He set lips to the emptied skin, and with many lungfuls of strong breath inflated it.  The leather thong tightly wrapped the neck.  He doubled that neck over, and took more turns with the thong, then tied it in a tight square knot.

“Get to work, men!” he ordered.  “To work!”

They obeyed.  Even the major, brain-shaken as he was, fell in with the orders.  The floor, all round the black pit, ran red with precious wine, a single cupful of which would have delighted the heart of the world’s most Lucullian gourmet.

Up from that floor and from the jetty, steaming walls of the pit drifted ambrosial perfume that evoked visions of ancient vineyards where, under the Eastern sun, bloomy clusters of grape—­mayhap even the very grape sung by the Tent-maker—­hung ripening.

Still, none stooped to the mouths of the wine-skins, to taste.  None drank from cupped palm.  Dry-mouthed, hot, panting, the Legionaries still obeyed.  And thus the rare wine of Araby ran guttering to the unseen blackness of the mystery river far below.

The Master, hands on hips, watched this labor; and as he watched he laughed.

“Whatever comes to us, men,” judged he, “we are here and now doing great evil to the men of El Barr.  My only regret is that we haven’t time to return up through the labyrinth, to the jewel-crypt, fill the skins with jewels and dump them all down this shaft like the wine.  These Moslem swine would then remember us, many a long day.  Ah, well, some day we may come back—­who knows?”

He fell silent, while the last of the skins were being filled and lashed.  The last, that is to say, needed by the Legionaries.  Ten in all, were now blown up and securely tied.  But a good many more still remained full of the rare wine.

With his simitar, the Master slashed these quickly, one by one.

“They took our blood,” he cried.  “We have taken theirs—­and their wine, too.  And have destroyed Myzab and the Black Stone, no doubt.  Well, it’s a bargain!”

“C’est egal!” exclaimed Leclair.  “More than that, eh, my Captain?”

The Master returned to the shaft, his bare feet red through the run and welter of the wine on the stone floor.

“Now men,” said he, crisply, as he flung down the pit his simitar which could have no further use, “this may be the final chapter.  Our Legion was organized for adventure.  We’ve had it.  No one can complain.  If it’s good-bye, now—­so be it.

“There may be a chance, however, of winning through.  Hold fast to your goat-skins; and if the hidden river isn’t too hot, and if there’s head-room, some of us may get through to daylight.  Let us try to reassemble where we find the first practicable stopping-place.  If the Jannati Shahr men are waiting for us, there, don’t be taken alive.  Remember!

“Now, give me your hand, each one, and—­down the shaft with you!”

Simonds went first, boldly, without a quiver of fear.  Silently and with set jaw, he shook hands with the Master, clutched a distended wine-bag in both arms, and quickly leaped.