"Look! How beautiful!" exclaimed Maria-Teresa, anxious to divert their attention to the landscape.
Their train was passing over a bridge from which a panorama of unparalleled beauty could be obtained. Before them stretched the giant chain of the Andes, peak heaped on peak. On one side, a rent in the ridges opened onto green forests, broken by little cultivated plateaus, each with its rustic cottage clinging to the rugged mountain-side. And there, above, snowy crests sparkling in the sun—a chaos of savage magnificence and serene beauty to be found in no other mountain landscape of the world.
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,
