me to stimulate me like a cold douche.

"This wanton sacrifice of horrors speaks eloquently of a forlorn hope!
Sweep the walls with light, Kennedy; all those filthy things are
nocturnal and they will retreat before us as we advance."

His words proved true. Occasioning a sort of _rustling_ sound--a faint
sibilance indescribably loathsome--the creatures gray and black and
red darted off along the passage. One by one, as we proceeded, they
crept into holes and crevices of the ancient walls, sometimes singly,
sometimes in pairs--the pairs locked together in deadly embrace.

"They cannot live long in this cold atmosphere," cried Smith. "Many of
them will kill one another--and we can safely leave the rest to the
British climate. But see that none of them drops upon you in passing."

Thus we pursued our nightmare march, on through that valley of horror.
Colder grew the atmosphere and colder. Again the thunder boomed out
above us, seeming to shake the roof of the tunnel fiercely, as with
Titan hands. A sound of falling water, audible for some time, now
grew so loud that conversation became difficult. All the insects had
disappeared.

"We are approaching the River Starn!" roared Sir Lionel. "Note the dip
of the passage and the wet walls!"

"Note the type of brickwork!" shouted Smith.

Largely as a sedative to the feverish excitement which consumed me, I
forced myself to study the construction of the tunnel; and I became
aware of an astonishing circumstance. Partly the walls were natural,
a narrow cavern traversing the bed of rock which upcropped on this
portion of the estate, but partly, if my scanty knowledge of
archaeology did not betray me, they were _Phoenician!_

"This stretch of passage," came another roar from Sir Lionel, "dates
back to Roman days or even earlier! By God! It's almost incredible!"

And now Smith and Kennedy, who lid, were up to their knees in a
running tide. An icy shower-bath drenched us from above; ahead was a
solid wall of falling water. Again, and louder, nearer, boomed and
rattled the thunder; its mighty voice was almost lost in the roar of
that subterranean cataract. Nayland Smith, using his hands as a
megaphone, cried;--

"Failing the evidence that others have passed this way, I should not
dare to risk it! But the river is less than forty feet wide at the
point below Monkswell; a dozen paces should see us through the worst!"

I attempted no reply. I will frankly admit that the prospect