We called on the Jefe again as he was marrying several couples, and he repeated his promise to procure mules for us before one o’clock; so we left him for a while and strolled about town and found a potter at work. He used both white and dark clay, and his wheel and kiln were similar to those in use with us. At two the mules had not arrived, and we declared the Jefe a liar. Frank must have called on him twenty times, besides the visits of ceremony we made together three times a day. After a while two alcaldes came to our room and begged us to go to the cabildo and inspect the mules they had captured for us. Another failure; for there was not one fit to carry our burden. Then they brought two to the hotel,—one a pack-mule that refused to be saddled; then a mozo came quite drunk, and wanted a dollar to carry our baggage to Quezaltenango. We told him to go to the _diablo_, and he went; and so the day wore away. On Sunday morning we went to the Plaza, captured a mozo without the intervention of the authorities, and started on foot for Quezaltenango. The weather was clear and cool, like a fine October day in New England; and there was white frost on the lowlands. At first we dropped rapidly down, and then came to a fine carriage-road, in some places a hundred feet wide. Except the steep descent at the city limits, and an equally steep ascent about half a league beyond, the road was level, and bordered with agaves, some now in bud. Just before we came to Salcaja we had a fine view of the plain where Alvarado fought so desperately, was wounded, and finally conquered the brave mountaineers. Though conquered then, they certainly need another Alvarado now. A pale mist covered the distant city, but above it towered the volcano Santa Maria,—a cone as regular as those of Sololà. Northward we saw San Cristobal and San Francisco,—two pleasantly situated towns. We crossed a river which flows into the Pacific at San Luis; so the backbone of the continent was passed, and we were on the slopes of the setting sun. We ordered our almuerzo in a little shop, and as we waited for it we watched the customers,—among them mozos, mostly for aguardiente, women for eggs, spices, chillis, and cord. Beggars came also, and among them an idiot girl (the only one of this class we had seen in the republic); one received a drink, another a handful of red peppers, and others food. Before one o’clock we were in Quezaltenango, having walked six leagues in four hours and a half, excluding stops. The Hotel de Europe proved very comfortable, and the table was good. The Cerro Quemado (Burned Mountain), just overhanging the city, was a more attractive volcano than the loftier Santa Maria; and I longed for time to climb to the broken crater from whose blackened sides the huge lava-stream had descended towards the city (the ancient Exancul), turned suddenly when almost upon the outer walls, and then stopped forever.