The ground and the streams are hard frozen, and the path is so slippery that the trembling mules dare scarcely put one foot before the other, and our progress is painfully slow.

We are in a broad, stone-strewed valley, partly covered with withered puma-grass, on which a flock of graceful _vicunas_ are quietly grazing, as seemingly unconscious of our presence as the great condors which soar above the snowy peaks that look down on the plain.
As we leave the valley, through a pass no wider than a gateway, the cacique gives me a word of warning.
"The part we are coming to is the most dangerous of all," he said.

"But it is, fortunately, not long.

Two hours will bring us to a sheltered valley.
And now leave everything to your mule.

If you feel nervous shut your eyes, but as you value your life neither tighten your reins nor try to guide him." I repeat this caution to Gahra, and ask how he feels.
"Much better, senor; the sunshine has given me new life.