TRAVELS IN MEXICO.
"But I have no money,—look at me!"
"A man can't travel without money." "Humph! yes, a little, but not enough to tempt them to kill me."
"Señor, they would kill you for a dollar! Señor, there is a black cross on the road yonder. If it were not so dark, we might see it. There, a friend of mine was killed by the bad men."
"Killed for what?"
"For nothing."
"For money?"
"Si, señor, they shot him there."
It was indeed true; for, two days later, coming down the mountain in the freshness of the morning, I saw the veritable cross, opposite a tangled thicket in a lonely pass. It was of rough wood, painted black, and with an inscription on it, desiring all who passed to offer a prayer for the soul of the murdered man. Here, Don Felipe paused a moment, crossed himself, and murmured a supplication.
I was about to tell Don Felipe that I was a dead shot, but I thought that, if I must die that night, I would at least be clear of falsehood for that day. So I jogged along in sullen silence, blaming myself for being led into such a dilemma, and blaming Don Felipe for starting so late, when he knew that we must traverse this dense wood after dark. It was now so dark that my unaccustomed eyes could see nothing but the black trunks of the pines, and I followed blindly my guide and peon, with Don Felipe behind me. Through an opening in the wood, we obtained one last glimpse of Popocatapetl, standing up like a sheeted ghost against the black sky, and then entered a portion of the forest so dense that I could only follow my peon by his white shirt, and my guide by the glinting silver of his sombrero. We rode over fallen trees, striking limbs and projecting branches, stumbling into holes, jumping gulches, climbing hills, descending hollows,—all in pitchy darkness. Suddenly, we were brought to a halt, and the peon darted into the black thicket. I clutched my revolver nervously, and settled myself firmly in the saddle, believing that some foul play was meditated, when
