and an occasional white cross to mark either where a murder has been
committed, or where a celebrated robber has been buried. Of each, Don
Miguel gave us a succinct account. Some lines of Childe Harold suit this
scene as if written for it:

"And here and there, as up the crags you spring,
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:
Yet deem not these devotion's offering--
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath;
For, wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife,
Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life."

The whole scene was wild and grand, yet dreary and monotonous, presenting
the greatest contrast possible to our first day's journey. The only signs
of life to be met with were the long strings of arrieros with their droves
of mules, and an occasional Indian hut, with a few miserable half-naked
women and children.

At one small, wild-looking inn, where, very cold and miserable, we stopped,
some hot wine was brought us, which was very acceptable. The tavern-keeper,
for it was no more than a spirit-shop, if not a robber, had all the
appearance of one; wild, melancholy, and with a most sinister expression of
countenance. Salvator never drew a more bandit-looking figure, as he stood
there with his blanket and slouched hat, and a knife in his belt, tall and
thin and muscular, with his sallow visage and his sad, fierce eyes.
However, he showed us the marks on his door, where a band of twenty robbers
had broken in one night, and robbed some travellers, who were sleeping