FIRST NIGHT AT THE RUINS. 



167 



tacle, and, bat for the apprehension of moschetoes, I 

 should have been tempted to hang up my hammock 

 among them. As I returned, the moon was beam- 

 ing magnificently over the clearing, lighting up the 

 darkness of the woods, and illuminating the great 

 white building from its foundation to the summit. 



We had some apprehensions for the night. My 

 hammock was swung in the front apartment. Di- 

 rectly over my head, in the layer of flat stones along 

 the arch, was the dim outline of a faded red painting 

 like that first seen at Kewick. On the walls were 

 the prints of the mysterious red hand, and around 

 were the tokens of recent occupation before referred 

 to, adding strength to the reflection always pressing 

 upon our minds, what tales of fear and wonder these 

 old walls, could they speak, might disclose. We had 

 a large fire built in one corner of the apartment, but 

 we heard no moschetoes, and there were no fleas. 

 During the night we all woke up at the same mo- 

 ment, only to congratulate each other and enjoy the 

 consciousness of feeling ourselves free from these 

 little nuisances. 



Our first business the next morning was to send 

 our horses off to drink, and to procure water for our- 

 selves, for the Indians had exhausted all that was 

 found in the hollows of the rocks. At eleven o'clock 

 our emissaries returned with fowls, eggs, tortillas, 

 and an olla, the last of which they had hired for a 

 medio, but for that day only. 



Except a small ruined structure which we passed 

 on the way to this building, as yet we had seen only 



