spot," said he, "for it should be at the foot
of the tomb of the Indian chief--and these ornaments indicate that the
rock is the tomb. We have no time to lose. You and Bois-Rose walk
around the rock, while I go and examine those cotton-trees and willows."

"I am suspicious of everything in this mysterious place," said
Bois-Rose; "that cry indicates the presence of a human being; and
whether white or red, he is to be feared. Before we separate, let me
examine the _sign_."

All three bent on the ground eyes accustomed to read there as in an open
book. The prints of a man's feet were visible on the sand, and one of
them had trodden down the plants, whose stems were still gently rising
up again one after the other.

"What did I tell you?" cried Bois-Rose. "Here are the tracks of a white
man's feet, and I swear it is not ten minutes since he was here. These
footmarks lead towards yonder cotton-trees."

"In any case he is alone," suggested Fabian.

All three were advancing towards the trees, when Bois-Rose halted.

"Let me go first," said he; "this hedge may hide the enemy. But no, the
man who has left these footprints has only pulled open the vines and
glanced through--he has not gone further in that direction."

So saying, Bois-Rose, in his turn, pulled aside the branches and the
climbing network which was interwoven with them, and after a short
examination, which had no particular result, he retired and left the
branches to reclose of themselves. He then tried to follow the tracks
but further on the ground became stony, and all traces disappeared.

"Let us go round this conical rock," suggested Bois-Rose.

"Come, Pepe; Fabian will wait here for us."

The two hunters strode off, and Fabian remained alone and pensive. This
Golden Valley, of whose possession he had dreamt at that time when his
heart nourished sweet hopes, was now near to him. What had been a dream
was now a reality, and still he was more unhappy than at the time when
hopeful love caused him to scoff at poverty. It is thus that happiness
flies just as we are about to seize it. Sometimes in the silence of the
forest, the traveller lends a greedy ear to the notes of the
mocking-bird, and advances with precaution towards the place where,
hidden under the foliage, the bird of the solitudes utters its sweet
song. Vain hope! he advances, and the singer flies, his voice still as
distant and himself as invisible as ever! Thus man often hears in