# Weird Tales/Volume 9/Issue 2/Drome

"She screamed at the demon, but it lunged toward us, flapping its great hideous wings and dragging her out after it onto the bridge."
Drome
by John Martin Leahy
The Story So Far
Milton Rhodes and his friend Bill Carter go to Mount Rainier to find out what caused the dreadful murders that are supposed to have been committed by a frightful "Demon" in custody of an "Angel" (so they are described by those who saw them). Rhodes suddenly disappears when he and Carter are among the Tamahnowis Rocks, and Carter is startled by a fearful scream that seems to issue from the very heart of the rock.
Chapter 15
The Angel
The scream ceased as suddenly as it had come. I drew my revolver, snapped on the electric light and, stooping low, looked into that spot where, a few moments before, Milton Rhodes had so suddenly and mysteriously disappeared.
Nothing but the unbroken rock be-fore me. And yet Rhodes had vanished. I turned the light full upon the low roof, and then I exclaimed aloud: the entrance was there!
I dropped to my hands and knees and moved under, the pack not a little impeding my movements. An instant, and I was standing upright, peering into a high, narrow tunnel, which some convulsion of nature, in some lost age of the earth, had rent right through the living rock.
​Nothing was to be seen, save the broken walls, floor and roof, deep, eery shadows crawling and gliding as the light moved. The view, however, was a very restricted one, for the gallery, which sloped gently upward, gave a sudden turn at a distance of only thirty feet or so. What awaited me somewhere beyond that turn?
For a few moments I listened intently. Not the faintest sound—nothing but the loud beating of my heart. What had happened to Rhodes?
"Milton!" I called softly. "Oh, Milton!"
No answer came.
I grasped a projection of rock, drew myself up into the tunnel and advanced as rapidly and silently as possible, the light and the alpenstock in my left hand, the revolver in the right. But it was not very silently, what with the creepers. At times they grated harshly; it was as if spirit things were mocking me with suppressed, demoniacal laughter. Yet I could not pause to remove those grating shoes of toothed steel. Every second might be precious now.
I drew near the turn, the revolver thrust forward in readiness for instant action. I reached it, and, there just beyond, a dark figure was standing, framed in a blaze of light.
It was Milton Rhodes.
He turned his head, and I saw a smile move athwart his features.
"Well, we've found it, Bill!" said be.
I was now drawing near to him.
"That scream!" I said. "Who gave that terrible scream?"
"Terrible? It didn't sound terrible to me," said Milton Rhodes. "Fact is, Bill, I'd like to hear it again."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"'Tis so."
"Who was it? Or what was it?"
"Why, the angel!" he told me.
"Where is she now?"
"Gone, Bill; she's gone. When she saw me, she fetched up, gave that scream, then turned and vanished—around that next turn."
"What was she like, Milton?"
"I wish I could tell you! But how can a man describe Venus? I know one thing, Bill: if all the daughters of Drome are as fair as this one that I saw, I know where all the movie queens of the future are coming from."
I looked at him, and I laughed.
"Wait till you see her, Bill. Complexion like alabaster, white as Rainier 's purest snow! And hair! Oh, that hair, Bill! Like ten billion dollars' worth of spun gold!"
"And the demon?" I queried.
"I didn't see any demon, Bill." There was silence for a little space. "Then," I said, "the whole thing is true, after all."
"You mean what Grandfather Scranton set down in his journal—and the rest of it?"
I nodded.
"I never doubted that."
"At times," I told him, "I didn't doubt it. Then, again, it all seemed so wild and weird that I didn't know what on earth to think."
"I think," he said with a wan smile, "that you know what to think now—now when you are standing in this very way to Drome, whatever Drome may be."
"Yes. And yet the thing is so strange. Think of it! A world of which men have never dreamed, save in the wildest romance! An underground world! Subterranean ways, subterranean cities, men and women there——"
"Cavernicolous Aphrodites!" said Milton Rhodes.
"And all down there in eternal darkness!" I exclaimed. "Why, the thing is incredible. No wonder that I sometimes find myself wondering if I am not in a dream!"
​Said Milton Rhodes:
"All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream.
"But come, Bill," he added, "don't let this a priori stuff bowl you over. In the first place, it isn't dark down there—when you get down far enough."
"In heaven's name, how do you know that?"
"Why, for one thing, if this subterranean world was one of unbroken darkness, the angel (and the demon) would be blind, like those fishes in the Mammoth Cave. But she is no more blind than you or I. Ergo, if for no other reason, we shall find light down there."
"Of course, they have artificial light, or——"
"I don't mean that. If there had not been some other illumination, this strange race (of whose very existence science has never even dreamed) would have ceased to exist long ago—if, indeed, it ever could have begun."
"But no gleam of sunlight can ever find its way to that world."
"It never can, of course. But there are other sources of light—nebulas and comets in the heavens, for example, and auroras, phosphorus and fireflies here on earth. The phenomena of phosphorescence are by no means so rare as might be imagined. Why, as Nichol showed—though any man who uses his eyes can see it him-self —there is light inherent even in clouds."
All this, and more, Rhodes explained to me, succinctly but clearly.
"Oh, we'll find light, Bill," said he.
All the same this subterranean world for which we were bound presented some unpleasant possibilities, in addition, that is, to those concomitant to its being a habitat of demons
—and heaven only knew what be-sides.
"And, then, there is the air," I said. "As we descend, it will be-come denser and denser, until at last we shall be able to use these ice-picks on it."
Rhodes, who was removing his creepers, laughed.
"We will have to make a vertical descent of three and one-half miles below the level of the sea—a vertical descent of near five miles from this spot where we stand, Bill—before we reach a pressure of even two atmospheres."
"The density then increases rapidly, doesn't it?"
"Oh, yes. Three and a half miles more, and we are under a pressure of four atmospheres, or about sixty pounds to the square inch. Throe and a half miles farther down, or ten and one-half miles in all below the level of the sea, and we have a pressure upon us of eight atmospheres. Fourteen miles, and it will be sixteen atmospheres. At thirty-four miles the air will have the density of water; at forty-eight miles it will be as dense as mercury, and at fifty miles we shall have it as dense as gold."
"That will do!" I told him. "We can never get down that far."
"I have no idea how far we can go down, Bill."
"You know that we could never stand such pressures as those."
"I know that. But, as a matter of fact, I don't know what the pressures are at those depths. Nor does any other man know. What I said a moment ago is, of course, according to the law; but there is something wrong with the law, founded upon that of Mariotte—as any physicist will tell you."
"What's wrong with it?"
"At any rate, the law breaks down as one goes upward, and I have no doubt that it will be found to do so as one descends below the level of the ​sea. If the densities of the atmosphere decrease in a geometrical as the distances from sea-level increase in an arithmetical ratio, then, at a distance of only one hundred miles up, we should have virtually a perfect vacuum. The rarity there would be absolutely inconceivable. For the atmospheric density at that height would be only one billionth of. what it is at the earth 's surface.
"And what is the real density there?"
"No man knows or can know," replied Rhodes, "until he goes up there to see. But meteors, rendered incandescent by the resistance they, encounter, show that a state of things exists at that high altitude very different from the one that would be found there if our formulae were correct and our theories were valid. And so, I have no doubt, we shall find it down in Drome.
"Formulæ are very well in their place," he went on, "but we should never forget, Bill, that they are often budded on mere assumption and that a theory is only a theory until experiment (or experience) has shown us that it is a fact. And that reminds me: do you know what Percival Lowell says about formulæ?"
I said I didn't.
"'Formulæ,' says. the great astronomer, 'are the anesthetics of thought.' I commend that very highly," Milton added, "to our fiction editors and our writers of short stories."
"But——"
"But me no buts, Bill," said Milton. "And w r hat do your scientists know about the interior of this old earth we inhabit, anyway? Forsooth, but very little, Billy me lad. Why, they don't even know what a volcano is. One can't make a journey into the interior of the earth on a scratchpad and' a lead-pencil, or if he does, we may be pardoned if we do not give implicit credence to all that he chooses to tell, us when he comes back. For instance, one of these armchair Columbuses (he made the journey in a machine called d$^2$y by dx$^2$ and came out in China) says that he found the interior in a state of igneous fluidity. And another? Why, he tells us that the whole earth is as rigid as steel, that it is solid to the very core."
"It seems," said I, "to be a case of
"'Great contest follows, and much learned dust Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both.'"
"The truth in this case is not yet known," replied Rhodes, "though I trust that you and I, Bill, are fated to learn it."
He smiled a queer, wan smile.
"Whether we are fated, also, to re-veal it to the" world, our world—well, quién sabe?" said Milton Rhodes.
"Then," I remarked, my fingers busy removing my ice-creepers, "what we read about the state of things in the interior of the earth—the temperature, the pressure, the density—then all that is pure theory?"
"Of course. How could it be any-thing else? All theory, save, that is, the mean density of the, earth. And that mean density gives us something to think about, for it is just a little more than twice that, of the surface materials. With all this enormous pressure that we hear so much about and the resultant increase of density with depth, the weight of the earth certainly ought to be more than only five and one-half time's that of a globe of equal" size composed of nothing but water."
"Kind of queer, all right," was my comment.
"It is queer, all right—as the old lady said when she kissed the cow. However, as old Dante has it, 'Son! our time asks thriftier using.'"
As the last, word left his lips, I straightened up, the toothed shoes in ​my hand and, as I did so, I started and cried: "Hear that?"
Rhodes made no answer. For some moments we stood there in breathless expectation; but that low mysterious sound did not come again.
"What was that?" I said.
"I wish I knew. It was faint and—well, rather strange."
"It seemed to me," I told him, "to be hollow—like the sound of some great door suddenly closing."
My companion looked at me rather quickly.
"Think so, Bill?" he said. "I thought 'twas the sound of something falling."
There was a pause, during which pause we stood listening and waiting; but the gallery remained as silent as though it had never known the tread of any living thing.
"Well, Bill," said Milton Rhodes suddenly, "we shall never learn what Drome means if we stay in this spot. As for the creepers, I am going to leave mine here."
Milton then wrote a short note, which recorded little more than our names, the date of our great discovery and that we were going farther. This, carefully folded, he placed be-side the creepers and put a rock-fragment upon it. I wondered as I watched him whose would be the eyes that would discover it. Some inhabitant of this underground world, of course, and to such a one the record would be so much Greek. 'Twas utterly unlikely that anyone from that world which we were leaving would ever see that record. I wondered if we should ever see this spot again.
"And now, Bill," said Milton, "down we go!"
And the next moment we were going —had begun our descent into this most mysterious and dreadful place.
Chapter 16
"Are We Entering Dante's Inferno Itself?"
When Scranton came with his weird story of Old He, I was, I confess, not a little puzzled by his and Milton's reference to the extra-ordinary scientific possibilities that it presented. At first I could not imagine what on earth they meant. But I saw all those possibilities very clearly now, and a thousand more I imagined. I knew a wild joy, exultation, and yet at the same time the wonder and the mystery of it all made me humble and sober of spirit. I admit, too, that a fear—a fear for which I can find no adequate name—had laid its palsied and cold fingers upon me.
In a few moments we reached that spot where the angel had vanished. There we paused in curiosity, looking about; but nothing was to be seen. The gallery—which from this point swung sharply to the right and went down at a rather steep angle—was as silent as some interstellar void.
"Bill," smiled Milton Rhodes, "he is idle who might be better employed."
And he started on, or, rather, down. A hundred feet, however (we were now under the glacier) and he halted, turned his light full upon the left-hand wall, pointed and said: "There you are. Bill—the writing on the wall."
I pressed to his side and stood staring. The rock there was as smooth, almost, as a blackboard; and upon it, traced in white chalk, were three inscriptions, with what we took to be names appended to them. That on the right was clearly a very recent one—had been placed there, doubtless, at the most but a few days .since, by that "cavernicolous Venus" that Milton Rhodes had seen for so fleeting a moment.
​It was Milton's opinion that the characters were alphabetical ones, though at first I was at a loss to understand how they could be anything to him but an utter mystery. The letters were formed by straight lines only. The simplest character was like a plain capital T, with the vertical line somewhat elongated. And it was made to perform the office of another letter by the simple expedient of standing it upon its head. The number of cross-lines increased up to six—three at the top and three at the bottom; and in one or two characters there were two vertical lines, placed close together.
"Evidently," observed Milton Rhodes, "this alphabet was constructed on strictly scientific principles."
For a space we stood there looking, wondering what was recorded in that writing so strange and yet, after all, so very and beautifully simple. Then Milton proceeded to place another record there, and, as he wrote, he hummed:
"'When I see a person's name Scratched upon a glass, I know he owns a diamond And his father owns an ass."
The inscription finished, we resumed our descent. The way soon became steep and very difficult.
"That Aphrodite of yours," I observed as we made our way down a particularly rugged place, "must have the agility of a mountain-goat." "Your rhetoric, Bill, is horrible. Wait till you see her; you'll never be guilty of thinking of a goat when she has your thoughts."
"By the way, what kind of a light did the lady have?"
"Light? Don't know. I was so interested in the angel herself that I never once thought of the light she carried. I don 't know that she needs a light, anyway."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Why, I fancy, Bill, that her very presence would make even Pluto's gloomy realm bright and beautiful as the Gardens of the Hesperides."
"Oh, gosh!" was my comment.
"Wait till you see her, Bill."
"I'll probably see her demon first."
"Hello!" exclaimed Milton.
"What now?"
"Look at that," said he, pointing. "I think we have the explanation of that mysterious sound, which you thought was like that of a great door suddenly closing: in her descent, she dislodged a rock-fragment, and that sound we heard must have been produced by the mass as it went plunging down."
"'Tis very likely, but——"
"Great heaven!" he exclaimed.
"What is it now?"
"I wonder, Bill, if she lost her footing here and went plunging down, too."
I had not thought of that. And the possibility that that lovely and mysterious being lay somewhere down there, crushed and bleeding, perhaps lifeless, made me feel very sad. We sent the rays of our powerful lights down into the silent depths of the tunnel, but nothing was visible there, save the dark rock and those fearful shadows—fearful, what with the secrets that might be hidden there.
"The answer won't come to us, Bill," said Milton.
"No," I returned as we started down; "we must go get it."
The gallery at this place had an average width of, I suppose, ten feet, and the height would average perhaps fifteen. The reader must not picture the walls, the roof and the floor as smooth, however. The rock was much broken, in some spots very jagged. The gallery pitched at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees, which will give some idea of the difficulties encountered in the descent.
​At length we reached what may be called the bottom; here the tunnel gave another turn and the pitch became a gentle slope. And there we found it, the rock-fragment, weighing perhaps two hundred pounds, that the angel had dislodged in her descent—which doubtless had been a hurried, a wild one.
"Thank heaven," I exclaimed, "she didn't come down with it!"
"Amen," said Milton.
Then a sudden thought struck me, a thought so unworthy that I did not voice it aloud. But to myself I said: "It is possible that we may find ourselves, before we get out of this, wishing that she had."
If a human being, one of the very best of human beings even, were to voice his uttermost, his inmost thoughts, what a shameful, terrible monster they would call him—or her!
And the demon. Where was her demon?
I could give no adequate description of those hours that succeeded. Steadily we continued the descent—now gentle, now steep, rugged and difficult. Sometimes the way became very narrow—indeed, at one point we had to squeeze our way through, so closely did the walls approach each other—then, again, it would open out, and we would find ourselves in a veritable chamber. And, in one of these, a lofty place, the vaulted roof a hundred feet or more above our heads, we made a strange discovery—a skeleton, quasi-human and with wings.
"Are we," I cried, "entering Dante's Inferno itself?"
A faint smile touched the face of Rhodes.
"Don't you," he asked, "know what this is?"
"It must be the bones of a demon."
"Precisely. Grandfather Scranton, you'll remember, wounded that monster, up there by the Tamahnowis Rocks. Undoubtedly the bullet reached a vital spot, and these are the creature's bones."
"But," I objected, "these are human bones—a human skeleton with wings. According to Scranton, there was nothing at all human about the appearance of that thing which he called a demon."
"I admit," said Rhodes, "that this skeleton, at the first glance, has an appearance remarkably human—if, that is, one can forget the wings. The skull, I believe, more than anything else, contributes to that effect; and yet, at a second glance, even that loses its human semblance. For look at those terrible teeth. Whoever saw a human being with teeth like those? And look at the large scapulæ and the small hips and the dwarfish, though strong, nether limbs. Batlike, Bill, strikingly so.. And those feet: they are talons, Bill. And see that medial ridge on the sternum, for the attachment of the great pectoral muscles."
"A bat-man, then?" I queried.
"I should say a bat-ape."
"Or an ape-bat."
"Whichever you prefer," smiled Milton.
"Well," I added, "at any rate, we have a fair idea now of what a demon is like."
Little wonder, forsooth, that old Sklokoyum had declared the thing was a demon from the white man's Inferno. And this creature so dreadful—well, the angel had it for a companion. When Rhodes saw her, she was, of course, without that terrible attendant: undoubtedly the next time, though—how long would it be?—she would not be alone.
"Oh, well," I consoled myself, "we have our revolvers."
Chapter 17
Like Baleful Eyes
According to the aneroid, this great chamber is about four thousand feet above the level of the sea; in other words, we had already made a vertical descent of some four thousand feet. We were now about as high above the sea as the snout of the Nisqually.. But what was our direction from the Tamahnowis Rocks? So sinuous had been this strange subterranean gallery, my orientation had been knocked into a cocked hat. It was Milton's belief, however, that we had been moving in a northerly direction, that we were still under the peak itself, probably under the great Emmons Glacier. I confess that I would not have cared to place a wager on the subject. Goodness only knew where we were, but of one thing there could be no doubt: we were there!
"Why," I asked, "didn't we bring a compass?"
"I think," returned Milton, slipping loose his pack and lowering it to the floor, "that, as it was, we had a case of another straw and the camel's back's busted. Let's take a rest—it's twenty minutes after I—and a snack. And another thing: we wouldn't know whether to trust the compass or not."
"Why so?"
"Local attraction, Bill. Many instances of this could be given. One will suffice. Lieutenant Underwood, of the Wilkes Exploring Expedition, found a deviation of thirteen and a quarter points on the summit of the Cobu Rock, in the Feejees—one hundred and forty-nine degrees. The Island of Nairai was directlv north, and yet. according to the compass, it bore southeast-bv-south one ouarter south, whilst, placed at the foot of the rock, that very same compass said Nairai bore north! So you see that that faithful friend to man, and especially to the mariner, has in its friendships some qualities that are remarkably human.
"Still," Rhodes added, "I wish that we had brought one along. Also, we should have brought a manometer, for the aneroid will be worthless after we have descended below sea-level. Oh, well, the boiling point of water will give us the atmospheric pressure: under a pressure of two atmospheres, water boils at 249.5° Fahrenheit; under a pressure of three atmospheres, at 273.3°; four atmospheres, 291.2°; five, 306°; six, 318.2°; seven, 329.6°; eight, 339.5°; and so on. On the summit of Rainier, it boils at about 185°."
"I wish that we were headed for the summit," said I. "Eight atmospheres! When we reach that pressure—if we ever do—we'll be ten and a half miles below the level of the sea, won't we?"
Rhodes nodded.
"According to the law. But, as I remarked, there is something wrong with the law. 'Tis my belief that we shall be able to descend much deeper than ten and one-half miles—that is, that the atmospheric pressure will permit us to do so."
"That qualification," I told him, "is very apropos, for there is no telling what the inhabitants of this underground world will permit us to do or will do to us—bat-apes or apebats, humans, or both."
"That, of course, is very true, Bill."
"And," said I, "we won't need a manometer, or we won't need to ascertain the boiling point of water, to know that the pressure is increasing. Our ear-drums will make us painfully aware of that fact."
"When that comes, swaller, Billv, swaller, and the pain will be no more."
"Swallow?"
"Swallow," Milton nodded.
​"Great Barmecide, swallow what?"
"Swallow the pain, Bill. For look you. Deglutition opens the Eustachian tube. Some of the dense air enters the drum and counteracts the pressure on the outside of the membrane. You keep on swallowing. The air in the drum becomes as dense as that outside; there is no pressure on the membrane now—or, rather, the pressures are in perfect equilibrium—and, presto and abracadabra, the pain is gone."
"Who would have thought it?"
"A gink," said Rhodes, "going into compressed air had better think it. He may have his ear-drums burst in if he doesn't."
"But why does the Eustachian tube open only when we swallow?"
"To shut from the ear the sounds produced in the throat and the mouth. If the tube were always open, our heads would be so many bedlams."
"Wonderful nature!" I exclaimed.
"Oh, she does fairly well," admitted Milton Rhodes.
"And I suppose," I said, "that the pain in the ears experienced by those who ascend high mountains is to be explained in the same way, only vice versa. They, too, ought to swallow."
"Of course. At lofty heights, the dense air in the drum presses the membrane outward. Swallowing permits the dense air to escape. One swallows until the pressure on the inside equals that of the rarefied outside air, and, hocus-pocus and presto, the pain has evaporated."
"I hope," I said, "that all our difficulties will be as easily resolved."
"Hey!" cried Milton.
"What's the matter now?"
"Stop swallowing that water! We've got food sufficient for a week, but we haven't got water to last a week or anything like it. Keep up that guzzling, and your canteen will be empty before sunset."
"Sunset? Sweet Pluto! Sunrise, sunset or high noon, it's all the same here in Erebus."
"You'll say that it's very different," dryly remarked Milton Rhodes, "if you find the fingers of thirst at your throat."
"Surely there is water in this place—somewhere."
"Most certainly there is. But we don't know how far we are from that somewhere. And, until we get to it, our policy, Bill, must be one of watchful conservation."
A silence ensued. I sank into profound and gloomy meditation. Four thousand feet down. A mile deeper, and where should we be? The prospect certainly was, from any point of view, dark and mysterious enough to satisfy the wildest dreams of a Poe or a Doré. To imagine a Dante's Inferno, however, is one thing and to find yourself in it is quite another. 'Tis true, we were not in it yet; but we were on our way.
I hasten to say, though, that I had no thoughts of turning back. No such thought, even the slightest, was entertained for.one single moment. I did not blink, that was all. I believed our enterprize was a very dangerous one; I believed it was very probable that we should never return to the light of the sun. Such thoughts are not pleasant, are, indeed, horrible. And yet, in the very horror of them, I found a strange fascination. Yes, we might leave our bones in this underground world, in this very gallery even. Even so, we should have our own exceeding great reward. For ours would be the guerdon of dying in a stranger, a more wonderful quest, than any science or discovery ever had known. A strange reward, and perhaps you wonder what such a reward can mean to a dying or a dead man. All I have to say is that, ​if you do, you know naught of that flaming spirit which moves the scientist and the discoverer, that such as you should never—indeed, can never—seek the dread secrets of. nature or journey to her hidden places.
We rested there for exactly one hour. The temperature, by the way, was 57° Fahrenheit. When we resumed the descent, I was using the phosphorus lamp instead of the electric one. It was not likely that even our electric lights would fail us; still there was no guessing what might happen, and it might be well, I thought, to adopt a policy of light-conservation also. As for the phosphorus lamps, these would furnish light for six months. In this, they were simply wonderful; but there was one serious drawback; the light emitted was a feeble one.
The manufacture of this lamp (at one time used, I believe, in Paris, and probably elsewhere, in the magazines containing explosives) is simplicity itself. Into a glass phial is put a small piece of phosphorus. The phial is filled two-thirds full of olive oil, heated to the boiling point. The thing is hermetically corked, and there you are. When you wish to use your wonderful little pharos, you simply allow air to enter. The space above the oil becomes luminous then. You replace the cork, and, the phial remains sealed until there is occasion to restore the waning light, which you do, of course, by allowing more air to enter. As has been said, such a phial will furnish light for a half-year.
These phials of ours were set each in a metal frame and protected by a guard in such fashion that it would take a heavy blow to break the glass. When not in use, they were kept in strong metal cylinders. Of course, the electric light could be turned on at any instant.
There were places where the gallery pitched, in a way to make the head swim, many spots in which we had to exercise every caution; a false step might have spelled irrevocable disaster. I wondered how the angel had passed down those difficult places, and many pictures of that mysterious creature, as I wondered, came and went. Well, she had passed down and that without mishap. Where was she now? Indeed, where were we ourselves?
Steadily we toiled our downward way. For a long distance, the gallery ran with but slight deviation either to the right or to the left, though the descent was much broken—I mean now was steep and now gentle, now at some angle intermediate. Rhodes thought that we were now moving in an easterly direction; it might have been north, east, south or west for all I knew. Not a trickle of water had we seen, not even a single drop, which I confess caused some unpleasant thoughts to flicker through my mind.
At 5 o'clock we were two thousand feet above sea-level; at half past 7, about half a thousand. And we then decided to call it a day. Nor was I at all sorry to do so, even though we might be near some strange, even great discovery, for I was very tired, and sore from the. top of my head to the end of my toes. I was in fair trim, and so was Rhodes; but it would take us some time to get used to such work as this.
A very gentle current of air, so slight that it required experiment to detect it, was passing down the gallery. The temperature here was 62° Fahrenheit.
We had stopped before a cavity in the wall, and in that little chamber we passed the night, one holding watch whilst the other slept.
My dreams were dreadful, but otherwise the night was as peaceful as any that ever passed over Eden. Neither Rhodes nor I, during that strange eery vigil there in the heart ​of the living rock, heard even the faintest, most fleeting sound. As the watcher sat there waiting and listening, whilst the minutes slowly passed, he found himself—at any rate, I know that I did—almost wishing that some pulsation would come, so heavy and awful was the stillness of the place.
But a sound we were to hear. We had been journeying for about an hour and a half and had just passed below sea-level. In that place Rhodes had left the aneroid. Of a sudden Milton, who was leading the way, halted with a low, sharp interjection for silence. When my look struck him, he was standing in an attitude of the most riveted attention.
"There?" he exclaimed. "Did you hear that, Bill?"
The air had pulsed to the faintest sound; now all was still again.
"What was it?" I asked, my voice a whisper.
"Don't know, Bill. There!"
Again that gentle pulsation touched the ear, and again it/was gone. And a strange thing was that, for the life of me, I could not have told whether it came from below or from behind us.
"There it is again?" said Rhodes. I flashed on my electric light, to the full power.
"A whisper!" I exclaimed. "And, great heaven, Milton!"
"What now, Bill?" he asked quickly.
"It's something behind us!"
He started. He turned his light up the tunnel, and for some moments we stood peering intently. Not a moving thing was to be seen there, however—only the moving shadows.
"Again!" said Milton Rhodes. "But it isn't a whisper, Bill. And it didn't come from up there."
"The thing," I told him, "could be hiding in shadow."
"It's not up there; it is ahead."
"Wherever it is, what on earth can it be?—what does it mean?"
"That we shall learn."
We resumed our descent, every sense, you may be sure, on the qui vive. The tunnel here inclined rather steeply; a little space, however, and the dip was a gentle one. The sounds soon became ono steady, unbroken whisper; then a dull melancholy murmur.
Abruptly Rhodes stopped, turned to me, and he laughed.
"Know now what it is, Bill?"
This was not a moment, I thought, for laughter or anything like it.
"Sounds like the growling of beasts," I said, peering intently down the passage. "I wonder if the angel—there are two kinds of angel, you know—has turned loose a whole pack, or flock, of those demons."
To my surprize and astonishment, Rhodes burst into outright laughter.
"Well?" said I rather testily.
"Why all the cachinnation?"
"Forgive me, Bill. But it isn't a pack of demons—or a flock."
"How on earth do you know what it is?"
"It's water."
"Water?"
"Yes. H-two-O."
"Water? I'm from Missouri. You'd better see that your revolver is handy. Who ever heard water make a shivery sound like that?"
"You'll see, though I think that you'll hear first."
Ere long there could be no doubt about it: Milton was right; it was the sound of falling water.
"Must be at quite a distance," I said; "sounds carry a long way in tubes, and that is what this tunnel is."
Steadily we made our way along and down, and, just as steadily, the sound increased in volume. The gallery made several sharp turns, and then of a sudden the sound rose from ​a loud growl to a roar, and an exclamation burst from us.
It were impossible to convey to the reader the eery effect of that sudden, strange transition. One moment we were in the gallery; the next we had issued from it and stood in a most tremendous cavern—or, rather, on a ledge or shelf high up on one of the walls of that cavern.
The opposite side was but dimly visible. The roof swept across a hundred feet or more above our heads. And the bottom? I gazed at the edge of the rock shelf on which wre stood, out and down into that yawning abyss, and I felt a shudder run through me and on through my heart. The roar of the falling waters came from our right. We turned the rays of our lights in that direction, but nothing was visible there, save the dark limestone rock and Cimmerian blackness.
We then moved to the edge and turned our lights down into those awful depths—to depths perhaps never before touched by ray of light since time began. Far down the beams went plunging and farther still; but we could not see the bottom. Bottom there was, however, for the water was tumbling and growling down there.
I was glad to draw back from the edge, and I leaned against the rock wall and gazed upon the dark scene in wonder, amazement and awe. Rhodes joined me.
"Well, what do you think of it, Bill?"
"Milton, this is awful."
"It is. I have never seen a sight more strange and terrible."
"And the angel?" I queried.
"What about her, Bill?"
"How on earth did she make her way through this awful place?"
"Why, along this ledge on which we are standing. There is no other way."
I glanced along that shelf, and I felt very sad.
"She's got a better head," I told him, "than I have. Why didn't we bring along an airplane? I wonder if the way lies down oi' up, toward the fall."
We bent over and examined the rock.
"Down," I observed.
"Down," Milton nodded.
Whilst I stood there pondering this and wondering what was down there in the blackness of that frightful chasm, Rhodes moved off to the right and examined the ledge there.
"And up too," he announced. "Somebody or something, or both, has gone up toward the fall."
"Great heaven, if we get caught between them!"
"The program is becoming, interesting," Rhodes admitted.
For a time we stood in silence, then Milton said: "I suggest that we go up and take a look-see."
I nodded. So far as I could perceive, one way was just as good—I mean just as bad—as the other.
That shelf was, as a whole, not an easy thing to negotiate, and some spots made my head swim and made me wish mightily that I was somewhere else. Undoubtedly, some thousands of years in the dim and mysterious past, the stream once flowed at this level—at any rate, that is the only theory that, in my opinion, will explain that ledge, and something we were soon to discover. Not that I ever spent much time in worrying about theories and hypotheses; the facts themselves gave me enough to think about, enough and to spare.
At times the shelf would be twenty or thirty feet in width or even more, and then the going was easy enough; but at other times the space would contract to a couple of yards, and then it was another story. Once or twice Milton Rhodes himself, an experienced and fearless ​mountain-climber, was glad, I believe, that the way was no narrower. As for what those moments meant to me—well, I never posed as a mountaineer or a steeplejack.
For fifteen minutes or so, I believe, we toiled along that terrible place, and then of a sudden came to the end. Nothing before us but the bare precipitous rocky wall and the black profundity of the chasm, and up above a ghostly thing crawling, crawling down, ever down, and filling the place with thunder—the fall itself. Where did the water come from? And, a question more interesting, where did it go?
"We must go back," said Milton Rhodes. "The road to Drome does not lie here."
Scarcely had we turned when I started, and then I cried out sharply.
"Look!" I said, pointing with my alpenstock down the cavern. "Look at that!"
Far down the cave a light was gleaming, where a moment before no light had been. And on the instant another shone beside it. A second or two, however, and they had vanished.
"Moving," was Rhodes' explanation.
"No!" I told him. "And look! Again!"
There they were—gleaming at us for all the world like the dim and baleful eyes of some waiting monster.
Chapter 18
"That's Where They Are Waiting for Us!"
For some moments those yellow eyes gleamed at us, then vanished. The lids of that waiting monster (so to speak) had closed over them.
I had watched them very closely, and I was sure that there had been no movement of the eyes themselves. Milton, however, was just as sure that they had moved.
"To the right or to the left?" I queried.
"Neither. Down," said Rhodes.
"Then it must have been straight down."
"It was—behind a rock mass or something."
We waited, watching closely, but those yellow eyes did not gleam again through that Stygian gloom.
"Must have been at quite a distance," I remarked at last.
"It seems so, Bill; and that means that this cavern is very straight for a mile or more or that it is one of enormous size."
"It may be both."
"It may be. And it may be that those lights were not so far away as they appeared to be. One may easily be deceived in such matters."
"We don't know what it means," I said, "but we know this: we're spotted."
"Oh, we're seen, all right, Bill. Our every movement will be watched."
Some minutes passed, during which we stood peering down the cavern and waiting; but no light gleamed forth again. Then we started back.
"We'd better keep a sharp lookout," I said suddenly. "Remember, a demon doesn't have to come along the ledge."
"I have not forgotten that, Bill; but we are armed."
As I believe was made sufficiently obvious, the crossing of those places where the ledge narrowed to the width of but a couple of yards had been no pleasant matter; but during the return the thing assumed an aspect truly sinister. That we were being watched both of us regarded as certain. That we might at any moment find a demon or a dozen demons driving at us—well, that was a possibility which never left our thoughts for one single second. And, in those narrow places, where the ledge contracted to a mere ribbon of rock, it ​was all one wanted to do to hug the wall and make sure of his footing. A frightful place, truly, in which to meet, even with a revolver, the attack of even one of those winged monsters; and we might find ourselves attacked by a dozen.
It can easily be imagined, then, the relief which I felt when we had passed the last narrow spot, though, forsooth, we might be going toward something far more terrible than any we had left behind us. But the angel had gone down, and where a woman could go, there, I told myself in masculine pride, could we also.
"That is," I subjoined, "supposing we do not meet ape-bats or something more terrible."
At length we stood once more at the mouth of the gallery. And scarcely had we stopped there when an unpleasant thing flashed into my thoughts—which, as it was, resembled anything but the rainbow.
"Great heaven!" I cried, peering into the tunnel, which, at the distance of only thirty feet or so, gave a sudden turn to the right.
Something could be in there, very close to us and yet unseen!
"What is it, Bill?"
"Could those lights that we saw have been here? Are they waiting in there to dog our steps or to do something worse?"
Rhodes, peering into the gallery with a curious, half-vacuous expression on his face, made no reply.
"Well," I queried, "what do you think of it? We could not tell where those lights were, how far away—anything."
"I don't think that they were here," Milton Rhodes returned. "I think they were much farther down and on the other side."
"On the other side? How on earth could anyone cross that chasm?"
"We don't know what it is like down there. And, of course, I don't know that the lights were on the other side. But I believe that they were."
A silence ensued, which at length I broke:
"What is the next thing on the program?"
"Make our way down the ledge. That is the only way we can go. But first we 'll try a little finesse."
He took a position in the mouth of the tunnel, one. that permitted him to look down the cavern. He signed to me to follow suit, and, when I stood at his side, he said: "Off go the lights!"
Off they went, and the terrible blackness was upon us. So terrible was it and so strange and fearful that place in which we stood, I actually found myself wondering if it would not all prove a dream.
"Why," I asked at last, "did we do this?"
"To see if the lights will show again. They may think that we have lost heart and started back."
I saw it all now: instead of our advancing to those mysterious beings somewhere down the cavern, he would bring them to us.
But they did not come. They did not show even the faintest light. Wc waited there for many minutes, but nothing whatever was seen.
"Hum!" said Rhodes at last, snapping on his light "Wary folk, Bill, these Hypogeans."
"And so," I replied, "we'll have to go to them."
"That's what we shall have to do."
"Walk maybe right into a trap."
"It is possible," Rhodes admitted. "But it is possible too that the trap may not prove so terrible—possible, indeed, that there is no trap at all. I tell you, I certainly would like to see that angel again."
"Then let's go see her."
"That's what we'll do."
And so we started.
​A strange, indefinable dread had its grip upon me, and yet I was anxious to go, to put the thing to an issue. In all probability, we should not have far to travel. Nor, in fact, did we.
The way was much like the one that we had traversed in the opposite direction. One or two spots were even more dangerous than any we had found up there. And, over these dangerous, terrible places, where a false step or a slip of the foot on tlie smooth rock would have meant a most horrible death—along this airy, dizzy Stygian way, the angel had passed. Well, she was a brave angel, at any rate.
We were descending all the while, sometimes at an angle that I was glad was no steeper. This, does not mean, however, that our distance from the bottom, of that terrible chasm, on our right, was decreasing. The sounds that came up from the black depths of it told plainly that the descent of the stream was as pronounced as that of the ledge we were following, and perhaps more so.
"And here's something that I don't understand," was my remark as we stopped in a particularly broken spot: "to say nothing of our being below sea-level, here this stream has been pouring down for untold centuries, for how many thousands of years no man can even guess, and yet the place isn't full. Where does all the water go?"
"Think," was Milton's answer, "of all the rivers that, for how many millions of years no man can tell, have been running into the sea, and yet the sea is not overflowing."
"I don't see the application of that to this underground world, don't sec how all the water—there must be more streams than this—can possibly return as vapor to the region above."
"I admit," Rhodes said, "that the problem is a formidable one and that, with our present paucity of data, we can not hope to solve it. Still I think my suggestion sound."
"But where are the openings to permit the. escape of so enormous—for enormous it must be—an amount of water vapor?"
"There may be countless vents, fissures, Bill, ways of egress that man will never know. Whatever the explanation, there can be no doubt that the water is going down and that this subterranean world is not full."
"But where docs it go? Down to some sunless sea, perhaps, though, if that hypothesis of yours is a sound one, bathed in light, light never seen, in that world we have left, on land or sea."
Rhodes was a silent for a moment, leaning on his alpenstock. Then: "It is strange, truly, the descent of the waters. And yet it would not, I believe, have been to you so very strange a thing had you known that the sea itself flows into the earth."
"The sea itself?"
Rhodes nodded.
"Surely, Milton—why, the thing is Jules Vernesque!"
"On the contrary, the fact has long been known. At Argostoli in the Island of Cephalonia, the sea flows right into the limestone rock."
"Shades of Lemuel Gulliver, but this old ball that men call the earth is certainly a strange old sphere!"
"How strange," said Milton Rhodes, "no scientist has ever dreamed, though your scientist has thought of things far stranger than ​any ever conceived by your wildest romancer, who, after all, Bill, is a pretty tame homo."
"I have an idea," I said, glancing down the cavern, "that we are going to find the homos here in this place anything but tame."
Milton laughed and, without any other answer, turned and resumed the descent.
For one thing I was profoundly thankful: the wall ran along without any pronounced cavities or project ions in it, so that we had little to apprehend from a sudden attack on this our giddy way—except, of course, by a demon. Had the wall been a broken one, any instant might have found us face to face with a band of Hypogeans, as Rhodes called the denizens of this subterranean place.
But how long would the wall remain like that? And, after all, did it really greatly matter? Meeting, sooner or later, was inevitable. 'Tis true, I could not conceive of a worse place than this, supposing the meeting to be, in any measure, an unfriendly one. And, from what had happened up there at the Tamahnowis Rocks, I could not suppose that it would be anything else.
This, however, was to prove simply another instance of how inadequate the imagination, when confronted with the reality, is sometimes found to be, for even now we were drawing near a place more terrible even than this—and that was the place where we met!
It required but little imagination, though, to make us aware, and painfully so, of the extreme probability (regarded by ourselves as a certitude) that eyes were watching our every movement. But where were those eyes? And what were the watchers? To what fearful thing—or could it be wonderful?—were we drawing near at every single moment now?
Some minutes passed, perhaps fifteen, perhaps more; I can not say how long it was. Of a sudden, however, Rhodes, who was still leading the way, stopped. No. sound had escaped him, and he stood there like a statue, peering intently straight ahead.
"Look there," he said in a low voice, pointing with his alpenstock, "and tell me what you see."
I was already looking, and already I had seen it. But what on earth was that thing which I saw?
I remained silent, gazing with straining eyes and wondering if I really saw what I thought that I did.
"What," asked Rhodes, "do you make of it?"
"The thing is so faint. 'Tis impossible, and yet, if it were not so, I would say that it is an arch—part of a bridge."
"Just what I thought. The thing is so strange, though, that I didn't know whether to believe my eyes or not."
"And so dim," I observed, "that it may be nothing of the kind. A bridge? Now, who on earth would build a bridge across this frightful chasm? And why?"
"Quién sabe, Bill?" said Milton Rhodes.
The next moment we were moving toward it.
"Look!" ejaculated Rhodes suddenly. "It goes clear across!"
"Yes," I said, stopping and gazing at that strange dim mass; "it goes clear across. And that's the place, over there on the other side—that's where they are waiting for us!"
Chapter 19
The Angel and Her Demon
"T shouldn't be a bit surprized," said Milton. "And a strange bridge, that, truly. It looks like a ruin, a ruin that has not fallen."
​It was a ruin indeed. So ruinous was it that I wondered how the mass could possibly remain intact. A short advance, however, and the mystery was solved. The hand of man had not builded that great arch across this dreadful chasm; nature had fashioned it, there in that region of everlasting darkness. It has, Rhodes said, a remarkable semblance to the celebrated Natural Bridge in Virginia.
A short space, and we stood upon it, gazing across. Its width here was about sixty feet. The surface, was, comparatively speaking, a smooth one, and it had a rather pronounced slope upward—a circumstance by no means conducive to security of footing. And a feature that I noticed with some unpleasant misgivings was the diminution of width at the farther end. Just how wide it was there we could not tell, what with the uncertain light that struggled to the spot; but we saw enough to know that that way which we should have to cross was a very narrow one indeed; and on either side the black chasm yawning to receive us. And just beyond, dim and ghostly as though seen in a dream, stupendous columns rose up and were involved in the darkness of the lofty cavern.
"What on earth arc those?" I queried. "It reminds one of a Grecian temple."
"Limestone pillars, no doubt," returned Milton.
"And it's there," I exclaimed, my voice, however, low and guarded, "that they are waiting for us! That is where those lights were."
"I suppose so."
"They'll wait until we get in that cursed narrow place, and then——"
"And then?"
"Well," I told him, "we had better say our prayers before we start across."
Rhodes laughed. I thought, though, that there was a touch of the sardonic in his laugh. Little wonder, forsooth, if 'twas so, for the thing was fraught with terrible possibilities.
"What," I asked, "are we to do?"
"Cross over—if we are permitted to do so."
If we should be permitted to do so!
I gazed into the black profundity of the chasm, and felt very sad.
"Holy Gorgons," I said, "haven't we got into a fine pickle, though?"
"I'll tell you what we'll do, Bill: you remain here, like Horatius at the bridge, while I explore along the ledge."
"I don't like it," I told him. "United we stand—well, you know the rest of it."
He was silent for some moments. Then: "I think that we can risk it. Bill."
"Very well," I acquiesced, shrugging my shoulders. "But I tell you that I don't like it at all."
The next moment, however, he had turned and was moving down the ledge. I stepped back to the wall (upon which two inscriptions were traced) and waited the result with such composure as I could summon.
At last Rhodes moved behind a projection in the wall. A moment, and the glow of his light had vanished. He was gone, and I was alone in that terrible place.
The blackness seemed to increase, the shadows to thicken about me and grow denser. But one sound broke the awful silence, which sound seemed to have a quality tangible, crushing—the growl of the water in the abysmal depths of the chasm. And even that sound, as I stood there listening, watching, waiting, seemed to change; it seemed to sink to a murmur. then a whisper, as though evil spirits were hushing it to lull my suspicions and even my very senses.
What was that? I started, and something shot through my very heart, chilling and sharp as the needle point of an icicle.
​Surely I had seen it. Yes! There it was again, dim but unmistakable, there by one of the great columns—a single point of light, an eye staring at me with a greenish fire.
Yes, there it was! Then of a sudden it was gone.
For a time I stood peering and waiting, the blood throbbing in my ears; but it was not seen again.
I turned and looked down the ledge, and I gave an exclamation that was one of relief and joy, for there was Rhodes just come into view around that projection in the wall.
"What," I asked as he drew near, "did you find down there?"
"We can't go down. The shelf is broken—nothing but sheer wall between. So it's across the bridge for us."
"We may never reach the other side."
And then I told him what I had seen.
"And," I asked, "didn't Grandfather Scranton say that the eyes of the demon burned with a greenish fire?"
Rhodes nodded.
"Of course, though," he said, "light has to reach them, or the eyes can't shine. In absolute darkness they would not do so."
"That eye shone, though ghostly, for the light that reaches that spot is dim. And so the angel at least—and heaven only knows what besides—is waiting there with her demon!"
"Yes, Bill; there can be no doubt that the eye which you saw belonged to a demon. The prospect is certainly a sinister one, I admit."
A silence ensued. Of a sudden Rhodes raised his voice and hallooed: "Hello there!"
The answer came almost on the instant: "Hello there—hello there—hello there—hello—hello!"
"'Tis only Echo, lovely Echo," smiled Milton Rhodes.
Again he raised his voice, and again the words were thrown back at him.
"Hear that, Bill?" he cried whilst the echoes were still sounding. "I heard it."
"That was no echo!"
"No," I said; "it was no echo!"
We waited, listening intently, but that sound which had come with the echoes was not heard again.
Rhodes drew his revolver and examined the weapon most carefully. He looked at me curiously, and then he said: "I have no desire, Bill, to disguise the fact that this crossing may prove a most, a most—Bill, it may prove——"
"You needn't tell me," said I. "I know very well what it may mean."
"But we can't turn back, Bill."
"No; we can't turn back."
He reached out his hand and grasped mine. And then, without another word, we started.
I had known some critical, terrible, horrible scenes in my life; but never anything like the suspense and mystery of those moments that now succeeded. What were we to see? What were we to meet? And, horror of horrors, it would be in that place where the bridge narrowed to a mere ribbon—the frightful depths yawning on each side, almost at our very feet.
Well, at last we reached it. My head began to swim, so terrible was the place, and I had to stop and get a grip upon my nerves. Rhodes too paused, and for some moments we stood there, so near to safety and yet—the mockery of it!—closer than ever to mystery and danger and perhaps horror unnamable.
"Now for it, Bill!" said Rhodes. "Keep your revolver ready for instant action!"
And we started across. The place was so narrow that we could not think of walking side by side. Rhodes was leading. And then it came—when we had taken eight or ​ten steps, when we had reached the most dangerous spot on that ribbon of rock.
Of a sudden a dark figure, straining at its leash, moved from behind one of the limestone pillars, and two eyes shone horribly in the light, burning with a greenish fire, and the strong rays were flashed back in the horrid gleam of teeth. And, beside that demoniac shape, a tall figure appeared, a figure clothed in white, the eyes wide and blazing, the face white as snow and framed in gleaming gold, which fell in masses about the shoulders—a figure majestic, indescribably lovely and dreadful.
It was the angel and her demon!
Chapter 20
The Attack
That strange, weird scene, like some terrible vision from the pages of Doré, often rises before me—the tall white figure of the angel, the dark, squatting winged monster before her, and we two men from the sunlit world standing there upon that narrow way, the black profundity of the chasm yawning on either side of us.
The angel had indeed well chosen the moment. If that hideous ape-bat, straining at its leash, were loosed at us, our position, despite our revolvers, would be a truly horrible one. Scarce twenty-five feet lay between the monster and ourselves. In case of attack, we would have to drop the monster in its spring—and only a lucky shot could do that—or the result would be a most disastrous one. For we could not meet an attack there; to step aside or to meet the demon in a struggle would mean a plunge over the edge.
It was indeed a critical, appalling scene, one in which I have no desire to see even my worst enemy placed. Our fate, I thought, was in the hands of that white-robed, white-faced being whom we knew as the angel. The demon, however, as will be seen in a moment, was to take the matter in his own hands, if I may use that expression in speaking of that monster, for hands the thing had none. I can easily see how the demon, in the obscurity of the fog, had seemed to old Scranton a thing that had no shape. But here, the strong rays of our lights turned full upon the demon, the sight was an altogether different one. And a stranger sight surely no man had ever seen up there in that world which we had left, that world so near to us still, and yet it seemed so very far away now. It was as though some Circe had changed us into figures in some dread story of ancient days. And this was what men called the Twentieth Century, the golden age of science and discovery! Well, science doesn't yet know everything—a fact that, I am sorry to say, some scientists themselves are very prone to forget.
"Heavens," said Rhodes, keeping his look fixed on those figures before us, "isn't she a wonderful creature!"
"And it," said I, "an awful thing! And I'd wait a while before saying that she is wonderful. She may prove to be something very different."
The next instant I gave a cry. The demon had made a sudden strain forward. Came a sharp word from the angel, and that cerberus sank back again. But, though it sank back, that greenish fire in its eyes seemed to burn more fiercely, malevolently, than before.
"I think," I suggested, "it would be a good plan to move back a little, back to a safer, a wider spot."
"Move back? Never!" said Milton Rhodes. "We are here to move forward, not to go back."
​I thought this utterly Quixotic; but, of course, if he didn't want to go back, I couldn't make him. And, if he wouldn't step back, neither would I.
"Look," I said. "She is going to speak."
The angel raised her left hand and motioned to us rather vehemently, at the same time uttering some word—or words.
"No mistaking that, Bill," said Milton.
"No; it is as plain as any words could be: 'Go back!'"
"I am at a loss," said Rhodes, "how to answer."
Again the angel raised her hand; but she did not motion this time, for the demon, with a blood-curdling sound, deep in its throat, strained forward again, and so suddenly and strongly that the angel was drawn forward a step or two. A sharp word, however, from the angel, and the monster settled back, as a dog does after straining at its leash.
Once more the angel fixed her eyes upon us—or, rather, upon Milton Rhodes. Once more she raised her hand to sign to us to go back. But the sign was never given!
At that instant, as the angel stood there with upraised hand, it happened.
That sound came again, only more horrible than before, and the demon sprang at us. Caught thus off her guard, the angel was jerked, whirled forward. There was a wild, piercing cry, which rose to a scream; but the winged monster paid not the slightest heed. It was as though the thing had gone mad. The angel went down; in an instant, however, she was up again. She screamed at the demon, but it lunged toward us, flapping its great hideous wings and dragging her after it out onto the bridge. Her position now was one of peril scarcely less than our own,
All this had passed, of course, with the quickness of thought. We could not fire, for fear of hitting the angel, right behind the demon; we could not move back; and we could not stand there and let this nightmare monster come upon us. In a second or two, if nothing was done, it could do so. But what could we do? The thought of saving ourselves by killing the woman—and the chances were a hundred to one that we should kill her if we fired at the demon—was a horrible one. But to stand there and be sent over the edge was horrible too. And the angel, in all probability, would be killed anyway; that she had not already been jerked from the rock was nothing less than a miracle. Why didn't she loose her hold on the leash?
These are some of the things that flashed through my mind—yes, even then. I never before knew what a rapid thing thought can be. Oh, those things that shot through my brain in those brief, horrible seconds! My whole life, from childhood to that very moment, flashed before me like the film of a cinematograph, though with the speed of light. I wondered what death was like—what it would be like somewhere in the depths of that black gulf. And I wondered why the angel did not loose her hold on that leash! I didn't know that she had wrapped the chain around her hand and that the chain had in some way got caught. The poor angel could not free herself!
Little wonder, forsooth, that she was screaming so fearfully.
"We must risk it!" I cried.
"Hold!"
The next instant Milton Rhodes had stepped aside—yes, stepped right to the very edge of the rock. The demon whirled at him, and, as it whirled, one of its great wings struck me full across the face. I gave myself up for lost, but ​how I kept my place on that ribbon of rock. Another instant, and the monster would be at Milton's throat. But no! From this dizzy position which he had so suddenly taken, the angel was no longer behind the demon, and on the instant Rhodes fired.
Oh, that scream which the monster gave! It struck the rock, and that Rhodes managed to keep his footing on the edge of that fearful place is one of the most amazing things that I have ever seen. But keep it he did, and he fired again and again. The demon flapped backward, jerked the angel to. her knees and near the edge and then suddenly flat on her face. The next instant the monster disappeared. Its wings were beating against the rock with a spasmodic, hideous sound.
I gave a cry of relief and joy; but the next moment one of dismay and. horror broke from me.
The monster was dragging the angel over the edge!
Chapter 21
Into the Chasm
Milton Rhodes threw himself prone on the rock and his right arm around the angel's waist.
"Quick, Bill, quick! Her arm—the whole weight of the monster!"
Her screams had ceased, but from her throat broke a moan, long, tremulous, heartrending—a sound to shake and rend my already quivering nerves to enhance most dreadfully the indescribable horror of the scene and the moment.
I could do nothing where I was, had to step over the prostrate forms, which, in my heated imagination, were being dragged over the edge.
The wings of the demon were still beating against the rock, the blows not so strong but more spasmodic—the sound a leathery, sickening tattoo.
It will probably be remembered that the angel had held the demon with her right hand. I was now on the angel's right; and, stretched out on the rock, I reached down over the edge in an effort to free her from that dragging monster, the black depths over which we hung turning me dizzy and faint.
I now saw how the angel had been caught and that she had been dragged so far over the edge that I could not, long-armed though I am, reach the leash. So I grasped her arm and, with a word of encouragement, began to pull. Slowly we drew the monster up. Another moment,. and the chain would be within the reach of my other hand. Yes, there. Steady, so. I had reached down my other hand, my fingers were in the very act of closing on the chain, when, horrors, I felt myself slipping along the smooth rock—slipping over into that appalling gulf.
To save myself, I had to let go the angel's arm, and, as the chain jerked to the monster's weight, an awful cry broke from the angel and from Milton Rhodes, and I saw her body dragged farther over.
"Cut it, Bill, cut it!"
"It's a chain."
Rhodes groaned.
"We must try again. Great heaven, we can't let her be dragged over!"
"This horrible spot makes the head swim."
"Steady, Bill, steady," said Rhodes. "Here, hold her while I get a grip with my other arm. Then I'll get a hold on you with my right."
"We'll all be dragged over."
"Nonsense," said Rhodes. "And, besides, I've got a hold with my feet now, in a crack or something."
A few moments, and I was again reaching down, Rhodes' grip upon me this time. Again I laid hold on ​the angel's arm, and again she and I drew the monster up. This time, though, I got my other hand on the chain. And yet, even then, the chain hanging slack above my hand, the angel was some time in freeing her own, from the fingers of which blood was dripping. But at last she had loosened the chain, and then I let go my hold upon it, and down the demon went, still flapping its wings, though feebly now, and disappeared into those black and tearful depths.
I have no recollection of any sound coming up. Undoubtedly a sound came. Little wonder, forsooth, that I did not hear it.
A moment, and I was back from the edge, and Milton and Ï were drawing the angel to the safety of that narrow way. She sank back in Rhodes' arms, her eyes closed, her head, almost hidden in the gleaming golden hair, on her shoulder.
"She's fainted," said I.
"Little wonder if she has, Bill."
But she had not. Scarcely had he spoken when she opened her eyes. At once she sat lip, and I saw a faint color suffuse those snowy features.
"Well," said I to myself, "whatever else she may be, our angel is human."
We remained there for a little while, recovering from the effects of the horrible scene through which we had passed, then arose and started for that place of safety there amongst the wonderful, stupendous limestone pillars. I was now moving in advance, and I confess (and nothing could more plainly show how badly my nerves had been shaken) that I would gladly have covered those few remaining yards on all fours—if my pride would have permitted me to do so.
Yes, there we stood, by that very pillar behind which the angel had waited for us with her demon. There was her lamp—lantern rather—dark, of course, though not extinguished.
I looked at it and looked all around.
"We saw two lights," I said. "And yet she was waiting here alone."
"There certainly were two lights, Bill—two persons at least. Her companion went somewhere; that is the only explanation I can think of."
"I wonder where," said I, "and what for."
"Help, perhaps. You know, Bill, I have an idea that, if we had delayed much longer, our reception there," and he waved a hand toward the bridge, "would have been a very different one."
"It was interesting enough to suit me. And, as it is, heaven only knows what is to follow."
The angel, standing there straight and still, was watching us intently, so strange a look in her eyes—those eyes were blue—that a chill passed through my heated brain, and I actually began to wonder if I was being hypnotized. Hypnotized? And in this cursed spot!
I turned my look straight into the eyes of the angel, and, as I looked, I flung a secret curse at that strange weakness of mine and called myself a fool for haying entertained, even for a fleeting moment, a thought so absurd.
Rhodes had noticed, and he turned his look upon me and upon the woman—this creature so indescribably lovely and yet with, so indefinable, mysterious a Sibylline something about her. For some moments there was silence. I thought that I saw fear in those blue eyes of hers, but I could not be sure. That strange look, whether one of fear or of something else, was not all that I saw there; but I strove in vain.to find a name or a meaning for what I saw.
​Science, science! This was the age of science, the age of the airplane, the submarine, radium, television and radio; and yet here was a scene to make Science herself rub her eyes in amazement, a scene that might have been taken right out of some wild story or out of some myth of the ancient world. Well, that ancient world, too, had its science, some of which science, I fear (though this thought would have brought a pooh-pooh from Milton Rhodes) man has lost to his sorrow. And, like that ancient world, so perhaps had this strange underground world which we had entered—or, rather, were trying to enter. And perhaps of that science or some phases of it, this angel before us had fearful command.
One moment I told myself that we should need all the courage we possessed, all the ingenuity and resource of that science of which Milton Rhodes himself was the master; the next, that I was letting my imagination overleap itself.
My thoughts were suddenly broken by the voice of Milton.
"Goodness, Bill, look at her hand! I forgot!"
He stepped toward the angel and gently lifted her blood-dripping hand. The chain had sunk right into the soft wrist. The angel, however, with a smile and a movement with her left hand, gave us to understand that the hurt was nothing.
The next moment she gave an exclamation and gazed past me down the pillared cavern. Instantly I turned, and, as I did so, I too exclaimed.
There, far off amongst the columns, two yellow, wrathful lights were gleaming, and dark hurrying figures were moving toward us.
Chapter 22
What Did It Mean?
The help is coming, Bill," said Milton Rhodes. "And that reminds me: I haven't reloaded my revolver."
"I would lose no time in doing so," I told him.
He got out the weapon and proceeded to reload it. It was not. by the way, one of these new-fangled things but one of your good old-fashioned revolvers—solid, substantial, one that would stand hard usage, a piece to be depended upon. And that was what we needed—weapons to be depended upon.
The angel was watching Rhodes closely. I wondered if she knew what had killed her demon—knew, I mean that this metal thing, with its glitter so dull and so cold, was a weapon. It was extremely unlikely that she had, in that horrible moment on the bridge, seen what actually had happened. However that might have been, it was soon plain that she recognized the revolver as a weapon—or, at any rate, guessed that it was.
With an interjection, she stepped to Rhodes' side, and, with swift pantomime, she assured us that there was nothing at all to apprehend from those advancing figures.
"After all," Milton said, slipping the revolver into his pocket, "why should we be so infernally suspicious? Maybe this world is very different from our own."
"It seems to me," I told him, my right hand in that pocket which contained my revolver, "that we have good cause to be suspicious. Have you forgotten what Grandfather Scranton saw up there at the Tamahnowis Rocks (and what he didn't see) and the horrible death there of Rhoda Dillingham, to say nothing of what happened to us here a few minutes ago? That we ​are not at the bottom of that chasm—well, I am not anxious to have another shave like that."
"I have not forgotten. Bill. I have an idea, though, that those awful tragedies up there were purely accidental. Certainly we know that the demon's attack upon ourselves was entirely so."
"Accidental? Great Scott, some consolation, that!"
I looked at Milton Rhodes, and I looked at the angel, who had taken a few steps forward and was awaiting those hurrying figures—a white-robed figure, still and tall, one lovely, majestic. And, if I didn't sigh, I certainly felt like doing so.
"No demon there, Bill," observed Milton at last, his eyes upon those advancing forms.
"I see none. Four figures."
"Four," nodded Rhodes. "Two men and two women."
A few moments, and they stepped out into a sort of aisle amongst the great limestone pillars. The figure in advance came to an abrupt halt. An exclamation broke from him and echoed and re-echoed eerily through the vast and gloomy cavern. It was answered by the angel, and, as her voice came murmuring back to us, it was as though fairies were hidden amongst the columns and were answering her.
But there was nothing fairy like in the aspect of that leader (who was advancing again) or his male companion. That aspect was grim, formidable. Each carried a powerful bow and had an arrow fitted to the string, and at the left side a short, heavy sword. That aspect of theirs underwent a remarkable metamorphosis, however, as they came on toward us, what with the explanations that our angel gave them. When they at last halted, a few yards from the spot where we stood, every sign of hostility had vanished. It was patent, however, that they were wary, suspicious. That they should be so was not at all strange, but just the same there was something in their manner that I could not understand—something that made me resolve to be on my guard whatever might betide.
The leader was a tall man, of sinewy and powerful frame. Though he had, I judged, passed the half-century mark, he had suffered, it seemed, no loss of youthful vitality or strength. His companion, tall and almost as powerful as himself, was a much younger man—in his early twenties. Their golden hair was bobbed, for all the world like your truly bobbified flapper's. The arms were bare, as were the legs from midway the thigh to half-way below the knee, the nether extremities being incased in buskins, light but evidently of excellent material.
As for the companions of the twain, one was a girl seventeen or eighteen years of age, the other a girl a couple of years older. Each had a bow and quiver, as did our angel. The older of these young ladies had golden hair, a shade lighter than the angel's, whilst the hair of the younger was white as snow. At first I thought that it must be powdered, but this was not so. And as I gazed with interest and wonder upon this lovely creature, I thought—of Christopher Columbus and Sir Isaac Newton. At thirty, they had hair like hers. That thought, however, was a fleeting one. This was no time, forsooth, to be thinking of old Christopher and Sir Isaac. Stranger, more wonderful was this old world of ours than even Columbus or Newton ever had dreamed it.
The age of our angel, by the way, I placed at about twenty-five years. And I wondered how they could possibly reckon time here in this underground world, a world that could have neither months nor years.
​The quartet listened eagerly to the explanations given by our angel. Suddenly the leader addressed some question to Persephone, as Rhodes called her. And then we heard it!
"Drome," was her answer.
There it was, distinct, unmistakable, that mysterious word which had given us so many strange and wild thoughts and visions. Yes, there it was; and it was an answer, I thought, that by no means put the man's mind at ease.
Drome! Drome at last. But—what did it mean? Drome! There, we distinctly heard the angel pronounce the word again. Drome! If we could only have understood the words being spoken! But there was no mistaking, I thought, the manner of the angel. It was earliest, and yet, strangely enough, that Sibylline quality about her was now more pronounced than ever. But there was no mistaking her manner; she was endeavoring to reassure him, to al-lay, it seemed, some strange uneasiness or fear. I noticed, however, with some vague, sinister misgivings, that in this she was by no means as successful as she herself desired. Why did we see in the eyes of the leader, and in those of the others, so strange, so mysterious a look whenever those eyes were turned toward that spot where Milton Rhodes and I stood?
However, these gloomy thoughts were suddenly broken, but certainly not banished. With an acquiescent reply—at any rate, so I thought it—to the angel, the leader abruptly faced us. He placed his bow and arrow upon the ground, slipped the quiver from his back, drew his sword—it was double-bladed. I now noted—from its scabbard and deposited them, too, upon the ground. His companion was following suit, the two girls, who were now holding the lights, standing by motionless and silent.
The men advanced a few paces. Each placed his sword hand over his heart, uttered something in measured and sonorous tones and bowed low to us—a proceeding, I noted out of the corner of my eye, that not a little pleased our angel.
Chapter 23
That We only Knew the Secret
"Well," remarked Milton Rhodes, his expression one of the utmost gravity, "when in Drome, Bill, do as the Dromans do."
And we returned the bow of the Hypogeans, whereupon the men stepped back to their weapons, which they at once resumed, and the young woman, without moving from the spot, inclined her head to us in a most stately fashion. Bow again from Rhodes and myself.
This ceremony over—I hoped that we had done the thing handsomely—the angel turned to us and told us (in pantomime, of course) that we were now friends and that her heart was glad.
"Friends!" said I to myself. "You are no gladder, madam, than I am; but all the same I am going to be on my guard."
The girls moved to the angel and with touching tenderness examined her bleeding wrist, which the younger at once proceeded to bandage carefully. She had made to bathe the wound, but this the angel had not permitted—from which it was patent that there would be no access to water for some time yet.
Our Amalthea and her companions now held an earnest consultation. Again AA r e heard her pronounce that word Drome. And again we saw in the look and mien of the others doubt and uneasiness and something, I thought, besides. But this was for a few moments only. Either they acquiesced wholly in what the angel ​urged, or they mashed their feelings.
I wished that I knew which it was. And yet had I known, I should have been none the wiser, forsooth—unless I had been cognizant of what it was that the angel was urging so earnestly and with such confidence. That it was something closely concerning ourselves was, of course, obvious. That it (or part of it) was to the effect that we should be taken to some place was, I believed, virtually certain. Not that this made matters a whit clearer or in any measure allayed my uneasiness. For where were we to be taken? And to what? To Drome? But what and where was this Drome? Was Drome a place, was it a thing, was it a human being, or what was it?
Such were some of the thoughts that came to me as I stood there. But what good to wonder, to question, when there could be no answer forthcoming? Sooner or later the answer would be ours. And, in the meantime—well, more than sufficient unto the day was the mystery thereof. And, besides, hadn't Rhodes and I come to find mysteries? Assuredly. And assuredly it was not likely that we would be disappointed.
This grave matter, whatever it was, decided, the angel plunged into a detailed account of what had happened on the bridge. We thought that we followed her recital very closely, so expressive were her gestures. When she told how we had saved her from that frightful chasm, she was interrupted by exclamations, all eyes were turned upon us, and I felt certain in that moment that we were indeed friends. Still heaven only knew what awaited us. Tt was well, of course, to be sanguine; but that did not mean that we should blink facts, however vague and mysterious those facts might be.
There was a momentary pause. When she went on, I saw the angel's lower lip begin to tremble and tears come into her eyes. She was describing the death of her demon, her poor, poor demon. Well, as regards appearances, I must own that I would greatly prefer that hideous ape-bat of hers to many a bulldog that I have seen. The others, too, looked distressed. And, indeed, I have no doubt that we ourselves, had we known all about demons, would have been—well, at least troubled. Little did Milton and I dream that the loss of that winged monster might entail upon our little band the most serious consequences. So, however, it was, as we were soon to learn.
When she had ended her account, the angel turned to us forthwith and went through an earnest and remarkable pantomime. She and the others awaited our answer with the most intense interest. But the only answer we could give her was that we did not understand. That pantomime had been wholly unintelligible to Milton Rhodes and myself. I say wholly unintelligible; we could see, however, that it had something to do with ourselves and something to do with something up above; but everything else in it was an utter mystery.
The angel went through it again, more slowly, more carefully and more fully this time. But still we could not understand.
"Perhaps," I suggested, "she could tell us with paper and pencil."
"Not a bad idea, Bill."
Thereat Rhodes produced pencil and notebook. These he gave to the angel, with a sign that she put it down in the book. She regarded the pencil curiously for some moments, tried it upon the paper, and then—with some difficulty and undoubtedly some pain, what with her ​wounded wrist—she began. Rhodes moved to her right side, I to her left.
Yes, there could be no mistaking that she had drawn the Tamahnowis Rocks. Then she drew a crevasse and two figures, plainly. Rhodes and myself, going down into it. That was clear as the day. Then sh. put those figures that were Rhodes and I into the tunnel, and presto, with a wave of the hand, she brought them down to that very spot where we were standing. Clear again, lovely Sibyl. What next? More figures, and more and more.; and were they too coming down the tunnel? Yes, at last it all was plain, at last we wise numskulls understood her.
Were we alone?
Rhodes made it clear to her that we were. But he did not stop there; he proceeded to make it clear to her that we only knew the secret. She was some time in understanding this; but when she did understand it, what a look was that which passed across her lovely Sibylline features!
"Great heaven," said I to myself, "lie's gone and done it now!"
The look was one of joy, the look of a soul triumphant. In a moment, however, it was gone; her features were only lovely, impassive.
But the thoughts and the feelings which that strange look of hers had aroused were not gone. I felt a shudder pass to my heart. Of a truth, this woman was dreadful.
I glanced at Rhodes; I thought that even he looked grave and troubled. Well, so I thought, might he be!
I said nothing, however, until the angel had rejoined her companions. Then: "There can be not the slightest doubt that they look with great fear upon the coming of people from that world above, a world as mysterious, I suppose, to them, as this subterranean world of theirs is to us. And, now that they know that they have the great secret also when they have you and me—well, Milton, old tillicum, I think it will indeed be strange if either of us ever again casts a shadow in the sun."
"It may be so, Bill," he said soberly. "I did pot think of that when I told her. Still, who knows? Certainly not I. It is possible, indeed probable, it seems to me, that We may do them, her, Bill, a harsh injustice."
"I sincerely hope so."
That grave look left his face, and he smiled at me,
"And, besides, Billy me lad, maybe we won 't ever want to return to that world we have left—that world so full of ignorance, and yet so full of knowledge and science too; that world so cruel, and yet sometimes so strangely kind; that world so full of hate and mad passion, and yet with ideals and aspirations so very noble and lofty. Yes, who knows, Bill? It is possible that we may not want to return."
Was it significant, or was it purely casual? I could not decide. But Rhodes' gaze was now on the angel. And, whilst I stood pondering, she turned and signed to us that they stood in readiness to proceed.
She raised a hand and pointed down the cavern, in some subtle manner making it clear that she was pointing to something far, very far away.
"Drome!" she said.
"Drome," nodded Milton Rhodes.
He turned to me.
"Ready, Bill?"
"Ready," I told him.
And so we started.
"Next month's chapters describe a veritable Dante's Inferno, as the Dromans and Rhodes and Carter penetrate through weirdly flickering phosphorescent lights into a region of strange and terrible monsters, which attack them.