:::::::::C THE VOLCANO BY MOONLIGHT ;*::::::::; 



leaves while there is yet no wind, a rumble comes to 

 our ears, deeper than the roar of the sea, more solemn 

 than the reverberating groan of thunder. Then the 

 fumes about the mountain lift and drift apart, and 

 there, clear and distinct against the black of the sky, 

 we see the play and quiver of the fitful flames. A stoic 

 indeed must he be, who is not deeply moved by such 

 a sight ; the ancient peak, so cold, so dead, and yet at 

 centre so vibrant with the everlasting- fires of earth. 

 It is the most awe-inspiring — the most beautiful sight 

 in the world. 



We advanced at a snail's pace in the darkness, 

 letting the sure-footed pack-animals lead the way. At 

 the very brink of the great Barranca Vueltran is a 

 crumbling wayside corral, where pack-trains, laden 

 with sugar and cocoanuts, stop for the night. This 

 wayside house goes by the odd name of Conejo — 

 the rabbit. Here we unsaddled and waited for the 

 moon to rise, before descending into the dark gorge. 



After some chocoldtl and frijoles, we sat on a pile of 

 saddles and listened to our guide, as he sang Spanish 

 love-songs to the daughters of the host. It was truly 

 a Mexican scene. At one side a blaze of light comes 

 from the open door of a smoky little room, where a 

 party of muleteers are gambling — shuffling and deal- 

 ing the curious cards of the country, with gold balls, 

 platters, wooden clubs and crowns, instead of the usual 

 hearts and diamonds. Our guide, leaning against one 



«4 357 ^ 



