e were silent, but the strange murmuring still went on, coming
apparently from the wall of the cave behind us, and it occurred to me
that I had once heard something like it before, though at the time I
could not think where. Afterwards I remembered that it was when, as
a boy, I had been taken to see the Whispering Gallery in St. Paul's
Cathedral in London.

Half-an-hour or so went by in this fashion, and still there were no
signs of the Abati or of our missing pair. Quick began to fumble among
his clothes. I asked him what he was doing.

"Can't help thinking I've got a wax match somewhere, Doctor. I remember
feeling it in one of the pockets of this coat on the day before we left
London, and thinking afterwards it wasn't safe to have had it packed in
a box marked 'Hold.' Now if only I could find that match, we have got
plenty of torches, for I've stuck to my bundle all through, although I
never thought of them when the lamps were going out."

Having small belief in the Sergeant's match, I made no answer, and the
search went on till presently I heard him ejaculate:

"By Jingo, here it is, in the lining. Yes, and the head feels all right.
Now, Doctor, hold two of the torches toward me; make ready, present,
fire!" and he struck the match and applied it to the heads of the
resinous torches.

Instantly these blazed up, giving an intense light in that awful
darkness. By this light, for one moment only, we saw a strange, and not
unattractive spectacle. I think I forgot to say that in the centre of
this vault stood a kind of altar, which until that moment, indeed, I
had not seen. This altar, which, doubtless, had been used for ceremonial
purposes at the funerals of the ancient Kings, consisted of a plain
block of basalt stone, whereon was cut the symbol of a human eye, the
stone being approached by steps and supported upon carved and crouching
sphinxes.

On the lowest of these steps, near enough to enable us to see them quite
clearly, were seated Oliver Orme and Maqueda, Child of Kings. They were
seated very close together; indeed, if I must tell the truth, Oliver's
arm was about Maqueda's waist, her head rested upon his shoulder, and
apparently he was engaged in kissing her upon the lips.

"Right about face," hissed the Sergeant, in a tone of command, "and mark
time!"

So we right-abouted for a decent period, then, coughing loudly--because
of the irritant smoke of the torches--advanced to cross the cavern,
and by acci