ently revealed softer material the deeper we progressed into the
hill. Slightly beyond the entrance leading from the main chamber,
several rudely fashioned steps led into a sort of gallery. This was of
considerable proportions, elevated perhaps ten or more feet above the
main floor, its outer parapet formed of loose stones, through the
chinks of which one might command unseen a wide view of the cavern and
its altar. But, to our rather hasty inspection, this gallery contained
nothing except bare rock, and, after a single curious glance about we
drew back and moved on cautiously in exploration of the lower tunnel.
This curved gradually toward the left, and held a rather steep pitch
downward. It was not above three feet in width until we had traversed
fully fifty paces, when it suddenly broadened, and the fitful glare of
the torch, which I held over my head, flashed back rays of light from
two horribly gleaming green eyes. For an instant I believed we had
invaded the lair of some wild animal, and drew back quickly, my hand on
the knife hilt.

"Hell's kitchen!" I exclaimed nervously, "but the den has an occupant
already."

"Ay, and of a kind common enough in these hills, but nothing fit to
affright a servant of the true God," echoed Cairnes, striding past me.
"I am not wont to fear heathen idols, Master Benteen, nor will I bear
back now before those green eyes."

As he spoke he laid rough hand on the thing, and I heard a sharp rattle
of metal against wood.

"Come hither friend," he called, with a laugh, "'tis no worse than
another painted devil we are called to face. Surely it is you who have
the faint heart now."

"The glow of the torch blinded me to all except the green stones," I
explained, coming forward and throwing the radiance of the flame full
upon the hideous object. "Saint George! 't is of no beauty to my sight
even now, and, as you say, of small fear to Christian heart. The
saints defend us! What was that? As I live, I heard English speech!"

He was earnestly engaged in an endeavor to detach a bit of dull metal
from the throat of the image, and scarcely deigned to glance around.

"Nay, there was no sound other than the chattering of your own tongue.
This shining thing is gold, I believe."

"Let it be; 't is of small value here. I tell you I heard a strange
voice; so hold still and listen."

For a minute or more we waited in almost breathless suspense, no
unusual sound greeting our ears. The