At least some of us think so; others, like Bickley, write down the future as a black and endless night, which after all has its consolations since, as has been wisely suggested, perhaps oblivion is better than any memories.  Others again, like Bastin, would say of it with the Frenchman, plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.  Yet others, like Oro, consider it as a realm of possibilities, probably unpleasant and perhaps non-existent; just this and nothing more.  Only one thing is certain, that no creature which has life desires to leap into the fire and from the dross of doubts, to resolve the gold—­or the lead—­of certainty.

“It is time to be going,” said Bastin.  “In these skies the sun seems to tumble down, not to set decently as it does in England, and if we wait any longer we shall be late for our appointment in the sepulchre.  I am sorry because although I don’t often notice scenery, everything looks rather beautiful this evening.  That star, for instance, I think it is called Venus.”

“And therefore one that Arbuthnot should admire,” broke in Bickley, attempting to lighten matters with a joke.  “But come on and let us be rid of this fool’s errand.  Certainly the world is a lovely place after all, and for my part I hope that we haven’t seen the last of it,” he added with a sigh.

“So do I,” said Bastin, “though of course, Faith teaches us that there are much better ones beyond.  It is no use bothering about what they are like, but I hope that the road to them doesn’t run through the hole that the old reprobate, Oro, calls Nyo.”

A few minutes later we started, each of us carrying his share of the impedimenta.  I think that Tommy was the only really cheerful member of the party, for he skipped about and barked, running backwards and forwards into the mouth of the cave, as though to hurry our movements.

“Really,” said Bastin, “it is quite unholy to see an animal going on in that way when it knows that it is about to descend into the bowels of the earth.  I suppose it must like them.”

“Oh! no,” commented Bickley, “it only likes what is in them—­ like Arbuthnot.  Since that little beast came in contact with the Lady Yva, it has never been happy out of her company.”

“I think that is so,” said Bastin.  “At any rate I have noticed that it has been moping for the last two days, as it always does when she is not present.  It even seems to like Oro who gives me the creeps, perhaps because he is her father.  Dogs must be very charitable animals.”

By now we were in the cave marching past the wrecks of the half-buried flying-machines, which Bickley, as he remarked regretfully, had never found time thoroughly to examine.  Indeed, to do so would have needed more digging than we could do without proper instruments, since the machines were big and deeply entombed in dust.

We came to the sepulchre and entered.

“Well,” said Bickley, seating himself on the edge of one of the coffins and holding up his lamp to look about him, “this place seems fairly empty.  No one is keeping the assignation, Arbuthnot, although the sun is well down.”