HE journey from Barrios to Agua Caliente is, at its best, a test of endurance. At its worst, which is at the close of the rainy season, when the roads are officially declared passable for the mail-coach, it is a twelve hours' torture. It was at the termination of the initial trip of the diligencia that I staggered into the "Inn of the Three Friends," utterly worn out. I was battered and bruised from head to foot; my right arm was stiffening rapidly, partly the result of assisting progress by throwing stones at the foremost pair of the six-mule team, partly from the impetus with which I had struck terra firma at our second spill. I was so tired that I really did not care where the affable proprietor bunked the high-born señor, or what his intentions were with regard to food; though the thought of chile con carne and frijoles was distinctly distasteful, and iguana steak only mildly alluring. The posada was unusually clean. That was heaven, and nothing else mattered.
Señor Montojo, the host, conducted me ceremoniously across the court, through a vociferating crowd of Indians, Spaniards, half-breeds, and Germans, up an elaborately carved staircase to red-flagged galleries, thence to the palatial apartments assigned me. There I flung myself upon a narrow cot, and, stupefied with weariness, stared at the leoparded ceiling. In my eyes there lingered a vision of the marvelous landscape through which we had come, a panorama of awe-inspiring vistas, mammoth trees, plunging waterfalls, and sheer crags. I shivered as I remembered that the jolting, banging stage, caught among ruts and washed-down boulders, might at any moment have been part of the distant scenery, thousands of feet below.
I was roused from my reverie by a tap upon the door. It swung slowly wide, revealing a charming picture—a girl of seventeen, as pretty as Central American girls can be in their very early youth, bearing a tray with bottles and glasses. She smiled shyly.
"From the Señor Montojo," she mured, setting down the tray on the battered table. "There is much excitement to-night for the opening of communication with the capital. There will be a fandango; but the señor is too weary—no? If he will drink this, he will feel better; and when he has dined—ah, then—" She kissed her fingers airily toward the window.
My weariness lessened as she talked, and when I had swallowed the fiery liquor she handed me it changed to genial lassitude.
"Señorita," I exclaimed, "my life is saved! I am revived as if I had partaken of the miracle-waters of Santa Ana. Permit me to extend my everlasting gratitude."
She leaned, laughing, against the white-washed wall. She was slim, yet rounded, supple, and slow of movement. In repose her attitudes were singularly picturesque. Heavy wreaths of blue-black hair crowned her head, in which a cheap Amapalan shell-comb, studded with gilt stars, hung at a precarious angle. Her eyes were long, full, and dark, her "lips a thread of scarlet," her smooth skin a curious lavender color from the quantities of rice powder with which she had endeavored, Spanish fashion, to hide its tawny bronze.
"I'm very glad I came," said I, reflectively.
"Good!" She refilled my glass.
"To your eyes!" I bowed gallantly.
With a toss of her pretty head, she gathered the bottles and glasses upon her gaudy red-and-purple tray, and turned to the door.
"Dinner soon," she said over her shoulder, with a flash of eyes and teeth. "Pierre will be happy to have a foreign gentleman to cook for. It will be an event."
With this enigmatic statement, she left me to digest the aguardiente and listen to the band in the square.