“But it sounds so horrible for a party like that to disappear, and no more to be heard of them,” said Perry.
“Yes, but the Indians are savages, and, as father said, they think they are doing their duty against people who have no right in the country, so your father will have to look out. I wish I were going with you, all the same.”
“You’re safer in San Geronimo, if it’s as bad as you say,” cried Perry.
“Oh, it’s bad enough, but I shouldn’t mind.”
There was silence for a few minutes, during which time both lads sat gazing dreamily up at the vast range of mountains before them, with its glittering peaks, dark cavernous valleys, and mysterious shades, towards where the high tablelands lay which had been the seat and home of the barbaric civilisation of the Incas, before ruin and destruction came in the train of the Spanish adventurers who swept the land in search for El Dorado, the City of Gold.
Perry Campion was the first to break the silence.
“How long have you been out here, Cyril?—Cil, I say, I shall call you Cil.”
“All right, I don’t mind, only it won’t be for long. You go next week, don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Perry, glancing again at the mountains.
“Wish I were going with you. What did you say?—how long have I been out here? Nearly four years. Father sent me over to England to be educated when I was six, and I was at a big school at Worksop till I was twelve, and then he sent for me to come out here again.”