On The River

No word was spoken during this cautious, extraordinary voyage underground. The boat drifted slowly through the narrow channel, unlighted and practically unguided. Two of the men sat at the rowlocks, but the oars rested idly in the boat. With their hands they kept the craft from scraping against the walls.

The pseudo-Julius supported his charge in the stern of the boat; Peter Brutus sat in the bow, a revolver in his hand, his gaze bent upon the opaqueness ahead. A whispered word of encouragement now and then passed from the lips of the hopeful American into the ear of the almost pulseless girl, who lay up against his knee.

"We'll do it--sure!" he whispered once, ever so softly.

"Yes," she scarcely, breathed, but he heard and was thrilled. The rope had dropped from her arms; she had taken the handkerchief from her mouth at his whispered command.

At last the boat crept out into the rainy, starless night. He drew the skirts of his own mackintosh over her shoulders and head. A subdued command came from the man in the bow; the oars slipped into the deep, black waters of the river; without a splash or a perceptible sound the little craft scudded toward midstream. The night was so inky black that one could not see his hand before his face.

At least two of the occupants opened up their throats and lungs and gulped in the wet, fresh air. Never had anything been so glorious to Truxton King as these first tremendous inhalations of pure, free air. She felt his muscles expand; his whole body grew stronger and more vital. Her heart was pounding violently against his leg; he could feel its throbs, he could hear the quick, eager panting of her breath.