We rode through the arched and hedge-lined streets into a broad open plaza, in the centre of which stood a quaint old church. A few sleek cows were lying in its shade, chewing their cuds in a meditative way, and hardly opening their sleepy eyes as we trotted by. Beneath some large trees upon one side of the plaza, we descried our carts and their escort, taking what at home would be called “a nooning.” The lances of the men were stacked together, and their horses fastened with _lariats_ to the carts, forming, with their gay trappings, a striking group, abundantly set off by the reclining figures of their riders, who had disposed themselves in attitudes expressive of the fullest abandonment to individual ease. We were not long in joining the party. The officer in command, in anticipation of our arrival, had prepared two or three jars of “algo fresco,” something fresh, delightfully compounded of water, the juice of the cocoa-nut, and of the acidulous marañon,—a delicious and refreshing beverage, to which we paid our respects in protracted draughts, not forgetting “_mil gracias_,” and sundry _medios_ to a plump, laughing Indian girl who dispensed it, in snowy calabashes, to the thirsty strangers. The only part of the road which was supposed to be frequented by the _ladrones_ was now passed, and although the commander of the escort was very willing to proceed with the carts, I did not think it necessary, and so it was agreed that he should return. This arranged, we all mounted again, and the last we saw of our military friend was the gleaming lances of his men, and the fluttering of their little red streamers, as they galloped back through the streets of Nindiri.