he way I came down when I found the gold," he said.

Weston scrambled to his feet. Floundering in haste along the edge of
the crag, he stopped some sixty yards farther on, with a little quiver
running through him. From that point he could see that the river ran
straight across to the opposite wall of rock. He flung up his arms
with an exultant shout. Then they went on eagerly when Grenfell joined
him.

"Yes," said the latter, when he had glanced below, "I must have seen
it the time I struck the gold. Only then I came down the valley."

They pushed on. Toward sunset a thick rain once more came down, and
filmy mists wreathed themselves about the hills and by and by filled
up the valley, and the strip of mountainside along which the two
lonely men plodded rose isolated from a sea of woolly vapor. They held
on, however, until, when the dusk commenced to creep up the white peak
above them, Weston stopped with a little start. There was a curious
huddled object in a crevice of the rocks not far in front of him.

"Do you see that?" he asked. "What can it be?"

Grenfell gazed at the thing steadily, and then turned to his
companion.

"I think it's Verneille," he said.

They came a little nearer, and saw that he was right, for presently
Grenfell stooped and picked up a discolored watch. It had fallen away
from the moldering rags, but it had a solid case, and, when at length
he succeeded in opening it, he recognized the dial. He gazed at it
with a softening face, and then slipped it into his pocket.

"He was a good comrade. A man with long patience, and I think he had a
good deal to bear from me," he said.

In the meanwhile Weston stood still, with the rain on his face and his
battered hat in his hand. Verneille lay in a cleft of the rocks, where
it seemed he had crawled when he broke down on his last weary march,
but the sun and the rain had worked their will, and there was very
little left of him. Indeed, part of the bony structure had rolled
clear of the shreds of tattered rags. Grenfell gazed at him fixedly,
and neither of the men said anything for the next minute or two. The
peak above them was fading in the growing night, and the stillness of
the great desolation seemed intensified by the soft patter of the
rain. Then Weston roused himself with an effort, for there was
something to be done.

"We can't leave him lying there," he said. "There is a little soil
among the stones. It's a pity we didn't bring the shovel.