"Which is," grunted Mac, "which is, metaphorically speaking, preceesely what we are doing. Gee up, Meesery, and dinna look sae weary-like."
"Our specimen must have been shed from that mountain," I repeated, when we lay down in our blankets at night.
The morning dawned clear and beautifully calm. The sky was cloudless, save where in the east a billowy sea of gold marked where the sun had risen. The leafless branches of the mulga shrubs growing near quivered in the rising rays, and the long sand-track ahead sparkled as the waters of a gilded ocean. But now, through the dispelling haze the firm outline of a precipitous mountain became clearly visible only a few miles ahead. In our eager search on the preceding afternoon we had not observed the nearness of the welcome sentinel, or probably it was that the darkening sky in the early evening had shut it from our view. There was certainly no doubt about its presence now, and we hailed it right gladly as we watched it loom out of the dissolving mists.
"It's mebbe a mirage," suggested Stewart apprehensively.
"Nary miradge," retorted Mac; "it's El Dorado, that's what it is. Just what we were looking for."
Five minutes later I was ogling the sun with my sextant, while Phil stood by with the trusty chronometer in his hand to note the time of my observations.
"125 degrees 17 minutes east longitude," he announced, after a rough calculation, "which makes the mountain about ten miles off."
"'Shadow,' said he, 'Whaur can it be, This land o' El Dorado?'" |
Stewart trolled out lustily as he set about the preparation of the morning meal. About eight o'clock we were ready to start, which showed unusual alacrity in our movements. The camels, too, seemed imbued with fresh life, and allowed themselves to be loaded without their customary protests.