We cried an "_adios_" and the old man kissed my hand, while the younger, pointing to his friend said "_Sangre, Senor, sangre_" (Blood, sir, blood.) Vigorously they told the story of the old man's misfortune, but in incomprehensible Spanish.

While they spoke three others like them, each bent under his burden came up onto the ridge.

These kissed my hand and then, excitedly pointing to the old man, all talking at once, tried to tell his story.

Having expressed our sympathy, we left the five looking after us, the old man, with his torn and bleeding face, being well in the foreground.
Down in the valley, across a little stream, we struck into a pleasant meadow road leading to the Hacienda of San Bartolo.

Suddenly, before us, in the road, we saw a man lying.