ooping down on you. Hey, Alden, look at that
big devil over there! He must have a wing spread of thirty feet. Big
as a Moth plane, isn't he?"

For answer the pteranodon clattered its vast beak savagely. One of the
generals stooped and, catching up a huge slab of meat from a basket
nearby, hurled it through the bars into the gaping jaws.

"What would ye with these creature?" demanded Hero Giles with
undisguised curiosity.

"You'd be surprised." Nelson was not deliberately rude, but his mind
was wrapped up in the daring project he had evolved. "I want a couple
of the biggest of these caught and set aside in a courtyard where
there will be no one looking on. If your people can train and handle
podokos and allosauri--I guess a couple of Yanks ought to be able to
manage these flying nightmares. So don't you worry about us."

Hero Giles uttered grim, significant laugh. "Thou hadst best manage
them. I note yonder pteranodon is in need of nourishment."

CHAPTER X

With sharp anxiety, Victor Nelson kept watching the towers of Jezreel
rise ever clearer above the great, warm plain of Jarmuth, but, for all
that, he noted how distinctly Jezreel differed from Heliopolis. The
Jarmuthian capital was predominantly amber-yellow instead of white in
color; its towers were flat-topped, angular, hideous structures that
compared not at all favorably with the graceful Grecian architecture
of Atlantean public buildings.

The populace, he decided, as he strode along in the midst of half a
dozen silent guards, were as harsh and graceless as their
architecture. Whereas the Atlanteans had been white skinned and
uniformly red haired--save for those of Hudsonian blood--the
inhabitants of Jarmuth almost without exception were black haired and
had dark, olive-hued skins.

"They're the lost tribes of Israel, all right," Nelson decided after a
brief sojourn in that savage land lying beyond Apidanus--the great
boiling river, whose bubbling and scalding currents had for centuries
served as a natural boundary between the two realms. But now the
Jarmuthian armies had crossed it and were steadily pushing back the
demoralized and despairing Atlanteans with savage energy that heaped
the dead in hillocks.

"Their armor," mused the ragged, barefoot prisoner, studying his
silent guards, "looks a lot like a Roman legionnaire's, but that six
pointed star on their helmets is pure Semitic. Yes, this sure is an
Asiatic outfit."

His eyes wandered from o