Here one may also see the huge condors, flying at such heights that they look no larger than a swallow. The glass will sometimes reveal others that can scarcely be distinguished with the naked eye. They sail and circle around in the rarefied air with scarcely a flap of the wing. In the winter time the condor may be found near the coast, but in summer they always return to the highest Andean peaks, where they rear their young. The eggs are deposited in lofty clefts or caverns, where no form of animal life exists that might destroy the young birds. A young condor during the first year clings to the parent bird, for its body is too big for its wings. This royal bird figures on the national escutcheon of Chile as an emblem of strength and independence. The Indians surround it with many legends, and some of them believe that the souls of the lost enter the bodies of the condor and are thus poised between heaven and earth, so as to see the glories of both and be able to enjoy neither, like the doom of Tantalus. At last Caracoles, the name given to the little station at the Chilean end of the international railroad, is reached, at an elevation of a little more than ten thousand feet above sea level. The tunnel is just about the same length as the altitude, for it is ten thousand three hundred and eighty-five feet from entrance to exit. Near the centre of this hole bored through the Andean rock the international boundary is passed, and, when the train emerges at Las Cuevas, the other terminus, the traveller catches his first glimpse of Argentina. It is a scene of vast desolation that meets his gaze. It is a picture of solitude, with nothing to relieve it in the way of vegetation. The vivid colourings of the stratas of rock and the white summits of the many peaks in sight, however, make it a scene of wild glory that uplifts the soul at the majesty of nature. One stands aghast at the marvellous richness of colouring that is revealed on every hand. [Illustration: REFUGE HOUSE ALONG THE OLD INCA TRAIL.]