At last Williams comes to a halt where numerous nodules of ironstone-clay litter the ground, and, turning towards Claude, places his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and whispers in a mysterious and impressive manner “that them’s the ‘Golden Cliffs.’”
Stretching across the valley, and apparently barring further progress in that direction, is a dark mass of brown and purple rock, which Claude can see differs in many respects from the material of which the other cliffs already passed are composed.
But why “golden”? There seems nothing, as far as he can judge, to make the sombre pile—which appears to be some kind of ironstone deposit—worthy of the auriferous title bestowed upon it on the map. Claude’s heart sinks within him. He knows what a gold-bearing reef is like; he has seen plenty in New Zealand, and some also about Cairns and Mount Silver, but there is no trace of a reef here. But perhaps Williams has made a mistake. The map is examined and re-examined with the sole result of proving that the old miner has guided his companions correctly. Then Claude begins, for the first time since he started, to feel that he has been somewhat rash in going to all this trouble, risk, and expense when after all the mysterious message from his uncle may have been only the result of the feverish promptings of a brain disordered by accident, and at the same time haunted with the desire to leave something behind for that loved sister from whom he had been estranged so long.
Neither can our young friend gather any comfort from either of his companions, who, although far more experienced than he is with rocks and minerals, seem also puzzled and disappointed. But happy is the man who, under adverse circumstances, can gather fresh stores of energy and strength such as now come to relieve Angland from the desponding frame of mind into which the frowning, barren rocks have plunged him for the moment. The memory of a loving, girlish face comes like a peaceful messenger of hope to cheer yet softly chide the heart that fails when it should be strong for her sake. And Claude remembers that, however barren his journey through the desert may prove in other ways, the strange message from the dead has been the cause of his meeting Glory, at any rate, and a deep feeling of thankfulness makes his heart glow with renewed determination and courage.
At the foot of the cliffs Williams and Billy are closely examining the rocks. The former, breaking off chips with a short-handled prospecting pick, bends now and again to observe a likely fragment with a pocket-lens; whilst close by the black boy is at work shovelling up the sandy soil from between the fallen fragments of stone with the blade of his tomahawk, winnowing the same cleverly from hand to hand for the canary-coloured particles of heavy metal, that, judging from the sulky look of the operator, have not yet come to reward his busy efforts.
“What do you make of it?” Williams turns to Angland at the question, and, carefully pocketing his lens, stands looking up at the cliff with his arms akimbo.
“Well I’m blowed if I know, to tell you straight, Mr. Angland. I don’t see nary a colour. Fact is, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” As the old man speaks he affectionately pats a boulder by his side. For just as an M.R.C.S. loves to meet an interesting and complicated case of human infirmity, to correctly diagnose which will redound to his credit in the scientific world, so does old Williams, enthusiastic prospector and geologist that he is, feel quite a warm regard for this strange mass of rock whose hidden secrets it is now his business to unravel.
“It might be a big kind of gozzen out-crop,—the rock’s got a lot of iron in it, there’s no doubt about that. An old mate of mine used to say,—
“‘Es thut kein gang so gut
Er hat einen eisernen hut.’