I was mounted on a large white mule, which the _emprestador_ had specially recommended to me as “muy manso y comodo” very gentle and easy; but which I soon found was an old broken-winded beast, and a villanously hard traveller. The General observed that I had been taken in, and glancing round, fixed his eyes on the dashing horse of a young fellow, deputed by the government to accompany us on our march as commissary and provider. Directly he stopped short, and ordered him to dismount and change animals with me. The order was promptly obeyed,—for there was no parleying with the General; and although I thought the proceeding rather summary, I was too glad to get rid of the mule to offer the slightest objection to the arrangement. Besides, the deposed horseman should have provided us with better animals—of course he should! Our escort accompanied us about two miles, to a point where the short cut, or mule path, to Masaya diverged from the _camino real_; and here, after a profusion of bows, an interminable shaking of hands, and “buenas viajes,” and “Dios guardes,” in every tone and emphasis, we separated from the crowd, and went on our way alone. The path was narrow, and led through bush and brier, under gigantic trees, draped all over with vines, down into dark ravines, where the sun’s rays never reached, over ridges covered with grass, with here and there clusters of luxuriant trees, gemmed all over with fragrant flowers, where we could catch views of the glittering lake, with its distant shores, and several islands. Thus we went, in Indian file, the red shirts and gleaming arms of the men giving life and relief to the scene, and making the noisy parrots, which fluttered beside the path, still more noisy; while brightly colored birds glanced in and out of the thick green coverts, or a startled deer bounded hurriedly before us! Altogether, the novelty, excitement, and beauty filled me with that wild delight which only the Arab feels, or the free Indian on his prairie ocean, and one hour’s enjoyment of which were “worth ten years of quiet life!” My chest expands, and every nerve becomes tense, even now, while I write, at the recollection of that glorious morning, and that march to Masaya. Occasionally we came upon a cane house, nestled in some quiet glen, or upon some beautiful slope, surrounded by palms and plantains, and fields of tobacco and maize, in the doors of which stood women and knots of frightened children, who gazed wonderingly upon our strange party. They all seemed reassured when we cried out “adios amigas!” and responded with “Dios guarde à Ustedes, caballeros!” “God preserve you, Sirs!” At about six miles from Granada, we reached the highest point of ground between that city and Masaya; one of those ridges of land which seem to radiate like the legs of a lobster from the great volcano of Momobacho, and which are, for the most part, destitute of trees. From this point we