"That I cannot tell, cavallero," replied he. "I tried from the time I was able to distinguish the dry season from that of the rains to keep an account of my age; and I succeeded in doing so up till I was fifty. After that, for particular reasons, I did not care to know it, and so I left off counting." "You say you are more than fifty years old?" and as I put this inquiry I glanced at the long purple black tresses that hung over his shoulders. "Nearly half as much more," was the reply. "You are looking at the colour of my hair. There are ravens who have seen a hundred seasons of rain without having a feather whitened. Ah! what matters the course of years to me? A raven croaked upon the roof of my father's cabin when I was born, at the same instant that my father had traced upon the floor the figure of one of these birds. Well, then! of course I shall live as long as that raven lives. What use then to keep a reckoning of years that cannot be numbered?" "You think, then, that your life is in some way attached to that of the raven that perched on the paternal roof when you came into the world?" "It is the belief of my ancestors, the Zapoteques, and it is also mine," seriously responded the Indian. It was not my desire to combat the superstitions of the Zapoteques; and, dropping the subject, I inquired from him his purpose in carrying the conch--whether it was for whiling away his time upon the journey, or whether there was not also connected with it some other belief of his ancestors? The Indian hesitated a moment before making reply. "It is only a remembrance of my country," he said, after a short silence. "When I hear the echoes of the Sierra repeat the sounds of my shell, I can fancy myself among the mountains of Tehuantepec, where I used to hunt the tiger--in pursuing my profession of _tigrero_. Or at other times I may fancy it to be the signals of the pearl-seekers in the Gulf, when I followed the calling of a _buzo_ (diver); for I have hunted the sea tigers who guard the banks of pearls under the water, as I have those that ravage the herds of cattle upon the great savannas. But time passes, cavallero; I must say good day to you. I have to reach the hacienda of Portezuelo by noon, and it's a long journey to make in the time. _Puez, adios, cavallero_!" So saying, the Indian strode off with that measured step peculiar to his race; and was soon lost to my sight, as he descended into the ravine on the opposite side of the plateau. As I returned towards the inn I could hear the prolonged notes of his marine trumpet rising up out of the chasm, and reverberating afar off against the precipitous sides of the Sierra Madre. "What the devil is all this row about?" inquired Captain Ruperto Castanos, as he issued forth from the venta. I recounted to him the interview I had just had; and the singular communications I had received from the Indian.