The Padre himself was away on the cliffs above cutting hay, for he combines agriculture with the care of souls, owns many cows, and makes the celebrated cheese known as "Cabrales." Presently he joined us in his stone chamber, and at once showed himself to be, by his frank and genuine manner, what later experience proved him, a true sportsman and a most unselfish companion. His Reverence at once set about the details of organising our hunt, sent his nephew to round-up the mountain lads, some being sent off at once to spend that night, how, we know not, in crags of the Peña Vieja, while others were instructed to join us there in the morning. While we dined on smoked chamois and rough red wine he busied himself arranging weapons, ammunition, and mocassins for a few days' work on the crags. Our arrival having been prearranged, we were soon on our upward way, by sinous tracks which lead to the summits of the Picos de Europa, some altitudes of which are as follows: Peña Vieja, 10,046 feet; Picos de Hierro, 9610 feet; Pico de San Benigno, 9329 feet. All heavy baggage was left below; there only remained the tent, rugs, guns, and cartridges, and these were got up, heaven knows how, to about half the required height on the backs of two donkeys. For provisions we relied on the milk and bread of the cheese-makers who live up there, much in the style of the Norwegian peasants at their _saeters_, or summer sheilings on the fjeld. Hard by the _cabaña_, or cabin, of these honest folks, our tent was pitched--altitude, 5800 feet. With the first of the daylight, after a drink of milk, we started upwards, our host, the Cura, Bertie, and ourselves. With us were ten goat-herds who had to flank the drive; the others would already be occupying allotted positions, we knew not where. Three hours' climbing--the usual struggle, only worse--took us to the first line of "passes," far above the last signs of vegetation and amidst what little snow remains here in summer. This "drive" had been reckoned a certainty, and four animals were reported seen in the mist, but no chamois came in to the guns, and yet another two-hours' climb had to be faced ere the second set of posts was reached. This bit, however, definitely stopped for the moment my career as a chamois-hunter, such was the slippery, perpendicular, and utterly dangerous nature of the rocks. A fortnight before I had climbed the Plaza de Almanzór in the Sierra de Grédos, but these pinnacles of the Picos proved beyond my powers. The admission, beyond any words of mine, bespeaks the character of these Cantabrian peaks. Here on a dizzy ledge at 8000 feet I remained behind, while the rest of the party, filing up a rock-stair, were lost to sight within fifteen yards. Before me stretched away peak beyond peak in emulating altitudes the whole vast cordillera of Cantabria--a glory of mountain-forms. ...the things which tower, which shine, Whose smile makes glad, whose frown is terrible.