At once the escort of fifteen-odd hoplites commenced to move down the

corridor to the left, their hands tightly gripping the butts of their

retortii pistols. At their head ran Hero Giles, and by his side Alden

and Victor Nelson, who gripped his .45 vowing never again to return to

that ghastly cell.

A long ringing cry from the rear brought home the dread realization

that the enemy had appeared. Looking back, Nelson could see the far

end of the great corridor filled with menacing figures. Then his heart

leaped like a deer in a thicket, for _from ahead_ sounded the clash of

weapons! The rescue party's retreat was cut off!

* * * * *

Hero Giles acted with the speed of a veteran accustomed to

emergencies. "Forward!" he roared, making the bare walls reverberate

and rumble with his voice. "_Halor vàn! Ula Storr!_"[1]

[Footnote 1: Make ready for your retortii.]

As by magic, there appeared before the retreating force a double rank

of blue-crested hoplites who debouched from a side passage into the

hall and clawed desperately for fungus bombs and retortii. Evidently

they had not expected to come upon the invaders so abruptly.

"_Storr!_" Like a brazen trumpet's call, the voice of Hero Giles rang

out the order to fire--which was instantly drowned out in the furious

hissing of the retortii of his followers.

Ever watchful, Nelson fired at a gigantic officer who, avoiding the

first steam jets, flung back his arms to hurl one of the deadly fungus

bombs among the rescuers. Shattering the bronze helmet, the American's

bullet struck the Atlantean squarely between the eyes, but

nevertheless the stricken officer's grenade rolled forward and burst

among the hindermost of Hero Giles' followers. Instantly, the deadly

green mold flung itself upon the nearest hoplites and in a moment they

crashed to the smooth granite floor, the yellowish growths already

sprouting from nose, mouth and ears.

In the corridor reigned chaos, for Hero Giles' followers were now

turning the full fury of their retortii upon the rank of men barring

further flight. With dreadful ease, the scalding steam struck dead the

opposing warriors, stripping the flesh from their bones as easily as a

boy peels a banana.

Amid the swirling white clouds, Nelson had ghastly visions of yellow

skulls, of steaming accoutrement, of limp heaps of disintegrating

bodies; then silence fell, and, before he quite realized it, he,

together with Alden and three hoplites who had survived the disastrous

fungus grenade, were bounding along after Hero Giles' glittering

figure as he led the way down one passage after another.

* * * * *

Louder than ever rang the fierce cry from the rear. Behind him Nelson

could see dozens upon dozens of yelling pursuers, and knew that if he

were to live he must run as never before.

Into a succession of spacious rooms dashed the fugitives; on through

deserted armories where hundreds of bronze helmets dangled in orderly

rows; and across silent barrack halls.

Closer and closer sounded the pursuing feet, spurring the runners to

an even more headlong gait.

All at once a door loomed to the right; into this darted Hero Giles

and after him pounded the two Americans and three hoplites. In an

instant the six men set their shoulder to the ponderous bronze door

and swung it to, just as the hiss of a retortii on the other side rose

above the mad, blood-hungry clamor of the momentarily baffled rebels.

Gasping and sweat-bathed, the fugitives paused only an instant.

"We've gained a short passage," gasped the Atlantean wrenching off his

helmet and breast plate. The veins stood out in great blue cords on

his forehead, for the weight of the armor could not have been

inconsiderable. "Below wait our podokos."

Nelson stripped off his leather coat, following the example of the

hoplites, who swiftly divested themselves of such cumbersome equipment

as could readily be removed. Then, while the shouts of the thwarted

pursuers swelled like a demonic chorus, and while feathers of steam

crept under the great door, Hero Giles spun about and, with his short

yellow hair gleaming bright, led on down another series of passages.

* * * * *

All at once the fugitives, now reduced by exhaustion to five, found

themselves on a balcony overlooking the great valley of Atlans. Before

them opened an enormous staircase and down this they dashed at top

speed, infinitely relieved to be once more in the open air.

Running like hunted stags, the fugitives had descended but a third of

the great staircase, when, from behind, came a sudden, menacing cry

that warned Nelson that the pursuers had, after going a longer way

around, come once more in sight.

"Ah! Poseidon blast the traitorous Edmund and his varlets! See?"

panted Hero Giles pointing to a huge arch from beneath which was

issuing a glittering column of shouting, swift running warriors at

whose head dashed a splendidly-proportioned figure that must be Hero

Edmund.

With the speed of the hunted, Hero Giles bounded forward, taking three

and four steps at a stride, his jade green cloak snapping out behind.

Down, ever downwards over the endless flight of stairs the aviators

followed him until, spent and panting, the hard pressed five plunged

down a final circular staircase and so gained a courtyard where waited

a detachment of armored lancers whose yellow plumes and pennons shone

bright in the glare of the flame suns. Staring anxiously upwards, the

troopers nevertheless stood to attention in an orderly rank beside

those curious Atlantean mounts called podokos.

During all his sojourn in Atlans, Nelson had never become used to the

hideous and awe-inspiring podokos which closely resembled the

allosauri but were only eighteen feet long. Like the other monsters,

they had tremendously developed hind legs which promised the speed now

so vital for escape and safety. Ready in the tooth-studded jaws of

each podoko was fitted a bronze bit together with a bridle and reins;

and cinched up on each creature's back was one of those curious

Atlantean saddles, which was built up at the cantle to overcome the

downward slope of the podokos' spines.

Need for vital haste was but too obvious and, as he drew near, Hero

Giles gasped the command to be off.

"Quick," he shouted, his scarred visage flushed and sweat-bathed.

"Saddles! Speed! Speed! Cling fast as your beasts arise!"

* * * * *

All five literally hurled themselves into gorgeously caparisoned

saddles. Instantly, the urging squatting podokos leaped to their feet.

It was the work of a moment for Nelson to wrench his reptile around,

for already Alden and the Atlantean cavalrymen were speeding across

the wide paved court, their lance pennons fluttering bravely in the

orange-hued glare.

At top speed the rescuers dashed for a great, oval gateway while the

podokos increased their gait; like aero-planes gathering speed, the

faster the weird creatures traveled, the higher arose their tails.

Then, following the frightened, backward glances of the hard-riding,

red-haired lancers, Nelson suddenly discovered a new and terrible

cause for this headlong flight, for, issuing from an unbarred gateway,

came perhaps a dozen of _the terrible and enormous allosauri_, which,

spying the fleeing cavalry, instantly gave chase.

With a sense of despair, the aviators heard the ferocious bellows

booming from behind and watched the appallingly swift progress of

those uncouth monsters as, leaping high into the air, the allosauri

covered between fifty and sixty feet at a single bound.

"They'll get you," cried an inner voice in Nelson's being. "They'll

catch you sure." But the small and lithe podokos, sensing death

leaping up from the rear, stretched out their slender, snake-like

heads, stood on tiptoe, and, pressing their small forelegs tight

against their chests, commenced to run far faster than any horse could

gallop. Nevertheless, the allosauri came bounding up like colossal

kangaroos, uttering weird, screaming roars that brought a chill of

imminent death to the fugitives.

Casting a quick glance over his shoulder, Nelson's blood froze to find

an allosaurus not more than seventy yards behind, and making terrible

exertions to close that slender gap! Nearer and nearer coursed the

incredible monster, body rocking in its terrific stride, dreadful jaws

wide apart--jaws that could, without an effort, cut a horse in half.

* * * * *

A fear such as he had never known racked Nelson's consciousness as he

found he was hindermost of the cavalcade, which was strung out like a

field of racers. The other riders crouched low in their saddles like

jockeys, lances held straight out before them, and furiously goaded

their strange mounts with curious hooks. Nelson was vastly relieved to

get a glimpse of Alden far in the lead, almost beside the Atlantean

Prince. His podoko was evidently better than the average.

Faster and faster pursuers and pursued raced across level meadows,

over straight, white roads and rolling grain fields. Wind whistled

madly in Nelson's ears, filled his eyes with tears, and made his

short, dark hair snap, but two huge allosauri were now not twenty

yards behind and _gaining with appalling speed!_

On the verge of madness, Nelson hammered his heels into the podoko's

scaly side and wished he dared let go the saddle horn to draw his

pistol, but to loose his grip was to risk falling off.

Closer and closer! Two enormous nightmarish heads were actually

snapping at the fleeing podoko's tail. Then fear must have inspired

the reptile Nelson bestrode, for it put on a sudden desperate burst of

speed which carried it past the next two lancers. In passing he

glimpsed the doomed wretches, pale-faced and horrified, as they

frantically goaded their failing podokos.

A moment later, piercing screams from just behind assailed Nelson's

ears, but when he looked to the rear once more it was to find that a

wide gap had opened between him and the great monsters behind.

Evidently, the heavy-built allosauri were unable to long maintain the

terrific pace set by the smaller and more agile podokos whose maximum

speed Nelson judged to be well over sixty miles an hour.

* * * * *

The pilot's eyes narrowed on beholding, in clear relief and not far

away, the majestic, whitish outline of mighty Heliopolis, whose lofty

towers, graceful domes and frowning citadels shone pink under the

leaping, blinding glare on Mount Pelion.

"We certainly picked a nice time to drop in on this God-forsaken

country," grunted Alden as the walls of Heliopolis loomed near. "We

seem to have crashed into the busiest days they've had in centuries.

How many shots you got?"

Nelson, swaying to the steady trot of his podoko, hesitated.

"Only five. Damned if I know what's going to happen next. I suppose it

all depends on Hero Giles. Looks as though the nobles were bent on

restoring Altorius--if he's not dead by now."

Alden tugged powerfully at the strange bridle which controlled his

beast. "The priests wouldn't dare kill him, but it surely looks like

their rebellion has gained a lot of headway."

A moment Alden's clear, blue eyes swept the towering battlements,

gorgeously-sculptured temples and curious stepped pyramids, which now

loomed near at hand and cast their rugged outlines sharp against the

copper-colored heavens.

"Maybe there's some way we can work this revolution trouble to help

us," suggested Nelson, without enthusiasm. "If we could play off one

crowd against the other--"

His remarks were cut short as the foremost lancers slowed before an

enormous bronze gate looming ahead. On the vast main panel was a

beautifully-wrought dolphin curling about a trident--symbol of the

imperial power now so sorely tried. Beyond that gate, breathlessly

mused Nelson, lay Heliopolis and an unknown fate.

CHAPTER IX

It would have taken no trained eye to observe that something very

unusual had happened in Atlans. Some of Heliopolis' many wide streets

were quite deserted save for several small, bright-red cat-like

reptiles that the Atlanteans sheltered as pets, but in other

thoroughfares large throngs of people milled uneasily about, while

listening to the impassioned harangue of black-robed priests.

Everywhere business was at a standstill, shops were closed and markets

tenantless.

Riding at an easy hopping gallop, the aviators urged their green,

scaly mounts to the side of Hero Giles, for here and there some

wandering citizens, spying the Americans, would yell shrill curses and

shake their fists. Reining in, Nelson demanded to know the reason for

this unaccountable hostility.

"'Tis the work of our gentle and holy priests," explained Hero Giles

with a hard laugh. "They have told the populace ye are magicians

seeking to set other gods above Poseidon."

"Nonsense," rapped the American, looking about uneasily. "We've never

given two thin damns about anything except getting back to our plane."

"So I know," was the Atlantean's preoccupied reply; "but this spawn of

Herakles' temples speak loud, and the loutish populace hearkens to

their lies!"

"But what the devil is all this revolt about?" broke in Alden. "Why

were we arrested? You started to tell us at the prison."

* * * * *

Hero Giles frowned as he pulled his podoko into a gracefully carved

gateway of green marble. "There's but little to add, for 'tis all very

simple. The priests have laid impious hands on His Splendor, Altorius,

and imprisoned him in the great temple of Poseidon. We nobles have

defied the arch-priest, for the dog-conceived Jereboam already

marshals his forces for a fresh attack, knowing that Atlans is sore

beset by internal strife. Have patience for now we go to the council

chamber, where ye shall hear everything."

To say that the newcomers found the council of nobles in a furore

would be to put it mildly. Their angry voices carried far down the

beautifully ornamented corridors of the Imperial Palace, which was

used as headquarters.

"Sounds like a dog-fight going on in there," muttered Alden anxiously.

"Don't like the sound of it a bit. I hope they feel kindly towards

us."

Nelson, swinging along with his ragged shirt fluttering like a

scarecrow's, nodded. "Yes, so do I. But I guess they need our help or

Hero Giles wouldn't have risked his life to save us."

Conscious of the value of appearances, the dark-haired aviator

unconsciously straightened his frayed black tie, buttoned the sleeves

of his khaki flannel shirt and otherwise made pathetic attempts at

improving his appearance as the clamor of wrangling voices grew loud

down the corridor.

His wide shoulders swinging to his stride, Hero Giles flung open a

door, beautifully wrought with leaping podokos, and halted on the

threshold.

"Death!" rumbled a voice from inside. "I say death to the Wanderers!

Let us make our peace with the priests, lest they slay His Splendor

forthwith."

"And that's what I call a nice friendly greeting," was Alden's

murmured comment. "Better get your gat handy, Vic. I'll bet they've

got a reception committee of retortii men behind the door."

* * * * *

There was no time for Nelson to reply because now the threshold was at

hand. Inside, seated at a table, he had an impression of perhaps ten

or fifteen scarred and angry-looking veteran nobles whose green cloaks

and bejeweled armor revealed their high rank.

In mid-dispute they halted, eyeing the three figures in the doorway

with curiously conflicting expressions. Some smiled a relieved

welcome, some stared in surprise, but not a few greeted the Americans

with lowering brows and angry, threatening eyes.

"Harken," Hero Giles greeted them. "By Poseidon's grace the Wanderers

were saved from a vile death. Rise Heroes, and bid them welcome!"

"Ah, the Wanderers!" In an instant Hero John was wringing Nelson's

hand. "Oh blessed hour! I had feared for ye both. Welcome, Hero

Alden!"

A faint flush crept over the young man's wan and trouble-lined face.

"'Tis well ye've come," he whispered. "The council was prepared to

change their intent towards ye."

A grizzled, one-eyed prince arose, and leveling an accusing forefinger

at Nelson shouted, "'Tis he hath caused the rebellion. Slay him!"

"Nay!" thundered the Hero Giles, "and forget not, Hero Paul--_I_ am

senior Prince of Atlans!"

* * * * *

In the great white marble council chamber silence fell, while from

wonderfully carved ivory and gold chairs the harassed, yellow-bearded

princes regarded the two uneasy Americans.

"Hearken, Hero Giles!" rasped another dark-browed officer in a plain,

much-dented red breast plate. "I side with Paul. Away with them, I

say! Time is too precious. Do not the dark hordes of Jereboam beat

back our frontiers?"

Hero Giles glowered and sat bolt upright in his chair--a strange

disordered figure among his gorgeously robed and armored peers. "Thou

wert ever a hothead! I prithee pause a moment! Remember how the

dark-haired Wanderer once aided our imprisoned Emperor, whom Poseidon

protect! Perchance, Hero Nelson and his friend once more can aid us in

this, our hour of need."

A chorus of variously opined voices broke out, while Nelson with an

eye to possible violence stood ready.

"Silence! Sirrah!" The fierce old veteran banged a powerful fist on a

golden dolphin head forming his chair arm. "This idle wrangling

accomplishes naught, and a thousand weighty matters await our

attention. Is it true the phalanxes at Tricca have risen for the

priests?"

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Map of Jarmuth and Atlans_]

Before Hero Giles could reply, a stalwart guard at the door flung it

open to admit a dust and sweat-bathed courier who, darting forward,

flung himself at Hero Giles' no less dusty feet. While the

yellow-haired Prince started back muttering in amazement, the runner

raised a shaking hand.

"Woe, woe to Atlans!" he panted. "Jarmuthian retortii men have crossed

the boiling river. Cierum is fallen! Its garrison is drenched in

clouds of fungus gas. But a handful escaped!"

"Speak on: is that all?" A terribly intent expression crept over the

aquiline faces around the council table.

"Nay, spare thy servant!" begged the green kilted courier, raising

sweaty, imploring hands. "I--I dare not--"

"Speak!" snarled Hero Giles, his blue eyes terribly lit. "Speak!--else

thy carcass shall be flung to the pteranodons."

Wild-eyed, the fellow blinked fearfully about. The grim-lipped nobles

edged closer. Nelson, realizing all that lay at stake, watched

intently, conscious that Alden was now by his side.

"I--I, Her Sacred Holiness, Altara--." The messenger's red face

twitched and he choked as in terror.

"Altara!" The name reechoed weirdly from a dozen dry throats, and

Nelson saw the skin suddenly pale and tighten over Hero John's face.

"What of the divine Altara, fool?" he thundered in a dreadful, shaken

monotone. "Have those foul swine of Jarmuth dared--?"

"Forgive, oh Hero!" cried the groveling courier, his long red hair

sweeping the marble floor. "The dog-sired Jereboam hath made

proclamation in Jezreel that the Sacred Virgin is doomed to perish on

the altar of Beelzebub, their demon god, in two days' time!"

"What?" The great marble-walled chamber was shaken by an unearthly

outcry as horror and rage struggled for mastery in the circle of tense

faces surrounding the momentarily forgotten aviators.

Bedlam broke loose, while Hero Giles sat as though stunned, staring on

the shivering runner at his feet.

Nelson, very much on the alert, could see that the announcement of

Altara's impending death had produced nothing short of a cataclysm in

the plans of the council.

* * * * *

Like men paralyzed by electric shocks, the yellow bearded veterans and

nobles sat stupefied, frozen in their last gesture. Then, in the midst

of their silent despair, came the sound of a curious, high-pitched

horn that had in its note something of the eery wail of a fire siren.

The effect was magical, for the nobles sprang up, hands on sword hilts

and eyes searching the corridor.

"The priests!" gasped a short, broad-shouldered noble at Altorius'

left. "By Poseidon! 'Tis the fanfare of the Herakles himself."

Then indeed did the council glower, for, as Nelson soon learned,

Herakles was the moving spirit and evil genius of that priestly party

which had dared to imprison the Emperor.

Again the horn wailed its warning of the arch-priest's approach,

whereat a stalwart hoplite in green painted armor clanked in, saluted

stiffly and waited for Hero Giles' instructions.

"Bid the old man enter," directed the Prince at last. "Tell the

graybeard he has naught to fear if he comes alone. Otherwise, bid him

return to his kennel in the temples."

A moment after the hoplite had vanished, there appeared in the doorway

a tall, emaciated old man on whose silvery head was set a curious

golden mitre ending in the shape of a wondrously bejewelled trident.

The curious Americans noted that the arch-priest's robes were as black

as his evilly glittering eyes, and were embroidered with curious

cabalistic symbols done in silver thread. In his withered hand

Herakles carried a ceremonial trident--the mark of the Head Priest of

Poseidon.

As though wary of advancing, the arch priest paused in the doorway,

not three feet from where Nelson stood poised for action.

* * * * *

All at once the gaunt figure in black raised thin hands to the dome

far overhead and cried in high-pitched prophetic tones:

"Woe to Atlans! When perishes Altara, virgin of Poseidon the God-head,

then shall a darkness fall on Atlans! Her cities shall be cast down,

there will be a weeping and wailing in the land, for Beelzebub and his

followers shall prevail! Woe to Atlans and woe to ye all, blasphemous

nobles!"

Gripped by a superstitious awe, the generals and nobles fell into an

uneasy silence, fearfully lowering their eyes and then glancing

askance at the plain khaki clad figures standing alert in their

corner.

Nelson, defiantly meeting their eyes, beheld Hero Giles staring

fixedly before him, his powerful shoulders bowed as though bearing an

overwhelming burden.

Deeper grew the silence of disaster while the American furiously

searched his mind for some means of thwarting the death in store for

him and his companion. By chance, a word of Hero Giles recurred, the

"pteranodons." What in the devil was a pteranodon? He turned sidewise

to Alden who stood, hands in the pocket of his leather jacket, also

thinking deeply.

"Dick," he whispered. "You studied paleontology at college. Do you

remember what a pteranodon was?"

"A what?" The younger aviator seemed to make a definite effort to

return to the present. "A pteranodon? I'm not sure, Vic, but I think

it was a kind of flying reptile related to the pterodactyl group."

* * * * *

He could go on no further, for Herakles, the arch-priest, raised his

snowy head suddenly, his eyes blazing. "To save Atlans in her hour of

trial, we demand that ye deliver to us the Wanderers. They shall die

as an offering to Ares, God of War. Perchance he will preserve us."

The arch-priest's deep-set and glittering eyes swept with venomous

hatred the two calm-featured aviators, who looked very plain and

unromantic in their flying jackets and khaki serge. "We, familiars of

the Gods, herewith demand that the blasphemers perish on the War God's

altar! Else shall ye all die unbeloved of the Gods!"

"And we do your bidding, will ye give us back His Splendor?" demanded

Hero Giles.

"Nay--we priests do not bargain like hucksters."

Risking all, Nelson muttered a swift aside to Alden. "How big were

those pteranodons?"

"Some species had a wing spread of twenty-five feet."

The muscular pilot's mouth closed into a firm, colorless line as he

nodded and glanced at the vindictive old man who was by now white with

fury.

Up sprang a good three-quarters of the nobles present and turned on

the grim figure at the head of the board.

"Surrender the Wanderers!" they shouted. "We demand it!"

* * * * *

In another instant the death sentence would have been forced on Hero

Giles, but Victor Nelson leaped forward, pistol menacing the raging

gray-bearded priest.

"Listen, all of you!" he shouted in deep tones that were strangely

authoritative. "Beware, foolish Princes, how you threaten us. Great is

our knowledge and power: you've seen that already. Even now, the other

Wanderer and I can save or ruin Atlans, as we wish! Have ye forgotten

the battle by Lake Copias?"

The Princes, furious at the American's defiance, half rose, hand on

sword hilt, but sank back at a swift, menacing gesture from Nelson's

pistol.

"What sayest thou, mad fellow?" screeched the arch-priest, his black

eyes bright as knife points. "Save Atlans--?" Fierce questioning was

in his sombre, sunken eyes.

"I said," repeated Nelson, "that, if we choose, we can yet save your

Altara and the Emperor from death."

"Impossible! He is mad!" shouted Paul, the one-eyed Hero. "Not the

Gods themselves could rescue Altara from the claws of the demon

Beelzebub!" The nearest nobles flung themselves back in their chairs

and snarled threats of all kinds as they gripped their sword hilts.

Sensing an inescapable climax, the khaki-clad American raised his

pistol, covering Hero Paul, the speaker. "Silence!" he rasped.

"You're a thick-headed idiot not to see the truth. Can this priest

save Altara? No! You know damned well he can't! And yet you'd have us

killed."

"Now, Herakles," he swung on the priest, "about this Altara matter--if

you'll restore Altorius unharmed, guarantee our safety, and punish

those liars who condemned us to death, the other Wanderer and I will

undertake to not only prevent the sacrifice of Altara, but to bring

the Princess back as well!"

* * * * *

To all this Alden listened with increasing and indescribable dismay,

his blue eyes round as marbles. "My God!" he whispered in an

undertone. "What in the devil is Vic doing? _Undertake_ is _right_,

the crazy fool!"

"How will ye accomplish this mad boast?" demanded the arch-priest in

deep suspicion. "Know ye that the Sacred Virgin lies captive in the

dungeons of the great temple of Beelzebub? Know ye that this temple is

in the center of Jezreel, capitol of Jarmuth?"

"I had some idea that was the case."

"Know ye," continued, the graybeard priest, "that Altara is ever

guarded by two thousand picked priests and warriors? Know ye,

moreover, that this vile sacrifice will be made but two days hence?"

The aviator's lean, dark head inclined with a serenity he far from

felt.

At this point the scarred veteran officer who had spoken before broke

in, his face menacing. "Believe not this liar, oh Hero Giles! He

speaks with a tongue made bold by fear. He promises that which he

cannot accomplish!"

Had Victor Nelson had time to reflect upon the weirdness of the plan

he had evolved, he would probably have silently admitted that his

grizzled accuser was more than a little justified, but as it was he

smiled serenely.

From all sides rose a threatening shout. "Let the blasphemers be

sacrificed. Ares will protect us!"

* * * * *

His yellow brows knit, Hero Giles wavered, but as he hesitated there

ran through a great circular window a distant yet menacing shout.

"Down with Altorius, the Unlucky! Down with the sons of Hudson! Give

back to the ancient Gods their Sacred Virgin. Hail to Ares! Death to

the Wanderers! Death! Death!"

Drowning out these ominous cries there came from below the window the

brazen clang of trumpets and the clank of many armored men hurrying

forward. Presently the mob's outcry grew fainter, but still the cries

of "Death" could be heard.

It was a tense moment. Would Hero Giles remain friendly? With poignant

anxiety, Nelson watched that dishevelled martial head sink forward in

perplexity.

"Hero Giles," he warned, in a low voice. "You'd better trust us.

You're risking nothing."

Slowly, the fierce blue eyes of the veteran rose, and, meeting the

level gray ones of the aviator, lingered there as though asking a

question. Suddenly reaching a determination, he rose to his feet and

addressed the triumphantly grinning arch-priest, who tightly clutched

his trident wand with thin, blue-veined fingers.

"Hearken, black crow of a priest, who has dared lay foul hands on His

Splendor, the Emperor. This is my reply: show me how ye will rescue

Altara; otherwise begone! My hand itches for the sword."

* * * * *

A deep silence fell while Herakles glowered helplessly, then shrewdly

avoided the trap. "This is blasphemy!" he croaked and raised a

quivering forefinger in solemn warning. "Woe to thee, Hero Giles. Woe

to the people! Fear the wrath of the Gods!

"Jeer not, ye nobles!" Herakles stormed on. "Be not deceived by lies!

I bid thee deliver these magicians to Ares, God of War!"

A nasty moment; Nelson's heart drummed as he gazed down at the row of

uneasy, war-like faces, but Hero Giles proved the strength of his

heritage. Back went his patrician head; he drew himself up to full

height and stared coldly upon the black robed priest, who, nothing

daunted, gave back look for look.

"Nay! We keep them: they will bear out their promise. I give ye good

day, oh Holiness!"

Quivering with rage Herakles raised his withered hand in anathema.

"Then perish, blind spawn of Hudson! Verily shall ye all die under the

torture. Woe! Woe! Woe!"

Then, amid a strained silence, pregnant of distrust and disaster, the

old man wheeled and stalked out.

As he watched the departure, color drained from the Atlantean prince's

haggard features. "Ah," he observed bitterly, "ever have these black

crows feasted on our land, and ever as birds of ill omen." He turned

and, with a weary sigh, surveyed the group of loyal, but anxious

souls. "I thank ye. Will ye still do my bidding and help to save our

sovereign lord?"

Out flashed the swords of a dozen-odd nobles as they raised the

hoarse, ringing cry of "Altorius! Altorius! Supreme!"

* * * * *

A little later Nelson, before a very mistrustful gathering composed of

Hero Giles, Hero John and two or three other veterans, traced the

barest outline of his plan.

"You understand? I'm to be taken to the border as a prisoner; then, in

plain sight of the enemy lines, the guards must maltreat me and turn

me loose."

The aviator searched one after another of the brutal, war-like faces,

while Hero Giles translated for the benefit of two Atlantean generals

who did not speak the royal language.

"Are you positive," Alden demanded of Hero John, "that this revolution

in Atlans will die out if Altara is returned?"

"Yes! A thousand times yes!" The prince's fine eyes gleamed with

savage enthusiasm. "With the Sacred Virgin restored to Atlans, new

courage will come into the phalanxes! The priests will cease their

outcries against them. Then, with the help of the blue maxima vapor,

we will rend the dog-begotten followers of Jereboam limb from limb!"

"All right." Nelson's wiry khaki-clad body bent far over the table.

"Remember, Hero Giles, that part of the fighting's up to you. When I'm

gone, you'll do exactly what Alden tells you. Now, one thing more:

what part of the border is still unquestionably loyal?"

Hero Giles frowned and shrugged his armor-clad shoulders a little

helplessly beneath the splendid cloak of imperial green. "The gods

alone know; but at the third division of this morning, Mayda and

Thebes still vowed their loyalty. 'Tis there are quartered the

phalanxes of the Imperial guards. They alone can I trust to the

death."

"All right." Bending over a huge parchment map of the valley, Nelson

nodded, and his keen black eyes became very serious. "I want you to

concentrate every man you can muster in each of those cities.

Meanwhile tell the populace,"--he drew a deep breath--"that Altara

will certainly be returned to them."

"Art thou sure?" broke in the scarred veteran in the dented breast

plate; then, his brow dark with doubt, he engaged Hero Giles and the

rest in a heated, low-voiced colloquy.

* * * * *

Alden stepped near, an anxious frown on his unshaven features. "Think

this idea of yours is sure-fire?"

"No," Nelson's lean head shook. "I'm far from sure. It's a wild gamble

at best, but we can't be any worse off than we are now. If the priests

win out, we're sunk and no mistake about it; but there's a fighting

chance my idea could be brought off."

"Now look here," objected the younger pilot tensely. "What's this rot

about your going into Jarmuth alone? How d'you know they won't skin

you alive once you're over the border?"

"I don't," admitted his friend, shrugging slightly. "But I don't see

there's anything but to take the risk. If I don't go over there, sure

as shooting we're going to feed some damn unpleasant kind of beast

here in Atlans.

"Another thing," Nelson said, turning to the Hero who, surrounded by

the others, was bent in deep consultation over a map. "How am I to

know Altara if I see her? Is there a statue, a painting or

something--?"

The Hero's aquiline features lit in a slow smile. "Nay, we have better

than that. Come, thou shalt see the Sacred Virgin as she now is."

The members of the conference followed Hero Giles down a short

corridor, through a couple of doors and into a chamber where a huge

disc of crystal stood on edge fixed upon an axis above a bewildering

array of wires, pipes and gauges.

* * * * *

Hero John, who seemed familiar with the mechanism, turned a lever,

whereupon the disc commenced to spin like a pie plate on a dance

floor. Faster and faster it spun, silently gathering speed each second

while a low humming sound filled the chamber. Gradually the outline of

the whirling disk commenced to brighten, tinting the scar-seamed,

craggy features of the Atlantean generals and picking glorious,

glowing lights from the jewels on Hero Giles' wonderfully engraved

breastplate.

"Ah." Hero John turned a small dial. "The crystal warms. Look, oh

Wanderers!"

Nelson rubbed his eyes incredulously, for in the heart of the

shimmering circle had materialized the outline of a room with walls of

yellow marble.

"Well, I'm damned!" gasped Alden. "See how it flickers!"

As the revolving disc of crystal gained top speed, the flickering

subsided and a picture, clearer than most photographs, could be seen

in the center. A wondrously slender, yellow-haired young girl clad in

Grecian robes of pale blue sat in deep despond upon a plain wooden

couch, with a black haired servant kneeling before her, apparently

lacing sandals on her tiny, pink-hued feet.

"Bring closer the face," snapped Hero Giles gruffly.

Gradually the focus changed, like the close-up of a movie camera,

until in the center of the madly whirling disc could be seen in minute

detail and living color the face of an indescribably lovely girl.

"Whew," muttered Nelson, staring in silent amazement. "No wonder they

want her back! She makes Ziegfeld's little girls look like Armenian

refugees." He cast a sidewise glance, but Alden had apparently not

heard him; the younger American stood gazing with rapturous joy at the

girl.

"Aye! Aye!" The two veteran generals uttered stifled groans and one of

them drew a hand across his eyes. "Poseidon save her! Aye! Preserve

the fair Altara."

"Wouldst thou not doubly save her, now?" demanded Hero John in a low

voice that bespoke his anguish. He seemed suddenly older than the

grim, helmeted veterans to either side.

"You bet! I guess a man sees a face like that only once is a lifetime.

And now," Nelson continued with an effort to return to the practical,

"there's no time to be lost--so I'd just like to take a look at those

pteranodons of yours."

* * * * *

A few minutes later, the two aviators found themselves nearing a lofty

structure which adjoined the imperial palace. It was constructed along

the lines of an immense aviary. Between beautiful, glistening Ionic

columns of white marble, gleamed bronze bars, set at regular intervals

to prevent the escape of the most appalling creatures which could ever

have skimmed the air.

"What in the devil is your idea?" demanded Alden, taken aback. "God,

look at the loathsome brutes!"

Some of these huge, flying reptiles were hopping awkwardly over the

ground picking at bones and refuse littering the floor with long

pelican-like bills, which were, however, very much thicker than those

of pelicans, and set with sharp teeth at least six inches long.

"Not very pretty are they? Kind of look like huge bats," commented

Nelson thoughtfully. "Wonder if they could be handled?"

"Yes, their wings are leathery. Look at 'em up yonder." Alden pointed

to the roof of that immense aviary where, hanging head downwards like

gigantic bats, must have been hundreds upon hundreds of the

pteranodons. One of them, whistling oddly, fluttered up to the bars,

affording the Wanderers an excellent view of a loathsome head, the

back of which ended in a curious sort of horn, that, projecting

backwards, jutted far above its rear. Fierce, vermillion eyes with

green irises glared at the Americans through the bars, and great wings

of greasy-looking leather fanned a disgusting stench from the interior

of the aviary.

* * * * *

"Sweet little things," was Alden's comment. "God! Imagine having one

of those great things swooping down on you. Hey, Alden, look at that

big devil over there! He must have a wing spread of thirty feet. Big

as a Moth plane, isn't he?"

For answer the pteranodon clattered its vast beak savagely. One of the

generals stooped and, catching up a huge slab of meat from a basket

nearby, hurled it through the bars into the gaping jaws.

"What would ye with these creature?" demanded Hero Giles with

undisguised curiosity.

"You'd be surprised." Nelson was not deliberately rude, but his mind

was wrapped up in the daring project he had evolved. "I want a couple

of the biggest of these caught and set aside in a courtyard where

there will be no one looking on. If your people can train and handle

podokos and allosauri--I guess a couple of Yanks ought to be able to

manage these flying nightmares. So don't you worry about us."

Hero Giles uttered grim, significant laugh. "Thou hadst best manage

them. I note yonder pteranodon is in need of nourishment."

CHAPTER X

With sharp anxiety, Victor Nelson kept watching the towers of Jezreel

rise ever clearer above the great, warm plain of Jarmuth, but, for all

that, he noted how distinctly Jezreel differed from Heliopolis. The

Jarmuthian capital was predominantly amber-yellow instead of white in

color; its towers were flat-topped, angular, hideous structures that

compared not at all favorably with the graceful Grecian architecture

of Atlantean public buildings.

The populace, he decided, as he strode along in the midst of half a

dozen silent guards, were as harsh and graceless as their

architecture. Whereas the Atlanteans had been white skinned and

uniformly red haired--save for those of Hudsonian blood--the

inhabitants of Jarmuth almost without exception were black haired and

had dark, olive-hued skins.

"They're the lost tribes of Israel, all right," Nelson decided after a

brief sojourn in that savage land lying beyond Apidanus--the great

boiling river, whose bubbling and scalding currents had for centuries

served as a natural boundary between the two realms. But now the

Jarmuthian armies had crossed it and were steadily pushing back the

demoralized and despairing Atlanteans with savage energy that heaped

the dead in hillocks.

"Their armor," mused the ragged, barefoot prisoner, studying his

silent guards, "looks a lot like a Roman legionnaire's, but that six

pointed star on their helmets is pure Semitic. Yes, this sure is an

Asiatic outfit."

His eyes wandered from one fierce, big-nosed infantryman to another

and noted the splendid physical structure of the majority. Evidently

hardier, much less refined and luxury-loving than the Atlanteans,

these swart warriors disdained robes and other garments. Save for

helmet, armor and brief black kilts, they were quite naked. Like the

Atlantean hoplites the infantrymen carried spears, steam retortii and

quantities of grenades.

The country side through which the prisoner passed had a holiday air,

for garlands of flowers hung in every doorway, and naked, pot-bellied

children squatted by the roadside, industriously weaving crowns and

streamers of gay blossoms.

"Look, Atlantean dog!" commanded the black-bearded leader of the

escort. "Let thine infidel eyes gaze upon the mightiest city of the

world. Seest thou yonder Ziggurat which o'er towers all others?"

Nelson raised eyes red-rimmed from sleeplessness and deep anxiety--for

the crafty Jarmuthians had proved unexpectedly unwilling to credit him

as the Atlantean outcast and would-be renegade he had pretended to be.

"Yes," he said in reply to the English-speaking

_jehar's_--captain's--question. "What's it for?"

"'Tis the temple of the almighty Beelzebub, Steam God of Jarmuth.

Without his hot breath no wheel would turn, our armies would be

powerless and this land would perish under the ice of the outer

world." The dark eyed officer's eye fell speculatively upon his bound

and dust-covered prisoner. "Perchance, dog of a spy, thou wilt die

during to-day's fourth division[2] together with Altara, pale daughter

of the feeble, false god Poseidon."

[Footnote 2: The Atlantean day was divided into six divisions of four

hours each; due to the flame suns there was no sunrise or sunset.]

* * * * *

This afternoon?

Nelson could not realize that the time had flown so quickly. Four

short hours separated him from the crisis of his life. A thousand

doubts assailed him. What if Alden or Hero Giles failed in their share

of the great scheme for rescue? Narrowly, the aviator's eye searched

the great, rich plain, then swept the amber-hued sky where, far above

the plain, Jilboa, the nearest flame sun, beat off the Arctic chill

and darkness.

The great, black-bearded jehar eased the straps from which was

suspended the brass coil of his retortii. "Aye," he chuckled, his

thick lips parted in a crafty smile. "Ere long will the fair flesh of

Altara grace the ceremonial board of His Exaltation, the King, and his

priests and princes."

Nelson gasped in horror. The divinely beautiful Altara--butchered for

meat like a calf? Grotesque! Ghastly! "What! You eat your prisoners?"

He felt sick, nauseated.

For answer, the swart Jarmuthian raised an enormous hand and dealt the

captive American a stinging cuff which made his teeth rattle.

"Peace!" he snarled. "Else I slit thy spying throat ere we pass yonder

walls."

Fingering a short blue-black beard that was frizzed into tight curls

in the Assyrian manner, the jehar lengthened his stride as the little

detachment clanked into the shadow of a great wall surrounding

Jezreel, and through a huge gate guarded by two hideous, jackal-headed

effigies.

Hurrying into the city were throngs of eager men, women and children,

interspersed with muscular, black bearded soldiers who cast

threatening, baleful eyes on the pale-skinned prisoner.

* * * * *

At first the great metropolis of Jezreel seemed boundless, for

everywhere arose tall, massive monuments of yellow marble whose

facades were engraved with Sanskrit characters, thus bearing out

Nelson's surmise that this was indeed a race of Semitic origin.

Here and there hurried grey-bearded, vulture-eyed priests oddly garbed

in corrupt Occhive and Tyrian regalia. Nelson found it odd to see the

Tablet of the Laws, which Jarmuth so openly ignored, swaying on their

yellow robed breasts; and none cried out more menacingly nor more

loudly against the limping, wan-faced captive, than these same

ecclesiastics, who must have long since forgotten all worship of

Jehovah in the foul service of a bestial golden effigy.

A stone sailed through the air, narrowly missing the American; then

another, which struck his shoulder.

"God, what a rough looking crowd," thought Nelson, as the guards,

cursing, held back the screaming mob. "At this rate I won't live to

even reach the temple!"

Every second his life stood in great danger. Unkempt, sloe-eyed women

hurled themselves, shrieking with fury, against the armored chests of

the guards, who were hard pressed to beat them off with their spear

hafts.

Nelson's one small ray of comfort in this evil hour was the fact that

his .45 pistol remained untouched in a food wallet. At the border the

jehar had cast one contemptuous glance at the weapon, but, no doubt

deeming it some strange culinary tool, he had made no effort to remove

it.

It was a continual struggle for the guards to win their way up a long

flight of stairs, for ever the great stream of humanity grew denser

and more menacing.

* * * * *

Nelson felt a violent sense of revolt grip his being. "I must win

free," he thought. "If I fail, Alden dies, and--and--" For the first

time he realised how much he wanted to actually see Altara. Like a

clear cameo, an image of her had remained fresh in his memory. Except

for her Grecian garments she might have been a lovely, carefree

English or American girl.

"And these decadent swine would sacrifice her!" The thought was

sickening. Yet how could he prevent the pitiful tragedy?

Fortunately, a detachment of troops--tall, sinewy fellows with conical

helmets, crested with six-pointed stars--reenforced the guards just as

clawing hands began to snatch and tug at the prisoner's ragged

Atlantean chiton of blue cotton.

Almost before he realized it, Nelson was dragged inside a great gloomy

building and into a circular chamber where four eagle-featured elders

sat in council beneath the six-pointed star of Sem. On approaching,

the jehar in command sank on one knee and in humble salute raised both

hands to the tribunal.

"A tough looking desk sergeant they've got," muttered the prisoner to

himself as his eye met the chilling regard of a lean, yellow-faced

priest. "Wonder what I'm booked for?" Idiotically, he recalled being

summoned before a traffic court, years back. "Guess I don't get off

with vagrancy; it'll probably be everything from speeding to mayhem,

with maybe arson and well-poisoning thrown in."

The deliberations of this ominous court proved to be appallingly

short. The dour-faced elders merely put their heads together, muttered

a few sentences, then straightened up almost immediately. The chief

priest--he with the yellow face--thrust out his fist and made the

immemorial signal of death by jerking his thumb at the black marble

floor.

* * * * *

Before the outraged and astounded aviator could utter a word of

protest, powerful guards seized and hauled him off down a dark, narrow

passageway in which the fetid prison smell was very strong. Too wise

to struggle against overwhelming odds, yet appalled at the thought of

his impending doom, Nelson was dragged into a room where four or five

furtive, enslaved Atlanteans, made dumb by the removal of their

tongues, were engaged in a curious occupation.

On a bare stone bench, five other Atlantean captives were sitting in

miserable silence. They made a grotesque array, for their heads were

crowned with gay yellow and blue flowers, and the upper half of their

perfectly formed bodies gleamed with an application of a

sweet-smelling oil. About their wrists and waists were twined fragrant

garlands of yellow roses which hid the leather straps confining their

hands.

Struggling, Nelson was forced on to the bench, whereupon slaves,

skipping to avoid the lash of a scarred, olive-hued slave driver,

hurried to wash the newly arrived prisoner's limbs, face and hands. A

weary-looking old slave with sunken, rheumy eyes listlessly pulled the

blue chiton from Nelson's broad shoulders, and would have removed the

food pouch had not the prisoner winked vigorously. The ministering

slave glanced swiftly sidewise and, discovering the slave driver's

attention directed to another corner, pulled the upper folds of the

chiton over the food pouch and its precious contents, then set a crown

of yellow roses more or less askew on the American's head. For all the

peril of the situation Nelson could not suppress a fleeting smile as

the phrase, "For I'm to be Queen of the May, Mother," leaped

nonsensically into his brain.

* * * * *

"Yes, I guess they are getting us all dolled up for a sacrifice of

some kind." Nelson's heart began to pound at the thought. Then he

fought for self control. It must be a hideously realistic nightmare!

He, Victor Nelson, American citizen, a quiet birdman, member of the

Caterpillar Club and ex-flight commander of the A. E. F. was about to

be offered as a sacrifice to some hideous, pagan god? Nonsense! He'd

wake up in a minute and hear the drone of a ship on the line.

He blinked, staring fixedly at a single ray of light that came

streaming in through a small, barred window, then glanced sidewise at

his fellow victims, who with Spartan indifference sat waiting for the

end of all things. It was no dream!

From the tiny window came the shrill discordant braying of many

trumpets, and a roar like that of a football crowd arose surprisingly

near. In response, the slave driver lashed the gaudily bedecked

sacrificial victims to their feet with vicious cuts of his pliant

whip, and herded them like a drove of calves down a very long passage,

lit at intervals by those strange column lamps of incandescent gas. In

their red glare the doomed six seemed as though already bathed in

blood.

"Must be some crowd of people outside," muttered Nelson as a great

gale of sound deafened him. Yonder the amber glare of the flame suns

glimmered, and now it was his turn to step into the open!

* * * * *

On a sort of spiral roadway he paused, breathless, awed, bewildered,

for there, eddying restlessly about the bases of towers and other huge

structures, was a great sea of up-turned faces. To his surprise he

found the passage he had followed opened perhaps halfway up what must

be the great Ziggurat of Beelzebub. He judged the tower's height must

be immense, for already the crowd was a good hundred feet below.

"_Zarotoa! Zarotoa! ù Wlanka!_"[3]

Nelson shivered. How terrible was the wild, bloodthirsty clamor of

that vast throng, when they beheld the six flower-decked prisoners

appear upon the circular winding road which led to the lofty and

wind-swept summit of the great conical pyramid of the people of

Jezreel.

[Footnote 3: Death to the victims!]

Behind the victims marched perhaps eighteen or twenty spearmen

gorgeously uniformed in yellow and black painted armor. Their

retortii were plated with gold, and in the center of a star forming

the crest of each helmet was set a diamond large as a hickory nut.

Preceding the despairing prisoners marched a squad of tall,

clean-shaven priests with great gold hoops in their ears. They blew

mightily upon long, curved horns, and were followed by perhaps a dozen

lithe, posturing girls, half clothed in diaphanous yellow robes. These

priestesses swung golden censers which flung bluish clouds of aromatic

smoke high into the humid air above.

* * * * *

Up and up, around and around the great tower temple, Nelson was

dragged, while the vast city of Jezreel, palaces, towers, courts,

dwellings and all, lay like a great panorama below. Up and up, and the

wind grew stronger while Nelson marvelled at the great height of the

structure he was mounting. Immediately in front of him swayed the

naked shoulders of the three captive Atlanteans; he could see rose

petals from their crowns fluttering in the strong warm breeze sweeping

that man-made pinnacle for the worship of a heathen god.

Despairingly, the American's eyes searched the horizon, to discover

nothing but a few great birds wheeling lazily in the bronze-hued sky.

Very clearly he could discern three of the flame suns, casting flame

high from their peaks.

"Alden!" he groaned. "Oh God, Alden, don't fail me!"

Chilled by the fate in store, he scanned the dark and hostile faces

below, but found no friendly visage.

Up and up. The procession was now nearing the summit.

There were hosts of poignant problems before him, each vital if Altara

and the Empire of Atlans were to be saved; but one primary question

immediately confronted him. How could he get his hands free? He

ventured a few words in English to the stolid Atlantean at his side,

whereat the fellow only stared dully and shook his red, flower-crowned

head.

He next tried to cautiously work loose his hands, but to no avail. The

rope of plaited skin binding his aching wrists together was tough as

any rawhide. Cursing, he abandoned the effort, and, as his eyes once

more swept the great bloodthirsty throng below, he felt himself doomed

indeed.

CHAPTER XI

Standing at last on the summit of the great Ziggurat, Nelson found

himself staring up at the fearsome golden image of the dread demon

Beelzebub. The god stood some twelve feet in height and had a hideous

human face, but, in place of hair and beard, countless golden tubes

writhed in all directions. From the end of one, the puzzled prisoner

beheld several tiny feathers of steam creeping forth, indicating that

these hairs were a species of steam vent.

When, with the other captives, he was made to halt near its base, he

further discovered that the idol sat upon a throne of yellow marble,

the sides of which were carved with Sanskrit characters, necessarily

quite meaningless to the doomed aviator.

In a grim and silent rank before Beelzebub's feet, stood some six or

eight priest-executioners bending their black-robed bodies against the

strong wind which swept that ghastly pinnacle.

Just below the base of the image, Nelson noted several great, copper

coils, no doubt conducting steam from the interior of the Ziggurat.

Between the knees of Beelzebub rested a huge, shallow bowl, the use of

which puzzled the American not a little, for he saw that the base of

this ornate receptacle was also wrapped with a number of steam coils.

Two great hands, ending in cruel-looking claws, were stretched

horizontally above the demon's knees, seeming to plead for victims.

* * * * *

Suddenly a deep toned brazen gong sounded somewhere below; the

trumpeters blew an ear-piercing note; and, at a gesture from the high

priest, four of the brawny executioner-priests leaped forward, seized

one of the Atlantean victims, hurled him to the stone platform and, in

an unbelievably short interval, strapped the shrieking wretch by

wrists, elbows, knees and ankles to a long, brass rod. Slung like a

dead deer from a rail, they lifted the helpless Atlantean, and, while

five hundred thousand voices roared in acclaim the priests fitted the

pole ends into notches above the hands of the idol with the effect

that the idol actually seemed to be clutching its victim.

Then, from all the pipes composing the hair and beard of Beelzebub,

sprang forth hissing spouts of snowy steam which, whipped by the

rising wind, went whirling madly down the lee of the Ziggurat. At the

same time, from the half open mouth of the demon issued a fearful,

screaming howl, a thousand times louder than the whistle of a speeding

locomotive. Deafening and barbaric, it was reechoed from a hundred

towers and battlements.

A dreadful, exultant yell burst from the multitude below as the

red-robed priest drew from beneath his garments a sickle-shaped knife

that glittered evilly in the light of the flaming suns. Still

chanting, he stooped and quickly made a deep incision over the heart

of the victim. While a piercing, agonized shriek burst from the ashen

lips of the doomed Atlantean, his bright life-blood began to splash

into the golden bowl below where, due to the presence of the steam

coils, it swiftly commenced to hiss and bubble. Very quickly the last

scarlet drops had fallen.

Then while Nelson, sick and horrified, stood watching, the dead body

on its pole was taken down, unstrapped, and hurled, limp and

red-spattered, to the next lower platform where other priests waited

to dismember it for the ceremonial cannibalism soon to follow.

* * * * *

In rapid succession two more victims were slaughtered amid the

blood-hungry cheers of the Jarmuthian populace. Now the great bowl

hissed and bubbled with a generous supply of the dark red fluid, from

which rose clouds of evil-smelling steam that fanned the hideous

features above.

From below suddenly arose an excited shout far mightier than any which

had preceded it, when the executioners, sweating from their exertions,

now turned and, spying Nelson, hurried forward. Coincidently, the

American's bound hands disappeared beneath the chiton. Squaring his

shoulders, he gripped the pistol, prepared to make a good end.

"They'll get me, but before I die I'll send at least two or three of

these devils to hell," he thought. "Come on--"

But, for an inexplicable reason, the arch-priest beckoned back his

satellites, while roar upon roar of terrific excitement swelled from

the swarming mob below, and a shout which at last became

distinguishable bid fair to split the heavens. "Altara! Altara!

Altara!"

Slowly, the temporarily reprieved victim's muscles stiffened. He

understood. The next victim was to be the fair Altara, sister of

Altorius and Sacred Virgin of Atlans.

"Altara! Altara!" A rising hurricane of impassioned human voices

thundered the name.

Suddenly, the desire to live burned doubly strong in the American's

breast. He must somehow prevent this inhuman catastrophe. But how?

How?

Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, Nelson stifled a groan. The

southern horizon remained clear, and put an end to hope. No help! He

must fight it out to the end alone.

* * * * *

A rank of exultant, black-bearded priests now appeared at the head of

the stairway, then a quartet of olive skinned, semi-naked priestesses

joyfully clashing brass cymbals.

There came an interval--and Nelson's heart stood still as there

appeared the lovely head and shoulders of her whom he had first seen

in the heart of the revolving crystal. Even more fiercely, mad revolt

at fate gripped him.

Through hot, strained eyes the American saw that the stately Altara

was beautiful beyond all possible comparison, and that she seemed

utterly unafraid in the hour of her dreadful death. The Atlantean

maiden's large, clear blue eyes were fixed with calm resignation on

the distant flame sun of Jilboa. On her curling golden hair had been

set a circlet of ceremonial yellow roses, while her white, slender

body was thinly covered with a scanty robe of yellow silk.

Slowly, and moving her small bare feet in a regal stride, Altara

climbed the last few steps and stood straight and unafraid before the

hideous demon god of Jarmuth.

Thousands of frantic inner voices assailed the aviator's

consciousness. "Save her! You must save her! She's too young, too

beautiful to die!"

Like a vast maelstrom of sound, so swelled the lustful cry of the dark

multitude at the base of the Ziggurat, while the arch-priest chanted

his litany in a sort of triumphant exultation. Then, all at once, one

of the executioners roughly tripped the golden haired girl, sprawling

her helpless on the bloody stones; and, before Nelson could quite

realize it, the slender, silver hued form lay limp and helpless

between Beelzebub's bloody claws.

* * * * *

Like a dynamo furiously gathering speed, so buzzed Nelson's brain. He

was going to save her--if only for a brief interval! One man against a

nation. Through a raging mist of fury he saw the red-robed priest

raise his lean arms; then the American's bound hands darted beneath

the blue chiton to reappear immediately. No one saw the pistol, for

every eye was rivetted upon the gleaming, sickle-knife of the red

priest. Like a voice from hell, that eery scream burst again from

Beelzebub's throat as his priest stepped near, the knife raised.

Amid a deafening roar the sickle-knife flashed higher; but it never

fell, for the red priest suddenly reeled, clutched his chest and,

staring wildly, staggered sidewise, while the assembled priests stared

thunderstruck. The deafening roar of Beelzebub, the clamor of horns

and cymbals had drowned out the report. In superstitious awe the

Jarmuthians leaped back, panic-stricken, from the convulsively

writhing body of the red priest, which rolled crazily down the steps

before the idol; but a high shout of terror rang out as he toppled off

the summit and, like a discarded puppet, plunged down the precipitous

side of the cone-like tower.

Again Nelson's pistol spat, and two of the executioners collapsed in

kicking agony. Like an avenging fury, the American raged about the

summit, the pistol in his bound bands dealing death right and left

until panic seized the remaining priests, who, with one accord,

abandoned their weapons to rush headlong down the dizzy, winding

roadway. In a trice, none but Altara, Nelson, the two Atlanteans and

the fallen priests remained on the summit.

* * * * *

It was the work of a moment for the Atlanteans to cast loose Nelson's

bound wrists, and he theirs; time was precious, for, from below, a

furious cohort of spearmen were charging up the stairs, their dark

features terrible in their wrath.

"Only four more shots!" The sickening realization dashed into Nelson's

brain. "That'll never stop them." Then in the midst of his despair he

saw an answer. Stepping back he fired twice full into the great steam

coil circling the base of the idol.

_Spang! Spang!_ His bullets smacked through the copper coil to

puncture neat, round holes. As he fervently hoped, jets of live steam

rushed through these vents with terrible force and bathed the head of

the stairs with a scalding, blinding vapor. Howling like mad beasts,

the agonized Jarmuthian hoplites fell back, while overhead Beelzebub

bellowed incessantly, shaking the sky with his hideous voice.

"That's better." But Nelson knew his triumph to be brief. "_Where in

hell is Alden?_" he raged as with shaking hands be released the

bewildered girl from the death bar after the two Atlanteans had lifted

it and its fair burden from the claws of Beelzebub.

Picking up the swords and other weapons of the fallen priests the two

Atlanteans uttered their deep-toned war cry of _Halor vàn!_ and

joyously prepared to die fighting, as furious roar on roar of wrath

arose from the populace, infuriated at being cheated of their prey.

But the black-armored temple guards dared not charge those twin steam

jets barring their approach. Accordingly they tried other means.

* * * * *

Nelson's heart stopped as a small, dark object sailed up from below

and clattered on the platform. It was a grenade. With the speed of

thought, the American kicked it to the landing below, where it

exploded, annihilating a detachment of Jarmuthians by drenching them

with the terrible fungus gas. Heart bounding with savage joy, Nelson

watched the deadly green fog leap from the broken grenade and of its

own accord settle on the nearest soldiers. With the usual astonishing

speed there formed on the stricken soldiery that poisonous yellow

mould, whose fungus-like shoots sprouted through nostrils and mouths.

On the dense crowd below the bomb's effect was appalling, and no more

grenades were hurled....

During the respite Nelson's anguished eyes once more swept the skies.

He started. Was it true or was it a mirage? Far to the southward a

small, black speck materialized in the orange-hued heavens. Good old

Alden! Hope wavered in the American's breast. Could he and his two

fellows beat off the infuriated Jarmuthians long enough? He doubted

it.

A shower of spears sailed up, but because of the angle, their

trajectory was too great, and like rays of death the lances flashed

harmlessly overhead to plunge over the summit and wreak death among

those on the other side.

Nearer and nearer came the black speck while from the populace a low

shout of amazement arose. Coincidently Nelson's heart stopped; aghast,

he saw that the steam was no longer hissing from the holes at the

idol's feet! Evidently, the steam current had been shut off from below

to allow the raging priests to lead their followers in a desperate

charge up the stairs.

Marshalling an Atlantean to either side, Nelson sprang to the head of

the stair and fired full in the face of gorgeously robed priests who

staggered back screaming. But the others wavered only an instant.

"_Halor vàn!_" Both Atlanteans hurled spears retrieved from the

abandoned weapons--and each struck down his man.

* * * * *

The American's eye flickered up. Yes, there came a strange, but

welcome sight: a great creature with enormous, leathery pinions was

circling down towards the tower top! A clashing of weapons brought

Nelson's eyes earthwards. He joined in a furious melée at the stair

top, like the Atlanteans, using a captured bronze sword. There came a

deep groan as the right-hand Atlantean collapsed with a bloodied

bronze spear point standing far out from between his naked shoulder

blades.

A swooping shadow fell across the slowly advancing attackers.

Beholding that awesome creature the Jarmuthians cowered, hesitated;

then in headlong panic they darted below, uttering howls of fear and

pursued by the surviving Atlantean, who, gone berserk, must have

shortly paid for his folly.

The pteranodon was now quite recognizable, and seated on a double

saddle was Alden, skillfully guiding the ungainly monster by means of

a curious bridle, by shifting his weight and by pressing certain nerve

centers between the great reptile's leathery shoulders.

Down, down circled Alden until the great wings skimmed just above

Beelzebub's ugly golden head.

Her courage strained beyond endurance, Altara screamed shrilly in fear

as Alden guided the huge reptile to the summit and forced it to light.

"Quick!" shouted Alden. "They're coming back up!"

"All right!" Catching up the fainting girl, Nelson hurdled two or

three fallen bodies, and, while Alden showered fungus bombs upon the

returning Jarmuthians, he laid his precious burden across the saddle

and secured her with straps specially designed for the purpose.

"All right, Dick," he snapped. "Get going!"

"But you?" Alden's brown face was terribly intent.

"I'm not going! This creature could never carry the three of us. It

can't, I tell you! Hurry, those devils are coming!"

Alden folded his arms. "If you don't go, I don't."

"All right then," snarled Nelson, vaulting into the saddle after

casting loose the inert, yellow-robed girl. "Be a damned fool! We'll

all die now."

* * * * *

It was a near thing, for the pteranodon, scenting the fresh blood, was

very loath to obey its master, and scuffed awkwardly around the tower

top two or three times, while Nelson, clutching Altara to him,

expended his last shot in driving back the enemy.

At last, the pteranodon spread its huge brown pinions and took off.

Then Nelson gasped in alarm, for, unaccustomed to the heavy weight it

now bore, the pteranodon scaled earthwards with the speed of a meteor,

wildly flapping its bat-like-wings. Down! Down! Nelson had an

impression of people scattering like frightened ants.

Alden cursed, tugged furiously on the bridle, and set his weight back

in the saddle, but to no avail. Down! Ever down! The pteranodon now

struggled among the tall buildings.

A sickening sense of defeat gripped Nelson as a long jet of steam shot

out from a huge brass retortii mounted on the roof of an arsenal. The

scalding fingers of steam just missed its target, but fortunately

served to sting the descending pteranodon. With a convulsive shudder

and a whistling scream, the hideous reptile commenced to flap its

gigantic wings faster, and, slowly but surely, began to rise over the

yellow temples and towers of the barbarous city of Jezreel.

* * * * *

What followed is now a matter of Atlantean history. On its pages is

set forth in full detail how the giant pteranodon barely crossed the

boiling river to sink exhausted in the outskirts of Tricca.

There, also, is described the series of tremendous battles in which

the Atlanteans, led by Altorius and inspired by the return of their

Sacred Virgin, employed the terrible fungus gas to overwhelm the

Jarmuthian invaders, driving them back with great slaughter to the

steaming plains of their own land.

At even greater length is described the great triumph Altorius

accorded the victorious aviators on the occasion of Victor Nelson's

marriage to Altara.

"Doth it not seem strange," she whispered as they stood looking out

over the great, sleeping city of Heliopolis, "that thou of the New

World and I of the Lost World, should stand man and wife?"

The American's tanned face softened. "My darling," he whispered,

"there are lots of strange things in the new Atlantis--but this isn't

one of them."

_(The End.)_

The Meteor Girl

_By Jack Williamson_

[Illustration: _She seemed to scream, though we could hear nothing._]

[Sidenote: Through the complicated space-time of the fourth dimension

goes Charlie King in an attempt to rescue the Meteor Girl.]

"What's the good in Einstein, anyhow?"

I shot the question at lean young Charlie King. In a moment he looked

up at me; I thought there was pain in the back of his clear brown

eyes. Lips closed in a thin white line across his wind-tanned face;

nervously he tapped his pipe on the metal cowling of the _Golden

Gull's_ cockpit.

"I know that space is curved, that there is really no space or time,

but only space-time, that electricity and gravitation and magnetism

are all the same. But how is that going to pay my grocery bill--or

yours?"

"That's what Virginia wants to know."

"Virginia Randall!" I was astonished. "Why, I thought--"

"I know. We've been engaged a year. But she's called it off."

Charlie looked into my eyes for a long minute, his lips still

compressed. We were leaning on the freshly painted, streamline

fuselage of the _Golden Gull_, as neat a little amphibian monoplane as

ever made three hundred miles an hour. She stood on the glistening

white sand of our private landing field on the eastern Florida coast.

Below us the green Atlantic was running in white foam on the rocks.

In the year that Charlie King and I had been out of the Institute of

Technology, we had built the nucleus of a commercial airplane

business. We had designed and built here in our own shops several very

successful seaplanes and amphibians. Charlie's brilliant mathematical

mind was of the greatest aid, except when he was too far lost in his

abstruse speculations to descend to things commercial. Mathematics is

painful enough to me when it is used in calculating the camber of an

airplane wing. And pure mathematics, such as the theories of

relativity and equivalence, I simply abhor.

I was amazed. Virginia Randall was a girl trim and beautiful as our

shining _Golden Gull_. I had thought them devotedly in love, and had

been looking forward to the wedding.

"But it isn't two weeks, since Virginia was out here! You took her up

in our _Western Gull IV_!"

* * * * *

Nervously Charlie lit his pipe, drew quickly on it. His face, lean and

drawn beneath the flying goggles pushed up on his forehead, sought

mine anxiously.

"I know. I drove her back to the station. That was when--when we

quarreled."

"But why? About Einstein? That's silly."

"She wanted me to give it up here, and go in with her father in his

Wall Street brokerage business. The old gent is willing to take me,

and make a business man of me."

"Why, I couldn't run the business without you, Charlie!"

"We talked about that, Hammond. I don't really do much of the work.

Just play around with the mathematics, and leave the models and

blueprints to you."

"Oh, Charlie, that's not quite--"

"It's the truth, right enough," he said, bitterly. "You design

aircraft, and I play with Einstein. And as you say, a fellow can't eat

equations."

"I'd hate to see you go."

"And I'd hate to give up you, and our business, and the math. Really

no need of it. My tastes are simple enough. And old 'Iron-clad'

Randall has made all one family needs. Virginia's not exactly a

pauper, herself. Two or three millions, I think."

"And where did Virginia go?"

"She took the _Valhalla_ yesterday at San Francisco. Going to join her

father at Panama. He cruises about the world in his steam yacht, you

know, and runs Wall Street by radio. I was to telegraph her if I'd

changed my mind. I decided to stick to you, Hammond. I telegraphed a

corsage of orchids, and sent her the message, 'Einstein forever!'"

"If I know Virginia, those were not very politic words."

"Well, a man--"

* * * * *

His words were cut short by a very unusual incident.

A thin, high scream came suddenly from above our neat stuccoed hangars

at the edge of the white field. I looked up quickly, to catch a

glimpse of a bright object hurtling through the air above our heads.

The bellowing scream ended abruptly in a thunderous crash. I felt a

tremor of the ground underfoot.

"What--" I ejaculated.

"Look!" cried Charlie.

He pointed. I looked over the gleaming metal wing of the _Golden

Gull_, to see a huge cloud of white sand rising like a fountain at the

farther side of the level field. Deliberately the column of debris

rose, spread, rained down, leaving a gaping crater in the earth.

"Something fell?"

"It sounded like a shell from a big gun, except that it didn't

explode. Let's get over and see!"

We ran to where the thing had struck, three hundred yards across the

field. We found a great funnel-shaped pit torn in the naked earth. It

was a dozen yards across, fifteen feet deep, and surrounded with a

powdery ring of white sand and pulverized rock.

"Something like a shell-hole," I observed.

"I've got it!" Charlie cried. "It was a meteor!"

"A meteor? So big?"

"Yes. Lucky for us it was no bigger. If it had been like the one that

fell in Siberia a few years ago, or the one that made the Winslow

crater in Arizona--we wouldn't have been talking about it. Probably we

have a chunk of nickel-iron alloy here."

"I'll get some of the men out here with digging tools, and we'll see

what we can find."

Our mechanics were already hurrying across the field. I shouted at

them to bring picks and shovels. In a few minutes five of us were at

work throwing sand and shattered rock out of the pit.

* * * * *

Suddenly I noticed a curious thing. A pale bluish mist hung in the

bottom of the pit. It was easily transparent, no denser than tobacco

smoke. Passing my spade through it did not seem to disturb it in the

least.

I rubbed my eyes doubtfully, said to Charlie, "Do you see a sort of

blue haze in the pit?"

He peered. "No. No.... Yes. Yes, I do! Funny thing. Kind of a blue

fog. And the tools cut right through it without moving it! Queer! Must

have something to do with the meteor!" He was very excited.

We dug more eagerly. An hour later we had opened the hole to a depth

of twenty feet. Our shovels were clanging on the gray iron of the rock

from space. The mist had grown thicker as the excavation deepened; we

looked at the stone through a screen of motionless blue fog.

We had found the meteor. There were several queer things about it. The

first man who touched it--a big Swede mechanic named Olson--was

knocked cold as if by a nasty jolt of electricity. It took half an

hour to bring him to consciousness.

As fast as the rugged iron side of the meteorite was uncovered, a

white crust of frost formed over it.

"It was as cold as outer space, nearly at the absolute zero," Charlie

explained. "And it was heated only superficially during its quick

passage through the air. But how it comes to be charged with

electricity--I can't say."

He hurried up to his laboratory behind the hangars, where he had

equipment ranging from an astronomical telescope to a delicate

seismograph. He brought back as much electrical equipment as he could

carry. He had me touch an insulated wire to the frost-covered stone

from space, while he put the other end to one post of a galvanometer.

I think he got a current that wrecked the instrument. At any rate, he

grew very much excited.

"Something queer about that stone!" he cried. "This is the chance of a

lifetime! I don't know that a meteor has ever been scientifically

examined so soon after falling."

* * * * *

He hurried us all across to the laboratory. We came back with a truck

load of coils and tubes and batteries and potentiometers and other

assorted equipment. He had men with heavy rubber gloves lift the

frost-covered stone to a packing box on a bench. The thing was

irregular in shape, about a foot long; it must have weighed two

hundred pounds. He sent a man racing on a motorcycle to the drug store

to get dry ice (solidified carbon dioxide) to keep the iron stone at

its low temperature.

In a few hours he had a complete laboratory set up around the

meteorite. He worked feverishly in the hot sunshine, reading the

various instruments he had set up, and arranging more. He contrived to

keep the stone cold by packing it in a box of dry ice.

The mechanics stopped for dinner, and I tried to get him to take time

to eat.

"No, Hammond," he said. "This is something big! We were talking about

Einstein. This rock seems energized with a new kind of force: all

meteors are probably the same way, when they first plunge out of

space. I think this will be to relativity what the falling apple is to

gravity. This is a big thing."

He looked up at me, brown eyes flashing.

"This is my chance to make a name, Hammond. If I do something big

enough--Virginia might reconsider her opinion."

Charlie worked steadily through the long hot afternoon. I spent most

of the time helping him, or gazing in fascination at the curious haze

of luminous blue mist that clung like a sphere of azure fog about the

meteoric stone. I did not completely understand what he did; the

reader who wants the details may consult the monograph he is preparing

for the scientific press.

He had the men string up a line from our direct current generator in

the shops, to supply power for his electrical instruments. He mounted

a powerful electromagnet just below the meteorite, and set up an X-ray

tube to bombard it with rays.

* * * * *

Night came, and the fire of the white sun faded from the sky. In the

darkness, the curious haze about the stone became luminescent,

distinct, a dim, motionless sphere of blue light. I fancied that I saw

grotesque shapes flashing through it. A ball of blue fire, shimmering

and ghost-like, shrouded the instruments.

Charlie's induction coil buzzed wickedly, with purple fire playing

about the terminals. The X-ray tube flickered with a greenish glow. He

manipulated the rheostat that controlled the current through the

electromagnet, and continued to read his instruments.

"Look at that!" he cried.

The bluish haze about the stone grew brighter; it became a ball of

sapphire flame, five feet thick, bright and motionless. A great sphere

of shimmering azure fire! Wisps of pale, sparkling bluish mist ringed

it. The stone in its box, the X-ray bulb and other apparatus were

hidden. The end of the table stuck oddly from the ball of light.

I heard Charlie move a switch. The hum of the coils changed a note.

The ball of blue fire vanished abruptly. It became a hole, a window in

space!

Through it, we saw another world!

The darkness of the night hung about us. Where the ball had been was a

circle of misty blue flame, five feet across. Through that circle I

could see a vast expanse of blue ocean, running in high, white-capped

rollers, beneath a sky overcast with low gray clouds.

It was no flat picture like a movie screen. The scene had vast depth;

I knew that we were really looking over an infinite expanse of stormy

ocean. It was all perfectly clear, distinct, real!

* * * * *

Astounded, I turned to find Charlie standing back and looking into the

ring of blue fire, with a curious mixture of surprise and delighted

satisfaction.

"What--what--" I gasped.

"It's amazing! Wonderful! More than I had dared hope for! The

complete vindication of my theory! If Virginia cares for scientific

reputation--"

"But what is it?"

"It's hard to explain without mathematical language. You might say

that we are looking through a hole in space. The new force in the

meteorite, amplified by the X-rays and the magnetic field, is causing

a distortion of space-time coordinates. You know that a gravitational

field bends light; the light of a star is deflected in passing the

sun. The field of this meteorite bends light through space-time,

through the four-dimensional continuum. That scrap of ocean we can see

may be on the other side of the earth."

I walked around the circle of luminous smoke with the marvelous

picture in the center. It seemed that the window swung with me. I

surveyed the whole angry surface of that slate-gray, storm-beaten sea,

to the misty horizon. Nowhere was it broken by land or ship.

Charlie fell to adjusting his rheostat and switches.

It seemed that the gray ocean moved swiftly beyond the window. Vast

stretches of it raced below our eyes. Faint black stains of steamer

smoke appeared against the blue-gray horizon and swept past. Then land

appeared--a long, green-gray line. We had a flash of a long coast that

unreeled in endless panorama before us. It was such a view as one

might get from a swift airplane--a plane flying thousands of miles per

hour.

The Golden Gate flashed before us, with the familiar skyline of San

Francisco rising on the hills behind it.

"San Francisco!" Charlie cried. "This is the Pacific we've been

seeing. Let's find the _Valhalla_. We might be able to see Virginia!"

* * * * *

The coast-line vanished as he manipulated his instruments. Staring

into the circle of shining blue mist, I saw the endless ocean racing

below us again. We picked up a pleasure yacht, running under bare

poles.

"I didn't know there was such a storm on," Charlie murmured.

Other vessels swam past below us, laboring against heavy seas.

Then we looked upon an ocean whipped into mighty white-crowned waves.

Rain beat down in sheets from low dense clouds; vivid violet

lightnings flashed before us. It seemed very strange to see such

lightning and hear not the faintest whisper of thunder--but no sound

came from anything we saw through the blue-rimmed window in space.

"I hope the _Valhalla_ isn't in weather like this!" cried Charlie.

In a few minutes a dark form loomed through the wind-riven mist.

Swiftly it swam nearer; became a black ship.

"Only a tramp," Charlie said, breathing a sigh of relief.

It was a dingy tramp steamer, her superstructure wrecked. Her fires

seemed dead. She lay across the wind, rolling sluggishly, threatening

to sink with every monstrous wave. We saw no living person aboard her;

she seemed a sinking derelict. We made out the name _Roma_ on her

side.

Charlie moved his dials again.

In a few minutes the slender prow of another great steamer came

through the sheets of rain. It was evidently a passenger vessel. She

seemed limping along, half wrecked, with mighty waves breaking over

her rail.

Charlie grew white with alarm. "The _Valhalla_!" he gasped. "And she's

headed straight for that wreck!"

In a moment, as he brought the liner closer below our blue-rimmed

window, I, too, made out the name. The wet, glistening decks were

almost deserted. Here and there a man struggled futilely against the

force of the storm.

* * * * *

In a few minutes the drifting wreck of the _Roma_ came into our view,

dead ahead of the limping liner. Through the mist and falling rain,

the derelict could not have been in sight of the lookout of the

passenger vessel until she was almost upon it.

We saw the white burst of steam as the siren was blown. We watched the

desperate effort of the liner to check her way, to come about. But it

was too much for the already crippled ship. Charlie cried out as a

mighty wave drove the _Valhalla_ down upon the sluggishly drifting

wreck.

All the mad scene that ensued was strangely silent. We heard no crash

when the collision occurred; heard no screams or shouts while the mob

of desperate, white-faced passengers were fighting their way to the

deck. The vain struggle to launch the boats was like a silent movie.

One boat was splintered while being lowered. Another, already filled

with passengers, was lifted by a great ware and crushed against the

side of the ship. Only shivered wood and red foam were left. The ship

listed so rapidly that the boats on the lee side were useless. It was

impossible to launch the others in that terrible, lashing sea.

"Virginia can swim." Charlie said hopefully. "You know she tried the

Channel last year, and nearly made it, too."

He stopped to watch that terrible scene in white-faced, anxious

silence.

The tramp went down before the steamer, drawing fragments of wrecked

boats after it. The liner was evidently sinking rapidly. We saw dozens

of hopeless, panic-stricken passengers diving off the lee side, trying

to swim off far enough to avoid the tremendous suction.

Then, with a curious deliberation, the bow of the _Valhalla_ dipped

under green water; her stern rose in the air until the ship stood

almost perpendicular. She slipped quickly down, out of sight.