Noting armed sentinels pacing the sea wall at a certain spot, Kirk called his companion’s attention to them.

“That’s Chiriqui Prison, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.  They say some of the dungeons are almost under the sea.  It must be a terrible place.”

“I’ve developed a morbid interest in jails,” he remarked.  “I’m quite an authority on them.  I think, however, I won’t experiment with this one—­I don’t like the view.”

“Yes, it’s an unhealthy spot, according to all accounts.  I’m sure you’d get rheumatism, at least.  By-the-way, do you notice the thickness of those walls?  They say that a king of Spain was seen standing at his palace window one day staring anxiously toward the west.  When a courtier presumed to ask him what he was looking at, he said, ’I am searching for those costly walls of Panama.  They ought to be visible even from here.’  They cost ten million dollars, you know, when dollars were worth a good deal more than they are now.  Look!  There’s Taboga.”

Following her gaze, Kirk beheld a mountain of amethyst rising out of the bay.  Behind them the shores stretched away into misty distances, while low mountains, softened by a delicate purple, rolled up from the jungle plain.  Ahead of them the turquoise waters were dotted by islets whose heights were densely overgrown, while sands of coral whiteness ringed their shore lines.  Here and there a fleet of fishing-boats drifted.  Far out in the roadstead lay two cruisers, slate-gray and grim.  The waters over-side purled soothingly, the heavens beamed, the breeze was like a gentle caress.  The excursionists lost themselves in silent enjoyment.

Even before they had come to anchor a dozen boatmen were racing for them and crying for their patronage.  At the water’s edge they saw a tiny village nestled close against the mountains, its tiled roofs rust-red and grown to moss, its walls faded by wind and weather to delicate mauves and dove colors and greens impossible to describe.  Up against the slope a squat ’dobe chapel sat, while just beyond reach of the tide was a funny little pocket-size plaza, boasting a decrepit fountain and an iron fence eaten by the salt.  Backing it all was a marvellous verdure, tipped up on edge, or so it seemed, and cleared in spots for pineapples.

The launch, when it came to rest, seemed suspended in air, and beneath it lay an entrancing sea-garden.  Once the engine had stopped its clatter, a sleepy, peaceful silence settled over the harbor, unbroken by wheel or whistle, for in Taboga no one works and there are no vehicles.

“What a wonderful place!” exclaimed the young man, fervently.  “Why, it’s like a dream—­it can’t be real!” Then, as the boatmen renewed their begging, “I wonder which barge gentleman I had better hire.”

“Take the little boy, please.”  Edith called to an urchin who was manfully struggling with a pair of oars twice his own length, whereupon the older boatmen began to shove off with many scowls and much grumbling.