Haverly had made the passage; why not he? Slowly the distance between him and his goal lessened; ten feet, nine--he would soon be in safety now--eight; then---- _Crack!_ A pistol-like report echoed across the gorge. “Grip for your life!” cried the Yankee; “the rope’s giving!” _Crack!_ Again it sounded, like the knell of doom in Seymour’s throbbing ears. The next moment the rope parted behind him, and he dropped like a stone into the depths. Instinctively his clutch tightened upon the hide. [Illustration: “THE NEXT MOMENT THE ROPE PARTED BEHIND HIM”(_p. 93._)] A swift rush through the air, then, with a shock that forced a groan of agony from his bloodless lips, he struck the canyon wall. For a few seconds he hung, twisting and swaying, at the end of the rope, until his feet found hold on a narrow ledge in the face of the rock. On to this he drew himself. For the moment he was safe. As he stood there, gasping and panting, feeling as though he had not a whole bone in his body, the glare of Haverly’s lantern pierced the gloom. Looking upward, Seymour saw his friend’s face peering anxiously down from the cliff top. “It’s all right, Silas,” he panted; “I’ll be with you at soon as I’ve got my wind.” “Jupiter!” exclaimed the American, “I reckoned you’d passed in your checks for sure that time. It was a narrow squeak! Take your time,” he continued, as the baronet commenced to haul himself up. “Don’t overdo it.” Four minutes later Seymour’s head appeared above the edge of the cliff, and, with the millionaire’s ready help, he dragged himself over into safety. “I wouldn’t go through that again for a king’s ransom,” he said. “I guess you’d hardly come out of it so well another time,” returned Silas; “it’s the closest call I’ve struck for a considerable stretch. Say when you’re ready and we’ll hustle.” “I’m ready at once,” was the answer. A little over half an hour it took the two friends to pick up the trail of the wolf-men, then they pushed on once more at their utmost speed. The character of the country changed entirely as they advanced, the level plain giving place to a series of rolling ridges, which made progress extremely difficult. Added to this, the temperature appeared to be gradually rising, and soon their bodies were bathed in perspiration. “Warm work,” remarked Haverly, pausing on the crest of a ridge to mop his forehead. “Too warm to be pleasant,” replied his friend. “I should imagine that we are approaching a subterranean fire of some sort. What’s that?” he broke off sharply. A shrill scream, thrilling with agony, rose from the ravine at their feet. “Look to your shootin’ iron,” said the Yankee; “sounds as if you’ll need it.” He jerked his own revolver from his pocket as he spoke. “I must have lost my barker,” Seymour muttered, feeling through his pockets. “I guess your rifle will manage,” was the reply. Once more the cry arose, and at that they commenced the descent of the ridge.