During the next few days I saw the Frenchman frequently.  He was a wonder to us, and his plans were discussed at every meal, and in every watch below.  In the dog-watches he would come forward, with his eternal questions:  “What is wizzin?  In ze contry?” We would tell him, “Indians, or highwaymen,” or “a push of highbinders;” and he would answer:  “It ees nozzin, it ees a fool.”  Once he asked us if we had heard of any gold being found “wizzen.”  “Gold?” said one of us.  “Gold?  O’ course there’s gold, any God’s quantity.  Them Incas ate gold; they’re buried in it.” “’Ave you know zem, ze Incas?” he asked eagerly.  “I seen a tomb of theirs once,” said the sailor; “it were in a cove, like the fo’c’sle yonder, and full of knittin’-needles.”  “What is zem?” said the Frenchman.  The sailor shambled below to his chest, and returned with a handful of little sticks round which some balls of coloured threads were bound.  “Knittin’-needles,” said the sailor.  “Them ain’t no knittin’-needles.  Writin’?  How could them be writin’?  Well, I heard tell once,” replied the other.  “It ees zeir way of writing,” said the Frenchman; “I ’ave seen; zat is zeir way of writing; ze knots is zeir letters.”  “Bleedin’ funny letters, I call ’em,” said the needles-theorist.  “You and your needles,” said the other.  “Now, what d’ye call ’em?” The bell upon the bridge clanged.  “Eight bells,” said the company; “aft to muster, boys.”  The bugle at the saloon-door announced supper.

We were getting pretty well to the north—­Mollendo, or thereabouts—­when I had my last conversation with the Frenchman.  He came up to me one night, as I sat on the deck to leeward of the winch, keeping the first watch as snugly as I could.  “You know zees coast long?” he asked.  I had not.  Then came the never-ceasing, “’Ave you know of ze Incas?” Yes, lot of general talk; and I had seen Incas curios, mostly earthware, in every port in Peru.  “You ’ave seen gold?” No; there was never any gold.  The Spaniards made a pretty general average of any gold there was.  “It ees a fool,” he answered.  “I tell you,” he went on, “it ees a fool.  Zay have say zat; zey ’ave all say zat; it ees a fool.  Zere is gold.  Zere is a hundred million pounds; zere is twenty tousan’ million dollars; zere is El Dorado.  Beyond ze mountains zere is El Dorado; zere is a town of gold.  Zay say zere is no gold?  Zere is.  I go to find ze gold; zat is what I do; I fin’ ze gold, I, Paul Bac.”  “Alone?” I asked.  “I, Paul Bac,” he answered.

I looked at him a moment.  He was a little red-haired man, slightly made, but alert and active-looking.  He knew no Spanish, no Indian dialects, and he had no comrade.  I told him that I thought he didn’t know what he was doing.  “Ha!” he said.  “Listen:  I go to Payta; I go by train to Chito; zen I reach ze Morona River; from zere I reach Marinha.  Listen:  El Dorado is between ze Caqueta and ze Putumayo Rivers, in ze forest.”  I would have asked him how he knew, but I had to break away to relieve the lookout.  I wished the little man good night; I never spoke with him again.