“Then that is the grave of all the lost ones from Marshfielden?” “I am afraid so.” “What exactly is the ‘Light’?” “I don’t know—I’ve tried to find out—but it is some power of their own that they have learnt to control. I think it is some force—something to do with the natural light that pervades this place. It is sent through the earth itself by the aid of some infernal mechanism, and when it reaches the world above, it attracts a victim which it strikes and brings back—a living, sacrifice to this hell down here.” “It is a very terrible menace to our world.” “Indeed it is! Some of the victims arrive mutilated and burnt, and welcome the fire to deliver them from their pains. In some miraculous way I was unhurt by it—at least I was burnt very slightly, and soon recovered. But, Alan! How did you get here? Did the Light bring you too?” “No, Desmond!” And Alan told the story of the coal mine disaster and how he found the river that brought him to his cousin. Suddenly their eyes met, and a quick flash passed through their brains simultaneously. Alan was the first to dispel it. “It’s no good, Desmond, we couldn’t possibly escape the way I came. We could not battle with the current that brought me here. The water is too deep to attempt to wade, and there isn’t so much as a ledge on either side to which we could cling.” “What are we going to do then?” “Of course we must try and escape—but how? As far as I can judge we must be somewhere near the centre of the earth. How can we get implements to cut our way back again—and even if we did, how long would it take us to do it? No, we are in a tough position, and there isn’t even a telegraph pole or telephone wire to aid us.” Their conversation was broken by the entrance of Kaweeka. Unannounced and without deigning to knock she entered the room, and both men rose to their feet hurriedly. Alan stood with folded arms and a stern expression upon his face. The moment’s madness of the yesterday had passed. He knew the woman, siren, devil, call her what you will, to be sensuous and foul—and his passion had passed, leaving him firm in his strength and with power to resist her. Like a serpent she glided up to them, and touched them playfully on their cheeks, and then, ignoring Desmond entirely, she held out her arms invitingly to Alan. Sickened he turned away, but she came up behind him, and put her arms about his neck. Brutally he pulled them apart and flung her from him with a very British “damn”—which, though the word might be unintelligible to her, left the meaning clear and plain. A look of fury, followed by one of malicious hatred, passed over her features, and she turned abruptly from Alan to Desmond, and in a low monotonous tone crooned in her own language to him. Desmond fought against her powerful wiles for some time, but he was frail, and her all pervading power drew him nearer and nearer. Once more her arms were open, and Desmond was drawn into them as a fish is drawn into a net.