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Margaret, slung like an inanimate bundle across his shoulders, wept miserably. She had thought she could weep no more, but a compound of pain, weariness, and disappointment forced out tears of utter wretchedness____

They had been so near; just one word would have done it—if only Miguel had not gagged her. Now the chance was gone. Miguel would take the Sun Bird, and leave them all here. Mark, if he ever found her, would despise her for a coward....

'Which way?' Miguel demanded.

She hesitated. He made a threatening move towards her hands. She nodded forward, and he went on. That was the end. There were no more turnings, and she had told the truth when she might have misled him. But if she had____O God, hadn't she been hurt enough already?

One more effort. She must make one last attempt. She raised her free hand to the gag. The touch of the soft silk felt like knives in her injured fingers. But she must do it. She clenched her teeth so that her jaw ached. The bleeding fingers fumbled at the silk____

CHAPTER VI

'This,' said Mark, pointing to the tunnel mouth, 'is it.'

The rest of the party was not impressed. Smith yawned elaborately. The burly Ed grunted. Even Zickle would appear tq have lost faith. Gordon was alone in that he did not lqqk sceptical—but neither did he lqok enthusiastic.

Mark walked forward and examined the walls just within the entrance. He pointed with excitement to a scar on the stone.

'It is,' he cried. 'Look here.' The others came round him.

'Isn't that a bullet mark?' he demanded.

Smith peered closely.

'You've said it,' he admitted. 'But what of it?'

'Don't you see? This is where the fight was—one of my bullets did that.'

The attitude of the others underwent a slight change; so slight that it was hard to rate it higher than a faint diminution of disbelief.

'Well, I'll believe it when I see your Sun Bird,' said Smith, expressing a good average of the general feeling. 'The Lord knows how long we've been looking for it, but it feels to me like a week, and I'm beginning to think it just don't exist no more.'

'Come on,' Mark said, leading the way up the tunnel, 'how much'll you bet?'

'Nothin', buddy. I never steal toys from kids.'

'It's lucky for you-' He broke off.

Somewhere ahead a voice was shouting. The words were indistinguishable, and broke off abruptly. A moment later came a piercing scream.

'What the hell-?'

'Pygmy,' said Ed briefly.

'Pygmy, my foot. That was a woman. C'm on.'

Smith charged ahead; the rest followed in a bunch. They rounded the corner and came to the crossways.

'Which?' Smith called back over his shoulder.

'Straight on,' panted Mark.

A long stretch of straight, another corner, and then they found her; a bundle of torn dishevelment, whimpering pitifully. She raised her tear-stained face as they came.

'Margaret,' cried Mark.

Smith stopped short beside her.

'Great God, look at her hands!'

'Miguel. Stop him. He'll get the Sun Bird,' she moaned.

Smith charged on, leaving her to be attended by Mark, but this time he was not the leader. Zickle had sped ahead; there was an old score to be settled between him and Miguel. He was a better runner than Smith, and drew off rapidly. Ed pounded up alongside Smith, and the two began to slack off.

'Let Zickle have his fun,' he puffed. 'And if he don't settle him, we'll be right there to finish it.' He drew his improvised club from his belt.

On ahead, Zickle had rounded the last corner. There was nothing now between him and the opening into the flooded cave—nor was there any sign of Miguel. He left the passage, and came out on the top of the ramp.

At the foot of it lay a craft like a huge, silver eggshell; a ragged figure was fumbling desperately at the line which moored it. With a shout, the Negro turned and charged down the slope.

Miguel gave a startled glance, and leapt aboard. He staggered a moment on the slippery roof, and then bent down, trying to loosen the mooring line from that end. It was stubborn. Zickle sped on, taking a flying leap at the Sun Bird. Miguel straightened to meet him. As the Negro's feet touched the roof, Miguel's fist met his jaw. It was a good punch, but it could not check the impetus of the leap. Zickle's head went back, but his feet slipped forward, knocking Miguel's legs from beneath him, and the two rolled on the curving roof together.

Miguel took his chance for a hold while the other was still dazed. Zickle rallied in time to break it before it could be well established, and tried for one of his own. Miguel brought his knee into action. Simultaneously, he got his fingers on the other's nostrils, and the mill was well in action. If there was a nasty trick which Miguel did not know, it was not his fault; if, in Zickle's native village, the rules of wrestling were unknown, who should blame him?

Smith and Ed reached the top of the ramp, and stood looking down on the two squirming figures—it was an inelegant sight.

'Hell, he's a filthy scrapper,' said Smith.

'Well, Zickle ain't no pansy, neither. Just you watch the boy.'

The Negro had fixed a scissor hold, crushing Miguel like a vice. The great black thighs were tensed hard as stone. They could hear Miguel gasp with the pressure as he tried to keep groping black hands from his eyes. He made a desperate attempt to break the scissor, and failed. The black seized his advantage, and his hands were on the other's face. Miguel screamed, twisting wildly. The interlocked bodies slipped, hung a moment, and then slithered down the curved hull into the water.

For some seconds little could be seen but a seething and splashing. When they again became visible the hold had been broken, and both were threshing wildly in attempts to find a grip. With Miguel's hand on the Negro's throat, they sank again. For long seconds there was no sign, then a single head reappeared. Miguel's.

'Well, I'll be--'

But even as Smith spoke, Zickle's woolly head bobbed into view behind the other. Black arms reached forward; black fingers clenched deep, like talons, into Miguel's neck, and the two sank once more.

The watchers stood intent for a long time.

A few bubbles troubled the surface....

CHAPTER VII

Margaret regained consciousness in a leisurely manner. She seemed to drift from sleep into the comatose, and thence into an awareness of her surroundings. Thus it was with no shock of surprise that she found herself in the cabin of the Sun Bird.

Nevertheless, the full implication did not come home for some minutes. When it did, it was in a flood of thanksgiving which completely swept away the earlier misery of her defeat. It had been worth it—worth all the agony. The victory was hers after all. Had she given in only half an hour earlier, Miguel would have won. He would have got through the caves unmolested, and now be floating down the subterranean river. No other tonic could have acted with the power of that realisation—the sense of triumph flowed in like a surge of new strength.

But it was not physical strength. Her muscles remained heavy and slack; it was an exertion to lift one arm. When she did,raise it, she found that the hand was wrapped in a thick bundle of bandages. She tried the other hand, and found that it had been similarly treated. Feeling utterly helpless, she called out in a voice which surprised her by its weakness. There was a scraping on the roof; presently Mark swung himself in through the open door. He bent over her.

'Better, darling?'

She smiled up at him, and tilted her head farther back. He kissed her lips.