“I wish that the eyes of Bomba might have seen it, Hondura!” exclaimed the lad. He thought longingly of those faraway cities described to him by the boy named Frank, the white boy, son of the woman with the golden hair, who had once kissed Bomba as though he had been her son. Perhaps this city with towers of gold was like those others. So he looked eagerly, yearningly, at the wrinkled face of the grizzled chieftain who spoke with such a calm air of assurance.