fortably with my feet in a basket of chirimoyas, and that my brodequins, white gown, and cloak, had been all drenched with the milky juice, and then made black by the floor of the diligence.
With no small difficulty a trunk was brought down, and another dress procured, to the great amusement of the Indian women, who begged to know if my gown was the last fashion, and said it was "muy guapa," very pretty. Here we found good hot coffee, and it being Christmas day, everyone was clean and dressed for mass.
At Rio Frio, which is about thirteen leagues from Mexico, and where there is a pretty good posada in a valley surrounded by woods, we stopped to dine. The inn is kept by a Bordelaise and her husband, who wish themselves in Bordeaux twenty times a day. In front of the house, some Indians were playing at a curious and very ancient game—a sort of swing, resembling "El Juego de los Voladores," The game of the Flyers," much in vogue amongst the ancient Mexicans. Our French hostess gave us a good dinner, especially excellent potatoes, and jelly of various sorts, regaling us with plenty of stories of robbers and robberies and horrid murders all the while.
On leaving Rio Frio, the road became more hilly and covered with woods, and we shortly entered the tract known by the name of the Black Forest, a great haunt for banditti, and a beautiful specimen of forest scenery, a succession of lofty oaks, pines and cedars, with wild flowers lighting up their gloomy green. But I confess, that the impatience which I felt to see
