“Mr. Coronado, you ought to be Governor of New Mexico,” said Aunt Maria, stricken with admiration at this project.

Thurstane looked at the two as if he considered them a couple of fools, each bigger than the other.  Coronado advanced to Mrs. Stanley, took her hand, bowed over it, and murmured, “Let me have your influence at Washington, my dear Madame.”  The remarkable woman squirmed a little, fearing lest he should kiss her ringers, but nevertheless gave him a gracious smile.

“It strikes me, however,” she said, “that the isthmus route is better.  We know by experience that the journey from here to Bent’s Fort is safe and easy.  From there down the Arkansas and Missouri to St. Louis it is mostly water carriage; and from St. Louis you can sail anywhere.”

Coronado was alarmed.  He must put a stopper on this project.  He called up all his resources.

“My dear Mrs. Stanley, allow me.  Remember that emigrants move westward, and not eastward.  Coming from Bent’s Fort you had protection and company; but going towards it would be different.  And then think what you would lose.  The great American desert, as it is absurdly styled, is one of the most interesting regions on earth.  Mrs. Stanley, did you ever hear of the Casas Grandes, the Casas de Montezuma, the ruined cities of New Mexico?  In this so-called desert there was once an immense population.  There was a civilization which rose, flourished, decayed, and disappeared without a historian.  Nothing remains of it but the walls of its fortresses and palaces.  Those you will see.  They are wonderful.  They are worth ten times the labor and danger which we shall encounter.  Buildings eight hundred feet long by two hundred and fifty feet deep, Mrs. Stanley.  The resting-places and wayside strongholds of the Aztecs on their route from the frozen North to found the Empire of the Montezumas!  This whole region is strewn, and cumbered, and glorified with ruins.  If we should go by the way of the San Juan—­”

“The San Juan!” protested Thurstane.  “Nobody goes by the way of the San Juan.”

Coronado stopped, bowed, smiled, waited to see if Thurstane had finished, and then proceeded.

“Along the San Juan every hilltop is crowned with these monuments of antiquity.  It is like the castled Rhine.  Ruins looking in the faces of ruins.  It is a tragedy in stone.  It is like Niobe and her daughters.  Moreover, if we take this route we shall pass the Moquis.  The independent Moquis are a fragment of the ancient ruling race of New Mexico.  They live in stone-built cities on lofty eminences.  They weave blankets of exquisite patterns and colors, and produce a species of pottery which almost deserves the name of porcelain.”

“Really, you ought to write all this,” exclaimed Aunt Maria, her imagination fired to a white heat.

“I ought,” said Coronado, impressively.  “I owe it to these people to celebrate them in history.  I owe them that much because of the name I bear.  Did you ever hear of Coronado, the conqueror of New Mexico, the stormer of the seven cities of Cibola?  It was he who gave the final shock to this antique civilization.  He was the Cortes of this portion of the continent.  I bear his name, and his blood runs in my veins.”