Max looked all around, but failed to see anything. “Am I imagining a rosy tint in the distance?” “Excellency, pasha, bey!” exclaimed Selim, utterly bewildered as to his choice of titles. “What is it, Selim?” “Fire!” “Where?” “Right ahead!” All three looked in the direction the boat was drifting, and saw unmistakable evidences of a big fire. “Klatchee was right, the water runs to the fire,” said Max. “We are not blind, are we?” “No; see the falls. Jewilikins, what beauty!” The light from the fire was now so great that they could see the walls and roof of the immense tunnel they were in. The rocks glistened as if bestudded with millions of gems; huge stalactites hung from the roof, each one like a glittering diamond or dazzling emerald. The water was a river of precious stones, for every gem, every stalactite, each piece of quartz, was reflected in the clear, pellucid stream, giving it the appearance of a sheet of glass besprinkled with gems of the greatest value. “The palace of Aladdin contained not so many gems!” Ibrahim exclaimed. “I wish this was in America and belonged to me,” said Max. “Why?” “I would make millions out of it.” “Inshallah! Isn’t it hot?” The perspiration poured from them in pints. They steamed as the heat dried their wet clothes, and, as the vapor arose, it acted like a prism, and made innumerable rainbows in the cave. “Better be drowned than burned,” said Ibrahim. “I shall jump overboard.” “And be boiled,” laughed Max, who had just put his hand into the water and felt that the skin had been taken off. Ibrahim put down his hand, but gave a shriek, weird and unearthly, as he found the water was many degrees hotter than human flesh could stand. The heat was getting unbearable, but escape there was none. “Ib, old fellow, I brought you to this.” “By Allah! it is not so.” “Yes, it is.” “No, old chap. Uncle Sherif suggested it.” “But he did not know----” “Did you?” “No, but----” “Well, then, how can you be responsible?” “What are we to do?” “Say our prayers and die.” “I should like--you won’t mind, will you, Ib?--it is a custom--I should like to shake hands with you.” “You silly fellow, give me your hand. You feel better now?” “Yes--and yours, Selim. We are all in the same boat.” They were nearly suffocated. The air was filled with sulphur. “Throw your coat over your head, Max, and let us die like men.” The three hastily muffled up their faces and awaited death. Each mumbled something--perhaps their prayers. “I shall soon be with you, father,” Max said. “Poor Girzilla! how bright life seemed by your side,” were the last words Max heard Ibrahim utter, as he muffled up his face. Selim called on Allah, and with Oriental indifference waited the solution of the great mystery of the hereafter. The boat began to rock violently. Something was agitating the water. “Good-by, Ib,” Max called out, but there was no answer. The Persian was unconscious.