Very slowly and weakly they started up the trail. The spring was on a broad stone terrace. Above it rose another terrace weathered and disrupted until in the moonlight it looked like an impregnable castle wall, embattled and embuttressed. But clinging to the seemingly invulnerable fortress was the trail, a snake-like shadow in the moonlight. "Perhaps we had better stay at the spring until morning," suggested Rhoda, her weak legs flagging. "Not with the hope of shelter a hundred feet above us," answered John firmly. "This trail is worn six inches into the solid rock. My guess is that there are some inhabitants here. It's queer that they haven't discovered us." Slowly and without further protest, Rhoda followed DeWitt up the trail. Deep-worn and smooth though it was, they accomplished their task with infinite difficulty. Rhoda, stumbling like a sleep-sodden child, wondered if ever again she was to accomplish physical feats with the magical ease with which Kut-le had endowed her. "If he were here, I'd know I was to tumble into a comfortable camp," she thought. Then with a remorseful glance at DeWitt's patient back, "What a selfish beast you are, Rhoda Tuttle!" She reached John's side and together they paused at the top of the trail. Black against the sky, the moon crowning its top with a frost-like radiance, was a huge flat-topped building. Night birds circled about it. From black openings in its front owls hooted. But otherwise there was neither sight nor sound of living thing. The desert far below and beyond lay like a sea of death. Rhoda unconsciously drew nearer to DeWitt. "Where are the dogs? At Chira the dogs barked all night. Indians always have dogs!" "It must be very late," whispered DeWitt. "Even the dogs are asleep!" "And at Chira," went on Rhoda, whispering as did DeWitt, "owls didn't hoot from the windows." "Let's go closer," suggested John. Rhoda thrust cold little fingers into his hand. The doors were empty and forlorn. The terraced walls, built with the patient labor of the long ago, were sagged and decayed. Riot of greasewood crowned great heaps of debris. A loneliness as of the end of the world came upon the two wanderers. Sick and dismayed, they stood in awe before this relic of the past. "_Whoo_! _Whoo_!" an owl's cry sounded from the black window openings. DeWitt spoke softly. "Rhoda, it's one of the forgotten cities!" "Let's go back! Let's go back to the spring!" pleaded Rhoda. "It is so uncanny in the dark!" "No!" DeWitt rubbed his aching head wearily. "I must contrive some sort of shelter for you. Almost anything is better than another night in the open desert. Come on! We will explore a little." "Let's wait till morning," begged Rhoda. "I'm so cold and shivery." "Dear sweetheart, that's just the point. You will be sick if you don't have some sort of shelter. You have suffered enough. Will you sit here and let me look about?" "No! No! I don't want to be left alone."