It was almost more terrible than beautiful, and as the train crossed abyss after abyss over quivering bridges, Maria-Teresa, clinging to Dick’s arm, could not help murmuring: “And even this did not daunt Pizarro.”
Unfortunately, she was overheard by the stranger, who took up the broken conversation with evident hostility:
“We could have crushed them easily, could we not?”
The Marquis, turning superciliously, flicked the questioner’s shoulder with his glove:
“And, pray, why did you not do so, then?”
“Because we, sir, were not traitors!”
Dick had only just time to stop the Marquis, who was on the point of rushing at the insolent Indian. Maria-Teresa, knowing her father’s pride, calmed him in a moment by urging in an undertone that it would be ridiculous for a man of his rank and age to pay more attention to an Indian bank-clerk.
“You are quite right,” said Don Christobal with a gesture of contempt under which the Indian stood motionless as a statue. He had not been without guessing the sense of Maria-Teresa’s remarks, and might have said more had not the stopping of the train definitely closed the incident.
The railway line, then still in course of construction, went no farther. The remaining thirty miles to Cajamarca had to be covered on mule-back, for they were still in the heart of the mountains, and the defiles were steep.
It was too long a journey, however, for the tired travelers to undertake until the following morning. Clinging to the flanks of the rocks were a few rude sheds in which were lodged the men working on the line. Near by, surrounding a canteen, stood a dozen fairly comfortable tents, in which they themselves were to pass the night In a meager pasture just beyond, some thirty mules wandered at liberty, grazing. Above, the omnipresent galinagas flew in circles against a purple sky.