So profound had been the slumber induced by the drug that had been mixed with the drink, that he had been carried all the way to Coryon’s retreat in absolute unconsciousness. When he at last woke up, he was in one of the cells under the terrace within the reach of the great flesh-eating tree.
No words can describe the horror and anguish that filled his breast when, by degrees, he realised the dreadful truth. Not only did he shudder at the thought of his own too probable fate, but the fear that his sweet Ulama might share the same awful doom drove him almost to the verge of madness. He cursed the false sense of security that had led up to this terrible result. A few simple precautions would have frustrated this treachery! But it was too late!
Through the grated door he could see the great devil-tree, hear the swishing of its long, trailing branches, watch them come up to the grating and search about over its face for some opening large enough to penetrate, even trying to wriggle in through its small slits and perforations. In the centre of the cell was a block of wood fixed in the ground to serve as a table. A small stream of water ran down from a pipe above and fell into a channel in the floor, and a pitcher stood beside it. For chair there was a smaller log of wood; the ‘bed’ on which he had found himself was simply a bag of straw whereon were laid two or three rugs. An iron door shut off the back from an interior gallery, and the cell was partitioned off from others, on each side, by grated screens, like that in the front. The occupants of adjacent cells could, therefore, see each other.
As Leonard looked round in astonishment and alarm, and exclaimed, involuntarily, “Where am I?” a discordant peal of mocking laughter rang out from the cell upon his right.
“Where is he! He doesn’t even know where he is!” a harsh voice cried out. “He—one of the gods that wielded the lightning and thunder! After all, caught by Coryon, and brought here like the rest of us! Ha! ha! ha!”
Leonard, shocked and amazed, went to the side whence the sounds proceeded, and there saw, peering through the bars, a horrible face that grinned at him with hideous sneers and wild-looking eyes. The hair and beard were matted and dishevelled; the face and figure, so far as he could make them out, looked gaunt and thin. He was dressed in the black tunic with gold star that denoted one of Coryon’s soldiers.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the mocking voice. “You don’t know where you are, eh? I’ll tell you, my lord, son of the gods, that can kill us soldiers with a magic lightning wand, but can’t keep yourself out of Coryon’s clutches—you are in the ‘devil-tree’s larder’!”
“The devil-tree’s larder!”
“Yes, my lord; the devil-tree’s larder. That means that they have put you here to keep you cool and in good condition, before they hand you over to be food for their pet out there.” And he pointed to the tree.
Leonard shuddered, and the awful truth of the man’s statement forced itself upon his mind, in spite of his wish to believe it too atrocious to be possible. He went up to the door in the front and examined it. He saw that it ran in grooves at the top and bottom.