low, and led the way down a vast series of time-worn steps. We made our faltering way ever farther into the earth. A damp coldness told of our great distance below the surface.
We halted before a sturdy wooden door, securely held by massive iron bars. Stopping only to unlock and push the shrieking obstacle aside, we entered a low-ceilinged vault that was destined to be my prison.
The floor of the foul-smelling pit was covered with a hard, moist sand. Mighty iron rings were set in the stone walls. To these were fastened heavy chains, and at the far end of several of the chains were the attached forms of whitened skeletons.
One of these the Arab kicked ruthlessly aside. The large padlock was then opened, and the chain that had so recently held the gleaming bones of one long dead, was clasped around my ankle. For a while the three talked in an unknown tongue. Then they left, taking the light with them.
I was alone without hope of succor; alone in the deep dungeon of an ancient castle, with only drying bones of dead men for companions—men whose horrible fate I might so soon be called upon to share.
For twelve long hours of mental torment and worry I remained in the black pit of Karamour. Leaning against the rocky walls of the dungeon I thought of the strange words of the Pharaoh: "You pale Englishman of the outer world, have the body I must own. Once again may I become whole." I sought their meaning, but in vain. Why did he need us? Supposing there was some possible truth to that impossible tale, how could the Terrys help him from his hopeless predicament? What could the Englishman do that would be of any assistance to him?
My reveries were suddenly broken by a light, hesitant tread on the steps beyond. My nerves gave a sharp tingle at the sound. Was it the noise of the Arab swordsman coming to lead me to some terrible doom? Could it be some horrible beast whose keen scent had detected my presence, that was now entering to destroy me? Turning my head toward the sound, with straining eyes I awaited my unknown visitor. There was a pause beyond the doorway, and then I heard the heavy breathing of one who had come both far and fast. The door was pushed slowly open to shriek in dismal protest against this unaccustomed disturbance, and with flaming torch held high, the tall form of Captain Alexis Barakoff entered the foul dungeon.
The cruel smile that habitually lit his dark face had vanished. Instead the bearded features showed only a frightened excitement, as his restless eyes wandered incessantly to the surrounding blackness.
"You are still alive!" he whispered, with an effort.
I nodded. He swung his torch around to light every corner of that dreary dungeon.
"Not a pretty place, Monsieur. These gruesome pits have been haunted by the ghosts of tortured men for over three thousand years. Ghostly blue lights flicker at frequent intervals, while the great vaults are filled with a hideous laughter."
An agonized scream sounded far above us.
"Pay no attention to that, Bryant, but listen to me, as you value your life." He knelt quickly beside me, his bearded face but an inch from mine. "Answer my questions truthfully. You will find it to your advantage if you do so. Softly; though—even the pits of Karamour have ears. Can you hear me?"
"I hear you."
