the mystery of this gloomy cave.  The dense blackness showing directly ahead seemed to promise an extension of passageway into the rock; so, lighting a pine knot at the altar fire, and bidding Cairnes follow me closely, I led forward down the narrow tunnel.  The floor was uneven, while so irregular and rough appeared roof and walls as to convince me this was a natural excavation, probably the run-way for some ancient watercourse.  Yet, as I tested the nature of the stone with the point of my hunting knife, it proved easily workable with tools, and apparently revealed softer material the deeper we progressed into the hill.  Slightly beyond the entrance leading from the main chamber, several rudely fashioned steps led into a sort of gallery.  This was of considerable proportions, elevated perhaps ten or more feet above the main floor, its outer parapet formed of loose stones, through the chinks of which one might command unseen a wide view of the cavern and its altar.  But, to our rather hasty inspection, this gallery contained nothing except bare rock, and, after a single curious glance about we drew back and moved on cautiously in exploration of the lower tunnel.  This curved gradually toward the left, and held a rather steep pitch downward.  It was not above three feet in width until we had traversed fully fifty paces, when it suddenly broadened, and the fitful glare of the torch, which I held over my head, flashed back rays of light from two horribly gleaming green eyes.  For an instant I believed we had invaded the lair of some wild animal, and drew back quickly, my hand on the knife hilt.

“Hell’s kitchen!” I exclaimed nervously, “but the den has an occupant already.”

“Ay, and of a kind common enough in these hills, but nothing fit to affright a servant of the true God,” echoed Cairnes, striding past me.  “I am not wont to fear heathen idols, Master Benteen, nor will I bear back now before those green eyes.”

As he spoke he laid rough hand on the thing, and I heard a sharp rattle of metal against wood.

“Come hither friend,” he called, with a laugh, “’tis no worse than another painted devil we are called to face.  Surely it is you who have the faint heart now.”

“The glow of the torch blinded me to all except the green stones,” I explained, coming forward and throwing the radiance of the flame full upon the hideous object.  “Saint George! ’t is of no beauty to my sight even now, and, as you say, of small fear to Christian heart.  The saints defend us!  What was that?  As I live, I heard English speech!”

He was earnestly engaged in an endeavor to detach a bit of dull metal from the throat of the image, and scarcely deigned to glance around.

“Nay, there was no sound other than the chattering of your own tongue.  This shining thing is gold, I believe.”

“Let it be; ’t is of small value here.  I tell you I heard a strange voice; so hold still and listen.”