We pass the night in a ruined building of cyclopean dimensions, erected no doubt in the time of the Incas, either for the accommodation of travellers by whom the road was then frequented or for purposes of defence. But being both roofless, windowless, and fireless, it makes only a poor lodging. The icy wind blows through a hundred crevices; my limbs are frozen stiff, and when morning comes many of us look more dead than alive. I asked Condocori how the poor girls of San Andrea could possibly have survived so severe a journey. "The weaker would have died. But I did not expect this cold. The winter is beginning unusually early this year. Had we been a few days later we should not have got through at all, and if it begins to snow it may go ill with us, even yet. But to-morrow the worst will be over." The cacique had so far behaved very well, treating me as a friend and an equal, and doing all he could for my comfort. His men treated me as a superior. Gondocori said very little about his country, still less about Queen Mamcuna, whom he also called "Great Mother." To my frequent questions on these subjects he made always the same answer: "Patience, you will see." He did, however, tell me that his people called their country Pachatupec and themselves Pachatupecs, that the Spaniards had never subdued them or even penetrated into the fastnesses where they dwelt, and that they spoke the ancient language of Peru. Gondocori admitted that his mother was a Christian, and to her he no doubt owed his notions of religion and the regularity of his features. She had been carried off as he meant to carry off the seven maidens of the Happy Valley, for the _misterios_ had a theory that a mixture of white and Indian blood made the finest children and the boldest warriors. But white wives being difficult to obtain, _mestiza_ maidens had generally to be accepted, or rather, taken in their stead. We rose before daybreak and were in the saddle at dawn. The ground and the streams are hard frozen, and the path is so slippery that the trembling mules dare scarcely put one foot before the other, and our progress is painfully slow. We are in a broad, stone-strewed valley, partly covered with withered puma-grass, on which a flock of graceful _vicuñas_ are quietly grazing, as seemingly unconscious of our presence as the great condors which soar above the snowy peaks that look down on the plain. As we leave the valley, through a pass no wider than a gateway, the cacique gives me a word of warning. "The part we are coming to is the most dangerous of all," he said. "But it is, fortunately, not long. Two hours will bring us to a sheltered valley. And now leave everything to your mule. If you feel nervous shut your eyes, but as you value your life neither tighten your reins nor try to guide him." I repeat this caution to Gahra, and ask how he feels. "Much better, señor; the sunshine has given me new life. I feel equal to anything."