done
so. Anyway, you can see them yonder."

He broke off for a moment, and when he went on again his manner was
deprecatory.

"Since sunrise I've been troubled with a haunting sense of the
familiar, though when I found the lake with Verneille we marched
through no brulee."

"That's years ago, and this brulee is probably not more than twelve
months old--I mean as a brulee," said Weston, impatiently, for the
strain of the long march was telling on him. "Anyway, you've been
half-recognizing places ever since we started on this search, and I'd
rather you didn't make half sure of anything else. In fact, I can't
stand much more of it."

Grenfell, who showed no sign of resentment, laughed again.

"As I think I told you, I've been troubled with memories that seem
half dreams. I'm not sure that's quite unusual in the case of a man
who has consumed as much whisky as I have. Besides, it's a little
difficult to distinguish between dreams and what we look upon as
realities, since the latter exist only in the perception of our
senses, which may be deceptive. They agree on that point, don't they,
in places as dissimilar as India and Germany?"

"Are you sure you didn't dream about the lead?" Weston asked bluntly.
"It's a point that has been troubling me for a considerable time."

"Then why did you come up with me to search for the lake?"

"I was once or twice told at home that I was a persistent imbecile.
That may account for it."

"Well," said Grenfell, reflectively, "your action on one or two
occasions seems to warrant the observation--I mean when you stood the
boys off me after I'd spoiled their supper, and the other time when
you decided on my account not to stay on at the copper-mine. Still, I
want to say that while I seem to know I will not make another journey
on the gold trail, I've had a subconscious feeling of certainty since
sunrise yesterday that the lake lies just ahead of us. I know nothing
definite that justifies it, but we'll probably find out to-morrow.
There's just another thing. If I leave my bones up here my share falls
to you."

He seemed disinclined for any further conversation, and Weston went to
sleep again. When he awakened the moon had sunk behind the range, and
a faint gray light was filtering down beneath the blackened pines. It
showed the pack-horse standing close by, and Devine stretched out
beneath his blanket, a shadowy, shapeless figure, but there was, as
far as Weston could see, no sign