“Yes. Commander—” Brady didn’t finish. One look at Desquer’s grim face was enough.
“Don’t be a fool, captain. Get your rest—and the rest of you, too. You’ll need it. You know well enough we can’t rescue Ruggiero.”
That, Tony thought as he relaxed, was true; but nevertheless he had a curiously unpleasant feeling at the base of his spine. Somewhere amid these caverns a white man was being horribly sacrificed, and it was not a thought conducive to sound sleep. Yet Desquer was right. The legionnaires’ only chance was to remain hidden . . .
Once Tony roused sleepily to find the Commander lying down and Captain Brady on guard. Brady was wandering about the cavern, staring up at the carving of the Moon and sistrum. He was a gaunt, scarecrow figure in the dim light. As Tony drifted off again to sleep he realized that the faint chanting had grown louder—
That it was different now in tone—triumphant!
And then Desquer was shaking Tony’s shoulder, his hand pressed over the legionnaire’s lips. The commander’s eyes were glittering brightly.
“Sh-h! Not a sound! Rouse the others.”
Silently Tony obeyed. There was no sign of Captain Brady, he realized.
On cat feet Desquer led the three into the tunnel. Hidden by the first turn, he whispered, “Brady’s gone. When I woke up—”
Jimmy asked, “What happened to him? The Copts?”