Owing to the exhausted state of the two guides, the party could not set
forth upon their return journey to the Caves of Zoroaster until the
afternoon of the following day.
The powers of endurance of both men had been taxed to the utmost—the
elder, by the terrible ordeal through which he had passed; the younger,
by his almost superhuman efforts.
In spite of that, Harry Urquhart was all anxiety to be off. He had
often pictured to himself the agony of suspense that all this time von
Hardenberg was being called upon to bear. The boy wondered if the lamp
which the Prussian had taken with him into the vault still burned. If
so, it would shed its light upon the glittering treasure. If it had
gone out, the Prussian was buried in unutterable and eternal
darkness—eternal, since escape was beyond the bounds of possibility.
That, combined with the fearful silence that reigned in the place, with
hope dying in the prisoner’s heart as the days rolled slowly by, was
enough—as it seemed to Harry—to drive any man to madness. The boy
found it impossible to forgive his cousin, who had acted so basely from
the first; for all that, he was by no means heartless, and, in any case,
it was his duty to save a human life from so terrible an end.
As soon as the guides professed themselves able to undertake the
journey, they set off towards the caves. It took them more than two
days to accomplish what the younger guide had done in under twelve
hours, and thence, striking due south-west, they approached the caves
from the opposite direction to that in which they had first entered
Maziriland.
On this occasion they saw—though they did not come into actual contact
with—several of the Maziri peasants who were working in the cultivated
tracts of country that lay between the mountains and the bush.
Maziriland was very sparsely populated—the race verging on
extinction—and at least two-thirds of the inhabitants were congregated
in the chief town, where they carried on certain industries, their skill
in which they had inherited from the ancients.
It approached the hour of daybreak when Harry Urquhart and his party
reached the foot of the great flight of steps that led to the entrance
to the caves, where stood the two carved giants. Harry had hurried
forward, closely followed by Braid. The two guides brought up the rear.
In feverish excitement, three steps at a time, the boy dashed up the
steps between the weird, fantastic statues, and was about to enter the
cave when he remembered that he had no light, and that, since it was
night, the place would be unutterably dark. He had retraced his steps
some distance, with the object of getting some kind of torch, when he
was met by Fernando at the head of the long flight of steps.
"A light!" he cried. "It is quite dark within."
Fernando had foreseen this, and in mid-valley had broken a branch from a
cork-tree, which he had damped with rifle oil. This he now lighted and
gave to Harry, who was the first to enter the cave.
Inside, everything was exactly as they had left it. It was manifest no
one had visited the place since the tragedy of some days before. The
body of the old man lay still at the foot of the altar. At the
farthermost end of the cave the granite wall remained as ever, immobile
and formidable. Harry Urquhart, taking the Sunstone from his pocket,
asked Jim to hold the torch, and himself went to the wheels and turned
them until the characters that showed above the golden bar corresponded
with those upon the Sunstone.
When he came to the ninth wheel he was so excited that his hand was
shaking. And presently there came the sharp "clicking" sound that they
had heard before, and then the granite rock began slowly to revolve.
The rock evidently turned upon a pivot. Its motion was like that of an
enormous water-wheel, except that, instead of revolving vertically, it
turned horizontally, the way of the sun. When the centre of the opening
was immediately opposite the altar there came a second "click", and the
rock remained quite still.
Harry Urquhart, in breathless haste, snatched the torch from the hands
of his friend, and dashed like a madman to the entrance.
He pulled up in the nick of time, noticing that he stood at the top of
an exceedingly steep and narrow flight of stairs. Had he gone on as
impetuously as he had started, he would have pitched head foremost down
the steps.
He began to descend more cautiously. The steps were slippery from the
moisture that invaded the rock in which they had been cut.
He had not descended more than three steps before he was brought to an
abrupt standstill. It was as if his heart ceased to beat. From far
below—so far away as to be quite faint, though unmistakable—there came
to his ears the report of a single shot.