Drome
By John Martin Leahy
The Story So Far
Milton Rhodes and Bill Carter penetrate the caverns beneath Mount Rainier and rescue Drorathusa, Sibylline priestess of the Dromans, from being dragged to death by an ape-bat. In company with Drorathusa and her companions, they go down into the bowels of the Earth toward the strange underground land of Drome, anti penetrate a veritable Dante's Inferno of terrible monsters—tree-octopi, loopmukes and gogrugrons.
Chapter 37
As We Were Passing Underneath
Something was following us. And we were not dependent solely upon that mysterious sixth, sense of mine for knowledge of that sinister fact, either. Sounds were heard. Sometimes it would be a low rustling, as though made by some body gliding through the foliage. Sometimes it would be the snapping of a twig—behind us, off to the right, perhaps, or to the left; never in front of us. Alas, it grieves me to do so, but I am constrained by the love of truth, and by nothing else, to inform the admirers of that great scientist Mark Twain that twigs do snap when they are stepped upon. Yes, I wish that we could have had some of those obstreperous applauders of Mark's absurd essay on Fenimore Cooper with us there in that Droman wood! There were other sounds, too, one of them a thing that I could never describe—a faint humming, throbbing sound that seemed to chill the blood in our veins, so weird and frightful a thing that neither Rhodes nor I could even dream of an explanation. And it was in vain that we looked to our Dromans for one. They tried to explain, but their explanation was as mysterious as the fact itself.
Onward we pressed through that terrible place—that abode of bald-headed cats, tree-octopi and unknown monsters.
At last, and for the first time since we had entered the forest, a current of air touched our cheeks, stirred the foliage and the lovely tresses of the ladies. Soon the breeze, soft and gentle, was whispering and sighing among the tree-tops. A gloom pervaded the place; the wood became dark and awful—though through it the light-mist was still drifting, drifting in streams that swayed and. shook and quivered. Rhodes and I thought we were going to have another eclipse. But we were wrong. It began to rain—if I may so call that subtile drizzle that came drifting down and, indeed, at times seemed to form in the air before our eyes. I thought that this would stop us, for soon everything was wet and dripping—dripping, dripping. But the Dromans pressed on steadily, grimly. Soon every one of us was wet to the skin.
An hour or so passed, and then the drizzle ceased and the gloom lifted.
Rhodes and I were discussing this strange phenomenon when abruptly he cried out and pointed.
"There!" said he, reaching for his revolver. "At last we have ocular proof that we are being followed!"
