At Juchitan we stopped a moment at a hotel, but it was so dilapidated and shot with bullet marks, and so desolate and mournful-looking inside, that we went to a small, native place of refreshment, kept by a one-time servant of Aunt L.'s. She was old, but welcoming. Her daughter, a fine, tall woman of thirty or thereabouts, was coming down the street, with one of the great, painted gourds on her head filled with a variety of highly colored things, and with the walk of a queen, a majestic, gentle, swaying movement. They spread a spotless cloth, in a dim, sandy, red-tiled room with a glimpse of a palm in the old _patio_ behind, that would have been a back yard, and a hideous one, if it had been "at home." The old woman told her ailments, and the daughter, aided by the granddaughter, served us a _sopa de frijoles_ (bean soup), a perfect omelet, with a hard-crusted, pleasant-tasting bread, but no butter, and black coffee. Goat's milk was offered; the goat was in the _patio_--but "goat _me_ no goats." The inhabitants of the street gathered around as we got into the carriage, among them an Indian woman with a coal-black baby--a _salto atras_, a "jump back," as they are cheerfully called, when the baby is blacker than the mother. We proceeded to hunt the _jefe_ again, but when we got to the _jefatura_ we were informed that he was still taking his siesta, so in spite of the sun we decided to look about the apparently deserted town. We stopped at another inn, where there were more signs of recent "regeneration"--blood-stained walls, mirrors broken, a billiard-table partly chopped up, and a piano of the "cottage" variety with its strings pulled out. The _propietario_ showed us around sadly, but with a note of pride. His house was, for the moment, the "show-place" of the town. He pointed out a large, carefully preserved blood-spot on the floor, and kept repeating _muy triste_--but all the same there was a light in his eye. The barracks, with a large detachment of Federal troops, and the near-by church have great pieces chipped off by guns, and are embroidered by pepperings of rifle-fire. Don Porfirio nearly lost his life on his way to Don Alejandro de Gyvès' (Aunt L.'s French friend, when she first came down here; he was consul, you remember, and they were the _civilisés_ of the place). The Juchitecos tried to kill Diaz and his priest-friend, Fray Mauricio, near his house, and it was the village leader of that epoch who put his brother Felix to death. They seem to be consistent and persistent fighters, these Juchitecos, given over to libations, always fighting with somebody, but best enjoying it in their own bailiwick.