Eastward lay La Gloria, Del Tuerto, De Caballete. Three mountains, like any other mountains, sticking into the clouds. Three mountains, below which lay Sancti Spiritus. Like Mohammed, the mountains had it on us. They would not come to us; we would have to go to them. The mountains were not visible in the morning, but the planter said they were there. We asked him where was Sancti Spiritus, and he said to go to the mountains. We asked him how far was Sancti Spiritus, and he shook his head. We started for the mountains, determined to reach Sancti Spiritus that day regardless of conditions, distance, or direction. The same old acts were rehearsed with new scenery. Down gullies we twisted to wide rivers, forded them and scrambled up the banks, only to drop again into marsh or perform on the high spots over ruts that the rain could not wash out, but which it made slippery beyond description. We did a lot of driving through fields. Where there were fences, they were either of stone or barbed wire. The latter consisted of two or three loosely drawn strands of wire, held by an occasional permanent post, but, principally, by loose sticks. We cut the wires with pliers, dropped the fence, drove into the field, picked up the fence, joined its loose ends as best we could and drove on. In order to go a mile or two we sometimes had to pass through a dozen fields and cut a dozen fences. The fields which we preferred to the trail were either plowed ground or simply rough land which never had been tilled. Always, it was covered with stones and it was never level. Through the beating rain we rose to the top of the ridge which had framed our view, and saw, behind us, laid out as on a map, the last river we had forded and, in front of us, the next one we would have to ford. Away over at the right, sharp-nosed Pico Tuerto jutted skyward from between its squatter brothers, Caballete and Gloria. Each successive hill became higher. Each was flat topped like a small plateau. Between them were swamps. A loquacious dissembler at a small town said that a macadam road, a relic of early Spanish days, started at the next hill and ran straight to Sancti Spiritus. With tire chains broken and breaking, as they were dragged over the scraggy roads, climb after climb, descent after descent, we kept at it, in the pouring rain, looking for that road just at the top of the next hill. It was like trying to catch up with to-morrow. Sancti Spiritus was near. We knew that, but night was getting nearer. We fretted at delay and took unusual chances on the hills. Sancti Spiritus assumed the aspect of a myth.