As the little party gazed downward from their elevated position, they were able to see into the very heart of the city, and Nick Carter uttered an involuntary gasp of admiration. He had not expected anything so fine in this otherwise deserted region.
There was a great stadium, with its tiers of solid-stone seats—the sort of structure that has become rather familiar in university towns of the United States of late years—which looked as if it might accommodate fifty thousand people.
Near to it towered the glittering golden dome of the temple, and there were other great buildings only less striking than the temple itself.
“What place is this?” asked Nick Carter, although he felt sure he knew.
“It is Shangore, the capital of Bolongu,” replied the captive priest.
As he gave this information, and saw that all his guards were occupied in staring down at the magnificent panorama spread before them, he made a quick movement with his bound hands which surely would have attracted the attention of any one of the three detectives if any had chanced to be looking in his direction at the moment.
But it was one time when they were not quite so vigilant as usual, and the priest used it to his advantage.
In some way he had managed to loosen his ropes a little, and, with his bound hands he got a grip on a small knife concealed in the folds of his robe.
With one slash, he cut the rope by which Jai Singh had been keeping him a prisoner. Then he gave vent to a shrill whistle that echoed and reëchoed among the rocks they had just come through, and dashed away, waving his arms.