One seemed to be lying on the roof of the world, and the nearer peaks, which still rose above them, were its towers and cupolas; across its parapet one gazed at a vast semi-circle of sunlit space. Looked at from here, the great brilliantly-coloured hills through which they had fought their way appeared smooth, gently curved and rounded, dull of tone; northward one saw, as if painted on a map in sepia, with streaks and patches untouched by the brush, a perspective of almost parallel ridges that one guessed were the outlines of unending valleys; while eastward beyond a range of lower summits, one had a glimpse of the plains themselves and a true horizon, a flat, faintly golden sea meeting the sky at a distance of eighty, a hundred, or perhaps more miles away. Closer to one’s eyes, if one looked directly downward, there were strong colours, forceful shapes. Spires of red rock glowed fiercely beside a profound gorge filled with purple shadow; and an immense unbroken cloak of snow that stretched from the crest to the base of one neighbouring hill gave off a white smoke in the sun’s rays and made rainbow shafts hover amidst the smoke. But the prevailing impression was of colourless distance, measureless space, and light so strong that it destroyed the substance and form of all that it shone upon.
They began the descent. Two thousand feet lower down one felt an immense relief, after another thousand one was breathing in comfort; all the heads had ceased to ache; Manuel Balda was cracking jokes, laughing at sickness, vowing that he had stopped that time merely because of a slight stitch in the side of him.
Next day they rode on, through a valley wider and easier than any they had yet entered. Dyke set the men singing, made Manuel the leader of the march, and kept by Emmie’s side. She saw condors at close range. Four or five of them rose from the dry bed of a torrent, and, coal-black in the sunshine, swept upward on extended wings. They looked enormous, as sinister and evil as their ugly reputation had led her to imagine. One of the men fired his rifle, but without effect. They soared into space, vanished.
Dyke spoke to her of the emeralds, telling her how he meant to set about the work of exploration. Without his telling her, she understood that he felt excited as they drew nearer to the goal.
He talked to her also of “the sense of direction.” This was after she had paid him compliments upon the unwavering confidence with which he had led them through the labyrinth of hills and vales.
“It is too wonderful, Tony. I can’t think how you do it.”
“Well,” he said modestly, but much gratified, “of course, there’s the compass—and the sun. Besides, I can always go to any place where I have once been. Then I have my landmarks. If you want to know, I’m looking for one of them now. It’s about due. Yes,” and he smiled complacently, “I suppose I am rather good at finding my way. The gods, Emmie, gave me something beyond the usual European outfit—they gave me the sense of direction.” And he held forth about this instinctive faculty, saying it was being investigated and that much more would be known concerning it later on. There had been some good research work with homing pigeons, migratory birds, and wild as well as domesticated dogs. “I don’t attempt to explain it myself. If you’ve got it, you’ve got it—and you know you’ve got it. It was that and nothing else which saved my life in North Australia in the year 1884. I was temporarily blinded, by the sand, you know—so that I couldn’t see five yards ahead—but I knew. I didn’t go in circles—I didn’t falter—I didn’t have to calculate or think. I knew. Yes, that’s my trump card—and except for it, I wouldn’t be so bumptious. I might consent to take a back seat to others—the gentlemen that the press eulogise for their scientific training—and their learning—and culture. But Anthony Dyke beats them there. That’s why I say, put your money on old A. D. What?”
He broke off, laughing. “How I do gas about myself! But you lead me on, Emmie; you spoil me. You should check me instead of encouraging me. All those Indian fellows behind us have the gift I speak of—but perhaps less fully developed. You remember where we lost that pack—the place where the mule went down. If I told one of them to go back there, he’d find his way unerringly—even, mark you, if he didn’t actually retrace his steps. He’d get there.”
They rode on. And Emmie felt as if her past had gone from her utterly; it was not now that she had grown so accustomed to this new life that she felt she had been leading it for years. There had never been another life.