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.