“Run!” roared Chenobi, and, flinging Nordhu over his shoulder, he turned and leapt forward like a deer. After him went the others at their topmost speed, Seymour, for all the weight of his armour, getting over the ground at an astonishing pace. Into the main gallery they swept, and turned for the temple, with the fearsome cries of their pursuers growing louder each moment. In a surging brown torrent the wolf-men came on, their numbers constantly augmented by fresh arrivals, who, aroused by the clamour, poured in hundreds from every gallery. The whole troglodytish community was now thoroughly aroused; the place seemed to hum with life, like a gigantic hive; and ever the pursuers gained upon the daring trio. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they drew up, although the friends strained every muscle to outdistance them; and the swelling roar of their voices sounded like a death-knell to the ears of Seymour and the engineer. Gasping for breath, they plunged onward after the racing form of the king, fearing each moment that their strength would fail and that they would drop in their tracks, to be trampled out of all semblance to humanity beneath the feet of the savage horde behind. Suddenly the skin curtain loomed before them. With a vicious tug Chenobi tore it down and bounded into the temple. “Only a few hundred yards further,” Seymour was panting to his friend, when, out of the shadow of the great idol, a score of figures advanced and stood menacingly across the track, their weapons flashing in the light which poured from Chenobi’s jewel. They were the priests, Nordhu’s assistants in his horrible work of sacrifice. Not an inch did the Ayuti swerve from his course, not for a moment did he hesitate. With a ringing war-cry he hurled himself upon the waiting band. Thrice his dagger flashed, then he was through them, racing for the den of the great spider. Like a thunderbolt Seymour followed, clearing a passage by sheer weight, and, close at his heels, came the engineer, his great sword swinging like a flail. Closing up behind them, the priests joined in the chase, making the vast amphitheatre ring with their cries of rage. Three minutes later the fugitives dashed into the enclosure, and slammed to the gate, glad of a few seconds’ respite. Not long were they allowed to rest, however. Suddenly the gate was flung open, and Seymour hurled himself into the gap just in time to check the advance of the foremost savages who were about to pour through the gateway. At sight of his determined attitude the valour of the wolf-men cooled somewhat, and they drew up, each and all afraid to venture within the sweep of the axe which gleamed in Seymour’s hand. But the priests, with many fiery words, urged them on to deliver Nordhu from the hands of the white dogs who had captured him.