Our future was hidden by the hills in front of us. We did not care. It was enough, just to dash at racing speed past little scarlet Edens among the bright flambollan flowers, where the silver-tongued moscareta warbled his southern song behind the leaves of the spreading laurel and the merry tomequin answered from the majestic ceiba. It was enough, just to fly past palm-thatched huts and wave at the insular urchins who, partly curious and partly fearful, were half-hidden in the doorways. It was enough, just to watch the little speck on the far hillside become a bold, commanding block-house as we raced toward it. Block-houses are still popular in Cuba. One meets up with a block-house on almost any hillside, whether or not there is any apparent habitation in the region. A few miles and it all ended. The boulevard became merely a long stretch of rough white stones—a new generation of road in the making—level and almost straight, but with no surface over the jagged rocks and no bridges over the many streams. So we drove, part of the time over the rocks and part of the time in the rut-worn gully below. It was hard going, but not impossible. Anyway, it did not last long because this particular road ceased entirely. We were in the middle of Cuba. A mere path straggled over and among the hills and was lost in the great patches of native rock. We began to take the country seriously. Trepidation mingled with curiosity. Once in a while a good sort of winding dirt road gave promise of speed, only to change, like a dissolving lantern slide, to a staggering trail over the rocks or between them. The stones increased in number and in size. Each occasional break in the bumping, swaying, swinging, car-racking, tire-tearing progress became shorter. We forgot the stately palms, the queer huts, and the beautiful red flowers. We did not even hear the evening song of the many birds. [Illustration: “_Insular urchins, partly curious and partly fearful, were half-hidden in the doorways._” SEE PAGE 20.] [Illustration: “_Everywhere was stone.... Each mile was gained by defiant effort._” SEE PAGE 23.] Everywhere was stone. Even the rough fields were so littered with loose rock that cultivation had not been tried. Each mile was gained by defiant effort. We began to worry over the fact that, not only were the prophets vindicated, but their prophecies had foretold worse conditions the farther we went eastward. We thumped along to a deep valley from whose bottom the sun had already fled and on whose far side a great bluff of solid rock arose to dispute our way.