The night was far from being a dark one. These are rare under the skies of Southern Mexico. There was no moon, but myriads of stars; and at a later hour the moon might be expected.
The atmosphere was tranquil—scarce a breath of air stirring the suspended leaves of the pines. The slightest sound could have been heard at a remarkable distance. We could distinguish the bleating of sheep on the plain below, and the screaming of wildfowl on the sedgy shores of Lake Chalco!
Less light, and more noise, would have answered our purpose better.
We ourselves made but little of the last. Though the path was steep, it was not so difficult of ascent—only here and there, as it extended from terrace to terrace by a more precipitous escarpment—and up these we were assisted by the shrubbery.
We had agreed to proceed by signs; or, when near enough, by whispers. We knew that the slightest sound might betray us.
At short intervals we stopped to obtain breath—less from actual exhaustion, than to keep down the noise of our heightened respiration.
At one place we made a more lengthened pause. It was upon a shelf-like terrace of some extent—where there were hoof-prints of horses, and other indications of a trodden path. My guide pointed them out—whispering to me, that it was the road of which he had spoken.
I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date—made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The “sign” promised well for the success of our enterprise.
Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain.