The road was rough, but he was young and strong.

Once he crossed the pedregal, a region where an old lava flow had cooled, and which presented to his feet numerous sharp edges like those of a knife.

He had good shoes with heavy soles and he knew their value.

On the long march before him they were worth as much as bread and weapons, and he picked his way as carefully as a walker on a tight rope.
He was glad when he had crossed the dangerous pedregal and entered a cypress forest, clustering on a low hill.

Grass grew here also, and he rested a while, wrapped in his serape against the coldness of the night.
He saw behind and now below him the city, the towers of the churches outlined against the sky.