It was a ghastly discovery. The figure looked so lifelike, seated there in state; yet it was only a corpse, the grisly relic of some past ruler of the Ayutis, preserved from decay by some wonderful mode of embalming known to that ancient people.
The first shock over, Seymour quickly decided that he must have the jewel from the dead man’s forehead. No doubt it seemed like desecration; yet, as light was absolutely necessary if he ever hoped to find his way out of these caverns, he felt that the act would be excusable. Mounting the three steps which led to the seat, he reached upward to release the clasp that secured the gleaming stone.
This, being fastened at the back of the head, was rather difficult to reach, and, to steady himself, Seymour—though not without a shudder of repugnance—placed his hand upon the shoulder of the corpse. As he did so, the figure seemed to leap upon him; its shrivelled fingers pressed his quivering flesh. With a startled cry the baronet stepped backward from the thing, but, forgetting the steps, fell, and living and dead rolled together to the floor.
Trembling from head to foot, Seymour picked himself up, and, quickly snatching the jewel from the forehead of the corpse, he left the grim mockery of life at the foot of its throne, and dashed over the floor of the vault at a run. As he ran he noted that the walls of the chamber were honeycombed with niches, each of which contained a grisly occupant—a swathed and shrivelled mummy.
So this was the burial vault of the Ayutis, he thought, their cemetery. Here slept those whose tireless energy had built up the city of Ayuti; whose engineering skill had spanned the fire gulf with a vast bridge; whose descendant, Chenobi, was his friend.
Thinking thus, the silent forms lost their uncanny aspect. His temporary panic gave place to reverence, and he checked his random pace, treading lightly, as though fearing to disturb the slumbers of the dead. Ere long a third archway loomed before him, and, leaving the hall of the mummies, he passed into a small chamber which lay beyond.
“Great Scott!” he cried the next moment, and pulled up in sheer amazement. Before him, scattered over the floor in lavish confusion, lay thousands of weapons of every conceivable form. Great cross-hilted swords there were; richly chased daggers, their hilts set with many a precious stone, which scintillated beneath the light from Seymour’s jewel; massive battle-axes and shields, spears, and knives, all covered with strange designs, and all bright as though they had but just left the hands of the maker.
“What can this strange metal be,” Seymour asked himself audibly, “that it does not rust in this damp atmosphere?”
He examined the gleaming pile carefully, but could not discover of what metal the weapons were made. They were not of steel, nor of brass, neither of any of the numerous metals known in the upper world. Looking up at length, his eyes fell upon a row of figures ranged along the wall of the armoury chamber. They were suits of chain mail.
At sight of them an idea flashed into Seymour’s mind. Why should not one of them serve him in the place of clothes?