5.30
We have just passed the scene of pillage. Dozens of Indians—men, women, and children—are digging out hot bottles of beer, boxes of sardines and other conserves from the smoking wreck. Cars, engine, and everything in them were destroyed after the brigands had selected what they could carry away.
A white mist has settled over the mountain. Many of the Indians are wearing a sort of circular cape made of a thatch of bamboo or grass hanging from their shoulders—a kind of garment often seen in wet weather in this altitude. It is marvelous that in so few hours a new track could be laid by the old one. We are passing gingerly over it, and if nothing else happens we shall be in Mexico City after midnight. I am too tired to feel adventurous to-day and shall be glad to find myself with my babe in the comfortable Embassy, instead of witnessing Zapatista ravages at first hand in a cold, gray mist which tones down not only the local color, but one’s enthusiasm.