settle with the mesonero, and proceed to a spot a few miles distant, on the road leading towards the mountains, at which point it was proposed to join him after sunset. This plan was executed without accident. Bidding a sorrowful farewell to our gentle hostess, who refused all compensation for services, loading us down, on the contrary, with fruit and steaming enchiladas, we sallied out in the early twilight, and, avoiding the center of the town, were soon far out on the mountain road, and reunited with Jesus and the donkey. That night we slept in a corn stack, and the next day found us far up the shaggy sides of Orizaba, camped among the pines.

Of the few days that followed, but little need now be said. We had been told that these lofty regions were the home of certain wild animals, such as peccaries, tigers, and deer, and the desire to bag a few specimens of each had induced our chief to lay out an extended and aggressive campaign. He alone, poor fellow, was disappointed at the outcome, for neither the poet nor I cared much for blood. The deer were few and shy, the peccaries had apparently emigrated to climes unknown, and not a tiger showed his nose or snarled his anger at our intrusion upon his domains. The views, however, from mountain, spur, and crag, were beautiful beyond description; the air was sweet and bracing; and the free, wild life, with care and all the world beneath our feet, made simple existence a source of exhilaration.

The fates had apparently decreed, however, that this our pilgrimage must have its dark as well as sunny sides. Phillips and I were lying in camp one afternoon, lazily day-dreaming, when Jesus suddenly rushed up, breathless and excited, and informed us that Brookdale had fallen to the bottom of a barranca, about a mile distant, and was badly hurt. Quickly securing the little kit of medicines forming a part of our outfit, we hastened to the assistance of our unfortunate companion, Jesus leading the way at deer-leaps, which taxed the speed of the poet and myself to the utmost. We

found him lying among the rocks and bushes, at the base of the bank over which he had fallen. He heard us coming, and raised a cheery cry, but we knew, on reaching him, that the gritty fellow was trying to hide his sufferings; for he was bruised and bleeding, and one leg lay doubled under him, broken. Phillips, in addition to his other accomplishments, had some knowledge of surgery, which now stood us in good need. It would have done you good to see him bending over our stricken comrade, his voice a little low and husky, his touch as gentle as a woman's, and his heart in his eyes.

"Phil, old boy," finally blurted out the chief, "stop looking that way. I'm worth a dozen dead men yet." And he stretched out one of his brawny arms, as if to show its strength. In truth, however, he was very weak, and the necessity for promptly. removing him to some place where he could have care and comfort became each moment more apparent. As it was, we dressed and splinted the broken limb as best we could, and bound up the numerous cuts and bruises which had been sustained in the terrible fall; then, sending Jesus back to camp for blankets and brandy, a hasty consultation was had as to what should be done.

Chalchiquihuiscle was twelve miles

away. This was the nearest inhabited point, and the road was rough, and the afternoon half gone. Could we get him down there? Would it be safe to go there if we could? Should we wait until morning, and send for help? Jesus came up and was taken into the consultation. He favored moving at once on Chalchiquihuiscle. The three of us could carry him down. He was good for half the load himself; and the brave fellow struck his brown breast in pardonable pride.

"The boys down there may want to toss some more stones at us," suggested the chief, with a faint smile.

"You do not know them," Jesus answered, with an approach to dignity that surprised us; "my people are not in the habit of stoning wounded men."

This course was, therefore, determined upon. It did not seem practicable to utilize the donkey, so he was left, tethered in the woods, and our camping effects concealed, until such time as Jesus could return for them.

Forming a rude litter of poles and blankets, upon which our wounded comrade was made as comfortable as possible, we started with him on a long and laborious tramp down the mountain. Jesus led off with the foot of the litter, and Phillips and I brought up the rear, our burden being adjusted in such a manner as to rest upon the shoulders. That no light task now lay before us, soon became painfully evident. The chief was heavy and the road was rough; added to which was the necessity for advancing with the greatest caution to prevent jolting or stumbling. Phillips and I were unused to such violent exertion, and stood up under it with difficulty. What the poor chief suffered no one will ever know, for he did not cry nor complain once during those dreary hours while we were shaking his broken bones together. Jesus alone seemed equal to the occasion, and marched steadily forward without sign of fatigue. Looking back upon the adventure from this safe distance, and recalling our forlorn and distressed condition after the first two leagues were traversed, I am at a loss to account for the pluck and vitality which enabled us to persevere. As Jesus frequently suggested, however, by way of encouragement, there was no remedio; so we kept steadily at it, resting every few hundred yards to recover sufficient strength and breath for a new move onward.

While yet a full league distant from our point of destination, the night closed down, and darkness was added to the list of our troubles. Phillips and I were now completely exhausted. Weak and trembling in every limb, all our bones and muscles bruised and aching, we could no longer bear the litter with safety to our comrade, and a dead halt was reached in the middle of the road. To send Jesus forward for assistance seemed the only course left,

and this task the faithful fellow undertook with alacrity. Springing forward at a brisk trot, his form disappeared in the darkness, and we were left like three forlorn old hulks, far up the beach, awaiting the return of the tide.

For two long hours we waited, and then a sound of voices reached us from down the road, followed a moment later by the welcome hail of our attendant. The voicę of the blessed Master, after whom this poor Indian boy was named, could not have sounded sweeter to the ears of Peter sinking in the wave than did this call to our anxious ears; for the chief was now in a high fever, and his condition alarmed us. I doubt, furthermore, if the good Samaritan was a handsomer chap than the four brown fellows who now stepped out of the gloom to our assistance. How gently they raised our comrade from the ground, and how lightly they walked away with him! In our crippled and benumbed condition, the poet and I could hardly keep pace with them, and we wondered why they did not stumble or slip in the darkness. Half an hour brought us down to the level of the plain upon which the village stood, and we had already entered the deep cut, previously described in this narrative, when a new and novel incident occurred to crown the adventures of the day.

Suddenly, in the road before us, a dozen lights flashed out, and the voice of a man chanting something in a strange monotone. reached our ears. The four carriers stopped and laid their burden on the ground, all removing their hats, and stepping respectfully to one side. In a moment we found ourselves surrounded by a motley crowd of men, women, and children, most of whom bore lighted candles, and all carrying their hats in their hands. At their head was a little dark man whom we at once recognized as the village priest. Forming a circle about. the litter in the road, a strange scene ensued. Its full significance was lost, perhaps, upon the three barbarians present; but we saw that it was kindly meant, and were deeply touched. For five minutes or so the good

"Father," exclaimed Phillips, pushing his way impulsively through the crowd, "give me your blessing also."

I knew what the poet was thinking about. This was the man upon whose religion we had cast a slight but a few days before, and the poet's heart was touched with penitence. At a sign from the priest, the carriers again lifted the litter from the ground, and our march to the village was resumed, the good padre and his flock now forming a part of the train. Among the women in the crowd, our faithful friend Josefita had been the first to greet us, and she at once insisted upon our going directly to her house, where all the comforts of Chalchiquihuiscle should be at our disposal. This kind offer was gladly accepted, and we soon had poor Brookdale stretched out on a comfortable bed beneath her roof.

smoke with us as the chief grew better. Time fortunately hung lightly upon our hands, and the few weeks spent among these kindly people were not all pain and shadow. They taught us a new lesson from the great book of human nature-a lesson of charity and love.

It so happened that a grand religious festival was held in the village a few days after our return, at which congregated all the faithful from town and surrounding country. At night a procession was formed in the streets, and the people followed with lighted candles behind an image of Our Blessed Lady of Dolores, borne aloft upon the shoulders of four stalwart Indians. The poet and I stood by, with heads uncovered now, to see them pass.

"Let's join them," suggested that impetuous youth, stooping to grasp the candle which a naked urchin offered him. And so we fell into line, and followed along all that evening with these barefooted worshipers, each carrying his lighted taper, and chiming in as best he could with the weird music of the chant. Nor was this all: for when the little padre saw us in the crowd and came up to shake hands, we asked him if we might not carry one end of the litter upon which the Blessed Virgin sat; and that honor was conferred upon us.

D. S. Richardson.