I bent down, felt the earth,—we were travelling on a burnt prairie. I stopped the caravan at once, and we remained the rest of the night on that spot. With the first light of morning a wonderful sight struck our eyes: As far as we could see, there lay a plain black as coal,—not only were all the bushes and grass burnt, but the earth was so glossy that the feet of our mules and the wheels of the wagons were reflected in it as they might have been in a mirror. We could not see clearly the width of the fire, for the horizon was still hazy from smoke; but I gave command without hesitation to turn to the south, so as to reach the edge of that tract instead of venturing on the burnt country. I knew from experience what it is to travel on burnt prairie land where there is not a blade of grass for draught-beasts. Since evidently the fire had moved northward with the wind, I hoped by going toward the south to reach the beginning of it. The people obeyed my order, it is true, but rather unwillingly, for it involved God knows how long a delay in the journey. During our halt at noon the smoke became thinner; but if it did, the heat grew so terrible that the air quivered from its fervency, and all at once something took place which might seem a miracle. On a sudden the haze and smoke parted, as if at a signal, and before our eyes rose the Sierra Nevada, green, smiling, wonderful, covered with gleaming snow on the summits, and so near that with the naked eye we could see the dents in the mountains, the green lakes, and the forests. It seemed to us that a fresh breeze filled with odors from the pitchy fir was coming to us above the burnt fields, and that in a few hours we should reach the flowery foothills. At this sight the people, worn out with the terrible desert and with labors, went out of their minds almost with delight; some fell on the ground sobbing, others stretched forth their hands toward heaven or burst into laughter, others grew pale without power to speak. Lillian and I wept from delight too, which in me was mingled with astonishment, for I had thought that a hundred and fifty miles at least separated us yet from California; but there were the mountains smiling at us across the burnt plain, and they seemed to approach as if by magic, and bend toward us and invite us and lure us on. The hours fixed for rest had not passed yet, but the people would not hear of a longer halt. Even the sick stretched out their yellow hands from beneath the canvas roofs and begged us to harness the mules and drive on. Briskly and willingly we moved forward, and to the biting of the wheels on the charred earth were joined the cracking of whips, shouts, and songs; of driving around the burnt tract there was not a word now. Why go around when a few tens of miles farther on was California and its marvellous snowy mountains? We went straight across toward them.