His jewel--without which he would have been in total darkness, save for the occasional flashes of flame which leapt up from the side galleries--he could not dispense with, yet he knew that its brilliant light would betray his presence in these dismal caverns should any passing savage sight it. And the alarm once given, farewell to all hope of accomplishing his mission. In a moment he would be surrounded by a shrieking horde of savages thirsting for his blood. He did not think that--strange, unearthly figure as he looked in his gleaming mail--the wolf-men, in their barbarous ignorance, would probably take him for a supernatural being, some demi-god who had fallen from his place, and had entered their haunts with intent to destroy them. Yet such was the case; for, of a sudden, rounding a curve in the passage, he came full upon a savage, who at sight of him dropped flat upon his face, moaning with terror. What to do with the creature Seymour did not know. Natural prudence suggested that he should silence him for ever; but all the chivalry in his nature revolted against the idea of killing him in cold blood. The decision was mercifully taken out of his hands, however. As he stood considering what course to pursue, the moaning of the wolf-man ceased. Stooping, Seymour discovered that he was dead. The superstitious terror inspired by the baronet’s appearance had proved too much for the savage. “It’s saved me a nasty job,” Seymour muttered as he resumed his progress; “I should have been obliged to kill him, or he’d have raised the very deuce in a few seconds.” Some hundred yards further a brilliant flare came into view, and the baronet at once conjectured that he was nearing his goal. And so it proved. Within a few moments he stood before a cell, across the doorway of which stretched a barrier of fire. His armour saved him somewhat from the heat, so that he was able to approach fairly close to the flaming wall. For a while he could see nothing within the cell beyond; but, as his eyes became more accustomed to the glare, he made out three figures standing motionless against the wall. “Mervyn!” he called softly, and at the word one of the figures moved. “Mervyn!” he repeated louder. “Who calls?” came the weary reply. “I, Seymour!” the baronet answered. “Seymour!” in an incredulous whisper, “how can that be?” “Never mind that now. Tell me how this fire dodge is worked, and soon have you out of that.” “It’s William right enough,” Haverly’s voice returned, “and I guess he was never more welcome than at the present moment. Just enlighten him how the fire trick works, professor.” “There is a knob in the floor somewhere there,” Mervyn explained. “Nordhu stamped upon it to raise the flames. If you were to pull it----”