Although the road was good—that is to say, dry—we could not reach Hojas until after ten. Upon a level spot at the top of the ridge was a bit of white canvas. Lorenzo scrutinized the mules which were grazing along the edges of the path, and said, “Justo is here, for there go Tamborero and Frontino, and they never stray.”
“Who are they?” I asked him.
“Oh, mules of mine.”
Deep silence was over the encampment of mule-drivers. A cold wind blew down through the ravines of the adjoining mountain slope, brightening up at times the dying embers of two fires near the tent. Close to one of them a black dog was curled up, who growled as he perceived us, and barked when he saw that we were strangers.
“Ave María!” shouted Lorenzo, in those words giving to the mule-drivers the salute which they are accustomed to use when arriving at an inn. “Be quiet, Barbillas!” he added, speaking to the dog, and dismounting.
A tall and thin mulatto came out from among the tobacco-sacks which closed up the two sides of the canvas where it did not reach the ground. It was the head-driver, Justo.
“Holloa, ’ñor Lorenzo!” he said to his employer, as he recognized him, and added, “Isn’t this boy Efraín?”
We returned his greeting—Lorenzo with a thump on the back and a jest, I as heartily as my stiffness would let me.
“Dismount,” continued Justo, “you’ve got some tired mules there.”
“Yours must be the tired ones,” replied Lorenzo; “for they travel at an ant’s pace.”
“You’ll soon see that they don’t. But what are you doing riding at this time of night?”
“Getting over the ground while you are snoring. Leave off your talking, and have your guide poke up the fire and make us some chocolate.”
The other mule-drivers had awakened, as had also the negro boy who was to rekindle the fire. Justo lighted a candle-end and stuck it in a banana hollowed out for the purpose. Then he spread out on the ground a packing-skin for me to sit on.
“How far are you going tonight?” he asked, while Lorenzo was taking out of his saddlebags some food to go with the chocolate.
“To Santana,” replied the latter. “How are the young she-mules? García’s boy told me, as we left Juntas, that the bay one had given out on your hands.”
“She is the only cheat, but got here little by little.”
“You mustn’t make them carry heavy bales.”
“As if I would be so rash! But the she-devils are coming out all right. The cream-color, I must say, played me the very deuce of a trick in Santarosa. Never was such a slow-going beast—and vicious! But she had to give in. She brought the provisions all the way from Platanares.”
The pot of boiling chocolate now appeared, and the mule-drivers hastened to offer us the gourd-cups from their belts, that we might partake of it.
“So help me!” said Justo, while I was tasting the chocolate, made and served in mule-driver style, it is true, but the most acceptable I had ever had; “who ever would have known the boy Efraín? He will use up ’ñor Lorenzo, won’t he?”
In exchange for the lukewarm water of their gourds, we gave Justo and his men some good brandy, and made ready to go on.
“It’s almost eleven,” said the head-driver, standing up to look at the moon, whose white light was bathing the high slopes of Chaucos and Bitaco.
I looked at my watch, and, in fact, it was just eleven. We took leave of the drivers, but when we were about fifty yards from their camp Justo called Lorenzo back. The latter overtook me, however, a few minutes afterwards.
LIV
At four of the next afternoon I reached the summit of the Cruces. There I dismounted to tread again the soil whence I had said farewell to my native country. Again I saw the valley of Cauca, a land as fair as I was unfortunate. So often had I dreamed of beholding it from that very mountain that even when I saw it before me in all its beauty I looked around to make sure that it was not a trick of sleep. My heart beat faster, as if it had a presentiment that María’s head would soon rest upon it. My eyes were fixed on the hills at the foot of the far sierra—hills now in the full light of the afternoon sun—where my father’s house was whitening.
Lorenzo had just caught up with me, leading by the halter a fine white horse which he had got in Tocotá for me to mount, the last three leagues of the day’s ride.
“Just think!” I said to him, pointing to the white spot on the sierra, from which I could not remove my eyes; “tomorrow at this time we shall be there.”
“Why, where?” he replied.
“What!”
“The family is in Cali.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? What did they come for?”
“Justo told me last night that the Señorita is still very sick.”
As Lorenzo said this he turned away his head, and seemed much affected.
Trembling, I mounted the horse, and the spirited animal almost flew down the stony path.
The afternoon was expiring when I turned the last promontory of the Montañuelas. A rush of wind from the west was whistling about me among the rocks and thickets, and rumpling my horse’s flowing mane. My father’s house could no longer be seen on the edge of the horizon at my left; but on the right, far away, under a turquoise sky, was the glint of Huila’s bulk, half covered by floating haze.
He who created that, I said to myself, cannot yet destroy the most beautiful of His creatures, whom He has permitted me to love so much. Again I forced back the sobs that were choking me.
I had now passed on my
