The next day's trail was very fine, for we started off over a river which we crossed on a flying bridge, a swinging car on a cable, while the horses were forded; and then we had splendid but slow climbing up the gorge of one river after another, coasting the mountainside, where we could see the mark of the trail many miles ahead above us and part of our procession trailing along in single file or rushing along with distant shout, as the little willing native cargadores carried their loads up and up. Above us rose Mount Data, with its mysterious waterfall that seems to come right out of its peak, and clouds circled about us, and below the valleys streaked away into the distance and the ranges rose higher and higher, and the play of light and shadow was beautiful on the greens and grays and browns and blues of the distances. We began to see rancherias, the native villages, perched up on the hills, the thatched roofs like haystacks, with blue smoke at times coming through; and paddy fields began to climb the upper valleys in their terraces, with the pale green rice, and fringes of the banana palm of which the hemp is made. In places the red croton was planted on the terraces for luck, and in the ravines which we crossed there were cascading falls and pools. We rose higher and higher over another range, and at the tip-top of the trail another group of Igorots were dancing and playing their tom-toms as we passed, and rushed alongside to touch fingers. Soon we passed through a village built in a stony gorge where a river ran down. The houses consisted of conical thatched roofs supported on four wooden piers with ladders leading up into the roofs where the people lived. The foundations were terraced in stone and the paths were stone-terrace, and it all looked very neat and clean. On our way back we stopped for tiffin at this same village and had the women come and show us how they weave, for it was a place famed for its weaving. This time our tiffin was farther on, at a rest-house with a splendid view, and it had been laid out so prettily with temporary flower beds and bamboo arches. The Belgian priest from a town nearby had come to join us at luncheon, and although he spoke no English I had a pleasant time with him in French, for he proved to be a sort of relative of our cousins the de Buisserets; his name was Padre Sepulchre, one of a band of Belgians belonging to no order but educated highly for missionary priesthood, who have been sent out, since our occupation, by the Pope, and many of whom are rich and gentlemen born. This one had already in two years spent some twenty thousand dollars gold of his own money in his town. Another such missionary we met at Bontoc, and several at other places, and all are said to do good work. [Illustration: RICE TERRACES.]