CHAPTER XXVII
A SONG IN THE WILDERNESS
"Why didn't we make a copy of the chart?"
"Don't worry," he replied, touching his forehead, "I've got it all in here. It's too queer to forget."
The boy and girl stood on the southern slope of the divide, a mile from the gorge and the great sea wall, surveying the lay of the land.
It lacked an hour of high noon. The small ties with the military heels were scratched and worn from the long climb. Tiny drops of moisture beaded the tanned throat where it softly swelled into the bosom below the serge blouse. She was very tired, but her spirits and curiosity were unquenched.
"That must be the place."
He pointed to a little cape of sand which stretched out into the waters like a facsimile of Don Alfonso's pink tongue.
"But what does the spur in the corner of the chart mean?"
"Spur—spur, I wonder, Ben, if the sign didn't represent the trunk and branches of a tree?"
"Great head, Sally! Mine must be covered with barnacles. It's that single palm out there."
"How about the 5 and the M ?"
"It wasn't an M, was it?"
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