The red warriors had fallen back. Then Phee-e-al appeared; he joined the march of death of which Dean Rawson formed the head. Voices were chanting--somewhere a trumpet blared. Then Rawson, moving like one in a dream, knew the priests were guiding him toward that waiting, incredible heat. The tunnel's end was near. About him was an inferno where heat and hot colors blended. The whole world seemed aflame, but beyond the tunnel's end was a seething pit upon which no human eyes could look and live. One glimpse only of the unbearable whiteness beneath which was the lake of fire, then the chains of his stupor broke and Dean Rawson struggled frenziedly in the grip of two copper giants. They had been chanting a shrill monotonous refrain. They ceased now as they fought to throw the man out past that last ten paces where even they dared not go. Rawson was beyond conscious thought. Eyes closed against the unendurable heat, he fought blindly, desperately, then knew his last strength was going from him. Still struggling he opened his eyes; some thought of meeting death face to face compelled him. * * * * * A hideous coppery face glared close into his own. Miraculously it vanished, disappeared in a cloud of white. Then the blazing walls were gone--there was nothing in all the world but rushing clouds of whiteness, shrieking winds, the roar of an explosion--and cold, so biting that it burned like heat. Vaguely he wondered at the hands that still clutched at him. Dimly he sensed other bodies close to his, other hands that tore him free where he lay, still struggling with the priests, upon the floor. A narrow opening was in the wall, a blur of darkness in the billowing white clouds. They were dragging him into it, those others who held him, and they were white--white as the vapor that whirled about him. Ahead, the girl of his former dreams was guiding him, her hand cool and soft in his. Others helped him; he ran stumblingly where they led down a steep and narrow way. The White Ones! In a vision they had reached out to him before. Was this, too, a dream? Was it only the delirium of death? That burst of cold--had it truly been liquid fires, wrapping him around? Dean Rawson could not be sure. He knew only that his fate lay wholly in the hands of these White Ones--and that hideous eyes in the coppery face of a priest had glared at them as they fled. CHAPTER XVI _The Metal Shell_ [Illustration: _She was motioning for him to follow._] [Sidenote: The Voice of the Mountain heralds Rawson's Messianic coming to the White Ones in their hour of need.] Dean Rawson had passed through a nerve-racking experience. It was not a question of courage--Rawson had plenty of that--but there are times when a man's nervous system is shocked almost to insensibility by sheer horror. Not at once did he realize what was happening.