The sailor in the entrance, who held the foot block, fastened its hook in a little raised hump of rock; then, grasping the hauling line, pulled the tackle taut. The result was a serviceable lifeline, waist high, across the dangerous pa.s.sage.

The sailor took a turn about his body with the bight of the rope, and leaned back, holding a steady strain upon the tackle. Martin could see now why they had fetched a tackle, and not just a length of rope--there were no boldly jutting rocks about which a rope might be looped and knotted, but the hooks of the blocks fitted into the small inequalities the edges of the walls presented. So long as a strain was kept upon the hauling line, the hooks would bite, and the lifeline would be quite safe.

Martin followed this work with a watchful eye. He was on the lookout for a chance to execute his plan, waiting for a careless moment on the part of those about him, which would give him an opportunity to free his hands, and strike his blow.

For this was the time and the place! Here, by the edge of the abyss, must come his opportunity, his only opportunity. Somehow he must get possession of Ichi's revolver, the only firearm in the crowd. If he obtained that, he might be able to hold this gang at bay, and prevent them returning to the ship until after the bosun's surprise party. Or, failing that, he could surely finish some of them before their sharp knives finished him. He could dispose of Ichi.

And this was the only plan he had. To fight, and to sacrifice himself, if need be. He had dismissed the thought of escape, of making a dash and losing himself in the black caves. He could do that, he knew. But his escape would not help his shipmates; it would not save Ruth.

He knew that if he did not run for it, his death was almost certain.

If he fought, when he fought, he would be killed. If he did not make his chance to fight, Ichi would murder him as soon as the ambergris was discovered--he was sure this program was agreed upon by Carew and Ichi.

And if the ambergris were not discovered he would be given over to Moto for torture. Martin was afraid of Moto, and a little bit afraid of death--but his fear for himself was quite overshadowed by his other great fear, his fear for Ruth. His fate was nothing. But her fate!

It was because of Ruth he disdained an attempt at flight; it was for Ruth he would strike his blow, and take death if it came.

Hence Martin stood meekly by while the sailors rigged the line, and watched for his chance. Moto's eyes remained fixed upon him unwaveringly; Ichi was surrounded by his men. The moment was not yet.

Martin could not help according the little yellow men a certain admiration. They were frightened, plainly terrified, by this gloomy cave, and especially by the gruesome sounds that came from the "deep place." But their native courage, or, perhaps, the iron discipline to which they were accustomed, caused them to fight down their superst.i.tious fears. Even Ichi, himself, was visibly unnerved by his surroundings. "Scientificness" and "Fate" evidently could not stop his ears, nor quite eradicate inherited fears. But he held his disquiet firmly under control, and his bearing was sure as he shouted his orders--only a side glance into the hole, and a momentary shudder, betrayed his nervousness.

Ichi placed his lantern on the ground, beside the man who was holding the line, and beckoned to Martin. Then he stepped out upon the ledge, one steadying hand upon the tackle.

For the fraction of a second, Martin hesitated to follow. "What if they shove me over?" he thought. His hands were useless, doubled behind him; if Moto were to give him the slightest shove, over the edge into that dreadful hole he would go, for he would have no saving grip upon the lifeline. But the instant's reflection rea.s.sured him. They would not try to get rid of him until the treasure's hiding place were discovered; and by that time he would have made his opportunity to strike.

He followed Ichi. Although the comforting touch of the lifeline was not for him, his nerves were steady, and he did not falter on the gla.s.sy, inclined way. Ichi minced his steps, compelling Martin to shorten his stride. Martin saw that Ichi was trembling, and gazing fearfully into the abyss. He had an impulse to throw himself upon Ichi, and roll with him over the edge. But then, he thought, this blow would not help his shipmates; indeed, it would harm them, for the rest would immediately scurry back to the ship. No, he must try to get the revolver into his hand.

Ichi reached the lantern, and stepped into the cleft in the wall.

Martin followed, and found himself again on a level floor, and in the entrance to another cave.

This entrance was not large. There was standing room there for but four of them, the sailor who had strung the line, and who was guarding the head block, Ichi, Moto, and himself. The other two sailors were compelled to stay on the ledge, grasping the tackle. The remaining man in the party held to his position at the other end of the tackle, the rope wrapped about his body.

"Ah--It is here we must commence our looking," exclaimed Ichi. "It is here we must test the statements of the young female and your honorable self, Mr. Blake. You are--ah--of a sureness as to direction? My worthy Moto is of a readiness."

Martin could feel the worthy Moto's fingers resting lightly upon his shoulder. But he also felt against his leg, the hard outline of the revolver in Ichi's coat pocket--so closely were they crowded together in the cave entrance.

"The code says 'aloft,'" answered Martin. "Look for a hole in the roof leading up into a dry cave."

Ichi chattered an order, and the sailor picked up the lantern and held it over his head. Very cautiously, so Moto would not feel and interpret the movement, Martin began to squeeze his hand free from the handcuff.

The lantern revealed the overhead rock for quite an area. It revealed the very spot they sought. Just to the left of the entrance and on level with Martin's chin a shelf of rock jutted out a couple of feet from the wall. Above this shelf was an opening, a crack in the ceiling wide enough to admit a man's body.

Ichi pointed and exclaimed excitedly. The lantern light illumined his upturned face and Martin saw it contorted with triumphant greed. The others also exclaimed their joy. Half glancing over his shoulder, Martin saw that Moto's attention was fixed on the ceiling. It was the careless moment Martin awaited, his moment--with a convulsive jerk he freed his hands.

But before he could straighten his arms, Ichi turned and grinned up into his face.

"Ah--so, it was with truthfulness you spoke. But we must prove, yes?"

He gave an order to the sailor, and the latter, replacing the lantern on the floor, boosted himself to the ledge and disappeared through the hole. Martin backed against the wall to conceal the fact that his hands were free, that one-half of his handcuffs were empty. He waited stolidly--Ichi and Moto were both watching his face, gloating upon him.

In a moment the expected hail came from overhead. The sailor returned from his exploration, stuck his head through the opening, and shouted a sentence to Ichi, a triumphant, exultant shout. Martin's knees bent slightly and his body tensed for the leap. And Ichi, leering up at him, said, "And now--we have no needfulness of Mr. Blake----"

So far he got. And then the smirk disappeared from his sagging mouth, the cruelty and cupidity left his eyes, and terror crept in.

It was not Martin that checked him. It was the Voice of the Pit. In the pa.s.sing of a second, the moan from the chasm had become an appalling roar. A very gale of hot air hit their backs as it gushed up from below. The terrifying roaring grew in volume. It seemed to be a tangible thing approaching them. Moto and Ichi, their prisoner forgotten, were crouching, staring wide-eyed into the pit.

Martin reached out and gathered Ichi into his arms.

He had mentally rehea.r.s.ed his movements. He hugged the j.a.p with his left arm, from which wrist the irons dangled, while his right hand dove for Ichi's coat pocket. His fingers closed about the pistol b.u.t.t, and he jerked the weapon out.

Ichi struggled furiously, awake to danger at the first touch. He could not break Martin's bear-like hug. He screamed at the fascinated Moto; Martin could see his lips framing cries, but not a syllable sounded above the huge roaring that filled the caverns. Then Ichi bent his head and sunk his teeth into Martin's arm.

The pain of the bite caused Martin to jerk his arm violently upward.

He wrenched it free from the other's teeth; involuntarily, he pressed the trigger, and the weapon discharged. But he did not lose his grasp on the gun; he clubbed it, and brought it down with all his might on Ichi's head.

Ichi collapsed. He sagged in Martin's encircling arm as limply and as lifelessly as a sack of wheat. The shot had aroused Moto; the torturer's terrible fingers were reaching for Martin's throat. The latter dropped Ichi, and sprang backward; and even as he did so, he hurled the weapon at Moto's face.

It was a true shot. The heavy b.u.t.t caught the j.a.p squarely on the forehead, and sent him reeling and stumbling, hurled him off the level underfooting at the cave entrance, and caused him to slip and over-balance upon the sloping edge outside. He fell. His momentum carried him on, and he slid down the slope toward the chasm, clutching futilely at the wet, gla.s.sy surface. At the edge he appeared to hang motionless for an instant, his face lifted to Martin, his mouth wide open, his contorted features half obscured by the wreathing vapors.

Then he vanished.

Martin's knees sagged. He was horrified. So suddenly had the tragedy happened, he was still in the posture of throwing the revolver--and now revolver and victim were both gone, and Ichi--Ichi was this lump at his feet. Unconsciously, he strained his ears for Moto's death cry. But the thunder that ascended from the depths drowned all other sounds.

This roar was swelling, swelling; it seemed to rock the world.

He felt sick. He squatted there in the entrance, beside Ichi's body, his wide eyes fixed upon the dancing rim of the chasm. In his mind's eye he could see Moto falling, falling down, down, down, past black, slippery walls, down into the heart of that tremendous sound. But he was too stunned by the awful noise to feel either glad or sorry. Only horror, and a dumb wonder.

He thought, "This is death." Then, strangely, his mind inquired, "Why the sound? What is it?" Once the query was put to himself, his mind worked upon it quite independent of his will. It was a saving quest, something to keep him sane, this groping for an explanation. He watched the vapors. The windy cave seemed less dark, and the white clouds poured upward and swirled about like dancing ghosts. The hot, wet air beat upon him. He was half choked, and sopping wet. And the noise grew and grew. It was like a thousand huge boilers all blowing off at once.

Steam! The thought of boilers was the clue. He had it; he was sure he was right. It was the roar of escaping steam far, far down in that fearful hole. The vapors, the hot, wet wind--dead steam, half condensed during its long rush upward. Down there in the bowels of the mountain the sea seepage was being turned to steam. The live heart of this old volcano was nothing else than a tremendous boiler, and this chasm was the boiler's safety valve. But, G.o.d--how far down must be the fires! Miles, perhaps. He wondered if Moto had yet reached bottom.

Gradually, he became conscious that the roar was diminishing, that the vapors no longer gushed forth in such volume. He had lost track of time; he felt he had always been sitting here by the edge of the pit; he had forgotten all about the other j.a.ps, all about the bosun and Ruth. The noise had even driven Ruth from his conscious mind. But now, with the lessening of the pressure against his ear drums, and the end of the great humming inside his head, his apathy was gone. He peered about him.

He looked out of the entrance, along the ledge. The two sailors still clung to the lifeline; there was only air between them and the chasm, and they clutched the ropes tightly and stared down into the hole.

Martin could not see their faces, but their postures were eloquent of their terror. Beyond, by the light of the lantern at his feet, the remaining j.a.p was plainly revealed. His face was visible--and terror-stricken. But he still had the hauling line about him, and was leaning backwards keeping the saving strain upon the lifeline.

The great steam roar died away to the rhythmic, whistling wail that had preceded it. But another great noise was commencing. It was not the shattering scream of steam, but a mighty rumble that came from an immense distance. Coincidentally, the mountain itself came alive and shook, not violently, but gently, shudderingly, as if Atlas, far beneath, were hunching his burdened shoulders.

A dim light appeared, hovering over the great crack in the cave floor.

It seemed a reflection of some distant glare, in color a pale green.

Slowly it mounted and spread, diffusing a soft, eerie radiance, and revealing to Martin's fascinated gaze the truly vast dimensions of the cave of winds.

Something forced Martin's gaze to the other entrance. And, as his eyes rested upon the figure of the rope-holding j.a.p, Martin's own body stiffened convulsively with a shock of surprise. His heart skipped a beat, and then began to furiously race, while cold chills crawled up and down his spine.

For a second figure had suddenly materialized beside the figure of a j.a.p. Another figure--a gnome, a wraith! The unholy light from the pit painted it an unearthly greenish hue, and accentuated the haggardness of face, and the gleaming eyes, the humped body, its crookedness magnified by the crouched att.i.tude. It looked like some demon come floating up on the wicked light from the "deep place." It crouched to leap, to strike, and a bared knife gleamed in an upraised hand; it glared balefully, fixedly, at the living anchor of the lifeline.

The yellow sailor seemed to feel that fearsome presence at his side.

He did not turn his head, but he slowly rolled his eyes and regarded the menacing apparition. An expression of complete horror and despair swept into his face.

For an instant he remained motionless. Then his surrender to his terror was complete. He leaped as though released by a spring, cast the rope from him, covered his face with his hands, and backed away from the figure. He backed into the big cave, toward the pit.

In another second they were gone--all three of them. Gone before Martin could utter his cry of warning--or recognition. Gone before the stranger could move.

For, when the sailor cast away the rope, the strain on the tackle was released, and the freed hauling line whipped snakelike through the air as it rushed through the sheaves. The two men on the ledge fell backward, as their lifeline collapsed; the blocks, with no weight to hold them taut dropped from the rock; and the two poor wretches sliding down the incline towards the pit dragged the tackle after them. The tail block, swishing over the smooth surface, twined about the feet of the backward-stumbling first man, and jerked him from his feet. With the swiftly waning light revealing a writhing jumble of outflung arms and legs, ropes and blocks, the three men slipped over the chasm edge.