The Lake of Life

By EDMOND HAMILTON

A weird-scientific thrill-tale of adventure, mystery
and romance—of the waters of immortality, the strange
Red and Black cities, and the dread Guardians that
watched eternally over that terribly glowing lake.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Weird Tales September, October and November 1937.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The heaving blue plain of the ocean stretched far away under the brassy sun. The wind was blowing strongly toward the west coast of equatorial Africa, somewhere beyond the skyline. Under the hard hammering of the gale, the schooner Venture scudded eastward with ivory sails arched taut, its forefoot chuckling steadily through the foaming water.

Clark Stannard stood by the little schooner's foremast, his dark, virile face peering frowningly ahead, his dynamic black eyes narrowed against the glare. The hard wind tore at his white shirt and ducks, thrummed in the rigging, whined savagely in his ears. He was feeling again that sick, fatal certainty that the schooner was rushing with him and his five followers toward disaster and death.

For Clark seemed to see beyond the watery skyline the low, green, menacing coast of the French Congo, and beyond that the steaming, mighty jungle of hot rivers and mangrove swamps and hostile tribes through which he must lead the way to forbidden, unknown regions. Why had he ever accepted the leadership of this crazy expedition, this mad, fantastic quest for the legended Lake of Life? Could that fabled Lake of Life and its shining waters of immortality and its dreaded, unhuman guardians have any real existence?

Clark Stannard swung sharply. Ephraim Quell, the dour, taciturn, bony Yankee seaman who stood at the wheel of the Venture, was gazing northward across the uneasy sea.

Clark strode rapidly back along the slanting white deck. Ephraim Quell pointed a bony finger north and said in his nasal twang, "Looks like a French gunboat to me."

His keen eyes searched the northern horizon. Then he saw the ship—a low, squat gray craft, wallowing southward toward them, the screaming wind tearing a plume of gray smoke from its funnels.

"It is a French gunboat!" Clark exclaimed. His fist clenched unconsciously, and there was a savage twist to his hard mouth as he cried, "We'll have to break out more sail, Quell! We've got to reach the mouth of the Bembu River before that gunboat catches us, or this expedition will end right here and now."

Captain Quell warned grimly, "We're carryin' more sail now than we ought to, in this blow."

"Do you want to spend the next few years in a French prison?" Clark demanded roughly. "That upriver country we're headed for is forbidden to all explorers, and the French will jail us for trying to penetrate it. Our only chance is to get into the river before they cut us off, and get upriver on our auxiliary power."

Captain Quell made no further protest, but his bony face was an ominous mask as he bawled the order. The four other men on the little schooner's deck leaped to the halyards, quickly breaking out reefed topsails.

The Venture, as the additional canvas took the wind, plunged alarmingly, almost burying its bowsprit in the foaming waves. Then it drove on at increased speed, seeming to fly across the choppy swells. The thin plume of smoke northward drew nearer. Simultaneously, a low green line appeared on the horizon ahead.

"There's the coast," Clark bit out, peering tautly forward. "And there's the point north of the Bembu's mouth—steer a little more southward, Quell."

"We may just make it," he muttered, looking again at the ominous smoke-plume northward. "We've got to make it!"

The four other men of the expedition were now hastening back to the helm, stumbling precariously on the slanting deck. Mike Shinn was the first of them to reach Clark's side.

Mike Shinn was an ex-prizefighter, a squat, gorilla-chested redhead with a battered, merry face. He exclaimed, "Holy mother, the old tub's nearly flyin' now! What's all the hurry about?"

Morrow was a former U. S. army officer, a lean, habitually silent young man with shadowed, haunted dark eyes.

Clark Stannard pointed grimly north. "Plenty of trouble, and coming down on us fast. That's a French gunboat chasing us to challenge and inspect us. If they learn we're trying to get up the Bembu to the forbidden Kiridu country, they'll throw us in prison."

Link Wilson, a tall, lanky Texan cowboy with a quizzical, tanned face and cool eyes, drawled, "Sure, I didn't join up with this outfit and come all this way to rot in a foreign calabozo."

"Nor me either!" rasped the last member of the expedition as he too joined the group.

This last was Blacky Cain, a former notorious American gangster and bandit. He stared north with hate in his pale eyes and dark, unshaven, predatory face.

The criminal continued harshly, "I've done enough stretches in stir—they're not going to capture me. If they get close enough, I'll turn loose on 'em with one of those typewriters we're packing."

Link Wilson, the Texan, patted his hip and drawled, "I'll take my old forty-fives ahead of your submachine guns."

Clark Stannard's black eyes narrowed and he snapped forcefully, "You men can stop this talk of firing back at the gunboat. We'll do our damnedest to escape them, but no shooting, understand?"

Blacky Cain stared at him in sullen silence. The gangster, like the rest of them, had found during the voyage across the Atlantic that Clark Stannard was their leader not only in name but in fact, and that he meant his orders to be obeyed.

Clark himself had felt since the very start of this crazy expedition that he was leading as desperate an aggregation as had ever been gathered together. These five men whom old Asa Brand had brought together for the expedition were the only kind of men who would have joined such a wild, hazardous venture. They were all men beyond the pale of civilized society, each with a black shadow on his past.

Blacky Cain, the bandit and gangster, had eclipsed the fame of Dillinger and Floyd, leaving a red trail of robbery across America. Link Wilson, the tall, drawling Texan cowboy, had killed two men in a gunfight in a border saloon. Mike Shinn, the red-headed ex-prizefighter, had been barred from the ring for throwing a fight. Lieutenant John Morrow had been drummed out of the army for knocking down his superior officer in a quarrel over a woman. And Captain Ephraim Quell, the bony, taciturn Yankee seaman, had once been master of a large coastal passenger liner; but when a fire that should not have happened had destroyed his ship with great loss of life, the middle-aged Yankee skipper's certificate had been cancelled permanently.

Truly, Clark Stannard thought somberly, his five followers were a legion of the damned, a band of ruined, hunted men; men who had nothing more to lose, the only kind who would have joined this fantastic expedition in search of the Lake of Life. None of them had any belief in the existence of the lake, but for the pay old Asa Brand had offered, they had joined the mad quest for it without qualms. And Clark knew bitterly that he himself belonged with such a desperate band; for he too was desperate, staking his life on the chance that he might be able to find the fabled lake.

Captain Quell's nasal voice declared suddenly, "There's the mouth of the Bembu, isn't it—beyond that point?"

The Venture was now a mile from the low green shore. Beyond a humped point of land could be descried the sandy flats and white breakers that marked the mouth of the equatorial river.

Clark Stannard swung his gaze tautly back to the oncoming gunboat. It was racing down from the north, overtaking them with alarming speed, yet still almost two miles behind them.

Bang! A puff of white smoke had issued from the gunboat's deck, and a shot crashed into the choppy sea some distance ahead of the speeding schooner.

"They're firing across our bows to halt us," Clark grated. "Keep right on, captain."

A few moments later another shot came from the gunboat. It hit close to the Venture's side, fountaining spray that tore away in the gale. Gray gulls flying low over the wild waves screamed.

The schooner raced like a winged thing past the projecting point into the broad, shallow bay of the river-mouth. In a few minutes, Clark thought tensely, they would be safe inside the river where the deeper-draft gunboat couldn't follow.

Ephraim Quell suddenly pointed and shouted, "Look at that bar! It's low tide—we can't enter the river!"

Clark's hopes plummeted sickeningly. Plain now ahead was the mouth of the broad, yellow Bembu, issuing from low green mangrove swamps. And in a straight barrier across the river-mouth lay a line of wild, bursting white breakers. The raging waters of the sea were breaking furiously against the bar there, exploding into mad foam that hung in the air like drifting white smoke.

Captain Quell was shouting over the ominous roar of those breakers, "We can't get over that bar till the tide rises."

Bang! The racing gunboat was a half-mile from them, now, and its third shot crashed through the rigging of the schooner.

Clark exclaimed to the Yankee skipper, "No, we're going to try to go in over the bar! There's a spot there at the south end of it that looks deeper—steer there."

Ephraim Quell shrugged his bony shoulders, gripped the wheel and headed the Venture toward the slight gap in the breakers which Clark had pointed out. The schooner, borne forward by a sea running with mill-race speed, leaped eagerly toward the raving white water.

The roar of wind and scream of the dipping gulls and crash of breakers ahead was deafening. The gray French gunboat, coming up after them under forced draft, sent another shot after them that missed by yards. Now the mad foam of the breakers was just in front.

Mike Shinn shouted gleefully, "This is more fun than riding the water-chute at Coney."

Ephraim Quell's bony face wore a mirthless, ghastly grin as the schooner rushed into the white foam-smoke of the breakers. Suddenly a grinding crash quivered through the craft's whole fabric. It ended in a terrific shock that rocked the craft over on its side and flung them all helter-skelter against the rail.

"We've struck!" cried Ephraim Quell. "Her whole bow must be torn out—we can't last ten minutes on this bar."

The schooner, tilted sharply, was hanging on the bar and being smashed and hammered by the terrific waves that rushed in and exploded against it. The thunder of the raging waters was hideous.

Clark Stannard, bruised and shaken, was scrambling to his feet. The other five, tense but unterrified, also regained their feet. It was evident the schooner would quickly be battered apart.

Clark's voice rang hard and commanding over the din. "Get the equipment and supplies into the long-boat! We'll head upriver in it, before that gunboat can arrest us. Hurry!"

While Clark worked furiously to loosen the lashings of the big long-boat, the other five hastened below decks and returned staggering under the weight of rifles, ammunition boxes, rations and medicine cases and other supplies, which they piled into the long-boat. There was no panic and no confusion—only desperate, urgent haste.

The gunboat was standing to at a safe distance outside the bar. Now as the last equipment was loaded into the long-boat, the cracking crash of the schooner's rending timbers gave ominous notice that the Venture was about to break up. The men leaped into the boat.

Frantically, Ephraim Quell and Link Wilson paid out the ropes. As the long-boat's keel touched the boiling surf, Mike Shinn and Blacky Cain and Clark pushed off fiercely with the heavy oars.

The long-boat shot into the thick of the raging breakers. They were deafened by the thunder, blinded by flying spray. Clark yelled orders, and convulsively they pulled at the great oars, inching precariously through the breakers into the broad river-mouth.

Then the long-boat won out of the exploding waves, glided into the calm yellow waters of the wide, sluggish river. Before them, its marigold expanse wound inland between thick, dull-green mangrove swamps. As they pulled rapidly upstream toward the first bend, they heard the gunboat firing after them from outside the breakers. The shots fell short—and in a few moments they were around the first bend.

"We made it!" Clark exclaimed. "But we've got to keep going—that gunboat might send boats into the river to pursue us. And it's over two hundred miles upriver to the Kiridu country."

Clark shrugged grimly. "You'll find it worse when we have to leave this boat and strike into the jungle on foot."

The sun sank in a blood-red murk behind them as they pulled steadily upriver. A humid, stifling heat and swarms of vicious mosquitoes tortured them. On either shore were the endless mangroves, with their impenetrable abatis of tortured, twisted gray branches and dull green foliage. Birds screamed through them and the tall reeds of the mud flats.

Clark looked back down the red-lit, winding river, as his shift at the oars ended. He hoped fervently that the gunboat's officers would not think it worth while to pursue them in small boats upriver. He knew they'd figure he and his men were going into certain death anyway, at the hands of the wild Kiridu tribes. And they might be right.

Clark's dark, virile face twisted in desperate resolution. Neither French laws nor blood-lusting savages must keep this expedition from winning through the jungles of the mysterious Kiridu to the fabled Lake of Life. He must find that lake, must bring back the shining waters old Asa Brand craved. He dared not fail.

Clark Stannard had first learned the amazing thing Asa Brand had in mind, in New York weeks before. He had been surprized to receive Brand's note requesting him to call—he couldn't guess what the old multi-millionaire wanted with a penniless young adventurer like himself. But he had obeyed the request promptly, in a vague hope of getting from Asa Brand the money he needed so desperately.

For ten years Clark had batted around the world in irresponsible, adventurous exploring expeditions, heedless of his family back home. But now his father was suddenly dead, and his mother and sisters faced poverty, and his young brother, crippled by an accident, needed an expensive operation if he was ever to walk again. Clark had no way of earning the needed money—his only trade was adventure. So he had snatched desperately at Asa Brand's cryptic request, immediately.

He knew a little about Brand, of course—everyone who read the newspapers did. Old Asa was the third richest man in America, and for fifty years had been reckoned the hardest, most merciless business mogul in the country. His ramified financial interests spread their octopus arms over the whole nation.

Asa Brand received him in bed, sitting propped up against pillows in a luxurious bedroom of his gloomy Fifth Avenue mansion. The old man was quite bald, and his hairless, yellowed skull and wrinkled hatchet-face and scrawny neck made him look like an ancient, unclean vulture. He peered at the young man with shrewd, bright blue eyes.

"Stannard, I understand you've made two exploring trips into inner French equatorial Africa," he said in his cracked, shrill voice. "They tell me that you know the hinterland there as well as any white man living."

That, Clark admitted bluntly, was true. But he added, "I know the country as far in as the Kiridu region, but not beyond. No white man who ever went into the Kiridu has come back, not even two airplane mapping expeditions that tried to fly in there some years ago."

Asa Brand's Adam's-apple worked in his scrawny throat and there was a pulse of repressed eagerness in his bright blue eye as he asked, "Have you ever heard of a weird lake that's supposed to exist deep back in the Kiridu country—one called the Lake of Life?"

Clark nodded, surprized. "I've heard the native legends. The tribes believe the story absolutely, and their fanaticism on the subject is why no white man is allowed to enter the Kiridu."

Asa Brand, his bald vulture-head leaning eagerly forward, urged, "Tell me what you've heard about it."

Clark said thoughtfully, "Well, the yarn is current among all the Central and West Africa tribes, and they all say the Lake of Life lies somewhere back in the Kiridu country. They say the waters of that lake shine like light, and that those shining waters contain the pure essence of life. They believe all life on earth began somehow from the lake, and say that whoever drinks its waters becomes immortal, undying.

"But they also say that nobody can drink the waters of the Lake of Life, for it is surrounded by a ring of mountains which they call the Mountains of Death. No living thing can cross those mountains, they claim, for there is a terrific juju or spell on them that kills instantly. And they add that even if one could cross the mountains, he could not drink of the Lake of Life, for it is guarded by mysterious beings, called The Guardians. The natives won't speak much of those guardians, but say that they are very terrible and powerful, and that they are not human."

Asa Brand's eyes were shining with tremulous emotion. His cracked voice rasped, "Yes, yes—that is the story which I have read. Tell me, Stannard, what do you think of it?"

Clark pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well, it may be that mountains really exist back in the Kiridu, and that there's a lake at the center of them, which the blacks have seen or heard about."

"But what do you think of the story that the waters of the Lake of Life contain the essence of life?" asked Asa Brand eagerly. "That drinking them would vastly extend one's life-span?"

Asa Brand started as if stung, and demanded shrilly, "How can you be so sure? You've never seen that lake—no white man has. How can you tell what great powers its waters might have?"

And as Clark's black brows drew together incredulously, Brand continued excitedly, "Since I first heard of the legended Lake of Life, I've got hold of every possible scrap of information about it. I'm convinced the lake exists, and that its waters do possess supernatural virtues."

The old multi-millionaire's eyes glowed with his dream. "There must be more than fable to it when millions of African natives believe in it so utterly. It's always been a belief of mankind, that some secret spot holds the pure essence of life, the potentiality of immortality. The ancient Hebrews thought of it as a tree of life, but the Greeks and later the Arabs maintained it was a spring or lake. The Crusaders sought for it in Syria, and Ponce de Leon hunted it in America.

"Why is such a thing impossible? Scientists to this day don't know how life started on earth. The theory that life sprang from the waters of the legended lake is no more fantastic than any other theory. And if that lake was the source of earth's life, if its shining waters hold the pure essence of life, it must be true that anyone who drank those waters would live vastly beyond the ordinary human span."

Clark watched the feverishly excited old man in wonder. Then Asa Brand, abruptly calm, said flatly, "I'm going to send an expedition to that part of Africa to find the Lake of Life."

"But such an expedition is impossible, sir!" Clark said, astounded. "The natives regard the whole Kiridu country as sacred, and kill any white man who enters it. And because such intrusions stir all the tribes to wild turmoil, the French colonial authorities have strictly forbidden explorers to enter the Kiridu."

He added, "Of course, it's a worthy ambition of yours to want to add to scientific and geographical knowledge——"

"Scientific knowledge be hanged!" shrilled Asa Brand. "It's not to add to scientific knowledge that I'm sending the expedition. It's because that expedition is going to bring me back some of the shining waters of the Lake of Life; waters that will prolong my life, perhaps for many decades, when I drink them."

And as Clark stared stupefiedly, the old man's excited anger dropped from him. He suddenly looked a shrunken, withered, fearful thing, and his voice was a cracked, hoarse whisper.

"Stannard, I've never feared anything in my life, but I'm afraid now. I'm afraid of dying. My doctors say I can't live more than a year or two, and that they can't do anything for me. And I don't want to die, I mustn't die, I won't die! For I haven't lived yet! I've spent all my life gathering money, and never took time really to live and enjoy myself. That's why I must put off death, for a while at least—I want to live before I die. If medical science can't help me, I'll look elsewhere. And this Lake of Life—it's a chance. Its waters may keep me living for many years, for decades even, if you can bring some of them back to me."

"If I can bring them back to you?" Clark repeated, startled. "You don't mean that——"

Asa Brand nodded his vulture-head. "Yes. I've picked you to lead the expedition. You know the country, you can do it.

"Here is the proposition. You'll be furnished what men and equipment you need and you'll go to Africa, penetrate that unknown region, and find the Lake of Life. You will bring me back a flask of its shining waters. When you do that, I'll pay you a half-million dollars."

"And if I don't bring the water back?" Clark asked. "If I can't find the lake, or if I'm killed in there?"

"Then you get nothing, and your heirs get nothing," Asa Brand snapped. "Only when you deliver into my hands a flask of those shining waters will you receive your pay. I believe that those waters will extend my life greatly, but even if they prove without virtue, you will have been paid for procuring them for me."

A cunning, menacing expression entered the old man's eyes as he added, "But don't think you can accept my proposition and then trick me, Stannard. Don't think you can bring back a flask of ordinary water and fool me. The waters of the Lake of Life are shining waters unlike any other on earth. I'll know if you try a trick, and you will receive nothing."

The senile multi-millionaire leaned forward tensely. "Well, do you accept the proposition?"

Clark felt himself forced to a desperate decision. The young adventurer had no faith whatever that the waters of the fabled lake possessed the power of immortality. But there was a good chance that a lake of shining waters did exist back in the unknown Kiridu. Phosphorescence or radio-activity made such a shining lake a possibility.

And if it did exist and he could reach it and bring back a flask of its waters to this death-fearful old man, Clark would receive half a million dollars—enough, more than enough, to make the future secure for his helpless family.

Yet it was a deadly dangerous gamble. He knew well the slim chance any white man had of entering the Kiridu country and escaping death from its fanatic, savage tribes. And if he was killed in there in the wild search for the lake, what of his sisters and brother and mother?

Clark's brown, rugged face became rock-like as he made his decision. He told old Brand, "I'll go." He added, "I'll need four or five men, at least—we'll have to strike into the Kiridu afoot from the headwaters of the Bembu River, and you can't use native porters, for they won't take white men into that sacred country. I don't know where you'll find men who will join such a risky venture."

"I'll find the men," Asa Brand's cracked voice had promised with eager readiness. "And they'll be men who won't balk at any danger."

Asa Brand had found just such men. By devious ways and agents, he had brought together the five hard-bitten, ruined, hunted men who had agreed to follow Clark Stannard to the devil himself as long as they received the pay the old millionaire promised, when they returned.

Brand had procured the schooner and equipment, too, following Clark's specifications and lists. And two weeks after his first meeting with the old financier, his desperate expedition in search of the Lake of Life had sailed for Africa.

Boom! Boom! Through the suffocating noon hush of the jungle throbbed the odd, percussive sound, like the deep quavering of muted gongs.

Black heart of Africa, throbbing in hate and menace! Its malign whisper was a sinister promise. Boom! Boom! Boom!

Mike Shinn gave up his oar to Lieutenant Morrow and scrambled back to lie panting in the stern of the long-boat, his huge, freckled fist dashing a rivulet of perspiration from his brow.

"I wish those damned drums would stop," he panted. "This rowing's got me hanging on the ropes anyway, without havin' to listen to that day and night."

Blacky Cain turned his unshaven, predatory face from his oar and snarled, "You and me both. You'd think there was a thousand jazz bands in this damned jungle, to hear it."

Clark Stannard, his hard brown face a little gaunt from the past week's strenuous toil, told them grimly, "Those drums are the telegraph system of the jungle tribes. They've kept tabs on us ever since we first entered this Kiridu country."

The long-boat was forging slowly up an upper tributary of the Bembu, a black creek no more than a hundred feet wide. On either shore there rose, not the obscene mangrove swamps of the coastal region, but a solid wall of towering, stupendous trees. This was the true jungle, the mighty equatorial forest that blanketed the heart of the dark continent. Huge banyans and baobabs and ebony trees interlocked branches, laced into solidity by snaky lianas and rubber-vines and climbing palms.

This insanely luxuriant vegetation teemed with life. They had heard the distant trumpeting squeal and crash of elephants many times in the last week. The chatter of birds and scolding lemurs was silenced ever and again by the squall of an angry leopard. Submarine-like hippopotamuses swam from in front of the long-boat in ponderous alarm. Crocodiles crashed and splashed through the reeds, and millions of mosquitoes swarmed out onto them from the eternal twilight of the dank forest.

Eight days had passed since they had started up the Bembu. Eight days of heat and mosquitoes and back-breaking toil, during which they had crept deeper into the forbidden Kiridu country, first up the main river and then up this narrow, unexplored tributary. Clark estimated that they were nearly three hundred miles inland; and that they were well into the Kiridu was indicated by the ominous throb of the native goudougoudous or signal drums, which they had been hearing for two days.

Clark said, "I think we'll reach the end of this creek before long. Then we'll try to get bearings on those mountains, the Mountains of Death, that are supposed to encircle the Lake of Life."

Ephraim Quell broke his usual dour silence to say, "Queerest course I ever sailed on—hunting for a lake whose waters give immortality, surrounded by mountains they call the Mountains of Death."

"Yeah, it's all a wild pipe-dream of old Brand," rasped Blacky Cain. "But what do we care, as long as he pays off? Me, I didn't come for the pay but to get out of the country. I was gettin' too hot."

Lieutenant Morrow, tugging at his oar, remarked curtly, "There may be more to the legend of the lake than we think. After all, science has no idea really how life started on earth."

Mike Shinn grunted, "I'd trade you my share in the lake right now for a dozen bottles of cold beer."

"And I'd trade mine for a tall drink of tequila and a good-lookin' muchacha," drawled Link Wilson with a slow grin.

Clark sensed rebelliousness in them. He told them forcefully, "There must be some kind of unusual lake in here. And wherever or whatever it is, we're going to find it."

Yet Clark could not blame them for not believing. His own sober sense rejected the possibility of the lake. It was only desperation that made him cling to the hope of its reality; for unless it existed, unless he reached it and returned with some of its waters, he had no hope of getting the money his family needed so desperately.

Onward they toiled, six browned, unshaven men in solaro-cloth suits and dirty pith helmets, forcing the heavy long-boat up the narrowing creek. There was no complaint from any of this hard-bitten crew as they struggled on through the stifling afternoon hours. Yet their nerves rasped to the ceaseless, monotonous throbbing of the drums.

By midafternoon, the creek had narrowed to a shallow stream barely thirty feet across. Huge trees interlaced arched branches above them to shut out the searing sunlight, so that they rowed on in strange green gloom. The dank, heavy breath of the jungle was overpowering here. Then they rounded a bend, and at once stopped rowing. Ahead of them the stream ended in a swampy, unnavigable slough.

Clark Stannard nodded. "From here on, we go on foot. Pull over to the shore and we'll beach the boat there."

They dragged the heavy long-boat through the squashy black mud and papyrus reeds to firm ground. There they piled out and stood, panting and slapping vainly at the fiendish mosquitoes.

Clark cast keen eyes around the jungle. He noted a huge banyan tree that towered far above the rest of the forest.

He ordered crisply, "Get our equipment and supplies out of the boat and divide them among the pack-sacks. I'm going to climb that banyan. If the mountains exist, they should be visible from up there."

Clark found it hard getting up the lower part of the giant banyan, but once in the upper branches the climbing was fairly easy. It was a different world up there, a swaying green world of dappled sunlight and clinging vines and flashing birds. He reached the highest attainable crotch, two hundred feet from the group, and then peered north and eastward. His sweeping gaze abruptly fixed.

He was looking far across the sunlit green roof of the jungle. In the dim distance, a short range of steep, dark mountains rose at least ten thousand feet above the steaming forest. Huge, frowning ramparts and scarps and ridges lifted like menacing fangs. And his heart leaped as he saw that the frowning range was ring-shaped. He was looking at the rumored Mountains of Death, and they were real.

Clark's black eyes slitted in excitement. If the mountains existed, might not the shining lake supposed to lie inside them exist also? He could not understand the reason for the extraordinary ring-shaped formation of the range. Then, as his eyes swept along the circular rampart, he made out the silver thread of a narrow river that seemed to flow with great swiftness through the jungle toward the mountains.

He carefully took compass readings, and then excitedly descended. He told the others, "The Mountains of Death lie east-northeast from here. They're no more than forty miles away—we ought to make them by late tomorrow afternoon."

They shouldered the heavy pack-sacks into which the equipment had been divided, and picked up their automatic rifles. Bandoliers were slung over their shoulders, and the packs contained a store of ammunition for the heavy pistols in their belts.

Clark pointed out an elephant trail leading east. "We'll have to follow the game trails. It would take days to hack a path."

They moved forward along the winding elephant trail, which was like a tunnel through the solid green jungle. Their rifles were in the crooks of their arms; their eyes intently scanned the walls of vegetation on either side, alert for a sudden, yelling, savage attack.

But though they pressed on through the long, hot hours for the rest of that day, no attack came. The drums seemed to throb faster, louder, as they slowly advanced to the mountains. The hollow boom came from ahead, from behind, seemingly from everywhere. It whispered of gathering forces, of impending onslaught, Clark knew.

As they marched eastward, they glimpsed ever and again the dark, frowning ramparts of the mysterious mountains. And when night fell, and they made a fireless, watchful camp in a little clearing, Clark and his men could see the distant ridges and scarps black against the African stars, a giant and unbroken ring of titanic peaks and ridges.

"What the devil made the mountains round like that?" Mike Shinn asked, puzzled. "They look just like a big fence put up there."

"I've no idea of the cause of that ring-shaped formation," Clark admitted. "It's quite unprecedented, as far as I know. We may be able to learn more about it when we reach the mountains tomorrow."

"If we reach them tomorrow, you're meanin'," drawled Link Wilson, reclining with his rifles across his knees, rolling a brown-paper cigarette. "The hombres beatin' on those tom-toms may have different ideas."

They all listened. In the solid blackness of the jungle night, the throbbing boom of the drums was much louder, brutal in its hate and menace. They seemed to hear vague whispers, murmurs of stealthy movement in the forest, ghostly gathering of phantom hordes.

The six men slept in shifts that night, waiting tautly for the expected attack. But the unseen natives made no attack, and when the blood-red dawn came, they shouldered their packs grimly to go on.

They made their noon halt in a game trail less than five miles from the base of the mountains. From here they had a clear view of the steep, dark slopes of the weird range, lying barren in the hot sun without any speck of vegetable life on them. A feeling of awe gripped Clark's men as they stared.

They had just started forward again, when Ephraim Quell halted suddenly. His nasal voice exclaimed, "Listen!"

Clark halted with the others, listening. No sound broke the green, twilight stillness of the damp jungle.

But Clark's brown face stiffened. He said, "When the blacks suddenly stop the goudougoudous, it means they're ready to attack. They must already be near us in the jungle. On toward the mountains, men!" his voice rang harshly. "On the double quick!"

They started forward along the wide game trail on a rapid trot, heavy packs thumping against their backs, rifles raised.

Suddenly a spear flashed out of the jungle wall like a streak of light. Link Wilson ducked, whirled and fired in a flash, and the crack of the rifle ended in a shriek of agony.

At the same moment, a shower of spears shot out of the green forest into the trail.

But the spears missed the white men. On the instant that the lank Texan had fired, Clark Stannard had yelled to his men.

He had dived toward the trees on the right, the men plunging after him. For to remain in the open trail was to permit themselves to be stricken down by spears to which they could not answer.

They crashed into a green gloom that seemed peopled thick with black warriors lying there in ambush. Hideous, nightmare shapes they seemed in that weird twilight, tall black warriors who wore head-dresses of black plumes and whose naked bodies were painted from head to toe with ghastly white skeleton outlines. They looked like crouching skeletons in the forest gloom, and they were momentarily taken with surprize by the swift crash of the white men into their midst.

Then for moments it was a wild chaos of hellish battle between Clark's men and the natives into whom they had plunged. Hideous shrieks and the whizz of spears rang chorus to the staccato roar of rifles as the white men shot.

Mike Shinn, his clip emptied, clubbed his heavy rifle and with a roar of rage crashed its butt down on a black-plumed head. Link Wilson reeled back against a tree, gun arm running blood from a grazing spear-wound, but with his left hand he jerked out his belt pistol and shot with the swiftness of a wolf's snap. Clark saw a hideous, skull-painted face drive inward beneath his last bullet, and yelled for his men to group together around a great tree.

They had cleared that immediate portion of the jungle of the blacks, but with a raging roar, the others who had lain in the prepared ambush were surging wildly across the trail and through the trees toward them. The white men were hastily jamming fresh clips into their guns, except for Blacky Cain, who was pawing desperately in his pack-sack.

Clark and four of his men turned loose with the rifles, and over the roar of them heard spears thudding into the tree against whose giant trunk they stood. The skeleton-painted blacks came on.

The gangster had pawed out of the pack-sack the submachine gun he had brought with him. He had fitted a drum of ammunition, and now, holding the deadly weapon hip-high, he let go with it.

An unseen sword of lead from the Thompson gun sliced across the advancing skeleton-like horde, and the front rank of the blacks fell like ripe wheat. Cain thrust in another drum, and again the deadly stutter broke above the savage yells. The blacks recoiled through the trees from that terrific hail of death.

"They can't take it!" yelled Blacky Cain, a wolfish, mirthless grin on his face. "They're scramming."

"We've only checked them," Clark shouted. "There are hundreds of them—we've got to get out of here or we'll be annihilated. Quick, toward the mountains—they're our only chance."

They started a desperate retreat through the tangled jungle. None was badly wounded, but Clark knew it was but a matter of minutes before the savages recovered from their setback.

"They're Amafuka—it means People of Death," he exclaimed as they hastened. "And they were shouting 'Kilima Amafuka'—Mountains of Death. There's a chance that they'll be too superstitious about the mountains to follow us, if we can get to them."

Lieutenant Morrow, his lean young face dripping but coldly unperturbed, nodded agreement.

"If they do follow us onto the mountains, our number will be up," he said indifferently.

"Boy, I haven't had so much fun since my mob stuck up the Midwest National," rasped Blacky Cain, cradling the submachine gun affectionately as he backed after them through the gloom.

Spears began to flash after them through the jungle as they retreated toward the mountains. The Amafuka were recovering from the surprize of the machine gun, and with mad yells of heart-chilling rage were surging through the forest after them.

Clark and his men halted for a moment and turned to send another deadly hail of lead through the trees. Then they pressed desperately on. Ahead, the dark, frowning slopes of the mountains were now visible through the trees, as they approached the end of the jungle. The uproar of the battle and retreat was sending birds and monkeys and small animals racing ahead of them in wild panic.

Closer after them came the Amafuka, and again they had to halt and fire back to hold the blacks off. Clark's rifle barrel was hot in his hand, and the reek of burned powder mixed with the dank breath of the jungle in his nostrils. Then through the thinning trees ahead, he saw the base of the dark rock slope, a hundred yards from him.

"Run for it now!" he cried. "Once up on that slope, we'll have a chance to hold them off if they dare pursue us there."

The six adventurers crashed through the last trees and undergrowth, more birds and monkeys and squealing wild pigs bolting in front of them. They emerged onto the strip of grass between the jungle and the first outcrop of the dark rock. From that first ledge, the barren rock slope loomed up in vast, frowning mystery, a titan wall.

The Amafuka in the jungle uttered a chorus of wild yells as they saw the white men running toward the rock slope. Clark, in the lead, was within twenty feet of the rock ledge when he suddenly saw something that made his brown face go sickly gray.

The others jerked to a halt. Clark pointed a trembling finger ahead. "Look——"

Two of the wild pigs bolting before them had run up onto the dark rock slope. The two animals were stricken with instant, incomprehensible destruction.

For as the animals set foot on that dark ledge, there was a flash of white force or fire from the rock on which they trod. It reduced the two little running beasts instantly to scorched, shriveled carcasses.

"God above, the natives' belief about the Mountains of Death is true!" Clark cried. "It's death to any living thing that sets foot on those slopes!"

The six men stared, transfixed with stupefied horror. The frowning slopes of the looming range suddenly seemed unearthly in menace, a mysterious death-trap into which they had almost run. Clark Stannard's mind was whirling madly. God! what was the invisible force that invested these mountains and that had struck like lightning?

In Clark's mind like a tolling death-bell rang the words that he himself had spoken not long before. "The natives say that nobody can cross those mountains, for any living thing that sets foot upon them is slain instantly."

Incredibly, horribly, that was a fact. The Mountains of Death were a deadly barrier that no man could cross.

Clark spun with the others. The skeleton-painted Amafuka were charging through the trees toward the little group of petrified white men, spears leveled, eyes flaming, shouting madly.

"Good gosh!" cried Mike Shinn. "They're tryin' to force us back onto the slope!"

The Amafuka were pouring out of the jungle in a solid mass, racing to get within spear-throw of the white men. Clark's voice blared, instinct for leadership flaring up in this incredible dilemma. His men knelt, fired their rifles as fast as they could pull trigger. Then Blacky Cain's submachine gun tore loose with the whir of a striking rattler.

An unseen death lashed among the charging savages and dropped them in heaps. Others behind the dead tripped on the bodies, and as they stumbled, soft-nosed rifle bullets slammed into them. The raving warriors could not stand such punishment, and again recoiled with shrieks of rage into the jungle.

Clark straightened and looked at his panting, desperate crew. Their faces powder-grimed, their clothes torn by the flight through the jungle, they were a wild-looking group. Blacky Cain, a lighted cigarette dangling from his lips, was glaring at the jungle. The lank Texan's lips were tightly compressed, his eyes icy with menace.

Clark, even in this desperate moment, felt a surge of pride in his followers. Disgraced, criminal fugitives they might be, but, by heaven, they were men! Not on one face was there any panic. They looked as dangerous as cornered panthers.

"We've got to get out of here," Clark said swiftly. "Those Amafuka will wait until night and then rush us and finish us."

"Don't know where we can go," said Ephraim Quell nasally. "I don't hanker to try climbing those mountains, now."

"That's just what the cursed scouts want us to do, damn their black hearts and hides!" said Mike Shinn wrathfully.

"Climbing the mountains is out of the question," Clark said rapidly. "God knows what weird force clings to them, but it is deadly. It looks as if a vast electrical charge invests the mountains and kills anything that makes contact with it. Our only chance is to march along the base of the mountains, holding off the Amafuka, until we can find some pass or gap by which we can pass in through the mountains. I don't think the Amafuka would follow us to the inside of the range."

As the six adventurers put Clark's plan into effect, the savages started to boil out of the jungle toward them. But the men halted and fired a rapid volley that sent the blacks back into the forest. The six marched on, following the base of the deadly range eastward.

Clark's gaze swept desperately along the frowning peaks and buttresses in vain search for a pass through them. His heart held a foreboding chill, for nowhere along the titan barrier could he descry any break or gap. And as the six pressed on, they glimpsed the ghastly painted shapes of the Amafuka slipping along in the jungle, keeping pace with them. For a half-hour the taut march continued. Already the sun was declining ominously toward the west.

Then the white men stiffened as there came to their ears a dim, distant roaring sound from ahead, throbbing through the tense silence in unbroken rhythm. Ephraim Quell looked startled.

"Look, there's a pass in the range!" cried Lieutenant Morrow suddenly, pointing a lean finger.

Clark had already seen, and his heart bounded with hope. A half-mile ahead the titanic cliffs were broken by a narrow, crack-like split, a chasm extending inward through their rock mass.

The men pressed forward with quickened pace, taut with expectation and hope. The dull, unbroken roar from ahead came louder and louder to their ears. Link Wilson glanced at the shadowy shapes of the Amafuka, keeping pace with them inside the bordering forest.

"Somethin' wrong here!" muttered the lanky Texan. "They must know we're headin' for that pass. Why don't they try to stop us?"

"Sure, they've had a taste of our guns and they don't want another match with us," answered Mike Shinn jubilantly.

But a few minutes later, as the six men came abreast of the chasm-like pass, they halted with cries of despair.

Across their path lay a river that flowed out of the jungle and into that chasm. And what a river! A deep, raging body of water a hundred yards wide that ran with mill-race swiftness between dirt banks littered with dead trees and debris. A cataract rushed wildly and with a steady roar, straight into the chasm in the deadly cliffs.

The chasm itself was a mere crack in the frowning range, its walls going up vertically for thousands of feet. And the raving, roaring waters flowing into it completely covered its bottom with their foaming flood.

Clark Stannard, his hopes plummeting to black despair, remembered now that he had seen this river from the top of the huge banyan when he had first descried the Mountains of Death. Now it barred their way, trapped them. They could never swim this mad stream.

"I knew those damned blacks had some object in lettin' us retreat this way," gritted Link Wilson. "They know they've got us cornered now."

The Amafuka, as the white men halted, had halted also, extending their line across the way Clark and his band had come, and also through the jungle to a point farther up the river. They squatted down, a grimly waiting horde.

"They're waiting for darkness," rasped Blacky Cain. "Then they'll rush us and rub us out—and we can't get away."

"Sure, it looks like this is the final round, at that," said Mike Shinn, scratching his red head.

Clark's eyes had been sweeping desperately along the raging river, following it where it entered the chasm.

"By heaven," he exclaimed, "they may rush us at dark but we won't be here. We're going to go down this river, through that pass in the mountains. It's our way inside the range."

They stared incredulously at him. He added swiftly, pointing to where the wild cataract entered the chasm:

"Look, you can see fish leaping in the water in there inside the chasm. That means that the bed of the river is not charged with the deadly force like the rest of the mountains—probably the waters have eroded down to ordinary rock. And that means we can go down the river, and if we don't touch the chasm walls, we won't be killed."

"Go down that river?" echoed Mike Shinn. "Are ye crazy, man? No swimmer could live a minute in that hell-stream."

"We're not going to swim," Clark declared. He pointed at the debris of dead trees and brush lining the banks. "We can make a raft, by using some of those vines to tie dead tree logs together."

"That we can," declared Ephraim Quell suddenly. "There's plenty of stuff there."

"Ride down that river, into those cursed mountains, on a crazy home-made raft?" gasped Shinn.

"It's our only chance," Clark declared. "We've got to escape the Amafuka before dark, and we've got to get into the inside of this range somehow. This gives us a chance to do both things. Quell, you and Morrow help me with the raft," he ordered. "Blacky, you and Link and Mike stay up here on guard."

The Yankee captain and the ex-army officer clambered down the dirt bank with Clark. Rapidly they selected dead trees of suitable size. Then the hand-axes came out of their belts and they began working furiously under the broiling late afternoon sun. Chips flew, sweat soaked their shirts, as they trimmed and shortened the trees.

Desperation, lent by knowledge that death awaited them if they did not make their escape by dark, drove their muscles to the last ounce of effort. One by one, the logs were shortened and trimmed and dragged into the quiet waters of a small eddy. The men started laboring to fasten them with long, tough vines from the masses of debris. Suddenly up on the bank, two rifles cracked and the submachine gun whirred fiercely.

"Here come the savages!" yelled Mike Shinn. "They've seen what we're doing—they know we're tryin' to get away."

Clark climbed up the bank's top swiftly. Some of the Amafuka had reached a point where they had glimpsed the raft-building activity, and were now coming on in wild fury.

"Quell, you and Morrow finish tying together those logs," cried Clark to the two men below. "The rest of us will hold off the blacks till you finish—but for God's sake hurry!"

The whole horde of the Amafuka was charging. The natives were mad with rage as they saw their prey preparing to slip from their grasp, and their skull-painted faces were hideous masks of fury. Clark threw himself down between the Texan and Mike Shinn, and the three rifles and the Thompson gun poured a stream of fire into the savages.

But this time the Amafuka came on! They leaped over their own dead, their shrill yells wild over the thunder of waters. Blacky Cain dropped the empty submachine gun, hastily dug in his pack-sack. He fished out an oval steel object, tugged at it, then flung it forward.

Crash! The thing exploded in the midst of the blacks and flattened a score of them in bloody heaps. They sucked back in momentary terror. Another hurtling steel object exploded amidst them.

"I thought those two pineapples would come in handy if I brought 'em along," Blacky Cain laughed wolfishly.

"Hurry, Quell!" called Clark down to the two laboring men below. "They'll rush us again in a moment. They're coming now!"

The Amafuka were diabolical in their rage. Again they charged forward, spears glinting thick in the sun, plumed heads bent low as their wild yells split the air.

Clark Stannard knew with sinking heart that they couldn't be stopped this time. Blacky Cain, his lips curled back in a mirthless grin, had drawn his heavy automatic.

They scrambled down the bank. There in the eddy floated the crude raft of heavy logs, lashed precariously together with tough lianas. Morrow stood on it with two long poles, ready to push off, and Ephraim Quell was at a big, crude steering-oar he had affixed in an upright crotch at the rear.

Mike Shinn and the Texan leaped onto it, followed by the snarling gangster and Clark. Then Clark grabbed one of the long poles and he and Morrow pushed frantically. The heavy, clumsy raft swung out with maddening slowness toward the raging current.

The Amafuka burst into view along the bank in a solid wave. Their screeches ripped the air as they saw their prey escaping. Their spears flew in a deadly shower toward the raft. But the raft had swung into the wild rush of the main current.

Instantly the raging waters gripped the clumsy craft and whirled it around so suddenly that the men were flung down onto the rough logs. Spinning, tossing, the raft was borne with nightmare speed down the wild current toward the opening of the narrow chasm.

"Quell, head her around!" cried Clark over the surging roar. "If we crash into the walls of the chasm, it's death!"

Ephraim Quell was straining at his big, crude steering-oar to swing the craft around in the current, to bring it front-foremost. His bony form tensed, his face crimsoned, as he fought the current.

The long raft's bow came slowly around. The yelling Amafuka on the bank had already dropped far back, and now the craft was rushing and dipping over the foaming waters, right into the chasm in the looming range.

To Clark Stannard, kneeling precariously on the rough logs at the front, it was as though they had been suddenly transported out of the hot sunlight into another world—a world of weird twilight, of dull, thunderous, bellowing sound.

On either side of them, the dark, jagged sides of the chasm soared upward out of sight, stupendous rock walls through which the river ran with nightmare speed. Its deafening roar reverberated hollowly between those walls like the bawling and bantering of hoarse, titanic voices. On they rushed, through the unearthly, shadowy twilight, at breakneck speed.

The chasm, and the river in it, turned sharply not far ahead. The raft, slow to turn even in the swift current, was flung toward the rock wall that it was death for any life to touch.

"Fend off!" screamed Clark to Morrow, kneeling and thrusting furiously with his long pole toward the rock wall. Morrow did the same, while Quell fought frantically with his oar to help them.

Their poles hit the rock wall—and white flashes of fire-like force leaped from the rock and burned and scorched the ends of the poles. Clark and the ex-army officer were almost thrown off the raft by the thrust against their poles. But they clung to it, and the raft veered from the menacing wall, whirled round the turn in the chasm.

On and on—a nightmare, crazy rush through the deadly walls, borne on the raving, foaming flood. Again they had to thrust wildly to keep the raft from scraping along the rock side. Clark glimpsed Shinn and Link Wilson and Blacky Cain crouching at the center of the raft—the prizefighter's battered face stupefied, the Texan's eyes narrowed to slits, Blacky's harsh visage wearing its fighting snarl.

"Raft's beginning to come apart!" yelled Ephraim Quell over the din of waters, pointing wildly with one hand.

The hastily-lashed vines that tied the logs together were beginning to loosen under the battering of the current. The raft threatened to disintegrate under them.

"It'll last a little longer!" Clark cried. "We must be nearly through the range by now!"

He knew that already, so tremendous the speed of this unthinkable current, they had rushed for miles into the heart of the Mountains of Death. And they were still dipping and racing forward, still riding the foam-maned waters down the twilight length of that narrow, titanic canyon.

The waters roared louder. Clark Stannard glimpsed that ahead the river dropped in a long, steeper grade at the bottom of the chasm, a rapid of breathtaking incline, down which the waters rushed as though with wings. And the raft was almost at the head of that rapid.

The raft seemed to poise a moment at the very brink of that incredibly slanting rapid. Then with a wild, sickening swoop, it flashed down the current with dizzying speed.

Dark walls of rock flashing past, wild roar of maddened waters in their ears, a giddy sensation of falling like that in a diving airplane—these were Clark's chaotic, numbed sensations.

He glimpsed Quell working futilely with his steering-oar, trying to steady the raft, and glimpsed the liana lashings bursting and breaking rapidly. Down, down, they rushed—and ahead Clark suddenly glimpsed the end of the chasm, saw sunlight beyond it.

The raft flashed forward like a winged thing, shooting down the last of that sickening water-slant, and plunged suddenly out of the weird, roaring twilight of the chasm into hot sunlight and open air. Before them stretched a vast space.

"We're through!" yelled Lieutenant Morrow. "We're through the mountains—inside the range."

Clark Stannard's senses seemed to reel. There stretched before him in the blazing, waning sunlight the space that lay inside the ring of the Mountains of Death—a circle of mingled forest and plain, fully fifty miles across, ringed round by the vast, deadly range. Straight into this prisoned land the raving river flowed with unabated speed.

And over there, miles away to the west, close to the inside wall of the looming mountains, rose a crimson city—a fantastic city of blood-red domes and roofs and streets, belted round with a high, scarlet wall. Incredible red city of this fantastic, hidden realm! Clark wondered fleetingly, did that city hold the legended Lake of Life?

He managed by frenzied effort to steer the disintegrating raft almost to the bank of the raving river. But now the logs were giving way, spreading under them, as the last lashing came apart.

Crash! Almost on his word, the raft struck a hidden rock. Instantly the few remaining lashings burst, and as the logs flew apart under them, they were all thrown into the crazy current.

The only thing that saved Clark Stannard and his companions was the fact that the rock on which the raft had split was near the shore. Had the raft broken up in the middle of that wild, foaming flood, they must inevitably have been drowned. As it was, Clark rose out of the waters, one hand gripping his heavy pack, and found that a few convulsive strokes brought him to water in which he could stand.

Quell and Lieutenant Morrow had reached the same safety, and Link Wilson was fighting to their side. But Blacky Cain would have been swept past in the current had not Mike Shinn reached and grabbed his collar. The prizefighter exerted his tremendous strength, drew the gangster into the shallower, quieter water. He stood up, spitting and sputtering disgustedly. Then they climbed up onto the bank, flung down their soaked packs, and for a few minutes stood gasping for breath.

Clark stared westward at that weird city which he had glimpsed in the tense moment when the raft first emerged from the chasm. From here he could see only the crimson tips of the few high domes and towers in it, lent an additional blood-like brilliance by the glinting red sunset. The others were staring too, a dripping, desperate little band.

"A city, here inside the Mountains of Death!" Clark muttered. "Who'd have dreamed it? It means there must be people here——"

"Yeah, and maybe those people won't exactly welcome us with the glad hand," said Blacky Cain grimly. "We've got our pistols and a few hundred shells for them in the packs, and that's all."

Clark's hopes were suddenly soaring. They had done what had seemed so impossible, had penetrated the seemingly impassable barrier of the deadly mountains. If the shining lake really existed in here they would find it somehow. And he felt now that some sort of lake must exist in here, for the legend of the Mountains of Death was already verified.

"It's jest come to my mind," Ephraim Quell's nasal voice twanged, "that we're in here where we were trying to get, but that there ain't any way out. We can't climb over those mountains and we can't float up that plaguy river."

"Gosh, that's so, isn't it?" said Mike Shinn, scratching his red head. "I never thought of that."

"We'll worry about getting out when the time comes," Clark said sharply. "Our object right now is to find where the shining lake lies. I think we'll first reconnoiter that red city, and if its people look friendly, we can enter it and ask about the Lake of Life."

"That's the stuff," nodded Blacky Cain approvingly. "Always case a joint carefully before you try a job there."

They started across the grassy plain dotted with clumps of brush and trees, heading toward the red city and the blazing sunset. Clark's eyes swept puzzledly around the inside of the great ring-like range, as they advanced. It looked like a vast crater, now that they were inside it. It looked—the thought startled him—like one of the giant craters on the moon, formed long ago by the impact of colossal meteors.

His keen ears had perceived a movement. Clark whispered a command, and he and his men crouched low in a thicket of brush. Their automatics were in their hands. Then they heard the unmistakable sharp thud of horses' hooves. The lank Texan's eyes brightened at that sound.

The rushing of hoofbeats came closer, then slower. Peering from the brush, Clark saw that a band of a dozen men had ridden up from the east. Now they had halted in the brush, a hundred yards away, and were dismounting from their horses.

They were white-skinned men, Clark saw. They wore cap-like black metal helmets and short tunics of woven black metal-mesh, and had long swords at their belts. He heard Mike Shinn gasp in surprize at sight of them.

"Nor me either," muttered the ex-prizefighter. "Lookit the size of the toad-stickers they're wearin'."

A slender young fellow who seemed the leader of the black-armored men was giving orders in a low, authoritative voice. The band split up. Two remained holding the horses while the rest moved stealthily through the brush, parallel with Clark's hiding-place, toward the west.

It came to Clark that these black-armored men were spying on the red city, for all their attention was directed on the distant towers and domes that blazed crimson in the sunset. They had their swords in their hands, and their extreme caution betokened strong desire on their part to remain undiscovered by the inhabitants of the red city. It flashed over Clark that these must be men of a different city or people. He decided quickly that the best part for his band was to lie low.

But Clark's intentions were all over-turned in a moment. The black-armored ones suddenly became aware of their presence. One had cast a cautious glance toward their hiding-place, then at sight of a waving bush had uttered a low cry. Instantly all of them spun around. Their slender young leader rapped out a sharp command. They came in a silent deadly rush toward Clark and his men, swords raised, white faces grim. Concealment was no longer possible, and Clark and his five men leaped up.

Their pistols blazed a stream of flame into the middle of the charging group, Link Wilson's big forty-five booming over the sharper rattle of the automatics. Five of the black-armored attackers fell, one of them being the slender young leader. The others halted aghast, obviously never having witnessed the effect of firearms before.

Then they made off in a wild, scrambling run for their horses, leaving their five dead behind them. Blacky Cain raised his gun to fire after them, but Clark struck it down.

"No, no more shooting! That repulsed them, and we'll need all the ammunition we have."

Clark was not feeling so elated—they had repulsed the attack, but they had also been discovered. His brown face grim, he strode forward to examine the dead men. He turned one over. His face was a white, aquiline one with long thin nose and thin lips. His sword was of fine steel, well worked. The black armor was bronze, somehow tinted.

"Here's one that's still alive," said Lieutenant Morrow suddenly. He was bending over the young leader who had fallen. Clark saw as he came up that a bullet had merely grazed his temple, stunning him.

"None of that," Clark said sharply. "We may be able to get information from this fellow about the Lake of Life."

He pulled the black bronze helmet off the unconscious youth's head. Then he stared in stupefied surprize. From under the helmet fell a thick torrent of silky, blue-black hair that dropped down around the pale, unconscious face.

"Yeah, a regular gun-moll," said Blacky Cain, surprized. "She was leading the others when they charged us."

The girl's breast rose and fell under her woven black metal tunic. Then her eyes opened. Deep blue eyes they were, not static and serene but flashing with electric sparks like stormy summer skies. Her features were small, chiseled, stamped with a fiery, challenging force. As she looked up at Clark, remembrance came to her and she struggled to rise, her white face flaming with wrath, feeling wildly for the sword that had dropped from her hand.

He gripped her, but it was like struggling with a wildcat. Her supple, chain-encased body twisted with mad frenzy, naked arms and legs thrashing, her bare knee digging into his stomach. Her blazing eyes raged at him without a spark of fear, only hate and fury, as he grabbed her wrists and held her.

The girl could not understand his English, of course. But she hissed snarling words that, to his amazement, he could partly understand. They were in a language that seemed much akin to Arabic, which he knew; not the same at all, but so similar that that tongue might have been an ancestor to Arabic in the dim past.

"Dogs of Reds!" she hissed. "What magic did you use to slay my men? Give me my sword, and I'll face it!"

"There was no magic," Clark told her in Arabic. "We killed your men because you tried to kill us. We are not Reds."

She understood, though his modern Arabic must have had a strange sound to her ears. But her fighting, tigress face did not relax; her chiseled nostrils flared with fury.

"You seek to trick me with lies!" she raged. "Even now your hearts are glad that you can take me prisoner to Thargo. Well will he reward you for using your magic to capture Lurain, daughter of Kimor."

"What the devil is she ravin' about?" Mike Shinn asked eagerly. "You seem to get it, chief."

"She thinks we belong to that crimson city," Clark said rapidly, holding the struggling girl. "Undoubtedly she and the other black-armored ones are from a race or city enemy to the red city."

Then he turned back to the raging girl and told her emphatically, "Lurain, listen to the truth. We are not of the red city or of this land at all. We are men from outside the mountains."

"Lie upon lie!" snarled Lurain. "All men know that no living thing can cross those mountains, whose very touch is death. Though you wield strange weapons and wear strange garb, I know you are Thargo's dogs, seeking like your evil master to do the thing unholy, to drink of the forbidden lake."

"The lake?" cried Clark Stannard, his heart leaping excitedly. "You mean the Lake of Life? Where does it lie? Is it in the red city?"

"You know well where the lake lies, blasphemer," said Lurain, staring in cold, bitter hate. "These many generations have you and your forebears sought to win to it and drink its forbidden waters."

"By heaven, the Lake of Life—some kind of lake at least—does exist here!" Clark told the others excitedly. "And this girl knows where. If we can find out——"

Link Wilson's guns leaped suddenly into his hands. They all spun around. From the west, the sound of many galloping horses came to their ears. Lurain's blue eyes blazed in soaring hope.

"The men we routed must have come back with others!" Clark cried. "Quick, into the brush."

For these horsemen were already in sight of them, a full hundred, galloping in a solid troop from the direction of the crimson city. And these men wore red armor, instead of black. At first sight of them, the hope died in Lurain's face.

The Red horsemen dashed up and at a shouted order from their leader, split into a thin line that encircled Clark and his band. Then they sat their horses, their swords raised ominously.

"Not yet," Clark commanded swiftly. "There are too many of them for us to rout, this time. Wait—they're not attacking."

The leader of the Red horsemen had dismounted and was approaching. He was a man of about thirty years, with a smooth white face and cunning eyes. As his gaze fell on the girl in Clark's grasp, exultation leaped into his eyes. Wonder and doubt replaced it as he stared at the grim, tense little band of six adventurers.

"Who be you, stranger?" he asked in the same vague Arabic tongue the girl had used. "You are not of our city of K'Lamm; that I know. Neither can you be of Dordona, or you would not have slain these Blacks that lie here."

"We know," said the Red leader firmly. "Guards on our city wall heard strange, sharp sounds from this spot and saw Black spies riding away in terror from you. That is why we came out to investigate.

"I am Dral, third captain in the army of the great king Thargo," he added. "Tell me, strangers, from whence came you? And how did you kill these Blacks, when you have no swords?"

"We come from beyond the mountains," Clark said in hard tones. "We killed the Blacks with the weapons in our hands."

Dral glanced at the pistols and his smile became mocking. "Truly, those do not look like weapons."

A big, red-winged bird had just alighted on a near-by bush. Clark raised his pistol and fired. The bird fell to the ground.

At the report, Dral and his men recoiled, and the horses plunged and reared wildly. Dral's eyes were wide, not mocking now, when he came back to face Clark.

"Truly, they are weapons of power," he muttered, swift, inscrutable thoughts racing excitedly behind his eyes. Then with greatly increased respect in his manner, he informed Clark, "Thargo, king of K'Lamm, would welcome you, strangers. Indeed, he would welcome anyone who captured for us, as you did, this wildcat daughter of our old enemy, Kimor."

His gaze flickered with hate toward Lurain's contemptuous face as he spoke. Clark did not like that look.

"We did not capture the girl for you or Thargo," Clark said sharply. "She is our prisoner, not yours."

"Remember the bird that just died," Clark told him pointedly. "Are you sure you could take her from us?"

Again doubt and other stronger emotions struggled in Dral's cunning eyes. Clark could see clearly that the man was fearful of the pistols, but that he was utterly determined to take Lurain a prisoner to his lord. Presently he smiled and said smoothly:

"Be it so; the girl is your prisoner. Will you come with us—and your prisoner—into K'Lamm?"

It was Clark's turn to feel doubt. Somehow, he did not want to take the girl, snarling, fierce little tigress though she was, into the city of her deadly enemies. But he knew that he could not release her either, now that the Red warriors were on the scene.

As long as she was his prisoner, Clark felt, he could guard her safely. And he wanted very much to see this Thargo who ruled the crimson city K'Lamm. It seemed that his only hope of reaching the mysterious Lake of Life lay in the Red warriors.

"Will Thargo be willing to help me win to the Lake of Life?" he asked Dral bluntly.

Sudden triumph flashed into Dral's eyes at the question. But the Red captain said quickly:

"Thargo desires above all things to attain the shining waters of the lake. For ages, indeed, we of K'Lamm have sought to drink of those waters of immortality, and have only been prevented by the dogs of Blacks, the people of rotting Dordona."

"Aye," broke in Lurain fiercely, "and never will you blasphemers reach the sacred lake while one man is alive in Dordona. And even though we all die, the Guardians will keep you from it."

Clark began to understand. Dordona was the city of the Blacks, somewhere inside this giant crater. And the Lake of Life was either at or near Dordona, for the Blacks had apparently constituted themselves the defenders of the sacred waters.

That decided Clark. There was, obviously, no hope of reaching the lake by going to the Black city. And if these warriors of K'Lamm wanted the same thing as he did, to reach the lake, he would string along with them, for the time being, at least. Even though they too seemed to believe in the superstition that the lake's waters conferred immortality, they might make good allies.

"We go to K'Lamm with you," Clark told Dral curtly. "But remember—the girl is our own prisoner."

"It is so agreed, strangers," Dral said in quick assent, though his eyes hid a gleam.

He shouted an order, and horses were brought forward, their riders mounting behind other warriors. The girl's hands were bound and she was placed in the saddle in front of Clark Stannard.

Link Wilson uttered a long sigh as he vaulted lightly into the queer, high-pommeled saddle of his mount.

Clark told them briefly what had happened, and of his decision. Blacky Cain nodded his predatory face in agreement.

"Looks like we're heading into the hangout of the local big-shot," the gangster rasped; "but what the hell—if he gets tough, we can always shoot our way out."

With wild yells, the whole troop of Red warriors urged their horses forward. Clark and his five men rode in the van with Dral, heading straight west toward the crimson towers and roofs.

Lurain rode stiff and unbending in front of Clark, and the glimpses he got of her chiseled white face showed it proud, fierce and unwavering. The girl knew she was on the way into the stronghold of her bitterest enemies, but she showed no sign of fear. She might have been a queen riding to a triumph, so straight and proud she sat. Involuntary respect for the little wildcat stirred in Clark Stannard, even though he was still savagely angry at her merciless attempt to kill them.

Now they galloped, with thunder of thudding hoofs, the Red warriors bending eagerly forward in their saddles. Link Wilson rode like a centaur, the Texan drinking in the wind, his reckless face lit with pleasure. Blacky Cain rode joltingly with harsh face fixed on the city ahead, and Quell and Mike Shinn and Lieutenant Morrow were behind.

Full before them in the dying blaze of the red sunset lay the great Red City, crimson roofs and domes and walls standing out in blinding, blood-like splendor. Gardens and pasturing herds lay outside its walls. Somewhere in here, Clark thought, was Thargo, the king who desired like himself to attain to the mysterious Lake of Life. He must be careful—careful!

Then they were right to the city, thundering in a rushing troop through its wide-open red metal gates, the hooves of their steeds clashing now on a red stone pavement, riding with their prisoner and their fierce escort, right into the crimson city K'Lamm.

The city K'Lamm was circular in outline and more than two miles in diameter, surrounded by a forty-foot wall. The wall and buildings and cobbled streets were all of quarried stone, stained bright red by some secret of pigmentation. The buildings were mostly flat-roofed, one-story ones, shops and stalls and dwellings. The inhabitants were swarming excitedly out of them as the cavalcade rode down the street.

Clark saw that at least half the men wore the crimson armor and the long swords—it was a strongly military population. The helmeted warriors, the simple architecture and weapons, all looked medieval to Clark, as though the civilization of this isolated, prisoned people had not progressed further than the Middle Ages of the outside world. There were many women, wearing extremely scanty white tunics that came only to their knees and left half their white breasts bare.

"Say, there's some good-lookin' dames in this burg," said Mike Shinn, the prizefighter's eyes sweeping the crowd.

"And there are a lot of hard-looking warriors here too," Clark reminded him grimly. "Hands off, Mike."

"What the devil, we could put the blast on this mob easy," sneered Blacky Cain. "There isn't a gat in the whole crowd."

The men and women of K'Lamm seemed inspired with savage fury as they saw the girl prisoner in black armor, in front of Clark.

"Death to Lurain of Dordona!" they yelled, shaking swords and fists in imprecation. "Death and torture for the Dordonan wench!"

Lurain looked neither to right nor left. Again that strong, unwilling respect for the girl stirred in Clark Stannard.

"You are still our prisoner," he leaned forward to tell her. "They shall not take you from us."

"I do not fear them—nor you," snarled Lurain without turning. "The day comes when this Red spawn go to their doom."

At the end of the broad avenue down which they rode loomed the largest building in the city. It was an hexagonal scarlet tower, blunt and truncated, a hundred feet high, a squat, ugly structure. They dismounted in front of it, and the Red captain Dral strode to them.

"The king Thargo has been already informed of your coming and anxiously awaits you," he informed Clark smoothly.

"Lead the way," Clark said curtly. "Our prisoner goes with us." And as they started forward he muttered to his men, "Keep close together and don't make a move unless we're attacked."

They followed Dral into the building, past red-armored guards and down corridors. Dral clanked in the lead, Clark following with the girl, her dark head high, his five men rolling belligerently along and staring about with frank curiosity.

They emerged into a large, round banqueting-hall with red stone walls, lit by shafts of sunset from slit-like windows. All around it were tables, empty now except for one raised on a dais. There alone sat a man in the red helmet and armor, a great jewel blazing on his breast. Behind him hovered a wrinkled-faced, withered old man with sly eyes.

"The strangers and the captive, great king," announced Dral as he paused and bowed to the sitting man. The man stood up.

"You are welcome, strangers," Thargo told Clark. "Yes, more than welcome, when you bring as captive Lurain of Dordona."

Thargo, king of K'Lamm, was a big man. Well over six feet he towered, and his shoulders were as broad as Mike Shinn's. His shining red armor well set off that towering, great-thewed figure.

There was power in his face, not only the arrogant consciousness of utter authority, but hard power innate in the man himself. It was in the square, merciless mouth, in the flaring nostrils, strongest of all in the black, penetrating eyes behind which little devil-lights of mockery and amused contempt seemed to dance.

"Be ready for trouble," Clark muttered to his men. "It may pop right this minute."

For Dral, the Red captain, was now making a respectful report to his lord. And Thargo stiffened as he heard.

"So you claim the Black girl as your prisoner?" he said to Clark, his eyes narrowing.

"Now why, strangers from outside, did you penetrate this land?" Thargo asked thoughtfully. "No others from outside have ever crossed the death mountains and entered. What object brought you here?"

"In the great world outside," Clark told him, "there are legends of a strange, shining lake in this land. We came in search of that lake, and once we find it, will return with some of its waters to our own land."

"The legends you heard were true, strangers," said Thargo, with changed expression. "That shining Lake of Life does exist in this land, but not here, not at K'Lamm. For many generations we of K'Lamm have been striving also to win to that lake. It may be," he added craftily, "that you and I should become allies. Dral tells me your weapons are strange and powerful. Together we would have no trouble in winning to the Lake of Life."

"Never will you win to the Lake, Red dog!" lashed Lurain's silver voice suddenly. "Even if you conquered us of Dordona, there are still—the Guardians."

"The Guardians?" echoed Thargo, then uttered a deep laugh. "Why, the Guardians are but a myth, a legend. For ages that myth has kept you of Dordona from the lake, but it shall not keep us. No!"

His nostrils were flaring with abrupt passion, his black eyes suddenly all devil. Clark seemed to glimpse in the man's wolfish face a long-repressed, eating ambition, a desire of superhuman intensity, baffled and raging. Then Thargo smiled smoothly at him.

"We shall talk of these things later, strangers. Meanwhile, you are welcome in K'Lamm. Tonight we banquet here in your honor, and until then the finest rooms in this palace are yours."

"Your prisoner goes with you, of course," Thargo agreed smoothly. "But guard the little wildcat well, I warn you. I do not think she could escape from this palace"—a gleam of mirth crossed his eyes—"no, I do not think that, but she might do harm if not guarded.

"Dral will conduct you to your rooms," he finished courteously. "Until tonight, strangers."

Clark bowed curtly. Then, taking Lurain's tensed arm, he followed the suave captain out of the great banquet hall. His five men strode after him, and Dral led the way up a broad stone stair to an upper floor of stone-walled corridors and rooms. He conducted them into a suite of four large rooms.

Tapestries depicting combats of red and black-armored soldiers hung on the walls, and lay on the floor. There were chairs and couches, and a series of great windows whose unshuttered openings looked out on the flat red roofs of K'Lamm, gleaming in the sunset. Dral bowed and left them, closing the door. The girl Lurain went over to the window and stood, a slim figure, looking silently out over K'Lamm.

"Say, what was all the powwow about?" Blacky Cain asked Clark. "This moll seemed to get the big-shot's goat."

"As far as I can see," Clark finished, "our best course is to play along with Thargo until we find out where we stand. He wants to get to the lake, that's evident—he believes that stuff about its waters conferring immortality. It's also evident that Lurain's people, the Dordonans, prevent him from reaching the lake and would prevent us also. Our best chance to reach this Lake of Life may be to throw in with Thargo."

"Why didn't you give up this girl to the Red king, then?" asked Lieutenant Morrow. "It would put us in solid with him."

"But Thargo would likely have had her killed or tortured," Clark objected. "It's plain he'd like nothing better."

"Well, what if he did?" shrugged the young ex-army officer indifferently. And Morrow's face was bitter with memory as he added, "Keeping her our own prisoner may wreck everything—it won't be the first time a woman's done it."

"Why, ye heartless scut," said Mike Shinn wrathfully, "would ye give up a spunky girl like that to be killed?"

"We're not giving her up," Clark said decisively. "I want to question her about the Lake of Life."

He advanced toward Lurain, and the Dordonan girl turned and met his gaze defiantly, with hot, stormy blue eyes.

"Lurain, just where is the Lake of Life?" Clark asked. "If you told us that, it may be we'd let you escape from here."

"Would you?" asked Lurain doubtfully, coming closer to him. Clark nodded quickly, in affirmation.

Lurain came so close that the haunting perfume of her blue-black hair was in his nostrils, her troubled eyes raised.

"I cannot tell the secrets of the sacred lake," she said slowly, worriedly. "But I can tell you—this!"

And her hand suddenly jerked out the sheath-knife at Clark's belt, and stabbed it with lightning speed at his heart.

Instinct can save itself where the momentary delay of reason would be fatal. It was not the first time in his life that Clark Stannard had seen the swift deadly flicker of steel licking toward his heart. The sight exploded his brain and body into instant action.

He threw himself staggeringly backward, and the bleak steel whizzed down through the front of his shirt, scoring his breast like a white-hot wire. Before Lurain could turn the blade and strike upward, Clark's brown hand grabbed her wrist. He twisted it, and was not gentle. There was a cold, savage anger in his brain. The knife clattered to the floor from the twisted hand. Lurain's blue eyes blazed out of a paper-white face, but she uttered no cry of pain or fear, hate throbbing from her.

"So you'd trick me, would you?" spat Clark harshly. "You'd kill me to keep me from reaching your sacred lake, eh?"

"Yes, I would!" Lurain's voice cracked like a silver whip. "You who would become Thargo's ally, who would help him and the other blasphemers of K'Lamm who lust for the lake—you deserve death!"

"I warned you," Lieutenant Morrow told Clark bitterly. "All women are alike—just playing you for a sucker."

"Say, the dame's got nerve!" said Blacky Cain, respect and admiration in the gangster's pale eyes.

"She sure has," grinned Link Wilson. "Reminds me of a little Mex down in Agua Prieta who tried to knife me one night, when——"

"Hell, we can do without autobiography," rasped Clark. "Bring cords and we'll tie her hands—she's not safe unbound."

When they had finished securing the bonds around Lurain's wrists, the Dordonan girl sat and glared at them fiercely.

"Someone has to stay here and watch her while we're down at this banquet," Clark declared. "Not only because she might escape, but because I don't trust Thargo too far. Quell, will you stay?"

"I'll watch her," Ephraim Quell nodded dourly. "Don't figger I'd care much for the goings-on down there, anyway."

Night fell quickly. From the window, K'Lamm stretched a mass of dark, flat roofs in the starlight, with windows and doors spilling red torchlight. Somber against the climbing stars bulked the looming, mighty barrier of the Mountains of Death.

Clark and his men shaved, brushed their clothes, and made what improvements they could in their appearance, by the light of the flickering torches servants had brought. Then Dral appeared, his long sword clanking on the stone floor as he entered.

"The lord Thargo awaits you at the banquet, strangers," he said, his eyes flickering toward the bound girl.

The great, round banquet hall flared brightly with ruddy torchlight when Clark Stannard and his four companions entered it after Dral. Now the tables that ran around the room were laden heavily with cooked meats and fruits and big glass flagons of black and yellow wines. At them sat more than a hundred men and women, the nobles and aristocrats of feudal, medieval K'Lamm.

The men wore the red metal-mesh tunics and their swords, even at table. The women wore chitons of red stuffs much like the garments of the women they had seen in the city, but richer, embroidered with gold and jewels. Their upper breasts and arms were bare as in the old Cretan costume. They drank and laughed with the male feasters. But they and all in the hall fell silent, staring in eager curiosity at these five swaggering strangers who first in all the history of this land had entered from outside the deadly mountains.

"Welcome to our feast, strangers," Thargo greeted in his powerful voice. "Here are seats for you, and here are wine and meats and women, for we count you as ourselves who are, we hope, to be our allies in the great quest we soon shall make."

The Red king's face was frank and open, the sincerity of his greeting warming. But, Clark wondered, was there not a suppressed gleam in his black eyes, a quirk of secret amusement?

Clark took the backless metal chair held out for him, beside Thargo himself. His four followers were distributed further along the table. On the other side of Clark sat a languorous beauty introduced to him as Yala, the sister of Thargo. Despite his inward alertness, Clark could not but be moved to admiration by the coal-black hair, smooth ivory skin and audaciously revealed rounded figure of this princess of K'Lamm. Her velvety black eyes met his curiously.

But he turned toward Thargo. He felt that the time had come to learn what he could of the mysteries surrounding him.

"You still wish us, then, to become your allies in an attempt to reach the Lake of Life?" he asked bluntly.

"Very much I wish it," Thargo avowed frankly. "You carry weapons of a power unknown here, and they will make certain our victory; though I am sure that even without them, we still could crush Dordona."

"Aye," the Red king nodded. "Deep beneath this prisoned land, under leagues of solid rock, exists a great cavern, and in that cavern lies the shining Lake of Life."

"There is only one way down to that cavern of the lake," Thargo told him, "It is a pit, or shaft, whose mouth is in the city of our enemies, Dordona, near the eastern edge of this land. The river that flows through the mountains runs across this whole land, and drops into that pit.

"Long ago," Thargo continued, "our ancestors came into this land from the outside world. They climbed over the mountains, for at that time, so legend says, it was not death to tread the mountains, as it is now. They explored the land, and found the pit into which the river falls, and went down that pit into the cavern where lies the Lake of Life. And they learned that if they drank those waters they would become immortal, but they were forbidden to drink of them.

"They were forbidden, they said, by strange, unhuman beings who dwelled down in the cavern of the lake and guarded its waters of immortality. These beings, the Guardians, bade those exploring humans to return to the surface, and never again come down to drink of the waters, since that was an unholy thing. So the men returned in fear to the surface, obeying the command. And legend says that the Guardians then cast a deadly force on the mountains around this land, which still invests them, so that no more men might enter this land in future.

"The people who were already within this land founded a city around the mouth of that shaft to the underworld. They called the city Dordona and over the mouth of the pit they built a temple. They considered it blasphemy for any to think of descending the pit to the Lake of Immortality and, in their superstition, they slew any who dared to try it. For they were in great fear of the Guardians they believed dwelling below, though none but the first explorers had ever seen those beings.

"But as generations passed, age after age, rebellion grew up in the city Dordona. Many of its people said, 'Why should we die when beneath our feet lie the waters of immortality? Who are the Guardians, to forbid us the lake? Let us not allow them to monopolize the waters of immortality longer; let us go down and drink of them whether they permit it or not, so that we may become undying.'"

Thargo's fist clenched, his eyes glittered, as he continued, "Thus spake the rebellious ones in Dordona! They sought by force to enter the pit and descend to the lake. But most of the Dordonans were still swayed by superstitious fears of the mysterious Guardians. They put down the rebels by force, prevented them from entering the pit. After that, the rebels deserted Dordona and came here to the western edge of this land and founded a new city, this city of K'Lamm.

"And ever since then, we of K'Lamm have desired to go back and conquer the Dordonans and go down the pit to the Lake of Life. We had not the strength, at first. But during past generations, more and more people have deserted from Dordona to our city, coming to believe as we do that it is folly to grow old and die when immortality is in our grasp. So that now, stranger, we of K'Lamm are powerful enough at last to attack Dordona, crush the superstitious Blacks, force our way down to the shining lake, and drink its waters and achieve immortality!"

"You actually believe, then," Clark Stannard said incredulously, "that the waters of the lake would confer immortality?"

"I am sure of it!" Thargo said, his eyes flashing. "If we drink of them we shall never die, for they contain the pure essence of life itself. That fact, our exploring ancestors were sure about."

"Yet you're not afraid of meeting the legended Guardians, if you penetrate to the lake?" Clark asked curiously.

Thargo laughed contemptuously. "The Guardians do not frighten us, for we do not think they still watch down there by the lake. No man has seen them for ages, and even the few who saw them ages ago were not slain by them. I think that even if the Guardians still exist down there, they will not be able to stop us."

Here was a frank, unfearing skeptic, Clark thought. It was odd that while Thargo was so skeptical of the dreaded Guardians, he still believed in the impossible virtues of the shining lake.

"Why," Clark asked bluntly, "do you want our help, if you have enough forces to overwhelm Dordona, as you say?"

"We want it," Thargo said frankly, "not because we need your help—easily can we overcome Dordona—but because we do not want you against us, strangers, with your strange, powerful weapons. And for reward for joining us," the Red king added, "you shall drink the waters of the Lake of Life with us. You will become immortal, strangers, as we will."

Thargo's black eyes flashed with strange light, his fist clenched tight, his voice pregnant with emotion.

"To be immortal—think what that will mean! To stride the world undying, generation after generation, feared and worshipped by the races that continue to die! By the sun, once I have drunk those waters of undying life, I will go forth from this prisoned land, will rule——"

He stopped abruptly, glancing at Clark with narrowed eyes. Then he continued in a smooth, lower tone.

"But what is your answer, stranger, now that you know the situation? Do you join forces with us to attack Dordona?"

"I think we will join you," he said slowly, "but before I give my word on it, I must speak with my followers. If we do join you, our reward is to be as much of the shining waters as we wish to take."

"Has that Dordonan wench Lurain tried to turn you against me?" Thargo asked suspiciously. "Has she endeavored to make you an ally of her doomed people?"

"She tried to kill me, but an hour ago," Clark said tartly. "There's no danger of my becoming her ally."

Yet it seemed to him that smoldering suspicion persisted in Thargo's eyes. Then the Red king laughed and exclaimed:

He raised his big hand in a signal. From an alcove suddenly thrummed music, weird harmonies of plucked strings. It throbbed louder, wilder, and a score of supple girls in shimmering veils rushed lightly to the center of the torchlit hall.

They began to dance in the space between the tables, swaying, whirling and undulating to the barbaric rush of the music, their white limbs gleaming through the gossamer of the swirling veils.

"Whoopee!" shouted Mike Shinn happily over the wild music, from down the table. "This is better than a night-club."

"Don't bother me, Mike," drawled Link Wilson, his tanned reckless face bending toward a laughing girl beside him. "I'm doin' right fine in sign-language with this muchacha."

"I'll say this beats that damned jungle, anyway," Clark heard Blacky Cain saying with a rasping chuckle.

But Lieutenant Morrow sat drinking and staring moodily, with bitter eyes, at the whirling, weaving girls.

"You do not drink, lord from outside?" a soft voice reproached Clark. It was Yala, the sister of Thargo, bending toward him, her slender white fingers extending a goblet of the black, thick wine. "Is our wine then so poor beside that of the outside world?"

Clark took the goblet, tasted the liquor. It was heady stuff, potent, strangely scented. Yala's languorous eyes approved as he drained the cup. An alert servant refilled it from a flagon.

"Aye, drink all!" boomed Thargo's powerful voice over the music. "Drink to the day that is almost here, the day when we of K'Lamm win at last to the shining waters that will make us all undying."

"To the day!" shouted the excited, half-intoxicated feasters, draining the goblets and setting them down with a crash.

Clark Stannard felt sudden heady exaltation as he set down the goblet for the second time. The wine sang in his veins and suddenly life seemed wild, sweet, thrilling. It was good to have done with the old and outworn things of the world he had known, to sit here with this company in feast.

They were a good crowd, he thought warmly, as he drained the goblet again. They were making his men welcome, for now Mike Shinn was standing up and bellowing an Irish song, and they were laughing and applauding. Morrow was drinking heavily, silently, and the lank Texan had his arm around the girl next to him, and only Blacky Cain's dark, predatory face still remained watchful as the gangster sat there. What the deuce was Blacky so watchful about?—everyone here was their friend.

Thargo's powerful face had a smile of complete friendliness on it. Damned good scout, Thargo—by heaven, he and his men would help Thargo conquer those superstitious Dordonans! And the girl Yala swaying languorously closer to him, perfumed white shoulders and breasts rising out of her red chiton like a great lily, brooding sweetness of her black eyes making Clark's swimming senses reel!

"Are many men of the outer world as hard and handsome of face as you, lord from outside?" she whispered.

"That may be," Clark laughed, "but of this I'm sure—no women of that outer world are as beautiful as you, princess."

Her eyes were melting as she swayed closer, and slender satin fingers touched and twined about his in electrical contact.

Then as he bent unsteadily toward Yala, Clark just glimpsed an upward, meaning flash of her dark eyes, directed at Thargo. It chilled instantly through the winy haze around Clark's brain.

Danger here! shouted an alarmed voice inside him. He realized suddenly how near he was to intoxication. That wine—he'd already tossed off three or four goblets of it. And Yala was proffering him another beaker of the black stuff, with a soft smile.

"Wine brings gracious compliments from you, lord from outside. I would hear more—so drink."

Clark took the goblet. But now his half-hazy brain raced. Yala was trying to get him drunk, that was certain, and from the glance he had intercepted, he knew it was at Thargo's orders.

Nevertheless he took the goblet. But as he raised it, Clark feigned a far greater dazedness than he felt, letting his gaze wander dully, making his tongue thick when he spoke.

"Shouldn't drink any more," he muttered thickly to the leaning princess. "Doesn't take much—to knock me out."

"But you do not wish, surely, to deprive me of further compliments?" Yala's red, ripe mouth pouted bewitchingly.

Clark laughed unsteadily, though inwardly he was cold and alert. "Never—never say no to a lady. Here's to your eyes!"

He drained the goblet. The heady wine made his half-numbed senses spin, but he resolutely kept his head. Yet he feigned now a complete intoxication, hurled the glass away with a drunken laugh.

"Yala, I could give you compliments all night," he said maudlinly. "You're most—most beautiful woman—ever lived."

As his eyelids pretended to droop, Clark caught again that significant glance from the girl to her brother. Then she was leaning, her warm breath whispering in his ears.

"Would you rather tell me those things where there are not so many to listen, lord from outside?" she murmured.

"Sure, that's what we need—a little more quiet," Clark said sleepily. "My head, too—feels funny——"

"Come with me," she whispered softly. "I will take you where it is quiet—and where you can tell me all those things."

Her soft hand under his elbow impelled him to his feet. Clark swayed unsteadily, blinking owlishly over the torchlit hall and the noisy, riotous feasters. His dulled gaze was really keenly alert. He perceived that Shinn and Link Wilson were at the height of merriment with their Red neighbors, and that Morrow was still drinking heavily. But Blacky Cain was still alert, could be depended on to watch the others.

None of the feasters, in the din of laughter, clinking goblets and shouting voices, noticed as Clark Stannard stumbled out of the hall with Yala half supporting him. Yet Clark glimpsed Thargo looking keenly after them.

He stumbled with the princess of K'Lamm down shadowy stone halls, and finally into a great chamber which breathed of femininity. Silken hangings of yellow were on the walls, in the soft light of low-burning torches. Across the room was a low, soft silken couch, and above it a great window looked across the starlit roofs of K'Lamm.

Yala spoke a few soft words, and the two submissive-looking girls who had hurried forward, hastily withdrew. The Red princess led Clark to the couch, and as he sat down unsteadily, looking heavily about, she poured more of the black wine from a flagon in the room.

She drank also, her dark eyes looking over the rim of the glass with an expression that, despite himself, stirred his blood. Then she held the glass to his lips, her fingertips caressing his cheek.

Clark drank. His brain seemed to float inside his skull as the additional alcohol leaped into his blood, but every fiber in him was taut and alert. He blinked at Yala as though she was hard for him to see. She came temptingly closer to him.

"Does the wine make me look—more beautiful?" she asked provocatively. Her arms went softly around his neck.

"Don't need wine for that," muttered Clark. He set his lips against her half-opened ones, his hands tightening on her bare, perfumed shoulders.

He knew the kiss was as feigned on her part as on his own. But for all that, it was none the less wildly thrilling. Then as she drew back a little from his embrace, eyes searching his dazed-looking face, Yala asked him seductively:

"Lord, tell me—am I more beautiful than the Dordonan girl you took captive—Lurain?"

"Much—much more beautiful," stammered Clark, his eyelids drooping. "She's just—little wildcat."

"Has Lurain asked you and your men to help Dordona in the coming war?" Yala asked him swiftly. "Has she made any offers to get you to ally yourselves with Dordona?"

Now, Clark knew suddenly, he had discovered the reason for this subtle temptation by Yala. Thargo was suspicious! Suspicious that Clark might have agreed with the Dordonan girl to aid her people, that he might be intending to betray K'Lamm! Thargo had had this girl, one capable of tempting an angel, get him intoxicated to question him.

"Lurain has not asked me to help Dordona," Clark said thickly, his eyes closing, his body swaying sleepily against Yala. "I—wouldn't listen to her if she did. The Dordonans she led tried to kill me and my men. We're—going to help Thargo conquer their city."

He heard the hiss of Yala's indrawn breath. Then she murmured softly, "You are tired, lord from outside. You must rest."

He let himself fall like a log onto the soft couch as she lowered him. Then he heard Yala stand up quickly. She bent over him as he lay with eyes closed, her breath warm on his face. He breathed in long snores, pretending heavy, drunken sleep.

Satisfied, Yala went to the door of the chamber and uttered a low call. Almost at once, Clark heard the tramp of heavier feet entering the chamber, two pairs of them. The first voice that spoke was Thargo's. He guessed the Red king had been waiting outside.

"You heard?" Yala was saying swiftly. "He is safely on our side—he will have nothing to do with Dordona."

"Yes, I heard," Thargo said. "I was suspicious because he would not give up the Dordonan princess to us. But no doubt he is keeping the girl for himself, simply because she is pretty."

"That half-boy fighting cat!" said Yala scornfully. "What would any man want with her?"

The voice of Thargo's companion interrupted. It was an age-cracked, ominous voice Clark guessed to be that of the withered old counsellor he had seen with Thargo when he had first met the Red king.

"Better to slay all these strangers tonight, by surprize, and make sure," he warned. "We of K'Lamm have more than enough force to conquer Dordona and win to the lake. We do not need the strangers' help."

"No, we will not slay them, Shama—not yet," Thargo said authoritatively. "Their weapons are powerful, from what Dral says. They might kill many of us before we slew them all, and that would be bad for the minds of our people at this time when we are on the very verge of our long-planned attack on Dordona. Besides, why not make use of these strangers to make our conquest even easier?

"This is what we shall do," he continued in a hard, rapid voice. "Four days from now, as we have planned, we ride to attack Dordona, and the strangers go with us. In the attack on the Black city, we will put them in the forefront. As soon as we have won Dordona and our way down to the Lake of Life lies clear and open, then we shall turn suddenly on the strangers and kill them all."

It was all Clark Stannard could do to keep his body from stiffening betrayingly as he lay in pretended drunken sleep, listening to those calmly treacherous words. Blind fury burned in him as he heard Thargo's callous plan to make use of him, then dispose of him. Yet he managed to preserve his appearance of intoxicated stupor. His muscles tensed as he heard Thargo's strong step come over to the couch, and he knew that the Red king was looking down at him.

"This drunken fool!" said Thargo contemptuously. "If he is a sample of the men of the outside world, they will not be hard for us to rule, once we have drunk of the lake and are immortal."

"Be not so sure," warned the old counsellor, Shama. "This man and his comrades have courage and cunning, or they could not have penetrated the death mountains no men ever came through before."

"He was not cunning enough," Thargo said scornfully, "to prevent a woman's eyes from making a sot of him. You did well what I asked, my sister. In fact, the task did not seem distasteful to you."

"Perhaps not," Yala said with a soft laugh. "Fool he may be, but this man is—different. Until he and his men ride with your forces to Dordona four days hence, I think to find him amusing."

"That is your affair," Thargo said indifferently. "Best get him back to his chambers now before his men miss him. Shama and I return to the feast."

Clark heard the ruthless plotter and the aged counsellor leave. Then Yala bent over him, holding a pungent liquid to his nose and shaking him softly.

"Wake, lord from outside," she said tenderly. "You must not stay here longer—my brother would be angry."

Clark was careful to awake slowly, blinking and rubbing his eyes dazedly. "More wine," he muttered thickly. "Got to have more wine—so I can tell you—how beautiful you are——"

"You shall have opportunity for that in the next few days," Yala promised with a provocative smile. "You had best return to your chambers now and sleep, my lord. It seems that you are almost overcome by my beauty—or the wine!"

She went to the door and called, as Clark stumbled to his feet. A warrior in the crimson armor answered quickly.

"This soldier will conduct you to your chambers," Yala told him. "Until tomorrow, lord from outside."

Her fingers clung warmly to his in caressing promise. Clark nodded dazedly and staggered out into the hall. He stumbled with his guide by shadowy, torchlit corridors, up a stair to the upper floor. The warrior took him to the door of their chambers, bowed and left.

But Clark's apparently owlish gaze took in the fact that now there were a score of armored guards posted unobtrusively along the corridor outside their chambers. That showed that Thargo was still taking no chances—and that was going to make things difficult.

Ephraim Quell looked up in surprize when Clark stumbled into the torchlit rooms and slammed the door. Quell's eyes ran over Clark's disordered hair and flushed face, and the girl Lurain, sitting taut as a trapped tigress in a chair, watched with bitter contempt.

"There's a Book that says, 'Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging,'" twanged Quell, his bony face condemnatory. "Figger you might ought to have read that, before you went down there."

"I'm not drunk," Clark rasped. "But I've found out a lot and it adds up to the total news that our lives are not worth a plugged nickel if we stay around here."

"Go down and get the others up here," Clark told him. "Don't appear too urgent about it—but get them!"

Ephraim Quell nodded tightly, and went out of the room. Clark Stannard went rapidly across the room to Lurain.

Clark's mind, racing at top speed ever since he had discovered Thargo's contemplated treachery, had hit upon a desperate plan. It was a hazardous one but the only one, as far as he could see, that would give him and his men a chance to reach the Lake of Life now.

To stay longer in K'Lamm would merely allow Thargo to make pawns of them and then kill them. There was but one other possible course of action by which they might win to the lake.

Lurain's blue eyes blazed hatred as Clark approached. To her amazement, he cut her bonds.

"Lurain, I must talk with you and talk fast," he said swiftly. "I've discovered that Thargo intends to kill me and my men, as soon as we've helped him conquer your city of Dordona."

"I am glad!" she blazed. "Now you learn the full evil of these Red spawn. They will kill me, but you also will die."

"Listen, you and your men came spying on K'Lamm to learn when Thargo and his forces will attack your city, didn't you?" Clark demanded, heedless of her hate. "Well, I can tell you that. Thargo and his men will ride toward Dordona in four days."

"Four days?" whispered Lurain, her face suddenly going dead-white. "But we did not dream he would attack so soon—my people will be surprized—he will overwhelm Dordona!"

"You mean you strangers will help me escape, help me warn Dordona?" the girl exclaimed, with sudden desperate hope.

"We will," Clark said grimly, "and what is more, we will fight on the side of Dordona in the coming battle. You have seen how powerful our weapons are—it may be that our help will turn the tide against K'Lamm. But, for all this, there is a price."

"The price," Clark told her, "is this: that when we reach Dordona, you shall take me down the pit to the Lake of Life, so that I may fill a flask with its shining waters to take back to the world outside. For that price, I and my men will aid your people."

"No!" flamed Lurain, leaping erect, her face blazing with wrath. "By the sun, never will I pay that price! Ages on ages have we of Dordona faithfully obeyed the commandments given us long ago by the Guardians below. Never have we permitted one blasphemer to descend to the lake. To allow you to do so would be supreme sacrilege. I reject your proposal. I would rather die!"

"But Dordona will die too, if it is not warned," Clark pointed out. "Yes, all its people will perish when Thargo leads the armies of K'Lamm into the city in surprize attack. And then Thargo will be able to descend to the lake and drink of it."

"The Guardians are there and will destroy Thargo and his horde if they dare descend," Lurain retorted fiercely.

"Are you so sure the Guardians are there?" Clark said. "Are you sure they exist? None in your city has seen them for ages."

"The Guardians are there!" Complete, unshakable faith of generations rang in the girl's voice. "Though Thargo and his spawn doubt their existence, they exist and still ward the sacred lake. Their powers are vast and they will slay any who approaches the lake, doubt it not."

"But then, why not agree to let me descend to the lake?" Clark pressed quickly. "If the Guardians are there, they will not let me touch the shining waters anyway, will they? The blame will not be yours, for you warned me. And by agreeing to let me go down there, you will save Dordona from surprize and death."

Lurain's face expressed doubt, hesitation, agony for her imperilled city. Clark hung on her answer. He was hoping the girl's blind faith in the legended Guardians of the lake was strong enough so that she would agree to let him go, as she supposed, to his death.

She said finally, her voice low and shaken, "It is true that the Guardians will kill you when you descend to the lake. The sin of letting you descend there will be on my soul. But—Dordona will be warned in time to prepare for Thargo's attack.

"Yes, I agree," she continued with desperate resolution on her face. "Help me escape from K'Lamm, promise to give my city your help in the coming war, and when we reach Dordona I will show you how you may descend the sacred shaft."

"Good!" Clark exclaimed, his heart quickening with excitement. "Now if we can just get safely out of K'Lamm——"

The door opened, and Ephraim Quell grimly entered, followed by Clark's other four followers. Mike Shinn was fighting drunk, bawling a song, his battered face glistening. Link Wilson too was flushed with wine, but Lieutenant Morrow and Blacky Cain were sober—the first because the drink had not affected him, the second from abstinence.

"A lot wrong," Clark snapped. He told them in curt sentences of Thargo's plot. A vicious oath ripped from the gangster.

"Sure, I'll choke the dirty scut with me bare hands!" raged Mike Shinn furiously.

"Listen," Clark rapped, "we'll have all we can do to escape this trap without bothering for revenge on Thargo. We're going to get out of here, at once—and join the people of Dordona."

Rapidly he told them of the agreement he had made with Lurain. The Dordonan girl stood tense and pale as he talked.

"It's a great idea!" exclaimed Blacky. The gangster laughed. "We'll hand Thargo a double-cross, and when we get to this other burg, Dordona, we can easy lift the water from the lake below."

"How are we going to get out of K'Lamm?" Lieutenant Morrow asked quickly. "How out of this palace, even?"

"We can't go down through the palace itself," Clark said emphatically. "The guards posted out there in the corridor would give the alarm. There's the way we'll have to take out."

He pointed to one of the big, open windows, that looked out across the dark city and the starry sky.

"We'll slide down from that window on a rope of some kind," Clark said quickly. "Behind the palace I noticed a court where the horses of the palace guards are evidently kept at night. If we can sneak back there and get mounts, we'll make a dash out through the city."

"That's the idea," approved Link Wilson, his eyes lighting. "We can ride right out through these hombres."

Clark shrugged. "I don't think they will be. I doubt if they close those gates every night—this city fears no attack from Dordona."

The six adventurers acted rapidly. While Ephraim Quell listened watchfully at the door, Clark and the others tore down the wall hangings and converted them into heavy, knotted rope. They tied the end of the rope to a heavy chest, then dropped it into the darkness outside.

The men quickly shouldered their packs. Clark peered from the window. There were no sentries in the palace yard immediately beneath, though he heard movement of some at the front of the building. The walled courts in the rear of the palace were silent except for an occasional stamping of the restless horses back there.

Clark hung for a moment, transfixed by the weird beauty of the scene. The moon was rising above the mountain wall in the east, a flood of silvery light pouring across the prisoned land. And bathed in the moon slept the city K'Lamm, a sea of dully gleaming roofs and streets and squares. Solemn and somber bulked the dark mountains, crouched above the city. Then Clark Stannard snapped out of the spell.

"Come on, that moonlight will make it harder for us," he whispered urgently. "Lurain, you follow me closely."

"Yes, Stannar," she whispered, approximating as closely as she could the name she had heard the others call him.

Clark swung over the stone window-rail and slid softly down the knotted rope through the moonlight, to the ground. He poised there in the shadow, gun in hand. No sound broke the sleeping hush.

Now Lurain was following, her black metal-mesh tunic gleaming in the silver moon. Mike Shinn and Lieutenant Morrow came after, and in a moment they all stood in the shadow of the looming palace wall, their pistols glinting in their hands.

They moved at once toward the rear of the sleeping palace, stepping soundlessly on the stone paving. There seemed no guards outside the big building. Neither were there any outside the broad wooden door of the walled horse-court. The door creaked, and they slipped inside.

There were a score of horses in the court, and as the strangers entered, the animals stamped nervously, tossed their heads suspiciously in the moonlight. Clark's gaze searched the court desperately. But it was Link Wilson who spotted the saddles and bridles, hanging on a rail at one side of the court. Quickly they grasped these and approached the restless horses.

The horses snorted, stamped, wheeled away with hoofs ringing loudly on the paving. Clark cursed inwardly as they again approached the nervous steeds. Link Wilson talked to the horses in a low, soothing monotone as he advanced. The ex-cowboy was soon saddling one of them, and Morrow too and also Lurain had got others to stand still. Clark noticed that the girl worked as silently and swiftly as any of the men, her face showing no particle of fear in the silver light. His heart warmed again to her proud, unwavering courage.

He got one of the restive horses by the mane, and quickly attached the high, queer saddle and the rude bridle. Quell also managed to saddle one, but Mike Shinn and Blacky were having the devil's own time, hanging onto horses that had begun to plunge and rear.

"Help Mike, Link," whispered Clark quickly to the Texan. As the other obeyed, Clark hurried to aid the gangster, leading his own saddled steed.

"This damned goat has got the devil himself in him!" whispered Blacky furiously as Clark reached him. "I wish we had a good eight-cylinder jaloppy for the getaway, instead of these plugs."

Clark grabbed the saddle from the gangster and threw it over the plunging, rearing animal.

Clark whirled, still holding the mane of the plunging horse. Two armored guards, attracted by the commotion in the horse-court, stood framed in the half-opened door, staring. Then with a yell of alarm, drawing their swords, they rushed forward.

Blacky Cain's automatic sprang into his hand, and with a snarl on his lips, the gangster shot. The reports cracked in close succession and the two charging soldiers fell in heaps.

"More guards come," called Lurain's high voice, completely calm and unfearful but urgent, as she snatched up one of the swords of the fallen men.

The yell of alarm had been repeated near the looming palace, and there was a clank of running men. Clark Stannard fought furiously to tie the girths of the struggling horse. He finally succeeded, and then he yelled to Blacky Cain.

Now an uproar was spreading through the whole pile of the hexagonal palace, and shouts and clash of arms could be heard from all around it, converging on the horse-court.

Clark swung into the saddle. As he jerked the reins to control the rearing animal, he saw that outside the horse-court a scattered body of twenty or thirty Red guards were rushing forward with drawn swords gleaming in the moonlight.

And he dug his heels into his steed's flanks. The nervous animal needed no further urging, and sprang forward toward the door with hoofs clanging on the pavement. Right beside Clark rode Link Wilson, the Texan sitting easily in the saddle, the rest thundering after.

Straight into the scattered band of guards at the door of the court they rode. Clark glimpsed their drawn swords, then heard the boom of a gun beside him, over the din of hoofs and yells. Link Wilson had drawn one of his forty-fives and was shooting as they charged. Three of the guards slumped down as the heavy slugs hit them.

They crashed through the other guards, a mad whirlwind of riders and steeds, the soldiers and stabbing swords seeming to spin around them. Then, with the swiftness of a cinema film, they were through the soldiers, riding full tilt around the big palace toward the great avenue that led to the city wall.

Other guards ran wildly out from the palace, swords raised in the moonlight. Clark had his own gun out now and fired, and heard Link Wilson's pistol booming again. He saw Lurain bending low over her mount's neck and slashing at a guard whose spear struck toward her. The man went down and she rode right over him, and the little band raced clattering down the wide street of the awakening city.

"The spawn of K'Lamm cannot stand against us, Stannar!" cried Lurain's silver, pealing voice as she rode.

"Yippee!" yelled Link Wilson, the ex-cowboy, drunk with reckless excitement as his horse galloped furiously over the paving.

"The whole city is rousing!" shouted Lieutenant Morrow, spurring his horse beside Clark's.

They thundered down that wide dark street to the accompaniment of mad yells of rage from behind them, and startled cries along the street. A few men ran out as though to intercept them, but recoiled abruptly as the desperate little band rode down on them.

Clanging of hoofs on stone, chorus of yells and orders, were wild music in Clark Stannard's ears as he and his men and the Dordonan girl thundered down the street of moonlit K'Lamm. He saw torches flickering and bobbing ahead of them.

The great gates in the city wall had been open, as Clark had guessed. But now, alarmed by the clamor at the distant palace, the guards around those gates were hastily pushing against the mighty bronze valves, were closing them.

They spurred desperately forward. From the guard-towers on either side of the gate, several dozen soldiers had run out and formed a line in front of the gate. Behind that line, a half-dozen other Red warriors were slowly forcing the great valves shut.

They crashed into that solid line of guards—and stopped! For these soldiers grabbed their bridles and stirrups and clung to them, holding them, stabbing at them with their swords. The crazed horses whirled and plunged in a mad inferno of struggle, the riders rising like swimmers above a wave of armored men and slashing swords.

Clark felt a blade sear along his forearm, and glimpsed the brutal face of the Red warrior stabbing at him. His gun kicked in his hand and the man fell with his forehead driven in. Clark shot again, trying to clear away the men clinging to his bridle. Link Wilson's heavy gun was booming, while Blacky Cain, his eyes blazing and a frozen killer mask on his face, was viciously shooting the men trying to pull him down.

"Dordona! Dordona!" pealed a silver cry from the girl Lurain, wielding her sword with wildcat swiftness and fury.

The gates were almost closed! And from far back at the palace of Thargo, masses of soldiers were coming on the run. Clark had a cold, sinking sense that they were trapped. Then he heard a hoarse cry.

"Out of my way, you scum!" Ephraim Quell shouted, forcing through his attackers, clubbing his reversed gun on their heads.

Quell broke through them. Clark saw the bony Yankee skipper break through on his mount to the half-dozen men who now had pushed the gates within a foot of closing. Ephraim Quell's gun-butt smashed down among them, sent them reeling, his horse trampling them. The Yankee leaped from his horse, swiftly pulled on one of the great valves.

He pulled it open a few yards, by frenzied, tremendous effort. But the men he had scattered were on their feet again, rushing at him and stabbing with their swords. Quell reeled back from them.

Clark shouted, his voice ringing over the mad din, and the others heard and pushed desperately forward. The horses, maddened by the struggle to the pitch of frenzy, surged forward crazily toward the gate-opening that promised freedom, trampling down the clinging guards.

Clark's gun blazed the last of its clip, and the men stabbing at Quell fell. Link Wilson spurred in, grabbed the Yankee skipper's horse, helped haul the bony seaman up onto it. Then before the guards they had broken through could reach them again, their horses were bolting out through the opened gates. Wild from the battle and unaccustomed gun-fire, they plunged for freedom, Clark's and Lurain's steeds jamming momentarily in the narrow opening.

Then they were all out in the open moonlight of the plain, the dark walls and confusion and raging shouts of K'Lamm behind them. Plunging, racing, snorting, the horses galloped wildly over the moonlit sea of grass and brush. The wild uproar of the Red city receded swiftly.

"Which way to Dordona?" cried Clark to Lurain, shouting to her over the rush of wind.

"We follow the way now," she cried. "Due east from here it lies—we go to the river, and along it to my city."

Now the horses were settling to a steady, rushing lope as their frenzy of panic quieted a little. Clark turned in the saddle, but there was no sign of pursuit as yet from K'Lamm.

But none of them had escaped unscathed. Mike Shinn had a bleeding cut on his forehead; Blacky Cain had one sleeve slashed to ribbons; the rest all had small cut or stab wounds. Only Ephraim Quell, riding grimly forward with jacket buttoned tightly against the wind, appeared to have escaped without injury.

Clark leaned toward the Dordonan girl riding close beside him. Lurain had a cut across one bare knee, but it was not serious. As they galloped, she looked tautly back to where K'Lamm had dropped from sight in the moonlight.

"They will try to follow but they cannot trail us by night, and they dare not go too close to Dordona in small parties," she said. Then she laughed. "I would like to see Thargo's face now."

Ahead in the dim moonlight there soon loomed vaguely a long, low line of dark trees. It marked the river, and they reached it in a quarter-hour. The dull roar of the stream was loud, as it raced with the swiftness of a mountain-flume toward Dordona.

As they rode along it, heading east, the first gray streak of dawn showed ahead. Clark's hopes were soaring. Every beat of the hoofs brought them nearer to Dordona, where lay the pit that was entrance to the Lake of Life. He'd yet succeed in reaching it—he had the girl's word now that he could descend to it.

Ephraim Quell suddenly toppled stiffly from his horse. They reined in hastily and Clark ran to the Yankee's side. Quell's bony face was a ghastly, stiff mask, his eyes closed. From under his coat welled a dark stain, and when Clark ripped the coat open, he saw that beneath it had been concealed two deep sword-wounds.

"Good God! Quell was badly wounded when he kept the gate from closing, but he said nothing to us!" Clark exclaimed.

Ephraim Quell's glazed eyes flickered at Clark's drawn, tense countenance. A smile glimmered in them.

"I'm—'bout ready to cast anchor," Quell muttered. "Felt the life running out of me, as I rode——"

"Quell, you're not dying!" Clark said desperately. "We'll get you to Dordona, and pull you through."

"No, I'm done for," whispered the seaman. "And—I don't mind. Ever since my ship burned and they took my certificate, I—haven't cared much about living."

His glazed eyes fixed on the eastern sky, pale with dawn. A cool breeze had begun to blow from there, stirring the grass. The Yankee skipper's lips moved, almost inaudibly.

"Fair skies and a good wind—today——" he whispered. Then his head lolled laxly, his eyes dull, dead.

Clark let him down and got to his feet. There was a hard lump in his throat but he made his voice harsh.

"Mike—Blacky—keep a watch to the south and west. Link and Morrow and I will bury him."

In the paling dawn, they scooped a grave under a tree beside the roaring river, using a little camp-spade from one of the packs. White mists of morning made everything unreal as they put Ephraim Quell's stiff body into the shallow grave, and covered it.

Again they galloped, hoofs thudding above the river roar, bearing them on through swirling white mists.

"I'm kind of glad," said Link Wilson's drawling voice finally, "that we buried him where he can hear water."

Five miles ahead rose the eastern wall of the great crater, the mighty, looming barrier of the mountains. Close under the frowning cliffs brooded ancient, crumbling Dordona. Black, silent, brooding like a withered ancient who has long ago fallen from greatness, it lay in the chill white mists, strange contrast to the city from which they had come.

Behind the black battlements of an encircling wall whose top had crumbled at places, rose a mass of antique towers and roofs of dull black stone, weathered by the winds and rains of ages. Under a water-gate in the dilapidated wall ran the roaring, mill-race river they had followed. It ran straight toward a building at the center of the city, a huge black dome that towered two hundred feet into the air.

The gates in the black wall were pushed open as they approached. Soldiers in black armor waved their swords in the air and yelled joyful greetings to Lurain, riding now at the head of the little troop. And as they rode on into the city, from somber, crumbling buildings poured men and women with shouts of gladness.

Clark Stannard, looking about keenly, saw that indeed Dordona had long passed the zenith of its glory. Many of the black stone buildings were untenanted, falling to ruins. Green grass grew between the blocks of black paving in the streets.

And the people pouring forth were not nearly so numerous as the Reds, he saw. Clark sensed despair under their momentary joy, read hopelessness on their pale faces, the hopelessness of great fear.

"Say, we'll be the white-haired boys in this joint for bringing back the girl," Mike Shinn said happily.

"There aren't enough men here to defend this city properly," Lieutenant Morrow told Clark keenly. "The place is too big now for its population, and the wall hasn't been kept up."

Clark nodded grimly. "From what Thargo said, the population of this place has been steadily dwindling for a long time."

"We go to the Temple of the Shaft," Lurain called to Clark. "My father, the lord Kimor, will be there."

They rode after her toward the huge, black-domed temple that brooded at the center of the city. It loomed massively in front of them, incomparably the largest and most ancient building they had seen in this land. For it was old, the stone paving in front of it worn deep by ages of tramping feet, its slot-windows crumbling at the edges.

Guards took their horses, and swung open the high bronze doors of the temple. Lurain led the way inside, her slim, boyish figure striding with her sheathed sword rattling on the stone floor. Clark and his men, following her inside, paused for a moment, thunderstruck.

The interior of the temple was one colossal room, dim and dusky and vast, its only illumination shafts of sunlight from the slot-like windows. And it was throbbing and quivering to a thunder of bellowing sound that was deafening, an unbroken, tremendous roar of waters.

The racing river from outside ran right into the temple, through a gap in one wall. The waters rushed with blinding speed across the floor of the vast room, in a deep, wide canal, toward a round, black opening a hundred feet across that yawned at the center of the floor. Into this gaping abyss, the river tumbled with a reverberating thunder.

Clark and his men moved nearer the pit, stood on the very edge of the abyss. He peered down into an impenetrable darkness that seemed to go down to the bowels of the earth. He could make out that the vertical sides of the pit were of rough rock, in which had been carved the steps of a narrow, spiraling stair. The head of this stair was closed by a barred gate guarded by Black warriors. And the raging cataract of waters, leaping out over the edge of the pit, tumbled down its center in a tremendous waterfall, dropping into the dark.

"Good God! this must be the way down to the cavern far below—to the Lake of Life!" exclaimed Clark, stupefiedly.

"Say, I don't hanker to go down there," said Mike Shinn, awed. "It looks to me like the doorway down to purgatory."

Lurain was coming around the edge of the pit now, bringing with her a half-dozen Dordonan men in black armor.

Kimor was sixty years old, at least, a tall, arrow-straight, superbly muscled man with white hair and pointed white beard, and fierce, shaggy white eyebrows over keen, watchful blue eyes.

"Strangers, you are welcome!" he told Clark. "My daughter has told me how you helped her escape K'Lamm and bring us warning of the attack which Thargo plans for three days hence. We expected no attack for weeks—there is hardly time to prepare.

"We of Dordona will be grateful for your help in the coming battle," Kimor continued. "Lurain informs me you are from outside the mountains, and bear weapons of great and strange power. You can aid us much, and any reward we can give you will be yours."

"Why, we ask but one reward," Clark said, looking puzzledly at Lurain. "It is what I told your daughter—that we be allowed to go down that stair in the pit to the Lake of Life, and bring back a flask of its waters. For that reward, we have joined you."

Kimor's fierce face turned dead-white as he heard. His eyes blazed fire of outraged, fanatical fury, and he ripped out his sword from its sheath. And from the Dordonans behind him came wrathful, raging cries as they too drew their weapons, their faces contorted.

"You ask that?" thundered Kimor to Clark. "You ask leave from us to commit the supreme sacrilege that no man may commit and live? Your very request is a sacrilege to this Temple of the Shaft! Nobles of Dordona, kill these men for their blasphemy!"

Blacky Cain's gun leaped into his hands, and the others followed his example swiftly as the Dordonan warriors leaped forward with upraised swords, wild wrath on their faces.

For Lurain had sprung in front of the charging nobles and her fanatical father, halting them with an urgent gesture.

"Wait!" she cried. "These are strangers from outside our land—they do not know that it is blasphemy they speak. They will not ask for such a thing when they understand that it is a sacrilege."

"So this," Clark grated to the girl, "is how you keep the bargain you made with me!"

"I do not understand you, stranger," she said coldly, and turned back to Kimor. "You will forgive their ignorance, father?"

"They should be slain for such blasphemy," said Kimor fiercely. But slowly, reluctantly, he sheathed his sword, and said, "They are forgiven because they are strangers who know not the law. But let them repeat their blasphemy, let them even but glance at the sacred shaft, and it shall mean their deaths."

"Looks like the girl's double-crossed us," rasped Blacky Cain. "Shall we try to crash our way down into that pit? It looks like suicide to me to go down that damned stair, but we'll do it if you say."

"Put away your guns," Clark said quickly to the gangster and the others. "There are too many of them here for us, and the whole city would come running. Later on, we may be able to enter the pit."

Then he turned back to Kimor and Lurain. The girl showed no sign of emotion as she met his bitterly accusing gaze.

"We withdraw our request, since it is against your law," Clark told the fierce old Dordonan ruler.

"Well that you do," said Kimor grimly, "for I tell you no man for ages has been permitted to enter the sacred shaft."

He continued, "You shall be given a dwelling for your use, and food and wine. If you wish to help us against the Reds, your help is welcome. But whether you help or not, you cannot go near this pit. You are forbidden from now on to enter this temple, under pain of death."

"We understand," Clark said tightly. His gaze again sought Lurain's face, charged with his bitter scorn.

Two of the black-armored warriors, at Kimor's command, led Clark and his men out of the temple. They conducted them along the crumbling streets, whose occupants watched the strangers curiously.

Clark's thoughts were bitter. Lurain had tricked him neatly—had had no intention of fulfilling the promise she had made him. They were here in Dordona, but as far from the shining lake as ever.

The two Dordonan guides left them outside a weathered, one-story building of black stone, with a promise that food and drink would be brought them. The interior of the building, they found when they entered, was one of dark, gloomy rooms, its furniture and floor covered with dust, everything here exuding antiquity.

"Just as lief bed down in a mausoleum!" grunted Mike Shinn in disgust as he tossed his pack into a corner and sat down.

"We're going to get into that pit, somehow, by force or stealth," Clark declared. "We'll wait until tonight, steal into the temple, and overpower the guards at the head of the stair. Then we can get down the shaft, and I think they're too superstitious to pursue us."

"But they'll be waitin' for us when we come back up," reminded Link Wilson. "That is, if we do come back up."

"It will be up to us then to fight our way through them," Clark said grimly. He added bitterly, "Lurain broke her bargain with us; so our promise to help them in the coming war no longer holds. If we get back up with the flask of water from the lake, we'll get out of Dordona as soon as we can."

The day passed slowly. Clark Stannard and his men went out into the streets of the crumbling black city for a time. Apparently they sauntered idly, but in reality were mapping a route to the temple, one that they could follow with less chance of being observed. He noticed the Dordonan people now shunned them, looking at them in half-veiled hate. News of their blasphemy had apparently spread in the city.

Night fell, and Clark watched the moon rise over the ancient city. Then after some hours had passed, he led the others into the dark back rooms of their dwelling, intending to slip out that way. But as he entered the darkness there, he glimpsed a moving figure in the blackness. Instantly he leaped at the other, grasped him by the throat.

"It's a spy!" he grated. "If they've found out what we're planning, we're sunk." And he rasped in the language of Dordona to his prisoner, "One shout and you die."

He dragged the girl over to one of the windows, where the moonlight illuminated her white, strange face and distended eyes.

"What are you doing, spying on us?" Clark demanded, his face hardening as he remembered.

"No, I came to fulfill the promise I made you, to lead you down to the holy lake!" she gasped. Her words poured forth in a torrent as Clark stood in stunned surprize. "Stannar, why did you tell my father Kimor you wished to descend to the lake? That was madness!"

"But you had promised me that you would see that I got down the shaft," Clark said bewilderedly.

"You do not understand," Lurain told him. "I made that promise, yes—but what I meant was that I would secretly take you down the shaft; for if my father knew of it he would slay us instantly for the sacrilege—yes, even me, his daughter. I thought you understood that and would be silent about the lake until I could fulfill my promise."

"Lord, I've misjudged you, Lurain," Clark told her impulsively. "Come to think of it, it was rather asinine of me to blurt out my whole business without making sure how things stood. But I hadn't had time to think, I guess, in the rush of our escape."

"And I had to pretend ignorance when you reproached me," she said. "But I have come now, Stannar. I shall fulfill my promise and take you down to the cavern of the Lake of Life. The sin will be on my head, not on my father and people. And my sin will be expiated, for surely the Guardians will slay us down there for our sacrilege."

She was trembling violently, though her voice was steady. Clark Stannard stared at her, frowning.

"You believe that?—believe we're both going to die down there, Lurain? And yet you're willing to keep your promise?"

"Yes," the girl told him. "I gave you my word, and you brought warning to Dordona as you promised. My death matters not."

Clark suddenly put his arms around her, and as he held her quivering figure he could feel the pounding of her heart.

"Lurain, you're not going to die—neither of us will die," he told her reassuringly. "There are no Guardians down there—that is legend only. Even if they were there, I have my weapon."

She said nothing, but he knew she was convinced of the futility of all human weapons against those mysterious warders. He turned to his four men, who had listened tensely in the dark room.

"You'll stay here," Clark told them. "I should be back by morning with the waters from the lake, if all goes well."

But when Lurain understood the question, she shook her head. "No, I promised but to take you, Stannar. Your men would only be destroyed down there as we will be, and their help will be needed here when Thargo comes to attack Dordona."

"Remember, you're bound by my promise to help these Blacks against Thargo," Clark told his men, "whether or not I return."

Then Clark brought from his pack the leaden flask he had brought so far, along such a dangerous trail in preparation for this time. He paused then for a moment, before the silent quartet.

"The same to you, chief, and it's me thinks you're going to need it," muttered Mike Shinn, as they shook hands.

"We go out the back of this dwelling," whispered Lurain, to Clark. "Follow me—and be very silent."

He emerged with her into the checkered moonlight and shadow of one of Dordona's silent streets. The girl, he saw now, carried a short, pointed metal bar. She led by deserted alleys of crumbling ruins, not toward the great temple, but toward a ruined, deserted stone building a quarter-mile from the great dome.

Clark followed her wonderingly into the ruin. She led across a room strewn with debris of crumbling stone, and knelt on the corner of the stone floor. He knelt puzzledly beside her, turning his tiny flashlight beam on the weathered blocks of the floor.

"Dig out these blocks," whispered Lurain, pointing to the floor. "I will hold the light."

"But I don't——" Clark began, then halted and obeyed. It was evident that Lurain knew what she was about.

With the metal bar she had brought, he soon dug out four of the big blocks. There was revealed beneath them a dark, burrow-like opening in the earth, the mouth of a horizontal underground passage. Lurain dropped quickly down into this, and Clark followed. Turning his beam, he discovered the passage was shoulder-high, extending away through the solid rock.

"This passage," Lurain whispered, "was dug secretly many generations ago, by plotters in the city who wished to reach the pit and go down the stairs to the Lake of Life. They were of the rebels of that time who finally left Dordona to found the city K'Lamm. They could not enter the pit from the temple, for the stair-head there is always guarded, as you saw. So they dug this passage, opening into the pit below.

"Just as they finished their sacrilegious work," she continued, "their plot was detected. They were slain before they could make use of the passage, and it was blocked up and its existence kept secret. But the rulers of Dordona have known of it, and as daughter of the present ruler I knew of it. It is the one way we can enter the pit, for if we tried to enter it in the temple, the guards there would kill us at once."

He led the way, flashing his beam ahead. As they advanced in the passage, they heard a dull roar that became louder and louder. Clark knew it was the sound of the cataract falling into the sacred shaft, and his excitement increased. Lurain, pressing on behind him, was shivering.

They reached the end of the passage. They crouched, petrified by the stupefying view ahead. The opening in which they crouched was twenty feet below the floor of the temple, in the rock side of the stupendous pit. Right below and outside this opening lay the narrow steps of the spiraling stone stair.

Out there in the pit, not ten yards from them, there gleamed in the faint light from above the falling waters of the thundering cataract, the river from far away that tumbled headlong down into this unguessable abyss. Its roar seemed to shatter their ears, and its flying spray was cold on their white faces.

Clark gripped his nerves and crawled out onto the stone steps. The steps were not four feet wide, grown with the slimy green moss of ages, drenched and dripping with spray. Looking up, he could just glimpse the moonlit interior of the great temple, could just see the heads of the armored guards on duty at the head of the stair.

Looking down, he could see nothing—nothing but an unplumbed abyss of darkness into which the waters tumbled, and round whose side dropped the coils of the spiral stair. Clark's nerves shrank, appalled for the moment from the thought of venturing down into that enigmatic gulf, along that slippery, ancient way. Then his jaw set in renewed resolution. Below lay what he had come so far to seek.

"Lurain, we go downward now," he told the girl, raising his voice over the roar. "Would you rather wait here?"

"No, Stannar—I go with you," she cried. "My promise was to lead you to the lake itself."

Cautiously, every nerve strung taut, Clark stepped downward, feeling with his foot for the next step. He dared not use the flashlight here, so near the surface. The wet, mossy stone was slippery under his feet, threatening to send him slipping and sliding off the unrailed stair. Sick dizziness swept him as he visualized himself plunging downward, racing those tumbling waters in a nightmare fall.

Now he and Lurain had followed the spiral stair twice around the falling cataract, were deeper below the surface. They were in almost complete darkness. Spray stung their cheeks, gusty air-currents howled up the great shaft, the thunder of the falling waters beside them was brain-numbing. Still down and down they crept, feeling for each slippery step, groping down through somber, eternal night toward the mystic Lake of Life and its legended warders.

They were in utter darkness now, a stygian obscurity in which the ear-splitting roar of the falling waters and the shriek of howling winds were more nerve-cracking. Looking up, pressed desperately against the wet rock side of the pit, Clark Stannard could see no glimmer of light at the mouth of the pit, in the temple far above. The flying spray and mist obscured the light up there.

He thought it safe, therefore, to turn on his flashlight. The bright little beam, quivering out into the solid blackness, seemed to accentuate rather than dispel the gloom. Its ray showed the wet, mossy stone stair on whose narrow steps they stood. It showed the edge of the falling cataract, close by, and it disclosed Lurain, her naked white limbs and tight, black metal-mesh tunic wet with spray, her face pale with age-old terror.

Clark pressed her hand in encouragement, and then started again picking his way carefully downward. Round and round the side of the pit they followed the dropping spiral of the stair, circling the stupendous waterfall again and again as they descended. The green, slimy moss was treacherously thick on the stone steps. Clark realized, with a sudden quaking of the spirit, that the unbroken growth of that mass showed that in truth no one had descended this stair for ages. He and Lurain were the first for perhaps countless centuries to venture down this dizzy path.

Deeper and deeper they went. Clark had tried at first to keep count of the number of spirals, and thus roughly to estimate their depth beneath the surface. But as time went on, he lost all track of his count. The brain-numbing roar of the waters, the utter and extreme tension under which they moved, the knowledge that one slip meant hideous death, banished all from his mind except the primal necessity of safety. He could only vaguely remember, in that dazed fixedness of attention, just why he and Lurain were descending this awful path. It seemed that he and the girl had been going down into this roaring, shrieking darkness for an endless time.

As they halted to rest, clinging to the rough rock wall, Clark wondered dully how far below the surface they now were. It must be thousands of feet, he guessed. God, how deep into the bowels of earth did this hell-shaft penetrate? Then he and Lurain started downward again, endlessly circling the giddy, dropping spiral.

"Look, Stannar!" cried Lurain suddenly, her shout thin over the roar of the cataract. She was pointing downward into the abyss. "There is light!"

"No, I don't—yes, I do see it!" Clark exclaimed, peering down with every nerve and muscle suddenly taut. He snapped out his flashlight, and then the light below came stronger to his eyes.

It was a dim, misty white luminescence that seemed to well up feebly from far below, touching the spray and fog around the falling cataract into a faint glow.

"By heaven, we must be nearing the lake!" Clark Stannard cried, his consuming purpose returning to him in sudden excitement. "The Lake of Life is supposed to be one of shining, glowing waters."

"Yes, we near the sacred lake and near our doom," answered Lurain, her chiseled white face tragic in terror.

Clark encouraged her, and moved on down the winding stair with accelerated speed. Now a feverish excitement held him as he neared the thing he had come so far to find, through such deadly dangers. Behind him, the Dordonan girl followed bravely but hopelessly, like one walking to her execution.

The glow beneath grew steadily stronger. The thunderous sound of the cataract seemed changing in tone, from a dull, deafening roar into a crashing splash and hammering. And as they moved farther down the stair, Clark Stannard beheld, by the feeble glow beneath, the cause of that change in sound.

Far below, he glimpsed the pit's bottom. It was a jagged black rock floor, upon which the waters that had tumbled clear down the depth of the awful shaft fell with a crashing splash and explosion of white foam-smoke. Those foaming, broken waters flowed away, through an opening at the side of the pit's bottom.

Clark and Lurain, in fifteen minutes, stood at the bottom of the pit, on the last step of the stair. They were drenched with mist and spray here, and the unceasing, explosive crashing of the falling waters was stunning. Presently by the faint glow here, Clark made out the opening in the side of the pit. It was an arched aperture twelve or fifteen feet in height, and beyond it lay a glimmering natural rock tunnel along whose floor the foaming waters flowed away.

There was a narrow footpath in the tunnel, a rock strip crowded between the raging waters and the wall. The two moved along this, in single file because of the narrowness of the way. Now Clark perceived that the faint glow of light came from ahead, a misty luminescence that seeped back along this tunnel to the giant shaft.

The tunnel ran no more than a thousand feet, then debouched abruptly into a vast, glowing-lit space. Clark and Lurain hurried forward, and stepped out into that half-glimpsed space. Then the two stood, frozen with awe, staring wildly.

"The sacred lake that I sin in beholding!" gasped Lurain, her eyes distended with awe and religious terror.

The scene was stupefying. They looked out into a vast, cavernous space, at whose eastern wall they stood. It was impossible to see more than a mile into it, because of the haze of shining mists that filled it. The sheer black rock wall behind them rose into that concealing, misty glow, and marched away on either side into it, in a vast curve. Clark guessed that the cavern was dozens, scores of miles, in length and breadth. It flashed over him that this vast space must lie deep under all the land inside the ring of the Mountains of Death.

But it was the stupendous cavern's source of light that held their eyes. From where they stood, a black rock floor stretched a thousand feet outward. From there on, extended a vast lake whose waters glowed like pure liquid light, a shining, shimmering sheet that stretched far away and was lost in the misty haze of the cavern's farther reaches. The legended Lake of Light!

The foaming waters that rushed out of the water-tunnel from which Clark and Lurain had just emerged, flowed across the rock floor and into the lake. As soon as the foaming waters entered that shimmering sea, they seemed instantly to become glowing like it. The Lake of Light was fed by these waters from above, ordinary waters that took on that weird glow the moment they joined the shining lake.

After a few moments Clark felt his frozen awe replaced by a wild urge of exultation. By heaven, he had succeeded! He had fought his way through countless dangers to this shining lake that only legend had recorded. His spirit soared, his virile brown face blazed with triumph.

"Yes, Stannar." Her voice was quiet, but the unconquerable terror was still in her eyes. The Dordonan girl, he realized as he started forward, was bravely ready for the death she thought inevitable.

He had no time to encourage her. He hastened forward over the rough, uneven rock floor. But with the first steps that they took, they saw something ahead that momentarily froze them in their tracks.

It was a statue, a great figure of pale stone that stood upon a pedestal on the shore of the Lake of Life, facing the mouth of the tunnel. It was so placed that anyone who emerged from the tunnel would inevitably be confronted by it.

"It is an image of the Guardians!" cried Lurain, blanched to deathly white. "A sign that they are watching!"

The stone figure in no sense was modeled after a human being. The body that had been sculptured was oddly man-like, in that it was bipedal and carried its brain-case erect. But it was more like a strange, erect seal-creature than anything else, a rotund, soft-looking body with thick arms and limbs ending in flippers instead of hands or feet.

The head was round and bulbous, without any ears apparent. The face was rounded—and alien. Two large circular eyes, with below them flat nostril-openings and a straight, wide mouth.

But the expression of that stone face! Immense and alien intellectual power was stamped on it, power and knowledge beyond anything human. But dominating these was—weariness. A sick, dull weariness as of superhuman fatigue and frustration, a deep and utter despair.

The weariness and frustration on that alien, carved face were so naked in their awful agony that they crushed down Clark's spirit to behold. This statue, he felt dimly, was symbolic of some superhuman tragedy, some great disaster of long ago. One arm of the figure was raised in a warning gesture, flipper-palm outward. The sick, weary eyes in the stone face seemed trying to convey a dark, horrible message. Clark felt awed fear creeping like a subtle poison through him, and with difficulty he tore his gaze away from the unearthly figure's face.

"It is an image of the Guardians," Lurain repeated in a fearful whisper. "Stannar, look—its hand is held up, barring the way to the Lake of Life. It is a token of their ancient commandment to humanity, to abstain from the lake."

"Don't get afraid because of that statue, Lurain," Clark told her, forcing her to turn her awed eyes away from the stone figure. "If the Guardians looked like this statue, then it must have been millions of years ago that they lived—no creatures such as those have existed on earth within all known history. They may have put up the statue here long ago, but they must all be gone, themselves."

"No!" Lurain cried in desperate terror. "The Guardians die not, Stannar. Somewhere, here, they are still living. From somewhere here, they watch us even now."

Her fear-widened eyes gazed out over the shimmering lake, into the haze of shining mists that hid the farther reaches of the vast cavern from view, as though she expected to see weird creatures like the stone figure emerging at any moment.

But Clark, his first awe and amazement at sight of the statue now passing, hastened eagerly past it toward the lake. She followed slowly, and as he reached the edge of the radiant, glowing waters, she looked down with distended gaze.

Clark knelt by the edge of the shimmering lake, drawing out his leaden flask. He bent eagerly over the shining waters. What made them glow like this? Did they carry radio-active matter in suspension?

Little curls and wisps of shining vapor rose from the surface of the glowing waters. And as he inhaled that vapor-laden air, Clark Stannard felt strange, singing life flowing through his veins, a wine-like fire that banished all fatigue. The vapor-laden air made him feel suddenly strong, young, vibrant with energy and life, all pain and fatigue dropping from him like a cloak.

He stared transfixed, as this breath of life sang inside him. There fell slowly upon him an awful doubt, a terrible thought that seemed to let him stare of a sudden into ghastly gulfs of alien knowledge, into terrific, undreamed secrets of the universe.

"This lake—God, can the legend be true?" he said thickly, his eyes wild in the misty glow. "These waters, giving immortality if you drink them——"

"It is true!" cried Lurain. "These waters that our blaspheming eyes behold have in them the pure essence of life."

"But then if I drank them——" Clark's mind reeled at the tremendous impact of that thought.

He had forgotten Asa Brand, forgotten the whole purpose of his quest up to now, forgotten everything in the terrific implications of that possibility. He, first of men for ages, had penetrated to these hidden, shining waters, and if they could confer undying life, he had immortality in his grasp.

Immortality! To live on and on without fear of death, once the secret essence of life in these waters impregnated his frame. To stride the world god-like, watching the ephemeral generations come and go; to soar to dizzy heights of knowledge and power; to feel the fire of undying life shoot through his veins, even as the dim breath of it now was entering his nostrils with the shining vapors he was breathing; to drink—to drink, and never to die!

Clark Stannard felt vast new vistas of hitherto undreamed possibilities unscrolling in his rioting mind. He, immortal! Walking the earth, gathering wisdom and power, for age after age, while other men were born and lived and died. Why, he would rule those ephemeral peoples by sheer weight of knowledge, would rule the earth itself.

Glowing with light beckoned the radiant waters, their shimmering luminosity a brilliant promise. They held his eyes hypnotically. They were waiting for him, the legended waters of immortality, that he alone had won to through the ages. The greatest desire of every man who ever lived lay now at his feet, his for the taking.

Slowly his hand descended toward the shining waters with the leaden flask. His whole body tense, his eyes fixed and wild with the superhuman urge that drove him, Clark dipped the flask, filled it with the glowing waters. And as slowly, he raised it toward his face.

"Stannar, drink not!" Lurain's voice, gasping in ghastly horror as she saw his white face, saw him raising the flask with quivering purpose. She tugged weakly at his arm.

"Drink not, Stannar! I love you—I know you love me—do not commit this supreme sin! Immortality is not for us——"

Clark thrust her back from him. His eyes were burning, his voice was suddenly a harsh, unhuman croak.

His hand trembling with the strain of tremendous purpose, he lifted the leaden flask toward his lips.

As Clark tilted back his face, raising the flask of glowing waters toward his lips, he heard Lurain's heart-broken cry, as from a great distance. The mouth of the flask was but an inch from his lips, when his arm suddenly froze rigid.

For his upturned gaze had suddenly rested upon the face of the alien statue that towered over them, here at the shore. At that angle, it was as though the weary, sick, dull eyes of the unhuman sculptured figure were looking right down into his own. And again, but a hundred times stronger, Clark felt that awful sense of utter tragedy and weariness and dull despair that the statue conveyed.

He remained rigid, staring wildly up into the stone face. And it seemed almost that the bitter frustration and futility and tiredness in the carven features were those of a living face. It almost seemed to Clark that the stone lips moved dully, that they whispered to him.

"Drink not of the waters! There are depths of suffering in the universe of which you do not dream, and you open doors into black abysses if you dare drink the shining waters of immortality."

God, was that stone figure whispering to him? As though in a dream, Clark stared up at the weary, tragic face.

"Be content to live and die, and seek no undying life. Night is good after day, and death is good after life. Who would live in an endless day, without ever attaining the rest of night?"

Lurain's pleading cry came to him from far away as he stood frozen, staring shakenly up at the alien countenance of stone.

Immortality! sang the wine-like, racing desire in his blood. You will never, never die!

With a sudden wild, clumsy gesture, Clark Stannard flung the leaden flask far away, its shining contents spilling as it flew. He reeled around, grasped Lurain's sobbing figure blindly.

"Lurain—my God, I nearly did it! I nearly drank!" he gasped. "That statue—something in its eyes seemed to speak to me—warn me."

For a few moments he held the sobbing girl, stroking her hair, soothing her. And when he looked up, at the glowing, beckoning waters, all that wild thirst that had possessed him was dead and gone. He knew, now, in his soul he was sure, that those waters would bring immortality—but the wild desire for undying life had burned to ashes in him.

For he knew now that that message he had seemed to read in the tragic, unhuman face of the stone figure was deepest truth; that immortality was not a thing to be sought after, but to be shunned. But suddenly Clark stiffened as he stared at the shining waters.

What if Thargo reached this lake? What if the hordes of K'Lamm, behind that powerful, evil king, overcame the Dordonans and forced their way down here to the waters of immortality? Until now, the possibility had not greatly disturbed Clark, for he had had no belief in the virtues of the fabled lake. But now—he knew now that if Thargo and his human wolves reached the lake and drank its waters, they would become immortal.

Clark's mind shuddered back from appalling vistas of potential disaster in that possibility. He was remembering swiftly the thing Thargo had hinted when he had been the Red king's guest in K'Lamm: "When we drink of the lake, and go forth immortal to the outer world——"

That was Thargo's plan, and the Red king would do it. There rushed over Clark a nightmare vision of the wolf-like horde of K'Lamm, become immortal, going forth into the Twentieth Century world, to dominate it by virtue of their unnatural immortality, living in pomp and power for ages, while passing generations of men labored for their glory.

"No, by heaven!" The exclamation was torn from Clark's lips by desperate resolution. His face was dark and drawn. "Thargo and his men are not going to reach this lake!"

"Thargo?" Lurain looked up, startled. "I had almost forgotten the Red king. But in three days comes his attack on Dordona, his attempt to reach the lake. Stannar, we can stop him?"

"We've got to," declared Clark, his narrowed gaze sweeping over the radiant waters into the distant haze. "If we don't, it means a race of immortal tyrants saddled on the world."

"But if the Guardians exist," faltered Lurain, though doubt was in her eyes now.

"The Guardians, if it was they who put up this warning statue, must have been gone for ages," Clark told her. "We must rely on our own resistance, Lurain, to keep Thargo's forces out of here."

The doubt was deeper in the girl's eyes, mixed with a new, great fear. She whispered, "I have never believed that Thargo could drink of the lake, even if he killed all in Dordona, because I believed that the Guardians existed down here and would stop him. But—they did not stop you when you were about to drink of the waters. If you are right, if the Guardians do not exist, then I fear Thargo will win to these waters! We of Dordona will be far outnumbered by his forces when he comes."

"We'll hold him back—we've got to," Clark declared fiercely. "Come, Lurain, we must return quickly to the surface. We will have only two days to organize all the resistance we can."

His hand on the girl's bare arm, the wonder of radiant lake and vast, haze-hidden cavern forgotten now, Clark ran with her toward the tunnel. Soon he and the Dordonan girl were ascending in the pit, climbing the spiral stair in darkness, the cataract thundering beside them.

At long last, they neared the surface, could discern the glimmer of moonlight up there in the temple. It was still night, he knew. When they reached the aperture in the wall of the pit, they slipped into the dark little passage that had been hollowed by the plotters of long ago. The roar of waters receded behind them as they followed it. Reaching its end, Clark Stannard drew himself up into the dark interior of the crumbling old building there, and pulled Lurain up after him.

"Now to see your father, Kimor," he said tautly. "We've got to work fast, organizing all Dordona's resistance——"

Men sprang out of the dark on Clark and the girl, seized them and held them pinioned by a dozen hands while they bound the two, hand and foot. Then they were dragged out into the street.

Torches flared out there now, and by the red, quivering light, Clark saw a dozen Dordonan warriors in black armor. And among them was Kimor, king of Dordona. The old ruler's fierce hawk-face was awful in its rage, his white beard quivering, as he surveyed the two.

"The curse of the Guardians on you!" he shrilled. "You have done the forbidden, unholy thing, have entered the sacred shaft. You, stranger, and you, girl who is no longer my daughter, shall die as penalty for the black sin and for the shame it has brought on Dordona."

His thin hand quivered in rage as he told the girl, "And your sin is greatest of the two of you, for it was you who led this man into the sacred shaft by that forgotten passage dug by the plotters generations ago. Yes, when you were missing from my palace tonight, I bethought me of that ancient passage, and that you knew of it, and so I came with guards to see if you had dared enter it. And you did, blasphemers!"

"Wait!" cried Clark desperately. "Listen to me, Kimor! We entered the pit, it is true, and descended to the Lake of Life, but we did not drink of it. We committed no sacrilege."

Kimor struck him across the face. "Lies, lies! You did not descend to the holy lake, for if you had done so, you would have been slain by the Guardians. But you entered the sacred shaft, and for that sacrilege alone you die.

"Take them to the temple!" he cried to the warriors. "Summon the people that they may see these two slain on the temple steps as is the custom with those who commit sacrilege against the ancient commandment of the Guardians."

"There are no Guardians!" Clark shouted desperately. "And you will need the help of myself and my men, to keep Thargo and the hordes of K'Lamm from the lake when they come."

Clark and Lurain, still bound hand and foot, were dragged through the streets by the Dordonan warriors, toward the near-by dome of the temple. Now torches were flaring along many streets and excited crowds of the Black people converged hastily, as the news spread, toward the great domed edifice.

They crowded fiercely forward, as they saw Clark and the girl tossed helplessly down on the broad steps of the big building. Their faces were contorted with superstitious rage in the flickering torchlight, and from them came cries of hate and vengeance-lust.

"I got you into this," said Clark despairingly, trying vainly to snap his bonds. "Lurain, if I could save you——"

Kimor pointed down at the two, fanatical fervor in every line of his face. "Kill the blasphemers, now!" he ordered.

Crack! Crack! A volley of sharp reports put a period to the din of the raging mob, and the Dordonan warriors who had advanced with swords on the two helpless captives, turned quickly. The crowd was splitting in panic, and four men in stained, torn solaro suits and leggings, bareheaded and grim of face, were forging through it.

Blacky Cain was in the lead, his harsh, predatory face menacing, his automatic raised. The lank Texan, Link Wilson, had both his big forty-fives in his hand. Lieutenant Morrow's lean face was hard as he raised his service pistol, and Mike Shinn's battered face was flaming. Blacky's rasping voice cut across the stunned silence to Clark.

"We heard the fuss and saw them taking you for a ride, chief," rasped the gangster. "So we're muscling in."

He and the other three were still advancing, their eyes deadly, and fingers crooked on their pistol-triggers.

"They seek to rescue the condemned ones!" cried Kimor fiercely. "Seize them—slay them with their blaspheming friends!"

"Father, wait——" appealed Lurain wildly, but the fanatical old man's shout interrupted her.

The Dordonan warriors, recovering from their surprize, sprang between the two bound captives and the advancing quartet. Blacky Cain raised his automatic swiftly.

Suddenly the whole tableau froze, the crowding mob and warriors in the torchlit streets around the temple, the four adventurers advancing and the two captives, all struck motionless. From all around the city of Dordona had come a sudden wild, distant roar—a roar of thousands of savage voices, over which rose shrill, terrified screams. Then from the dark edge of the city came racing a warrior on horseback, bleeding and dying from a half-dozen fresh sword-wounds in throat and breast. He reeled and fell from his steed, almost at the feet of old Kimor.

"They attack!" choked the dying Dordonan. "The hordes of K'Lamm have surprized the walls, and Thargo leads them into the city now!"

A great, horror-stricken cry shuddered up from thousands of throats. And as though echoing it, there came louder the fierce roar of voices from all around the city, as the forces of K'Lamm poured ravening into Dordona.

Clark Stannard, frozen like all the others in a moment of paralyzing shock, realized with sinking heart what had happened. Thargo had guessed that Clark and Lurain would bring warning to Dordona of the Red attack scheduled for three days hence. So Thargo had not waited until then, but had gathered his forces and swept down on the Black city in the night, and now had suddenly forced his way inside.

Down the nighted streets of Dordona toward the temple came Thargo's cavalry now, wild riders of K'Lamm whose red armor and upraised swords glinted in the red torchlight. They thundered right into the thronged square around the temple, and hewing, stabbing, yelling like demons, forced their way through the seething Blacks toward the temple steps.

"To the defense!" shrilled old Kimor over the wild din. "While one of us lives, the Red spawn must not reach the sacred shaft they seek to enter!"

"Dordona! Dordona!" answered a wild chorus of shouts as the Black warriors tore out their swords and sprang to meet the Red riders.

But more of Thargo's fierce cavalry was charging into the plaza of the temple from other directions. In the red light of the scattered torches, the great space around the temple had become a mad confusion of battling men and horses, gleaming swords and panicky fugitives.

Clark and Lurain lay upon the temple steps, still bound and helpless. Clark strained wildly to break his bonds.

He glimpsed his four followers, out there a hundred yards away on the battle-choked plaza, trying to force their way through the crazy fight to him. Blacky Cain's eyes were blazing as he shot a slow way through the conflict, bringing down Red after Red.

But a new troop of the fierce horsemen of K'Lamm had crashed into the plaza from the west. At their head Clark glimpsed Dral, that suave, cunning-eyed captain of Thargo's, and at the same moment Dral glimpsed Clark and the Dordonan girl lying helpless.

Dral shouted to his men, and they spurred their horses through a gap in the battle. The Red captain's sword was raised, and he was bending low as he and his men charged, his intention being only too obviously that of slaying the two bound captives.

"Stannar, they come to kill us!" cried Lurain, as she too saw the deadly, oncoming troop.

"Blacky!" yelled Clark, and saw even as he shouted that Blacky Cain and the others were still fifty yards away, trying to force through the mad mêlée of combatants.

Then Clark saw split-second action. Link Wilson, the lank, tall Texan who had been fighting behind Blacky, had glimpsed the desperate peril of Clark and Lurain. The ex-cowboy acted with blurring speed. He made a sudden fierce spring at one of the Red horsemen near by, avoiding the warrior's descending sword and pulling him from his mount. Then with a single incomparably skilful motion, the Texan vaulted into the saddle, turned the maddened horse, and urged it across the crowded palace in a wild, crashing gallop toward Dral's riders.

Dral and his charging horsemen were but a few hundred feet from Clark and Lurain, when Link Wilson galloped past Clark, heading right into the oncoming troop. Clark glimpsed the Texan's tanned, set face and blazing eyes, and heard his trailing cry as he passed.

And as he shouted that, as he charged the oncoming riders, Link was dropping his reins and jerking out both his big forty-fives.

The guns boomed and Dral and three other of his charging men threw up wild hands toward the sky and fell. The charge of that Red troop halted momentarily, the horsemen milling madly around Link Wilson and striking furiously at him with their swords.

And the Texan sat his plunging steed in the middle of them with the great guns in his hands belching fire and death into the frantic circle of his attackers, laughing hard, his reckless eyes blazing.

Blacky Cain and Mike Shinn and Lieutenant Morrow now had managed to force through the raging conflict to Clark and Lurain, and Morrow was rapidly untying them.

Through the battle toward that crazy fight of the Texan against a score, was forging a solid, irresistible mass of K'Lamm cavalry. Thargo rode at their head, the Red king's powerful face afire, his great sword raised. He spurred his mount behind the shooting Texan.

"Look out for Thargo—behind you!" screamed Blacky again, the gangster shooting as he yelled that vain warning.

For Thargo's blade had stabbed into Link Wilson's back, and the fighting Texan toppled and fell.

Blacky Cain, raging madly, started toward the Red king. "I'll get Thargo—by God, I will!"

Clark Stannard's heart was swollen with wild anger, as he witnessed the death of the Texan who had sacrificed himself in that reckless attack to save his leader and Lurain. Yet Clark held the raging gangster back.

"No, Blacky—you haven't a chance! Into the temple—that's our only chance now, for the Reds have won the battle!"

It was the truth. Thargo's overpowering forces had by their surprize attack swept away almost the last of the Dordonan resistance, in this terrific battle around the temple. Only a few knots of the Black warriors were left struggling in the midst of the forces from K'Lamm, and these were going down one by one.

Thargo was already shouting to his red-armored followers, leading them toward the domed temple. There was no possibility of escape through the hundreds of his soldiers in the plaza—the only possible refuge for Clark and his men was the temple itself, on whose steps they were. He raced with them toward the great doors.

"My father Kimor—I saw him slain!" Lurain was crying. She stooped and snatched up a fallen sword, wildcat hate blazing in her face as she exclaimed, "We die soon, but I will die happy if I can kill Thargo."

Clark and Lieutenant Morrow also snatched up swords as they ran into the building. For Clark knew their ammunition was perilously near its end. They heard the wolf-like shouting of the horde from K'Lamm, following Thargo toward the temple.

They pushed shut the great doors, and slammed down the bar that fell across them on the inside. An instant later, the Red soldiers crashed against the outside of the doors, and they could hear Thargo's bull-voice urging them to break them down.

"They've got us trapped," Lieutenant Morrow said coolly. "They hold the whole city, they're all around this temple, and it's only a question of minutes until they break in."

"When they do break in," rasped Blacky Cain, "I'm getting Thargo. He killed Link, and he's mine."

The gangster's predatory face was tigerish in expression. He and the ex-cowboy had, strangely, been closer to each other than any other of the oddly assorted group of adventurers. Smoldering hate and desire for vengeance burned now in his eyes.

Clark Stannard turned his back to the great doors against which the Red hordes were banging. His eyes tensely searched the vast interior of the temple, glimmeringly illuminated by shafts of moonlight from the slits in the high dome.

There at the center of the huge room yawned the round black abyss of the sacred shaft, the pit descending to the cavern far below. And into that pit with an uninterrupted, thunderous roar, there still fell the cataract of tumbling waters from the river that entered the western wall of the temple. The barred gate which lay at the head of the spiral stair down into the pit was not guarded now by Dordonan warriors—the guards there had run out to join the battle at the first alarm.

"They'll be in here in a minute!" cried Morrow, as the bronze doors bulged ominously inward from the battering outside.

"Men, we'll go down the stair to the bottom, and try to hold them there," Clark said swiftly. "Down there we'll have a far better chance. And though it looks as though there's no hope for escape, we'll at least sell our lives as dearly as possible."

The temple doors were now bulging far inward, the bar that held them slowly bending to the breaking-point. Clark swung aside the barred gate at the top of the spiral stair. Mike Shinn paused to tear a great metal bar off the gate, exerting sudden, tremendous strength.

"Shells all gone," grunted the red-headed prizefighter, tossing away his useless automatic.

"Mine too," said Lieutenant Morrow. He had in his hand the sword he had snatched up outside.

Clark thrust Lurain down the first steps of the stair, and Morrow and Mike followed. But Blacky Cain was missing, and Clark turned quickly to perceive that the gangster had not followed the rest of them across the huge room to the pit.

Blacky was still standing right inside the great doors, coldly watching them as they bulged inward from the hammering assault outside. The gangster had his heavy automatic in his hand, and from somewhere in his pockets had fished a last crumpled cigarette. It drooped from between his lips, smoke curling from it, as he faced the door.

"Blacky, come on!" cried Clark, shouting over the dull roar of the cataract. "You've no chance there—that mob will overwhelm you in a minute! On the stair we can hold them."

"I'm staying right here," rasped Blacky without turning. "I've got one last clip in my rod, and I'm putting the heat on Thargo before I get mine."

Then he turned a little and said harshly, to Clark and Shinn and Morrow, "So long, pals. This has been as good a mob as I ever traveled with."

Clark leaped up from the stair, intent on running to the gangster and dragging him to the pit with him by force. But at that moment the bar broke, the temple doors crashed open.

In through the doors poured a flood of Red warriors, a torrent of raging swords. Thargo was in the forefront, shouting with bull-voice, "On—we are close to the Lake of Life! In minutes now we drink of immortality!"

Then the inbursting warriors of K'Lamm glimpsed Blacky Cain right in front of them, facing them with feet wide apart, cigarette drooping from his contemptuous lips, gun raised in his hand.

Thargo, swift alarm and understanding on his face as he saw the leveled weapon, threw himself aside. The automatic broke into flaming life at the same moment. One bullet grazed past Thargo's side, the others drove into the Red warriors as they charged. A half-dozen of those warriors toppled with lead slugs in their heads.

Clark saw Blacky Cain, with a harsh laugh, fling the empty gun right into the faces of the others as they overwhelmed him with a torrent of stabbing swords. And then they were coming on over the gangster's fallen body, Thargo leaping back into the lead, the Red king's face contorted from pain of his wound.

"On, men of K'Lamm!" he roared. "There are but these few now standing between you and the waters of undying life!"

Clark had but three shells left in his gun, and he was grimly resolved to save two of them for Lurain and himself, rather than to let themselves be captured by Thargo and tortured.

He snapped the other shot at the Red king, as he leaped back onto the stair. But in the wild rush of charging Reds, Thargo had moved too swiftly and the bullet killed the man behind him.

"Down the stair!" cried Clark to Lurain and Shinn and Morrow. "There's a place at the bottom where it will be easier to hold them back, and where there is more light to fight by."

They started down the stair in desperate haste. Incredible scene for that nightmare retreat! The three men and the slim, armored girl, retreating down the spiral around and around the side of the pit, while at the center of the great shaft there thundered downward the foaming, awful cataract.

After them came the vanguard of the Red horde, hundreds of eager warriors pressing down the dark stair with upraised swords, wildly athirst for the promised waters of immortality; Thargo leading them, his bull-voice roaring over the cataract, to urge them on.

Recklessly, Clark and Lurain and their two companions ran down the high-flung, dizzy stairway, until at last they were penetrating the feeble glow in the lower part of the shaft. And then, gasping for breath, they reached the bottom of the pit, where the falling cataract broke upon the rock and flowed away through the water-tunnel toward the Lake of Life.

Clark stopped with his companions in the narrow path that ran beside the racing river in the water-tunnel.

"Here's where we can hold them longest," he panted. "They can only come at us a few at a time."

"Then we die here!" cried Lurain, clinging hard to Clark, her face flaming. "Stannar, I am not afraid!"

Clark kissed her, setting his lips against hers with bruising force. His heart was leaden. "I know you're not afraid, Lurain, of death. But we've failed in everything—we can't keep that horde from the Lake of Life now. God, the horror it will mean for the outside world when those human wolves go forth, immortal!"

Lieutenant Morrow was gazing at Clark and the clinging girl with a strange, bitter look in his memory-haunted eyes.

"It is something," he said, "to know that the woman you love is glad to die with you. I envy you, Stannard."

"Well, it looks like this is my final bout, but it sure ought to be a swell one!" grinned Mike Shinn, flourishing his great metal bar.

Down the stair into the bottom of the pit were pouring the vanguard of the Red warriors, Thargo's great form in the lead. They saw the water-tunnel, and the narrow path.

Along the path they came, not glimpsing for a moment Clark and Morrow and Shinn drawn up across it. Then the swords of Clark and the army officer smote like lightning brands, and Mike Shinn's whirling bar crashed helmets and skulls like egg-shells.

For a moment the warriors of K'Lamm recoiled from that terrific and unexpected resistance. Then Thargo, face crimson with rage, shouted and they advanced again, eyes gleaming wolfishly in the glowing light.

"Come on, ye scuts!" roared Mike Shinn, swinging his huge bar like a reed. "We're waitin' for ye!"

Clark Stannard struck and struck like a madman with his sword as the torrent of attackers poured down on them again. The narrowness of the path between the tunnel wall and the raging river made the fight a bloody, choked confusion.

Clark felt steel ripping into his shoulder and thigh, was aware that he was bleeding. Beside him Lieutenant Morrow, his lean face glistening, his eyes terrible, was slashing and stabbing in saber-fashion. Mike Shinn was a man gone mad, his battered face wild and scarlet, his eyes icy flames as his huge arm swung the giant bar. Its sweeping blows crushed down warrior after warrior into writhing, broken things.

Morrow's foot had slipped in blood, and as the lieutenant staggered, a Red warrior stabbed up from beneath at his heart. The young ex-army officer fell without a sound.

The next moment, Clark's sword sliced the throat of his killer. But another length of steel tore into Clark's leg below the knee. He reeled faint now from loss of blood, would have fallen as he stumbled had not Lurain fiercely held him, striking with her own sword in wildcat fury.

Thargo, keeping cannily a little back from the forefront of the raging fight, was urging his men forward, shouting promises of the Lake of Life that lay now almost within their grasp. And with immortality dangling before them, the men of K'Lamm pushed forward irresistibly, forcing Clark and Mike and Lurain back and back along the water-tunnel, back until they were at the end of the tunnel, with behind them the vast cavern of gleaming haze, the glowing, shimmering sea of the lake. And at sight of those radiant waters for which their race had thirsted for generations, the men of K'Lamm came on with wild-beast fury.

Clark stood with the crazily shouting Shinn, keeping Lurain behind him, and fought like a staggering madman. Clark knew in his dazed mind that it was all over, that nothing now could keep Thargo's horde from the lake, but he was wildly determined to kill and kill while life remained in him.

Then a flashing sword-blade grazed down across Clark's forehead in a stunning blow. Blood ran into his eyes, and he felt himself swaying backward, collapsing strengthlessly upon the black rock floor of the cavern, just beyond the tunnel mouth. He felt Lurain bending over him, frantically seeking to revive him.

Alone, dripping with blood from a dozen wounds, a crimsoned, terrible figure roaring in defiance, the ex-prizefighter stood in the end of the tunnel, whirling that giant metal mace whose end was bright with new blood. Upon him pressed the horde of K'Lamm, and for the moment, ravening as they were at sight of the shining lake, they could not pass him.

Then Thargo, pushing forward in the attacking throng, whirled his sword around and cast it javelin-wise. The keen blade tore into Shinn's throat. For a moment, even the horde of attackers was motionless, as the great redhead swayed and staggered. His voice was a choked, bloody murmur.

He toppled in a dead heap. With wild, triumphant cries, Thargo and his red-armored horde pushed past his body, across the black rock shore toward the radiant, beckoning Lake of Life.

They paid no heed at this moment, in their mad lust for the glowing waters, to Clark lying half senseless on the rock with Lurain bending over him. They pushed unheedingly past the forbidding stone statue of the strange, seal-like figure, with its upraised arm and tragic, despairing face. They flung themselves down on the shore of the lake, and bent their heads, hundreds of them, drinking the radiant waters.

"They drink!" cried Lurain in a sob that only half penetrated Clark's dim brain. "Stannar, they become immortal!"

Thargo and his men, straightening now from their quaffing of the waters, were beginning to change. Their bodies were beginning to glow. Clark Stannard's dimmed, half-conscious eyes saw the incredible, ghastly miracle: the bodies of Thargo and his horde, glowing now with shimmering light like the lake itself, radiant with weird luminosity.

Thargo's glowing mouth opened and from the weirdly changed king of K'Lamm came a great, triumphant cry.

As Thargo's mad, exultant cry was echoed by a thunderous shout from the glowing horde that had now drunk of the lake, Clark Stannard reeled half blindly to his feet. A blood-smeared, terrible figure, he raised his pistol from his belt. Unnoticed by the triumphant, yelling horde in this wild moment, he aimed at Thargo's breast.

In Clark's crazed mind was room for just one thought—to kill Thargo. He had in the pistol the two bullets that he had saved for Lurain and himself. Now, swaying drunkenly, he pulled the trigger and sent the two leaden slugs crashing into Thargo's breast.

The sharp double crack of the gun was followed by a momentary tense silence. The eyes of all the shining horde turned on their king. Thargo was looking unbelievingly down at his own glowing breast. Out of a big hole over his heart was flowing a trickle of blood as radiant as the waters of the lake.

Then Thargo laughed! He laughed loudly, wildly, in supreme, soaring mirth. He drew out the sword that he had sheathed a few moments before. And still laughing loudly, he strode over the jagged rock toward Clark and Lurain. A glowing, weird figure—a man with two bullets through his heart who walked toward them laughing!

"You fool!" Thargo's great voice mocked Clark, his glowing face supreme in unshakable sense of power. "Do you think that your weapons can ever kill me now?"

"Gods!" gasped Lurain. "Now that he has drunk of the lake, he will never die—and he cannot even be killed!"

Thargo and his men could not be killed! The awful knowledge struck through the dazed mind of Clark Stannard.

He saw it now, in terrible clarity. The pure essence of life in the shining waters, once drunk by any man, imbued every atom of his body with a flame of life that nothing could extinguish. No matter if his vital organs were shattered, no matter if he were hacked into tiny pieces, each of those remnants of him would remain living, would retain a portion of his consciousness.

Thargo and his glowing, evil followers could not be killed—and would never die. They would remain living as long as the earth endured. Nothing could prevent it. Nothing could end the strange new flame of life that shone from every fiber of their bodies.

"For you and this wench of Dordona—death now!" cried Thargo, his sword raised toward the frozen pair. "And then we who are immortal go forth from here, out over the mountains to world conquest."

"World conquest!" howled the horde from K'Lamm in great chorus, from hundreds of glowing throats. "We cannot be killed now and the world is ours for the taking!"

Thargo swung his sword up, poised it for the downward sweep, his radiant face hideous with hate. Clark blindly thrust Lurain behind him, before the sword could fall.

The sword did not fall. From somewhere in the howling, immortal horde had suddenly come a wild shriek, a thrilling, terrible cry that spun the gaze of all of them, even that of Thargo, sharply around. The one who had cried out was pointing out into the shimmering sea of the lake, out into the shining mists that veiled its farther reaches.

Something was coming out of those gleaming mists. Something vast and dark, a high, stupendous bulk, was emerging with majestic slowness from the shrouding haze, moving over the surface of the glowing waters toward the shore where they stood.

It bulked bigger, nearer, as they stared rigidly. It was a dark mass thousands of feet in width, hundreds in height, that floated on the surface of the shining lake, and glided silently over it. Clark Stannard's dimmed gaze perceived vague outlines of buildings in that floating, advancing mass.

Then as it emerged completely from the shrouding mists, a great sigh went up from hundreds of throats, a sigh of horror and stupefaction. Thargo and the men of K'Lamm, a crowd of motionless, glowing statues, stared with wild emotion on their shining features.

It was a floating city that was advancing out of the mists. It was built upon a huge, square plate of black metal that floated like cork upon the radiant waters. The plate, and the city it supported, were a half-mile square. The buildings that rose from this floating foundation were black, cubical, roofless metal ones, severely angular of outline.

And standing in a solemn, silent throng at the near edge of the advancing city, were a thousand or more weird figures—figures, creatures, who glowed with the same immortal, radiant life as now did Thargo and his horde. But these glowing creatures, not men——

Clark heard Lurain cry out chokingly as she discerned the nature of those glowing inhabitants of the floating city. They were creatures exactly like the stone statue that towered here on the shore—seal-like, amphibian-looking beings, with rotund, erect bodies and bulbous heads and flipper-limbs.

"Too late," muttered Clark thickly. "They can't kill Thargo and this horde now—no one can. Too late!"

But the floating city came on, until its edge grated against the black rock shore. And as Thargo and his men remained rooted, paralyzed as though by unheard command, the glowing Guardians solemnly, slowly, trooped ashore.

In silent, weird procession they came, he who seemed their leader advancing to where Thargo stood frozen near Clark and Lurain, the others following, two bearing between them a white, box-like instrument. Weird, incredible scene from nightmare—the vast cavern of gleaming haze, the shimmering lake upon which floated the unearthly city, the unhuman, glowing creatures trooping from it and confronting the glowing horde of frozen, paralyzed men.

The leader of the Guardians stopped, facing the king of K'Lamm. And now Clark's eyes saw clearly the faces of these creatures. Like the face of the stone statue they were, in features and in expression. The low, bulbous forehead, the great, circular eyes, the flat nostril-openings and straight wide mouth, were the same.

And that expression of immense and alien intellectual power, of knowledge and capacities beyond anything human, was on these glowing faces. And dominating them, as in the statue, that sick, dull weariness of superhuman fatigue and frustration, that deep and utter despair.

Yes, the agony of awful tragedy that looked now out of the eyes of these beings was crushed, creeping like a cold poison through Clark Stannard's reeling mind. One read in these glowing orbs, haunting, horrible memories of superhuman aspiration and tragedy and despair.

"The—the Guardians!" Thargo choked hoarsely, his glowing face hideous in its naked terror.

The leader of the unhuman creatures spoke, in a heavy, solemn whisper, like the hollow voice of the speaking dead.

"Aye, the Guardians, whom you disbelieved in and scorned, you who wished to become immortal," the creature said slowly.

"You sought for immortality—and it is yours!" continued the solemn voice of the Guardian leader. "Aye, we could have killed you from afar before ever you drank of the lake. But because of your evil, we let you drink, so that you might know a doom more terrible than death, a doom that is ours also.

"Yes, for we too sinned and drank!" Strong, strong was the throbbing of tragedy in the Guardian leader's hollow voice. "Ages ago, when our amphibian race ruled the earth and when man did not yet exist, we found this place where a giant meteor from far away had crashed into the earth, hollowing out this great space for itself, flinging up the mountains around it and the rock that fell back over it, bringing to earth the alien, radiant element that kindles life, that is the spark, the essence, of life.

"We too forced our way down here, carving the stair in the pit that the falling waters had eroded. And we found the Lake of Life, the shining waters that contained in solution that alien, radiant element that had started life upon earth. We drank of the waters, as you have done, felt the essence of inextinguishable life flood through our bodies as it now floods through yours. Yes, we committed that sin.

"For greatest of sins it is! To live for ever is the most terrible of fates—to experience every possible emotion, every possible event, until the soul sickens within from the unvarying monotony of ages. That is why, when we realized the horror of what we had done, we determined that no others should ever do the hideous thing we had done, no others should ever drink of the Lake of Life. That is why, long ago, we gave our command to the men above, not to drink of the lake."

The Guardian leader raised a glowing arm, and his flipper-like hand pointed in bitter accusation at the paralyzed Thargo.

"You scoffed at our ancient commandment, you forced your way down here and drank, and you and your followers now are drunken with immortality. And your sin was greater even than ours, for we quaffed the cup of undying life long ago only because we hoped to reap greater knowledge from our immortality. You have drunk, not to gain great knowledge from undying life, but to gain great power over the outside world. So is your sin the greater.

"And so," rolled the Guardian's toneless whisper, "we shall close the Lake of Life now to the world for ever, lest any others should force their way down here as you have done, and drink as you have drunk. And the thing that we do now brings doom upon you and upon ourselves also. But it is a doom that we tired ones welcome, for though it is not death, it is the closest to death to which we immortals can aspire."

Now the glowing Guardian leader turned his tragic, haunted eyes toward Clark and Lurain.

Thargo and all his horde remained frozen, as the creature spoke to the bloody, swaying figure of Clark, and the girl.

"You two alone are guiltless," the Guardian was whispering. "You did not drink of the lake when you reached it, before, for from afar we were watching and were ready to slay you if you started to drink. And you have fought, you and your companions, to keep these evil ones from reaching the lake.

"Therefore we give you life. Hasten both of you up to the upper world, and flee swiftly toward the mountains around this land. We have removed the deadly force with which we invested the mountains long ago, and unless you reach them quickly, you will perish when we do the thing that we prepare now to do."

The Guardian extended a shining arm, pointing solemnly toward the tunnel leading to the shaft.

Clark Stannard, hardly able to stand, reeled with Lurain past the frozen form of Thargo, past the silent, glowing Guardians and the paralyzed, glowing horde from K'Lamm, toward the tunnel.

He and the girl glanced back as they entered it, shaken with awe. They saw all the radiant forms there, of men and Guardians, standing utterly motionless, in a terrible, unbroken silence. But two of the Guardians were bending over the white, box-like instrument.

Clark staggered through the tunnel, the sobbing girl's arm supporting him. Then they were on the stair, in the deafening thunder of the falling cataract, struggling upward. He slipped and fell upon the steps, and Lurain had to drag him erect.

"Hurry, Stannar—we must reach the surface! Something terrible is going to happen!"

"Go—you go on, Lurain," he gasped, as he stumbled again. But she clung fiercely to him.

It was a wild, nightmare climb in a dream to Clark, the struggle up the stair. A crazy, unreal ascent, with the thundering cataract bellowing mockery at his attempts to hasten, with the Dordonan girl's arms half supporting, half dragging him.

Then light and cool air hit his face, and he discovered they were climbing out of the pit, into the wrecked temple. It was deserted save for strewn bodies. They stumbled through its doors into the street outside. The dawn was breaking over conquered Dordona.

No man or woman moved in the black city's streets! The Black people had perished to the last one, lay dead around the places they had tried to defend, slain by Thargo's horde. And Thargo and his warriors were all down there, in the cavern of the lake.

Lurain with frantic haste caught two of the riderless horses that were stamping, snorting, and trotting nervously about, whinnying in strange panic. She helped Clark climb onto one, then leaped into the saddle of the other. They galloped down the street toward the gate of the city, raced out of it onto the grassy plain.

The panicky horses bolted like mad across the plain, toward the steep, dark rampart of the Mountains of Death that rose close behind conquered Dordona. The animals' legs seemed to fly, and to Clark's dazed mind it was a vague, rocket-like rush through space.

They were within a few hundred feet of the first slopes of the mountains, when from deep in the earth below came a long, grinding, wrenching sound as of riven worlds. Lurain shouted, and the horses plunged with insane speed toward the slope.

They dashed up onto the rocky slope of the mountains. Clark, vaguely expecting the blue flash of death as they climbed onto the rock, remembered now what the Guardian leader had said about withdrawing the fatal force from the mountains.

The tremendous, muttering roar from deep in the earth was growing louder. The mountains themselves were quivering now, and Lurain slipped from her rearing horse, held the bridle of Clark's. They turned, stared with blood freezing, back out over the plain.

The whole fifty-mile circle of land within the mountains was heaving and rumpling like a sea in storm, as the grinding roll beneath grew louder. The city Dordona rocked like a ship. Then huge cracks appeared in the plain, rifts and splits that were widening——

All the country inside the ring of the mountains was subsiding with a prolonged and awful roar. Dordona vanished, shattered amid falling masses of rock. And far away they glimpsed the scarlet towers of K'Lamm plunging and falling also, in the world-shaking cataclysm.

Then vast clouds of dust rose up that hid all from their view. The roar died away, the mountains ceased quivering. And when the dust began to drift away, Clark and Lurain looked, appalled.

"The Guardians kept their promise!" cried Lurain. "This was the way in which they closed the Lake of Life to the world for ever—and brought doom to Thargo and his horde, and to themselves. They used forces that caused all the land over the great cavern of the lake to collapse inward on it!"

For inside the Mountains of Death now there lay only a tremendous depression, a raw new crater of broken rock, thousands of feet deeper than the former level of the land. Thousands of feet of shattered rock buried all that had been in the cavern beneath.

"The Lake of Life—buried for ever!" Lurain was crying. "And the Guardians, and the horde of Thargo, crushed under all that stone!"

"Yes," muttered Clark, his whole body trembling as he visualized the greatest horror of that awful doom. "Thargo and his men and the Guardians, crushed and imprisoned for ever beneath the rock—but still immortal, still living."

The Belgian colonial officer in charge of that little trading-post on the Ubangi River rose from the chair on the bungalow veranda and stared with unbelieving eyes at the two people who had just emerged from the green gloom of the jungle. They were walking doubtfully toward him.

One was a hard-bodied young man in a tattered, stained solaro suit, his black head bare, his brown face gaunt from hardship. The other was a girl—an astonishing-looking girl with a torrent of blue-black hair and challenging blue eyes, her legs and arms naked, her only garment a tight short tunic of black metal-mesh.

"Mon Dieu!" muttered the officer, staring at them, his jaw dropping. "I am delirious—I am dreaming——"

Then his eyes flashed with excitement. "I recognize you now, m'sieu—from the newspaper pictures! The river boat brought the papers but yesterday. You are the Monsieur Stannard who led a crazy expedition into the Kiridu country!"

"I am," Clark Stannard admitted, stopping with his arm around the wondering-eyed girl. "And I'm the only one of the expedition left."

"But it was all in the story, m'sieu!" cried the Belgian, utterly excited. "An American millionaire, one Asa Brand, had you undertake a search for the Lake of Life which the natives talk about, so the story said. You got through the French authorities but it was thought you were killed by the tribes in the Kiridu. And when that report reached America, this Monsieur Brand died soon after, of a broken heart they say, because he thought all chance of getting the waters of the legended lake was gone."

"So Asa Brand is dead?" Clark's face was strange for a moment. "And the search he sent me on, then, indirectly brought about the death he feared so much."

"Yes, it is so," cried the officer, "but the newspaper said that before he died, in remorse for having sent you as he thought to your death, he bequeathed to your surviving family a million dollars."

Clark Stannard drew a long breath. That old shadow of fear for his helpless family was lifted from him, at last.

"Did you find the lake, m'sieu?" asked the Belgian eagerly. "Of course, the waters of immortality are just a native fable, but did you discover anything unusual in there? There were rumors of an earthquake or something that caused the natives of the Kiridu to flee in panic."

"No," Clark said shortly. "My companions were killed by natives, and I found no trace of the legended lake. As you say, it was all only a native fable."

"But this girl?" persisted the other, staring at Lurain's strange costume. "Where—how——"

"This is my wife," Clark told him briefly. "She is a white girl I found back in the interior and brought out with me." He added, before the eager Belgian could ask any more questions, "When will the next down-river boat be here? And can you relay a cable message for me?"

A week later, as a small liner pulled out from the port of Boma on the Belgian Congo coast, Clark Stannard stood with Lurain—a different-looking Lurain in her modern dress—by the rail. They looked back at the low green African coast, sinking back down behind the horizon.

Lurain's bright blue eyes winked tears. "I am alone now, Stannar. My people, my city, my land—gone, lost for ever."

"You'll never be alone," he told her, his arm drawing her closer. "Not while I'm living."

"But Dordona," she said. "I seem to see it now, there beneath the rock—broken and shattered——"

Clark, too, was gazing intently toward the receding shoreline, as though he too could see far inland to the strange mountain-ringed land that was no more. But it was not the perished city that he was seeing, but his five followers who lay buried there.

Ruined, hunted men, disgraced and hard-bitten and lawless—but loyal, staunch and unfearing. They lay there where they had fallen fighting, forgotten by the world. But Clark Stannard's hand went up in a vague gesture, that was half salute and half farewell.

"Good-bye, fellows," he whispered. And then he whispered the words that Mike Shinn once had spoken of another. "You were good guys. You were great guys."

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The lake of life

The Lake of Life

CONTENTS

1. The Legion of the Damned

2. The Lake of Life

3. The Mountains of Death

4. Into the Mystery

5. The Crimson City

6. The King of K'Lamm

7. Thargo's Treachery

8. The Fight at the Gate

9. Dordona

10. Down the Stair

11. The Temptation

12. The Attack

13. Thargo Drinks

14. The Guardians

15. Epilog