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.