TWO NIGHTS IN SOUTHERN MEXICO. 75 



" Que es estof" repeated an old Tzapotecan, with 

 long grey hair curling from under his sombrero, and 

 a withered but finely marked countenance. "Las 

 aguas ! El ouracan ! In seven hours the deluge 

 and the hurricane ! " 



" Vamos, por la Santissima ! For the blessed 

 Virgin's sake let us be gone ! " cried a dozen of the 

 Mexicans, pushing two green boughs into our very 

 faces. 



" What are those branches ? " 



"From the tempest-tree the prophet of the 

 storm," was the reply. 



And Tzapotecans and women, arrieros and servants, 

 ran about in the utmost terror and confusion, with 

 cries of " Vamos, paso redoUado ! Off with us, or 

 we are all lost, man and beast," and saddling, pack- 

 ing, and scrambling on their mules. And before 

 Rowley and I knew where we were, they tore us 

 away from our iguana and coffee, and hoisted and 

 pushed us into our saddles. Such a scene of bustle 

 and desperate hurry I never beheld. The place 

 where the encampment had been was alive with men 

 and women, horses and mules, shouting, shrieking, 

 and talking, neighing and kicking ; but with all the 

 confusion there was little time lost, and in less than 

 three minutes from the first alarm being given, we 

 were scampering away over stock and stone, in a 

 long, wild, irregular sort of train. 



The rapidity and excitement of our ride seemed to 



