ss his mind and he
remembered the oath which she had required of him:

"Not a moment's weakness, Simon. I should never forgive that."

He pulled himself together and said:

"Get some rest, Dolores. We have still a long way to go."

She also recovered herself and went down to the river, where she
bathed her face in the cool water. Then, getting to work immediately,
she collected all the provisions and ammunition that she could find on
the wounded men.

"There!" she said, when everything was ready for their departure.
"Mazzani and Forsetta won't die, but we have nothing more to fear from
them. We will leave them in the charge of the two tramps. The four of
them will be able to defend themselves."

They exchanged no more words. They went up the river for another hour
and reached the wide bend of which the people from Cayeux had told
them. At the very beginning of this bend, which brought the waters of
the Somme direct from France, they picked up Rolleston's trail on a
tract of muddy sand. The trail led straight on, leaving the course of
the river and running north.

"The fountains of gold lie in this direction evidently," Simon
inferred. "Rolleston must be at least a day's journey ahead of us."

"Yes," said Dolores, "but his party is a large one, they have no
horses left and their two prisoners are delaying their progress."

They met several wanderers, all of whom had heard the strange rumour
which had spread from one end of the prairie to the other and all of
whom were hunting for the fountain of gold. No one could give the
least information.

But a sort of old crone came hobbling along, leaning on a stick and
carrying a carpet-bag with the head of a little dog sticking out of
it.

The dog was barking like mad. The old crone was humming a tune, in a
faint, high-pitched voice.

Dolores questioned her. She replied, in short, sing-song sentences,
which seemed a continuation of her ditty, that she had been walking
for three days, never stopping . . . that she had worn out her shoes
. . . and that when she was tired . . . she got her dog to carry her:

"Yes, my dog carries me," she repeated. "Don't you, Dick?"

"She's mad," Simon muttered.

The old woman nodded in assent and addressed them in a confidential
tone:

"Yes, I'm mad. . . . I used not to be, but it's the gold . . . the
rain of gold that has made me mad. . . . It shoots into the air like a
fountain . . . and the gold coins and the bright pebbles