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hour?
    "No: It was probably friars," he said, scowling. "Friars are the cause of all the miseries in this wretched land. Until a few years back they had a monastery, up there on the mountain. It is empty now, but they still come around to claim rents and rob us poor farmers of half our income. They travel at all hours and mind everyone's business but their own." He would have gone on much longer, grumbling about the friars, but we cut him short by asking if there was another way that would take us to Villaverde, besides the road along which the horsemen had gone.
    There did exist a track, he told us, up over the shoulder of the mountain; but we would have to walk the first part of the way, leading our mules, "It is far too dangerous to be ridden—you or your beasts would be certain to fall down the mountain."
    After reflecting a moment, he added, "For another cuarto I will put you on your path, if you don't mind waiting till I have milked my cattle. I wouldn't mind a chance to see those night travelers for myself. The track is a shortcut although so steep, and will take us over a height from which we can look down and see them winding their way along the valley road."
    This offer was agreeable to us, so we waited, and he gave us a drink of warm milk. Then, the milking finished, he led us along a steep zigzag path which climbed straight up from the valley and over a wooded shoulder of the mountain. We would never have been able to find it for ourselves, even in the dawn light which was now creeping over the hilltop, for it was hardly more than a rabbit track, scarcely visible, save to one who knew it well.
    By and by we were out in the open, on bald scrubby hillside, and paused a moment to get our breath. The farmer would not permit us to wait longer. "We must make haste," said he, "or those fellows will have turned the corner of the road and we shan't be able to see them," leading us onward along the threadlike track at such a pace that both we and the mules were hard put to it to keep up with him. The path, as he had warned, was horribly unsafe, since it crossed a bare steep shoulder of mountain which was formed of loose shale that crumbled and slid away under our feet and our mules' hooves. We had to move with infinite care, studying every foothold. After some half hour of this perilous and unpleasant progress, the farmer let out a triumphant cry.
    "There are the pigs, down below. I see them! Ay, they are most certainly friars—just look at their black cloaks."
    With extreme caution, I lifted my eyes from the pathway and looked down the hillside where he pointed. As he had promised, up here we commanded a view of the cart road, which, a hundred feet below, wound its way along beside the river in the bottom of the valley. And there, sure enough, were two riders who looked, from so far above, like mete beetles creeping along the road.
    "
Bueno!
" said the farmer. "God certainly sent you two gentlemen to tell me about those wretches. They shall do no more harm in this world." And, with care fill deliberation, he pulled a largish rock, about the size of a melon, from a spot below the path and, before we realized what he intended, tossed it downward onto the hillside above the two unwitting travelers.
    What followed was terrifying, almost unbelievable to behold. The rock, thrown down onto that slope of unstable scree, started a spurt of small stones cascading down, which in a matter of seconds increased to a huge pouring cataract of rubble, deadly and unstoppable. Alerted by its roaring sound, the two travelers looked up and, terrified, spurred their horses—but they were far too late. There was no escape for them. In moments both they and their beasts were completely engulfed in a smoking torrent of earth and rock that covered the road entirely and poured on into the river below.
    "Merciful God, man—what have you done?" I cried. "You have murdered those two men—who, for all we know to the contrary, may have been two