We were now quite exhausted, as we had eaten nothing since morning, and longed for a place of shelter, where we could find repose. Only once before, in all my travels, did it seem to take so long to get around a mountain spur. Years ago, in the mountains of the Peloponnesus, I had a similar experience, but then the road was good and the moon was shining. Here there was only a wretched, dangerous trail, and it was pitch dark.
At the long last, we saw a light glimmering in a hut by the roadside. This was something. The next house, which was said to be bard by, should be the long-desired San Miguel.
To reassure ourselves, we asked a woman who was standing at the door of the cot, where was San Miguel. She did not know. She had never beard of such a place. It might be at the other side of the mountain, or we might already have passed it; she could not tell.
“But is there not a posada near here,” I queried, “or a place where we can remain over night?” “Oh! yes,” the woman replied, “there is a very good posada just across the road—that large building right in front of you. You are looking for la Señora Filomena’s house. That is what we call it here.” And so it was. A few rods away was San Miguel, at last. Only the tired, famished traveler in a strange land can realize how glad we were that the day’s journey was finally at an end.
We spent a very uncomfortable night at San Miguel, and were glad when we found ourselves, early the following morning, again in the saddle, bound for Caqueza, the capital of a district near the summit of the Cordilleras. “We must make better time than yesterday,” I said, on starting, to our vaqueano. “Si, Señor.” “We shall arrive at Caqueza by four o’clock, shall we not?” “Es imposible, Señor. It is impossible, Sir.” “Well, then, we shall arrive by five, shall we not?” “No se puede, Señor. It cannot be done, Sir.” “At all events, we must reach Caqueza before dark.” “Tal vez, no—Probably not,” was his final reply, and we had to let it go at that.
The scenery along our route between San Miguel and Caqueza was much like that which we had so much admired during the preceding day. The country was, however, much more thickly populated and we met many more people on the way. There was always that same cordial greeting, that had before touched us so deeply, and the same disposition to oblige us in any way possible.
At one place on the roadside, we saw a young couple, neither more than eighteen years of age, erecting a little bamboo cot. They were evidently just entering upon house-keeping, and seemed to be very happy. The labor involved in the construction of their future home was little and the expense was nothing. All would be in readiness for occupancy in a day or two after work begun. Then their little plot of ground, planted with maize, yuca, plantains and bananas, together with a few domestic animals, would supply them with all the food required and enable them to enjoy an idyllic existence far away from the maddening crowd, and quite removed from
“The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan.”
It was evidently some such Arcadian scene that was before Tennyson’s vision when he, in Locksley Hall, penned the beautiful lines,