Hugo groaned. "To make a thousand men live my life—"
"But they will not. Suppose you had been proud of your strength. Suppose you had not been compelled to keep it a secret. Suppose you could have found glorious uses for it from childhood—"
"In the mountains," Hugo whispered, his eyes bemused, "where the sun is warm and the days long—these children growing. Even here, in this place—"
"So I thought. Don't you see, Hugo?"
"Yes, I see. At last, thank God, I do see!"
For a long time their thoughts ran wild. When they cooled, it was to formulate plans. A child taken here. Another there. A city in the jungle—the jungle had harboured races before: not only these Mayas, but the Incas, Khmers, and others. A modern city for dwellings, and these tremendous ruins would be the blocks for the nursery. They would teach them art and architecture—and science. Engineering, medicine—their own, undiscovered medicine—the new Titans, the sons of dawn—so ran their inspired imaginations.
When the night was far advanced and the camp was wrapped in slumber, they made a truce with this divine fire. They shook each other's hands.
"Good-night, Hugo. And to-morrow we'll go over the notes."
"I'll bring them."
"Till evening, then."