“I am going to plunge in the water,” announced Alan. “If you see my body rise—follow me quickly. Do not struggle, let the current do its will with you. Safety lies in submission.” “Why wait to see if you rise?” asked Desmond. “Because I do not know what whirlpools may be hidden there. If you do not see me after I have plunged in, then you must do as you think best. But surely death is preferable to a lifetime here?” “Then I shan’t—” “Don’t argue, old man. Do as I bid you. God bless you.” The cousins solemnly shook hands, lingering pathetically. It was like a good-bye to the dying. “Ar-lane, O Ar-lane,” came from Jez-Riah. “Have courage, little sister, be brave and follow me.” And before they could say another word, he had swung himself over the edge and had dropped into the foaming water. The water hissed and roared with fury as it felt the presence of the foreign body—then it quieted a little. Alan’s head appeared, his face deathly pale, and before they realized it, he was out of sight, borne on the swift current. Jez-Riah was trembling. “Be brave, little sister.” Almost unconsciously Desmond repeated his cousin’s words. She clung to him for a second, and then with a little frightened moan that went as soon as it was uttered, she too dropped into the water below, and was carried out of sight. Suddenly a great fear came over Desmond. He was alone. The cavern seemed to ring with laughter—the laughter of dead men. He hovered at the edge of the little cleft and looked deep into the boiling mass below, but he dared not drop in. “I can’t, I can’t,” he moaned, and the awful loneliness came upon him and enveloped him in a cloak of terror. He looked behind him at the yawning chasm below. If he lost his foothold—he shuddered. And then with a mighty spring and a muttered “God help me,” he followed in the wake of his cousin. The water closed over him—he held his breath until his lungs felt as if they would burst with the strain. Relief came at last, the waters had calmed a little, and he was floating gently on the current. He was conscious of intense inky blackness, of icy waters and a fetid air above; of a swiftly moving stream, that, although not rough, was running fast; of strange shapes that seemed to hover about him, and long, clammy hands that tried to pull him out of the water. He knew it was death himself he was fighting, and he fought to evade the fingers that were now so near, almost clasped round his throat. Then his senses forsook him and he was only an atom, tossed about on the bosom of the unknown river, a nothingness in a world of mystery and wonder. CHAPTER X THE ESCAPE