ith every expression of
disgust.

A quarter of an hour later, we were all kneeling on the banks of the
stream and trying who could perform the greatest amount of washing, the
fruit of the soap-tree affording us a plentiful supply of lather. In the
_Terre-Temperee_, a root called _amoli_ is a substitute for soap; in the
_Terre-Chaude_ a bulb named _amolito_ is used for the same purpose;
lastly, in the Mistec province of Oajaca, the poor find a natural soap
in the bark of the _Quillaja saponaria_, a tree belonging to the rose
tribe. Even in Europe, a vegetable soap is also found--the soap-wort--a
little plant allied to the pinks, and which adorns with its unpretending
flowers the edges of ditches, and is employed by housewives for cleaning
silk stuffs and reviving their faded colors.

Quite refreshed with our wash, we stretched ourselves close to the camp
fire, looking forward to our meal of roast ducks dressed with cresses,
rice, and seasoned with allspice. On taking the first mouthful, I made a
grimace which was imitated by Sumichrast. The rice had an unbearable
aromatic taste. L'Encuerado regarded us with a triumphant look.

"What on earth have you put in the saucepan?" I cried, angrily.

"Don't you think it is nice, Tatita?"

"It's perfectly filthy; you've poisoned us!" But I soon recognized the
smell of a kind of coriander with which the Indians occasionally
saturate their food. Sumichrast, like me, had not got beyond the first
mouthful; but Lucien, who shared to some extent l'Encuerado's weakness
for the _culantro_, was having quite a feast. Our bill of fare was thus
reduced to a single dish, and I left the broiled duck to my two
companions and confined myself to the roast. With an artlessness that
approached the sublime, the Indian, thinking that we should prefer the
fresh plant to the cooked, the odor of which had been somewhat softened
down by the operation, presented us with several stalks. On the whole,
however, he was not altogether to blame, for we often ate with pleasure
his national style of cookery, and he had full right to be surprised at
our repugnance to their favorite _bon bouche_.

Gringalet just tasted the rice, then retired to roll on the twigs of
coriander which were lying on the ground, a proceeding which did not
much improve his toilet.

The sun was setting, and hundreds of birds were assembling around us.
Yellow, blue, green, or red wings were cleaving the air in all
directions.

There