“What a lovely place this is!” he said. “Hadn’t we better get back and report progress to your brother?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Brace; “but what did you find?”
“Pst! Keep quiet. I don’t want the men to know.”
“What was it—footprints in the sand belonging to the men of your golden city?”
Briscoe looked at him sharply.
“No,” he said, in a low tone so that no one else could hear, “but signs of gold itself, and we may be on the way to the legendary city after all.”
“What?” cried Brace, smiling. “You don’t mean to say that you are still thinking about that! I thought you had entirely forgotten it.”
“To be frank, I always do think about it, for I believe in it most firmly: otherwise I should not be here.”
“Nonsense! It’s nothing but a myth—a legend,” said Brace.
“I think not,” said Briscoe gravely. “I believe it’s as much a fact as the golden cities of the Mexicans and Peruvians that the Spaniards proved to be no myths.”