In a moment the expected hail came from overhead. The sailor returned from his exploration, stuck his head through the opening, and shouted a sentence to Ichi, a triumphant, exultant shout. Martin's knees bent slightly and his body tensed for the leap. And Ichi, leering up at him, said, "And now—we have no needfulness of Mr. Blake——"
So far he got. And then the smirk disappeared from his sagging mouth, the cruelty and cupidity left his eyes, and terror crept in.
It was not Martin that checked him. It was the Voice of the Pit. In the passing of a second, the moan from the chasm had become an appalling roar. A very gale of hot air hit their backs as it gushed up from below. The terrifying roaring grew in volume. It seemed to be a tangible thing approaching them. Moto and Ichi, their prisoner forgotten, were crouching, staring wide-eyed into the pit.
Martin reached out and gathered Ichi into his arms.
He had mentally rehearsed his movements. He hugged the Jap with his left arm, from which wrist the irons dangled, while his right hand dove for Ichi's coat pocket. His fingers closed about the pistol butt, and he jerked the weapon out.
Ichi struggled furiously, awake to danger at the first touch. He could not break Martin's bear-like hug. He screamed at the fascinated Moto; Martin could see his lips framing cries, but not a syllable sounded above the huge roaring that filled the caverns. Then Ichi bent his head and sunk his teeth into Martin's arm.
The pain of the bite caused Martin to jerk his arm violently upward. He wrenched it free from the other's teeth; involuntarily, he pressed the trigger, and the weapon discharged. But he did not lose his grasp on the gun; he clubbed it, and brought it down with all his might on Ichi's head.
Ichi collapsed. He sagged in Martin's encircling arm as limply and as lifelessly as a sack of wheat. The shot had aroused Moto; the torturer's terrible fingers were reaching for Martin's throat. The latter dropped Ichi, and sprang backward; and even as he did so, he hurled the weapon at Moto's face.
It was a true shot. The heavy butt caught the Jap squarely on the forehead, and sent him reeling and stumbling, hurled him off the level underfooting at the cave entrance, and caused him to slip and over-balance upon the sloping edge outside. He fell. His momentum carried him on, and he slid down the slope toward the chasm, clutching futilely at the wet, glassy surface. At the edge he appeared to hang motionless for an instant, his face lifted to Martin, his mouth wide open, his contorted features half obscured by the wreathing vapors. Then he vanished.
Martin's knees sagged. He was horrified. So suddenly had the tragedy happened, he was still in the posture of throwing the revolver—and now revolver and victim were both gone, and Ichi—Ichi was this lump at his feet. Unconsciously, he strained his ears for Moto's death cry. But the thunder that ascended from the depths drowned all other sounds. This roar was swelling, swelling; it seemed to rock the world.