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.