"Haven't seen anything of that sort," declared the man. He resumed his singing. Women's voices joined in the chorus; and the boat moved on. "Rolleston must have branched off towards France," Simon concluded. "He can't have done that," objected Dolores, "since his present objective is the fountain of gold which some one mentioned to him." "In that case what has become of them?" The reply to this question was vouchsafed after an hour's difficult walking over a ground composed of millions upon millions of those broken sea-shells which the patient centuries use in kneading and shaping of the tallest cliffs. It all crackled under their feet and sometimes they sank into it above their ankles. Some tracts, hundreds of yards wide, were covered with a layer of dead fish on which they were compelled to trudge and which formed a mass of decomposing flesh with an intolerable stench to it. But a slope of hard, firm ground led them to a more rugged promontory overhanging the river. Here a dozen men, grey before their time, clothed in rags and repulsively filthy, with evil faces and brutal gestures, were cutting up the carcass of a horse and grilling the pieces over a scanty fire fed with sodden planks. They seemed to be a gang of tramps who had joined forces for looting on a larger scale. They had a sheep-dog with them. One of them stated that he had that morning seen a party of armed men crossing the Somme, making use of a big wreck which lay stranded in the middle of the river and which they had reached by a frail, hastily-constructed bridge. "Look," he said, "there she is, at the far end of the cliff. They slid the girl down first and then the old, trussed-up chap." "But," asked Simon, "the horses didn't get across that way, did they?" "The horses? They were done for. So they let them go. Two of my mates took three of them and have gone back to France with them. . . . If they get there, it'll be a bit of luck for them. The fourth, he's on the spit: we're going to have our dinner off him. . . . After all, one must eat!" "And those people, where were they going?" asked Simon. "Going to pick up gold. They were talking of a fountain flowing with gold pieces . . . real gold coins. We're going too, we are. What we're wanting is arms: arms that are some use." The tramps had risen to their feet; and, obeying an unconcerted and spontaneous movement, they gathered round Simon and Dolores. The man who had been speaking laid his hand upon Simon's rifle: "This sort of thing, you know. A gun like that must come in handy just now . . . especially to defend a pocket-book which is probably a fat one. . . . It's true," he added, in a threatening tone, "that my mates and I have got our sticks and knives, for when it comes to talking." "A revolver's better," said Simon, drawing his from his pocket. The circle of tramps opened out. "Stay where you are, will you?" he bade them. "The first of you who moves a step, I shoot him down!"