“Great Scott!” he cried the next moment, and pulled up in sheer amazement. Before him, scattered over the floor in lavish confusion, lay thousands of weapons of every conceivable form. Great cross-hilted swords there were; richly chased daggers, their hilts set with many a precious stone, which scintillated beneath the light from Seymour’s jewel; massive battle-axes and shields, spears, and knives, all covered with strange designs, and all bright as though they had but just left the hands of the maker. “What can this strange metal be,” Seymour asked himself audibly, “that it does not rust in this damp atmosphere?” He examined the gleaming pile carefully, but could not discover of what metal the weapons were made. They were not of steel, nor of brass, neither of any of the numerous metals known in the upper world. Looking up at length, his eyes fell upon a row of figures ranged along the wall of the armoury chamber. They were suits of chain mail. At sight of them an idea flashed into Seymour’s mind. Why should not one of them serve him in the place of clothes? “Why not?” he muttered to himself, and, striding over to the armour, ran his eye over the row, hoping to find one somewhere about his size. But all seemed hopelessly too large. Evidently they had been made for much bigger men than he. At last he managed to find one which appeared about his height, noting, as he dragged it forward, that it was the smallest of the row, a pigmy among giants. Donning it, he found that it fitted perfectly, and, though the hide suit over which the mail was fastened was painfully harsh to his skin, yet he gladly bore the discomfort for the benefit of being once more clothed. A great metal helmet completed the outfit, in which, owing to the stiffness of the untanned hide, Seymour could scarcely move for a time. Presently, however, the warmth from his body caused his strange garments to relax somewhat, and made action possible. First, fixing his light-giving jewel in the front of his helmet, he selected an axe and shield, then strode forward to find an exit. In a few moments he reached the end of the armoury chamber, and here a locked door confronted him. He pressed against it, but the solid stone slab refused to budge, and, thinking to find some other way out, he made a complete circuit of the place. There was no other exit, save that which led into the hall of mummies. This latter he was not minded to try again, having no desire to renew his acquaintance with the embalmed sleepers. “I must break it down,” he muttered, and strode back to the door. Raising his axe, he smote hard upon the lock. Again and again he struck, the sound of the blows filling the silent chambers with a deafening clamour of echoes. Then, of a sudden, the lock gave; the door crashed open, almost smothering Seymour beneath the cloud of dust it raised as it swung back, creaking, on its hinges. Striding through the opening, the baronet moved on up the passage which opened beyond.