Our rest over, we pushed on through a beautiful forest, unlike any
other seen so far in that it was open. The trail was excellent,
and rose steadily, for we had to cross a sharp range before making
Kiangan. I shall make no attempt to describe this exquisite afternoon:
but there was a breeze, the forest tempered the sun's rays a good part
of the time; and, as we rose, range after range, peak on peak opened
on our view, valley after valley spread out under our feet until
I wearied of admiring. The others had gone over the trail before,
and looked on nature with a more matter-of-fact eye. At the top of
the range I noticed an outcrop of fossil coral. Bubud distinguished
himself to-day. Gallman, who was trotting immediately in front
(and who ought to know his own trails!), called "Ware hole!" just
as Bubud put one of his forefeet in it, pitched forward, and threw
me over his head, thus establishing a complete breach of continuity
between us. However, as long as the thing had to happen, it was a
good place to select, for the trail was four feet wide here, and,
in case of going over the side, the drop was only eighty or ninety
feet, with bushes conveniently arranged to catch hold of on the way
down. This was Bubud's solitary mishap, and it was not his fault.

Past the divide, the trail became a road over which one might have
marched a field battery, so broad and firm and good was it: we were
nearing Kiangan. Presently we turned a low spur to the left, and the
Ifugao town burst upon our view. It was the headquarters of a Spanish
_Comandancia_ in the old days, and here Padre Juan Villaverde lived
and worked, seeking to convert the people, and to teach them to grow
coffee and to plant European vegetables. The mission, however came to
naught, leaving behind no trace visible to the casual traveller, save
a few lone cabbages: the garrison maintained here was massacred to a