"Come in dthe air." The Baron and I support her to the door. She recovers a little and the Peruvian returns for his valise. He brings out a silver travelling flask and sprinkles a white silk handkerchief with delicious eau de Cologne and gives it to Mrs. Steele. I can see it refreshes her, and I throw the Peruvian a grateful glance for his thoughtfulness. From the platform we have a far finer view of the country. The rugged wilderness of the Cordilleras hems us in on every side.
"Dthose air yust the zame mountains I look on from my home in Peru; it ees von chain from Tierra del Fuego to Mexico," and a look of welcome comes into the handsome face. "It ees four years since I zee dthose Cordilleras. I am glad I am near dthem vonce more. Ah!" he exclaims, as we break through the close circle of the mountains, and, coming out on a wide plateau, a shining sheet of water bursts on our delighted vision. "Lake Amatitlan!"
The world up here is wild and silent; one feels a breathless sense of discovery and is vaguely glad there is no trace of man. No canoe rises the waves save the grey feather-boat of the wild duck, and the majestic circling hawk is the only fisherman.
"It was like this when Cortes saw it!" I say.
"It was like this when God made it!" says Mrs. Steele, under her breath.
The train stops by the lake and we gather wild Lantana and many a new flower during the few minutes' stay. I rush into a thicket after a red lily, and come out a mass of thorns and Spanish needles. When the train starts Mrs. Steele is tired, and goes inside to rest, but the Baron and I still stay on the platform. He sits on the top step and laboriously picks the needles off my dress.
"You zee dthat smoke, Blanca? Dthat ees a volcano."
"Oh, how delightful! but there's no fire!"
"No, not at present!"
"It's very disappointing," I say, "and the geography pictures are all wrong. They show a great burst of smoke and flame, and huge rocks shooting up out of the crater. I supposed a volcano was a sort of perpetual 'Fourth of July.'"