backs, the hour being three of the afternoon, and not a breath of
wind going. It was too steep to ride, and our water-bottles were
empty. When we got to the top, Gallman and I, we could both have
exclaimed with Villon,


"_Je crache blanc comme coton._"


What wonder, then, that on finding a clear, cold spring at hand,
Gallman should have drunk his fill of the cool water, and that
he should have persuaded me, against my better judgment, to take a
swallow of it, just one swallow, no more? Who would have believed that
a mere taste of such innocent-looking, refreshing water could have
had such dire consequences? For it made me ill for six weeks, at times
all but disabling me. However, as water, it was irreproachable; and,
anyway, as though to compensate the tiresome climb just finished, we
had before us now one of the most glorious views imaginable. From far
to the south--indeed, from the blue mountains bounding the view miles
away, the silver ribbon of the Río Chico unrolled itself in a straight
line between green-sloped mountains, rising from its very banks and
towering into the clouds. At our feet, but far below, the river turned
square to the east in a boiling rapid between gigantic walls of rock,
the mountains here yielding to its sweep in a broadening valley only
to press on it beyond and thrust it back on its way northward. It
was all splendid and simple; if you please, nothing but a stream
filling the intersecting slopes of a wedge-shaped valley and turning
off because it had to. But the serenity of the whole composition:
gray rocks, shining waters, green slopes; white mists, enveloping the
crests, smiling in the afternoon sun! Jaded as were our faculties of