route both ways. If you go by the isthmus, you must traverse all Texas and
Louisiana, at the very least. You might as well go at once to San Diego.
In short, the route by the isthmus is not to be thought of."

"And what of the overland route?" asked Mrs. Stanley.

"The overland route is the _other_," laughed Coronado.

"Yes, I know. We must take it, I suppose. But what is the last news about
it? You spoke this morning of Indians, I believe. Not that I suppose they
are very formidable."

"The overland route does not lead directly through paradise, my dear Mrs.
Stanley," admitted Coronado with insinuating candor. "But it is not as bad
as has been represented. I have never tried it. I must rely upon the
report of others. Well, on learning that the isthmus would not do for you,
I rushed off immediately to inquire about the overland. I questioned
Garcia's teamsters. I catechized some newly-arrived travellers. I pumped
dry every source of information. The result is that the overland route
will do. No suffering; absolutely none; not a bit. And no danger worth
mentioning. The Apaches are under a cloud. Our American conquerors and
fellow-citizens" (here he gently patted Thurstane on the shoulder-strap),
"our Romans of the nineteenth century, they tranquillize the Apaches. A
child might walk from here to Fort Yuma without risking its little scalp."

All this was said in the most light-hearted and airy manner conceivable.
Coronado waved and floated on zephyrs of fancy and fluency. A butterfly or
a humming-bird could not have talked more cheerily about flying over a
parterre of flowers than he about traversing the North American desert.
And, with all this frivolous, imponderable grace, what an accent of verity