"El Dorado is beyond those hills," said the youth fervently.
"It looks accessible from here," she answered, "but——"
"You're warning me again. You're afraid I'll be discouraged by the hills."
"Not discouraged, but there are resting places on the way. They hold the bulk of the pilgrims, I fear."
"I shall go on; not even you could stop me."
She caught a glint in his fierce young eyes that she thought he must be unconscious of.
"I? Oh, I shall spur you—if you need spurring."
"I know; I'm only beginning to realize how much I owe you; I mean to repay you, though."
There was an intimation of remoteness in his tone, as if he saw himself removed from her, mounting solitary to his dream city, a free-necked, well-weaponed pilgrim, sufficient unto himself. It was as if he had put distance between them the moment he crossed the threshold of the world. She drew a full breath. It came to her, as the upflashing of some submerged memory, that all his frank adoration of her had been quite impersonal. He had regarded her as a bit of line and color. It was amazing to remember that he had made no effort to know her, save with his eyes. She divined that she had stopped short of being human to him, while he to her had been, more than anything else, a human creature of freshness and surprises. Whatever difficulties might be in the way of an easy friendliness between them, they would not be of his own making. She was sure she felt a great relief.
Ewing awoke in the night at some jolting halt of the train, to feel an exciting thrill of luxury as he stretched in his berth. Here was no stumbling about in the dark to search for a lost trail; nor must he rise in the chill dawn to worry a blaze from overnight embers, cook a discouraging breakfast, catch horses, and lade unwilling beasts with packs. Things would be done for him; and the trail was wide and level as befits the approach to the world. He dozed royally off feeling that he had bitten into the heart of his wonder at last.