Spinster of This Parish

by W. B. Maxwell

At the mid-day halt he tackled them again, enforcing his successful argument; telling them he merely wanted them to dig for him. There would almost certainly be gold. And if emeralds were found, they need not even touch them. He Dyke would do that. They were not likely to find so many that he could not carry them all away himself. He made them laugh, and after that all seemed well. He snapped his fingers and told Emmie that he had done the trick. They were now “as merry as grigs.”

All seemed well; the afternoon march progressed rapidly.

At night he sat with them, sang to them; told them how nearly their destination was reached. Early to-morrow, he said, they would come to a break in the hills on both sides, and the narrow valley that opened on their right hand would bring them to the final halt. They need have no apprehensions about water. There would be no difficulties.

Next day they started betimes. All was well; the men seemed alert again, just as they had been when they first brightened to the sound of the “good word.” Manuel, who was nearly as excited as Dyke and far more exuberant, obtained leave to go ahead and signal to them as soon as the promised fateful valley came into view.

There was a cry of satisfaction when they saw him, far ahead, standing in his stirrups and waving his hat above his head. They waved to him in return, to show they had got the signal, and he disappeared. All pushed on to follow him. Dyke shouted and sang, as they swept into the entrance of this the last of the valleys, his own valley.

Plainly it was the ancient bed of a torrent that once used to pour down into the wide valley they had left; strewn with rocks large and small, it looked even now so much like a water-course that one could scarcely believe it was dry. The hour was still so early that the high frowning cliffs filled it with grey shadow, and made the sunlight overhead seem trebly vivid.

Then they saw Manuel riding back towards them with breathless haste. They could see him belabour the galloping mule, urging it to its full speed, oblivious of all obstacles. He pulled the poor brute almost upon its haunches when he reached Dyke, and spoke in wild excitement.

“Don Antonio, we are forestalled. There are men there already.”

Dyke would not believe. He laughed. “Manuel, old chap, you have been dreaming.”

But Manuel, gesticulating, swore that he was very wide awake—happily so, perhaps, for everybody’s sake. He had seen. He could trust the evidence of his eyes.