fixed his eyes on the lights up the mountain and stiffened his back
and talked about putting a hand to the plough and not turning back.

"'Hewson,' I said one morning, as we were breakfasting at the Cornice
House, 'what's the cause of those curious lights up by the cinnabar
mines, over Eucalyptus?'

"'Lights?' said he, 'what lights? I never heard of any.'

"'Well, it's something that flashes, anyway--a regular line of it.'

"'I'll tell you what it's _not_; and that's quicksilver,' Hewson
answered.

"On my way down to Eucalyptus early that morning, I hitched my horse
up to the Necropolis gate and determined to explore the secret of the
lights before visiting the Bishop. The track towards the cinnabar
works was pretty easy to follow, first along; but when I had climbed
some four or five hundred feet it grew fainter, and was lost at
length under the pine-needles. Luckily some hand had notched a tree
here and there, and these guided me to the dry bed of a torrent, on
the far side of which the track reappeared, and continued pretty
plain for the rest of the journey, though broken in several places by
the rains. I had missed my way three times at the most; but it took
me three-quarters of an hour to reach the lowest of the works, and
another twenty minutes to get into anything like clear country.
At length, on the edge of a steep depression that widened and
shallowed as it neared the valley, I got a fair look up the slope.
So far I had met nothing to account for the lights--nothing at all,
in fact, but the broken spade-handles, old boots, empty meat-cans,