A tall _mestizo_, covered with ulcers, sat in the
doorway, and two or three culprits extended their claw-like hands
towards us through the bars of their cage and invoked alms in the
name of the Virgin and all things sacred. We therefore contented
ourselves with a lunch under the corridor of a neighboring house,
and, notwithstanding it was late in the afternoon, pressed forward
towards the little Indian town of San Juan, three leagues distant.
It was a long and rough and weary way, and as night fell without any
sign of a village in front, we began to have a painful suspicion that
we had lost our road,--if a narrow mule-path, often scarcely
traceable, can be dignified by that name. So we stopped short, to
allow a man on foot, whom we had observed following on our track for
half an hour, to come up. He proved to be a bright-eyed, good-natured
Indian, who addressed us as _"Vuestras Mercedes_," and who informed
us not only that we were on the right road to San Juan, but also that
he himself belonged there and was now on his way home.
"Good, _amigo!_--but how far is it?"
_"Hay no mas"_ (There is no more,) was the consoling response.
"But where is the town?"
_"Alla!"_ (There!)
And he threw his hand forward, and projected his lips in the
direction he sought to indicate,--a mode of indication, I may add,
almost universal in Central America, and explicable only on the
assumption that it costs less effort than to raise the hand.
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