We had the very good fortune to enter Santa Fé during Holy Week. All along our route, through the little Mexican towns bordering the Rio Grande, church bells were ringing, and Mexicans in gala array riding to special services on pintos, burros, or in carts laden with entire families of eight or ten. When we reached our hotel, three miles out, for adequate hotels for some strange reason do not exist in Santa Fe, we were invited to go “Penitente Hunting.” The sport is not without its dangers. Strangers who venture too near the mysterious processions have been shot, and only the most foolhardy would seek to go near the morado. We learned that while the members are quiescent during the year, committing whatever laxities of conduct seem good to them, Holy Week heaps on them, voluntarily, the ashes of bitter atonement. On Monday, they gather in their morado, and enter on a week of fasting, ritual, and self-inflicted torture. To a few selected by the high priests of the order is given the honor, from their point of view, of taking upon themselves the sins of all. They endure incredible torments; some lie on beds of cactus the entire week, others wear the deadly _cholla_ bound on their backs or inserted under the flesh. Every Penitente bears on his back the mark of the Cross, slit into his skin with deep double gashes at his initiation into the sect. These wounds are re-opened each year. Weak from flogging, with blood raining from their backs till old wounds mingle with the new, eating only food brought to the morado at nightfall by their women, these vicarious sufferers come forth on Good Friday to the culmination of their agony. Santa Fé was agog with rumors. At one town we heard the penitentes would not leave their morado, resenting the growing publicity their rites attracted. Another, further from civilization, was to show a crucifixion, with ghastly fidelity even to the piercing of hands and feet,--a fate for which the honored victim begged. Loomis has related this circumstance as a fact, and rumor of the year previous to our arrival gave it confirmation. [Illustration: A MEXICAN MORADO, NEW MEXICO. The Americano is unwise who attempts to enter or even ask questions concerning this building.] [Illustration: THE MUSEUM OF SANTA FE. Its corners copy the towers of Laguna, Taos, and Acoma.] Early Good Friday morning, our party drove in and out the valleys, fording to our hubs streams that yesterday were mere trickles, and tomorrow, augmented by melting mountain snows, would be raging torrents. New Mexico has few working bridges. One fords a stream, if it seems sufficiently shallow, or waits a day or week at the nearest hotel for it to subside. Rivers were fast leaving their bounds this morning, but we managed to cross in time to arrive at Alcalde before ceremonies had begun.