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A native we spoke with referred to it as a "ciudad," but in everything but name it was a dead, mud-and-straw Indian village, all but its main street a collection of mud, rags, pigs, and sunshine, and no evidence of what Prescott describes as splendid ruins. Earthquakes are not unknown, and the bells of the church, old as the conquest of Michoacan, hang in the trees before it.
Alighting from the car a short time later, we walked some distance through the thickening smoke of the sadhus' fires and over the slippery sands to reach a cluster of tiny, very modest mud-and-straw huts. We halted in front of one of these insignificant temporary dwellings, with a pygmy doorless entrance, the shelter of Kara Patri, a young wandering sadhu noted for his exceptional intelligence.
At the second door of the mud-and-straw building he paused to add in an awe-struck whisper: "Take off your hat and wait until he calls you in." Instead I stepped toward the entrance, but the teniente snatched at the slack of my shirt with a gasp of terror: "Por Dios! Take off your revolver! If the colonel sees it...."
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