With this reflection I made my way with difficulty up the side of Olympus.  Several times it seemed to me that I had found the spot wherein I might lie until the sun should rise, but quite as often an inconsiderate leak overhead through the leaves of the trees, or an undiscovered crack in the rocks above me, sent me travelling upon my way.  Physical endurance has its limits, however, and at the end of a two hours’ climb, wellnigh exhausted, I staggered into an opening between two walls of rock, and fell almost fainting to the ground.  The falling rain revived me, and on my hands and knees I crawled farther in, and, to my great delight, shortly found myself in a high-ceiled cavern, safe from the storm, a place in which one might starve comfortably, if so be one had to pass through that trying ordeal.

“He might have left me my flask,” I groaned as I thought over the pint of warming liquid which Hippopopolis had taken from me.  It was of a particular sort, and I liked it whether I was thirsty or not.  “If he’d only left me that, he might have had my letter of credit, and no questions asked.  These Greeks are apparently not aware that there is consideration even among thieves.”

Huddling myself together, I tried to get warm after the fashion of the small boy when he jumps into his cold-sheeted bed on a winter’s night, a process which makes his legs warm the upper part of his body, and vice versa.  It was moderately successful.  If I could have wrung the water out of my clothes, it might have been wholly so.  Still, matters began to look more cheerful, and I was about to drop off into a doze, when at the far end of the cavern, where all had hitherto been black as night, there suddenly burst forth a tremendous flood of light.

“Humph!” thought I, as the rays pierced through the blackness of the cavern even to where I lay shivering.  “I’m in for it now.  In all probability I have stumbled upon a bandits’ cave.”

Pleasing visions of the ways of bandits began to flit through my mind.

“In all likelihood,” thought I, “there are seventeen of them.  As I have read my fiction, there are invariably seventeen bandits to a band.  It’s like sixteen ounces to the pound, or three feet to the yard, or fifty-three cents to the dollar.  It never varies.  What hope have I to escape unharmed from seventeen bandits, even though five of them are discontented—­as is always the case in books—­and are ready to betray their chief to the enemy?  I am the enemy, of course, but I’ll be hanged if I wish the chief betrayed into my hands.  He could probably thrash me single-handed.  My hands are full anyhow, whether I get the chief or not.”

[Illustration:  A dream of brigandage]

My heart sank into my boots; but as these were very wet, it promptly returned to my throat, where it had rested ever since Hippopopolis had deserted me.  My heart is a very sane sort of an organ.  I gazed towards the light intently, expecting to see dark figures of murderous mould loom up before me, but in this I was agreeably disappointed.  Nothing of the sort happened, and I grew easier in my mind, although my curiosity was by no means appeased.