“Thank heaven we came through all right!” Garth breathed fervently. “That squeak was narrow enough to turn one’s hair grey. But for that rock we’d have been done, sure as fate. The brute’s head caught against it, and the old boat simply dropped from under. How’s your arm?” “Aches badly,” was the reply. “I knocked it as I went down the last time.” “That’s bad. I’ll dress it soon as ever we get back.” Straight for the beach Garth steered the _Seal,_ running her aground in preparation for repairing the damages sustained in the struggle with the saurian. Then, when Wilson’s wound was redressed, Garth rolled up his sleeves and disappeared below, leaving the engineer to keep watch. For awhile Tom sat listening to the clang of the inventor’s tools as he refixed the damaged plates. He knew well that the job would be a difficult one for Garth to carry out alone, yet his wounded arm precluded him from assisting in the work. So, though he would far rather have been below, plying wrench or hammer, he had perforce to remain inactive. Time dragged heavily. Outside nothing seemed stirring. Long since he had given up hope that his friends would return. Doubtless by now, if still alive, they were far away in the heart of this mysterious underworld. Suddenly a screech floated across the water, breaking in upon his meditation. “What’s that?” he muttered to himself, and striding to the door, opened it cautiously, wondering what fresh attack the strange cry heralded. Again it came, and at that he stepped out on deck, his revolver ready for action. Then through the gloom flashed some monstrous flying creature, and Wilson fired almost point-blank at the swooping body. But a blow from the creature’s wing knocked his weapon from his hand, and felled him like a log to the deck. As he struggled to rise, the brute’s great teeth fixed themselves in his shoulder; he was borne swiftly aloft, his terrified cries for help falling vainly on the ears of Garth, who, alarmed by the shot, came rushing up from below just in time to catch a glimpse of the disappearing form of his friend. For a time the unhappy engineer became unconscious, recovering from one swoon only to fall into another. He remembered nothing of his terrible journey; his mind was a complete blank until the shock of a fall roused him, and he opened his eyes. He was lying upon a carpet of spongy moss. Around, entirely enclosing the spot where he lay, towered a forest of fungi. Of his captor he could at first see nothing, and, thinking to make his escape if the brute had vanished, he sat up and peered cautiously around. Then, as his glance strayed upward, a shudder passed through his frame. Twenty feet above, his soaring wings almost grazing the topmost branching arms of the fungi, hovered the great vampire. As the brute noted the engineer’s movement, its savage eyes glared threateningly, and Wilson subsided, trembling.