And for the glory of the glittering slopes below, that changed continually from the mystery of white to dull red, from red to crimson, and from crimson to every dazzling hue that the rainbow holds, who can tell it, who can even imagine it?
None, indeed, except those that have seen the sun rise over the volcans of Tenoctitlan.
When I had feasted my eyes on Popo I turned to Ixtac.

She is not so lofty as her 'husband,' for so the Aztecs name the volcan Popo, and when first I looked I could see nothing but the gigantic shape of a woman fashioned in snow, and lying like a corpse upon her lofty bier, whose hair streamed down the mountain side.

But now the sunbeams caught her also, and she seemed to start out in majesty from a veil of rosy mist, a wonderful and thrilling sight.

But beautiful as she was then, still I love the Sleeping Woman best at eve.

Then she lies a shape of glory on the blackness beneath, and is slowly swallowed up into the solemn night as the dark draws its veil across her.
Now as I gazed the light began to creep down the sides of the volcans, revealing the forests on their flanks.