the nostrils. As he finished dressing Adan reached
him. The horses' heads were hanging listlessly. Adan's face had lost
its ruddy colour.

"Roldan," he said, "where are we?"

"I know not," said Roldan, setting his lips.

"I left you to look for water, and there are not even tarantulas in
this accursed place. There is no water, not a drop. Nor a handful of
stubble for the horses."

"We must go back the way we came, and start once more from the foot of
the mountain."

"Can you remember from which point we entered this place? This soil
might be rock; there is not a hoof-print anywhere."

"We should have gone south and we came east. On the northwestern
horizon is something which looks like mountains--a long range--almost
buried in mist. There is no sign of a range anywhere else; so the only
thing to do is to go back to them; they are our mountains; I feel sure
of that."

"If the horses do not give out. They are empty and choking, poor
things. Well, there is no reason we should not eat, and, thanks be to
that good mayor domo, we still have a bottle of wine. But I would give
something for a gourd of water. However, we have not been girls yet,
and we will not begin now, my friend."

The boys ate their breakfast, but their spirits felt little lighter,
even after a long draught of wine. The awful quiet of the place, broken
only by an occasional whinny from the mustangs, seemed to press hard
about them, thickening the blood in their veins. Roldan was filled with
forebodings he could not analyse, and strove to coax forth from its
remote brain-cell something that had wandered in, he could not recall
when nor where.

They saddled the mustangs, mounted, and were about to make for the
northwest when Adan gave a hoarse gurgle, caught Roldan's arm, pulled
him about, and pointed with shaking hand to the south.

"Dios de mi alma!" exclaimed Roldan. "It is Los Angeles. We were right,
after all. But why were we never told that it was so beautiful?"

On the southern horizon, half veiled in pale blue mist, showed a
stately city, with domes and turrets and spires and many lofty
cathedrals. It was a white city; there were no red tiles to break those
pure and lovely lines, to blotch that radiant whiteness; even the red
sun withheld its angry shafts.

Roldan gazed, his lips parting, his breath coming quickly. If his
imagination had ever attempted to picture heaven, its wildest flight
would have resembled but fallen short of that l