by resting at various places by the way, we at length reached the cottage in safety, though not until after the sun had set, when the stars shone brightly down into the valley. We did not meet with any one, excepting some Monteros in the twilight, who saluted us in their melodious voices with a “Buona tardi,” or “Adios!”
The valley retained to its close very much the same features; a succession of beautiful palm-groves, here and there a little group of palm-leaf-thatched houses; and towards the end of the valley, which was there also enclosed by hills, although not equal in height to Pan de Matanzas, and Combre, lay a sugar plantation, with a sugar-mill, negro slaves, a slave village, &c, belonging to it. The beautiful valley even has its share in the old curse. The crimson glow of sunset, seen above the verdant heights, and the calm splendour of heaven through the palm-trees, were indescribably beautiful, and when the stars shone forth they appeared to me larger and brighter than I had ever seen them before.
This beautiful valley has, however, no memories worthy of the pure glances of heaven. It derives its name, it is said, from the death-cry of its Indian aborigines, “Io more,” when they, in order to escape being massacred by the Spaniards, flung themselves from the heights down into the river which divides one portion of the valley. And of the little farm in the palm-grove embosomed in the hills, the loveliness of which enchanted me the first morning I was here, nothing is related excepting a bloody family-quarrel. A father dwelt there with several sons. They were to divide the farm, but a quarrel arose about the boundaries of the property, and every night one landmark or another was removed. One morning—one of those beautiful tropical mornings!—the brothers, who had quarrelled about the landmarks, came to blows; other members of the family rushed in to take one side or the other, and the result of the combat was eleven dead
