“Wine!” gulped the major, whose excitable nerves had been frayed to madness.  “Wine, by God!  Faith, but it’s the royal thirst I have on me!  Who’s got a knife?”

The Master thrust him back with such violence that he slipped on the wet floor and nearly fell.

“You’ll get no knife, sir, and you’ll drink no sacrificial wine!” he cried, with more of anger in his voice than any of the Legion had yet heard.  “The jewels—­yes, I gave you your fool’s way, on those.  But no wine!

“We of the Flying Legion are going to die, sober men!  There’ll be no debauchery—­no tradition handed down among those Moslem swine that they butchered us, drunk.  If any of you men want to die right now, broach one of those wine-sacks!”

His simitar balanced itself for action.  The glint in his eye, by the wavering lamp-shine, meant stern business.  Not a hand was extended toward the tautly distended sacks.

Bohannan’s whispered curse was lost in a startled cry from Wallace.

“Here’s something!” he exclaimed.  “Look at this ring, will you?”

They turned to him, away from the wine-bags.  Wallace had fallen to his knees and was scraping slime from the wet floor—­the slime of ages of dust mingled with viscid moisture from the steam that, thinly blurring the dark air, had condensed on the walls and run down.

Emilio thrust down the lamp he held.  There on the stone floor, they saw a huge, rust-red iron ring that lay in a circular groove cut in the black granite.

This ring was engaged in a metal staple let into the stone.  And now, as they looked more closely, and as some Legionaries scraped the floor with eager hands, a crack became visible in the floor of the vault.

“Look out, men!” the Master cautioned.  “This may be a trap that will swing open and drop us into God knows what!  Stand back, all—­take your time, now!  Go slow there!”

They heeded, and stood back.  The Master himself, assuming all risks, got down on hands and knees and explored the crack in the floor.  It was square, with a dimension of about five feet on the edge.

“It’s a trap-door, all right,” he announced.  “And we—­are going to open it!”

“One would need a rope or a long lever to do that, my Captain,” put in Leclair.  “It is obvious that a man, or men, standing on the trap, could not raise it.  And it is too large to straddle.”

The Master arose, stripped off his tunic and passed it through the ring.  He twisted the tunic and gave one end to the lieutenant.  Himself, he took the other.

“Get hold, everybody!” he commanded.  “And be sure you’re not standing on the trap!”

All laid hold on the ends of the coat.  With a “One, two, three!” from the Master, the Legionaries threw all their muscle into the lift.  “Now, men!  Heave her once more!”

The stone gave.  The Legionaries doubled their efforts, with panting breath, feet that slipped on the dank floor, grunts of labor.