“I travel my road alone, Mr. Meyer.”

“I know, I know, and that is the pity of it.  The trouble between man and woman is that not in one case out of a million, even if they be lovers, do they understand each other.  Their eyes may seek one another, their hands and lips may meet, and yet they remain distinct, apart, and often antagonistic.  There is no communication of the soul.  But when it chances to be hewn from the same rock as it were—­oh! then what happiness may be theirs, and what opportunities!”

“Possibly, Mr. Meyer; but, to be frank, the question does not interest me.”

“Not yet; but I am sure that one day it will.  Meanwhile, I owe you an apology.  I lost my temper before you last night.  Well, do not judge me hardly, for I was utterly worn out, and that old idiot vexed me with his talk about ghosts, in which I do not believe.”

“Then why did it make you so angry?  Surely you could have afforded to treat it with contempt, instead of doing—­as you did.”

“Upon my word!  I don’t know, but I suppose most of us are afraid lest we should be forced to accept that which we refuse.  This ancient place gets upon the nerves, Miss Clifford; yours as well as mine.  I can afford to be open about it, because I know that you know.  Think of its associations:  all the crime that has been committed here for ages and ages, all the suffering that has been endured here.  Doubtless human sacrifices were offered in this cave or outside of it; that great burnt ring in the rock there may have been where they built the fires.  And then those Portuguese starving to death, slowly starving to death while thousands of savages watched them die.  Have you ever thought what it means?  But of course you have, for like myself you are cursed with imagination.  God in heaven! is it wonderful that it gets upon the nerves? especially when one cannot find what one is looking for, that vast treasure”—­and his face became ecstatic—­“that shall yet be yours and mine, and make us great and happy.”

“But which at present only makes me a scullery-maid and most unhappy,” replied Benita cheerfully, for she heard her father’s footstep.  “Don’t talk any more of the treasure, Mr. Meyer, or we shall quarrel.  We have enough of that during business hours, when we are hunting for it, you know.  Give me the dish, will you?  This meat is cooked at last.”

Still Benita could not be rid of that treasure, since after breakfast the endless, unprofitable search began again.  Once more the cave was sounded, and other hollow places were discovered upon which the two men got to work.  With infinite labour three of them were broken into in as many days, and like the first, found to be graves, only this time of ancients who, perhaps, had died before Christ was born.  There they lay upon their sides, their bones burnt by the hot cement that had been poured over them, their gold-headed and gold-ferruled rods of office in their hands, their gold-covered pillows of wood, such as the Egyptians used, beneath their skulls, gold bracelets upon their arms and ankles, cakes of gold beneath them which had fallen from the rotted pouches that once hung about their waists, vases of fine glazed pottery that had been filled with offerings, or in some cases with gold dust to pay the expenses of their journey in the other world, standing round them, and so forth.