“Let us try this,” Chenobi answered, and, with that, they passed into the tunnel. In silence they strode onward now, fully realising the dangerous nature of their enterprise. What Seymour had hitherto accomplished was mere child’s play to the task upon which he and the Ayuti were now set. They were about to penetrate into the heart of the wolf-men’s caverns, to enter the busy thoroughfares through which flowed the life of the savage community, and on a quest apparently as hopeless as ever one could be.
The clanging noises grew louder and louder as they advanced, but Seymour noticed with some astonishment that Chenobi seemed not at all surprised at the queer sounds. Did he know the nature of the work which was being carried on? The baronet was about to put the question, when the king pulled up, pointing ahead with his axe.
Far away down the passage rose a red glare, and amid it flitted numerous dark, grotesque figures.
“Have a care!” Chenobi warned in a whisper, as they resumed their way. Warily they crept forward, step by step, towards the light, unseen by the ghoulish creatures who passed to and fro bearing huge burdens.
Reaching the end of the tunnel, the two men crouched there a while, Seymour marvelling at the scene before him. It was stupendous, amazing! A vast cavern, immense beyond description, seeming to stretch away into infinite distance, all ablaze with a crimson glow which burst from the mouth of a yawning pit; and in the midst of it—a medley of flying rods and clanging levers—loomed a machine, indistinct by reason of the rapidity of its motion, and vaster than aught Seymour had ever seen before.
To and from this miracle of mechanism toiled a multitude of wolf-men, each staggering beneath a mighty load. In the glare from the pit they looked like demons, the illusion being heightened by the weird cries to which they gave utterance, and which rang high above the clash and rattle of the machinery.
“See!” roared Chenobi suddenly, his voice almost lost in the din of the clanging levers, “our friend!”
Across the floor, walking as one dazed, came Wilson. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and in his hand he held a hammer of curious make.
“Wilson!” Seymour almost screamed the word in his eagerness to attract the notice of his friend; but the lad strode on, utterly oblivious of the close proximity of the two who had come to save him.
“Wilson! Tom”