e a good end.

"They'll get me, but before I die I'll send at least two or three of
these devils to hell," he thought. "Come on--"

But, for an inexplicable reason, the arch-priest beckoned back his
satellites, while roar upon roar of terrific excitement swelled from
the swarming mob below, and a shout which at last became
distinguishable bid fair to split the heavens. "Altara! Altara!
Altara!"

Slowly, the temporarily reprieved victim's muscles stiffened. He
understood. The next victim was to be the fair Altara, sister of
Altorius and Sacred Virgin of Atlans.

"Altara! Altara!" A rising hurricane of impassioned human voices
thundered the name.

Suddenly, the desire to live burned doubly strong in the American's
breast. He must somehow prevent this inhuman catastrophe. But how?
How?

Stealing a quick glance over his shoulder, Nelson stifled a groan. The
southern horizon remained clear, and put an end to hope. No help! He
must fight it out to the end alone.

* * * * *

A rank of exultant, black-bearded priests now appeared at the head of
the stairway, then a quartet of olive skinned, semi-naked priestesses
joyfully clashing brass cymbals.

There came an interval--and Nelson's heart stood still as there
appeared the lovely head and shoulders of her whom he had first seen
in the heart of the revolving crystal. Even more fiercely, mad revolt
at fate gripped him.

Through hot, strained eyes the American saw that the stately Altara
was beautiful beyond all possible comparison, and that she seemed
utterly unafraid in the hour of her dreadful death. The Atlantean
maiden's large, clear blue eyes were fixed with calm resignation on
the distant flame sun of Jilboa. On her curling golden hair had been
set a circlet of ceremonial yellow roses, while her white, slender
body was thinly covered with a scanty robe of yellow silk.

Slowly, and moving her small bare feet in a regal stride, Altara
climbed the last few steps and stood straight and unafraid before the
hideous demon god of Jarmuth.

Thousands of frantic inner voices assailed the aviator's
consciousness. "Save her! You must save her! She's too young, too
beautiful to die!"

Like a vast maelstrom of sound, so swelled the lustful cry of the dark
multitude at the base of the Ziggurat, while the arch-priest chanted
his litany in a sort of triumphant exultation. Then, all at once, one
of the executioners roughly tripped the golden h