“We will go on when you are ready,” says Don Sanchez, turning to us.

“Aye,” growled Jack in my ear, “with all my heart.  For if these friends be of the same kidney as Don Lopez, we may be persuaded to take a better road, which God forbid if this be a sample of their preference.”

So being in our saddles forth we set once more and on a path no easier than before, but worse—­like a very housetop for steepness, without a tinge of any living thing for succour if one fell, but only sharp, jagged rocks, and that which now added to our peril was here and there a patch of snow, so that the mules must cock their ears and feel their way before advancing a step, now halting for dread, and now scuttling on with their tails betwixt their legs as the stones rolled under them.

But the longest road hath an end, and so at length reaching that gap we had seen from below, to our great content we beheld through an angle in the mountain a tract of open country below, looking mighty green and sweet in the distance.  And at the sight of this, Moll clapt her hands and cried out with joy; indeed, we were all as mad as children with the thought that our task was half done.  Only the Don kept his gravity.  But turning to Moll, he stretches out his hand towards the plain and says with prodigious pride, “My country!”

And now we began the descent, which was actually more perilous than the ascent, but we made light of it, being very much enlivened by the high mountain air and the relief from dread uncertainty, shouting out our reflections one to another as we jolted down the rugged path.

“After all, Jack,” says I to him at the top of my voice, being in advance and next to Don Sanchez; “after all, Don Lopez was not such a bad friend to us.”

Upon which, the Don, stopping his mule at the risk of being cast down the abyss, turns in his saddle, and says: 

“Fellow, Don Lopez is a Spaniard.  A Castilian of noble birth—­” but here his mule deciding that this was no fit place for halting, bundled onward at a trot to overtake the guides, and obliged his rider to turn his attention to other matters.

By the look of the sun it must have been about two in the afternoon when, rounding a great bluff of rock, we came upon a kind of tableland which commanded a wide view of the plain below, most dazzling to our eyes after the gloomy recesses of the pass; and here we found trees growing and some rude attempt at cultivation, but all very poor and stunted, being still very high and exposed to the bleak winds issuing from the gorges.

Our guides, throwing themselves on the ground, repaired once more to their store of onions, and we, nothing loath to follow their examples, opened our saddle bags, and with our cold meat and the hogskin of wine made another good repast and very merry.  And the Don, falling into discourse with the guides, pointed out to us a little white patch on the plain below, and told us that was Ravellos, where we should find one of the best posadas in the world, which added to our satisfaction.  “But” says he, “‘tis yet four hours’ march ere we reach it, so we had best be packing quickly.”