The progress made was very slow, but wonderfully interesting, from the variety of moisture-loving plants which took Dale’s attention, and the brightly coloured insects, which took that of Saxe, while the mule was perfectly content to wait while a halt was called to capture insect or secure plant; the solemn-looking animal standing fetlock-deep in the water, and browsing on the herbage in the various crannies among the stones.
One of these halts was in an opening out of the narrow gorge running nearly east and west, so that it was flooded by the morning sun; and here, as the limpid water trickled and glided over the sandy bed, Dale took a shallow tin from the mule’s pannier and lowered himself down to the edge of the stream.
Taking hold of a piece of rock so as to reach out, he bent down and scooped out half a panful of sand, where there was an eddy; and as the mule began to munch, and Saxe watched his leader’s acts, Melchior pulled out his pipe, struck a match, and began to smoke.
“The herr is going to try for gold,” he said quietly to Saxe; but Dale heard it.
“Yes. Is there much here, do you think?”
“It is too much to say, herr,” replied the guide. “There may be, but I have never known any to be found on this side of the mountains.”
“Is any found on the other side, then?”
“Oh yes, on the Italian slope, herr, and down in the valleys, they seek for and find gold—not much, but some.”
“Got any, sir?” said Saxe.
“I don’t know myself,” replied Dale, who was washing the heavier gravel away, and picking out the stones he brought to the surface by a skilful motion of the pan beneath the water. “I must wash out all the sand first before I look to see if there is colour, as the American gold-finders call it.”