Sir Arthur was as eager as the rest to get away. He had passed through so many horrors, he said, that he had become accustomed to them, and it mattered little what the future held in store for him. The raft was dug out from the sand and found to be in perfect condition. It was fastened together with twisted withes of some flexible wood. It was no easy task to get it into the water, but by all working together, and using the guns and paddles as levers, it was finally pushed into the lake and floated lightly on the surface. The rugs, provisions, and what torches remained were carried on board, and with a final look round the island to see that nothing of importance had been forgotten, they quietly embarked, and Guy, with a shove of the paddle, sent the raft out on the lake. The object of the journey they hardly knew themselves. They were leaving behind them a spot associated with dreaded memories, and that was all they cared to know. "Don't do that," said Guy, as Canaris picked up a paddle and began to use it vigorously. "We must drift entirely with the current." The torch was placed securely in a crevice of the logs, and in a very short time it was proved beyond a doubt that some current did exist. The island faded slowly from view. Still reluctant to face their situation they grouped together and discussed various things. The Greek gave a long account of his curious wanderings and adventures. Guy and Melton spoke of their thrilling experiences in Burma only the previous year, and Colonel Carrington entertained them with the tale of his participation in the bombardment of Alexandria in '82. So the hours passed on, and still they chatted of the outside world, forgetting for the moment the hopelessness of their present situation, the living tomb that had cut them off forever from the light of day. "This reminds me of something I read a few months ago," said Sir Arthur, who was facing the situation with surprising calmness. "Some person mailed me from London _Blackwood's Monthly_ containing an installment of a story by the fellow who wrote that deucedly clever book, 'King Solomon's Wives.' Ah! what was the name now--aw, yes, Haggard--Rider Haggard----" "Beg pardon, Sir Arthur," interrupted the colonel, "but the title was 'King Solomon's Mines,' not his wives." "Aw, that so, Carrington? Very well; doesn't make much difference. However, the hero of the story was traveling, as we are, on a lake, only it was in the open air, and the outlet was slightly beneath the surface. The water ran under a high wall of rock, and sucked the poor fellows and the canoe under. It would be funny if this lake had the same sort of an arrangement." "Well, it hasn't," replied the colonel. "We went all around the walls in a canoe, and if any such place as that had been in existence we would not be here now, that's all."