With feelings that it would be difficult to describe they now advanced along the sand, bearing the torches high over their heads. With each step the sound grew louder. It was not the harsh, spasmodic roar of water dashing among sunken rocks, but resembled rather the swift outpour of a torrent gliding over a smooth, unbroken bed. "Here we are," cried Chutney. "I nearly stepped in the water without seeing it." He held his torch out with one hand, and its glowing radius revealed a strange sight. Twenty yards to their left a rapid, unbroken sheet of water burst with terrific force from a dark archway in the very face of the smooth cliff. It was the outlet of the lake. In width it was about forty feet, though the opposite side of the river was shrouded in darkness. On the spot where they stood a reflux current had worn an inlet into the sandy shore, and here a stretch of comparatively calm water was circling in swirling eddies, a startling contrast to the furious sweep of the torrent beyond. Yes, there was no doubt of it, here was the continuation of the underground river, the way that led to safety and hope. With strange emotions they watched in silence the dark flood pouring from its natural archway in the face of the cliff. To their right the sandy shore seemed to spread away smoothly into the darkness, but before they could scrutinize their surroundings more closely a strange, sharp sound echoed through the vaulted roof of the vast cavern, succeeded by a faint shout. "It was the report of the Greek's rifle," exclaimed Melton, in horror-stricken tones, "and it was Carrington who shouted. Some calamity has happened." Staggering with fear, they hastened back to the edge of the cliff. Melton clutched the dangling rope. "Stop!" cried Guy, in tones of agony. "My heavens, Melton, we are lost, doomed to the most horrible of deaths. What blind, desperate fools we were. We can never get back to the lake, and our companions can never reach us here. We could not be more widely separated were the world itself rolling between us." "What do you mean?" cried Forbes. "Are you mad, Chutney?" "Mad? No. I wish I were. You are blind, Melton. _How can we get that rope up the seventy feet stretch from the ledge to the summit of the cliff?_" CHAPTER XXXII. GOOD-BY TO THE LAKE. Melton dropped the rope and staggered back from the cliff, his face deadly pale. "Yes," he said hoarsely, "you--you are right, Chutney. How could we have done such a foolish thing? From that narrow width of the ledge one could not throw a rope twenty feet in air. We are hopelessly cut off from our companions." "Hullo, down there!" It was Carrington hailing them from the top of the cliff, and they could make out his figure dimly in the torchlight. "What is the matter?" shouted Guy lustily, making a trumpet of his hands. In a moment the reply came distinctly to their ears.