During our journey on this day, as they were riding along, the patron and capataz entered upon a geographical discussion, and as their opinions differed widely, they called upon me to decide between them; but as Don José had the reputation of a great scholar among his men, I did not dare to give him any opinion of my own, and they went on in the same tone as before.
“Where is Bostron?” asked the capataz.
“Bostron is in France, to be sure,” replied the other.
“That cannot be, because France is a great way off, and has not got any moon; and the gringo told me, the other night, that there is a moon in Bostron, and North America is in the same place.”
“Fool!” exclaimed the scholar, “North America is in England, the country where the gringos live that tried to take Buenos Ayres.”
Each was confident that he was right, and, believing that
“Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise,”
I left them to themselves.
The caravan dragged on its weary pace; at length, as darkness came on, the peons, looking out of their wagons, shouted, as they pointed ahead of us, “La Reduccion!” “Reduccion!”
Soon we drew near the town, which lay surrounded with fields of corn. As we approached the place, old women and young people came out to meet us, bringing soft cheese, salt, and unripe melons for sale. When we reached the outskirts, Don José wheeled his mule and dismounted; each peon cried “Sh-u-u-ah!” to his oxen, and the tired caravan halted for the night. On the next morning we again took up the march, and made considerable progress before sunrise; but the wind from the north soon came laden with a most horrid heat, and we were obliged to come to a pause, luckily close beside a river, the valley of which was filled with tall flags and willows. The water was very clear, and ran over a bed of sand, filled with scales of mica and quartz.