Some three days after the storm, when our reduced party was engaged in packing up the telescope,—unexpected voices broke the stillness of the mountain air. Above the edge of the slope leading down to Estancia de los Ingleses, suddenly rose a head, and then the shoulders, of a stalwart Spanish peasant. His whole figure manifested itself quickly as he advanced, walking rapidly towards us. Behind him, other heads and other figures similarly rose up from the lower ground, with knapsacks on their backs, and iron-spiked poles in their hands, following their leader. When he had approached within a few paces, he doffed his hat, and pronounced the name of our friend, Don Martin Rodriguez.

The Don had sent a letter, and as usual, his men were not empty-handed. We rejoiced once more in his rich goats'-milk; as luscious as cream, and capable of being preserved in this high locality to the eleventh day, by boiling with a little sugar and water, and pouring into glass bottles. Then they produced a basket of fine fresh eggs, a luxury unknown for months, and a new goats'-milk cheese. We felt ourselves fortified once again, for another storm.

The leader of this party was a fine open countenanced fellow, a genuine specimen of the worth and strength of the country peasant. Our communications were not very fluent, from his understanding no other than his mother tongue, and our not having picked up much Castilian; but he was voluble in his inquiries as to how things had gone with us during the wet weather.