we followed the familiar trail down through the pueblos, but at Tanaquillo we turned up into the mountain.  The ascent was steady until we reached the pass, through which an icy wind drove down upon us.  We could hope to make the distance in six hours.  At first we met many persons, all of whom warned us that we would be late in arriving, and recommended that we should stop at Rancho Seco.  We had no intention of so doing, but knew that we must turn at that point into a new road.  Between sunset and bright moonlight, there was an interval of darkness, and in that interval we must have passed the turning which led to Rancho Seco.  At all events, we presently found ourselves entirely at a loss, wandering over a rocky hill covered with brush, amid which the trail had entirely disappeared.  Retracing, as well as we could, our road, we finally found ourselves upon another trail which we followed until 9:30, when we met a little band of indians, the first whom we had seen for a long time.  From them we found that we were not upon the road for Cheran, but at the edge of a slope at the bottom of which was a little indian town, Tanaco.  Descending to it, we found a house where they agreed to shelter us for the night, and in the tienda near by we bought hard bread and old cheese.  We were sheltered in a substantially built room, into which the cold air did not penetrate.  The indians with whom we were staying were unusually intelligent; a number of books, including a large dictionary, lay upon the table, and the men, who crowded in upon us, were anxious to learn the English words for common things.  This was an experience which rarely happened to us in indian Mexico.  The people, however, were not quite sure of our intentions, and Nabor said that when he went to water the horses, a committee of village folk waited upon him, asking whether we were the party of white men who had been skinning live indians over in the Once Pueblos.

There were four leagues between us and Cheran, and many more beyond it to Patzcuaro, where we hoped to arrive the next night.  Accordingly, we made an early start.  Our host agreed to pilot us over the indistinct and tortuous bridle-path to the high-road.  Many little mountains, almost artificially regular, arose in the otherwise plain country.  As we rode along the trail we saw the church of Parracho far behind us in the distance.  The latter part of the road, after Cheran was once in sight, seemed hopelessly long, but a little before ten o’clock we pulled up at the meson.  We at once made arangements for food for ourselves and the horses, and determined to rest until noon.  Our reputation had preceded us.  I asked a child at the meson to bring me a mug of water.  When he brought it, I noticed that the mug was of the characteristic black and green ware of the Once Pueblos, but asked the boy where it was made.  With a cunning look, he answered, “O yes, that comes from where you people have been,—­up at the Once Pueblos.”  And yet we had not come over the road from the Once Pueblos, but by the main highway from Parracho.