After many delays, owing now to one thing, now to another, but more particularly to the alarming reports that the Indians, or at least their emissaries and spies, prowled about the neighborhood, we at last started on the march in the direction of Pisté on the 21st of September, 1875. Colonel Diaz was about to visit the posts under his command. This gentleman, as much to respect the orders of his superior as to give me a proof of his appreciation of my person, resolved to accompany us to Chichen with part of his forces. He did so, leaving Valladolid protected by a company of his battalion, and another of the 18th regiment of the line which at the time was stationed in that city. Arrived at the village of Ɔitas, we learned that the old footpath, the only one that had ever existed between this point and Pisté, four leagues distant, was entirely closed up, impassable, consequently, for horsemen. Colonel Don José Coronado, who, from esteem, had also wished to accompany us, offered to go forward with a part of the company, and some Indians, to re-open the road, and make it ready. His offer accepted, he departed, and a few days later we were able to continue our march to Pisté, not meeting in the transit other annoyance than the roughness of the road, the roots and tree trunks that had obstructed it having been removed. So, on the 27th of September, after a tedious march of six hours in the thicket, we reached the advance-post of Pisté. Pisté, ten years ago, was a pretty village, built amid forests, around a senote of thermal waters, surrounded by most fertile lands, which the industrious dwellers cultivated. Suddenly, on a certain Sunday (election day), when they were entertained at the polls, the ominous war-cry of the Indians of Chan-Santa-Cruz fell upon their ears. Few were the villagers that, taking refuge in the bush, escaped the terrible _machete_ of their enemies. Of this village only the name remains. Its houses roofless, their walls crumbled, are scarcely seen beneath the thick green carpet of convolvulus, and cowage (mecuna). These overspread them with their leaves and beautiful petals, as if to hide the blood that once stained them, and cause to be forgotten the scenes of butchery they witnessed. The church alone, sad and melancholy, without doors, its sanctuaries silent, its floor paved with the burial slabs of the victims, surrounded by parapets, yet stands in the midst of the ruined abodes of those who used to gather under its roof; it is to-day converted into a fortress. The few soldiers of the post are the only human beings that inhabit these deserts for many leagues around; its old walls, its belfry, widowed of its bells, are all that indicates to the traveller that Pisté once was there.