CHAPTER I

THE PERFECT WORLD

A ROMANCE OF STRANGE PEOPLE AND STRANGE PLACES

BY

ELLA SCRYMSOUR

LONDON

EVELEIGH NASH & GRAYSON LTD.

148 STRAND

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY

THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS LTD., THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE

To

MY TWO DEAR ONES

------------------------------------------------------------------------

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE OLD WORLD

(_Before the War_)

CHAPTER PAGE

I. STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN 11

II. THE CURSE 20

III. THE LIGHT 33

IV. THE OUTLET 42

BOOK II

THE UNDERWORLD

I. A STRANGE MEETING 53

II. THE ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE 65

III. RELATING TO HISTORY 79

IV. OUT INTO THE GREAT BEYOND 88

V. A FRIEND FROM THE ENEMY 95

VI. THE LAIR OF THE SERPENT 102

VII. ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH 109

VIII. THE TOMB OF KORAH 115

IX. THE PAPYRUS 122

X. THE ESCAPE 129

BOOK III

EXIT THE WORLD

(_After the War_)

I. AT WALLA BALLA 139

II. HOME AGAIN 154

III. THE AIRSHIP 166

IV. THE END OF THE WORLD 173

BOOK IV

THE PERFECT WORLD

I. IN SPACE 187

II. ADRIFT IN THE SOLAR REGIONS 194

III. THE VISION OF A NEW WORLD 204

IV. JUPITER AND THE JOVIANS 211

V. DEATH IN JUPITER 223

VI. THE SACRAMENT OF SCHLERIK-ITATA 232

VII. HATRED ON KEEMAR 244

VIII. THE UNFORGIVEABLE KISS 256

IX. ALAN—THE KNIGHT ERRANT 265

X. THE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS 270

XI. THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS 282

XII. THE FATE OF KULMERVAN 292

XIII. THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK 296

XIV. THE HALL OF SORROWS 302

XV. THE TRIUMPH OF AK-ALAN 307

XVI. THE PERFECT WORLD 316

ENVOI 320

BOOK I

THE OLD WORLD

(_Before the War_)

THE PERFECT WORLD

CHAPTER I

STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN

An English summer! The birds sang merrily, and the trees bowed their

heads, keeping time with the melody. The breeze whispered its

accompaniment, and all the glades and woods were happy.

Marshfielden was, perhaps, one of the prettiest villages in Derbyshire.

Nestling among the peaks of that lovely county, its surroundings were

most picturesque. Its straggling street, for it had but one, was

unspoiled by tripper or tourist, for its charms were unknown to the

outside world. The road was cobbled, and boasted of no pavement, and

long gardens, shining with marigolds and nasturtiums, reached down to

each side of it, forming frames to the pretty, irregular little cottages

with their gables and latticed windows.

The little church at the top of the street finished the picture. It was

very tiny, holding only about one hundred and fifty people; but with its

ivy-covered towers, and picturesque little graveyard, the vicar was a

lucky man to have charge of such a place. Unmarried and friendless he

had come to Marshfielden forty years before, and had lodged with Mrs.

Skeet, the cobbler’s wife. Still he remained, having grown old in the

service of his people.

It was a well-known fact, that “our vicar” as Mr. Winthrop was called,

had during all that time never left the precincts of the parish.

Children had grown up and gone away married; old people had died; but

still Mr. Winthrop went on in his kind, fatherly manner, advising those

who sought the benefit of his wisdom, helping those who needed his aid,

and still living in the little rooms he had rented when first he came to

Marshfielden, a stranger.

Marshfielden was about seven miles off the main road. As they would have

to reach it by narrow lanes and rutted roads, motorists never came its

way, and it retained its old-world simplicity.

Two miles to the south was a coal mine, in which most of the villagers

toiled. It was quite an unimportant one, and not very deep, but it gave

employment to all the natives who needed work. Strange as it seems,

however, by an unwritten law, not one of the villagers entered

Marshfielden in his collier dirt or collier garb. Every one of the men

changed his clothes at “Grimland” as the mine district was called, and

washed away the coal dust and dirt; so in the evening, when they made

their way in a body to their homes, they returned as fresh and clean as

they had left them in the morning.

It was, therefore, an ideal place to live in and as old Mr. Winthrop

walked down the uneven street, his eyes dimmed and his thoughts were

tender as he acknowledged first one, then another of his flock.

He stopped at the gate of a pretty, white cottage with a well kept

garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, and greeted the woman who stood

at the gate.

She was quite young and pretty, and maternal love and pride glowed in

her face as she gently crooned over the sleeping babe at her breast.

“And how’s Jimmy, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Very well indeed, sir, thank you.”

“And you—how are you feeling?”

“Quite all right again, now, sir.”

“That’s right. And your husband?”

“Yes, sir, he’s had a rise at the mine.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled and was about to pass on, when he noticed an

underlying current of excitement in the woman’s manner. He looked at her

curiously.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Have you heard the news, sir?”

“No. What news?”

“I be agoin’ to have lodgers.”

“Really?”

“Well I heard only last night, sir. Bill—he came home and said as ’ow

Mr. Dickson, the manager at the mine, had heard from Sir John Forsyth—”

“The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop.

“Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go

to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to

find them rooms near by.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater

looked around her little cottage with an air of pride.

“And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.”

“And so you are going to?”

The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which

I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two

strangers in Marshfielden!”

“It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers

to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.”

“No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My

grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when

she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s

wife put them up—and—and—”

“Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently.

“Well, sir, they were both found dead one day, stiff and cold, sir,

outside the ruins of the Priory. They had been painting, and their

easels were left standing—but they were dead.”

“What has that to do with the case?” asked the vicar with a little

smile.

“Don’t you see, sir,” she went on quickly, the same half-scared look

coming into her eyes, “that was the ‘Curse’ that caused those mishaps,

and I am afraid the ‘Curse’ will be on the two young gentlemen, too.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Winthrop, “You don’t really believe that the

‘Marshfielden Curse’ as you people call it, had anything to do with the

deaths of those two lady artists that occurred over fifty years ago?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” averred the woman. “Why ever since the Priory was

dismantled by Henry the Eighth, the ‘Curse’ has been on this place. That

wasn’t the only case, sir. There are records of many others—but that was

the last.”

“Let me see,” began the vicar, “It’s so long since I even heard it

mentioned, that I’ve forgotten what it was.”

The woman’s face contracted as if she was afraid of something, she knew

not what, but of something mystic, intangible, uncanny—and she repeated

slowly:

_When the eighth Henry fair Marshfielden’s monastery took,

Its priory as a palace, its vast income to his privy purse,—

The outcast prior solemnly, by candle, bell and book

Upon this place for ever laid this interdict and curse_:

_From now until the end of time,

Whene’er a stranger come

Unto Marshfielden’s pleasaunces,

To make therein his home,

Troubles—disease—misfortunes—death—

Upon the spot shall fall.

So—an’ Marshfielden folks ye’d swell

With fair prosperity, and safely dwell,

All strangers from your gates expel,

And live cut off from all._

The vicar laughed. “Yes, it’s a pretty legend, Mrs. Slater, but remember

this is the twentieth century, and nothing is likely to happen to

Marshfielden, its inhabitants or its visitors, because of that. Why, I

was a stranger when I came, yet nothing very terrible has happened to me

during these last forty years.”

“Ah, sir, you don’t count. I mean, sir, you belong to the Priory; you

are our priest. You wouldn’t come under the ‘Curse’ sir.”

“And neither will any one else, Mrs. Slater. It’s a stupid legend.—Have

no fear.”

“But,” began Mrs. Slater. “How do you account for the case of—” But Mr.

Winthrop lifted up a deprecatory hand.

“I cannot listen to any more, Mrs. Slater.” And a note of authority came

into his voice. “Why, all this is against the religion I preach to

you—never listen to tales of superstition. Have no fear, do the best you

can for the two young gentlemen, and I think I can promise you that no

harm will come to them or you.”

The woman shook her head, and disbelief shone in her eyes. The vicar saw

it, and smiled again.

“Well, well! It remains to be proved that I am right,” said he.

“It remains to be proved, _which_ of us is right, sir.”

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that. When do they arrive?”

“About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.”

“I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs.

Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the

kindly old man went away down the street.

That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk,

every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch

sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman

who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”

For in this little village the “Curse” was a real, poignant fact, and

was spoken of in the twilight with hushed tones and furtive glances.

Children were quieted and terrified by it, and the fear imbibed by them

in their childhood grew with them till their death. Not one of them but

Mary Slater would have risked its anger by allowing a stranger to sleep

beneath her roof; and even Mary, although outwardly calm, was inwardly

terrified lest her action might be the means of bringing disaster and

misery, not only on her two lodgers, but on the whole little community.

Dan Murlock, the husband of the little woman at the corner house, was

the first to arrive. He came along at a swinging pace, and waved his cap

jauntily as he saw his wife’s trim little figure at the doorway.

“Hullo, Moll,” he cried, when he was within speaking distance “an’ how’s

yersel’?”

“I’m all right,” she replied, while their three year old, curly haired

boy and only child peeped from behind his mother’s skirts and cried

“Boo” to his dad. The man looked at them both, with awe as well as pride

in his glance. Even now he was often heard to remark, that he could not

make out why a clumsy brute like him should be allowed to own such an

angelic wife and child.

“Where’s the strangers?” asked Moll eagerly.

“Comin’ along, lass. Why?”

“Oh, the ‘Curse,’ Dan!”

“Never mind the ‘Curse,’ lass; that’s done with long ago! Is supper

ready yet?”

“Yes, Dan. It’s ready.” But his wife made no effort to re-enter their

little home, and serve the meal her husband wanted.

“Woman, what are you staring at?” he cried. “Why do’ant ’ee come in? I’m

hungry.”

“In a moment, Dan. I—I—”

“What’s thee lookin’ at, lass?”

“The strangers, Dan. Think the ‘Curse’—” But Dan only laughed

good-humouredly. “Thou’rt a fule, lass. Come in and do’ant bother yer

head about it,” and he good-naturedly put his arm through hers, and

dragged the unwilling woman into the house.

Most of the women outside, however, were still waiting, waiting for the

strangers. Then suddenly came a buzz of excitement as the news was

passed from mouth to mouth. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The two young men, Alan and Desmond Forsyth, were entirely unconscious

of all the attention and interest showered on them. Of the “Curse” they

knew nothing, and had they done so, would have cared less.

They were cousins, and on very affectionate and intimate terms, and one

day would share equally in the Grimland Colliery, of which their uncle

was now owner. Alan, moreover, would succeed to his uncle’s title. The

future looked very rosy for these two young men.

Sir John was determined that when they left Cambridge, they should

thoroughly learn the workings of the mine. The instructions he gave

Dickson, his manager, were that he was to “make them work like ordinary

colliers until they were competent to take charge.”

They had travelled on the Continent for six months after coming down

from the ’Varsity, and this was their first day of real, hard work. It

had left them both eager to begin another day, for they were anxious to

learn more of the wonderful workings of the mine below the surface of

the earth. They had walked cheerily toward Marshfielden, eager to reach

their apartments and have a good meal. They liked Slater, and felt that

they would be comfortable and happy in his home.

“How do you feel, young gentlemen?” he asked them.

“I’m dead tired,” answered Alan, the elder, a man of some twenty-five

years, while his cousin, Desmond, a year younger, yawned lustily, as he

asked, “How much further is that adorable little home of yours, Slater?”

“We’re nigh there, sir. There’s my Mary at the gate.”

“What, the little cottage at the bend?” asked Alan.

“Yes, sir. She’s a good lass, is my missus. She’ll treat you well, and

make you comfortable and happy.”

The rest of the short way was trodden in silence, and at length the two

young men stepped across the threshold of Sweet William Cottage, as the

Slaters’ home was called.

The room they were ushered into was old-world and sweet. The lattice

windows were open wide, letting in the soft, fresh air of summer. The

ceiling was low and beamed, and the furniture was of old dark oak; while

the bright chintz hangings took away all hint of sombreness. The table

was laid, and within a few minutes of their arrival they were sitting

down to an appetizing repast.

Neither of them spoke for some time, and then Desmond laid down his

knife and fork with a sigh.

“I’m done” said he.

“I should just think you were” laughed his cousin “You’ve been stuffing

incessantly for over half an hour” Alan rang the bell for the table to

be cleared and then they lit their pipes.

“How do you feel?” asked Desmond.

“Very tired—very sore—and very bruised”

“So am I. I think I shall like the life of a miner, though”

“Rather! What a ripping set of chaps they are!”

So they chattered on until it was time for them to retire. At peace with

each other, at peace with the world, they slept until a knock at their

bedroom door awakened them.

“Yes” sleepily answered Desmond.

“It’s four o’clock, young gentlemen, you’d better get up”

Alan woke up lazily to hear Desmond cry out in amazement.

“Surely not yet, Slater?”

“Yes, sir. You must be at the mine by five fifteen. Early shift to-day,

you know”

“All right, Slater” cried Alan, who was now wide awake “we’ll be down in

twenty minutes”

In a very short space of time they had had their breakfast, and were

walking across the Grimland fields to the mine, to begin once more a

day’s arduous duty.

It passed quickly enough, but they were thankful when the bell sounded

for them to knock off work, and they were taken up to daylight again by

the cage.

When they reached Sweet William Cottage, they found Mr. Winthrop

awaiting them, with profuse apologies for his absence the night before.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Slater omitted to give us any message from you” said

Alan “In fact we didn’t even know you had called”

“I am the vicar of Marshfielden” said the kindly old man “and I should

have liked to give you a personal welcome. You see the ‘Curse’ has made

your position here somewhat strained”

The two boys stared at each other in perplexity. The vicar laughed.

“None of the women have been frightening you with their child’s stories

yet?”

“No!” said both boys together, “what is it?”

“Oh, there’s a legend connected with this place, that any strangers in

Marshfielden will bring disaster on themselves and perhaps on the place,

if they take up their abode here”

“Why?”

“A curse was laid on the place by a monk in Henry the Eighth’s time,

when the Priory here was dismantled”

“Oh, is that all?” said Alan lightly “We are not afraid of old wives’

tales like that!”

But Molly Murlock, who was in the kitchen with Mary Slater, heard the

words, and her brow clouded. Drawing her child closer, she muttered as

she said good night to Mary—

“‘Curse’ or no ‘Curse,’ I’d rather be dead, than live to see strangers

come here”

CHAPTER II

THE CURSE

The two men had now been working for three months at the mine, and the

villagers had become used to the sight of strangers in Marshfielden.

Indeed, as the weeks sped by, and nothing uncanny happened, they began

gradually to forget the “Curse” in connection with the two young

Forsyths.

Summer was now waning. Leaves were beginning to fall and folks were

making preparations for a hard winter. Mr. Winthrop was still going

round on his kindly errands and had become sincerely attached to the two

youths who had taken up their residence so near him.

Indeed, there was no one else in the village to whom they could go for

social intercourse, and nearly every evening Mrs. Skeet’s little parlour

was full of the smoke and chatter of the vicar and his two young

friends. It was now the first Tuesday in October, and the evenings were

growing chilly. Mrs. Skeet had lighted a nice fire, and they all sat

round it enjoying the warmth of its glow.

People outside, passing by, heard the sound of merry laughter, and Mr.

Winthrop’s characteristic chuckle, and smiled with him. But Moll Murlock

passed the cottage hurriedly and drew her shawl closer round her

shoulders, while a slight moan came from between her tightly compressed

lips.

Of all the inhabitants of Marshfielden, there was one still who had

_not_ forgotten the “Curse.”

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Winthrop, “I suppose you feel used to your life

among us now?”

“Yes,” answered Alan. “It seems almost like home to us.”

“We’ve never had a proper home,” broke in Desmond.

“Ours is rather a romantic story,” said Alan. “Our mothers were twin

sisters—they married on the same day and went to the same place for

their honeymoon. A year later my mother died in giving me birth, and

Desmond’s mother died when he was only a few months old, so we were both

left babies to get on the best way we could without a woman’s care.”

“Poor lads! Poor lads!” sighed the vicar.

“When I was five my father died,” said Desmond, “and four years later

Alan’s father was drowned. Uncle John then took us to live with him—but

as he was a bachelor we were brought up in the care of nurses and

tutors, and had no real home life.”

“You are fond of your uncle?” queried the vicar.

“Rather!” answered Alan. “Uncle John is the dearest old boy imaginable.

He’s a bit of a crank though. He has been working for years on what he

calls his ‘Petradtheolin’ airship.”

“His what?” laughed Mr. Winthrop.

“His ‘Petradtheolin’ airship. It’s his own invention, you know, but up

to now he has been unsuccessful. He has built a wonderful aluminium

airship—most beautifully fitted and upholstered—in fact it is absolutely

ready to fly, but up to now it won’t budge an inch.”

“What?”

“He is under the impression,” went on Alan “that in the near future

flying will be an every day occurrence, and it is his greatest ambition

to own the most comfortable, most speedy, and lightest airship of the

day.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled. “There is a great deal of talk about flying now,”

said he, “but do you honestly think it will ever come to anything?”

“I don’t know,” said Alan thoughtfully, “we have conquered the sea—‘Iron

on the water shall float, like any wooden boat’,” he quoted. “We have

built ships that can submerge and remain under water and navigate for

certain periods of time. I see no reason why the modern man should not

also conquer the air.”

Mr. Winthrop shook his head. “I may be old-fashioned, but it seems

impossible to believe that navigable ships could be built for flying,

that were _safe_. I don’t doubt that airships will be built that up to a

certain point will be successful—say for a few hours’ flight, but it

seems inconceivable to me that man could so conquer the air, that

commerce and travel would benefit.”

“Well, Uncle John thinks he will conquer it with his ‘Argenta’,” went on

Alan.

“Surely that was not what you called it just now?” asked the vicar.

Alan laughed. “The ‘Argenta’ is the name of the ship itself, but

‘Petradtheolin’ is the name of the power he is experimenting on, that he

is desirous of using to propel it.”

“The machine itself is complete,” went on Desmond enthusiastically, “the

balance is perfect, and its engines are supposed to be of wonderful

velocity, but no known power will raise it even an inch from the ground.

So he is still experimenting on this spirit. It is a formula which

embraces petrol, radium and theolin; these chemicals are blended in some

way or other—concentrated and solidified. The engines are made so as to

generate electricity in the bonnet part. The current acts on the

solidified cubes, which as they melt are sent through metal retorts drop

by drop, and then being conveyed to the engines should make the machine

fly.”

“Well?”

“I know it all sounds very fantastic, but my uncle firmly believes in

the ultimate success of his experiments. His ambition is to be able to

fly for about one hundred hours with about a cupful of this powerful

matter. He expects each drop of the vaporized spirit, as it issues from

the retort, to keep the engines going about fifty minutes.”

“It all sounds very interesting,” said Mr. Winthrop “but is extremely

puzzling. I am afraid I would rather trust myself to Mother Earth than

to your uncle’s very ingenious ‘Argenta’.”

“So would I,” laughed Desmond. “But the dear old boy is so keen on his

work, we don’t like to discourage him”

“And” finished Alan “there in a most wonderful shed, rests the

‘Argenta’; its body of glistening aluminium—its interior richly

upholstered and wonderfully arranged from engine room to kitchen, but

absolutely lifeless. And there I expect it will remain, for he will

never destroy it. It is his biggest hobby after us—sometimes I think it

even comes before us. He has the money, he has the brains, he may

perfect this power, and if he does, he will have conferred a great

benefit upon humanity”

“You stayed with him until you came here, I suppose?”

“Yes” answered Alan “We went to Eton—Cambridge—”

“Cambridge?” Mr. Winthrop’s face lighted up “Dear me! Dear me! What

College, may I ask?”

“Queens” said Desmond.

“Queens? That was my College”

“Indeed” cried the two boys together.

“Yes, I’ve not been there for over forty-five years. I expect the dear

old place has changed a great deal?”

“Yes. We had rooms opposite each other on the same staircase in the New

Buildings” said Desmond.

“That was since my time” said Mr. Winthrop rather sadly “I’ve never even

seen the New Buildings. I was in the Walnut-Tree Court” Then he stopped,

and gazed into the fire, his eyes sparkling and a colour coming into his

old, worn cheeks, as he thought of the days of his youth. Reminiscences

came quickly. “Do you remember this?” “I remember when so-and-so

happened” So the conversation went on until they were rudely interrupted

by a sharp knock on the door, startling in its unexpectedness. All three

rose hurriedly.

“Come in” cried the vicar and Mrs. Skeet appeared breathing heavily,

with a look of horror in her eyes.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Mr. Winthrop in dismay, startled out of

his usual placidity by her frightened mien.

“Dan—Dan Murlock’s baby—it’s gone, sir”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“No one knows, sir. He was playing in the garden, safe and sound, only

five minutes before, and when Moll went to call him in to put him to

bed, he had vanished.”

“It’s impossible for the child to have gone far,” said the vicar. “Why,

he is only a baby!”

“Three last month, sir.”

“Has any one looked for him? What have they done?”

“The child can’t be spirited away,” said Alan. “Why, there’s no traffic

in the village that could possibly hurt him.”

Mrs. Skeet looked scared. “If you please, sir,” she half whispered, “the

people do say, as ’ow it’s the ‘Curse’ and that he has been spirited

away.”

The vicar blinked his eyes. “Nonsense, Mrs. Skeet! I’m ashamed of you.

Never let me hear such words from you again. Spirited away indeed! I

expect he has strayed away into the woods at the back of the Murlocks’

cottage. Come, lads, we’ll go down and see Dan and his wife, and do our

best to help them.” Taking up their hats the three made their way down

the street, usually so quiet and still, but now buzzing with excitement.

As they reached the Murlocks’ cottage, they saw the front door was open

wide, leaving the kitchen and garden beyond exposed to view. Curious

neighbours, sympathetic friends, open-mouthed children were surrounding

the stricken mother, who was rocking herself to and fro in her

abandonment and grief.

“Let us go through,” said the vicar, and the two boys followed him.

The woman heard the approaching footsteps, and lifted up her

tear-stained face to the intruders. She held out her hands pathetically

to the vicar, and the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. He took

hold of the toil-worn hands, and was about to speak when she caught

sight of the two boys behind him. Her eyes dilated and her body

stiffened. Suddenly she uttered a piercing scream, and pointing a

shaking hand at them, “Go, go!” she cried. “You came to Marshfielden

unbidden—you defied the ‘Curse’—now you have taken my baby—my darling,

darling baby!”

Dan put his arm about her tenderly. “Do’ant ’ee tak’ on so, lass,” said

he gently. “Sure, we’ll find the babby. Already John Skinner and Matt

Harding have gone with search parties to find the wee lad. We’ll get him

back, wife mine.” But she only looked fiercely at the strangers.

“Go—go—the ‘Curse’ is on us all!”

Mr. Winthrop silently motioned to the two lads and they quickly left the

stricken house, and made their way back to their rooms in silence.

The next morning on their way to work, they missed Dan Murlock. Some of

the miners eyed them suspiciously as they asked where he was, and

Slater, their landlord, was the only one to satisfy their curiosity.

“With his wife,” said he curtly. “The wee laddie has not been found.”

“Wherever can he be?” said Desmond in bewilderment. Slater shook his

head.

“Search parties were out all night, but could find no trace or tidings

of him.”

“Have you any idea what has happened?” asked Alan. Slater gave a quick

look at each in turn, and then muttered something unintelligible under

his breath, and the boys had to be content with that.

It was a terrible day at the mine for the two boys; they had to partake

of their midday meal in silence, for not one of the colliers addressed a

word to them if he could possibly avoid it. They were regarded with

suspicion mingled with fear, and the “Curse” seemed to be on every one’s

lips.

Two days passed—a week, a fortnight; still Dan Murlock’s baby was not

found, and at last the broken-hearted parents appeared at church in

mourning, thus acknowledging to the world that they had given up all

hope of ever seeing their little one again.

Murlock was silent about it all, but every one who knew him realized

that he was a changed man. He had idolized his wife and child, and at

one blow had lost both, for his baby was without doubt dead; and his

wife had turned from him in the throes of her grief.

The weeks passed on, Christmas was nigh upon them, and the child was

spoken of in hushed tones as one speaks of the dead. The two boys were

treated as aliens by the men, and they were beginning to chafe under

their treatment. Although nothing had been said openly, they knew

instinctively that they were blamed by the superstitious inhabitants for

the disappearance of the baby.

“Alan,” said Desmond one day, as they were sitting apart from the rest

eating their dinner, “I can’t stand this. I am going to speak to the

men.”

“Stand what?” asked Alan wearily.

“Why the whispers and sneers that are showered on us whenever we are

near them. They all shrink away from us—treat us as if we were lepers;

even Slater avoids us, and the ‘Curse’ is whispered from lip to lip as

we pass.”

“You’ll do no good, Desmond.”

“We had nothing to do with the child’s going away, yet they treat us as

if we had murdered him.”

“Leave it alone,” said Alan, “I don’t know what it is, but this place

seems uncanny. I think I am almost beginning to believe in the ‘Curse’

myself.”

Desmond made no reply, but squaring his shoulders, began to walk toward

the miners.

“Look here, you fellows,” he began. “What’s wrong with you all? Why are

you treating my cousin and me as if we were murderers? We aren’t

responsible for Murlock’s little child vanishing away.”

The miners moved restlessly and muttered together, each waiting for a

spokesman to assert himself, who would teach them the line of action

they should take. Desmond continued, “You talk about the ‘Curse’! We

knew nothing about it when we came here, and to us it seems ridiculous

to imagine there is anything supernatural about the whole affair. The

river is only a quarter of a mile from their garden gate; I know it has

been dragged, but after all it is full of whirlpools and weeds, and if

the little chap did fall into it, ten to one his little body will never

be found.”

Suddenly a leader was found among the men, and Matt Harding stood up.

“Look ’ere mates,” said he. “We do’ant suppose these young gentlemen

actually hurt Dan Murlock’s baby, or that they know where he went to,

but after all, the ‘Curse’ tells us _not_ to have strangers in

Marshfielden, or evil will befall. It may befall _them_, it may befall

_us_, but some one will reap ill. Now it’s really Slater’s fault for

giving them lodgings. Let Slater turn them out, and that may break the

‘Curse.’”

“Aye, aye!” cried the men in unison.

“Where is Slater?” asked one burly fellow.

“With the shift above,” came the reply in another voice. Then came

groans from the rest. “Turn them out! Turn them out!”

“There is no need to turn us out,” said Alan with quiet dignity. “We

will find rooms outside Marshfielden, and leave at the end of the week.”

“Leave now! Leave now!” cried a hoarse voice, which they recognized as

belonging to Toby Skinner.

That was the one word needed to make the miners obstreperous. “Yes, go

now, go now,” they cried. “By the end of the week all our babes may be

gone.”

In vain the signal was given for the men to resume work; but they were

free of their pent up feelings, and refused to listen to the strident

tones of the bell that called them back to their duties.

Suddenly the manager’s voice was heard above the din and babel.

“Get to your work at once,” he thundered, “or take my word for it, there

will be a general lockout to-morrow.”

Gradually the men quieted, relieved of the strain of the past few weeks,

and slunk back to work.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Dickson, coming to the boys.

“They think we are the cause of the disappearance of Dan Murlock’s

baby,” explained Alan to the manager with some bitterness.

“Yes,” continued Desmond, “and now they demand that we leave

Marshfielden. That damned ‘Curse’ is driving us mad. These people are

like a set of uncivilized savages, who believe in witchcraft and omens

of the twelfth century.”

Mr. Dickson smiled as he answered them. “Our Marshfielden folk are

unique. They are almost a race in themselves. As Cornishmen consider

themselves ‘Cornish’ and not ‘English’ so Marshfielden men call

themselves ‘Marshfieldens.’ It is true they are very superstitious for

they believe implicitly in the folk lore that has been handed down to

them from all time.”

“What would you advise us to do?” asked Alan somewhat impatiently.

Mr. Dickson thought a moment, and then said quickly, “The widow of one

of our men lives in a little cottage not a quarter of a mile from here;

it stands on Corlot ground—not Marshfielden. She has a hard struggle to

make both ends meet. I will send round at once and see if she is willing

to take you two as lodgers. If she will—then go to her, for she is

clean, respectable, and will look after you well. Meanwhile, neither of

you has had a day off yet, so go and arrange about your luggage, and

I’ll see you are fixed up somewhere with rooms.”

“Thanks,” said Alan. “I shall be very sorry to leave Marshfielden

though. It is such a quaint, old-world place.”

“Far too old-world for strangers,” said Mr. Dickson significantly. The

little village street was buzzing with excitement when they reached

Marshfielden. Women were rushing to and fro across the cobbled stones,

and the whole place showed signs of some great disturbance.

As the boys approached, a sudden hush seemed to pervade the place, and

the women huddled together and whispered “The ‘Curse’! The ‘Curse’!”

Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll see to the things,” said he. “You go

along to Mr. Winthrop, and tell him of the change in our plans.”

“Right, old boy,” and Desmond went towards Mr. Winthrop’s rooms,

whistling and doing his best to ignore the hostile looks that were

directed at him.

Alan went into the little room that had become so dear to them both. The

cottage was deserted, Mrs. Slater was absent, and as he made his way up

to the little bedroom, he sighed as he thought of leaving the dear

little place.

In a very short space of time the drawers were emptied and the trunks

packed; everything was done except the putting together of the hundred

and one odds and ends that invariably remain about.

“That’s good!” said he to himself, as he rose from his knees, having

finished strapping up the trunks, and he surveyed his handiwork with

pride, as he realized the short time it had taken him to complete it

all.

“Alan!”—He turned round suddenly—it was Desmond’s voice.

“Coming, old chap,” but Desmond was in the room, with a white, set face,

trembling limbs and a look of horror in his eyes.

“Good God! Whatever is the matter?” he asked.

“John Meal—Matt Harding—” gasped Desmond.

“Have found Dan’s boy?” eagerly.

“No. Their children have disappeared too!”

“_What?_”

“It’s true! Mr. Winthrop told me. That’s what caused the commotion when

we arrived here this morning. This news had only just become known.”

Alan seemed struck dumb. He looked at Desmond with unseeing eyes; his

tongue swelled, and his mouth grew parched, but his lips would not form

words. Then suddenly sounds came. “I wonder—is it the ‘Curse’ after

all?”

“I wondered that too.”

“When were they missed?”

“The children were all in school safe and sound. Lunch time came and

they were seen to enter the playground with the other little ones. Ten

minutes later the bell was rung for them all to reassemble.

“When the children did so, it was found that there were five children

missing. Harding’s three little girls and Meal’s two had disappeared.

“The Head Mistress was furious, thinking they had all gone off together,

and were playing truant. She sent a message round to the parents, so

John Meal left his work in the fields, and insisted on a search being

made. He swore it was the ‘Curse’ and that if he found his children he

would find them in company with Harding’s, and Dan’s boy.”

“Do you think it is a band of gypsies at work?” suggested Alan.

“There have been no gypsies near Marshfielden for over five years, they

say. Besides that, the extraordinary thing is, the children disappeared

from the playground.”

“Well?”

“There is a ten foot wall all round it, so it is impossible for them to

have climbed over. The only way out is past the Head Mistress’ desk. She

was sitting there the whole of the break, and declares that for the

whole ten minutes of the luncheon time, the hall was entirely deserted

and no one passed her. It seems impossible for them to have left the

playground that way, and equally impossible by the front entrance.”

“Why it sounds like witchcraft,” said Alan.

A voice startled them. It was Mrs. Slater; her eyes red from weeping. “I

beg of you two young gentlemen to go,” she sobbed. “The ‘Curse’ is upon

us.”

“We are going,” said Alan gently, “but we will do our utmost to discover

the children. Now let us have our account.” But the woman threw out her

hands before her with a cry.

“No-No-Not a penny, sir.”

“Oh, come, Mrs. Slater, don’t be foolish. Let us have our bill,” urged

Alan.

But Mrs. Slater was obdurate. “It’s only two days you owe me, sir, and I

wouldn’t touch a penny. You are quite welcome to what you’ve had, only

go—go!” It was useless to argue and they left the house with heavy

hearts, and went toward the blacksmith’s in order to ask some one to

take their luggage away for them.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Alan pleasantly as they reached the forge. The

man looked up and greeted them carefully, and as he saw Alan about to

step across the threshold he gave a cry.

“Do’ant ’ee put your foot inside, gentlemen, do’ant ’ee please! Oh, the

‘Curse’ be upon us all!”

The boys shrugged their shoulders helplessly, and Alan spoke quickly.

“Send your boy up to Mrs. Slater’s, will you, Jim? We want our luggage

taken from there to Mrs. Warren’s cottage at Corlot.”

“You be agoin’ away?” asked the man eagerly.

“Yes.”

“I be mighty glad, sirs. I do’ant mean to be rude, sirs, of course we

shall miss you sorely, but the ‘Curse’ has hit us sore hard since you

came.”

“Then you’ll send your boy, Jim?”

Jim scratched his head. “Couldn’t you manage it yourselves?”

“Surely it won’t harm you to help us out of Marshfielden?” said Alan

bitterly.

“I do’ant rightly know, sir, but—”

“Well?”

“I’d rather lend you my trolley, sir, than my boy. I do be mighty feared

of the ‘Curse’.”

“All right, Jim, give us the trolley. We’ll do it ourselves.” The

blacksmith wheeled it out, and gave it with half an apology to Alan.

“Don’t apologize, Jim. I understand.”

But the blacksmith had one more thing to say. “Do’ant ’ee trouble to

bring it back to Marshfielden, sirs, leave it with Ezra Meakin. He’ll

bring it back for ’ee.”

“Oh, don’t fear, Jim, we won’t return to Marshfielden once we’ve left.

Ezra shall return it safely. We’ll pay you now.”

Jim was not too frightened to refuse payment, and the liberal amount of

silver they showered on him touched him.

“I do’ant mean to be rude, sir,” he began—but the boys had started on

their way and were already wheeling the lumbering trolley down the

uneven street.

Jim went back into his forge with a shaking hand. Had he helped the

“Curse” by lending his trolley—doubly so, indeed, by accepting payment?

And as he beat the hammer on the anvil, sparks flew out all around him

like little red devils thirsting for prey!

When the miners came home that night they were unaware of the double

tragedy that had come into their midst. The strangers were gone! They

rejoiced, and Matt Harding was among the merriest. Mr. Winthrop and John

Meal were away still searching for the missing ones, and no one had

dared go to the mine to tell Matt of his loss.

He received the news with a set face, and strong self control. No word

of comfort was given him by his comrades; he needed none. Blindly he

staggered home, his loving, grief-stricken wife comforting and consoling

him, bearing up herself in order to help the man she loved.

Silently the miners prepared for another fruitless search.

“The two young gentlemen are going to help,” volunteered a woman in the

crowd.

“We do’ant want no help,” cried a man baring his brawny arm. “We’ll find

the chillun ourselves.” But the search proved futile, as they almost

expected, for as Murlock’s boy had vanished completely, so had these

other five children. But still stranger things were happening!

Mrs. Skeet possessed a dun cow of which she was very proud. Two days

after the disappearance of the children, she tied it up in its stall in

the byre, as it was suffering from an inflamed heel. Next morning when

she entered the byre the cow had gone, and the whole of the thatched

roof had been burnt away. Rushing into the cottage she called Mr.

Winthrop, but there was no reply. She knocked at his bedroom door. The

room sounded empty. Again she knocked, and fear made her open it. In a

second she was out, and shrieking in her terror, for the window was open

wide, and the vicar too had disappeared.

CHAPTER III

THE LIGHT

The London papers were burning with excitement. Marshfielden had at last

become known to the vast, outside world, for the disappearance of so

many of its inhabitants could no longer be hidden under a veil. After

the vicar was found to be missing, Mr. Dickson at the mine made Slater

promise to report the matter to the Kiltown police—the nearest

constabulary to Marshfielden.

The detective officer and his men came over and pompously took notes and

asked voluminous questions, but after a fortnight’s search came no

nearer solving the mystery. Then one of the constables disappeared too,

and Sergeant Alken thought it was high time to report the matter to

Scotland Yard.

Detective Inspector Vardon, the shrewdest, cleverest man at the Yard,

came down immediately, and at once sent for Alan and Desmond Forsyth. He

had been working out a theory coming down in the train and these two

young men were very closely connected with it.

But after his first interview with them, he realized that his suspicions

were entirely wrong, and knew he must look elsewhere for a clue. Alan

told the full story without any hesitation whatsoever and explained how

they themselves had suffered over the “Curse.”

“Pooh Pooh!” laughed Vardon “We will leave the ‘Curse’ out of the

question. These mysteries are caused by no witchcraft, but by a clever,

cunning brain.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Desmond.

“Of course,” and Alan gave a sigh of relief as he murmured, “you don’t

know how that has relieved me. I was beginning to get quite a horror of

the unknown.”

“Of course it’s an uncanny case,” went on the Inspector, “but we’ll

solve the problem yet.” Then he added laughingly, “I came down here

prepared to suspect you two young gentlemen.”

“Us? Why?”

“Well, all these mysteries occurred after you arrived here, and I found

you were none too popular with the natives.”

Desmond was indignant, but Vardon soon cooled him down. “See here, my

dear sir. It’s my business to suspect everybody until I convince myself

of his innocence. I know now I was mistaken—therefore I have been candid

with you.”

The inquiries lasted some time, and every day brought some fresh

disaster in its wake, filling the little village with misery and

consternation, and the London editors’ pockets with gold. Sightseers and

tourists came galore to the stricken place, and the carrier between

Marshfielden and Kiltown reaped a small fortune from the curious. Every

day the papers recounted some fresh loss—perhaps a cow or a pig, but

often a human life. Women kept inside their homes, and even the men folk

walked about in pairs, so that they could help each other should the

“unknown” fall upon them.

The two boys still worked in the mine, and the men, realizing at last

that they were not the instigators of all the trouble, admitted them,

charily enough at first, into their lives again.

Alan and Desmond were quite happy with Mrs. Warren, but missed Mr.

Winthrop’s kindly advice and friendship greatly. No trace of him had

ever been found, and a younger man now took his parochial duties.

Amateur detectives swarmed about the place, but the villagers in a body

refused shelter to every one. Even the police officials themselves had

to pitch tents in fields near by for their own use, as no bribe was high

enough to obtain accommodation for them. Inspector Vardon was beginning

to get disheartened; he had formed many theories during his stay, but

upon minute investigation they all fell to pieces.

Walking away from the village one day, his hands behind his back and his

head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, he was suddenly awakened

from his reverie by the sound of groans. Hedges were on either side of

him, but he vaulted over the one from whence the sounds came.

There lay a sheep, its wool burnt away and its body scorched. He

examined the helpless creature in pity, and the poor beast breathed his

last. He was distinctly puzzled. There was no sign of fire anywhere at

all—the poor animal alone had been hurt.

He pondered for a moment, and the thought came into his mind that

perhaps this was a sequel to the strange disappearances and mysteries he

had been trying to unravel—but after a moment, he cast the thought aside

as being impossible, and decided that the accident must have been caused

by a passer-by throwing away a match or a lighted cigarette, so he

hurried across the fields to tell the farmer of his loss. That night,

however, he had cause to think more deeply over the mishap to the sheep.

About six in the evening Ezra Meakin and a companion set out for

Kiltown. They intended to stay the night there and come back by the

carrier in the morning. At eight a shrieking, demented man came flying

into Marshfielden, and fell in a heap across the steps that led up to

the church.

Matt Harding was near and ran to his aid.

“Good God, it’s Ezra!” he cried.

It was indeed, but a very different Ezra from the one who had left

Marshfielden only two hours before. His clothes were scorched and his

hair singed, while great blisters, that could have been caused only by

excessive heat, marred his face.

“What has come over ye, lad?” asked Matt in concern.

“The fire! The fire!” cried Ezra hysterically. “It’s taken Luke—he’s

gone,” and with the words he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Matt lifted him up in his strong arms, and bore him to the nearest

cottage. “Fetch the Inspector,” said he curtly as he busied himself in

trying to restore life to the inanimate form on the bed. At length he

succeeded—a tremor passed through the body; the hands unclasped; the

eyelids fluttered slightly. Then the lids slowly moved, and Matt stared

down in horror at the wide open eyes. Blindly he stumbled out of the

room, and fell into the arms of the Inspector.

“What’s the matter?” asked Vardon.

Matt looked at him stupidly for a moment, and then gave a harsh,

mirthless laugh. “Ezra—he’s—he’s—”

“Yes?”

“He’s blind.”

“Blind?”

Matt Harding could say no more, but sank down on to a chair and buried

his head in his hands.

For a week Ezra lay delirious, and it was even longer than that before

any one could get his story from him. When it came, it was disjointed

and almost incoherent. After he and Luke Wilden had walked about a mile,

he told them, they suddenly saw in the distance something that looked

like a red hot wire on the horizon. Dancing and swaying it drew nearer

to them, and fascinated they watched to see what it could possibly be.

Then suddenly, before they realized, it was upon them. It swooped down

and coiled around Luke’s body, and carried him off into mid-air. As he

tried to drag Luke from its clutches, the end of it, in curling around

Luke still more firmly, struck him, and burnt and blinded him. He

remembered no more; everything grew dim, and he fled down the long,

straight road towards the village, instinct guiding him in place of his

sight.

Every one heard the story incredulously, and it duly appeared in the

London newspapers, and tended to make the “Marshfielden Mystery” as it

was called, still more complicated and unfathomable.

Ezra recovered from the shock, but his eyesight was gone forever.

“Destroyed by fire,” was the verdict of the eminent specialist who was

called in to diagnose his case.

The story of the “Light” grew daily more terrifying. School children

declared they saw it from the windows of their class-rooms, and when

closely questioned about it, declared it was “a golden streak of fire,

as thin as wire, that came rushing through the sky like lightning.”

Then men began to watch for it, but somehow it seemed to evade most of

them, and for some time, solitary statements were all that could be

obtained with reference to it.

“What do you make of it, Alan?” asked Desmond one day, after it had been

seen by three different witnesses at the same time and in the same

direction.

“I don’t know. Every one is not a liar, and at the same time every one

cannot suffer from a like optical delusion. Every one who has seen this

phenomenon agrees in every detail about its appearance.”

“Yes, even the children,” supplemented Desmond.

“Let’s go for a walk,” yawned his cousin. “I feel very tired to-day.”

Mrs. Warren watched them going toward the gate with apprehension in her

eyes, and just as they were about to pass through, she rushed to the

door. “Be you agoin’ out? Oh, do’ant ’ee go—do’ant ’ee—not to-night! I

be afeared—mortal afeared.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of ourselves,” laughed Desmond. “Don’t you worry.”

“But I’m afeared.” She shivered as she spoke—but the boys laughed as

they walked toward the Corlot Woods, a favourite spot of theirs.

As they crossed the stile leading to the path across the fields, they

heard a dog crying pitifully. Alan, always tender-hearted towards dumb

animals, stopped and looked round. Again came the mournful cry. “I think

it must be across the way,” said Desmond. Alan crossed the road, and

then called out to his cousin.

“It’s Slater’s pup”—he bent over it closely—“Why its leg is broken and

its fur is singed,” he added in an awe-struck tone.

A rustling sounded behind him—an intense heat that nearly stifled him;

he heard a sudden shriek—a groan.

Once more the “Light” had found its prey. Alan was alone!

* * * * *

“_Come at once. Something terrible has happened to Dez. Don’t delay.

Alan._”

Such was the telegram that Sir John Forsyth received upon arriving at

his office the day after Desmond’s disappearance. The two boys had kept

him fully posted with all the news at Marshfielden. But as he always

prided himself upon his strong common sense, he laughed with the boys at

the suggestion that the “Curse” was responsible for the strange

happenings in the little Derbyshire village.

His face blanched as he read the message, and instinctively he thought

of the “Curse,” yet put the thought aside as quickly as it came.

Masters, his confidential secretary, almost friend, looked at him

pityingly.

“I am going to Marshfielden,” announced Sir John.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Masters.

“Yes, Masters, I shall need you.”

“An express leaves for Derby in half an hour,” went on Masters. “If we

book there, I can ’phone through for a car to meet us and motor us

direct to Grimland.”

“Yes! Yes! You arrange,” and Sir John, who had grown as many years old

as minutes had passed since he had had the news, sat with his teeth

chattering and his limbs trembling.

“A motor car will be waiting for us at Derby,” announced Masters as they

took their seats in the train.

At last the whistle sounded, the flag waved, and the great engine

snorted violently as it left the station.

Sir John, in his anguish of mind, was unable to sit still; up and down

the corridor he walked until the passengers began to pity his white,

strained face, and wondered what his trouble could be. Derby at last!

Then followed a mad ride to Grimland. Alan was awaiting his Uncle at the

pit head; he had not attempted to go to bed since the “Light” had taken

Desmond from his side. Silently they gripped hands, and Sir John entered

the little office and heard the whole story.

Alan wound up by saying, “Even as I tell the story, it seems almost

incredible. As I turned round I saw Desmond in mid-air, with, it seemed,

a fiery wire about him—and as I looked he vanished from sight.”

Sir John was determined not to look upon it as witchcraft.

“It’s man’s devilry, I’ll be bound,” said he. “I’ll swear it’s not

supernatural. Get all the scientists down—let them make investigations.

I’ll pay handsomely, but discover the secret I will.”

The men, when they realized that Desmond had disappeared, were

shamefaced, and came to Mrs. Warren’s cottage to offer their sympathy.

They tried to atone for their past conduct, by inviting both Alan and

his Uncle to stay in Marshfielden. But Alan refused. “No, we’ll stay

here,” said he. “Mrs. Warren has made me very comfortable. But perhaps

we’ll come and visit Marshfielden, if we may, and do our utmost to

discover the perpetrator of this diabolical plot.”

“Aye, do ’ee sur, do ’ee,” said the men, and Alan felt strangely cheered

by their friendship.

Sir John stayed with Alan for a fortnight, but as others had

disappeared, so had Desmond, and no trace of him could be found. It was

necessary for Sir John to return to town, in order that he might keep

his business appointments and he asked Alan to accompany him.

“I curse the day I ever sent you to Grimland,” said he over and over

again.

“Don’t upset yourself so, Uncle John! How could anyone have foreseen

such a calamity. No, I’ll stay here, and perhaps I may be the means of

unravelling the mystery.”

Police from the Continent, detectives from America, Asiatic wizards and

sorcerers all came to Marshfielden—but none solved the mystery. For days

no one stirred out of doors, and when at length they did so, it was with

faltering steps and bated breath. No one knew who would be the next

victim of the strange power that pervaded the place. Summer came again!

A year had passed and left its mark on the once peaceful English

village. Many white crosses adorned the little churchyard, but of all

the new ones, few really marked the last resting place of those whose

names they bore. A tiny tombstone in the far corner, under a weeping

ash, named the spot consecrated to the memory of little Jimmie Murlock,

the first victim of the “Light”.

Moll Murlock had gone out of her mind. The shock had turned her

brain,—and when, one after another, she learned of the tragedies that

were daily coming on the little village, her senses left her entirely,

and she was taken to the Kiltown asylum. Dan lived alone, in the little

cottage, his hair snow white, and his features old and wrinkled; and

none of his comrades dared recall the past to his mind. The new vicar

who had taken Mr. Winthrop’s place was very unpopular, and on Sundays

the church was nearly half empty. Fear had turned their thoughts from

Heaven, and while men openly cursed their God, the women whispered their

curses in their hearts.

Inspector Vardon was still investigating, but his reports to the Yard

were all the same. “Nothing further to hand” and then came the day when

he added “Fear this is beyond me” and the chiefs looked at each other in

dismay, as they feared it would remain one of the unsolved mysteries of

the day. They had no shrewder or cleverer man in their employ than

Marcus Vardon.

Then the “Light” suddenly disappeared. No more losses were reported,

things went on more calmly, and women began to go out of doors more

freely. Children returned to school, and Marshfielden had become almost

normal again. For two months there were no casualties, and people hoped

that the evil influence had departed for good, or burnt itself out.

And the next Sunday the new clergyman addressed from his pulpit a full

church. The people had once more come to the house of God for comfort

and to return Him thanks for the cessation of the past horrors. And his

voice shook as he gave out his text, from the one hundred and

twenty-first psalm:—

“The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; the Lord shall preserve

thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever

more.”

CHAPTER IV

THE OUTLET

For over six months Marshfielden was unvisited by the “Light”. The

inhabitants were settling down and work had begun again in earnest. Alan

had been promoted second overseer at the mine, and as he had a firm way

with the men, those under him worked diligently and well. Traces of

sorrow were left on every one’s face. It was impossible to eradicate

them in a few months; years would not wipe away the affliction that had

come into their lives.

The little village was opened up now. Motors traversed its cobbled

streets, and the inhabitants so far allowed themselves to become

“modernized” that the sign “Teas provided here” could be seen in nearly

every cottage window down the street.

The influx of so many strangers made them forget the “Curse” and as once

they believed in it, now they believed just as firmly that the disasters

that had come upon them were wrought by some human agency. These six

months of peace and quiet they hoped were precursors of the future.

Inspector Vardon left the place, and nothing remained outwardly to

remind them of the terrible past.

Then suddenly they woke up once more to sorrow. Two horses were found to

be missing, and with them the little stable boy who tended them. The

“Light” had returned!

Once more voices were hushed and heads were shaken gravely, as every one

talked of the tragedy. A week passed, then Mrs. Skeet disappeared, and a

few days later Mary Slater. The place swarmed again with detectives; the

papers were again alive with the renewal of the tragedies.

The men in the mine worked silently; the only thing to break the

stillness was the sound of the picks on the coal seams, or the running

of the trolleys up and down the roads. Each feared to think of the

horror that might await him when he reached his home at the end of his

day’s work.

The dinner hour came round, and each man sat silent and glum, eating his

bread and meat, and uttering only a monosyllable now and again to his

particular chum.

Suddenly there came a dull roar; the men rose to their feet in haste.

They knew only too well that ominous sound—it was familiar to them all.

Mr. Dickson appeared, his face ashen. “An explosion in the South Road,”

said he. “Rescue parties to work at once.”

In an instant everything was forgotten but the one desire to help their

brothers in distress. With picks and ropes and lanterns they hurried

down the main road, just at the bend of which a sheet of flame flared

out suddenly, entirely enveloping the first man, and setting his

clothing on fire.

In vain they played on the flames—it was useless. The fire had gained

too much power. The rescuers were forced back to the cage at the bottom

of the shaft, and all had to seek refuge above. Another sorrow had come

upon the people of Marshfielden—their cup was full to overflowing as it

was, yet Tragedy, the Humourist, was not yet content with his handiwork.

For two days the fire raged, and the willing rescuers were helpless in

the face of such odds; on the third it quieted sufficiently to enable a

rescue party to descend. Gradually they fought the flames, but not a

trace remained of the men who had been caught like rats in a trap when

the first explosion came. So Marshfielden was again in mourning, and

broken-hearted widows and fatherless children went to the touching

little memorial service that was arranged for the lost ones.

Alan was horror-stricken at the calamity that had befallen the mine. The

thought of the men who had been burnt to death preyed on his mind; it

was his first experience of such an accident, and it left upon him an

indelible mark.

The mine was once more in working order, and he was doing some accounts

in the office below, when a voice startled him. It was the voice of Mr.

Dickson, and very grave.

“Go at once to the third shaft, Forsyth,” said he. “The telephone has

failed, and Daniels has reported that there is something wrong with the

air pumps there.”

“What? In the lower engine house?”

“Yes. We can get no further information. Make a careful examination, and

if you suspect any danger, order the shift off and close the gates.”

“Very good,” and Alan, glad to have something to do that would occupy

his mind, left the office, and jumped on to one of the empty trolleys

that was being run by the cable to the second shaft, and would take him

very near his destination. At the second shaft there were anxious faces.

“Something wrong at number three shaft, sir,” said one of the men.

“Daniels ’phoned us, but before he could tell us anything definite, the

connections broke down.”

“Thanks,” said Alan shortly. “How many men are working there?”

“None, sir. They’ve not been working it to-day. Daniels and two other

men have been inspecting a bulge that has appeared in the roof, and were

arranging to have it fixed up with supports.” Mechanically Alan walked

down the low road that led to the third shaft. He pushed aside the heavy

tarpaulins that hung across the roadways, and kept the current of air

from flowing in the wrong direction, and as he passed through each one,

he sniffed the air eagerly.

At last! The sickly, choking smell came up from the distance. It was one

he knew and feared—a noxious gas. The roof became very low, and Alan had

almost to crawl on his hands and knees, for there was no room for him to

stand upright. Cramped, aching, he made his way along the narrow

roadway. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief; the roof rose to perhaps ten

feet, and the road widened out into a vault-like chamber, perhaps twenty

feet square. He heard a cry in the distance. “Help! Help!” It was

Daniels—Daniels who came stumbling in and fell on the ground before him.

“Mr. Forsyth,” he muttered, “run—save yourself—Rutter is dead—The gas is

terrible. There’s danger,” and even as he spoke there came a dull roar

and a flash, a terrible sound of falling—and Alan realized that the

little chamber had indeed become a vault, for the force of the explosion

had made the walls on either side cave in, and the entrance at each end

was blocked up completely.

“Too late,” murmured Daniels weakly. “I couldn’t get here before.” He

fumbled at his belt, and Alan bent over him gently. “Water—water,” he

cried, and Alan unfastened the basket that was slung across his

shoulders, and took from it a bottle of cold tea.

But even as he put it to the lips of the sick man, there came another

roar in the distance, and Daniels fell back—dead.

Once more the dreaded sound was heard—once more an explosion had

occurred in the mine. This time there was little fire—only water—water

everywhere.

“Where is Mr. Alan?” asked the manager hoarsely. “Has he returned from

the third shaft?”

“No, sir.”

“Then he is in the midst of the danger. Rescue parties at once.” But all

these efforts were in vain. It was water this time—water that drove the

men back to the mouth of the pit.

Pumps were put in order, and for hours the men worked to clear the mine,

but when at last they were able to get near the spot where the accident

took place—they, as they feared, found no trace of Alan.

From the second shaft the mine was in such a complete state of wreckage

and ruin, that it would take weeks before it was even possible to get

near the third shaft and the original scene of the disaster. So once

more a casualty list was sent out, and this time was headed by the name

“_Alan Forsyth_”.

Sir John heard the news with a set face. First Desmond, now Alan had

been taken from him.

“Don’t take it so to heart, Mr. Dickson,” said he kindly. “The boy was

doing his duty when death overtook him.”

“I am broken-hearted, Sir John,” said Mr. Dickson. “I feel that it was I

who drove him to his doom. If I hadn’t sent him to the third shaft that

day, he would be with us still.”

“It is fate,” said Sir John simply.

But when he reached his office next day, he told Masters to get him his

will from the safe. With trembling fingers he tore it across, threw the

pieces in the fire and watched it burn. Then he said quietly, “I must

make a new will, Masters. But to whom shall I leave my money? There is

no one to follow me now.” Suddenly he took up pen and paper and wrote

hurriedly. “Fetch a clerk, Masters,” said he, and when a clerk appeared

he added quietly, “I want you both to witness my signature to my will,”

and with firm fingers wrote his name, and passed the paper over to

Masters, making no effort to hide what he had written.

And Masters’ eyes grew dim as he read—

“Everything I possess to the ‘Miners’ Fund’ for widows and orphans,

rendered such by accidents in the mine.”

* * * * *

When Alan recovered from the shock of the explosion, he found his lamp

was still burning dimly, and felt that he had a dull ache in his legs.

He was covered with débris from head to foot and stifling from the dust

and powdered coal that was all about. With difficulty he extricated

himself, and realized that Daniels was completely buried.

Alone in the little chamber, a feeling akin to superstition came over

him, and he moved away from the silent form, now shrouded in coal.

Scarcely realizing the hopeless position he was in, he leant back, and

closing his eyes, his worn out nerves gave way, and he fell asleep. He

woke up with a start some hours later; his watch had stopped and he had

no idea of the time. Madness seemed to be coming over him; his face was

flushed, his head throbbed. He was ravenously hungry, and crossed to the

dead man’s side and searched about until he found the basket that

contained Daniel’s untouched dinner, and the bottle of cold tea. There

was not a great deal of food—half a loaf, several thick slices of beef,

a piece of cheese and some homemade apple tart.

Alan ate sparingly, for although his stomach clamoured for more, he

realized that not yet was his greatest hour of need, and that later on

he would need the food still more.

When he had finished, he took up a pick and wildly struck at the blocked

exit, but only the echoes replied, laughing at his impotence. Flinging

his tool down he buried his head in his hands and sobbed in bitter

despair. His convulsive outburst left him calmer, and he began for the

first time to think out a plan of escape. He knew that rescue parties

would be working hard for his release—but could they reach him in time?

There was around him a death-like stillness, and he realized that the

buried cavern was far from the bottom of the shaft. Then he suddenly

wondered where the air came from. There must be an inlet somewhere, he

thought, for the air he was breathing, although stuffy, was quite pure.

He walked round the walled up chamber—round and round—but there was

nowhere a weak spot. He sat down and tried to think coherently, and

laughed aloud in his agony, as he wondered whether he would go mad. He

looked up suddenly, and in his weakness imagined that the roof was

trying to dance with the floor. He tottered round the place, hardly able

to keep his feet in his wild fancy that the floor was moving, and

laughed hysterically as he knocked against a jutting piece of coal, and

thought the roof had got him at last. Then he quieted a little, and in

the semi-darkness the dead figure of Daniels seemed to rise from the

place where it lay, and point at him a menacing finger.

In terror, Alan backed to the further side of the little chamber, his

eyes distorted, his limbs trembling. He watched the figure come

nearer—nearer—its long claw-like fingers were almost on his flesh—“Ah!”

he shrieked—the fingers were touching him with a cold, slimy touch. He

felt impelled to move forward—with the forefinger of the dead man

pressed to his forehead. He walked fearfully onward—then his overwrought

brain gave way entirely, and with another wild shriek, he fell to the

floor in merciful unconsciousness.

When he recovered, his dimmed senses hid from him much of the past. His

fever had abated, but he longed for water. His mouth was parched. He

crawled feebly to the basket where the dead Daniels had kept his food,

and drew out the bottle of tea. There was very little left, but enough

to take away the first keen edge of his thirst. A torn newspaper that

had been used to wrap up some of the food rustled slightly. It startled

him and he looked round nervously. Again it moved, and seemed to be

lifted up by some unseen hand.

He watched it fascinated, then suddenly his face lighted up. “A

draught,” he cried triumphantly. “Then it is from that direction I must

try and secure my release!” With renewed energy he began to pick at the

coal, in the fast dimming light of his lantern. Tirelessly he worked,

until success met his efforts and he had made a hole big enough to crawl

through, whence came the sound of rushing waters.

He lifted his lantern above his head in his endeavour to discover where

he was, and its feeble rays shone upon a swiftly flowing, subterranean

river that disappeared through a tunnel on either side. The place he was

in was very small and had no outlet except by way of the water.

The river was narrow, perhaps four feet wide at the most, but with a

current so strong that Alan, good swimmer though he was, would not have

dared trust himself to its cruel-looking depths. Mechanically he dropped

into the water a lump of coal. There was a slight splash—but no sound

came to tell him that it had reached the bottom. He felt in his pockets,

and found half a ball of string. Tying a piece of coal to one end he

dropped it into the rapids, but his arm was up to his shoulder in the

river, and yet the coal had not touched the bottom.

He looked at the water curiously, and dabbled his fingers in the

brackish fluid. Suddenly a pain in his hand made him draw it out

quickly, and by the light of the lantern he saw it was covered with

blood. As he wiped it clean he saw the impression of two teeth on his

first and third fingers. Slowly his lips moved and he murmured—“There is

animal life in this river then—I wonder whither it leads—can there be

humanity near too?”

His lantern was nearly out, and by its dying rays he tried frantically

to fashion himself a raft, upon which he could trust himself to the

waters. A trolley, smashed by the force of the explosion, lay near him.

The wheels had been wrenched off and it was all in pieces. He looked at

it carefully. The bottom piece was intact with half of one end still in

position. He examined it critically. Would it float? Well he must risk

that. He thought it would, and the end piece would serve as a hold to

keep him on safely.

He was feeling faint—he ate the remains of his food, and with a reverent

glance at the place where Daniels lay, he pushed the plank out on to the

seething waters. Lightly he jumped on it himself, and, with a tight grip

on the projecting pieces of wood, gave himself up to the mercy of the

torrent.

His lantern went out; the darkness was intense; there was no sound but

the lashing of the waters and the drumming of the raft against the sides

of the tunnel. The current was swifter than anything he had ever known.

The water just tore along at a breakneck speed, lashed over the frail

raft and drenched Alan to the skin. He was faint. In a dim way he

thought of his life—how empty it had been. Where was Desmond—and Uncle

John? Cambridge came before his eyes, and he could almost see the serene

picture of the “backs” with their quaint bridges and fields beyond.

He felt stiff. Mechanically he held on to the raft, even when his senses

left him; and the frail wood with its worn burden of humanity, rushed

on, down into the depths, carried by the river that was descending lower

and lower through the earth.

Suddenly the raft gave a still more violent jerk, and Alan awoke to life

once more. The rapids were over at last, and he was drifting along in

waters that were as sluggish now as before they had been fast.

The tunnel widened, and he was aware that the intense blackness had

gone, and in its place there was a purplish light that was soothing to

his aching eyes. As the tunnel began to widen out, a path branched off

at either side of the water.

The raft drifted on and at last found a harbour in a little, natural bay

hollowed out in the bank. Alan stepped on land at last, his senses

reeling. He had no idea of the time that had passed since he first

started on that strange journey, and he felt hungry, weak and tired.

Slowly he walked along the river bank, and the purple lights grew

stronger—then voices came upon his ear, and as he eagerly bent forward

toward the unknown that faced him, above in Marshfielden, the clergyman

was saying—

“And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”

BOOK II

THE UNDERWORLD

CHAPTER I

A STRANGE MEETING

The ever present sense of “self-preservation” beats within the breasts

of men most strongly at some period or other of their lives. It showed

itself to Alan now. A fear of the supernatural came over him, and very

quietly he stepped into the shelter of a jutting piece of rock, from

which, all unseen, he could take a view of his surroundings.

He realized at once that it was to no mine that he had come, for

strange, fantastic figures flitted about in the distance, figures that

did not belong to the upper world.

Suddenly several of these figures leapt into the water and with a

peculiar roll came swimming towards him at a terrific pace, and with a

graceful movement vaulted out of the water and sat on the edge of the

bank. He counted five of them, and saw that they were quite naked, and

their skins were of a most peculiar purple shade, an almost exact match

to the purple that lighted the place. They were talking volubly in an

unknown tongue, and Alan leant forward from his hiding place to catch a

better view of these strange, underworld people he had come among in

such an extraordinary way. Short—he would judge them to be no more than

three feet six, at the most, but with muscles that stood out like iron

bands across their bodies. Their hair, in contrast to their skins, was

of an almost flaxen hue, and in the females hung perfectly straight to

their waists. The men wore theirs cropped close, except on the very top

of their heads, where it was allowed to grow long, and was plaited and

braided, and fixed with ornaments.

Their features were extremely pointed, and their eyes were small, but of

a piercing brilliance. From the middle of the forehead, grew a tusk or

horn, about ten inches long. For some time Alan puzzled over the strange

horn, but its use was demonstrated to him only too soon. It was a weapon

of offence. One of the women suddenly rose, and began an unintelligible

tirade against her companion. The man did his best to pacify her, but it

was useless, and suddenly she bent down, and with a viciousness Alan

could hardly realize, thrust her tusk into the man’s face, and with a

wild shriek dived into the water and swam away. The man was left with a

gaping wound on his cheek, from which flowed a sickly, purply-white

fluid. With hoarse chuckles, the remaining three swam off, leaving the

man alone. Alan watched him intently. Diving to the bottom of the river,

the creature stayed there an incredibly long time, and then reappeared

with a bunch of purple water weeds in his hand. He laid a handful of

these weeds on his wound, to which they adhered by a secretion of their

own, and the man swam away also, leaving Alan more alone than before.

His faintness grew still more unbearable and he came out of his hiding

place, caring for nothing but to get food; but his limbs were weak, and

he fell, and found that he could hardly drag himself along. As he lay on

the ground, a sweet smell assailed his nostrils, and looking round he

realized that on little low bushes all about him, hung a

luscious-looking, purple fruit.

He picked one and examined it. It was like a grape in size and

appearance, but was velvet to the touch, like a peach. He tasted it—it

was sweet and wonderfully refreshing, so he ate his fill, with his last

ounce of strength pulled himself once more into the friendly arms of the

overhanging rocks, and fell asleep. When he awoke he made another meal

off the fruit that grew everywhere in such abundance—it was filling and

seemed nutritious, and the juice appeased his thirst. He looked

carefully around him. There was no one about, and keeping within the

shadow of the walls, he made his way down the path. It was not an easy

road, for the stones were sharp and the way rough, and the constant

effort to keep himself hidden tired him. At last he came to the end of

the passage, and saw that the river widened out into a large lake, about

two hundred yards across. Peculiar craft lay moored at either side, and

in the centre was an island on which grew purple vegetation—short,

stunted, purple trees, and a peculiar, purple moss, that covered the

ground like grass.

It was a weirdly picturesque scene. Purple light shone from purple trees

that were planted at regular intervals everywhere. The light seemed to

evolve from nothing, as it showed under the large purple leaves that

acted as shades—yet Alan believed it was partly natural, and partly

controlled by the power of the purple people he had seen.

A wide passage went to the right, and in front of him Alan saw a large

chamber, bounded on one side by the lake. Branching off in all

directions were other passages which seemed to open out into other

chambers and roadways, in fact the whole place seemed like a veritable

warren.

Suddenly an awful crash sounded, followed by the beating of drums and

the clashing of cymbals and away in the distance he saw a procession of

purple folk passing rapidly, all in the same direction. Cloaks of the

same purple hue fell from their shoulders, and the women wore veils on

their heads. He watched them with interest. The figures passed in quick

succession, then they became less and less frequent, until only one or

two stragglers came hurrying up. The sound of singing rose on the air,

and Alan conjectured that it must be some religious service to which

they all were bent. After the last one had disappeared Alan waited some

minutes to see if any more would pass, but as no one else came he walked

slowly in the direction from which the multitude had appeared.

In a very short space of time he found himself in a street. Peculiar

huts lined either side of it, huts with their doors open wide and no

sign of life. He looked about him carefully, and ventured inside one. He

found it was divided into three rooms—all on the ground floor. There was

a sleeping room, for mattresses of that same purple moss, dried, were on

the floor; there was also a living room and a kitchen. Warily he looked

about him, and then went out into the street. The main street merged

into smaller ones and at last, at the very end, a large building rose

upon the scene—larger and more impressive than any of the others he had

passed on his way. All this time he had seen no sign of life—the

inhabitants were content to rest secure in their belief of

inviolability.

Cautiously Alan crept toward the building and as he came close to it, he

saw that a sentry had been left on guard—a sentry with an evil-looking

knife slung across his shoulders, and a scimitar-like instrument in his

hand. The man was looking away into the distance and did not hear Alan’s

approach. “Hullo,” said Alan pleasantly. The effect was magical. The

undersized creature swung round and faced the strange, white man. For an

instant he remained quite still, and then, with a sudden movement that

Alan was unprepared for, sprang at him, and commenced to beat his horn

in Alan’s face. In vain the white man tried to free himself from the

savage grip; he was no match for this strange creature of the

underworld. His adversary made no sound as he gradually weakened Alan,

and at length he swung him over his shoulder as if he had been a child,

and marched with him at a quick pace down the street.

The shock, the strenuous time Alan had been through, took his senses

away, and when he came to, he found he was lying on a soft mattress and

there was a stabbing pain in his arm. A fantastic figure was bending

over him, a figure that licked its lips cruelly as it surveyed its

victim, and Alan realized at once that he was in an enemy’s hand.

The figure spoke to him, but Alan was unable to understand the jargon it

uttered. Suddenly it issued a command, and four men, clad in a kind of

armour, came up to Alan, and lifting him up carried him once more out of

the place into the street. Outside they placed him on a litter, drawn by

four men, and at a fast trot dragged him through the streets. The air

grew hotter and hotter, until Alan felt choked; at last, however, they

came to their journey’s end, and Alan was rudely hauled out of the

litter, and found himself standing outside high gates. They were very

massive, of a gold colour, and heavily barred on the inner side. One of

his captors struck a gong affixed to the wall, and in answer to its

strident tones, two women, heavily veiled, came running toward them and

unfastened the locks. Alan was almost too weak to walk, but was pushed

along a passage until he found himself in a place so vast, so wonderful,

so awful, that it left him breathless and trembling.

It was a huge temple into which he had been brought—so vast that he was

unable to see the further end of it. An enormous high altar stood near

him, and at intervals were smaller ones all round the walls. Statues and

images, both grotesque and beautiful, ornamented the place, and the

atmosphere reeked with a pungent incense that was sickly and

overpowering. But it was not only the vastness and weirdness that left

Alan breathless—it was a wonder more terrible, more awe-inspiring than

his mind had ever conceived.

The whole of the centre of the temple was composed of a fire—a fire that

ran down the length of the elliptically shaped building, and disappeared

in the distance in a red glow. A glass-like wall rose to perhaps three

feet above the level of the flames, and through it Alan could see into

the heart of a bottomless pit of fire, whose flames of all hues danced

and swerved and shimmered in a wild ecstasy. The substance of the fire

he could not guess—but the fire possessed a terrifying appearance that

alone was enough to break the spirit of any mortal man.

The heat was intense, yet the natives did not seem to notice it, and

they led Alan to a pillar that rose near the high altar, bound him to it

by a heavy chain, and then left him there, alone. He watched his captors

disappear one by one. His brain was reeling. He wondered whether all he

had seen was but the result of fever, and he would wake up presently to

find himself in Mrs. Slater’s pretty little cottage at Marshfielden. But

no, he knew he was awake and not dreaming,—and looked about him in

bewilderment. That there were people living in the centre of the earth

he would never have believed—yet here was the proof—for was he not a

captive in their clutches?

He looked at the fire. Never before had he seen anything like it. It

seemed to go deep into fathomless depths, and its flames danced and sang

and crackled maliciously. He wondered whether he would be thrown into

its fiery bosom by the purple folk, and shivered to think of it, but

then a feeling of relief came over him. After all it would be a quick

death, for nothing could live long in those hungry flames.

Immediately opposite him was the high altar. Six steps led up to it, and

he looked with interest at them and at the red stains they bore; and

with an uncanny laugh, asked himself whether these were blood. If so,

whose? Round the walls on pedestals were huge, grotesque figures; and

interposed here and there, an image of almost seraphic beauty, that

contrasted strangely with the insidious cruelty and hideousness of the

place.

To the right of Alan was a still more grotesque figure. About twenty

feet high it stood, with cruel eyes looking out across the fire. Its

jaws were open wide, and attached to the under jaw was a peculiar slide

made of the same transparent glass-like substance that encircled the

flames. This slide reached from the idol’s mouth to the edge of the

furnace, and suddenly drops of perspiration stood out thick on Alan’s

brow. The meaning of the slide was only too clear. The victims of these

underground savages were forced inside the idol, disgorged by it on to

the slide, and thrown into the fire—a living sacrifice. Time passed, and

Alan wondered dimly whether he would ever be able to reckon it again.

Suddenly upon his ear came wild yells and fanatical shrieks, the banging

of drums, the clashing of cymbals followed by discordant singing. Then

the din quieted a little, only to reassert itself once more as the

natives reached the door of their temple. Alan gasped in horror as a

horde of grinning purple men swarmed into the place, two of whom left

their places in the procession, and coming to him caught hold of him

roughly.

Priests and acolytes took their place in the procession, which was

brought to an end by a high priest, who wore the most wonderful purple

robes and purple gems; slowly he walked to the high altar, his richly

embroidered vestments hanging to the ground, and two acolytes carried

the ends of his cloak, which they kissed reverently as they ascended the

bloody steps. When he reached the top step he turned his back on the

altar itself, and prostrated himself before the fire, the whole company

of worshippers following his example. Boys arrayed in vestments almost

the facsimile of the ones worn by the high priest, swung censers aloft,

which exuded their sickly perfume, and sent the faint, blue smoke

mingling with the smokeless flames of the big fire.

Then they rose and the ceremony began, priests intoned; an invisible

choir sang; and the congregation chanted, while live pigs, oxen, horses

and goats were thrown alive into the flames. There was a wild shriek

from each animal as it felt the heat, a crackling—and it was reduced to

ashes. Alan wondered when his turn would come, and longed vainly for the

blessed relief of unconsciousness.

Suddenly his captors lifted him high above their heads, and strapped him

to the altar. And then in front of him was placed a goat, and two

priests, disengaging themselves from the crowd, disembowelled the animal

alive, flung the still living and tortured creature to the flames, and

stood over Alan with their ugly knives, still dripping with blood,

suspended above him. Then the steel came flashing down and he wondered

that he felt no pain, but he realized that his clothes had been deftly

cut away from him, and he was left on the altar slab, naked. Incense was

wafted over him, and he was bathed from head to foot in sweet smelling

oils. Then he was released from the altar and had to submit to being

robed from head to foot in purple garments. Sandals were placed upon his

feet, and for a moment he wondered whether these people really meant him

well—but even as the thought passed through his mind, the back of the

great idol swung open on hinges, revealing a flight of steps within; and

Alan knew the hour of his torture had come.

With incense rising to his nostrils and the noisy clangour of bells in

his ears, Alan was led, powerless, although resisting, to the open

doorway. The steps inside were heated until they blistered his feet, and

the pain caused him to mount higher where he hoped to get relief. When

he reached the topmost step, and stood in comfort, realizing that it was

cool, the door below swung to. He was alone, and saw that he was

standing in the head of the idol, looking through its gaping jaws into

the heart of the fire. Then suddenly he felt a jolt beneath him, and

realized that his ankles were encased in iron bands. Again the idol’s

body shook, and he was thrown on his belly. Slowly the slide was coming

into position; another convulsive move of the idol, and he was half way

down it, and smiled as he saw in imagination a tank of water below him

in place of the fire, and himself in a bathing suit, ready to descend

the water chute!

Slowly, slowly he began to slip, and wondered why he did not go faster.

He tried to kick his feet and so enable himself to get over with

death—but the iron anklets were holding him fast, and he knew he would

reach the flames only when his torturers desired it. The heat was now

unbearable; the flames were leaping up toward him; he already felt upon

his cheek their fiery breath. His arms were stretched out before him,

and he was at too great an angle to draw them up. Then came a feeling of

excruciating agony, an agony almost unbearable. His fingers had reached

the fire! powerless to take them out, he writhed round and round in a

vain endeavour to obtain relief. No sound came from between his clenched

teeth to express the pain he was enduring.

Suddenly above the uproar he heard a woman’s voice, commanding and

imperious. There was a sudden silence, and then, with a terrible jolting

of the idol, Alan once again found the slide rising and he was safe

inside the belly of the image. Tears trickled down his face, tears of

pain. Of course the mechanism had gone wrong. All that excruciating

torture would have to be borne again. He held his mutilated hands out in

front of him. Numbness had set in and intense cold.

The door in the idol opened and a beautiful girl mounted the steps and

came toward him. She was small, like her companions around her, and of

the same colour, and the horn in her forehead, painted gold and hung

with gems, seemed in some weird way to enhance her beauty. Almost of

English mould, her features were small and pretty, and her wonderful

hair hung like a mantle of gold far past her knees. Upon her head she

wore a crown of gold, and Alan thought she must be queen of the

underworld people, for evidently her power was paramount. She placed her

cool, firm hands on Alan’s shoulder, and led him down the now cool

stairs; and once more he found himself in the temple. He was dazed, and

could hardly realize that this woman had saved him. From a basket an

attendant carried she took ointments and healing lotions, and bathed and

bound up his poor, maimed hands. The effect was almost magical. The

burning ceased, and a feeling of relief came over him. She then offered

him her arm, and led him to the outer gates of the temple. There a small

chariot was awaiting her, pulled by a hideous beast that was the beast

of burden in the underworld. Small, with an ungainly body and short

legs—its head small in proportion, it had immense tusks and a beard

covered the lower portions of its face. Indeed, the “Schloun” was a

mixture of rhinoceros and goat, and had the bulldog’s squareness of

build. It was a hideous animal, and Alan shuddered as he took his place

in the chariot. The equipage was extremely comfortable, the floor, upon

which they sat was laden with rugs and cushions, and side by side, the

man and his protector rode through the strange streets of this

underground world.

At last they stopped in front of an imposing building, even larger than

the one where Alan had originally been captured. The woman led Alan into

it, and took him into an apartment that was evidently reserved for her

private use. A soft, purple carpet lined the floor, while purple

curtains hung across the door. The woman pointed to a cushion and sat

down, and Alan, understanding her meaning, sat down near her. She spoke

to him slowly and repeatedly, but he was unable to understand her

tongue.

“Kaweeka” she repeated over and over again, and at last he understood.

It was her name!

Then he rose and went to the door and called “Kaweeka” and the woman

smiled and nodded and tapped her heel on the ground to signify her

delight.

Suddenly she rose and stood beside him, and putting her arms about him,

planted a very English kiss full upon his mouth. Alan who had never

flirted, never cared for any girl, when he was in England, felt his

pulses leap and a wild thrill pass through him at the touch of her lips.

Then a sense of shame came over him. What was she? Why, hardly human. If

he succeeded in getting to the upper world again, and took her with him,

scientists would want to cage her as a newly discovered animal! Could he

wed her?—marriage?—love?—passion?—he knew too well which sense she had

aroused when her lips touched his.

He drew away from her in loathing, and a hard light came into her eyes

as she imperiously put her lips up to his. Her fascination was

undeniable, but there was something unholy, almost unclean, about her;

and although passion shook him from head to foot, he turned away and

walked to the other side of the apartment.

But Kaweeka followed him. She twined her arms about his neck and drew

his head against her breast, and he felt the wild throbbing of a heart

next to his. “Kaweeka,” he cried, “Kaweeka.” And he drew her to him

still closer, forgetting all else but that a warm living thing was lying

in his arms, and that thing a woman.

Suddenly Kaweeka disengaged herself, and with a low laugh intimated to

Alan that she wished him to follow her. She led the way through a long

corridor, up a flight of wide and softly carpeted stairs to a room on

the second floor. It was a wonderful apartment, unlike anything he had

ever seen, and even as he looked about him, he heard a low chuckle, and

Kaweeka disappeared through the door, fastening it behind her.

Alan drew a breath of relief. The air seemed purer for her absence, and

he looked round him curiously. Low divans furnished the room, and on a

wonderful table of crystal was food and wine. He was hungry and faint

from his experience in the temple, and he fell to on the repast that had

been provided and felt the better for it.

In one corner of the room stood a large jar of bright yellow porcelain,

and it was filled with blue, green, yellow and purple fungi—flowers they

could not be called—but as fungi they were almost beautiful. Their stems

were long and bare of leaf, and the flower bloomed at the very top. Some

of the “flowers” were almost like poppy heads, others like variegated

mushrooms—while one or two blooms at least reminded Alan most forcibly

of the pretty pink seaweed he had admired when on a holiday at Rozel in

Jersey. The vividness of colouring made a wonderful effect against the

purple background and if his position had not been so hopeless, he would

have thoroughly enjoyed his strange adventure.

There were no windows in the room—at least not what the world above

would understand by the word—but there was an opening overlooking the

narrow causeway that served to let in light and air. There was no

shutter to it, only heavy purple draperies hung at either side, which

could be drawn across if privacy was desired.

In two corners of the room were tall braziers, and Alan touched the

large switch that protruded from them. Instantly the room was flooded

with the soft, purple light that seemed to exude from the trees; and

Alan felt that his first conjecture was right—the trees possessed some

natural light which the natives had learnt to control, and which they

ran along the branches much in the same way that we run electricity

along cables. At any rate the result was very pleasing, and the light

possessed none of the glare that is characteristic of electricity.

His investigations being finished he inspected a heavy curtain that was

draped across the wall nearest the “window” opening. He pulled it aside,

and behind it was revealed a door. It was made on the sliding principle,

and as it moved slightly he saw revealed before him a room that seemed

almost an exact replica of the apartment he was in. Carefully he stepped

inside—and there in the further corner, he saw a low mattress, and in

the semi darkness he thought he saw it move ever so slightly. He drew

back startled, but on his ears came the sound of deep breathing: some

one or something was sleeping there. He moved cautiously toward it, and

saw the figure of a man lying on the couch. Suddenly the sleeper turned

over, leaving his face exposed to view. Alan uttered an exclamation that

awoke the sleeping man. For a moment there was silence and then a great

cry rang on the air—“My God—it’s Alan.”

“Dez, old boy!” cried his cousin, his sobs coming thick and fast. “Dez!

Thank God I’ve found you. Steady, boy, steady—it’s two against those

purple devils now,” and the strong man bent low and sobbed as if his

heart would break.

CHAPTER II

THE ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE

For some time after the cousins met again so strangely, they could only

grasp each other’s hands—their hearts were too full for words.

“I’m like a silly woman,” said Desmond at last “but oh! Alan, I seem to

have been in this Hell a lifetime.”

“Poor old boy.”

“No one to speak to but Kaweeka—no one to look at but Kaweeka—always

Kaweeka—until I felt I should go mad.”

“How did you get here?” asked Alan at last. “We were never able to

discover the origin of the Light. Oh,” he shuddered, “I shall never

forget seeing you carried off—whirling through space—it was terrible.”

Then Desmond began his story in a quick jerky way, as if eager to get it

done. “The Light came upon me so suddenly, I didn’t realize what had

happened. All I knew was—that I had a fearful burning sensation round my

waist—and that I was being carried through space. Then came a descent

through darkness which seemed to last a lifetime. I seemed to be going

on and on—and then suddenly I found myself in the presence of the high

priest in the temple here. I have no recollection of how I reached it—I

think I must have lost consciousness and then—”

“Well?”

“Well I felt so ill after the journey that the rest seems all hazy. I

know I participated in some of their vile religious ceremonies. I was

forced into the belly of Mzata—”

“Is that the idol?”

“Yes. I remember the heat was overpowering. Then before I realized

anything else, Kaweeka came and rescued me. She carried me here,

and—well, old chap, the rest isn’t pleasant. The woman is a fiend. Down

here there is no one for her to allure, and as I believe I was the first

white man to get here alive, she gave me the benefit of her powerful

wiles. She admitted me into a kind of harem, in which I am”—he laughed

bitterly—“her chief husband.”

“My God,” said Alan hoarsely, “You have married her, Desmond?”

Desmond nodded. “I suppose that’s what it is—but I don’t understand much

of what she says. At any rate I was taken to the temple and after a long

ceremony, she came forward and acknowledged me before the congregation.

Time after time I’ve been within an ace of killing myself, for the

situation is unbearable. But she has spies everywhere and every chance

has been taken from me.”

“Can you understand her tongue?”

“No, up to now I have only managed a very few words. I know her name. I

know that Mzata is the god of their temple,—but I cannot get further

than that.”

“What do you do all day?”

“Nothing! What is there to do? I go out and Kaweeka accompanies me,

caressing me the whole time. Should she not come—then I am followed by

her spies. The natives watch me with suspicion; they seem to lick their,

lips as I pass, and long to fall upon me and throw me to the flames.

I’ve seen sights since I’ve been here, and heard sounds that would make

the strongest man tremble. Alan,” solemnly, “I’ve seen human

beings—human beings that we knew in Marshfielden—people we respected and

loved—thrown to the fire through the medium of Mzata. I saw Mrs. Skeet

brought here—shrieking—sobbing—crying—and I saw her thrown into the

belly of the idol. I was in the temple and rushed forward to save her,

even if death had been my reward—but Kaweeka gave a signal and I was

seized and bound and forced to witness her tortures. She saw me and

recognized me, and as she was sent nearer and nearer the flames she

cried to me to aid her. ‘Mr. Desmond! Save me! Save me!’ she shrieked,

and do you know, Alan, as the flames closed over her body, I heard ‘Mr.

Desmond! Save me!’ come wailing up through the fire.”

“Then that is the grave of all the lost ones from Marshfielden?”

“I am afraid so.”

“What exactly is the ‘Light’?”

“I don’t know—I’ve tried to find out—but it is some power of their own

that they have learnt to control. I think it is some force—something to

do with the natural light that pervades this place. It is sent through

the earth itself by the aid of some infernal mechanism, and when it

reaches the world above, it attracts a victim which it strikes and

brings back—a living, sacrifice to this hell down here.”

“It is a very terrible menace to our world.”

“Indeed it is! Some of the victims arrive mutilated and burnt, and

welcome the fire to deliver them from their pains. In some miraculous

way I was unhurt by it—at least I was burnt very slightly, and soon

recovered. But, Alan! How did you get here? Did the Light bring you

too?”

“No, Desmond!” And Alan told the story of the coal mine disaster and how

he found the river that brought him to his cousin.

Suddenly their eyes met, and a quick flash passed through their brains

simultaneously. Alan was the first to dispel it.

“It’s no good, Desmond, we couldn’t possibly escape the way I came. We

could not battle with the current that brought me here. The water is too

deep to attempt to wade, and there isn’t so much as a ledge on either

side to which we could cling.”

“What are we going to do then?”

“Of course we must try and escape—but how? As far as I can judge we must

be somewhere near the centre of the earth. How can we get implements to

cut our way back again—and even if we did, how long would it take us to

do it? No, we are in a tough position, and there isn’t even a telegraph

pole or telephone wire to aid us.”

Their conversation was broken by the entrance of Kaweeka. Unannounced

and without deigning to knock she entered the room, and both men rose to

their feet hurriedly.

Alan stood with folded arms and a stern expression upon his face. The

moment’s madness of the yesterday had passed. He knew the woman, siren,

devil, call her what you will, to be sensuous and foul—and his passion

had passed, leaving him firm in his strength and with power to resist

her.

Like a serpent she glided up to them, and touched them playfully on

their cheeks, and then, ignoring Desmond entirely, she held out her arms

invitingly to Alan. Sickened he turned away, but she came up behind him,

and put her arms about his neck. Brutally he pulled them apart and flung

her from him with a very British “damn”—which, though the word might be

unintelligible to her, left the meaning clear and plain. A look of fury,

followed by one of malicious hatred, passed over her features, and she

turned abruptly from Alan to Desmond, and in a low monotonous tone

crooned in her own language to him.

Desmond fought against her powerful wiles for some time, but he was

frail, and her all pervading power drew him nearer and nearer. Once more

her arms were open, and Desmond was drawn into them as a fish is drawn

into a net.

Kaweeka gave a low chuckle, and turned in triumph to Alan. With a half

step forward he raised his hand as though he would strike her, then drew

back in time, turned quickly and left them alone. Up and down the outer

room he paced and watched from the opening the stream of purple people

walking up and down the street—men, women and children, all bent on work

or pleasure. In a way they seemed to be civilized, yet it was a

civilization unknown to the upper world. An oppression came over him and

he rushed to the door and tried it. It was unlocked. That was more than

he had hoped for, and he hurried down the stairs to the outer door. But

there his progress was impeded, for a sentry on guard drew a peculiar

kind of spear and prevented his passing.

Alan cursed and swore at him, and then tried more pacific measures to

get his way; but the man was impervious to everything, and Alan retraced

his steps and took refuge in a little alcove not far from the main

entrance. Suddenly a hand on his shoulder startled him, and turning he

saw Desmond looking at him in a shamefaced manner.

“We can go out, Kaweeka says,—at least that is what I understand her to

mean. Will you come now, Lanny?”

As he used the old boyish name, Alan felt a sob rise in his throat and

he grasped Desmond’s hand.

“Come on! old boy,” said he, “I want to talk to you.”

Kaweeka was standing near the door as they reached it, and she waved to

them to intimate they were free to go out—but as they passed her they

heard her issue a command to the guard at the door who followed them,

and although they realized that he was for them a protection among the

wild people of the underworld, yet it stripped them of all hope of

ultimate escape.

“Dez,” said Alan at last, “Do you love Kaweeka?”

“No,” in a low voice.

“Old chap, cut loose from her. When we get to the world again—don’t let

our stay down here have coarsened us. The life is sordid enough, God

knows, but don’t let _us_ be sordid.”

“She has such power, Lanny.”

“I know, Dez, but fight it down, boy, I’ll help you.”

“Thanks, old chap.” Then suddenly, “Do you think we shall ever get away

from here?”

“I mean to have a try, how, when, or where I don’t know yet, but there

are two of us now and we must fight hard for our freedom.”

“I suppose we really ought to try and gain the confidence and trust of

some of the natives?”

“That won’t be easy, but we must make the most of any opportunity that

may come our way.”

Then they lapsed into silence as they looked about them in interest at

the quaint places they passed. The streets twisted and turned like a

veritable maze, and the boys wondered how the natives could ever

remember their way about. There were no shops to be seen—the whole

community seemed to live on roots that grew abundantly everywhere,

variegated fungi that grew in clusters on low bushes by the water’s

side, and fruits. Fish too was eaten at times, but it seemed as if it

was only allowed to be consumed during certain periods when religious

festivals were being kept.

Every home seemed to possess all the necessaries for weaving the moss

into garments for wear. There was little difference in the men’s and

women’s dress—a tunic that was worn wide open at the breast and a

slightly shorter skirt on the male was all that distinguished them,

except of course, the training of the hair.

The families seemed to live in intense domestic happiness, but jealousy

made them suspicious of their neighbours, and members of the bodyguard

of the high priest and Kaweeka were continually called in to check the

bickerings and quarrels that were always taking place.

Alan and Desmond walked on heedless of time; suddenly their guard came

up behind them, and in no gentle manner intimated to them that it was

time they returned.

Their life grew very monotonous, but they were together—that was their

only comfort. Kaweeka had grown sullen and silent. She seemed to realize

that her uncanny power was useless now that Alan had appeared on the

scene, and she brooded over the slight he had put upon her when he

scorned her.

They still lived in her house, but seldom saw her. Food was brought them

at regular intervals. Sometimes days passed and they were not allowed to

go out. At other times Kaweeka would grow soft and gentle and would send

them out in her chariot, and they would take their food and be away all

day, wandering by the underground rivers and lakes, or gathering fruits

in the quaint dwarf copses, where the tallest tree was not more than

four feet high.

Time hung very heavily on their hands, and there seemed no hope of their

ever being able to extricate themselves from their terrible position.

They learnt to weave the moss into tunics for themselves, and they made

mats and rugs for their apartments. Grasses they plaited into belts—and

that constituted the whole of their amusement and work.

Their personal guard, Wolta, was a particularly fierce individual, who

had never recovered from his violent dislike of the white strangers.

What services he did for them he did grudgingly, and their food was

often ill-served and spoiled through his spite.

Then came the day when a new man appeared to wait on them. They could

not understand what he said, but Okwa intimated to them that they were

to follow him. He led them down to the lower floor and out into a

courtyard behind the house.

There in a rude coffin, fashioned of cloth stretched on poles, lay

Wolta—dead. The boys watched in interest, for this was the first death

they had seen since they had been in the underworld.

No cover was placed over the dead man, no religious ceremony was held

over the inanimate form. The coffin and its burden was carried down the

dark street by two bearers. On they went until they came to a dark lake

whose waters were black and evil-looking. Without any ceremony the body

was pitched out into the water. It floated eerily for a few minutes, the

eyes open wide and the mouth contorted into a grin. Then there was the

sound of a splash and a large head appeared, followed by another and

another. There was the snapping of teeth and the sound of closing

jaws—and an ominous purple stain floated on the top of the lake.

The boys turned away sick at heart from the horrible sight—and when they

did look again—all trace of Wolta had vanished—there remained only the

same stain on the bosom of the water. The two bearers calmly folded up

the collapsible coffin and slung it across their shoulders;—it was quite

ready for the next victim that death might claim.

“It’s horrible,” said Desmond with a shudder. “I wonder whether they

give all their dead to those filthy man-eating fish?”

“I should think so,” answered Alan. “Their idea of burial seems worse

than some of the rites of the South Sea Islanders.”

Their days passed in sickening monotony, and their lungs ached for fresh

air and salt breezes. They spoke to no one, saw no one but Okwa, and

they were getting into such a state of nerves, they could hardly

converse sanely one with the other. Okwa came in one day and intimated

that they could go out. Moodily they walked down the streets and made

their way to a river near by—a guard, as usual, following close behind.

They sat down on the steep mossy banks that led to the water’s edge;

depressed and wretched they remained moody and silent. Suddenly there

came the sound of a scuffle behind them—a startled cry and a splash. A

little girl had stumbled, and rolling down the slippery bank was

struggling in the water. The current was very strong, and the little

maid, swimmer though she was, was unable to battle with the rapids.

Twice her head had disappeared from sight.

In a second Alan was in the river after her, and diving down, brought

her to the surface; but the whirlpools were strong and treacherous and

the water deep, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he

succeeded in reaching the bank, where Desmond was waiting, in whose arms

he placed the now unconscious child. But the strain he had undergone

proved almost too much for him, and even as he saw the child into

safety, he slipped back into the river and the boiling waters closed

over his head. He rose again to the surface and with an almost

superhuman effort clung to the bank, and Desmond and their guard pulled

him ashore.

His first thought was for the child who was lying seemingly lifeless on

the ground. He knew the elements of first aid, and vigorously moved her

little arms above her head, and then pressed them well against her ribs.

Gradually the air was pumped into her lungs, she opened her eyes,

smiled, and in a very few moments afterwards was able to stand.

“There, run along, little one,” said Alan, kindly—but the child put her

lips to his and clung to him, and he had perforce to hoist her to his

shoulder and march home with her, ensconced there happily like a little

queen. The guard prostrated himself before them, and bowed and kissed

the ground.

“You’ve made a conquest,” laughed Desmond. “I wonder who she is.” As

they neared the precincts of the city they heard the clashing of cymbals

and the beating of drums. A religious procession was in progress. Alan

and Desmond stepped aside to allow it to pass. A long column of veiled

temple virgins led the way, followed by priests and acolytes and tiny

children, consecrated at birth to the temple, who scattered leaves on

the ground. Then an aged patriarch hove in sight, borne on a litter with

a canopy of gold.

The little girl became excited. “Abbi! Abbi!” she shrieked, and wriggled

to get free from her throne on Alan’s shoulder. The priest’s face grew

livid. He uttered a cry of rage and gave a swift command to two

attendants by his side. Instantly the symmetry of the procession was

broken, and Alan and Desmond were bound with rope and dragged away. It

was all done so quickly that they had no time to resist.

The little girl had watched the scene with wondering eyes, and when she

realized the whole purport, flung herself into Alan’s arms. The priest

issued another quick command, and with the little one holding fast to

her rescuer’s hand, she obviously told the story of her escape.

When she had finished the priest kissed her tenderly, and then knelt low

before the two boys and kissed their feet. Then they were given places

in a litter behind the high priests and were taken to the temple—this

time as honoured guests.

They were led to the altar, and very suspiciously and timidly seated

themselves on the steps, one on either side, which the high priest

indicated to them. The ceremonial service was very long and tedious, but

was unaccompanied by any sacrificial rites, much to the satisfaction of

the two boys.

Then the priest stood facing the people, and held out a hand to each of

the boys who stood shamefaced and awkwardly beside him. There followed

an address, and the boys knew it was the story being told to the people

of the rescue by Alan.

When the priest had finished speaking, he bent down and kissed their

hands, and wildly the congregation flocked to the altar rail to follow

his example. They were accepted by the whole community as friends. Their

lives were no longer in jeopardy. Then the boys resumed their seats and

the ceremony of the temple was concluded.

During the service Alan’s eyes were riveted on some peculiar characters

that were inscribed on the walls, at intervals, as far as eye could

reach. It was a group of hieroglyphics repeated over and over again, and

there was something oddly familiar about them—yet he was unable to guess

exactly what it was. Then the people’s voice rose in song—he listened

intently. Again and again were the words repeated like a chorus and

almost unconsciously he committed the sounds to memory.

Soon the service was ended and in triumph they were led back to

Kaweeka’s house. She met them with renewed wiles and charm, but the boys

were strong and she left them alone with rage in her heart. They ate the

food that was placed before them in silence, a silence which Alan broke

by saying abruptly, “Could you make out anything of the last hymn the

people kept singing over and over again in the temple, Dez?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, could you understand it?”

Desmond looked surprised. “Of course not,” he laughed. “Could you?”

Alan did not answer the question, but asked another.

“Well, they sung it over a good many times—didn’t you memorize the

sounds?”

Desmond thought a minute, “I think I did,” he replied. “It sounded

something like:

“_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._”

“_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._”

Alan pulled a scrap of paper triumphantly out of his pocket and showed

it to his cousin. He had written down the exact phonetic spelling of the

words Desmond had said.

“All the same, I don’t see what you are driving at,” he demurred, “you

look confoundedly pleased over something.”

“I’ve been working out a theory, and I don’t think I am far wrong in the

decision I have arrived at. Now look at that,” and he handed him another

piece of paper on which were written the following signs:

[Illustration]

Desmond looked at it quizzically for a moment, and then said, “Why,

you’ve copied down the signs that are painted all around the walls of

the temple—in the great Fire Hall.”

“Right. Now can you translate it?”

Desmond laughed. “Of course not. Can you?”

“I think so,” said Alan confidently.

“What?” almost shouted Desmond in amazement.

“Now,” went on Alan. “You got your first in Theology at

Cambridge—translate this”—and he passed Desmond a third slip of paper

with other signs on it:

‏אבירם‏‎. דתן‏‎.

Desmond looked at it carefully. “I’ve almost forgotten,” he commenced.

Then—“why it’s Hebrew—Hebrew for Abiram and Dathan!”

“Now I want you to think carefully, Dez,” and Alan placed the two slips

of paper on which were written the characters, before him. “Now would

you not swear that _this_,” pointing to the characters copied from the

temple, “is a corruption of _that_?”—pointing to the Hebrew.

“Well it certainly looks as if it might easily be so,” admitted Desmond.

“Now think of the few words we picked up of that hymn to-day. Isn’t it

within the bounds of possibility that Har-ju-jar is a corruption of

Hallelujah, or Alleluia?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“And Har-Barim and Kar-Tharn a corruption of Abiram and Dathan?”

“Ye-es.”

“Well,” concluded Alan triumphantly, “this is the conclusion I have come

to. The language of these people is a corruption of Hebrew.”

“What?”

“I’m certain of it, and I am surprised we never thought of it before. Of

course it was our first visit to the temple to-day since I came here,

and I never noticed those signs before—but to-day as I looked at them

they seemed oddly familiar, and it suddenly dawned on me in a flash. Now

we ought to find it very easy to pick up the patois they speak—we both

used to know something of Hebrew in the old days at college.”

They were almost too excited to say much more, when suddenly Alan

brought his hand down on the table with a bang that made Desmond start.

“I’ve got it, Dez old boy,” said he.

“Got what?”

“Why think of your Bible. In the—let me see—oh never mind—somewhere in

Numbers, I think, we get the story of Korah, Abiram and Dathan.”

“Oh my dear Alan, I am afraid I have forgotten it long ago.”

“Never mind,” went on Alan excitedly. “It’s the sixteenth chapter, if I

remember rightly. I’ll remind you of it—Don’t you remember the Chosen

People rose up against Moses—”

“Well?”

“I can’t remember the exact verses but somewhere in the chapter it tells

you that the ‘earth was torn asunder, and swallowed up the three men

with their houses and everything that appertained unto them, and they

went down _alive_ into the pit, and the earth closed over them.’”

Desmond looked bewildered and remained silent.

“Don’t you see the connection, Dez?”

“No! I do not.”

“Well, here are people living in the bowels of the earth, and in their

temple they have inscribed in bad Hebrew, if I may so put it, the names

of Abiram and Dathan. What more likely than that these people are the

descendants of those poor unfortunates of the Old Testament who perished

some fourteen hundred and ninety years before Christ?”

“Is it possible?” asked Desmond breathlessly.

“Why not?” answered his cousin. “The Bible story ends there. We’re

simply told that they went into the pit _alive_—we are never told that

they died! Now we are convinced that they speak a corrupt Hebrew, we

ought to find it very easy to learn to speak to them, and then we will

bid for freedom.”

“Alan,” said Desmond suddenly. “I wonder whether your theory is correct.

We’ve got Abiram and Dathan right enough, but what about Korah? He was

the chief offender and yet there is no trace of his name.”

“I expect his name has been lost during the transit of time,” said Alan.

“At any rate I am tired now, and I shan’t bother any more about it for

the present. Let’s go to sleep,” and the two boys went into their inner

chamber and were soon fast asleep.

There was no night in this terrible underworld; the purple lights never

went out; morning and evening were unknown. The place was never plunged

into entire darkness—true, the inhabitants went to sleep, but they

pleased themselves as to when they slept and for how long. The whole

world was never at rest at the same time—truly, indeed, it was an unholy

place of unrest!

The two men were fast asleep, the purple light shining across their,

faces, and Alan moved restlessly, for his dreams were troubled ones.

Suddenly the door opened gently and a figure appeared—it was Kaweeka.

Softly she crept across their room, and halted by the side of their

couches. A fierce light came into her eyes as she watched the rhythmic

rise and fall of Alan’s chest as he breathed heavily. She bent over him,

kissed his lips, and murmured savagely as she did so—

“So desired—so desirable—yet I so undesired!”

CHAPTER III

RELATING TO HISTORY

“How long have we been down here, Lanny?”

“Together do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Oh months and months—I can’t count time.”

“Neither can I. Days pass—we grow tired and we sleep, only to wake to

another day like the last, like every day here.”

“How far have you got with the translation, Dez?”

“Nearly to the end.”

“Splendid. What do you make of it?”

“Just what we expected—It is a very corrupted version of part of the

Pentateuch.”

“How much of it?”

“Nearly all Genesis—a minute portion of Exodus—and Leviticus.”

Alan gave a satisfied sigh. “That’s splendid,” he remarked. Many months

had passed since they had made the discovery that the language of the

underworld was a patois Hebrew, and quickly and diligently they set to

work to learn it. They first spelt the sounds and wrote them down, and

then tried to translate them into Hebrew where it was at all possible.

Very shortly after the rescue of the high priest’s daughter and only

child, as the maid proved to be, a house was placed at the boys’

disposal, and they gladly left the protection of Kaweeka, and lived

together with a couple of servants, who looked after them. They were

free to go out among the people, and they began to feel almost happy.

With the aid of a few words they picked up they asked the high priest

for “reading” and he had given them copies of the “Kadetha” which proved

to be the Bible of these strange people.

It was very difficult to read as it was written on parchment in a purple

ink that had faded considerably through time. The characters, too,

besides being different from the Hebrew they knew, were written from top

to bottom of the page instead of from right to left, as are most Asiatic

languages.

From what they could gather the “Kadetha” was divided into two parts—the

Moiltee—which proved to be part of the first three books of Moses—and

“Jarcobbi,” five books written by one of the first priests of the people

after their descent into the bowels of the earth. That these strange

people were really descendants of the rebels against Moses, the boys had

not the slightest shadow of doubt—the proof in the “Kadetha” was only

too conclusive. They were now able to converse fairly freely with the

people, and were able to understand many of their strange beliefs.

The true meaning of the Light they were so far unable to fathom, but

“Har-Barim” the high priest, told them there would be no more offerings

to the Fire from “Above” as he called the world. The people began to

take more kindly to them, but Kaweeka remained watchful and brooding,

and they realized that she was indeed a bitter enemy, and the person

most greatly to be feared in the underworld. Little Myruum, the high

priest’s daughter, spent many hours with them, and they learnt much of

the language from her baby prattle.

They were admitted to all the services and religious rites in the

temple, and the boys noted with surprise that the fire seemed to be

daily losing its power. Its flames grew smaller and smaller, and they

noticed the difference in it when they had not seen it for several days.

“Jovah,” they said to Har-Barim one day. “Tell us your history, now we

understand your language.”

The old man smiled at them. “There is little to tell,” he said. “It is

true we were once of the earth above—once white people like yourselves;

but for over three thousand, three hundred and three years we have lived

in the darkness of the earth. Our skins are changed—they have taken the

hue of the land we are forced to dwell in. Our forefathers burrowed in

the earth to make streets and houses and shelter for their families, and

they left us the heritage of their labour.” He pointed as he spoke to

the short horn that protruded from his forehead.

“What became of Korah?” they asked him.

“Coorer?” he pronounced the word differently. “Korah,” he told them, was

their bad angel. It was Korah, with the devil in his soul who urged them

to stand up against Moses, and it was Korah they shut away from their

lives when the pit had closed in upon them, revealing to them no more

the light of the sun.

“How do you mean?” asked Alan. “How did you shut him out of your lives,

my Jovah?”

Jovah signified “Father” and was the term by which all the people

addressed Har-Barim.

“Why, my sons, when the pit closed down upon our forefathers, all turned

upon Korah as the father of all their woes. He was stoned and left half

dead—then a wall was built up in front of him and all his family,

together with all his possessions, and there he was left to perish. One

of his daughters escaped, however, and her descendants have been

Princesses of Kalvar, as we call our country, ever since.”

“Then Kaweeka—” began Alan.

“Yes, my son. In Kaweeka you see the Princess of Kalvar, and direct

descendant in the female line of the unfortunate Korah himself.”

“Where is Korah’s burial place?” asked Desmond.

Har-Barim shook his head. “No one knows—in the generations of time that

have passed the secret has been lost, and the exact position forgotten.

No one knows—no one ever will know, until—but there, read from the

fourteenth line of the sixth part of our prophet, Zurishadeel,” and

taking a small parchment from his voluminous pocket he handed it to Alan

and left them to translate it for themselves.

Laboriously they copied out the translation—

“For the body of Korah the devil is hidden with those of his

household. Their flesh shall rot and their bones become powder,

and in a generation their last resting place shall be forgotten.

But on the day the secret is no more—for behold a virgin shall

in a dream learn the way—the fire shall consume quickly, strange

people shall enter the land of Kalvar, and desolation and

destruction shall come to all those that inhabit the earth. Yea,

the people that are in the belly of it, and they that have been

disgorged from it—when the Fire grows less—when the Tomb of

Korah is found then shall all in due time perish.”

“Cheery old chap, isn’t he?” laughed Desmond.

But Alan was thoughtful. “I wonder what the secret of the fire is. They

seem to worship it, although they pray to the ‘Lord of their Fathers.’

It certainly is getting less—I can’t help feeling that something

terrible will happen if it does ever go out entirely.”

For some time they gazed meditatively at the translations they had made

when a shadow crossing Desmond’s paper made him look up. It was

Kaweeka—Kaweeka who had not visited them for months it seemed, and whose

presence now seemed to denote some evil. Quietly she watched them for a

few minutes, and a curious light came into her eyes. They glittered and

shone with an almost fanatical glow—and in fact her whole being was one

of suppressed excitement and almost maniacal fervour.

“Come,” said she at last, and held out a hand to each. They felt

impelled to obey her, and she led them straight to the temple which was

curiously deserted. The great fire was burning in fits and starts.

Suddenly a flaming tongue would leap out, blazing brightly as if

refusing to be killed, and a moment later it would lie dead and dormant

among the embers. Then suddenly the fire would emit a passion of sparks

which flew upward in a fury, only to fall back within its folds, dull

and lifeless.

It was still enormous of course, but the boys realized that its life was

nearing the end, and that its power was nearly gone.

Kaweeka suddenly turned on Desmond and in a whirl of passion addressed

him.

“Desmond,” she cried, “I loved you—I would have made you happy, but

he”—pointing to Alan—“he came between us. He tore my heart from its

resting place within my breast—he made me love him also, and then

stamped on my love and spurned me.”

“That is hardly fair, Kaweeka. I never made overtures to you—”

“No,” said Desmond, doing his best to conciliate her.

“Enough,” she cried and then began a frenzied tirade to which the boys

listened in horror, as they realized that almost a madness had come upon

Kaweeka—the seed of Korah.

Falling to her knees she clung to Alan and begged him to marry her

according to the custom of his world and hers. She offered to make him

Prince of the land of Kalvar and possessor of a thousand fortunes if he

would but love her—be it ever so little. And when he gently lifted her

up and put her away from him, she looked him fully in the eyes, and for

a full minute there was silence. Then with a queer gesture of finality,

she outspread her hands and accepted the inevitable. Then in a

monotonous voice and with carefully chosen words she began to speak

again—

“In the world you came from, O Men of the Sun, you saw strange sights

and heard strange things. A light appeared in the sky—a light that was

the forerunner of tragedy. I propose to show you the Light, O Strangers.

I will unfold the secret of its being before your wondering eyes. Know

you now, that this Fire is next in honour to the God of our Fathers. It

is the Fire that gives us air to breathe, and light by which we can see.

From the Fire we obtain our strength, and when it dies out our power

will be gone. But know you also, that when our Fire dies and we perish,

so will your world die also. You above are dependent for your very

existence on the Fire in the Earth’s belly—with our extinction will come

also the consummation of all mankind. See”—and she pointed to a coil of

metal that looked like a silver rope—“See—this is the Light—the Light

that brought sacrifices we could offer to our God of all, and that fed

our Fire.”

Then she began a weird dance. Grovelling on the floor in apparent

worship of the Fire, she drew nearer and nearer to the shimmering metal,

and taking up one end of it, undid it until it lay in shimmering folds

outspread upon the floor. Still, with rhythmic grace, she continued, now

advancing, now retreating, until she had coiled part of the writhing

mass about her body, and the boys realized that one end was firmly

embedded in the heart of the Fire itself. And as they watched they

realized that Kaweeka was dancing away from the Fire—away down the

length of the great Fire Hall, to where a little door was half hidden

behind cherubim of gold.

The boys felt impelled to follow the strange witch woman. Through the

little door, they went, down a dark passage which ended suddenly in a

small chamber that was bright with light. But the whole of the cave-like

place vibrated and shook with a force that was terrifying in its

magnitude. They looked around curiously and saw in one corner a large

clock-like instrument from which the sound came.

With almost loving care Kaweeka freed herself from the shimmering metal

and placed the end of it in the machine. Instantly they saw it gain in

strength and brightness—it seemed to quicken and show signs of life.

The two boys gave a cry—“The Light! The Light!” they cried, for this

indeed was the mysterious Light that had stricken Marshfielden, and now

they were seeing its wondrous power from below.

Kaweeka leaned over the burning metal, and touched a lever on the

clock-like instrument’s face. Suddenly with a roar and a

flash, the Light soared upwards. Through the roof of the

cave—onwards—onwards—forcing an outlet for itself by its own power,

through rock and earth it tore,—until the watching eyes of the boys were

rewarded by a speck of blue. “The sky!” cried Desmond in amazement. The

Light had once more visited the outer world! This then was the horror of

Marshfielden!

The boys watched the quivering metal in silence. In its deadly folds it

had embraced Dan Murlock’s baby. Mr. Winthrop had suffered from its

caress. Mrs. Skeet—Mrs. Slater—it was impossible to name all the victims

of its diabolical power. Some element, mightier even than electricity,

had been discovered by these purple savages, to be used by them only for

the purpose of destruction.

Long the boys watched until their eyes ached from the intense

brightness. Their hearts were heavy within them as they thought of the

victim it might bring back. Kaweeka sat in one corner mumbling and

muttering to herself, and the boys seemed powerless to leave the place.

Voices rose in song—cymbals clashed—drums rolled—the evening service was

being held in the temple. Still they waited! The sounds died away and

the temple emptied, yet the Light had not returned.

They were growing cramped, their limbs ached, and then the Light

trembled more violently than before. The vision of the sky grew clearer

for an instant; they knew the Light was returning—but it was not

returning alone! Rigid in every muscle the boys waited as it travelled

through the bowels of the Earth.

The heap of metal grew larger on the floor as it made its descent—then

the end appeared in sight—a sheep, burnt and dead, was within its grasp.

Silently Kaweeka came forward and touched a lever on the vibrating clock

in the corner.

The noise ceased. The Light grew shadowed. The aperture leading to the

world above closed, leaving only a scar to mark where it had been!

Kaweeka bent over the stricken sheep and unwound the Light from its

body, leaving exposed the singed wool and burnt flesh, and as if it had

been a child gathered it up in her arms and still holding to the end of

the Light danced back into the empty temple.

Without an effort she tossed the dead sheep into the Fire, and the

flames devoured it savagely. Then she began again her wild dance and

gradually wound the Light up into its original coils until it lay in a

heap by the side of the Fire. “According to the prophecy of Zurishadele

I speak. Behold, he writes ‘Whosoever shall cause the seed of Korah to

die shall be hunted by the people of Kalvar—yea until their blood gushes

forth through their eyes and they are blind—until their limbs crumple up

beneath them and they fall—so shall they be hunted that the people of

Kalvar may deliver them up to the Fire.’”

“Well?” asked Alan.

Kaweeka smiled evilly. “It is true I am of the seed of Korah, and you,

my Alan, have scorned me. I have given you my love—I would give you

all—but you have laughed at me and mocked me. I would have given you my

body—but now I give you more—I will give you my life. The Fire is

burning low—more fuel is needed to keep it alive. I will give myself for

fuel—but in giving my life, I offer two more to the God of our Fathers.

For as you are the instrument of my destruction—so will the people fall

upon you, and through the mouth of Mzata the Great, will you be offered

a sacrifice to the Fire.”

Lightly, gracefully, she stepped onto the transparent wall that

surrounded the Fire, and then with a piercing cry tore off her jewels

and her raiment and flung them into the flames, that were waiting

eagerly for the food that was offered them.

Then, naked, her hair falling about her, her dark skin shimmering in the

light, she flung herself into the centre of the Fire.

Alan rushed forward, but it was too late—the cruel tongues of fire had

wrapped round her, and all that was left of the seed of Korah was a

skull, stripped of its flesh, grinning at them for an instant through

the flames, before it disappeared.

It was all so unexpected, so sudden, that the boys had not realized what

she purposed doing, and now, speechless and bewildered, they stared at

each other in horror.

Suddenly a hoarse whisper broke through the silence. “Flee, flee,” it

said, and they recognized the voice of Har-Barim. “I cannot save you,”

he continued. “My people will fall upon you and slay you—for although

they loved not Kaweeka, yet the prophecy will have to be fulfilled.

To-day is the vigil of the feast of Meherut—to-morrow the great feast

itself. Till then and then only can I hide the manner of Kaweeka’s

death. As you saved my Myruum, so will I try to save you. This much can

I tell you. Make for the waters that are turbulent and wild, where they

narrow to the space of a foot and dash against a rocky wall. Look for

the stones that are red.—Now—go.”

“But where shall we go?” cried Alan.

“Take always the centre path, my son, and avoid the waters that are

tranquil and smooth. The way is rough—thy path must of a surety be rough

also, but with courage victory will come to you. Farewell!”

And Har-Barim left them alone in the temple.

Quickly they made their way to their house, there was no time to be

lost. Plans had to be made and made quickly. Once more they were in a

strange land, where through no fault of their own, hostility and enmity

would meet them once more.

CHAPTER IV

OUT INTO THE GREAT BEYOND

The boys had no packing to do. They possessed nothing but the clothes

they stood in, and a sailor’s clasp knife that belonged to Alan; but

they put together a store of dried elers, a fruit that was sustaining,

and that, down below, took the place of the bread of the upper world.

There were very few of the purple people about; it was the vigil of

Meherut,—the most solemn feast day of their strange religion, and all

were shut up in their houses with their curtains drawn spending their

time in fasting and prayer.

On, on the boys went, always choosing the middle path if a choice was

offered them, if not, then taking the path to the right. Gradually they

left all sign of habitation and entered a most desolate region where the

purple moss grew only in patches, and the purple lights were only few

and far between. They stumbled on blindly; they dared not wait for food;

every moment was precious to them. Suddenly Desmond stumbled and fell.

“I can’t go a step further,” he cried. “How long have we been walking,

Lanny?”

“About ten hours I should think.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake let us rest! We have a fair start of them—let us

rest and have some food.” The elers refreshed them, and they drank of

the water that rolled treacherously at their feet. It was not very wide,

perhaps three feet at the most, but the current was strong and the

whirlpools more torrential than ever.

Stretching themselves out on the ground the boys slept, and woke some

five or six hours later feeling greatly refreshed. Then they continued

their march, now leaving the river behind them, now coming upon it again

and walking by its banks.

They had no idea of where they were going. They had only one goal in

view—to put as big a distance as they could between themselves and the

purple people whom they knew would already be following them. Suddenly

the road ended. They had turned a sharp corner and the way had opened

out into a small cave, which was bounded on one side by a narrow strip

of bubbling, foaming water, that disappeared at either end in a dark

tunnel. “What shall we do?” asked Desmond. “Shall we go back?”

“We can’t,” said Alan decisively. “The road that brought us here was at

least five miles long, without a turn in it. By the time we retraced our

steps, the purple devils would have caught up to us. No, old boy, I

think this is a tight fix we are in, and at the moment I can’t quite see

how we are to get out of it.”

They walked round the little cave examining it carefully. It had only

the one exit—the path up which they had come. The tunnels at either end

through which flowed the waters were too low to admit the passage of a

body, and the walls on the other side of the little river rose sheer

from the water itself. “It looks pretty hopeless,” said Alan at last,

“but at all costs we must not go back.”

“How red the walls are,” said Desmond suddenly. Alan started, for in his

mind he could hear a voice saying, “Look for the stones that are red.”

It had been Har-Barim’s advice to them, and he had said—“make for the

waters that are turbulent and wild—where in the space of a foot—” A

foot! why the water couldn’t be wider than that here. He looked round

hurriedly—was it his fancy or were the stones on the opposite side even

redder than those about him?

To Alan’s strained nerves it seemed as if just opposite him a stone had

been worn away by the constant passage of feet. Slowly a thought came

into his mind—if that was a footprint then surely it must lead

somewhere. His eyes travelled up the rock eagerly—again his quickened

senses discovered another foothold a little higher up, and still another

and another. Four in all, at perhaps a stretch of a little over two

feet. Upward his glance wandered, and in the rugged rock he saw a flat

piece of red stone that looked as if it had been inserted there at some

time or other, for some specific purpose. He stretched across the raging

torrent and with a mighty effort clung to the jagged rock. “Don’t touch

me, Dez,” he commanded, “I think I can manage best alone.”

With an almost superhuman effort he placed his foot in the first little

cleft, and gradually worked up to the little red stone that had so

aroused his curiosity. Desmond watched him in breathless horror.

Although the water was so narrow, Alan would stand little chance of

saving himself if he fell in, for it was dashing wildly against the

sides and sending its spray even higher than where Alan was clinging. He

touched the stone—it moved ever so slightly. “God! A secret way!” he

cried, and worked feverishly to open it. But although it trembled and

shook, it would not disclose its secret.

Then, away in the distance, came the sound of fierce shouting and the

beating of drums.

“The people know,” cried Desmond. “They are coming up the long passage.”

Already they could hear the name of Kaweeka used as a battle cry, and

they realized that they could expect little mercy if they were caught by

the purple savages.

With beads of perspiration on his brow, Alan worked. His fingers were

torn and bleeding from his exertions. Still nearer came the cries of the

infuriated people, and Alan had not yet succeeded in moving the stone,

which he was convinced hid a secret way of escape. Desmond ran down the

passage a little way—in a second he was back. “I can see them,” he

cried. “There are hundreds of them! Oh, what shall we do?”

“Ah!” Alan gave a cry of relief, for suddenly the stone had rolled back,

revealing a small cavity beyond, just big enough for the passage of a

man’s body.

“Follow me in, Dez,” he cried, “no matter where it leads—it can’t be

worse than if we remain here.”

Their pursuers were now in full view, and if seemed that only a few

yards separated them. Quickly Desmond climbed the steps and reached the

hole, and Alan drew him in, and even as he turned to make fast the

opening, a head with an evil-looking horn appeared. Alan doubled his

fist and gave a mighty blow, and like a log the man dropped into the

water, was sucked under and carried out of sight.

They rolled the stone back into its place, and panting, leant against

it. The execrations and cries of the natives came faintly on their ears;

the great stone trembled, and they knew it was being forced from

without. One hurried glance round revealed to them great boulders of

rock lying on the ground. Feverishly they piled them up in front of the

stone, and they were strong enough to resist the furious onslaught that

the purple people kept up. After a time, the cries of the people grew

fainter, gradually they died away altogether, and the underworld folk

made their way back to the temple to pray that the white men might be

handed over to them, and that they might be allowed to punish the

slayers of the seed of Korah.

Spent and tired the two boys sank to the ground, for many hours had

passed while they were defending their retreat from the underworld

people. A faint, natural, ground light shone around. It was like the

same purple light that lit the whole of the underworld, but here it was

in its natural condition, and was so faint that it scarcely showed them

each other’s face.

“Go to sleep, Dez,” said Alan. “I will keep watch.”

“But you are tired too,” demurred his cousin.

Alan smiled. “Sleep first, old man,” said he, and even as he spoke,

Desmond dropped his head upon his breast, and his eyes closed in

slumber.

It was a great strain for Alan to sit there in the darkness—in a weird

and unknown place—soundless except for Desmond’s heavy, regular

breathing. His own breath seemed to his quickened senses like the blast

of heavy artillery, and the slightest sound was magnified a hundredfold.

Nobly he fought against sleep—but he was worn out, and at last his eyes

closed—and he too, slept.

Time meant nothing to these imprisoned men. Science they could laugh at,

for, from a scientific point of view, their very life was impossible.

How in the centre of the earth could mankind live? Yet it was true they

had lived, fed, and breathed for months and months in the very belly of

the earth. Science said the centre of the earth was impenetrable—that

the intense heat of its inner fire would prevent man even seeing that

fire. Yet they could prove that they had seen and they could tell the

scientists that the fire was waning.

Still they slept.

Fantastic dreams came into their minds, yet there was not so much as the

scuffling of a rat or the squeaking of a mouse to awaken them. All was

silent and still, with a stillness that cannot be expressed by words.

Desmond woke first—the light did not seem so dim—or had they become used

to it? His eyes rested on Alan sleeping soundly by his side, and a tear

dropped on his cousin’s brow as he leant over him. It was a tear not to

be laughed at, nor to be ashamed of, but the tear of a strong man shed

in the bitterness of his oppression.

He rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and wandered round the place

where he found himself. It was a cavern, very similar to the numberless

others he had passed through on the further side of the rapid river. Its

floor was rugged, but was covered with the purple moss, and a few bushes

which bore fruit were growing there. Round and round he walked, but the

cave seemed to have no outlet at all. Alan woke and watched Desmond in

silence for a short while, and then said, “Don’t worry, Dez, I’m sure we

shall find a way out. This must lead somewhere.” But although he too,

examined the cave very carefully, there seemed to be no outlet.

How long they stayed there they did not know—fortunately they found some

roots which were edible, and whose long bulb-like ends were filled with

a pleasant fluid which quenched their thirst. They played games with

each other, did everything in fact to prevent the madness they were

afraid would come over them.

Nearer and nearer it crept like a beast of prey waiting to spring and

devour his victims. With their forced inactivity their limbs became

cramped and although the air was pure, their lips were dry and their

throats parched. They began to give up speaking aloud; they would sit

for hours in silence, only uttering occasionally a croaking whisper, one

to the other, as if they were afraid of being overheard. Then the

day—but no, it cannot be called that—the time came when Desmond lay

quiet and still, and Alan awoke to the consciousness that something was

radically wrong with his cousin. He bent over the inanimate figure, and

touched him gently with his hand. The eyes were closed and the fists

clenched and had he been able to see clearly, he would have noticed the

purple lines round the cold mouth, and a pinched look upon the face,

that boded nought but ill.

“I must do something,” he muttered wearily, and then he burst out into a

paroxysm of weeping. That saved his life, for when he came to himself it

was as a fresh man.

Plucking some of the purple foliage, he squeezed the stalks and let the

cool liquid pour gently on Desmond’s brow, then tenderly chiding and

imploring him, he managed to bring back a sign of life to his cousin’s

face. Nor did he stop then, but continued, until Desmond woke to reason

and called him by his name.

When Desmond had fallen into a refreshed and tranquil sleep, Alan

wandered round and round the little cave, looking still for some weak

spot.

Suddenly there came a sound in the distance—a thud that shook the very

ground upon which he was standing. With every nerve wound up to concert

pitch he waited—listening intently to see if he could hear again the

sudden sound that had broken the stillness.

“It’s my fancy,” said he aloud, but even as he spoke the noise began

again with greater fury. The cavern shook—pieces of rock came hurtling

down, broken off from their parent wall by the vibrations. Then suddenly

came a sound almost like an explosion, and a piece of rock, larger than

the rest came tumbling down, and revealed behind it a small passage.

“Dez.” cried Alan. “Dez, a way of escape has come.”

Desmond opened his eyes and looked round vacantly, and indeed it was

some time before he realized the wonderful thing that had happened.

The underworld folk had made one last mighty effort to reach them, and

the boys could have gone down on their knees to thank the purple people,

for their machinations had given them hope once more.

CHAPTER V

A FRIEND FROM THE ENEMY

Desmond, still weak, raised himself up, and looked about him; and even

as he did so, a huge boulder fell from the blocked secret entrance that

led to the city of the underworld.

“They are bombarding the place,” said Alan looking startled, “let us go

through there,” and he pointed to the little passage that had been

revealed to them so strangely.

“We can blockade it from the other side,” said Desmond, “and at least it

will give us more time.”

A close examination revealed to them a hinged slab of stone that swung

easily to and fro, and the spring that fastened it in place was plain to

see on the inner side. They crept into the passage, closed the stone

after them, and piled rocks and stones in front of it as an extra

protection. Again came a weary time of waiting—a time when the cave was

filled with wild laughter and hideous ravings—when the furies of Hell

itself seemed let loose on the other side. The purple fiends had forced

an entrance, but too late. Their prey had escaped them.

Alan and Desmond lay and listened to the babel of their voices, for

strangely enough the slightest sound from the other cave was magnified

in this inner one. Then a silence fell, and they realized that the

purple savages had once more gone. Hungrily they gathered roots and ate

them greedily—when a woman’s cry, clear and distinct, startled them.

Again and again it came—“Ar-lane! Jez-mun!”

Their names were called in the quaint pronunciation of the underworld

folk.

“Who is it?” asked Desmond.

“I’ll see.”—

“No don’t go—don’t go—it’s some trick—” but Alan had already pulled down

the stones in front of the hinged stone.

“Ar-lane. Jez-mun.” Again the cry came. “Open—open I beg. I come to aid

you.”

“I am going to speak to her,” said Alan grimly, and he put his lips

close against the stone.

“Who are you and what do you want of us?”

A glad cry was his answer, and then followed quickly—“Let me through, O

Ar-lane—I have come to seek thee.”

“What do you want of us?”

“Listen, O Ar-lane, I have fled from my home in the temple of Fire, and

have come to thee. Years ago when a tiny child, I found the cavern and

knew it well. But Am-rab the Wise, my tutor and priest, forbade me with

threats of torture to wander there again. Since then I have not set eyes

upon the place. Let me in, O Ar-lane, for the spring is broken on this

side, and I cannot find it.”

Desmond was listening suspiciously. “What are you going to do?” he

asked.

And again came the pleading voice. “Let me in, O Ar-lane. Oh, let me

in.”

Alan looked questioningly at Desmond and he gave his cousin a quick nod.

“If it’s treachery we’re done,” he remarked, as he touched the spring

and the stone moved.

As soon as it was wide open the woman entered. They did not know her,

but her eyes were swollen from weeping and her face drawn with emotion,

and they realized that she had suffered.

“Waste no time,” she commanded imperiously. “My flight is already spoken

of in the temple. Should they seek me, it will need all our strength,

all our cunning to hide from them. Close the door, O Ar-lane, and build

up a wall of stones in front, that is strong, and then let us hasten

on.” So once more the place was barricaded, and only when the barrier

was complete did she deign to explain her presence.

“You know me not, O Men of the Upper World, for you have never set eyes

upon me before; but I have seen you often. Behold, I am Jez-Riah, seed

of the house of Bin-Nab, and hereditary Keeper of the Hall of Fire. It

is the custom, know ye, in this land of ours, for the female seed of

Bin-Nab to keep veiled after they have reached the age of ten. I cast

aside my veil yester-eve, and immediately came to seek thee.”

“Why?” asked Alan curtly.

The woman was fair to look upon—her eyes were deep and luminous, and her

tear-stained cheeks filled them with pity. Yet to be hampered with a

woman seemed to take from them every chance of their ultimate escape.

Jez-Riah seemed to read their thoughts. “No, harden not your hearts

against me, for I can help you,” said she earnestly.

“Why have you sought us?” asked Alan, this time less curtly.

“I know a road in here—a secret road, said to be a thousand and ten

miles long; a stream of unknown depths, races along by the side of it—a

stream that is swifter by far than the fastest of waters—there,” and she

pointed in the direction from which she had come. “It leads to the tomb

of Korah, so they say, but torture was threatened to all who would have

ventured in search of it. O Ar-lane, you know not what our tortures

are.”

“I have seen some,” said Alan grimly.

Jez-Riah laughed. “Nay, Ar-lane—you have never seen what I have seen.

You have never witnessed the Curse of Fire.” As she spoke her eyes grew

big and her expression distorted as she lived again the scenes she had

so often witnessed. “I have seen men roasted alive. I have seen acid

juices poured on the sufferers’ wounds. I have seen—” but Alan stopped

her. “Enough!” he cried. “It’s horrible.”

She continued. “But tortures even worse were threatened for those who

would seek the tomb of Korah. So none tried. I knew you would be safe

for a while in these caves—but I knew too, that with some one to guide

you, you might go farther even than you dared hope. I am weary of my

life, I am an eighth child of a priestess of the direct line of Bin-Nab;

but I have the blood of the living in my veins. I want to live the life

of the People of the Sun—your people. That is the reason I cast my veil

from me, O Men of the Outer World, and sought you. Oh cast not Jez-Riah

from thee, but keep her as thy slave, for she will by of much use to

thee.”

Jez-Riah had cast herself at the boys’ feet, and her tears and sobs were

coming fast. Desmond and Alan felt strangely moved at the sight of this

woman, so different from the women they were used to in the world above.

“I don’t think it’s trickery, Alan, do you?” said Desmond. In his heart

Alan believed in the truth of the strange woman’s story, yet he knew

from past experience that it was impossible to believe the inhabitants

of the underworld.

He looked Jez-Riah up and down. “Any weapons?” he asked suddenly.

Jez-Riah held up her head proudly and her eyes flashed fire and she

stamped her foot. “I come ‘feula-ri!’ Is it likely I am traitor, O Men

who Doubt?”

Now the boys knew enough of the customs of the strange world in which

they found themselves, that if the sacred word “feula-ri—” was spoken,

no treachery was contemplated; for that word meant more to them than

does the white man’s flag of truce. For in times of war, has not even

the white flag been violated?

“I believe you, Jez-Riah,” said Alan suddenly. “Show us Korah’s tomb and

perhaps we in turn may find a way to show you the sun and moon and

stars. And green trees—and grass—and the sea—” He drew his breath

sharply. His imagination had run away with him, and for the moment he

could almost believe he heard the thunder of the waves as they came

dashing in on some rocky shore; he saw the foam and the sun-decked

beach. The birds seemed to be singing—and above it all came the

unmusical cry of the gulls. He sighed.

“Don’t Lannie,” said Desmond affectionately. “I feel it too; shall we

ever see those things again—shall we ever feel the breeze on our faces

and the burning sun—”

Jez-Riah stood looking at them hungrily. “You speak your own tongue,”

said she, “not mine. What say you each to the other that makes the lines

of sadness on your faces grow so deep?”

“It’s nothing, Jez-Riah,” answered Alan.

“You are sorry I am here?”

“No, we are glad—and you must help us with your knowledge of the secret

ways.”

“See, I will show you at once,” and she rose and crossed the cavern. She

pressed a stone in the wall in front of them, and a boulder revolved on

a hidden spring and showed a yawning cavity beyond. The noise of

troubled waters came upon their ears—loud and thunderous.

“It is true,” she cried in triumph, “behold all I have said is true. The

waters are calling—come,” and she went through into the blackness

without a tremor of fear. And Alan and Desmond followed their strange

companion without any misgivings for the future.

Providence had sent them an unlooked for guide. Hope, the star they had

almost lost in the clouds of darkness that had overshadowed them, came

back, shining in all the glory and radiance of renewed fervour. With a

muttered “Thank God” the two boys stepped forward, lighter of step and

gladder at heart than they had been for some time.

“Ar-lane—Jez-mun,” came a voice from the darkness. “I am Jez-Riah—Child

of the future—Gate of Hope—Guide of Strangers. Fear nothing—the

blackness will pass and we shall find the way easy to tread.”

And it was even as she had spoken. In a very little time they found

themselves in a maze of natural lighted pathways similar to the ones

from which they had come. The sound of the water grew louder. It

thundered in their ears; it shrieked and roared as if some evil spirit

was shaking the very earth itself. Jez-Riah was radiant.

“The stream of Korah is not far. I have heard it told that whoever

braves that stream and finds the tomb of Korah, will live to see the

sun. The sun that our prophet Zurishadeel sings of, the sun that the God

of our forefathers created. The thought puts new life into me—Come.”

On, on they went, the noise getting louder and louder every moment,

until, upon turning a corner, a wondrous sight met their eyes. Belching

forth from the rocks themselves, forcing itself out from regions unseen,

falling like a waterfall from some high precipice, the torrent rushed,

making a lake of considerable dimensions, which was overflowing its

banks—a wild, mad, boiling liquid. The spray rose a hundred feet in

height, and splashed all round and the whole place was fearsome and

ghostly.

At one end of the turbulent lake was a tiny outlet, perhaps two feet

wide, through which the waters ran at breakneck speed. The fearsome

noise, the sight of the rushing waters, the intense weirdness of the

scene, kept both boys speechless with awe at their surroundings, but

Jez-Riah was on her knees, bathing her face in the water, letting it

trickle over her hair, drinking it from cups made of her two hands. And

above the din and clamour they heard her singing a weird hymn of praise

to the accompaniment of the music of the waters. The boys listened

eagerly, and again and again they heard the refrain—

“Korah—Korah—father of our people—the waters will lead us to where thy

bones lie,

“Korah—Korah—thou hast not forsaken us—I am bathing in the waters of

faith and purity.”

Then Jez-Riah flung off her draperies and plunged into the boiling

waters. The boys watched in breathless amazement as she battled with the

whirlpools, but she proved stronger than they, and swam on until she

reached the mighty waterfall. Round and round she was carried and

whirled but she reached her goal at last—a tiny slab of rock protruding

out of the waters and under the shadow of the mighty cascade itself.

Standing upon it she began a weird dance—a fanatical dance of joy. The

foaming waters almost hid her from their gaze, the spray rose in front

of her like a filmy gauze. At moments, however, her lithe body was

exposed to view, and the boys marvelled at her agility. She did not seem

to tire, but danced on, her voice raised in a strange hymn of praise.

Praise of the waters, praise of the light, praise to the God of the Sun.

Then came a mighty prayer that the secret ways might be opened to

her—and that she might lead the strangers to safety. And even as she

sang and prayed, her limbs were moving fast in dance and the waters were

dashing over her and chilling her.

When she had finished her prayer she sank to her knees in an abandonment

of grief and asked pardon for her one great sin—the sin she committed in

leaving the temple, where she was Watcher to the Fire.

There was a long silence—only broken by the voices of the torrent raised

in its ceaseless dirge.

Alan moved. “Is she safe?” he asked “What will happen to her?”—but even

as he spoke the lithe body had dived once more into the waters and was

swimming almost with ease to the shore. Jez-Riah stood proudly before

them, her dripping hair a mantle that covered her. “Go—rest,” she

commanded. “I commune with Korah,” and fleet of foot, strong in purpose,

she darted down one of the passages near by, and was soon lost to sight.

CHAPTER VI

THE LAIR OF THE SERPENT

“Korah! Korah!” the words grew fainter and fainter, until at length,

worn out with religious fervour, Jez-Riah flung herself on the ground

and fell asleep. Alan and Desmond gazed after her for some time and then

Alan said “Let’s lie down, Dez. We are both worn out, and it is useless

to follow her. She will return to us only when the spirit moves her.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake let us get away from this infernal din.”

They walked down one of the widest passages until they came to a place

where the moss was thick and soft and the noise of the water rose faint

upon their ears.

“Ar-lane—Jez-mun.” The cry came low and clear and Alan rose quickly to

his feet. He had been asleep and his limbs felt rested and his head was

clearer.

“It is I, Jez-Riah,” came the soft tones again, and silhouetted against

the wall he saw the shadowy figure of the strange woman.

“We must go on,” she urged “We have far to go and much to do.”

“Where have you been?” he asked her.

“I have been in communication with the Spirit of the Waters, O Ar-lane;

soon the mysteries of Korah will be unfolded before thine eyes. Come!

Come! Tarry not too long.” In a second Desmond was awake, and Jez-Riah

showed all impatience to start.

“Have you been here before?” asked Desmond curiously of Jez-Riah.

“No, O Jez-mun, but the water of Korah has given me the gift of sight.

Before I was blind—now I can see. Come bind up my eyes, O Ar-lane, that

clearness of vision may be mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bind up my eyes,” she commanded again.

Alan tore a strip from his purple mantle, and tied it across her eyes.

She gave an exclamation of joy. “O Ar-lane,” she cried. “Before I trod

in darkness; now my path is lighted brightly, and I can lead you to many

strange sights, and strange things.” As she spoke, she stretched out her

hands before her and started off at a quick pace. In silence the cousins

followed her. In their position as prisoners in the earth, buried so far

down that they had little hope of ever seeing the sun again, they had no

choice but to follow the strange, half mad creature who had constituted

herself their leader.

The aspect of the road they were now traversing changed. The sides of

the passage were no longer smooth and earthy, but consisted of a hard,

rocky substance—the floor, too, was jagged and rough. The passage

narrowed until it left only room for them to walk in single file, and

the air was musty and stifling; indeed there was a pressure in the

atmosphere that made the boys from the upper, world stumble as they felt

the noxious gases going to their heads.

They made brave efforts, however, and staggered blindly on, one after

the other, following Jez-Riah who never hesitated a moment in the course

she was taking. For perhaps five miles they walked until they entered a

large cavern, the replica of the many others they had been through. They

noticed the change in the air immediately. It was purer, fresher, even

cooler and the boys revived under its effect.

Jez-Riah tore the bandage from her eyes. “The place of my dreams,” she

cried.

“I feel faint,” said Desmond in a low tone, but not so low that Jez-Riah

could not hear. “He needs food?” she questioned “Here is plenty,” and

going to the furthermost corner of the cave she pulled up roots by the

handful—roots like the ones they had had in the lower world itself.

All the time they had been walking they had been continually

ascending—at times the passages were almost like mountain passes, they

rose at such a gradient—at other times the ascent was not so noticeable,

but all the same they realized that they were mounting upward, and the

thought cheered the two white men.

They sat and ate the roots and felt refreshed, when suddenly Desmond

rose with a cry. “My God—what’s that?” There on the opposite wall, high

above their heads, a light shone down upon them, a light that gleamed

baleful in the semi-darkness.

“It is the sacred serpent of the Tomb,” cried Jez-Riah. “I have heard of

it often when I was a child. It has existed throughout the ages—it will

always exist.”

“Nonsense,” said Alan.

“You cannot kill it,” she wailed “It is the Guardian of the Tomb.”

“What, are we there, at the Tomb of Korah, already?” asked Alan in

amazement.

“No! No! But we must cross its path if we would reach the Tomb. In my

conceit I thought I was all powerful. I was over-confident, O Ar-lane! I

heeded not the snake that is large enough to slay an enormous army and

yet retain its power.”

The gleaming eyes grew nearer, and already they could see the writhing

body as it moved along a rocky ledge.

“How big is it?” asked Desmond.

“I cannot see its length,” whispered Alan “but it seems as thick round

as a man’s body. Let us get out of this cursed place. Which is the way,

Jez-Riah?”

“Through that narrow opening yonder,” said she.

Flattening themselves against the wall they crept the way she directed,

and were but a few steps from it when there came the sound of a terrible

hissing, and a long evil-looking shape dropped in front of them, and

hung pendulum-wise blocking up the opening.

“We can’t go that way now,” said Alan “I am afraid it’s too large to

tackle. Why it must be thirty feet long at least. We shall have to go

back.” Then came the most horrible experience the cousins had ever had.

The most awful. The most terrifying.

“Run,” cried Alan. “If we can get into the passage beyond we may be able

to block up the way and prevent it coming through after us.”

They reached the narrow opening, and all around were huge blocks of rock

and stone which they piled up one on top of the other.

“Only one more is needed,” cried Alan triumphantly. But he spoke too

soon—a large, flat head, perhaps a foot and a half in length, with ugly

eyes glowing like live fire, shot through the opening, and watched them.

The mouth was open wide and the forked tongue shot rapidly in and out in

venomous fury. The smell was terrible, whether from its breath or

permeating through its skin from its body, they could not tell, but it

made them feel giddy, sick and ill. For perhaps ten minutes (if time

could be measured in that awful place) it remained there motionless, and

then gradually the stones came tumbling down as it forced its way

through the barricade.

The boys watched their horrible foe. They were powerless. Escape was

impossible, for behind them was a narrow passage, perhaps a mile in

length, that offered no shelter.

Would it never attack them? Why keep them in this awful suspense?

“Knife,” came suddenly from between Alan’s tightly compressed lips. Then

after a moment, during which time he opened the well worn blade—“There

are plenty of stones behind?”

“Plenty.”

Swiftly followed the instructions. “Pick up the largest you can

handle—both of you—when I give the word dash them at the brute’s head.

It is our only chance—then rush past the head.”

“But—” commenced Desmond.

“Don’t argue—it’s our only hope. The thing is too big to turn round in

this small space. It _must_ go on. Once we get past it we may stand a

chance.”

Alan never relaxed his watchful gaze. Suddenly the reptile lowered its

head and an ugly hiss came from its mouth.

“Now,” cried Alan, and as he hurled the knife, harpoon-like into the

open mouth two heavy stones came crashing down on its skull.

The sudden onslaught dazed the creature, and its head dropped to the

ground. Quickly they rushed past it, but they all realized that they

were not yet out of danger. The passage they were in was very narrow and

the serpent was so immense that it was impossible for them to stand

without feeling the clammy skin next to them.

Jez-Riah shuddered. “What will become of us?” she moaned “It is too big

to kill.” And indeed, it seemed to be, for Alan had not exaggerated. The

length was quite thirty feet, and the girth of its middle was perhaps

ten feet, narrowing to two at the tail.

“You can’t kill it,” cried Desmond. “Why we haven’t even the old clasp

knife now.” A sudden convulsive movement passed along the serpent’s

body, and it made them retch to see the tremor coming from its head in

undulating movements to its tail. Then it raised itself up, and Alan was

right—it was impossible for it to turn—it was far too big and

cumbersome. For some time, with its head raised perhaps six feet from

the ground, it writhed to and fro in growing anger that its prey should

so elude it. As its anger grew greater, its body rolled and moved in

convulsive heaps, and the trio sickened as the malodorous mass pressed

itself against them and pinioned them to the wall.

“Lannie, what can we do?” asked Desmond. Jez-Riah was almost unconscious

with the awful pressure, and the strain was telling on the two boys. The

strength of the beast was enormous, and they realized that it had the

power, even when at a disadvantage itself, to press the very life out of

them against the wall.

Then came a sudden sense of relief, as the serpent contracted itself,

but gave way to horror as they realized that it was backing through the

opening, and its filthy head would soon be on a line with them.

“Stones,” urged Alan hoarsely. “Hurl them at the head. Jez-Riah, you

must help too.”

Feverishly they worked throwing rocks and stones with force at the

monster’s head. It withstood the onslaught valiantly for a time—its

strength was enormous—but at last a well directed shot of Desmond’s

caught it full between the eyes, and the head dropped like a stone.

“The serpent—it is dead?” asked Jez-Riah. “But alas, no. The body is

twitching all over—it has life still.”

A sharp piece of stone jutted out above Alan’s head. “Help me,” he said

feverishly to his cousin. “This is our last hope—this is as sharp as a

knife. If we can but loosen it you must help me to imbed it in the

brute’s head. It is stunned now—we must try and overpower it while it is

in that condition.” All the time they were talking they were working

hard to loosen the stone and at last it fell into Alan’s hands. It was

not very large, but it had an edge like a bayonet, and was of intense

hardness.

Cautiously they forced their way on either side of the twisting mass,

until they were on a level with its head. “There,” whispered Desmond.

“Just between the eyes.”

The stone was raised; the huge beast was motionless—then, with almost

superhuman power, Alan brought the stone down and embedded it deeply in

the flesh, while as Alan let go, Desmond hurled a heavy piece of stone

hammer-wise on the top of the stone, and buried the sharp edge still

deeper in the gaping wound. The great snake woke to consciousness, and

the boys had only just time to get out of the way of its gaping jaws.

“Press yourself close to the wall, Dez,” commanded Alan, and they

reached Jez-Riah’s side in safety. Their eyes dilated with horror as

they watched the great reptile die, for the boys between them had given

it its death blow.

How long the death struggle lasted they never knew. Alan thought an

hour, Desmond said two. Blood poured from the wound in its head and a

sickly smell rose from the liquid. For some time the stone remained

fixed in the flesh of the serpent, but its writhings at last loosened

it, and it fell to the ground with a horrible thud, while the blood

rushed out of the open wound like a miniature fountain.

Fascinated the three watched its last movements. The body rolled from

side to side, dashing first against one then against the other of the

unlucky prisoners, but by flattening themselves against the walls, they

escaped any big injury—only bruises left their mark to show what they

had been through.

The movements became more irregular. For a long time the mighty snake

remained quite still, only to wake up again after a rest with renewed

energy. At last its spasms became less frequent and less powerful. It

was dying. Its breath came like huge sobs that travelled down its body.

The stench was almost unendurable. “I think it’s safe now,” said Alan at

last. Slowly they moved from their cramped positions. Their hearts

throbbed and their limbs ached. Fearsomely they gave a last look at the

head of the dying, if not already dead, monster. A shudder ran through

them all. The strain through which they had passed had been terrible,

but for Alan, who had engineered the defeat, it had been terrific. His

limbs ached, his head swam, and he reeled as he walked on the free

ground, unpolluted by the serpent. He laughed a wild unnatural laugh; it

sounded strange even in his own ears, and he repeated it, as he wondered

whether he was indeed going mad. He felt suddenly unaccountably

frightened. Everything faded from him but the memory of the serpent

behind. With another peal of almost senseless laughter, he ran madly

away into the distance, until the darkness swallowed him up, and only

the sound of his wild laughter broke the stillness. Jez-Riah clutched at

her throat and spoke to Desmond. “Ar-lane—he is ill—come,” said she, and

the two followed Alan away into the blackness as he sped on,

laughing—laughing—laughing.

CHAPTER VII

ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH

Time passed—time that had no measure—time that seemed an eternity. They

had all recovered from their encounter with the Sacred Serpent, but the

adventure had left them nervous and irritable. There was food in plenty,

and the luscious roots gave them both meat and drink. Always upward they

mounted—and as they saw the mountainous paths rise before them, hope

held out her encouraging hand, and whispered that one day they might

even see the stars. Jez-Riah still led them on, through untold paths and

a labyrinthine maze. She always maintained that she knew the right path

to take.

Sometimes they had to crawl on their hands and knees through narrow and

low passages that seemed to have no end. At other times they found

themselves in wide, airy byways with a height almost beyond computation,

for far above their heads they could just catch the faintest glimmer of

light on the purple growth that covered the roof. Now and again springs

bubbled up from the earth and ran along beside them, burying themselves

as suddenly as they had appeared. The atmosphere was very sultry and

fetid—very different from the air on the other side of the underground

river that separated the underworld people from the desolate region they

were now in. “How long, Jez-Riah?” they asked her over and over again.

“How long before we reach the Tomb of Korah?” And her answer was the

same each time. “Oh Men of the World Above, I do not tarry, I am leading

you to the Tomb as fast as I can. Be content with that.” So the days

passed—so the nights came round again. Days which had no night, nights

which had no day. Time was measured by sleep. When they were all weary

they lay down to rest and sleep. This they called night—when they awoke

they called it day. But they had lost count of the times they had slept

since Jez-Riah had come to them, they had lost count of everything. They

had only one object before them—to reach the Tomb of Korah. Their plans

ended there; they had no idea what their next move would be after they

reached it. They had grown accustomed to their strange, purple

companion—in fact she had become almost a necessity to them both. It was

she who passed many weary hours for them, by recounting stories of the

life of her people since they had lived below. It was she who told them

even more fully than Har-Barim had done, how her people’s forefathers

had risen up against Musereah, and Har-Raeon, and how they had

consequently suffered throughout the ages. And both the boys translated

Musereah as Moses, and Har-Raeon as Aaron, and were more than ever

convinced that strange as the story was, this new race was indeed

descended from the Israelites of the Old Testament and could claim

Korah, Abiram and Dathan as its progenitors.

It was Jez-Riah who told them that behind a barred gate was built a

golden tomb wherein had been deposited the remains of their first

priests—“Har-Barim and Kartharn.” It was at their shrine that the

ceremonies attached to the feast of Meherut were performed. It was their

Holy of Holies, and it was over the bones of Har-Barim and Kartharn that

the priests made their vows.

They asked Jez-Riah about the fire and she grew solemn as she answered

them—“Ah, Men from Above, Our Fire is sacred—it is Holy. It is the

symbol of our Jovah.—It is almost our God. The God of our forefathers

took on one occasion the form of fire, so fire is sacred to us.”

“The Burning Bush,” said Alan in an undertone.

“But,” she added sorrowfully, “the power of the Fire is waning.

According to one of our prophecies, when the Fire shall die, then, also

shall all the seed of Korah die too. In all the ages that have passed

since the earth closed against us, no fuel was needed for the Fire—it

burnt of itself and never grew less. Then one day noises were heard in

the earth—our land shook and trembled, and men fell on their faces in

fear. From that day we knew the Fire was growing less. Our priests knew

it—all our people knew it and terror was in all our hearts. Then our

high priest looked up all the old laws and in the fourth book of

Rabez-ka, Queebenhah the Seer writes—

‘When the Fire shall shrink, then is the time ripe for the

people of Kalvar to rise. Live sacrifices must be offered to

appease the God of Anger. Send forth a Light to the world above,

and let it bring back men and animals and birds to feed the

furnace of Light. Live sacrifices alone will keep the fire

quickened—live sacrifices alone will prevent calamities falling

on the Children of Kalvar.’

“So our wise men gathered together,” she continued, “and by the wisdom

of all, the Light was made. The wise men of the temple and Kaweeka alone

could handle it—for they were possessed of Holiness, and the Light was

made from the Fire itself. Chemicals were drawn from the recesses of the

earth, and in secret the Light was made.”

“How did they use it, Jez-Riah?”

“When it was sent out into the earth above, it was sensitive only to

life. When any warm living thing of the world was near, it swooped down,

and coiled round and carried its prey back to us.”

“I understand better,” said Alan to his cousin. “The Light is some

magnetic electrical current with abnormal power. Ugh! It’s horrible.”

“But why did they stop sending out the Light for fodder to feed the

flames?” asked Desmond.

“Because we realized that our time is short. Nothing will keep the Fire

alive. The end is near.”

So they travelled—and then depression overtook them as their journey

seemed endless and they got no nearer to their goal. Even Jez-Riah

herself seemed to lose hope, and with tears in her eyes she would say

pathetically “O Ar-lane, my senses seem dimmed—the way is dark. Surely

we must come there soon!”

The monotony of the way drove the white men nearly mad. The monotony of

the food sickened them. They felt half dazed; they forgot the reason of

their march; they forgot, even, what the goal was toward which they were

going. They knew only that some power within them urged them to go on

and on and always on.

At last Jez-Riah’s eyes grew bright and her step alert. “Don’t speak,”

she urged, “don’t speak!” So they went, until all the passages merged

into one long tunnel—darker than the others through which they had come.

The natural light shed from the earth itself, grew still more feeble,

and they found it difficult to walk for fear of hidden pitfalls.

Suddenly the passage ended and Jez-Riah gave a glad cry. “Behold, O Men

of the Sun, this is the entrance to the Tomb of Korah.”

“Are you sure?” asked Alan.

“Quite, O Ar-lane. The paths we have been traversing were made by our

forefathers long æons ago. After they had fastened Korah and all that

appertained to him fast within the bowels of the earth, they had to

fight their way through to make a place of habitation. They cut paths as

they marched along, and when they found the Fire—there they made their

home. I knew that when all paths merged into one, the way was near to

Korah’s tomb.”

The place in which they found themselves was very disappointing. Their

way just ended—it did not widen out at all, and the end was piled with

stones and earth that had fallen through the ages. Their quest was over

at last, and they took their first untroubled rest. They slept long and

quietly, and it was Jez-Riah who awakened them and placed before them

the food they were so heartily sick of. “Nay, eat,” she commanded, “your

strength is needed more than before,” and feeling the truth of her

words, they ate until they were satisfied and felt all the better for

the food.

“The earth has fallen,” said Jez-Riah. “If we are to find the entrance

to the tomb we must clear away all that rubble.”

Feverishly they set to work tearing their hands to pieces on the jagged

stones until the passage behind them was nearly closed with the mass of

rock and earth that they had displaced. Twice they slept, and then

success came to them, for a solid slab of rock appeared in the wall—a

rock that had been made smooth and upon which were carven hieroglyphics.

“I cannot read it,” said Jez-Riah, but Alan was already translating, for

it was the Hebrew he knew, and not the corruption that had come down

through the ages to the purple people.

“Read it aloud,” said Desmond, and Alan spoke the words of the

inscription reverently.

“BY THE WILL OF THE EXILED CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

“Korah, son of Izhar, the son of Kohath, the son of Levi, and

his wives and his children and all that appertains unto him and

to them, lie buried in this cave. For the wrath of Jehovah fell

on his people who sinned against the Lord, tempted by the Evil

one—Korah. This is his Tomb—cursed be the ones who open it

before the day appointed is at hand.

“Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, the son of Peleth, son of

Reuben; Shedur, son of Helon, son of Abira, the son of Simeon.

Priests, chosen by the banished Children of Israel in their new

land of Kalvar—in the bowels of the earth.”

The cousins did little else but talk about the discovery until the time

came for them to rest. Their labours had been rewarded; the Tomb of

Korah had been revealed to them.

They worked hard when they awoke to move the massive block of stone.

There was no secret spring to assist them—the stone had been placed in

position some three thousand years before, and now seemed to defy all

the efforts they made to move it. With rocks and stones used lever-wise

they worked until after many “days” they succeeded in forcing the solid

block of stone to the ground, but behind it was a wall closely built of

stones and earth bound together with a rude cement. Their fingers were

torn and bleeding in their attempt to pull the stones apart. “At last,”

cried Alan in delight. For as he worked his hand had gone into space—the

tomb was laid open before him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE TOMB OF KORAH

The Tomb of Korah! They had reached their goal at last! The boys stood

back awed at the thought of what might have passed in that selfsame

cavern thousands of years before.

“You go first, Jez-Riah,” said Alan at last, and slowly, reverently the

two boys followed her in. The natural light had grown stronger and

allowed them to see quite plainly the mysteries the cave was to unfold.

They discovered it to be a cavern perhaps forty yards square. The roof

rose above them perhaps a hundred feet, and was marked by a deep,

zigzagged line running across it from one side to the other. It was like

a scar!

“Dez,” said Alan suddenly, “is that where the earth originally opened,

when it deposited Korah and the other Israelites within its bowels?”

“If so we ought to be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Palestine,”

replied Desmond.

The cave had no outlet, and on the floor lay precious stones of every

kind and colour;—diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, sapphires—as large

as Barcelona nuts—lay strewn about in fabulous quantities. In one corner

of the cave were the remains of furniture and household goods, mostly

rotted away and eaten by worms; and mingled with the precious stones

were human bones—human bones in such quantities that it was impossible

to avoid treading on them. Here was a thigh bone, there a skeleton hand

or a skull. Everywhere the bones of men and beasts mingled together in a

heterogeneous mass.

Quietly, slowly they made a round of the place, There were skeletons of

horses, asses and camels lying together in a corner, and piled on top of

each other in such a way as proved it had been done by the human agency,

were the remains of little children.

Skeletons of females with the remnants of clothing on their whitened

bones, adorned with anklets of gold and bracelets set with gems, were

everywhere, and the whole scene was like a ghastly wonder story of the

East. They picked their way through a bed of grinning skulls to where

they saw something shining.

Alan picked it up. “A censer,” said he, “one of the most beautiful I

have ever seen,” And indeed it was of wonderful workmanship. Even their

little knowledge told them it was of pure gold; it was most wonderfully

fashioned to represent on the one side a cherub—a cherub so perfect that

even the finger nails were represented, and on the other, bunches of

grapes and vine leaves—symbols of the promised land.

Precious stones gleamed cunningly everywhere, and the chains from which

the censer swung were studded with diamonds. They could scarcely bear to

put it down, but gazed at it entranced with its beauty. Every moment

they found in it some greater glory.

“I have seen nothing modern even resembling this,” said Alan at last.

“Why, it is exquisite—think of its value!”

“Its history alone would render it priceless,” said Desmond, “apart from

its precious metal and workmanship.”

“Yes, but of what use is it to us down here?” questioned Alan. “And even

if we ever do get out, who will believe our story?”

“I wonder where we shall find ourselves if we do discover a way out,”

said Desmond. “We have lost all sense of direction down here—of distance

and of time. Why, we haven’t even any idea of how far we have walked

since we left the purple people—how far do you think, Alan?”

Alan shook his head. “It’s impossible to say, Dez. How many times have

we slept? We counted three hundred times and then forgot—three hundred

times is a long while, old boy. We must have walked at least fifteen

miles each ‘day’ we have been on the march—perhaps even more—so we have

done a considerable distance.”

“Then where shall we find ourselves? Africa? America? Asia?”

“Well, we shall not be penniless when we do get to the world again,” and

Alan pointed at the wealth of jewels at their feet.

“It is those that make me feel we shall never get out,” said Desmond

despondently.

“Why?”

“Because it is only in books of romance that such an adventure as ours

would culminate successfully, and it would only be in a Romance of

Romances that adventurers would come back from the very centre of the

earth, laden with such untold wealth!”

“Don’t be so depressing, Dez,” laughed Alan.

“But it’s true, Lanny. With wealth like this in our hands we could

command the trades of the entire world. Why, with this we could corner

wheat—corner cotton—corner millionaires themselves—if we were permitted

to use it.”

“Why permitted?”

“Well, it depends on the government of the country we eventually land

in; they will want their share. If it’s France we may get one half—if

it’s Spain perhaps an eighth—Russia?—well, nothing at all and the salt

mines into the bargain.”

“You are very cheerful,” laughed Alan, “but as a matter of fact, I’ve

been planning what I mean to do with my share if we do get out.”

Jez-Riah had been listening to the two boys speaking and sighed deeply.

They were talking in their own language and had forgotten all about

their strange companion.

“What will happen to her if we ever do reach the upper world?” said

Desmond suddenly.

Alan looked soberly at the quaint little purple creature who had so

grown into their lives, who had been so useful to them, who had become

almost a friend. They treated her as they would some great, faithful

hound who was devoted to them alone. She was like a dumb animal in her

unwavering loyalty to them, and indeed would have laid down her very

life for her friends.

“She’ll have no easy time, poor thing,” said Alan, “but I’ll use every

scrap of my energy to prevent an Earl’s Court Exhibition for her.”

Again Jez-Riah sighed and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“What ails thee?” asked Alan in her own language.

“I am sad and sorrowful, O Ar-lane,” she replied. “The memory of a

prophecy has come to me. I shall see the stars of Heaven—the Sun in the

Sky—but with pain alone will such sights come to me.”

“We’ll keep pain from you,” said Alan kindly. “If you are to see the

stars, then that means we shall all find a way out from here.”

The boys set to work to try and find Korah’s remains and an outlet to

the world above. Many times they slept, and their last waking thought

was—“Shall we find a way out to-morrow?” They counted the skeletons and

piled them reverently in one corner. They counted the remains of

twenty-two women, forty-nine men and about thirty children, some of whom

appeared to be but newly born.

They gathered the precious stones, and placed perhaps a gallon

measureful in a basket Jez-Riah had plaited out of the roots of the

mautzer—her fingers were busy the whole time they were exploring the

cavern and its contents.

She had made a covering for the censer, and that had been put carefully

aside. The furniture and tenting was all valueless. It fell to pieces at

a touch and only small scraps of tinder-like material remained to prove

the glories of the silken coverings that had been buried with the

Israelites of old. Harness made of leather, and trappings bound with

gold lay on the ground mixed up with the bones of the animals they had

adorned; chariot wheels lay among the wreckage, and the whole scene was

one of utter desolation and carnage.

“Do you know of a way out?” asked Alan of Jez-Riah over and over again,

and always she answered “I have brought you in safety to the tomb of

Korah, O my friends. Further the way is hidden from me. Now I trust to

you.”

There was no apparent outlet from the cavern, and the boys hunted for

any written record that might have been left behind by Korah or his

company. “I want a proof of our statements,” said Alan. “When we get to

the upper world we shall be looked upon as madmen if we are unable to

substantiate our story.”

But Jez-Riah would say, “Give up hunting for records of my forefathers,

I beg you, and turn your energies to find a way to the sun—”

Alan was thinking deeply on the situation they were in, when his eyes

were caught by the scar on the roof. “I wonder,” said he suddenly, “I

wonder if there is a way out—there.”

“Where?” asked Desmond.

Alan jerked his head in the direction of the scar. “It would be madness

to try and find out,” said he. “The ledges of rock are not strong enough

to bear one—don’t think of risking your life in such a foolish

adventure.”

And indeed it seemed almost impossible. The walls of the cavern were

jagged and rough, and in many places overhung in a dangerous manner. To

climb to the roof would have made even an experienced Alpine climber

think twice before he attempted it, and to one inexperienced in such

feats it seemed like courting death.

“You wouldn’t try,” Desmond urged. He knew Alan of old, and feared for

him.

Alan laughed. “Is it likely?” was all he said. But all the same the

thought remained in his mind, and his brain was working.

It was time to go to sleep. They had supped off the roots of mautzer,

and had drunk the liquid from the stems of the elers, and felt

refreshed. Jez-Riah was already breathing softly, and Desmond was

talking in fitful gusts with drowsy interludes between. Of the three,

Alan alone was wide awake. He answered Desmond quietly, and he at last

dropped off to sleep too. For some time Alan remained quite quiet,

afraid lest a tiny movement of his might awaken either of his

companions. Then Jez-Riah’s breath came in deep, indrawn sighs, and

Desmond lay with one hand over his head and his lips slightly apart.

Alan looked at them both closely—they were fast asleep.

Stealthily he rose and stepped past the sleepers through the low way

into the Tomb of Korah. He moved with purpose, for his plans were all

carefully thought out. High up in the roof, at the farthest right hand

corner, the scar seemed its widest. Quickly he walked toward it, and

without a backward glance began a long, dangerous and arduous climb. The

rocks were slippery, and the foothold almost nothing, yet with tenacious

pluck he kept on until his fingers were lacerated and his limbs ached.

Pulling himself up by the jagged pieces of rock, he came closer to the

roof. Once only he looked below, and his heart pumped and his head swam

as he saw the depths beneath. After that he kept his eyes bent upward,

and he did not stop until he could touch the roof itself. There was a

little ledge, three feet from the top, which was big enough for him to

sit on fairly comfortably, and his breath came in hard gasps as he

rested.

Then, as his strength came back to him, he carefully put his hand inside

the fissure. A stone moved, and as he withdrew his hand, it dropped into

the cave beneath, and the sickening thud made him tremble. He heard the

sound of rushing waters. Gradually he wormed his way until he was seated

in the fissure itself, and looked down on a swiftly flowing river twenty

feet below him. It was very swift—he could not tell its depth, neither

could he get down to it—for the water had neither bank nor ledge to

stand upon. High walls reared on either side of the water as it raced on

its mad journey. He watched the swirling depths. The spray at times

reached his face, and cooled him. The water was of a different colour

from the rivers in Kalvar—it looked cleaner, fresher. “I wonder whither

it leads,” he muttered, and then he examined his position.

He was inside the fissure on a ledge perhaps three feet wide. There was

a sheer drop into the waters below of twenty feet. There was no other

outlet at all. If they were to escape it would have to be by the water.

It was impossible to go back. Then a daring plan came to him. “If we had

the pluck,” said he to himself, “Well, it will be do or die.” and slowly

he turned his attention to the descent.

CHAPTER IX

THE PAPYRUS

Desmond had slept well; he woke lazily and looked round him. Alan had

already gone. He turned sleepily over, but raised himself quickly as

Alan hailed him from Korah’s tomb with an exultant shout. Even Jez-Riah

realized that something of import had happened as she watched Alan

enter, bubbling over with excitement, and his eyes bright and shining.

“What is it?” asked Desmond eagerly.

“I’ve found the remains of Korah.” Alan made the announcement quietly,

but his cousin saw the undercurrent of excitement that lay beneath his

words.

“You’ve found Korah?” he repeated stupidly.

“Listen,” went on Alan eagerly, and speaking in the quaint Hebraic

dialect, so that Jez-Riah might share his news, he told them of his

adventure to the roof of the cave, and of the river beyond. “Well,” he

concluded, “as I neared the bottom my foot slipped and I clutched at a

piece of jutting rock to save me, and I had to use all my strength to

keep from falling. My foothold gone, I had to worm my way round the rock

to find another place easy of descent. You know the wall is full of

cracks and crevices. I came upon a crevice larger than the others. It

was big enough to get through, and I wondered why we hadn’t noticed it

before. I realized, however, the tricks the lighting of this place plays

upon us, and I could see that the hole simply looked like a shadow on

the wall, so cunningly is it hidden. I scrambled easily through, and

found it to be a cave, quite small, in the middle of which is a deep

pond of water, and fastened on the wall by the aid of rude nails was

this—” and he held out a roll of parchment that crackled at his touch.

Desmond examined it curiously. “Why it’s a papyrus,” he exclaimed.

“Yes! and written by Korah himself, and placed there just before he

died.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes, it’s quite easy in parts. Listen,” and Alan translated from the

old and faded Hebraic characters the following,

“WRITING by KORAH, known henceforth to all generations as KORAH

THE ACCURSED

Know, then, these four months, as far as it is possible to judge

time in this accursed spot, I and all my belongings have

remained in this cavern. Abiram and Dathan have sealed the doors

of stone against us. Escape is impossible. There is naught for

us to do but die. Be it known—I—Korah the Accursed—am sore at

heart for my sins of rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Jehovah

has inflicted upon us all a grievous punishment. His name be

praised. Food there is none except that which came down with us

into this pit of terror. Lord of Hosts, I tremble at what I see.

Mothers tearing their little ones, women in childbirth crying to

the God in Heaven that they may die before they are delivered.

I—Korah—alone have remained fasting. It is the only reparation I

can make for my sins, and for the unworthiness I have shown as

one of Jehovah’s chosen ones. I Korah—”

Then came a space that was unintelligible. Time had worked its will and

the writing was indistinct, and in parts entirely erased. “How awful,”

said Desmond, shuddering. “Think—half these skeletons here were perhaps

murdered by their brothers for food. What agonies, what pangs they must

have suffered!” “Wait—there is more,” said Alan, and he went on

translating,

“Forty days and forty nights fasting is as nothing to the

fasting here. It seems forty times forty since food passed my

parched and cracked lips. My people turn not upon me and slay

me. Oh that they would! Dead flesh is rotting all around me—the

air is heavy with the stench. There are none now left alive but

myself. I will fasten this to the wall of the inner cave, and

then lay me down to die. Of what use are gold and riches to us

here? Poorer am I than the most disease-laden beggar of the

world above. O God of Hosts forgive Korah, the son of Izhar, the

son of Kohath, the son of Levi.”

For some time after Alan had finished reading the boys remained in

silence. The whole scene rose up in their minds like a picture, and the

horror of it nauseated them. The terrible hunger and thirst of the

captives-the scenes of cannibalism afterwards—the child murder—it was

revolting. “Now,” said Alan. “Come to the real tomb of Korah. This is

the tomb of his people—but he lies yonder.” So the three of them mounted

the rough steps in the rock, and ten feet above their heads was the

little opening. Just a little cleft through which they passed, and down

a short but steep path into the cave below.

The centre of the cave was taken up by a deep pool of water, but a

narrow path ran all round. A huge block of stone lay immersed in the

water and round it the water bubbled and sang showing the place where

the pond had its birth.

But Desmond saw no sign of the bones of Korah. He looked puzzled. “There

is no skeleton here,” said he. “Where is Korah?” Silently Alan pointed

to the grey rock over which the water was lapping. Desmond looked at it

intently-and then understood. In the course of time a spring had bubbled

up and the waters had covered the body of Korah. Some chemical property

in the water had preserved the dead body and turned it to stone, and in

the ages that had passed deposits of lime and other minerals had been

secreted on the body, until it was now of gargantuan size. Still plain,

however, were the features. A rather long nose, Semitic in shape,

protruded from a face that had possessed prominent cheek-bones and deep,

sunken eyes. The hair which had been long was now a mass of stone that

mingled with the shapeless body. They could just trace the semblance of

arms that were folded across the stone chest, and there was the

suspicion of feet protruding from a kilted tunic of cold grey stone.

In all, just a shapeless boulder in which could be traced the likeness

of what had once been a living man. The waters of the centuries had

preserved Korah alone of the Israelites of old who had been imprisoned

in the pit.

Jez-Riah had listened in silence. With one finger she had traced the

outlines of the once handsome face—now she spoke.

“He killed himself—in the water?” she asked.

“No,” said Alan, “I think the cave was dry in those days. He just came

here to die; and in the place where his dead body lay, before time could

rot the flesh, a spring broke through the floor of the cave and

preserved him—a memorial to all time of his sin.”

“Praise be to Jovah,” said Jez-Riah in a hushed tone.

“_Requiescat in pace_,” said Alan as they turned to leave the place.

“Amen,” whispered his cousin—and Korah was once more left alone.

“Now,” said Alan some time later while they were having their meal, “now

we must make some arrangements about leaving this place. The only way is

by the river, yonder.”

“Can we make a raft strong enough to bear us?” asked Desmond. Alan shook

his head. “I’ve already investigated,” he said. “There is absolutely

nothing. The wood in there is rotten with age. I doubt whether it would

even float. There is only one possible way,” and he looked at them

intently. “We can all swim pretty well. Our only hope is to throw

ourselves on the mercy of the waters. The knowledge we have of swimming

will enable us to keep our heads out of the water—we must trust the

current to do the rest. It may mean death—but are we not in a living

death already? At any rate are you willing to try?” They walked into the

big cave and Desmond looked fearfully at the terrible ascent which they

would have to make in order to reach the river, for it flowed on a much

higher level than that on which they were themselves.

“Yes, it’s pretty stiff,” said Alan grimly. “But it’s that or nothing.

Are you ready to risk it?” For a moment only, Desmond hesitated, then

his mind was made up and his hand gripped that of his cousin.

“Yes,” said he. “What about you, Jez-Riah?” And they were both surprised

at the calm way in which she took the suggestion.

“It is very high,” said she. “How easy it would be to fall!”

They rested and slept and ate before they attempted the ascent. Also

they had many preparations to make. There was certain of the jewels to

be taken with them—the papyrus and the censer. Jez-Riah plaited a

waterproof case for the parchment, and with a plaited rope fastened it

to Alan’s shoulders. The jewels were divided out between them and placed

in little bags that Jez-Riah wove from the root tendrils that grew

outside the large cave. The censer proved the greatest difficulty. It

was not only heavy, but exceedingly bulky and cumbersome. It was Alan

again who decided to carry it. “But it will drag you down,” objected his

cousin. “I’ll manage it,” he replied, and he had it fastened securely to

his back with the strong rope that Jez-Riah could make so quickly.

So they began their arduous climb. Alan went first, followed by

Jez-Riah, and Desmond brought up the rear. “On no account look down,”

Alan kept urging. “It will be fatal if you do.” At last they reached the

tiny platform. Alan looked at it doubtfully. Would it hold three grown

persons? He shivered—it would be a tight squeeze. His hand went down and

met Jez-Riah’s. He pulled her on to their resting place in safety, and

then Desmond reached it, and for a while they sat in silence. The

rushing of the waters could be plainly heard. Time was passing—Alan

dared not move, for Jez-Riah, worn out with the climb, was leaning

heavily against him, and he knew that the slightest movement from one or

the other of them might send them to their death, for the seat was none

too safe. “I think the time has come for action,” said he quietly at

last. “It is useless to wait here any longer.”

Jez-Riah moved restlessly. “What your will is, O Ar-lane, that will I

do,” said she.

“I am going to plunge in the water,” announced Alan. “If you see my body

rise—follow me quickly. Do not struggle, let the current do its will

with you. Safety lies in submission.”

“Why wait to see if you rise?” asked Desmond.

“Because I do not know what whirlpools may be hidden there. If you do

not see me after I have plunged in, then you must do as you think best.

But surely death is preferable to a lifetime here?”

“Then I shan’t—”

“Don’t argue, old man. Do as I bid you. God bless you.”

The cousins solemnly shook hands, lingering pathetically. It was like a

good-bye to the dying.

“Ar-lane, O Ar-lane,” came from Jez-Riah.

“Have courage, little sister, be brave and follow me.” And before they

could say another word, he had swung himself over the edge and had

dropped into the foaming water.

The water hissed and roared with fury as it felt the presence of the

foreign body—then it quieted a little. Alan’s head appeared, his face

deathly pale, and before they realized it, he was out of sight, borne on

the swift current.

Jez-Riah was trembling. “Be brave, little sister.” Almost unconsciously

Desmond repeated his cousin’s words. She clung to him for a second, and

then with a little frightened moan that went as soon as it was uttered,

she too dropped into the water below, and was carried out of sight.

Suddenly a great fear came over Desmond. He was alone. The cavern seemed

to ring with laughter—the laughter of dead men. He hovered at the edge

of the little cleft and looked deep into the boiling mass below, but he

dared not drop in.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he moaned, and the awful loneliness came upon him

and enveloped him in a cloak of terror.

He looked behind him at the yawning chasm below. If he lost his

foothold—he shuddered. And then with a mighty spring and a muttered “God

help me,” he followed in the wake of his cousin. The water closed over

him—he held his breath until his lungs felt as if they would burst with

the strain. Relief came at last, the waters had calmed a little, and he

was floating gently on the current. He was conscious of intense inky

blackness, of icy waters and a fetid air above; of a swiftly moving

stream, that, although not rough, was running fast; of strange shapes

that seemed to hover about him, and long, clammy hands that tried to

pull him out of the water. He knew it was death himself he was fighting,

and he fought to evade the fingers that were now so near, almost clasped

round his throat. Then his senses forsook him and he was only an atom,

tossed about on the bosom of the unknown river, a nothingness in a world

of mystery and wonder.

CHAPTER X

THE ESCAPE

And the seventh day was the Sabbath! The Lord rested on the Sabbath!

Sabbath! Seventh! Seventh! Sabbath! These words kept ringing in Alan’s

ears as he lay quiet and tranquil in the darkness. He wondered where he

was, but was too tired to make much effort to find out. His senses were

dulled and his whole body ached; he could see nothing, for total

darkness surrounded him. Then unconsciousness again overtook him, and he

dreamed again of the Marshfielden fields and the rippling brooks.

When he awoke it was with a healthy feeling of hunger, and gradually his

senses returned and he wondered where his cousin and Jez-Riah were. He

called them by name, but there was no reply. He reached out on either

side of him, but could feel nothing—he seemed to be alone. The silence

was oppressive, the air heavy, and he found a great difficulty in

breathing. He tried to think of the mad plunge for freedom into the

swift underground river; he remembered feeling the cold waters close

over him, followed by an interminable time under water when he could not

breathe, when his lungs were bursting, longing to disgorge the used up

air within him. Then he remembered a feeling of relief as he drew in a

long breath of air, and afterwards—no more. He seemed to have fallen

into a never ending dream. Now at last he realized he was safe again,

and in his heart he thanked God for having watched over him and brought

him once more to safety.

As the past events became clearer, Alan rose up cautiously, but his head

came in contact with the roof of the place he was in. He went on all

fours and groped his way round the place. It was very small, perhaps

twenty yards in circumference, and perfectly dark. Suddenly his hand

touched something, something warm. It was Jez-Riah, and, close beside

her lay Desmond. He spoke to them each in turn—shook them, but they

showed no sign of having heard him. He listened for their heart beats,

but neither showed any sign of life.

The water that had carried them all to this new abode ran near, and Alan

dragged the two bodies to the water’s edge. He dipped his hand in the

cool liquid and found that it was only an inch or two deep at the most.

He made a cup with his hands and dashed the water into his companions’

faces in turn, and at last was rewarded by a heavy sob from Jez-Riah and

a groan from Desmond.

“Dez, old man, how are you feeling now? Jez-Riah, are you better?”

So from one to the other he turned, his only thought to bring them back

to life and hope.

Suddenly Desmond spoke. “That was a near shave, Lanny.”

“How are you?”

“I feel beastly.”

“Where are we?” suddenly asked Jez-Riah.

“I’ve no idea. The river has either disappeared underground or we’ve

been brought up a little side creek and left the main channel itself.

There is very little water here—only a few inches at the most and it is

running very sluggishly. There is a tunnel to the right up which we must

have come, but it is very low; I can hear the sound of swiftly running

waters, but I don’t feel strong enough to investigate in the dark.”

“Of course not, Alan,” answered Desmond, and then Jez-Riah said

pathetically, “I am hungry, O Ar-lane.”

Alan shook his head wearily. “There is no food here. The purple light

has gone. I am afraid we are far from the vegetation of the underworld.”

They talked in low tones for some time—they all felt ill and weak. The

papyrus and all their treasures were so far safe, and the censer still

remained fast on Alan’s back. Their clothes were nearly dry, so they

realized they must have been thrown up by the water for some

considerable time. While they talked they suddenly heard the sound of

heavy blows from somewhere above their heads. Then the sounds increased

and they heard that which it was impossible for them to mistake—they

knew it too well—the dull roar of blasting operations in a mine!

Alan’s eyes were shining. “Did you hear that?” he asked excitedly. “You

know that sound? Haven’t you heard that dull roar in the pit at

Grimland?”

Desmond spoke huskily. “You mean that we are—”

“We are immediately below a mine. White men are not far away, I am sure.

They may be Britishers like ourselves—oh, how can we get to them?”

Wildly they hacked at the roof above them, but the sounds they made were

puny and little and made no impression in the distance. Tired and weary

they all fell asleep, and when they awoke there was silence everywhere.

They were suffering terribly from hunger; could they have seen

themselves they would have been shocked at their appearance. Pale,

emaciated, with hollowed eyes and deep furrowed cheeks, they looked

almost like old men, instead of youths still in the glory of their

manhood.

They fell into a stupor, and hardly roused themselves, so weak and tired

were they, when all at once there came upon their ears a mighty

explosion which shook the place they were in and sent stones and rocks

hurtling all about them in the darkness. Then came a rumbling deep and

terrible.

“It’s all right,” whispered Alan. “They are only blasting again.” But

neither Desmond nor Jez-Riah answered him. Weak and hungry they lay

inert and senseless upon the ground. The throbbing overhead began again,

and Alan alone in his agony beat at the roof with his hands, but

realizing his weakness fell on the ground beside his cousin and gave

vent to dry, hard sobs.

He listened to his cousin babbling meaninglessly in the throes of fever,

and he heard the pitiful cry of the purple woman as she asked for water

to moisten her parched mouth. Then he too gave way. Strong and brave he

had been through all their privations, but he cried and chattered

insanely to the figures he conjured up in the darkness. Death was

hovering near them; the Black Angel was standing by them, and the Reaper

had his scythe in his hand only waiting for the opportunity that he

hoped would come, and that would enable him to cut down three more

sheaves for his well stocked granary.

* * * * *

“I can’t think where the water comes from, Mr. Vermont. There must be a

hidden spring somewhere. Can I have the pumps going and make

preparations for an excavation?”

“Certainly, Mennell, when you like,” and William Mennell, foreman of the

Westpoint Gold Mines in Walla Balla, Australia, started his

preparations.

The part of the mine he was working on at the moment was overrun with

water, which made the working very difficult, and was causing a great

deal of anxiety about the ultimate safety of the mine. The pumps were

made ready, a shaft was sunk, and they began to work.

“The trouble is there, sir,” said he, indicating the ground under his

foot. “I’ll have it all up to-morrow.” By six the next morning the men

were hard at work, and merrily they shovelled the earth aside, cracking

jokes meanwhile. Suddenly one of the men lurched forward and gave a cry

as he threw himself backward on the ground behind him.

“What’s up, Bill? Tea too strong this morning?”

“Take care,” he shouted. “There’s a landslip or something. My spade went

right through. There’s a hole there.”

Carefully they examined the place, and found that the ground was not

solid beneath, but below yawned a pitch dark cavern.

“Where is Mr. Mennell? What had we better do?”

Mennell came up. “Got a lantern, boys?” he asked. “Let’s see how deep it

is.” They tied a miner’s lantern on to the end of a red neckerchief and

let it down. “H’m, only about eight feet—during the blasting the land

must have slipped. My God,” he shouted. “Ropes! Ladders! I’m going

down.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Ferrers, one of his pals. “You look as if you have

seen a ghost.”

Mennell wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Look down there, Ferrers,”

said he hoarsely. “Can you see anything?”

Ferrers took hold of the lantern and peered down into the blackness.

Then suddenly he stood up and looked closely into Mennell’s face. “There

is something there,” said he in an awe-struck voice. “Something that

looks like men.”

“You saw too?”

“Aye, William.”

“Then it was no ghost.”

Down the rope ladder went Mennell, followed by Ferrers. They bent over

the inanimate forms of Alan and Desmond Forsyth and gently carried them

up into the mine.

“What’s that?” Ferrers pointed to a far corner of the cave.

“It’s a woman.”

Tenderly also was Jez-Riah carried up the swaying ladder. The miners

were all speechless. How was it possible for three human beings to have

got into such a position?

Reverently they were carried to the office at the bottom of the shaft

where the manager was busy writing. Mennell told him what had happened,

and the boys were laid side by side upon the floor. But when they looked

at Jez-Riah they could not repress a shudder. She looked almost inhuman

with her purple skin and protruding horn. They overcame their

repugnance, however, and forced brandy between her parched lips.

Desmond opened his eyes first. “Is this Marshfielden?” he asked.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Travers, the manager, kindly, and he offered

him some more of the stimulant.

“Then I am alive?” He touched Mr. Travers’ hand. “God, I am among white

people at last,” and he fell back again unconscious.

“The doc’s above,” said a man. “I’ve been on the ’phone. Beds are all

prepared for them.”

So the two boys, wrapped in miners’ coats, were carried out into the

sunlight once again. Alan, however, did not recover consciousness at

all. He was worn out from hunger, fatigue and worry. Always the one to

have a comforting word to cheer his companions, this last experience had

been too much for him and he lay so still and quiet and cold, they

feared it would be impossible to save him. And Jez-Riah? She had come to

her senses and had called for Alan but the miners did not understand

her, and drew away from her in fear.

“What shall we do with—it—her?” asked Mennell at last.

“Take her above and put her in Dr. Mackintosh’s care,” said Mr. Travers

kindly.

“Right, sir.”

The day was perfect, the sun shining brightly, the sky was blue, a

transparent blue, and the birds were singing gaily. The warmth of the

sun’s rays came through the coat that was wrapped round Jez-Riah, and

she struggled to be free of it. The men put her on the ground, and she

stood, hands outstretched and gazed at the sun.

“Jovah. Har-Barim,” she cried, and smiled at the brightness all around.

Suddenly a change came over her features and she stepped out on to a

grassy patch. A crowd of men watched her, and their expressions showed

horror and intense fear. There was perfect silence for a moment, and

suddenly a voice cried out in tones so hoarse as to be unrecognizable,

“My God” and a man turned and fled. All the rest of the miners followed

him, their faces white and strained, and little work was done that day

at the mine.

And in a little saloon near by, half the men were drinking deeply,

drinking to forget the horror they had just witnessed; and they laughed

brazenly and made coarse jests in their fear, but not one of them spoke

to the other of what he had seen.

BOOK III

EXIT THE WORLD

(_After the War_)

CHAPTER I

AT WALLA BALLA

Nurse Mavis Wylton looked after her patients cheerfully; she was glad of

something to do. Life had been very dull in the little township and

although the advent of the two Englishmen had made her unaccountably

homesick, it had done a great deal toward breaking the monotony.

In the first year of the Great War she had taken up nursing, had tended

the suffering on the muddy battlefields of Flanders, had seen service

under the scorching sun of Salonica, had continued her labours in Malta,

Gibraltar and Egypt. She was in Cairo when the Armistice was signed, and

applied for a post in Australia at the conclusion of the War.

An orphan, she had no ties in the dear old Mother Country; her only

brother was sleeping in the company of thousands of others in the

battle-scarred region of Ypres. She was interested in her two

patients—they had come from the mine in an unaccountable manner: she

heard the story of the strange woman who had accompanied them and only

half believed it—it sounded so very improbable. How could it be true?

What was it Mr. Travers had said? She remembered his exact words.

“Nurse, it was horrible,” he told her. “As we watched, it—the woman’s

face—seemed to dry up and wrinkle until it looked like parchment. The

outstretched arms grew thin and bony; the body trembled violently and

crumpled up and fell to the ground,—and when I went closer all trace of

the woman had vanished and there was only a little patch of brown dust

on the ground and a little purple package that she had been wearing

fastened to her back.” The nurse could hardly believe anything so

horrible, so uncanny. Yes, poor Jez-Riah had had her wish. She had seen

the sun, had drunk in God’s pure air. But the atmosphere was too rare,

and she had died. Died? Nay, withered up, and returned to the dust from

which she had sprung, and nothing remained of the strange, underworld

creature, but a little powdery matter that was blown away to the four

winds of the heaven she had just existed to see.

Both Alan and Desmond lay in a semi-comatose condition for many days.

Their hardships had been so great, their experiences so terrible, that

it was marvellous that they had returned sane to the upper world. As it

was, both suffered from brain fever, and were now being nursed back to

health and strength. The crisis over, both boys were on the high road to

convalescence. Side by side in little narrow beds they lay, and

gradually the knowledge of their adventures came back to them.

Mavis had just entered the room one day when Alan broke the silence.

“Nurse, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“What month, Nurse?”

“It’s Tuesday the twenty-fourth of June.”

“Midsummer day?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Now you mustn’t ask a lot of questions, but I’ll

tell you this—both you and your friend—”

“My cousin,” corrected Alan.

“Well, you and your cousin have been very ill. You were brought here

four weeks ago and at first we despaired of your lives. You are both

much better now, and we hope to have you up very soon. Now don’t talk

any more—”

“Nurse,” he pleaded. “Just one more question.” He pondered a minute. “It

was June at Marshfielden when—Why it must be 1915!” he finished quickly,

Nurse Wylton frowned. Was this a new form of delirium?

“Now don’t ask questions—”

“Nurse, Nurse—I must know! We’ve been away a long time. If this is June,

then it _must_ be 1915.”

“We are a long way past 1915,” said the nurse quietly. “This is June,

1920. You must have mistaken the date.”

Alan looked at her in blank amazement. “1920,” he muttered.

“Desmond”—hoarsely—“did you hear that?”

“Now don’t talk any more,” commanded the nurse—and she drew the green

blinds across the window, and shut out the brilliant sunlight.

As soon as she had gone, Desmond spoke. “Six years in that Hell! I can’t

realize it. Over six years cut right out of our lives!”

“I don’t know how we are to explain our presence in the mine,” said Alan

thoughtfully. “I don’t think it will be altogether wise to tell our

whole story. I’d rather Uncle John knew first. He would, perhaps, get

old Sir Christopher Somerville to organize an expedition to Kalvar.”

“Yes,” said Desmond, “a properly equipped exploring party would find it

comparatively easy to prove the truth of our story. Why we have made one

of the biggest racial discoveries of the century. Historically and

scientifically we shall have benefited the whole world by our

experience.”

“Poor Jez-Riah,” said Alan suddenly. “What an end!”

The first day the boys were coherent, they had asked about their little

purple companion, and it was Nurse Wylton who had broken the news of her

“death.” The boys had taken it very quietly—and the nurse was unable to

form any ideas on the relation she bore to them. But they really felt

towards her as they would have done to a domestic animal. They scarcely

realized she was human.

In fits and starts the cousins recounted their adventures to each

other—even yet they could scarcely realize they had come through safely.

Daily they both grew stronger, and the marks of privation and suffering

which had so disfigured their features were nearly wiped away. They were

afraid to cable old Sir John and tell him of their miraculous escape.

“We must break the news gently to him—for he has mourned us both, and it

may be too much of a shock for him to learn we are both alive and in

Australia,” said Alan.

Desmond chuckled. “Australia! Fancy coming out at the other end of the

world! It’s almost like a fairy story, isn’t it? Do you remember we

wondered where we should eventually land?”

Nurse Mavis entered—her arms full of flowers. “Now,” said she briskly.

“There’s too much talking going on. I am sure you will both overtax your

strength. Besides I have a visitor for you this afternoon.”

“A visitor?” echoed both boys.

“Yes, Mr. Travers, the Mine Manager, is very anxious to see you, and he

wants to return you your property.”

“What property?”

“Some packages you had when you—came—in Walla Balla.”

The boys looked at each other blankly. They had entirely forgotten the

papyrus and censer and jewels they had brought from the Tomb of Korah.

They had been worrying about their financial position, and now, if the

jewels proved to be real, they could raise enough money and to spare for

their expenses and their fares back to England.

“Mr. Travers will be here in about half an hour,” went on the nurse. “Do

you feel well enough to be wheeled out in chairs to the garden?”

“Please,” said Desmond. “I’m sick of this room.” But they felt very weak

as they walked across the corridor to where the bath chairs were

awaiting them with many comfortable cushions and rugs.

One of the under nurses wheeled Alan out first, and as Mavis tucked the

rugs round Desmond, he whispered “Wheel me once round the garden first,

Nurse.”

The hazel eyes smiled down at the blue ones, and a touch of colour came

into the nurse’s pretty cheeks. Of the two strangers, Desmond was her

favourite. He reminded her of her brother—in many ways he was so

helpless, and she mothered him and cared for him, until love had

overtaken her unawares.

She wheeled him along the grassy paths, and he asked her to stop and

pick him a rose, but when she offered it, he saw only the roses in her

cheeks—smelt only the perfume of her hair.

“Mavis, Mavis,” he whispered, “will you come back to England with

us—with me—when we go? It seems too soon to speak—I’m an old crock—old

before my time—but you have brought me back to life and hope. I can’t

tell you what we have been through, Alan and I. Some day you shall know

the whole story. Meanwhile may I hope? I love you with my whole soul.

Come back to England with me as my wife!”

The hazel eyes grew tender as Mavis bent over the chair and smoothed the

thin hand that lay on the coverlet. “I do care,” she whispered

tremulously. “I have grown to care a great deal—but are you sure? I know

so little of you both. I realize you have been through some terrible

experiences. I won’t question you, I will trust you, but isn’t it wiser

to wait? Wait until you are stronger. Perhaps in England there was a

girl once,” the pretty lips trembled, “a girl you once cared for. She

may be waiting still—but you have been ill, and have forgotten.”

“No,” said Desmond firmly. “There has never been a woman in my life. I

swear it—never.” Suddenly, as he spoke, there came before his eyes the

picture of a purple woman leaping into the flames—Kaweeka. “My God!” he

cried, “listen, Mavis! I’m not worthy of you. One day I will tell you

everything. It is true there was a woman once—” Mavis stifled a cry.

“Listen. She wasn’t a woman of this world, but like Jez-Riah, the woman

who was with us when we came here. I did not love her—I think I loathed

her, but she was like a siren. She exercised an unholy power over me.

Mavis—she asked me to marry her.”

“Did you?” in a whisper.

A flush of shame came over the white face. “Yes, Mavis,” hoarsely. “For

weeks I lived in her house—until my cousin found me. When he appeared

she did her best to woo him also. She cast me aside, but he was strong

where I had been weak. No overture she made was strong enough to tempt

him. He it was who brought me to my senses and saved me from everlasting

shame.”

“You loved her?”

“No! A thousand times no! Mavis—it’s difficult to explain. Our whole

story is so improbable, so fantastic, that without certain undeniable

proofs which we hold, it would be considered as the phantasy of a

disordered brain. This woman was nothing to me really; when we were

together I loathed and hated her—almost feared her, but I was clay in

her hands. It was a difficult situation—at that time I did not

understand her language or the ways of her people. Oh, how can I make

you understand! She wanted me as a new kind of toy. She knew nothing of

morality or life as we know it. Her power was almost mesmeric.”

“Is she living still?”

“No. She died—oh, years ago,” passing his hand wearily across his brow.

“I am sorry, Mavis. I had forgotten. I had no right to speak to you, but

all recollection of Kaweeka had faded from my mind until you spoke of

another woman. Will you forget what I said? I beg of you, don’t despise

me too much.”

“Dear—I hardly know what to say. I forgive you freely. I nursed you back

to life, Desmond. I devoted my whole time to you. While Matron and Nurse

Fanshaw attended to your cousin, I watched over you. You grew dear to

me. I wanted to see your eyes look at me with recognition in them.

I—I—wanted you to—to like me—a little. Then when you first became

convalescent I loved to talk to you. Dear, I can forget the past. Life

since 1914 has changed. Women have changed. We are no longer the narrow

minded stay-at-homes we were before the War.”

“The War?” asked Desmond wonderingly.

“Yes, the Great War. The war with Germany.” He looked puzzled, but asked

no questions, only lay back with his eyes closed, thinking. “We

understand the temptations of sex,” she went on, “and can forgive. You

asked me just now to marry you. I’ll marry you most gladly whenever you

like, and I’ll do my best to make you forget your terrible experiences.

Wait—” as Desmond would have spoken, “I’ll ask no questions. When the

time is ripe you can tell me all. Meanwhile I’ll be content to love and

trust.” There was no one in sight; a tall hedge on either side of the

garden walk gave them shelter.

“Kiss me, Mavis,” said Desmond hoarsely. “Oh my darling, how I love

you.” And so the old, old story was told once more.

“Nurse Wylton! Nurse Wylton!” Matron’s voice was calling and it was a

rosy cheeked nurse who answered.

“Nurse, wherever have you been? Mr. Travers has been waiting over half

an hour to see the patients.”

Half an hour! Mavis offered no excuse—indeed she had none, and she

wheeled her charge to Alan’s side. As she turned away to fetch Mr.

Travers, she heard Alan say petulantly, “Wherever have you been all this

time, Dez?” but she didn’t catch Desmond’s reply. If she had it would

have set her thinking, for he said in an awe-struck tone, “Lanny, old

boy, do you know there has been a war—a war with Germany? And we’ve

missed it, old chap, we’ve missed it.”

Mr. Travers was a genial soul and loved by all the miners. He came

forward and greeted the boys cheerily.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you are both better. A nice fright you gave

every one to be sure. We wondered at first how you had got into such a

position.” He laughed heartily at the recollection.

“However, the explanation was quite simple after all, wasn’t it?”

The cousins looked at one another with questioning eyes. In their

opinion the explanation could hardly be called simple! Mr. Travers,

however, went on. “After you had been rescued, Mennell, our foreman,

gave orders for the men to cease work at that point. He wanted

investigations to be made, after consulting me. The following day,

however, we found the cave had filled with water, and the pumps were

kept very busy, I can tell you. Then part of the flooring caved in, and

the walls gave way. Oh, it was a horrid mess! However, it was eventually

cleared away, and we discovered the subterranean passage. Very ingenious

indeed.” And he rubbed his hands together. The boys were frankly

puzzled.

“When did you leave Karragua?” asked Mr. Travers suddenly.

“Karragua?” asked Alan.

“Yes, Karragua.”

Desmond opened his mouth as if about to speak, but Alan was the first to

recover his wits.

“Before we tell you our story, won’t you tell us what you discovered?”

he asked shrewdly.

“Certainly, my friend. I suppose it was some bet you had on?”

“Something of the sort,” agreed Alan, now wholly puzzled.

“I thought so. I knew I was right. I shall take a bottle of rum off Old

Man Paterson now. I told him it was the result of some freakish wager—he

would have it you had discovered it by accident.”

“Do go on,” urged Alan. The situation was becoming desperate. Neither of

the boys had the slightest idea of what Mr. Travers was talking about.

“Well,” continued the cheery manager, “you may be sure it took some time

to clear away the débris after the cave-in. When it was clear we saw a

passage leading out of it, and followed it about a mile, when it became

choked up; and as we had made no preparations we returned and decided to

continue our investigations another day.”

“Well?” from both boys.

“It was a Thursday. John Cornlake, Bill Watson and one or two other

good, all round pick hands came with Mennell and me. It was a long

road—two and three quarter miles by our pedometer—pitch dark, as you

know. Suddenly we saw a speck of blue in the distance. We moved the

boulder aside—how cleverly it is hidden among the rocks and undergrowth!

and we realized at once it was the exit of ‘Red Mark’s Tunnel’.”

Neither of the boys spoke—they saw the humour of the situation, but were

afraid lest by a word they might give themselves away.

“It must be a hundred and twenty years since it was used. How did you

come to discover it?”

“A fellow told us about it,” said Alan vaguely after the fraction of a

pause, and Mr. Travers was content.

“Of course when the shaft of our mine was sunk, the workmen searched for

the entrance to the tunnel, but it was never discovered, and I don’t

suppose it ever would have been except by a lucky accident. I suppose

you were unable to find your way back to Karragua—was that it? You were

in a pretty bad condition when you were found. We have already informed

the government of the discovery,” he went on, “and agents have been sent

down to inspect it. We are not sure what the result will be. Every one

in Walla Balla wants to have it opened up as a sort of showplace. It

would certainly do the township an immense amount of good. Red Mark and

his fellow convicts who escaped through it have certainly left a

wonderful monument behind them.”

So! It flashed on Alan’s mind at once. In some miraculous way the

entrance to the passage by which they had come from Korah’s tomb was

again blocked up. Their secret was still their own, but a subterranean

passage made by early eighteenth century convicts had been unearthed

instead.

“Did Red Mark dig the passage himself?” asked Alan.

“The story goes that Red Mark and a fellow convict escaped and commenced

a passage. Walla Balla was a large farm estate at that time, and was

employing nearly sixty convicts. Escape was almost impossible, the place

was so well guarded, and such brutal treatment was inflicted on those

that attempted to escape that few tried. Red Mark and his companion were

lucky, however, and they managed to elude the bloodhounds. Their friends

helped them with food. Feverishly they worked at the tunnel. It was

their plan to burrow to the sea. It took them several years to complete

it, but they accomplished their stupendous task at last. The night it

was finished fifty convicts vanished. They had ransacked the larders and

had taken plenty of food with them. Those that were left talked vaguely

about having heard of a subterranean passage, but it was never found—at

least not until now. Those convicts were never seen again. But at

Karragua Creek a small sailing craft disappeared, and on it doubtless

went Red Mark and his friends. But of course you’ve heard the story

before. How did you find the place—by accident? And then I suppose you

wagered you’d find your way through to the other end.”

Alan smiled. Mr. Travers was extremely helpful. He talked so much

himself that he gave no one else the chance of speaking, and he

considerately answered all the questions that he put to the

boys—himself.

“Yes,” said Desmond, who had taken his cue from his cousin. “We told a

friend about it, who wagered us one thousand pounds we would find our

way through. Unfortunately, our lanterns went out, we lost our way, we

had no food and—”

“And I suppose you were a week or more in that cave—hungry and worn

out?” finished Mr. Travers helpfully. “Now I’ve brought you your

property back,” and he handed them the packages they had brought from

the Tomb of Korah. “Oh, you might give me an official receipt for them,”

and he handed the boys a paper for them to sign. “By the way,” he

continued, as he put the receipt away, “that woman.” His genial face

grew solemn. “What was it—? Was it some—some joke you had prepared, or

was it—”

“I can’t explain yet,” said Alan shortly. “We are going home to England

where we have a very strange story to tell. I cannot explain the

phenomenon you saw, but I may have to call upon you to repeat the story

of her death. I suppose I may use your name?”

“By all means. I shall be only too pleased to assist you young gentlemen

in every way I can, but I shall be glad to hear about that woman—it was

damned strange. By the way, I sealed your parcels with our office seal.

I should like you to examine them to see they are intact.”

“We won’t bother now, Mr. Travers, thank you. We have absolute

confidence in you. By the way,” he added, as if in afterthought, “could

you put me in touch with any one who would buy one or two unset gems? I

have some with me, and am anxious to convert them into cash for our

immediate use.”

“That’s easily done,” said Mr. Travers. “Our general manager is

connected with Messrs. Frimpton, Long and Beauchamp of Melbourne. They

are, I think, the biggest dealers in gold and precious stones in

Australia. I will get an introduction for you.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it. Now I think I have stayed quite long enough for a

first visit. Good-bye, Mr. Forsyth. Good-bye, Mr. Desmond. Take care of

yourselves, and don’t get over tired,” and the kindly man left them.

“We got out of that pretty easily, thanks to you,” said Desmond as they

saw him disappear down a bend in the garden. “I couldn’t think what he

was driving at.”

“It’s extremely lucky the way to Korah’s tomb has been hidden again.

That heavy fall of rock and earth did us a good turn.” Alan remained

silent a few minutes, and looked at his cousin quizzically. Then

quietly—

“Haven’t you anything to tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my dear chap—don’t think I am merely inquisitive, but we’ve been

like brothers all our lives. I’ve watched our pretty nurse; I’ve watched

you too. Have you spoken?”

“Yes. My God, Alan! I’m not worthy. Think—Kaweeka—”

“That is past. It’s no good worrying over what is done. You were not

responsible down there, alone, in that Hell. Have you told Mavis about

it?”

“I’ve tried to make her understand about Kaweeka—but I’ve told her

nothing about our adventures and our discoveries.”

“I’m glad of that. I should like Uncle John to be at the first telling

of our experiences. I’m glad about Mavis for your sake. I like her very

much—in fact I might say I’ve grown to be almost fond of her. All

happiness, old boy.”

“I should like to be married before we start for England.”

“Will she agree?”

“I think so.”

“Well I’ll be best man. Ah, Mavis”—as she appeared—“there is to be no

formality now, you know. You are going to marry one of the best, and

you’ve got to like me too.”

Mavis bent down and kissed his cheek. “There! Alan, see how cousinly I

can be,” said she laughingly. “Now it’s time you both went to bed—you’ve

been up quite long enough for one day.”

That night before the lights were extinguished she told them the story

of the Great War. “Where have you been?” she asked in bewilderment. “Why

every one in the world knows of it. It’s been horrible—terrible; white

fighting against white; white employing black to help them. Every nation

in the world suffered in one way or another.”

“I know it sounds improbable, dear, but neither Alan nor I knew the long

talked of war with Germany had really come to pass until you spoke of it

to-day. Don’t ask any questions—just trust me.”

“It’s all very mysterious and strange,” said she ruefully. “But I will

possess my soul in patience.”

As soon as he was able, Alan sent one magnificent diamond and half a

dozen emeralds to Messrs. Frimpton, Long and Beauchamp and received in

return banknotes to the value of five thousand pounds. The boys had also

chosen some diamonds for Mavis, and had had them set into an engagement

ring for the woman Desmond loved.

Already they were well enough to leave the hospital, but as Walla Balla

was only a very small mining township, there was no accommodation for

visitors, so the cousins remained at the hospital as paying guests.

One day, late in July, a very pretty wedding took place. The bride was

dressed in her nurse’s uniform and the bridegroom and best man were

arrayed in unconventional white duck. The ceremony was performed by the

local clergyman, and there was a big spread afterwards at the hospital,

to which everybody in the township had been invited.

Alan felt rather sad as he stood waiting on the platform for the train

to come in that would carry off the happy pair to their honeymoon. No

woman had ever entered his life. His great ideal was a dream still; and

he wondered if the time had passed for her ever to materialize.

“You’ll arrange for everything, won’t you?” said Desmond.

“Rather. Now don’t worry. The boat leaves Sydney at noon on the seventh

of next month—eleven days from now. It’s the Clan Ronald. I’ll book your

berths and await you there.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Their farewells were said, and Alan was left alone. He stayed a few days

longer at Walla Balla among the friends he had made, and then travelled

by easy stages to Sydney. The country was very beautiful but he longed

to get home. He longed to see the smoky chimneys of London, the bustling

streets, to hear again the noisy traffic, and at last to enjoy the truly

rural beauty of the English lanes and woods. He longed to see his uncle.

Was he still alive? he wondered. He was afraid to cable; he was afraid

to write. Suddenly an idea came into his head and he wondered why he had

not thought of it before. He would write to his uncle’s confidential

clerk and friend—Masters. He could trust him to break the news gently.

“HOTEL MAJESTIC,

“SYDNEY.

“DEAR MASTERS (_he wrote_)

“_You’ll be surprised to hear from one whom you no doubt have

long mourned as dead. Don’t be afraid—it is no ghost who is

writing you, but a living man. I cannot explain everything in

this letter, but I am catching the next boat home, and I will

telegraph on reaching Plymouth the exact time we expect to

arrive in London. Yes—it’s ‘we,’ Masters, for I have found my

cousin Desmond. It all sounds wildly impossible I know, and I am

writing you that you may break the news to my uncle that we

still live. Tell him we are longing to see him. Tell him Desmond

has found a wife and is bringing her home. I can say no more—my

hand is trembling with excitement as I write. We have seen

strange things, been to many strange places since we left

Marshfielden, but impress upon Sir John, that had we been able

to communicate with him we should have done so._

“_With our renewed wishes to Sir John and yourself_,

“_Yours very sincerely_,

“ALAN FORSYTH.”

“There! I think that will meet the case,” and Alan fastened up the

letter and posted it.

The seventh at last! All the luggage was on board; Desmond and his wife

drove up radiantly happy to the quay and waved excitedly as they saw

Alan leaning over the bulwarks. The bell clanged, the sailors gave vent

to their sonorous cry, “All ashore! All ashore!” The siren sounded.

Gradually the great vessel glided away; the smoke belched out in volumes

from her funnels; the landing stage grew smaller and smaller until it

was out of sight altogether. The vessel had started on her journey to

England.

That night after dinner, when Mavis had gone to her state-room, the two

cousins had a heart to heart talk in the moonlight.

“It seems impossible we are really going home at last,” said Desmond. “I

feel like a child again. I have so much to learn. When we disappeared

aeroplanes were only beginning to be used—now they are almost perfect,

and are vehicles of every day use. The whole world seems to have

progressed a century in these last few years.”

“There certainly is a great deal for us to learn,” agreed Alan, “but we

must leave it to Uncle John. He will put us right about everything.”

“I wonder how he has progressed with his airship,” said Desmond after a

pause. “We used to laugh at the dear old chap; he has the laugh on us

now.”

“He always said that the future of commerce was in the air.”

“Have you the papyrus safe?” asked Desmond suddenly.

Alan laughed. “Rather! Or at least the Purser has. I bought a strong

deed box in Sydney and packed everything in it; here’s the key. When

next we open it, please God, it will be in the presence of Uncle John.”

Alan looked sadly at the scene in front of him. A brilliant moon had

risen and was sending its beams across the phosphorescent waters. The

air was sweet and balmy—the Southern Cross was discernible and the whole

scene was like a wonderful painting. The chud-chud of the engines and

the swish of the water was the only sound to be heard. Somehow, Alan

felt very much alone that night. Desmond, his childish playmate, his

boyhood’s chum, and later his companion in adventure, seemed lost to

him. He had married a wife. That was the trouble in a nut-shell. Things

would never be the same again. He was fond of Mavis—she was a dear girl,

and would be a splendid wife for his cousin—

“Good night, old chap,” said he huskily. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.

I’ve been keeping you too long from Mavis.”

“Good night, Alan. I think I will turn in now. I shall tumble to sleep

as soon as my head touches the pillow,” he added boyishly.

“Good night.”

But it was early morning before Alan went to sleep. He wondered what the

future had in store for him. Would it prove as adventurous as the past?

Or would he remain a lonely old bachelor, a wanderer on the face of the

earth? No fixed home of his own—a favourite uncle, perhaps, to Desmond’s

sons. Yes, he was getting morbid. He was still young, barely thirty and

had his life before him. Somewhere, perhaps, a mate was waiting for him.

Somewhere, some time he would find his ideal,—and then—

The clock struck five; he yawned, turned over and fell asleep.

CHAPTER II

HOME AGAIN

In a lovely part of Perthshire, deep in a valley among the mountains,

lonely and hard of access, stood a curious building. Any one with a

knowledge of aeronautics would have recognized it as a hangar for an

airship. A narrow track led from it to a tiny cottage in which lived

three men—Sir John Forsyth, Abel Masters and Hector Murdoch, the latter

a trusty and faithful mechanic. Shortly after Alan’s supposed death, Sir

John gave up everything to the last remaining object of his life—the

completion and success of his giant airship. He had grown very secretive

about it. He had it dismantled and taken to pieces, and in pieces it was

sent to Scotland to await further experiments. A hangar had been built,

the workmen had gone—and then the three men set to work to build up the

“Argenta” once again. Sir John had disposed of his interest in the

Marshfielden collieries, and his London offices had been taken over by

the new owners, hence he had no tie to keep him in the great metropolis.

For over five years he had worked, and now success had come. The

powerful spirit he had perfected as a motive power was unexcelled and on

the morrow they were going for their first trial flight in the great

machine.

Sir John rubbed his hand affectionately over the shimmering metal. It

meant everything to him since his nephews had gone.

“It’s beautiful, Masters!” said he, and there was a note of triumph in

his voice. “It’s perfect.”

“Yes, sir. Three hundred miles an hour we ought to do comfortably, that

is the minimum, and from four hundred and fifty to five hundred at

express speed.”

“You’ve worked with me very faithfully, Masters. It was good of you to

pander to the whim of an old man, and bury yourself up here.”

“I was only too glad to come, Sir John,” answered Masters. “For

forty-five years I worked in your office—your father’s it was then, sir.

I was the first to congratulate him after Victoria, God bless her, had

made him a baronet. For over twenty years I was your confidential

servant—”

“Friend! Masters, friend!” gently corrected Sir John.

“Well, friend, if I may say so. I was always interested in electricity

and mechanics, and when you started experimenting, it was me you asked

to help you. I have never forgotten that, Sir John, and now I am proud

to have been the one to see the work of years rewarded by such success.”

“Where is Hector this morning?”

“He has motored to Arroch Head for the letters.”

“Is it the day?”

“Yes, Sir John, it’s Friday.”

“Ah, of course, so it is.”

Since Sir John had been living at Dalmyrnie, no one had his address

except the Poste Restante at Arroch Head—the nearest village fourteen

miles away. No persuasion was strong enough to make him reveal his

hiding place. He seemed to live in dread of his secret being snatched

from him. No precaution was too great to take to prevent such a

catastrophe.

“Lunch is ready, Sir John,” came a voice from behind him. It was Hector

who had returned. The three men all had meals together in the little

honeysuckle-covered cottage that had once been a gamekeeper’s. There was

no ceremony—they were all workers together.

The leather Post Office bag was on the table, and Sir John unlocked it

with the key that hung so prominently on the wall.

“What a budget,” said he testily. “Why do people bother me?” He began to

sort the letters. “One from Freemantle and Goddard—their account, I

suppose. That’s from Armstrong’s with their invoice for those aluminium

screws. A wire for you,” tossing the little orange envelope across to

Masters.

Masters picked it up gingerly. “Who ever can it be from? Oh,” as he read

it. “I don’t understand it. I think it must be meant for you, sir.”

Sir John looked up. “Why?” he asked.

“It was handed in at noon yesterday at Plymouth. It was redirected on

from the old London offices. It says, ‘Landed quite safely. Leaving

Plymouth this morning. Arrive Paddington 5:20. Will come straight to

you. Forsyth.’”

“Forsyth!” repeated Sir John. “Who on earth can it be? And if it’s for

me, why did they address it to you?”

“I don’t understand it at all, sir,” said Masters. “Haven’t you a

cousin—Dr. Forsyth who went to Canada some years ago?”

“Yes, yes! Malcolm Forsyth! Of course, of course. Well, I can’t see him.

I won’t see him. I don’t want to see anyone. But why did he wire you,

Masters? He didn’t even know your name.”

“I can’t understand it at all, Sir John,” then his face brightened,

“unless the clerk who redirected it put my name on by mistake.”

“Ah, perhaps that was it. Oh well, never mind,” said Sir John testily.

“You must write and say I can’t see him. Here’s a letter for you, too,”

he went on.

“I expect it’s from the Stores,” said Masters. “I have been expecting

their list of concentrated foods with the highest caloric value. We want

them in our flights.”

He opened the letter casually. “My God!” he cried and it dropped from

his nerveless fingers.

“For Heaven’s sake control yourself,” said Sir John sharply. Now his

airship was complete, his nerves were all on edge waiting for the trial.

“What is it? What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Masters penitently, “but I’ve had a shock. I’ve heard

from some one I thought was dead years ago.”

Sir John showed little interest. “Well let us now get on with lunch,”

was all he said.

“I don’t think I’ll have any if you don’t mind,” said Masters. “I must

go into Arroch Head at once and send a telegram. I may have the car I

suppose?”

“Why, of course, but do have your meal first.”

“No—no I can’t wait. I must go at once.”

Masters had had a shock. He had received Alan’s letter from Sydney, and

the meaning of the telegram was clear. Alan and Desmond were safe and

had arrived in England. He must wire them at once, and give them Sir

John’s address. He scarcely knew how to break the news to him, and it

worried him as he went into the little village.

“Have you wired your friend?” asked Sir John when he got back.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see him—if so you had better take a short holiday after

the trial.”

“Thank you all the same, Sir John, but I’ve wired them to come to Arroch

Head.”

“The devil you have!” roared Sir John. “I suppose the next thing will be

that you want them to come over here and see the Argenta.”

“I was going to suggest it to you,” answered Masters imperturbably.

“Have you taken leave of your senses? Show my work—the child of my brain

to strangers? Never!”

“They are not quite strangers, Sir John. The fact is—” he hesitated, “I

told you I had mourned them as dead—so have _you_, Sir John.”

“What?”

“I have given them your address and—”

“You’ve given them my address?” spluttered the old gentleman in rage.

“Yes, Sir John—don’t you understand now? I told you that _you too_ had

mourned them as dead.”

Sir John looked sharply at Masters, and as he gazed deep into his eyes

he read there the truth. “Alan—Desmond,” he said hoarsely. Masters

nodded his head and Sir John sank back into his chair.

“Alan!” he whispered. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t joke, man, for God’s sake! Don’t fool me! It can’t be true. It’s

six years since the accident. Why the mine has never been in use

since—not that part.”

“Don’t you understand the telegram now, sir?” Masters held it out. “They

have been away, but now they are back in England.”

“Was that the letter this morning?”

“Yes! Read it.”

Sir John was plainly overcome. “I’m sure it’s a joke,” he muttered over

and over again. “It can’t be true. The thing’s impossible.”

All that day work was at a standstill. Hector alone saw to the bodily

requirements of the men, and meals as usual were served at their proper

times.

“They will be here for the trial,” whispered Sir John excitedly. “Oh my

God!” and the old man burst into tears. His grief at the loss of his two

nephews had been so great, his affection for them so sincere that he

could scarcely realize that in some miraculous way they still lived.

“Will you meet the train?” asked Masters as they retired for the night.

“Yes! Yes! Of course! Take the large car. Are you sure everything is

ready for them? You see there will be a lady, too. Desmond’s wife—my

niece.”

“Everything is quite all right. We have made the place quite

comfortable—we will occupy the two rooms there, and that will leave

three bedrooms in the cottage free. Yours, Mr. Alan’s, and the largest,

at the front, for Mr. Desmond and his wife.”

“Splendid, Masters, splendid.” It was a glorious, late September morning

when the Scotch express steamed in. Alan was out of the train first.

“Uncle,” said he, “dear old uncle.”

“My boy—my boy! How are you? Oh, how you have changed! Desmond, my boy,

welcome home!”

“This is Mavis, Uncle John.”

Sir John held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. She could

see that suffering had left its mark on the old man’s face, so she

impetuously flung her arm round his neck and kissed him. “Uncle John,”

she whispered. “I’ve heard so much about you from Desmond and Alan. I’ve

been just longing to come home—to you!”

It was a very merry party that drove home to Dalmyrnie.

“Eat your breakfasts,” commanded Uncle John. “You shall tell me your

story afterwards. But have a good meal first.” After breakfast, they sat

in the old-world garden, among the trees—Sir John and Masters, the two

boys and Mavis, and their wonderful story was told.

Desmond began by telling how he was caught by the Light, omitting

nothing, and Alan concluded the story. “Now here is the papyrus and here

are the jewels and the censer. These, I think, will prove the truth of

our strange story.”

“And you mean to say there is a race of people living in the centre of

the Earth?”

“Yes, indeed, where we have been actually living for the past few

years.”

“They are actually descended from Korah, Abiram and Dathan?”

“Yes, as I told you, they still speak a patois Hebrew—they possess a

copy of part of the Pentateuch—they worship the God of the old

Testament, Jehovah, the great ‘I am’.”

“And yet you say they are savage?”

“I don’t think my description can be good, if I left you with that

impression,” said Alan thoughtfully. “They are not like the black,

savage natives of the present day. I should say rather, that they still

possess the savage instincts of our forefathers. The sacrifice of living

creatures, even humanity, does not revolt them. They are impervious to

great pain themselves, and can watch it in others without flinching. The

living sacrifices they offered to the Fire must have suffered agonies

before life was finally extinct in them; but to their mind the pain they

were inflicting made the sacrifice still more acceptable to their

Almighty. They inflicted terrible tortures on their Virgin Watchers of

the Temple—they were cruel, cunning, vile—yet in other ways they were

too cultured to be called savages. Savage yes, but not savages.”

“I see the difference you mean, my boy. But didn’t you say they

worshipped the Fire?”

“Yes. It is itself a part of their religion. I don’t think I ever

understood it properly myself. They looked on the Fire almost as God

himself—not a different God, but just God. Yet at the same time they

believed that the God of their Fathers exists in the Heaven above the

Upper World. It sounds very complicated, I am afraid.”

“No, no, my boy. I understand quite well what you mean.”

“They believed they had to offer living sacrifices to the Fire to keep

it burning. The strangest part of their belief is, that when the Fire

does die out, then will come the consummation of the entire world—not

only theirs but ours too.”

“Then they know of our world?”

“Oh yes. Dathan and Abiram left written histories about the world they

had left—the world they had once inhabited.”

“Going back to the Fire,” said Sir John. “Is it large?”

“Enormous. We never saw it in its entirety. It seemed to stretch away

into the distance for miles. It was walled in with a glass-like

substance, and was absolutely unlike any fire we had ever seen before.

It seemed to have no real substance—was all leaping, brilliant

flames—yet the heart of it seemed solid and firm. During our stay we

could see that the Fire was really growing less and less. Imperceptibly

at first, but latterly by leaps and bounds.”

“I wonder what _will_ happen when the Fire does go out,” said Desmond

thoughtfully. “It has existed on itself for these thousands of years.

The only fuel that was ever given it latterly was human or animal life.

Surely that could hardly feed a Fire.”

“I think some world-wide catastrophe will come when the Fire dies out,

if ever it does,” said Alan.

“And Jez-Riah just fell to dust,” went on Sir John slowly.

“Yes.”

Mavis was very excited. “Why our fortunes are made,” she cried. “Of

course you’ll write to the papers?”

“We didn’t know what to do,” said Alan. “Desmond and I talked it over

and came to the conclusion we would tell Uncle John first and get his

advice.”

“No one else knows at all?”

“No one but us five.”

Masters looked up and gave Alan a grateful look. “It was good of you to

include me,” said he.

“Why, you are part and parcel of ourselves, Masters,” laughed Alan.

“Nothing would be complete without you,” and he shook hands heartily

with his uncle’s trusty friend.

“We must go back to London,” said Sir John at last. “I will wire Sir

Christopher Somerville—he’s President of the Geographical Research

Society you know—and Professor Chard of the Geological Society to meet

us in town. I will put the whole matter before them and take their

advice. But, my dear boys, I can scarcely yet realize I have you back

with me again.”

“Have you done any more with your Argenta?” asked Desmond suddenly.

Sir John’s eyes shone. “Come with me,” said he and he took them to the

hangar. “She is complete and I think perfect,” said he simply. Very

beautiful indeed looked the Argenta. There was a perfect grassy incline

leading from the hangar to a large, flat field.

“I shall run her down the slope,” he explained, “and the field in the

hollow is splendid for both ascending and descending.”

“Have you tried her yet?”

“No. We were going to try her yesterday, Mr. Alan,” said Masters, “but

Sir John postponed it until your arrival.”

“And we must postpone it again, I am afraid,” said Sir John, rather

sadly.

“Is it necessary, Uncle John?” asked Mavis.

“I think so, my dear. Your story is too wonderful to keep back a moment

longer than is necessary. We will go to London to-morrow, and after all

formalities are done with, will come back, try the Argenta, and if she

is as I think she is, we will go for a long holiday in her.”

“Shall I accompany you?” asked Masters.

“Just as you like,” answered Sir John. “Come with us by all means, or

stay with Hector and watch over the Argenta.”

“I would rather stay here, sir, if you have no objection. I’ve no ties

that take me back to town, and I would rather remain by the Argenta.”

Forty-eight hours later Sir John, Alan, and Desmond and his wife arrived

in London. Sir John had let his town house, so they chose a quiet hotel

at the back of Berkeley Square for their domicile.

Sir Christopher Somerville and Professor Chard kept the appointment

made, and once again the boys recounted their adventures. “Wonderful!

Marvellous! Miraculous!” the professors kept muttering to themselves, as

the improbable story was unfolded to them, piece by piece.

“Now,” said Sir John, when it was at last told. “There are seven people

only that have heard this story. What do you advise us to do?”

“I will see the Home Secretary,” said Sir Christopher at last. “This is

a Government affair, of course. England’s to the fore again; lucky they

found their way out on British territory. The question will be brought

up in the House—an expedition must be formed, and the two young

gentlemen would probably like to accompany us, and help us with their

knowledge of the place.”

“Don’t go again,” cried Mavis, her face blanching. “Oh you wouldn’t take

him from me?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Alan kindly. “Nothing is done yet, and when it

is they will be probably quite contented with me alone.”

“Would you go again?” eyes wide open in horror.

“Of course, Mavis, but I’ll see that Desmond doesn’t go,” and he laughed

cheerily.

The professors called a general meeting of their associations upon the

matter of “THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW AND HITHERTO UNSUSPECTED PEOPLE” and

the two boys came in for a great deal of congratulation and applause.

Everything was settled at last, however; matters were directed through

the right channel and a statement was brought up in the House of

Commons. The only point that was not made public was the exact place of

the entrance to Kalvar. That was kept entirely secret—the Home Secretary

having pledged his word that until the necessary arrangements had been

made between the two Governments, that of the Mother Country, together

with the Commonwealth of Australia, most stringent secrecy should be

kept, so that no one could possibly know that Walla Balla was the

favoured spot.

All the papers were full of the new discovery. Reporters, ordinary

newspaper men, big newspaper correspondents, all found their way to the

little hotel. Alan and Desmond Forsyth had become famous! Kings and

princes,—commoners and dukes, all vied with one another to meet and

entertain the two men who had had such remarkable experiences.

At last the expedition was complete and was due to sail in a fortnight’s

time. Meanwhile, Alan, who was to accompany it, was to take a

fortnight’s entire rest. Geologists, historians, geographers, all wanted

representatives sent. Mechanics, electricians and a small armed force

had to be provided. The Government had already made a large grant to the

Mining Company at Walla Balla, and had the entire rights for excavating

a mile each way from the Second Pit.

The whole expedition was a voluntary one, and once again Britain and her

Colonies came to the fore as the greatest pioneers in the world.

The golden censer had been offered to the British Museum, and had been

gratefully accepted. The papyrus had been placed in the hands of experts

who pronounced the document to be genuine. Antiquarians from all parts

of the world came to see the relics, and the newspapers had paragraphs

in them every day, relating to the “Kalvar Expedition.”

“Phew!” said Alan one day as he leant back in a taxi. “That is the last

public speech I shall make for months, I hope.” He and Desmond had been

guests of honour at a luncheon given by the Society of Antiquarians.

“Thank goodness we leave to-night for Scotland. To-morrow we shall see

the Argenta. Nine months since we were there. What a lot we have crowded

into our lives these last few months.”

“I think we’ve made up for our lost six years,” laughed Desmond.

Masters met them at Arroch Head and was frankly glad to welcome them

back.

“Nine months since we were here,” said Sir John. “You’ve seen the news

in the papers, of course?”

“Of course, Sir John. The _Cavalier_ sails in a fortnight, I believe.”

“Yes,” answered Alan, “and I am going to take fourteen days real rest,

and then—well, off to Kalvar again, only this time of my own free will.”

The longed-for moment had come! Hector was in the mechanic’s seat, while

Masters navigated the great ship down the grassy slope. Gracefully she

slid out of the hangar, and down the incline and stopped on the level.

Sir John was very excited. “You are sure you want to test her?” he

asked. “Remember she has never been up before—you have only my word for

it that she’s safe. Desmond, don’t you think you had better stay with

Mavis, in case—”

But Mavis interposed. “Nonsense, Uncle John. This is _the_ day of my

life. Now give me your hand,” and she gracefully swung herself up the

ladder and on to the lower deck. Sir John followed suit, and they stood

side by side, watching the cousins ascend the ladder.

At last! They were all aboard and the six persons entrusted themselves

to the aluminium bird that shone brightly in the sunshine. They hauled

the grappling irons in, Masters touched a lever, and they started.

Slowly they ascended at first—but climbed higher and higher, faster and

faster until the hangar was lost to sight and they saw only broad

expanses of country below them.

“Oh!” said Mavis breathlessly. “We’re off. Where are we going?”

“I want to make a circuit of the British Isles, and then home to

Dalmyrnie.”

“But shall we have time?”

“At express speed we ought to do it in about four hours.”

“Only four hours?” in amazement.

“Well, we shall only go from Dalmyrnie—we shan’t touch further north

to-day.”

“Now,” went on Mavis impatiently. “I want you to take me all over this

wonderful ship. I want to see everything. I want to know how it is

possible to navigate and propel such a tremendous vessel by the work of

only two men.”

“Then we’ll start right now,” laughed Sir John. “Come, boys, we’ll

explore the Argenta, and then have some tea.”

CHAPTER III

THE AIRSHIP

“It’s wonderful, Uncle John! It’s almost beyond belief!” Mavis had

walked the whole length of the vessel on the under deck in silence. Her

husband’s arm was about her waist, her face was radiant, flushed with

excitement. Alan, too, was bereft of words; even his wildest dreams had

never imagined a vessel so perfect, so magnificent, so sensitive to

touch that two men could manage it with comfort and ease, and should

necessity arise, even one man could manipulate the tiny levers and

navigate it.

With a torpedo body some nine hundred feet long, its nose narrowed to

three feet, giving it a grace unusual in such a monster aircraft. The

entire body was composed of an alloy of aluminium, the formula of which

was discovered by much hard work and research by Sir John and Masters.

An upper and lower deck ran round the entire ship, about six feet wide,

which was covered with a fibre, and had bulwarks of aluminium.

At intervals round the deck, hatches were open, leading to the hold,

which contained the tank for the reserve propelling spirit, the

water-tank, larders and cold storage. Three ladders on each side and one

at either end led to the upper deck. The bow of the vessel was covered

with a kind of thick glass and formed a comfortable smoking room where

one could sit in comfort in wet or windy weather and gaze into space.

There was a dining room, a drawing room, and five bedrooms; all most

beautifully upholstered and furnished with the maximum of comfort. The

inside walls were polished like burnished silver, and the windows of the

same thick glass were hung with pale blue silk to match the upholstery.

There was everything for use and comfort; telephonic communication from

every room to every part of the ship—electric light—electric

fans—electric stoves—a pianola and there was even a gramophone on board.

Sir John had also remembered a good library of books, novels and serious

works, and a wonderful supply of writing materials.

“Why, you have forgotten nothing,” said Mavis. “Uncle John, I think you

have been wonderful.”

Perhaps the kitchens furnished Mavis with most interest. They were so

well planned out. In one corner stood an electric cooking stove, and on

the wall hung everything necessary for the success of the culinary art.

A pipe led from the water tank to the kitchen and there was a very

ingenious arrangement by which all waste matter was emptied into an

electrically heated tank which reduced everything first to a pulp and

then to steam, which escaped through a pipe to the outer side of the

ship.

“How much water can we carry?” asked Mavis.

“Well, in cubic feet, my dear—” commenced Sir John.

“No! no! Uncle John! I don’t understand cubic feet. Tell me how long our

water would last.”

“With the utmost care we can carry enough water to last six people two

months.”

“As long as that?”

“Yes, and then, should any unforeseen circumstances arise, by which we

were unable to renew our water supply, I could fall back on a wonderful

discovery I have made. See, my dear.” and he opened a small press.

There, on shelves, were packed row upon row of transparent blocks,

perhaps an inch square.

“What ever is it?” said Mavis, laughing. “Why, it’s camphor!” Alan

picked a piece up and examined it. It was certainly like camphor to look

at, but was odourless and of an intense coldness. “It’s done me. What is

it?”

Sir John made no reply but took from a little stand a small electric

heater. Upon this he placed a quart metal bowl, into which he put the

little cube. “Very gentle heat at first, my dears,” said he. “Ah!” as it

began to melt. “Now I think it’s safe to put on full pressure.”

Fascinated, they watched until the vessel became full of a sparkling,

bubbling liquid. Turning on another electric switch, he plunged a metal

needle into the fluid. It belched forth a cloud of steam, hissed

violently and then calmed down.

“What ever is it?” asked Mavis. For answer, Sir John poured the liquid

into three glasses and handed one to each.

“Try it,” he suggested. “It’s quite cold. That was an electric needle

which generates a coldness below freezing point.”

“Another invention?” this from Desmond.

“Yes.”

“There’s no smell,” said Mavis, as she delicately wrinkled her pretty

nose.

“And no taste,” averred Alan.

“It reminds me of something,” said Desmond. “I’m sure I’ve tasted

something like it before.”

“What is it, Uncle John? Do tell us,” pleaded Mavis.

Sir John laughed. “Water, my dear, just plain water. Desmond is quite

right, he has tasted it before.”

“Water,” said Alan in bewilderment, “but surely frozen water has a

greater bulk than when it is in a liquid form?”

“So it has, my boy. But I call this ‘concentrated essence of water.’

There is enough in that cupboard to last eighteen months. Of course we

should never want such a quantity, but the experiments pleased and

cheered an old man in his loneliness.”

He then opened another press and showed that it was packed with

concentrated tea, concentrated essence of beef and chicken, concentrated

essence of milk; it had everything in it that had been devised for

reducing food bulk to the minimum with a maximum amount of caloric

value.

“Eighteen months’ provisions,” he chuckled. “The Argenta could withstand

a siege.” The boat was sailing beautifully, ten thousand feet up; it was

a glorious day, cloudless and fine.

“Now for the chef d’œuvre,” said Sir John. “Why, where is Masters? This

is his work.” He telephoned through: “All going well?” he asked.

“Splendidly, Sir John.”

“What speed?”

“About three hundred an hour. We’ve just sighted Plymouth.”

“Plymouth,” said Mavis in amazement. “Why, we have only just left

Scotland.”

“Come along to us, Masters. I want you to demonstrate the working of the

atmospheric shutters.”

“Will you come into the compressed air room?” said Masters as soon as he

arrived.

They found it was quite a small room which held no furnishings of any

kind. Levers and switches and strange electrical contrivances were

everywhere, and on one side of the room were twelve levers, very like

those in a signal box on the railways.

“My idea was this,” began Masters. “We have ten engines on board, of

which we use only one at a time; the others are reserve stock, as it

were, or would be useful if we came up against very nasty weather and

needed a stronger power to use against the elements. At the time I

worked out my theory, Sir John had no interest in life. You two young

gentlemen we believed were dead, and I have neither kith nor kin. It

struck us, that one day we might try and reach the outside of the

earth’s atmosphere for experimental purposes. I needn’t go into exact

figures now, it would not interest Mrs. Forsyth, but you all know after

a certain distance up life becomes impossible. Should we ever reach that

height, we should have recourse to these levers,” and as he spoke he

pulled them down one after the other. “Now we will put the electric

light on, and I would be glad if you would step out on to the upper

deck.”

Mavis gave a cry of amazement. Gone was the view of the sky; gone the

heavens above and the earth beneath. The entire ship was covered in with

an awning of metal.

“Do explain,” said Alan.

“This covering works almost on the principle of a Venetian blind,” went

on Masters. “There are really two coverings, with a space of thirty

inches between. The levers release the metal and it unfolds and clips

into position by means of strong clasps. By means of another lever we

fill the cavity between with a mixture of gases—ether is the chief

component, and this makes our little home absolutely air proof and rain

proof; and above all it makes the inner vessel impervious to atmospheric

pressure or gravitation. We hope later on, by the aid of an electrical

device we are still working upon, to generate an atmosphere of our own,

outside the vessel, which will enable us to propel ourselves through

infinite space, and thus we should be independent of the atmospheric

peculiarities around us.”

“But how can we breathe?” asked Mavis the practical.

“Masters thought of that contingency also,” said Sir John.

“In the little room we have just left are dynamos for generating our own

electricity; there is also another dynamo for generating an

inexhaustible supply of air.”

“You have left nothing to chance,” said Alan.

“Nothing, my boy. Remember this is the culmination of over thirty-five

years of study and experiment, and the last five years have seen us

progress by leaps and bounds.”

“Our absence had its good side, after all,” said Alan. “Had we been

allowed to remain, you might never have got this machine to such

perfection.”

“I’d rather not have had those years of sorrow, all the same,” said Sir

John softly. “I’d rather have destroyed the Argenta with my own hands,

and never built her up again, than you should both have left me for

those long years,” and the old man turned away with a sigh. “Now about

our air supply,” he went on, recovering himself. “As the used up air

sinks to the ground, it is attracted into pipes, and by the aid of tiny

electric fans is driven to a large cylinder. There it undergoes a kind

of filtering process. The purer portions go into circulation again,

while the carbonic acid gas is taken down pipes which run along the

whole side of the ship to an outlet where it can escape into space. To

guard against the extrance of any unknown noxious gases, this pipe has a

trap in every foot, which closes mechanically as the gas passes through.

The mechanism of these traps makes it impossible for any foreign air to

enter. No matter where we are, or through what poisonous air we may

pass, we are protected from its entrance by this device; while it is

impossible for the ship to collapse while it is protected by its

envelope of ether.”

“Then you could live as long as your provisions lasted on the Argenta?”

asked Desmond. “You are not dependent on the outer world for anything?”

“We are dependent only on ourselves,” replied Sir John.

“Why, it’s like a fairy tale,” said Mavis.

“Tea,” said a voice from behind them. “Tea, Mrs. Forsyth.” It was

Hector. Masters had unobtrusively left while they were all talking, and

Hector had turned cook.

“Tea is served in the Bows,” said Hector again.

Masters had drawn back the shutters, and once again the little room was

flooded with sunshine. The telephone bell tinkled. “Well, Masters?”

“We are passing over Whitby, sir. Do you wish to cut across country

direct for Dalmyrnie, or will you go right round by the coast?”

“Time is getting on. I think we had better make straight for home.”

“Very good, sir.”

“It’s been a wonderful success,” said Alan. “More wonderful than I could

have dreamed possible.” Sir John beamed at the praise. “But, Uncle John,

leave your atmospheric experiments until I come back from Kalvar. I’d

love to accompany you on your adventures.”

“Would you really?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Look,” said Mavis presently. “We are over Loch Tay. How beautiful it

looks from here. Why there is still a suspicion of snow on Ben Lawers.”

“We are very near home, now,” said Desmond, looking at her fondly.

Within a very few minutes the great vessel tilted ever so slightly, and

then with a graceful movement, slanted her nose to earth. There was only

the faintest suspicion of a jolt as she touched the ground, and then ran

smoothly along the field, coming to a standstill at almost the very spot

she had left a few hours before.

The trial was over! The machine had proved her worth.

Science had won yet another brilliant victory.

CHAPTER IV

THE END OF THE WORLD

Four days had passed, four days of glorious sunshine. Every day the

whole party had been for a trip in the Argenta. They never landed

anywhere, however, for Sir John was still jealous of his secret; he

wanted to test her in every kind of weather—he wanted to leave nothing

to chance, so that finally her worth could not be questioned.

It was nothing for them to circle over the Outer Hebrides in the

morning, come home for lunch, and then run over as far as Paris before

dinner. Scarcely any motion was to be felt in the boat.

Alan had made arrangements with Sir Christopher Somerville to accompany

the expedition to Kalvar. Desmond was to stay behind and look after

Mavis, who intended staying at Dalmyrnie until her baby was born. Her

fingers were busy fashioning tiny garments for the little newcomer,

whose arrival was expected very soon.

“What shall we do to-day?” asked Sir John. “Mavis, my dear, would you

like to rest? You look very tired.”

“No, nothing does me as much good as a sail in the Argenta, Uncle John.

Let us go up after lunch for a couple of hours.” There was a curious

stillness in the air, as the Argenta climbed up to six thousand

feet,—hardly a breeze, in fact.

“Oh I’m stifling,” said Mavis.

“My poor darling,” murmured Desmond lovingly. “Are you sure you are not

overtiring yourself? Your fingers never seem still. Always working at

something or other, aren’t you?”

She blushed prettily. “I can’t let—him—come into the world and find

we’ve not prepared for him, can I?” and she hid her face on her

husband’s shoulder.

“You’ve made up your mind it’s to be a—‘him’—?” he laughed.

“Of course, Dez. I must have a son first.” He laughed at her naïve

remark.

“Well if you feel tired be sure and tell me, darling, that’s all.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,” remarked Masters.

“Although the sky is clear, there is the curious oppressiveness that

usually precedes a storm.”

“Then let us get back,” said Mavis. “I am terrified at thunder.”

Majestically the Argenta sailed, gracefully she skimmed along the sky.

Now above the level of the clouds, now close down above the waters of

the Atlantic.

“How beautiful the islands look, dotted about in the water,” said Alan.

“It is indeed a pearl-studded sea.”

Hector came up to Sir John with a puzzled frown. “I don’t quite like the

look of the weather,” said he. “The compass won’t work, and the

altimeter is frisking about in a most unaccountable manner. There’s a

bad storm brewing, and I think we shall be wise to turn her nose round

and go back.”

“If you think it is best,” agreed Sir John, and as he spoke the sun

burst out in all its glory from behind a fleecy cloud. At the same

moment, away on the horizon, where angry blue-black clouds had gathered,

came a vivid flash of lightning.

“Oh!” cried Mavis as she covered her eyes, “what a terrible flash.” In a

few minutes the sky was black and gloomy, the wind rose suddenly to a

hurricane, and the big craft was spinning and twisting in a most unsafe

manner.

“We’ll go back, sir,” said Hector. “Now go inside, Mrs. Forsyth. Believe

me, there’s no danger.”

Then followed a most awful experience. The lightning never ceased, but

lit up the ship from end to end, the thunder crashed and the Argenta

rocked violently. Gradually they steered her round, and to the

accompaniment of a most vivid flash of lightning and a deafening roar of

thunder, the ship started on her homeward journey. At last they came

safely to anchor outside the hangar and Mavis, always nervous in a

storm, was now in a state of semi-unconsciousness. Desmond lifted her

tenderly out of the ship and carried her to the cottage. Her nerve had

completely gone.

That night a son was born to Desmond, and old Dr. Angus, who had been

fetched in haste by Alan, spoke very gravely of the chances of saving

both mother and child. The slightest shock would be fatal to her, he

announced, as he took his leave.

“I’m glad you had a nurse in the house,” he added, “a very wise

precaution when so many miles separate doctor and patient.”

“You’ll come again?” said Desmond hoarsely.

“I will be round again in the morning.”

Desmond, white faced, his hands twitching convulsively, stood on guard

outside his wife’s room. The ordeal was terrible, and the perspiration

stood in beads upon his forehead. Once he heard a tiny cry, then

stillness. He dared not knock—there was a nurse behind that closed door,

and he knew he could trust her. Still—.

A hand touched him. “Go to bed, Desmond, and try to get a little sleep.”

It was Alan. “I’ll watch for you, and I’ll give you my word I’ll call

you if you’re wanted.”

“No, no, Alan. I’ll stay here. If she wants me, I want to be near.”

So the hours wore on, and no sound came from the sick-room. Dr. Angus

motored up, and without a word disappeared within. An hour later he came

out and saw Desmond’s haggard face.

“You may go in for two minutes only,” said he. “Both your wife and son

will live.”

It was a white-faced Mavis who greeted him. Her face was lined with

pain; her hazel eyes were sunk deep into her head. In her arms she held

a bundle, a little bundle that was everything to the man and woman

beside it. “Dear, he’s like you,” whispered Mavis weakly, and then, with

an almost roguish smile, “I said it would be a boy.” Her eyes closed,

and with her husband’s hand in hers, she gave a contented sigh and fell

asleep.

“Whew!” said Sir John, a few days later. “I wouldn’t go through last

week again for a king’s ransom.”

“Thank God she has pulled through,” said Alan fervently. The two men

were sitting at breakfast, the first square meal they had had for a

week.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, as Alan was devouring the _Post_.

“Not much, Uncle John. There was a new Housing Bill brought up in the

House last night. The Government seems very rocky. There are hints of a

General Election. H’m. H’m—A bad earthquake in South America, I see.

Five thousand people killed. Oh, and a landslip or something in New

Zealand. How shocking,” he went on, “ten thousand casualties there. Why,

it’s as bad as a war!”

“No, it’s the States where the earthquake is,” said Sir John who had

unfolded the _Scotsman_.

“No, South America,” contradicted Alan. “Listen—

“A tremendous earthquake has been felt at Lima, Valparaiso, and Buenos

Aires. These three cities have suffered great damage. Over five

thousand people have been killed outright, while the casualty list is

considerably greater. The shock was felt in Bermuda, New Guinea and

even as far north as Kentucky.”

“Then there has been one in the States as well,” said his Uncle. And he

read from his paper

“The Meteorological office at Pimenta states that a serious earthquake

has occurred in New Jersey.”

“Later.

“News has now come through that Tennessee and Vermont have suffered

considerable damage also. The loss of life is comparatively small

considering the damage done to property. The tallest buildings have

toppled over, shaken from their foundations. The electrical supply is

cut off, and in many places severe fires are burning.”

“It seems all over America,” said Alan lightly. “I am glad we don’t go

in for those merry little sideshows in this country.”

“Your time is growing short,” said Sir John with a sigh. “I shall miss

you very much, my lad.”

“I shall miss you too, sir. But of course I am rather looking forward to

the expedition.”

The weather had been quite settled since the time when the Argenta had

encountered the terrible storm, on the day preceding the birth of

Desmond’s son. Slightly sultry, perhaps, but an occasional cool breeze

tempered the heat.

The next day all the papers were full of the epidemic of earthquakes

that were occurring in different parts of the world. Work in many places

was disorganized, and a fear was expressed that influences were at work

round Southern Europe which might mean that the earthquakes would be

felt nearer home.

Alan was due to sail in two days, arrangements had been made for him to

leave Scotland the following morning, when a wire came from Sir

Christopher Somerville. “Postponing departure of _Cavalier_

indefinitely. Fear unsafe to sail south. Awaiting favourable report from

Greenwich. Will advise you at earliest of arrangements.”

“Well, it gives us a little more of your society, my boy,” said Sir

John, and there was a pleased look in his eyes.

Alan picked up the paper. “My God!” said he suddenly, and his face

blanched.

“Following the news of the disastrous earthquakes that have been

scourging America and the islands of the South American coast,” he read,

“come accounts of further appalling phenomena. In all parts of America,

after violent cyclones, the land has in many places opened up, and

swallowed men, animals and buildings. The loss of life is abnormal—rough

estimates are given as high as 900,000 lives. Internal rumblings and

coastal waterspouts in Tasmania have caused a panic among the

population. The sea is too rough for even the largest boat to sail upon.

Natives are rushing hither and thither with no real idea of where to go

for safety. Volcanic eruptions are taking place in districts where for

thousands of years the volcanoes have been extinct. Scientists are at

present unable to account for this extraordinary outbreak of nature. As

we go to press, news has come through that Sydney has disappeared

entirely. San Francisco is in ruins. The whole of Cape Colony has sunk

below sea level—and the water has poured over the whole country,

sweeping everything before it. A later edition of this paper will be

issued at noon, and at intervals during the afternoon and evening with

news as it comes to hand.”

“It is the worst scourge nature has ever given us,” said Sir John.

“What I cannot understand,” said Alan, “is why it is in so many places

at once. Different latitudes seem to have suffered and different lands.”

All that day a deep depression had taken hold of the occupants of the

little cottage, and they were all very quiet. “Masters, motor over to

Arroch Head,” said Sir John, about six in the evening, “and if you can

get no further news, ring up the offices of the _Scotsman_. Tell the

Editor you are speaking for me. He will give you the latest news, I am

sure.” Masters was back within the hour, his face blanched, his hands

trembling.

“Well?” asked Sir John. “Is it as bad as all that?”

“It’s terrible,” replied Masters. “It’s coming nearer home. Rome has

gone entirely—so have Naples and Athens. Spain and Portugal are under

water. Authentic news is hard to get, as telephonic and cable

communication in many places have failed. Some air scouts were sent to

investigate, and witnessed the destruction of Spain. The air

disturbances were so great that it was with the greatest difficulty they

managed to reach England in safety.”

“Do they think this visitation will reach us?” asked Desmond, the

picture of his wife and child coming before his eyes.

“The _Scotsman_ says that so far the Meteorological Office reports no

disturbances within eighty miles in all directions of our coast. They

hold out a hope, that being an island, we may escape,” said Masters

brokenly.

There was no sleep for any one that night; but the morning came and

brought with it a blue sky and a gentle wind. There was not even a hint

of disaster in the clear atmosphere. Hector got the big Napier out, and

all but Desmond motored in to Arroch Head. He stayed behind with Mavis,

to keep all breath of disaster from her ears. The little village street

was full of white faced men, women and children, children frightened

because their parents were frightened, yet realizing nothing of the

danger ahead.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, of old Weelum McGregor, the hotel keeper.

“Aye, sir, an’ it’s no verra guid. Paris is on fire the noo. There was

an internal explosion in the neighbourhood of Versailles yestere’en, and

soon the roads were running with molten lava. Paris caught fire, and

every one is powerless to suppress it.”

Three days passed. England and Scotland were isolated—entirely cut off

from the outer world. They had just to wait and pray that their time of

tribulation would not come. The night was extraordinarily dark, the wind

moaned and rose in mighty gusts. The rain came down in torrents. The

thunder rolled in the distance, and occasionally flashes of lightning

lit up the horizon.

Mavis was very restless. “Is anything the matter, Dez?” she asked, as he

sat by her bedside.

“Why, dear?”

“You look worried. You make me feel anxious.”

“I’ve been worried about you, my darling, that’s all,” and he lied

glibly to the sick woman.

Then there suddenly rose on the air a terrific sound, worse than the

loudest peal of thunder, and the room was brilliantly lighted from

without as though by a mighty fire. Mavis rose up in bed; her limbs were

shaking and she drew the sleeping babe still closer to her breast. “What

is it, what is it, Dez? No, no, don’t leave me,” as Desmond was about to

leave the room. He put his arms about her and crooned to her as if she

had been a baby. The noise was terrible—one long, mighty roar. The room

shook with the vibration, and the light from without grew brighter and

brighter.

Sir John entered. “Mavis, my dear, you mustn’t be frightened. Hector and

Masters are launching the Argenta—we are going to take you up in her.”

“What is happening?”

“I don’t quite know, my dear, but Ben Lawers has broken out in flames.

Schiehallion and Ben More in the distance are belching out heavy, dark

smoke—I think it’s volcanic action. Now, we’ve talked the whole matter

over, and we feel that the safest place is inside the airship.”

“But listen to the wind—could it live in such a storm?”

“It is the safest place,” said Sir John firmly. “We will carry you and

baby down in a hammock. Nurse has already packed you a goodly store of

clothes, and then we’ll all sail away to a more healthy spot.”

“Are you sure there’s no danger?”

“No, my dear! It’s a magnificent sight to see the grand old Ben belching

out smoke and flames. Lava is pouring down his sides into the Tay, and

Killin is lighted up so that you can see the houses as if it was day.”

Gently Mavis was carried to the ship, and tenderly lifted aboard. There

was no time to waste. Sir John had only told half the truth to the

invalid. The lava from Ben Lawers was already spreading towards

Dalmyrnie. The hot ashes were being carried on the mighty wind, and the

men were scorched and burnt while they were launching the airship.

Feverishly Masters hauled aboard packages, and bundles, hasty provisions

to supplement those on board. A crash sounded behind them—the pine woods

at the rear of the cottage had caught fire! It was an unearthly sight.

Ben Lawers roared and hissed and spluttered, the pine trees crackled—the

whole countryside was lit up with flames. In the distance the

surrounding peaks and Bens were beginning to show signs of fire, and the

whole scene was like a page of Dante come true.

“Everything aboard?” asked Sir John hoarsely.

“Yes,” said Alan.

“Where’s Nurse? Isn’t she coming?”

“No! I tried to persuade her, but she wanted to get to Arroch Head to

her mother. I told her to take the runabout—she’s a fairly good hand

with the car.”

The flames drew nearer. Already their cruel tongues were licking round

the house. The hangar was smouldering. Suddenly there came on their ears

a deafening explosion—the reserve petrol had caught fire! The heat was

unbearable. “It’s no good,” panted Sir John. “Let’s leave the rest and

get off.”

“Please God we shall soon be out of here, and shall be able to land in

safety,” said Alan.

Scorched, blackened with smoke, Masters made one more superhuman effort.

He shipped his whole cargo in safety! He swarmed up the ladder, the

grappling iron was drawn in, and the great ship slowly moved, travelling

upward with her human freight.

The Argenta pitched and tossed, but Masters and Hector worked steadily

at the delicate levers. Now they headed her right, now left; now she

climbed above the average ten thousand feet, now dropped low to avoid

the nasty air patches. Mavis was in her bed, her eyes wide open in

terror. Above the roaring of the engines, came claps of thunder,

deafening and awe inspiring.

“I don’t understand,” she moaned. “What is happening?”

“It is impossible to say,” said Desmond. “But I feel we are safer here

than we should be on earth to-night.” And the night of horror passed.

Below, as they hovered to and fro, the whole country was blazing. Dawn

came, but an angry dawn. Dark clouds scudded across the sky; the thunder

grumbled in the distance, and occasional flashes of lightning

illuminated the angry heavens.

“Where are we?” asked Sir John.

“Over Edinburgh,” answered Masters from the other end of the ’phone, “we

have scarcely moved for the last four hours.”

“What?”

“The engines seem disinclined to work. I can’t make it out at all.”

The ship suddenly swerved to one side—a terrific explosion filled the

air, and they saw the Castle Rock suddenly shiver, crumple up, and fall

a shapeless ruin on to the railway line beneath. In a few minutes,

Edinburgh, the Modern Athens, Edinburgh the Fair, was a mass of flames!

They watched the populace, mad with fear, running aimlessly along the

streets. “This is awful,” muttered Alan. “Make south if you can. Let us

get away from this desolation.”

With a great amount of patience and skill, Masters at length managed to

get the engines to work. But they came upon havoc and destruction

whichever way they went,—indeed, the whole world seemed to have turned

upside down. They circled London, but the first metropolis of the world

had been the first English city to suffer from the terrible scourge.

Blackened, charred, lifeless, London was a city of the dead.

As they swung in space over the dead London, they tried to pick out the

familiar landmarks, but in vain—The Houses of Parliament were but a mass

of bricks and dust; gone was the Abbey of Westminster, levelled to the

ground was the mighty Tower of St. Edward, belonging to the Catholic

Cathedral—gone was the Tower of London. There was not a sign of life in

the once great city.

Aimlessly they flew in all directions. The whole of England was a

flaming mass. They headed for the Continent. It was true, Paris had

gone; Brussels was no more; there was not a city left. Denmark was wiped

out,—and the sea washed up noisily and angrily over a barren rock that

had once been Norway. At short intervals terrific explosions rent the

air, and the vibration caused the Argenta to perform many nerve-racking

aerial gymnastics.

“Head for the Atlantic if you can,” cried Alan in despair. For ten days

they had hovered over dead cities, dying lands, and waste voids.

Navigation was almost impossible, the hurricanes drove the craft this

way and that; now forcing her high, now bringing her low. It was all

very fearsome, very terrifying. Mavis was up, and with her baby in her

arms she followed the men about, a forlorn pathetic figure. Landing was

impossible—there was no place where they could land. They had plenty of

water, plenty of provisions, but they ate mechanically, scarcely

realizing what it was that Hector placed before them with unvarying

regularity.

They watched Europe sinking—the vast Atlantic was slowly but surely

washing over lands and countries that had once been great empires.

The Argenta was wonderful; no matter what the atmospheric disturbances

were, she always righted herself. The heat, at times, was terrific, and

the Argenta was forced to climb out of the reach of the burning wastes

below. Then the water of the ocean seemed to rise like steam—the

Atlantic itself was boiling, and as it grew hotter and hotter, the ocean

seemed to grow less in size.

The heat was so intense that the Argenta rose to a great height and

remained among the clouds. After some days she descended, but seemed to

be in a new world altogether. There was a large tract of barren land

stretched out before them—gone was the Atlantic in its vastness. Dead

bodies lay strewn about—the remains of great ships were embedded in the

earth. Animals, humanity, fish, lay mixed together in that arid waste.

Suddenly Alan spoke, very reverently. “And the sea shall give up its

dead.”

“The Atlantic?” whispered Sir John.

“I think so,” answered Alan.

And as they watched there came a mighty sound, greater than any they had

heard before. The whole world shook, and for one moment was a living

ball of fire. Then it shivered violently, split into a thousand pieces,

and from its gaping wounds belched forth smoke and flames. Once more

came the terrible sound, the sound of a world’s death cry; there was a

mighty crash, the flames went out and where the world had been—was

nothing.

All was black, all was gone; the earth had returned to its original

state; the sea had disappeared entirely; shapeless, dark,—the earth was

dead! And in her last convulsive hold on life, she shook the very

heavens. The Argenta was whirled round and round in a maelstrom of

agony, and then was shot into space.

With a mighty effort Masters released the shutters, and filled the

intervening cavity with the ether. It was his last conscious act. On, on

went the Argenta, at a terrific speed. The fury of the heavens seemed

let loose, and the atom in the firmament was like a wisp of wool in its

grasp. Turning, twisting, rolling, the Argenta was borne on the bosom of

the whirlwind, and carried with its seven souls of Terra; seven souls

that had escaped from, but had witnessed The End Of The World.

BOOK IV

THE PERFECT WORLD

CHAPTER I

IN SPACE

Space—infinite space! On, on, swept the Argenta through the heavens at

frightful speed. The engines were useless; the levers refused to work,

and the occupants of the airship sat within the shuttered vessel,

helpless.

For days they had eaten nothing—they were unable to move; terror had

them fast within its grasp.

“Sir John,” said Masters at last, “I’m going to make a cup of tea. Here

we are, and here we must remain until our food gives out. Mrs.

Desmond,—won’t you come and help me?” Mavis rose from an armchair, and

tenderly laid the sleeping babe on the cushions of a settee.

“My baby,” she murmured, “to think I bore you for this.”

“Come, Mrs. Desmond,” and Masters led the way to the tiny kitchen.

All sense of direction had gone, and the occupants of the giant airship,

had simply to accept the extraordinary conditions that had been thrust

upon them, and remain helpless in the Argenta, carried they knew not

whither, adrift in the heavens. They had ceased to reckon time, minutes

had no meaning; hours and days passed as one long whole. They were just

atoms, existing in space, which is infinite—where time is infinite—where

life itself is infinite!

Mavis entered with a tray laden with tea and biscuits—the exertion had

done her good, and already there was a slight colour in her cheeks.

The airship was ploughing along at a terrific rate, but its motion was

steady, and they could walk about in comfort. When first the explosion

that had accompanied the end of the world sent them spinning into the

infinite unknown, the Argenta had behaved in a most erratic way.

Broadside she skimmed like an arrow, throwing them from side to side,

then she reared up on her tail, and climbed the heavens almost

perpendicularly; then she would roll over and over, porpoise-like, until

the frail mortals lost all sense of everything except that a great

calamity had come into their lives.

“Where are we?” asked Mavis suddenly.

“I intend to try and find out,” said Masters grimly. “Whatever happens

we can’t be in a worse position than we are at this moment. I intend to

move the shutters from the bows and then we may get some idea of where

we are.”

“But is it safe?” objected Desmond, looking first at his wife and then

at his child. “So far we are safe. This mad journey must come to an end

some time or other. Why jeopardize all our lives for the sake of a

little curiosity?”

“Must it come to an end?” said Sir John thoughtfully.

“Of course,” answered Desmond. “We can’t go on forever.”

“Why not?” continued his Uncle. “Space is infinite. Now time is

eternity. We, when in the world—”

“How strange that sounds,” interrupted Alan.

“As I was saying, when we were in the world, we often used the

expression, ‘For ever and ever.’ If we thought what it really meant, it

dazed our brains; we wanted to probe further, and find out what it was

that came after that ‘ever and ever.’ We puzzled our intellects by

pondering on the infinity of time. I realize now, what Eternity is!

Since we have been here, I have ceased to count the minutes; I have

ceased to think of days, or night, or weeks. Time is! That is enough for

me.”

“Then you really think we may go on forever?” asked Desmond in horror.

“I don’t know. I certainly think it is as likely as not.”

“Oh God,” Desmond muttered between his clenched teeth.

“Come, dear,” said Mavis bravely. “We ought to be thankful that the

promptitude of Uncle John and Masters saved us from an awful death

below.”

“Are you sure it was ‘down below’?” asked Alan quizzically.

“Why, of course,” Mavis began. Then she stopped. “Oh I don’t know. That

is all so strange and puzzling.”

“Now, Masters,” said Sir John. “What were you going to do?”

“I was going to release the shutters from the bow. I can close the

patent traps, and leave the ether protection all round the ship,” he

explained to the others. “But it is possible to leave a small portion of

the glass in the bows, exposed, through which we shall be able to see

the course we are taking.”

“I think it’s worth making the experiment,” said Sir John, and they all

followed him into the comfortable front cabin.

“Now if you see the slightest sign of danger, ’phone me,” said Masters,

who was going into the lever room.

“How can you tell if danger is near?” asked Mavis with interest.

“This way,” said Masters. He pointed to a portion of the glass wall, now

covered with the outer sheet of aluminium.

“That portion of the glass is of extra thickness and strength. If the

outside air pressure is too great, or the gravitation or any unknown

element too powerful for it, that glass will bulge, either inwards, or

outwards. Only slightly at first, but it will get bigger and bigger

until it bursts asunder. Now, if you see the slightest suspicion of that

happening, ’phone through to me, and I will close the shutters again. At

any rate, we shall have done no harm, and at least we shall have tried

to do something to ease our position.”

In breathless silence they waited, watchful in the dark. Suddenly a tiny

ray of light lit up the stygian gloom. Bigger and bigger it grew, until

the whole of Masters’ wonderfully planned “lookout” was exposed to view.

Breathlessly they watched. There was not the slightest sign of strain

upon the glass. It was certainly capable of protecting them for the

present at any rate.

“All serene,” cried Alan through the ’phone.

“Everything safe?” from Masters at the other end.

“Quite safe.”

“Oh-h-h-h.” It was Mavis. “How wonderful!” They were looking into

endless space at last! They had no sense of location—no ordinary sense

of North or South—East or West. They were in the heart of the Solar

system, with no horizon to act as a guiding line! The vastness of space

overwhelmed them; there was no landmark to direct them. There was no

comforting horizon, with mighty arms outstretched, embracing the world.

There was nothing to give them a feeling of security. Here space just

“went on” for ever and ever, beyond human comprehension.

Wherever they looked, there was just—no end.

But the scene was beautiful beyond comparison. Away to their right, in

the dark recesses of the firmament, was a wonderful brightness.

“It’s the Milky Way,” said Mavis clapping her hands in ecstasy.

“I don’t think so,” said Alan. “But all the same, I think that gives us

an idea in what direction we are flying. That brightness must be the

Greater Magellanic Clouds in the Southern Constellation.”

“What, are they only clouds, then?”

“No, just stars. Stars of all magnitudes, richly strewn in the heavens.

Even the faintest of the nebulæ are more abundant than in any other part

of the firmament.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Sir John. “The illuminating brightness is almost

overpowering.”

They were unable to take their eyes from the cloud-like condensation of

stars—one of the glories of space.

“We don’t seem to be getting any nearer to it, although we are going at

such a pace,” said Mavis.

“My dear,” answered her uncle. “We are too many miles away to see any

appreciable lessening of distance between us.”

“What is that bright star there,” asked Mavis pointing. “Just a little

to this side of the Magellanic Clouds?”

“I don’t know. It certainly is wonderfully bright,” answered Sir John.

Alan was searching the heavens. “Isn’t that the Constellation of

Draco—the Dragon—?” he asked suddenly. “I think it must be. If so, that

star, as you call it, which lies between the Greater Magellanic Cloud

and Draco must be Jupiter.”

“Jupiter?”

“Yes. One of Jupiter’s poles lies in the heart of Draco, and the other

is close by the Greater Magellanic Clouds.”

Mavis puckered her brows. “Jupiter,” she almost whispered, “the Prince

of all the Planets?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t seem to know much about him, do we?” she went on.

“No,” said her husband. “The astronomers seem much more interested in

Saturn and Mars.”

“I’ve often thought,” said Alan, “that such a magnificent orb could not

have been created just to have shown our old earth light. Its beauty,

its grandeur, its magnitude, suggests to us the noblest forms of life.”

“You think it is inhabited?” asked Desmond.

“Why not? Surely its beauty and magnitude alone are a convincing proof

of the insignificance of our earth. If Terra was inhabited, populated

with many fine races of human beings, possessed of glorious scenery, and

full of nature’s wonders, surely if such a puny world as ours was

peopled, why should a far finer planet be debarred from possessing and

nurturing higher forms of animal life?”

“It sounds very interesting,” said Mavis laughing, “but I wonder whether

it’s true.”

“If people are on Mars, or Saturn, or Jupiter, they would hardly be like

us,” announced Desmond, grandiloquently. “They would either be like the

Mechanical Martians that Wells wrote of, or just animal life of some

gelatinous matter as favoured by Wolfius.”

“Oh you egotistical, egregious Englishman,” laughed Sir John.

“Can you beat him?” said Alan. “No one but a Britisher _could_ have made

that remark!”

There was a laugh at Desmond’s expense, and then Alan went on,

“Personally, I feel convinced that ours was not the only inhabited

planet. Even our feeble knowledge of the solar system, individually and

in bulk, has proved the wonder of Jupiter, the symmetry and perfection

of the system that circles round him, the glory of his own being, and he

should rank as the world of worlds. I should be inclined to believe that

Jupiter is not only capable of producing the highest forms of life, but

that his humanity surpasses in intelligence the most cultured, most

brilliant, most learned of our earth’s philosophers.”

“No, no, I won’t have that,” said Desmond. “Look at the brilliant men of

letters Britain alone has given to the world. Think of her eminent

scholars, dauntless pioneers—why no other country or world could compete

with Britain.”

“As I remarked before, the egregious Englishman!” said Sir John. “I

admire your courage, my boy, in sticking to your guns. I admire your

loyalty to the country that gave you birth. But we are not in the world

now, my boy. Our beautiful little planet has vanished, has disappeared

into the void from which it came; yet here, before our eyes, we see

Jupiter still existing, still a brilliant orb in the sky. Surely now,

Desmond, you are convinced of the minuteness of the planet upon which

you were bred and born?” Sir John put his hand on Desmond’s shoulder.

“While you were upon it, it was everything. Now it is nothing—gone—while

other planets still exist and shed their brightness over space.”

“I think,” said Mavis thoughtfully, “that if our own little world

possessed such a high form of life, and we measure a planet by its bulk,

then surely the Jovians must be the most highly favoured race in the

Solar Kingdom?”

A tiny cry came from the cabin behind. “Baby,” she cried. “Oh, I’d

forgotten him,” and she fled to her nursling who had missed his mother’s

care.

“Such are the wonders of the heavens,” said Sir John, thoughtfully.

“It’s so grand, so massive, so unbelievable, that it makes even a mother

forget, in its contemplation, her first-born, her little son.”

“Why he is not named yet,” said Desmond. “I had forgotten all about

that.”

“Well, we have no parson here,” said Alan. “Now our world has gone, can

we call ourselves Christians? How do we rank with the Almighty? Have we

become atoms tossed about on an endless sea, or Christians to whom

eventual release will come?”

“We are still in God’s Hands,” said Sir John reverently. “In the absence

of an ordained priest, a layman may administer the Sacrament of Baptism.

I am getting very old. I have one foot very near the grave. Shall I do

it?”

“Please,” said Desmond.

And whirling through the Solar system, belonging neither to earth nor

heaven, was performed surely the strangest rite ever known from time

immemorial. And it was in this strange place, in this strange manner

that Desmond and Mavis’ son—John Alan—was named.