startling picture of the saint’s conversion.  All of these were carried high in the air and kept rotating.  Behind the standard bearers came a drummer and the player on the shrill pipe or pito—­chirimiya.  The procession stopped at Senor Quiero’s tienda, and the old man opened both his heart and his bottles; spirits flowed freely to all who could crowd into the little shop and bottles and packs of cigarros were sent out to the standard-bearers.  As a result we were given a vigorous explosion of rockets, and several pieces by the band, the drummer, and the pitero.

Beyond Mitla the valley narrows and the road rises onto a gently sloping terrace; when it strikes the mountains it soon becomes a bridle-path zigzagging up the cliffside.  As we mounted by it, the valley behind expanded magnificently under our view.  We passed through a belt of little oak trees, the foliage of which was purple-red, like the autumnal coloring of our own forests.  Higher up we reached the pine timber.  As soon as we reached the summit, the lovely valley view was lost and we plunged downward, even more abruptly than we had mounted, along the side of a rapidly deepening gorge.  At the very mouth of this, on a pretty terrace, we came abruptly on the little town of San Lorenzo with palm-thatched huts of brush or cane and well grown hedges of organo cactus.  Here we ate tortillas and fried-eggs with chili.  Immediately on setting out from here we rode over hills, the rock of which was deeply stained with rust and streaked with veins of quartz, up to a crest of limestone covered with a crust of stalagmite.

[Illustration:  THE START FROM OAXACA]

[Illustration:  THE CELEBRATION AT MITLA]

The road up to this summit was not good, but that down the other side was bad.  The irregular, great blocks of limestone, covered with the smooth, dry, slippery coating, caused constant stumbling to our poor animals.  From this valley we rose onto a yet grander range.  Here we had our first Mixe experience.  At the very summit, where the road became for a little time level, before plunging down into the profound valley beyond, we met two Indians, plainly Mixes.  Both were bareheaded, and both wore the usual dirty garments—­a cotton shirt over a pair of cotton trousers, the legs of which were rolled up to the knees or higher.  The younger of the men bore a double load, as he had relieved his companion.  The old man’s face was scratched and torn, his hands were smeared with blood and blood stained his shirt.  We cried an “adios” and the old man kissed my hand, while the younger, pointing to his friend said “Sangre, Senor, sangre” (Blood, sir, blood.) Vigorously they told the story of the old man’s misfortune, but in incomprehensible Spanish.  While they spoke three others like them, each bent under his burden came up onto the ridge.  These kissed my hand and then, excitedly pointing to the old man, all talking at once, tried to tell his story.  Having expressed our sympathy, we left the five looking after us, the old man, with his torn and bleeding face, being well in the foreground.