This interesting town, of some three hundred inhabitants, had no posada; but we found a capital _casa de hospedaje_, kept by a señora of African descent married to an invisible ladino. The house was of fair size, built of adobe, and well plastered. A black Saint Benedict hung in effigy on the wall,—the forerunner of a host of black saints and holy people whom we saw both in sculpture and painting as we advanced through this ancient domain of the Spanish missionaries. Our señora had a _calentura_,—the national excuse for not doing anything or going anywhere; but for all that she got us a good breakfast. Our horses were used up, and our boy could get no others. An appeal to the alcalde brought one poor horse; but all our further efforts were answered by _mañana_ (to-morrow),—that word so hateful to an active man, but universal here. As we had a very comfortable house to pass the night in, we made ourselves easy, and started to explore the town. On our way in I had seen an attractive spring a short distance from the road, and I went alone to explore it, taking a calabash I had just purchased for a drinking-vessel. A well-worn path led across a meadow, and a sudden turn brought me upon a party of women in exceedingly slight apparel, bathing and washing in a little pool into which the spring emptied through a spout. These naiads were most of them young; but one old woman, a foul-visaged hag, scowled savagely upon me, while the others giggled as I quietly handed my calabash to the prettiest, and asked her to give me a drink of water, which she caught from the high spout with skill and without hesitation, although the action exhibited her form in all its beauty. How I wanted my camera!