wide fame on account
of its spirits, known at _comiteco_. This drink, of enormous strength,
distilled from coarse, brown sugar (_panela,_) is a favorite in
Guatemala, and its smuggling across the border, though risky, is a
lucrative business. There are scores of little distilleries in the town,
many of them belonging to and conducted by women.

Mexican paper money is useless between Tuxtla Gutierrez and Comitan. At
the latter city it may be exchanged for silver, but with difficulty.
From here on we found no copper in circulation, and before reaching
Comitan we had begun to receive Guatemalan silver in our change. Fully
thirty leagues from the border we ceased to receive Mexican silver from
anyone. This notable displacement of Mexican currency seems curious,
because Guatemalan money is at a heavy discount in comparison with it.
At San Bartolome we sent a soldier-police to buy _zacate_, giving him
Mexican money. He brought back two Guatemalan pieces in change, and on
our objecting to receive it, assured me, not only that the money was
good, but also that here the people were Guatemalans. "Here," said he,
"not Mexico: here we are all Carrera's people." This, of course, was
sheer treason. Carrera, the pure-blood indian who in the stirring days
of 1839 seized the power in Guatemala, a strange and wild being who had
a real love for his country, has left a profound impression. At times an