1
Here Pizarro took up his quarters for the night. Without waiting for the
arrival of the rear, on the following morning he resumed his march,
leading still deeper into the intricate gorges of the sierra. The climate
had gradually changed, and the men and horses, especially the latter,
suffered severely from the cold, so long accustomed as they had been to
the sultry climate of the tropics.2 The vegetation also had changed its
character; and the magnificent timber which covered the lower level of
the country had gradually given way to the funereal forest of pine, and,
as they rose still higher, to the stunted growth of numberless Alpine
plants, whose hardy natures found a congenial temperature in the icy
atmosphere of the more elevated regions. These dreary solitudes seemed
to be nearly abandoned by the brute creation as well as by man. The
light-looted vicuna, roaming in its native state, might be sometimes seen
looking down from some airy cliff, where the foot of the hunter dared not
venture. But instead of the feathered tribes whose gay plumage sparkled
in the deep glooms of the tropical forests, the adventurers now beheld
only the great bird of the Andes, the loathsome condor, who, sailing high
above the clouds, followed with doleful cries in the track of the army, as
if guided by instinct in the path of blood and carnage.
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