while we were making the face-mould.  The tears flowed from his eyes; he sobbed, cried aloud, and we could see the thumping of his heart against his chest.  We had never had a subject who took the matter so hardly.  When the operation was completed, we learned the cause of all this trouble.  Our interpreter turned out to be a joker, and, while we were telling him encouraging remarks, with which to soothe the subject, he was saying, “Now you will die; pretty soon you will not be able to breathe any more; you will be dead and buried before to-morrow; your poor widow will no doubt feel badly, but probably she will find another quite as good as you.”  We had always realized the possibility of such misinterpretations, but, so far as we know, this was the only time that our interpreter ever played us false.

On our return from measuring the women, we found that Ramon had made no progress.  The three subjects, whom we had selected and left in his charge, under strenuous orders, had taken fright at Juan’s experience and fled.  We lost two hours in hunting them and bringing them in; and we should not have succeeded then, had it not been for Juan’s assistance.  He seemed to feel that, having undergone the operation, it might ease his position, and decrease possible danger, if he had companions in misery.  Finally, at 4:30, long after the hour we had set, we left for Tumbala.  We secured six cargadors—­one each for the four moulds, one for the instruments, and one for the remaining plaster,—­as our pack-animals had long since passed.  Five of them were left to follow at their leisure, on condition that they reach Tumbala early the next morning, but the sixth, a wee old man, who had helped us woman-hunting, went with us, by his own request, to carry the instruments.  He was so small that we did not believe he could carry the burden, but he made no sort of trouble about it, trotting along most happily.  We had been told that the road was pura subida—­pure ascent—­and so we found it.  We were soon in the tropical forest of the Chinantla, and the land of the Mixes, with begonias, tree-ferns, bromelias, and orchids.  Here and there, were bad bits of road, deep mud, slippery stones, irregular limestone masses.  It was dark before we reached Tumbala, and although there was a moon, the mists were so dense that it did little good.  Arriving at 6:45, we found the town a wretched place, with a worthless and nerveless agente.  This was once the largest of the Chol towns, and we had thought to do the bulk of our work there.  It is fortunate, indeed, that we stopped at Hidalgo, because Tumbala is now completely ruined by the contract-labor system, which has sent its men all through the country onto fincas.  The agente would probably have done nothing for us, but his little daughter, much impressed by our letter from the governor, took an active interest in our welfare, promised to prepare a dinner, and decided him to give us sleeping-quarters