In that moment, when it seemed impossible the racing four could cover four hundred vulnerable yards, relief came from an unexpected source. From around the corner of the temple charged two uniformed warriors of Nippon. Beyond them lay temporary safety but--how to pass them? Already one was raising rifle to shoulder, his finger tense on the trigger. Then from the building itself snarled the bark of an automatic. The Jap jerked as though sledged with the blow of an invisible ramrod. His jaw dropped suddenly and the gun flew clattering from his hands as he doubled and pitched forward. Then another shot from the same source; another, and yet another. The familiar voice of Red Barrett boomed from the portico. "Keep coming, keed! We're covering you!" Four hundred yards is a meager distance, but it seemed like miles. Ramey Winters gasped to his comrades, "Duck! Zigzag! Bad target!" and set the example, hunching, shifting his course like a frightened crab, as he scuttled for the gateway. His own pistol was in his hands. He used it once to take a flying potshot at a brown-clad figure emerging on an upper terrace, and had the satisfaction of seeing the figure duck hastily out of sight, howling with pain and dismay as the riflestock splintered in his hands. Lake, too, was emptying his commandeered pistol at such targets as presented themselves. With what success Ramey had no time to judge, for a bedlam of gunfire howled about them now; hot lead glanced screaming off ancient stone. How they won through that maelstrom of seething death, Ramey could not afterward say. He was only conscious of his own plunging motion, dimly aware that all three of his companions were still on their feet and racing forward with him. Once a puff of glittering powder leaped from the causeway inches before him, and coarse, stony granules lashed his face stingingly. Once a voice beside him grunted, and glancing up he saw that Lake O'Brien's shirt was redly plastered to his shoulder. Then suddenly the heat of the day, the dancing sunlight, were gone. Grateful murkiness engulfed them, and friendly hands tugged them to shelter. Red Barrett's voice bellowed in his ear, "Nice, going, pal! I thought for a minute you wouldn't make it. Them damn yellow devils!" Then a cooler, grimmer voice crisped orders. "No place to stop. This spot's too vulnerable. They'll shoot us down like trapped rats. Below, everybody!" And again they were running, this time down a shadowy ramp to the entrails of the temple, to the bulwarked suite of chambers wherein Dr. Aiken had established his headquarters. Behind them the _spang!_ of rifle fire died away, but there followed them down the corridor the shrill cry of the Japanese captain rallying his men. Dr. Aiken seized a moment of respite to offer thanks. "You saved our lives, boys," he panted. "But--but how did you happen to be up there? I ordered you to stay below--" "It was _his_ idea," claimed Red.