It was a good summary of the situation. Every one agreed to it, so far as their constrained positions would permit an exchange of opinions; but how to act on Miranda's obviously excellent plan was not clear. If they got on their feet again, they would probably be shot--and even if the enemy failed to bring them down right away, they could not make up their minds in which direction to make their escape. To retrace their steps into the depths of the outer cave would bring them between two fires and, aside from other tragic possibilities, would certainly arouse the suspicions of Anitoo and his cavemen. To seek safety in the other direction, to pass within the section of the cave guarded by the Condor Gate, was to court unknown dangers in a region that loomed dark and mysterious enough. It was this latter course, however, that Miranda chose. "This Anitoo take us to his queen," he argued. "Perhaps she is good woman. It is better we go alone. Senor Anitoo, he come after." So they made up their minds to set out at once in search of this unknown queen. She might, or might not, be friendly. But anyway, she would be better than lying on one's stomach between two opposing rows of fighting men. Luckily for the carrying out of their plan, they had extinguished their torches. They were thus in comparative darkness, hidden alike from friend and foe. Indeed, if any one had been able to see them in their present prostrate position they would have been taken for dead, and escaped further notice. This view of the situation becoming clear to Miranda, he cautiously raised his head and peered into the darkness before him. A few feet farther on he could dimly make out the body of the huge caveman who had fallen before his revolver a few moments ago--and at the side of the caveman lay his victim, General Herran. The sight stirred Miranda's grief for the loss of his friend to a fresh outburst, leading him to abandon, with one of those impulsive changes characteristic of him, his plans for escape. "Ah, Caramba!" he wailed, with the nearest approach to tears he had ever been guilty of; "he was one great hero! He was a man! I not leave him! He die for me!" And then he fell to stroking his friend's face--wet from the blood pouring from his wounds, as he supposed--caressing him somewhat roughly, indeed, in the vehemence of his grief, and absent-mindedly tugging at his great beard, as he had so often seen the General do himself. The more he pondered his loss, the more doleful it appeared to him; and this feeling grew until he reached such a pitch of pathos that he resolved never to leave Herran, dead or alive. Better to die right there with him, he said, than to abandon his mortal remains to the canaille who had killed him.