We were now in the picturesque valley of the Hondo,—a winding, clear, and generally rapid stream; our path sometimes crossed it, and again was high above it on the cliffs. We passed through San Jacinto about dusk and camped a few miles beyond, having to go a long way after dark, as both sides of the road were fenced, a most unusual thing. We at last stopped at a very unsuitable place, kindled a fire which guided Santiago to our camp, and then decided to have our mozo and his family with us for an early start in the morning. Frank took his revolver and went back nearly two miles, where he found the Indio sound asleep in a house. Father, mother, and child were quickly routed out, and when they came up we comforted them with some hot coffee. Towards morning it rained, but not through our blankets; and before the morning mist had risen quite above the hills around us, I had my camera at work. The daylight showed what a queer bedchamber we had chosen. Acacia-brambles were thick enough, and there was no level ground; while behind us was a high limestone cliff closely resembling a columnar basaltic formation, and just across the road a precipitous descent to the river. We sent the mozos on at six o’clock, and followed soon after. At Santa Elena we saw many fan-palms, cultivated as material for hats. At Vado Hondo we could resist the tempting river no longer, but had a delightful swim in the clear, cool water. All the valley was beautiful, and generally cultivated,—here with sugar, there with corn, and we saw several small sugar-mills.