Toward four o’clock on this day Hope-Jones and Harvey were walking somewhat in advance of the others. The boy was limping slightly and was in more pain than he would admit to his companion, who had urged him not to go any further, to which Harvey had replied, “One more mile and then I’ll give in.”
The lad was singing, to keep up his courage, and the words were those of the familiar Sunday-school hymn:—
“Onward, Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war.”
Suddenly he stopped, gave a yell, and his face turned pale.
“What is it?” exclaimed Hope-Jones. “Are you hurt?”
“Look! Look! Look!” and the boy pointed straight ahead, between two trees. There, bathed in sunlight, the Englishman saw that which made his heart beat like a trip-hammer—a high boulder that shone as purest marble.
“Hurrah!” he shouted, throwing his cap in the air. “Come on, everybody! There’s the rock! There’s the great white rock!”
Ferguson and Señor Cisneros came up at a run.
“What? The rock?” they called.