In the afternoon we were going through a desolate and uninhabited part of the country, when I observed that my guide and his brother were lagging on the way. Finally they dropped behind, and began to run together a few yards in the rear. The time had now come when it was necessary to take a decisive action. I had to be careful not to let Carlos suppose that there were any doubts in my mind about his fidelity, for I knew nothing of the road, and it was important that I should appear to have entire confidence in his guidance. I stopped the mule, and called Carlos up to my side, and said, “Carlos, you must not run behind me. You are the guide, and must keep in front to enable me to follow you, and not miss the track, and,” I added in a more marked manner, “remember that you are to keep well ahead. Let there not be any mistake in this matter, and your brother is to be with you.” Carlos immediately obeyed my orders. There was no danger to be apprehended so long as this precaution was taken, for I always carried with me a small loaded revolver to defend myself in case of attack, an event which I thought to be improbable. When we arrived at Lenton, we were given rooms within the quarters of the garrison. Captain Robles, the commandant, showed me every attention, and at supper I joined the officers’ mess. In the morning it was found that although every possible care was taken to raise the saddle above the swelling, the mule could not bear any pressure. Consequently I asked Captain Robles if he could provide me with a horse. After some difficulty an animal was obtained, which although of very rough appearance, I thought would answer the purpose of carrying me the two days’ journey to Comitan. An Indian lad, called a mozo, was hired to bring the horse back, and lead my disabled mule. By the time that all these arrangements were completed it was getting late in the morning. More than three hours daylight were lost, and it was important with regard to my Indians to reach our next stopping place before sunset. For eight leagues the road led through a dreary desert without any signs of habitation, and then we reached a pond called San José where we halted for an hour. It was quite dark when we reached a hut near Sinigiglia within the Mexican frontier, and where I decided to stop. An Indian and his wife were inside, but they not only refused to open the door and give us shelter, but to all applications for food or water, replied in the words so usually employed by all Indians when asked for anything, “No hay.” “There is nothing.” The only thing to be done was to make the best of the circumstances, so a supper was made from our store of provisions, and with the saddle for a pillow, and the hammock stretched upon the ground, I passed the night.