“Upon my soul,” he said, “you must think me a nice leader.”
“We can walk,” said Miss Anstrade, looking to the distant mountains.
“We could make a raft from the waggon timber, and float down the river,” said Webster.
“It is not the loss of the oxen I fear. We will recover enough of them to continue; it is the ease with which these unknown enemies have succeeded in their plans that troubles me. Now that I have lost the map I believe there does exist a Golden Rock, and their cunning and superior woodcraft will enable them to win it.”
“Nonsense,” she said; “they succeeded because we were off our guard. Now we know what we have to expect, we will oppose our wits to their cunning.”
“It is too late—they have the map—and will have a long start.”
“There was nothing in the map,” said Webster, “that I could not describe with a stick on this patch of sand.”
“Besides,” she said, with spirit, “do you suppose I am going to give up the search after coming all this way?”
“You are right,” replied Hume; “but it does not improve one’s spirit to be fast bound to a tree all night with a handkerchief in your mouth. Map or no map, we must find the Golden Rock.”
“That is better,” she said, with a smile. “Now, then, let us do something.”