But it was too late to repine; and after all, the Indian's story was likely enough to be false.
“Off with you!” said he; and the Indian bounded over the side into his canoe, leaving the whole crew wondering at the stateliness and courtesy of this bold sea-cavalier.
So Westward-ho they ran, beneath the mighty northern wall, the highest cliff on earth, some seven thousand feet of rock parted from the sea by a narrow strip of bright green lowland. Here and there a patch of sugar-cane, or a knot of cocoa-nut trees, close to the water's edge, reminded them that they were in the tropics; but above, all was savage, rough, and bare as an Alpine precipice. Sometimes deep clefts allowed the southern sun to pour a blaze of light down to the sea marge, and gave glimpses far above of strange and stately trees lining the glens, and of a veil of perpetual mist which shrouded the inner summits; while up and down, between them and the mountain side, white fleecy clouds hung motionless in the burning air, increasing the impression of vastness and of solemn rest, which was already overpowering.
“Within those mountains, three thousand feet above our heads,” said Drew, the master, “lies Saint Yago de Leon, the great city which the Spaniards founded fifteen years agone.”
“Is it a rich place?” asked Cary.
“Very, they say.”
“Is it a strong place?” asked Amyas.
“No forts to it at all, they say. The Spaniards boast, that Heaven has made such good walls to it already, that man need make none.”
“I don't know,” quoth Amyas. “Lads, could you climb those hills, do you think?”
“Rather higher than Harty Point, sir: but it depends pretty much on what's behind them.”