The Master, “Captain Alden,” and Leclair, however, gave no heed.  Already they were peering around, at the black walls where now only an occasional thread of gold was to be seen.

Five openings led out of this singular chamber, all equally dark, narrow, formidable.

“This seems to be a regular labyrinth, my Captain,” said Leclair, in French.  “Surely a trap of some kind.  They are clever, these Arabs.  They let the mouse run and hope, then—­voila—­he is caught!”

“It looks that way.  But we’re not caught yet.  These infernal passageways are all alike, to me.  We must choose one.  Well—­this is as good as any.”  He gestured toward an aperture at the left.  “Men, follow me!”

The passage they now entered was all of rock, with no traces whatever of gold.  For a few hundred feet its course was horizontal; then it plunged downward like the first.

And almost immediately the temperature began to mount, once more.

“Faith, but I think we’d better be getting back!” exclaimed the major.  “I don’t care much for this heat, or that roaring noise that’s getting louder all the time!”

“You’ll follow me, or I’ll shoot you down!” the Master flung at him, crouching around.  “I’ve had enough insubordination from you, sir!  Not another word!”

The stooping little procession of trapped Legionaries once more went onward, downward.  The muffled roar, ahead of them, rose in volume as they made a final turning and came into a much more spacious vault where moisture goutted from the black walls.  A thin, steamy vapor was rising from the floor, warm to the bare feet.

A moment the Legionaries stood there, blinking in the vague lamplight, glad of the respite that permitted them to straighten up and ease cramped muscles.

“No way out of here!” Bohannan grumbled.  “Sure, we’re at the end o’ nowhere.  Now if we’d only taken another passage—­”

Nobody paid him any heed.  The major’s exhibition of irrational greed had lost caste for him.  Even Lebon, the orderly, curled a lip of scorn at him.

All eyes were eagerly searching for some exit from this ultimate pit.  Panting, reeking with sweat, fouled with blood and dirt, the doomed men shuffled round the vault, blinking with bloodshot eyes.

No outlet was visible.  The vault seemed empty.  But all at once, Bristol uttered a cry.

“Wine-sacks, by the living jingo!” he exclaimed.

“Wine-sacks—­in a Moslem city?” demanded the Master.  “Impossible!”

“What else are these, sir?” the Englishman asked, pointing.

The Master strode to the corner where he stood, and flared his lamp over a score of distended goat-hides.

“Well, by Allah!” he ejaculated.

“Sacrificial wine,” put in Leclair, at his elbow.  “See the red seals, with the imprint of the star and crescent, here and here?” He touched a seal with his finger.  “Rare old wine, I’ll wager!”