A mile or so beyond the copper mines we came upon a veritable mountain paradise⁠—from our point of view, at least. It was the home of Don José Mills, a Spaniard who, for some unknown reason, had banished himself to this out-of-the-world spot and, with what labour and pains can only be imagined, had made for himself a civilised abode. I was shown to a room all by myself, which had in it a real bed with springs and a mattress. It was the first one I had seen for I don’t know how long. I regarded it with great curiosity at first, then I sat down on it most respectfully. I lay down and stretched myself out; then I pulled up a soft blanket and, though it was only midday, nothing short of the gravest emergency could have induced me to move. The emergency presented itself, finally, in the form of luncheon and I discovered that Don José had returned hurriedly from Candon in order to entertain us and that he had brought with him everything in the form of food and liquid refreshments that he could find. The result was a triumph, and we decided that we should like to remain under his hospitable roof indefinitely.