148 
Mr. 0. Salving Quesal-shooting in Vera Paz. 
more about the road or where he is than one of us. During 
the day I had not paid much attention to the course we were 
taking, except to know that we were going nearly in the right 
direction. My pocket compass now comes into requisition, and 
starting on the principle that a path must lead somewhere, we 
strike the most likely-looking route, which in time brings us to 
an uninhabited rancho in a clearing of Indian corn. In this 
we establish ourselves for the night. 
March 20.—As no one seems to have a very clear idea of the 
road, I, compass in hand, undertake the direction of affairs. 
Three hours’ walk brings us into a part of the country known 
to Cipriano, and we presently strike a road which takes us over 
a high range of hills which we were skirting all yesterday. 
While ascending, I observe several Swallow-tailed Kites (Ela- 
noides furcatus) soaring above me. This bird has wonderful 
powers of flight: no eagle or vulture could sail more easily or 
gracefully in the air. Like Ictinia plumbea , I believe that this 
species breeds in the patches of pine trees which are found here 
and there throughout the forest. I gather this belief from 
common report. A little Indian village, by name Kohak, is our 
resting-place to-night. Here we are all billeted upon some 
Indians inhabiting a large long rancho with a family at each 
end. The inmates seem to have a decided turn for music, and 
we have not long established ourselves when Cipriano pitches 
upon a guitar and Filipe on a harp. They are now hard at 
work, accompanied by an Indian playing on a kind of drum, 
knocking out Indian tunes as fast as they can remember them. 
I have made myself comfortable for the night in my hammock, 
and am endeavouring to fancy myself in the act of being soothed 
to sleep by the dulcet strains that assail my ears. A long day’s 
work is likely to be more effectual. 
March 21.—Nine leagues yet to walk before we reach Coban. 
I give out that I mean to finish our journey to-day; the rest say 
no. Mountain fare has left me in capital training, and I feel 
confident of doing it if I can only get the Indians along. To 
lighten their loads I hire another Indian, so that they have no 
excuse for lagging. Four leagues brings us to the Lanquin 
road, and we eat the last of our f toppoxti’ at a place called 
