We rode off at about two o’clock, passing under numberless bamboo arches, on an astonishingly good road, built by Padre Juan Villaverde.  About two miles out we left the road, turning off east across rice-paddies, and then followed a stream, which we crossed near the foot of a large bare mountain facing south.  Up this we zigzagged four miles, a tiresome stretch with the sun shining full upon us.  But at the top we had our reward:  to the south reached a beautiful open valley, its floor a mass of green undulations, its walls purple mountains blazing in the full glory of the afternoon sun.  At the extreme south, miles away, we could make out Las Salinas, Salt Springs, [14] whose deposits sparkled and shone and scintillated and danced in the heated air.  Grateful as it would have been to rest at the top and enjoy the scene, we nevertheless had to turn our backs upon it, for we had yet far to go over an unknown trail, and it was most desirable to get in before dark.  So we turned and now plunged into a forest of tall trees so thick overhead and so deeply buried in vines, and creepers and underbrush generally, that just as no light got in from above, so one could not see ten yards in any direction off the trail.  This effect was no doubt partly due to the shades of evening, and to our being on the eastern slope of the mountain.  And that trail!  The Ilongots, poor chaps, had done their best with it, and the labor of construction must have been fearful. [15] But the footing was nothing but volcanic mud, laterite, all the worse from a recent rain.  Our ponies sank over their fetlocks at every step, and required constant urging to move at all.  Compared to the one I was riding, Bubud was a race-horse!  Cootes, Strong, and I kept together, the others having ridden on.  As the day grew darker and darker, the myriad notes of countless insects melted into one mighty, continuous shrill note high overhead, before us, behind us, in which not one break or intermission could be detected.  Anything faster than a walk would now have been unsafe, even if it had been possible, for at times the ground sloped off sharply down the mountain, the footing grew more and more uncertain, and part of the time we could not see the trail at all.  Indeed, Cootes’s pony stepped in a hole and fell, pitching Cootes clean over his head, and sending his helmet down the mountain-side, where Cootes had to go and get it.  Soon after this, though, the forest thinned perceptibly, the trail grew better, and we met Connor, who had turned back to see how we were getting on, and who informed us we had only one-half hour more before us.  Going on, we were greeted by a shout of welcome from our first Ilongot, standing in the trail, subligate, or gee-stringed, otherwise stark naked, and armed with a spear, the sentinel of a sort of outpost, equally naked, with which we soon came up.  They were all armed, too, spears and shields, and all insisted on shaking hands with every one of us.  You must