"Both, I believe," answered Bruno, with a subdued laugh.

"That's all right, old man. I never was worth a continental when it came to such things. I prefer to live in the present, and so—well, now, will you just look at that old cow!"

In surprise Waldo pointed across to where a bovine shape showed not far beyond the pool at the base of the miniature waterfall; but his brother had a fairer view, and, instantly divining the truth, grasped an arm and hastily whispered:

"Hush, boy; can't you see? It's a buffalo, a hill buffalo, and—"

"Quick! the guns are in the machine! Down, Bruno, and maybe we can get a shot and—"

His eager whisper was cut short, though not by grip of arm or act by his brother. A rumbling roar broke forth from the further side of that mountain stream, and as the dense bushes beyond were violently agitated, the hill buffalo wheeled that way with marvellous rapidity.

Just as a long head and mighty shoulders spread the shrubbery wide apart, jaws opening and lips curling back to lay great teeth bare, while another angry sound, half growl, half snort, only too clearly proclaimed that monster of the mountains, a grizzly bear.

"Smoke o' sacrifice!" gasped Waldo, as the grizzly suddenly upreared its mighty bulk, head wagging, paws waving in queer fashion, lolling tongue lending the semblance of drollery rather than viciousness.

"This way; to your guns, boys!" cautiously called out the professor, whose notice had likewise been caught by those unusual sounds, and who had already armed himself with his pet dynamite gun.

"Careful! He'll make a break for us at first sight, unless—down close, and crawl for it, brother!"

Bruno set the good example, and Waldo was not too proud of spirit to humble himself in like manner. Although this was their first glimpse of "Old Eph" in his native wilds, both brothers entertained a very respectful opinion of his prowess.

Under different circumstances their expectations might have been more fully met, but just now the grizzly seemed wholly occupied with the buffalo bull, whose sturdy bulk and armed front so resolutely opposed his further progress towards that common goal, the pool of water.

The boys quickly reached the flying-machine and gripped the Winchester rifles which Professor Featherwit had drawn forth from the locker at first sight of the dangerous game. Thus armed, they felt ready for whatever might come, and stood watching yonder rivals with growing interest.

"Will you look at that, now?" excitedly breathed Waldo, eyes aglow, as he saw the bull cock its tail on high and tear up the soft soil with one fierce sweep of its cloven hoof, shaking head and giving vent to a low but determined bellow.

"It means a fight unto the death, I think," whispered the professor.

"It's dollars to doughnuts on the bear," predicted Waldo. "Scat, you bull-headed idiot! Don't you know that you're not deuce high to his ace? Can't you see that he can chew you up like—"

"Are you mighty sure of all that, boy?" laughingly cut in Bruno; for at that moment the buffalo made a sudden charge at his upright adversary, knocking the grizzly backward in spite of its viciously flying paws.

"Great Peter on a bender! If I ever—no, I never!"

Even the professor was growing excited, holding the dynamite gun under one arm while gently tapping palms together as an encore.

Naturally enough, their sympathies were with the buffalo, since the odds seemed so immensely against him; but their delight was short-lived, for, instead of following up the advantage so bravely won, the bull fell back to paw and bellow and shake his shaggy front.

With marvellous activity for a brute of his enormous bulk and weight, the grizzly recovered its feet, then lumbered forward with clashing teeth and resounding growls.

Nothing loath, the buffalo met that charge, and for a short space of time the struggle was veiled by showers of leaf-mould and damp dirt cast upon the air as the rivals fought for supremacy—and for life.

For that this was destined to be a duel to the very death not one of those spectators could really doubt. That encounter may have been purely accidental, but the creatures fought like enemies of long standing.

As their relative positions changed, the buffalo contrived to get in another vigorous butt, sending bruin end for end down that gentle slope to souse into the pool of water, that cool element cutting short a savage roar of mad fury.

Then the trio of spectators could take notes, and with something of sorrow they saw that the buffalo had already suffered severely, bleeding from numerous great gashes torn by the grizzly's long talons, while one bloody eye dangled below its socket, held only by a thread of sinew.

Nor had bruin escaped without hurt, as all could see when he floundered out of the water, bent upon renewing the duel; but there was little room left for doubting what the ultimate result would be were the animals left to their own devices.

Like all bold, free-hearted lads, Waldo ever sympathised with the weaker, and now, unable to hold his feelings in check, he gave a short cry, levelling his Winchester and opening fire upon the grizzly, just as it won fairly clear of the water.

Stung to fury by those pellets, the brute reared up with a horrid roar, turning as though to charge this new enemy; but ere he could do more, the professor's gun spoke, and as the dynamite shell exploded, bruin fell back a writhing mass, his head literally smashed to pieces.

Heedless of all else, the wounded buffalo charged with lusty bellow, goring that quivering mass with unabated fury, though its life was clearly leaking out through those ghastly cuts and slashes.

A brief pause, then Professor Featherwit swiftly reloaded his gun, sending another shell across the stream, this time more as a boon than as punishment.

Smitten fairly in the forehead, the bull dropped as though beneath a bolt of lightning, life going out without so much as a single struggle or a single pang.

"Twas better thus," declared the professor, as Waldo gave a little ejaculation of dismay. "He must have bled to death in a short time, and this was true mercy. Besides, buffalo meat is very good eating, and the day may come when we shall need all we can get. Who knows?"

After the animals were inspected, and due comment made upon the awfully sure work wrought by the dynamite gun, the professor suggested that, while he was completing repairs upon the aeromotor, the brothers should secure a supply of fish and of flesh, cooking sufficient to provide for several meals, for there was no telling just when they would have an equal chance.

"Just as soon as we can put all in readiness," he continued, "I am going to leave this spot. My first wish is to thoroughly test the aerostat, to make certain it has received no serious injury. Then, if all promises well, I mean to begin our tour of exploration, hoping that we may, at least, find something well worthy the strange reputation given these Olympics by the natives."

Without raising any objections, the brothers fell to work, Bruno looking after the flesh, while Waldo undertook to supply the fish. That was but fair, since he had been cheated out of catching the first mess.

Not a little to his delight, the professor found that the flying-machine would promptly answer his touch and will, rising easily off the ground, then descending at call, evidently having passed through the ordeal of the bygone evening without serious harm.

Still, all this consumed time, and it was after a late dinner that everything was pronounced in readiness for an ascension: the meat and fish nicely cooked and packed for carriage, a pot of strong coffee made and stowed beyond risk of leakage, the flying-machine itself quivering in that gentle breeze as though eager to find itself once more afloat far above the earth and its obstructions to easy navigation.

Waldo expressed some grief at leaving a spot where game came in such plentitude to find the hunter, and trout simply longed to be caught; but upon being assured of other opportunities, perhaps even more delightful, he sighed and gave consent to mount into space.

"Only—don't ask me to tackle any of those big dictionary fellows such as you talked about this morning, uncle Phaeton, for I simply can't; they'd get away with my baggage while I was trying to spell their names and title—and all that!"

Without any difficulty the aeromotor was sent out of and above the forest, heading towards the northwest; that is, direct for the heart of the Olympics, of whose marvels Professor Featherwit held such exalted hopes and expectations.

Grim and forbidding those mountains looked as the air-ship sailed swiftly over them, opening up a wider view when the bare, rugged crest was once left fairly to the rear. Save for those bald crowns, all below appeared a solid carpet of tree-tops, now lower, there higher, yet ever the same: seemingly impenetrable to man, should such an effort be made.

Once fairly within the charmed circle, leaving the rocky ridge behind, Professor Featherwit slackened speed, permitting the ship to drift onward at a moderate pace, one hand touching the steering-gear, while its fellow held a pair of field-glasses to his eager eyes.

All at once he gave a half-stifled cry, partly rising in his excitement, then crying aloud in thrilling tones:

"The sea,—an inland sea!"



CHAPTER IX. GRAPPLING A QUEER FISH.

At nearly the same moment both Bruno and Waldo caught a glimpse of water, shining clear and distinct amidst that sombre setting; but as yet a tree-crested elevation interfered with the prospect, and it was not until after the course of the air-ship had been materially changed, and some little time had elapsed, that aught definite could be determined as to the actual spread of that body of water.

This proved to be considerable, although it needed but a single look into the professor's face to learn that his eager hopes and exalted anticipations fell far short of realisation.

"Well, it's a sea all right," generously declared Waldo, giving a vigorous sniff by way of strengthening his words. "I can smell the salt clear from this. A sea, even if it isn't quite so large as others,—what one might term a lower-case c!"

If nothing else, that generous effort brought its reward in the dry little chuckle which escaped the professor's lips, and a kindly glow showed through his glasses as he turned towards Waldo with a nod of acknowledgment.

"Barring the salty scent, my dear boy, which probably finds birth in your kindly imagination. So, on the whole, perhaps 'twould be just as well to term it a lake."

"One of no mean dimensions, at any rate, uncle Phaeton."

"True, Bruno," with a nod of agreement, yet with forehead contracting into a network of troubled lines. "Naturally so, and yet—surely this must be merely a portion? Unless—yet I fail to see aught which might be interpreted as being—"

Promptly responding to each touch of hand upon steering-gear, the aeromotor swung smoothly around, sailing on even keel right into the teeth of the gentle wind, by this time near enough to that body of water for the air-voyagers to scan its surface: a considerable expanse, all told, yet by no means of such magnitude as Professor Featherwit had anticipated.

Too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the little cries and ejaculations which came from the brothers, he caused the aerostat to rise higher, slowly sweeping that extended field with his glasses.

He could see where several streams entered the body of water, coming from opposite points of the compass, and thus confirming at least one portion of his explained theory; but, so far as his visual powers went, there was no other considerable body of water to be discovered.

"Yet, how can that contracted basin contain all the drainage from this vast scope of country? How can we explain the stubborn fact of—What now, lads?"

An abrupt break, but one caused by the eager cry and loud speech from the lips of the younger Gillespie.

"Looky yonder! Isn't that one o' those sour-us dictionary fellows on a bender? Isn't that—but I don't—no, it's only—"

"Only a partly decayed tree gone afloat!" volunteered Bruno, with a merry laugh, as his eager brother drew back in evident chagrin.

"Well, that's all right. It ought to've been one, even if it isn't. What's the use in coming all this way, if we're not going to discover something beyond the common? And my sour-us is worth more than one of the other kind, after all; get it ashore and you might cook dinner for a solid month by it; now there!"

It was easily to be seen that Waldo had been giving free rein to his expectations ever since the professor's little lecture, but his natural chagrin was quickly forgotten in a matter of far greater interest.

Professor Featherwit had resumed his scrutiny of yonder body of water, slowly turning his glasses while holding the air-ship on a true course and even keel.

For a brief space nothing interfered with the steady motion of the field-glasses, but then something called for a more thorough examination, and little by little the savant leaned farther forward, breath coming more rapidly, face beginning to flush with deepening interest.

Bruno took note of all this, and, failing to see aught to account for the symptoms with unaided eyes, at length ventured to speak.

"What is it, uncle Phaeton? Something of interest, or your looks—"

Professor Featherwit gave a start, then lowered the glasses and reached them towards his nephew, speaking hurriedly:

"You try them, Bruno; your eyes are younger, and ought to be keener than mine. Yonder; towards the lower end of the—the lake, please."

Nothing loath, Gillespie complied, quickly finding the correct point upon which the professor's interest had centred, holding the glasses motionless for a brief space, then giving vent to an eager ejaculation.

"What is it all about, bless you, boy?" demanded Waldo, unable longer to curb his hot impatience. "Another drifting tree, eh?"

"No, but,—did you see it, uncle?"

"I saw something which—what do YOU see, first?"

"A great big suck,—a monster whirlpool which is hollowed like—"

"I knew it! I felt that must be the true solution of it all!" cried uncle Phaeton, squirming about pretty much as one might into whose veins had been injected quicksilver in place of ordinary blood. "The outlet! Where the surplus waters drain off to the Pacific Ocean!"

"I say, give me a chance, can't you?" interrupted Waldo, grasping the glasses and shifting his station for one more favourable as a lookout.

He had seen sufficient to catch the right angle, and then gave a suppressed snort as he took in the view. Half a minute thus, then a wild cry escaped his lips, closely followed by the words:

"Now I DO see something! And it isn't a drifting tree, either! Or, that is, something else which—shove her closer, uncle Phaeton! True as you live, there's something caught in yonder big suck which is—closer, for love of glory!"

"If this is another joke, Waldo—"

"No, no, I tell you, Bruno! Shove her over, uncle, for, without this glass is hoodooed, we're needed right yonder,—and needed mighty bad, too!"

Little need of so much urging, by the way, since Professor Featherwit was but slightly less excited by their double discovery, and even before the glasses were clapped to Waldo's eyes the aerostat swung around to move at full speed towards that precise quarter of the compass.

"What is it you see, then, boy?" demanded Bruno, itching to take the glasses, yet straining his own vision towards that as yet far-distant spot.

"Something like—oh, see how the water is running out,—just like emptying a bathtub through a hole at the bottom! And see what—a man caught in the whirl, true's you're a foot high, uncle!"

"A man? Here? Impossible,—incredible, boy!" fairly exploded the professor, not yet ready to relinquish his cherished belief in a terra incognita.

The air-voyagers were swiftly nearing that point of interest, and now keen-eyed Bruno caught a glimpse of a drifting object which had been drawn within the influence of yonder whirlpool, but which was just as certainly a derelict from the forest.

"Another floating tree-trunk for Waldo!" he cried, with a short laugh, feeling far from unpleased that the intense strain upon his nerves should be thus lessened. "Try it again, lad, and perhaps—"

"Try your great-grandmother's cotton nightcap! Don't you suppose I can tell the difference between a tree and a—"

"Ranting, prancing, cavorting 'sour-us' right out of Webster's Unabridged, eh, laddy-buck?"

"That's all right, if you can only keep on thinking that way, old man; but if yonder isn't a fellow being in a mighty nasty pickle, then I wouldn't even begin to say so! And—you look, uncle Phaeton, please."

Nothing loath, the professor took the proffered glasses, and but an instant later he, too, gave a sharp cry of amazement, for he saw, clinging to the trunk of a floating tree, swiftly moving with those circling waters, a living being!

And but a few seconds later, Bruno made the same discovery, greatly to the delight of his younger brother.

"A man! And living, too!"

"Of course; reckon I'd make such a howl about a floater?" bluntly interjected Waldo. "But I'll do my crowing later on. For now we've got to get the poor fellow out of that,—just got to yank him out!"

Through all this hasty interchange of words, the aeromotor was swiftly progressing, and now swung almost directly above the whirlpool, giving all a fair, unobstructed view of everything below.

The suction was so great that a sloping basin was formed, more than one hundred yards in diameter, while the actual centre lay a number of feet lower than the surrounding level.

Half-way down that perilous slope a great tree was revolving, and to this, as his forlorn hope, clung a half-clad man, plainly alive, since he was looking upward, and—yes, waving a hand and uttering a cry for aid and succour.

"Help! For love of God, save me!"

"White,—an American, too!" exploded Waldo, taking action as by brilliant inspiration. "Hang over him, uncle, for I'm going—to go fishing—for a man!"

Waldo was tugging at the grapnel and long drag-rope. Bruno was quick to divine his intention, and lent a deft hand, while the professor manipulated the helm so adroitly as to keep the flying-machine hovering directly above yonder imperilled stranger, leaning far over the hand-rail to shout downward:

"Have courage, sir, and stand ready to help yourself! We will rescue you if it lies within the possibilities of—we WILL save you!"

"You bet we just will, and right—like this," spluttered Waldo, as he cast the grapnel over the rail and swiftly lowered it by the rope. "Play you're a fish, stranger, and when you bite, hang on like grim death to a—steady, now!"

Fortunately nothing occurred to mar the programme so hastily arranged, for the drift was drawing nearer the centre of the whirl, and if once fairly caught by that, nothing human could preserve the stranger from death.

"Make a jump and grab it, if you can't do better!" cried Waldo, intensely excited now that the crisis was at hand.

The long rope with its iron weight swayed awkwardly in spite of all he could do to steady it, and as each one of the three prongs was meant for catching and holding fast to whatever they touched, there was no slight risk of impaling the man, thus giving him the choice of another and still more painful death.

Then, with a desperate grasp, a death-clutch, he caught one arm of the grapnel, holding fast as the shock came. He was carried clear of the tree, and partly submerged in the water as his added weight brought the flying-machine so much lower.

"Up, up, uncle Phaeton!" fairly howled Waldo, at the same time tugging at the now taut rope, in which he was ably seconded by his brother. "For love of—higher, uncle!"

Then the noble machine responded to the touch of its builder, lifting the dripping stranger clear of the whirling currents, swinging him away towards yonder higher level, where a fall would not prove so quickly fatal. And then the eager professor gave a shrill cheer as he saw the man, by a vigorous effort, draw his body upward sufficiently far to throw one leg over an arm of the grapnel itself.

Knowing now that the rescued was in no especial peril, uncle Phaeton left the air-ship to steer itself long enough for his nimble hands to take several turns of the drag-rope around the cleat provided for that express purpose, thus relieving both Bruno and Waldo of the heavy strain, which might soon begin to tell upon them.

"Hurrah for we, us, and company!" cried Waldo, relieving his lungs of a portion of their pent-up energy, then leaning perilously far over the edge of the machine to encourage the queer fish he had hooked.



CHAPTER X. RESCUED AND RESCUERS.

Despite their very natural excitement, caused by this peril and its foiling, Professor Featherwit retained nearly all his customary coolness and presence of mind.

Readily realising that after such a grim ordeal would almost certainly come a powerful revulsion, his first aim was to swing the stranger far enough away from the whirlpool to give him a fair chance for life, in case he should fall, through dizziness or physical collapse, from the end of the drag-rope.

This took but a few seconds, comparatively speaking, though, doubtless, each moment seemed an age to the rescued stranger. Then the professor slowed his ship, looking around in order to determine upon the wisest route to take.

For one thing, it would be severe work to draw the stranger bodily up and into the aerostat. For another, unless he should grow weak, or suffer from vertigo, both time and labour would be saved by taking him direct to the shore of this broad lake.

As soon as the rope was made fast, and the strain taken off their muscles as well as their minds, Bruno flashed a look around, naturally turning his eyes in the direction of the whirlpool.

Although less than a couple of minutes had elapsed since the man was lifted off the circling drift, even thus quickly had the end drawn nigh; for, even as he looked that way, Gillespie saw the great trunk sucked into the hidden sink, the top rising with a shiver clear out of the water as the butt lowered, a hollow, rumbling sound coming to all ears as—

"Gone!" cried Bruno, in awed tones, as the whole drift vanished from sight for ever.

"Sucked in by Jonah's whale, for ducats!" screamed Waldo, excitedly. "Fetch on your blessed 'sour-us' of both the male and female sect! Trot 'em to the fore, and if my little old suck don't take the starch out of their backbones,—they DID have backbones, didn't they, uncle Phaeton?"

Professor Featherwit frowned, and shook his head in silent reproof. More nearly, perhaps, than either of the boys, he realised what an awful peril this stranger had so narrowly escaped. It was far too early to turn that escape into jest, even for one naturally light of heart.

He leaned over the hand-rail, peering downward. He could see the rescued man sitting firmly in the bend of the grapnel, one hand tightly gripping the rope, its mate shading his eyes, as he stared fixedly towards the whirling death-pool, from whose jaws he had so miraculously been plucked.

There was naught of debility, either of body or of mind, to be read in that figure, and with his fears on that particular point set at rest, for the time being, Professor Featherwit called out, distinctly:

"Is it all well with you, my good friend? Can you hold fast until the shore is reached, think?"

"Heaven bless you,—yes!" came the reply, in half-choked tones. "If I fail in giving thanks—"

"Never mention it, friend; it cost us nothing," cheerily interrupted the professor, then adding, "Hold fast, please, and we'll put on a wee bit more steam."

The flying-machine was now fairly headed for a strip of shore which offered an excellent opportunity for making a safe landing, and as that accelerated motion did not appear to materially affect the stranger, it took but a few minutes to clear the lake.

"Stand ready to let go when we come low enough, please," warned the professor, deftly managing his pet machine for that purpose.

The stranger easily landed, then watched the flying-machine with painfully eager gaze, hands clasped almost as though in prayer. A more remarkable sight than this half-naked shape, burned brown by the sun, poorly protected by light skins, with sinew fastenings, could scarcely be imagined; and there was something close akin to tears in more eyes than one when he came running in chase, arms outstretched, and voice wildly appealing:

"Oh, come back! Take me,—don't leave me,—for love of God and humanity, don't leave me to this living death!"

Professor Featherwit called back a hasty assurance, and brought the air-ship to a landing with greater haste than was exactly prudent, all things considered; but who could keep cool blood and unmoved heart, with yonder piteous object before their eyes?

When he saw that the flying-machine had fairly landed, and beheld its inmates stepping forth upon the sands with friendly salutations, the rescued stranger staggered, hands clasping his temples for a moment of drunken reeling, then he fell forward like one smitten by the hand of sudden death.

Professor Featherwit called out a few curt directions, which were promptly obeyed by his nephews, and after a few minutes' well-directed work consciousness was restored, and the stranger feebly strove to give them thanks.

In vain these were set aside. He seemed like one half-insane from joy, and none who saw and heard could think that all this emotion arose from the simple rescue from the whirlpool. Nor did it.

Wildly, far from coherently, the poor fellow spoke, yet something of the awful truth was to be gleaned even from those broken, disjointed sentences.

For ten years an exile in these horrible wilds. For ten years not a single glimpse of white face or figure. For ten ages no intelligible voice, save his own; and that, through long disuse, had threatened to desert him!

"Ten years!" echoed Waldo, in amazement. "Why didn't you rack out o' this, then? I know I would; even if the woods were full of—'sour-us' and the like o' that! Yes, SIR!"

A low, husky laugh came through those heavily bearded lips, and the stranger flung out his hands in a sweeping gesture, sunken eyes glowing with an almost savage light as he spoke with more coherence:

"Why is it, young gentleman? Why did I not leave, do you ask? Look! All about you it stretches: a cell,—a death-cell, from which escape is impossible! Here I have fought for what is ever more precious than bare life: for liberty; but though ten awful years have rolled by, here I remain, in worse than prison! Escape? Ah, how often have I attempted to escape, only to fail, because escape from these wilds is beyond the power of any person not gifted with wings!"

"Ten years, you say, good friend? And all that time you have lived here alone?" asked the professor, curiously.

"Ten years,—ten thousand years, I could almost swear, only for keeping the record so carefully, so religiously. And—pitiful Lord! How gladly would I have given my good right arm, just for one faraway glimpse of civilisation! How often—but I am wearying you, gentlemen, and you may—pray don't think that I am crazy; you will not?"

Both the professor and Bruno assured him to the contrary, but Waldo was less affected, and his curiosity could no longer be kept within bounds. Gently tapping one hairy arm, he spoke:

"I say, friend, what were you doing out yonder in the big suck? Didn't you know the fun was hardly equal to the risk, sir?"

"Easy, lad," reproved the professor; but with a a smile, which strangely softened that haggard, weather-worn visage, the stranger spoke:

"Nay, kind sir, do not check the young gentleman. If you could only realise how sweet it is to my poor ears,—the sound of a friendly voice! For so many weary years I have never heard one word from human lips which I could understand or make answer to. And now,—what is it you wish to know, my dear boy?"

"Well, since you've lived here so long, surely you hadn't ought to get caught in such a nasty pickle; unless it was through accident?"

"It was partly accidental. One that would have cost me dearly had not you come to my aid so opportunely. And yet,—only for one thing, I could scarcely have regretted vanishing for ever down that suck!"

His voice choked, his head bowed, his hands came together in a nervous grip, all betokening unusual agitation. Even Waldo was just a bit awed, and the stranger was first to break that silence with words.

"How did the mishap come about, is it, young gentleman?" he said, a wan smile creeping into his face, and relaxing those tensely drawn muscles once more. "While I was trying to replenish my stock of provisions, and after this fashion, good friends.

"I was fishing from a small canoe, and as the bait was not taken well, I must have fallen into a day dream, thinking of—no matter, now. And during that dreaming, the breeze must have blown me well out into the lake, for when I was roused up by a sharp jerk at my line, I found myself near its middle, without knowing just how I came there.

"I have no idea what sort of fish had taken my bait,—there are many enormous ones in the lake,—but it proved far too powerful for me to manage, and dragged the canoe swiftly through the water, heading directly for the outlet, yonder."

"Why didn't you let it go free, then?"

"The line was fastened to the prow, and I could not loosen it in time. I drew my knife,—one of flint, but keen enough to serve,—only to have it jerked out of my hand and into the water. Then, just as the fish must have plunged into the suck, I abandoned my canoe, jumping overboard."

"That's just what I was wondering about," declared Waldo, with a vigorous nod of his head. "Yet we found you—there?"

"Because I am a wretchedly poor swimmer. I managed to reach a drift which had not yet fairly entered the whirl, but I could do nothing more towards saving myself. Then—you can guess the rest, gentlemen."

"And the canoe?" demanded Waldo, content only when all points were made manifest.

"I saw it dragged down the centre of the suck," with an involuntary shiver. "The fish must have plunged into the underground river, whether willingly or not I can only surmise. But all the while I was drifting yonder, around and around, with each circuit drawing closer to the awful end, I could not help picturing to myself how the canoe must have plunged down, and down, and—burr-r-r!"

A shuddering shiver which was more eloquent than words; but Waldo was not yet wholly content, finding an absorbing interest in that particular subject.

"You call it a river: how do you know it's a river?"

"Of course, I can only guess at the facts, my dear boy," the stranger made reply, smiling once more, and, with an almost timid gesture, extending one hairy paw to lightly touch and gently stroke the arm nearest him.

Bruno turned away abruptly, for that gesture, so simple in itself, yet so full of pathos to one who bore in mind those long years of solitary exile, brought a moisture to his big brown eyes of which, boy-like, he felt ashamed.

Professor Featherwit likewise took note, and with greater presence of mind came to the rescue, lightly resting a hand upon the stranger's half-bare shoulder while addressing his words to the youngster.

A tremulous sigh escaped those bearded lips, and their owner drew closer to the wiry little aeronaut, plainly drawing great comfort from that mere contact. And with like ease uncle Phaeton lifted one of those hairy arms to rest it over his own shoulders, speaking briskly the while.

"There is only one way of demonstrating the truth more clearly, my youthful inquisitor, and that is by sending you on a voyage of exploration. Are you willing to make the attempt, Waldo?"

"Not this evening; some other evening,—maybe!" drawing back a bit, with a shake of his curly pate to match. "But, I say, uncle Phaeton—"

"Allow me to complete my say, first, dear boy," with a bland smile. "That is easily done, though, for it merely consists of this: yonder sink, or whirlpool, is certainly the method this lake has of relieving itself of all surplus water. Everything points to a subterranean river which connects this lake with the Pacific Ocean."

"Wonder how long I'd have to hold my breath to make the trip?"



CHAPTER XI. ANOTHER SURPRISE FOR THE PROFESSOR.

The stranger laughed aloud at this, then seemed surprised that aught of mirth could be awakened where grief and despair had so long reigned supreme.

"You will come with me to—to my den, gentlemen?" he asked, still nervous, and plainly loath to do aught which indicated a return to his recent dreary method of living.

"Is the distance great?" asked Professor Featherwit, with a glance towards the aeromotor, then flashing his gaze further, as though to guard against possible harm coming to that valuable piece of property.

More than ever to be guarded now, since the words spoken by this exile. Better death in yonder mighty whirlpool than a half-score years' imprisonment here!

Not so very far, he was assured, while it would be comparatively easy to float the air-ship above the trees, there of no extraordinary growth.

At the same time this assurance was given, the stranger could not mask his uneasiness of mind, and it was really pitiful to see one so strong in body and limb, so weak otherwise.

But uncle Phaeton was a fairly keen judge of human nature, and possessed no small degree of tact. Divining the real cause of that dread, he took the easiest method of allaying it, speaking briskly as he moved across to the aerostat.

"Bear the gentleman company, my lads, while I manage the ship. You will know what signals to make, and I can contrive the rest."

Again the recluse laughed, but now it was through pure joy, such as he had not experienced for long years gone by. He was not to be deserted by his rescuers from the whirlpool, and that was comfort enough for the moment.

Thanks to that guidance, but little time was cut to waste, Professor Featherwit taking the flying-machine away from the shore of the lake, floating slowly above the tree-tops, guiding his movements by those below, finally effecting a safe landing in a miniature glade, at no great distance from the "den" alluded to by their new-found friend.

"It will be perfectly safe here," the exile hastened to give assurance, as that landing was made. "Then, too, this is the only spot nigh at hand from which a hasty ascent could well be made, even with such an admirable machine as yours. Ah, me!" with a long breath which lacked but little of being a sigh, as he keenly, eagerly examined the aerostat. "A marvel! Who would have dared predict such another, only a dozen years ago? I thought we had drawn very close to perfection while I was in the profession, but this,—marvellous!"

Both words and manner gave the keen-witted professor a clew to one mystery, and he quickly spoke:

"Then you were familiar with aerostatics, sir? Your name is—"

"Edgecombe,—Cooper Edgecombe."

"What?" with undisguised surprise in face as in voice. "Professor Edgecombe, the celebrated balloonist who was lost so long ago?"

"Ay! lost here in this thrice accursed wilderness!" passionately cried the exile; then, as though abashed by his own outburst, he turned away, pausing again only when at the entrance to his dreary refuge of many years.

"Give the poor fellow his own way until he has had time to rally, boys," muttered uncle Phaeton, in lowered tones, before following that lead. "I can understand it better, now, and this is—still is the terra incognita of which I have dreamed so long!"

That refuge proved to be a large, fairly dry cavern, the entrance to which was admirably masked by vines and creepers, while the stony soil just there retained no trace of footprints to tell dangerous tales.

Mr. Edgecombe vanished, but not for long. Then, showing a light, formed of fat and twisted wick in a hollowed bit of hardwood, he begged his rescuers to enter.

No second invitation was needed, for even the professor felt a powerful curiosity to learn what method had been followed by this enforced exile; how he had managed to live for so many weary years.

With only that smoky lamp to shed light around the place, critical investigation was a matter of time and painstaking, although a general idea of the cavern was readily formed.

High overhead arched the rocky roof, blackened by smoke, and looking more gloomy than nature had intended. The side walls were likewise irregular, now showing tiny niches and nooks, then jutting out to form awkward points and elbows, which were but partially disguised by such articles of wear and daily use as the exile had collected during the years gone by, or since his occupancy first began.

So much the professor took in with his initial glances, but then he left Waldo and his brother to look more closely, himself giving thought to the being whom they had so happily saved from the whirlpool.

"Professor Edgecombe!" he again exclaimed, grasping those roughened hands to press them cordially. "I ought to have recognised you at sight, no doubt, since I have watched your ascents time and time again."

The exile smiled faintly, shaking his head and giving another sigh.

"Ah, me! 'twas vastly different, then. I only marvel that you should give me credit when I lay claim to that name, so long—it has long faded from the public's memory, sir."

But uncle Phaeton shook his head, decidedly.

"No, no, I assure you, my friend; far from it. Whenever the topic is brought to the front; whenever aerostatics are discussed, your name and fame are sure to play a prominent part. And yet,—you disappeared so long ago, never being heard of after—"

"After sailing away upon the storm for which I had waited and prayed, for so many weary, heart-sick months!"

"So the rumour ran, but we all believed that must be an exaggeration, and not for a long time was all hope abandoned. Then, more hearts than one felt sore and sad at thoughts of your untimely fate."

"A fate infinitely worse than ordinary death such as was credited me," huskily muttered the exile. "Ten years,—and ever since I have been here, helpless to extricate myself, doomed to a living death, which none other can ever fully realise! Doomed to—to—"

His voice choked, and he turned away to hide his emotions.

Professor Featherwit thoroughly appreciated the interruption which came through Waldo's lips just at that moment.

"Oh, I say,—uncle Phaeton!"

"What is it, lad? Don't meddle with what doesn't—"

"Looking can't hurt, can it? And to think people ever got along with such things as these!"

Waldo was squared before sundry articles depending from the side wall, and as the professor drew closer, he, too, displayed a degree of interest which was really remarkable.

A gaily colored tunic of thickly quilted cotton was hanging beside an oddly shaped war club, the heavier end of which was armed with blades of stone which gleamed and sparkled even in that dim light. And attached to this weapon was another, hardly less curious: a knife formed of copper, with heft and blade all from one piece of metal.

"Here is the rest of the outfit," said Edgecombe, holding forth a bow and several feathered arrows with obsidian heads.

Professor Featherwit gave a low, eager cry as he handled the various articles, both face and manner betraying intense delight, which found partial vent in words a little later.

"Wonderful! Marvellous! Superb! I envy you, sir; I can't help but envy your possession of so magnificent—and so well-preserved, too! That is the marvel of marvels!"

"Well, to be sure, I haven't used them very much. The bow and arrows I could manage fairly well, after busy practice. They have saved me from more than one hungry night. But as for the rest—"

"You might have worn the—Is it a ghost-dance shirt, though?" hesitatingly asked Waldo, gingerly fingering the wadded tunic.

"Waldo, I'm ashamed of you, boy!" almost harshly reproved the professor. "Ghost-dance shirt, indeed! And this one of the most complete—the only perfectly preserved specimen of the ancient Aztec—pray, my good friend, where did you discover them? Surely there can be no burial mounds so far above the latitude where that unfortunate race lived and died?"

Mr. Edgecombe shook his head, with a puzzled look, then made reply:

"No, sir. I took these all from an Indian I was forced to kill in order to save my own life. I never thought—You are ill, sir?"

"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the professor, falling back a pace or two, then sitting down with greater force than grace, all the while gazing upon those weapons like one in a daze. "Found them—Indian—killed him in order to—bless my soul!"

Then, with marvellous activity for one of his age, the professor recovered his footing, mumbling something about tripping a heel, then resumed his examination of the curiosities as though he had care for naught beside.

Cooper Edgecombe turned away, and the professor improved the opportunity by muttering to the brothers:

"Careful, lads. Give the poor fellow his own way in all things, for he is—he surely must be—eh?"

Forefinger covertly tapped forehead, for there was no time granted for further explanations. Edgecombe turned again, speaking in hard, even strained tones:

"Fifteen years ago this month, on the 27th, to be exact, a balloon with two passengers was carried away on a terrific gale of wind which blew from the southeast. This happened in Washington Territory. Can you tell me—has anything ever been heard of either balloon or its inmates?"

Professor Featherwit shook his head in negation before saying:

"Not to my knowledge, though doubtless the prints of the day—"

Cooper Edgecombe shook both head and hand with strange impatience.

"No, no. I know they were never heard from up to ten years ago, but since then—I am a fool to even dream of such a thing, and yet,—only for that faint hope I would have gone mad long ago!"

Indeed, he looked little less than insane as it was.



CHAPTER XII. THE STORY OF A BROKEN LIFE.

This was the idea that occurred to both uncle and nephews, but they had seen and heard enough to excuse all that, and Professor Featherwit spoke again, in mildly curious tones:

"Sorry I am unable to give you better tidings, my good friend, but, so far as my knowledge extends, nothing has come to light of recent years. And—if not a leading question—were those passengers friends of your own?"

"Only—merely my—my wife and little daughter," came the totally unexpected reply, followed by a forced laugh which sounded anything but mirthful.

Uncle Phaeton, intensely chagrined, hastened to apologise for his luckless break, but Cooper Edgecombe cut him short, asking that the matter be let drop for the time being.

"I will talk; I feel that I must tell you all, or lose what few wits I have left," he declared, huskily. "But not right now. It is growing late. You must be hungry. I have no very extensive larder, but with my little will go the gratitude of a man who—"

His voice choked, and he left the sentence unfinished, hurrying away to prepare such a meal as his limited means would permit.

While Edgecombe was kindling a fire in one corner of the cavern, opening a pile of ashes to extract the few carefully cherished coals by means of which the wood was to be fired, uncle and one nephew left the den to look after the flying-machine and contents.

Bruno remained behind, in obedience to a hint from the professor, lest the exile should dread desertion, after all.

"Take these in and open them, Waldo," said the professor, selecting several cans from the stock in the locker. "Poor fellow! 'Twill be like a foretaste of civilisation, just to see and smell, much less taste, the fruit."

"Even if he has turned looney, eh, uncle Phaeton?"

"Careful, boy! I hardly think he is just that far gone; but, even if so, what marvel? Think of all he must have suffered during so many long, dreary years! and—his wife and child! I wonder—I do wonder if he really killed—but that is incredible, simply and utterly incredible! An Aztec—here—alive!"

"Dead, uncle Phaeton," corrected Waldo. "Killed the redskin, he said, and I really reckon he meant it. Why not, pray?"

"But—an Aztec, boy!" exclaimed the bewildered savant, unable to pass that point. "The tunic of quilted cotton, the escaupil! The maquahuitl, with its blades of grass! The bow and arrows which—all, all surely of Aztecan manufacture, yet seemingly fresh and serviceable as though in use but a month ago! And the race extinct for centuries!"

"Well, unless he's a howling liar from 'way up the crick, he extincted one of 'em," cheerfully commented Waldo, bearing his canned fruit to the cavern.

Professor Featherwit followed shortly after, finding the exile busy preparing food, looking and acting far more naturally than he had since his rescue from the whirlpool. And then, until the evening meal was announced, uncle Phaeton hovered near those amazing curiosities, now gazing like one in a waking dream, then gingerly fingering each article in turn, as though hoping to find a solution for his enigma through the sense of touch.

Taken all in all, that was far from a pleasant or enjoyable meal. A sense of restraint rested upon each one of that little company, and not one succeeded in fairly breaking it away, though each tried in turn.

Despite the struggle made by the exile to hold all emotions well under subjection, Cooper Edgecombe failed to hide his almost childish delight at sight and taste of those canned goods, and it did not require much urging on the part of his rescuers to ensure his partaking freely.

But the cap-sheaf came when uncle Phaeton, true to his habit of long years, after eating, produced pipe and pouch, the fragrant tobacco catching the exile's nostrils and drawing a low, tremulous cry from his lips.

No need to ask what was the matter, for that eager gaze, those quivering fingers, were enough. And just as though this had been his express purpose, the professor passed the pipe over, quietly speaking:

"Perhaps you would like a little smoke after your supper, my good friend? Oblige me by—"

"May I? Oh, sir, may I—really taste—oh, oh, oh!"

Bruno struck a match and steadied the pipe until the tobacco was fairly ignited, then drew back and left the exile to himself for the time being. And, as covert glances told them, never before had their eyes rested upon mortal being so intensely happy as was the long-lost aeronaut then and there.

At a sign from the professor, Bruno and Waldo silently arose and left the cavern, bearing their guardian company to where the air-ship was resting. And there they busied themselves with making preparations for the night, which was just settling over that portion of the earth.

Presently Cooper Edgecombe appeared, the empty pipe in hand, held as one might caress an inestimable treasure, a dreamy, almost blissful expression upon his sun-browned face.

"I thank you, sir, more than tongue can tell," he said, quietly, as he restored the pipe to its owner. "If you could only realise what I have suffered through this deprivation! I, an inveterate smoker; yet suddenly deprived of it, and so kept for ten long years! If I had had a pipe and tobacco, I believe—but enough."

"I can sympathise with you, at least in part, my friend. Will you have another smoke, by the way?"

"No, no, not now; I feel blessed for the moment, and more might be worse than none, after so long deprivation. And—may I talk openly to you, dear, kind friends? May I tell you—am I selfish in wishing to trouble you thus? Ten years, remember, and not a soul to speak with!"

He laughed, but it was a sorry mirth; and not caring to trust his tongue just then, uncle Phaeton nodded his head emphatically while filling his pipe for himself. But Waldo never lacked for words, and spoke out:

"That's all right, sir; we can listen as long as you can chin-chin. Tell us all about—well, what's the matter with that big Injun?"

"Quiet, Waldo. Say what best pleases you, my friend. You can be sure of one thing,—sympathetic listeners, if nothing better."

With a curious shiver, as though afflicted with a sudden chill, Edgecombe turned partly away, figure drawn rigidly erect, hands tightly clasped behind his back. A brief silence, then he spoke in tones of forced composure.

"A balloon was the best, in my day, and I was proud of my profession, although even then I was dreaming of better things—of something akin to this marvellous creation of yours, sir," casting a fleeting glance at the air-ship, then at the face of its builder, afterward resuming his former attitude.

"Let that pass, though. I wanted to tell you how I met with my awful loss; how I came to be out here in this modern hell!

"I had a wife, a daughter, each of whom felt almost as powerful an interest in aerostatics as I did myself. And one day—but, wait!

"I had an enemy, too; one who had, years before, sought to win my love for his own; in vain, the cur! And that day—we were out here in Washington Territory, living in comparative solitude that I might the better study out the theory I was slowly shaping in my brain.

"The day was beautiful, but almost oppressively warm, and, as they so frequently wished, I let my dear ones up in the balloon, securely fastening it below. And then—God forgive me!—I went back to town for something; I forget just what, now.

"A sudden storm came up. I hurried homeward; home to me was wherever my dear ones chanced to be; but I was just too late! That devil of all devils was ahead of me, and I saw him—merciful God! I saw him—cut the ropes and let the balloon dart away upon that awful gale!"

His voice choked, and for a few minutes silence reigned. Knowing how vain must be any attempt to offer consolation, the trio of air-voyagers said nothing, and presently Cooper Edgecombe spoke.

"I killed the demon. I nearly tore him limb from limb; I would have done just that, only for those who came hurrying after me from town, knowing that I might need help in bringing my balloon to earth in safety. They dragged me away, but 'twas too late to cheat my miserable vengeance. That hound was dead, but—my darlings were gone, for ever!"

Another pause, then quieter, more coherent speech.

"God alone knows whither my wife and child were taken. The general drift was in this direction, but how far they were carried, or how long they may have lived, I can only guess; enough that, despite all my inquiries, made far and wide in every direction, I never heard aught of either balloon or passengers!

"After that, I had but one object in life: to follow along the track of that storm, and either find my loved ones, or—or some clew which should for ever solve my awful doubts! And for two long years or more I fought to pierce these horrid fastnesses,—all in vain. No mortal man could succeed, even when urged on by such a motive as mine.

"Then I determined upon another course. I worked and slaved until I could procure another balloon, as nearly like the one I lost as might be constructed. Then I watched and waited for just such another storm as the one upon whose wings my darlings were borne away, meaning to take the same course, and so find—"

"Why, man, dear, you must have been insane!" impulsively cried the professor, unable longer to control his tongue.

"Perhaps I was; little wonder if so," admitted Edgecombe, turning that way, with a wan smile lighting up his visage. "I could no longer reason. I could only act. I had but that one grim hope, to eventually discover what time and exposure to the weather might have left of my lost loves.

"Then, after so long waiting, the storm came, blowing in the same direction as that other. I cut my balloon loose, and let it drift. I looked and waited, hoping, longing, yet—failing! I was wrecked, here in this wilderness. My balloon was carried away. I failed to find—aught!"

Cooper Edgecombe turned towards the air-ship, with a sigh of regret.

"If one had something like this then, I might have found them,—even alive! But now—too late—eternally too late!"



CHAPTER XIII. THE LOST CITY OF THE AZTECS.

Uncle Phaeton was more than willing to do the honours of his pet invention, and this afforded a most happy diversion, although the deepening twilight hindered any very extensive examination.

Cooper Edgecombe showed himself in a vastly different light while thus engaged, his shrewd questions, his apt comments, quite effectually removing the far from agreeable doubts born of his earlier words and demeanour.

"Well, if he's looney, it's only on some points, not as the whole porker, anyway," confidentially asserted Waldo, when an opportunity offered. "Coax him to tell how he knocked the redskin out, uncle Phaeton."

Little need of recalling that perplexing incident to the worthy savant, for, try as he might, Featherwit could not keep from brooding over that wondrous collection of relics pertaining to a long-since extinct people. Of course, the last one had perished ages ago; and yet—and yet—

Through his half-bewildered brain flashed the accounts given by the coast tribes, members of which he had so frequently interviewed concerning this unknown land, one and all of whom had more or less to say in regard to a strange people, terrible fighters, mighty hunters, one burning glance from whose eyes carried death and decay unto all who were foolhardy enough even to attempt to pass those mighty barriers, built up by a beneficent nature. Only for that nearly impassable wall, the entire earth would be overrun and dominated by these monsters in human guise.

Then, after the air-ship was cared for to the best of his ability, and the night-guard set in place so that an alarm might give warning of any illegal intrusion, the little party returned to the cavern home of the exile where, after another refusal on his part, the professor filled and lighted his beloved pipe.

Almost in spite of himself Featherwit was drawn towards those marvellous articles depending from the wall, and, as he gazed in silent marvel, Cooper Edgecombe drew nigh, with still other articles to complete the collection.

"You may possibly find something of interest in these, too, dear sir, although I have given them rather rough usage. This formed a rather comfortable cap, and—"

"A helmet! And sandals! A sash which is—yes! worn about the waist, mainly to support weapons, and termed a maxtlatl, which—and all sufficiently well preserved to be readily recognised as genuine—unless—Surely I am dreaming!"

If not precisely that, the worthy professor assuredly was almost beside himself while examining these articles of warrior's wear, one by one, knowing that neither eyes nor memory were at fault, yet still unable to believe those very senses.

Up to this, Cooper Edgecombe had felt but a passing interest in the matter, forming as it did but a single incident in a more than ordinarily eventful life; but now he began to divine at least a portion of the truth, and his face was lighted up with unusual animation, when Phaeton Featherwit turned that way, to almost sharply demand:

"Where did you gain possession of these weapons and garments, sir? And how,—from whom?"

"I took them from an Indian, nearly two years ago. He caught me off my guard, and, when I saw that I could neither hide nor flee, I fought for my life," explained the exile; then giving a short, bitter laugh, to add: "Strange, is it not? Although I had long since grown weary of existence such as this, I fought for it; I turned wild beast, as it were! Then, after all was over, I took these things, more because I feared his comrades might suspect—"

"His comrades?" echoed the professor. "More than the one, then? You killed him, but—there were others, still?"

"Many of them; far too many for any one man to withstand," earnestly declared the exile. "I made all haste in bearing the redskin here, obliterating all signs as quickly as possible; yet for days and nights I cowered here in utter darkness, each minute expecting an attack from too powerful a force for standing against."

Uncle Phaeton rubbed his hands briskly, shifting his weight hurriedly from one foot to its mate, then back again, the very personification of eager interest and growing conviction.

"More of them? A strong force? Armed,—and garbed as of old? The clothing, the footwear, and, above all else, the weapons, purely Aztecan? And here, only two short years ago?"

"Sadly long and hideously dreary years I have found them, sir," the exile said, in dejected tones.

The professor burst into a shrill, excited laugh, which sounded almost hysterical, and, not a little to the amazement of his nephews, broke into a regular dance, jigging it right merrily, hands on hips, head perked, and chin in air, at the same time striving to carry the tune in his far from melodious voice.

After all, perhaps no better method could have been taken to work off his almost hysterical excitement, and presently he paused, panting and heated, chuckling after an abashed fashion as he encountered the eyes of his nephews.

"Not a word, my dear boys," he hastened to plead. "I had to do something or—or explode! I feel better, now. I can behave myself, I hope. I am calm, cool, and composed as—the genuine Aztecs! And we are the ones to discover that—oh, I forgot!"

For Waldo was fairly exploding with mirth, while Bruno smiled, and even the exile appeared to be amused to a certain extent at his expense.

Little by little, the worthy savant calmed down, and then, almost forcing the exile to indulge in another delicious smoke, he led up to the subject in which his interest was fairly intense.

Cooper Edgecombe was willing enough to tell all that lay in his power, although he was only beginning to realise how much that might mean to the world at large, judging by the actions of the professor.

According to his account, the great lake, or drainage reservoir of the Olympics, was a sort of semi-yearly rendezvous for a warlike tribe of red men, where they congregated for the purpose of catching and drying vast quantities of fish, doubtless to be used during the winter.

"As a general thing they pitch their camp on the other side, over towards the northeast; but small parties are pretty sure to rove far and wide, coming around this way quite as often as not."

"And their garb,—the weapons they bore?" asked the professor.

Edgecombe motioned towards those articles in which such a lively interest had been awakened, then said that, while few of the red men who had come beneath his near observation had been so elaborately equipped, he had taken notice of similar weapons and garments, with additions which he strove hard to describe with accuracy.

Nearly every sentence which crossed his lips served to confirm the marvellous truth which had so dazzlingly burst upon the professor's eager brain, and with a glib tongue he named each weapon, each garment, as accurately as ever set down in ancient history, not a little to the wide-eyed amazement of Waldo Gillespie.

"Worse than those blessed 'sour-us' and cousins," he confided to his brother, in a whisper. "Reckon it's all right, Bruno? Uncle isn't—eh?"

But uncle Phaeton paid them no attention, so deeply was he stirred by this wondrous revelation. He felt that he was upon the verge of a discovery which would startle the wide world as no recent announcement had been able to do, unless—but it surely must be correct!

And then, when Cooper Edgecombe finished all he could tell concerning those queerly armed and gaudily garbed red men, the professor let loose his tongue, telling what glorious hopes and dazzling anticipations were now within him.

"For hundreds upon hundreds of years there have been wild, weird legends about the Lost City, but that merely meant a mass of wondrous ruins, long since overwhelmed by shifting sands, somewhere in the heart of the great American desert, so-called.

"By some it was claimed that this ancient city owed its primal existence to a fragment of the Aztecs, driven from their native quarters in Old Mexico. By others 'twas attributed unto one of the fabulous 'Lost Tribes of Israel,' but even the most enthusiastic never for one moment dreamed of—this!"

"Except yourself, uncle Phaeton," cut in Waldo, with a subdued grin. "This must be one of the marvels you calculated on discovering, thanks to the flying-machine, eh?"

"Nay, my boy; I never let my imagination soar half so high as all that," quickly answered the professor. "But now—now I feel confident that just such a discovery lies before us, and with the dawn of a new day we will ascend and look for the glorious 'Lost City of the Aztecs!'"

Again the savant sprang to his feet, wildly gesticulating as he strode to and fro, striving to thus work off some of the intense excitement which had taken full possession. And words fell rapidly from his lips the while, only a portion of which need be placed upon record in this connection, however.

"A fico for the paltry lost cities of musty tradition, now! They may sleep beneath the sand-storms of countless years, but this—I would gladly give one of my eyes for the certainty that its mate might gaze upon such a wondrous spectacle as—Oh, if it might only prove true! If I might only discover such a stupendous treasure! Aztecs! And in the present day! Alive—armed and garbed as of yore! Amazing! Incredible! Astounding beyond the wildest dreams of a confirmed—"

With startling swiftness uncle Phaeton wheeled to confront the exile, gripping his arm with fierce vigour, as he shrilly demanded:

"Opium—are you an eater of drugs, Cooper Edgecombe?"

Even as the words crossed his lips, the professor realised how preposterous they must sound, but the exile shook his head, earnestly.

"I never ate drugs in that shape, sir. Even if I had been addicted to morphine and the like, how could I indulge the appetite here, in these gloomy, lonely wilds?"

"I beg your pardon, sir; most humbly I implore your forgiveness. I have but one excuse—this wondrous—Good night! I'm going to bed before I add to my new reputation as—a blessed idiot, no less!"



CHAPTER XIV. A MARVELLOUS VISION.

But the night was considerably older ere any one of that quartette lost himself in slumber, for all had been too thoroughly wrought up by the exciting events of the past day for sleep to claim an easy subject.

By common consent, however, that one particular subject was barred for the present, and then, sitting in a cosy group about the glowing fire there in the cavern, the recently formed friends talked and chatted, asking and answering questions almost past counting.

Little wonder that such should be the case, so far as Cooper Edgecombe was concerned, since he had been lost to the busy world and its many changes for a long decade.

Then, too, his own dreary existence held a strange charm for the air-voyagers, and the exile grew wonderfully cheerful and bright-eyed as he in part depicted his struggles to sustain life against such heavy odds, and still strove to keep alive that one hope,—that even yet he might be able to discover a clew to his loved and lost ones.

"Not alive; I have long since abandoned that faint hope. But if I might only find something to make sure, something that I could pray over, then bury where my heart could hover above—"

"You are still alive, good friend, yet you have spent long years out here in the wilderness," gently suggested the professor.

Edgecombe flinched, as one might when a rude hand touches a still raw wound.

"But they, my wife, my baby girl,—they could never have lived as I have existed. They surely must have perished; if not at once, then when the first cruel storms of hideous winter came howling down from the far north!"

"Unless they were found and rescued by—who knows, my good sir?" forcing a cheerful smile, which, unfortunately, was only surface-born, as the exile lifted his head with a start and a gasping ejaculation. "Since it seems fairly well proven that this supposedly unknown land is actually inhabited, why may your loved ones not have been rescued?"

"The Indians? You mean by the Aztecs, sir?"

"If Aztecans they should really prove; why not?"

"But, surely I have heard—sacrifices?" huskily breathed the greatly agitated man, while the professor, realising how he was making a bad matter worse, brazenly falsified the records, declaring that no human sacrifices had ever stained the record of that noble, honourable, gallant race; and then changed the subject as quickly as might be.

Nevertheless, there was one good effect following that talk. Cooper Edgecombe had dreaded nothing so much as the fear of being left behind by these, the first white people he had seen for what seemed more than an ordinary lifetime; but now, when the professor hinted at a longing to take a spin through ether, for the purpose of winning a wider view, he eagerly seconded that idea, even while realising that it would be difficult to take him along with the rest.

Still, nothing was definitely settled that evening, and at a fairly respectable hour before the turn of night, the air-voyagers were wrapped in their blankets and soundly slumbering.

Not so the exile. Sleep was far from his brain, and while he really knew that danger could hardly menace that wondrous bit of ingenious mechanism, he watched it throughout that long night, ready to risk his own life in its defence should the occasion arise.

Why not, since his whole future depended upon the aeromotor? By its aid he hoped to reach civilization once more; and in spite of the great loss which had wrecked his life, he was thrilled to the centre by that glorious prospect. Here he was dead while breathing; there he would at least be in touch with his fellow men once more!

An early meal was prepared by the exile, and in readiness when his trio of guests awakened to the new day; and then, while busily discussing the really appetising viands placed before them, the next move was fully determined upon.

Not a little to his secret delight, the professor heard Edgecombe broach the subject of further explorations, and seeing that his excitement had passed away in goodly measure during the silent watches of the night, he talked with greater freedom.

"Of course we'll keep in touch with you, here, friend, and take no decisive move without your knowledge and consent. Our fate shall be yours, and your fate shall be ours. Only—I would dearly love to catch a glimpse of—If there should actually be a Lost City in existence!"

"If there is, as there surely must be one of some description, judging from the number of red men I have seen collecting here at the lake," observed the exile, "you certainly ought to make the discovery with the aid of your air-ship. You can ascend at will, of course, sir?"

Nothing loath, the professor spoke of his pet and its wondrous capabilities, and then all hands left the cavern for the outer air, to prepare for action.

As a further assurance, uncle Phaeton begged Edgecombe to enter the aerostat, then skilfully caused the vessel to float upward into clear space, sailing out over the lake even to the whirlpool itself before turning, his passenger eagerly watching every move and touch of hand, asking questions which proved him both shrewd and ingenious, from a mechanical point of view.

Returning to their starting-point, Edgecombe sprang lightly to earth to make way for the brothers, face ruddy and eyes aglow as he again begged them all to keep watch for aught which might solve the mystery yet surrounding the fate of his loved ones.

The promise was given, together with an earnest assurance that they would soon return; then the parting was cut as short as might be, all feeling that such a course was wisest and kindest, after all.

For an hour or more the air-ship sped on, high in air, its inmates viewing the various and varying landmarks beneath and beyond them, all marvelling at the fact that such an immense scope of country should for so long be left in its native virginity, especially where all are so land-hungry.

Then, as nothing of especial interest was brought to their notice, uncle Phaeton quite naturally reverted to that suit of Aztecan armour, and the glorious possibilities which the words of the exile had opened up to them as explorers.

Bruno listened with unfeigned interest, but not so his more mercurial brother, who took advantage of an opening left by the professor, to bluntly interject:

"What mighty good, even if you should find it all, uncle Phaeton? You couldn't pick it up and tote it away, to start a dime museum with. And, as for my part,—I'll tell you what! If we could only find something like Aladdin's cave, now!"

"Growing miserly in your old age, are you, lad?" mocked his uncle.

"No; I don't mean just that. His trees were hung with riches, but mine should be—crammed and crowded full of plum pudding, fruit cake, angel food, mince pies, and the like! Yes, and there should be fountains of lemonade! And mountains of ice-cream! And sandbars of caramels, and chocolate drops, and trilbies, and—well, now, what's the matter with you fellows, anyway?"

He spoke with boyish indignation at that laughing outbreak, but the kindly professor quickly managed to smooth the matter over, although not before Waldo had promised Bruno a sound thumping the first time they set foot upon land.

Until past the noon hour that pleasant voyage lasted, without any remarkable discovery being made, the trio munching a cold lunch at their ease, rather than take the trouble to effect a landing.

But then, not very long after the sun had begun his downward course, there came a change which caused Featherwit's blood to leap through his veins far more rapidly than usual, for yonder, still a number of miles away, there was gradually opening to view a hill-surrounded valley of considerable dimension, certain portions of which betrayed signs of cultivation, or at least of vegetation different from aught the explorers had as yet come across since entering that land of wonders.

Almost unwittingly Professor Featherwit sent the air-ship higher, even as it sped onward at quickened pace, his face as pale as his eyes were glittering, intense anticipation holding him spellbound for the time being. And then—the wondrous truth!

"Behold!" he cried, shrilly, pointing as he spoke.

"Houses yonder! Cultivated fields, and—see! human beings in motion, who are—"

"Kicking up a great old bobbery, just as though they'd sighted us, and wanted to know—I say, uncle Phaeton, how would it feel to get punched full of holes by a parcel of bow-arrows?"

With a quick motion the air-ship was turned, darting lower and off at a sharp angle to its former course, for the professor likewise saw what had attracted the notice of his younger nephew.

Scattered here and there throughout that secluded valley were human beings, nearly all of whom had sprung into sudden motion, doubtless amazed or frightened by the appearance of that oddly shaped air-demon.

Brief though that view had been, it was sufficiently long to show the professor houses of solid and substantial shape, cultivated plots, human beings, and a little river whose clear waters sparkled and flashed in the sunlight.

It was very hard to cut that view so short, but the professor had not lost all prudence, and he knew that danger to both vessel and passengers might follow a nearer intrusion upon the privacy of yonder armed people. Yet his face was fairly glowing with glad exultation as he brought the aerostat to a lower strata of air, shutting off all view from yonder valley, as it lay amid its encircling hills.

"Hurrah!" he cried, snatching off his cap and waving it enthusiastically, as the air-ship floated onward at ease. "At last! Found—we've discovered it at last! And all is true,—all is true!"

"Found what, uncle Phaeton?" asked Waldo, a bit doubtfully.

"The Lost City of the Aztecs, of course! Oh, glad day, glad day!"

"Unless—what if it should prove to be only a—a mirage, uncle Phaeton?" almost timidly ventured Bruno, a moment later.



CHAPTER XV. ASTOUNDING, YET TRUE.

The professor gave a great start at this almost reluctant suggestion, shrinking back with a look which fell not far short of being horrified. But then he rallied, forcing a laugh before speaking.

"No, no, Bruno. All conditions are lacking to form the mirage of the desert. And, too; everything was so distinct and clearly outlined that one could—"

"Fairly feel those blessed bow-arrows tickling a fellow in the short ribs," vigorously declared the younger Gillespie. "Not but that—I say, uncle Phaeton?"

"What is it now, Waldo?"

"Reckon they're like any other people? Got boys and—and girls among 'em, I wonder?"

"I daresay, yes, why not?" answered Featherwit, scarcely realising what words were being shaped by his lips, while Bruno broke into a brief-lived laugh, more at that half-sheepish expression than at the query itself.

"Both boys and girls galore, I expect, Kid; but you needn't borrow trouble on either score. You can outrun the lads, while as for the fairer sex,—well, they'll take precious good care to keep well beyond your reach,—especially if you wear such another fascinating grin as—"

"Oh, you go to thunder, Bruno Gillespie!"

Through all this interchange the air-ship was maintaining a wide sweep, drawing nearer the forest beneath, if only to keep hidden from the eyes of the strange people in yonder deep valley. Yet the gaze of Phaeton Featherwit as a rule kept turned towards that particular point, his eyes on fire, his lips twitching, his whole demeanour that of one who feels a discovery of tremendous importance lies just before him.

"Are we going to land, uncle Phaeton?" queried Bruno, taking note of that preoccupation, which might easily prove dangerous under existing circumstances.

That question served to recall the professor to more material points, and, after a keen, sweeping look around, he nodded assent.

"Yes, as soon as I can discover or secure a fair chance. I wish to see more—I must secure a fairer view of the—of yonder place."

"Will it not be too dangerous, though? Not for us, especially, uncle, but for the aerostat? Even if these be not the people you imagine—"

"They are past all doubt a remnant of the ancient Aztecs. Yonder lies the true Lost City, and we are—oh, try to comprehend all that statement means, my lads! Picture to yourselves what boundless fame and unlimited credit awaits our report to the outer world! The benighted world! The besotted world! The—the—"

"While we'll form the upsotted world, or a portion of it, without something is done,—and that in a howling hurry, too!" fairly spluttered Waldo, as the again neglected air-ship sped swiftly towards a more elevated portion of that earth, part of the tall hill-crest which acted as nature's barricade to yonder by nature depressed valley.

"Time enough, lad, time enough, since we are going to land," coolly assured the professor, deftly manipulating the steering-gear and still curying around those tree-crowned hills. "If we are really hunted after, 'twill naturally be in the quarter of our vanishment, while by alighting around yonder, nearly at right angles with our initial approach, we will have naught to fear from the—the Aztecan clans!"

Clearly the professor had settled in his own mind just what lay before them, and nothing short of the Lost City of the Aztecs would come anywhere near satisfying that exalted ideal. And, taking all points into full consideration, was there anything so very absurd in his method of reasoning, or of drawing a deduction?

Still, that exaltation did not prevent uncle Phaeton from taking all essential precautions, and it was only when an especially secure landing-place was sighted that he really attempted to touch the earth.

Fully one-half of that wide circuit had been made, and as nothing could be detected to give birth to fears for either self or air-ship, the aeronauts skilfully landed their vessel with only the slightest of jars. It was a well-screened location, where naught could be seen of the flying-machine until close at hand, yet so arranged as to make a hasty flight a very easy matter should the occasion ever arise.

Not until the landing was effected and all made secure, did Professor Featherwit speak again. Then it was with gravely earnest speech which suitably affected his nephews.

"Above all things, my dear lads, bear ever in mind this one fact,—we are not here to fight. We do not come as conquerors, weapons in hand, hearts filled with lust of blood. To the contrary, we are on a peaceful mission, hoping to learn, trusting to enlighten, with malice towards none, but honest love for all those who may wear the human shape, be they of our own colour or—or—otherwise."

"That's what's the matter with Hannah's cat!" cheerfully chipped in the irrepressible Waldo. "I say, uncle Phaeton, is it just a lie-low here until yonder fellows grow tired of looking for what they can't find, then a flight on our part; or will we—"

"Have we voyaged so far and seen so much, to rest content with so very little?" exclaimed the professor, hardly as precise of speech as under ordinary conditions. "No, no, my lads! Yonder lies the greatest discovery of the nineteenth century, and we are—Get a hustle on, boys! The day is waning, and with so much to see, to study, to—Come, I say!"

In spite of his initial attempt to impress his nephews with a due sense of the heavy responsibilities which rested upon them, Phaeton Featherwit was far more excited than either one of the brothers. Doubtless he more nearly appreciated the importance of this wondrous discovery, provided his now firm belief was correct,—that yonder stood a solid, substantial city, erected by the hands of a people whom common consent had agreed were long since wiped out of existence.

The story told by Cooper Edgecombe, backed up by the articles taken from the person of the warrior whom he had slain in self-defence, certainly had its weight; while the brief and imperfect glimpse which he had won of yonder valley helped to bear out that astounding belief. And yet, how could it be true?

Really believing, yet forced by more sober reason to doubt, the poor professor was literally "in a sweat" long ere another view could be won of the depressed valley, although the landing of the air-ship was so well chosen as to make that trip of the briefest duration consistent with prudence.

The natural obstacles were considerable, however, and as they picked their way along, the brothers for the first time began to gain a fairly accurate idea of what was meant by the term, a virgin forest.

To all seeming, the human foot had never ventured here, nor were any marks or spoor of wild beasts perceptible on either side.

Although the aerostat had landed not far below the crest of those hills, the adventurers had to climb higher, before winning the coveted view, partly because the most practicable route led down into and along a winding gulch, where the footing was far less treacherous than upon the higher ground, cumbered, as that was, with the leaf-mould of centuries.

Still, half an hour's steady labour brought the little squad to the coveted point, and once again Professor Featherwit was almost literally stricken speechless,—for there, far below their present location, spread out in level expanse, lay the secret valley with all its marvels.

Far more extensive than it had appeared by that initial glimpse, the valley itself seemed composed of fertile soil, yet, by aid of the river which cut through, near its centre, irrigating ditches conveyed water to every acre, thus ensuring bounteous crops of grain and of fruit as well.

Numerous buildings stood in irregular array, for the most part of no great height, nor with many pretensions towards architectural beauty or grace of outline; but in the centre of the valley upreared its head a massive structure, pyramidal in shape, consisting of five comparatively narrow terraces, connected one with another only at each of the four corners, where stood a wide-stepped flight of stones.

"Behold!" huskily gasped the professor, intensely excited, yet still able to control the field-glass through which he was eagerly scanning yonder marvels. "The temple of the gods! And, yonder, the temple of sacrifice, unless my memory is—and look! The people are—they wear just such garb as—Oh, marvellous! Amazing! Astounding! Incredible—yet true!"

Although their uncle could thus take in the various details to better advantage, still the intervening distance was not so great as to entirely debar the brothers from finding no little to interest them, as was readily proven by their various exclamations.

"Just look at the people, will ye, now? Flopping around like they hadn't any bigger business than to—Reckon they're looking for us to come back, Bruno?"

"Or watching for the monster bird of prey, rather," suggested the elder Gillespie. "Of course they couldn't distinguish our faces, and our bodies were fairly well hidden. And, even more, of course, they must be totally ignorant of all such things as flying-machines and the like."

"Poor, ignorant devils!" sympathetically sighed the youngster. "Well, we'll have to do a little missionary work in this quarter, before taking our departure, eh, uncle Phaeton?"

With a start, Featherwit descended out of the clouds in which he had been lost ever since winning a fair view of the secret city; and now, rallying his wits and fairly aglow with eager interest in this marvellous discovery, he began pointing out the various objects of special importance, naming them with glib assurance, then reminding the boys how wonderfully similar all was to what had existed in Old Mexico before the conquest.

Bruno listened with greater interest than his brother could summon at will. For one thing, he had long been a lover of the genial Prescott, and, now that his memory was freshened in part, was able to closely follow the course of that little lecture, noting each strong point made by the professor in bolstering up his delightful theory.

That monologue, however, was abruptly broken in upon by Waldo, who gave an eager exclamation, as he reached forth a pointing finger:

"Look! There's a white woman yonder,—two of 'em, in fact!"



CHAPTER XVI. CAN IT BE TRUE?

That announcement came with all the force of a bolt from the blue, and even the professor dropped his glasses with a gasp of amazement, while Bruno would have leaped to his feet, only for the hasty grab which his brother made at the tail of his coat.

"White—where? Surely it cannot be that—Edgecombe—"

"Augh, take a tumble, boy!" ejaculated Waldo, giving a jerk that rendered compliance nearly literal, though scarcely full of grace. "Want to have the whole gang make a howling break this way? Want to—They're white all right, though!"

"Where? Which direction? Point them out, and—I fail to see anything which would bear out your—"

The professor was sweeping yonder field with his glass, searching for the primal cause of that latest excitement, but without success. No sign of a white face, male or female, rewarded his efforts, and he turned an inquiring gaze upon the youngster.

Waldo was peering from beneath the shade of his hand, but now drew back with a long breath, to slowly shake his head.

"They've gone now, but I did see them, and they were white, just as white as—as anything!"

Bruno frowned a bit at that unsatisfactory conclusion, but the professor was of more equable temper, for a wonder. He smilingly shook his head, while gazing kindly, then spoke:

"I myself might have made the same error, Waldo, but you surely were in error, for once."

"What! You mean I never saw those white women, uncle Phaeton?"

"No, no, I am not so seriously faulting your eyesight, my dear boy," came the swift assurance. "But even the best of us are open to errors, and there were in olden times not a few Aztecs with fair skins; not exactly white, yet comparatively fair when their race was considered. And, no doubt, Waldo, you saw just such another a bit ago."

But the youngster was not so easily shaken in his own opinion.

"There were a couple of 'em, not just such another, uncle. And they were white,—pure white as ever the Lord made a woman! And—why, didn't I see their hair, long and floating loose? And wasn't that yellow as—as gold, or the sunshine itself?"

"Yellow hair?"

"Yes, indeedy! Yellow hair, white skins,—faces, anyway. Blondes, the couple of 'em; and to that I'll make my davy!"

And so the youngster maintained with even more than usual sturdiness, when questioned more closely, pointing out the very spot upon which the strange beings were standing, the top of a large, tall building, clearly one of the series of temples.

In vain the field-glass was fixed upon that particular point. The partly roofed azotea was wholly devoid of human life, and though watch was maintained in that direction for many minutes thereafter, by one or other of the air-voyagers, naught was seen to confirm the assertion made by the younger Gillespie.

For the moment that fact or fancy dominated all other interests, for, granting that Waldo had not been misled by a naturally fair Indian face, there was room for a truly startling inference.

"Could it actually be they?" muttered Bruno, face pale and eyes glittering with intense interest. "Could they have escaped with life from the balloon, and been here ever since?"

"You mean—"

"The wife and child of Cooper Edgecombe,—yes! Who else could they be, unless—I'd give a pretty penny for one fair squint at them, right now! If there was only some method of—It would hardly do to venture down yonder, uncle Phaeton?"

The professor gave a stern gesture of denial, frowning as though he anticipated an actual break for yonder town, in spite of the odds against them.

"That would be madness, Bruno! Worse than madness, by far! Look at yonder warriors, all thoroughly armed, and eager to drink blood as ever they were in centuries gone by! They are hundreds, if not thousands, while we are but three! Madness, my boy!"

"Four, with Mr. Edgecombe, uncle."

"And that means a complete host so long as we are backed up by the air-ship," declared Waldo, in his turn. "Those fellows!" with a sniff of true boyish scorn for aught that was not fully up to date. "What could they do, if we were to open fire on them just once?"

"Prove our equals, man for man, armed as they assuredly are," just as vigorously affirmed the professor, inclined rather to magnify than diminish the importance of these, his so recently discovered people. "You forget how the Aztecans fought Cortez and his mailed hosts. Yet these are one and identical, so far as valour and training and blood can go."

"Huh! Scared of a runty horse so badly that they prayed to 'em as they did to their own gods!" sniffed Waldo, betraying a lore for which he did not ordinarily receive fair credit. "Why, uncle Phaeton, let you just slam one o' those dynamite shells inside a chief—"

"Nay, Waldo, must I repeat, we are not here for the purpose of conquest, unless by purely amicable methods. There must be no fighting, for or against. Savages though most people would be inclined to pronounce yonder race, they are human, with souls and—"

"But I always thought they were heathens, uncle Phaeton?"

The professor subsided at that, giving over as worse than useless the attempt to enlighten the irrepressible youngster, at least for the time being.

Silence ruled for some little time, during which each one of the trio kept keen watch over the valley, the field-glass changing hands at intervals in order to put all upon an equal footing.

One thing was clear enough unto all: the Indians had been greatly wrought up by the brief appearance of some queerly shaped monster of the air, and while a goodly number of their best warriors had hastened out of the valley and up the difficult passes, in hopes of learning more, still others were astir, weapons in hand, evidently determined to defend their lives or their property from any assault, should such be made, whether by known or foreign adversaries.

This busy stir and bustle, combined with the novel architecture and so many varying points of interest, would have been a mental and visual feast for the trio of air-voyagers, only for that one doubt: were white captives actually in yonder temple? And, if white, were they the long-lost relatives of the aeronaut, Cooper Edgecombe?