But through all her recollections of hunger, exhaustion, and torture, was that of the dauntless spirit who shared them with her, ever watchful, ever solicitous, and of unfailing gentleness in the most desperate hours. A memory of a brave, kindly face, growing haggard as one day of struggle followed another, but with never a sign of failing courage or resolution, never a shadow of impatience at her plaints, her tears, or when her weakness compelled the loss of precious time. Often she had been delirious, or in a half stupor, but never unconscious of his presence and tender guardianship. She had a memory, too, of a tempest, of snow and deadly cold, when they had sought shelter among the drifts of a gorge and he had held her in his arms through the night, wrapped in his cloak, his armor removed that she might have his warmth. But she only half remembered the long battle through the snow of a pass to which Providence had led their steps when they had finally lost the trail. After this, a descending valley, a lonely hut at last, and she came to her senses surrounded by the warmth and frugal comforts of a herdsmen’s lodge. Here Cristoval learned from the two occupants of the hut that a village called Xilcala lay within three days’ journey through the mountains. The younger of the herders, named Mati, would guide them; and after tarrying for some days until food and rest should fit them to resume their way, they set out. In the late afternoon of the third day of travel from the hut they were descending into the Vale of Xilcala. Since morning they had been creeping down a canyon which broadened at last at its junction with another, and their haven lay before them. A turn in the trail brought it into sudden view, and they halted, struck by a scene of so rare and tranquil beauty that even Cristoval, not easily impressed, muttered an exclamation. Assisting Rava to dismount, he led her out upon an overhanging ledge. Hundreds of feet below spread a rolling plain surrounding an alpine lake of limpid emerald and blue which gleamed in its setting of spring verdure like some fair jewel. From the water the shores gently rose to the encircling mountains, traceried with walls and hedges, and sparkling with the silver inlay of numberless rivulets and miniature canals. Far up the slopes of the sheltering masses of the Cordillera clung cultivated terraces, the _andenes_, the lines of their retaining walls sweeping in and out with the contour of the rugged scarp until they broke at a distant cleft in the rampart, through which flowed the outlet of the lake. Half-way down the western shore was the village, crowning a rocky promontory, its white walls reflected on the placid water, and to the weary eyes of the refugees hardly more real or permanent, in its quiet beauty, than the inverted and blended image at its feet. Nearer were scattered cottages, a villa with its park, and shaded lanes and groves of trees just breaking into leafage or blossom.