A CHURCH IN RUINS. 



245 



and our roof and beds were ready. The men piled logs 

 of wood on the fire, and our sleep was sound and glo- 

 rious. 



At daylight the next morning we were again in the 

 water. Our bath was even better than that of the night 

 before, and when I mounted I felt able to ride through 

 Mexico and Texas to my own door at home. Returned 

 once more to steamboats and railroads, how flat, tame, 

 and insipid all their comforts seem. 



We started at half past seven. At a very short dis- 

 tance three wild boars crossed our path, all within gun- 

 shot ; but our men carried the guns, and in an instant 

 it was too late. Very soon we emerged from the woods 

 that bordered the river, and came out into an open 

 plain. At half past eight we crossed a low stony hill 

 and came to the dry bed of a river. The bottom was 

 flat and baked hard, and the sides smooth and regular 

 as those of a canal. At the distance of half a league 

 water appeared, and at half past nine it became a con- 

 siderable stream. We again entered a forest, and ri- 

 ding by a narrow path, saw directly before us, closing 

 the passage, the side of a large church. We came out, 

 and saw the whole gigantic building, without a single 

 habitation, or the vestige of one, in sight. The path led 

 across the broken wall of the courtyard. We dis- 

 mounted in the deep shade of the front. The facade 

 was rich and perfect. It was sixty feet front and two 

 hundred and fifty feet deep, but roofless, with trees 

 growing out of the area above the walls. Nothing could 

 exceed the quiet and desolation of the scene ; but there 

 was something strangely interesting in these roofless 

 churches, standing in places entirely unknown. San- 

 tiago told us that this was called Conata, and the tradi- 

 tion is, that it was once so rich that the inhabitants car- 



