"Our best chance," he resumed, "is to go to the vault where you saw Hassan unveiled, thence to the assembly hall of the assassins. Then cut our way out--if we can! The chances are slender----" "How about passing by the Garden?" wondered Farrell. "Out of our way," protested the Marquis. "But why?" "A ... friend," replied Farrell. "Mademoiselle Delatour----" "What?" exclaimed the Marquis with a start. "_Dieu de Dieu!_ How----" Then he controlled his agitation, beckoned for silence. They emerged from the darkness and turned into an upward-sloping branch passage illuminated by torches thrust into sconces on the wall. Ahead of them they heard the measured tread of a sentry walking his post. "Hang back," whispered the Marquis as he fingered the hilt of the broad-bladed knife that kept his simitar company. "I know the passwords. And he may not know I'm a prisoner--but be ready for trouble if he does!" The sentry challenged the Marquis. There was an exchange of sign and countersign. Then as the sentry saluted, the Marquis' right hand flashed to the right; his body jerked forward. As Farrell advanced, he saw the sentry collapse and sprawl across the tiles in a grotesque heap. "So far, so good," muttered the Marquis as he wiped his blade, and led the way. A barred door yielded to the Marquis' touch on a concealed lever. They continued on their upward march. They halted finally before a door whose panels were of heavy and elaborately carved woodwork. "_Diable!_" growled the Marquis as he tried the door. "Barred from the other side. The release this side does not help us." The mutter of drums and the plucked strings of a _sitar_ were plainly audible. "Better wait until the place is vacant," whispered the Marquis. "And in the meanwhile, let's cut a loophole and see what's happening." They drew their knives and set to work. * * * * * Peering through the loophole, Farrell could see the arched niche from whose foot he had been precipitated into the dungeon below. Hassan was again, or perhaps still, at his post. He was veiled, but there was no mistaking the posture and the expression of the eyes. Sitting cross-legged along the curved wall of the vault were a score of Ismailians in white ceremonial robes. They wore white turbans, scarlet slippers, and belts of the same color: and all were armed with the richly adorned simitars suitable to a formal assembly. A group of musicians squatted on the floor, along the coping of the circular pool, whose dark water reflected the spectral glow that pervaded the vault. The wind instruments joined the music with a demoniac sobbing and moaning, and a brazen gong clanged. Four litter-bearers emerged from an entrance. Attendants followed them, bearing tripods of bronze. Farrell shuddered at the similarity of that scene to the horrible beauty of the resurrection of La Dorada. Then he noted that the figure on the litter was that of a man.