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 feeble, halting voice of Cosme, uttering in hollow accents: "Pos no es costumbre!"

That grim specter of departed mozos was again thrust at me. But what recourse had I? —what vengeance dared I seek upon this poor untutored boy, for his deep devotion to what he considered the duty of his office? If Cosme had died on the road, or a hundred robbers had surrounded and threatened his life and property, except he rode in the rear of the carriage, he would have forfeited his all, and his body would have been found, where all good mozos like to be—in front.

When Palomas was reached, and our horses were reined in preparatory to halting in front of the house where we were to spend the day, an amusing spectacle greeted us. Faithful Cosme was lying on the ground. The whites of his eyes only were visible; he quaked and shook, as if in convulsion; his tongue lolled from his mouth, and his whole attitude bespoke utter prostration. On stepping from the carriage, I ventured to go near him, and inquire as to the nature and extent of his injuries. Between chattering teeth and spasmodic jerks he raised himself on his elbow, saying: "El caballo anda muy duro" ("The horse goes very hard") —"y tengo mucho dolor de cabeza" ("and I have a bad headache"). Shortly afterwards when he appeared before me again, he had a green leaf pasted on either temple —the sovereign remedy of the common people for headache.

Palomas is a small village, with little to recommend it save that it is picturesquely situated in a pass —Cañon de las Palomas (Pass of the Doves)— in the Sierra Madre Mountains, which here separate the valley of Saltillo from the table-lands leading to San Luis Potosi. It has a thousand inhabitants, consisting for the most