That gave me an idea. If there was a circulation of air, there must be a current, a draught. I could follow that and find the outlet. I held the torch aloft, steadying it, watching the flame and the oily smoke. Yes, there _was_ a draught, the smoke drifted to one side, the flames flared in that direction. Elated, feeling sure I could find a way out, I stepped forward, stopping frequently to steady the torch and check up my direction. As I proceeded, the draught became stronger; the smoke drew ahead of me, and the flames flickered and flared. Soon I did not even have to hold the torch aloft, the sooty smoke swirling before me led me on, and I made rapid progress. Ever about me hovered and flitted the bats; often they would brush my body, my head, even my face; but though I instinctively drew away and shuddered at their touch, yet now that I knew they were merely bats--and apparently harmless bats at that--I was not really troubled by them. How far I followed the smoke of the torch, I do not know. Whether I walked straight, whether I turned many corners, whether I ascended or descended, I cannot say. I lost all sense of time, all sense of distance, all sense of direction. I thanked Heaven I had brought more than one torch. My first fluttered and went out. I lit a second. That, too, burned low, flickered and died. I lit the third and last, and hoped against hope that before that failed, I might find an exit from the accursed place. Terror beyond words filled me as I saw the torch burning steadily, inexorably down. One third, one half was consumed. In less than half an hour it would be finished. My fate was sealed if I did not reach an opening, light, within the next thirty minutes. Strange, incongruous, confused thoughts filled my mind while my feet hurried me on. All that had transpired since I had landed at Vigo passed before my vision like a moving picture. I saw the little quay with the red-sailed fishing smacks moored beside it, the rocky hillside with the tall, square houses, the lounging, red-sashed, beretted boatmen; the Avenida with its stream of motor cars and creaking wine carts; the little Plazuela de Tres Santos. The image of paunchy, tousel-headed, greasy Salceda rose before me. As in a dream I saw myself haggling with him over the old books, heard his suave, flowery words, even smelled the odor of garlic that exuded from him. In the flickering torch and swirling smoke I seemed to see the figures, the strange symbols of the mysterious codex. In turn I visualized the squat, massive, smoke-blackened British Museum, Doctor Joyce with his trim gray Vandyke beard; New York with its thunder of traffic, its roar, its skyscrapers; the great plaza of Mexico; Cervantes bending above my codex, his keen black eyes gleaming with interest, his swarthy face alight. Before me, like a wraith in the glare of my torch, I again saw jolly-faced, rotund Fray José. I passed like a disembodied spirit