Our view to the northward, however, was obstructed by hills and
forests, and our ascent of El Volcan failed to give us a view of the
Pass, which we knew must now be near at hand. We descended,
therefore, and resumed our course,--anxiously, it is true, but with
few of the serious misgivings which had beset us at Caridad.
The path wound around the base of El Volcan, on the level terrace or
shelf from which it springs. As we advanced, we could distinctly
perceive that the valley to our right rose gradually, with a gentle,
but constant grade. At a distance of three miles it had nearly
reached the level of the terrace along which we rode, and at the end
of our fourth mile the terrace and the valley merged into each other,
and the mule-path dipping into the waters of the stream, now reduced
to a sparkling brook, resumed its direction on the opposite bank. We
stopped here, in a natural park of tall pines, and lunched beneath
their shade, drinking only the cool, clear water which murmured among
the mossy stones at our feet. We needed no artificial stimulus; our
spirits were high and buoyant; we had almost traced the
Goascoran to its source; half an hour more must bring us to its
fountain-head,--and then? We knew not exactly what then; but one
thing was certain, that nothing in the form of a hill or mountain
obstructed our advance, for the light, reflected from a clear sky,
streamed horizontally between the tree-trunks in front, while on either
hand the vistas were dark, and the outlines of gigantic mountains could be
discerned towering to mid-heaven.
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