I looked at Maillot Ghana Pas CHer Drake — the spell of the bowl was heavy upon him, his face drawn. The Chinaman and Tibetan were murmuring, terror written large upon them.
“A hell of a joint!” Drake turned to me, a shadow of a grin lightening the distress on his Seattle Seahawks Hattar face. “But I’d rather chance it than go back. What d’you say?”
I nodded, curiosity mastering my oppression. We stepped over the rim, rifles on the alert. Close behind us crowded the two servants and the ponies.
The vale was shallow, as Houston Texans I have said. We trod the fragments of an olden approach to the green tunnel so the descent was not difficult. Here and there beside the path upreared huge broken blocks. On them I thought I could see faint tracings as of carvings — now a Beats Studio suggestion of gaping, arrow-fanged dragon jaws, now the outline of a scaled body, a hint of enormous, batlike wings.
Now we had reached the first of the crumbling piles that stretched down into the valley’s center.
Half fainting, I fell against Drake, clutching to him for support.
A stream of utter hopelessness was racing upon us, swirling and eddying around us, reaching to our hearts with ghostly fingers dripping with despair. From every shattered heap it seemed to pour, rushing down the road upon us like a torrent, engulfing Maillot Russie Pas CHer us, submerging, drowning.
Unseen it was — yet tangible as water; it sapped the life from every nerve. Weariness filled me, a desire to drop upon the stones, to be rolled away. To die. I felt Drake’s body quivering even as mine; knew that he was drawing upon every reserve of strength.
“Steady,” he muttered. “Steady —”
The Tibetan shrieked and fled, the ponies scrambling after Scarpe Nike Zoom him. Dimly I remembered that mine carried precious specimens; a surge of anger passed, beating back the anguish. I heard a sob from Chiu-Ming, saw him drop.
Drake stopped, drew him to his feet. We placed him between us, thrust each an arm through his own. Then, like swimmers, heads bent, we pushed on, buffeting that inexplicable invisible flood.
As the path rose, its force lessened, my vitality grew, and the terrible desire to yield and be swept away waned. Now we had reached the foot of the cyclopean stairs, now we were half up them — and now as we struggled out upon the ledge Beats Mixr on which the watching fortress stood, the clutching stream shoaled swiftly, the shoal became safe, dry land and the cheated, unseen maelstrom swirled harmlessly beneath us.
We stood erect, gasping for breath, again like swimmers who have fought their utmost and barely, so barely, won.
There was an almost imperceptible movement at the side of the ruined portal.
Out darted a girl. A rifle dropped from her hands. Straight she sped toward me.
And as she ran I recognized her.
Ruth Ventnor!
The flying figure reached me, threw soft arms around my neck, was weeping in relieved gladness on my shoulder.
“Ruth!” I cried. “What on earth are YOU doing here?”
“Walter!” she sobbed. “Walter Goodwin — Oh, thank God! Thank God!”
She drew herself from m |
