The Lost City [36]
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.
"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.