No one made any move. Only Bohannan's mind had been unsettled by the h.o.a.rd, to the extent of wanting to possess it. Now that death loomed, empty pockets were as good, to all the rest, as any other sort.

"You're all a pack of d.a.m.ned fools!" Bohannan sneered. "You could die richer than Rockefeller, every man-jack of you, and you--you don't want to! Sure, it's _you_ that's mad, not me!"

No one answered. They all stood peering down at him, their faces tense, wounded, dirty; their eyes gleaming strangely; the shadow of Azrael's wing already enfolding them. Then, a few detached themselves from the little group and wandered off into the gloom, away from the pits. Leclair muttered:

"I prefer loading my automatic, to loading my pockets! Odd, the major is, eh? Ah well, _a chacun sa chimere!_"

"Everybody's weapons fully loaded?" the Master demanded. "Be sure they are! And don't forget the mercy-bullets, men. These Arabs are rather ingenious in their tortures. They make a specialty of crucifying unbelievers--upside down. That sort of thing won't do, for us not for fighting-men of the Legion!"

Bohannan, laughing, stood up. Every pocket was a-bulge with incalculable wealth.

"Now I'm satisfied," he remarked in more rational tones. "I reckon I must be worth more money, as I stand here, than any human being that ever lived. You're looking at the richest man in the world, gentlemen!

And I'm going to die, the richest. If that's not some distinction, what is? For a man that was bone-poor, fifteen minutes ago! Now, sir--"

A sudden cry interrupted him. That cry came from "Captain Alden."

"Here! Look here!"

"What is it?" demanded the Master. He started toward her, while outside the door sounded dull commands, as if the Arabs-now organized to effective work-were already preparing to blow open the last barrier between them and their victims.

"What now?" the Master repeated, striding toward her.

"_See! See here!_"

CHAPTER XLVII

A WAY OUT?

The woman stood pointing into a black recess at the far end of the crypt. All that the Master could discern there, at first, was a darkness even greater than that which shrouded the corners of the vault.

"Light, here!" he commanded. Ferrara swung a lamp, by its chain, into the recess. They saw a low, square opening in the wall of dull, gleaming metal.

"A pa.s.sage, eh?" the Master e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Maybe a _cul-de-sac_," she answered. "But--there's no telling--it may lead somewhere."

"By Allah! Men! Here--all of you!"

The Master's voice rang imperatively. They all came trooping with naked or slippered feet that slid in the wet redness of the floor.

Broken exclamations sounded.

Seizing the lamp, the Master thrust it into the opening, which measured no more than four feet high by three wide. The light smokily illuminated about three yards of this narrow pa.s.sage. Then a sharp turn to the right concealed all else.

Whither this runway might lead, to what peril or what trap it might conduct them, none could tell. Very strongly it reminded the Master of the gallery in the Great Pyramid of Gizeh, which he had seen twelve years before--the gallery which in ancient days had served as a death-trap for treasure-seekers.

That gallery, he remembered, had contained a cleverly hidden stone in its floor which once on a time had precipitated pilferers down a vertical shaft more than a hundred feet, to death, in the bowels of that huge, terrifying mausoleum.

Was this pa.s.sage of similar purpose and design? In all probability, yes. Oriental ways run parallel in all the lands of the East.

Nevertheless, the pa.s.sage offered a means of escaping from the crypt.

And there, with the dead Maghrabi mudirs, the Legionaries could not stay. In a few minutes now, at most, the men of Jannati Shahr would be upon them.

"Faith, what the devil now?" exclaimed Bohannan, now seeming quite rational, as he peered into the cramped corridor. "Where to h.e.l.l does this lead?"

"Just where you've said, to h.e.l.l, it's far more than likely," the Master retorted. "Come, men, into it! Follow me!"

He stooped, lamp in one hand, simitar in the other, and in a most cramped posture entered the pa.s.sage. After him came Leclair, the woman, Bohannan, and the others.

The air hung close and heavy. The oppression of that stooping position, the lamp-smoke, the unusual strain on the muscles, the realization of a whole world of gold above and all about them, seemed to strangle and enervate them. But steadily they kept on and on.

The turning of the pa.s.sage revealed a long, descending incline, that sloped down at an angle of perhaps thirty degrees. A marked rise in temperature grew noticeable. What might that mean? None could imagine, but not one even thought of turning back.

The walls and floor in this straight, descending pa.s.sage were now no longer smooth, arabesqued, polished. To the contrary, they showed a rough surface, on which the marks of the chisel could be plainly seen as it had shorn away the yielding metal in great gouges. Moreover, streaks of black granite now began to appear; and these, as the Legionaries advanced, became ever wider until at last the stone predominated.

The Master understood they were now coming to the bottom of part of the golden d.y.k.e. Undeviated by the hard rock, the tunnel continued to descend, with here and there a turn. Narrowly the Master scrutinized the floor, tapping it with the simitar as he crept onward, seeking indications of any possible trap that might hurl him into bottomless, black depths.

Quite at once, a right-angled turning opened into a small chamber not above eight feet high by fifteen square. In this, silent, listening, the sweating fugitives gathered.

The temperature was here oppressive, and the lamps burned blue with some kind of gas that stifled the lungs. Gas and smoke together, made breathing hard. A dull, roaring sound had begun to make itself vaguely audible, the past few minutes; and as the Legionaries stood listening, this was now rather plain to their ears.

"This is a devil of a place for a multi-millionaire, I must say!"

Bohannan exploded. Simonds laughed, with tense nerves. One or two others swore, bitterly cursing the men of El Barr.

The Master, "Captain Alden," and Leclair, however, gave no heed.

Already they were peering around, at the black walls where now only an occasional thread of gold was to be seen.

Five openings led out of this singular chamber, all equally dark, narrow, formidable.

"This seems to be a regular labyrinth, my Captain," said Leclair, in French. "Surely a trap of some kind. They are clever, these Arabs.

They let the mouse run and hope, then--_voila_--he is caught!"

"It looks that way. But we're not caught yet. These infernal pa.s.sageways are all alike, to me. We must choose one. Well--this is as good as any." He gestured toward an aperture at the left. "Men, follow me!"

The pa.s.sage they now entered was all of rock, with no traces whatever of gold. For a few hundred feet its course was horizontal; then it plunged downward like the first.

And almost immediately the temperature began to mount, once more.

"Faith, but I think we'd better be getting back!" exclaimed the major.

"I don't care much for this heat, or that roaring noise that's getting louder all the time!"

"You'll follow me, or I'll shoot you down!" the Master flung at him, crouching around. "I've had enough insubordination from _you_, sir!

Not another word!"

The stooping little procession of trapped Legionaries once more went onward, downward. The m.u.f.fled roar, ahead of them, rose in volume as they made a final turning and came into a much more s.p.a.cious vault where moisture goutted from the black walls. A thin, steamy vapor was rising from the floor, warm to the bare feet.