"Ye see dat flat stone?" said the guide. "Dat's were de gooman feller 'ide 'is gold. Dey was tree Italians chaps 'ere 'n dey turn ober dat stone ter roll it downill. 'N underneat was all dat feller's gold. Dat madum larf, I tell yer."
We climbed higher and yet higher; we thought we would never reach the crest. The sweat poured from us, and we were drenched.
On the top there were but few stones of the old castle, and we rode over the ruins. We passed into a queer pallid country, pale grey houses, pale yellow or pale green fields, grey sky and stones, a violently rolling plain where our guide lost his way, and we became increasingly aware of the discomfort of our saddles, and prayed for the journey to end.
We refound the route, and asked a peasant, "How far to Jabliak?"
"Bogami, quarter of an hour."
We cheered.
At the end of twenty minutes we asked once more.
"Bogami, quarter of an hour."
At the end of twenty minutes more we asked again, our spirits were falling.
"Bogami, quarter of an hour."