As the path rose, its force lessened, my vitality grew, and the terrible desire to yield and be swept away waned. Now we had reached the foot of the cyclopean stairs, now we were half up them--and now as we struggled out upon the ledge on which the watching fortress stood, the clutching stream shoaled swiftly, the shoal became safe, dry land and the cheated, unseen maelstrom swirled harmlessly beneath us. We stood erect, gasping for breath, again like swimmers who have fought their utmost and barely, so barely, won. There was an almost imperceptible movement at the side of the ruined portal. Out darted a girl. A rifle dropped from her hands. Straight she sped toward me. And as she ran I recognized her. Ruth Ventnor! The flying figure reached me, threw soft arms around my neck, was weeping in relieved gladness on my shoulder. “Ruth!” I cried. “What on earth are YOU doing here?” “Walter!” she sobbed. “Walter Goodwin--Oh, thank God! Thank God!” She drew herself from my arms, catching her breath; laughed shakily. I took swift stock of her. Save for fear upon her, she was the same Ruth I had known three years before; wide, deep blue eyes that were now all seriousness, now sparkling wells of mischief; petite, rounded and tender; the fairest skin; an impudent little nose; shining clusters of intractable curls; all human, sparkling and sweet. Drake coughed, insinuatingly. I introduced him. “I--I watched you struggling through that dreadful pit.” She shuddered. “I could not see who you were, did not know whether friend or enemy--but oh, my heart almost died in pity for you, Walter,” she breathed. “What can it be--THERE?” I shook my head. “Martin could not see you,” she went on. “He was watching the road that leads above. But I ran down--to help.” “Mart watching?” I asked. “Watching for what?” “I--” she hesitated oddly. “I think I'd rather tell you before him. It's so strange--so incredible.” She led us through the broken portal and into the fortress. It was more gigantic even than I had thought. The floor of the vast chamber we had entered was strewn with fragments fallen from the crackling, stone-vaulted ceiling. Through the breaks light streamed from the level above us. We picked our way among the debris to a wide crumbling stairway, crept up it, Ruth flitting ahead. We came out opposite one of the eye-like apertures. Black against it, perched high upon a pile of blocks, I recognized the long, lean outline of Ventnor, rifle in hand, gazing intently up the ancient road whose windings were plain through the opening. He had not heard us. “Martin,” called Ruth softly. He turned. A shaft of light from a crevice in the gap's edge struck his face, flashing it out from the semidarkness of the corner in which he crouched. I looked into the quiet gray eyes, upon the keen face.