Don
Antonito, he tells us, has gone before us on horseback;--we mount the
_volante_, and follow. Roque drives briskly at first, a slight breeze
refreshes us, and we think the road better than is usual. But wait a
bit, and we come to what seems an unworked quarry of coral rock, with
no perceptible way over it, and Roque still goes on, slowly indeed, but
without stop or remark. The strong horses climb the rough and slippery
rocks, dragging the strong _volante_ after them. The _calesero_ picks
his way carefully; the carriage tips, jolts, and tumbles; the centre of
gravity appears to be nowhere. The breeze dies away; the vertical sun
seems to pin us through the head; we get drowsy, and dream of an uneasy
sea of stones, whose harsh waves induce headache, if not seasickness.
We wish for a photograph of the road;--first, to illustrate the
inclusive meaning of the word; second, to serve as a remembrance, to
reconcile us to all future highways.
Why these people are content to work out their road-tax by such sore
travail of mind and body appeareth to us mysterious. The breaking of
stone in state-prison is not harder work than riding over a Cuban road;
yet this extreme of industry is endured by the Cubans from year to
year, and from one human life to another, without complaint or effort.
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