The party had just time to note that the interior of the temple was quite the equal in beauty and impressiveness to the outside, when the clang of heavy, metal-sheathed doors sounded behind them, the echoes repeating themselves indefinitely.
Then things began to happen quickly.
White-robed priests seemed to rise from the floor on every side of them, and, before they could raise a hand to defend themselves, each member of the party was pounced upon by half a dozen men, who bound their arms behind their back.
It is not to be supposed that the captives submitted without a battle.
Patsy Garvan, uttering defiances thick and fast, lashed out his feet at the bare legs of the priests, and left many a mark on their shins that they carried for weeks and months.
“Just give me one of my hands!” howled Patsy. “That’s all I want—one! I’ll lick ten of these fellows with the other, and I’ll bet on it. Just give me one hand!”
There was no response to this, and soon Patsy was as helpless as a dressed duck.
Nick Carter had been fighting desperately, and for a moment it looked as if he might even get the better of his assailants. He butted one of them under the chin and sent him crashing backward upon the marble floor.
“Come on, Chick! Use your gun!” he shouted.
But there were too many men against the party.