his reticent visitor whose soul was
so intent on inward problems that it perceived nothing of interest in an
epaulet of gold on the shoulder of Mount Solidor.

"Few come this trail now," the miner volunteered, as he cleared the
table. "I am alone and seldom see a human being drifting my way. I do
not invite them."

The stranger refilled his pipe and again leaned back against the wall in
ponderous repose. If he heard his host's remark he gave no sign of it,
and yet, despite the persistence of his guest's silence--perhaps because
of it--the lonely gold-seeker babbled on with increasing candor,
contradicting himself, revealing, hiding, edging round his story,
confessing to his hopes of riches, betraying in the end the secrets of
his lonely life. It was as if the gates of his unnatural reserve had
broken down and the desire to be heard, to be companioned, had
over-borne all his early caution.

"It's horribly lonesome up here," he confessed. "Sometimes I think I'll
give it all up and go back to civilization. When I came here the pass
had its traffic; now no one rides it, which is lucky for me," he added.
"I have no prying visitors--I mean no one to contest my claim--and yet a
man can't do much alone. Even if my ore richens I must transport it or
build a mill. Sometimes I wonder what I'm living for, stuck away in this
hole in the hills. I was born to better things--"

He checked himself at this moment, as if he were on the edge of
self-betrayal, but his listener seemed not vitally interested in these
personal details. However, he made some low-voiced remark, and, as if
hypnotized, the miner resumed his monologue.

"The nights are the worst. They are endless--and sometimes when I cannot
sleep I feel like surrendering to my fate--" Here again he broke off
sharply. "That's nonsense, of course. I mean, it seems as if a life were
too much to pay for a crazy act--I mean a mine. You'll ask why I don't
sell it, but it's all I have and, besides, no one has any faith in it
but myself. I cannot sell, and I can't live down there among men."

Gabbling, keeping time to his nervous feet and hands, endlessly
repeating himself, denying, confessing, the miner raged on, and through
it all the dark-browed guest smoked tranquilly, too indifferent to ask a
question or make comment; but when, once or twice, he lifted his eyes,
the garrulous one shuddered and turned away, a scared look on his
haggard face. He seemed unable to endure that stead