By the tall obelisks, all seaweed-girt, Drift the pale dead of long and long ago, Lovers and kings who may not more be hurt, Wounded by lips or by the dagger's blow. --_The Sunken Towers._ From the cliff's edge a narrow bridge of rock jutted, a natural formation worn by wind and rain. It ended on a jagged ledge, at the back of which a black hole gaped. Elak said, "Lycon, wait here. I must take this road alone." The little man disagreed profanely. But Elak was firm. "It will be safer. So we won't both fall into the same trap. If I'm not back by sundown, come after me--you may be of aid then." Lycon could not help but realize the truth of this. He shrugged fat shoulders. "Very well. I'll wait in Aynger's cave. His mead was potent; I'm anxious to sample more. Luck, Elak." Nodding, the Atlantean started along the bridge. He found it safer not to look down, but the surging roar of the breakers sounded disquietingly from beneath. Sea-birds mewed and called. The wind tore at his swaying body. But at last he was across, and felt the firm stability of the rocky ground under his sandals. Without a backward glance he entered the cave-mouth. Almost immediately outside sounds dimmed and quieted. The road led down--a natural passage, seemingly, that turned and twisted in the rock. Sand was gritty underfoot, with bits of shell here and there. For a time it was dark, and then a greenish, vague luminous glow appeared, apparently emanated by the sand on which he trod. It was utterly silent. Still the tunnel led down, till Elak's feet felt moisture beneath him. He hesitated, staring around. The rocky walls were dewed and sweating. A dank, salty odor was strong in his nostrils. Loosening his rapier in its scabbard, he went on. The green glow brightened. The passage turned; Elak rounded the corner, and stood motionless, staring. Before him a vast cavern opened. It was huge and terrifyingly strange. Low-roofed, stalactites hung in myriad shapes and colors over the broad expanse of an underground lake. The green shining was everywhere. The weight of the island above seemed to press down suffocatingly, but the air, despite a salt sea-smell, was fresh enough. At his feet a sandy half-moon of a beach reached down to the motionless surface of the water. Further out, he could see far down vague shadows that resembled sunken buildings--fallen peristyles and columns, and far away, in the center of the lake, was an island. Ruined marble crowned it. Only in the center a small temple seemed unharmed; it rose from shattered ruins in cool, white perfection. All around it the dead and broken city lay, to the water's edge and beyond. A submerged, forgotten metropolis lay before Elak. Silence, and the pale green expanse of the waveless lake. Softly Elak called, "Mayana." There was no response.