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!”